When, an hour later, John landed in New York from the ferry, his mood
had changed. The sun and the breeze had done their work. He looked on
life once more with a cheerful and optimistic eye.
His first act, on landing, was to proceed to the office of the
_News_ and enquire for Rupert Smith. He felt that he had urgent
need of a few minutes' conversation with him. Now that the painter had
been definitely cut that bound him to the safe and conventional, and he
had set out on his own account to lead the life adventurous, he was
conscious of an absurd diffidence. New York looked different to him. It
made him feel positively shy. A pressing need for a friendly native in
this strange land manifested itself. Smith would have ideas and advice
to bestow - he was notoriously prolific of both - and in this crisis both
were highly necessary.
Smith, however, was not at the office. He had gone out, John was
informed, earlier in the morning to cover a threatened strike somewhere
down on the East Side. John did not go in search of him. The chance of
finding him in that maze of mean streets was remote. He decided to go
uptown, select a hotel, and lunch. To the need for lunch he attributed
a certain sinking sensation of which he was becoming more and more
aware, and which bore much too close a resemblance to dismay to be
pleasant. The poet's statement that "the man who's square, his chances
always are best; no circumstance can shoot a scare into the contents of
his vest," is only true within limits. The squarest men, deposited
suddenly in New York and faced with the prospect of earning his living
there, is likely to quail for a moment. New York is not like other
cities. London greets the stranger with a sleepy grunt. Paris giggles.
New York howls. A gladiator, waiting in the center of the arena while
the Colosseum officials fumbled with the bolts of the door behind which
paced the noisy tiger he was to fight, must have had some of the
emotions which John experienced during his first hour as a masterless
man in Gotham.
A surface car carried him up Broadway. At Times Square the Astor Hotel
loomed up on the left. It looked a pretty good hotel to John. He
dismounted.
Half an hour later he decided that he was acclimated. He had secured a
base of operations in the shape of a room on the seventh floor, his
check was safely deposited in the hotel bank, and he was half-way
through a lunch which had caused him already to look on New York not
only as the finest city in the world, but also, on the whole, as the
one city of all others in which a young man might make a fortune with
the maximum of speed and the minimum of effort.
After lunch, having telegraphed his address to his uncle in case of
mail, he took the latter's excellent advice and went to the polo
grounds. Returning in time to dress, he dined at the hotel, after which
he visited a near-by theater, and completed a pleasant and strenuous
day at one of those friendly restaurants where the music is continuous
and the waiters are apt to burst into song in the intervals of their
other duties.
A second attempt to find Smith next morning failed, as the first had
done. The staff of the News were out of bed and at work ridiculously
early, and when John called up the office between eleven and twelve
o'clock - nature's breakfast-hour - Smith was again down East, observing
the movements of those who were about to strike or who had already
struck.
It hardly seemed worth while starting to lay the bed plates of his
fortune till he had consulted the expert. What would Rockefeller have
done? He would, John felt certain, have gone to the ball-game.
He imitated the great financier.
* * * * *
It was while he was smoking a cigar after dinner that night, musing on
the fortunes of the day's game and, in particular, on the almost
criminal imbecility of the umpire, that he was dreamily aware that he
was being "paged." A small boy in uniform was meandering through the
room, chanting his name.
"Gent wants five minutes wit' you," announced the boy, intercepted.
"Hasn't got no card. Business, he says."
This disposed of the idea that Rupert Smith had discovered his retreat.
John was puzzled. He could not think of another person in New York who
knew of his presence at the Astor. But it was the unknown that he was
in search of, and he decided to see the mysterious stranger.
"Send him along," he said.
The boy disappeared, and presently John observed him threading his way
back among the tables, followed by a young man of extraordinary gravity
of countenance, who was looking about him with an intent gaze through a
pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.
John got up to meet him.
"My name is Maude," he said. "Won't you sit down? Have you had dinner?"
"Thank you, yes," said the spectacled young man.
"You'll have a cigar and coffee, then?"
"Thank you, yes."
The young man remained silent until the waiter had filled his cup.
"My name is Crump," he said. "I am Mr. Benjamin Scobell's private
secretary."
"Yes?" said John. "Snug job?"
The other seemed to miss something in his voice.
"You have heard of Mr. Scobell?" he asked.
"Not to my knowledge," said John.
"Ah! you have lost touch very much with Mervo, of course."
John stared.
"Mervo?"
It sounded like some patent medicine.
"I have been instructed," said Mr. Crump solemnly, "to inform Your
Highness that the Republic has been dissolved, and that your subjects
offer you the throne of your ancestors."
John leaned back in his chair, and looked at the speaker in dumb
amazement. The thought flashed across him that Mr. Crump had been
perfectly correct in saying that he had dined.
His attitude appeared to astound Mr. Crump. He goggled through his
spectacles at John, who was reminded of some rare fish.
"You are John Maude? You said you were."
"I'm John Maude right enough. We're solid on that point."
"And your mother was the only sister of Mr. Andrew Westley?"
"You're right there, too."
"Then there is no mistake. I say the Republic - " He paused, as if
struck with an idea. "Don't you know?" he said. "Your father - "
John became suddenly interested.
"If you've got anything to tell me about my father, go right ahead.
You'll be the only man I've ever met who has said a word about him. Who
the deuce was he, anyway?"
Mr. Crump's face cleared.
"I understand. I had not expected this. You have been kept in
ignorance. Your father, Mr. Maude, was the late Prince Charles of
Mervo."
It was not easy to astonish John, but this announcement did so. He
dropped his cigar in a shower of gray ash on to his trousers, and
retrieved it almost mechanically, his wide-open eyes fixed on the
other's face.
"What!" he cried.
Mr. Crump nodded gravely.
"You are Prince John of Mervo, and I am here - " he got into his stride
as he reached the familiar phrase - "to inform Your Highness that the
Republic has been dissolved, and that your subjects offer you the
throne of your ancestors."
A horrid doubt seized John.
"You're stringing me. One of those Indians at the _News_, Rupert
Smith, or someone, has put you up to this."
Mr. Crump appeared wounded.
"If Your Highness would glance at these documents - This is a copy
of the register of the church in which your mother and father were
married."
John glanced at the document. It was perfectly lucid.
"Then - then it's true!" he said.
"Perfectly true, Your Highness. And I am here to inform - "
"But where the deuce is Mervo? I never heard of the place."
"It is an island principality in the Mediterranean, Your High - "
"For goodness' sake, old man, don't keep calling me 'Your Highness.' It
may be fun to you, but it makes me feel a perfect ass. Let me get into
the thing gradually."
Mr. Crump felt in his pocket.
"Mr. Scobell," he said, producing a roll of bills, "entrusted me with
money to defray any expenses - "
More than any words, this spectacle removed any lingering doubt which
John might have had as to the possibility of this being some intricate
practical joke.
"Are these for me?" he said.
Mr. Crump passed them across to him.
"There are a thousand dollars here," he said. "I am also instructed to
say that you are at liberty to draw further against Mr. Scobell's
account at the Wall Street office of the European and Asiatic Bank."
The name Scobell had been recurring like a _leit-motif_ in Mr.
Crump's conversation. This suddenly came home to John.
"Before we go any further," he said, "let's get one thing clear. Who is
this Mr. Scobell? How does he get mixed up in this?"
"He is the proprietor of the Casino at Mervo."
"He seems to be one of those generous, open-handed fellows. Nothing of
the tight wad about him."
"He is deeply interested in Your High - in your return."
John laid the roll of bills beside his coffee cup, and relighted his
cigar.
"That's mighty good of him," he said. "It strikes me, old man, that I
am not absolutely up-to-date as regards the internal affairs of this
important little kingdom of mine. How would it be if you were to put me
next to one or two facts? Start at the beginning and go right on."
When Mr. Crump had finished a condensed history of Mervo and Mervian
politics, John smoked in silence for some minutes.
"Life, Crump," he said at last, "is certainly speeding up as far as I
am concerned. Up till now nothing in particular has ever happened to
me. A couple of days ago I lost my job, was given ten thousand dollars
that I didn't know existed, and now you tell me I'm a prince. Well,
well! These are stirring times. When do we start for the old
homestead?"
"Mr. Scobell was exceedingly anxious that we should return by
Saturday's boat."
"Saturday? What, to-morrow?"
"Perhaps it is too soon. You will not be able to settle your affairs?"
"I guess I can settle my affairs all right. I've only got to pack a
grip and tip the bell hops. And as Scobell seems to be financing this
show, perhaps it's up to me to step lively if he wants it. But it's a
pity. I was just beginning to like this place. There is generally
something doing along the White Way after twilight, Crump."
The gravity of Mr. Scobell's secretary broke up unexpectedly into a
slow, wide smile. His eyes behind their glasses gleamed with a wistful
light.
"Gee!" he murmured.
John looked at him, amazed.
"Crump," he cried. "Crump, I believe you're a sport!"
Mr. Crump seemed completely to have forgotten his responsible position
as secretary to a millionaire and special messenger to a prince. He
smirked.
"I'd have liked a day or two in the old burg," he said softly. "I
haven't been to Rector's since Ponto was a pup."
John reached across the table and seized the secretary's hand.
"Crump," he said, "you _are_ a sport. This is no time for delay.
If we are to liven up this great city, we must get busy right away.
Grab your hat, and come along. One doesn't become a prince every day.
The occasion wants celebrating. Are you with me, Crump, old scout?"
"Sure thing," said the envoy ecstatically.
* * * * *
At eight o'clock on the following morning, two young men, hatless and a
little rumpled, but obviously cheerful, entered the Astor Hotel,
demanding breakfast.
A bell boy who met them was addressed by the larger of the two, and
asked his name.
"Desmond Ryan," he replied.
The young man patted him on his shoulder.
"I appoint you, Desmond Ryan," he said, "Grand Hereditary Bell Hop to
the Court of Mervo."
Thus did Prince John formally enter into his kingdom.
CHAPTER V
MR. SCOBELL HAS ANOTHER IDEA
Owing to collaboration between Fate and Mr. Scobell, John's state entry
into Mervo was an interesting blend between a pageant and a vaudeville
sketch. The pageant idea was Mr. Scobell's. Fate supplied the
vaudeville.
The reception at the quay, when the little steamer that plied between
Marseilles and the island principality gave up its precious freight,
was not on quite so impressive a scale as might have been given to the
monarch of a more powerful kingdom; but John was not disappointed.
During the voyage from New York, in the intervals of seasickness - for
he was a poor sailor - Mr. Crump had supplied him with certain facts
about Mervo, one of which was that its adult population numbered just
under thirteen thousand, and this had prepared him for any shortcomings
in the way of popular demonstration.
As a matter of fact, Mr. Scobell was exceedingly pleased with the scale
of the reception, which to his mind amounted practically to pomp. The
Palace Guard, forty strong, lined the quay. Besides these, there were
four officers, a band, and sixteen mounted carbineers. The rest of the
army was dotted along the streets. In addition to the military, there
was a gathering of a hundred and fifty civilians, mainly drawn from
fishing circles. The majority of these remained stolidly silent
throughout, but three, more emotional, cheered vigorously as a young
man was seen to step on to the gangway, carrying a grip, and make for
the shore. General Poineau, a white-haired warrior with a fierce
mustache, strode forward and saluted. The Palace Guards presented arms.
The band struck up the Mervian national anthem. General Poineau,
lowering his hand, put on a pair of _pince-nez_ and began to
unroll an address of welcome.
It was then seen that the young man was Mr. Crump. General Poineau
removed his glasses and gave an impatient twirl to his mustache. Mr.
Scobell, who for possibly the first time in his career was not smoking
(though, as was afterward made manifest, he had the materials on his
person), bustled to the front.
"Where's his nibs, Crump?" he enquired.
The secretary's reply was swept away in a flood of melody. To the band
Mr. Crump's face was strange. They had no reason to suppose that he was
not Prince John, and they acted accordingly. With a rattle of drums
they burst once more into their spirited rendering of the national
anthem.
Mr. Scobell sawed the air with his arms, but was powerless to dam the
flood.
"His Highness is shaving, sir!" bawled Mr. Crump, depositing his grip
on the quay and making a trumpet of his hands.
"Shaving!"
"Yes, sir. I told him he ought to come along, but His Highness said he
wasn't going to land looking like a tramp comedian."
By this time General Poineau had explained matters to the band and they
checked the national anthem abruptly in the middle of a bar, with the
exception of the cornet player, who continued gallantly by himself till
a feeling of loneliness brought the truth home to him. An awkward stage
wait followed, which lasted until John was seen crossing the deck, when
there were more cheers, and General Poineau, resuming his
_pince-nez_, brought out the address of welcome again.
At this point Mr. Scobell made his presence felt.
"Glad to meet you, Prince," he said, coming forward. "Scobell's my
name. Shake hands with General Poineau. No, that's wrong. I guess he
kisses your hand, don't he?"
"I'll swing on him if he does," said John, cheerfully.
Mr. Scobell eyed him doubtfully. His Highness did not appear to him to
be treating the inaugural ceremony with that reserved dignity which we
like to see in princes on these occasions. Mr. Scobell was a business
man. He wanted his money's worth. His idea of a Prince of Mervo was
something statuesquely aloof, something - he could not express it
exactly - on the lines of the illustrations in the Zenda stories in the
magazines - about eight feet high and shinily magnificent, something
that would give the place a tone. That was what he had had in his mind
when he sent for John. He did not want a cheerful young man in a soft
hat and a flannel suit who looked as if at any moment he might burst
into a college yell.
General Poineau, meanwhile, had embarked on the address of welcome.
John regarded him thoughtfully.
"I can see," he said to Mr. Scobell, "that the gentleman is making a
good speech, but what is he saying? That is what gets past me."
"He is welcoming Your Highness," said Mr. Crump, the linguist, "in the
name of the people of Mervo."
"Who, I notice, have had the bully good sense to stay in bed. I guess
they knew that the Boy Orator would do all that was necessary. He
hasn't said anything about a bite of breakfast, has he? Has his address
happened to work around to the subject of shredded wheat and shirred
eggs yet? That's the part that's going to make a hit with me."
"There'll be breakfast at my villa, Your Highness," said Mr. Scobell.
"My automobile is waiting along there."
The General reached his peroration, worked his way through it, and
finished with a military clash of heels and a salute. The band rattled
off the national anthem once more.
"Now, what?" said John, turning to Mr. Scobell. "Breakfast?"
"I guess you'd better say a few words to them, Your Highness; they'll
expect it."
"But I can't speak the language, and they can't understand English. The
thing'll be a stand-off."
"Crump will hand it to 'em. Here, Crump."
"Sir?"
"Line up and shoot His Highness's remarks into 'em."
"Yes, sir.
"It's all very well for you, Crump," said John. "You probably enjoy
this sort of thing. I don't. I haven't felt such a fool since I sang
'The Maiden's Prayer' on Tremont Street when I was joining the frat.
Are you ready? No, it's no good. I don't know what to say."
"Tell 'em you're tickled to death," advised Mr. Scobell anxiously.
John smiled in a friendly manner at the populace. Then he coughed.
"Gentlemen," he said - "and more particularly the sport on my left who
has just spoken his piece whose name I can't remember - I thank you for
the warm welcome you have given me. If it is any satisfaction to you to
know that it has made me feel like thirty cents, you may have that
satisfaction. Thirty is a liberal estimate."
"'His Highness is overwhelmed by your loyal welcome. He thanks you
warmly,'" translated Mr. Crump, tactfully.
"I feel that we shall get along nicely together," continued John. "If
you are chumps enough to turn out of your comfortable beds at this time
of the morning simply to see me, you can't be very hard to please. We
shall hit it off fine."
_Mr. Crump:_ "His Highness hopes and believes that he will always
continue to command the affection of his people."
"I - " John paused. "That's the lot," he said. "The flow of inspiration
has ceased. The magic fire has gone out. Break it to 'em, Crump. For
me, breakfast."
During the early portion of the ride Mr. Scobell was silent and
thoughtful. John's speech had impressed him neither as oratory nor as
an index to his frame of mind. He had not interrupted him, because he
knew that none of those present could understand what was being said,
and that Mr. Crump was to be relied on as an editor. But he had not
enjoyed it. He did not take the people of Mervo seriously himself, but
in the Prince such an attitude struck him as unbecoming. Then he
cheered up. After all, John had given evidence of having a certain
amount of what he would have called "get-up" in him. For the purposes
for which he needed him, a tendency to make light of things was not
amiss. It was essentially as a performing prince that he had engaged
John. He wanted him to do unusual things, which would make people
talk - aeroplaning was one that occurred to him. Perhaps a prince who
took a serious view of his position would try to raise the people's
minds and start reforms and generally be a nuisance. John could, at any
rate, be relied upon not to do that.
His face cleared.
"Have a good cigar, Prince?" he said, cordially, inserting two fingers
in his vest-pocket.
"Sure, Mike," said His Highness affably.
Breakfast over, Mr. Scobell replaced the remains of his cigar between
his lips, and turned to business.
"Eh, Prince?" he said.
"Yes!"
"I want you, Prince," said Mr. Scobell, "to help boom this place.
That's where you come in."
"Sure," said John.
"As to ruling and all that," continued Mr. Scobell, "there isn't any to
do. The place runs itself. Some guy gave it a shove a thousand years
ago, and it's been rolling along ever since. What I want you to do is
the picturesque stunts. Get a yacht and catch rare fishes. Whoop it up.
Entertain swell guys when they come here. Have a Court - see what I
mean? - same as over in England. Go around in aeroplanes and that style
of thing. Don't worry about money. That'll be all right. You draw your
steady hundred thousand a year and a good chunk more besides, when we
begin to get a move on, so the dough proposition doesn't need to scare
you any."
"Do I, by George!" said John. "It seems to me that I've fallen into a
pretty soft thing here. There'll be a joker in the deck somewhere, I
guess. There always is in these good things. But I don't see it yet.
You can count me in all right."
"Good boy," said Mr. Scobell. "And now you'll be wanting to get to the
Palace. I'll have them bring the automobile round."
The council of state broke up.
Having seen John off in the car, the financier proceeded to his
sister's sitting-room. Miss Scobell had breakfasted apart that morning,
by request, her brother giving her to understand that matters of state,
unsuited to the ear of a third party, must be discussed at the meal.
She was reading her _New York Herald_.
"Well," said Mr. Scobell, "he's come."
"Yes, dear?"
"And just the sort I want. Saw the idea of the thing right away, and is
ready to go the limit. No nonsense about him."
"Is he nice-looking, Bennie?"
"Sure. All these Mervo princes have been good-lookers, I hear, and this
one must be near the top of the list. You'll like him, Marion. All the
girls will be crazy about him in a week."
Miss Scobell turned a page.
"Is he married?"
Her brother started.
"Married? I never thought of that. But no, I guess he's not. He'd have
mentioned it. He's not the sort to hush up a thing like that. I - "
He stopped short. His green eyes gleamed excitedly.
"Marion!" he cried. "_Marion!_"
"Well, dear?"
"Listen. Gee, this thing is going to be the biggest ever. I gotta new
idea. It just came to me. Your saying that put it into my head. Do you
know what I'm going to do? I'm going to cable over to Betty to come
right along here, and I'm going to have her marry this prince guy. Yes,
sir!"
For once Miss Scobell showed signs that her brother's conversation
really interested her. She laid down her paper, and stared at him.
"Betty!"
"Sure, Betty. Why not? She's a pretty girl. Clever too. The Prince'll
be lucky to get such a wife, for all his darned ancestors away back to
the flood."
"But suppose Betty does not like him?"
"Like him? She's gotta like him. Say, can't you make your mind soar, or
won't you? Can't you see that a thing like this has gotta be fixed
different from a marriage between - between a ribbon-counter clerk and
the girl who takes the money at a twenty-five-cent hash restaurant in
Flatbush? This is a royal alliance. Do you suppose that when a European
princess is introduced to the prince she's going to marry, they let her
say: 'Nothing doing. I don't like the shape of his nose'?"
He gave a spirited imitation of a European princess objecting to the
shape of her selected husband's nose.
"It isn't very romantic, Bennie," sighed Miss Scobell. She was a
confirmed reader of the more sentimental class of fiction, and this
business-like treatment of love's young dream jarred upon her.
"It's founding a dynasty. Isn't that romantic enough for you? You make
me tired, Marion."
Miss Scobell sighed again.
"Very well, dear. I suppose you know best. But perhaps the Prince won't
like Betty."
Mr. Scobell gave a snort of disgust.
"Marion," he said, "you've got a mind like a chunk of wet dough. Can't
you understand that the Prince is just as much in my employment as the
man who scrubs the Casino steps? I'm hiring him to be Prince of Mervo,
and his first job as Prince of Mervo will be to marry Betty. I'd like
to see him kick!" He began to pace the room. "By Heck, it's going to
make this place boom to beat the band. It'll be the biggest kind of
advertisement. Restoration of Royalty at Mervo. That'll make them take
notice by itself. Then, biff! right on top of that, Royal
Romance - Prince Weds American Girl - Love at First Sight - Picturesque
Wedding! Gee, we'll wipe Monte Carlo clean off the map. We'll have 'em
licked to a splinter. We - It's the greatest scheme on earth."
"I have no doubt you are right, Bennie," said Miss Scobell, "but - " her
voice became dreamy again - "it's not very romantic."
"Oh, shucks!" said the schemer impatiently. "Here, where's a cable
form?"
CHAPTER VI
YOUNG ADAM CUPID
On a red sandstone rock at the edge of the water, where the island
curved sharply out into the sea, Prince John of Mervo sat and brooded
on first causes. For nearly an hour and a half he had been engaged in
an earnest attempt to trace to its source the acute fit of depression
which had come - apparently from nowhere - to poison his existence that
morning.
It was his seventh day on the island, and he could remember every
incident of his brief reign. The only thing that eluded him was the
recollection of the exact point when the shadow of discontent had begun
to spread itself over his mind. Looking back, it seemed to him that he
had done nothing during that week but enjoy each new aspect of his
position as it was introduced to his notice. Yet here he was, sitting
on a lonely rock, consumed with an unquenchable restlessness, a kind of
trapped sensation. Exactly when and exactly how Fate, that king of
gold-brick men, had cheated him he could not say; but he knew, with a
certainty that defied argument, that there had been sharp practise, and
that in an unguarded moment he had been induced to part with something
of infinite value in exchange for a gilded fraud.
The mystery baffled him. He sent his mind back to the first definite
entry of Mervo into the foreground of his life. He had come up from his
stateroom on to the deck of the little steamer, and there in the
pearl-gray of the morning was the island, gradually taking definite
shape as the pink mists shredded away before the rays of the rising
sun. As the ship rounded the point where the lighthouse still flashed a
needless warning from its cluster of jagged rocks, he had had his first
view of the town, nestling at the foot of the hill, gleaming white
against the green, with the gold-domed Casino towering in its midst. In
all Southern Europe there was no view to match it for quiet beauty. For
all his thews and sinews there was poetry in John, and the sight had
stirred him like wine.
It was not then that depression had begun, nor was it during the
reception at the quay.
The days that had followed had been peaceful and amusing. He could not
detect in any one of them a sign of the approaching shadow. They had
been lazy days. His duties had been much more simple than he had
anticipated. He had not known, before he tried it, that it was possible
to be a prince with so small an expenditure of mental energy. As Mr.
Scobell had hinted, to all intents and purposes he was a mere ornament.
His work began at eleven in the morning, and finished as a rule at
about a quarter after. At the hour named a report of the happenings of
the previous day was brought to him. When he had read it the state
asked no more of him until the next morning.
The report was made up of such items as "A fisherman named Lesieur
called Carbineer Ferrier a fool in the market-place at eleven minutes
after two this afternoon; he has not been arrested, but is being
watched," and generally gave John a few minutes of mild enjoyment.
Certainly he could not recollect that it had ever depressed him.
No, it had been something else that had worked the mischief and in
another moment the thing stood revealed, beyond all question of doubt.
What had unsettled him was that unexpected meeting with Betty Silver
last night at the Casino.
He had been sitting at the Dutch table. He generally visited the Casino
after dinner. The light and movement of the place interested him. As a
rule, he merely strolled through the rooms, watching the play; but last
night he had slipped into a vacant seat. He had only just settled
himself when he was aware of a girl standing beside him. He got up.
"Would you care - ?" he had begun, and then he saw her face.
It had all happened in an instant. Some chord in him, numbed till then,
had begun to throb. It was as if he had awakened from a dream, or
returned to consciousness after being stunned. There was something in
the sight of her, standing there so cool and neat and composed, so
typically American, a sort of goddess of America, in the heat and stir
of the Casino, that struck him like a blow.
How long was it since he had seen her last? Not more than a couple of
years. It seemed centuries. It all came back to him. It was during his
last winter at Harvard that they had met. A college friend of hers had
been the sister of a college friend of his. They had met several times,
but he could not recollect having taken any particular notice of her
then, beyond recognizing that she was certainly pretty. The world had
been full of pretty American girls then. But now -
He looked at her. And, as he looked, he heard America calling to him.
Mervo, by the appeal of its novelty, had caused him to forget. But now,
quite suddenly, he knew that he was homesick - and it astonished him,
the readiness with which he had permitted Mr. Crump to lead him away
into bondage. It seemed incredible that he had not foreseen what must
happen.
Love comes to some gently, imperceptibly, creeping in as the tide,
through unsuspected creeks and inlets, creeps on a sleeping man, until
he wakes to find himself surrounded. But to others it comes as a wave,
breaking on them, beating them down, whirling them away.
It was so with John. In that instant when their eyes met the miracle
must have happened. It seemed to him, as he recalled the scene now,
that he had loved her before he had had time to frame his first remark.
It amazed him that he could ever have been blind to the fact that he
loved her, she was so obviously the only girl in the world.
"You - you don't remember me," he stammered.
She was flushing a little under his stare, but her eyes were shining.
"I remember you very well, Mr. Maude," she said with a smile. "I
thought I knew your shoulders before you turned round. What are you
doing here?"
"I - "
There was a hush. The _croupier_ had set the ball rolling. A
wizened little man and two ladies of determined aspect were looking up
disapprovingly. John realized that he was the only person in the room
not silent. It was impossible to tell her the story of the change in
his fortunes in the middle of this crowd. He stopped, and the moment
passed.
The ball dropped with a rattle. The tension relaxed.
"Won't you take this seat?" said John.
"No, thank you. I'm not playing. I only just stopped to look on. My
aunt is in one of the rooms, and I want to make her come home. I'm
tired."
"Have you - ?"
He caught the eye of the wizened man, and stopped again.
"Have you been in Mervo long?" he said, as the ball fell.
"I only arrived this morning. It seems lovely. I must explore
to-morrow."
She was beginning to move off.
"Er - " John coughed to remove what seemed to him a deposit of sawdust
and unshelled nuts in his throat. "Er - may I - will you let me show
you - " prolonged struggle with the nuts and sawdust; then
rapidly - "some of the places to-morrow?"
He had hardly spoken the words when it was borne in upon him that he
was a vulgar, pushing bounder, presuming on a dead and buried
acquaintanceship to force his company on a girl who naturally did not
want it, and who would now proceed to snub him as he deserved. He
quailed. Though he had not had time to collect and examine and label
his feelings, he was sufficiently in touch with them to know that a
snub from her would be the most terrible thing that could possibly
happen to him.
She did not snub him. Indeed, if he had been in a state of mind
coherent enough to allow him to observe, he might have detected in her
eyes and her voice signs of pleasure.
"I should like it very much," she said.
John made his big effort. He attacked the nuts and sawdust which had
come back and settled down again in company with a large lump of some
unidentified material, as if he were bucking center. They broke before
him as, long ago, the Yale line had done, and his voice rang out as if
through a megaphone, to the unconcealed disgust of the neighboring
gamesters.
"If you go along the path at the foot of the hill," he bellowed
rapidly, "and follow it down to the sea, you get a little bay full of
red sandstone rocks - you can't miss it - and there's a fine view of the
island from there. I'd like awfully well to show that to you. It's
great."
She nodded.
"Then shall we meet there?" she said. "When?"
John was in no mood to postpone the event.
"As early as ever you like," he roared.
"At about ten, then. Good-night, Mr. Maude."
* * * * *
John had reached the bay at half-past eight, and had been on guard
there ever since. It was now past ten, but still there were no signs of
Betty. His depression increased. He told himself that she had
forgotten. Then, that she had remembered, but had changed her mind.
Then, that she had never meant to come at all. He could not decide
which of the three theories was the most distressing.
His mood became morbidly introspective. He was weighed down by a sense
of his own unworthiness. He submitted himself to a thorough
examination, and the conclusion to which he came was that, as an
aspirant to the regard, of a girl like Betty, he did not score a single
point. No wonder she had ignored the appointment.
A cold sweat broke out on him. This was the snub! She had not
administered it in the Casino simply in order that, by being delayed,
its force might be the more overwhelming.
He looked at his watch again, and the world grew black. It was twelve
minutes after ten.
John, in his time, had thought and read a good deal about love. Ever
since he had grown up, he had wanted to fall in love. He had imagined
love as a perpetual exhilaration, something that flooded life with a
golden glow as if by the pressing of a button or the pulling of a
switch, and automatically removed from it everything mean and hard and
uncomfortable; a something that made a man feel grand and god-like,
looking down (benevolently, of course) on his fellow men as from some
lofty mountain.
That it should make him feel a worm-like humility had not entered his
calculations. He was beginning to see something of the possibilities of
love. His tentative excursions into the unknown emotion, while at
college, had never really deceived him; even at the time a sort of
second self had looked on and sneered at the poor imitation.
This was different. This had nothing to do with moonlight and soft
music. It was raw and hard. It hurt. It was a thing sharp and jagged,
tearing at the roots of his soul.
He turned his head, and looked up the path for the hundredth time, and
this time he sprang to his feet. Between the pines on the hillside his
eye had caught the flutter of a white dress.
CHAPTER VII
MR. SCOBELL IS FRANK
Much may happen in these rapid times in the course of an hour and a
half. While John was keeping his vigil on the sandstone rock, Betty was
having an interview with Mr. Scobell which was to produce far-reaching
results, and which, incidentally, was to leave her angrier and more at
war with the whole of her world than she could remember to have been in
the entire course of her life.
The interview began, shortly after breakfast, in a gentle and tactful
manner, with Aunt Marion at the helm. But Mr. Scobell was not the man
to stand by silently while persons were being tactful. At the end of
the second minute he had plunged through his sister's mild monologue
like a rhinoceros through a cobweb, and had stated definitely, with an
economy of words, the exact part which Betty was to play in Mervian
affairs.
"You say you want to know why you were cabled for. I'll tell you.
There's no use talking for half a day before you get to the point. I
guess you've heard that there's a prince here instead of a republic
now? Well, that's where you come in."
"Do you mean - ?" she hesitated.
"Yes, I do," said Mr. Scobell. There was a touch of doggedness in his
voice. He was not going to stand any nonsense, by Heck, but there was
no doubt that Betty's wide-open eyes were not very easy to meet. He
went on rapidly. "Cut out any fool notions about romance." Miss
Scobell, who was knitting a sock, checked her needles for a moment in
order to sigh. Her brother eyed her morosely, then resumed his remarks.
"This is a matter of state. That's it. You gotta cut out fool notions
and act for good of state. You gotta look at it in the proper spirit.
Great honor - see what I mean? Princess and all that. Chance of a
lifetime - dynasty - you gotta look at it that way."
Miss Scobell heaved another sigh, and dropped a stitch.
"For the love of Mike," said her brother, irritably, "don't snort like
that, Marion."
"Very well, dear."
Betty had not taken her eyes off him from his first word. An unbiased
observer would have said that she made a pretty picture, standing
there, in her white dress, but in the matter of pictures, still life
was evidently what Mr. Scobell preferred for his gaze never wandered
from the cigar stump which he had removed from his mouth in order to
knock off the ash.
Betty continued to regard him steadfastly. The shock of his words had
to some extent numbed her. At this moment she was merely thinking,
quite dispassionately, what a singularly nasty little man he looked,
and wondering - not for the first time - what strange quality, invisible
to everybody else, it had been in him that had made her mother his
adoring slave during the whole of their married life.
Then her mind began to work actively once more. She was a Western girl,
and an insistence on freedom was the first article in her creed. A
great rush of anger filled her, that this man should set himself up to
dictate to her.
"Do you mean that you want me to marry this Prince?" she said.
"That's right."
"I won't do anything of the sort."
"Pshaw! Don't be foolish. You make me tired."
Betty's eye shone mutinously. Her cheeks were flushed, and her slim,
boyish figure quivered. Her chin, always determined, became a silent
Declaration of Independence.
"I won't," she said.
Aunt Marion, suspending operations on the sock, went on with tact at
the point where her brother's interruption had forced her to leave off.
"I'm sure he's a very nice young man. I have not seen him, but
everybody says so. You like him, Bennie, don't you?"
"Sure, I like him. He's a corker. Wait till you see him, Betty.
Nobody's asking you to marry him before lunch. You'll have plenty of
time to get acquainted. It beats me what you're kicking at. You give me
a pain in the neck. Be reasonable."
Betty sought for arguments to clinch her refusal.
"It's ridiculous," she said. "You talk as if you had just to wave your