THE COMING OF THE PRINCE
It was half-past one on Saturday afternoon. Mrs. Marsh and her daughter
had gone out of town to attend the wedding of a friend, and Gretel
knew they could not return much before six o’clock. She had finished
her solitary luncheon, for which she had little more appetite than for
her dinner the previous evening, and was standing before the bureau in
her little room, putting on her hat and jacket. Her heart was thumping
in great excited bounds, and her eyes shone in a way which would have
convinced Mrs. Marsh more firmly than ever, had she seen them, that the
child was feverish.
Ever since she awoke that morning Gretel had been fighting with her
conscience. That ever persistent “small voice” had been making itself
heard very clearly, but with an almost desperate determination, the
little girl had resolutely closed her “inward ear.”
“I must go; I must; I must,” she kept repeating over and over to
herself. “If it wasn’t ‘Lohengrin,’ I would take it back, but Father
loved ‘Lohengrin’ best of all. Oh, it can’t be so very wrong; I am sure
it can’t.”
And now the magic hour had actually come. All the morning she had
watched the clock, and it had seemed to her that time had never dragged
so before. She was sure it ought to have been at least twelve, when
the hands of that tiresome clock would persist in pointing to only
half-past ten. But at last it was really time to start.
“I’ll go very early,” she had decided. “It will be so beautiful to just
sit there and hear the instruments being tuned.”
There was no necessity of making any explanation to the colored maid.
She was a stupid, careless person, to whom Gretel and her affairs were
of very little consequence, and would scarcely have noticed whether the
child were in the house or out of it.
Gretel’s hand shook so that she could scarcely hold the precious
ticket, as she stepped out of the apartment-house, and crossed the
street to fairy-land. Early as it was the lobby of the opera house
was already crowded, and there was a long line of people waiting
for tickets. Gretel pushed her way through the jostling throng, and
presented her ticket.
“Balcony, three flights up,” said the man at the gate, hurriedly, and
turned to the next comer. In another moment Gretel was climbing the
long flight of stairs to the balcony.
She was quite breathless when she reached her destination, and the
usher who took her check, and showed her to her seat, regarded the
little girl rather curiously. But there was no time to waste in asking
questions, so he contented himself with assuring Gretel good-naturedly
that “there was lots of time; the opera didn’t begin till two.”
It was all just as she had remembered it, and pictured it to herself
again and again. The great house; the crowds of people, and the
orchestra tuning up their instruments. With a great sigh of unutterable
relief, she sank back in her seat--for the first time in nearly
twenty-four hours she felt safe.
“I’m here; I’m really in fairy-land,” she whispered rapturously, “and
I’m going to hear ‘Lohengrin.’”
Then the leader of the orchestra appeared, and was greeted by a burst
of applause, followed by a sudden stillness, and in another moment the
overture had begun. For the next three hours Gretel was living in a
wonderful, beautiful dream. It was even more beautiful than she had
anticipated, and she drank in every note of the marvelous music as a
person dying of thirst might drink water. During the intermissions she
leaned back, with closed eyes, waiting in a kind of silent rapture
for the curtain to rise again. As to what would happen when it was
all over, and she would have to leave fairy-land and go back to Mrs.
Marsh’s again, she never once thought of that.
But everything, even in fairy-land, must come to an end at last. It
was after five, and “Lohengrin” had sung his farewell, and sailed away
in his mysterious swan boat, while the swan himself, miraculously
transformed into the heroine’s long-lost brother, embraced his
heart-broken sister. And then, amid a perfect storm of applause, the
curtain fell for the last time that afternoon; “Lohengrin” was over.
The performance had been an unusually fine one, and many of the
audience had tears in their eyes as the curtain fell on that final
scene, but to one little heart the last notes of the orchestra fell
like the knell of doom. For several minutes Gretel remained in her
seat, while the applause continued, and the singers came before the
curtain again and again to bow their thanks. All about her people were
putting on their wraps, but still she did not move. At last some one
touched her on the arm.
“Please let me pass,” said a voice, and Gretel awoke from her dream to
find the eyes of a plainly-dressed, elderly lady fixed upon her kindly.
With a sudden start, she sprang to her feet.
“Is it really all over?” she inquired in the voice of a person suddenly
awaking from a long sleep.
“Yes, it is really all over,” answered the lady, smiling. “You have
enjoyed it, haven’t you? I have been watching you all the afternoon.”
Gretel did not answer. It would not have been possible for her to have
spoken just then, there was such a big lump in her throat, and the
tears were so very near the surface. She turned away quickly, and the
lady, thinking she was shy, paid no further attention to her.
How bitterly cold it was. Gretel shook from head to foot as she stepped
from the steam-heated building out into the windy street. But what was
more surprising to Gretel than the sudden change of atmosphere, was the
fact that it was still broad daylight, and that the sun was shining
almost as brightly as it had done when she entered fairy-land. She had
so completely lost count of time that it had not occurred to her that
the world would look just the same when she came back to it again. For
the first moment she was almost dazed, and then, with a mighty effort,
she pulled herself together, and hurried across the street. To be alone
in her own room, that was her one desire just then. She must cry, and
nobody must see her. After she had cried for a long time perhaps that
dreadful choking feeling in her throat would go away, and she would be
able to talk to people again.
Nobody noticed the little girl as she slipped quietly into the
apartment-house, but she did not take the elevator, fearing the boy--a
friendly person, with whom she had often exchanged remarks--might ask
embarrassing questions. She preferred to climb the six long flights
of stairs to the Marshes’ apartment on foot. Annie, the colored maid,
opened the door in answer to her ring, but Annie was not fond of
talking, and Gretel slipped past her, and gained her own room, without
speaking or being spoken to. Once there, with the door closed behind
her, her first act was to fling herself face downward on the bed, and
give way to the long-pent-up burst of tears.
“Oh, I’ve been wicked! I’ve been dreadfully wicked!” sobbed the poor
little culprit, as wave after wave of remorse and shame swept over
her. “I took a ticket to fairy-land that didn’t belong to me. It was
as bad as stealing. I ought to have taken it back to the box office; I
knew I ought all the time, but I didn’t do it. Oh, I’m so ashamed--so
dreadfully ashamed!”
How long she lay there she did not know, but gradually the storm
subsided; the choking sensation in her throat relaxed, and she began to
feel more like herself. But she was very unhappy; more unhappy than she
had ever been in her life. Even when her father died it had not been
like this. Then she had been only sad, not ashamed, and now she was so
ashamed that she longed to creep away and hide somewhere, where nobody
would ever be able to find her again.
The sound which aroused her at last was the sudden opening of her door,
and Annie’s voice saying--
“The ladies has come home, and you’re wanted in the parlor.”
It had not taken Annie long to discover that Gretel was not a person
of any particular importance in the household, and she treated the
child with as little consideration as possible. She did not even take
the trouble to glance into the room as she delivered the message, but
turned away at once, and went back to her work, while Gretel rose
slowly to her feet, her poor little guilty heart sinking down, down
like a lump of lead.
“They’ve found out,” was her first thought; “somebody has told them,
and now I’m going to be punished.”
But somehow even this thought failed to frighten her much. She was so
unhappy already that it didn’t seem to make any particular difference
what happened to her. She took off her hat and jacket, and even stopped
to smooth her hair and bathe her swollen eyes. She was a proud child,
and she did not want Mrs. Marsh and Ada to know that she had been
crying.
As Gretel crossed the hall to the parlor, she became aware of the fact
that Mrs. and Miss Marsh were not alone. Mrs. Marsh was speaking in her
“company voice,” and Ada was giggling in the affected way she always
did when young gentlemen came to call on her. As Gretel neared the
parlor door Mrs. Marsh was saying:
“This really is the most delightful surprise. We had not the least idea
you were in this country.” Then, catching sight of the little girl in
the doorway, she added in her very sweetest tones--
“Ah, here she is. Come in, Gretel darling, and see if you can possibly
guess who this is.”
Gretel advanced slowly into the room, but she did not look at the
visitor. Her heart was beating very fast again, and her cheeks were
crimson; she was afraid to lift her eyes from the carpet.
Then another voice spoke.
“Hello, Gretel,” it said. “Don’t you know me? Have you quite forgotten
your big brother Percy?”
With a great gasp, Gretel looked up to find a pair of kindly, merry
blue eyes regarding her earnestly, while their owner, a young man, with
a pleasant sunburnt face, held out his hand to her. For a moment she
was so astonished that she stood quite still, staring at this sudden
apparition, without even attempting to move or speak.
“What is the matter, Gretel? Why don’t you speak to your brother?”
inquired Mrs. Marsh, reprovingly, and with another gasp of
astonishment, Gretel came forward, and slipped a cold little hand into
that of the sunburnt stranger.
“How do you do?” she said, timidly. “I--I thought you were in China.”
“So I was until six weeks ago,” the young man answered, smiling. “I
only arrived in New York this morning. Aren’t you a little bit glad
to see me?” And greatly to Gretel’s surprise, this tall, good-looking
young gentleman, bent down and kissed her.
“Yes, oh, yes,” she stammered; “I’m very glad to see you, only--only--”
And all at once, without having the least idea why, she suddenly began
to cry again.
“Don’t be a baby, Gretel,” remonstrated Ada, laughing. “If you act like
this your brother will think you are sorry to see him instead of being
glad.”
But Mr. Douane did not seem in the least offended. He gave Gretel’s
shoulder a friendly pat, and smiled such a kind, understanding smile,
that the little girl’s heart went out to him as it had not done to any
one since the happy days in the studio.
The evening that followed was so wonderful that for the time Gretel
almost forgot her trouble in astonishment. Her brother did not talk
very much to her, but he made her sit beside him on the sofa, and all
the time he was talking to Mrs. Marsh and Ada he kept casting kindly
glances at his little sister. She was almost too shy to answer when he
did speak to her, but he seemed to understand when Mrs. Marsh reproved
her for not telling her brother what a delightful surprise he had given
her, for he interrupted that lady quite sharply, with the comforting
assurance--
“Oh, Gretel’s all right. We understand each other, don’t we, little
girl?” To which Gretel’s only answer was a rather tremulous smile.
But all the time she was saying over and over to herself--
“He’s the handsomest, splendidest young gentleman I’ve ever seen; I
think he must look like the prince in Cinderella, and he’s really my
own brother.”
It really seemed almost too wonderful to be true. Hitherto she had only
thought of this half-brother of hers as of some faraway benefactor, who
had sent Mrs. Marsh the money for her board and education, but who was
not at all likely to trouble himself very much more about her. And now
here he was, sitting in Mrs. Marsh’s parlor, apparently taking it as
quite a natural state of affairs that he should have come all the way
home from China, in less than six weeks, and suddenly dropped down in
their midst.
Mrs. Marsh insisted that the visitor should remain to dinner.
“You really must, my dear boy,” she protested, when Mr. Douane seemed
inclined to plead a previous engagement. “I never had the pleasure of
knowing your father, but he was my dear husband’s favorite cousin, and
best friend, and I feel it a great honor to welcome his son to my home.”
Mrs. Marsh spoke with so much feeling that her voice trembled, and
Gretel thought she must have loved Mr. Marsh very dearly, but then she
remembered that _she_ was never “Gretel darling” except before company,
and reflected that perhaps it was the same way about other people as
well. She was “Gretel darling” and “dearest Gretel” all that evening,
and once when she was passing Mrs. Marsh, that lady suddenly put an arm
round her, and gave her a kiss, which was such an unusual demonstration
of affection that the little girl fairly gasped with astonishment.
Ada was not so affectionate, but she talked and laughed a great deal
and seemed to like Mr. Douane very much indeed. She asked if she might
call him Cousin Percy, and seemed so delighted to have him at home that
Gretel was rather puzzled, for Ada had once told her that she had not
seen Percy Douane since she was a little girl, and scarcely remembered
him at all.
But all these things made but a trifling impression on Gretel, for her
whole attention was absorbed by her brother. The more she looked at
him, the handsomer she thought him, and every time he spoke to her, her
heart began to beat so fast that she could scarcely answer him.
“I am sorry to say Gretel is very shy,” Mrs. Marsh remarked to the
visitor on one of these occasions. “We are doing all we can to give her
more confidence in herself, but I am afraid the life with her father
was rather bad for her. Her training was sadly neglected.”
Gretel felt the hot, indignant color rush up into her cheeks, but she
dared not contradict Mrs. Marsh. She ventured a timid glance at her
brother, and the expression she saw in his eyes reassured her.
“My stepfather may not have been a disciplinarian,” he said, gravely,
“but he was one of the kindest and most generous men I have ever known.”
“I am sure it is very noble of you to speak so beautifully of him,”
Mrs. Marsh murmured, and then the subject was changed.
Mr. Douane was not a great talker, but all that he said was
interesting. Ada asked a great many questions about life in China, and
Mrs. Marsh appeared very anxious to find out why her cousin had come so
unexpectedly.
“I dare say it is only a flying visit,” she said, smiling, “and that
you will be off to the ends of the earth again before we have had time
to realize we have had a glimpse of you.”
“I am not so sure of that,” said Mr. Douane. “I may decide to settle
down for a while. I had a bad attack of typhoid in the autumn, and
since then I have had a sort of longing for my own country. A fellow
begins to think about home and friends when he is too weak to turn over
in bed without assistance.”
“Poor boy,” cried Mrs. Marsh. “I am glad I did not know of your
illness; I should have been worried to death. But you have quite
recovered, I trust?”
Mr. Douane assured her that he had never been better in his life.
“The voyage did wonders for me,” he said, “but I was pretty fit even
before I left Hong-Kong. Indeed, I doubt if I should have come home at
all if some property of my grandfather’s in Virginia had not required
looking after. Then I had a fancy to see this little sister of mine; it
is more than five years since I saw her last.”
“You must find her very much changed,” remarked Ada, to which Mr.
Douane replied rather gravely--
“I do indeed.”
Mr. Douane did not stay long after dinner. He had an appointment with
a friend, he said, but before leaving he once more drew Gretel to his
side and kissed her.
“Good night, little woman,” he said kindly, “we shall meet again very
soon.” And Gretel was so overwhelmed with astonishment and rapture,
that she could not think of a single word to say in reply, and just
stood staring after her brother, as he left the room, accompanied by
Mrs. Marsh and Ada.
She was still standing in the same spot when the two ladies returned
after seeing their guest to the elevator.
“Really, Gretel, I am ashamed of you,” began Mrs. Marsh, and the little
girl noticed that she did not say “Gretel darling” this time. “I am
sure I don’t know what your brother must have thought of your manners.
You scarcely spoke to him the whole time he was here, and goodness
knows you talk enough at other times.”
“I didn’t have much chance to speak,” faltered Gretel, anxious to
vindicate herself. “You and Ada were talking all the time, and you told
me never to interrupt.”
“You are a very impertinent little girl,” said Mrs. Marsh, severely. “I
was only anxious to have you appear well for your own sake. I am sure
your brother must have been very much disappointed in you.”
“Oh, do leave Gretel alone, Mamma,” put in Ada with a yawn. “I don’t
believe Percy cared whether she talked or not. How could a man of his
age be expected to take any particular interest in a child like that,
even if she is his half-sister?”
But even this last remark failed to disturb Gretel very much. She
was a humble little soul, and it had never even occurred to her as
a possibility that her faraway, almost unknown brother, could care
much about her. Indeed, she had not hitherto cared very much about him
herself, except to remember Mrs. Marsh’s oft repeated injunction to be
grateful to her brother, to whom she owed everything in the world. But
now all that was changed, and he had suddenly become her hero, the very
most interesting person in the whole world to her.
“He kissed me twice,” she said to herself, with a little excited
thrill, as she went away to her room, “and he said we should meet soon
again. Oh, I do wonder how soon it will be.”
Then suddenly something that she had almost forgotten in the excitement
of the past few hours flashed into her mind, and a look that was half
shame and half fear came into her eyes.
“Oh,” she gasped, with a little irrepressible sob, “he must never find
out about ‘Lohengrin.’ He would despise me, and if he knew, I think I
should die of shame.”