"YOU WILL BE MRS. KING"
Late that night it was reported at the Castle that a large force of men
were encamped on the opposite side of the river. A hundred camp-fires
were gleaming against the distant uplands.
"The Grand Duke Paulus!" exclaimed Count Halfont. "Thank God, he did not
come a day earlier. We owe him nothing to-day--but yesterday! Ah, he
could have demanded much of us. Send his messengers to me, Colonel
Quinnox, as soon as they arrive in the morning. I will arise early.
There is much to do in Graustark. Let there be no sluggards."
A mellow, smiling moon crept up over the hills, flooding the laud with a
serene radiance. Once more the windows in the Castle gleamed brightly;
low-voiced people strolled through the shattered balconies; others
wandered about the vast halls, possessed by uncertain emotions, torn by
the conflicting hands of joy and gloom. In a score of rooms wounded men
were lying; in others there were dead heroes. At the barracks, standing
dully against the distant shadows, there were many cots of suffering.
And yet there was rejoicing, even among those who writhed in pain or
bowed their heads in grief. Victory's wings were fanning the gloom away;
conquest was painting an ever-widening streak of brightness across the
dark, drear canvas of despair.
In one of the wrecked approaches to the terrace, surrounded by fragments
of stone and confronted by ugly destruction, sat a young man and a
slender girl. There were no lights near them; the shadows were black
and forbidding. This particular end of the terrace had suffered most in
the fierce rain of cannon-balls. So great was the devastation here that
one attained the position held by the couple only by means of no little
daring and at the risk of unkind falls. From where they sat they could
see the long vista of lighted windows and yet could not themselves be
seen.
His arm was about her; her head nestled securely against his shoulder
and her slim hands were willing prisoners in one of his.
She was saying "Truxton, dear, I did _not_ love Eric Vos Engo. I just
thought it was love. I never really knew what love is until you came
into my life. Then I knew the difference. That's what made it so hard. I
had let him believe that I might care for him some day. And I _did_ like
him. So I--"
"You are sure--terribly sure--that I am the only man you ever really
loved?" he interrupted.
She snuggled closer. "Haven't I just told you that I didn't know what it
was until--well, until now?"
"You will never, never know how happy I am, Loraine!" he breathed into
her ear.
"I hope I shall always bring happiness to you, Truxton," she murmured,
faint with the joy of loving.
"You will make me very unhappy if you don't marry me to-morrow."
"I couldn't think of it!"
"I don't ask you to think. If you do, you may change your mind
completely. Just marry me without thinking, dearest."
"I will marry you, Truxton, when we get to New York," she said, but not
very firmly. He saw his advantage.
"But, my dear, I'm tired of travelling."
It was rather enigmatic. "What has that to do with it?" she asked.
"Well, it's this way: if we get married in New York we'll have to
consider an extended and wholly obligatory wedding journey. If we get
married here, we can save all that bother by bridal-tripping to New
York, instead of away from it. And, what's more, we'll escape the
rice-throwing and the old shoes and the hand-painted trunk labels.
Greater still: we will avoid a long and lonely trip across the ocean on
separate steamers. That's something, you know."
"We _could_ go on the same steamer."
"Quite so, my dear. But don't you think it would be nicer if we went as
one instead of two?"
"I suppose it would be cheaper."
"They say a fellow saves money by getting married."
"I hate a man who is always trying to save money."
"Well, if you put it that way, I'll promise never to save a cent. I'm a
horrible spendthrift."
"Oh, you'll have to save, Truxton!"
"How silly we are!" he cried in utter joyousness. He held her close for
a long time, his face buried in her hair. "Listen, darling: won't you
say you'll be my wife before I leave Graustark? I want you so much. I
can't go away without you."
She hesitated. "When are you going, Truxton? You--you haven't told me."
It was what he wanted. "I am going next Monday," he said promptly. As a
matter of fact, he had forgotten the day of the week they were now
living in.
"Monday? Oh, dear!"
"Will you?"
"I--I must cable home first," she faltered.
"That's a mere detail, darling. Cable afterward. It will beat us home
by three weeks. They'll know we're coming."
"I must ask John, really I must, Truxton," she protested faintly.
"Hurray!" he shouted--in a whisper. "He is so desperately in love, he
won't think of refusing anything we ask. Shall we set it for Saturday?"
They set it for Saturday without consulting John Tullis, and then fell
to discussing him. "He is very much in love with her," she said
wistfully.
"And she loves him, Loraine. They will be very happy. She's wonderful."
"Well, so is John. He's the most wonderful man in all this world."
"I am sure of it," he agreed magnanimously. "I saw him talking with her
and the Duke of Perse as I came out awhile ago. They were going to the
Duke's rooms up there. The Duke will offer no objections. I think he'll
permit his daughter to select his next son-in-law."
"How could he have given her to that terrible, terrible old man?" she
cried, with a shudder.
"She won't be in mourning for him long, I fancy. Nobody will talk of
appearances, either. She could marry Jack to-morrow and no one would
criticise her."
"Oh, that would be disgusting, Truxton!"
"But, my dear, he isn't to have a funeral, so why not? They buried his
body in quicklime this afternoon. No mourners, no friends, no tears!
Hang it all, she's foolish if she puts on anything but red."
"They can't be married for--oh, ever so long," she said very primly.
"No, indeed," he said with alacrity. But he did not believe what he
said. If he knew anything about John Tullis, it would not be "ever so
long" before Prince Robin's friend turned Benedict and husband to the
most noted beauty in all Graustark.
"I shall be sorry to leave Graustark," she said dreamily, after a long
period of silent retrospection. "I've had the happiest year of my life
here."
"I've had the busiest month of my life here. I'll never again say that
the world is a dull place. And I'll never advise any man to go out of
his own home city in search of the most adorable woman in the world.
She's always there, bless her heart, if he'll only look around a bit for
her."
"But you wouldn't have found me if you hadn't come to Graustark."
"I shudder when I think of what might have happened to you, my Princess
Sweetheart, if I hadn't come to Edelweiss. No; I would not have found
you." Feeling her tremble in his arms, he went on with whimsical good
humour: "You would have been eaten up by the ogre long before this. Or,
perhaps, you would have succeeded in becoming a countess."
"As it is, I shall be a baroness."
"In Graustark, but not in New York. That reminds me. You'll be more than
a baroness--more than a princess. You will be a queen. Don't you catch
the point? You will be Mrs. King."
* * * * *
The Grand Duke Paulus was distinctly annoyed. He had travelled many
miles, endured quite a number of hardships, and all to no purpose. When
dawn came, his emissaries returned from the city with the lamentable
information that the government had righted itself, that Marlanx's
sensational revolution was at an end, and that the regents would be
highly honoured if his Excellency could overlook the distressingly
chaotic conditions at court and condescend to pay the Castle a visit.
The regents, the Prince and the citizens of Graustark desired the
opportunity to express their gratitude for the manner in which he had
voluntarily (and unexpectedly) come to their assistance in time of
trouble. The fact that he had come too late to render the invaluable aid
he so nobly intended did not in the least minimise the volume of
gratefulness they felt.
The Grand Duke admitted that he was at sea, diplomatically. He was a
fifth wheel, so to speak, now that the revolution was over. Not so much
as the tip of his finger had he been able to get into the coveted pie.
There was nothing for him to do but to turn round with his five thousand
Cossacks and march disconsolately across the steppes to an Imperial
railroad, where he could embark for home. However, he would visit the
Castle in a very informal way, extend his congratulations, offer his
services--which he knew would be declined with thanks--and profess his
unbounded joy in the discovery that Graustark happily was so able to
take care of herself. Incidentally, he would mention the bond issue;
also, he would find the opportunity to suggest to the ministry that his
government still was willing to make large grants and stupendous
promises if any sort of an arrangement could be made by which the system
might be operated in conjunction with branch lines of the Imperial
roads.
And so it was that at noon he rode in pomp and splendour through the
city gates, attended by his staff and a rather overpowering body-guard.
His excuse for the early call was delicately worded. He said in his
reply to the message from the Count that it would give him great
pleasure to remain for some time at the Castle, were it not for the fact
that he had left his own province in a serious state of unrest; it was
imperative that he should return in advance of the ever-possible and
always popular uprising. Therefore he would pay his respects to his
serene Highness, renew his protestations of friendship, extend his
felicitations, and beg leave to depart for his own land without delay.
As he rode from Regengetz Circus into Castle Avenue, a small knot of
American tourists crowded to the curb and bent eager, attentive ears to
the words of a stubby little person whom we should recognise by his
accent; but, for fear that there may be some who have forgotten him in
the rush of events, we will point to his cap and read aloud: "Cook's
Interpreter."
Mr. Hobbs was saying: "The gentleman on the gray horse, ladies and
gentlemen, is his _Highness_, the Grand Duke Paulus. He has come to pay
his respects to his Serene Highness. Now, if you will kindly step this
way, I will show you the spot where the bomb was thrown. 'Aving been an
eye-witness to the shocking occurrence, I respectfully submit that I,"
etc. With a pride and dignity that surpassed all moderate sense of
appreciation, he delivered newly made history unto his charges, modestly
winding up his discourse with the casual remark that the Prince had but
recently appointed him twelfth assistant steward at the Castle, and that
he expected to assume the duties of this honorary position just as soon
as Cook & Sons could find a capable man to send up in his place.
The American tourists, it may be well to observe, arrived by the first
train that entered the city from the outside world.
The audience was at two o'clock. Prince Robin was in a state of
tremendous excitement. Never before had he been called upon to receive a
grand duke. He quite forgot yesterday's battle in the face of this most
imposing calamity. More than that, he was in no frame of mind to enjoy
the excitement attending the rehabilitation of the Castle; oppressed by
the approaching shadow of the great man, he lost all interest in what
was going on in the Castle, about the grounds and among his courtiers.
"What'll I do, Uncle Jack, if he asks any questions?" he mourned. They
were dressing him in the robes of state.
"Answer 'em," said his best friend.
"But supposin' I can't? Then what?"
"He won't ask questions, Bobby. People never do when a potentate is on
his throne. It's shockingly bad form."
"I hope he won't stay long," prayed Bobby, a grave pucker between his
brows. He was a very tired little boy. His eyes were heavy with sleep
and his lips were not very firm.
"Count Halfont will look after him, Bobby; so don't worry. Just sit up
there on the throne and look wise. The regents will do the rest. Watch
your Uncle Caspar. When he gives the signal, you arise. That ends the
audience. You walk out--"
"I know all about that, Uncle Jack. But I bet I do something wrong. This
thing of receiving grand dukes is no joke. 'Specially when we're so
terribly upset. Really, I ought to be looking after the men who are
wounded, attending to the funerals of--"
"Now, Bobby, don't flunk like that! Be a man!"
Bobby promptly squared his little shoulders and set his jaw. "Oh, I'm
not scared!" He was thoughtful for a moment. "But, I'll tell you, it's
awful lonesome up in that big chair, so far away from all your friends.
I wish Uncle Caspar would let me sit down with the crowd."
The Grand Duke, with all the arrogance of a real personage, was late. It
was not for him to consider the conditions that distressed the Court of
Graustark. Not at all. He was a grand duke and he would take his own
time in paying his respects. What cared he that every one in the Castle
was tired and unstrung and sad and--sleepy? Any one but a grand duke
would have waited a day or two before requiring a royal audience. When
he finally presented himself at the Castle doors, a sleepy group of
attendants actually yawned in his presence.
A somnolent atmosphere, still touched by the smell of gunpowder, greeted
him as he strode majestically down the halls. Somehow each person who
bowed to him seemed to do it with the melancholy precision of one who
has been up for six nights in succession and doesn't care who knows it.
No one had slept during the night just passed. Excitement and the
suffering of others had denied slumber to one and all--even to those who
had not slept for many days and nights. Now the reaction was upon them.
Relaxation had succeeded tenseness.
When the Grand Duke entered the great, sombre throne room, he was
confronted by a punctiliously polite assemblage, but every eyelid was as
heavy as lead and as prone to sink.
The Prince sat far back in the great chair of his ancestors, his sturdy
legs sticking straight out in front of him, utterly lost in the depths
of gold and royal velvet. Two-score or more of his courtiers and as many
noble ladies of the realm stood soberly in the places assigned them by
the laws of precedence. The Grand Duke advanced between the respectful
lines and knelt at the foot of the throne.
"Arise, your Highness," piped Bobby, with a quick glance at Count
Halfont. It was a very faint, faraway voice that uttered the gracious
command. "Graustark welcomes the Grand Duke Paulus. It is my pleasure
to--to--to--" a helpless look came into his eyes. He looked everywhere
for support. The Grand Duke saw that he had forgotten the rehearsed
speech, and smiled benignly as he stepped forward and kissed the hand
that had been extended somewhat uncertainly.
"My most respectful homage to your Majesty. The felicitations of my
emperor and the warmest protestations of friendship from his people."
With this as a prologue, he engaged himself in the ever-pleasurable task
of delivering a long, congratulatory address. If there was one thing
above another that the Grand Duke enjoyed, it was the making of a
speech. He prided himself on his prowess as an orator and as an
after-dinner speaker; but, more than either of these, he gloried in his
ability to soar extemporaneously.
For ten minutes he addressed himself to the throne, benignly,
comfortably. Then he condescended to devote a share of his precious
store to the courtiers behind him. If he caught more than one of them
yawning when he turned in their direction, he did not permit it to
disturb him in the least. His eyes may have narrowed a bit, but that was
all.
After five minutes of high-sounding platitudes, he again turned to the
Prince. It was then that he received his first shock.
Prince Robin was sound asleep. His head was slipping side-wise along the
satiny back of the big chair, and his chin was very low in the laces at
his neck. The Grand Duke coughed emphatically, cleared his throat, and
grew very red in the face.
The Court of Graustark was distinctly dismayed. Here was shocking state
of affairs. The prince going to sleep while a grand duke talked!
"His Majesty appears to have--ahem--gone to sleep," remarked the Grand
Duke tartly, interrupting himself to address the Prime Minister.
"He is very tired, your Excellency," said Count Halfont, very much
distressed. "Pray consider what he has been through during the--"
"Ah, my dear Count, do not apologise for him. I quite understand. Ahem!
Ahem!" Still he was very red in the face. Some one had laughed softly
behind his back.
"I will awaken him, your Excellency," said the Prime Minister, edging
toward the throne.
"Not at all, sir!" protested the visitor. "Permit him to have his sleep
out, sir. I will not have him disturbed. Who am I that I should defeat
the claims of nature? It is my pleasure to wait until his Majesty's nap
is over. Then he may dismiss us, but not until we have cried: 'Long live
the Prince!'"
For awhile they stood in awkward silence, this notable gathering of men
and women. Then the Prime Minister, in hushed tones, suggested that it
would be eminently proper, under the circumstances, for all present to
be seated. He was under the impression that His Serene Highness would
sleep long and soundly.
Stiff-backed and uncomfortable, the Court sat and waited. No one
pretended to conceal the blissful yawns that would not be denied. A
drowsy, ineffably languid feeling took possession of the entire
assemblage. Here and there a noble head nodded slightly; eyelids fell in
the silent war against the god of slumber, only to revive again with
painful energy and ever-weakening courage.
The Prime Minister sat at the foot of the throne and nodded in spite of
himself. The Minister of the Treasury was breathing so heavily that his
neighbor nudged him just in time to prevent something even more
humiliating. John Tullis, far back near the wall, had his head on his
hand, bravely fighting off the persistent demon. Prince Dantan of
Dawsbergen was sound asleep.
The Grand Duke was wide awake. He saw it all and was equal to the
occasion. After all, he was a kindly old gentleman, and, once his moment
of mortification was over, he was not above charity.
Bobby's poor little head had slipped over to a most uncomfortable
position against the arm of the chair. Putting his finger to his lips,
the Grand Duke tip-toed carefully up to the throne. With very gentle
hands he lifted Bobby's head, and, infinitely tender, stuffed a throne
cushion behind the curly head. Still with his finger to his lips, a
splendid smile in his eyes, he tip-toed back to his chair.
As he passed Count Halfont, who had risen, he whispered:
"Dear little man! I do not forget, my lord, that I was once a boy. God
bless him!"
Then he sat down, conscious of a fine feeling of goodness, folded his
arms across his expansive chest, and allowed his beaming eyes to rest
upon the sleeping boy far back in the chair of state. Incidentally, he
decided to delay a few days before taking up the bond question with the
ministry. The Grand Duke was not an ordinary diplomat.
In one of the curtained windows, far removed from the throne, sat
Truxton King and Loraine Tullis.
All about them people were watching the delicate little scene, smiling
drowsily at the Grand Duke's tender comedy. No one was looking at the
two in the curtained recess. Her hand was in his, her head sank slowly
toward his inviting shoulder; her heavy lids drooped lower and lower,
refusing to obey the slender will that argued against complete
surrender. At last her soft, regular breathing told him that she was
asleep. Awaiting his opportunity, he tenderly kissed the soft, brown
hair, murmured a gentle word of love, and settled his own head against
the thick cushions.
Everywhere they dozed and nodded. The Grand Duke smiled and blinked his
little eyes. He was very wide awake.
That is how he happened to see the Prince move restlessly and half open
his sleep-bound eyes. The Grand Duke leaned forward with his hand to his
ear, and listened. He had seen the boy's lips move. From dreamland came
Bobby's belated:
"Good-ni--ight."
THE END