Munsey's/Royal Amethyst/Chapter 6
VI
After his first glance at me the man walked slowly toward the rear of the train, still glancing into each compartment as he passed along. For a moment I thought of following him; then it struck me that I was alarming myself without reason. It was probably a mere coincidence that I had seen this man twice within a few hours.
I went back to the compartment in which Nancy and the princess awaited my return. For a moment I lingered on the platform and looked along the train. The tall man was strolling slowly back in my direction, still staring, with only casual interest at the occupants of each carriage.
Something prompted me to make a hurried excuse and to enter the smoking compartment. I let down the window and leaned out. Just then the whistle blew, and I saw the man quicken his pace a little. A few strides brought him alongside the compartment in which the princess sat. This time he stared deliberately at her.
As the train glided away from the platform, the man turned his gaze upon me. As the last carriage passed, I saw him walk slowly away.
I went back into the next compartment, begged permission to go for a smoke, and, returning to the smoking compartment, gave myself up to a newspaper and to my cigar. The train rushed on through the soft June twilight—we were already outside of London. I began to realize that I was tired and sleepy. I did not want to sleep at that time, so I got up and went out into the corridor, to walk up and down and to give an eye to my charges.
Nancy and the princess were apparently enjoying a good talk. Farther along the corridor Patty sat in one corner of the second-class compartment, shielded from the little artist by the frail rampart of a magazine. The artist had fallen asleep, and lay in his corner, oblivious to everything around him.
We got down to Holyhead and on board the steamer without anything happening. I had wired for a special cabin for the princess and Nancy, and into this they were quickly bustled by the energetic Patty. I satisfied myself that they were comfortable and secure, and that our luggage was on board, and then I went for a cup of coffee. The coffee banished all thought of sleep, and I determined to spend the rest of the night on deck.
As I stood watching Holyhead Mountain slip behind us, the little artist who had nearly knocked me over at Euston came sidling in my direction. He took a position at the rail close by, and, leaning his arms upon it, stared at the receding lights of the harbor and the misty outline of the land. I withdrew into the smoking room to light a cigar—the little artist followed me in and began lighting a huge meerschaum pipe. I looked him over in the glare of the electric light, and I thought I had rarely seen a more curious figure.
He was about five feet five inches tall. He wore a huge sombrero spotlessly white; the rest of him was shrouded in a vast black cloak, and his feet were incased in buckskin shoes as dazzlingly white as his hat. His face was small and sallow; his mouth and chin were hidden by a rather thin and straggling mustache and beard; his eyes were screened by dark spectacles, which rested upon a nose that turned up aggressively at the end. I felt sure that beneath his huge cloak he wore a velveteen jacket and a tie of mighty dimensions, and that his hair, the sombrero being removed, would be revealed as being parted down the center and arranged like a fringe all around his head.
The little man lighted his pipe and puffed out great volumes of smoke.
“Ah!” he said, waving a hand eastward. “In about an hour there will be a magnificent sunrise—a perfect dream of color!”
“Oh!” I said. “Indeed!”
He nodded his head vigorously. I stepped out on deck and went over to the rail. A second later I found him puffing away at my elbow.
“The spectacle of sunrise over the Welsh mountains,” he remarked, “is su-perb—su-perb!”
It was evident that the little person desired to communicate with a kindred spirit.
“You are fond of the beauties of nature?” I said.
He turned toward me with a look of reproach.
“I am an artist,” he said. “Nature is my life. I have seen some wonderful effects in crossing between Holyhead and Kingstown.”
“Oh! You cross often?”
“When I have a picture of Irish scenery in hand,” he replied. “I hope to spend the rest of the summer painting a wonderful scene on the river Fergus, which I have been wanting to paint for ten years, but I have never had the chance until this summer. If you are ever near the place,” he continued, “come and see me paint. I shall stay at Ennis, at the Queen's Hotel.”
Before I could thank him for this invitation he suddenly swung on his heel, climbed the ladder to the promenade deck, posted himself firmly against a rail, and appeared to relapse into a state of meditation.
As I stood watching the scarlet glow rise out of the pearly gray of the heavens, I heard a step behind me, and turned to find myself face to face with the princess.
“What a glorious sunrise!” she exclaimed. “What a shame that people should sleep through it all! No one seems to care that the morning is so beautiful.”
“There is a man who cares very much,” I said, pointing out the little artist. “Observe his rapt eyes—he might be a sun worshiper.”
“Perhaps he is.”
“He is certainly a curious little person,” I replied; and I told her of my conversation with him. “We may possibly see him again. Sir Desmond Adare's castle is near Ennis, I believe?”
“Yes, it is on the banks of the Fergus,” she answered. She was silent for a moment, and then she said: “I have a presentiment that we shall have trouble before Sir Desmond arrives.”
“I trust there will be no trouble,” I answered. “Do you really fear pursuit, princess, or any attempt on the part of your friends—”
“I am uneasy about Count Hofberg,” she replied. “I cannot tell you, Mr. Hanmer, what an influence that man exerts upon my brother. Adalbert is very weak. He means well, but he does not know what is good; and the count is able to sway him at will.”
“What manner of man is this Count Hofberg, princess?” I asked.
“He fills me with an instinctive horror,” she replied in a low voice. “I cannot bear his presence. I am sure he is cruel and false, and he is certainly a gambler who has wasted a handsome patrimony.”
I started as if she had struck me smartly in the face. I must have shown some sign of my emotion, for she looked at me questioningly. A sudden resolution came to me.
“Princess,” I said, “what has Nancy told you of the man in whom you are placing so much trust?”
She looked at me wonderingly.
“Of—do you mean yourself?” she asked.
“I mean myself, princess.”
“Oh!” she said, her face breaking into a delightful smile. “So many pleasant things!”
“Ah, but she told you nothing of what has happened to me during recent years?”
“No,” she said wonderingly. “No.”
“May I tell you, princess? I wish to tell you.”
“Yes, tell me,” she said.
I told her everything. I wanted her to understand that I hated to pose as a knight of chivalry when I was in sober truth a needy adventurer.
She listened to me in silence, watching me steadily.
“Why have you told me all this?” she said, when I had finished.
“Because I have done with the old ways, princess,” I replied. “When you said what you did about Count Hofberg just now, it cut me because not so long ago I was probably much worse.”
“What has brought the change?” she asked.
I pretended not to hear the question.
“Now you know whom you are employing, princess,” I said. “I told you the truth when I said that I would serve you to the fullest extent of my powers. I think you can see what I mean,” I concluded, lamely enough.
She looked at me very gravely for a second or two.
“I think I know exactly what you mean, Mr. Hanmer,” she said with some emphasis; “and I am glad that you have so much confidence in me.”
“Confidence? Princess!”
“Ah-h!” she said. “You are surprised; but the penitent shows his confidence by telling everything. There!” she continued with a charming smile, as she held out her hand. “There—we are friends!”
The rest of that happy morning floated by me in a mist of golden light. Joyfully I watched the Irish coast rise out of the sea. I laughed and chatted gayly with Nancy as we drove from Westland Row to the Shelbourne, and promised to take her and the princess to the little house where Nancy and I had first met.
A cold bath and a hearty breakfast put me in still gayer spirits, but they suddenly received a startling damper when, on walking into the smoking room of the hotel, I saw, lounging in an easy chair, the very man whom we had left on the platform at Euston at a quarter to nine the previous evening.