V
When next morning the news reached Villa Santa Cecilia, by the medium of a dispatch in the Fieramosca, we may believe it caused excitement.
“But it can't be true,” said Lucilla. “Only two days ago the Duchess assured me—in all good faith, I'm certain—that her husband had no more chance of regaining his throne than he had of growing wings, and Bertram himself has always scoffed at the idea.”
“Yes,” said Ponty. “But perhaps Bertram and his mother were not entirely in the Pretender's confidence. This story, for a fake, is surprisingly apropos of nothing, and surprisingly circumstantial. No, I'm afraid it's true.”
He reread the dispatch, frowning, seeking discrepancies.
“Oh, it's manifestly true,” was his conclusion. “I suppose I ought to go down to the Lung 'Arno, and offer Bertram our congratulations. And as for you”—he bowed to Ruth,—“pray accept the expression of our respectful homage. Here, instead of an empty title, is the reversion of a real grand-ducal crown. And you a mere little American! What trifling results from mighty causes flow. A People rise in Revolution—that a mere little American girl may adorn her brown-red hair with a grand-ducal crown.”
“The People don't appear to have had any voice in the matter,” said Lucilla, poring over the paper. “It was just a handful of officers. It was what they call a Palace Revolution.”
“It was what the judicious call a Comic Opera Revolution,” said Ponty. “It was a Palace version of Box and Cox.”
He went down to the Lung 'Arno, and found Bertram, pale, agitated, in the midst of packing.
“Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't talk of congratulations,” the troubled young man cried, walking up and down the floor, and all but wringing his hands, while his servant went methodically on folding trousers and waistcoats. “This may be altogether the worst thing that could possibly have happened, so far as I'm concerned.”
“I see you're packing,” Pontycroft remarked.
“Yes—we've had a telegram from my father ordering us to join him at once. We leave at twelve o'clock by a special train. My dear chap, I'm sick. I'm in a cold perspiration. Feel my hands.” His hands were indeed cold and wet. He pressed one of them to his side. “And there's something here that weighs like a ton of ice. I can hardly breathe.”
“The remedy indicated,” said Ponty, “is a brandy-and-soda.”
Bertram's gesture pushed the remedy from him.
“A single spoonful would make me drunk,” he said. “I'm as nearly as possible off my head already. I feel as if I were going out to be hanged. If it weren't for my mother—some one's got to go with her—upon my word, I'd funk it, and take the consequences.”
“Allons donc,” Ponty remonstrated. “A certain emotion is what you must expect—it's part of the game. But think of your luck. Think of your grandeurs. Think of the experience, the adventure, that's before you. To be a real, actual, practising Royalty, a Royal Heir Apparent. Think of the new angle of view from which you'll be able to look at life.”
“Luck? Don't speak of it,” Bertram groaned. “If I had known, if I had dreamed. But we were kept in the dark absolutely. Oh, it was outrageous of the old man. We had a right at least to be warned, hadn't we? Since it involves our entire destinies? Since every one of our hopes, plans, intentions, great or small, is affected by it? We had a right to be warned, if not to be consulted. But never a word—until this morning—first the newspaper—and then his wire. Think of my mother being left to learn the thing from a newspaper. And then his wire: 'Come at once to Altronde.' I feel like a conscript. I feel like a man suddenly summoned from freedom to slavery.”
“You'll find your chains bearable—you'll find them interesting,” Ponty said. “You leave at noon by a special train. Is there any way, meanwhile, in which I can be useful to you?”
“Yes—no—no. Unless you can devise some way to get me out of the mess. The special train is for my mother. In her own fashion she's as much upset as I am. She could not travel coram publico, poor lady.”
“No, of course not. I hope you will make her my compliments,” said Ponty, rising.
“Thank you. And you will say good-bye to Lady Dor for us and—and to Miss Adgate,” Bertram responded. But there was a catch in his voice, and he grew perceptibly paler. “I—I,” he stumbled, hesitated, “I will write to you as soon as I know where I am.”
Ponty went home thoughtful; thoughtful, but conscious of an elusive inward satisfaction. This rather puzzled him. “It's the sort of thing one feels when one has succeeded in evading an unpleasant duty—a sentiment of snugness, safety, safety and relief. But what unpleasant duty have I succeeded in evading?” he asked himself. Yet there it was—the comfortable sense of a duty shirked.
“I'm in doubt whether to hail you as the Queen Elect of Yvetot, or to offer you my condolences upon the queering of your pitch,” he said to Ruth. “He loved and rode away. He certainly loved, and he's as certainly riding away—at twelve o'clock to-day, by a special train. I supposed he would charge me with a message for you—but no—none except a commonplace good-bye. No promise, nothing compromising, nothing that could be used as evidence against him. However, he said he'd write—as soon as he knew whether he was standing on his head or on his heels. One thing, though, you might do—there's still time. You might go to the railway station and cover his flight with mute reproaches. Perhaps the sight of your distraught young face would touch his conscience. You might get the necessary word from him before the train started.”
“Be quiet, Harry,” said Lucilla. “You shan't chaff her any longer. Prince Bertrandoni is a man of honour—and he's as good as pledged to her already. This is a merely momentary interruption. As soon as he's adjusted his affairs to the new conditions, he'll come back.”
“Ay, we know these comings back,” answered Ponty, ominously. “But a wise fisherman lands his fish while it's on the hook, and doesn't give it a chance of swimming away and coming back. I see a pale face at the window, watching, waiting; and I hear a sad voice murmuring, 'He cometh not.'”
“You're intolerable,” Lucilla cried out, with an impatient gesture. “Ruth, don't pay him the least attention.”
“Oh, don't mind me,” said Ruth. “I'm vastly amused. Faithful are the wounds of a friend.”
“There's just one element of hope,” Ponty ended, “and that is that even to demi-semi Royalty a matter of thirty thousand a year must be a consideration.”
A column from Altronde in the Fieramosca of the morrow gave a glowing description of Bertram's and his mother's arrival, which Pontycroft translated at the breakfast table: how the Grand Duke, in the uniform of a general, met and tenderly embraced them as they stepped from the train, and drove with them in a “lando di gala” through streets brilliant with flags and thronged by cheering subjects, to the Palace, escorted by the selfsame regiment of guards whose officers the other day had so summarily cooked the goose of Massimiliano. “That is pretty and touching,” was Ponty's comment, “but listen to this—this is rich. The Grand Duke introduced them to his people, in a proclamation, as 'my most dear and ever dutiful son, and my beloved consort, the companion and consoler of my long exile!' What so false as truth is? Well, there's nothing either true or false but thinking makes it so. And the mayor and corporation, in a loyal address, welcomed Bertram as the 'heir to the virtues as well as to the throne of his august progenitor.' His august progenitor's virtues were jewels which, during his career in Paris, at any rate, he modestly concealed. However! Oh, but here—here's something that really is interesting. 'The festivities of the evening were terminated by a banquet, at which the Grand Duke graciously made a speech.' Listen to one of the things he said: 'It has been represented to me as the earnest aspiration of my people that my solemn coronation should be celebrated at the earliest possible date. But unhappily, the crown of my fathers has been sullied by contact with the brows of a usurping dynasty. That crown I will never wear. A new, a virgin crown must be placed upon the head of your restored legitimate sovereign. And I herewith commission my dear son, whom Heaven has endowed, among many noble gifts, with the eye and the hand of an artist, to design a crown which shall be worthy of his sire, himself, and his posterity.' Well, that will keep Bertram out of mischief. I see him from here—see and hear him—bending over his drawing-board, with busy pencil, and whistling 'The girl I left behind me.'”
And then a servant entered bearing a telegram.
“What will you give me,” Ponty asked, when he had opened and glanced at it, “if I'll read this out?”
“Whom's it from?” asked Lucilla.
“The last person on earth that you'd expect,” he answered. “Come, what will you give?”
“I believe it's from Prince Bertrandoni himself,” cried Lucilla, agog. “If it is, we'll give you fits if you don't read it out—and at once.” She showed him her clenched fist.
“Very good. Under that threat, I'll read it,” remarked Ponty, and he read: “Arrived safely, but homesick for dear Villa Santa Cecilia. My mother joins her thanks to mine for your constant kindness. Will write as soon as an hour of tranquillity permits. Please give my affectionate greetings to Lady Dor and Miss Adgate, and beg them not to forget their and your devoted Bertram.”
“There!” crowed Lucilla. “What did I tell you?”
Ponty looked up blankly. “What did you tell me?”
“That he would come back—that this was only a momentary interruption.”
“Does he say anything about coming back?” Ponty asked, scrutinizing the straw-coloured paper. “That must have missed my eye.”
“Boo,” said Lucilla. “What does he mean by the hope of an early reunion?”
“A slip of the pen for blessed resurrection, I expect,” said Ponty.
“Boo,” said Lucilla. “It's the message of a man obviously, desperately, in love—yearning to communicate with his loved one—but to save appearances, or from lover-like timidity perhaps, addressing his communication to a third person. That telegram is meant exclusively for Ruth, and you're merely used as a gooseberry. Oh, Ruth, I do congratulate you.” Ruth vaguely laughed.