Ainslee's Magazine/The Professional Prince/Chapter 1
CHAPTER I.
AND that's that,” said the prince in a tone of profound melancholy.
James Bletsoe, his accomplished valet and major-domo, surveyed with disgusted eyes the pile of socks and the pile of ties, all of different, delicate colors, that lay on the bed.
The prince's uniform of a colonel of dragoons, in which he had been attending that morning's levee and out of which Bletsoe had just helped him, lay across a chair in the corner. The prince was clad in shirt, a collar, and the trousers of the new suit he was bent on wearing that afternoon. His feet were bare. His toilet had come to a standstill because, out of the fifty ties and pairs of socks heaped on the bed, they had been unable to find a tie and a pair of socks that matched perfectly the new suit.
Suddenly the valet's distinguished face, a face such as you might find on a coin unearthed among the ruins of some ancient city, grew brighter and he said:
“One minute, your highness. I may be able to find something yet.”
He caught up the jacket of the new suit and hurried from the room.
The prince turned, surveyed his face in the mirror with melancholy disfavor, murmured, “Oh, my ancestral mug!” and gazed out of the window. His fine dark-blue eyes retained the mournfulness of one to whom unkind Fortune has dealt a cruel blow.
The royal families of Europe and their faithful counselors alike are stirred to the depth of their beings when the Stuart blood, which runs but thinly in most royal veins, suddenly displays itself in its full richness in some exceptional prince or princess. The members of the chancelleries, with their working knowledge of the unreported history of the courts of Europe for the last hundred years, were assured that the high-spirited, but astute waywardness with which the prince baffled their schemes for his establishment in marriage with one or other of the princesses they desired to place advantageously was the fruit of the full richness with which that Stuart blood ran in his veins.
It was a further grievance to them that, in spite of his real gift for mischief, he could, in the matter of unsmiling solemnity, give cards and spades to the owl, or even the graver, but extinct, dodo. With cold unanimity they gave it, secretly, as their reasoned opinion that he was a reversion to the type, not of King Charles the martyr, but of his much less revered son.
In less than three minutes, Bletsoe returned. His face wore an air of quiet satisfaction; he carried a pair of socks and a tie in his right hand.
The prince looked at them, his face brightened.
“That's it,” he said. “My good chap, you're absolutely invaluable. You're not merely my right hand, but my right eye and right foot. I've always told you that your taste in ties is infinitely better than mine.”
“I don't agree with your highness,” said Bletsoe, smiling.
The prince had put on the socks when there entered to them, with the bustling fussiness with which he always moved about the world, the prince's equerry, Sir Horace Cheatle.
There was that in his appearance which made his bustling fussiness uncommonly appropriate to him. His small green eyes and small, nose, which ended as a pink button mushroom, made but a poor show in so much round face. His parted lips and upcurving eyebrows gave him a perpetually startled air. He was portly and waddled.
Little as the formation of Sir Horace's brow and skull appeared to justify it, he enjoyed the reputation of being a man of sound common sense and exquisite tact. The stern aunt who—since both his father and his mother had died when he was nine years old—had regulated the prince's life till his twenty-first birthday, and who believed that she regulated it still, declared that her unbounded confidence in Sir Horace was founded on his possession of those qualities—and that settled it. Besides, Prince Richard himself never missed an occasion of praising his equerry for those qualities. He went further—he often declared that Sir Horace was priceless.
As his eyes studied the prince's face, Sir Horace's brow was furrowed by an anxious frown.
“You look tired, highness,” he said.
“Tired? I've been bored to extinction for nearly two hours.” The prince spoke in a voice of languid misery.
“I had quite an idea last night,” announced Sir Horace.
The prince contrived to look incredulous without ceasing to look mournful.
“I was walking along Oxford Street”
“Heavens, what an occupation!” the prince exclaimed softly.
“when I met a young man.”
“You're quite sure it wasn't a young woman?” asked the prince in a tone of sudden, acute anxiety.
“No, no, highness—a young man,” Sir Horace repeated firmly.
“Good. I asked only on Lady Cheatle's account,” said the prince in a tone of relief.
“There were young women there, of course,” admitted Sir Horace thoughtfully.
“Philanderer!” said the prince in a tone of cold disgust.
“No, no; nothing of the kind, highness!” protested Sir Horace. “But the remarkable thing about the young man was that he bore the most striking resemblance to your highness.”
“And I believed myself unique!” said the prince mournfully. “But of course all men have their doubles. Fortunate men never meet them.”
“Yes, yes, they must have. But it occurred to me that it would be an immense advantage if we could utilize that extraordinary likeness so as to spare your highness some of the fatigues incident to your exalted station—a function like this morning's levee, now,” said Sir Horace.
“But it was an idea!” murmured the prince with an astonished air.
Bletsoe looked at Sir Horace with a sudden expression of disquiet.
“Yes; I thought that if he could be hired to take your place on occasion, it would be very useful. I felt it so strongly that I spoke to him.” Sir Horace paused.
Of a sudden, the last of the cloud cleared from the prince's face, and it filled with the liveliest animation. So did James Bletsoe's, but with animation of a different kind.
“At first he actually seemed to think I was some kind of a swindler,” Sir Horace went on with a faint, aggrieved laugh.
“A singularly simple soul,” said the prince.
“Yes, he seemed so,” Sir Horace agreed.
Bletsoe was looking at him with an expression of growing consternation.
“He lives at Sudbury, and his name is John Stuart.”
“And that's that!” said the prince in accents of profound conviction. In Half Moon Street and certain other places, he himself was known as “Mr. John Stuart.”
Bletsoe was gazing at Sir Horace with an expression of amazed horror.
“He seems thoroughly dissatisfied with his position as a clerk in the Welsh Widows' Insurance Company, at one hundred and thirty pounds a year, and keen on making more money—very keen. Also, I think that he's a bit of a snob. So I've come to the conclusion that he could be hired occasionally—only in the evenings, of course, because of his business—to relieve your highness from some function that you would find wearisome,” said Sir Horace in a tone of satisfaction.
“I fancy—I fancy—that I see a trifle more in it than that.” The prince spoke with half-closed eyes, because he did not wish the bright light of mischief shining in them to give his faithful equerry the alarm. “I had better see the young man and discuss the matter with him myself.”
Sir Horace Cheatle's face fell. “But would that be quite discreet, highness?” he asked. “Wouldn't it be better to leave the arrangements to me?”
The prince said quickly:
“No, no. After all, he is my double, and I must see him. Besides, it will be perfectly safe. With your sound common sense, it's quite impossible that you should have got into touch with any one dangerous—a blackmailer, or anything of that kind, my Horace.”
“Oh, no. I can answer for that. He's a most respectable young fellow.”
“Then it's safe,” said the prince cheerfully. “Bring him round to Half Moon Street at half, past six to-night, and we'll talk to him—you and I together.”
Sir Horace Cheatle prided himself greatly on a few unimportant things; one of them was his punctuality. Indeed, he owed some of the esteem in which he was held by the stern aunt of the prince to his aphorism, his only aphorism:
“If punctuality is the politeness of kings, it is a necessity in their servants.”
At half past six to the minute, therefore, Sir Horace knocked at the door of the house in Half Moon Street where the prince spent so much more of his time than at his suite of rooms in the palace, which he often and ungratefully described as his offices, since from them he attended levees, parades, and other functions distasteful to him.
Bletsoe himself opened the door, for at the house in Half Moon Street he acted as major-domo to the prince, and he had sent Henry Cleveland, the footman, down to his pantry, partly because he thought it well that he should know nothing about Mr. John Stuart.
But, also, Bletsoe was eager to assure himself at the earliest possible moment that Sir Horace had exaggerated the likeness, and that it would not serve the prince's-purpose. He was keenly disappointed; his first glance at Mr. John Stuart, who stood beside Sir Horace on the threshold, assured him that he was the veritable double of the prince. Bletsoe believed, indeed, that he himself would never mistake one for the other, together or apart. But he saw clearly that Sir Horace might do so every time. In fact, he could not think of more than three people—ladies—who—would not be deceived by the likeness.
Mr. John Stuart's brow had not quite the breadth of the prince's; his dark-blue eyes were not of quite as dark a blue. He wore a different air, also—a somewhat defiant, dour air, very unlike the easy, assured air of the prince. At the moment, he looked unlikely to smile ever—as if, indeed, a smile were an indulgence he never allowed himself.
But, apart from these trifles, the likeness was wonderful. Bletsoe's heart sank, and his face fell.
“Is his highness in?” Sir Horace asked somewhat anxiously.
“Yes, Sir Horace,” said Bletsoe gloomily. “He's in the smoking room.”
“Come along, Mr. Stuart, come along,” said Sir Horace fussily. “And you may expect, as I told you, to be surprised—greatly surprised.”
He waddled quickly up the rather narrow staircase, the walls of which were hung with old prints—all the portraits of all the Stuarts that had ever been engraved—and knocked at the right-hand door on the first-floor landing. The voice of the prince bade him come in. He opened the door, waved to Mr. John Stuart to precede him, followed him into the room, and announced in a tone of some triumph:
“Mr. Stuart, your highness.”
The prince rose from a deep easy-chair and bowed.
“How do you do, Mr. Stuart?” he said.
Mr. Stuart bowed or, rather, bobbed and murmured that he was very well and very pleased to meet the prince. The two young men gazed steadily at each other. Both of them were prepared for the likeness, but both of them were taken aback by its completeness. Then on either face appeared an expression of puzzled resentment. It is to be feared that Prince Richard and John Stuart took a dislike to each other on the spot.
The prince recovered himself and said:
“Won't you sit down, Mr. Stuart? The likeness is indeed wonderful.”
John Stuart chose with care the least comfortable chair in the room, sat down on it in an austere, bolt-upright position, with his hands on his knees, and gazed around with the stern, confident eyes of a man of whom no unfair advantage shall be taken.
“I take it that Sir Horace has told you his idea that you should relieve me of some of my more tiresome—occupations?” asked the prince.
“Yes, your highness,” said John Stuart.
“Well, what do you think of it? Do you think you would like to try it?”
“It depends,” said John Stuart with stern caution. “I'm not saying that I'm unequal to it—no. But it will be difficult—very difficult; and I'm the only man who can do it.”
“Oh, let's hope that there are more of us. Give the world a chance,” said the prince hopefully. “But I don't think that you will find it so difficult. Mine is not an observant family.”
“The difference in the voices will be very difficult to get over, your highness,” said Bletsoe, who still stood by the door, in a tone of considerable satisfaction.
“You always were a pessimist, Bletsoe. Is the difference so very great, Sir Horace?” the prince inquired anxiously.
“There is a difference. Mr. Stuart's voice is harsher than your highness,” acknowledged Sir Horace.
“Surely you mean to say that my voice is softer than Mr. Stuart's,” the prince corrected him, with hasty tactfulness.
“Yes, yes, of course, highness. That what I meant,” said Sir Horace with equal haste.
“Well, surely we can get over that with practice,” said the prince. “I can harden my voice, while Mr. Stuart softens his. I should think you could manage that, Mr. Stuart?”
“A soft voice would be no use to me in business, but of course I could do it,” said John Stuart. “But that's only a little difficulty. It's the work I'm thinking of, the hard work of acquiring so many new accomplishments.”
“But I have no accomplishments!” cried the prince in a horror-stricken tone. “I've always avoided accomplishments. You can't call fencing an accomplishment.”
“But there'll be the matter of etiquette,” John Stuart went on with unbending sternness, and again he gazed around with challenging eyes. “I'm a plain man”
“Oh, don't say that! It reflects on me,” protested the prince in a pained voice.
“I'm a plain man, your highness,” insisted John Stuart, “the son of plain parents. They gave me a sound commercial education. They did not train me for the brilliant life of courts.”
Brilliant? Oh, my hat!” murmured the prince.
Suddenly his face brightened, and his eyes rested on John Stuart with the caressing gaze with which they so often rested on Sir Horace Cheatle.
“It would be a severe mental labor to a serious man of business to acquire these trivial graces,” said John Stuart. “The books there'll be to read!”
“There isn't a book on court etiquette that I ever heard of,” said the prince in a comforting tone. “Sir Horace will teach you the whole of it in a single course of lessons.”
“All the same, it will be severe mental labor,” insisted John Stuart. “That, and the fact that I have a monopoly value, entitles me to expect a handsome remuneration for my services.”
“Tut, tut, you can leave” began Sir Horace in a tone of some disapproval.
“I see your point, Mr. Stuart,” the prince broke in quickly. “And what do you consider a handsome remuneration?”
“For putting all my evenings at your highness' disposal, I ought to be engaged at a salary—a yearly salary of a—a hundred pounds,” said John Stuart, and he looked around with a faint anxiety in his stern eyes to see whether he had asked too much.
“A hundred a year for your evenings?” said the prince slowly. “And how much for all your time?”
James Bletsoe heaved a deep, despairing sigh.
“All my time?” John Stuart repeated heavily, taken aback. “Why—why—I'm receiving a hundred and thirty pounds a year, with a ten-pound rise. That would be two hundred and thirty. But—but—there'd be no prospects—no prospects at all.”
“That would have to be taken into account,” the prince agreed. “But your salary would be in addition to your expenses—all your expenses, which I should pay.”
John Stuart looked startled and bewildered and troubled. His mind was not one to adjust itself quickly to a new idea. It had been quite filled—to the brim, indeed—with the idea of one hundred pounds.
He looked painfully from one to the other; then he said:
“Why—why—I could save it all.”
“Well, nearly all,” said the prince. “And I've no doubt that I could find you a post of some kind when, if ever, I no longer required your services.”
A slow brightness spread over the face of John Stuart.
“I'll give you four hundred a year,” offered the prince.
John Stuart smiled. It was not the charming and delightful smile of the prince; indeed, it looked as if it hurt.
“I accept, your highness!” he said as quickly as ever he had said anything in his life; and his tone was enthusiastic.
“Good. That's settled,” said the prince cheerfully, and he smiled. “You'll put yourself in the hands of Sir Horace and Bletsoe. Sir Horace will teach you etiquette and Bletsoe—er—er—deportment.”
“I'll work, your highness,” John Stuart promised. “I can work. And I've a singularly retentive memory.”
“Lucky fellow! I haven't,” said the prince. “By the way, Sir Horace will also teach you the correct smile. You will learn to relax the muscles of your face a little more. You will show him how, Sir Horace?”
“Certainly, highness—certainly,” said Sir Horace readily.
“And tact? Your exquisite tact,” went on the prince. “You'll—er—er—impart that to him?”
Sir Horace looked at John Stuart somewhat doubtfully.
“I'll try, highness,” he said. “But I—er—have a theory that tact is—er—that the tactful man, like the poet, is born, not made.”
“Perhaps—perhaps,” said the prince. “Bletsoe will show you the rooms you will occupy here, Mr. Stuart. But most of the time you will occupy my suite at the palace, I hope. You had better come to Sir Horace's house, 71b Hans Crescent, at half past ten to-morrow morning. I suppose you can arrange with your insurance company to leave at once, for your salary will begin as soon as all your time is at my disposal.”
“The Welsh Widows may go” John Stuart began, and checked himself. “The Welsh Widows never appreciated me, and I owe it nothing, your highness. I should be a fool to let it stand in my way. I'll be there.”
“Good. Mr. Stuart would like a whisky and soda after all this talking, Bletsoe. Good evening, Mr. Stuart.”
“Good evening, your highness, good evening,” said John Stuart, and he left the room briskly.
“A young fellow of sterling worth,” said the prince with enthusiasm, when Bletsoe had shut the door.
“Yes, highness,” said Sir Horace, but his tone was not happy. “I never thought for a moment you'd take all his time,” he added, and there was a sudden uneasiness in his eyes.
“But think how useful it will be! Think of the boredom it will save me!” cried the prince, with warm enthusiasm. Then he added quickly: “Think merely of the Princess Frieda.”
“The Princess Frieda?” The uneasiness in Sir Horace's tone and eyes deepened.
“You know she's coming from her cold northern home to win my heart, and I shall be expected to make love to her. And you know how bad I am at that kind of thing.”
“I wish I did!” groaned his now crimson mentor, shaken out of his tactfulness, and he stared at the prince with eyes in which uneasiness had given place to horror.
“I'm quite hopeless at it—quite,” said the prince with profound, sad conviction. “Besides, from what I hear, and from her photograph, her face is disfigured by a scar.”
“It's only a little disfigured—a very little. She's charming—charming!” cried Sir Horace.
“All princesses are,” said the prince. “But what struck me about this young fellow you have provided me with was that he is worthy, and a worthy young fellow very properly believes beauty to be skin deep. A little thing like a scar won't affect him in the slightest, and with your help and instruction, he'll make love like—like—a house on fire.”
“But your highness lets your imagination run away with you! You don't pause to consider! Suppose—suppose they fell in love with each other?” cried Sir Horace, and his words tumbled over one another.
“I can't imagine a princess falling in love with a prince. It's never done,” said the prince firmly. “It's almost certain that she cherishes a romantic and incurable passion for some fair-haired young viking—an officer of the Swedish Guards. They always do.”
“Oh, don't be cynical in a serious matter like this, highness!” Sir Horace implored. “Suppose they did fall in love with each other?”
“Then I should never think for a moment of spoiling love's young dream,” said the prince with a generous air.
Sir Horace stared at him with harried eyes; then a faint gleam of hope brightened them as he said:
“But your highness doesn't really mean it?”
“I do mean it—I mean it very strongly,” said the prince stiffly and with decision. “I told you you hadn't grasped all the possibilities of your magnificent idea.”