Читать книгу The Kingdom of Earth - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 8

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HE first knocked at the door, and receiving no reply he turned the key softly and entered. The room was empty. He took off his hat, unwound the scarf from his neck, and stood looking around him with mingled sensations. This was her room, her home. Had it any message for him, he wondered, anything to tell him that he did not know concerning her?

There were two sitting-rooms, divided by an arch of whitewood, but uncurtained, and open to each other. In the farther one a small, round dining-table was covered with a table-cloth, as though for some meal; the other apartment, in which he stood, was evidently used purely as a sitting-room. There were a piano, some easy chairs, a small table, with a vase of flowers, and a pile of reviews and newspapers. A fire burned in the grate, and the mantelpiece was laden with photographs, mostly of women. He looked in vain for any signs of marked individuality in the room. He glanced at the books—a volume of Rossetti's poems, Pater's "Imaginary Portraits," a New York paper, and the Rubaiyat, lay side by side. Little was to be learned from them. They showed, indeed, few signs of use—the freak of a poseuse, perhaps. The newspaper was doubled down in a certain place; the sight of a familiar name attracted him, and he took it up. It was an article which he had read once or twice lately. It was entitled, "The Most Decadent Monarchy in Europe," and it referred to Bergeland.

With a faint smile upon his lips, he took it to the fireplace and read it through once more, word for word. He read of the licentious life, lived by king and crown prince alike, which made the court of this elderly monarch the most dissolute spot in Europe, a place to be avoided by all decent people. He read of unconstitutional taxation, of a corrupt ministry, of a people goaded to the very point of rebellion. When he had finished he looked up, to find her standing before him and her maid gliding into the farther apartment.

"You are amusing yourself, I trust?" she asked, as she removed the hatpins from her hat.

He smiled grimly as he threw the paper away, but he said nothing. He was looking at her.

"At least," she continued, "you should be interested."

He frowned suddenly, and his eyes flashed into hers.

"Why?" he demanded.

"I saw you at the theatre the other evening, Mr. John Peters," she remarked, unfolding her scarf and holding it out to her maid. "Do sit down, won't you? You look too big for the room, standing up. Bring that easy chair up to the fire."

"You were mistaken," he said.

"As you will," she answered indifferently. "I will be mistaken if you like. It is all the same to me so long as you are here."

He looked steadily across at her. What manner of woman was this, who made him welcome under such circumstances? She was sitting opposite to him now, her head resting upon her slim, ringless fingers, her eyes unflinchingly meeting his. The unrelieved black of her simply-made gown, and her colourless cheeks, gave her to some extent an air of physical frailty; yet even as he watched, the colour slowly mantled her dusky skin, her eyes softened, and the mouth, which seemed to him the most beautiful he had ever seen, was parted in a glorious, an understanding, smile.

"Am I very forward?" she laughed. "But we have passed the days of children, you and I. We belong to the race of those who understand."

He nodded, and turning his head, pointed to the paper.

"You have read that," he said. "You believe that you recognized me at the theatre, and yet you asked me here to-night."

"Certainly," she answered, "it was the man in whom I was interested—not his sins."

"That puzzles me," he admitted. "I should have thought that a man and his sins were one."

She laughed softly. "Not by any manner of means," she declared. "I have known the most charming people in the world who have done the most shocking things. Half the unhappiness in the world comes from this stupid inability to dissociate the two. Let us have some supper," she broke off abruptly. "Murray, ring the bell and have up some cold things and some wine. I am starving. Excuse me."

She pushed some cigarettes toward him, and vanished into the inner room, reappearing in a few minutes in a plain gown of some deep-blue material. She had pushed her hair back from her head, and she seemed to him somehow to have grown younger. A waiter brought in a tray.

"You must have something with me," she insisted. "I hope you are not in a hurry. Remember, this is when my few hours' absolute freedom commences. All day long I have the thought of my work before me. Now it is over—done with for the time. I suppose if seems very unwholesome to you, this turning night into day. But what can one do?"

She played the hostess charmingly, and afterward, as they passed back into the smaller room, she drew him gently toward the window. She held a cigarette between her fingers, the smoke of which curled softly upward. "One of the privileges of living so high up," she remarked, "is that one need never draw one's blinds. I like a night view, don't you It is so mysterious."

"You are an impressionist," he remarked.

"In everything, in sensations as well as art," she admitted. "There is nothing to be learned from the obvious. Come and talk to me as you did at St. Moritz."

"You have not forgotten?" he asked.

"I never forget," she answered. "You taught me to waltz, and in the intervals we talked of the greater things. You had a science of life—a whole set of theories of your own. Has time destroyed them?"

He pointed to the newspaper.

"What do you think?" he asked.

She hesitated for a moment.

"You mean to admit, then, that you are—"

He glanced around the room.

"I trust you with more than my life," he answered. "I am John Valentine Peters, Crown Prince of Bergeland."

She pointed back to the paper. "And those stories?"

He looked out into the night.

"Ah!" he said softly, "those stories!"

"You have read them?" she asked.

"Every line of them," he answered, "and many more as bad. I have a file of the papers at home in my room."

She was silent for several moments. He wondered whether it was to give him an opportunity to explain. She asked no questions. The burden of further speech, however, she laid upon him.

"You believe them?" he asked at length.

"I believe you," she answered calmly. "What you tell me is sufficient."

"And I have told you nothing," he remarked.

"I have asked no questions," she reminded him.

"The stories," he said slowly, "are, in the main, true of the person of whom they are written."

"And you are the Prince of Bergeland?"

"I am," he answered.

He saw a shadow flit across her face, a shadow that was like the passing of some pain. He leaned toward her.

"Don't worry about me," he said softly. "I am not worth it. We are degenerate, all of us—we of the house of Bergeland, you know. If I dared say so much to you, I would say this: If you have a little trust in me, keep it."

She smiled at him.

"That," she answered, "is easy. The only Prince of Bergeland whom I know is a different person."

"You honour me," he said quietly. "I shall not forget it. I shall never forget it. Don't you think that we have talked enough now of my unworthy self? I want you to tell me how it is that I find you here alone—and about your profession. You seemed to me in St. Moritz a very different sort of person."

"In what way?" she asked him.

"Well, for one thing you were surrounded with friends and relations," he answered. "Some of them were quite formidable, too. I cannot imagine how you managed to break loose from such an environment."

She laughed quietly.

"It was just that," she said, "which has made an adventuress of me. No girl can live her own life to-day who is situated as I was situated. I broke loose because I had to. I wasn't particularly attracted by the stage—I am not now, but it was the only profession which would give me the freedom I desired. That is why I chose it—and you can imagine the battle I had."

He nodded.

"You have been successful," he remarked.

"Not so successful as you imagine," she answered. "I am really rather an indifferent actress, but I work hard. I had to make some sort of a show to justify myself."

"And you are contented with your life?" he asked.

She raised her eyebrows a little.

"Contented! I pray that I may never be that," she answered. "I am a little freer, that is all, and I have broken away from a life which was little less than slavery."

"You have a career," he said, half to himself.

She nodded.

"But remember," she begged, "that I chose my career as a means of escape. My career did not choose me. That is where I come to grief. I have learned a good deal, but the person who has to learn is already hopeless. I know the truth myself quite well. I have not in me the making of a great actress."

"And yet," he said, "I do not believe that mediocrity in anything would ever satisfy you. If you are as sure as you say, you should leave the stage."

She smiled.

"No," she said, "that is not necessary. I have no illusions, you see; so I court no disappointments. But what things in life are worth having must come to me—outside of my profession."

She spoke quite calmly. She seemed almost prepared for the obvious question. "The great things in life," she answered, "I suppose they mean something different to all of us."

"To you he demanded.

"I do not seek them," she answered. "I pray that they will come. I only know that I have the heart-longing for them. The place is there waiting, but I do not know what they will be." She turned away from the window and looked steadily into his face. "I wonder," she said, "what they are for you!"

He pointed to the paper.

"After that," he said, "you do me honour when you suggest that I am capable of them."

"Weeds and flowers grow together," she answered. "Oh! you are capable of great things if you tried. There is no doubt of that."

"Do you know anything of the history of my country?" he asked her.

"A little," she answered.

"Do you believe," he asked, "that any man God ever made could wipe out from the hearts of the people the shameful misrule of the last twenty years?"

"It will be your task," she answered; "a heavy one, no doubt."

She looked toward the newspaper, and he understood. In that momentary silence the attention of both of them was suddenly diverted. They looked toward the door. A stealthy footstep had halted outside. They waited for a knock. None came. Grace moved swiftly across the room, and opening the door, looked out. The corridor was empty. She came back into the room with a frown upon her forehead.

"I distinctly heard some one outside," she remarked.

"So did I," he assented, stepping to the door. "It sounded like some one walking on tiptoe."

"I wonder who can be spying upon me," she murmured perplexedly. "The electric lights are all lower than usual, too."

"In any case," he said, "I had better be going."

"We have only just begun to talk," she said reluctantly.

He glanced toward the clock, and took up his hat and coat in earnest.

"I shall be here to-morrow night," he said. "May I come in?"

"Of course," she answered. "Listen again a moment."

She was looking out once more into the dimly lit passage.

"I am actually nervous," she whispered. "I hate unexplained noises."

He smiled reassuringly, but he knew very well that, with his knowledge, her nervousness would soon have become downright fear. He knew what she probably did not, that he went with a price upon his head. While he shook hands with her, the fingers of his left hand closed over something in his overcoat pocket that was hard and cold.

"The lift is just round the corner," she whispered softly. "Till to-morrow night! I am going to lock my door quickly."

She stepped back, and he heard the lock turn in the door. For a moment he stood upright in the middle of the corridor, looking up and down, and listening intently. Then he began to make his way very cautiously toward the lift.