Ainslee's Magazine/The Professional Prince/Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV.
Sir Horace came to Half Moon Street early next morning, and spent the morning preparing John Stuart for the enterprise.
Just before they started, the prince came down to them. He found John Stuart ready to set out in a spirit of cold resolution that made him look dourer than ever. The mournful, henpecked air of Sir Horace pleased him even less.
He drew his equerry out into the hall and said in a tone of the coldest severity:
“It's no use Stuart's looking and acting his part with splendid firmness if you excite suspicion by looking like a dyspeptic mute at a funeral. They'll see that something is wrong, they'll start hunting for it, and before you know where you are, they'll find out what it is.”
“I'll do my best, highness,” promised Sir Horace, with the air of a molting fowl.
“Your best! I want a great deal better than your best!” the prince cried almost with ferocity. Then he added: “I tell you what—there's only one thing for you.”
“What, highness?” Sir Horace spoke with the air of a drowning man clutching at a straw.
“Hectic gayety.”
“Hectic—gayety,” moaned Sir Horace.
“Yes,” said the prince with stern decision. “You must introduce a note of hectic gayety into this lunch. They won't know it is hectic. They'll think it's just ordinary cheerfulness. Babble gayety. Begin in the car. If you can talk from here to the palace with hectic gayety to my chuckleheaded substitute, you'll be able to keep it up for twenty-four hours without an effort.”
Sir Horace gasped.
The prince opened the door of the sitting room.
“Come along, Mr. Stuart,” he said. “It's time you were off.”
John Stuart came forth, stiff, upright, smiling a deathly smile. The prince followed them to the front door. Bletsoe, impassive, noncommittal, opened it.
As they crossed the threshold, the prince said wistfully:
“I'd give anything to be there.”
Sir Horace found the aspiration in no way reassuring.
When the brougham stopped at the palace, John Stuart descended from it with the air of a conqueror and snuffed up the breeze like a war horse scenting battle. Sir Horace was almost knock-kneed with emotion.
At the top of the first flight of stairs, the groom of the chambers received them, led them to the door of a drawing-room on the left, opened it, and announced them. Sir Horace drew back, and John Stuart entered with an appalling smile.
There were six people in the room—the stern aunt of the prince, the Princess Anne, an elderly lady in waiting, a young lady in waiting, and the Earl and Countess of Oxenham. The carefully primed John Stuart recognized all of them from the descriptions given him by Sir Horace or from photographs that Sir Horace had shown him, and he greeted each in the fashion Sir Horace had prescribed. The painfulness of his appalling smile surprised no one. The prince's aversion to the domesticities was well known.
With a brilliant effort, Sir Horace drew their attention from it to himself by relating a facetious anecdote. They were still smiling at it when the large, gilt Second Empire clock on the variegated brown marble mantelpiece chimed, then struck the half hour. A footman threw open the door, and the groom of the chambers announced that lunch was served.
They moved, in their proper order of precedence, to a dining room on the other side of the corridor. There they took their seats at a round table, and John Stuart found himself facing the stern aunt of the prince, with the Countess of Oxenham on his right and the elderly lady in waiting, Lady Maud Petersham, on his left. It seemed to him that it was an advantage that the Princess Anne, on the other side of the Countess of Oxenham, was not in a position to enjoy a good view of him. He was aware that the loss was hers. But it was better so. Both the prince and Sir Horace had warned him to have as little as possible to do with her, since she was by far the most likely person to discover that he and the prince were two. He drew himself up and looked proudly around the table. He felt that, intellectually, he held them all in the hollow of his hand.
Mindful of his recent instructions not to make a display of his fine appetite when representing the prince, he took his soup slowly, with an air of cold indifference that would have lacerated the heart of the sensitive chef had he been there to observe it. All the while, he was watching the conversation with the most jealous attention, looking eagerly for an opportunity to display his own intellectual powers.
He missed two openings for lack of quickness. The quicker Sir Horace, with hectic gayety, seized both of them, and was facetious. John Stuart wondered hotly how long he would be able to restrain himself from wringing his volatile tutor's short neck. His bitterness toward him was immeasurable.
While he was looking for his opening, he had been asked four questions—two by the aunt of the prince, two by the Princess Anne—about matters of which he was utterly ignorant, and had dealt with them in a manner that he felt to be masterly. He was burning to display his finer talents.
At last the opening came with the savory. It was an excellent, somewhat intriguing savory, and the others, giving it the attention it deserved, were silent. For the moment, it even stemmed the hectic gayety of Sir Horace.
John Stuart began with a weighty remark from the leader of yesterday's Daily Wire. Every eye rose from the savory and regarded him. On the instant, the hectic gayety of Sir Horace was to the fore, and he was facetious. John Stuart ignored him, following the first weighty remark with another. He was started; he went on. Every one was listening to him, all ears. It encouraged him. A scowl, the royal ferocity of which the prince himself could never hope to emulate, crushed Sir Horace, attempting again to be facetious. Presently the Earl of Oxenham said a few words in agreement with the ripe English sentiments falling from John Stuart's lips; the aunt of the prince did the same. He was now in his full stride.
He caught the eye of the Princess Anne as she leaned forward, regarding him with admiring wonder. He had an odd feeling that, had she not been a princess of royal blood, she would have winked at him. It was strange, but he was too firmly set on his course to be perturbed. He went on.
At the end of half an hour, the faces of the little party had changed. They did not look bored; they looked like people endeavoring conscientiously to follow a sermon well above their heads. The leaders of the Daily Wire are strong meat.
It is likely that John Stuart would have continued to instruct and impress his patient audience till tea time had not the stern aunt of the prince interrupted him by rising from her chair.
With her snow-white hair and hawk-like face, she might have looked like an eighteenth-century princess of France had her dressmaker realized her possibilities.
“I'm sorry to interrupt you, Richard—especially as I have never heard you talk such common sense before—about such interesting questions, too,” she said in a tone of genuine regret. “But I have to go down to Stepney Hospital, and it's nearly time to start.”
John Stuart was pleased—not unduly pleased; he knew his solid worth—but it was gratifying to find his just expectations realized. With a great air, he took his leave of the party. Again, as he shook hands with the Princess Anne, he had the strange feeling that had she not been a princess of royal blood, she would have winked at him. It was, indeed, an absurd feeling. It was almost to suspect her of not taking his excellent harangue seriously.
Sir Horace led John Stuart to the prince's suite of rooms, which were in the most pleasant part of the palace. Then he went briskly to the telephone and rang up the house in Half Moon Street. Bletsoe answered the call, and insisted on hearing how things had gone before he called the prince. Sir Horace set his mind at rest, and he summoned the prince.
The prince put the receiver to his ear and asked languidly:
“That you, my Horace? How did it go?”
“Excellently, highness—excellently! No one suspected anything—not even the Princess Anne,” Sir Horace assured him enthusiastically.
“Did he talk seriously to them?”
“He talked very well indeed—ably, in fact—for upward of half an hour, developing most interesting views.”
“They have my quite unneeded sympathy,” said the prince.
“We shall be returning to Half Moon Street presently, highness. We're just smoking a quiet cigar after our labors. I shall be able to tell you all about it,” said Sir Horace joyously.
“No, don't return. Stay where you are,” the prince returned quickly.
“Stay where we are, highness?” repeated Sir Horace blankly.
“Yes. There's nothing like striking while the iron's hot. Keep him at the palace and show him over it—yes, and the gardens. Give him a lesson in the topography of the place—two or three lessons. Let the servants get used to him, and teach him their names—the names of those I know. And he'd better sleep there. Perhaps my aunt will send for him after breakfast, and they can finish their chat. He can deepen the good impression he's made. Be sure he gets his Daily Wire.”
“Very well, highness,” said Sir Horace mournfully.
The prince came away from the telephone smiling a smile of exquisite amiability; he saw his way to a holiday of at least twenty-four hours.
He strolled to his club. There he found his amiable and accomplished friend the Earl of Bastable, the finest gentleman rider in England, in the smoking room, at a loose end. The earl received the news of the prince's holiday with much less enthusiasm than he would usually have shown. He seemed in low spirits, and when they began to discuss how the holiday should be spent, his interest seemed forced.
The prince tried to cheer him by infuriating his cousin, Prince Peter Augustus, whose favorite subject was the wave of socialism. He was easy to infuriate, and presented a pleasing spectacle in his rages, for he had a round, round head, a round red face, small light-blue eyes, closely cropped flaxen hair, and a small, very light mustache, on which he could never get a good enough grip to tug hard in moments of emotion.
He affected bluff, military manners, and was always offensive to the prince. The prince enticed him skillfully on to his subject and, when he had really warmed to it, proceeded to develop a theory that, when the wave of socialism had ceased its sweeping, Prince Peter Augustus would become the triangle player in a street band.
As always, the discussion ended by Prince Peter Augustus, now crimson, accusing him of flippancy and declaring that he was a traitor to his order. In the course of the next day or two, Prince Peter Augustus would complain to the stern aunt of the prince, and she would be angry and reproachful.
The prince was disappointed to observe that the cheerfulness engendered in the Earl of Bastable by this passage of arms soon wore off. They dressed at the club and went to the dinner they had so carefully ordered with good appetites. But even the dinner did not raise Lord Bastable's spirits.
At last the prince, tired of fruitless, indirect efforts to cheer his friend, said firmly:
“What on earth's the matter?”
Lord Bastable hesitated; then he said:
“It's a girl.”
“A girl? Never!” cried the prince in the liveliest astonishment. “I thought you were immune—absolutely immune.”
“So did I,” said Lord Bastable despondently.
“But you don't mean to say that you're really in love?” asked the prince, still incredulous.
“It's something very like it,” his friend acknowledged gloomily.
“But what's the trouble? Generally it's so nice to be in love. And to be in love for the first time What on earth have you got to grouse about?”
“She won't have anything to do with me—not seriously. She won't even let me kiss her,” said the Earl of Bastable in a dolorous voice.
“Oh, come! Does she know who you are?”
“Yes.”
“She really knows about the Bastable millions, and she won't have anything to do with you?” The prince spoke in a tone of wonder. “Oh, I see—she isn't in the charmed circle.”
“No. She has a small part—four lines and a song—in 'The Skating Girl,'” said Lord Bastable.
“But that's more extraordinary still! In musical comedy, and she won't have anything to do with you! But it's incredible!” cried the prince. “Whatever have you done to her?”
“It's my intentions,” said Lord Bastable with some hesitation. “She doesn't think them serious enough.”
“Well, then, it just rests with you. If you're truly and desperately in love with her, the sooner your intentions become serious, the sooner it will all be over.”
“It's out of the question,” said Lord Bastable despondently.
“Oh, come! Don't be so harsh with yourself. Let yourself go for once. The world well lost for love, don't you know? By the way, what's the cruel fair one's name?”
“Agatha Stuart.”
“And that's that!” cried the prince in a tone of consternation,
“Why, do you know her?” Lord Bastable's eyes filled with doubt and suspicion.
“I do not, thank Heaven!” the prince exclaimed devoutly. “I know of her. I know her brother, and that's enough 'for me.”
“It's extraordinary,” said the Earl of Bastable.
“It's nothing of the kind. The longer I live, the smaller the world grows. I shall soon know every one in it.”
“She has a strange nature,” said Lord Bastable, and he sighed.
“Her brother hasn't. His is merely terrible.”
At the music hall, the Earl of Bastable still talked of Agatha Stuart between the turns.
After supper a taxicab conveyed them to a block of expensive flats in the West End. They were well known to the footman, who ushered them forthwith into a charming double drawing-room, decorated by the most tasteful member of the firm of Storman & Willow.
Mrs. Stallworthy-Miller, the lady of the house, tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and of a willowy figure, stepped forward quickly and received them with winning amiability; her bullet-headed, thick-necked, rubicund husband welcomed them with jovial, but slightly stertorous cheeriness. Naturally the prince was strictly “Mr. Stuart” at their flat; but Mr. Stallworthy-Miller knew very well who he was, and the sight of him warmed both his loyalty and his business instinct. It was a great advantage to tell wealthy punters of the self-made brand in strictest confidence that princes of royal blood came to his little place—“Incognito, you know. Oh, quite incognito.”
When the prince and the Earl of Bastable entered, eight people were already gathered round the green table in the farther room—one of the most charming Scotch generals who ever adorned an English drawing-room, an amiable Jewish banker of European reputation, a well-known lady novelist, a stout, hard-faced gentleman with a Northern burr, Mr. Stallworthy-Miller's latest friend from the Midlands, a stockbroker, a theatrical manager who also acted—senile, perhaps, but still re- solved to be irresistible—and two young and knowing guardsmen.
The prince and the Earl of Bastable sat down side by side at the right of the banker. It was the prince's theory that in any game of chance he had to wait patiently on Fortune, who would at first and for a long while frown coldly on him. He had come, indeed, to regard a gambling bout as a trial of endurance between himself and the goddess; draw it out long enough and in the end he would wear out her unkindness and she would smile on him. So he played quietly, never trying to force the game, using his judgment.
It was toward dawn that there came a sudden loud knocking at the door of the flat.
“Damn it! The police!” said Mr. Stallworthy-Miller.
On the instant, Mrs. Stallworthy-Miller was at the prince's side. On her heels, came the general. With a campaigner's instinct, he perceived that the prince would be given a chance of escape, and he resolved to share it.
“Come along!” said Mrs. Stallworthy-Miller sharply, and she opened a door at the left of the buffet.
They slipped through it quickly, the general on their heels, and found themselves in her bedroom. She locked the door. Some one had brought their hats earlier in the evening, and set them on her toilet table. The general, old campaigner, had his in his hand. Mrs. Stallworthy-Miller opened the door of a large wardrobe at the back of the room, parted the dresses that filled it, drew a bolt at the back, and opened a door outward.
“Come on!” she ordered.
They followed her through the short avenue of scented gowns and found themselves in another bedroom. An awakened lady blinked at them with sleepy eyes from the bed.
“Sorry to disturb you, Ermyntrude. It's those beastly police!” explained Mrs. Stallworthy-Miller.
“All right, dear,” said the blinking lady.
Mrs. Stallworthy-Miller led them out into the hall of the flat.
“I pay half her rent for the convenience, and it's well worth it,” she informed them.
“I should think it was,” said the general, with real feeling.
She opened the door of the flat.
“It's quite all right,” she assured them. “You're in the next block of flats. If any one tries to interfere with you, say that you've been at Mrs. D'Albert-Wilkinson's flat. You have. Good night, gentlemen.”
When they came out of the front door, they saw four taxicabs at the door of the next block, that-in which the Stallworthy-Millers lived. Two police constables standing near looked at them with cold suspicion.
“Hallo! What's up, officer?” asked the general, with well-feigned surprise.
“Raid on a gambling club!” said the policeman gloomily.
“Monstrous!” exclaimed the prince. “They'll be starting them in Park Lane next!”
They went briskly down the street.