The Professional Prince/Chapter 12

For two days Agatha Stuart had not seen James Bletsoe, though more than once she had heard the sound of his footsteps as he moved about the house. Already she could distinguish them from those of any one else.

After dinner on the second day, her restlessness was at such a height that she could not bring herself to go to the drawing-room and practice her songs as she had done the night before. She put a cloak over her pretty evening frock and walked up Piccadilly toward the region of the theaters, in the hope of diverting her mind in the stalls of one of them. No business manager who enjoyed her acquaintance ever refused her seats.

She walked along listlessly; the prospect of an evening in the stalls was not violently alluring. Then, as she came past the entrance of the Piccadilly Hotel, James Bletsoe, in evening dress and a silk hat, came out of it.

The sight of him sent a faint thrill through her, and on the instant she was ready to give him the cool, gracious smile proper from the sister of his employer. He looked quietly through her at the large commissionaire on the curb who was opening the door of a taxicab.

Her heart sank. She took two steps past him—and changed her mind. She had to. She turned, smiling—not at all the cool, gracious smile of the sister of his employer—and said:

“You don't seem to recognize me, Mr, Bletsoe.”

He raised his hat and said in a tone of polite, pleased astonishment:

“Why, it's Miss Stuart! How do you do?”

He shook hands with her, holding her hand a little longer than if he were greeting an ordinary acquaintance, and added:

“You've no business to be walking in Piccadilly alone at this hour, you know.”

She was displeased and pleased. There was no faintest note of gratitude for her condescension in noticing him; he was even speaking in a tone of authority.

For a moment she hesitated; then she said:

“I'm going to a theater. Would you care to come? I can get seats, you know.”

She had cast down the social barrier between them with a vengeance. Womanlike, for a breath she was sorry she had done so. Then she felt at ease again and uncommonly glad.

“I should be charmed,” he said, smiling down at her, “but it wouldn't do. I'm off duty, of course—myself again, and all that—but it would never do for you to be seen at the theater with your brother's butler. You'd lose caste shockingly. Suppose Lord Bastable were there.”

This opposition hardened her in her purpose. Here was an opportunity of getting to know James Bletsoe, and she was not going to let it slip.

“I'm sure I don't care what Lord Bastable thinks,” she said quickly. “Will you come?”

“Thank you, I won't,”. he said amiably, but firmly. “But I tell you what. Let me take you to a music hall—one of the smaller ones.”

“I don't want to go to a music hall. I want to go to a theater.”

She did not abandon the struggle; she allowed him to escort her to the entrance to the Shaftesbury Theater, and there made a last effort to induce him to yield. It was in vain. Again he refused and, raising his hat with an air of regret, was on the point of leaving her when she said:

“You're the most disobliging man I ever came across, and the most obstinate! I suppose I shall have to go to your wretched music hall, after all.”

“But this is angelic of you!” he cried, and looked so delighted that her natural resentment at not having her own way was almost appeased.

He took her to the Middlesex, and even there sat far back in the box, so that his face might not be clearly seen.

Presently she was distressed by his laughing with genuine enjoyment at a turn that she found vulgar. She expressed her wonder that he should laugh at it.

He smiled at her and explained:

“But that's the advantage of being a man of taste and that kind of thing, don't you know? I haven't got to be careful what I laugh at.”

She pondered this point of view for a little while; then she said:

“That's all very well, but I can't understand how you, who love beautiful pictures and ivories and jade, can like a vulgar thing like that.”

“It was vulgar, but it was art,” he said quickly. “All art is the expression of emotion, and that was an uncommonly good expression of the good, gross, Gallic gayety. Every mortal thing in it produced the exact emotional effect it was meant to produce. What artist can do more? But I suppose you couldn't call it great art because it doesn't express a great emotion. That's about it.”

His explanation was above her head, but she thought none the worse of him for that. She thought that he was the cleverest man she had known, and found it flattering that he illustrated seriously his point of view from other turns, taking it for granted that she understood. It was no less flattering that he made no secret of his firm opinion that she was the most beautiful creature in London.

At the door of the house in Half Moon Street, he shook hands with her and bade her good night.

“Aren't you coming in?” she asked in some surprise.

“Yes,” he said, smiling at her. “But in the house, I'm on duty, and everything is changed. Here I'm Mr. Bletsoe and you're Miss Stuart. Inside, I'm 'Bletsoe' and you're 'madam.'”

“Oh, but why?” she asked quickly.

“It's a matter of principle.”

She felt that this was a point on which he must be made to yield. He did not yield. She could not overcome his invincible respectfulness.

Since he would not let her have her way, it was clear that he must be punished. On the next two days, she both lunched and dined with the Earl of Bastable, and was careful that that enamored young nobleman should call for her.

It was annoying that, while she suffered by depriving herself of James Bletsoe's interesting presence at her meals, James Bletsoe did not seem to suffer at all under the punishment she had devised. At lunch on the third day, he waited on her with untroubled mien.

The next morning she received a letter from him written at the Royal Aëroplane Club, inviting her to dine that evening and go to a music hall, and asking her to telephone “yes” or “no” to him at the club.

Her first thought was to accept. Then, annoyed by the leap of her heart, her second thought was to punish him by refusing. This pleased her greatly till it was borne in upon her that, while she was quite sure the refusal would punish her, she had no assurance that it would punish him. It was, therefore, only sensible to accept.

On her way to her dancing lesson, she telephoned to his club that she would be charmed to come.

That night she sat for a long while on her bed, pondering deeply. There was no blinking the fact that James Bletsoe had made a deep impression on her; indeed, she did not wish to blink it. No man had ever made such an impression on her. She had to assure herself with considerable vehemence that she was not in love with him, and, even so, she was not quite convinced that she was not.

Next morning she made the great discovery. In the ordinary course of things, she would never have dreamed of borrowing money from her brother. But it was very clear to her that if she was to continue to dine with James Bletsoe, she must have a new evening frock.

She lost no time. At eleven o'clock, she went up to the smoking room and entered briskly.

The prince looked up from the thick book he was reading with an air of surprise that astonished her; it was almost a startled air. He rose to his feet, began to smile, and checked himself.

“Good morning. I came to ask you to lend me ten pounds. I'll pay you back as soon as I get work. I do want a new evening frock so badly,” she began.

The prince's hand went to his breast pocket and drew out his note case. He opened it and paused, gazing at her. Then he said:

“You can't get much of an evening frock for a tenner, can you? Hadn't we better make it twenty?”

The quickness with which his hand had gone to his pocket was strangely unfamiliar; his words were astounding.

“How extravagant you've grown!” she cried. “I can get a very good frock for a tenner. I know where to go.”

“I have always understood they cost more,” said the prince, looking at her with approving eyes. “And, of course, you must have a pretty one.”

His sentiments, so foreign to his strenuous nature as she had known it, astonished her yet more. At a loss for words, she stared at him blankly.

“We must make it twenty,” he insisted,

He took two notes from his case and offered them to her with a charming smile. The smile explained everything. He was not her brother John.

She flushed and cried:

“B-b-but you're not my brother! You're not John Stuart at all!”

“But I've been known as John Stuart for years.'

“But you're not my brother.”

“Indeed I am. You adopted me,” said the prince.

“Me?” she cried.

“Yes. At our very first meeting, you hailed me as your brother John—not with enthusiasm, perhaps, but certainly with a sisterly air,” he said firmly.

“But you ought to have told me that you weren't at once. Why did you play such a trick on me? It wasn't fair. Here I've been staying in a stranger's house—an unmarried man's—with no other lady in it! Whatever will people say?”

The flush had deepened in her cheeks, her eyes were bright with anger.

“That's quite all right,” said the prince, in a reassuring tone. “The only people who know that I'm not your brother are absolutely trustworthy.”

“Of course! Mr, Bletsoe knew! It's disgraceful! And Lord Bastable knew! They ought to have told me. A thing that three people know isn't a secret at all!” she cried.

“That depends on the three people,” said the prince quietly. “At any rate, in this case there will be a conspiracy of silence. Besides, your brother has actually been living here. No outsider can say that he has not been living here all the time. For all practical purposes, I am your brother.”

“But what was the point of it all? Why did you let me go on making the mistake and come to stay here?” she asked, with some abatement of her violent indignation.

“Well, I happened to know from your brother and Lord Bastable that you are a young lady of considerable determination, and when you descended on me so suddenly, I was rather awkwardly placed. It wouldn't have been fair to your brother to land him in a serious quarrel with his sister, would it?”

“John wouldn't have minded a bit,” she said bitterly.

“Oh, yes, he would. And, anyhow, I couldn't risk it. Besides, it was in the highest degree important—matters of state, don't you know?—that it should not be known that there were two John Stuarts, exactly alike, in the world. I am now your brother's employer, and I am employing him to represent me in a very delicate affair, making use of his resemblance to me.”

“But—but who are you?” she asked, impressed.

“I'm Prince Richard.”

“Oh, I see.” Her tone was rather awed. “That does make a difference. Affairs of state, too.” She paused; then added in a tone of wonder: “But it does seem queer that you should be employing John in a delicate affair, your highness.”

“Oh, he's doing excellently—securing the very result I want,” he said hastily. “And as he's not here, I'd better lend you those tenners for him.”

“Oh, no, thank you, your highness.” Agatha shook her head. Then she added mournfully: “Well, I have to thank your highness for your hospitality.”

“But you're not going?” he cried in protest.

“I must,” she said firmly.

“I can't have it. In view of the services your brother is rendering me, I am only too pleased to make him this little extra return. Besides, I like to have you in the house. It charms me to hear you singing in the mornings. And then, of course, there's Lord Bastable. As you may have learned from the newspapers, I am marrying and settling down, and I have decided that it's time Lord Bastable married and settled down too. If you remain under my roof another week, I shall feel fully entitled to speak to him very seriously about the matter of his attentions to you.”

Agatha gasped and looked earnestly at his funereally grave face.

Then she cried:

“But I don't mean to marry Lord Bastable!”

“Don't say that,” protested the prince in a pained tone. “However, the main point is that you are going to stay on here as long as you would have stayed if I had really been your brother and not merely his double.”

Agatha hesitated. She could see no reason, except his natural kindness, why the prince should accord this hospitality to her. She wished to stay, but she would have refused regretfully had it not been for James Bletsoe. She did not wish to leave the house in which he lived.

“It's awfully good of your highness. I should love to stay on,” she said gratefully.

“Good. I'm delighted to hear it,” said the prince.

She came away from the interview with mingled feelings. She felt that the prince was a most charming man, but she was vexed that she had made a fool of herself by not knowing at their first interview that he was not John; and she was angry with James Bletsoe and the Earl of Bastable for allowing her to persist in her error. She had a grievance, indeed, and she was eager to take James Bletsoe to task for having deceived her,

She had not long to wait for the opportunity, for he waited on her at lunch. His fine, serene face increased her anger somewhat unreasonably; and when he set her soup before her, it burst forth.

“I think it's perfectly disgraceful the way you've let me go on making a fool of myself!” she cried, scowling, rather than frowning, at him.

“In what way, madam?” he asked, sparring for time.

He had not expected her to discover her error so soon, and had made no provision against it.

“You know perfectly well!” she stormed, yet further incensed by his pretense. “You deliberately let me go on thinking that the prince was my brother! It's perfectly disgraceful!”

He looked carefully through her and said calmly:

“In this house, I'm on duty, madam. I'm bound to carry out the wishes and instructions of his highness.”

“But what about me? You have a duty to me, too—to any woman. Think of what people will say! I'm hopelessly compromised.”

“I think not, madam,” he said calmly. “The friends of his highness who know that he is not your brother do not know that you are staying here—except, of course, the Earl of Bastable, and he does not appear to think that you're compromised. In fact, he knows you're not.”

“And what has Lord Bastable got to do with it?” she asked, yet more angrily.

Bletsoe paused; the intensity of his gaze at a spot on the wall beyond her deepened. Then he said suavely:

“If you will pardon my suggesting it, madam, he would make you a nice little husband.”

Agatha, flabbergasted, gasped. For a good twenty seconds, words failed her. Then the callousness of it, the fact that he could calmly see her married to another, filled her with a sense of panic.

“How dare you say such a thing?”

“It was only a suggestion, madam—just thrown out.” His eyes, suddenly piercing, looked into hers. “It was not meant to be impertinent.”

“But it was an impertinence!” she cried stormily. “You had no business to say anything of the kind! You know I wouldn't marry Lord Bastable!”

She had quite lost the air and tone of a lady addressing a butler.

“Do I, madam?”

“Yes, you do! And I'll never forgive you for suggesting it—never!”

Her eyes were so bright that there must have been tears in them. His eyes flickered over her face again, and they did not miss that brightness.

“It's rather hard on me that you should be so bitter against me for a natural, helpful suggestion, madam,” he protested.

“Take away this soup. I can't touch it,” she said.

With an expression of concern, he removed her soup plate and brought her some filleted sole,

“Perhaps you will be able to eat this, madam.”

“I'm not going to. I don't want any lunch.”

The corners of her lips drooped; her eyes were still bright with unshed tears.

“This is very distressing,” said Bletsoe unhappily. Then he added suddenly: “Hang being on duty!” He dropped to one knee, put an arm round her, and whispered: “I am so sorry! I never dreamed you'd take it so much to heart!”

She tried to draw away from him, but his arm did not give to the pressure. His face was transfigured, and his eyes, very bright, were looking into hers. She was smitten by quite another panic.

“How dare you, Mr. Bletsoe!” she cried, and tried to rise. His arm held her firmly in the chair, and she cried again: “Let me go!”

“I can't. You're the most fascinating creature in the world!” said James Bletsoe with profound conviction.