THE PRINCE AND CLAUDIO
Why did the Dictator bury himself in his maps and his plans and his
improvements in the street architecture of a city which in all
probability he was never to see more?
For one reason. Because his mind was on something else to-night, and he
did not feel as if he were acting with full fidelity to the cause of
Gloria if he allowed any subject to come even for an hour too directly
between him and that. Little as he permitted himself to put on the airs
of a patriot and philanthropist--much as he would have hated to exhibit
himself or be regarded as a professional patriot--yet the devotion to
that cause which he had himself created--the cause of a regenerated
Gloria--was deep down in his very heart. Gloria and her future were his
day-dream--his idol, his hobby, or his craze, if you like; he had long
been possessed by the thought of a redeemed and regenerated Gloria.
To-night his mind had been thrown for a moment off the track--and it was
therefore that he pulled out his maps and was endeavouring to get on to
the track again.
But he could not help thinking of Helena Langley. The girl embarrassed
him--bewildered him. Her upturned eyes came between him and his maps.
Her frank homage was just like that of a child. Yet she was not a child,
but a remarkably clever and brilliant young woman, and he did not know
whether he ought to accept her homage. He was, for all his strange
career, somewhat conservative in his notions about women. He thought
that there ought to be a sweet reserve about them always. He rather
liked the pedestal theory about woman. The approaches and the devotion,
he thought, ought to come from the man always. In the case of Helena
Langley, it never occurred to him to think that her devotion was
anything different from the devotion of Hamilton; but then a young man
who is one's secretary is quite free to show his devotion, while a young
woman who is not one's secretary is not free to show her devotion.
Ericson kept asking himself whether Sir Rupert would not feel vexed when
he heard of the way in which his dear spoiled child had been going
on--as he probably would from herself--for she evidently had not the
faintest notion of concealment. On the other hand, what could Ericson
do? Give Helena Langley an exposition of his theories concerning proper
behaviour in unmarried womanhood? Why, how absurd and priggish and
offensive such a course of action would be? The girl would either break
into laughter at him or feel herself offended by his attempt to lecture
her. And who or what had given him any right to lecture her? What, after
all, had she done? Sat on a footstool beside the chair of a public man
whose cause she sympathised with, and who was quite old enough--or
nearly so, at all events--to be her father. Up to this time Ericson was
rather inclined to press the 'old enough to be her father,' and to leave
out the 'nearly so.' Then, again, he reminded himself that social ways
and manners had very much changed in London during his absence, and that
girls were allowed, and even encouraged, to do all manner of things now
which would have been thought tomboyish, or even improper, in his
younger days. Why, he had glanced at scores of leading articles and
essays written to prove that the London girl of the close of the century
was free to do things which would have brought the deepest and most
comprehensive blush to the cheeks of the meek and modest maidens of a
former generation.
Yes--but for all this change of manners it was certain that he had
himself heard comments made on the impulsive unconventionality of Miss
Langley. The comments were sometimes generous, sympathetic, and perhaps
a little pitying--and of course they were sometimes ill-natured and
spiteful. But, whatever their tone, they were all tuned to the one
key--that Miss Langley was impulsively unconventional.
The Dictator was inclined to resent the intrusion of a woman into his
thoughts. For years he had been in the habit of regarding women as trees
walking. He had had a love disappointment early in life. His true love
had proved a false true love, and he had taken it very seriously--taken
it quite to heart. He was not enough of a modern London man to recognise
the fact that something of the kind happens to a good many people, and
that there are still a great many girls left to choose from. He ought to
have made nothing of it, and consoled himself easily, but he did not. So
he had lost his ideal of womanhood, and went through the world like one
deprived of a sense. The man is, on the whole, happiest whose true love
dies early, and leaves him with an ideal of womanhood which never can
change. He is, if he be at all a true man, thenceforth as one who walks
under the guidance of an angel. But Ericson's mind was put out by the
failure of his ideal. Happily he was a strong man by nature, with deep
impassioned longings and profound convictions; and going on through life
in his lonely, overcrowded way, he soon became absorbed in the
entrancing egotism of devotion to a great cause. He began to see all
things in life first as they bore on the regeneration of Gloria--now as
they bore on his restoration to Gloria. So he had been forgetting all
about women, except as ornaments of society, and occasionally as useful
mechanisms in politics.
The memory of his false true love had long faded. He did not now
particularly regret that she had been false. He did not regret it even
for her own sake--for he knew that she had got on very well in life--had
married a rich man--held a good position in society, and apparently had
all her desires gratified. It was probable--it was almost certain--that
he should meet her in London this season--and he felt no interest or
curiosity about the meeting--did not even trouble himself by wondering
whether she had been following his career with eyes in which old
memories gleamed. But after her he had done no love-making and felt
inclined for no romance. His ideal, as has been said, was gone--and he
did not care for women without an ideal to pursue.
Every night, however late, when the Dictator had got back to his rooms,
Hamilton came to see him, and they read over letters and talked over the
doings of the next day. Hamilton came this night in the usual course of
things, and Ericson was delighted to see him. He was sick of trying to
study the street improvements of the metropolis of Gloria, and he was
vexed at the intrusion of Helena Langley into his mind--for he did not
suspect in the least that she had yet made any intrusion into his heart.
'Well, Hamilton, I hope you have been enjoying yourself?'
'Yes, Excellency--fairly enough. Do you know I had a long talk with Sir
Rupert Langley about you?'
'Aye, aye. What does Sir Rupert say about me?'
'Well, he says,' Hamilton began distressedly, 'that you had better give
up all notions of Gloria and go in for English politics.'
The Dictator laughed; and at the same time felt a little touched. He
could not help remembering the declaration of his life's policy he had
just been making to Sir Rupert Langley's daughter.
'What on earth do I know about English politics?'
'Oh, well; of course you could get it all up easily enough, so far as
that goes.'
'But doesn't Sir Rupert see that, so far as I understand things at all,
I should be in the party opposed to him?'
'Yes, he sees that; but he doesn't seem to mind. He thinks you would
find a field in English politics; and he says the life of the House of
Commons is the life to which the ambition of every true Englishman ought
to turn--and, you know--all that sort of thing.'
'And does he think that I have forgotten Gloria?'
'No; but he has a theory about all South American States. He thinks they
are all rotten, and that sort of thing. He insists that you are thrown
away on Gloria.'
'Fancy a man being thrown away upon a country,' the Dictator said, with
a smile. 'I have often heard and read of a country being thrown away
upon a man, but never yet of a man being thrown away upon a country. I
should not have wondered at such an opinion from an ordinary Englishman,
who has no idea of a place the size of Gloria, where we could stow away
England, France, and Germany in a little unnoticed corner. But Sir
Rupert--who has been there! Give us out the cigars, Hamilton--and ring
for some drinks.'
Hamilton brought out the cigars, and rang the bell.
'Well--anyhow--I have told you,' he said hesitatingly.
'So you have, boy, with your usual indomitable honesty. For I know what
you think about all this.'
'Of course you do.'
'You don't want to give up Gloria?'
'Give up Gloria? Never--while grass grows and water runs!'
'Well, then, we need not say any more about that. Tell me, though, where
was all this? At Lady Seagraves'?'
'No; it was at Sir Rupert's own house.'
'Oh, yes, I forgot; you were dining there?'
'Yes; I was dining there.'
'This was after dinner?'
'Yes; there were very few men there, and he talked all this to me in a
confidential sort of way. Tell me, Excellency, what do you think of his
daughter?'
The Dictator almost started. If the question had come out of his own
inner consciousness it could not have illustrated more clearly the
problem which was perplexing his heart.
'Why, Hamilton, I have not seen very much of her, and I don't profess to
be much of a judge of young ladies. Why on earth do you want my opinion?
What is your own opinion of her?'
'I think she is very beautiful.'
'So do I.'
'And awfully clever.'
'Right again--so do I.'
'And singularly attractive, don't you think?'
'Yes; very attractive indeed. But you know, my boy, that the attractions
of young women have now little more than a purely historical interest
for me. Still, I am quite prepared to go as far with you as to admit
that Miss Langley is a most attractive young woman.'
'She thinks ever so much of _you_,' Hamilton said dogmatically.
'She has great sympathy with our cause,' the Dictator said.
'She would do anything _you_ asked her to do.'
'My boy, I don't want to ask her to do anything.'
'Excellency, I want you to advise her to do something--for _me_.'
'For you, Hamilton? Is that the way?' The Dictator asked the question
with a tone of infinite sympathy, and he stood up as if he were about to
give some important order. Hamilton, on the other hand, collapsed into a
chair.
'That is the way, Excellency.'
'You are in love with this child?'
'I am madly in love with this child, if you call her so.'
Ericson made some strides up and down the room with his hands behind
him. Then he suddenly stopped.
'Is this quite a serious business?' he asked, in a low, soft voice.
'Terribly serious for me, Excellency, if things don't turn out right. I
have been hit very hard.'
The Dictator smiled.
'We get over such things,' he said.
'But I don't want to get over this; I don't mean to get over it.'
'Well,' Ericson said good-humouredly, and with quite recovered
composure, 'it may not be necessary for you to get over it. Does the
young lady want you to get over it?'
'I haven't ventured to ask her yet.'
'What do you mean to ask her?'
'Well, of course--if she will--have me.'
'Yes, naturally. But I mean when----'
'When do I mean to ask her?'
'No; when do you propose to marry her?'
'Well, of course, when we have settled ourselves again in Gloria, and
all is right there. You don't fancy I would do anything before we have
made that all right?'
'But all that is a little vague,' the Dictator said; 'the time is
somewhat indefinite. One does not quite know what the young lady might
say.'
'She is just as enthusiastic about Gloria as I am, or as you are.'
'Yes, but her father. Have you said anything to him about this?'
'Not a word. I waited until I could talk of it to you, and get your
promise to help me.'
'Of course I'll help you, if I can. But tell me, how can I? What do you
want me to do? Shall I speak to Sir Rupert?'
'If you would speak to him after, I should be awfully glad. But I don't
so much mind about him just yet; I want you to speak to her!'
'To Miss Langley? To ask her to marry you?'
'That's about what it comes to,' Hamilton said courageously.
'But, my dear love-sick youth, would you not much rather woo and win the
girl for yourself?'
'What I am afraid of,' Hamilton said gravely, 'is that she would pretend
not to take me seriously. She would laugh and turn me into ridicule, and
try to make fun of the whole thing. But if you tell her that it is
positively serious and a business of life and death with me, then she
will believe you, and she _must_ take it seriously and give you a
serious answer, or at least promise to give me a serious answer.'
'This is the oddest way of love-making, Hamilton.'
'I don't know,' Hamilton said; 'we have Shakespeare's authority for it,
haven't we? Didn't Don Pedro arrange for Claudio and Hero?'
'Well, a very good precedent,' Ericson said with a smile. 'Tell me about
this to-morrow. Think over it and sleep over it in the meantime, and if
you still think that you are willing to make your proposals through the
medium of an envoy, then trust me, Hamilton, your envoy will do all he
can to win for you your heart's desire.'
'I don't know how to thank you,' Hamilton exclaimed fervently.
'Don't try. I hate thanks. If they are sincere they tell their tale
without words. I know you--everything about you is sincere.'
Hamilton's eyes glistened with joy and gratitude. He would have liked to
seize his chief's hand and press it to his lips; but he forbore. The
Dictator was not an effusive man, and effusiveness did not flourish in
his presence. Hamilton confined his gratitude to looks and thoughts and
to the dropping of the subject for the present.
'I have been pottering over these maps and plans,' the Dictator said.
'I am so glad,' Hamilton exclaimed, 'to find that your heart is still
wholly absorbed in the improvement of Gloria.'
The Dictator remained for a few moments silent and apparently buried in
thought. He was not thinking, perhaps, altogether of the projected
improvements in the capital of Gloria. Hamilton had often seen him in
those sudden and silent, but not sullen, moods, and was always careful
not to disturb him by asking any question or making any remark. The
Dictator had been sitting in a chair and pulling the ends of his
moustache. At once he got up and went to where Hamilton was seated.
'Look here, Hamilton,' he said, in a tone of positive sternness, 'I want
to be clear about all this. I want to help you--of course I want to help
you--if you can really be helped. But, first of all, I must be
certain--as far as human certainty can go--that you really know what you
do want. The great curse of life is that men--and I suppose women too--I
can't say--do not really know or trouble to know what they do positively
want with all their strength and with all their soul. The man who
positively knows what he does want and sticks to it has got it already.
Tell me, do you really want to marry this young woman?'
'I do--with all my soul and with all my strength!'
'But have you thought about it--have you turned it over in your
mind--have you come down from your high horse and looked at yourself, as
the old joke puts it?'
'It's no joke for me,' Hamilton said dolefully.
'No, no, boy; I didn't mean that it was. But I mean, have you really
looked at yourself and her? Have you thought whether she could make you
happy?--have you thought whether you could make her happy? What do you
know about her? What do you know about the kind of life which she lives?
How do you know whether she could do without that kind of life--whether
she could live any other kind of life? She is a London Society girl, she
rides in the Row at a certain hour, she goes out to dinner parties and
to balls, she dances until all hours in the morning, she goes abroad to
the regular place at the regular time, she spends a certain part of the
winter visiting at the regulation country houses. Are you prepared to
live that sort of life--or are you prepared to bear the responsibility
of taking her out of it? Are you prepared to take the butterfly to live
in the camp?'
'She isn't a butterfly----'
'No, no; never mind my bad metaphor. But she has been brought up in a
kind of life which is second nature to her. Are you prepared to live
that life with her? Are you sure--are you quite, quite sure--that she
would be willing, after the first romantic outburst, to put up with a
totally different life for the sake of you?'
'Excellency,' Hamilton said, smiling somewhat sadly, 'you certainly do
your best to take the conceit out of a young man.'
'My boy, I don't think you have any self-conceit, but you may have a
good deal of self-forgetfulness. Now I want you to call a halt and
remember yourself. In this business of yours--supposing it comes to what
you would consider at the moment a success----'
'At the moment?' Hamilton pleaded, in pained remonstrance.
'At the moment--yes. Supposing the thing ends successfully for you, one
plan of life or other must necessarily be sacrificed--yours or hers.
Which is it going to be? Don't make too much of her present enthusiasm.
Which is it going to be?'
'I don't believe there will be any sacrifice needed,' Hamilton said, in
an impassioned tone. 'I told you she loves Gloria as well as you or I
could do.'
The Dictator shook his head and smiled pityingly.
'But if there is to be any sacrifice of any life,' Hamilton said, driven
on perhaps by his chief's pitying smile, 'it shan't be hers. No, if she
will have me after we have got back to Gloria, I'll live with her in
London every season and ride with her in the Row every morning and
afternoon, and take her, by Jove! to all the dinners and balls she cares
about, and she shall have her heart's desire, whatever it be.'
The Dictator's face was crossed by some shadows. Pity was there, and
sympathy was there--and a certain melancholy pleasure, and, it may be, a
certain disappointment. He pulled himself together very quickly, and was
cool, genial, and composed, according to his usual way.
'All right, my boy,' he said, 'this is genuine love at all events,
however it may turn out. You have answered my question fairly and fully.
I see now that you do know what you want. That is one great point,
anyhow. I will do my very best to get for you what you want. If it only
rested with me, Hamilton!' There was a positive note of tenderness in
his voice as he spoke these words; and yet there was a kind of forlorn
feeling in his heart, as if the friend of his heart was leaving him. He
felt a little as the brother Vult in Richter's exquisite and forgotten
novel might have felt when he was sounding on his flute that final
morning, and going out on his cold way never to see his brother again.
The brother Walt heard the soft, sweet notes, and smiled tranquilly,
believing that his brother was merely going on a kindly errand to help
him, Walt, to happiness. But the flute-player felt that, come what
might, they were, in fact, to be parted for ever.