Suddenly she started, in alarm, and ran to the dining room door. She
had heard a loud groan. Even while she reached to turn the handle she
heard it again; but not from the direction of the dining room. If
sound indicated truly, there was someone outside--someone in distress.
Immediately, she heard a heavy tread on the verandah and a large
swarthy, black-whiskered man in black clothes limped upon her horizon.
She emitted a pathetic little moan of fright, turned pale and dropped
everything but the bowl. Her fingers clung to that, mechanically.
The intruder removed his hat, and bowed very low.
“_Guten Morgen, meine Dame. Verstehen Sie?_”
“Oh--oh!” She breathed out her interjections as a sort of windy,
wordless prayer to be spared more excitement even on her Wonderful Day.
Until this day nothing had ever happened in Roseborough. Now, too much
was happening. The swarthy man bowed again profoundly.
“_J’espère que je ne vous dérange pas, madame. Comprenez-vous?_”
“Oh--h! What is he saying?” Then, losing the last remnants of her
poise she waved him off wildly, chattering: “I don’t wish any, thank
you. No, I don’t want anything to-day. Oh--h! go-o away.”
He was unmoved by her explosion. Bowing again, he said:
“Ah, you speak the English. I cannot complain. It is your language. I
also speak it perfectly--as you hear.”
She did not venture to inform him that his accent was execrable. She
only stared, and her pale lips silently shaped the words “go away.”
“I speak it perfectly, but I detest it. The whole world must speak
their abominable language because they will not learn any other. Even
the Irish must learn English before they can curse it for sympathy.
I detest the English. When I meet a stranger, I address him first in
German; next”--he enumerated them rapidly--“in the French, Italian,
Spanish, Russ, Magyar, Turkish and the Chinese. Then if he will
not....”--with a shrug--“I condescend to speak the English--but always
against my will. I detest the English.”
If Rosamond thought at all during this address, she must have thought
the man mad. She was afraid to speak or move; she stared, hoping
perhaps to conquer the maniac, if such he were, by the power of her
fixed eye.
“Ah!--_pardon_.” He gave the word the French pronunciation; and
stooping painfully, picked up the towel and handed it to her. Since she
did not take it, he draped it over her arm, seemingly unaware that she
backed away from him.
“_Pardon._” He picked up the two sponges, one in each hand, and put
them into the bowl. “_Pardon_,” and the roll of batting followed the
sponges. “_Pardon_,” and “_pardon_,” et cetera, and one by one the
linen strips were hung over the towel on her arm. Then he withdrew a
few steps and bowed.
“What--what are you doing here?” She managed to ask at length. “Who are
you?”
“Madam, my mission in your detestable country, for a few hours longer,
is a secret. But my name I disclose: it is to comfort your alarms.
How can one better comfort the alarms than to introduce to you Teodor
Carl Peter Lassanavatiewicz, of the diplomatic secret service of
Woodseweedsetisky? I have been wounded in that service. Not my word
alone, but my murdered leg, introduces me to you as a patriot.”
“Wounded?” she repeated automatically.
“_Ja, meine Dame._ I have been execrably, abominably wounded in the
leg. My secret business--and, believe, it is of a most international
importance--has brought me to your country. I can explain no more. I am
a believer not in the discretion of woman.” He bowed.
“What are you doing in my garden?” She demanded with an effort to
master her fears.
He bowed.
“_Bitte._ That is the concern of my secret business. I wish to meet a
certain person very quietly, and induce that person to return with me
very quietly--to--shall I say?--yes?--his family? Yes. I wish to take
a certain great person home. Why I now make myself known to you, that
I will explain. In the peaceful and very secret pursuit of my duties,
I have been perceived by a lady of some age and much excitement, who
screams like a parrot because she sees me looking, very gently, over
your balcony. I wish to give no alarms. Therefore I look no more over
your balcony. Instead, I hide in the river-grass till the guests
have departed and the lights you have put out. Then I return. But it
becomes unsafe in your garden. There are bandits. I have been shot in
the leg. _Donnerwetter!_ I have been _detestably_ shot in the leg!
Therefore, I make myself known and request your permission to continue
to watch, in the road below your garden, for the arrival of a certain
person--without attacks from bandits. I will sit upon a stone under the
cypress trees. I will alarm no one. I request only that I be no more
attacked.”
“Oh yes! oh, please go now. No one will attack you.”
He bowed again, twice.
“_Grazia, grazia, signora._ It is most important that my business
remain secret. Be at ease. You, also, are safe while Teodor Carl Peter
Lassanavatiewicz is in your garden. Comfort your alarms. I request it
as a charity, madam,--will you of your goodness give me of the linen,
with which you have doubtless tended the wounds of the man of your
household, who has been attacked by the violent savages who infest this
road. I heard the terrible battle in the darkness. I tried to escape.
Psst! _I_ was shot!”
Holding out her arm on which he had hung the strips, and keeping
herself literally ’at arm’s length’ from his touch, she indicated that
he was to help himself. He took three pieces, bowed after each taking,
and thanked her in three languages.
“_Danke schön. Grazia. Je vous remercie mille fois, madame._” Then,
with an expression and gesture of dislike, he added, “But I forget!
you speak only this desolating and dolorific English--which I detest.
_Adios._ Farewell.” On the verandah, he paused. “When my secret
business is accomplished, I rejoice to return to Europe and my own
country, where there are no dangers to the distinguished official high
in the secret police. I give a gold coin to the brigands of Poland or
to the anarchists of our Balkans. ‘_¿De dónde bueno?_ Si, _Señor_.’ So
it is happily arranged. Here, no! They wait not for ‘good-evening.’
They _shoot_--in the _leg_! _Donnerwetter!_ I, who have fought close
to all the rebellions in Woodseweedsetisky without a match-burn, I
have here been execrably wounded in the leg. It is insult!” His voice
trembled and tears of humiliation wetted his cheeks. Drawing himself
up, he put on his hat and gestured to her with the formality of a
military salute. “_Je vous rends grâces, madame._” He limped out, with
groans that grew fainter as he progressed into the garden.
Mrs. Mearely stared after him, still in doubt that he had really
occurred. She tiptoed, fearfully, to the door and peeped out, to
satisfy herself that he was not loitering on her verandah. What had he
said in explanation of his presence? She tried to recall his words, but
remembered only the phrases about taking a certain great person home,
diplomatic service of some country, or city, hitherto unheard of, and
that he had looked over the balcony before and been screamed at by a
lady of some age and much excitement. So it was he and not the vagabond
who had looked over her balcony, alarming Mrs. Witherby. Then who was
the vagabond and why had _he_ also come to Villa Rose? Was there any
connection between the two? Were they both dark and secret “gentlemen
burglars,” about to strip Villa Rose of all its antiques? She rejected
this suspicion firmly, as soon as it rose. Romance forbade it.
In putting the bowl back on the stand she knocked off the _Digest_ and
the Browning. Automatically, she picked them up. The caption “A Runaway
Prince” caught her eye and held it. Gradually her expression changed.
The colour burned in her cheeks again, as the thrill of amazement and
excitement palpitated through her. She scanned the article feverishly,
muttering snatches of it aloud.
“‘The Runaway Prince! Secret search through Europe, Britain,
and America.’ The Prince is ‘eccentric, romantic, artistic, a
connoisseur.’--Of course! He picked out the Turner at once! and the
Buddha! Oh, can it be...?” She consulted the paper again. “‘The prince
is fond of entering, incognito, the homes of humble folk--frequently
attired like a vagabond.’” The paper fell from her hand. “‘Fond of
entering the homes’--‘secret search’--‘to bring a certain great person
home’--? Oh, it _is_--it _is_ the prince! A prince has come to me, on
my Wonderful Day!”