"Hullo," said the Prince, who spoke admirable English.
Priscilla could only stare.
His instinct was to repeat the exclamation which he felt represented
his feelings very exactly, for her appearance--clothes, expression,
everything--astonished him, but he doubted whether it would well bear
repeating. "Is this where you are staying?" he inquired instead.
"Yes," said Priscilla.
"May I come in?"
"Yes," said Priscilla.
He followed her into her parlour. He looked at her critically as she
walked slowly before him, from head to foot he looked at her
critically; at every inch of the shabby serge gown, at the little head
with its badly arranged hair, at the little heel that caught in an
unmended bit of braid, at the little shoe with its bow of frayed
ribbon, and he smiled broadly behind his moustache. But when she
turned round he was perfectly solemn.
"I suppose," said the Prince, putting his hands in his pockets and
gazing about the room with an appearance of cheerful interest, "this
is what one calls a snug little place."
Priscilla stood silent. She felt as though she had been shaken
abruptly out of sleep. Her face even now after the soul-rending time
she had been having, in spite of the shadows beneath the eyes, the
droop at the corners of the mouth, in spite, too, it must be said of
the flagrantly cottage fashion in which Annalise had done her hair,
seemed to the Prince so extremely beautiful, so absolutely the face of
his dearest, best desires, so limpid, apart from all grace of
colouring and happy circumstance of feature, with the light of a sweet
and noble nature, so manifestly the outward expression of an
indwelling lovely soul, that his eyes, after one glance round the
room, fixed themselves upon it and never were able to leave it again.
For a minute or two she stood silent, trying to collect her thoughts,
trying to shake off the feeling that she was being called back to life
out of a dream. It had not been a dream, she kept telling herself--bad
though it was it had not been a dream but the reality; and this man
dropped suddenly in to the middle of it from another world, he was the
dream, part of the dream she had rebelled against and run away from a
fortnight before.
Then she looked at him, and she knew she was putting off her soul with
nonsense. Never was anybody less like a dream than the Prince; never
was anybody more squarely, more certainly real. And he was of her own
kind, of her own world. He and she were equals. They could talk
together plainly, baldly, a talk ungarnished and unretarded by
deferences on the one side and on the other a kindness apt to become
excessive in its anxiety not to appear to condescend. The feeling that
once more after what seemed an eternity she was with an equal was of a
singular refreshment. During those few moments in which they stood
silent, facing each other, in spite of her efforts to keep it out, in
spite of really conscientious efforts, a great calm came in and spread
over her spirit. Yet she had no reason to feel calm she thought,
struggling. Was there not rather cause for an infinity of shame? What
had he come for? He of all people. The scandalously jilted, the
affronted, the run away from. Was it because she had been looking so
long at Fritzing that this man seemed so nicely groomed? Or at Tussie,
that he seemed so well put together? Or at Robin, that he seemed so
modest? Was it because people's eyes--Mrs. Morrison's, Lady
Shuttleworth's--had been so angry lately whenever they rested on her
that his seemed so very kind? No; she did remember thinking them that,
even being struck by them, when she saw him first in Kunitz. A dull
red crept into her face when she remembered that day and what
followed. "It isn't very snug," she said at last, trying to hide by a
careful coldness of speech all the strange things she was feeling.
"When it rains there are puddles by the door. The door, you see, opens
into the street."
"I see," said the Prince.
There was a silence.
"I don't suppose you really do," said Priscilla, full of strange
feelings.
"My dear cousin?"
"I don't know if you've come to laugh at me?"
"Do I look as if I had?"
"I dare say you think--because you've not been through it
yourself--that it--it's rather ridiculous."
"My dear cousin," protested the Prince.
Her lips quivered. She had gone through much, and she had lived for
two days only on milk.
"Do you wipe the puddles up, or does old Fritzing?"
"You see you _have_ come to laugh."
"I hope you'll believe that I've not. Must I be gloomy?"
"How do you know Fritzing's here?"
"Why everybody knows that."
"Everybody?" There was an astonished pause. "How do you know we're
here--here, in Creeper Cottage?"
"Creeper Cottage is it? I didn't know it had a name. Do you have so
many earwigs?"
"How did you know we were in Symford?"
"Why everybody knows that."
Priscilla was silent. Again she felt she was being awakened from a
dream.
"I've met quite a lot of interesting people since I saw you last," he
said. "At least, they interested me because they all knew you."
"Knew me?"
"Knew you and that old scound--the excellent Fritzing. There's an
extremely pleasant policeman, for instance, in Kunitz--"
"Oh," said Priscilla, starting and turning red. She could not think of
that policeman without crisping her fingers.
"He and I are intimate friends. And there's a most intelligent
person--really a most helpful, obliging person--who came with you from
Dover to Ullerton."
"With us?"
"I found the conversation, too, of the ostler at the Ullerton Arms of
immense interest."
"But what--"
"And last night I slept at Baker's Farm, and spent a very pleasant
evening with Mrs. Pearce."
"But why--"
"She's an instructive woman. Her weakest point, I should say, is her
junkets."
"I wonder why you bother to talk like this--to be sarcastic."
"About the junkets? Didn't you think they were bad?"
"Do you suppose it's worth while to--to kick somebody who's down? And
so low down? So completely got to the bottom?"
"Kick? On my soul I assure you that the very last thing I want to do
is to kick you."
"Then why do you do it?"
"I don't do it. Do you know what I've come for?"
"Is my father round the corner?"
"Nobody's round the corner. I've muzzled your father. I've come quite
by myself. And do you know why?"
"No," said Priscilla, shortly, defiantly; adding before he could
speak, "I can't imagine." And adding to that, again before he could
speak, "Unless it's for the fun of hunting down a defenceless quarry."
"I say, that's rather picturesque," said the Prince with every
appearance of being struck.
Priscilla blushed. In spite of herself every word they said to each
other made her feel more natural, farther away from self-torment and
sordid fears, nearer to that healthy state of mind, swamped out of her
lately, when petulance comes more easily than meekness. The mere
presence of the Prince seemed to set things right, to raise her again
in her own esteem. There was undoubtedly something wholesome about the
man, something everyday and reassuring, something dependable and sane.
The first smile for I don't know how long came and cheered the corners
of her mouth. "I'm afraid I've grown magniloquent since--since--"
"Since you ran away?"
She nodded. "Fritzing, you know, is most persistently picturesque. I
think it's catching. But he's wonderful," she added quickly,--"most
wonderful in patience and goodness."
"Oh everybody knows he's wonderful. Where is the great man?"
"In the next room. Do you want him?"
"Good Lord, no. You've not told me what you suppose I've come for."
"I did. I told you I couldn't imagine."
"It's for a most saintly, really nice reason. Guess."
"I can't guess."
"Oh but try."
Priscilla to her extreme disgust felt herself turning very red. "I
suppose to spy out the nakedness of the land," she said severely.
"Now you're picturesque again. You must have been reading a tremendous
lot lately. Of course you would, with that learned old fossil about.
No my dear, I've come simply to see if you are happy."
She looked at him, and her flush slowly died away.
"Simply to convince myself that you are happy."
Her eyes filling with tears she thought it more expedient to fix them
on the table-cloth. She did fix them on it, and the golden fringe of
eyelashes that he very rightly thought so beautiful lay in long dusky
curves on her serious face. "It's extraordinarily nice of you if--if
it's true," she said.
"But it is true. And if you are, if you tell me you are and I'm able
to believe it, I bow myself out, dear cousin, and shall devote any
energies I have left after doing that to going on muzzling your
father. He shall not, I promise you, in any way disturb you. Haven't
I kept him well in hand up to this?"