DARING PROPOSALS
For the first time now, Fenton became aware that the happy accident
which brought him as eavesdropper to this extraordinary assignation had
also placed him in a most dangerous position. On completing their
consultation, the three men made straight in his direction. Fenton
tried to shrink back farther into the rhododendrons, but even in the
darkness they did not afford sufficient shelter for a man with the
conspicuous white front of evening dress. He decided that his best
chance of safely lay in flight.
Pulling the collar of his dress coat up around his neck, he started off
cautiously. Unfortunately he stumbled and nearly fell headlong into a
small shrub. Sharp exclamations from the rear warned him that he had
betrayed his presence to the three conspirators. Throwing all other
considerations to the winds, therefore, Fenton ran for dear life.
The men behind took up the pursuit with business-like grimness. Not a
word was uttered, but in an instant he heard the steady pound of their
feet and then the sharp discharge of a revolver. A bullet whizzed
close past his ear, showing that the conspirators were not firing
entirely at random. Several more shots followed in the next few
minutes, and in each instance they were but an inch or two off their
mark.
Fenton had been a sprinter in his college days, and the knowledge that
three expert and determined marksmen are on one's trail is perhaps the
greatest spur to velocity that could be imagined. Without paying any
heed to his course, he plunged straight ahead, through shrubbery and
garden plots, around fountains and over railings. His pursuers made up
in desperation what they lacked in length of leg, and it took the young
Canadian some time to gain a comfortable lead. At last he outdistanced
them, however, and by pursuing a devious course landed, all
unwittingly, at a side door of the palace. He pushed it open and,
finding no one to stop him, made his way down a corridor toward the
sound of the music.
Without pausing to catch his breath or plan any definite course, Fenton
showed in the ball-room. Glances that drifted his way fixed themselves
on him with astonishment, until finally the Canadian found that, much
as he had desired to avoid notice, he had instead made himself the
cynosure of all eyes. The reason was not hard to find. In his flight
he had broken recklessly through brambles and thick shrubbery. The
front of his once immaculate dress shirt was willed and soiled; his
face scratched, his hair rumpled. He looked as though he had been
through a football scrimmage.
To find Varden was his first endeavour, but the latter unfortunately
was nowhere in sight. So Fenton decided to seek Prince Peter in
person, and convey to him direct the startling news he had stumbled
upon. Threading his way blindly through the gay ranks in search of the
leader of the allied cause, he came in contact with the Grand Duke
Miridoff. The two men halted and stood for a moment face to face, like
belligerents. Their glances crossed like rapier blades. Miridoff
coldly and without haste appraised the disorderliness of the young
Canadian's attire.
"Mr Fenton has been strolling in the gardens?" he said.
Fenton was no diplomat. He was unversed in the art of exchanging
polished phrases in the face of tense situations, of veiling threats,
innuendoes, warnings, in the guise of polite rejoinders. He replied
with the directness and vigour that are supposed to be characteristic
of the Canadian character.
"Yes, I have been strolling in the gardens," he said, "and it's lucky I
happened to be around just when I did!"
Miridoff, accustomed to the devious ways of diplomacy, was thrown off
his guard by the sheer unexpectedness of so direct a rejoinder. He
regained his poise in an instant, however, and treated Fenton to a cold
glare.
"Perhaps Mr Fenton will find it unlucky for himself that he happened to
be around just when he did," he said, passing on.
The remark set Fenton thinking. Undoubtedly the situation presented
certain possibilities that had not occurred to him before. His
presence at the meeting of the Society of Crossed Swords, known as it
now was to the conspirators, would not serve as a deterrent to the
carrying out of their foul purpose. Instead, it had given them a
double aim; it would be advisable to get him out of the way before the
plans laid for the death of Prince Peter were attempted. That much was
quite clear even to one so completely unversed as himself in the
ruthless way of Balkan politics. He was a marked man. It was equally
clear to him that he was practically powerless in the matter. He could
not go to the police or the military authorities and lay bare the whole
thing to them. He would merely be laughed at for his pains. Who was
he, an unknown foreigner, to lay such a serious charge against so
illustrious a personage as the Grand Duke Miridoff? That course could
have no effect other than to destroy his own usefulness to the cause he
had espoused and perhaps to bring suspicion down on the prince and
Varden. Fenton saw clearly that the only thing for him to do was to
acquaint the prince of the plot against him and take the chance of any
danger to himself which might arise in the meantime from the animosity
of Miridoff's myrmidons.
He continued his search for Prince Peter with an almost feverish
eagerness, recognising that every minute was precious now. Delay on
his part might mean the death of the leader of the popular cause with
all that such a calamity would entail. Miridoff's reasoning had been
right; the prince out of the way, there would be little difficulty in
persuading the King to swing Ironia into line against Russia.
But, to Fenton, the possibilities did not stop there. Prince Peter was
father of the loveliest woman in the world! Ever since he had spent
those golden minutes with the Princess Olga, thoughts of her had never
been entirely out of his mind. Even as he had dashed headlong through
the gardens, a picture of her as she had last appeared to him, in all
her regal beauty and dainty girlishness floating off to the strains of
"The Blue Danube" on the arm of a native officer, had remained with
him. Could this great sorrow be permitted to come to her?
It was to the princess herself that he finally told the story of the
plot. He could not locate her father, and, in sheer desperation,
sought her out where she stood at the end of the long ball-room. His
dishevelled appearance created comment in the group surrounding her,
but Fenton, casting finesse to the winds, rode rough-shod over all
considerations of court etiquette.
"Your highness," he said, "I must see you for a few minutes--alone. I
assure you it is a matter of great urgency."
The princess, glancing at him intently, divined the earnestness behind
his unusual request, and, with a murmured word, dismissed the partner
to whom she had been engaged for the next dance. All eyes followed
them as they crossed to a nearby alcove.
"Your highness," said Fenton earnestly, "I want to apologise, first for
appearing in such a condition, and second for what must appear to you
as gross ignorance of all that pertains to royal etiquette. I can
plead in extenuation only the urgency of the case."
He told her in a few words of his blind excursion outside and its
astonishing sequel. "I may have done wrong by telling you this," he
concluded, "but I could find neither your father nor my friend, Varden,
and I realised that every moment was precious."
For a moment there was silence. The eloquent dark eyes of the
princess, which had been fixed on his face during the recital, were now
filled with a troubled appeal.
"I cannot find words to thank you, Mr Fenton," she said, clasping her
hands together. "Your news is disquieting, although I have feared for
the safety of the prince, my father, ever since war broke out.
Anything is possible in Ironia now--even that they should want the
death of a prince who has never had a thought beyond the welfare of his
country! He is the most unselfish man that ever lived, I think, Mr
Fenton. One who has not known him can have no conception of the way in
which he has given himself to the service of Ironia."
Fenton listened to her in a conflict of emotion. The compassion that
he felt for this beautiful butterfly, enmeshed in the net of royal rank
and placed within a circle where constant danger and intrigue were part
of the price of position, was overshadowed by a still deeper feeling.
Fenton had progressed thus far along the steep upward grade called life
without any more lasting love episodes than an occasional brief
flirtation. He had always responded willingly enough to the appeal of
a pretty face, but his first glimpse of the Princess Olga had stirred
something within him that was deeper than admiration and more
disturbing than any emotion he had ever experienced before. Her beauty
left him in a condition where coherent speech was difficult and
connected thought impossible.
This condition of mind was intensified by the position in which they
were now placed. In the face of danger threatening, the fact of her
position was lost. She was no longer a princess who might
condescendingly stoop to a brief friendliness with a commoner from a
strange country; she had become simply a girl, alarmed and distressed
at the dangerous position of her father.
"I am so frightened!" she went on, averting her gaze to hide the look
almost of terror that had come. "My father left the palace a few
minutes ago. Could it be--can they carry out their purpose--before he
can be warned of the danger?"
Fenton thought for a moment. "No," he answered confidently. "The
prince must have left before I returned to the palace. In that case he
got away before those precious rogues had any chance to carry out their
plans. He must be reached at once and warned."
"But," the girl's voice came tensely, "I have no idea where he has
gone. He has come and gone much of late, never telling anyone of his
purpose or his movements. He may even return here before the night is
over!"
"That wouldn't do," said Fenton, alarmed in turn. "I must find Varden.
He'll be certain to know where the prince has gone."
He bowed and would at once have left her to renew his search for Varden
had she not detained him with a gesture.
"Tell me, Mr Fenton, did you by any chance recognise the men in the
garden?"
It was on the tip of Fenton's tongue to tell her all that he knew of
the matter, but the recollection that when he had first seen her she
had been in the company of Miridoff came in time to check him.
"It was very dark in the gardens and I have only been in the city a
day," he replied. "There was but one I recognised in the group, and it
would perhaps be wise not to name him."
"But I must know," persisted the princess. "We must understand from
what source the blow might come. No consideration can outweigh that of
my father's safety, and if I find him first I must know against whom to
warn him."
"That is true," said Fenton, after a moment's consideration. Then with
some hesitation, "I may be making a great blunder in telling you this.
You see the one man I recognised--and he was undoubtedly the
ring-leader--was with you when I had the honour of being presented to
you to-night."
There was a moment's pause, during which the princess stared at him
with eyes wide-open in their incredulity. Then her manner changed.
She became wholly the princess again and there was unmistakable hauteur
in her bearing and, when she spoke, in her voice.
"You have made a most extraordinary mistake, Mr Fenton," she said. "It
is quite impossible that the one you have named could have been there."
"I was not mistaken," he declared. "I saw the Grand Duke Miridoff!"
"I do not doubt that you thought you recognised him," said the
princess, her mood changing again to one almost of appeal, "but it was
a fancied resemblance. The darkness deceived you. You have met him
but once, and the mistake might easily occur."
"Your highness, there was no mistake," said Fenton earnestly. "I have
no idea in what regard you hold this man. It may be that I am
sacrificing all possibility of retaining a small measure of your favour
and good opinion by my course. But there can be no doubt that the man
who is plotting your father's assassination is the Grand Duke Miridoff!
I saw him and heard him quite clearly. A few minutes ago I met him
back there in the ball-room and he showed by what he said to me that he
knew--what I know. It's war to the knife from now on!
"Your highness," he went on, "whether or no you believe me when I tell
you that the instigator of these men is the Grand Duke Miridoff, at
least you must credit the fact that your father is in terrible danger.
I saw and heard the men who have planned his death. They are fully in
earnest. Don't refuse to believe what I say on that score. You know
how important he is to his country at this time. He must be warned at
once. It was the gravity of the situation that impelled me to tell you
such alarming news. I sincerely regret not having been able to spare
you this trying ordeal."
The distress of the princess was so palpable that Fenton did not stop
for further words, but, bowing gravely, set off in anxious search of
the elusive Varden. He found him at last in the supper-room. Quickly
he told Varden of the plot and of his conversation with the princess.
Varden received the news gravely, but did not appear much surprised.
"We've been expecting some move from them," he said, "but I didn't
think they would go to such lengths as this. It's lucky you stumbled
in on their little gathering, Don. Now we know the cards they hold."
"But where's Prince Peter?"
"Safe," replied Varden. "He's out of their reach for the time being.
I expect to see him inside of an hour and can put him on his guard. No
need for worry, Don. We have the beggars checkmated whatever move they
make."
Fenton smiled delightedly. The lust of conflict had seized him. He
was finding this new game extremely interesting. Even the attitude of
the Princess Olga could not dampen his ardent spirits; she would soon
find that he had been right, and Fenton looked forward to another
interview with her when a better understanding had been established.
"By the by, Percy, there's one angle of this affair that puzzles me,"
he said. "Who is Miridoff and what's his position with regard to the
Princess Olga?"
"Miridoff," said Varden, "is the real leader of the Austro-German
party. He is of Austrian descent; quite a large section of the people
of Ironia are of Teutonic origin. He belongs to one of the branches of
the royal line of the Hapsburgs and is a large landowner. Until
recently he acted as director of foreign affairs for King Alexander,
but public opinion forced him out of office at the outbreak of the war.
Since then he's been directing the agitation for a Germanic alliance.
He's a man who will stand a lot of watching. To put it in the
vernacular, Miridoff is a bad actor."
"But where does he come in with the princess?" persisted the Canadian.
"When I mentioned him as leader of that crowd of assassins she seemed
upset."
"One would rather expect that," said Varden dryly. "You see the King
has the say-so in regard to marrying off all members of the royal
family, and it's pretty generally understood that he has picked out
Miridoff for Olga."
"What!" In the one word Fenton expressed all the amazement, horror,
rage and infinite regret that he felt at the announcement of so
unbelievable a fact.
"Yes, that's how things stand," said Varden, quite unconcernedly. "I
think the King has the idea that by bringing off the match he'll get
the two warring leaders closer together and perhaps wear down Peter's
opposition to the German alliance. It's rather a shrewd move on the
part of the old boy."
"Varden, I could gladly strangle you for speaking of so unthinkable a
match in such a tone! Why, it's impossible!" declared Fenton. "Such a
thing wouldn't be tolerated in this civilised day. We're not in the
Dark Ages."
"That's just where we are," replied Varden, amused at his friend's
vehemence. "These Balkan kingdoms are farther away from 1915 in point
of time than Ironia is from Canada in point of distance. Why, matches
of this kind are quite common--the rule in fact."
"But--but will Olga consent to a marriage with this murderer, for
that's all he is?"
"Of course," assented the other. "Olga is a sensible girl and has the
warmly patriotic temperament so common to these Balkan people. The
King's word is law, and beyond question. It's only a matter of time
until----"
Fenton's rage slowly subsided, leaving only one phase of the case fixed
in his mind. She was irretrievably lost so far as he was concerned.
He had not seriously thought otherwise, of course, but every word that
Varden uttered widened the distance that yawned between a Canadian of
no particular rank, albeit a millionaire, and the semi-regal position
of a Balkan princess. He got up and walked to a railing near which
they had been standing, and stared morosely out into the tangled gloom
of the garden. He stood thus for a moment or two before he felt the
pressure of Varden's hands on his shoulder.
"What ever can be wrong with you?" demanded the other, somewhat
testily. "Don't see any reason why you should take this to heart.
Anyway, the chances are that the princess won't have to marry Miridoff
after all. We're going to settle his hash before we get through with
him. Look here--you're not in love with the girl!"
Fenton glared. Varden grinned.
"Oh, ho!" said the latter. He started to laugh, then checked himself
sharply and patted his friend's shoulder. "So that's it? Never mind,
Don, you'll soon get over it. I wouldn't advise you to let
this--er--fancy of yours go too far. They don't take kindly here to
presumptuous strangers who show an interest in their princesses."
Fenton squared around, as belligerent and impetuous again as ever.
"Look here, Percy," he demanded eagerly, "don't you think there would
be a chance? Can't these ten-centuries-behind-the-times ideas be
overcome when new-world determination and wealth and--well unbounded
love, are combined to overcome them?"
"The idea's a new one," returned Varden. "As things have been up to
the present you haven't the ghost of a chance. But there's going to be
an upheaval, a general mix-up around here before the war is over, and
perhaps Ironia will come out of it with some new ideas. Anyway, all's
fair in love and war, and you're in both, I guess, now. Here's luck to
you, Don, you headstrong old smasher of social barriers! I don't wish
Miridoff any particular bad luck, but if I get a chance I'll direct a
bullet his way myself."
"But look here," he added quickly, as another thought struck him, "you
shouldn't be standing there. You're a marked man, you know, and you
certainly make a fair target standing in this light. We had better be
off now for home. I'll just hunt up my wife and we'll get away. By
the way, I took the liberty of having your trunks sent up to our place.
You'll stay with us from now on."
He drifted away and Fenton walked slowly back into the ball-room which
was now beginning to thin out. For a few minutes he stood staring into
the swaying ranks before him with eyes that saw nothing. He felt
constrained and gloomy again, so that the almost Oriental splendour of
the scene and the sensuous lilt of the music had no appeal for him.
Then he came suddenly to himself, as though startled into consciousness
by an electric shock. His glance had been arrested in its aimless
course and held by the glance of another. Across forty feet of
ball-room, interrupted by the frequent passing of whirling couples
through the line of vision, his glance held that of the princess.
There was interest, interrogation, perhaps something more, in the
seriously beautiful eyes of Olga. She was unattended for the moment.
Like a sleep-walker, or a mesmeric subject, Fenton moved across the
floor, staring straight ahead and letting the dancers dodge him as they
might. He found himself standing before her and bowed with worshipping
deference.
"His highness, the Prince Peter, is quite safe," he said in a low tone.
"I knew you would want to know. I found Varden and he is setting out
at once to give your father warning."
The princess thanked him. Fenton, glancing at her earnestly, was aware
that her attitude had subtly changed. He made a bold decision on the
instant.
"You said not so long ago," the words came rapidly, "that you would
like an opportunity to get away from the restrictions of royalty and
be--just one of the people for a time. Will you place yourself in that
position for just a few minutes now? I have something to say to you.
Will you permit me to speak, not as Donald Fenton, to Olga, princess of
the royal house of Ironia, but as one man to one woman?"
The princess did not answer, but she did not glance away, and Fenton
read in her eyes interest, expectancy, perhaps even a little fear. The
experience of talking freely to a stranger, a young man, was distinctly
a new one for her, but hardly one that could be entered upon without
trepidation. To step from the well-ordered path of royalty, where
nothing happened but what has been laid down by, tradition, was like a
plunge into unplumbed depths. Suppose she found herself just a woman
after all, and capable of falling in love with young men who were tall
and straight with direct blue eyes and cleft chins?
"Then it's settled," said Fenton. Nothing had been said, but both knew
that it was agreed he should proceed on the suggested basis. "I'm
going to talk to you as a man in Canada would talk to a girl he was
interested in; only more so, because I'm going to give you
advice--something that even a Canadian might hesitate to do the first
time he had met a girl. I've heard about Miridoff and--well, the rest
of it. All I want to say is, don't give in to them! Don't allow any
patriotic impulse to gain your consent to this monstrous match. The
man is a rogue, a would-be murderer. Perhaps back in the Middle Ages
it was considered proper for beautiful girls to marry men of his stamp,
but this is the year 1915. If you could only see this thing from the
new-world angle! Over there, not only is every man his own master, but
every woman her own mistress."
Pausing a moment for breath, he hurried on: "A most extraordinary thing
I'm doing, isn't it? Standing up and lecturing you, and on whom you
should or should not marry, of all subjects! But I'm going to do a
still more extraordinary thing. Remember, I'm talking as a man to a
woman, and you for the moment are just Olga to me, not Princess Olga.
If a man meets a woman and knows her for the one he was destined to
love, and if he fears it may never be his great good fortune to see her
again, why--he tells her of his love!"
He stopped, for over the face of his companion had come an expression
of mingled confusion and sadness. As the dying sun catches the
fleeting clouds and incarnadines them with a riot of red which spreads
and deepens and then slowly fades away, so the lovely face of the
princess became suffused with blushes.
"I fear we must return to the more conventional basis, Mr Fenton," she
said hurriedly. "Perhaps what Olga might learn would serve to disturb
the peace of mind of Princess Olga--afterward. Please do not say any
more!"
"As you wish." Fenton felt vaguely troubled. "You know what I desired
to say. That is sufficient. If I can ever be of assistance to you,
command me. Perhaps," and he stood up very straight at the thought,
"you may some day desire to step out of the mediæval ages into the
twentieth century, to live the free life that the women of the west
enjoy. If circumstances ever change so that you can order your own
future without obeying the dictates of kings and meddling statesmen--if
it ever comes to that, you belong to me! I love you; I loved you the
first moment I saw you. If you could remain just plain Olga long
enough you would come to love me too. I am so confident of it that,
when you slip back into your high station again, it is going to be a
great comfort to me that I could have won you if a king's whim and a
foolish custom had not stood in the way. And, do you know, I almost
feel that soon you will become very tired of being just Princess Olga
and long for the right to be Olga--a woman with a will of her own and
the right to place her love where she wills. Until that
time--good-bye, Olga."
For a moment they looked deep into each other's eyes, and Fenton read a
message that gave him comfort, if not hope. Then he bowed very low.
"Your highness, I wish you good night."