“I seem to know the name,” said Usk meditatively. “Yes, wasn’t it the man who ran off with an—a lady and was lost at sea, twenty or thirty years ago?”
“Who was supposed to have been lost at sea,” corrected Mr Steinherz impressively. “As a matter of fact, he is sitting opposite you now.”
“Oh—er—I beg your pardon,” stammered Usk.
“Your remark was natural. There is now only one other person besides yourself who knows the truth. In the Schlosskirche at Vindobona I understand there is a cenotaph to the memory of José Maria Beltran, Prince of Arragon, drowned off the Australian coast in the wreck of his yacht, the Claudine, but Joseph Bertram Steinherz could give the lie to that statement if he chose.”
“You escaped from the wreck, I suppose, and took advantage of the general belief to disappear—sir?” hazarded Usk.
“Not just exactly; but I will tell you all of the story. But, first, remember that you are on your honour not to breathe a word of what I tell you to any living creature, especially to my daughter; and again, don’t make a prince of me. I have turned my back on all of that for ever.”
Usk bowed uneasily, as Maimie could just distinguish from where she crouched. She was completely shielded from the sight of Mr Steinherz, although she had ventured to creep out on the balcony, and was now close to them, her black gown indistinguishable in the darkness. Even if Usk should chance to turn his head, she believed that she was quite safe, and could retreat into her own window in a moment.
“You will know,” said Mr Steinherz, “that my father, King Paul X. of Cantabria, was driven from his throne in ’48. When I was born he was already an exile at the Court of Vindobona. His mother was a Pannonian archduchess, and the two houses had always been united by the closest bonds. He received at the hands of his cousin the Emperor the honours due to a reigning monarch, and on his death it was only at Vindobona and the Vatican that my brother Ramon was recognised as titular King of Cantabria. Ramon is a man of science and a philosopher, however, and in daily life he contents himself with the older and undisputed title of Prince of Arragon. My mother was a princess of Weldart—an aunt of the lady who has already linked your family and mine by marrying your uncle Count Mortimer.” Maimie saw Usk move uncomfortably, and guessed that he was trying, in a dazed kind of way, to discover whether the connection thus disclosed between himself and Félicia need be any bar to their marriage. The same idea had come to herself with a thrill of hope, but she saw its absurdity in a moment. Mr Steinherz had risen from his chair and was walking about.
“I cannot speak calmly when I think of my mother,” he went on. “For political reasons, which means, in plain English, her brother’s need of money, she was married to my father as a child of seventeen, after being summarily converted for the purpose. Needless to say, her consent was not asked to either process. She made him an excellent wife, and if he had taken her advice, it would, I believe, have averted the revolution which cost him his throne; but on account of her German and Protestant upbringing she was always looked upon with distrust, and my father himself shared it. So strongly did she disapprove of the perpetual intrigues by which he sought to regain his kingdom after losing it, that soon after my birth an amicable separation was arranged, without giving rise to any scandal. My mother retired with me to an estate on the Adriatic, where my father and brothers visited us occasionally, and I was sometimes conducted, much against my will, to Vindobona, which my mother, on the plea of ill-health, always avoided, and from which I always returned to her with increasing joy. As I grew older her one fear was that I might be taken from her, and to escape this she proposed that I should be entered as a student at the naval academy of the great dockyard and arsenal which lay not far from us. Though all my training hitherto had been military, it was the sea to which my own heart turned, and I don’t know whether my mother or I was the more rejoiced when I was allowed to follow my bent. For several happy years I worked hard at the mysteries of shipbuilding—much harder than suited my superiors and companions, who would have preferred to see me placed in some post of nominal authority, where I should not trouble them. Several times it was suggested that I should be appointed to a sea-going ship, and sent on a long cruise, but my mother’s piteous entreaties—she humbled herself to my father and the Emperor in her agony at the thought of losing me—and my own absorption in my work, which seemed likely to be productive of great advantage to the navy in future, gained me a respite. One of the complaints against me was that I withdrew myself from the society of companions of my own age. It did not occur to my accusers that in my leisure hours I had the constant society of a woman who had read widely, thought deeply, and suffered much, and that this had quite spoiled me for the company of the class of men I met every day. I always look back to my twenty-third year as the period of my greatest happiness—perhaps in contrast with the dark time which followed. A legacy had come to me from a godfather when I was twenty-one, and I spent the greater part of it in building a large steam-yacht from my own designs. Some of my relations looked askance at such waste of money, but the Emperor, finding that the yacht was intended to test various inventions of my own in naval matters, was pleased with my interest in my profession, and encouraged me. I called the yacht the Claudine, after my mother, and spared no pains to make her the smartest and most seaworthy craft of her size afloat. When she was finished we tested her in all weathers. I had a crew enrolled from among the fishermen with whom I had made friends as a boy, and my mother was always my passenger. Only one of her ladies cared for the sea, and she made her her constant companion on these trips. Aline von Hartenweg was young, beautiful, enthusiastic, devoted to my mother, devoted to the sea—is it any wonder that an attachment sprang up between us? We were so happy, so thoroughly contented with our life, that we did not ourselves perceive the chief cause of our happiness. Others saw it before we did, notably the chaplain at the Castle, whom my mother always suspected of being placed as a spy upon her. Presently a furious letter from my father announced that he was coming to put an end to this foolishness, and to send me off on a three years’ cruise. My mother had long been suffering from a mortal disease, but I shall never believe that she might not have lived for years, if she had been left in peace. As it was, the shock, and the realisation of the truth, were too much for her, and when the King arrived he found her on her deathbed. She had poured out her soul to me on the subject of Aline, assuring me that the marriage would never be allowed, that our attachment could only cause misery and contention, and adjuring me to go abroad as my father wished, unless I felt that my life’s happiness was bound up in Aline. I assured her that it was, and her last words to my father, who could not in decency refuse to hear them, were a petition that we might be allowed to marry. Then she died.”
Mr Steinherz came to a standstill at the window, and stood looking with unseeing eyes at the starry sky overhead, the rustling black plane-trees in the square far below, surrounded by their ring of lamps, the low dark houses beyond. Maimie hid her face lest its whiteness should betray her.