There were intervals during the three months which followed when I believed that I was walking in a dream, and waking would find me grubbing at my desk in New York. It was so unreal for these days; mosaic romance in the heart of prosaic fact! Was there ever the like? It was real enough, however, in the daytime, when the roar of London hammered at my ears, but when I sat alone in my room it assumed the hazy garments of a dream. Sometimes I caught myself listening for Hillars: a footstep in the corridor, and I would take my pipe from my mouth and wait expectantly. But the door never opened and the footsteps always passed on. Often in my dreams I stood by the river again. There is solace in these deep, wide streams. We come and go, our hopes, our loves, our ambitions. Nature alone remains. Should I ever behold Gretchen again? Perhaps. Yet, there was no thrill at the thought. If ever I beheld her again it would be when she was placed beyond the glance of my eye, the touch of my hand. She was mine, aye, as a dream might be; something I possessed but could not hold. Heigho! the faces that peer at us from the firelight shadows! They troop along in a ghostly cavalcade, and the winds that creep over the window sill and under the door—who can say that they are not the echoes of voices we once heard in the past?
I was often on the verge of sending in my resignation, but I would remember in time that work meant bread and butter—and forgetfulness. When I returned to the office few questions were asked, though my assistant looked many of them reproachfully. I told him that Hillars had died abroad, and that he had been buried on the continent at his request; all of which was the truth, but only half of it. I did my best to keep the duel a secret, but it finally came out. It was the topic in the clubs, for Hillars had been well known in political and literary circles. But in a month or so the affair, subsided. The world never stops very long, even when it loses one of its best friends.
One late October morning I received a note which read:
"Dear Sir—I am in London for a few days, homeward bound from a trip to Egypt, and as we are cousins and 'orphans too,' I should like the pleasure of making your acquaintance. Trusting that I shall find you at leisure, I am,
"Your humble servant,
"Ah," said I; "that Louisianian cousin of mine, who may or may not live the year out," recalling the old lawyer's words. "He seems to hang on pretty well. I hope he'll be interesting; few rich men are. He writes like a polite creditor. What did the old fellow say was the matter with him? heart trouble, or consumption? I can't remember." I threw the note aside and touched up some of my dispatches.
Precisely at ten o'clock the door opened and a man came in. He was fashionably dressed, a mixture of Piccadilly and Broadway in taste. He was tall, slender, but well-formed; and his blonde mustache shone out distinctly against a background of tanned skin. He had fine blue eyes.
"Have I the pleasure of speaking to John Winthrop of New York?" he began, taking off his hat.
I rose. "I am the man."
He presented his card, and on it I read, "Philip Pembroke."
"Philip Pembroke!" I exclaimed.
"Evidently you are surprised?" showing a set of strong white teeth.
"Truthfully, I am," I said, taking his hand. "You see," I added, apologetically, "your family lawyer—that is—he gave me the—er—impression that you were a sickly fellow—one foot in the grave, or something like. I was not expecting a man of your build."
The smile broadened into a deep laugh, and a merry one, I thought, enviously. It was so long since I had laughed.
"That was a hobby of the old fellow," he replied. "When I was a boy I had the palpitation of the heart. He never got rid of the idea that I might die at any moment. He was always warning me about violent exercises, the good old soul. Peace to his ashes!"
"He is dead?"
"Yes. When I took to traveling he all but had nervous prostration. I suppose he told you about that will I made in your favor. It was done to please him. Still," he added soberly, "it stands. I travel a deal, and no one knows what may happen. And so you are the John Winthrop my dad treated so shabbily? Oh, don't protest, he did. I should have hunted you up long ago, and given you a solid bank account, only I knew that the son of my aunt must necessarily be a gentleman, and, therefore, would not look favorably upon such a proceeding."
"Thank you," said I. The fellow pleased me.
"And then, I did not know but what you cared nothing for money."
"True. A journalist doesn't care anything about money; the life is too easy and pleasant, and most of the things he needs are thrown in, as they say."
This bit of sarcasm did not pass; my cousin laughed again that merry laugh of his.
"I think we shall become great friends," he said. "I like frankness."
"My remark in its literal sense was the antithesis of frankness."
"Ah, you said too much not to be frank. Frankness is one of the reasons why I do not get on well with the women. I can't lie in the right place, and when I do it is generally ten times worse than the plain truth."
"You're a man of the world, I see."
"No, merely a spectator."
"Well, you have the price of admission; with me it's a free pass. Some day we will compare notes."
"Who is your banker?"
"Banker? I have none. I distrust banks. They take your mite and invest it in what-nots, and sometimes when you go for it, it is not there."
"And then again it multiplies so quickly that you have more than you know what to do with; eh?"
"As to that I cannot say. It is hearsay, rumor; so far as I know it may be so. Experience has any number of teachers; the trouble is, we cannot study under them all. Necessity has been my principal instructor. Sometimes she has larruped me soundly, though I was a model scholar. You will go to luncheon with me?"
"If you will promise to dine with me this evening?" And I promised.
For an hour or more we chatted upon congenial topics. He was surprisingly well informed. He had seen more of the world than I, though he had not observed it so closely. As we were about to leave, the door opened, and Phyllis, Ethel and her husband, Mr. Holland, entered. For a moment the room was filled with the fragrance of October air and the essence of violets. They had been in town a week. They had been "doing" the Strand, so Ethel said, and thought they would make me a brief visit to see how "it was done," the foreign corresponding. Mr. Wentworth and his wife were already domiciled at B——, and the young people were going over to enjoy the winter festivities. Phyllis was unchanged. How like Gretchen, I thought.
While Ethel was engaging my cousin's attention, I conducted Phyllis through the office.
"What a place to work in!" said Phyllis, laughing. The laugh awakened a vague thrill. "Dust, dust; everywhere dust. You need a woman to look after you, Jack?"
As I did not reply, she looked quickly at me, and seeing that my face was grave, she flushed.
"Forgive me, Jack," impulsively; "I did not think."
I answered her with a reassuring smile.
"How long are you to remain in town?" I asked, to disembarrass her.
"We leave day after to-morrow, Saturday. A day or two in Paris, and then we go on. Every one in New York is talking about your book. I knew that you were capable."
"I hope every one is buying it," said I, passing over her last observation.
"Was it here that you wrote it?"
"Oh, no; it was written in my rooms, under the most favorable circumstances."
"I thought so. This is a very dreary place."
"Perhaps I like it for that very reason."
Her eyes were two interrogation points, but I pretended not to see.
"What nice eyes your cousin has," she said, side glancing.
With a woman it is always a man's eyes.
"And his father was the man who left you the fortune?"
"Yes," I answered, with a short laugh. Of course, I had never toldPhyllis of that thousand-dollar check.
"You must run over this winter and see us," she said. "I anticipate nothing but dinners, balls and diplomatic receptions. I have never been there, it will all be new to me. Think of seeing Egypt, the Holy Lands, Russia, France and Spain, and yet not seeing the very heart of the continent! Thank goodness, I know the language."
"And will she not be a sensation?" joined in Ethel.
"A decided sensation," said I, scrutinizing the beautiful face so near me. What if they met, as probably they would—Phyllis and Gretchen? "Phyllis," said I, suddenly, "where were you born?"
"Where was I born?" with a wondering little laugh; "in America. Where did you suppose?"
"Eden," said I. "I wasn't sure, so I asked."
"I do not know how to take that," she said, with mock severity.
"Oh, I meant Eden when it was Paradise," I hastened to say.
"Yes," put in Pembroke; "please go back, Miss Landors, and begin the world all over again."
"Phyllis," said I, in a whisper, "have you ever met that remarkable affinity of yours?" I regretted the words the moment they had crossed my lips.
"Yes, you are changed, as I said the other night," distrustfully. "There is something in your voice that is changed. You have grown cynical. But your question was impertinent. Have you found yours?"
I was expecting this. "Yes," I said. "Once I thought I had; now I am sure of it. Some day I shall tell you an interesting story."
"We came up to ask you to dine with us this evening," she said, trailing her brown-gloved finger over the dusty desk. "Are you at liberty?"
"No. I have only just met my cousin, and have promised to dine with him."
"If that is all, bring him along. I like his face."
We passed out of the file room.
"Phyllis, we must be going, dear," said Ethel.
I led Phyllis down the narrow stairs. A handsome victoria stood at the curb.
"I shall be pleased to hear your story," said she.
It occurred to me that the tale might not be to her liking. So I said: "But it is one of those disagreeable stories; one where all should end nicely, but doesn't; one which ends, leaving the hero, the heroine, and the reader dissatisfied with the world in general, and the author (who is Fate) in particular."
I knew that she was puzzled. She wasn't quite sure that I was not referring to the old affair.
"If the story is one I never heard before," suspiciously, "I should like to hear it."
"And does it not occur to you," throwing back the robes so that she might step into the victoria, "that fate has a special grudge against me? Once was not enough, but it must be twice."
"And she does not love you? Are you quite sure? You poor fellow!" She squeezed my hand kindly. "Shall I be candid with you?" with the faintest flicker of coquetry in her smile.
"As in the old days," said I, glancing over my shoulder to see now near the others were. A groom is never to be considered. "Yes, as in the old days."
"Well, I have often regretted that I did not accept you as an experiment."
Then I knew that she did not understand.
"You must not think I am jesting," said I, seriously. "The story is of the bitter-sweet kind. The heroine loves me, but cannot be mine."
"Loves you?" with a slight start. "How do you know?"
"She has told me so," lowering my voice.
Frankness of this sort to a woman who has rejected you has a peculiar effect. The coquetry faded from her smile, and there was a perceptible contraction of the brows. Her eyes, which were looking into mine, shifted to the back of the groom. No, I shall never understand a woman. She should have been the most sympathetic woman in the world, yet she appeared to be annoyed.
"What's all this between you and Phyllis?" asked Ethel, coming up.
"There is nothing between her and me," said I.
"Well, there should be," she retorted. "That is the trouble."
My observation was: "I have always held that immediately a woman gets married she makes it her business to see that all old bachelors are lugged out and disposed of to old maids."
"I shall never forgive that," Phyllis declared; "never."
"Then I shall always have the exquisite pleasure of being a supplicant for your pardon. It is delightful to sue pardon of a beautiful woman."
Phyllis sniffed.
"Forgive him at once," said Ethel, "if only for that pretty speech."
Mr. Holland pulled out his watch suggestively.
"Well," I said, "I see that I am keeping you from your lunch. Good-by, then, till dinner, when I shall continue at length on the evils—"
"William," interrupted Ethel, addressing the groom, "drive on."
And so they left us.
"Shall we go to lunch now?" I asked of Pembroke.
"Yes," rather dreamily I thought. "Do you know," with sudden animation, "she is a remarkably beautiful woman?"
"Yes, she is." After all, the sight of Phyllis had rather upset me.
"I had a glimpse of her in Vienna last winter," went on Pembroke. "I never knew who she was."
"Vienna!" I exclaimed.
"Yes. It was at a concert. Her face was indelibly graven on my memory. I asked a neighbor who she was, but when I went to point her out she was gone. I should like to see more of her."
So Gretchen had been in Vienna, and poor Hillars had never known!
I took Pembroke to the club that afternoon, and we dallied in the billiard room till time to dress for dinner. Dinner came. But Phyllis forgot to ask me about the story, at which I grew puzzled, considering what I know of woman's curiosity. And she devoted most of her time to Pembroke, who did not mind. Later we went to the theatre—some production of Gilbert and Sullivan. Whenever I glanced at Phyllis I fell to wondering how Gretchen would have looked in evening dress. Yes, Phyllis was certainly beautiful, uncommonly. For years I had worshipped at her shrine, and then—how little we know of the heart. I was rather abstracted during the performance, and many of my replies went wide the mark.
As we were leaving the foyer, Phyllis said: "Jack, a man has been staring me out of countenance."
"Pembroke?" I laughed.
"No. And moreover, the stare was accompanied by the most irritating sneer."
"Point him out to me when we reach the street," I said, humoring what I thought to be a fancy, "and I'll put a head on him."
The sneer was probably meant for an ogle. Beauty has its annoyances as well as its compensations. As we came under the glare of the outside lights, Phyllis's hand tightened on my arm.
"Look! there he is, and he is making for us."
At the sight of that face with its hooked nose, its waxed mustache and imperial, I took a deep breath and held it. In the quick glance I saw that his right arm hung stiffly at his side. I attempted to slip into the crowd, but without success. He lifted his hat, smiling into the astonished face of Phyllis.
"The Princess Hildegarde—" But with those three words the sentence on his lips came to an end. Amazement replaced the smile. He stepped back. Phyllis's eyes expressed scornful surprise. What she understood to be rudeness I knew to be a mistake. He had mistaken her to be Gretchen, just as I had mistaken Gretchen to be Phyllis. It was a situation which I enjoyed. All this was but momentary. We passed on.
"Was the man crazy?" asked Phyllis, as we moved toward the carriages, where we saw Pembroke waving his hand.
"Not exactly crazy," I answered.
"The Princess Hildegarde; did he not call me that?"
"He did."
"He must have mistaken me for some one else, then."
"The very thing," said I. "I wonder what he is doing here in London?"
"Mercy! do you know him?"
"Slightly." We were almost at the carriage. "I am sorry to say that he is a great personage in this very court which you are so soon to grace."
"How strange! I'm afraid we shan't get on."
Pembroke and I dismissed our carriage. We were going back to the club.Ethel and her husband were already seated in their carriage.
Said Phyllis as I assisted her to enter; "And who is this PrincessHildegarde?"
"The most beautiful woman in all the world," I answered with enthusiasm. "You will meet her also."
"I do not believe I shall like her either," said Phyllis. "Good night;" and the door swung to.
Pembroke and I made off for the club. . . . Perhaps it was my enthusiasm.
I had just left the office when I ran into Pembroke, who was in the act of mounting the stairs. It was Saturday morning. Phyllis had left town.
"Hello!" he cried. "A moment more, and I should have missed you, and then you would not have learned a piece of news."
"News?"
"Yes. I have made up my mind not to go home till February."
"What changed your plans so suddenly?" I asked.
"My conscience."
"In heaven's name, what has your conscience to do with your plans?"
"Well, you see, my conscience would not permit me to meet such a remarkable woman as Miss Landors without becoming better acquainted with her." He swung his cane back and forth.
"This is very sudden," said I, lighting a cigar. "When did it happen?"
"What time did she come into your office the other day?"
"It must have been after eleven."
"Then it happened about eleven-fifteen." Pembroke's eyes were dancing."Do you—er—think there are any others?"
"Thousands," said I, "only—" I turned the end of my cigar around to see if the light had proved effective.
"Only what?"
"Only she won't have them."
"Then there is really a chance?"
"When a woman is not married there is always a chance," said I, wisely. "But let me tell you, cousin mine, she has a very high ideal. The man who wins her must be little less than a demigod and a little more than a man. Indeed, her ideal is so high that I did not reach it by a good foot."
Pembroke looked surprised. "She—ah—rejected—"
"I did not say that I had proposed to her," said I.
"If you haven't, why haven't you?"
"It is strange." As his face assumed an anxious tinge, I laughed. "My dear relative, go ahead and win her, if you can; you have my best wishes. She is nothing to me. There was a time—ah, well, we all can look back and say that. If it isn't one woman it's another."
Sunshine came into Pembroke's face again. "Ideal or not ideal, I am going to make the effort."
"Success to you!" patting his shoulder. He was good to look at, and it was my opinion that Phyllis might do worse. We miss a good deal in this world by being over particular.
We were coming into Trafalgar. Nelson stood high up in the yellow fog.
"Nature is less gracious than history sometimes," mused Pembroke, gazing up. "She is doing her best to dull the lustre of the old gentleman. Ah, those were days when they had men."
"We have them still," said I. "It is not the men, but the opportunities, which are lacking."
"Perhaps that is so. Yet, it is the great man who makes them."
I was thinking of Hillars. "I would give a good deal for a regiment and a bad moment for our side." There was no mighty column in his memory, scarcely a roll of earth. "What do you want to do?" I asked. "Shall we hail a cab and drive to the park?"
"Just as you say, if it is not interfering with your work."
"Not at all."
"Have a cigar," said Pembroke, after we had climbed into the cab and arranged our long legs comfortably. The London cab is all very well for a short and thin person. "These came to me directly from Key West."
"That is one of the joys of being rich," said I. "Gold is Aladdin's lamp. I have to take my chances on getting good tobacco in this country."
"Talking about gold—" he began.
"Don't!" I entreated.
"I was about to say that I drew on my bankers for 20,000 pounds this morning."
"You intend to go in for a figure abroad, then?"
"Oh, no. I deposited the money in another bank—in your name."
"Mine? Deposited 20,000 pounds in my name?" I gasped.
"Just so."
"I understood you to say, because you thought me to be a gentleman, that you weren't going to do anything like this? Have I done something to change your opinion?"
"Of course not. And I never said that I should not do it. You may or may not use it, that is as you please. But so far as I am concerned, it will stay there and accumulate interest till the crack of doom. It isn't mine any more. If I were not almost your brother, I dare say you might justly take offense at the action. As it is," complacently, "you will not only accept the gift, but thank me for it."
"How old are you?" I asked.
"Exactly twenty-five."
"I thought that you could not be older than that. Aren't you afraid to be so far away from home?"
Pembroke lay back and laughed. "You haven't thanked me yet."
"I must get a new tailor," said I. "What! shall I pay a tailor to make a well-dressed man out of me, and then become an object of charity? Do I look, then, like a man who is desperately in need of money?"
"No, you don't look it. That's because you are clever. But what is your salary to a man of your brains?"
"It is bread and butter and lodging."
He laughed again. To laugh seemed to be a part of his business. "Jack, I haven't a soul in the world but you. I have only known you three days, but it seems that I have known you all my life. I have so much money that I cannot even fritter away the income."
"It must be a sad life," said I.
"And if you do not accept the sum in the spirit it is given, I'll double it, and then you'll have trouble. You will be a rich man, then, with all a rich man's cares and worries."
"You ought to have a trustee to take care of your money."
"It would be a small matter to bribe him off, Jack, of course, you do not need the money now, but that is no sign you may not in the days to come. I have known many journalists; they were ever improvident. I want to make an exception in your case. You understand; the money is for your old age."
"Let me tell you why a newspaper man is improvident. He earns money only to spend it. He has a fine scorn for money as money. He cares more for what a dollar spent has bought than what five saved might buy."
"Poor creditors!" was the melancholy interpolation.
I passed over this, and went on: "It is the work which absorbs his whole attention. He begins at the bottom of the ladder, which is in the garret. First, he is running about the streets at two and three in the morning, in rain and snow and fog. The contact with the lower classes teaches him many things. He becomes the friend of the policeman and the vagabond. And as his mind grows broader his heart grows in proportion. It is the comparing of the great and small which makes us impartial and philosophical. Well, soon the reporter gets better assignments and shorter hours. He meets the noted men and women of the city. Suddenly from the city editor's desk his ambition turns to Washington. He succeeds there. He now comes into the presence of distinguished ambassadors, ministers and diplomatists. He acquires a polish and a smattering of the languages. His work becomes a feature of his paper. The president chooses him for a friend; he comes and goes as he wills. Presently his eye furtively wanders to Europe. The highest ambition of a journalist, next to being a war correspondent, is to have a foreign post. In this capacity he meets the notable men and women of all countries; he speaks to princes and grand dukes and crowned heads. In a way he becomes a personage himself, a man whom great men seek. And he speaks of the world as the poet did of the fall of Pompeii, 'Part of which I was and all of which I saw.' Ah," as my mind ran back over my own experiences, "what man with this to gain would care for money; a thing which would dull his imagination and take away the keen edge of ambition, and make him play a useless part in this kingly drama of life!"
"I like your frankness," said Pembroke. "I have no doubt that journalism is the most fascinating profession there is. Yet, you must not accuse the rich of being ambitionless. I have known of rich men losing their all to make papers for men who are ambitious to be foreign correspondents." The young fellow was brimming with raillery. "I have never tried to run a newspaper, but I am, notwithstanding your tirade, ambitious. I am desirous to wed Miss Landors."
The cab was now rolling along the row.
"A truly great ambition," I admitted. "After all, what greater ambition is there than to marry the woman you love? Philip, I will accept your gift in the spirit it is given, and I'll make use of it in the days to come, when I am old and rusted. I understand your motive. You are happy and wish every one to be."
"That's the idea," said he, leaning back and spreading an arm behind my shoulders.
"But not all the money in the world, nor all the fame for that matter, would make me happy." Gretchen was so far away! "Very well; we'll go to Paris together; that is as far as I go. To follow her you will have to go alone."
"And why can't you go the rest of the way?"
"Work. I must be back in town in three days. You must not forget thatI have had my vacation; there is plenty to be done."
"Now that you are comparatively wealthy, why not give up the grind, as you call it?"
"The truth is, I must work. When a man works he forgets."
"Then you have something to forget?"
"Every man who has reached the age of thirty has something to forget," said I.
I was gloomy. In my pocket I had the only letter I had ever received from Gretchen. Every hour fate outdoes the romancer. The story she had written for me was a puzzling one. And the finis? Who could say? Fate is more capricious than the novelist; sometimes you can guess what he intends for an end; what fate has in store, never. Gretchen's letter did not begin as letters usually do. It began with "I love you" and ended with the same sentence. "In November my marriage will take place. Do not come abroad. I am growing strong now; if I should see you alas, what would become of that thin ice covering the heart of fire; we have nothing to return, you and I. I long to see you; I dare not tell you how much. Who knows what the world holds hidden? While we live there is always a perhaps. Remember that I love you!"
"Perhaps," I mused absently.
"Perhaps what?" asked Pembroke.
"What?" I had forgotten him. "Oh, it was merely a slip of the tongue." I poked the matting with my cane. "It is high noon; we had best hunt up a lunch. I have an engagement with the American military attaché at two, so you will have to take care of yourself till dinner."
Let me tell you what happened in the military club that night. I was waiting for Col. J—— of the Queen's Light, who was to give me the plan of the fall maneuvers in Africa. Pembroke was in the billiard room showing what he knew about caroms and brandy smashes to a trio of tanned Indian campaigners. I was in the reading room perusing the evening papers. All at once I became aware of a man standing before me. He remained in that position so long that I glanced over the top of my paper.
It was Prince Ernst of Wortumborg. He bowed.
"May I claim your attention for a moment?" he asked.
Had I been in any other place but the club I should have ignored him.I possessed the liveliest hatred for the man.
"If you will be brief."
"As brief as possible," dropping into the nearest chair. "It has become necessary to ask you a few questions. The matter concerns me."
"Whatever concerns you is nothing to me," I replied coldly.
He smiled. "Are you quite sure?"
I had turned the sword on myself, so it seemed. But I said: "I answered some of your questions once; I believe I was explicit."
"As to that I can say you were; startlingly explicit. It is a delicate matter to profess one's regard for a woman before total strangers. It is not impossible that she would have done the same thing in your place. Her regard for you—"
I interrupted him with a menacing gesture. "I am extremely irritable," I said. "I should regret to lose control of myself in a place like this."
"To be sure!" he said. "This is England, where they knock one another down."
"We do not murder on this side of the channel," I retorted.
"That is unkind. Your friend was a very good shot," with a significant glance at his useless arm. "But for my arm, and his nerves, which were not of the best order, I had not lived to speak to you to-night."
"So much the worse for the world," said I. "Your questions?"
"Ah! Who was that remarkably beautiful woman under your distinguished care Thursday evening?"
"I see that our conversation is to be of the shortest duration. Who she was is none of your business," rudely. I unfolded my paper and began reading.
"Perhaps, after all," not the least perturbed by my insolence, "it were best to state on paper what I have to say. I can readily appreciate that the encounter is disagreeable. To meet one who has made a thing impossible to you sets the nerves on edge." He caught up his opera hat, his cane and gloves. He raised the lapel of his coat and sniffed at the orchid in the buttonhole.
Some occult force bade me say, "Why do you wish to know who she was?"
He sat down again. "I shall be pleased to explain. That I mistook her for another who I supposed was on the other side of the channel was a natural mistake, as you will agree. Is it not strange that I should mistake another to be the woman who is so soon to be my wife? Is there not something behind this remarkable, unusual likeness? Since when are two surpassingly beautiful women, born in different lands, of different parents, the exact likeness of each other?"
Now as this was a thing which had occupied my mind more than once, I immediately put aside the personal affair. That could wait. I threw my paper onto the table.
"Do you know, sir," said I, "that thought echoes my own?"
"Let us for the moment put ourselves into the background," said thePrince. "What do you know about her Serene Highness the PrincessHildegarde; her history?"
"Very little; proceed."
"But tell me what you know."
"I know that her father was driven to a gambler's grave and that her mother died of a broken heart, and that the man who caused all this wishes to break the heart of the daughter, too."
"Scandal, all scandal," said the Prince. "Who ever heard of a broken heart outside of a romantic novel? I see that the innkeeper has been holding your ear. Ah, that innkeeper, that innkeeper! Certainly some day there will come a reckoning."
"Yes, indeed," said I. "Beware of him."
"It was twenty years ago," said the Prince. "It is beyond the recall. But let me proceed. Not many years ago there was a Prince, a very bad fellow."
"Most of them are."
"He married a woman too good for him," went on the Prince, as though he had not heard.
"And another is about to do likewise."
"There was some scandal. When the Princess was born, her father refused to believe her to be his child. Now, it came to pass, as they say in the Bible, which I assure you is a very interesting book, that there were vague rumors immediately after the birth of Princess Hildegarde that another child had been born."
"What!" I was half out of my chair. "Another child?"
"Another child. The fact that the Prince swore that when children came he would make them counterparts of their kind and loving father, lent color to the rumor that the Princess had had one spirited away to escape this threatened contamination. And one of the nurses was missing. Whither had she gone remained a mystery, and is still a mystery, for she never has returned. Did she spirit away the other child, the other girl? I say girl advisedly; if there had been a son, the mother would have retained him. Two years after this interesting episode, the Princess died, and dying, confessed the deception. But the curious thing is, nobody believed her. Her mind was not strong, and it was thought to be a hallucination, this second child. Now let me come to the present time. Twins are generally alike; one mirrors the other; when they mature, then comes the deviation, perhaps in the color of the hair and the eyes. Behold! here are two women, but for their hair and eyes were one. Tell me what you know of the other." He bent forward with subdued eagerness.
"Do you think it possible?" I cried excitedly.
"Not only possible, but probable. She is a Princess; at least she should be."
Then I told him what I knew about Phyllis.
"America! Born in America! It cannot be." He was baffled.
"I have known her for eight years," said I. "She was born in America as certainly as I was."
"But this likeness? This rumor of another daughter? Ah, there is something here I do not understand. And this uncle of hers, this Wentworth; who is he?"
"A retired banker, very wealthy, and at present with the American ministry at your own capital."
"To him we must go, then." He rose and walked the length of the room, stopped a moment at the chess table in the corner, then resumed his chair. "You are wondering, no doubt, what it is to me, all this?"
"I confess you have read my mind correctly."
"Then listen. I am a Prince without a principality; a Prince by courtesy, my brother ruling the principality of Wortumborg. Thus being without a principality, I am necessarily without revenues. I must replenish my very low exchequer by a marriage, a marriage not so distasteful as it might be." He met my darkening eyes with serenity. "Since Thursday night I have not been so certain of my wife's dowry. If there are two Princesses, twins, they must govern jointly, or one may abdicate in favor of the other. Her Serene Highness the Princess Hildegarde is the one who will be most likely to relinquish her claims to Hohenphalia. If your friend is proved to be her sister—" He stroked the orchid reflectively.
"Well?" I cried, my pulse quickening.
"I shall withdraw my claim to the hand of the Princess Hildegarde. I do not care to rule half a principality or share half its revenues. There are better things left than that. It is my hope, however, that no proofs can be found, and that your banker-diplomatist will show conclusively that his niece was born in America. Until this question is definitely settled, my fortunes shall not undergo any risks. This is what I wanted to say to you, why I wanted to know who your friend was. Will you help me to get at the bottom of things? We are both concerned; the result will mean all or nothing to you and me. Ah, believe me, but you are a favored mortal. The friendship of the one, and the love of the other! No; do not look angry. With all my sins, it cannot be said that I lack frankness and truthfulness. You love the Princess Hildegarde; I offer you an equal chance to win her. Is not that remarkable good nature? Till the affair is settled my marriage is postponed. Now, to our personal affair. You cannot blame me if I give you all my honest hatred. I am at your service, after, of course, the respective positions of the Princesses are assured. I should take more pleasure in shooting you, or running a sword through your body, than I took in the affair with your friend. His courage was truly admirable. I had nothing against him. But you have grievously wounded my self-love; we forgive all wrongs but that. I warn you that the affair will not be conducted after the French mode. You have perhaps a fortnight in which to improve your markmanship. The matter which shall carry us abroad will conclude within that time. I shoot and fence with my left hand as well as I did with my right."
"I shall be only too happy to meet you," I replied. "I prefer the pistol, there is less exertion, and it is quicker."
"You shall have every advantage," said the Prince. "You will have that to nerve your arm which I shall not have—a woman's love." With a bow which was not without a certain dignity and grace, he walked from the room.
Phyllis a Princess? Gretchen free? I sent for my coat and hat and went out. I forgot all about my appointment with Col. J—— of the Queen's light and that I had left Pembroke playing billiards in a strange club, where I myself had been but a guest. The crisp October air blew in my face as I rapidly walked up the mall, and it cooled the fever in my veins. But my mind ran on rather wildly. Gretchen free? Phyllis a Princess? Gretchen's little word, "perhaps," came back and sang into my ears. Yet, win or lose, I was to meet the Prince in mortal combat. If Phyllis was not proven Gretchen's twin sister, I should care but little for the Prince's bullet. On the other hand—Well, I should trust to luck. Before I was aware of my destination, I stood fumbling the key in the door of my apartment. I wanted my pipe. At eleven by the clock, Pembroke came in.
"Hang your apologies!" he said.
"Phyllis," said I, "do you remember the day we first met?"
We were in the morning room of the Wentworth mansion at B——. Phyllis, Pembroke and I sat before the warm grate, while Mrs. Wentworth and Ethel stood by one of the windows, comparing some shades of ribbon. My presence at B—— was due to a wire I had sent to New York, which informed headquarters that I was on the track of a great sensation. The return wire had said, "Keep on it."
"When first we met?" echoed Phyllis. "Why, it was at Block Island."
"Oh," said I, "I do not refer to the time when you had shouldered the responsibilities of a society bud. I mean the time when the introduction was most informal. You were at the time selling lemonade without license and with very little lemon."
"Selling lemonade?" cried Pembroke.
"Never mind him, Mr. Pembroke," laughed Phyllis.
"It was a long time ago," I went on. "I was a new reporter. Mr. Wentworth had to be interviewed. It was one of those hot days in May. The servant at the door said that Mr. Wentworth was in the back yard—he called it the garden—where I soon found myself. You had a small table, a glass and a pitcher. I suppose every time your uncle got thirsty you sold him a glass. You wore short dresses—"
"Terrible!" cried Phyllis, shielding her face with the hand-screen.
"And looked as cool as the ice in the pitcher, and as fresh as the flowers which lined the walls. I thought that if I bought a glass of you I might make my approach to your uncle an easier task. So I looked at you and smiled, and you giggled."
"Giggled!" cried Phyllis, indignantly.
Pembroke was laughing.
"Yes, actually giggled," I went on. "I laid down a twenty-five-cent piece, and you poured but some water which had had nothing more than a mild flirtation with a lemon, and I gulped it down. I held out my hand, and you said that there wasn't any change. I smiled a false smile. Let me make a confession."
"Well?" mockingly from Phyllis.
"It was my last quarter. It was very pathetic. I had to walk four miles down town. I did not know your uncle well enough or I should have borrowed carfare from him."
"And I took your last penny?" said Phyllis, gently. "Why did you not tell me then?"
"I was twenty-two and proud," said I. "Where are you going?" for she had risen.
"I'll be back in a moment," she said, as she left the room. When she returned she put out her hand. On the palm lay two bright American dimes.
"What's this?" I asked.
"The change."
"Very good!" laughed Pembroke.
I said nothing, but took out my wallet. In opening it to put in the dimes, something fell to the floor. It was Gretchen's rose.
"What is that?" asked Phyllis, as I stooped to pick it up.
"It is the end of a story," I answered. I busied myself with the fire till the poker grew too hot.
"How many romances commonplace wallets contain?" said Pembroke, sententiously.
"I have two in mine," said I.
Pembroke looked at Phyllis, but the fire seemed to be claiming her attention. Then he looked at me, but I was gazing at Phyllis. He was in a puzzle.
"Do you know, Miss Landors," he said, "that I never dreamed to meet you again when I saw you in Vienna last year?"
"Vienna?" said she. "I have never been to Vienna."
I suddenly brought down my heel on Pembroke's toes.
"Ah, a curious mistake on my part. I suppose the ball at the ministry to-night will be your first on the continent?"
I gazed admiringly at him. He had not even looked at me. He was certainly clever.
"Yes," said Phyllis, "and already I believe I am going to have what they call stage fright, though I cannot understand why I should feel that way."
"Possibly it's a premonition," said I, absently.
"And of what?" asked Phyllis.
"How should I know?" said I, mysteriously.
"What in the world is going on?" she demanded. "You step on Mr.Pembroke's toes, you prophesy, and then you grow mysterious."
My glance and Pembroke's met. He burst out laughing. A possible contretemps was averted by the approach of Mrs. Wentworth, who asked us to have a cup of chocolate before we went out into the chill air. Finally we rose to make our departure. While Pembroke was bidding Ethel a good morning, Phyllis spoke to me.
"The last flowers you sent me were roses," she said softly.
"Were they?" said I. "I had forgotten. Shall I send you some for this evening?"
It was something in her eyes that I did not understand.
"Thank you, but Mr. Pembroke has promised to do that." And then she added: "So you have really had two romances?"
"Yes," said I; "and both ended badly."
"Let us hope that the third will be of happier termination," she smiled. The smile caused me some uneasiness.
"There never will be a third," I said. "It is strange, is it not, when you think that there might have been—but one? You will give me a waltz to-night?"
"With pleasure. Good morning."
Pembroke and I passed down the broad stairs. On the street we walked a block or so in silence.
Finally Pembroke said: "What the deuce made you step on my foot? And why does she not want me to know that she was in Vienna last winter?"
"Because," said I, "Miss Landors never was in Vienna."
"But, man, my eyes!"
"I do not care anything about your eyes."
"What makes you so positive?"
"Knowledge."
"Do you love her?" bluntly.
"No."
"Because—?"
"There is another. Pembroke, to-night will be pregnant with possibilities. You will see the woman you love and the woman I love."
"What do you mean?"
"Have you ever heard of her Serene Highness the Princess Hildegarde ofHohenphalia?"
"So high?"
"Yes."
"Then the woman I saw in Vienna—"
"Was the Princess."
"But this remarkable likeness?"
"Perhaps I had best tell you all." And when I had done, his astonishment knew no bounds.
"Great George, that makes Miss Landors a Princess, too!"
"It does, truly. Herein lies the evil of loving above one's station. In our country love is like all things, free to obtain. We are in a country which is not free. Here, those who appear to have the greatest liberty have the least."
"And she knows nothing about it?"
"Nothing."
"Why tell her?" he asked, fearful of his own love affair now.
"It is a duty. Some day she might learn too late. This afternoon I shall visit the Chancellor and place the matter before him and ask his assistance. He must aid me to find the proofs."
Pembroke began kicking the snow with his toes.
"I wish you had not told me, Jack."
"It is for the best. You and I are in the same boat; we ride or sink together."
At luncheon his mind was absent and he ate but little. And I ate less than he. It was going to be very hard for me to meet Gretchen.
The Chancellor waved his hand toward a chair. We were very good friends.
"What is it now?" he asked, smiling. "I dare not stir up the antagonists against the government to give you a story, and aside from the antagonists it is dull."
"I will find the story in the present instance," said I. And in the fewest words possible I laid before him the object of my visit.
"This is a very strange story," he said, making a pyramid of his fingers and contemplating the task with a careful air. "Are you not letting your imagination run away with you?"
"Not for a moment. I ask you to attend the ball at the American ministry this evening, and if the likeness between the two women does not convince you, the matter shall drop, so far as I am concerned."
"Has Herr Wentworth any idea of the affair?"
"It is not possible. What would be his object in keeping it a secret?"
"Still, it is a grave matter, and without precedent. We must move carefully. You understand that there was no knowledge of another child, only rumor; and then it was believed to be an hallucination of the mother, whose mind was not very strong."
"Do you believe," I asked, "that two persons born of different parentage, in different lands, may resemble each other as these two do?"
"No. I shall let you know what stand I'll take when I have seen them together. And what will His Majesty say?" he mused. "I'm afraid the matter will assume many complications. And I might add that you seem particularly interested."
A slight warmth came into my cheeks.
"Your Excellency understands that a journalist always takes great interest in affairs of this sort," was my rejoinder.
"Yes, yes!" pleasantly. "But this so-called sister; has she not lived most of her life in America, your own country?"
"Your Excellency," said I, honestly, "whether she regains her own or not is immaterial to me, from a personal standpoint."
"Well, one way or the other, I shall decide what to do to-night. But, mind you, there must be proofs. Though they may look enough alike to be two peas in a pod, that will give your friend nothing you claim for her. The fate of your Princess rests in the hands of Herr Wentworth. Have the two met?"
"No; but during the short time they have been in the city they have been mistaken for each other. And why do you call her my Princess?"
"She is not ours yet. It was a strange story, as I remember it. In those days we had our doubts, as we still have, of another child. By the way, who suggested the matter to you?"
I recounted my interview with the Prince.
"Ah," said the Chancellor; "so it was he? He is a greedy fellow and careful. I can readily understand his object. He wants all or nothing. I shall help you all I can," he concluded, as I reached for my hat.
"I ask nothing more," I replied; and then I passed from the cabinet into the crowded anteroom. It was filled with diplomats and soldiers, each waiting for an audience. They eyed me curiously and perhaps enviously as I made my way to the street. "Yes, indeed, what will the King say?" I mused on the way back to my rooms. What could he say?
That night Pembroke and I arrived at the ministry a little after ten.I was in a state of extreme nervousness.
"I'm in a regular funk," said Pembroke. "Supposing your Princess does not come?"
"It is written that she will come."
"Well, I'm glad that I looked you up in London. I would not have missed this adventure."
We found Phyllis in a nook under the grand staircase. I gave a slight exclamation as I saw her. I had never seen her looking so beautiful.
"Come and sit down," said she, making room for us. "I have had a curious adventure."
"Tell us all about it," said Pembroke.
"I have had the honor of being mistaken for a Princess," triumphantly.
"Who could doubt it!" said I, with a glance I could not help, which made her lower her eyes.
"Moreover," she continued, this time looking at Pembroke, "the gentleman who committed the error was the Austrian Ambassador. What a compliment to take home!"
"And who was the Princess?" I felt compelled to ask, though I knew perfectly well.
"The Princess Hildegarde. Do you recall the night in London," to me, "when the same thing occurred? I am very anxious to meet this Princess who looks so like me."
"You will have that pleasure immediately after the opera," said I.
Pembroke's eyes said something to me then, and I rose.
"There is Mr. Wentworth. I wish to speak to him. Will you excuse me?"
"With pleasure!" laughed Pembroke.
I threaded my way through the gathering throng to the side of Mr.Wentworth.
"How d'y' do, Winthrop?" he said, taking me by the arm. "Come into the conservatory. I want you to see some of the finest orchids that ever came from South America. The girls are looking well to-night. I suppose you noticed."
"Especially Phyllis." Our eyes met.
When we entered the conservatory, he suddenly forgot all about the orchids.
"Jack, I'm worried about her—Phyllis. You see, she is not my niece. There's a long story, This morning a gentleman visited my department. He was Prince Ernst of Wortumborg. He began by asking me if Phyllis was my niece. That started the business. He proceeded to prove to me, as far as possible, that Phyllis was a Princess. I could not say that it was all nonsense, because I did not know. Some twenty years ago, a strange thing happened. I occupied the same residence as to-day. It was near midnight, and snowing fiercely. I was looking over some documents, when the footman came in and announced the presence of a strange woman in the hall, who demanded to see me. The woman was young and handsome, and in her arms she carried a child. Would I, for humanity's sake, give a roof to the child till the morrow? The woman said that she was looking for her relatives, but as yet had not found them, and that the night was too cold for the child to be carried around. She was a nurse. The child was not hers, but belonged to a wealthy family of the south, who were to have arrived that day, but had not. The thing seemed so irregular that I at once consented, thinking to scan the papers the next day for an account of a lost or stolen child. She also carried a box which contained, she said, the child's identity. Now, as I am a living man, there was nothing in that box to show who the child was; nothing but clothes, not a jewel or a trinket. I looked through the papers in vain. And the woman never appeared again. Much against my will I was forced to keep the child. I am glad I did, for I have grown to love her as one of my own. I had a married sister who died in Carolina, so I felt secure in stating that Phyllis was her daughter, therefore my niece. And that is positively all I know. And here comes a fellow who says he knows who she is, and, moreover, that she is a Princess. What do you say to that?"
"What he said was true," gloomily. Without proofs Gretchen remained as far away as ever. I told him what I knew.
"I must see this Princess before I move. If they look alike, why, let things take their course. As a matter of fact, Phyllis is to share equally with Ethel. So, whether or not she proves to be a Princess, it will not interfere with her material welfare. And, by the way, Jack, isn't there a coldness of some sort between you and Phyllis?"
"Not a coldness," said I; "merely an understanding. Let us be getting back to the ballroom. I am anxious to see the two when they meet."
I left him in the reception room. As I was in the act of crossing the hall which led to the ballroom, I was stopped. It was the Prince.
"Well," he said, smiling ironically, "the matter is, sadly for you, definitely settled. Your friend may in truth be a Princess, but there are no proofs. In the eyes of men they are sisters; in the eyes of the law they are total strangers. I shall not ask you to congratulate me upon my success. I shall now wed the Princess Hildegarde with a sense of security. Come—have you seen her yet? She does not know that you are here. It will be a surprise and a pleasure. As to that other matter, I shall send a gentleman around to your rooms in the morning to arrange the affair."
I shivered. I had forgotten that I had accepted a challenge.
"Take me to her," said I. "She will be happy indeed to see me, as you know." I laughed in his face. "How convenient it would be for both of us—her and me—should my bullet speed to the proper place! Believe me, I shall be most happy to kill you. There are many things on the slate to wipe out."
"I see that you are a gentleman of spirit," said he, smoothing the scowl from his brow. "Ah, there she stands. Look well, my friend; look at her well. This is probably the last night you will see her, save as my wife."
The sight of that dear face took the nerves from me, and left me trembling. Even in the momentary glance I detected a melancholy cast to her features. She was surrounded by several men, who wore various decorations.
"Your Highness," said the Prince, mockery predominating his tones, "permit me to present to you an old friend."
Was it because her soul instinctively became conscious of my presence and nerved her for the ordeal, that she turned and smiled on me? The Prince appeared for a moment crestfallen. Perhaps the scene lacked a denouement. Oh, I was sure that implacable hate burned under that smile of his, just as I knew that beneath the rise and fall of Gretchen's bosom the steady fire of immutable love burned, burned as it burned in my own heart. It was a defeat for the Prince, a triumph for Gretchen and me. The greeting took but a moment. I stepped back, strong and hopeful. She loved me. I knew that her heart was singing the same joyous song as my own.
"Ah, here you are!" said a voice behind me, giving me an indescribable start. "I have been looking high and low for you. You have forgotten this dance."
It was Phyllis.
And then a sudden hush fell upon the circle. The two women stood face to face, looking with strange wonder into each other's eyes.