Back Aa

Prince or Chauffeur? A Story of Newport

Close

<h3> CHAPTER VIII </h3> <h3> WHEN A PRINCE WOOS </h3> But Prince Koltsoff evidently deemed it expedient to obey the letter, not the spirit, of the wish. An ardent lover of horses, he gave himself wholly to them when they arrived at the stables, conversing freely with the grooms and going over the various equines with the hands and eyes of an expert. When at length they strolled from the stables to a little wooded knoll near the boundary of the estate, commanding a view of the main road, which ran straight for a quarter of a mile and then dived into the purple hills with their gray out-jutting rocks, the girl, who had been left pretty much to her own thoughts, felt in ever-growing degree the disadvantage at which she had been placed in the course of their conversation. She had sat, it seemed, as a child at the feet of a tutor. At least in the mood she had developed, she would have it so. The thought did not please her. And then she began to burn with the memory that on the veranda the Prince had placed his hand upon hers and that for some reason beyond her knowledge, she had permitted it to remain so until he had withdrawn it. This sufferance, she felt, had somehow affected, at the very outset, a degree of tacit intimacy between them which would not otherwise have occurred in a fortnight, perhaps never. But he had done it with an assurance almost, if not quite, hypnotic, and he had removed his hand—a move, she recognized, which offered more opportunities for bungling than the initial venture—with the exact degree of insouciance, of abstraction, but at the same time not without a slight lighting of the eyes expressive alike of humility and gratitude. Lurking in her mind was an irritation over the position in which she had been placed, and her only solace was the thought that her revenge might be taken when Koltsoff tried it again, as she had no doubt he would. If she had analyzed her emotions she would have been obliged to face the disagreeable truth that she, Anne Wellington, was jealous. Jealous of a stable of horses! After all, introspection, however deep, might not have opened her eyes as to the basic element of her mood, for jealousy had never been among the components of her mental equipment. At all events she was, as she would have expressed it, "peeved." Why? Because he had held her hand—and talked to her like a school girl. But silence, smilingly indifferent, was the only manifestation of her state of mind. If he noticed this he said nothing to indicate that he did, but resumed his conversation as though no interruption had occurred. And curiously enough even her simulation of indifference disappeared as he turned to her, bringing words and all the subtle charm of his personality to bear. Strange elation possessed him and she yielded again as freely as before to that indescribable air of the world which characterized his every action and word. He spoke English with but the faintest accent. Once he lapsed into French, speaking as rapidly as a native. Anne caught him perfectly and answered him at some length in the same tongue. Koltsoff stopped short and gazed at her glowingly. "There, you have demonstrated what I have been trying to say so poorly. Permit me to carry on my point more intimately. Yes, it is so; you are typically an American girl. But wherein do such young women, such as you, my dear Miss Wellington, find their métier? In America? In New York? In Newport? No. They are abroad; the wives of diplomats, cabinet ministers, or royal councillors of France, Germany, Austria, Italy, and," the Prince bowed slightly, "of my native land. Here, what lies before you? Ah," he stooped and snatched a bit of clover, "I have seen, I have studied, have I not? Washington, what is it to you? A distant place. And its affairs? Bah, merely items to be skipped in the newspapers. As you have admitted, you know nothing of them. You do not know your cabinet officers; and so you marry and—and what do you Americans say?—settle down." "How knowingly you picture us," smiled the girl. The Prince waved his hands. "You travel, yes, but at best, most significantly, your lives are narrow. You are wives and mothers, living in ruts as well-defined as those of your most prosaic middle-class women. What do you know of the inner world, its moving affairs? Who of you can read the significance, open though it may be, of the cabled statement or speech of a prime minister, in relation to America?" "Perhaps our opportunities or incentives do not exist," replied the girl gravely. "I have heard father say ours is a government of politicians and not statesmen." "Precisely, that is it. But in Europe, where conditions are different, what do we find? Lady Campbell in Egypt—an American girl; the Princess Stein in St. Petersburg; the Marquise de Villiers in France; Lady Clanclaren in London—oh, scores, all American girls, some of whom have made their influence felt constructively, as I can personally assure you. American history is so uninteresting because there is not a woman in it." "You know the Marquise de Villiers!" exclaimed the girl. "Won't you tell me, sometime, all about her? How interesting her story must be! I have heard garbled versions of the Berlin incident." "I do know her," the Prince smiled, as he thought how intimate his knowledge was, "and I shall delight in telling you all about her sometime. But now," he continued, "allow me to carry on my thought. You travel—yes. You even live abroad as the, ah, butterfly—your own word—lives. I know. Have not I heard of you! Have I not followed you in the newspapers since I saw your face on canvas! I read from a dossier that I formulated concerning you." He drew a notebook from his pocket and glanced at the girl. "May I?" "It is yours," was the reply. "January," he read, "Miss W. is tobogganing in Switzerland. February, she is viewing the Battle of Flowers at Nice. March, she is at Monaco, at Monte Carlo—ah! April, Miss W. has arrived in Paris. May and June, she is in London. July, she is attending English race meetings with young Clanclaren—" the Prince paused with a sibilant expulsion of breath. "I must not read my comment." "Yes, you must, please. I never heard of such a romantic Russian!" The Prince raised his eyebrows and glanced at the book—"with young Clanclaren, damn him! August," continued Koltsoff hurriedly, drowning her subdued exclamation, "at Clanclaren's Scotch shooting box. September, she is again in England, deer stalking—most favored deer! October, November, she is riding to hounds in England. December, she is doing the grand tour of English country houses." The Prince paused. "So, our acquaintance—my acquaintance with you—is of more than a few days. I have known you for more than a year. Do you find it not agreeable?" "Not agreeable! I don't know. I am—I—I—oh, I don't know, it seems almost uncanny to me." "Not at all, my dear Miss Wellington. Surely not uncanny. Let us ascribe it to the genius of Sargent; to the inspiration of a face on canvas." "But you really haven't known me at all. You—" He interrupted. "Know you! Ah, don't I! I know you above these trivial things. The world of affairs will feel the impress of your personality, of your wit, your intellect—of your beauty. Then vale the idle, flashing days of pleasure. Iron will enter into your life. But you will rejoice. For who is there that finds power not joyous? Ambassadors will confide in you. Prime ministers will forget the interests of their offices." He paused. "Who knows when or how soon? But it shall be, surely, inevitably.… I wonder," he was speaking very slowly now, "if you will recognize your opportunity." "Who knows," she said softly. The Prince remained silent, looking at her. She seemed to feel the necessity of further words but was wholly without inspiration. She glanced down the road and saw a boy in blue toiling along on a bicycle. Her exclamation was out of all proportion to the event. "A messenger boy! He brings word from father—we expect him to-morrow, you know." "He brings no word from your father," replied the Prince mysteriously. "His errand concerns me. You shall see." They moved to the gate and the boy alighting, glanced at the two with his alert Irish eyes. "Say, does a fellow named Koltsoff live here?" "I am he; give me the package, boy. It is prepaid—very well; here is something for you," tossing the urchin a quarter. "Thanks," said the boy, who suddenly paused in the act of remounting his wheel and clapped his hand to his pocket. "Here's a letter, too." As he rode away the two slowly retraced their steps. "You will pardon me if I read this note?" Anne, strangely abstracted, nodded, and Koltsoff tore open the envelope. As he read the letter his brow darkened. "Gone!" he muttered. Then he read the letter again. Yeasky would not have departed without the best of reasons. He held the inked-out line to the light but could make nothing of it. He walked along beside the girl in deep thought. His hands trembled. He knew that in his possession was that which represented the triumph of his career. There were few honors which a grateful Government would withhold from him. Besides, it meant the probable rehabilitation of the prestige of the Russian arms; that thought thrilled him no less, for he was a patriot. And yet amid all his exaltation indecision filled him. Duty pointed a direct and immediate course to St. Petersburg. Other emotions dictated his remaining at The Crags. The package could not be intrusted to the express companies. It must be carried personally to Russia. And yet—and yet he could not leave Newport now. Just a little while! He must wait. To his Czar, to his country, he owed haste; to himself he owed delay. Which debt should he cancel? Suddenly with a sharp upward turn of the head he dismissed all conflicting thoughts from his mind, refused utterly to allow them to remain, and turned to the girl. They were entering a small grove of trees. An inspiration had flashed over him, dominant, compelling. He spoke impulsively, almost wildly; so much so that Anne stopped, startled. In his outstretched hand the package was within a few inches of her face. "Miss Wellington," he cried, "we were speaking of opportunities, but a while ago. May I call upon you now? I have said I am not in Newport for pleasure alone. A great matter has been consummated. I hold it in my hand. Who can trust servants? My valet? No! Who? Can I trust you. Miss Wellington? Can I place my honor, my life, in your hands, for a week, not more?" "Why, I—" began Anne. "Is it then too much to ask?" "I hope not, Prince Koltsoff. Tell me and then I can judge." "So!" and Koltsoff held out the package to her. "Keep this for me. Let no one know where it is except myself. Keep it until I ask for it. If matters arise of such nature to prevent my asking, keep it still. Keep it!" Koltsoff was now acting as he loved to act. "Keep it until I ask for it; or until I am dead. If the latter, throw it over the cliffs. My country is on the verge of a war with—with you may guess whom. Japan, no less. That, that which you hold in your hand is the heart of our hopes." He paused. He was really sincere. His desire was to forestall any defeat of his plans by having the package out of his hands until such time as he would leave Newport. One of his valets had once been successfully bribed. But equally did he desire that the girl should have a bond of interest akin to his; through this, he knew, must lie the success of that understanding which alone kept him from following Yeasky out of Newport forthwith. But the girl could not know this. Her pride in sharing in so intimate a way a matter which she believed to—and for that matter, really did—affect the policy of a great empire, held her spellbound. There was the feminine delight, too, in being on the inner side of a mystery. She nodded mechanically. "I shall do as you ask," she said. The Prince sprang forward, caught her hands and pressed upon them hot, lingering kisses. "Into these hands," he said, "I commit my destiny and my honor." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2