An hour or so later, Prince Shan left his house in Curzon Street and,
followed at a discreet distance by two members of his household,
strolled into the Park. It had pleased him that morning to conform
rigorously to the mode of dress adopted by the fashionable citizens of
the country which he was visiting. Few people, without the closest
observation, would have taken him for anything but a well-turned-out,
exceedingly handsome and distinguished-looking Englishman. He carried
himself with a faint air of aloofness, as though he moved amongst scenes
in which he had no actual concern, as though he were living, in thought
at any rate, in some other world. The morning was brilliantly sunny, and
both the promenade and the Row were crowded. Slightly hidden behind a
tree, he stood and watched. A gay crowd of promenaders passed along the
broad path, and the air was filled with the echo of laughter, the jargon
of the day, intimate references to a common world, invitations lightly
given and lightly accepted. It was Sunday morning, in a season when
colour was the craze of the moment, and the women who swept by seemed to
his rather mystical fancy like the flowers in some of the great open
spaces he knew so well, stirred into movement by a soft wind. They were
very beautiful, these western women; handsome, too, the men with whom
they talked and flirted. Always they had that air, however, of absolute
complacency, as though they felt nothing of the quest which lay like a
thread of torture amongst the nerves of Prince Shan's being. There was
no more distinguished figure among the men there than he himself, and
yet the sense of alienation grew in his heart as he watched. There were
many familiar faces, many to whom he could have spoken, no one who would
not have greeted him with interest, even with gratification. And yet he
had never been so deeply conscious of the gulf which lay between the
oriental fatalism of his life and ways and the placid self-assurance of
these westerners, so well-content with the earth upon which their feet
fell. He had judged with perfect accuracy the place which he held in
their thoughts and estimation. He was something of a curiosity, his
title half a joke, the splendour of his long race a thing unrealisable
by these scions of a more recent aristocracy. Yet supposing that this
new wonder had not come into his life, that Immelan had been a shade
more eloquent, had pleaded his cause upon a higher level, that Naida
Karetsky also had formed a different impression of the world which he
was studying so earnestly,--what a transformation he could have brought
upon this light-hearted and joyous scene! The scales had so nearly
balanced; at the bottom of his heart he was conscious of a certain faint
contempt for the almost bovine self-satisfaction of a nation without
eyes. Literature and painting, art in all its far-flung branches, even
science, were suffering in these days from a general and paralysing
inertia. Life which demanded no sacrifice of anybody was destructive of
everything in the nature of aspiration. Sport seemed to be the only
incentive to sobriety, the desire to live long in this fat land the only
brake upon an era of self-indulgence. He looked eastwards to where his
own millions were toiling, with his day-by-day maxims in their ears, and
it seemed to his elastic fancy that he was inhaling a long breath of
cooler and more vigorous life.
The current of his reflections was broken. He had moved a little towards
the rails, and he was instantly aware of the girl cantering towards
him,--a slight, frail figure, she seemed, upon a great bay horse. She
wore a simple brown habit and bowler hat, and she sat her horse with
that complete lack of self-consciousness which is the heritage of a born
horsewoman. She was looking up at the sky as she cantered towards him,
with no thought of the crowds passing along the promenade. Yet, as she
drew nearer, she suddenly glanced down, and their eyes met. As though
obeying his unspoken wish, she reined in her horse and came close to the
rails behind which he stood for a moment bareheaded. There was the
faintest smile upon her lips. She was amazingly composed. She had asked
herself repeatedly, almost in terror, how they should meet when the time
came. Now that it had happened, it seemed the most natural thing in the
world. She was scarcely conscious even of embarrassment.
"You are demonstrating to the world," she remarked, "that the reports of
your death this morning were exaggerated?"
"I had forgotten the incident," he assured her calmly.
His callousness was so unaffected that she shivered a little.
"Yet this Sen Lu, this man for whom you were mistaken, was an intimate
member of your household, was he not?"
"Sen Lu was a very good friend," Prince Shan answered. "He did his duty
for many years. If he knows now that his life was taken for mine, he is
happy to have made such atonement."
She manoeuvred her horse a little to be nearer to him.
"Why was Sen Lu murdered?" she asked.
"There are those," he replied, "of whom I myself shall ask that question
before the day is over."
"You have an idea, then?" she persisted.
"If," he said, "you desire my whole confidence, it is yours."
She sat looking between her horse's ears.
"To tell you the truth," she confessed, "I do not know what I desire.
Your philosophy, I suppose, does not tolerate moods. I shall escape from
them some time, I expect, but just now I seem to have found my way into
a maze. The faces of these people don't even seem real to me, and as for
you, I am perfectly certain that you have never been in China in your
life."
"Tell me the stimulant that is needed to raise you from your apathy," he
asked. "Will you find it in the rapid motion of your horse--a very noble
animal--in the joy of this morning's sunshine and breeze, or in the
toyland where these puppets move and walk?" he added, glancing down the
promenade. "Dear Lady Maggie, I beg permission to pay you a visit of
ceremony. Will you receive me this afternoon?"
She knew then what it was that she had been hoping for. She looked down
at him and smiled.
"At four o'clock," she invited.
She nodded, touched her horse lightly with the whip, and cantered off.
Prince Shan found himself suddenly accosted by a dozen acquaintances,
all plying him with questions. He listened to them with an amused smile.
"The whole affair is a very simple one," he said. "A member of my
household was assassinated last night. It was probably a plot against my
own life. Those things are more common with us, perhaps, than over
here."
"Jolly country, China, I should think," one of the younger members of
the group remarked. "You can buy a man's conscience there for
ninepence."
Prince Shan looked across at the speaker gravely.
"The market value here," he observed, "seems a little higher, but the
supply greater."
"_Touché_!" Karschoff laughed. "There is another point of view, too. The
further east you go, the less value life has. Westwards, it becomes an
absolute craze to preserve and coddle it, to drag it out to its
furthermost span. The American millionaire, for example, has a resident
physician attached to his household and is likely to spend the aftermath
of his life in a semi-drugged and comatose condition. And in the East,
who cares? If not to-day--to-morrow! Inevitability, which is the
nightmare of the West, is the philosophy of the East. By the by,
Prince," he added, "have you any theory as to last night's attempt?"
"That is just the question," Prince Shan replied, "which two very
intelligent gentlemen from Scotland Yard asked me this morning. Theory?
Why should I have a theory?"
"The attempt was without a doubt directed against you," Karschoff
observed. "Do you imagine that it was personal or political?"
"How can I tell?" the Prince rejoined carelessly. "Why should any one
desire my death? These things are riddles. Ah! Here comes my friend
Immelan!" he went on. "Immelan, help us in this discussion. You are not
one of those who place the gift of life above all other things in the
world!"
"My own or another's?" Immelan asked, with blunt cynicism.
"I trust," was the bland reply, "that you are, as I have always esteemed
you, an altruist."
"And why?"
Prince Shan shrugged his shoulders. He was a very agreeable figure in
the centre of the little group of men, the hands which held his malacca
cane behind his back, the smile which parted his lips benign yet
cryptic.
"Because," he explained, "it is a great thing to have more regard for
the lives of others than for one's own, and there are times," he added,
"when it is certainly one's own life which is in the more precarious
state."
There was a little dispersal of the crowd, a chorus of congratulations
and farewells. Immelan and Prince Shan were left alone. The former
seemed to have turned paler. The sun was warm, and yet he shivered.
"Just what do you mean by that, Prince?" he asked.
"You shall walk with me to my house, and I will tell you," was the quiet
reply.