"I do see," said Susie, quickly.

"Besides," Vernon added, anxious to vindicate himself still further, since, after all, Susie was Nell's sister, "Schloshold-Markheim is a very insignificant corner of this earth; not so big, in fact, as many of our English shires. Self-preservation is the first law of nations. Why should England imperil herself? You see, the whole question reduces itself to that old, heartless, but very sane doctrine of the greatest good of the greatest number."

"Why not say all that frankly to the Prince of Markeld?" suggested Sue.

"Because, my dear young lady, before we can say anything, we have to give him a chance to say his say. And he would very probably state certain truths which it would be very embarrassing for us to hear, and still more embarrassing to answer. All Europe would be listening. We're between the devil and the deep sea."

"Well, and what are you going to do about it?" asked Susie, plump out.

"We're going to wait," said Lord Vernon, gloomily.

"To wait?"

"Yes—until the sea subsides a little or the devil gets tired and goes away and gives us a chance to escape. We dare neither fight the devil nor brave the ocean. Our hands are tied."

Susie walked along a moment in silence, trying to distinguish the wrong and the right of this very intricate question.

"All that you have been telling me may be true," she said, at last; "I haven't the least doubt that it is true; but yet it doesn't quite excuse tricking the Prince of Markeld as you are doing."

"I know it doesn't," admitted Vernon, instantly. "It doesn't excuse it in the least. I don't like it any more than you do, Miss Rushford. But the ways of diplomacy are devious past understanding; and then, again, when one has entered upon a line of action, it is sometimes very hard to change it or let go. It's like a hot iron or a charged wire—one never realises one's mistake until it is too late. After all, a few days will end it."

"A few days! Then the Prince was right!"

"Right?"

"He told me that an undercurrent of some sort seemed to be setting in against him. I warn you, Lord Vernon, that I have become his ally."

"Even to the point of giving me away?" he inquired, half humourously, looking at her in evident enjoyment.

"Even to the point of giving you away, if you don't play fairly," she answered, in deadly earnest. "At your suggestion, he consented to a truce for a week—"

"It was Collins who suggested it."

"No matter; it is all the same; the proposal came from your side. One can't honourably employ a truce in laying mines for one's enemy."

Lord Vernon was looking straight ahead. There was now no trace of amusement in his face.

"You are quite right, Miss Rushford," he said. "I release you from any engagement with either me or Collins to keep our secret. Let me tell you, I've protested more than once, but I'm no longer a free agent in regard to this thing, and I have to see it through. The very worst moment of all was when Markeld came up to my rooms and apologised for suspecting me. I tell you, I felt like a worm, and a particularly nasty one, at that. It will be my turn to apologise before long; and I won't feel quite easy in my conscience till I do."

Susie had listened wide-eyed, and had stolen a glance, once or twice, at his set face. There could be no doubting his utter sincerity, and it softened her, as sincerity always softens a woman.

"Of course," she said, more gently, "I shan't give you away unless I see that the Prince is being treated unfairly. Let things drift for a week, since he has consented to a truce—don't do anything against him." The words were spoken almost pleadingly.

"Oh, it isn't I who will do anything," retorted Lord Vernon, sharply. "I'm not quite such a cur as that. Don't you understand, Miss Rushford—the thing is out of my hands—is quite beyond my control. I'm not the one responsible for the undercurrent, if there is one. If anything happens, it won't be through any act of mine—it will be in spite of me."

"But I thought—"

"You thought the foreign secretary was the whole thing? Well, he isn't! There's a dozen other members of the cabinet, more or less, to mix in, and, when all's said, the premier has to approve, and after that the Queen. And all of us are more or less afraid of the press, to say nothing of the House of Commons, where the opposition is always trying to put us in an awkward corner. So our motives are usually pretty mixed, and it's very rarely that we can do just as we'd like to do."

"Then," said Susie, slowly, "I think that I must tell the Prince."

"Do so, by all means," retorted her companion, a little impatiently. "I give you full permission, if you care to take the responsibility. But, I assure you, it's a heavy one."

"Oh, not so awfully heavy!" said Susie, sceptically. "You have already told me what a little place Schloshold-Markheim is."

"It is little; but so is the pivot that a great piece of machinery swings on. Collins said yesterday that the peace of Europe may hang upon this question. I laughed at him then, but it's not at all impossible that he may be right. Of course, with a little thing like the peace of Europe, every schoolgirl has the right to meddle! A million of human beings, more or less—what do they amount to? Let us slaughter them, maim them, outrage them, burn their houses, destroy their crops! Let us put great armies in the field, and fight great battles and think only of the glory! Don't look at the shapeless things beneath the hoofs of the horses, nor think of the women waiting at home—waiting for the lists of dead and missing! Let us release the spring that will set all this in motion—it requires only a touch, the merest touch! And think, we should be making history! Besides, our honour requires it! We must be jealous of our honour—it is of so much more importance than the peace of Europe!"

And Vernon, having arrived at the hotel entrance, bade them good-bye and was wheeled to the lift, leaving his companion rather breathless.



CHAPTER XV

"Be Bold, Be Bold"

Lord Vernon, no doubt, would have spoken with less acerbity but for the fact that his nerves were jangling badly. The lift was started promptly, but it required all his self-control to remain seated in his chair during the slow progress upward of the great machine of which Monsieur Pelletan was so proud. Scarcely had the door of his apartment closed behind him, when he threw aside the invalid wrappings with a perfect fury, sprang from his chair, and hastened into the inner room. Collins and Blake were seated at a table there, labouring with a telegram in cipher.

"What's the matter now?" demanded Collins, sharply, as he looked up and saw Vernon's disordered face.

For answer, Vernon took from his pocket a folded paper and tossed it on the table.

Collins picked it up, opened it, and read its contents.

"Well?" he said, looking up with a sigh of relief. "If this is the note you wrote those Rushford girls, I must say I think you've done a mighty wise thing to get it back. It was a dangerous thing to have lying around. Have you had a quarrel?" and he grinned a little maliciously.

"Collins," said Vernon, coldly, "you have the poorest conception of good taste of any man I know, and I know some awful bounders. But I won't quarrel with you now, for you'll be grinning on the other side of that ugly mouth of yours anyway in about a minute. Will you kindly examine this piece of paper?" and he tore a leaf from his notebook.

"Be Bold, Be Bold"

Collins, biting his lips until they bled, took it and looked it over with frowning and puzzled countenance.

"Well?" he asked, at last.

"The note I sent the Misses Rushford," said Vernon, quietly, "was written on a leaf from the notebook, which I tore out just as I did that one you have in your hand," and he sat down and stared out the window, across the gray dunes and the gray sea to the gray horizon.

Collins, with compressed lips, held the two pieces of paper up to the light and compared their texture. Then he got out a small pocket magnifying glass and examined through it the writing on the note.

"It's a tracing," he said, at last, "and a mighty clever piece of work. The paper, too, is very like."

"But it's not the same," put in Vernon.

"Oh, no, it's not the same."

"Do you mean this is a forgery?" burst out Blake, hoarsely, snatching up the note and staring at it.

"Undoubtedly," answered Collins, coolly, but his face was very dark. "The forger, clever as he was, could scarcely expect to be so fortunate as to duplicate the paper. And then, of course, he couldn't foresee that it would be turned over to you. But he did very well. Now let's have the story."

"Miss Rushford had the note in her desk," said Vernon, shortly. "She missed it last night and went to tell her sister of the theft. When she returned to her room and began a systematic search, she found it slipped among some note-paper in the drawer where she had placed it. She returned it to me this morning."

"Without suspecting that it was a forgery?"

"Certainly."

"And you didn't tell her?"

"No."

Collins sat for a moment staring down at the note.

"Which reminds me," he remarked, at last, "that Markeld spent the evening with the Rushfords."

"Well, what of it?" demanded Vernon, sharply, wheeling around. "What is it you mean to insinuate?"

"My dear sir," answered Collins, suavely, "I insinuate nothing. I was merely remarking upon the coincidence. If I did not happen to know all the circumstances, I might have been led to suggest that, as only one Miss Rushford is devoted to you—"

Vernon sprang to his feet with such wrath in his face that Collins stopped abruptly.

"It was well you stopped," said Vernon, savagely. "Another word, and by heaven—"

"Don't be a fool!" Collins broke in. "I'm not afraid of you nor your threats. This forgery, of course, is the work of that French spy—"

A servant tapped at the door and handed in a card.

Collins took it, glanced at it, and looked up with a little smile of satisfaction.

"It's Tellier," he said. "I was expecting him; he was certain to come to us. Leave him to me," and he went out, closing the door behind him.

Monsieur Tellier was even more effulgent than usual. There was upon his face a smile of supreme self-satisfaction. He had reason to believe that he had achieved a good stroke, and he was resolved to make the most of it. He had dreamed dreams and seen visions—one vision in particular which included within the same circumference himself and a certain frail fairy of the Robiniere who had always regarded him with disdain. Now all that was to be changed! So he greeted Collins with a self-assurance and aplomb quite removed from his ordinary manner.

Collins confronted him with the card still between his fingers, and returned his greeting with the utmost coldness.

"You wished to see me?" he asked.

"Pardon," corrected Tellier, "it is Lord Vernon I wish to see."

"Lord Vernon is ill and sees no one."

Tellier gave his mustachios a supercilious twirl.

"You still maintain that farce?" he queried. "I assure you that for me it has long since lost its novelty."

Collins took a step toward the door.

"Shall I show you out?" he asked.

"No—not yet," and Tellier smiled provokingly.

"You would really better let me show you out," said Collins, quietly. "In another moment, I shall probably kick you out."

Tellier's face turned a deep purple and his white teeth gleamed behind his moustache.

"Have a care!" he said, hoarsely. "That expression will cost you dear!"

Collins smiled contemptuously.

"Oh," he retorted; "so it's blackmail! I might have known from your appearance. Well, my dear sir, you have mistaken your men. You have nothing which we care to buy. You would better go."

A purple vein stood out across Tellier's forehead, as he came a step nearer.

"Do not be too sure, monsieur," he said. "You play a bold game, but it does not for an instant deceive me. Lord Vernon is no more ill than I. It is useless to deny it—I have that here which proves it—written with his own hand—yes, pardie, written in my presence!" and with trembling fingers he took from his pocketbook a folded slip of paper.

"Indeed?" said Collins, with mild curiosity. "This is truly wonderful," and he held out his hand.

But Tellier drew back a step, unfolded the note and held it open between his fingers.

"You may read it," he said, his eyes flashing with triumph. "But come no nearer."

Collins leisurely got out his monocle, polished it with his handkerchief, adjusted it, and scanned the note.

"Really," he said, "unless you can hold it a little steadier, I fear I can't read it."

Tellier steadied his hand by a mighty effort, and watched him, his eyes shining. But the face of the Englishman did not change—not in a single line, not by the merest shadow.

"Very interesting, no doubt," said Collins, dropping his glass, "to those who care for backstairs intrigue. Is it this note that you wish to sell?"

"Oh, not that," corrected Tellier, with a little offended gesture, his self-assurance back in an instant. "You mistake me—I am not of that sort at all. On the other hand, it is friendship for you which has brought me here. I have no wish to injure you, monsieur, and you yourself, of course, perceive fully what a disaster it would be should this note be placed in certain hands."

"To what adventure does the note refer?" queried Collins.

"It refers to the adventure of Lord Vernon with the two Americans on the afternoon of his arrival. He has, no doubt, mentioned it to you."

"Lord Vernon has had no adventure since his arrival here," retorted Collins, coldly. "But go ahead with your story."

"As I was saying," continued Tellier, "I am a poor man. I have my future to consider—I cannot afford to throw away this opportunity which chance has placed in my hands. I will be reasonable, however—I will not ask too much—a hundred thousand francs—"

"Tellier," Collins interrupted, with a gesture of weariness, "I have not the least idea what you mean. But I do know that you have been hoaxed, that you are the victim of some deception, that somebody is making a fool of you. A hundred thousand francs! And for that note! Why, man, you are mad or very, very drunk! We don't want the note. We have no concern in it!"

"No concern in it!" shrieked Tellier. "When it is written by Lord Vernon!"

"Lord Vernon did not write it," retorted Collins, coolly.

"I saw it—with my own eyes I saw it!"

"Then your eyes deceived you. Evidently you are not acquainted with Lord Vernon's writing, my friend. Shall I show you a sample? Wait."

He went to a desk, got out a despatch-box, unlocked it, and ran rapidly through its contents, while Tellier watched him with bloodshot eyes.

"This will do," Collins said, at last. "A note to Monsieur Delcasse, with which you are perhaps familiar, since it has recently been made public. Look at it."

Tellier almost snatched it—one glance was enough. There was absolutely no resemblance between that tall, angular hand and the writing of the note. He looked at the signature, at the seal—there could be no doubting them. His lips were quivering, his fat cheeks hanging flaccid, as he handed the paper back.

"You are playing with me," he said, thickly. "What I have seen, I have seen. What I know, I know. You cannot trick me. I will go to the Prince of Markeld—to Prince Ferdinand himself—"

"To whomever you please," interrupted Collins, "only go at once," and he snatched open the door.

Tellier hesitated an instant, glanced at the other's face, and went.

And Collins, closing the door behind him, mopped the perspiration from his forehead.

"Well done, my friend," he said; "exceedingly well done!"

And with that, he turned back to the inner room.

* * * * *

"Dad," began Susie Rushford, that evening, gently but firmly taking away the paper over which her father was engaged, "I wish you would devote that massive brain of yours to this Schloshold-Markheim muddle for a few moments, and give me the benefit. It's quite beyond me, and I'm nearly worried to death over it. I want your advice. Now, in the first place, why should Lord Vernon play off sick? It seems such a little thing to do."

"'Tall oaks from little acorns grow,'" quoted her father. "This little thing may have big consequences."

"I didn't mean little that way," explained Susie. "I meant little in a moral way."

"Well, my dear," said her father, reflectively, "everything is fair in love, war, and diplomacy. Your diplomat, when he is busy at his trade, seems to lose sight of fine moral distinctions. Even the greatest of them have sometimes stooped to acts decidedly small, and yet in private life they were doubtless honourable men. It's a good deal like a political campaign in the United States, where men who are usually honest will lie about the other side, without any twinges of conscience—there's even a loop-hole in the libel law for them to crawl through, made, it would seem, especially for their benefit. So, I think, we may pass up the moral objection."

"But what does he hope to accomplish, dad?" persisted Susie. "What can he accomplish by merely sitting still?"

"A great many things may be accomplished by sitting still," said her father, puffing his cigar reflectively. "It is one of those simple things which are sometimes very difficult to do. I've found that out, more than once, in the course of my checkered career."

"Now that we are through with precept, let us pass on to example, you dear old philosophical thing!" laughed Susie. "What should you say Lord Vernon hoped to accomplish in this instance?"

"It seems very plain," said Rushford, "though, of course, I may be mistaken. But I fancy he believes that while he is playing 'possum here, Emperor William, who is not especially renowned for patience, will settle the question of the succession without asking any one's advice—as, I must say, he seems to have a perfect right to do. In that case, it would, of course, be too late for England to interfere; she could only express her regrets to Prince Ferdinand, and send her congratulations to Prince George. So if Markeld doesn't get a chance to say his little speech within the next two or three days, I don't believe he'll ever get a chance."

Susie nodded thoughtfully.

"The Prince ought to be able to reason that out for himself, oughtn't he?"

"I should think so, if he can see farther than his own nose. Were you thinking of going to his assistance? Take my advice, my dear, and refrain. You and Nell are altogether too deep in it, as it is."

Again Susie nodded.

"Thank you, dear," she said, and taking him by either ear, she kissed him between the eyes. "Now, I think I'll go to bed. I've a mighty knotty problem on hand and I've got to work it out right away."

"Can I help any more?"

"No," and she shook her head decidedly. "This is one of those odious problems which a person has to work out alone. It reminds me of our school examinations, where we were on honour not to ask any help. Only," she added, with a sigh, "this is far more serious. Good-night."

"Good-night," said her father, and watched her until the door closed behind her. Then he turned again to his paper.

Susie, alone in her own room, sat with her head in her hands, staring out across the moonlit beach. Away in the distance, she could see the little breakers washing white upon the sand; to the left stretched the long, brilliant promenade of the Digue, ending in the glare of light which marked the Casino.

"The peace of Europe!" she murmured.

"The peace of Europe! I wonder if he was merely trying to frighten me?"

And she shivered a little at the remembrance of Lord Vernon's words, as she arose to go to bed.



CHAPTER XVI

A Prince and His Ideals

By what process of telepathy the Dowager Duchess of Markheim, dwelling in one corner of that gloomy old fortress which had sheltered so many generations of the family, learned of the danger threatening her nephew it would be impossible to say. She had been skilled for many years in telling which way the wind was blowing; nay, more, in foreseeing from which quarter it would presently blow; so perhaps the two or three casual references to the American girls which she had gleaned from the letters which the Prince dutifully wrote her had been enough to awaken her suspicions. Or, it may be, that some one of the many persons at Weet-sur-Mer who had observed with interest the Prince's comings and goings, deemed it a duty to society to send the duchess a discreet word of warning.

Any one who knew the duchess knew also that a single word would be all-sufficient. Her reputation for worldly astuteness surpassed that of any other old woman in Europe, though it was, perhaps, not altogether deserved. Forty years before, she had been a healthy and happy girl, whose experience of the world had been confined to the family estate near Gemuenden. And the estate was a small one, for the family, though of blood the bluest, was very poor.

One tragedy had marked her early girlhood. She was curled up, one evening, in the window-seat at the stairhead watching the moon rise over the great trees of the park, when she heard loud voices in the hall below, and peeping down, saw her father strike another man heavily across the mouth. A sudden silence fell, and she stole away frightened to her bed, where she sobbed herself to sleep. In the gray of the morning, her mother had awakened her, had carried her to a window, and knelt with her there, staring out toward the park and calling upon God to have mercy. Through the streaming mist, there came presently toward them two dim figures, carrying a third—what need to go on? After that, the house became a cloister.

It chanced, one day when she was nearly twenty, that the eye of her cousin of Markheim fell upon her. He had never married; he had been too busy with his pleasures. But he had arrived at an age when it was necessary to think of an heir; at an age, too, when the uneasy consciousness began to grow within him that if he desired an heir, there was no time to be lost. So he looked at his blooming cousin, noting the evidences of vigorous health which glowed in eye and lip and cheek. He knew that the girl would have no dot, but he had reached a place where he was perfectly aware that if he wanted youth and beauty, he must take them unadorned. So he made up his mind at once, and in due time the marriage was arranged.

In pity, we will not dwell upon it. Those who saw the bride's face as she entered the carriage with her husband will never forget its expression of horror, disgust, and abject fear. A year later, the desired heir arrived, a microcephalous idiot, to whom a merciful providence allowed but eighteen months of life; and in due time, the August Prince himself was gathered to his fathers.

During her period of martyrdom, the duchess had pressed her cross to her bosom with the religious enthusiasm of a devotee hugging his barbed instrument of torture. The consciousness that she was suffering for her family's sake as became a daughter of the Caesars was the only thing which enabled her to endure her shame and degradation. She donned her widow's weeds with such depth of thankfulness as few mortals know, and settled herself to the enjoyment of her position.

She found it on the whole a good position, unassailable, with many desirable perquisites. She decided, no doubt, that life owed her such tremendous arrears of happiness that she could never hope to collect them except by devoting her whole time to it; and devote her whole time to it she did, in good earnest. The years, in their passage, erased certain lines from her face and restored the curves to her figure—indeed, it came to be much more than a restoration!—but they could not restore the colour to her hair nor the lightness to her heart. She looked at mankind from a cynical altitude of worldly wisdom; her wit grew keen and swift as d'Artagnan's rapier; her bon-mots had a way of passing into proverbs, or of being stolen by more distinguished contemporaries. She took her revenge upon society as completely as she could, yet without bitterness. Indeed, it is probable that, could she have ordered her life anew, she would not have ordered it differently.

Such, then, was the Dowager Duchess of Markheim, as she sat gazing thoughtfully from her window, pondering the situation. She was fully alive to the fact that American girls are always a menace to the peace of noble families; besides, she was not at all satisfied with the progress—or, rather, lack of progress—which the Prince had made in the delicate negotiation entrusted to his hands. In a word, she decided that, from every point of view, it were wise for her to be herself upon the scene—and so much nearer her beloved Ostend! Therefore, being of that superior order of woman who never has to make up her mind but once, she forthwith gave orders for the departure.

It consequently happened, on the morning following the events narrated in the previous chapter, that there was another distinguished arrival at the Grand Hotel Royal, to the delight and despair of Monsieur Pelletan.

"I shall need an apartment of at least five rooms, not higher than the second floor," announced the duchess.

"If Madame la Duchesse had only notified us of t'is honour!" protested Pelletan, with upraised hands. "I swear t'at I haff not'ing— not'ing—not one single apartment wort'y off madame—not efen one leetle room up under t'e gutters."

"Nonsense!" she interrupted, vigorously. "I have heard all that a hundred times at least. Which apartment has my nephew?"

"Madame's nephew?"

"Certainly, imbecile! Monsieur le Prince de Markeld."

"Oh," cried Pelletan. "Monsieur le Prince hass apartment B de luxe."

"And so has twice as much room as he needs, of course. Well, take my luggage up there, wherever it is. At my age, one is beyond the reach of scandal, even at a Dutch bathing-resort. Where is Monsieur le Prince?"

"Monsieur le Prince iss taking t'e promenade," explained Pelletan.

"Very well; I have my toilette to make. When he returns, send him up to me at once. Here, boy, apartment B," and followed by her maid, she started up the stair, leaving Monsieur Pelletan staring, open-mouthed.

"But t'ere iss a lift, madame!" he cried, regaining his breath.

"A lift!" retorted the duchess. "At my age! What is the man thinking of! En avant, boy!" and she went on up the stair.

* * * * *

The watches of the night had not brought that final solution of the problem which Susie Rushford had hoped for, and she did not know whether to be glad or sorry when she found the Prince at the stairfoot awaiting her. There could be no doubt that he was wholly, undividedly glad—one glance at his face told her that—and he greeted her in a way that sent a little thrill to her heart. After all, she told herself, perhaps she would better let things drift; one more day could make no difference. And there was no reason why she should take the affair more seriously than did the principal person concerned in it.

Outside the door, as usual, was the invalid chair; and while Lord Vernon did not forget to say good-morning, it was not upon her his eyes rested. Nell, at least, was perplexed by no problems, and was unaffectedly gay. Susie almost envied her; and yet problems were interesting, too.

And then there was Collins. As she acknowledged his bow, she was struck anew with the concentrated secretiveness of his appearance. There was a new look in his eyes this morning, a look as though he were watching her, and it made her vaguely uneasy. But the feeling passed as they turned eastward along the promenade, and she soon forgot all about him, for—quite exceptionally—her companion was talking of himself.

"I do not want that you should exaggerate the importance of this little dispute," he was saying. "Seen thus close at hand, it looms rather large; but it really matters very little to the great world. Even I can get far enough away from it to see that."

"And yet," rejoined Susie, "I have heard it said that it might possibly endanger the peace of Europe."

The Prince smiled at the words as at an old acquaintance.

"The peace of Europe," he said, "is a kind of bugaboo which diplomats use to frighten each other with, and even to frighten themselves with. I do not believe that the peace of Europe hangs on any such delicate balance as they pretend. Though, of course," he added, more gravely, "there are certain circumstances under which this question of the succession might become very unpleasant to the Powers."

"Ah!" breathed Susie, who had been listening eagerly. "You admit that, then?"

"Admit it? Certainly—why not? But, intrinsically, it amounts to little. So it is with us Markelds—our lineage is as long as that of any house in Europe, and we hold our heads very high, but we are really of not much importance. We keep up a certain state, we live in a castle, if you will; but we really do nothing worth while, principally, I suppose, because we are so poor."

"So poor?" echoed Susie, open-eyed.

"You are thinking of the apartment de luxe," said the Prince, with a smile; "of the special train. But, do you not see, those are the very things which make me poor. I have no use for seven rooms; in the special train, I can occupy but a single seat. All the rest is waste, which does me no good—rather the reverse, indeed, since it serves to impress people with an exaggerated idea of my importance and so pave the way for fresh extravagances. I did not mean that I am poor absolutely; I do not suppose that I shall ever want for food and clothing and a place to sleep. It is only as a Prince that I am poor—that we Markelds are all poor."

"But one would think there were many things worth while which a man in your position could do," said Susie, earnestly, "even if you aren't rich."

"Oh," he explained, looking down at her with a laugh in his eyes, "I would not have you think that I am always wholly idle. I am colonel of a dragoon regiment, and I inspect it, sometimes, or ride in front of it at a general review. I hunt. I attend various functions of the court. I even sometimes act as the representative of my house, as I am doing now."

"None of which," said Susie, "except perhaps the last, is in the least worth while."

"I agree with you, unreservedly," he assented; "but it is about what most men in my position do."

"So I have heard," said Sue, "but I never really believed it. I thought it an invention of the society reporters."

"It is true, nevertheless. You see there is no incentive, for most of us, to do anything else. Of course, we cannot work, nor engage in trade."

"I don't admit the 'of course.' But leaving that aside for the moment, aren't there any exceptions?"

"Yes—a few at whom the rest of us look rather askance. You see, there is the tradition to be maintained."

"The tradition?"

"Of royalty—of divine right. We must do nothing to spoil the tradition, or weaken it, or our people may find out that we are not really necessary, after all, just as the Americans have done."

Susie glanced at him to see if he was in earnest; but he appeared to be entirely so.

"Do the exceptions mind being looked askance at?" she questioned.

"No, I do not think they mind in the least. Most of them are too busy to pay any heed to what other people are thinking about them. Besides, the cause of the exception is usually a woman, who takes up most of the exception's leisure time."

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand."

"Let me explain. You see, when one of us marries a woman of his own class—'Prinzessen, Comtessen, Serene English Altessen,' as Svengali called them—he usually gets a partner more—ah—hidebound, I think you call it—than himself—a greater stickler for precedent and tradition and position and etiquette and elegant leisure, and all that sort of thing. Whatever liberal ideas he may have had, he finds he must abandon or, at least, suppress, if there is to be peace between his wife and him. It is only those who are so fortunate as to meet and win exactly the right woman out of their class who get the incentive. You understand, now?"

"Yes," said Susie, with a queer catch in her voice. "Yes, I think I do."

"So," he added, with a little bitter laugh, "you see why we others look askance at these exceptions. In the first place they have preferred to step down out of their rank for a wife—that deals a blow at the tradition, and every blow weakens it; in the second place, they have left some noble lady husbandless, for your noble ladies seldom so far forget their rank as to marry out of it, though that may be because the men never permit them to—again an injury to us as a class; and, finally, they are mixing with the world, they are meeting other men face to face, as equals, they are claiming no merit because of birth, no authority because of rank; they are, perhaps, even working with their hands. Whereas our business is to keep aloof from the world, to maintain a barrier of caste between ourselves and other men, for they must not suspect that we are as imperfect as they—that we have the same appetites and passions, the same defects and meannesses. Our business is to rule over them, to require their obedience because God so wills it. We tremble when we see the apostates cast aside their rank and descend into the world's arena, for we fear that the people, finding them at close view only human, may come at last to believe that the right by which we rule is not, after all, divine. Then they will tear down the barrier of caste, strip us of the privileges of rank, and proclaim the absurdity that all men are equal. And I might add, we are jealous of the exceptions, because they are happy. Marriages of state are seldom love matches; the kind which furnish the incentives are always so."

To all of which Susie had listened with bated breath, only glancing up once or twice to study her companion's face. It was a lifting of the curtain, a revelation of the heart, which left her deeply moved.

"You don't seem to care for the tradition," she said, at last.

"Oh, yes, I do; it would be untrue to pretend otherwise. Only, it has occurred to me quite recently that merely to inherit a position is not quite enough. A man should try to deserve it"

"And you're going to try?" asked Susie, looking at him with something very like adoration in her eyes.

"I am going to try—yes," he answered. "But I shall need help—I am afraid I should not make a success of it by myself."

And then he fell silent, for they had reached the end of the promenade, where the others joined them.



CHAPTER XVII

The Duchess to the Rescue

It may be that Lord Vernon had been so fortunate as to find a topic of conversation equally absorbing; at any rate, Nell entered the hotel with her sister rather subdued and tremulous, and they mounted to their rooms in silence. A week before, they would probably have thrown themselves into each other's arms and kissed each other and cuddled each other and cried over each other, without precisely knowing why, or, at least, without troubling to put the reason into words. But the events of the past few days had, imperceptibly, wrought a change in their relations. An impalpable veil had come between them, a subtle dissonance in point of view. They were pledged, as it were, to rival interests.

A woman who has no other confidante will, invariably, seek counsel and sympathy of her own reflected self; and if so it was in this case, for each of our two heroines went straight to her room, and locked the door, and sat down before her glass, and, chin in hands, communed long and earnestly with the image pictured there, gazing deep into its eyes, and thinking unutterable thoughts, which completely defy transcription.

At the same moment, to Archibald Rushford, sitting immersed in his morning newspaper, wholly unsuspicious of all this, the Prince of Markeld's card was handed. It may be noted in passing that, with the influx of patrons to the house, the American had found it necessary to retire to the privacy of his own apartment in order to enjoy the paper undisturbed.

"All rights show him up," he said, when he had glanced at the card; and almost immediately the Prince himself appeared.

Rushford started up with hand outstretched.

"Glad to see you, Prince," he said. "I was just figuring on looking you up and wondering how I'd better go about it—I didn't quite know what the etiquette of the thing was."

The Prince laughed.

"The etiquette is simple." he answered. "You have only to come to my door and knock."

"Refreshingly democratic!" and Rushford's eyes danced. "That would appeal to my countrymen. But my ignorance was natural enough. You see, we never have the chance, at home, to hobnob with Highnesses. That's the reason so many of us come abroad. But we're not the real thing—the genuine, simon-pure American stays at home and looks after his business."

"And no doubt gets along very well without Highnesses," laughed Markeld, gripping the proffered fingers with a warmth which pleased their owner. The latter found himself admiring, too, the erect figure, the clean face, the clear eyes; he told himself with pleasure that the Prince looked as well by daylight as by gaslight—a tribute to his youth and the way he had employed it.

"Sit down, won't you?" he asked cordially.

"Yes, the people of the States manage to worry along some way without any nobility. In fact, they've rather got a prejudice against that sort of thing. You see, the only Highnesses they've had to judge by are the fortune-hunters who come over after our girls. Now I've always believed that it isn't any fairer to judge European nobility by those specimens than it is to judge us Americans by the expatriated idiots one finds here in Europe—it's like judging a bin of apples by the rotten ones."

"You are doubtless right," agreed the Prince, who had followed these remarks with an anxiety almost painful. "And I am glad to hear you speak in that way. I infer that you do not object to international marriages."

"Not at all, per se. Other things being equal, I see no reason why a Highness shouldn't make as good a husband as a plain American. There's only one reason for marriage, sir—mutual affection. Where that exists, nothing else matters. Where it doesn't exist—well, marriage becomes simply a convenient arrangement for perpetuating a family, or restoring its estates, or accomplishing some less laudable purpose. But there—shut me off—don't let me preach at you!"

"No, no," protested the Prince. "All that you say interests me deeply—more deeply than you suspect. In fact, I hope to marry an American girl myself."

"Ah," said Mr. Rushford, swallowing with sudden difficulty. "Oh! You mean—"

"I mean that I wish to propose to you for the hand of your daughter," explained the Prince, quite simply.

Rushford was not a man easily astonished, but there was no denying his amazement at this moment. Despite his playful words to Susie, he had never really suspected the direction in which events were trending; besides, the lightning-flash, even though expected, is always a shock.

But the Prince bore his gaze imperturbably.

"I do not wonder that you are surprised," he said. "You have known me so short a time. But we Markelds always know our own minds. I have thought the matter over very carefully and I am sure that I am acting wisely. Whether you would act wisely in giving her to me is another question, for though I am a Prince, I am a very small one, though with income sufficient, I trust, to maintain a wife at least comfortably. I shall be glad to send my solicitors to talk it over with you, and explain anything about me which you may care to know—"

Mr. Rushford's face had gradually relaxed during this harangue, until it was positively smiling.

"My dear sir," he interrupted, "if there's anything about you I want to know, I'll ask you. But that is hardly necessary as yet; for you're taking hold of the matter by the wrong end. We of America don't give our daughters away, they choose their own husbands—subject, of course, to their parents' approval. Now, my daughter—by the way, you haven't specified which one you're after."

"It is Miss Sue that I want," said the Prince.

"Ah—Susie. Well, she's perfectly capable of choosing for herself, and will probably insist upon doing so. Have you spoken to her on the subject?"

"Oh, most certainly not!" stammered the Prince.

"Well, suppose you take it up with her," suggested Mr. Rushford, encouragingly. "If she wants you, it'll be all right with me. I may even say that I'll be very glad to see you get her—I like you better than I ever imagined I should like a nobleman."

The Prince was on his feet in an instant with outstretched hands.

"Thank you, my dear sir!" he cried. "A thousand thanks! I have, then, your permission to speak to Miss Rushford?"

"My permission—yes. And my best wishes. And, Prince," he added, as the latter turned away, "don't worry about the matter of income. Susie will be able to help you out a little."

Whether the Prince heard or not I do not know, for, as he hurried from the room, he collided with Monsieur Pelletan, who clutched his coat as he would have hastened past.

"Oh, Monsieur le Prince!" gasped the little man. "I haf eferywhere been searching for you. Madame la Duchesse de Markheim arrived some hours ago and awaits you wit' t'e greates' impatience."

"Where is she?"

"She iss in monsieur's apartment. She insiste' t'at I—"

"Very well; I will go to her," said the Prince, and bounded down the stair. A moment later, he was kissing his aunt's extended hand, white and soft as in the days of her maidenhood, though with an added plumpness. "My dear aunt!" he cried. "I but this moment heard that you were here."

"You see I have made myself comfortable, my dear Fritz," smiled the old lady, her impatience forgotten the moment her eyes rested upon his handsome face. "And I have not been lonesome—Monsieur Tellier has been relating to me a number of very interesting things."

"Tellier!" The Prince started round as the detective arose, smirked, and bowed in his humblest manner. "I can't say that I congratulate you on your choice of a companion, madame!"

"Don't put on your grand manner with me, Fritz," she protested, still laughing. "I am very glad that Monsieur Tellier sought me out. But what is the matter with that creature of yours hovering in the background?"

The Prince turned and beheld Glueck, evidently expecting orders to accomplish an assault upon the detective's person.

"Oh," he explained, "I told Glueck he might throw Tellier out the next time he tried to get in here. I'm afraid you'll have to wait a few minutes, my friend," he added, and Glueck retired, visibly disappointed.

"Let me tell you," said the duchess, emphatically, as the door closed behind him, "that your prejudice against Monsieur Tellier is wholly unwarranted and very foolish. He has discovered many things which you seem to have overlooked."

"Perhaps," admitted the Prince; "but he has discovered them in a way that no gentleman could countenance. Which reminds me," he added, suddenly turning a fiery countenance upon the unhappy Frenchman, "that I have an account of my own to settle with him. How dared you annoy—"

But the duchess held up her hand.

"One moment, Fritz," she interrupted, sternly. "Don't begin throwing stones until you are quite sure you are not yourself in a glass house. As I have said, Monsieur Tellier had many things of interest to relate."

"Well, my dear aunt," retorted the Prince, "now that he has related them, I trust we may dispense with his company. I will settle my account with him another time."

"First," said the duchess, with cold irony, "tell me what progress you have made with your embassy, Fritz!"

"Very little, I am sorry to say, madame. But in three days, Lord Vernon has promised to consider the matter."

"Three days! And do you imagine all the rest of the world will stand still at your command, Fritz, and wait for you? Are you another Joshua?"

The Prince flushed. There was no denying the justice of the taunt.

"But that aside for the moment," continued the duchess. "Tell me something of this American girl you have met here, and with whom you have grown so fond of making the promenade."

"I hope soon to have the pleasure of presenting her to you, madame," said the Prince, flushing still more. "I believe you will find her admirable."

"Perhaps," said the duchess, sceptically. "Is it really necessary that I should meet her?"

"That, of course, will be as madame pleases. I thought you would naturally wish to meet the woman whom it is my intention to marry."

The duchess fairly jumped in her chair.

"To marry!" she cried. "To marry! What nonsense!"

"You will see," continued the Prince, calmly, "how unwise it was to begin the conversation in the presence of this—gentleman."

"No!" cried the duchess. "It was more than ever wise! Do you happen to know who this woman is?"

"I refuse to discuss my affairs further," said the Prince, "until we are alone."

"But do you know who she is? She has no dot! Perhaps you will say that is nothing, that you expected none, though it seems to me it is your duty to repair the fortunes of our house. But it is even worse than that—she is the daughter of an inn-keeper."

"I refuse to believe it," answered the Prince, quietly.

"Monsieur Tellier, relate to him—"

"If Tellier so much as moves a finger, I will kick him down the stairs," added the Prince, still more calmly.

"But he has the papers from the notary!"

"That is nothing to me."

The duchess made a gesture of despair.

"Yet, after all," she cried, "that is a little thing beside this other. Look at this," and she snatched a folded paper from the table at her elbow. "She is a traitor to you—she has been playing with you—she has been assisting these Englishmen to deceive you! You who are such a stickler for honour in women no less than men! Look at this!"

"What is this paper?" asked the Prince, making no motion to take it from her eager hand.

"It is a note which this impostor wrote to her and to her sister."

"And obtained how?" he questioned, a little pale, but keeping himself well in hand.

"Obtained by Monsieur Tellier," replied the duchess. "It does not matter how."

"No," said the Prince, "perhaps not; yet one can easily guess. By bribing the chambermaid, perhaps; by forcing a lock; by rifling her desk, examining her private papers. Oh, it is abominable!" and he turned upon the Frenchman, fury in his eyes.

"No, no, Monsieur le Prince!" protested Tellier. "It was none of these—I swear it! She left the note lying quite carelessly—"

But the Prince was upon him. With one hand at the back of his neck, he steered him, sputtering, to the door.

"Glueck!" he cried, and pitched the Frenchman into the arms of the faithful servant. The duchess, sitting within the room, caught the sound of a scuffle, of fierce swearing; then a succession of dull bumps sounded through the apartment. The Prince closed the door and turned back to her.

"But, my dear Fritz!" she protested. "It may be true that Tellier is abominable, yet sometimes one must use such instruments—surely, at this moment, we are justified in using any instrument. I have paid him, thank heaven! You must listen to reason. You have been fooled—we have all been fooled—they have been playing with us—laughing at us behind our backs for our simplicity—the girl as well as the others."

"No!" he said, fiercely. "No!"

"Fritz," she cried, her voice trembling, a mist before her eyes as she looked at him, "you believe that I love you, do you not—oh, better than anything else in the world. You believe that I desire your happiness! But it must be happiness with honour, Fritz, as becomes a Markeld. You have your name to consider, your house. You know that I would rather—oh, a hundred times!—wound myself than wound you! You must listen, then, when I tell you that this girl is not worthy of you; when I tell you that this note proves it!"

"Read it!" he commanded, in a hoarse voice. "Read it, then!"

"'Lord Vernon will be deeply grateful,'" she read, "'if he is not mentioned in connection with to-day's adventure.' To-day's adventure—when he kicked Jax away from her. Can you doubt? Can you be so stupid as to doubt? These Americans—they have no sense of honour!"

He turned to the window without answering, but his face was drawn and white.



CHAPTER XVIII

Man's perfidy

To Archibald Rushford, sitting ruminant in his room, staring absently out at the dunes and the sea, his paper forgotten, there entered presently Susie—a rather subdued Susie, as he noted from the corner of his eye—who drew up a chair very close to his and sat down and propped her chin in her hands and looked up at him.

It came to him in a flash of revelation that, did she have a mother, it was to her she would have gone at this moment, and not to him, and his eyes were a little misty as he looked down at her. That she and her sister should have grown, motherless, to such sweet, triumphant womanhood struck him in this instant as a kind of miracle—he had never thought of it before. He had taken their beauty, their wit, their sanity, as matters of course; he had never looked at them, clearly, from the outside; he had never quite thoroughly appreciated them. They had come this far, guideless, in the journey of life, and had done well and bravely; but now Susie, at least, had reached a point in the path where she needed help and counsel. She had come to him for it and he must give her the best he had.

"Dad," she began, a little tremulously, "would you mind so very much if I should m-marry and live in Europe? Of course," she added, hastily, to break the force of the blow, "you would come over very often and stay with us, and we would go over very often to see you."

"So he has spoken to you, has he?" laughed her father. "He told me he hadn't."

"Spoken! You know about it? Oh, dad, what do you mean?"

"I mean that a certain William Frederick Albert, of Markeld—I believe that's his name—or most of it—was in here a while ago and had the impudence to ask me to give you to him."

"Oh!" gasped Susie, with flaming cheeks, and sank back in her chair and I dare say cried a little; but her father didn't see her, for his own eyes were full of tears. The moment passed, the tears were wiped away—"Tell me about it, dad," she said.

"Tell you about it? I have told you!"

"About what he said. How did he look?"

"I dare say he looked about as he always does—a little pale around the gills, perhaps, as one usually does when one's performing an unpleasant duty!"

"Dad!"

"You don't mean to say you think he enjoyed it?"

"They—they always have to do it in Europe," faltered Sue.

"So I understand. But he said he hadn't told you."

"He hasn't—he hasn't said a word."

"Oh—you just sort of scented it in the air, I suppose—sort of saw it coming."

"Every woman can tell when a man is in l-love with her," explained Susie, with dignity, but boggling a little at the crucial word. "What did you tell him, dad?"

"I told him to take you and welcome."

"Now, dad, you mustn't tease!"

"Well, then, I told him he'd better see you first, since you're the party principally concerned."

"But you like him?"

"Immensely!"

Susie's arms were about his neck, and her cheek was against his cheek, and a pearly tear plashed down upon his shirt-front.

"Oh, you dear dad!" she cried. "I knew you'd like him!"

"He seems a pretty straight sort of fellow," observed her father, "he looks clean, and he talks like a man."

"And you won't mind so very much?"

"Not if it makes you happy, my dear. All girls have to marry sometime, I suppose. You'll be rather farther away from me than I could wish, but I dare say the Prince will let me come over and stay in his castle occasionally, and eat at the second table—"

"Let you! Why, he'll beg you to. Why couldn't you come over and live with us, dad?"

"And die of ennui in a year? Not much. I'll go home and make some more money for you—you see, I'd never figured on having to finance a Princess!"

"Dad," very softly.

"Well, what?"

"Do you know, I don't believe he suspects I'm to have any money."

"Neither do I. That's one thing I like about him."

"But you really might come and live with us, dad."

"Oh, no, I mightn't. Besides, there's Nell—What!" he cried, interpreting the sudden pressure of her arms, "you don't mean that she's gone and done it, too!"

"I don't know, dad, but Lord Vernon has been very attentive to her. She hasn't told me anything; I'm only guessing."

Her father gave a long, low whistle.

"Well!" he said. "You've been hustling things up with a vengeance, I must say! There must be something in the atmosphere. It'll be a little lonely in that big New York house without you, Susie."

"I know it will, dear dad. And if you say the word, I won't leave you—not for a long, long time. It will be a long time anyway, you know—a year, at least—there will be so much to do."

"And a year is quite long enough to keep two lovers apart. Youth goes faster than you think, my dear. No, no; it'll be all right, Susie. You don't suppose I'm as selfish as all that!"

"No, dad; that's just what I'm afraid of; you're not selfish enough. It's I who am selfish."

"Nonsense! Everybody in this world has a right to happiness, Susie; why, that's one of the foundation-stones of the Declaration of Independence. And, I take it, a woman's great chance of happiness is in marrying the man she loves. That's what every woman has a right to do, and nobody has the right to raise a finger to prevent her. I'll give you to Markeld with a clear conscience, my dear, when the time comes, and bless you both. That is, if you really love him."

"Oh, dad!" she cried and hid her face; there is one light in the eyes which none but a lover may see!

"Quite sure?" he persisted.

"Quite sure!" she said, softly.

"You're sure you're not jumping in the dark; it isn't the Prince you're in love with?"

"No, dad; it's the man. That seems an awfully bold thing for a girl to say, doesn't it? But he—he's such a nice fellow!"

"Yes, I believe he is," agreed her father.

"He's been telling me about himself, you know; about what he wants to do in the world," added Susie, looking up at him.

"Has he?" and her father laughed. "The same old game—effective as ever! We all do it—why, I remember, Susie—"

He stopped suddenly, with a little tremor in his voice.

"Yes, dad," very softly.

She was leaning forward on his knee, looking up at him. He put his arm around her and drew her close.

"You're like your mother, Susie," was all he dared trust himself to say, his arms tight around her.

They sat so a moment, lost in memory, until a knock at the door brought Susie to her feet. A page handed in a little package.

"For Mademoiselle Rushford," he said.

"Thank you," said Susie, and closed the door. "For me?" she repeated, as she turned back into the room. "What do you suppose it is?"

"The quickest way to find out is to open it, my dear," suggested her father, drily.

Susie ripped the paper off in an instant, and disclosed a little book bound in flexible red leather.

"'Who's Who,'" she read, looking at the title, and just then a card fell out. She stooped and picked it up. "Why, it's from that odious French detective! Listen, dad—'With the compliments of M. Andre Tellier, who is sure of Mademoiselle Rushford's gratitude.'"

"Send it back to him," said her father. "Or here, give it to me—I'll go down and smash his face with it. I ought to have kicked him out of the house yesterday—I'd have done it but for Pelletan."

"Wait a minute, dad; here's a page turned down. Maybe there's something he wanted me to see. Oh, yes; it's about Lord Vernon—he meant the book for Nell—I'll call her," and she started toward the open door into the inner room.

"Wait," said her father, instantly. "What about Vernon? Read it."

She stopped, struck by the tone of his voice.

"What do you mean, dad?" she asked, paling a little. "Surely, you don't mean—"

"Read it," he repeated, sternly.

She opened the book with hands suddenly tremulous.

"'Vernon, fifth earl of (created 1703),'" she read, in a low voice. "'George Henry Augustus Gardner, K. G., K. T., P. C., F. R. S., F. S. A.; baronet 1628; Viscount Vernon, Baron Dalberry, 1710; Viscount Cranford, 1712; Baron Vernon, 1829; trustee of Imperial Institute; born tenth of May, 1859; son of Lord Henry Augustus Gardner, M. P., son of fourth Earl and Mary, daughter of Richard Chaloner, Boston, U. S. A.; married, Catherine—'"

"Married!" cried her father, and then restrained himself, though his face turned crimson. "But go on—perhaps she's dead."

"No, she isn't dead!" said Sue, reading a line or two farther. Then she closed the book. "I don't understand," she said, dazedly. "I can't understand. He didn't seem that kind of man at all, dad!"

"No," said a hoarse voice from the door. "No, he didn't."

"Nell! Nellie dear!" cried Sue, and in an instant her arms were about her.

"It—it doesn't matter," said Nell, steadying herself against the door, striving to still a sudden convulsive shuddering. "I was a f-fool to think he—he cared. Of course he—he was only amusing himself!" and then her self-control suddenly gave way, and her head fell forward upon her sister's shoulder. But only for a moment; that high queenliness was not on the surface, merely, but in the heart, as well. "I think I'm getting tired of Weet-sur-Mer, dad," she said, quite steadily, with a wan little smile. "I seem to be hungering for New York again; wouldn't you like to go home?"

"We'll go, of course, at once, dad," commanded Sue. "That's the only thing to do. Oh!" she cried, her eyes flashing, "I could murder such a man—cut him to pieces, inch by inch—and gloat over the deed!"

Rushford was very pale and his hands were trembling a little as he started for the door.

"Yes, I'll order the trunks packed," he said, incoherently. "I'll have to hurry—I'll try to—"

Something in his voice caught Susie's ear; she turned her head and looked at him.

"Dad!" she called.

He paused with his hand on the knob.

"Dad, come here."

He came back reluctantly.

"We're to go away quietly, you know, without telling any one; there's to be no fuss—we couldn't bear that—"

A tap on the door interrupted her. Rushford opened it. A man stood without, a German with complexion like mahogany. He bowed silently and handed in a note. Rushford took it and closed the door.

"It's from Markeld," he said, looking at the crest; "thought he hadn't made his case quite emphatic enough, I guess," and he glanced at Susie's blushing face and smiled. "Of course, we'll have to tell him," he added, as he tore open the envelope and unfolded the sheet of paper it contained. "He has a sort of right—"

He stopped.

Susie saw his face turn gray again.... A great fear fell upon her heart—a cold, still fear that gripped her and left her shivering.

"What is it, dad?" she asked quietly, through clenched teeth.

"Nothing," answered her father, looking at her vaguely. "It's nothing. It's—it's merely a matter of business, Susie."

"Come, dad," she said, still quietly, "don't try to deceive me. Tell me—no matter what it is, I can bear it. Do you think I haven't any pluck, dad?"

"Yes, I know you've got pluck, Susie," he said. "We've simply made a mistake, my dear, in believing these blackguards honourable men. Let's think no more about them."

"Read what he says, dad."

He hesitated still, but her eyes compelled him, and he read:

"'The Prince of Markeld begs to withdraw his proposal for the hand of Miss Rushford.'"

"And that is all?"

"That is all, Susie."

"It couldn't be!" she said, a little hoarsely. "His aunt is here—Monsieur Pelletan told me—and she has pointed out to him the folly of it! I was silly to think it could come true! But, oh—" and she dropped sobbing into a chair.

Her father stood for a moment watching the heaving shoulders. Then, with a face hard as iron, he opened the door and closed it softly behind him.



CHAPTER XIX

An American Opinion of European Morals

"I tell you fellows for the last time," Lord Vernon was saying, "that we can't keep this thing up any longer. Miss Rushford has served notice on me that she's going to tell, and dashed if I blame her. Besides, there's the note."

"The note can't hurt us—I've extracted its sting. As for Miss Rushford, I might see her again," suggested Collins, who had been pacing nervously up and down the room.

"See her? Nonsense! You'll do nothing of the sort! What right have we to bother her? She'd probably send you about your business, anyway. She's got a heart—something that diplomats know nothing about and never take into account."

"We didn't take it into account in your case, that's true!" retorted Collins, with covert irony.

"No, you didn't!" said the other, wheeling short around upon him. "Nor did I take into account what a damned scoundrelly thing it was I was persuaded into undertaking. I tell you, some of us will have to get down and eat dirt before this thing is over!"

"Pshaw!" and Collins smiled loftily. "Before a petty German princeling?"

Vernon turned red with anger at the words, but as he opened his mouth to reply, there came a sharp knock at the door.

"Come in!" he shouted, before the others could draw breath. "No, I'm not going to hide!" he added, in answer to Collins's gesture. "That farce is finished!"

The door opened and Monsieur Pelletan appeared on the threshold.

"Monsieur le Prince de Markeld!" he announced, and bowed low, as the Prince advanced past him into the room. In the shadows of the hall, Glueck's erect figure was dimly visible.

For a moment no one spoke, but Vernon's face was flushing under the ironical gaze bent upon it.

"So," said the Prince, at last. "It appears that you are not ill. You have been tricking me all the time!"

"Yes," answered Vernon, not attempting for an instant to evade the question. "Tricking you—that is the word. I am glad she has told you."

"Do you think it was quite the course for a gentleman to pursue?" continued the Prince, in a voice singularly even.

"No," said Vernon, quietly. "I do not."

"Nor do I!" said the Prince.

Again there was a moment's silence. It was Vernon who broke it.

"When I went into this thing," he began quite steadily, "I had no thought that it would result as it has. It seemed to me an innocent deception, warranted by reasons of state. We could not, of course, foresee that you would follow us here, instead of going on to London. For some time I have found the role unbearable; but, until a moment ago, I fancied I might be able to explain to you the course I have taken."

"Explain!" repeated the Prince, with bitter emphasis.

"Now, of course," went on Vernon, evenly, "I see that no explanations are possible—that no apology, even, which I might make, would excuse me. I don't in the least believe in duelling—I have always thought that I would be the last person in the world to be entangled in that way—but this seems to be one of those situations which have no other solution. I am quite willing, anxious even, to give you any satisfaction you may demand. It is your right."

"I agree with you," said the Prince. "It is my right. My friends will wait upon you," and he turned toward the door.

"But this is folly!" protested Collins, his face very red. "We are living on the verge of the twentieth century, gentlemen; not in the seventeenth. I won't countenance this madness for an instant."

"Who asks you to countenance it?" demanded Vernon, sternly. "I repeat, I am at the Prince's service. I am glad that it is within my power to offer him this reparation."

"Very well," said the Prince, bowing, and again turned to the door; but Vernon stopped him with a gesture.

"Before you go, before I can meet you, even," he said, quietly, "there is a further explanation due you—"

"I have no wish to hear it," the Prince broke in.

"It is one which you must, nevertheless, listen to," went on Vernon, coldly. "Confession would, perhaps, be a better word for it. Miss Rushford did not know the whole truth."

"So!" said the Prince, with irony. "You acted unfairly, then, even with your co-conspirators!"

Vernon flushed hotly, but kept himself in hand.

"The retort is unworthy of you," he said. "I assure you that Miss Rushford was not in any sense a co-conspirator."

"Do you mean that she was ignorant of the deception you were playing?" demanded the Prince, quickly.

"No; she was not ignorant of that; but she—"

The Prince held up his hand with an imperious gesture.

"No more," he said; "if this is the explanation—confession—what you will—I repeat that I do not care to hear it."

"This is not it."

"It cannot, in any event, alter matters."

"I have no wish that it should alter matters, Your Highness!" retorted Vernon, proudly. "When I have offered you the greatest reparation in my power, it is ungenerous that you should—"

Again a knock interrupted him.

"Come in!" he called, recklessly.

The door opened and Archibald Rushford entered. He closed the door carefully behind him and advanced to the middle of the room.

Vernon started forward.

"Why, how are you, Mr. Rushford?" he began, with outstretched hand. "I'm very glad to see you."

"Oh, you are?" inquired the American, keeping his own hands firmly behind his back. "I suppose you're glad to see me, too?" he added, turning to the Prince.

"I know of no reason why I should avoid you," returned the Prince, proudly.

"Perhaps not," assented Rushford, drily. "The standards of gentlemanly conduct seem to be different in the Old World and in the New. I'm glad, however, that I've caught you two together. I suppose that little farce of pretended illness was played only for the benefit of outsiders!"

"I assure you, Mr. Rushford," began Vernon quickly, but the American stopped him with a gesture.

"I don't care to hear," he said. "I care nothing for your two-by-four conspiracies and intrigues. But, I repeat, I'm glad I caught both of you together. It enables me to tell, in the same breath, what I think of both of you, and I am very anxious to tell you, fully and completely, for I suppose you have been surrounded all your lives by toadies who were afraid to tell you the truth about yourselves, or who were so like you that they couldn't see the truth—products of the same code of morals—a code truly European! In a word, then, I think you are both blackguards—blackguards of the most nasty and contemptible kind—the kind that preys upon women! I may add that you have deeply shaken my faith in human nature, for, to look at you, one would mistake you for gentlemen!"

The words were uttered quietly, evenly, deliberately; each one given its full value. There was a certain dignity in Rushford's aspect which made interruption impossible; but neither man offered to interrupt. The Prince was biting his lips desperately; Vernon turned red and white and red again in evident amazement.

"And having said this," concluded the American, "as emphatically as possible, I will very gladly leave you to yourselves."

"Oh, no, you won't!" cried Vernon, fiercely, in a voice hoarse with emotion. "I, at least, demand an explanation."

"An explanation?" and Rushford laughed, a little mocking laugh. "Can't your conscience give you an explanation? Or is it too deadened to do that?"

"No!" said Vernon, boldly. "My conscience gives me no explanation, which would in any degree warrant the words you have used to me, and which I am sure you will some day regret. It is true that my conduct here has not been wholly straightforward; but it is Prince Frederick I have wronged and not you in any degree. Your daughter—to whom, I presume, you referred—knew all—"

"All?" repeated Rushford, with irony.

"Perhaps not all, but I had intended waiting upon you this afternoon and explaining to you—"

"Oh! So you thought I was entitled to an explanation! Yes, my lord, it seems to me that your actions will require a great deal of explaining—more, certainly, than I have the patience to listen to. So I pray you will spare me. I don't know anything in God's wide world more contemptible than a married man who poses as single!"

"Married!" shrieked his lordship. "Poses! Oh!"

The door opened and Pelletan's head appeared.

"I knocked," he explained, obsequiously, "once—twice—and when none answered, Mees Rushford insiste'—"

"Miss Rushford!" cried Vernon.

"Yes, monsieur, Mees Rushford," and Pelletan stepped to one side, disclosing Sue.



CHAPTER XX

The Dowager's Bombshell

She came no farther than the threshold and looked only at her father, though her eyes were shining with the consciousness of some one else's presence in the room—some one whom she had not in the least expected to find there.

"Come, dad," she said. "Don't waste your time here. They're not worth it," and she held out her hand to him.

But Vernon flung himself between them.

"He shall not go," he cried, "until he has heard me. It is all a mistake—I see now where this detestable adventure in diplomacy has led me. My dear sir, if I were what you think me, I should deserve every word you have uttered to me—and more. But I am not married—I have never been married—I had hoped—"

"Wait a minute," interrupted Rushford. "Don't go too fast. Come here, Susie, and help me to understand."

Could Sue, as she came forward, have seen the gaze which Prince Frederick bent upon her, her heart might have relented a little toward him; but she did not see—she had eyes only for her father.

"Now go ahead," said he, when he had his arm safely around her, "and be careful, sir," he added. "We want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

"That is what you shall have," said Vernon, and passed his hand across his forehead.

"It occurs to me," put in Collins, icily, "that the story is not wholly yours to tell."

"It isn't?" cried Vernon, turning upon him fiercely. "I suppose I'm to permit myself to remain in this damnable position for the sake of a lot of third-rate diplomats in our foreign office! They can go hang, for all I care. I chuck the whole thing! Do you hear? Do you understand? The whole thing!"

Collins turned away with a shrug of despair. The situation had got beyond his control.

"It is an explanation which I owe to the Prince of Markeld as well as to yourself, Mr. Rushford," went on Vernon, more slowly, speaking calmly by a great effort, "and which I was just about to make to him when you came in. I am not Lord Vernon—I am merely his younger brother. I bear a certain resemblance to him, and a lot of paper-diplomats persuaded me to impersonate him here in order to leave him free to carry out the negotiations for the succession to Schloshold-Markheim without being embarrassed by the representations of either side. I recall how half-heartedly he approved of the scheme, which had its origin in the fertile brain of Mr. Collins there. I see the reason now, though I didn't suspect it then. As to the succession, Monsieur le Prince, for all I know, the whole thing may by this time be settled. Collins could probably tell you, if he would—"

"It is not settled,'' muttered Collins.

"So you see," went on Vernon without heeding him, "I have done you an even greater wrong than you imagined."

"Yes," said the Prince, in a hoarse voice, "you have."

"But settled or not," said the other, "I wash my hands of it! I've had enough!"

Rushford held out his hand with a quick gesture.

"I beg your pardon," he said, simply. "I see that I was not mistaken in my first estimate of you, after all—I am very glad."

"I was coming to you this afternoon," added the Englishman, taking the outstretched hand, eagerly, "to tell you that I am merely Viscount Cranford and not Lord Vernon—a very insignificant fellow, not a great one—and to ask for your daughter, Miss Nell. I ask you now. Though first let me make it clear to you that the title is of little importance."

"The only title we Americans care about," responded Rushford, slowly, "is that of gentleman. My daughter's husband need have no other—but he must have that. We don't give our daughters away, sir, as I've already explained to—"

Susie pinched his arm viciously in an agony of alarm. Then she pulled his head down to her, her eyes shining, and whispered a quick sentence in his ear.

"Yes, that's it!" he nodded. "Nell is waiting for us—our apartment is just up the stair. You'd better go tell her the story, young man! Knock at the door, make her admit you, make her listen! Oh, a lover should know how—yes, I see you do! And God bless you!" he added, as Cranford wrung his hand, flung open the door, and disappeared along the hall.

"And we must go too, dad," said Sue, in a low voice. "At once. Come."

"Yes," assented her father. "Yes—yet wait a minute, Susie," and he stopped, his eyes on Markeld. "I'd hate to think I'd done any other man the same injustice I did that young Englishman. Perhaps the Prince of Markeld has also an explanation. If so, I shall be very glad to hear it."

Susie's hand trembled on her father's arm, and she caught her breath with a little gasp; but she kept her eyes steadily on the floor—she had pride enough for that. Oh, she rejoiced that she had pride enough for that!

The Prince gazed at her a moment, then, with face ashy gray, he shook his head.

"I have none," he said, in a low voice, and Susie shivered at the words.

"But I have!" cried some one from the door; and, turning, they beheld there on the threshold a handsome old lady, with hair snowy white, figure erect, face imperious—the Dowager Duchess of Markheim. Behind her, in the twilight of the hall, could be dimly seen the mustachios of Monsieur Tellier, with Glueck's face glaring at him. "I am not so proud," she went on, advancing into the room. "I am quite willing to give my reasons for breaking off the match. Is this the girl?" she asked, abruptly.

Susie looked at her with fiery eyes; their glances crossed; one almost expected to see the sparks fly as of two blades meeting.

"I am not hard-hearted," continued the duchess, after a moment. "But there are certain affairs of state which must always take precedence of any mere personal inclination. Did I marry to please myself?" and her voice shook a little. "By no means—it is no secret. Yet I was faithful to my husband and to my house. I have never regretted it. Now all that I have left to love is that boy yonder, and I intend to see that he makes a match which is worthy of him. Yes, I love him—but he must not degrade his name—not even for his happiness. It was solicitude for him that brought me here—I feared—"

Her voice broke; perhaps she had a vision of that tragedy fifty years ago, when, at her mother's side, she had stared out through the mists of the morning—

"But no matter," she added, hastily.

"May I ask, madame," inquired Rushford, "how marriage with my daughter would degrade your nephew?"

"It is impossible, in the first place," she answered, readily, "that he should marry the daughter of an inn-keeper."

"Of an inn-keeper?" repeated Rushford, in a puzzled tone.

"You are the proprietor of this inn, are you not?" demanded the duchess. "Tellier, here has the papers. Come forward, Tellier."

"Oh, I understand," and Rushford laughed, not pleasantly. "No, I didn't tell you, Susie," he added, catching his daughter's astonished glance. "It was merely an escapade of mine. I was bored, and so I arranged with Pelletan to have a little fun by backing the hotel for a month—Pelletan had reached the end of his resources. He'd have had to shut up shop, and I didn't want to move. I assure you, madame, that at home I am not an inn-keeper. If I was, I shouldn't be in the least ashamed of it, unless I were a bad one. Suppose we pass on to the next count."

There was a movement at the door and Nell came running to her father and threw her arms about him. Cranford followed her and held out his hands.

"Congratulate me," he said, simply, but with shining face.

"I do," said Rushford, and kissed his daughter. "It seems we've got your difficulty happily settled, Nell; but we've another on hand which seems considerably more complicated. Now, madame, if you will proceed with the indictment."

The duchess seemed a little shaken; after all, a man who could play with great hotels demanded some consideration!

"The second reason is even more serious," she said, "at least, my nephew seemed to so consider it. He laughed at the first one; he is still young; he still believes in the nonsense of the romancers."

"Does he?" commented Rushford. "That's one point in his favour, certainly. So he would have married my daughter, would he, even though I did keep a hotel! That was kind of him! What's the next count, madame?"

"It is that your daughter, while pretending to be his advocate, was really in the plot against him—a double traitor to him because posing as his friend."

"In the plot?" cried Cranford. "But that's absurd! She was not in the plot!"

"Is it the head of the plot who is addressing me?" inquired the duchess, icily. "No doubt my nephew has already told you—"

The Prince stopped her.

"The Viscount Cranford answers to me," he said, briefly.

The duchess paled as she looked at him.

"Not that, Fritz!" she cried. "Not that!"

"Too late, madame," he said. "My honour demands it."

The duchess shivered, and her face seemed suddenly to shrink and age. Then she stood proudly upright. What honour demanded she would be the last to evade.

"Perhaps monsieur will deny," she said, looking at Cranford, coldly, "that he wrote this note to her and her sister the very first day of his sojourn here?" and she held out to him the slip of paper.

Cranford took it and read it at a glance, while Nell stared at it with starting eyes.

"No," he said, "I don't deny that I wrote it; but—"

"And perhaps mademoiselle herself will deny that she asserted to Monsieur Tellier that she did not know her rescuer? Here are her words," and she produced a second note.

"I deny nothing," said Susie, proudly, and she looked the duchess unflinchingly in the face.

Cranford walked straight over to the Prince of Markeld.

"Wasn't it Miss Rushford who told you?" he asked.

"No, it was the note," answered the Prince, fiercely.

"Which Tellier stole from Miss Rushford's desk," added Cranford, sternly, "leaving this tracing in its stead," and he took from his pocketbook a slip of paper. "Such methods are doubtless characteristic of the Paris police, but they seem to me almost as unworthy as those employed by us."

"You are right," agreed the Prince, his face livid. "That dog shall pay for it!"

"My nephew had nothing whatever to do with it," broke in the duchess, sharply. "It was I who secured the note, who persuaded him to—"

But the Prince stopped her with a gesture.

"Miss Rushford was not in the plot," continued Cranford, earnestly. "I hope you will believe me. That it should have come so near wrecking my own life was bad enough; that it should wreck another's—an innocent person's—that would be frightful! She warned me explicitly that she would no longer be a party to the deception, that she was going to tell you—I thought she had told you. I remember well how warmly she spoke of your cause; how she detested the course I was pursuing—how she made me ashamed of myself—ashamed to look at her. I suppose some mistaken notion of honour held her back from telling, since it was in her service and her sister's that I had disclosed myself—"

"A message for His Lordship," said Pelletan from the door.

Cranford took it.

"You will pardon me," he said. "It is marked urgent," and he tore it open. His face brightened as he read it. "Monsieur le Prince," he said, warmly, turning to Markeld, "I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart!" and he handed him the message.

Markeld took the paper and glanced at it, then, with beaming eyes, held out his hand. And the duchess, looking on, grew suddenly young again!

"What is it?" she demanded. "Don't you see we are all waiting?"

"'Prince George, of Schloshold, has just died of an apoplexy,'" the Prince read. "'You will inform the Prince of Markeld that we will support his house to the limit of our power. Vernon,'"

"God be praised!" cried the duchess. "God be praised," and she caught at the door to keep herself from falling. "He was a bad man," she added in another tone. "Therefore he needs our prayers!"

"I give Monsieur le Prince the congratulations of France," said an oily voice, and Monsieur Tellier bowed low.

"Oh!" cried Nell, and shrank away from him.

"Is that the scoundrel?" demanded Cranford. And he started across the room.

"One moment," interposed the Prince, "don't soil your hands on him. Glueck!" he called, raising his voice.

And Glueck appeared on the instant.

His master indicated Tellier with the motion of a finger.

It was wonderful to see how Glueck's face brightened—almost into a smile—as he laid his hand on Tellier's shoulder.

"Canaille!" hissed the latter, and shook the hand away. "Do not touch me—do not defile me with those dirty fingers. Oh, I will go! I have my task accomplished! And you are fools, imbeciles—all—all—from that fat Dutchman, who thinks his wife still living—"

But Glueck was again upon him, this time not to be shaken off, and an instant later he and his victim disappeared together into the shadows of the hall.

"Just the same," shrieked Tellier's voice hoarsely from the distance, "it was I who was right! In every detail! A veritable triumph! A success of—"

The voice sank into a gurgle and was still.

Pelletan, his face livid, clutching blindly at the wall for support, stumbled forth into the hall, along the corridor, down the stair, until at last he found Tellier, his face purple, rearranging his cravat before a mirror in the hotel office.

"Iss she not lifing?" he asked, huskily.

"Living!" echoed Tellier, whirling upon him fiercely. "No, pig-head, she has been dead these three years! But you are no more a pig-head than those others. Oh, they shall answer, they shall repay, they shall atone! I will have my revenge—"

But Pelletan did not stop to listen. He groped his way across the room, his eyes shining, his lips trembling, repeating over and over a single word—

"Paris! Paris! Paris!"

Behind the desk he stumbled, through the little door, and dropped to his knees before Saint Genevieve, the protector of the city which he loved.

"You haf done eet!" he murmured, looking up at her with limpid eyes. "You haf seen how I suffered, unt you haf taken pity. Gott sie dank! Gott sie dank!"



CHAPTER XXI

Pardon

As Tellier's voice died away along the hall, a silence fell upon the room which he had left—a silence from which the duchess was the first to rouse herself.

"Come, Fritz," she said, "we must go. We have work to do," and she held out her hand to him.

He took a step toward her, hesitated, stopped.

"In a moment, madame," said he. "Before I go, I have an apology to make and a pardon to crave."

"Of whom?" demanded the duchess.

For answer, the Prince turned to Susie, so near that he almost touched her—so near that she could see the trembling of his hands, the throbbing of his heart.

"Miss Rushford," he said, in a voice low, carefully repressed, but vibrant with emotion, "I know that I have played the scoundrel; I know that I have no right whatever to address you; I know that I have done everything I could to forfeit your respect. Believe me, the cup is bitter—the more so, since I myself prepared it!"

His voice was trembling so that for the moment he could not go on.

"No, no!" cried the duchess, from the door, "you wrong yourself, Fritz. It was I prepared it—it is I who am to blame!"

But he motioned her to silence.

"It was I prepared it," he repeated, "by my unjust suspicions and ungentlemanly action. I shall drain it with what manhood I have. And I hope, mademoiselle, that you will, in time, find it in your heart to pardon me and to think of me with kindness. I can only repeat to you what I have already told your father—that I love you truly and deeply—with my whole heart—as I shall always love you—always—Oh, if I had not been a fool!"

The duchess, looking on from the door, felt a sudden wave of tenderness sweep over her. Perhaps she recalled her own youth—perhaps it was not quite the truth that she had never regretted—perhaps she was softened by the emotions of the moment. She came to Susie and took her hand in hers.

"Mademoiselle," she said, softly, "I also ask pardon—you will not bear ill-will against an old woman, who imagined that she was acting wisely. I feel that I am going to love you. You have spirit—you are worthy to be even a Markeld. You must forgive that poor boy yonder."

"I think I shall put him on probation," said Susie, glancing up with bright eyes into the eager face beside her.

The Prince sank to his knee, his face suddenly radiant with joy, caught her hand and covered it with kisses.

"Six months, a year, ten years!" he cried. "I shall be content!"

"Ten years! Nonsense!" cried the duchess. "Ten days, mademoiselle. You do not love him if you make it an instant longer!"

"No, not ten days, madame," corrected Susie, with a laugh that was half a sob. "Let us say ten minutes!"

THE END