Seated upon a roomy lounge in the foyer of the Savoy were three
women who attracted more than an average amount of attention from the
passers-by. In the middle was the Duchess of Devenham, erect, stately,
and with a figure which was still irreproachable notwithstanding her
white hair. On one side sat her daughter, Lady Grace Redford, tall,
fair, and comely; on the other, Miss Penelope Morse. The two girls were
amusing themselves, watching the people; their chaperon had her eye upon
the clock.
“To dine at half-past seven,” the Duchess remarked, as she looked around
the _entresol_ of the great restaurant through her lorgnettes, “is
certainly a little trying for one’s temper and for one’s digestion, but
so long as those men accepted, I certainly think they ought to have been
here. They know that the play begins at a quarter to nine.”
“It isn’t like Dicky Vanderpole in the least,” Penelope said. “Since he
began to tread the devious paths of diplomacy, he has brought exactness
in the small things of life down to a fine art.”
“He isn’t half so much fun as he used to be,” Lady Grace declared.
“Fun!” Penelope exclaimed. “Sometimes I think that I never knew a more
trying person.”
“I have never known the Prince unpunctual,” the Duchess murmured. “I
consider him absolutely the best-mannered young man I know.”
Lady Grace smiled, and glanced at Penelope.
“I don’t think you’ll get Penelope to agree with you, mother,” she said.
“Why not, my dear?” the Duchess asked. “I heard that you were quite rude
to him the other evening. We others all find him so charming.”
Penelope’s lip curled slightly.
“He has so many admirers,” she remarked, “that I dare say he will not
notice my absence from the ranks. Perhaps I am a little prejudiced.
At home, you know, we have rather strong opinions about this fusion of
races.”
The Duchess raised her eyebrows.
“But a Prince of Japan, my dear Penelope!” she said. “A cousin of the
Emperor, and a member of an aristocracy which was old before we were
thought of! Surely you cannot class Prince Maiyo amongst those to whom
any of your country people could take exception.”
Penelope shrugged her shoulders slightly.
“Perhaps,” she said, “my feeling is the result of hearing you all praise
him so much and so often. Besides, apart from that, you must remember
that I am a patriotic daughter of the Stars and Stripes, and there isn’t
much friendship lost between Washington and Tokio just now.”
The Duchess turned away to greet a man who had paused before their couch
on his way into the restaurant.
“My dear General,” she said, “it seems to me that one meets every one
here! Why was not restaurant dining the vogue when I was a girl!”
General Sherrif smiled. He was tall and thin, with grizzled hair and
worn features. Notwithstanding his civilian’s clothes, there was no
possibility of mistaking him anywhere, or under any circumstances, for
anything but a soldier.
“It is a delightful custom,” he admitted. “It keeps one always on the
_qui vive_; one never knows whom one may see. Incidentally, I find it
interferes very much with my digestion.”
“Digestion!” the Duchess murmured. “But then, you soldiers lead such
irregular lives.”
“Not always from choice,” the General reminded her. “The Russo-Japanese
war finished me off. They kept us far enough away from the fighting,
when they could, but, by Jove, they did make us move!”
“We are waiting now for Prince Maiyo,” the Duchess remarked. “You know
him?”
“Know him!” the General answered. “Duchess, if ever I have to write
my memoirs, and particularly my reminiscences of this war, I fancy you
would find the name of your friend appear there pretty frequently. There
wasn’t a more brilliant feat of arms in the whole campaign than his
flanking movement at Mukden. I met most of the Japanese leaders, and I
have always said that I consider him the most wonderful of them all.”
The Duchess turned to Penelope.
“Do you hear that?” she asked.
Penelope smiled.
“The Fates are against me,” she declared. “If I may not like, I shall at
least be driven to admire.”
“To talk of bravery when one speaks of that war,” the General remarked,
“seems invidious, for it is my belief that throughout the whole of the
Japanese army such a thing as fear did not exist. They simply did not
know what the word meant. But I shall never forget that the only piece
of hand-to-hand fighting I saw during the whole time was a cavalry
charge led by Prince Maiyo against an immensely superior force of
Russians. Duchess,” the General declared, “those Japanese on their queer
little horses went through the enemy like wind through a cornfield. That
young man must have borne a charmed life. I saw him riding and cheering
his men on when he must have had at least half a dozen wounds in his
body. You will pardon me, Duchess? I see that my party are waiting.”
The General hurried away. The Duchess shut up her lorgnettes with a
snap, and held out her hand to a newcomer who had come from behind the
palms.
“My dear Prince,” she exclaimed, “this is charming of you! Some one told
me that you were not well,--our wretched climate, of course--and I was
so afraid, every moment, that we should receive your excuses.”
The newcomer, who was bowing over her hand, was of medium height or a
trifle less, dark, and dressed with the quiet exactness of an English
gentleman. Only a slight narrowness of the eyes and a greater
alertness of movement seemed to distinguish him in any way, as regards
nationality, from the men by whom he was surrounded. His voice, when
he spoke, contained no trace of accent. It was soft and singularly
pleasant. It had, too, one somewhat rare quality--a delightful ring of
truth. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why Prince Maiyo was just
then, amongst certain circles, one of the most popular persons in
Society.
“My dear Duchess,” he said, “my indisposition was nothing. And as for
your climate, I am beginning to delight in it,--one never knows what
to expect, or when one may catch a glimpse of the sun. It is only the
grayness which is always the same.”
“And even that,” the Duchess remarked, smiling, “has been yellow for the
last few days. Prince, you know my daughter Grace, and I am sure that
you have met Miss Penelope Morse? We are waiting for two other men, Sir
Charles Somerfield and Mr. Vanderpole.”
The Prince bowed, and began to talk to his hostess’ daughter,--a tall,
fair girl, as yet only in her second season.
“Here comes Sir Charles, at any rate!” the Duchess exclaimed. “Really, I
think we shall have to go in. We can leave a message for Dicky; they all
know him at this place. I am afraid he is one of those shocking young
men who entertain the theatrical profession here to supper.”
A footman at that moment brought a note to the Duchess, which she tore
open.
“This is from Dicky!” she exclaimed, glancing it through
quickly,--“Savoy notepaper, too, so I suppose he has been here. He says
that he may be a few minutes late and that we are not to wait. He will
pick us up either here or at the theatre. Prince, shall we let these
young people follow us? I haven’t heard your excuses yet. Do you know
that you were a quarter of an hour late?”
He bent towards her with troubled face.
“Dear Duchess,” he said, “believe me, I am conscious of my fault. An
unexpected matter, which required my personal attention, presented
itself at the last moment. I think I can assure you that nothing of
its sort was ever accomplished so quickly. It would only weary you if I
tried to explain.”
“Please don’t,” the Duchess begged, “so long as you are here at last.
And after all, you see, you are not the worst sinner. Mr. Vanderpole has
not yet arrived.”
The Prince walked on, for a few steps, in silence.
“Mr. Vanderpole is a great friend of yours, Duchess?” he asked.
The Duchess shook her head.
“I do not know him very well,” she said. “I asked him for Penelope.”
The Prince looked puzzled.
“But I thought,” he said, “that Miss Morse and Sir Charles--”
The Duchess interrupted him with a smile.
“Sir Charles is very much in earnest,” she whispered, “but very very
slow. Dicky is just the sort of man to spur him on. He admires Penelope,
and does not mind showing it. She is such a dear girl that I should love
to have her comfortably settled over here.”
“She is very intelligent,” the Prince said. “She is a young lady,
indeed, for whom I have a great admiration. I am only sorry,” he
concluded, “that I do not seem able to interest her.”
“You must not believe that,” the Duchess said. “Penelope is a little
brusque sometimes, but it is only her manner.”
They made their way through the foyer to the round table which had been
reserved for them in the centre of the restaurant.
“I suppose I ought to apologize for giving you dinner at such an hour,”
the Duchess remarked, “but it is our theatrical managers who are to
blame. Why they cannot understand that the best play in the world is
not worth more than two hours of our undivided attention, and begin
everything at nine or a quarter-past, I cannot imagine.”
The Prince smiled.
“Dear Duchess,” he said, “I think that you are a nation of sybarites.
Everything in the world must run for you so smoothly or you are not
content. For my part, I like to dine at this hour.”
“But then, you take no luncheon, Prince,” Lady Grace reminded him.
“I never lunch out,” the Prince answered, “but I have always what is
sufficient for me.”
“Tell me,” the Duchess asked, “is it true that you are thinking of
settling down amongst us? Your picture is in the new illustrated paper
this week, you know, with a little sketch of your career. We are given
to understand that you may possibly make your home in this country.”
The Prince smiled, and in his smile there seemed to be a certain
mysticism. One could not tell, indeed, whether it came from some
pleasant thought flitting through his brain, or whether it was that the
idea itself was so strange to him.
“I have no plans, Duchess,” he said. “Your country is very delightful,
and the hospitality of the friends I have made over here is too
wonderful a thing to be described; but one never knows.”
Lady Grace bent towards Sir Charles, who was sitting by her side.
“I can never understand the Prince,” she murmured. “Always he seems as
though he took life so earnestly. He has a look upon his face which I
never see in the faces of any of you other young men.”
“He is a bit on the serious side,” Sir Charles admitted.
“It isn’t only that,” she continued. “He reminds me of that man whom we
all used to go and hear preach at the Oratory. He was the same in
the pulpit and when one saw him in the street. His eyes seemed to see
through one; he seemed to be living in a world of his own.”
“He was a religious Johnny, of course,” Sir Charles remarked. “They do
walk about with their heads in the air.”
Lady Grace smiled.
“Perhaps it is religion with the Prince,” she said,--“religion of a
sort.”
“I tell you what I do think,” Sir Charles murmured. “I think his
pretence at having a good time over here is all a bluff. He doesn’t
really cotton to us, you know. Don’t see how he could. He’s never
touched a polo stick in his life, knows nothing about cricket, is
indifferent to games, and doesn’t even understand the meaning of the
word ‘Sportsman.’ There’s no place in this country for a man like that.”
Lady Grace nodded.
“I think,” she said, “that his visit to Europe and his stay amongst
us is, after all, in the nature of a pilgrimage. I suppose he wants to
carry back some of our civilization to his own people.”
Penelope, who overheard, laughed softly and leaned across the table.
“I fancy,” she murmured, “that the person you are speaking of would not
look at it in quite the same light.”
“Has any one seen the evening paper?” the Duchess asked. “It is there
any more news about that extraordinary murder?”
“Nothing fresh in the early editions,” Sir Charles answered.
“I think,” the Duchess declared, “that it is perfectly scandalous. Our
police system must be in a disgraceful state. Tell me, Prince,--could
anything like that happen in your country?”
“Without doubt,” the Prince answered, “life moves very much in the East
as with you here. Only with us,” he added a little thoughtfully, “there
is a difference, a difference of which one is reminded at a time like
this, when one reads your newspapers and hears the conversation of one’s
friends.”
“Tell us what you mean?” Penelope asked quickly.
He looked at her as one might have looked at a child,--kindly, even
tolerantly. He was scarcely so tall as she was, and Penelope’s attitude
towards him was marked all the time with a certain frigidity. Yet he
spoke to her with the quiet, courteous confidence of the philosopher who
unbends to talk to a child.
“In this country,” he said, “you place so high a value upon the gift of
life. Nothing moves you so greatly as the killing of one man by another,
or the death of a person whom you know.”
“There is no tragedy in the world so great!” Penelope declared.
The Prince shrugged his shoulders very slightly.
“My dear Miss Morse,” he said, “it is so that you think about life and
death here. Yet you call yourselves a Christian country--you have a very
beautiful faith. With us, perhaps, there is a little more philosophy and
something a little less definite in the trend of our religion. Yet we do
not dress Death in black clothes or fly from his outstretched hand. We
fear him no more that we do the night. It is a thing that comes--a thing
that must be.”
He spoke so softly, and yet with so much conviction, that it seemed hard
to answer him. Penelope, however, was conscious of an almost feverish
desire either to contradict him or to prolong the conversation by some
means or other.
“Your point of view,” she said, “is well enough, Prince, for those who
fall in battle, fighting for their country or for a great cause. Don’t
you think, though, that the horror of death is a more real thing in
a case like this, where a man is killed in cold blood for the sake of
robbery, or perhaps revenge?”
“One cannot tell,” the Prince answered thoughtfully. “The battlefields
of life are there for every one to cross. This mysterious gentleman who
seems to have met with his death so unexpectedly--he, too, may have been
the victim of a cause, knowing his dangers, facing them as a man should
face them.”
The Duchess sighed.
“I am quite sure, Prince,” she said, “that you are a romanticist. But,
apart from the sentimental side of it, do things like this happen in
your country?”
“Why not?” the Prince answered. “It is as I have been saying: for a
worthy cause, or a cause which he believed to be worthy, there is no
man of my country worthy of the name who would not accept death with
the same resignation that he lays his head upon the pillow and waits for
sleep.”
Sir Charles raised his glass and bowed across the table.
“To our great allies!” he said, smiling.
The Prince drank his glass of water thoughtfully. He drank wine only
on very rare occasions, and then under compulsion. He turned to the
Duchess.
“A few days ago,” he said, “I heard myself described as being much
too serious a person. Tonight I am afraid that I am living up to my
reputation. Our conversation seems to have drifted into somewhat gloomy
channels. We must ask Miss Morse, I think, to help us to forget. They
say,” he continued, “that it is the young ladies of your country who
hold open the gates of Paradise for their menkind.”
He was looking into her eyes. His tone was half bantering, half serious.
From across the table Penelope knew that Somerfield was watching her
closely. Somehow or other, she was irritated and nervous, and she
answered vaguely. Sir Charles intervened with a story about some of
their acquaintances, and the conversation drifted into more ordinary
channels.
“Some day, I suppose,” the Duchess remarked, as the service of dinner
drew toward a close, “you will have restaurants like this in Tokio?”
The Prince assented.
“Yes,” he said without enthusiasm, “they will come. Our heritage from
the West is a sure thing. Not in my days, perhaps, or in the days of
those that follow me, but they will come.”
“I think that it is absolutely wicked of Dicky,” the Duchess declared,
as they rose from the table. “I shall never rely upon him again.”
“After all, perhaps, it isn’t his fault,” Penelope said, breathing a
little sigh of relief as she rose to her feet. “Mr. Harvey is not always
considerate, and I know that several of the staff are away on leave.”
“That’s right, my dear,” the Duchess said, smiling, “stick up for your
countrymen. I suppose he’ll find us sometime during the evening. We can
all go to the theatre together; the omnibus is outside.”
The little party passed through the foyer and into the hall of the
hotel, where they waited while the Duchess’ carriage was called. Mr.
Coulson was there in an easy chair, smoking a cigar, and watching
the people coming and going. He studied the passers-by with ah air of
impersonal but pleased interest. Penelope and Lady Grace were certainly
admirable foils. The latter was fair, with beautiful complexion--a
trifle sunburnt, blue eyes, good-humored mouth, and features excellent
in their way, but a little lacking in expression. Her figure was good;
her movements slow but not ungraceful; her dress of white ivory satin a
little extravagant for the occasion. She looked exactly what she was,--a
well-bred, well-disposed, healthy young Englishwoman, of aristocratic
parentage. Penelope, on the other hand, more simply dressed, save
for the string of pearls which hung from her neck, had the look of a
creature from another world. She had plenty of animation; a certain
nervous energy seemed to keep her all the time restless. She talked
ceaselessly, sometimes to the Prince, more often to Sir Charles. Her
gray-green eyes were bright, her cheeks delicately flushed. She spoke
and looked and moved as one on fire with the joy of life. The Prince,
noticing that Lady Grace had been left to herself for the last
few moments, moved a little towards her and commenced a courteous
conversation. Sir Charles took the opportunity to bend over his
companion.
“Penelope,” he said, “you are queer tonight. Tell me what it is? You
don’t really dislike the Prince, do you?”
“Why, of course not,” she answered, looking back into the restaurant and
listening, as though interested in the music. “He is odd, though, isn’t
he? He is so serious and, in a way, so convincing. He is like a being
transplanted into an absolutely alien soil. One would like to laugh at
him, and one can’t.”
“He is rather an anomaly,” Sir Charles said, humming lightly to himself.
“I suppose, compared with us matter-of-fact people, he must seem to your
sex quite a romantic figure.”
“He makes no particular appeal to me at all,” Penelope declared.
Somerfield was suddenly thoughtful.
“Sometimes, Penelope,” he said, “I don’t quite understand you,
especially when we speak about the Prince. I have come to the conclusion
that you either like him very much, or you dislike him very much, or you
have some thoughts about him which you tell to no one.”
She lifted her skirts. The carriage had been called.
“I like your last suggestion,” she declared. “You may believe that that
is true.”
On their way out, the Prince was accosted by some friends and remained
talking for several moments. When he entered the omnibus, there seemed
to Penelope, who found herself constantly watching him closely, a
certain added gravity in his demeanor. The drive to the theatre was a
short one, and conversation consisted only of a few disjointed remarks.
In the lobby the Prince laid his hand upon Somerfield’s arm.
“Sir Charles,” he said, “if I were you, I would keep that evening paper
in your pocket. Don’t let the ladies see it.”
Somerfield looked at him in surprise.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“To me personally it is of no consequence,” the Prince answered, “but
your womenfolk feel these things so keenly, and Mr. Vanderpole is of the
same nationality, is he not, as Miss Morse? If you take my advice, you
will be sure that they do not see the paper until after they get home
this evening.”
“Has anything happened to Dicky?” Somerfield asked quickly.
The Prince’s face was impassive; he seemed not to have heard. Penelope
had turned to wait for them.
“The Duchess thinks that we had better all go into the box,” she said.
“We have two stalls as well, but as Dicky is not here there is really
room for five. Will you get some programmes, Sir Charles?”
Somerfield stopped for a minute, under pretence of seeking some change,
and tore open his paper. The Prince led Penelope down the carpeted way.
“I heard what you and Sir Charles were saying,” she declared quietly.
“Please tell me what it is that has happened to Dicky?”
The Prince’s face was grave.
“I am sorry,” he replied. “I did not know that our voices would travel
so far.”
“It was not yours,” she said. “It was Sir Charles’. Tell me quickly what
it is that has happened?”
“Mr. Vanderpole,” the Prince answered, “has met with an accident,--a
somewhat serious one, I fear. Perhaps,” he added, “it would be as well,
after all, to break this to the Duchess. I was forgetting the prejudices
of your country. She will doubtless wish that our party should be broken
up.”
Penelope was suddenly very white. He whispered in her ear.
“Be brave,” he said. “It is your part.”
She stood still for a moment, and then moved on. His words had had a
curious effect upon her. The buzzing in her ears had ceased; there was
something to be done--she must do it! She passed into the box, the door
of which the attendant was holding open.
“Duchess,” she said, “I am so sorry, but I am afraid that something has
happened to Dicky. If you do not mind, I am going to ask Sir Charles to
take me home.”
“But my dear child!” the Duchess exclaimed.
“Miss Morse is quite right,” the Prince said quietly. “I think it would
be better for her to leave at once. If you will allow me, I will explain
to you later.”
She left the box without another word, and took Somerfield’s arm.
“We two are to go,” she murmured. “The Prince will explain to the
Duchess.”
The Prince closed the box door behind them. He placed a chair for the
Duchess so that she was not in view of the house.
“A very sad thing has happened,” he said quietly. “Mr. Vanderpole met
with an accident in a taxicab this evening. From the latest reports, it
seems that he is dead!”