II
Another lady, as to whose movements and plans Prince Max could not yet be indifferent, had meanwhile returned home, and he had been to see her.
The Countess Hilda von Schweniger had sent word that she had serious things to say to him; it was only thus that he received notice of her return. She had a tender weakness for talking seriously at intervals, for the periodic workings of her conscience were ever open to view. But whatever special seriousness of purpose was now perturbing her, this matter-of-fact return to the roof they shared seemed to give it contradiction,—did not at least suggest that any immediate breach in their present relations was to be looked for from her.
And so Max went to the interview wondering how he was going to behave over this new fact which had so largely entered his life; whether he was going to "behave well"—whether indeed it were possible at the same time to behave well and be honest and above-board. He was, in fact, up against the usual difficulty of the man who, having run domesticity on a temporary basis, has discovered grounds for wishing to exchange it for a more permanent one. And as he put his latch-key into the garden door of the quiet tree-shadowed house which for five years he had regarded as his second home, he uttered to himself a kind of a prayer that his relations with a good woman would not now have to be less honest than formerly.
It was evident that she had been on the lookout for him; a French-window in a creeper-covered veranda opened as he advanced, and gracious domesticity stood smiling in the green-lighted shade.
She laid her hands on his shoulders as she kissed him. "Well, mon Prince," she said, "are you glad to see me again?"
He took in all the pleasant and familiar appeal of her face before answering. "Yes, I am," he said, "very."
"That's true—really true?"
And at that challenge he gave a funny little duck of the head, known to her of old, and kissed her again.
She turned quietly and walked away into the room.
"I came back just to hear you say that," she murmured in a moved tone, and stood waiting with her face away from him.
The heart of Max was wonderfully relieved: gladdened also, for as he looked at her he realized that she remained dear to him. With her old simple directness she had let him know what was in her mind, and by her clean brevity of speech had already, in this their first moment together, saved him from the trap into which he might have fallen. Not that the ordinary male temptation to let her resolution stand as cover to his own did not for a moment occur to him. Nay, he could even suggest good reasons; for was not this the kindest reward now left within his power—to let her think that the wish was not shared—to show even a little resentment and reproach? Max, the satirical critic of human nature, could see clearly the attractiveness of such a course,—knew himself a sufficiently good actor to play the game at least well enough to satisfy his artistic taste. But he did not yield to the temptation; had he done so he would have formed a more moral emblem for the edification of my readers than I am now able to provide; and they must face instead the uncomfortable fact that out of this long and immoral liaison between a prince and his mistress certain moral values held good, and that being in need of a sincere friend and confidante he found it in the woman from whom he was about to separate.
He crossed to her side, and taking her hand kissed it with more frequency and fervor than he had kissed her face, and heard then her breath struggling against tears. She reached up her other hand and began stroking his head; and it is life's truth that these two still found attraction and comfort the one in the other.
"Then you are going back again?" whispered Max.
She nodded, saying "yes" afterwards on a catch of breath.
"When?"
She looked at him wistfully. "I didn't want to go—yet."
"Why should you?"
"It wouldn't worry you?"
"Not at all. Very much the reverse."
"I should want to see you, though."
Max smiled. "You mean, then, shouldn't I worry you——"
"I suppose I did mean that," she said, viewing him speculatively.
Then Max was tempted to show off. "Who gave me my first lesson in not worrying?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," she admitted, "but then, you see, I was yours. It has to be different now."
"I want it to be different too," he said; and as by that statement he wished to convey important inner meanings, he spoke solemnly.
She looked at him radiant, half incredulous—the pious wish shining in her eyes. "Oh, Max!" she cried amazed, "has it come to you too, then? Has Our Lady——"
But Max shook his head. "Your Lady is not my lady," he gently confessed.
"Oh!" her voice went down into the deeps of despondency. "Oh! is that what you mean?"
A solemn nod from Max informed her that it was.
"You always told me that it would happen some day."
"I hoped I should have gone."
"And I," said Max, "am glad that you have not. Selfish of me, isn't it?" Then he kissed her hand again.
She began a homely mopping of her face.
"Then it doesn't matter how I look now?" she commented, and paused. "How am I looking?"
"Well, and as dear as ever," he replied.
"That isn't what I wanted to know. You know it isn't."
"You are looking," he said, "just two evening moons older than when I saw you last."
"What have evening moons got to do with it?"
"They are your most becoming time."
She took the compliment with a sigh and a smile; then with an air of resignation sat down.
"Who is she?" she asked abruptly.
"I haven't a ghost of a notion. We haven't been properly introduced, she hasn't encouraged me, I haven't said a word, and I'm not to go near her any more."
This for a start. The Countess Hilda became deeply interested, and very much alarmed. "Then it isn't a princess?" she cried in consternation, "she isn't royalty?"
"Oh, no," said Max, "far from it. She is what you call a sister of mercy, and 'sister'—horrible word—is the only thing I am allowed to call her; she is a sealed casket without a handle."
"Oh, Max," cried his Countess, "don't do it, don't do it; it's wickedness! I didn't matter; but this—oh, Max, you don't know what a grief and disappointment you'll be to me if you——"
"Dearly beloved friend," interrupted Max, "do give me credit for a morality not very greatly inferior to your own. After all I am your pupil."
"But you can't marry her?" cried the Countess.
"Saving your presence, I mean to," asseverated Max.
"You! Where will the Crown go?"
"Charlotte will have three inches taken out of its rim and will fit it far better than I should—that is if anybody is so foolish as to object to my marrying where I please."
"Then in Heaven's name," cried the Countess, "why in all these years haven't you married me?"
Max smiled; they were back into easy relations once more. This was the lady with whom he had never spent a dull day.
"I did not wish to give you the pain of refusing me," said he. "Had I asked you you would have said that I was far too young to know my mind, and that you yourself were too old."
"Yes, I should," she admitted, "but you should have left me to say it." Then she returned to her original bewilderment. "But, my dear boy, if she is a sister of mercy she has taken vows."
"Oh, no, we don't do that in Jingalo. No Jingalese Church-woman may throw away her whole life on so problematical a benefit as a religious vow of celibacy. She may lease herself to Heaven for a given number of years, but freeholds are not allowed."
"And you call that a Church!" cried the Countess.
"Well," said the Prince, "I think that in this case she has got hold of a scientific point worth keeping. Seven years ago I was not, science tells me, the man that I am now; and seven years hence I shall be yet another. What right has my past man to bind this present 'me' in which he has no particle of a share?" And Max, having taken wing on a fresh notion, was off into flight when the Countess brought him to earth.
"And how long is your next lease going to be?" she inquired dryly, "if seven years is all you can answer for?"
"My next man will renew," said Max confidently.
"Sisters of mercy don't accept tenants on those terms," she retorted. And then, seeing that he looked at her with a benevolent eye, added, "Oh, yes, I know that I did, but that isn't the sort of mercy you are looking for now. You'll find, Max, that you need a religion in order to become a freeholder. Mark my word! There! I couldn't have put it better than that! And now as I've come to the end of my lease I had better retire and see to dilapidations and repairs."
She left him smiling; but he knew, in spite of her brave face and jesting words, that there was still trouble of spirit to be gone through; and the repairs took some time.