VI

"Who was it said of some one that he dearly loved a lord?" Maria

Dolores, her chin in the air, asked of Frau Brandt.

"I do not know," Frau Brandt replied, knitting.

"Well, at least, you know whether it would be possible for a man and

wife to live luxuriously on sixpence a week. Would it?" pursued her

tease.

"You are well aware that it would not," said Frau Brandt.

"How about six hundred pounds a year?"

"Six hundred pounds--?" Frau Brandt computed. "That would be six

thousand florins, no? It would depend upon their station in the world."

"Well, suppose their station were about my station--and my lord's?"

"You," said Frau Brandt, with a chuckle of contentment, swaying her

white-bonneted head. "You would need twice that for your dress alone."

"One could dress more simply," said Maria Dolores.

"No," said Frau Brandt, her good eyes beaming, "you must always dress in

the very finest that can be had."

"But then," Maria Dolores asked with wistfulness, "what am I to do? For

six hundred pounds is the total of his income."

"You have, unless I am mistaken, an income of your own," Frau Brandt

remarked.

"Yes--but he won't let me use it," said Maria Dolores.

"He? Who?" demanded Frau Brandt, bridling. "Who is there that dares to

say let or not let to you?

"My future husband," said Maria Dolores. "He has peculiar ideas of

honour. He does not like the notion of marrying a woman who is richer

than himself. So he will marry me only on the condition that I send my

own fortune to be dropped in the middle of the sea."

"What nonsense is this?" said Frau Brandt, composed.

"No, it is the truth," said Maria Dolores, "the true truth. He is too

proud to live in luxury at his wife's expense."

"I like a man making conditions, when it is a question of marrying you,"

said Frau Brandt, with scorn.

"So do I," said Maria Dolores, with heartiness.

"Well, at any rate, I am glad to see that he is not after you for your

money," Frau Brandt reflected.

"I suppose we shall have to dress in sackcloth and dine on lentils,"

said Maria Dolores.

"Of course you will tell him to take his conditions to the Old One,"

said Frau Brandt. "It is out of the question for you to change the

manner of your life."

"I feel indeed as if it were," admitted Maria Dolores. "But if he

insists?"

"Then tell him to go to the Old One himself," was Frau Brandt's blunt

advice.

Maria Dolores laughed. "It seems like an _impasse_," she said. "Who is

to break the news to my brother?"

"We will wait until there is some news to break," the old woman amiably

grumbled.

Again at the sunset hour Maria Dolores met him in the garden. He was

seated on one of their marble benches, amongst marble columns,

(rose-tinted by the western light, and casting long purple shadows), in

a vine-embowered pergola. He was leaning forward, legs crossed, brow

wrinkled, as one deep in thought. But of course at the sound of her

footstep he jumped up.

"What mighty problem were you revolving?" she asked. "You looked like

Rembrandt's _philosophe en méditation_."

"I was revolving the problem of human love," he answered. "I was

mutilating Browning.

'_Was it something said,

Something done,

Was it touch of hand,

Turn of head?_'

I was also thinking about you. I was wondering whether it would be my

cruel destiny not to see you this evening, and thinking of the first

time I ever saw you."

"Oh," said she, lightly, "that morning among the olives,--when you

gathered the windflowers for me?"

"No," said he. "That was the second time."

"Indeed?" said she, surprised. She sat down on the marble bench. John

stood before her.

"Yes," said he. "The first time was the day before. You were crossing

the garden--you were bending over the sun-dial--and I spied upon you

from a window of the _piano nobile_. Lady Blanchemain was there with me,

and she made a prediction."

"What did she predict?" asked Maria Dolores, unsuspicious.

"She predicted that I would fall--" But he dropped his sentence in the

middle. "She predicted what has happened."

"Oh," murmured Maria Dolores, and looked at the horizon. By-and-by,

"That morning among the olives was the first time that I saw you--when

you dashed like a paladin to my assistance. I feel that I have never

sufficiently thanked you."

"A paladin oddly panoplied," said John. "Tell me honestly, weren't you

in two minds whether or not to reward me with largesse? You had silver

in your hand."

Maria Dolores laughed. I think she coloured a little.

"Perhaps I was, for half a second," she confessed. "But your grand

manner soon put me in one mind."

John also laughed. He took a turn backwards and forwards. "I have waked

in the dead of night, and grown hot and cold to remember the figure of

fun I was."

"No," said Maria Dolores, to console him. "You weren't a figure of fun.

Your costume had the air of being an impromptu, but," she laughed, "your

native dignity shone through."

"Thank you," said John, bowing. "The next time I saw you was that same

afternoon. You were with Annunziata in the avenue. I carried my vision

of you, like a melody, all the way to Roccadoro-and all the way home

again."

"I had just made Annunziata's acquaintance," said Maria Dolores.

"You had a white sunshade and a lilac frock," said John. "The next time

was that night in the moonlight. You were all in white, with a scarf of

white lace over your hair. You threw me a white rose from your

balcony--and I have carried that rose with me ever since."

"I threw you a white rose?" doubted Maria Dolores, looking up, at fault.

"Yes," said John. "Have you forgotten it?"

"I certainly have," said she, with emphasis.

"You threw me a smile that was like a white rose," said he.

She laughed.

"I think I just distantly acknowledged your bow," she said.

"Well, some people's distant acknowledgments are like white roses," said

he. "I hope, at least, you remember what a glorious night it was, and

how the nightingales were singing?"

"Yes," said she. "I remember that."

"I have a fancy," he declared, "that it will be a more glorious night

still to-night, and that the nightingales will sing better than they

have ever sung before."

Maria Dolores did not speak.

"Do you happen," John asked, after a long silence, while they gazed at

the deepening colours in the west, "do you happen to possess such a

thing as a copy of the Almanach de Gotha?"

"Yes," said she.

"Really? I wonder whether you will lend it to me?"

"I am sorry--it is in Vienna." And after an instant's pause, she

ventured, "What, if it isn't indiscreet to inquire, do you wish to look

up?"

"I wish to look up a lady--a dream lady--a lady who walks in beauty like

the night of cloudless climes--and whose pocket-handkerchiefs are

embroidered with the initials M.D., in a cypher, under a princely

crown."

"I should think," said Maria Dolores, considering, "that she would

probably be a member of one of the mediatised princely houses. But if

you have nothing more than her initials to go by, you would find it

difficult to trace her in the Almanach de Gotha."

"No doubt," said John. "But to a man of spirit a difficulty is a

challenge."

"Do you make a practice," asked she, "of appropriating people's

handkerchiefs?"

"Certain people's--yes," unblushing, he promptly owned.

"M.D. under a princely crown, I think you said?" she mused. "It occurs

to me that Maria Dolores of Zelt-Neuminster's pocket-handkerchiefs might

be so embroidered."

"Ah?" said John. "Zelt-Neuminster? That would be a daughter of the man

who owns this Castle?"

"No, she is a sister of the man who owns this Castle."

"I understand," said John. "I wonder that the sister of the man who owns

this Castle never comes here to see how fine it is."

"She has been here quite recently," said Maria Dolores. "She has been

here visiting her foster-mother, who lives in the pavilion beyond the

clock. She came to make a sort of retreat--to think something over."

"Yes--?" questioned he.

"Her brother is very anxious to marry her off. He is anxious that she

should marry her second cousin, the Prince of Zelt-Zelt. She came here

to make up her mind."

"Has she made it up?" he asked.

"I am not sure," said she.

"Yet you seem to be deep in her confidence," said he.

"Yes--but she is not quite sure herself."

"Oh--?" said John.

"She is one of those foolish women who dream of marriage as a high

romance."

"Wise men," said John, "dream of it as the highest."

She shook her head.

"A marriage with her cousin would be an end to all romance for ever. She

was thinking a little while ago, I believe, of marrying a plain

commoner, the nephew of a farmer. That would have been indeed romantic.

Now, I hear, she is considering, a future member of your English House

of Lords."

"Wouldn't even that be rather romantic--if a step down constitutes

romance?" John suggested.

"Oh, a British peer is scarcely a step down," she returned. "Besides,

there are people who don't care--what is the expression?--twopence about

rank."

"When I said that," John explained, "I had no inkling that her rank was

so exalted."

"Did you think she was the daughter of a cobbler?" Maria Dolores

quickly, with some haughtiness, inquired.

"I thought she was a daughter of the stars," John answered.

"And you feared her name was Smitti," she said, haughtiness dissolving

in mirth. "I will never tell you what she feared that yours was."

"See," said John, "how they are hanging the heavens with banners. It

must be in honour of some great impending event."

Yesterday the west had been a sea. To-day it was a city, a vast grey and

violet city, with palaces and battlemented towers, and countless airy

spires and pinnacles; and here, there, everywhere, its walls were gay

with gold and crimson, as with drooping banners.

"'Tis a city _en fête_," said John. "'Tis the city where marriages are

made. They must have one in hand."

"Hark," said she, putting up a finger. "There are your nightingales

beginning."

But the raised finger reminded him of something. "Have you a rooted

objection to rings?" he asked.

"Why?" asked she.

"I notice that you don't wear any."

"Oh, sometimes I wear many," she said. "Then one has moods in which one

leaves them off."

"I have a ring in my pocket which I think belongs to you," said he.

"Really? I don't know that any of my rings are missing."

"Here it is," said he. He produced the little old shagreen case he had

received from Lady Blanchemain, opened, and offered it.

"It is a singularly beautiful ring," said she, her eyes admiring. "But

it doesn't belong to me."

"I think it does," said he. "May I try it on your finger?"

She put forth her right hand.

"No--your left hand, please," he said. He dropped upon one knee before

her, and when the delicate white hand was surrendered, I imagine he made

of getting the ring upon the alliance finger a longer business by a good

deal than was necessary. "There," he said in the end, "you see. It looks

as if it had grown there. Of course it belongs to you." He still held

her hand, warm and firm and velvet-soft. I think in another second he

would have touched it with his lips. But she drew it away.

She gazed into the depths of the heart-shaped ruby, tremulous with

liquid light, and smiled as at secret thoughts.

"But I don't see," said John, getting to his feet, "how any man can ask

a Princess of the House of Zelt to marry him and live on six hundred

pounds a year."

"She would have to modify her habits a good deal, that is very certain,"

said Maria Dolores.

"She would have to modify them utterly," said John. "Six hundred a year

is poverty even for a single man. For a married couple it would be

beggary. She would have to live like the wife of a petty employé. She

would have to travel second class and stay at fourth-rate hotels. She

would have to turn her old dresses and trim her own bonnets. She would

have to do without a maid. And all this means that she would have

virtually to renounce her caste, to give up the society of her equals,

who demand a certain scale of appearances, and to live among pariahs or

to live in isolation. Don't you think a man would be a monster of

selfishness to exact such sacrifices?"

"Oh, some men have excessively far-fetched and morbid notions of

honour," said she.

"Do you think the Princess, with all this brought to her attention,

would ever dream of consenting?"

"Women in love are weak--they will consent to almost anything," said

she, her dark eyes smiling for an instant into his.

Why didn't he take her in his arms? Hope deferred maketh the heart sick,

but to defer the consummation of a joy assured (observes the Persian

poet) giveth the heart a peculiar sweet excitement.

"Well," said John. "I'm glad to think she is weak; but I'll never ask my

wife to consent to anything so unpleasant. A Princess and a future

peeress, living on six hundred pounds a year! It's unheard of."

She looked at him, puzzled, incredulous.

"Oh--? Can you possibly mean--that you will--take back your condition?"

"Yes," said he, humbly. "Who am I to make conditions?"

"You will let her spend as much of her own money as she likes?" she

wondered, wide-eyed.

"As a lover of thrift, I shall deprecate extravagance," said John. "But

as a submissive husband, I shall let her do in all things as her fancy

dictates."

"Well," marvelled she, "here is a surprise--here is a volte-face

indeed."

And she looked at the city in the sky, and appeared to turn things over.

John was mysteriously chuckling.

"Haven't you your opinion," he asked, "of men who eat their words and

put their scruples in their pockets?"

"I don't understand," said she, looking wild. "There is, of course, some

joke."

"There is a joke, indeed," said he; "the joke is that I'm ten times

richer than I told you I was."

She started back, and fixed him with a glance.

"Then all that about your being poor was only humbug?" There was

reproach in her voice, I'm not sure there wasn't disappointment.

"No," said he, "it was the exact and literal truth. But I have come into

a modest competency over-night."

"I don't understand," said she.

"My own part in the story is a sufficiently inglorious one," said he.

"I'm the benefactee. Lady Blanchemain and my uncle have put their heads

together, and endowed me. I feel rather small at letting them, but it

enables me to look my affianced boldly in the money-eye."

"Oh? You are affianced? Already?" she asked gaily.

"No--not unless you are," gaily answered John.

She looked down at her ring.