The Duke’s chef had served an Emperor with honor—the billiard room at Devenham Castle was the most comfortable room upon earth. The three men who sat together upon a huge divan, the three men most powerful in directing the councils of their country, felt a gentle wave of optimism stealing through their quickened blood. Nevertheless this was a serious matter which occupied their thoughts.
“We are becoming,” the Prime Minister said, “much too modern. We are becoming over-civilized out of any similitude to a nation of men of blood and brawn.”
“You are quoting some impossible person,” Sir Edward Bransome declared.
“One is always quoting unconsciously,” the Prime Minister admitted with a sigh. “What I mean is that five hundred years ago we should have locked this young man up in a room hung with black crape, and with a pleasant array of unfortunately extinct instruments we should have succeeded, beyond a doubt, in extorting the truth from him.”
“And if the truth were not satisfactory?” the Duke asked, lighting a cigar.
“We should have endeavored to change his point of view,” the Prime Minister continued, “even if we had to change at the same time the outline of his particularly graceful figure. The age of thumbscrews and the rack was, after all, a very virile age. Just consider for a moment our positions—three of the greatest and most brilliant statesmen of our day—and we can do very little save wait for this young man to declare himself. We are the puppets with whom he plays. It rests with him whether our names are written upon the scroll of fame or whether our administration is dismissed in half a dozen contemptuous words by the coming historian. It rests with him whether our friend Bransome here shall be proclaimed the greatest Foreign Minister that ever breathed, and whether I myself have a statue erected to me in Westminster Yard, which shall be crowned with a laurel wreath by patriotic young ladies on the morning of my anniversary.”
The Duke stretched himself out with a sigh of content. His cigar was burning well, and the flavor of old Armignac lingered still upon his palate.
“Come,” he protested, “I think you exaggerate Maiyo’s importance just a little, Haviland. Hesho seems excellently disposed towards us, and, after all, I should have thought his word would have had more weight in Tokio than the word of a young man who is new to diplomacy, and whose claims to distinction seem to rest rather upon his soldiering and the fact that he is a cousin of the Emperor.”
The Prime Minister sighed.
“Dear Duke,” he said, “no one of us, not even myself, has ever done that young man justice. To me he represents everything that is most strenuous and intellectual in Japanese manhood. The spirit of that wonderful country runs like the elixir of life itself through his veins. Since the day he brought me his letter from the Emperor, I have watched him carefully, and I believe I can honestly declare that not once in these eighteen months has he looked away from his task, nor has he given to one single person even an inkling of the thoughts which have passed through his mind. He came back from the Continent, from Berlin, from Paris, from Petersburg, with a mass of acquired information which would have made some of our blue-books read like Hans Andersen’s Fairy Tales. He had made up his mind exactly what he thought of each country, of their political systems, of their social life, of their military importance. He had them all weighed up in the hollow of his hand. He was willing to talk as long as I, for instance, was willing to listen. He spoke of everybody whom he had met and every place which he had visited without reserve, and yet I guarantee that there is no person in England today, however much he may have talked with him, who knows in the least what his true impressions are.”
“Haviland is right,” Bransome agreed. “Many a time I have caught myself wondering, when he talks so easily about his travels, what the real thoughts are which lie at the back of his brain. We know, of course, what the object of those travels was. He went as no tourist. He went with a deep and solemn purpose always before him. He went to find out whether there was any other European Power whose alliance would be a more advantageous thing for Japan than a continuation of their alliance with us. Such a thing has never been mentioned or hinted at between us, but we know it all the same.”
“I wonder,” the Duke remarked, “whether we shall really get the truth out of him before he goes.”
The Prime Minister shook his head.
“Look at him now teaching old Lady Saunderson how to hold her cue. He singled her out because she was the least attractive person playing, because no one took any particular notice of her, and every one seemed disposed to let her go her own way! Those girls were all buzzing around him as though he were something holy, but you see how gently he eluded them! Watch what an interest she is taking in the game now. He has been encouraging the poor old lady until her last few shots have been quite good. That is Maiyo all the world over. I will wager that he is thinking of nothing on earth at this moment but of making that poor old lady feel at her ease and enjoy her game. A stranger, looking on, would imagine him to be just a kind-hearted, simple-minded fellow. Yet there is not one of us three who has wit enough to get a single word from him against his will. You shall see. There is an excellent opportunity here. I suppose both of you read his speech at the Herrick Club last night?”
“I did,” the Duke answered.
“And I,” Bransome echoed. “It seemed to me that he spoke a little more freely than usual.”
“He went as near to censure as I have ever heard him when speaking of any of the institutions of our country,” the Prime Minister declared. “I will ask him about it directly we get the chance. You shall see how he will evade the point.”
“You will have to be quick if you mean to get hold of him,” the Duke remarked. “See, the game is over and there he goes with Penelope.”
The Prime Minister rose to his feet and intercepted them on their way to the door.
“Miss Morse,” he said, “may we ransom the Prince? We want to talk to him.”
“Do you insinuate,” she laughed, “that he is a captive of mine?”
“We are all captives of Miss Morse’s,” Bransome said with a bow, “and all enemies of Somerfield’s.”
Somerfield, hearing his name, came up to them. The Duchess, too, strolled over to the fire. The Prime Minister and Bransome returned with Maiyo towards the corner of the room where they had been sitting.
“Prince,” the Prime Minister said, “we have been talking about your speech at the Herrick Club last night.”
The Prince smiled a little gravely.
“Did I say too much?” he asked. “It all came as a surprise to me—the toast and everything connected with it. I saw my name down to reply, and it seemed discourteous of me not to speak. But, as yet, I do not altogether understand these functions. I did not altogether understand, for instance, how much I might say and how much I ought to leave unsaid.”
“We have read what you said,” Bransome remarked. “What we should like to hear, if I may venture to say so, is what you left unsaid.”
The Prince for a moment was thoughtful. Perhaps he remembered that the days had passed when it was necessary for him to keep so jealously his own counsel. Perhaps his natural love of the truth triumphed. He felt a sudden longing to tell these people who had been kind to him the things which he had seen amongst them, the things which only a stranger coming fresh to the country could perhaps fully comprehend.
“What I said was of little importance,” the Prince remarked, “but I felt myself placed in a very difficult position. Before I knew what to expect, I was listening to a glorification of the arms of my country at the expense of Russia. I was being hailed as one of a nation who possess military genius which had not been equalled since the days of Hannibal and Caesar. Many things of that sort were said, many things much too kind, many things which somehow it grieved me to listen to. And when I stood up to reply, I felt that the few words which I must say would sound, perhaps, ungracious, but they must be said. It was one of those occasions which seemed to call for the naked truth.”
Penelope and the Duchess had joined the little group.
“May we stay?” the former asked. “I read every word of your speech,” she added, turning to the Prince. “Do tell us why you spoke so severely, what it was that you objected to so strongly in General Ennison’s remarks?”
The Prince turned earnestly towards her.
“My dear young lady,” he said, “all that I objected to was this over-glorification of the feats of arms accomplished by us. People over here did not understand. On the one side were the great armies of Russia,—men drawn, all of them, from the ranks of the peasant, men of low nerve force, men who were not many degrees better than animals. They came to fight against us because it was their business to fight, because for fighting they drew their scanty pay, their food, and their drink, and the clothes they wore. They fought because if they refused they faced the revolver bullets of their officers,—men like themselves, who also fought because it was their profession, because it was in the traditions of their family, but who would, I think, have very much preferred disporting themselves in the dancing halls of their cities, drinking champagne with the ladies of their choice, or gambling with cards. I do not say that these were not brave men, all of them. I myself saw them face death by the hundreds, but the lust of battle was in their veins then, the taste of blood upon their palates. We do not claim to be called world conquerors because we overcame these men. If one could have seen into the hearts of our own soldiers as they marched into battle, and seen also into the hearts of those others who lay there sullenly waiting, one would not have wondered then. There was, indeed, nothing to wonder at. What we cannot make you understand over here is that every Japanese soldier who crept across the bare plains or lay stretched in the trenches, who loaded his rifle and shot and killed and waited for death,—every man felt something beating in his heart which those others did not feel. We have no great army, Mr. Haviland, but what we have is a great nation who have things beating in their heart the knowledge of which seems somehow to have grown cold amongst you Western people. The boy is born with it; it is there in his very soul, as dear to him as the little home where he lives, the blossoming trees under which he plays. It leads him to the rifle and the drill ground as naturally as the boys of your country turn to the cricket fields and the football ground. Over here you call that spirit patriotism. It was something which beat in the heart of every one of those hundreds of thousands of men, something which kept their eyes clear and bright as they marched into battle, which made them look Death itself in the face, and fight even while the blackness crept over them. You see, your own people have so many interests, so many excitements, so much to distract. With us it is not so. In the heart of the Japanese comes the love of his parents, the love of his wife and children, and, deepest, perhaps, of all the emotions he knows, the strong magnificent background to his life, the love of the country which bore him, which shelters them. It is for his home he fights, for his simple joys amongst those who are dear to him, for the great mysterious love of the Motherland. Forgive me if I have expressed myself badly, have repeated myself often. It is a matter which I find it so hard to talk about, so hard here to make you understand.”
“But you must not think, Prince, that we over here are wholly lacking in that same instinct,” the Duke said. “Remember our South African war, and the men who came to arms and rallied round the flag when their services were needed.”
“I do remember that,” the Prince answered. “I wish that I could speak of it in other terms. Yet it seems to me that I must speak as I find things. You say that the men came to arms. They did, but how? Untrained, unskilled in carrying weapons, they rushed across the seas to be the sport of the farmers who cut them off or shot them down, to be a hindrance in the way of the mercenaries who fought for you. Yes, you say they rallied to the call! What brought them? Excitement, necessity, necessities of their social standing, bravado, cheap heroism—any one of these. But I tell you that patriotism as we understand it is a deeper thing. In the land where it flourishes there is no great pre-eminence in what you call sports or games. It does not come like a whirlwind on the wings of disaster. It grows with the limbs and the heart of the boy, grows with his muscles and his brawn. It is part of his conscience, part of his religion. As he realizes that he has a country of his own to protect, a dear, precious heritage come down to him through countless ages, so he learns that it is his sacred duty to know how to do his share in defending it. The spare time of our youth, Mr. Haviland, is spent learning to shoot, to scout, to bear hardships, to acquire the arts of war. I tell you that there was not one general who went with our troops to Manchuria, but a hundred thousand. We have no great army. We are a nation of men whose religion it is to fight when their country’s welfare is threatened.”
There was a short silence. The Prime Minister and Bransome exchanged rapid glances.
“These, then,” Penelope said slowly, “were the things you left unsaid.”
The Prince raised his hand a little—a deprecatory gesture.
“Perhaps even now,” he said, “it was scarcely courteous of me to say them, only I know that they come to you as no new thing. There are many of your countrymen who are speaking to you now in the Press as I, a stranger, have spoken. Sometimes it is harder to believe one of your own family. That is why I have dared to say so much,—I, a foreigner, eager and anxious only to observe and to learn. I think, perhaps, that it is to such that the truth comes easiest.”
Of a purpose, the three men who were there said nothing. The Prince offered Penelope his arm.
“I will not be disappointed,” he said. “You promised that you would show me the palm garden. I have talked too much.”
The Prince, on his way back from his usual before-breakfast stroll, lingered for a short time amongst the beds of hyacinths and yellow crocuses. Somehow or other, these spring flowers, stiffly set out and with shrivelled edges—a little reminiscent of the last east wind—still seemed to him, in their perfume at any rate, to being him memories of his own country. Pink and blue and yellow, in all manner of sizes and shapes, the beds spread away along the great front below the terrace of the castle. This morning the wind was coming from the west. The sun, indeed, seemed already to have gained some strength. The Prince sat for a moment or two upon the gray stone balustrade, looking to where the level country took a sudden ascent and ended in a thick belt of pine trees. Beyond lay the sea. As he sat there with folded arms, he was surely a fatalist. The question as to whether or not he should ever reach it, should ever find himself really bound for home, was one which seemed to trouble him slightly enough. He thought with a faint, wistful interest of the various ports of call, of the days which might pass, each one bringing him nearer the end. He suffered himself, even, to think of that faint blur upon the horizon, the breath of the spicy winds, the strange home perfumes of the bay, as he drew nearer and nearer to the outstretched arms of his country. Well, if not he, another! It was something to have done one’s best.
The rustle of a woman’s garment disturbed him, and he turned his head. Penelope stood there in her trim riding habit,—a garb in which he had never seen her. She held her skirts in her hand and looked at him with a curious little smile.
“It is too early in the morning, Prince,” she said, “for you to sit there dreaming so long and so earnestly. Come in to breakfast. Every one is down, for a wonder.”
“Breakfast, by all means,” he answered, coming blithely up the broad steps. “You are going to ride this morning?”
“I suppose we all are, more or less,” she answered. “It is our hunt steeplechases, you know. Poor Grace is in there nearly sobbing her eyes out. Captain Chalmers has thrown her over. Lady Barbarity—that’s Grace’s favorite mare, and her entry for the cup—turned awkward with him yesterday, and he won’t have anything more to do with her.”
“From your tone,” he remarked, pushing open the French windows, “I gather that this is a tragedy. I, unfortunately, do not understand.”
“You should ask Grace herself,” Penelope said. “There she is.”
Lady Grace looked round from her place at the head of the breakfast table.
“Come and sympathize with me, Prince,” she cried. “For weeks I have been fancying myself the proud possessor of the hunt cup. Now that horrid man, Captain Chalmers, has thrown me over at the last moment. He refuses to ride my mare because she was a little fractious yesterday.”
“It is a great misfortune,” the Prince said in a tone of polite regret, “but surely it is not irreparable? There must be others—why not your own groom?”
A smile went round the table. The Duke hastened to explain.
“The race is for gentlemen riders only,” he said. “The horses have to be the property of members of the hunt. There would be no difficulty, of course, in finding a substitute for Captain Chalmers, but the race takes place this morning, and I am afraid, with all due respect to my daughter, that her mare hasn’t the best of reputations.”
“I won’t have a word said against Lady Barbarity,” Lady Grace declared. “Captain Chalmers is a good horseman, of course but for a lightweight he has the worst hands I ever knew.”
“But surely amongst your immediate friends there must be many others,” the Prince said. “Sir Charles, for instance?”
“Charlie is riding his own horse,” Lady Grace answered. “He hasn’t the ghost of a chance, but, of course, he won’t give it up.”
“Not I!” Somerfield answered, gorgeous in pink coat and riding breeches. “My old horse may not be fast, but he can go the course, and I’m none too certain of the others. Some of those hurdles’ll take a bit of doing.”
“It is a shame,” the Prince remarked, “that you should be disappointed, Lady Grace. Would they let me ride for you?”
Nothing the Prince could have said would have astonished the little company more. Somerfield came to a standstill in the middle of the room, with a cup of tea in one hand and a plate of ham in the other.
“You!” Lady Grace exclaimed.
“Do you really mean it, Prince?” Penelope cried.
“Well, why not?” he asked, himself, in turn, somewhat surprised. “If I am eligible, and Lady Grace chooses, it seems to me very simple.”
“But,” the Duke intervened, “I did not know—we did not know that you were a sportsman, Prince.”
“A sportsman?” the Prince repeated a little doubtfully. “Perhaps I am not that according to your point of view, but when it comes to a question of riding, why, that is easy enough.”
“Have you ever ridden in a steeplechase?” Somerfield asked him.
“Never in my life,” the Prince declared. “Frankly, I do not know what it is.”
“There are jumps, for one thing,” Somerfield continued,—“pretty stiff affairs, too.”
“If Lady Grace’s mare is a hunter,” the Prince remarked, “she can probably jump them.”
“The question is whether—” Somerfield began, and stopped short.
The Prince looked up.
“Yes?” he asked.
Somerfield hesitated to complete his sentence, and the Duke once more intervened.
“What Somerfield was thinking, my dear Prince,” he said, “was that a steeplechase course, as they ride in this country, needs some knowing. You have never been on my daughter’s mare before.”
The Prince smiled.
“So far as I am concerned,” he said, “that is of no account. There was a day at Mukden—I do not like to talk of it, but it comes back to me—when I rode twelve different horses in twenty-four hours, but perhaps,” he added, turning to Lady Grace, “you would not care to trust your horse with one who is a stranger to your—what is it you call them?—steeplechases.”
“On the contrary, Prince,” Lady Grace exclaimed, “you shall ride her, and I am going to back you for all I am worth.”
Bransome, who was also in riding clothes, although he was not taking part in the steeplechases himself, glanced at the clock.
“You are running it rather fine,” he said. “You’ll scarcely have time to hack round the course.”
“Some one must explain it to me,” the Prince said. “I need only to be told where to go. If there is no time for that, I must stay with the other horses until the finish. There is a flat finish perhaps?”
“About three hundred yards,” the Duke answered.
“Have you any riding clothes?” Penelope whispered to him.
“Without a doubt,” he answered. “I will go and change in a few minutes.”
“We start in half an hour,” Somerfield remarked. “Even that allows us none too much time.”
“Perhaps,” the Duke suggested diffidently, “you would like to ride over, Prince? It is a good eleven miles, and you would have a chance of getting into your stride.”
The Prince shook his head.
“No,” he said, “I should like to motor with you others, if I may.”
“Just as you like, of course,” the Duke agreed. “Grace’s mare is over there now. We shall be able to have a look at her before the race, at any rate.”
The opinions, after the Prince had left the table, were a little divided as to what was likely to happen.
“For a man who has never even hunted and knows nothing whatever about the country,” Somerfield declared, “to attempt to ride in a steeplechase of this sort is sheer folly. If you take my advice, Lady Grace, you will get out of it. Lady Barbarity is far too good a mare to have her knees broken.”
“I am perfectly content to take my risks,” Lady Grace answered confidently. “If the Prince had never ridden before in his life, I would trust him.”
Somerfield turned away, frowning.
“What do you think about it, Penelope?” he asked.
“I am afraid,” she answered, “that I agree with Grace.”
Two punctures and a leaking valve delayed them over an hour on the road. When they reached their destination, the first race was already over.
“It’s shocking bad luck,” the Duke declared, “but there’s no earthly chance of your seeing the course, Prince. Come on the top of the stand with me, and bring your glasses. I think I can point out the way for you.”
“That will do excellently,” the Prince answered. “There is no need to go and look at every jump. Show me where we start and as near as possible the way we have to go, and tell me where we finish.”
The course was a natural one, and the stand itself on a hill. The greater part of it was clearly visible from where they stood. The Duke pointed out the water jump with some trepidation, but the Prince’s glasses rested on it only for a moment. He pointed to a clump of trees.
“Which side there?” he asked.
“To the left,” the Duke answered. “Remember to keep inside the red flags.”
The Prince nodded.
“Where do we finish?” he asked.
The Duke showed him.
“That is all right,” he said. “I need not look any more.”
In the paddock some of the horses were being led around. The Prince noted them approvingly.
“Very nice horses,” he said,—“light, but very nice. That one I like best,” he added, pointing to a dark bay mare, who was already giving her boy some trouble.
“That’s lucky,” the Duke answered, “for she’s your mount. I must go and talk to the clerk about your entry. It is a little late, but I think that it will be all right.”
The Prince glanced over Lady Grace’s mare and turned aside to join Penelope and Somerfield.
“I like the look of my horse, Sir Charles,” he said. “I think that I shall beat you today.”
“We both start at five to one,” Somerfield answered. “Shall we have a bet?”
“With pleasure,” the Prince agreed. “Will you name the amount? I do not know what is usual.”
“Anything you like,” Somerfield answered, “from ten pounds to a hundred.”
“One hundred,—we will say one hundred, then,” the Prince declared. “My mount against yours. So!”
He threw off his overcoat, and they saw for the first time that he was dressed in English riding clothes of dark material, but absolutely correct cut.
“I must go now and be introduced to the Clerk of the Course,” he said. “Ah, here is Lady Grace!” he added. “Come with me, Lady Grace. Your father is seeing about my entry. I think that in five minutes the bell will ring.”
Everything was in order, and a few minutes later the Prince came out. The mare was stripped, and the whole party gathered round to watch him mount. He swung himself into the saddle without hesitation. The mare suddenly reared. Prince Maiyo only smiled, and with loose reins stooped and patted her neck. He seemed to whisper something in her ear, and she stood for a moment afterwards quite still. Lady Grace drew a quick breath.
“What did you say to her, Prince?” she asked. “She is behaving beautifully except for that first start.”
“Your mare understands Japanese, Lady Grace,” the Prince answered, smiling. “She and I are going to be great friends. Show me the way, please. Ah, I follow that other horse! I see. Lady Grace, au revoir. You shall have your cup.”
“Gad, I believe she will!” the Duke exclaimed. “Look at the fellow ride. His body is like whalebone.”
The parade in front of the stand was a short one. The Prince rode by in the merest canter. The mare made one wild plunge which would have unseated any ordinary person, but her rider never even moved in his saddle.
“I never saw a fellow sit so close in my life,” the Duke declared. “Do you know, Grace, I believe, I really believe he’ll ride her!”
Lady Grace laughed scornfully.
“I have a year’s allowance on already,” she said, “so you had better pray that he does. I think it is very absurd of you all,” she added, “because the Prince cares nothing for games, to conclude that he is any the less likely to be able to do the things that a man should do. He perhaps cannot ride about on a trained pony with a long stick and knock a small ball between two posts, but I think that if he had to ride for his own life or the life of others he would show you all something.”
“They’re off!” the Duke exclaimed.
They watched the first jump breathlessly. The Prince, riding a little apart, simply ignored the hurdle, and the mare took it in her stride. They turned the corner and faced an awkward post and rails. The leading horse took off too late and fell. The Prince, who was close behind, steered his mare on one side like lightning. She jumped like a cat,—the Prince never moved in his seat.
“He rides like an Italian,” Bransome declared, shutting up his glasses. “There’s never a thing in this race to touch him. I am going to see if I can get any money on.”
Another set of hurdles and then the field were out of sight. Soon they were visible again in the valley. The Prince was riding second now. Somerfield was leading, and there were only three other horses left. They cleared a hedge and two ditches. At the second one Somerfield’s horse stumbled, and there was a suppressed cry. He righted himself almost at once, however, and came on. Then they reached the water jump. There was a sudden silence on the stand and the hillside. Somerfield took off first, the Prince lying well away from him. Both cleared it, but whereas Lady Grace’s mare jumped wide and clear, and her rider never even faltered in his saddle, Somerfield lost all his lead and only just kept his seat. They were on the homeward way now, with only one more jump, a double set of hurdles. Suddenly, in the flat, the Prince seemed to stagger in his saddle. Lady Grace cried out.
“He’s over, by Jove!” the Duke exclaimed. “No, he’s righted himself!”
The Prince had lost ground, but he came on toward the last jump, gaining with every stride. Somerfield was already riding his mount for all he was worth, but the Prince as yet had not touched his whip. They drew closer and closer to the jump. Once more the silence came. Then there was a little cry,—both were over. They were turning the corner coming into the straight. Somerfield was leaning forward now, using his whip freely, but it was clear that his big chestnut was beaten. The Prince, with merely a touch of the whip and riding absolutely upright, passed him with ease, and rode in a winner by a dozen lengths. As he cantered by the stand, they all saw the cause of his momentary stagger. One stirrup had gone, and he was riding with his leg quite stiff.
“You’ve won your money, Grace,” the Duke declared, shutting up his glass. “A finely ridden race, too. Did you see he’d lost his stirrup? He must have taken the last jump without it. I’ll go and fetch him up.”
The Duke hurried down. The Prince was already in the weighing room smoking a cigarette.
“It is all right,” he said smiling. “They have passed me. I have won. I hope that Lady Grace will be pleased.”
“She is delighted!” the Duke exclaimed, shaking him by the hand. “We all are. What happened to your stirrup?”
“You must ask your groom,” the Prince answered. “The leather snapped right in the flat, but it made no difference. We have to ride like that half the time. It is quite pleasant exercise,” he continued, “but I am very dirty and very thirsty. I am sorry for Sir Charles, but his horse was not nearly so good as your daughter’s mare.”
They made their way toward the stand, but met the rest of the party in the paddock. Lady Grace went up to the Prince with outstretched hands.
“Prince,” she declared, “you rode superbly. It was a wonderful race. I have never felt so grateful to any one in my life.”
The Prince smiled in a puzzled way.
“My dear young lady,” he said, “it was a great pleasure and a very pleasant ride. You have nothing to thank me for because your horse is a little better than those others.”
“It was not my mare alone,” she answered,—“it was your riding.”
The Prince laughed as one who does not understand.
“You make me ashamed, Lady Grace,” he declared. “Why, there is only one way to ride. You did not think that because I was not English I should fall off a horse?”
“I am afraid,” the Duke remarked smiling, “that several Englishmen have fallen off!”
“It is a matter of the horse,” the Prince said. “Some are not trained for jumping. What would you have, then? In my battalion we have nine hundred horsemen. If I found one who did not ride so well as I do, he would go back to the ranks. We would make an infantryman of him. Miss Morse,” he added, turning suddenly to where Penelope was standing a little apart. “I am so sorry that Sir Charles’ horse was not quite so good as Lady Grace’s. You will not blame me?”
She looked at him curiously. She did not answer immediately. Somerfield was coming towards them, his pink coat splashed with mud, his face scratched, and a very distinct frown upon his forehead. She looked away from him to the Prince. Their eyes met for a moment.
“No!” she said. “I do not blame you!”
They were talking of the Prince during those few minutes before they separated to dress for dinner. The whole of the house-party, with the exception of the Prince himself, were gathered around the great open fireplace at the north end of the hall. The weather had changed during the afternoon, and a cold wind had blown in their faces on the homeward drive. Every one had found comfortable seats here, watching the huge logs burn, and there seemed to be a general indisposition to move. A couple of young men from the neighborhood had joined the house-party, and the conversation, naturally enough, was chiefly concerned with the day’s sport. The young men, Somerfield especially, were inclined to regard the Prince’s achievement from a somewhat critical standpoint.
“He rode the race well enough,” Somerfield admitted, “but the mare is a topper, and no mistake. He had nothing to do but to sit tight and let her do the work.”
“Of course, he hadn’t to finish either,” one of the newcomers, a Captain Everard Wilmot, remarked. “That’s where you can tell if a fellow really can ride or not. Anyhow, his style was rotten. To me he seemed to sit his horse exactly like a groom.”
“You will, perhaps, not deny him,” the Duke remarked mildly, “a certain amount of courage in riding a strange horse of uncertain temper, over a strange country, in an enterprise which was entirely new to him.”
“I call it one of the most sporting things I ever heard of in my life,” Lady Grace declared warmly.
Somerfield shrugged his shoulders.
“One must admit that he has pluck,” he remarked critically. “At the same time I cannot see that a single effort of this sort entitles a man to be considered a sportsman. He doesn’t shoot, nor does he ever ride except when he is on military service. He neither plays games nor has he the instinct for them. A man without the instinct for games is a fellow I cannot understand. He’d never get along in this country, would he, Wilmot?”
“No, I’m shot if he would!” that young man replied. “There must be something wrong about a man who hasn’t any taste whatever for sport.”
Penelope suddenly intervened—intervened, too, in somewhat startling fashion.
“Charlie,” she said, “you are talking like a baby! I am ashamed of you! I am ashamed of you all! You are talking like narrow-minded, ignorant little squireens.”
Somerfield went slowly white. He looked across at Penelope, but the angry flash in his eyes was met by an even brighter light in her own.
“I will tell you what I think!” she exclaimed. “I think that you are all guilty of the most ridiculous presumption in criticising such a man as the Prince. You would dare—you, Captain Wilmot, and you, Charlie, and you, Mr. Hannaway,” she added, turning to the third young man, “to stand there and tell us all in a lordly way that the Prince is no sportsman, as though that mysterious phrase disposed of him altogether as a creature inferior to you and your kind! If only you could realize the absolute absurdity of any of you attempting to depreciate a person so immeasurably above you! Prince Maiyo is a man, not an overgrown boy to go through life shooting birds, playing games which belong properly to your schooldays, and hanging round the stage doors of half the theatres in London. You are satisfied with your lives and the Prince is satisfied with his. He belongs to a race whom you do not understand. Let him alone. Don’t presume to imagine yourselves his superior because he does not conform to your pygmy standard of life.”
Penelope was standing now, her slim, elegant form throbbing with the earnestness of her words, a spot of angry color burning in her cheeks. During the moment’s silence which followed, Lady Grace too rose to her feet and came to her friend’s side.
“I agree with every word Penelope has said,” she declared.
The Duchess smiled.
“Come,” she said soothingly, “we mustn’t take this little affair too seriously. You are all right, all of you. Every one must live according to his bringing up. The Prince, no doubt, is as faithful to his training and instincts as the young men of our own country. It is more interesting to compare than to criticise.”
Somerfield, who for a moment had been too angry to speak, had now recovered himself.
“I think,” he said stiffly, “that we had better drop the subject. I had no idea that Miss Morse felt so strongly about it or I should not have presumed, even here and amongst ourselves, to criticise a person who holds such a high place in her esteem. Everard, I’ll play you a game of billiards before we go upstairs. There’s just time.”
Captain Wilmot hesitated. He was a peace-loving man, and, after all, Penelope and his friend were engaged.
“Perhaps Miss Morse—” he began.
Penelope turned upon him.
“I should like you all to understand,” she declared, “that every word I said came from my heart, and that I would say it again, and more, with the same provocation.”
There was a finality about Penelope’s words which left no room for further discussion. The little group was broken up. She and Lady Grace went to their rooms together.
“Penelope, you’re a dear!” the latter said, as they mounted the stairs. “I am afraid you’ve made Charlie very angry, though.”
“I hope I have,” Penelope answered. “I meant to make him angry. I think that such self-sufficiency is absolutely stifling. It makes me sometimes almost loathe young Englishmen of his class.”
“And you don’t dislike the Prince so much nowadays?” Lady Grace remarked with transparent indifference.
“No!” Penelope answered. “That is finished. I misunderstood him at first. It was entirely my own fault. I was prejudiced, and I hated to feel that I was in the wrong. I do not see how any one could dislike him unless they were enemies of his country. Then I fancy that they might have cause.”
Lady Grace sighed.
“To tell you the truth, Penelope,” she said, “I almost wish that he were not quite so devotedly attached to his country.”
Penelope was silent. They had reached Lady Grace’s room now, and were standing together on the hearthrug in front of the fire.
“I am afraid he is like that,” Penelope said gently. “He seems to have none of the ordinary weaknesses of men. I, too, wish sometimes that he were a little different. One would like to think of him, for his own sake, as being happy some day. He reminds me somehow of the men who build and build, toiling always through youth unto old age. There seems no limit to their strength, nor any respite. They build a palace which those who come after them must inhabit.”
Once more Lady Grace sighed. She was looking into the heart of the fire. Penelope took her hands.
“It is hard sometimes, dear,” she said, “to realize that a thing is impossible, that it is absolutely out of our reach. Yet it is better to bring one’s mind to it than to suffer all the days.”
Lady Grace looked up. At that moment she was more than pretty. Her eyes were soft and bright, the color had flooded her cheeks.
“But I don’t seewhyit should be impossible, Penelope,” she protested. “We are equals in every way. Alliances between our two countries are greatly to be desired. I have heard my father say so, and Mr. Haviland. The trouble is, Pen,” she added with trembling lips, “that he does not care for me.”
“You cannot tell,” Penelope answered. “He has never shown any signs of caring for any woman. Remember, though, that he would want you to live in Japan.”
“I’d live in Thibet if he asked me to,” Lady Grace declared, raising her handkerchief to her eyes, “but he never will. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t understand. I am very foolish, Penelope.”
Penelope kissed her gently.
“Dear,” she said, “you are not the only foolish woman in the world.”...
Conversation amongst the younger members of the house-party at Devenham Castle was a little disjointed that evening. Perhaps Penelope, who came down in a wonderful black velveteen gown, with a bunch of scarlet roses in her corsage, was the only one who seemed successfully to ignore the passage of arms which had taken place so short a while ago. She talked pleasantly to Somerfield, who tried to be dignified and succeeded only in remaining sulky. Chance had placed her at some distance from the Prince, to whom Lady Grace was talking with a subdued softness in her manner which puzzled Captain Wilmot, her neighbor on the other side.
“I saw you with all the evening papers as usual, Bransome,” the Prime Minister remarked during the service of dinner. “Was there any news?”
“Nothing much,” the Foreign Secretary replied. “Consuls are down another point and the Daily Comet says that you are like a drowning man clinging to the raft of your majority. Excellent cartoon of you, by the bye. You shall see it after dinner.”
“Thank you,” the Prime Minister said. “Was there anything about you in the same paper by any chance?”
“Nothing particularly abusive,” Sir Edward answered blandly. “By the bye, the police declare that they have a definite clue this time, and are going to arrest the murderer of Hamilton Fynes and poor dicky Vanderpole tonight or tomorrow.”
“Excellent!” the Duke declared. “It would have been a perfect disgrace to our police system to have left two such crimes undetected. Our respected friend at the Home Office will have a little peace now.”
“How about me?” Bransome grumbled. “Haven’t I been worried to death, too?”
The Prince, who had just finished describing to Lady Grace a typical landscape of his country, turned toward Bransome.
“I think that I heard you say something about a discovery in connection with those wonderful murder cases,” he said. “Has any one actually been arrested?”
“My paper was an early edition,” Bransome answered, “but it spoke of a sensational denouement within the next few hours. I should imagine that it is all over by now. At the same time it’s absurd how the Press give these things away. It seems that some fellow who was bicycling saw a man get in and out of poor Dicky’s taxi and is quite prepared to swear to him.”
“Has he not been rather a long time in coming forward with his evidence?” the Prince remarked. “I do not remember to have seen any mention of such a person in the papers before.”
“He watched so well,” Bransome answered, “and was so startled that he was knocked down and run over. The detective in charge of the case found him in a hospital.”
“These things always come out sooner or later,” the Prime Minister remarked. “As a matter of fact, I am inclined to think that our police wait too long before they make an arrest. They play with their victim so deliberately that sometimes he slips through their fingers. Very often, too, they let a man go who would give himself away from sheer fright if he felt the touch of a policeman upon his shoulder.”
“As a nation,” Bransome remarked, helping himself to the entree, “we handle life amongst ourselves with perpetual kid gloves. We are always afraid of molesting the liberty of the subject. A trifle more brutality sometimes would make for strength. We are like a dentist whose work suffers because he is afraid of hurting his patient.”
Somerfield was watching his fiancee curiously.
“Are you really very pale tonight, Penelope,” he asked, “or is it those red flowers which have drawn all the color from your cheeks?”
“I believe that I am pale,” Penelope answered. “I am always pale when I wear black and when people have disagreed with me. As a matter of fact, I am trying to make the Prince feel homesick. Tell me,” she asked him across the round table, “don’t you think that I remind you a little tonight of the women of your country?”
The Prince returned her gaze as though, indeed, something were passing between them of greater significance than that half-bantering question.
“Indeed,” he said, “I think that you do. You remind me of my country itself—of the things that wait for me across the ocean.”
The Prince’s servant had entered the dining room and whispered in the ear of the butler who was superintending the service of dinner. The latter came over at once to the Prince.
“Your Highness,” he said, “some one is on the telephone, speaking from London. They ask if you could spare half a minute.”
The Prince rose with an interrogative glance at his hostess, and the Duchess smilingly motioned him to go. Even after he had left the room, when he was altogether unobserved, his composed demeanor showed no signs of any change. He took up the receiver almost blithely. It was Soto, his secretary, who spoke to him.
“Highness,” he said, “the man Jacks with a policeman is here in the hall at the present moment. He asks permission to search this house.”
“For what purpose?” the Prince asked.
“To discover some person whom he believes to be in hiding here,” the secretary answered. “He explains that in any ordinary case he would have applied for what they call a search warrant. Owing to your Highness’ position, however, he has attended here, hoping for your gracious consent without having made any formal application.”
“I must think!” the Prince answered. “Tell me, Soto. You are sure that the English doctor has had no opportunity of communicating with any one?”
“He has had no opportunity,” was the firm reply. “If your Highness says the word, he shall pass.”
“Let him alone,” the Prince answered. “Refuse this man Jacks permission to search my house during my absence. Tell him that I shall be there at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon and that at that hour he is welcome to return.”
“It shall be done, Highness,” was the answer.
The Prince set down the receiver upon the instrument and stood for a moment deep in thought. It was a strange country, this,—a strange end which it seemed that he must prepare to face. He felt like the man who had gone out to shoot lions and returning with great spoil had died of the bite of a poisonous ant!