SO the lovers were reconciled, although the question of marriage was
farther off than ever, and the Princess and Miss Winwood wept on each
other's shoulders after the way of good women, and Paul declared that
he needed no rest, and was eager to grapple with the world. He had much
to do. First, he buried his dead, the Princess sending a great wreath
and her carriage, after having had a queer interview with Jane, of
which neither woman would afterwards speak a word; but it was evident
that they had parted on terms of mutual respect and admiration. Then
Paul went through the task of settling his father's affairs. Jane
having expressed a desire to take over the management of a certain
department of the business, he gladly entrusted it to her capable
hands. He gave her the house at Hickney Heath, and Barney Bill took up
his residence there as a kind of old watch-dog. Meanwhile, introduced
by Frank Ayres and Colonel Winwood, he faced the ordeal of a chill
reception by the House of Commons and took his seat. After that the
nine-days' wonder of the scandal came to an end; the newspapers ceased
talking of it and the general public forgot all about him. He only had
to reckon with his fellow-members and with social forces. His own house
too he had to put in order. He resigned his salary and position as
Organizing Secretary of the Young England League, but as Honorary
Secretary he retained control. To assure his position he applied for
Royal Letters Patent and legalized his name of Savelli, Finally, he
plunged into the affairs of Fish Palaces Limited, and learned the many
mysteries connected with that outwardly unromantic undertaking.
These are facts in Paul's career which his chronicler is bound to
mention. But on Paul's development they exercised but little influence.
He walked now, with open eyes, in a world of real things. The path was
difficult, but he was strong. Darkness lay ahead, but he neither feared
it nor dreamed dreams of brightness beyond. The Vision Splendid had
crystallized into an unconquerable purpose of which he felt the thrill.
Without Sophie Zobraska's love he would have walked on doggedly,
obstinately, with set teeth. He had proved himself fearless, scornful
of the world's verdict. But he would have walked in wintry gloom with a
young heart frozen dead. Now his path was lit by warm sunshine and the
burgeon of spring was in his heart. He could laugh again in his old
joyous way; yet the laughter was no longer that of the boy, but of the
man who knew the place that laughter should hold in a man's life.
On the day when he, as chairman, had first presided over a meeting of
the Board of Directors of Fish Palaces Limited, he went to the Princess
and said: "If I bring with me 'an ancient and fish-like smell, a kind
of, not of the newest, Poor-John,' send me about my business."
She bade him not talk foolishly.
"I'm talking sense," said he. "I'm going through with it. I'm in trade.
I know to the fraction of a penny how much fat ought to be used to a
pound of hake, and I'm concentrating all my intellect on that fraction
of a penny of fat."
"Tu as raison," she said.
"N'est-ce-pas? It's funny, isn't it? I've often told you I once thought
myself the man born to be king. My dreams have come true. I am a king.
The fried-fish king."
Sophie looked at him from beneath her long lashes. "And I am a
princess. We meet at last on equal terms."
Paul sprang forward impulsively and seized her hands. "Oh, you dear,
wonderful woman! Doesn't it matter to you that I'm running fried-fish
shops?"
"I know why you're doing it," she said. "I wouldn't have you do
otherwise. You are you, Paul. I should love to see you at it. Do you
wait at table and hand little dishes to coster-mongers, ancien regime,
en emigre?"
She laughed deliciously. Suddenly she paused, regarded him wide-eyed,
with a smile on her lips.
"Tiens! I have an idea. But a wonderful ideal Why should I not be the
fried-fish queen? Issue new shares. I buy them all up. We establish
fish palaces all over the world? But why not? I am in trade already.
Only yesterday my homme d'affaires sent me for signature a dirty piece
of blue paper all covered with execrable writing and imitation red
seals all the way down, and when I signed it I saw I was interested in
Messrs. Jarrods Limited, and was engaged in selling hams and petticoats
and notepaper and furniture and butter and--remark this--and fish. But
raw fish. Now what the difference is between selling raw fish and fried
fish, I do not know. Moi, je suis deja marchande de poissons, voila!"
She laughed and Paul laughed too. They postponed, however, to an
indefinite date, consideration of the business proposal.
As Paul had foreseen, Society manifested no eagerness to receive him.
Invitations no longer fell upon him in embarrassing showers. Nor did he
make any attempt to pass through the once familiar doors. For one
thing, he was proud: for another he was too busy. When the Christmas
recess came he took a holiday, went off by himself to Algiers. He
returned bronzed and strong, to the joy of his Sophie.
"My dear," said Miss Winwood one day to the curiously patient lady,
"what is to come of it all? You can't go on like this for ever and
ever."
"We don't intend to," smiled the Princess. "Paul is born to great
things. He cannot help it. It is his destiny, I believe in Paul."
"So do I," replied Ursula. "But it's obvious that it will take him a
good many years to achieve them. You surely aren't going to wait until
he's a Cabinet Minister."
The Princess lay back among her cushions and laughed. "Mais non. It
will all come in woman's good time. Laissez-moi faire. He will soon
begin to believe in himself again."
At last Paul's opportunity arrived. The Whips had given him his chance
to speak. His luck attended him, in so far that when his turn came he
found a full House. It was on a matter of no vital importance; but he
had prepared his speech carefully. He stood up for the first time in
that strangely nerve-shaking assembly in which he had been received so
coldly and in which he was still friendless, and saw the beginning of
the familiar exodus into the lobbies. A sudden wave of anger swept
through him and he tore the notes of his speech across and across, and
again he metaphorically kicked Billy Goodge. He plunged into his
speech, forgetful of what he had written, with a passion queerly
hyperbolic in view of the subject. At the arresting tones of his voice
many of the withdrawing members stopped at the bar and listened, then
as he proceeded they gradually slipped back into their places.
Curiosity gave place to interest. Paul had found his gift again, and
his anger soon lost itself completely in the joy of the artist. The
House is always generous to performance. There was something novel in
the spectacle of this young man, who had come there under a cloud,
standing like a fearless young Hermes before them, in the ring of his
beautiful voice, in the instinctive picturesqueness of phrase, in the
winning charm of his personality. It was but a little point in a
Government Bill that he had to deal with, and he dealt with it shortly.
But he dealt with it in an unexpected, dramatic way, and he sat down
amid comforting applause and circumambient smiles and nods. The old
government hand who rose to reply complimented him gracefully and
proceeded of course to tear his argument to tatters. Then an
ill-conditioned Socialist Member got up, and, blundering and
unconscious agent of Destiny in a fast-emptying House, began a personal
attack on Paul. Whereupon there were cries of "Shame!" and "Sit down!"
and the Speaker, in caustic tones, counselled relevancy, and the
sympathy of the House went out to the Fortunate Youth; so that when he
went soon afterwards into the outer lobby--it was the dinner hour--he
found himself surrounded by encouraging friends. He did not wait long
among them, for up in the Ladies' Gallery was his Princess. He tore up
the stairs and met her outside. Her face was pale with anger.
"The brute!" she whispered. "The cowardly brute!"
He snapped his fingers. "Canaille, canaille! He counts for nothing. But
I've got them!" he cried exultingly, holding out clenched fists. "By
God, darling, I've got them! They'll listen to me now!"
She looked at him and the sudden tears came. "Thank God," she said, "I
can hear you talk like that at last."
He escorted her down the stone stairs and through the lobby to her car,
and they were objects of many admiring eyes. When they reached it she
said, with a humorous curl of the lip, "Veux-tu m'epouser maintenant?"
"Wait, only wait," said he. "These are only fireworks. Very soon we'll
get to the real thing."
"We shall, I promise you," she replied enigmatically; and she drove off.
One morning, a fortnight later, she rang him up. "You're coming to dine
with me on Friday, as usual, aren't you?"
"Of course," said he. "Why do you ask?"
"Just to make sure. And yes--also--to tell you not to come till
half-past eight."
She rang off. Paul thought no more of the matter. Ever since he had
taken his seat in the House he had dined with her alone every Friday
evening. It was their undisturbed hour of intimacy and gladness in the
busy week. Otherwise they rarely met, for Paul was a pariah in her
social world.
On the Friday in question his taxi drew up before an unusual-looking
house in Berkeley Square. An awning projected from the front door and a
strip of carpet ran across the pavement. At the sound of the taxi, the
door opened and revealed the familiar figures of the Princess's footmen
in their state livery. He entered, somewhat dazed.
"Her Highness has a party?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. A very large dinner party."
Paul passed his hand over his forehead. What did it mean? "This is
Friday, isn't it?"
"Of course, sir."
Paul grew angry. It was a woman's trap to force him on society. For a
moment he struggled with the temptation to walk away after telling the
servant that it was a mistake and that he had not been invited. At
once, however, came realization of social outrage. He surrendered hat
and coat and let himself be announced. The noise of thirty voices
struck his ear as he entered the great drawing-room. He was confusedly
aware of a glitter of jewels, and bare arms and shoulders and the black
and white of men. But radiant in the middle of the room stood his
Princess, with a tiara of diamonds on her head, and beside her stood a
youngish man whose face seemed oddly familiar.
Paul advanced, kissed her hand.
She laughed gaily. "You are late, Paul."
"You said half-past, Princess. I am here to the minute."
"Je te dirai apres," she said, and the daring of the intimate speech
took his breath away.
"Your Royal Highness," she turned to the young man beside her--and then
Paul suddenly recognized a prince of the blood royal of England--"may I
present Mr. Savelli."
"I'm very pleased to meet you," said the Prince graciously. "Your Young
England League has interested me greatly. We must have a talk about it
one of these days, if you can spare the time. And I must congratulate
you on your speech the other night."
"You are far too kind, sir," said Paul.
They chatted for a minute or two. Then the Princess said: "You'll take
in the Countess of Danesborough. I don't think you've met her; but
you'll find she's an old friend."
"Old friend?" echoed Paul.
She smiled and turned to a pretty and buxom woman of forty standing
near. "My dear Lady Danesborough. Here is Mr. Savelli, whom you are so
anxious to meet."
Paul bowed politely. His head being full of his Princess, he was
vaguely puzzled as to the reasons for which Lady Danesborough desired
his acquaintance.
"You don't remember me," she said.
He looked at her squarely for the first time; then started back. "Good
God!" he cried involuntarily. "Good God! I've been wanting to find you
all my life. I never knew your name. But here's the proof."
And he whipped out the cornelian heart from his waistcoat pocket. She
took it in her hand, examined it, handed it back to him with a smile, a
very sweet and womanly smile, with just the suspicion of mist veiling
her eyes.
"I know. The Princess has told me."
"But how did she find you out--I mean as my first patroness?"
"She wrote to the vicar, Mr. Merewether--he is still at
Bludston--asking who his visitor was that year and what had become of
her. So she found out it was I. I've known her off and on ever since my
marriage."
"You were wonderfully good to me," said Paul. "I must have been a funny
little wretch."
"You've travelled far since then."
"It was you that gave me my inspiration," said he.
The announcement of dinner broke the thread of the talk. Paul looked
around him and saw that the room was filled with very great people
indeed. There were chiefs of his party and other exalted personages.
There was Lord Francis Ayres. Also the Winwoods. The procession was
formed.
"I've often wondered about you," said Lady Danesborough, as they were
walking down the wide staircase. "Several things happened to mark that
day. For one, I had spilled a bottle of awful scent all over my dress
and I was in a state of odoriferous misery."
Paul laughed boyishly. "The mystery of my life is solved at last." He
explained, to her frank delight. "You've not changed a bit," said he.
"And oh! I can't tell you how good it is to meet you after all these
years."
"I'm very, very glad you feel so," she said significantly. "More than
glad. I was wondering ... but our dear Princess was right."
"It seems to me that the Princess has been playing conspirator," said
Paul.
They entered the great dining-room, very majestic with its long,
glittering table, its service of plate, its stately pictures, its
double row of powdered and liveried footmen, and Paul learned, to his
amazement, that in violation of protocols and tables of precedence, his
seat was on the right hand of the Princess. Conspiracy again. Hitherto
at her parties he had occupied his proper place. Never before had she
publicly given him especial mark of her favour.
"Do you think she's right in doing this?" he murmured to Lady
Danesborough.
It seemed so natural that he should ask her--as though she were fully
aware of all his secrets.
"I think so," she smiled--as though she too were in the conspiracy.
They halted at their places, and there, at the centre of the long
table, on the right of the young Prince stood the Princess, with
flushed face and shining eyes, looking very beautiful and radiantly
defiant.
"Mechante," Paul whispered, as they sat down. "This is a trap."
"Je le sais. Tu est bien prise, petite souris."
It pleased her to be gay. She confessed unblushingly. Her little mouse
was well caught. The little mouse grew rather stern, and when the great
company had settled down, and the hum of talk arisen, he deliberately
scanned the table. He met some friendly glances--a Cabinet Minister
nodded pleasantly. He also met some that were hostile. His Sophie had
tried a dangerous experiment. In Lady Danesborough, the Maisie Shepherd
of his urchindom, whose name he had never known, she had assured him a
sympathetic and influential partner. Also, although he had tactfully
not taken up that lady's remark, he felt proud of his Princess's
glorious certainty that he would have no false and contemptible shame
in the encounter. She had known that it would be a joy to him; and it
was. The truest of the man was stirred. They talked and laughed about
the far-off day. Incidents flaming in his mind had faded from hers. He
recalled forgotten things. Now and then she said: "Yes, I know that.
The Princess has told me." Evidently his Sophie was a conspirator of
deepest dye.
"And now you're the great Paul Savelli," she said.
"Great?" He laughed. "In what way?"
"Before this election you were a personage. I've never run across you
because we've been abroad so much, you know--my husband has a depraved
taste for governing places--but a year or two ago we were asked to the
Chudleys, and you were held out as an inducement."
"Good Lord!" said Paul, astonished.
"And now, of course, you're the most-discussed young man in London. Is
he damned or isn't he? You know what I refer to."
"Well, am I?' he asked pleasantly.
"I'm glad to see you take it like that. It's not the way of the little
people. Personally, I've stuck up for you, not knowing in the least who
you were. I thought you did the big, spacious thing. It gave me a
thrill when I read about it. Your speech in the House has helped you a
lot. Altogether--and now considering our early acquaintance--I think
I'm justified in calling you 'the great Paul Savelli.'"
Then came the shifting of talk. The Prince turned to his left-hand
neighbour; Lady Danesborough to her right. Paul and the Princess had
their conventional opportunity for conversation. She spoke in French,
daringly using the intimate "tu"; but of all sorts of things--books,
theatres, picture shows. Then tactfully she drew the Prince and his
neighbour and Lady Danesborough into their circle, and, pulling the
strings, she at last brought Paul and the Prince into a discussion over
the pictures of the Doges in the Ducal Palace in Venice. The young
Prince was gracious. Paul, encouraged to talk and stimulated by
precious memories, grew interesting. The Princess managed to secure a
set of listeners at the opposite side of the table. Suddenly, as if
carrying on the theme, she said in a deliberately loud voice,
compelling attention: "Your Royal Highness, I am in a dilemma."
"What is it?"
She paused, looked round and widened her circle. "For the past year I
have been wanting Mr. Savelli to ask me to marry him, and he
obstinately refuses to do so. Will you tell me, sir, what a poor woman
is to do?"
She addressed herself exclusively to the young Prince; but her voice,
with its adorable French intonation, rang high and clear. Paul,
suddenly white and rigid, clenched the hand of the Princess which
happened to lie within immediate reach. A wave of curiosity, arresting
talk, spread swiftly down. There was an uncanny, dead silence, broken
only by a raucous voice proceeding from a very fat Lord of Appeal some
distance away:
"After my bath I always lie flat on my back and bring my knees up to my
chin."
There was a convulsive, shrill gasp of laughter, which would have
instantly developed into an hysterical roar, had not the young Prince,
with quick, tactful disregard of British convention, sprung to his
feet, and with one hand holding champagne glass, and the other
uplifted, commanded silence. So did the stars in their courses still
fight for Paul. "My lords, ladies and gentlemen," said the Prince, "I
have the pleasure to announce the engagement of Her Highness the
Princess Sophie Zobraska and Mr. Paul Savelli. I ask you to drink to
their health and wish them every happiness."
He bowed to the couple, lifted his glass, and standing, swept a quick
glance round the company, and at the royal command the table rose,
dukes and duchesses and Cabinet Ministers, the fine flowers of England,
and drank to Paul and his Princess.
"Attrape!" she whispered, as they got up together, hand in hand. And as
they stood, in their superb promise of fulfilment, they conquered. The
Princess said: "Mais dis quelque chose, toi."
And Paul met the flash in her eyes, and he smiled. "Your Royal
Highness, my lords, ladies and gentlemen," said he, while all the
company were racking their brains to recall a precedent for such
proceedings at a more than formal London dinner party; "the Princess
and myself thank you from our hearts. For me this might almost seem the
end of the fairy-tale of my life, in which--when I was eleven years
old--her ladyship the Countess of Danesborough" (he bowed to the Maisie
of years ago), "whom I have not seen from that day to this, played the
part of Fairy Godmother. She gave me a talisman then to help me in my
way through the world. I have it still." He held up the cornelian
heart. "It guided my steps to my dearest lady, Miss Winwood, in whose
beloved service I lived so long. It has brought me to the feet of my
Fairy Princess. But now the fairy-tale is over. I begin where the
fairy-tales end"--he laughed into his Sophie's eyes--"I begin in the
certain promise of living happy ever afterwards."
In this supreme hour of his destiny there spoke the old, essential
Paul, the believer in the Vision Splendid. The instinctive appeal to
the romantic ringing so true and so sincere awoke responsive chords in
hearts which, after all, as is the simple way of hearts of men and
women, were very human.
He sat down a made man, amid pleasant laughter and bowings and lifting
of glasses, the length of the long table.
Lady Danesborough said gently: "It was charming of you to bring me in.
But I shall be besieged with questions. What on earth shall I tell
them?"
"The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth," he replied.
"What do the Princess and I care?"
Later in the evening he managed to find himself alone for a moment with
the Princess. "My wonderful Sophie, what can I say to you?"
She smiled victoriously. "Cry quits. Confess that you have not the
monopoly of the grand manner. You have worked in your man's way--I in
my woman's way."
"You took a great risk," said he.
Her eyes softened adorably. "Non, mon Paul, cheri. C'etait tout
arrange. It was a certainty."
And then, Paul's dearest lady came up and pressed both their hands. "I
am so glad. Oh, so glad." The tears started. "But it is something like
a fairy-tale, isn't it?"
Well, as far as his chronicler can say at present, that is the end of
the Fortunate Youth. But it is really only a beginning. Although his
party is still in opposition, he is still young; his sun is rising and
he is rich in the glory thereof. A worldful of great life lies before
him and his Princess. What limit can we set to their achievement? Of
course he was the Fortunate Youth. Of that there is no gainsaying. He
had his beauty, his charm, his temperament, his quick southern
intelligence--all his Sicilian heritage--and a freakish chance had
favoured him from the day that, vagabond urchin, he attended his first
and only Sunday-school treat. But personal gifts and favouring chance
are not everything in this world.
On the day before his wedding he had a long talk with Barney Bill.
"Sonny," said the old man, scratching his white poll, "when yer used to
talk about princes and princesses, I used to larf--larf fit to bust
myself. I never let yer seen me do it, sonny, for all the time you was
so dead serious. And now it has come true. And d'yer know why it's come
true, sonny?" He cocked his head on one side, his little diamond eyes
glittering, and laid a hand on Paul's knee. "D'yer know why? Because
yer believed in it. I ain't had much religion, not having, so to speak,
much time for it, also being an old crock of a pagan--but I do remember
as what Christ said about faith--just a mustard seed of it moving
mountains. That's it, sonny. I've observed lots of things going round
in the old 'bus. Most folks believe in nothing. What's the good of 'em?
Move mountains? They're paralytic in front of a dunghill. I know what
I'm talking about, bless yer. Now you come along believing in yer
'igh-born parents. I larfed, knowing as who yer parents were. But you
believed, and I had to let you believe. And you believed in your
princes and princesses, and your being born to great things. And I
couldn't sort of help believing in it too."
Paul laughed. "Things happen to have come out all right, but God knows
why."
"He does," said Barney Bill very seriously. "That's just what He does
know. He knows you had faith."
"And you, dear old man?" asked Paul, "what have you believed in?"
"My honesty, sonny," replied Barney Bill, fixing him with his bright
eyes. "'Tain't much. 'Tain't very ambitious-like. But I've had my
temptations. I never drove a crooked bargain in my life."
Paul rose and walked a step or two.
"You're a better man than I am, Bill."
Barney Bill rose too, rheumatically, and laid both hands on the young
man's shoulders. "Have you ever been false to what you really believed
to be true?"
"Not essentially," said Paul.
"Then it's all right, sonny," said the old man very earnestly, his
bent, ill-clad figure, his old face wizened by years of exposure to
suns and frosts, contrasting oddly with the young favourite of fortune.
"It's all right. Your father believed in one thing. I believe in
another. You believe in something else. But it doesn't matter a
tuppenny damn what one believes in, so long as it's worth believing in.
It's faith, sonny, that does it. Faith and purpose."
"You're right," said Paul. "Faith and purpose."
"I believed in yer from the very first, when you were sitting down
reading Sir Walter with the bead and tail off. And I believed in yer
when yer used to tell about being 'born to great things!"
Paul laughed. "That was all childish rubbish," said he.
"Rubbish?" cried the old man, his head more crooked, his eyes more
bright, his gaunt old figure more twisted than ever. "Haven't yer got
the great things yer believed yer were born to? Ain't yer rich? Ain't
yer famous? Ain't yer a Member of Parliament? Ain't yer going to marry
a Royal Princess? Good God Almighty! what more d'yer want?"
"Nothing in the wide, wide world!" laughed Paul.