possible,” he said. And he began to crawl along a branch in the general
direction of the rifle. The boar noted the movement and followed him
underneath, snapping its fangs at him, the froth flowing from its
ragged lips. Erica watched, her eyes wide, her face gray with dread.
Crash! a branch gave way under him. He fell, and so low was he before
he could stop himself that one of his feet, clad in a heavy shoe,
kicked the boar in the nose. She, seeing him begin to fall, screamed
and turned about to descend.
“Stop! Stop!” he exclaimed, as he drew himself up into the tree. “I’m
all right!”
She clambered back just as the boar, dashing for her, flung itself high
up the trunk. He looked at her, saw that her eyes were closed and that
she was trembling. “Are you going to faint?” he exclaimed. “Quick,
unwind your sash and fasten yourself in the tree with it.”
“No,” she said. “I sha’n’t faint. Oh, what a weak, cowardly creature I
am!”
“You?” His look and his tone brought the color to her cheeks and a
pleased look to her eyes. “You, who were coming down when you thought
the boar had me? You are the bravest girl I ever saw. You can be
counted on.”
He remembered the boar and again set out along the branches. “I’ll be
more careful,” he called, over his shoulder. Soon he was within six
feet of the rifle and directly above it.
“Now what will you do?” she said. “I don’t see that we’re any better
off.”
“Patience,” he replied. He broke off a branch and lowered it towards
the ground; it reached. He slowly pushed the rifle towards the base of
the tree. The boar backed away and eyed the moving branch suspiciously.
Grafton had got the rifle against the trunk before the boar rushed. He
flung the branch far out from the tree, and the boar leaped into it and
trampled and tore it, paying no attention to the rifle.
“Will you please unwind your sash,” said Grafton, “and tease him with
it?--keep the end just out of reach of his nose. While you do that
I’ll jump down the other side of the tree and shoot him.”
She unwound the long brown sash and let down one of its tasselled
ends. The boar rushed it several times, then came to a halt under it,
prancing round and round, jumping into the air, frothing and snapping
its tusks. Grafton watched until he could see that it was dizzy from
rage and rapid whirling.
“Shout!” he called to her. “Shout at him and shake the scarf.”
She obeyed. He dropped to the ground, snatched the rifle, took quick
aim, and fired. The boar was leaping into the air. When it fell, it
fell to its side, dead--there was not even a quiver.
“Don’t come till I make sure,” he called, running towards the carcass.
Down upon it fluttered the brown sash, and then came a heavier
body--Erica herself.
Grafton put his arms about her and stood up, holding her as if she were
a child. Her long lashes lifted and she looked into his eyes with a
faint, apologetic smile. “Put me down, please,” she murmured.
“Not just yet,” he said. “Don’t make an effort, and you’ll come round
more quickly.”
She closed her eyes and relaxed into his arms. “How strong he is!” she
thought. “And how brave! How glad I am to see him again, to find that
he’s just as I’ve been suspecting he’d be!” At this a little color came
into her cheeks.
He, not dreaming what was going on in her romantic young mind, was
looking down at her, trying to keep a very tender smile out of his
face--she looked so like a sleeping, spoiled child, with her child’s
complexion, her short upper lip, her round, aggressive little chin.
Her skin was so fine that he could see the blood pulsing through the
delicate tracery of the veins in her cheek.
“Now I’ll try,” she said, after a few seconds. He let her feet down,
but still held her about the shoulders. He led her to a fallen tree,
and they sat, she leaning against him, he holding her firmly in his
arm. Soon she could sit alone, her elbows on her knees, her chin
between her hands.
“You are an American; so you said at--at Paquin’s?”
“Yes; and so are you--almost. You look and speak and act like an
American woman.”
“I had an American governess. And my father’s--second wife was an
American.”
“But,” he went on, “I don’t feel like an American just now. I feel as
if we both belonged here--in this wilderness--as if I had known you all
the always I could remember.”
She sat up and smiled, dreamily, sympathetically, without looking at
him. “I was just thinking,” she said, “I don’t even know your name,
yet I feel as if I knew you as well as I have ever known any one.” She
sighed. “I must go.”
She caught him looking longingly at her, and they both blushed and were
embarrassed. “My name is Grafton--Frederick Grafton,” he said.
“And mine is Erica.”
“Yes, I know that much--Erica what?”
“That’s all, except several other Christian names.”
“But how are you distinguished from other Ericas?”
“Well, they might call me Erica of Zweitenbourg.”
“Then your name is the same as your uncle’s?”
“But that isn’t his name, nor mine. He’s Grand Duke of Zweitenbourg,
and we’re of the younger line--the ducal branch. Our family is
Traubenheim. We came here about four hundred years ago.”
“Then your name is Erica Traubenheim.”
“No; Erica _of_ Traubenheim.”
“Erica Traubenheimer?”
“Dear me, no! That’s a dreadful name.”
“I don’t understand,” said Grafton. “It’s as though I should call
myself Frederick of Grafton.”
“That is it; only in your country you write your names differently. I
was talking to the American minister about it; he explained that you
have your noble families as we do, only they don’t reign, but hold
aloof from politics, except to accept the high appointments of state.”
Grafton laughed. “Did he tell you that?”
“Oh! I knew at once that you were of a noble family.”
“A noble family of--dress-fitters?”
Erica blushed.
“My father was a pork-packer,” continued Grafton. “And his father
was a pork-packer, and before that a farmer, and--I had an aunt who
was crazy on genealogy; she found out that we were descended from a
blacksmith. And my mother’s grandfather was a carpenter--when he could
get carpentering to do. We’re all like that in America.”
“It must be very--very queer.” She seemed disappointed, depressed.
“Every country seems queer to every other. This country seems queer to
me. Do you really like it--that life at The Castle?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, it seemed to me that if I were caught in such a routine--having
to live my life on a plan fixed hundreds of years ago--never allowed to
be my natural human self--it seems to me I’d die of weariness, unless I
were imbecile or became so.”
“You wouldn’t mind it if you’d been educated for it.” She thought for a
few minutes, then said: “Unfortunately, I wasn’t. My father’s--second
wife persuaded him to educate me in the modern way. That makes this
life almost impossible for me; it seems narrow and unreal, and
useless. And it’s so dull, so deadly dull!”
“Why don’t you get out of it--break away?”
“A woman is helpless. Besides, I’m not sure--”
She rose and put on her Tyrol hat and wrapped her brown sash about her
waist.
“I’ll walk with you as far as the road,” he said. “I don’t think I
could find it alone.”
As they went, both silent and she constrained, he noted that she
watched him curiously, as it seemed to him, critically, whenever she
thought he was not seeing. They came to the cross-road and he asked,
“When am I to see you again?”
She flushed painfully. “I--I’m afraid it’s impossible.”
He put out his hand. She hesitated, then gave him hers. “Good-bye,”
she said.
“No; that wasn’t what I meant,” he explained, clasping her hand.
She made a faint effort to draw it away, then let it lie in his.
“Impossible, you say? Then you don’t wish to let me see you again?”
She hung her head. “No; not that. I do wish it. But it’s impossible--I
think.”
He dropped her hand. “Very well,” he said.
They walked slowly on. She felt him going--going out of her life. She
could not endure it. She said: “But”--she colored and kept her eyes
down--“I--I walk here nearly every afternoon at three o’clock.”
“Isn’t that fortunate!” he said. “So do I.”
Their faces showed how happy they were. They came out of the woods
into the main road and lingered over the parting. They parted like
friends at the beginning of a promising friendship--a promising
man-and-woman friendship. He stood looking after her, and as he was
turning away found her handkerchief where she had stood. He picked it
up, kissed it with a gentle smile of self-mockery, and put it carefully
in the breast-pocket of his coat. “And I thought I came here for the
Grand Duke’s Spaniard!” he said.
V
A Prince in a Passion
At luncheon the next day the Grand Duke was in one of his tantrums.
He sneered at Erica and the ladies of the court, he insulted the
gentlemen-in-waiting and the heads of the royal household, he cursed
the servants. As usual, he ate enormously; as usual, his face
grew redder and redder; as usual, his temper rose as the luncheon
progressed. At first the others made some attempts to start and carry
a conversation. But finding that to speak was to make one’s self a
target for sneer and jeer, all became silent. Erica endured with
unprecedented meekness. Her thoughts were far away, and she had a
feeling about her immediate surroundings which she did not attempt to
explain to herself--a feeling that they were slowly fading from her
real life.
When he could eat no more, Casimir pushed back his chair from the table
and lighted a cigar. “Was ever man damned to such a life as this!”
he snarled. “Surrounded by chuckleheads and numskulls, we go through
life cracking our jaws with yawning. And here you sit or stand, mute,
smirking, and bowing us on towards insanity!” He looked savagely round.
“Well!” he exclaimed, “has nobody anything to say?”
All except Erica were trembling. They were accustomed to these
outbursts; they knew that their lives and limbs were safe. But their
sovereign was thundering, and it was their duty to fear and tremble.
Besides, they might lose their places at court, might be banished
from its glory, might be deprived of the honor and the happiness of
receiving these humiliations and insults from exalted rank.
Choking with rage, Casimir rose and stamped from the room. In his
cabinet he flung himself on a sofa and cursed and ground his cigar
between his teeth. As he had never in his life been curbed, and as
there was no public opinion to control him, no standard of private
conduct to constrain him, he acted precisely as he felt, when he was
not posing before the people. He despised the people, of course; but
they paid the taxes, and they paid because they believed him a superior
being, a shepherd without whom they, the lowly flock, would be in a
miserable plight. He was most careful to keep up appearances before
them, to do nothing that would discourage their loyalty to the throne,
their tolerance of its tax-gatherers.
The cause of Casimir’s present outburst was Grafton’s failure to
keep his appointment. “Has he gone away?” thought Casimir. “Or is he
playing on my notorious craze for Rembrandts?” He sent his personal
servant to the Hôtel de l’Europe privately to inquire. When he learned
that Grafton was still there he began to fear that he was mistaken in
thinking he had come to Zweitenbourg with a definite purpose. How to
reopen the negotiation--that was the question.
He sent for Erica. “Read!” he said. “No; talk! Are you glad Aloyse is
coming to-night?” This with a sneer.
“I had forgotten it,” replied Erica, calmly.
“Forgotten it? Forgotten your sweetheart? Forgotten! Haven’t you seen
this morning’s _Gazette_? It’s a love-match, the _Gazette_ says, ‘The
handsome and brilliant heir to the throne and his beautiful cousin have
been lovers since childhood.’” Casimir laughed harshly. “Love! And you
could forget my high-spirited, handsome, intellectual heir? Wonderful!”
“I had an adventure in the park yesterday that I’ve been thinking about
ever since,” said Erica. And she went on to tell the story of the boar,
saying as little as possible of Grafton, and being careful to put that
little prudently.
The Grand Duke was so interested that he sat up, forgot his indigestion
and his boredom and his departed youth. “And who was this man?” he
asked. “He must be rewarded.”
“An American,” replied Erica. “A--a--I think he said his name was Graf
something--yes, Grafton.” She concealed her delight at the success of
her plan.
“Grafton!” The Grand Duke leaped to his feet and paced the floor
excitedly. He rang a bell and told the servant to send Baron Zeppstein
to him, then continued his impatient walk and his muttering until
Zeppstein stood before him, bent double in a bow. “Baron,” he said, “go
at once to the Hôtel de l’Europe and present our compliments to a Mr.
Grafton who is there, and tell him that we have commanded his presence
at once. We wish to thank him for having saved the life of Her Serene
Highness.”
Erica was radiant. She took her uncle’s shrivelled hand, courtesied,
and kissed it. “You are so good,” she said, gratefully.
“Good? Nonsense! He’s one of those Americans who pay enormous prices
for pictures and take them away from us to that barbarous republic and
they’re never seen by civilized eyes again. He’s got two pictures that
I want. Your adventure gives me the chance to get hold of him.”
Erica went to the door. “Stay here, child,” said he. “I wish to talk at
somebody. I must give the fellow something--the Order of the Green Hawk
will do.”
“But you give that to hotel-keepers when you stay at their hotels and
to tradesmen who make you presents of goods you like.”
“It’s enough; he won’t know the difference, and he’ll be beside himself
with delight; it takes little to tickle a democrat. But how shall I
bring up the subject of the pictures?--that’s what I’m considering.”
“I don’t think it would be tactful to speak of them at the first
meeting,” said Erica. “You might invite him to dinner, or--to luncheon
to-morrow.”
“That is an idea. He’s a well-appearing person and interesting.”
“Have you seen him?” Erica looked the amazement she felt.
“Talked with him for three hours yesterday,” replied her uncle. Then
he laughed. “He’ll be surprised when he sees that the keeper of the
galleries is the Grand Duke. I let him think I was the keeper.”
Meanwhile Zeppstein had found Grafton at the Hôtel de l’Europe,
dejectedly preparing to leave. When he explained his mission, Grafton
at first flatly refused. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I wish to
get away from here on the next train.”
“But, my dear Mr. Grafton, think of the honor--His Royal Highness
proposes in person to thank you! And--I don’t wish to raise false
hopes, but I’m confident he will decorate you!”
“I’m overwhelmed!” said Grafton. “I should die of joy; I must not go.”
Zeppstein looked suspicious of mockery, then decided that he was
mistaken, and went on with his pleadings. “His Royal Highness can be
most gracious. He will not make you feel the difference in station.”
While he talked Grafton was not listening but reflecting. On impulse
he decided to go. “Why not see her again?” he thought. “I can feel
no worse.” His mind made up, he pretended reluctantly to yield. “I’ll
waive the etiquette of the occasion, I think,” he said.
“The etiquette? Pardon me; I do not follow you.”
“Why, the Grand Duke should have called first.”
“My dear Mr. Grafton--”
“Isn’t he only a grand duke?”
“But, may I ask, what are you?”
Grafton looked cautiously about. “A king,” he said. “But I don’t want
it known.”
Zeppstein grew nervous. “You Americans are great jesters,” he murmured.
“And we’re all kings, but we don’t use the title; it’s too common at
home and too troublesome abroad. However, I’ll overlook the difference
in our rank. Lead on!”
On the way Zeppstein gave him detailed instructions in how to behave
himself. “I shall probably be permitted to conduct you only to the door
of the cabinet,” he said. “You must knock quietly and enter at once
without waiting for an answer. As soon as you are inside the door,
draw it shut behind you, but don’t turn round in doing so. You must be
facing His Royal Highness and making a bow, head on a level with the
loins, until he speaks. You might have your right hand ungloved. His
Royal Highness may in the circumstances be graciously pleased to give
you his hand to shake. If he should decorate you, you must sink to your
knees, and when he has put the decoration over your bowed head you must
kiss his hand--place the back of your right hand under his palm and
kiss respectfully but not lingeringly. Be sure your lips are dry. His
Royal Highness has a horror of being touched by damp lips. Be careful
what you say; it is wisest to answer as briefly as possible such
questions as His Royal Highness may be graciously pleased to ask. And
don’t say ‘you’ to him, always ‘Your Royal Highness.’”
“And when I leave--do I walk, wriggle, or crawl?” asked Grafton.
“Walk backwards,” said Zeppstein. “Only members of the cabinet wriggle
in and out on their knees, and they only when they’re sworn.”
“No; I think that’s too self-respecting,” replied Grafton. “I think
I’ll crawl.”
“But, my dear Mr. Grafton, it is against all precedent. We haven’t
crawled for several centuries.”
“I’ll revive the fashion. This is a bumptious generation; it should be
taught humility.”
“My dear sir, I beg that you will not crawl; you would bring disgrace
upon me. I should be suspected of having so instructed you.”
“To oblige you, I’ll try to forego the pleasure of treating a sovereign
as a sovereign should be treated. But it will be a sacrifice.”
When their names were sent up, the command came for both together.
“Now,” whispered Zeppstein, as they stood at the door of the cabinet,
“don’t forget my instructions.” He knocked and got his hips and
shoulders ready for his presence-bow. “You must enter first,” he
whispered.
Grafton walked in. The Grand Duke was standing facing the door with
Erica a few feet away to his left. Grafton advanced towards Erica.
“His Royal Highness first,” whispered Zeppstein, plucking at his sleeve.
Grafton went on to Erica and put out his hand. “How d’ye do?” he
said. “I’m glad to see you again.” But his face was sad and his voice
lifeless. He turned to the Grand Duke. They shook hands, and the Grand
Duke laughed familiarly. Baron Zeppstein stood aghast.
“Her Serene Highness has been telling me--” began the Grand Duke.
“Yes; Baron Zeppstein here explained to me,” interrupted Grafton. “But
it was nothing; your niece was in no danger--”
Zeppstein had sidled behind him and now whispered, “Not ‘you,’ but
‘Your Royal Highness,’ not ‘your niece,’ but ‘Her Serene Highness,’ and
_don’t_ interrupt!”
“What’s Zeppstein whispering?” asked the Grand Duke, sharply.
“He’s very kindly instructing me in etiquette, but”--here Grafton
hesitated, with a twinkle in his eyes--“I’ve been so differently bred
in America that I fear I’m not reflecting credit upon him.”
The Grand Duke waved his hand at Zeppstein. “Take yourself off,” he
said.
“I hope you won’t send him away,” interposed Grafton. “He’s to blame
for me being here. It was his talk in Paris about your Rembrandts that
made me come.”
“I’m beginning to suspect that you knew me yesterday,” said Casimir.
“I did; but I thought I’d humor your desire to be unknown. We could
talk more freely.”
The Grand Duke took from the table the ribbon and medal of the Order
of the Green Hawk, and held it as if he expected Grafton to kneel to
receive it. Grafton stretched out his hand for it. The Grand Duke
smiled as he gave it to him, and chuckled when Grafton, saying, “Thank
you; it is very nice; a great honor; more than I deserve, I’m sure,”
put it in his pocket. Erica turned away to the window, her shoulders
shaking violently.
After a few minutes’ talk, Grafton rose to take his leave. Zeppstein
frowned at him to wait until the Grand Duke rose to indicate that the
audience was at an end. The Grand Duke said, “Won’t you lunch with us
very informally to-morrow, at two?”
“Thank you,” replied Grafton; “but I have arranged to go on the night
train to Ostend.”
“There is a matter--some pictures--I’d much like to talk with you about
it.”
Grafton hesitated. His wandering glance noted Erica’s face and its
expression. “Thank you,” he said to Casimir, “I can easily change
my plans.” And to himself he said: “Why not? I may at least, get my
Spaniard.”
After leaving “the presence,” Grafton extricated himself from Zeppstein
as quickly as possible, which was not so quickly as he would have
liked. He set out alone for the walk to town. A quarter of a mile along
that quiet, beautiful road and he saw Erica coming towards him by a
side-path.
“I am late in my walk to-day,” she began, with shy friendliness. “You
are going--perhaps to-morrow? I may not see you.” In spite of herself
her voice trembled. “I wish to thank you again, to wish you--all
happiness.”
They went down the side-path together. “I can think of nothing to say,”
he said at last, in a dreary tone. “I have had bad news.”
She instinctively came nearer and looked up at him with quick sympathy.
“Is it a death--some one you loved?”
“Some one I loved--yes,” he replied. “But not death--worse, I
think--worse for me.”
“Forgive me; I did not mean to intrude--to hurt you.”
“I am the one to apologize; I ought not to have intruded my sorrow. Let
me speak of your happiness. I read in the _Gazette_ this morning that
your engagement is about to be announced--that you are marrying some
one you have loved since childhood. I wish you happiness. I’m glad
that you are getting your heart’s desire.”
She sighed; it sounded very like a sigh of relief. She seated herself
on a rustic bench and he sat beside her. “You don’t understand how it
is with us,” she said, after a long pause. “I am marrying my cousin. It
is not a love-match; we care nothing each for the other. That is the
way everything is with us--never for ourselves, always for the house,
for the state.”
“Trash!” he ejaculated, bitterly. “Of course I don’t understand;
there’s nothing to understand. It’s all pretence and lies, vain show,
theatrical nonsense. We belong to the present, not to the childish,
ignorant past. Now, I suppose I’ve offended you; I regret it, but--”
“No; I’m not offended. I almost agree with you. Then--my surroundings,
my inheritance are too strong for me.”
“Suppose you had only a day to live,” he burst out. “Suppose you knew
that you would die at sunset to-morrow--wink out, vanish, be gone
forever, pass away utterly. Would you spend your one day of life in
such fooleries as these?”
“No,” she replied. “No, indeed!”
“Well; you have in reality only one day--your little span of life in
the stretch of eternity. You must do the best you can with it; you
won’t get another. You must enjoy it; you will never have a chance
to enjoy another. You must be happy and contented and useful in it;
to-morrow you vanish. And you tell me you’re going to spend it with a
man you don’t love, spend it in this cold, empty, silly life of kissing
hands and bowing and strutting, of vanity and gilt. What a life--what
a miserable, degrading death-in-life!”
“You don’t understand,” she repeated, with a suggestion of haughtiness
or attempt at haughtiness.
“Well, do you? There you sit--young, beautiful, a woman with love and
passion in her eyes, a woman to be loved, to be happy, and to make
others happy. And you think yourself superior--you who propose to spend
your life in a way that--I’d hate to characterize it. Why did God give
you beauty and brains and a common-sense education? Why did He bring
you into the world a queen--not a toy queen, not a figurehead of a
‘house,’ but a real, royal queen--queen by the true, divine right? In
order that you should act like a slave? That you should be dazzled by
spangles like a vulgar peasant--play all your life with puppets like a
child--be a puppet?”
“Why do you say these things to me?” She looked at him sadly, all the
haughtiness gone from her face and voice.
“Because I love you; that is why. Because I know--it is useless for you
to deny it--that you would like to love me--if you dared.”
Her bosom rose and fell rapidly. “Is it true?” she said, looking at him
with a thirsty longing in her eyes. “Do you?”
“What does it matter?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I not only love you
but I would win you, if you had--”
“Had what? Say it!”
“Courage!”