A Prince and His Ideals
By what process of telepathy the Dowager Duchess of Markheim, dwelling
in one corner of that gloomy old fortress which had sheltered so many
generations of the family, learned of the danger threatening her nephew
it would be impossible to say. She had been skilled for many years in
telling which way the wind was blowing; nay, more, in foreseeing from
which quarter it would presently blow; so perhaps the two or three
casual references to the American girls which she had gleaned from the
letters which the Prince dutifully wrote her had been enough to awaken
her suspicions. Or, it may be, that some one of the many persons at
Weet-sur-Mer who had observed with interest the Prince's comings and
goings, deemed it a duty to society to send the duchess a discreet word
of warning.
Any one who knew the duchess knew also that a single word would be
all-sufficient. Her reputation for worldly astuteness surpassed that of
any other old woman in Europe, though it was, perhaps, not altogether
deserved. Forty years before, she had been a healthy and happy girl,
whose experience of the world had been confined to the family estate
near Gemünden. And the estate was a small one, for the family, though of
blood the bluest, was very poor.
One tragedy had marked her early girlhood. She was curled up, one
evening, in the window-seat at the stairhead watching the moon rise over
the great trees of the park, when she heard loud voices in the hall
below, and peeping down, saw her father strike another man heavily
across the mouth. A sudden silence fell, and she stole away frightened
to her bed, where she sobbed herself to sleep. In the gray of the
morning, her mother had awakened her, had carried her to a window, and
knelt with her there, staring out toward the park and calling upon God
to have mercy. Through the streaming mist, there came presently toward
them two dim figures, carrying a third--what need to go on? After that,
the house became a cloister.
It chanced, one day when she was nearly twenty, that the eye of her
cousin of Markheim fell upon her. He had never married; he had been too
busy with his pleasures. But he had arrived at an age when it was
necessary to think of an heir; at an age, too, when the uneasy
consciousness began to grow within him that if he desired an heir, there
was no time to be lost. So he looked at his blooming cousin, noting the
evidences of vigorous health which glowed in eye and lip and cheek. He
knew that the girl would have no dot, but he had reached a place where
he was perfectly aware that if he wanted youth and beauty, he must take
them unadorned. So he made up his mind at once, and in due time the
marriage was arranged.
In pity, we will not dwell upon it. Those who saw the bride's face as
she entered the carriage with her husband will never forget its
expression of horror, disgust, and abject fear. A year later, the
desired heir arrived, a microcephalous idiot, to whom a merciful
providence allowed but eighteen months of life; and in due time, the
August Prince himself was gathered to his fathers.
During her period of martyrdom, the duchess had pressed her cross to her
bosom with the religious enthusiasm of a devotee hugging his barbed
instrument of torture. The consciousness that she was suffering for her
family's sake as became a daughter of the Caesars was the only thing
which enabled her to endure her shame and degradation. She donned her
widow's weeds with such depth of thankfulness as few mortals know, and
settled herself to the enjoyment of her position.
She found it on the whole a good position, unassailable, with many
desirable perquisites. She decided, no doubt, that life owed her such
tremendous arrears of happiness that she could never hope to collect
them except by devoting her whole time to it; and devote her whole time
to it she did, in good earnest. The years, in their passage, erased
certain lines from her face and restored the curves to her
figure--indeed, it came to be much more than a restoration!--but they
could not restore the colour to her hair nor the lightness to her heart.
She looked at mankind from a cynical altitude of worldly wisdom; her wit
grew keen and swift as d'Artagnan's rapier; her bon-mots had a way of
passing into proverbs, or of being stolen by more distinguished
contemporaries. She took her revenge upon society as completely as she
could, yet without bitterness. Indeed, it is probable that, could she
have ordered her life anew, she would not have ordered it differently.
Such, then, was the Dowager Duchess of Markheim, as she sat gazing
thoughtfully from her window, pondering the situation. She was fully
alive to the fact that American girls are always a menace to the peace
of noble families; besides, she was not at all satisfied with the
progress--or, rather, lack of progress--which the Prince had made in the
delicate negotiation entrusted to his hands. In a word, she decided
that, from every point of view, it were wise for her to be herself upon
the scene--and so much nearer her beloved Ostend! Therefore, being of
that superior order of woman who never has to make up her mind but once,
she forthwith gave orders for the departure.
It consequently happened, on the morning following the events narrated
in the previous chapter, that there was another distinguished arrival at
the Grand Hôtel Royal, to the delight and despair of Monsieur Pelletan.
"I shall need an apartment of at least five rooms, not higher than the
second floor," announced the duchess.
"If Madame la Duchesse had only notified us of t'is honour!" protested
Pelletan, with upraised hands. "I swear t'at I haff not'ing--
not'ing--not one single apartment wort'y off madame--not efen one leetle
room up under t'e gutters."
"Nonsense!" she interrupted, vigorously. "I have heard all that a
hundred times at least. Which apartment has my nephew?"
"Madame's nephew?"
"Certainly, imbecile! Monsieur le Prince de Markeld."
"Oh," cried Pelletan. "Monsieur le Prince hass apartment B de luxe."
"And so has twice as much room as he needs, of course. Well, take my
luggage up there, wherever it is. At my age, one is beyond the reach of
scandal, even at a Dutch bathing-resort. Where is Monsieur le Prince?"
"Monsieur le Prince iss taking t'e promenade," explained Pelletan.
"Very well; I have my toilette to make. When he returns, send him up to
me at once. Here, boy, apartment B," and followed by her maid, she
started up the stair, leaving Monsieur Pelletan staring, open-mouthed.
"But t'ere iss a lift, madame!" he cried, regaining his breath.
"A lift!" retorted the duchess. "At my age! What is the man thinking of!
En avant, boy!" and she went on up the stair.
* * * * *
The watches of the night had not brought that final solution of the
problem which Susie Rushford had hoped for, and she did not know whether
to be glad or sorry when she found the Prince at the stairfoot awaiting
her. There could be no doubt that he was wholly, undividedly glad--one
glance at his face told her that--and he greeted her in a way that sent
a little thrill to her heart. After all, she told herself, perhaps she
would better let things drift; one more day could make no difference.
And there was no reason why she should take the affair more seriously
than did the principal person concerned in it.
Outside the door, as usual, was the invalid chair; and while Lord Vernon
did not forget to say good-morning, it was not upon her his eyes rested.
Nell, at least, was perplexed by no problems, and was unaffectedly gay.
Susie almost envied her; and yet problems were interesting, too.
And then there was Collins. As she acknowledged his bow, she was struck
anew with the concentrated secretiveness of his appearance. There was a
new look in his eyes this morning, a look as though he were watching
her, and it made her vaguely uneasy. But the feeling passed as they
turned eastward along the promenade, and she soon forgot all about him,
for--quite exceptionally--her companion was talking of himself.
"I do not want that you should exaggerate the importance of this little
dispute," he was saying. "Seen thus close at hand, it looms rather
large; but it really matters very little to the great world. Even I can
get far enough away from it to see that."
"And yet," rejoined Susie, "I have heard it said that it might possibly
endanger the peace of Europe."
The Prince smiled at the words as at an old acquaintance.
"The peace of Europe," he said, "is a kind of bugaboo which diplomats
use to frighten each other with, and even to frighten themselves with. I
do not believe that the peace of Europe hangs on any such delicate
balance as they pretend. Though, of course," he added, more gravely,
"there are certain circumstances under which this question of the
succession might become very unpleasant to the Powers."
"Ah!" breathed Susie, who had been listening eagerly. "You admit that,
then?"
"Admit it? Certainly--why not? But, intrinsically, it amounts to little.
So it is with us Markelds--our lineage is as long as that of any house
in Europe, and we hold our heads very high, but we are really of not
much importance. We keep up a certain state, we live in a castle, if you
will; but we really do nothing worth while, principally, I suppose,
because we are so poor."
"So poor?" echoed Susie, open-eyed.
"You are thinking of the apartment de luxe," said the Prince, with a
smile; "of the special train. But, do you not see, those are the very
things which make me poor. I have no use for seven rooms; in the special
train, I can occupy but a single seat. All the rest is waste, which does
me no good--rather the reverse, indeed, since it serves to impress
people with an exaggerated idea of my importance and so pave the way for
fresh extravagances. I did not mean that I am poor absolutely; I do not
suppose that I shall ever want for food and clothing and a place to
sleep. It is only as a Prince that I am poor--that we Markelds are all
poor."
"But one would think there were many things worth while which a man in
your position could do," said Susie, earnestly, "even if you aren't
rich."
"Oh," he explained, looking down at her with a laugh in his eyes, "I
would not have you think that I am always wholly idle. I am colonel of
a dragoon regiment, and I inspect it, sometimes, or ride in front of it
at a general review. I hunt. I attend various functions of the court. I
even sometimes act as the representative of my house, as I am doing
now."
"None of which," said Susie, "except perhaps the last, is in the least
worth while."
"I agree with you, unreservedly," he assented; "but it is about what
most men in my position do."
"So I have heard," said Sue, "but I never really believed it. I thought
it an invention of the society reporters."
"It is true, nevertheless. You see there is no incentive, for most of
us, to do anything else. Of course, we cannot work, nor engage in
trade."
"I don't admit the 'of course.' But leaving that aside for the moment,
aren't there any exceptions?"
"Yes--a few at whom the rest of us look rather askance. You see, there
is the tradition to be maintained."
"The tradition?"
"Of royalty--of divine right. We must do nothing to spoil the tradition,
or weaken it, or our people may find out that we are not really
necessary, after all, just as the Americans have done."
Susie glanced at him to see if he was in earnest; but he appeared to be
entirely so.
"Do the exceptions mind being looked askance at?" she questioned.
"No, I do not think they mind in the least. Most of them are too busy to
pay any heed to what other people are thinking about them. Besides, the
cause of the exception is usually a woman, who takes up most of the
exception's leisure time."
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand."
"Let me explain. You see, when one of us marries a woman of his own
class--'Prinzessen, Comtessen, Serene English Altessen,' as Svengali
called them--he usually gets a partner more--ah--hidebound, I think you
call it--than himself--a greater stickler for precedent and tradition
and position and etiquette and elegant leisure, and all that sort of
thing. Whatever liberal ideas he may have had, he finds he must abandon
or, at least, suppress, if there is to be peace between his wife and
him. It is only those who are so fortunate as to meet and win exactly
the right woman _out_ of their class who get the incentive. You
understand, now?"
"Yes," said Susie, with a queer catch in her voice. "Yes, I think I do."
"So," he added, with a little bitter laugh, "you see why we others look
askance at these exceptions. In the first place they have preferred to
step down out of their rank for a wife--that deals a blow at the
tradition, and every blow weakens it; in the second place, they have
left some noble lady husbandless, for your noble ladies seldom so far
forget their rank as to marry out of it, though that may be because the
men never permit them to--again an injury to us as a class; and,
finally, they are mixing with the world, they are meeting other men face
to face, as equals, they are claiming no merit because of birth, no
authority because of rank; they are, perhaps, even working with their
hands. Whereas our business is to keep aloof from the world, to maintain
a barrier of caste between ourselves and other men, for they must not
suspect that we are as imperfect as they--that we have the same
appetites and passions, the same defects and meannesses. Our business is
to rule over them, to require their obedience because God so wills it.
We tremble when we see the apostates cast aside their rank and descend
into the world's arena, for we fear that the people, finding them at
close view only human, may come at last to believe that the right by
which we rule is not, after all, divine. Then they will tear down the
barrier of caste, strip us of the privileges of rank, and proclaim the
absurdity that all men are equal. And I might add, we are jealous of the
exceptions, because they are happy. Marriages of state are seldom love
matches; the kind which furnish the incentives are always so."
To all of which Susie had listened with bated breath, only glancing up
once or twice to study her companion's face. It was a lifting of the
curtain, a revelation of the heart, which left her deeply moved.
"You don't seem to care for the tradition," she said, at last.
"Oh, yes, I do; it would be untrue to pretend otherwise. Only, it has
occurred to me quite recently that merely to inherit a position is not
quite enough. A man should try to deserve it"
"And you're going to try?" asked Susie, looking at him with something
very like adoration in her eyes.
"I am going to try--yes," he answered. "But I shall need help--I am
afraid I should not make a success of it by myself."
And then he fell silent, for they had reached the end of the promenade,
where the others joined them.