Half an hour later a carriage drew up at the lodge gate. A cold supper,
of which Mrs. Brevoort and Ned Strong had partaken with forced gayety,
had vindicated Prince Carlo’s assertion that the danger of immediate
starvation had never been imminent. But the sound of carriage-wheels
came as a great relief to them all, for the gloomy features of their
environment had been emphasized as time passed by. Ned Strong had held a
whispered consultation in the corridor with Posadowski, who had come down
from the manor-house for instructions, and the train of thought suggested
by his visit had not tended to decrease the melancholy nature of their
surroundings.
As the carriage rolled away from the lodge entrance, with Mrs. Brevoort
and Ned Strong facing Kate and Prince Carlo, who occupied the back seat,
a simultaneous sigh of relief broke from the quartette.
“This is a new sensation,” whispered Mrs. Brevoort to Ned Strong.
“Breaking jail with a captive prince! Is it not delightful?”
“Which is the captive prince?” returned Ned, bending down to get a better
view of her face.
“Never mind,” she answered. “I was about to say that nobody fully
appreciates freedom until he has spent a certain amount of time in
captivity.”
Her remark silenced the youth for a moment. The longer he weighed it, the
more discouraging did it seem to him.
“Perhaps,” he suggested, “there may be a vast difference in jailers.”
“Ah, but you beg the question,” exclaimed Mrs. Brevoort argumentatively.
“I fear,” he put in, hastily, “that that is all I have the courage to do
with it. There is always safety in begging a question. Such a course at
least defers the day of doom.”
Mrs. Brevoort laughed outright, and looked up at Ned Strong mockingly.
“Are you threatened with a day of doom, Mr. Strong?”
“Perhaps,” he answered mournfully. Then he exclaimed, with cheerfulness,
“At all events, it is to be preceded by an evening of perfect bliss.” She
drew a bit closer to him at the words, as if to emphasize their truth.
The carriage, rolling noisily toward the city, contained at that moment
a condensed illustration of the curious vagaries that pertain to human
affairs. Cupid was perched upon the box beside the driver, and chuckled
mischievously to himself as he realized what was going on within the
vehicle. Well he knew, the little rascal, that two of his victims looked
into the future with hope and joy. The other arrows that he had used had
made wounds for which time could promise no relief. But it is in such
contrasts as these that Cupid finds the pleasure of his impish life. The
humdrum contentment that would have made the quartette less romantic but
more evenly blessed would have bored Cupid with the crowd. He would have
placed a substitute upon the box, and have flown away, to continue his
sport with deluded human hearts, where he could see his victims wince
beneath his shafts.
“Tell me,” said Prince Carlo, “why you are so silent. Are you in great
pain?” His voice had in it a caressing note as he whispered to Kate
Strong and tried to look into her downcast face.
“I hardly know,” she answered wearily. “I feel very tired.”
What had been to the prince a shadowy temptation, painting day-dreams
before his eyes, as he gazed that afternoon on the sun-kissed waters
of the Sound, had taken to itself a concrete form. Here beside him was
the one woman in all the world for whom he would willingly renounce all
the glittering but unsubstantial glory of his kingship. He had said, on
the impulse of the moment, that he would go back to the troubled land
to which his duty called him; but his heart rebelled against his avowed
purpose as he held Kate Strong’s cold hand for a moment in his as the
carriage rumbled onward toward the beckoning lights of the great city.
The girl withdrew her hand. He did not know how great an effort it had
cost her to repress a sob.
Presently Kate looked up at him, her eyes bright with the emotion she
controlled.
“In Rexopolis,” she said, “there is great disorder. The newspapers this
morning printed long accounts of what they called a crisis at your
capital.”
Prince Carlo was silent for a moment. His worst forebodings seemed about
to be realized.
“And what of my father?” he asked, at length, his voice trembling
perceptibly.
“He is very ill,” she answered. Suddenly he felt her hand in his again.
“And the people grow restless? Tell me, is it so?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“And the wonder grows that I, the crown prince, do not show myself?”
“Yes.”
They sat speechless for a time, hand clasped in hand. The sympathy of
this woman was very sweet to the self-exiled prince at this dark crisis
in his life.
“It is so hard,” he murmured. “Tell me,” he whispered, hoarsely, bending
close to her and looking down into her pale, drawn face—“tell me, Miss
Strong, what must I do? I tremble at the thoughts that fill my mind. Tell
me—for you must know what I would say—what must I do?”
She was silent for an instant, and he knew that she trembled with
emotion. Then her eyes sought his in the dim half-light, and she said,
firmly:
“There is no choice, Prince Carlo. You would never be happy should you
not go back.”
“But why?” he argued. “To what do I go back? Surely not to happiness?”
“No,” she answered, sadly. “You go back to—honor.”
“To honor,” he admitted, and then muttered, “and to death.”
Her hand pressed his with feverish force. “Death is better than——” She
paused suddenly.
“Than what?” he exclaimed.
“Death,” she said, firmly, “is better than disgrace.”
Prince Carlo sank back in his seat, his face white against the cushions.
“You speak the truth,” he murmured, restlessly. “I really have no choice.
To stay here is dishonor, to return is death. God help me!” His words
sounded more like a groan than like a prayer.
They had reached the stone pavements of the city. The carriage jolted
annoyingly over the ill-laid streets.
Prince Carlo leaned down until his face was close to Kate’s.
“You are a grand, a noble woman,” he whispered. “Remember, dear, for all
time my heart is yours, and yours alone. Whatever Fate may have in store
for me, it cannot deprive me of this one sweet thought. I love you, my
darling, I love you!”
Her hand was like ice in his, and she spoke not, but he knew that she
wept softly.
A moment later, the carriage drew up in front of Gerald Strong’s house.
“Let me see you once more alone before I go,” whispered Prince Carlo. “I
have one thing more to say to you.”
She pressed his hand in acquiescence. An instant later, the driver opened
the carriage door, and Cupid with a mocking laugh flitted from the box,
rejoicing at the mischief he had wrought.