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“Confound her!” said I.

“There it is,” he went on. “The prince is furious, the princess triumphant, and Daynesborough in possession.”

“What does he mean to do?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Who can tell? She’s a little devil. Fancy pretending to be deceived, and then turning on us like this! You should have heard her describe you, my boy!” and Dumergue chuckled in sad pleasure.

I object to being ridiculed, especially by women. I determined to take a hand in the game. I wondered if they knew that Daynesborough was married.

“I suppose this young Daynesborough enjoys himself?”

“Well, he ought to. He’s got nothing to lose; but he seems a melancholy, glum creature. I think he must be one of the king’s kidney.”

“Or married, perhaps?” I suggested airily.

“Oh, no! She wouldn’t have him here, if he were married.”

I saw that Dumergue did not yet appreciate the princess in whose household he had the honor to serve.

“She won’t compromise herself, I suppose?”

“Not she!” he replied regretfully. “She may compromise the prince.”

I rebuked him for his cynicism, and promised to consider and let him know if anything occurred to me. My hope lay in Daynesborough. I could see that he was galant malgré lui, and I thought I could persuade him that he had done all that his mistaken promise fairly entailed on him; or, if I could not convince him, I had a suspicion that his wife might, could, and would, in a very peremptory fashion, if I brought about an encounter between them. I was full of eagerness, for, apart from my zeal in the cause of morality and domestic happiness, I did not approve of being called a clumsy young animal. It was neither true nor witty; and surely abuse ought to be one or the other, if it is to be distinguished from mere vulgar scurrility.

I have been told, by those who know the place, that Glottenberg is not, as a rule, a very exciting residence. But for the next four-and-twenty hours I, at least, had no reason to grumble at a lack of incidents.

The play began, if I may so express myself, by the princess sending for the doctor. The doctor, having heard from the princess what she wanted to do, told her what she ought to do; of course I speak from conjecture. He prescribed a visit to her country villa for a week or two, plenty of fresh air, complete repose, and freedom from worry. Dumergue told me that the princess considered that the terms of this prescription entailed a temporary separation from her husband, and that the prince had agreed to remain in Glottenberg. The princess started for her villa at twelve o’clock on Wednesday morning. The distance was but fifteen miles, and she traveled by road in her own carriage, although the main line of railway from Glottenberg to Paris passed within two miles of her destination.

At one o’clock Lord Daynesborough was received by Prince Ferdinand, having requested an interview for the purpose of taking his leave, as he left for Paris by the five o’clock train. Everybody knew that the prince and Daynesborough were not on cordial terms; but this fact hardly explained Daynesborough’s extreme embarrassment and obvious discomfort during the brief conversation. Dumergue escorted him from the prince’s presence, and said that he was shaking like an aspen-leaf or an ill-made blanc-mange.

At three o’clock I went to the hotel, and had an interview with Lady Daynesborough. I then returned to the palace, and made a communication to the prince. The prince was distinctly perturbed.

“I never thought she would go so far,” he said. “It’s not that she cares twopence about Daynesborough.”

“To what, then, sir, do you attribute – ”

“Temper! all temper, Mr. Jason! She is angry about that wretched ball, and she wants to anger me.”

“Her Royal Highness is, however, giving a handle to her enemies,” I ventured to suggest.

“She must come back to-night,” said he. “I won’t be made to look like a fool.”

“My plan will, I hope, dispose of Lord Daynesborough. If so, Your Royal Highness might join the princess.”

“I shan’t do anything of the sort. I shall have her brought back.”

Apparently there was a reserve of resolution latent somewhere in this indolent gentleman.

“Will you go yourself, sir?”

“No. You must do it.”

“I, sir? Surely, M. Dumergue – ”

“Dumergue’s afraid of her. Will you bring her back?”

“Supposing she won’t come?”

“I didn’t request you to ask her to come. I requested you to bring her.”

I looked at him inquiringly. He inhaled a mouthful of smoke, and added, with a nod:

“Yes, if necessary.”

“Will Your Royal Highness hold me harmless from the king – or the law.”

“No. I can’t. Will you do it?”

“With pleasure, sir.”

At ten minutes to five, Lady Daynesborough, heavily veiled, and I drove up to the station in a hired cab, and hid ourselves in the third-class waiting room. At five minutes to five, Lord Daynesborough arrived. He wore a scarf up to his nose, and a cap down to his eyes, and walked to the station, unattended and without luggage. He got into a second-class smoking carriage – one of the long compartments divided into separate boxes by intervening partitions reaching within a yard of the roof, a gang-way running down the middle. On seeing him enter, I caught the guard, gave him twenty marks, and told him to admit no one except myself and my companion into that carriage. Then I hauled Lady Daynesborough in, and we sat down at the opposite end to that occupied by her husband.

The train started. It was only five-and-twenty minutes’ run to the station for the princess’ villa. There was no time to lose.

“Are you ready?” I whispered.

“Yes,” she answered, her voice trembling a little.

We rose, walked along, and sat down opposite to Lord Daynesborough. He was looking out of the window, although it was dark, and did not turn.

“Lord Daynesborough,” said I, “you have forgotten your ticket.” And I held out a through ticket to Paris.

He started as if he had been shot.

“Who the devil – ” he began. “Jason!”

“Yes,” said I. “Here’s your ticket.”

“I thought you were in England,” he gasped.

“No, I am here.”

“Spying on my actions?”

“Acquainted with them.”

“I’ll have no interference, sir. If you know me, you will kindly be silent, and leave me to myself.”

Time was passing.

“You are going to Paris with this lady,” said I.

“You’re insolent, sir – you and your – ”

“Don’t say what you’ll regret. She’s your wife.”

Well, of course he was very much in the wrong, and looked uncommonly ridiculous to boot. Still, the way he collapsed was rather craven. I withdrew for five minutes. Then I returned, and held out the ticket again. He took it.

“If you will leave us for five minutes, Lady Daynesborough?”

She went into the next box. Then I said:

“Now, we’ve only ten minutes. We’re going to change clothes. Be quick.”

I took off my coat.

“By God, I’ll not stand this!”

And he rose.

In a moment I had him by the collar, and was presenting a pistol at his head.

“No nonsense!” I whispered. “Off with them!”

He might have known I would not shoot him in his wife’s presence; but I could and would have undressed him with my own hands. Perhaps he guessed this.

“Let me go,” he muttered.

I released him, and he took off his coat.

The train began to slacken speed. I called to Lady Daynesborough, who rejoined us.

“You have fulfilled your promise,” said I to the young man. “And,” I added, turning to her, “I have fulfilled mine. Good-night!”

I opened the door, and jumped out as we entered the station. I stood waiting till the train started again, but Lord Daynesborough remained in his place. I wonder what passed on that journey. She was a plucky girl, and I can only trust she gave him what he deserved. At any rate, he never, so far as I heard, ran away again.

I asked my way to the villa, and reached it after half an hour’s walking. I did not go in by the lodge gates, but climbed the palings, and reached the door by way of the shrubberies. I knocked softly. A man opened the door instantly. He must have been waiting.

“Is it Milord?” he said in French.

“Yes,” I answered, entering rapidly.

“You are expected, Milord.”

I did not know his voice, and it was dark in the passage.

“I am wet,” I said. “Take me to a fire.”

“There is one in the pantry,” he answered, leading the way.

We reached the pantry, and he turned to light the gas.

Looking at me in the full blaze, he started back, then scrutinized me closely, then exclaimed:

“What? You are not – ”

“Oh, yes, I am! I am Lord Daynesborough.”

“It’s a lie. You are a robber – a – ”

“I am Lord Daynesborough – Lord Daynesborough – Lord Daynesborough.”

At each repetition I advanced a step nearer; at the last I produced my trusty pistol, at the same time holding out a bank-note in the other hand.

He took the note.

“You will stay here,” I said, “for the next two hours. You will not come out, whatever happens. Is there anyone else in the house?”

“One maid, Milord, and a man in the stables.”

“Where is the maid?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Is the man within hearing?”

“No.”

“Good! Is the princess upstairs?”

“She is, Milord.”

I made him direct me to the room, and left him. I thought I would neglect the maid, and go straight to work. I went up to the door to which I had been directed, and knocked.

“Come in!” said the gentle, childlike voice.

I went in. The princess was lying on a sofa by the fire, reading a paper-covered book. She turned her head with a careless glance.

“Ah, you have come! Well, I almost hoped you would be afraid. I really don’t want you.”

This reception would probably have annoyed Lord Daynesborough.

“Why should I be afraid?” I asked, mimicking Daynesborough’s voice as well as I could.

Meanwhile I quietly locked the door.

“Why, because of your wife. I know you tremble before her.”

I advanced to the sofa.

“I have no wife,” I said; “and, seeing what I do, I thank God for it.”

She leaped up with a scream, loud and shrill.

A door opposite me opened, and a girl rushing in, crying:

“Madame!”

“Go back!” I said. “Go back!”

She paused, looking bewildered. I walked quickly up to her.

“Go back and keep quiet;” and, taking her by the shoulders, I pushed her back into the next room.

The princess rushed to the other door, and, on finding it locked, screamed again.

“Nobody,” I remarked, “should embark on these things who has not good nerves.”

She recognized me now. Her fright had been purely physical – I suppose she thought I was a burglar. When she knew me, she came forward in a dignified way, sat down on the sofa, and said:

“Explain your conduct, sir, if you are in a condition to do so.”

“I am sober, madame,” said I; “and I have two messages for you.”

“You present yourself in a strange way. Pray be brief,” and she glanced anxiously at the clock.

“Time does not press, madame,” said I. “Nobody will come.”

“Nobody will – What do you mean? I expect nobody.”

“Precisely, madame – and nobody will come.”

Her ivory fan broke between her fingers with a sharp click.

“What do you want?” she said.

“To deliver my messages.”

“Well?”

“First, Lord Daynesborough offers his apologies for being compelled to leave for Paris without tendering his farewell.”

She turned very red, and then very white. But she restrained herself.

“And the other?”

“His Royal Highness requests that you will avail yourself of my escort for an immediate return to Glottenberg.”

“And his reasons?”

“Oh, madame, as if I should inquire them!”

“You are merely insolent, sir. I shall not go to-night.”

“His Royal Highness was very urgent.”

She looked at me for a moment.

“Why had Lord Daynesborough to leave so suddenly?” she asked suspiciously.

“His wife wished it.”

“Did she know where he was?”

“Apparently. She followed him to Glottenberg. She arrived there yesterday.”

“Now I see – now I understand! I had to deal with a traitor.”

“You must bestow trust, if you desire not to be deceived, madame. You dared to use me as a go-between.”

“You had had practice in the trade.”

The princess had a turn for repartee. I could not have set her right without quite an argument. I evaded the point.

“And yet Your Royal Highness thought me a clumsy animal!”

“Oh,” she said, with a slight laugh, “it’s wounded amour propre, is it? Come, Mr. Jason, I apologize. You are all that is brilliant and delightful – and English.”

“Your Royal Highness is too good.”

“And now, Mr. Jason, your device being accomplished, I suppose I may bid you good-night?”

“I regret, madame, that I must press the prince’s request on your notice.”

She sighed her usual impatient, petulant little sigh.

“Oh, you are tiresome! Pray go!”

“I cannot go without you, madame.”

“I am not going – and my establishment does not admit of my entertaining gentlemen,” she said, with smiling effrontery.

“Your Royal Highness refuses to allow me to attend you to Glottenberg?”

“I order you to leave this room.”

“Finally refuses?”

“Go.”

“Then I must add that I am commissioned, if necessary, to convey your Royal Highness to Glottenberg.”

“To convey me?”

I bowed.

“You dare to threaten me?”

“I follow my instructions. Will you come, madame, or – ”

“Well?”

“Will you be taken?”

I was not surprised at her vexation. Dumergue had, in his haste, called her “a little devil.” She looked it then.

“You mean,” she asked slowly, “that you will use force?”

I bowed.

“Then I yield,” she said, after a pause.

I called the maid, and told her to order the carriage in five minutes. The silence was unbroken till it came round. The princess went into her room, and returned in cloak and hat, carrying a large muff. She was smiling.

“Ah, Mr. Jason, what can a woman do, against men? I am ready. We will go alone. The servants can follow.”

I handed her into the coach, ordering the coachman to drive fast. He was the only man with us, and we were alone inside.

I began, perhaps stupidly, to apologize for my peremptory conduct. The princess smiled amiably.

“I like a man of resolution,” she said, edging, I thought, a trifle nearer me, her hands nestling in her muff.

Apparently she was going to try the effect of amiability. I was prepared for this. She would not tempt me in that way.

“Your Royal Highness is most forgiving.”

“Oh, that is my way,” she answered, with the kindest possible glance, and she came nearer still.

“You are a most generous foe.”

She turned to me with a dazzling smile.

“Don’t say foe,” she said, with a pretty lingering on the last word. And as she said it, I felt a knife driven hard into my ribs, and the muff dropped to the ground.

“God in heaven!” I cried.

The princess flung herself into the corner of the carriage.

“Ha – ha – ha! Ha – ha – ha!” she laughed, merrily, musically, fiendishly.

I tried to clutch her; I believe I should have killed her, I was half mad. But the blood was oozing fast from the wound – only the knife itself held my life in. Things danced before my eyes, and my hands fell on my lap.

The carriage stopped, the door opened, and the coachman appeared. It was all like a dream to me.

“Take his feet,” said the princess. The man obeyed, and between them they lifted, or, rather, hauled and pushed, me out of the carriage, and laid me by the roadside. I was almost in a faint, and the last thing I was conscious of was a pretty, mocking mouth, which said:

“Won’t you escort me, Mr. Jason?” – and then added to the coachman, “To Glottenberg – quick!”

I did not die. I was picked up by some good folk, and well tended. Dumergue arrived and looked after me, and in a couple of weeks I was on my legs.

“Now for Glottenberg!” said I.

Dumergue shook his head.

“You won’t be admitted to the town.”

“Not admitted!”

“No. They have made it up – for the time. There must be no scandal. Come, Jason; surely you see that?”

“She tried to murder me.”

“Oh, quite, quite!” said he. “But you can’t prosecute her.”

“And I am to be turned adrift by the prince?”

“What use would it be to return? No doubt you annoyed her very much.”

“I wish you had undertaken the job.”

“I know her. I should have ridden outside.”

“It is, then, the prince’s wish that I should not return?”

“Yes. But he charges me to say that he will never forget your friendly services.”

I was disgusted. But I would force myself on no man.

“Then I’ll go home.”

“That will be much best,” he answered, with revolting alacrity.

“I say, Dumergue, what does the princess say about me?”

“She laughs every time your name is mentioned, and – ”

“The devil take her!”

“She says you may keep the knife!”

I have it still, a little tortoise-shell-handled thing, with a sharp – a very sharp – point. On the blade is engraved, in German letters, “Sophia.” It is a pretty toy, and in its delicacy, its tininess, its elegance, its seeming harmlessness, and its very sharp point, it reminds me much of Princess Ferdinand of Glottenberg.

A TRAGEDY IN OUTLINE

I

Dear Mr. Brown: * * * *

Yours sincerely,

M. Robinson.

II

My Dear Mr. Brown: * * * *

Always yours very sincerely,

Minnie Robinson.

III

My Dear Jack (!): * * * *

Yours always,

Minnie Robinson.

IV

My Dearest Jack: * * * *

Yours,

Minnie.

V

My Darling Jack: * * * *

Lovingly, your

Min.

VI

My Dearest Jack: * * * *

Lovingly,

Minnie.

VII

My Dear Jack: * * * *

With love,

Yours,

Minnie.

VIII

Dear Jack: * * * *

Ever yours,

Minnie Robinson.

IX

My Dear Mr. Brown: * * * *

Your sincere friend,

Minnie Robinson.

X

Dear Mr. Brown: * * * *

Yours sincerely,

M. Robinson.

XI

Silence

A MALAPROPOS PARENT

Young Mr. Pippitt had a father somewhere in America. Everyone who knew young Mr. Pippitt knew that; for he had often spoken of his father, of the fortune he was making, and of the liberal presents he sent home. Then came a time when young Mr. Pippitt said less about his father and less about the presents. Thus it was that people had almost forgotten the existence of old Mr. Pippitt, when it was recalled to their memories in a very startling and tragical way. Old Mr. Pippitt had landed in England and was on his way to London, when he was killed in a great railway disaster. His name, discovered from a letter in his pocket, was published; and young Mr. Pippitt flew to the scene. The body was not mangled or disfigured, and after one moment of extreme agitation the bereaved son informed the official who had led him to where the dead man lay that it was indeed his father. His evidence before the coroner put the matter beyond doubt. Mr. Pippitt buried his father, assumed deep mourning, and wrote to the company’s solicitors. Repugnant as it was to him to appear to make money out of the unhappy occurrence, the loss of a rich and liberal parent was a matter which no struggling young man could, in justice to himself, submit to without compensation.

Railway companies, having an extensive experience of humanity, are prone to skepticism; and very many inquiries were made as to the life, doings, profession, and profits of old Mr. Pippitt, and especially as to his alleged remittances to his son. That gentleman stood the fire of questions very successfully; he had letters from his father up to within six months of the accident, and he proved the receipt of very considerable yearly sums, in each of the four years during which his father had been absent. In face of this evidence, the matter in issue reduced itself to a difference of opinion between the company and young Mr. Pippitt: first, as to the probability of old Mr. Pippitt continuing to make money; secondly, as to the probability of his continuing to share what he made with his son. More concretely still, the company, without prejudice, offered two thousand pounds, and Mr. Pippitt, without prejudice, asked seven thousand; whereupon the case was entered for trial.

Mr. Naylor, the company’s counsel, declared that young Mr. Pippitt was one of the best witnesses he had ever seen. His demeanor was excellent, his facts irrefragable, his memory neither unnaturally bad nor suspiciously good. The last letter he produced from his father inclosed a draft for three hundred pounds, and announced the writer’s return on a business visit by the next mail but one. By that mail, a gentleman of the name of Pippitt had crossed the ocean, and had, presumably, taken the train on landing, and met his death in the accident. Mr. Naylor felt his case was so bad that he almost charged young Mr. Pippitt with direct perjury, and twisted up a note to Mr. Budge, who was on the other side, offering four thousand pounds and costs. Mr. Budge answered that he must consult his client, and that he would wait till the end of the plaintiff’s evidence. Mr. Naylor nodded, and redoubled his insinuations of an unscrupulous conspiracy.

Mr. Budge rose to re-examine with a smile on his face. Mr. Pippitt said he had no reason to anticipate a falling-off in his father’s business; it was well established: nor in his father’s liberality; his father had always led him to suppose that he would provide for him. Yes, there was a strong – yes, a very strong, affection between them. Here Mr. Pippitt’s voice faltered; the judge nodded sympathetically; and the foreman of the jury wrote “£5,000?” on a slip of paper and passed it round the box.

That artistic falter produced another effect also. The gangways of the court were crowded with the usual throng of idle folk, assembled to hear Mr. Naylor’s cross-examination; and as the plaintiff bore witness to the bonds of love which bound him to his father there came from the recesses of the crowd a voice, which said:

“That there is! Let me through! Who’s saying my boy doesn’t love his old father?”

The group of people parted; and an elderly man came to the front, advancing in an uncertain, apologetic manner.

“Silence! silence!” cried the usher, a world of pained indignation in his accents.

“You mustn’t disturb the court, sir!” thundered the judge.

“I came to speak a word for Joe. I was passing, and dropped in, and, seeing Joe, I made bold to speak. He’s been a good son, has Joe.”

The judge looked appealingly at counsel.

“Who is Joe, and who is this person?” And getting no answer, he turned to the plaintiff. Young Mr. Pippitt met his eye with an uneasy smile.

“I haven’t the least idea, my lord,” he said.

The judge looked at the writ.

“Your name is Joseph?” he asked.

“No, it – yes – that is, certainly, my lord.”

“You don’t seem very sure, sir,” remarked the judge; and he added, addressing the intruder, “Who are you, sir?”

The old man seemed in a nervous and broken-down condition; but he stammered out, “He’s my son, my son, my lord.”

“It’s a lie,” cried young Mr. Pippitt.

“Hold your tongue till you’re asked to speak,” said his lordship snappishly. “I want to hear what this man has to say.”

The old man had much to say: much of young Mr. Pippitt’s virtue, industry, and much of his own fortunes, misfortunes, and wrongs. He usurped the functions of both lawyer and witness, and all the court listened to him.

“I’m glad to be here, gentlemen,” he said – “glad to be here. I thought I was never going to get out of that cell they put me in, not for long years. But here I am, Joe, thank God!”

“Who put you in a cell?” asked the judge.

“I’m telling you as fast as I can,” answered the old man petulantly. “I’d just written to Joe to send him a bit of money and tell him to look out for me, when they brought a charge of fraud against me – against me, a respectable merchant. And I was tried: tried and found guilty – unjustly, my lord – and sentenced to five years. To think of it! They didn’t know me out in Louisiana; no east-coast jury would have convicted.”

“Why didn’t they know you?”

“I wasn’t going to have my name known. I called myself Brown; and they convicted me – as I wrote to you, Joe – for five years. But the Governor did his duty. He was a white man, the Governor. He let me out.”

“Why?” asked the judge curiously.

“Was a white man to get five years for besting a nigger?” demanded the old man, with his first approach to vigor. “Not if the Governor knew it! Oh, he was a white man. So here I am, Joe – here I am, thank God!”

The judge leaned forward and asked, “Have you any letters from the man you say is your son?”

The old man pulled a dirty letter out of his pocket, and handed it up with a bewildered look.

Young Mr. Pippitt still looked on with his fixed smile, while the judge read:

“Dear Father:

“It’s a bad job that you’re nabbed. Five years is no joke. Why were you such a fool? You were right about the name. Keep it quite dark, for God’s sake! I’ll see what I can do.

“Yours,

“J. P.

“Received your last all right.”

“Is that your handwriting?” the judge asked of the plaintiff; but young Mr. Pippitt swayed to and fro and fell in a faint in the witness-box. The judge turned to Mr. Budge.

“Do you desire,” he asked, “that this man should be sworn, and repeat his evidence on oath, so that you may cross-examine him?”

Mr. Budge looked at his inanimate client, and answered, “I do not, my lord. I shall probably have your lordship’s approval in withdrawing from the case?”

While the judge directed the jury to return a verdict for the defendant, the old man had anxiously watched the usher, who was unloosing young Mr. Pippitt’s neckcloth. When the plaintiff revived, the old man leaned over to Mr. Budge, and said, with a pleased smile, “Oh, he’ll be all right directly, won’t he? I thought I could help a bit. I have helped a bit, haven’t I?”

“You have helped him to twelve months’ hard labor,” said Mr. Budge.

But the old man did not understand what it all meant, till one day they took him to Kensal Green, and showed him a handsome tombstone. The inscription ran:

“In Memory of James Pippitt.”

The old man read and laughed.

“To think of that!” he said. “It beats everything!”

He read on with a chuckle:

“Erected by his sorrowing son, Joseph Pippitt. Born 13th December, 1821. Died 5th February, 1891. ‘I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me.’”

This prophecy might or might not be true of the person interred beneath the tombstone. On its unfortunate inapplicability to his father, and on the tainting of the fountain of Louisiana justice, young Mr. Pippitt enjoyed twelve months’ quiet reflection.