The One Woman in the World

ER betrothal to his serene highness, the Prince of Felkenstein, a middle-aged widower, having been consummated with much pomp and ceremony, also with some popular acelamation, the Duchess Sophia became aware of a personal freedom denied her since her childhood—not that so many years had elapsed since then. Once more she was permitted to enjoy liberties that had been curtailed with the lengthening of her frocks. For example, she might walk alone within the castle gardens. To a girl of her position and brains, this was a boon. The people who cannot get into society are less to be pitied than those who cannot get out.

She was allowed, also, to choose a new maid. Her favor fell on a damsel not quite so young as herself, but almost as pretty, and of good blood and breeding. Hilda von Tressler's poverty, or that of her family, had not debarred her from being Sophia's playmate in the old days; her pride did not now prevent her taking service with the duchess. Moreover, the service was of the lightest and pleasantest. If the truth were told, the Duchess Sophia, after several years of elderly guardians and solemn mentors, craved the cheerful companionship and irresponsible chatter of youth rather than a genius in hairdressing and its allied arts.

Nevertheless, Hilda brought to the castle of Lahlbach fingers near as nimble as her spirit; while, among other desirable qualifications for such a situation, she had the wit to efface herself always at the right moment. She had done this but half an hour ago. Having accompanied her mistress to the gardens, she had swiftly perceived, through certain little signs, a desire on Sophia's part for solitude, and had hinted at certain boudoir matters requiring her immediate personal attention. Whereupon the duchess had lightly commanded her to enjoy the morning out of doors in whatever manner pleased her, but to return to that part of the garden in two hours' time. So Hilda, nothing loath, had disappeared among the old yew hedges that divided the gardens into squares and oblongs.

Left to herself, the Duchess Sophia wandered farther and farther from the castle, her fair head bent in meditation, her slim hands locked loosely in front of her. At times a rather wistful little smile played about her lips. A month hence she would be wedded to a very great and distinguished man, and she wondered about many things.

She came at length to the last of the gardens, and to a tall, green, nail-studded door set in the high wall, As a little girl, she had been familiar with the opening and shutting of the green door. Beyond it lay the wood, and within the wood the clearing that had been her favorite playground. The iron serpent that, serving for a handle, had fascinated her of yore now caught her attention. She grasped it, turned it, and pulled. Somewhat to her surprise, the door was not locked; on oiled hinges it swung smoothly toward her.

She was looking into the wood. The green was the green of May; birds sang; the sun shone bravely; a sulphur-hued butterfly fluttered across her vision.

The Duchess Sophia sighed.

On the stump of a tree at the edge of the clearing sat a young man clad in rough homespuns, a soft felt hat of dingy green, and heavy boots. His age could not have been more than twenty-five. His hair and light mustache were of nondescript color. Bluish-gray eyes that seemed almost always more or less expectant, and excellent teeth between mobile lips, were the chief attractions of his sun-tanned countenance. At his feet lay a knapsack; on his knee rested a small sketchbook, over which his hand, holding a pencil, hovered. He was evidently engaged in committing to paper an impression of the scene in front of him; now and then he referred to pages earlier in the book.

Presently the sun, now near its zenith, pierced the upper leafage with a shaft that fell fairly on the penciled page. Moving his position slightly, the young man became aware that he was not alone in the clearing. From the trees opposite a girl had just emerged. She wore a white gown with touches of scarlet at breast and waist, but neither hat nor gloves. At sight of him she halted, not in alarm, but in astonishment so frank as to make it appear to the young man that she had expected to find the place either vacant or occupied by some one known to her.

Already on his feet, hat in hand, he said, in the worst possible German: “I beg your pardon for being here, but I was tempted to secure a slight sketch of a place that has memories for” Here he stuck, misunderstanding her frown, which was thoughtful rather than angry.

Apparently she managed to glean some meaning from his remarks, for after a slight pause she answered, in fair English, with an occasional purring note: “You have doubtless permission to come here to make a picture, sir.”

His color deepened. In his own tongue, he said apologetically: “I regret to say that I have come here without permission, fräulein; and my reason for coming might not appeal to you as a sufficient excuse. I can only ask pardon for the intrusion, and retire—unless, of course,” he added, with a faint smile, “it is your wish to give me in charge.”

It is possible that a tremor of her lips escaped his notice; certainly the smile was scarce born ere it died.

“It does not appear that you have done any damage,” she said coldly; “therefore you are free to go—when you shall have completed your drawing. Permit me to leave you to it and your memories.” She gave a stiff little bow.

“Stay, fräulein, stay!” he exclaimed, advancing a space. “Let me thank you for your kindness. It's awfully good of you. The fact is that I should never have dared to enter the wood had it not been for the Duchess of Lahlbach—or, I should say”

“Have you the honor to know the Duchess of Lahlbach?” came the haughty interruption.

“Oh, don't be so severe on a fellow, fräulein,” he cried, taking another step forward. “At least, I have the honor to know that the tree beside which you are standing, and which I was trying to sketch, was a favorite of her grace's some years ago, when she was not too proud to have the assistance in her games of a boy called Johnny, the son of her English tutor. Among other things, he built a house of brushwood for her against that tree, and had he been a little smaller he would have been trounced by her governess for forgetting her title and calling her by her girl's name.”

“So!” she said softly, and her dark-blue eyes began to dance. “I seem to remember something of one called Johnny—Herr Johnny I must say it now.” She pronounced it “Yonny,” and her smile was delicious. “Am I now apologizing to Herr Johnny? Pardon that I have forgotten the other name.”

Perhaps the smile had dazzled him, for the young man hesitated ere he said, in a low voice: “You have nothing to apologize for, fräulein. And I—I do not deny that I am Johnny.” Here he dropped his sketchbook, and stooped to pick it up.

For an instant her eyes grew grave, and her lips formed a little O. Then she checked a laugh, and said quietly: “It is strange that we did not recognize each other.”

“Fräulein!” he stammered, almost dropping his sketchbook again.

She met his bewildered look, smiling—it may have been a trifle mockingly. “And yet you remember the old tree, and the house of the brushwood, and the beating that the governess did not give to you! So!” She uttered a small, offended laugh.

“Oh!” he said, in a hushed voice. “Surely you can't be—I mean, is it possible that I am speaking to the Duchess of Lahlbach?”

For answer she gently mimicked a recent sentence of his: “I—I do not deny that I am the Duchess of Lahlbach. Have I changed so very much? You look as if one had struck you a blow.”

“I ask pardon, your grace,” he said stiffly at last, and not without dignity. “Perhaps I ought to have guessed that your grace”

She cut him short with an unexpected action. Coming forward, she held out her hand, “Since you are Herr Johnny, what more is to be said? I forgive you your bad memory. Without doubt, I have changed since I played in this wood.” Her voice was kind and gracious. “I hope your father is well?”

“Your grace,” he said miserably, in a choked voice, bowing over her hand, “I must explain—I must confess”

“No, no!” She withdrew her hand hastily. “Explanations are tiresome, and I know already what you would confess.”

“You know?”

“That you find me most unlike a duchess! Is it not so?”

“I find you like a princess—a queen!” he cried, lifting his eyes to the lovely face.

At that she laughed, flushing a little. “Do you go to the court in your England, Herr Johnny?” she lightly asked. “But come—tell me about yourself. You were rather a clever boy, I think. What are you now? Let us sit for a few minutes—over there where you were sketching the old memory.”

She led the way, an alluring figure, across the glade. Hastening after her, he snatched a rain cape from his knapsack, and spread it on the stump.

She thanked him with a nod.

“Your grace” he began.

“The English word is so pretty,” she said, “or I would tell you not to call me so. Now, if you please, Herr Johnny, sit down there”—she indicated the grass at her feet—“and tell me about yourself. Let us pretend also that the years have not changed friendship, or gladness, or any good thing.”

He seated himself. “Your grace is”

“Now you say it too often! Are you afraid of a governess?” Her laughter was bewitching, yet it put him on his mettle.

“I am afraid of nothing save of offending you,” he said, once more daring her eyes. They fell before his gaze.

“So?” she murmured. “It was eight years ago, was it not?”

“And your grace was fourteen, and I was seventeen,” he said tentatively.

“You do remember a little. Is that all you remember?”

“No, your grace.”

“Tell me more that you remember.”

“You command it?”

“I do command it.”

“I remember you called me Johnny.”

“Are you quite sure?”

He glanced at her; her gaze was absent.

“Perhaps I only dreamed it,” he said.

“That is just as good. What more did you dream? But do not look so unhappy.”

“I dreamed” He halted.

“Yes?” encouragingly.

“I dreamed I called your grace Sophie.”

“My grace again!”

“Well, I called you Sophie, Sophie.”

There was a short, heavy silence ere she slowly said: “Are you sure you are not dreaming now?”

“I am almost sure I am.”

At that she laughed softly. “What brought you here this morning?” she asked presently.

“To make a sketch. Also to pray that I might have a glimpse of the duchess.”

“Oh, Herr Johnny!”

“I have come here every morning and afternoon for a week.”

“So! And why did you desire to see the duchess?”

“I had heard she was grown very beautiful.”

“Aha! You make progress! You are no longer afraid of—of the governess.

“Not of the governess—Sophie,” he murmured recklessly.

“You are a bold man, Herr Johnny.”

“You failed to notice how my voice trembled?”

“You are worse than bold,” she laughed. Then, with a swift change to primness: “And now that you have seen the duchess—you are satisfied, I hope?”

“I shall never be satisfied.”

“So?”

“I wish I had never seen the duchess,” he said quietly. “I shall wish it all my life.”

She clapped her hands. “Now I think we have what the English call a small flirtation!” Under her lashes she watched the angry color rise to his brow. “You think I am a very strange kind of duchess, do you not?”

Between his teeth he answered: “I do!”

“You do not understand me, so let us talk of something you do understand, I hope. I have asked you more times than once to speak about yourself. What do you do? Are you an artist?”

“No, your grace,” he replied stiffly, “I am not an artist. I do nothing that matters.”

“You are a traveler, perhaps?”

“I have been called a polite vagabond.”

“I do not understand.”

“I am not a poor man—so I am polite. Sometimes I leave my money at home, and go wandering where tourists do not go.”

“With no money.”

“I carry a few railway tickets. The rest I earn. But it would not interest your grace.”

She held up a little forefinger, and smiled upon him. “Now, Herr Johnny, I command you to be not so sulky! It is of the greatest interest to me. How do you earn the rest, and also the food, in these small country places?”

He was not proof against the smile. “Forgive me,” he said softly, “and don't laugh. I do it this way: When I come to an inn or a cottage in the evening, I try this.” He showed his pencil. “If the people do not wish for portraits, I try this.” He drew from his breast the parts of a silver flute. “If they do not wish for my music” He made a gesture of careless resignation, and was for returning the shining pieces to his breast.

“Do not put them away. Let see them.” She took them from hand. “And if the pencil and the flute bring nothing? If neither be magic?”

“There is still a good deal of charity in the world—and I can repay the givers afterward secretly. But I have seldom needed to take it. And it is good for one to be hungry and lie out of doors now and then.”

“But if it rains?”

“When the pencil and the flute and the charity fail, and the weather is bad”

“You take a railway journey.”

“Or make love to some motherly old woman for a night's shelter.”

“Old?”

“Invariably, your grace.” He bowed. “That is the secret of my freedom from pneumonia and such troubles.”

“With respect, I do not believe you. But now”—she handed him the flute, which she had pieced together—“you shall play to me.”

“Heaven forbid! A man looks an awful ass playing the flute. I only do it in public when I have to earn or pay“

“Have you not to pay me for allowing you to remain here?”

He hesitated, then rose to his feet. “Your grace insists?” He took the flute reluctantly. “Then I shall go among the trees while I play.”

“If you please. I do not wish to laugh. But before you go tell me why you do this—this traveling.”

“If I told you, you would not believe.”

“Yes, I will believe.”

He hesitated ere he said: “For three years I have been traveling in my own country and others in search of the woman who should be my wife.”

“Oh! The woman?”

“There can only be one.”

After a slight pause, she said gravely: “You believe that—that it will happen?”

“I did believe. In that belief, I have kept myself from many things of this world,” he said, in a low voice. Then suddenly he squared his shoulders. “I will now endeavor to make some payment for your grace's hospitality.” Erect, he strode across the clearing and into the wood.

She did not smile as she watched him disappear.

Presently the flute notes began to come to her.

He played for about ten minutes. On his return, he found her inspecting his sketchbook. Without raising her head, she said:

“You play our folk songs very sweetly. You must have a good ear. You have paid for what you said over and over again, but will you not play more?”

“If your grace will excuse me There is a train leaves Altenbach in two hours. With quick walking, I can catch it.” He knelt down, and began to arrange his knapsack.

After a little while she spoke: “You are going away? And by train, on so fine a day?”

“I am going back to England, your grace.”

At that she stamped her foot, and the sketchbook fell from her lap. “Do not call me my grace!” she cried. “At least, not so often.”

“Dare I call you aught else—not in jest?”

“Oh, Herr Johnny—Johnny!” she whispered, with a tearful little laugh.

“Sophie!” Of a sudden her hand was in his, his lips upon it. Next moment he was on his feet, quivering, and muttering: “What madness! What madness!” He turned as if he would leave her there and then.

“It is I who have been mad,” she said gently at last.

As if he had not heard, he said: “Do you think I do not know that you will be a princess a month hence? Why—why did you let me forget?”

Her head drooped lower; she made no response.

“Nay,” he resumed regretfully; “I have no right to reproach your grace. I deserved that you should play with me—fool me. As for my own folly, I suppose it was some springtime madness. And yet”—he drew a deep breath—“and yet when you first came from the trees I was sure that at last I had found He broke off with a bitter laugh.

“Oh,” she whispered, “I am so sorry!”

“It is unnecessary, your grace. I am sorry enough for two.” He smiled faintly, sadly. “What puzzles me,” he went on dreamily, “is my own behavior after I was aware that you were the Duchess of Lahlbach. It would seem that I was bewitched. Retribution, no doubt, for my having made your grace's acquaintance under a name not my own. For I am not—er—Johnny.”

“No,” she said simply, looking up, “you are not Johnny.”

“Great heavens! You knew all the time?” he cried.

She nodded, flushing a little. “Johnny,” she said, “is darker than you are; he has a long nose, and wears glasses. The—my old governess has a photograph that his proud father sent her two years ago. You are, doubtless, from your knowledge of this place, some friend of Johnny's. Besides, you seem to forget that I used to play with Johnny. But it is not necessary that you tell me who you are. I am not curious.” She stared at the ground, tapping it impatiently with her shoe.

“My only recommendation is that I am a friend of Johnny's, as you suggest. He advised me to come to this part of the world if I wanted to meet simple, honest people. He also desired his respectful compliments to the duchess were I fortunate enough to see her. Johnny has become a very learned person—he is likely to be a professor of mathematics before he is thirty—but I thought some sketches of his old playground might still interest him. Hence my intrusion into your grace's wood. And now, with your grace's permission, I will go.”

“You speak like one who is offended,” she said, still regarding the ground. “What is the offense?”

“There is no offense, your grace,” he returned calmly, though struggling with himself. “Indeed, I ought to be grateful to you for having shown me the folly and vanity of my journeyings.”

“I do not understand,” she said faintly.

“You have ended my quest, your grace. In future I shall live in London like a very ordinary human being. I will” Suddenly passion got the upper hand. Drawing the pieces of his flute from his breast, he flung them among the trees. He stooped for the sketchbook.

“No!” she cried, and set her foot upon it. “No, you shall not! Oh, how foolish you are!”

“How wise your grace is!”

“Give me the book,” she commanded; and in spite of himself he obeyed. “Now take it from me, and—and be kind to it.” She put it into his reluctant hand. “And when I am gone you will seek and find your pretty flute, and you will continue your travels and live your good life until—until you find—her.”

“I have found her,” he said hoarsely, and looked her straight in the face. But she covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Sophie—Duchess of Lahlbach—Princess of Felkenstein to be—I have found her! And all the vain journeyings are ended.” He caught up his knapsack. “Farewell—your grace!”

She did not see his despairing gesture; she did not see him stumble to the path among the trees. He was beyond her sight when she rose and recalled him:

“Oh, stay! I have something to tell you, and you have forgotten something. Please come back. I—I bid you come back!”

He appeared on the edge of the clearing, haggard for all his abounding health. He beheld her standing in the midst of the grass, swaying a little, her bosom heaving, her face rosy, her eyes bright with tears.

“Oh, though it was so unmaidenly, I had to call you back,” she sighed. “Please come a little nearer. I cannot speak loud the thing I must tell you.” He approached a few paces. “That is near enough.” And suddenly she began to wring her hands and call herself wicked.

“Your grace,” he cried, in great distress, “I cannot bear”

“Call me not so—oh, call me not so! I am not my grace. After you said you were Johnny, I began a little foolish play—and it has broken my heart,” she sobbed. “Oh, why did I speak to you at all? And now I must tell all. Must I tell all? Will you not understand? Will you not guess?” She clasped her hands. “Oh, will you not guess?”

He was very pale. “Not your grace—a foolish play—oh, woman,” he cried, “what if I guess that you are not—not the Duchess of Lahlbach?”

“Ah, you would be very right. For I am but Hilda von Tressler, her maid.” And she smiled through her tears.

Then it seemed that a great silence descended upon the little clearing in the wood.

The silence was broken ever so gently by a dull, distant sound. The real Sophia, Duchess of Lahlbach and Princess-elect of Felkenstein, had at last closed the green door upon the wood that still held for her a girlish dream.

“I must go,” said Hilda von Tressler, looking adorably shy, and anywhere but at the young man who was coming toward her. “It is so big a relief that I have told the truth of who I truly am.”

“You have not yet told the whole truth, Fräulein von Tressler.”

“So?” This with large amazement.

“Perhaps you do not know it all yet,” he said bravely, yet not quite evenly; “but I am going to try to teach you that you are the woman—the one woman in the world.”

“Ah! I do not understand, Herr Why, I do not know even your name!”

“I will tell you my name. But first—oh, Hilda, may I kiss—your hand?”

“So?” said Hilda, very, very softly.