And now a word to preface the story of Max's adventures as set forth by
himself--from the time he wrote the famous letter to me.
Headstrong and wilful as he undoubtedly was, Max was the possessor of a
habit which would not be supposed to agree in any way with his other
characteristics. In our school days, prompted by a tutor who was method
and preciseness in itself, we had been induced to cultivate the habit of
keeping a diary. My own fits of application had their limits, and in
consequence the record of my own daily life died a natural death within
a week of its commencement. Max, however, must either have looked at it
in another light, or have been composed of entirely different material.
Having set his hand to it, his dogged determination insisted upon his
carrying it through; in consequence, the habit grew upon him, and,
fortunately for the story I have to tell, it lasted until the day of his
death. It is from the last two volumes of this concise, and I might even
add remarkable, history that I take the record as it is set down in the
following pages. It will be observed that I have put it in the form of a
narrative, told by myself, adding explanations where necessary, but in
the main preserving the whole in as complete a form as it was originally
written. How Max left the Princess Ottilie in the park after his
ill-starred interview with her and rode away has already been told. A
few other details, however, may prove of interest. As soon as he
arrived, it would appear that Felix offered him refreshment, but he
declined it, saying that he was in a hurry to catch a train to
Hampshire. Seating himself at my writing-table he took a sheet of
notepaper and composed the letter which was destined, a few hours
afterwards, to cause me so much unhappiness. "Thank heaven, that's
done," he said to himself, as he rose to his feet and placed the
envelope, which he secured with his private seal, in a conspicuous
position upon the table. "Paul will be certain to see it directly he
returns." Then having rung the bell for Felix, he bade him send some one
to call a cab. Telling him to inform Theodore, his valet, that he would
receive his orders from myself, he went down to it, sprang in, and bade
the man drive him with all speed to Waterloo. He had barely time to take
his ticket, to see that the luggage he himself had packed and sent on
ahead earlier in the day had started for Bristol, and then to catch the
train. Indeed, the starting bell had already sounded as he crossed the
platform.
"This won't do at all," Max said to himself, when they had rolled out of
the station, and he had time to look round the luxurious compartment in
which he was seated. "If I am going out into the world to win my way I
should not be riding first class. I must travel third and save my money
as much as possible. On the other side, wherever that may be, it will
have to be corduroys instead of tweeds, and (here he took his cigar-case
from his pocket and selected a weed) a clay pipe, I suppose, in place of
the mess' extra special Laranagas." The train was an express, stopping
only at Basingstoke and Eastleigh. At the latter place he alighted, and
taking a cab in the station yard bade the man drive him as quickly as
possible to Rendlehurst. It was nearly half-past six by the time he
reached the house, where Anton, the head of my father's household,
received him at the door.
"Anton," he said, "I must see my father and mother at once. Where are
they?"
"Her Majesty is in the boudoir," the old man replied, in measured tones
that contrasted forcibly with the other's excited state. "His Majesty
has but lately returned from a walk, and is now in his study. I will
acquaint him with your Royal Highness's arrival."
What transpired at that meeting is not set forth in the diary. It is
sufficient, however, that in something less than half an hour he had
said good-bye to them, though he did not know it, for ever, and was back
in his cab _en route_, so it was popularly supposed, for Eastleigh. At
the Foresham cross-roads he stopped the driver. "Pull up," he said. "It
is a beautiful evening, and as I have plenty of time, I think I will
walk the remainder of the distance." He paid his fare and, in order to
avert suspicion, strolled slowly along the road the cab was following.
When the man had turned the corner and was out of sight, he retraced his
steps and set off at a brisk pace in the opposite direction. The evening
was close and sultry, and signs of thunder were in the air. The roads
and hedges were white with dust, and by the time he had reached the
small station for which he was making, he was coated with a fine white
powder. Interrogating the station-master, whom he found upon the
platform, he inquired what time the next train was due for Salisbury.
"There is not one for nearly an hour, sir," the man replied. "It leaves
here at half-past eight and reaches Salisbury at 9.25."
"That's a pity," said Max, who saw that he would not be able to get on
to Bristol that night. "However, as it can't be helped, I must wait for
it. I am much obliged to you."
The station-master, as a matter of form, compared his watch with the
clock in the little waiting-room, then glanced up and down the line, and
finally disappeared into his cottage, leaving Max to his own devices.
The latter examined the various railway advertisements on the notice
board, criticised the name of the station arranged in white flints on a
neatly-kept bank beside the platform, and then decided that he felt
hungry after his walk. Fifty yards or so further along the road was a
small inn, and toward this he made his way. Entering the bar, which was
unoccupied, he inquired of the buxom landlady if she could supply him
with a meal.
"It all depends, sir, what you want," the latter replied, shaking her
curls coquettishly at him; "if you'd like ham and eggs we can manage
that, or maybe a bloater if so be you'd relish it, but I don't know that
I can do better for you at this time o' night, at any rate."
Max decided in favour of the former, and a quarter of an hour later
might have been observed in the landlady's own private parlour, seated
before a steaming dish of ham and eggs, which he was devouring with an
appetite that was the outcome of a four-mile walk. I have seen that
landlady since, and have tried to make her understand who her guest was.
"Lor' bless you, sir," she said--for though I told her about Max, she
had not the least notion of my identity--"I don't know anything about
his being a prince, but what I do know is, that he ate his ham and eggs
hearty enough for a king, as I told my old man afterwards."
His meal disposed of, Max paid the bill, and returned to the station to
await the arrival of his train. The sun was sinking behind the trees on
the other side of the cutting, and the whole heavens were suffused with
crimson light. A belated cuckoo was wishing the world good-night in the
far distance, and the tinkling of bells on the harness of a waggoner's
team was wafted to him like faintest music upon the still evening air.
As he strolled up and down the platform, his thoughts involuntarily
returned to the Princess. He wondered whether she were thinking of him,
and how long it would be before he would be able to school himself to
forget her.
The first sign that heralded the train's approach was the arrival of a
hobbledehoy rustic of about sixteen on the platform. He carried in one
hand a bundle, tied up in a red pocket-handkerchief, and in the other a
ground-ash stick, with which he beat his leg to the tune of a music-hall
melody that had been popular in London some six months before. As Max
passed him on his way to the booking-office to take his ticket, he
civilly wished him good-evening. When the train entered the station, he
followed the lad to a third-class compartment, and seated himself
opposite him. They were the only two occupants of the carriage, and Max
was in the humour for conversation. He felt as if he had been alone in
the world for countless years, and for some reason the boy's broad
Hampshire dialect was soothing to his ears. The lad was on his way to a
new situation, so he informed his companion, a farm on the outskirts of
the village of Dean. It was his first absence from home, and Max noticed
that an ominous snuffle followed his statement of the fact. To the elder
man there was something engaging about this encounter. They were both
stepping out of their old into a new world, in order to gain experience,
and were equally anxious, yet equally loth to say farewell to their old
surroundings.
"I knew it was coming for a long time, sir," said the boy in a burst of
confidence. "Father always had a sort of feeling that he wanted me to go
along o' Mr. Simpkins, but, somehow, mother didn't kind o' fancy it. Not
but that I can do my work, sir. I bain't afraid of work--not a bit of
it. It's the going away from home and mother, that's the worst of it.
But there, it will seem kind of strange at first, sir, I don't doubt;
but bless you, I reckon somehow it will come right in the end. Anyways,
I am going to do my best to make it."
For many a long day that homely speech was destined to live in Max's
memory. It was an augury for the future; at any rate, he determined to
regard it as such. When they reached Dean, and the boy had made his
preparations to alight, Max held out his hand.
"Good-bye," he said. "I hope you may prosper in your undertaking. Like
you, I, too, am starting out into the world to gain experience. I have
wished you good luck; won't you do the same for me?"
The boy shyly took the hand held out to him, and, as he did so, he said:
"God speed ye, sir, and thank ye kindly for the way you've let me talk
to you. It's done me a world o' good."
A second later he was gone, and the train was on its way once more. In
something under twenty minutes they had reached Salisbury, where Max
discovered, as he had quite made up his mind he would do, that the last
train for Bristol had departed. In consequence, he would be compelled to
wait in Salisbury until morning for another. The disappointment was a
severe one, for he had hoped to reach his destination before the night
was over. In his present state, rapid travelling was exactly what he
wanted; to feel he was dashing through the country, drawing nearer his
goal with every mile, was like an antidote to pain, it prevented him
from thinking. Now there was nothing for it but to find an hotel and to
wait for morning.
As he made his way out of the station and down into the town, he thought
of the last time he had visited that ancient city. Then he had been the
favoured guest of a well-known nobleman in the neighbourhood, and his
arrival had been the signal for quite a respectable crowd to gather in
the station yard to see the Crown Prince of Pannonia. Flags had
decorated the streets, and the civic authorities had offered him a
hearty welcome in their council-house. Now a thick drizzle was falling
as he walked along the muddy street, and the only welcome he received
was the curse of a tipsy man who reeled and almost fell against him.
When he had discovered a convenient hostelry he engaged a room, and
afterwards strolled about the town. At last he found himself standing
before the ancient cathedral, in what is perhaps the most peaceful and
beautiful close in all the length and breadth of England. The graceful
spire towered hundreds of feet into the moonlit sky, and as he watched
it the clock struck ten, slowly and solemnly, as if it were aware of the
important part it was playing in the passage of time. At the same moment
I was alighting from my train at Southampton Docks, whither I had gone
in search of him. Small wonder was it, since he was in Salisbury, that I
could not find him.
Next morning, shortly before five o'clock, he rose and continued his
journey, catching a London train at Westbury, reaching Bath at eight
o'clock, and Bristol thirty-five minutes later. Before leaving the
station he secured the luggage he had sent on ahead, and then once more
departed in quest of an hotel. This accomplished, he was at liberty to
go in search of a vessel. From the collection of advertisements in the
coffee-room, it would appear that there was no place on the face of the
habitable globe that could not be reached from that port. He could find
nothing, however, to suit him. The United States did not appeal
sufficiently to his sense of the romantic; South Africa had another and
still more vital objection; Canada was impossible, for the simple reason
that he had already visited it, and was exceedingly well known there. He
wanted to find a vessel on which there would be no possible chance of
his being recognised, and for this reason also the big liners were
unsuitable. Leaving the hotel, he went into the town, scanned the
wharves, and entered into conversation with men who had their dealings
in great waters. At last, and quite by chance, he happened upon the very
vessel he wanted. She was the _Diamintina_, a steamer of some three
thousand tons, engaged in the South American trade. Her steam was
already up, and, as Max was informed, she was to sail that afternoon for
Rio de Janeiro. He inquired the name of the agents, and as soon as he
had discovered their address, set off in search of the office
post-haste. The clerk who did him the honour to inquire his business
informed him that he was quite right in supposing that she would sail
that afternoon, and went even so far as to add that she had sufficient
accommodation for half a dozen passengers, four of which were already
booked. The chance seemed too good to be lost. Brazil was the country he
had always had a desire to visit; now he paid the money demanded of him
and received his ticket in exchange. An hour later he had made his way
on board and the voyage to South America had commenced. Max stood at the
port bulwarks as the vessel steamed slowly down the river, and watched
the shore slip past with what was almost a feeling of wonderment at his
position. At last he might consider himself freed from his past life. He
had a hundred pounds in the belt that was safely clasped round his
waist, ten pounds in his pocket, and when that was gone he would have
nothing to depend upon, save his health and his determination to
succeed. By nightfall they were out in more open water, and a brisk sea
was running. Fortunately, Max was an excellent sailor, and enjoyed
rather than disliked the active motion of the steamer. To his surprise,
when the dinner-bell rang at six o'clock, he, the captain, and one
solitary passenger were all who sat down to table. They were the only
three to sit down at subsequent meals during the voyage. The captain was
inclined to be agreeable, and Max's fellow saloon passenger was the
Senor Francisco Moreas, and he was, by his own account, an old resident
in Brazil. Be that as it may, and I am certainly not in a position to
contradict it, he had seen more of the world than the average man. His
age must have been between forty and forty-five; his appearance was that
of a typical Spaniard, debilitated partly by fever and partly by his own
excesses; he was tall but sparely built, boasted keen, hawk-like eyes, a
nose that at first glance reminded one of the same bird's beak, a small
and carefully-trimmed moustache, and last, but not least, exceedingly
small hands and feet, of which he was inordinately proud. The fingers of
the former, which were dirty, were invariably ornamented with rings.
The captain, who, as I have already said, had laid himself out to be
agreeable to Max, found an occasion to invite him to the chart-room
alone. Once there he spoke his mind freely and to the point.
"I want to give you a hint, Mr. Mortimer," he said, for that was the
name Max had assumed. "I must put you on your guard against our friend
Moreas."
"I am exceedingly obliged to you for the trouble you are taking," Max
returned, as he seated himself on the chart locker. "What has he done
that you should warn me against him?"
The captain sank his voice a little as he replied.
"I have known him for a good many years. He is a notorious gambler, and,
as far as my observation goes, I can say that I have seen him win a good
deal oftener than he loses. When I say that he is a dead shot with a
revolver, and that he is not above calling a man out and putting a
bullet into him before breakfast, you will understand that I've gone out
of my way to tell you something that might land me in difficulties if he
came to know of it."
"I am obliged to you," said Max. "You may be quite sure I shall respect
your confidence. I will be on my guard for the future."
"I'm glad to hear it," the captain replied and added: "I've noticed that
you've been playing cards with him lately."
Max admitted the soft impeachment. He might have added that he had lost
more than he cared to remember. He felt certain in his own mind,
however, that Moreas had obtained the money honestly, and in common
fairness he felt compelled to say so to the captain.
"I don't doubt it," the other answered. "He is not such a fool as to try
anything else while it is possible for him to get it by straightforward
play. But if you must play with him I should advise you to keep your
eyes and wits open. It is not in my interest to say so, for if you find
him out you will come to quarrelling, and then possibly to blows, and at
that point it will be my duty to step in. But I don't want to have to do
it. As a rule, we carry very few passengers on this boat, but I can tell
you that I have seen some funny scenes on board her now and again, and
Moreas has figured conspicuously in more than one of them."
As it transpired, the captain's warning reached Max just in time.
Another day and it might have been too late. The incident I am about to
relate took place on a warm morning. They were nearing the Equator, and
Max was stretched on the poop skylight, reading, when Moreas made his
appearance. The latter offered him an excellent cigar, and after they
had been smoking for a time proposed a game of ecarte. Max, who, I
regret to say, was an inveterate gambler, immediately assented, not,
however, without thinking of the captain's warning. His companion
immediately produced a pack of cards. The steward, on being appealed to,
brought a small folding table from below, whereupon the game commenced.
For some time they played with varying success, then Max, contrary to
custom, began to win. They doubled the stakes and played again. Once
more Max won. They played another hand, still with the same result. An
ominous look flashed into Moreas' eyes, but it was gone again as
quickly.
"I am glad to see that your luck has turned at last, Senor," he said,
with a suspicion of a sneer about his lips.
"Fortune must smile some time or other," retorted Max coolly. "It would
be hard indeed if I were always to have the same luck that I've had of
late. It is your deal, I fancy."
Moreas accordingly dealt, and they played the next hand. Suddenly Max
laid down his cards, back uppermost, and leant across the table.
"Forgive me, Senor," he said, "but I feel sure there is some little
mistake. We have played two rounds, and I see that you still have four
cards in your hand."
The remainder of the pack was lying at the Spaniard's elbow, and Max
noticed a suspicious movement of the other's sleeve a few seconds
before. Had he not spoken when he did, the other would have rid himself
of one of his cards without delay.
"Carambo! so I have," he said, with a well-simulated astonishment. "I
must offer you ten thousand apologies, Senor, for having unwittingly
made such a mistake. I do not know how it occurred."
As he said this he fixed his beady eyes upon Max's face, as though to
give him warning that if he had anything to say on the subject it had
better be of a conciliatory nature.
"I feel sure of that," Max answered good-humouredly, for he had not the
least intention of quarrelling with him. He only wanted to let the other
see that he was quite aware of his man[oe]uvres, and that they must not
be attempted in the future. "Are you tired or shall we play another
hand?"
"I think a little rest, Senor, would be acceptable," Moreas responded.
"It is so hot under this awning. I will ask you for my revenge another
time."
With that he rose and lit a fresh cigar. Going to the companion hatch,
he called to the steward to bring a couple of bottles of beer and some
glasses on deck. When these arrived, he insisted that Max and the
captain, who had just arrived on the poop, should join him. To all
appearances he was as calm and as friendly as usual, but there was still
a gleam in his eyes that spoke for the smouldering fire in the brain
behind.
"It is too hot," he said, spreading his arms abroad. "How shall we amuse
ourselves? We have read, we have played, and now we have drunk beer.
What else is there for us to do?"
Then, as if an idea had struck him, he continued:
"I wonder if our good friend, the captain, here, would permit us to have
some pistol practice. There would be no danger, believe me, if we shoot
over the stern."
Max understood what was in his mind. Though he had pretended to do so,
the other had not forgotten the incident of the cards, and now he was
going to give him, in case he should be inclined to spread the report
abroad, an exhibition of his powers with the pistol. It was a hint
delicately administered.
"I don't know that I ought to allow it," said the captain doubtfully;
"but seeing that we have no ladies aboard, and that you promise to fire
over the stern, we will risk it. Don't shoot each other, and don't keep
it up too long, that's all I ask."
Moreas gave his promise and immediately disappeared below, to appear a
few moments later, carrying in his hand a revolver, a piece of string,
and a dozen medium-sized apples. Reaching the deck, he made one of the
apples fast by the string to the wire rope that carried the awning. When
this was done it hung midway between the awning and the taffrail, and
afforded an excellent target.
"Have you done much shooting with the revolver?" Moreas inquired of Max,
as he returned from placing the fruit in position.
"A little," the other replied.
"In that case shall we say thirty paces?"
"Whatever you like," said Max.
The distance was accordingly measured, and a chalk line drawn upon the
deck.
"Shall we bet on the shot," remarked Moreas, taking a box of cartridges
from his pocket and carefully filling the chambers of the revolver.
"Why not?" answered Max, still with the same imperturbability. "What
shall it be? Name the sum."
"Let it be whatever you please," returned his polite adversary. "Since
we are loaded with English gold shall we say half a sovereign?"
"Half a sovereign will suit me admirably," the other replied. "Perhaps
you will commence?"
Nothing loath, Moreas toed the line, and, when he had examined the
revolver to make sure that it was in working order, fired. The bullet
hit the apple dividing it as neatly as if it had been cut with a knife.
"Bravo!" said Max. "I owe you half a sovereign."
The Spaniard handed him the revolver, and he, in his turn, took his
place at the line. As boys, Max and I had been keen pistol shots, and I
was quite prepared when I reached this part of his narrative to find
that he had imitated Moreas' example and destroyed the target. To my
surprise, however, he chronicled a miss.
"I owe you a sovereign," he said, handing the revolver to his adversary.
"You will come to it directly," the other replied patronisingly.
Once more Moreas toed the line and fired. He missed his mark, however,
by some inches. An oath in Spanish escaped his lips as he handed the
revolver to Max. The latter had recovered his presence of mind by this
time, and when he pulled the trigger the ball pierced the apple in the
centre.
"A good shot," said one of the men behind him, and Moreas, who, though
he deemed it a fluke, felt compelled to agree.
"We are equal now," said Max quietly.
Again Moreas fired, but this time he hit the apple on its side, causing
it to swing backwards and forwards like a pendulum. One cartridge still
remained in the revolver. Max waited until the target was ready, then
fired and again hit his mark. The shot was a good one, and this time
there was no question of chance about it. Moreas changed colour as far
as it was possible to do, and began to think that his exhibition was
scarcely likely to serve the purpose for which it was intended. Once
more the revolver was charged, and out of the six shots fired Max struck
the apple three times and Moreas twice. Whether it was the salutary
lesson he had received, or whether it was because, as he informed him
later, he had taken a great liking to Max, I cannot say; the fact
remains, however, that from that moment they agreed most amicably
together. That he was aware Max did not trust him very far did not
appear to detract from their friendliness. On the other hand, it may
have added a spice to it, somewhat as bitters at times improve a glass
of sherry. One day he asked Max point-blank what he intended doing when
he reached his destination.
"Up to the present I have settled nothing," Max replied. "I am leaving
it to chance to decide."
"It's not a bad idea," Moreas answered. "Brazil is a great place for
chance. Your life is one long gamble from the time you set foot ashore
until they _put_ you under ground."
"The picture you draw is not a very cheerful one," remarked Max;
"particularly for the confiding emigrant."
"Oh, you need not be afraid," said Moreas confidently. "A man who can
shoot as you do will always be able to keep his head above water. And
now I am going to make you a little offer, which it may possibly be
worth your while some day to accept. My advice to you is to try your
luck first in your own fashion, and if you don't succeed, just come to
me and see what I can do for you. Will you agree to this proposal?"
"It's extremely kind of you to take so much interest in me," Max
returned, "and of course I agree. I should be foolish if I did not. But
where and how am I to find you in the event of my being compelled to
accept your offer?"
"That is easily arranged. I will give you my address before I leave the
vessel." Then he added, with pardonable vanity, "It is scarcely
necessary, however; I believe I am fairly well known in Rio."
Next day he handed Max his card, on which his name and address was set
forth with many flourishes.
"At least," said Max to himself as he stowed it away in a safe place,
"there is something here to fall back upon."