When Morton entered Count Rondell’s stateroom he found him standing
behind a small flat desk in the middle of the room, his commanding,
almost gaunt figure erect and tense. As he looked at the man, he
experienced the same peculiar sensation he had felt upon receipt of the
message asking him to call--a sense of indefinable anxiety mingled with
curiosity.
In response to an expressive motion of the slender pale hands he
seated himself opposite the Count. His eyes slowly traveled around the
stateroom and noted its appearance in some detail.
Two swinging bracket lamps lit up the wall to his right, leaving the
lower part of the room in deep shadow. The stateroom itself, somewhat
roomier than the customary steamer cabin, had been transformed into
a rather pleasing den. Along the lighted walls a low couch in some
dark plush was enlivened by the brilliant coloring of a leopard skin
thrown carelessly over the back and by a saddle-bag in bright crimson
and gold. Above it were fastened a garniture of Persian helmet, shield
and battle-axe, the gold inlay upon the damascene scintillating in the
slightly moving light which fell upon it.
The floor, covered with a soft rug in deep maroon and with tan
arabesques in design, contrasted oddly with the green baize of the
traveling desk piled with books and portefeuilles. A curiously wrought
bronze lamp shed a bright circle of light over it; an unusual article
of furniture, it struck Morton, to take on a voyage. It was a handsome
thing and he made a mental note to obtain one like it. His glance now
rested upon the figure and face of the Count, who had sat himself in
his deep, low chair and was resting his hands upon his knees.
“You will forgive an old and ailing man, my dear Mr. Morton, for making
the most of his privileges as such. I trust my request to have you call
has not inconvenienced you?”
“Not at all, Excellency; I was glad to come.”
“Thank you. It may not be considerate of me to ask you here--but
I believe you won’t mind the limited space and closed portholes.
I imagine your camp life has accustomed you to a great extent to
discomfort and heat. What I want to say to you demands privacy.”
He paused and continued. “Mr. Morton, I beg you to permit me to
approach what I wish to say in my own way, even if it may seem odd and
unwarranted to you.”
“Go ahead, Your Excellency, I am listening.”
The older man leaned back and pushed a box of cigars toward his
visitor. “Won’t you take one? I think you will like the flavor.”
His voice, until now somewhat strained, had become calm, and with an
assumed nonchalance of manner, he added:
“I was told by the steward, Mr. Morton, that you had received
considerable mail and some cables upon our arrival here. Does the
receipt of these in any way alter your plans, which you were so good
as to intimate to me the other evening? Pardon the question, but it is
necessary that I should know in view of what I wish to say.”
“It does, Your Excellency. My letters from home are of little moment,
but a cable, sent some two days ago, I think, tells me that my father’s
health is not satisfactory and asks my quick return.”
“Ah, that makes it more difficult, then, for me to speak of what lies
close to my heart, my dear sir. But necessity knows no law and I am
in the position of a man who has no choice. Mr. Morton, I beg you to
let me say a few words to you, in the hope that you will grant me your
attention and--if possible, sympathy.”
Morton nodded and, reaching for the cigars, selected one at random and
carefully lit it. “Very fine aroma indeed, Count; I haven’t had as good
a smoke as this in many a day. Please begin; I am all attention.”
The Count nodded and began: “More than twenty-five years ago my
king, then a young and little known prince of the Coburg family, was
called to the throne of Roumelia by the vote of its people. Among
the younger men whom he asked to join him in this new country to
aid him in establishing a good government, I was one. I was a young
Army officer at the time, with little ambition and with scarcely any
diplomatic experience. I settled down in the new country. I was very
enthusiastic, a prerogative of youth the world over, and became very
much enamored with my work. Since then I have been very closely bound
up with the fortunes of Roumelia and those of my king. I was one of
the few of my Prince’s Court who succeeded in gaining the confidence
of the Roumelians. I acquired their language and customs thoroughly.
I succeeded in gaining the friendship of some of the leading men of
all parties. I won the respect and I think even the love and perhaps
the admiration of the Court by my loyalty to the cause of the country,
my devotion to my duties, my work and my fidelity to the interests of
the principality and later the kingdom, the creation and growth of
which, I may be permitted to say, may be due, in a small measure, to my
efforts.
“My king, God bless him, one of the noblest men who ever lived,
was kind to me and trusted me implicitly. The work to which I had
devoted my life was successfully done; the dynasty of my king firmly
established: a clean, fine constitution, safe-guarding the interests
of the people and assuring the welfare and development of my country,
strongly founded. The one cloud in the blue sky of destiny was the lack
of a son and heir.
“Many years ago, his majesty assenting, we secured an amendment to our
laws of succession, by which the King’s brother was to be his heir,
thus securing the succession to a younger brother and through him to
his son, then a youth of health and promise. Thus far our work in
perpetuating a dynasty had been wisely and well done. Do I weary you
with these particulars, Mr. Morton?”
“Not at all; I am more than interested; I am learning. Please
continue!” The Count smiled and went on:
“This structure, which, as I explained before, was of the utmost
importance to a still broader plan, was, in this manner, erected as we
felt on a firm foundation. Our land had developed wonderfully; from an
almost unknown Turkish province in 1866 we had created a principality
of several millions of frugal, thrifty and moral inhabitants, engaged
in fostering trade and agriculture. We built railroads and highways,
opening the country to foreign intercourse and markets; we laid
telegraph lines connecting all corners of the land; we also introduced
and firmly established an efficient school system. In brief, we
transformed into a community of order and civilization a previously
chaotic Turkish dependency. A dozen years after the beginning of our,
I might almost say, my work, we fought a glorious and victorious war
against our old oppressors and, although the jealousy and greed of the
great Powers robbed us of the full reward of our victory; although the
very nation whom we enabled to win what, without our aid and valor,
they would have lost, deprived us of some of our territory, yet we
grew in wealth, education and well being. When my prince was acclaimed
constitutional king of the realm he had created, I, his servant, was
rewarded by being chosen his faithful adviser and friend. Honored and
trusted for many years, I believe I helped to form and execute those
policies that I feel went far toward the establishment of peace and
happiness in our beloved kingdom.”
Count Rondell rose to his feet and strode the floor of his cabin
agitatedly. Resuming his seat after a while, he smiled pathetically at
the younger man, and said: “Pray pardon me, Mr. Morton; my feelings
get the better of me, I am afraid. My disease seems to have made sad
inroads on me. Shall I go on?”
“Pray do, Count Rondell. Don’t disturb yourself about me. I am all
ears.”
The Count crossed his legs and closing his eyes turned his face upward.
His cheeks, lately flushed and feverish, now looked drawn and gray.
Reaching for a portfolio he began automatically fingering its lock.
Then with eyes wide and in a voice husky with emotion, he said:
“I now come to a dark chapter, my young friend. Men work day and night,
plan and scheme, bribe and lie--all for fame and their country. The
plans seem perfect, their execution faultless, the road to certain
success assured--and then a little thing happens, a bolt becomes
loosened, some man or woman fails you or steps unexpectedly on the
scene--et voilâ!--the perfect structure is but a house of cards--and
tumbles.
“And this usually comes when the architect has passed his prime; when
the resisting power of the body has been sapped by the wearisome
labor. When this crisis comes, instead of a strong man, it finds the
statesman at a terrible disadvantage, perhaps with mind still active
and resourceful--but oh, feeble and powerless against fate.”
Count Rondell spoke the last words as if in a trance. He had evidently
forgotten the existence of his companion. He seemed to be lost in
visions and dreams.
Morton’s cigar had gone out; he stared as if fascinated at the noble
face before him, looking so sad and forlorn. He, too, had often
wandered into the spheres of empire building. He, too, had had
his dreams of being a leader of peoples, of opening up those vast
desert spaces of his own country to the influences of civilization.
Without knowing what tragedy was to be unfolded to him, he looked at
the worn old aristocrat across the desk and felt that failure and
disappointment, rather than success, were oftener the reward of great
ambitions. He essayed a mental guess at what might be further revealed
to him and awaited the rest of the tale with bated breath.
After a slight pause the Count relaxed his tightly compressed,
bloodless lips and went on:
“My king was getting old; his brother had never been capable or active;
he was just a gentleman of leisure--and the promising boy?--I wish it
were not necessary for me to go into this chapter of our history. The
boy, a lovable, fine young man, the pride of his parents and of his
uncle the king, the idol of the country and my hope--the boy fell in
love with a heartless and scheming adventuress. She broke his heart,
brought our finely wrought plans to naught, and the youth to his end.
Four weeks ago I closed the tired eyes of my Prince--closed them in
a squalid hut in Madras, where, after an unceasing hunt of months,
I found him. I was too late to save him for this world--I hope I
preserved his soul for the next--for heaven!”
Count Rondell raised his hand to his brow as if making the sign of the
cross. Absent-mindedly he stroked his hair, while a melancholy smile
came to his lips. “May God be merciful to him!” he breathed, a tear in
his eye.
With deeper feeling and a vibrant voice, he went on:
“Our house of cards had fallen. My labors were all in vain, my mission
a failure and, perhaps, my life also. You are still patient, my friend,
are you not?”
Morton leaned across the desk, lightly touching the other man’s arm
with an encouraging pressure. “You did the best your wisdom dictated,
Your Excellency. Regrets are useless now. It may be there is a silver
lining to your dark cloud. Please, go on with your tale.”
“Well--thus far I have been relating to you the history of Roumelia,
the rise and fall of my chosen fatherland. Now we reach the last
chapter--the day we are living now. Will you not light a fresh cigar,
my dear Mr. Morton? Permit me to retire for a moment.”
Going to his sleeping room, Count Rondell filled a goblet of water and
drank feverishly. Morton lit a cigar the while he watched the Count
sinking back into his seat.
The stateroom had become very close and oppressive. No sound but the
rhythmical beat of the auxiliary engine, rather felt than heard, fell
upon the ear. The steady yellowish light on the wall threw into relief
the ghastly features of the old diplomat; the smoke from Morton’s
cigar hung heavily against the ceiling, taking odd and fantastic
shapes. The younger man was strangely moved. What a terrible drama had
been laid bare! He could not take his eyes away from the pitiful figure
before him--the old nobleman looking the very picture of despair.
“I am coming now to the last chapter, Mr. Morton. A few hours ago I
received two cables informing me of events which have happened during
my absence. The earlier cable says, in substance, in code of course,
that within the last ten days a revolt had occurred in the capital.
Rumors of the heir’s disappearance had emboldened the disaffected
factions of the kingdom, who struck--and struck fearfully! The king
had always lived simply--and trusted his people and his army. The few
palace guards were easily overpowered; the king was taken prisoner and
with him his consort. The ministers of state were forced to resign, a
_de facto_ republican government was proclaimed, and Demeter Sturdza,
the leader of the Radicals, an old schemer and a villain masquerading
as a patriot, has been appointed acting President. Everything is in
chaos. The later cable is still more distressing. A trusty friend of
mine, the late minister of Finance, sends it to me from Constantinople,
to which place he has flown. He is one of the few of the old
administration who escaped.”
The Count opened the portfolio nervously, took some papers lying on
top, and with trembling hands adjusted his glasses. After a futile
attempt to read he resignedly put both papers and glasses down and with
a pitiful gesture resumed his narrative.
“My dear Mr. Morton--I cannot read it--I shall have to give you the
contents from memory. The fearful facts are engraven on my mind only
too deeply! The king has been assassinated--the queen is dead from
shock. Prince Fernand was shot down in cold blood by a drunken Colonel
of the Territorials, the ministers and counsellors are either dead,
imprisoned or fugitives. The army, at first indifferent, is now obeying
the newly formed government. The country has been isolated from the
rest of the world, as the wires were cut. Martial law prevails and a
reign of terror instituted. The property of the old régime has been
confiscated.”
The old diplomat had risen before he finished his recital, staggered
nervously and weakly to and fro, and, leaning on the back of his chair,
he spoke the last words in jerky sentences.
“There remains the only member of the Royal family--a lovely young
girl--a mere child--the sister of the unfortunate boy I had seen die.
This innocent princess is without friend or protector. She has found a
precarious refuge in the summer castle of the late prince in the hills
of the North. When this cable was sent she was alive and, although
deprived of her freedom, still unharmed.
“The poor girl has no knowledge of life, and is utterly helpless.
Reared in the seclusion of the court under the care of the late
queen--a most noble and saintly lady--she is still but a child in
experience. She was my beloved king’s favorite--a beautiful, pure girl,
a noble princess. She must not perish!”
Morton felt dizzy and sick. His cigar had gone out long since. He had
almost ceased to think or feel. With a great effort he pulled himself
together, and staring fixedly at his narrator, murmured thickly:
“Why--why do you tell me of all these fearful things? What do you want
from me?”
Count Rondell came to a stop at his desk and, laying his hands upon the
back of the chair, said quietly:
“Mr. Morton, I am a doomed man. The doctor tells me I have, at best,
but a very little while to live--and I feel he is right. I would not
hesitate an instant to do what is my duty--but I know I cannot. My weak
body will not obey my will. You are young, strong and resourceful. God
has led you to this boat, led you to me in my hour of great need. Mr.
Morton, I ask you, in the name of humanity, to rescue the girl from the
fury of an insane populace--from the nameless horror that might be her
fate--I ask you, my friend, to take my place and bring this girl safely
out of Roumelia!”
He waved aside Morton’s protesting gesture and continued with deep
emotion but with impressive dignity:
“Pray--my dear sir--do not answer me now. Take it under consideration.
In an hour, two hours if you wish, let me know your decision. Do not
act on the spur of the moment.”
Morton could hardly restrain himself. He felt he could not wait. Rising
nervously, he exclaimed, his voice filled with indignation:
“Count Rondell, this is not fair! Why do you come to me, a stranger,
with so impossible, so absurd a proposition? What right have you to
unload your burden upon a chance acquaintance and put the blame of a
possible fearful fate of a young girl at my door--my door of all men?
What do I know of kings and princes? What do I care? Why do you come
to me with this? Much as I esteem you--much as I feel for you in your
sorrow----”
The Count drew himself up proudly and placed his hand firmly upon
Morton’s shoulder.
“I have asked myself those same questions many times during the last
two hours, when I was seeking for a solution, looking for a ray of hope
in my despair. I came to you, sir, because I _must_ do all that I can
do--and there is not a soul to whom I can appeal or who can do what
I ask, but you! I can hold out no inducements to you. I know not if
glory or money means anything to you. Honors I cannot offer, for I have
fallen from my proud position by the very events that have brought me
pleading to you. Riches I have none--my property has been confiscated.
I am a ruined man. I have some forty thousand francs with me--the money
is at your disposal to cover your expenditures for the labors I am
praying you to undertake. Why do I come to you? Because you are the
last resource and the only hope left me; because I would do anything
and everything to save this girl and----”
Morton was about to interrupt, but the old man, trembling violently,
collapsed in his seat. Recovering himself slowly he reached for the
large portfolio and opening it, slowly and almost mechanically fingered
and folded the papers within it.
Morton watched him, stern and wide-eyed, resolved to remain calm and
patient.
In a low voice, made the more impressive by its gentleness, the Count
spoke:
“Forgive my vehemence--my insistence. I must employ every means at
hand. I have not told you all; I have not told you the full depth of
my despair. With the Princess Marie Louise is my little daughter--my
only child. The child of my love--my pride, my only reward in this
world--the child of my beloved wife! Here is a letter of hers, written
but a few weeks before the awful events. A letter full of love and
happiness--she did not then dream of the fearful days that were to
come! When I left Holstein to follow my prince to a new and promising
life, I had the plighted word of a beautiful girl to join me whenever
I called her. In time my beloved came to me. We lived in a strange
country, among strange people and stranger gods; but we lived in joy
and love, making a heaven for us in this new land! When, after some
years, our child came, our lovely little girl, my dear wife had heart
and love for us both. She brought up this child of our affection,
the only child God gave us, as only love can! Her own goodness is
reproduced in the child--her beauty of heart and mind, her loving
ways--all live again in her daughter! Five years ago she--died, leaving
our child to my care. And now, here I am, a man with one foot in the
grave--feeble and useless--thousands of miles away from my child--her
child. My God! what----”
The old diplomat’s head fell upon his arms, amongst his papers, his
shoulders heaving with his inarticulate sobbings. His hand had grasped
a photograph from among the scattered documents and he was convulsively
caressing it. Raising his head he looked at it with an agonized look
and murmured brokenly, “Mein Kindchen--Mein Kindchen.”
It was more than Morton could bear. His lethargy dropped from him; the
spell was broken, his energy returned. A second time he had been shown
the hideousness of life. He knew not what to say. Then through his
thoughts came the words of his own father’s cable: “Am not very well,
better hurry, boy!” It was impossible for him to engage in what, after
all, was but a romantic adventure.
What right had this old scion of a decayed aristocracy to appeal to
him--to him, who had duties of his own, just as urgent, to perform?
What right had anybody to tell him these hideous things, that grip the
mind and distress the heart? What was this young woman or this princess
to him that he should wait a moment before deciding? A refusal, prompt
and emphatic--surely that was the only proper answer to make! Was the
old man acting in good faith or was he, perhaps, staging this whole
business, in order to entangle him into a foolhardy enterprise! What
would his father say? What would mother think? What would his little
sister--ah! his little sister, a girl like this girl! His throat felt
dry and contracted, as if a cord had been tightened about his neck.
Good God! And if he declined--would he ever get rid of the awful
thought that these girls might have been helped--and he had failed
them? Could he ever look any woman in the face without thinking of the
fate of these two gently reared women? A cold perspiration beaded his
forehead and face. With an effort he rose from his seat and strode
toward the old man, who sat now staring before him with glassy eyes.
All this had taken but a few moments, a few heart beats of agony and
resentment.
The proposition was absurd--unheard of! He had better leave this
raving lunatic alone--tell him most emphatically that he refused. At
that moment his eye caught sight of the photograph on the desk. In the
benumbed state of his mind he unconsciously looked and made out some
writing across the lower part of the card----
“Meinem lieben Papa als Gruss. Seine Helène.”
Immediately before his agitated mind there rose the vision of Bonn, and
the old days of his “Burschenschaft.” The happy voices and songs of his
student years came back to him and with them the poetry of the German
sentimentalist--the lovely sunshine and the cheer of youth.
Mechanically taking up the photograph he looked at it for a moment
idly. The next moment he was riveted by what he saw. What a beautiful
face; what lovely eyes; what a sweet smile! It seemed to him as if
the young girl had spoken to him, had smiled at him--why--this
child--why--this beautiful girl must not die--she must be saved!
All at once it seemed as if he heard an inner voice calling on him to
bring her into safety, into life, to her dear father--and, above all,
to himself! What had he been thinking of a moment since? Why--nothing
could be simpler! He and Don could do the trick all right--the girl
must be saved----.
He replaced the photograph gently amongst the papers strewn over the
desk, and leaning forward, said with hearty determination: “Count, I
have thought it over. I will do what you propose. I will go gladly to
the assistance of the young ladies. Do you understand me, Count? We
must get down to work and plan. Do you hear what I am saying?”
But his host did not hear him. He had sunk deep in his chair, his chin
upon his breast, the eyes heavy and dull, barely showing reason. Morton
was shocked.
“Count--come, man, pull yourself together; say something. I have
agreed.”
A wan smile, like sunshine, stole over the drawn features of the
helpless man.
“I must apologize for my rudeness,” he whispered more than spoke. “I
shall be better in a moment.” He stretched out a trembling hand for the
goblet of water, but Morton had reached it before him, and the old man
drank the refreshing liquid thirstily.
The cool drink revived him. Some color returned into the blanched
cheeks and the eyes regained somewhat of their normal lustre. He sat up
more erect. “Did I--do I understand you to say, Mr. Morton--that you
will undertake the--task? Did I understand you correctly?”
“Your Excellency, that is exactly what I mean. I shall undertake
it--and by Jove--if it can be done, I’ll do it! And now, lie down for
an hour or so. You must rest so that we can go ahead with our plans. I
must learn all I can about the lay of the land--and I guess time counts
more than anything else, right now?”
Gently pushing his host, who had tried to rise, into the seat, he said,
“I’ll send your man to you.”
“My dear sir, my dear boy! Permit me to call you that for once--you
have made me very happy! I feel confident you will succeed if any man
can. I already have a plan--but you are right, I must pull myself
together first and be ready for the work. Please, ring for my man
and--in an hour I shall be at your disposal.”
“Good, let’s shake hands on it. Call me anything you please. I am
proud you have chosen me. Don’t you worry; we’ll beat the entire crazy
outfit--and I will have your girl out and in your arms in quick order.
So long, Count, rest well!” He was about to leave when he recalled the
older man’s stiff punctilious ways. Reddening slightly he turned and,
with courtly bend, added, “Au revoir, your Excellency!”
Pausing upon the threshold he looked back. “Have you a book on Roumelia
with a map of the country? I might as well get posted before I see you
again.” He laughed: “I am that way, Count; first slow and hard to move;
but once I see my way clear--why, I get enthusiastic and forget that I
am no longer a boy.”
The Count had the very book on the desk, map and all. Morton took it
and retired.