The Professional Prince/Chapter 7

At half past twelve, the prince arose, refreshed, and made a leisurely toilet. He learned from Bletsoe that John Stuart seemed at ease and even happy in his new home at the palace, and at once said that he should stay there.

Bletsoe found the derangement of his life incident to his attendance on John Stuart unpleasant, for that worthy young fellow had not yet endeared himself to the valet. He was roused from gloomy reflections by a firm ringing of the front-door bell and an even more decided knocking on the door. Visitors seldom knock so firmly at the doors of princes, and he opened it in some curiosity. A very pretty dark-haired, blue-eyed girl stood on the threshold. He felt that he knew her face, but, to his annoyance, he found that he could not remember where he had seen it before, and her name had escaped his memory. He prided himself on his remembrance of names and faces.

“Is Mr. Stuart—Mr. John Stuart—at home?” she asked.

For a moment Bletsoe hesitated. He enjoyed complete discretion in the matter of visitors to the prince, and dismissed most of them on the instant. But this was such a pretty visitor that it seemed wiser to exercise that discretion by admitting her and learning the prince's desire in the matter.

Accordingly he said quite truthfully:

“I believe not. But if you will come in, I will ascertain.”

He opened the door wide, she entered with a self-possessed air, and he ushered her into the small drawing-room on the opposite side of the hall from the dining room.

“Tell him that his sister has come to see him, if he's in. If he isn't in, I'll wait,” she said.

Bletsoe was enlightened and relieved. His memory had not played him false; it was merely a family likeness that had made him feel he had seen her face before.

“Very good, madam,” he said, and left her.

Agatha stared around the drawing-room in almost as great an astonishment as that with which she had heard Thelsmere's story. Its quiet scheme of decoration was not only wholly unlike the floridness of the drawing-rooms she knew, but also it was quite irreconcilable with the temperament, the intelligence, and the taste of her brother. Then the solution came to her—plainly he had taken the house furnished. She sat down with a sigh of relief.

Bletsoe went upstairs to the smoking room and informed the prince that Miss Stuart had called to see her brother.

“Then I shall know every one in the world!” cried the prince in a tone of lively satisfaction.

“Shall I show her up, your highness, or will you go down to the drawing-room?”

“What do you think I'd better do?”

“I might telephone to Mr. Stuart to come and éntertain her,' Bletsoe suggested.

“But he wouldn't entertain her; he'd bully her,” said the prince. Then, with an air of inspiration, he added: “I think I had better be her brother for an afternoon. It will be a pleasant change for her.”

Bletsoe did not seem pleased.

“Besides, it will be such an excellent test of the likeness. If I can pass as John Stuart with his sister, he can pass as me with any one in the world,” the prince continued. "Except with, perhaps, two ladies of my acquaintance,” he added thoughtfully. “So you had better bring her up to me.”

“Yes, your highness,”. said Bletsoe gloomily, and he opened the door.

“Oh—by the way, when Lord Bastable comes, explain to him that Miss Stuart has mistaken me for her brother and tell him on no account to shatter her pleasant illusion.”

“Yes, your highness,” Bletsoe repeated.

He went back to the drawing-room and, somewhat morosely inviting Agatha to come upstairs, led the way and ushered her into the smoking room.

“How do you do, John?” she began in the tone of one prepared to defend herself.

“Oh, Agatha, how are you?” said the prince in as harsh a tone as he could assume, and by an effort he restrained the charming smile that the sight of beauty always drew from him, remembering in time that John Stuart rarely smiled, and that beauty was about the last thing in the world to draw a smile from him. Then he paused, at a loss; he did not know whether John Stuart was in the habit of kissing his sister or not.

It seemed to him that he was not, for she put a cool, soft hand into his and said quietly:

“It's a long time since I last saw you.”

The prince did not know whether to be disappointed or relieved by her restraint. On the one hand, he had no desire to kiss the sister of an employee under false pretenses; on the other, the lips of Miss Agatha Stuart were manifestly formed for kisses. He kept his brow furrowed by a frown in John Stuart's best manner.

Agatha sat down in an easy-chair and gazed at him earnestly. Then she looked around the room and said:

“You are doing yourself well. Fancy your having grown rich!”

There was a little envy in her tone.

“Not so very rich,” said the prince quickly.

“I never believed you had it in you, though you never did think or talk of anything but making money,” she went on, without paying any heed to his statement.

The prince had never before enjoyed a personal experience of sisterliness, and the present exhibition of it did not please him. He frowned more deeply than ever as he said, again in the best John Stuart manner:

“A prophet is always without honor in his own country.”

“How did you make your money?” she asked quietly. “Not in that insurance business, anyhow. I'm sure of that.”

“No. I didn't make it in the insurance business,” said the prince quite truthfully.

“Oh, if you don't want to tell me!” She shrugged her shoulders.

“It would take so long to explain,” said the prince. “But wouldn't you like some coffee and a liqueur? It's too early for tea.”

She looked at him with a startled air, hesitating.

“Thanks, I should,” she accepted finally. “I didn't have any coffee after lunch.”

He rang the bell, and when Bletsoe came, bade him bring coffee and Grand Marnier. When the valet had shut the door, she said:

“What a good-looking butler you've got!”

“Isn't he? You might almost find his face on a coin of one of the Greek cities in Sicily,” the prince agreed, almost with enthusiasm. Then, at her look of surprise, he added with cold severity: “But, after all, beauty's only skin deep.”

“I don't know anything about coins and Greek cities, but I certainly think he's one of the best-looking men I ever saw.”

“Beauty's only skin deep,” the prince repeated, even more severely.

“I know that.” She spoke a trifle impatiently. “Is he a good servant?”

“The best in London—invaluable,” said the prince warmly.

“I tell you what,” she announced with an air of decision. “I don't see why I should go on spending money on lodgings when you've got this large house all to yourself. You could easily spare me a room.”

Without pausing to consider the matter, the prince began, “I shall be charm” stopped short just in time, and went on in a harsher voice, “All right. I'll let you have two rooms—a bedroom and a sitting room. And you can have a latchkey, and come and go just as you like. They're on the ground floor, though—the rooms.”

“That's—that's awfully decent of you!”

“Not at all—not at all,” said the prince quickly. “Er—er—blood is thicker than water.”

“All the same, it is awfully decent of you,” she insisted gratefully. “And I'll pay for my board—twelve shillings a week.”

“You won't!” declared the prince with some heat.

She smiled, a delightful smile, the first she had smiled since she came.

“Very well, I won't,” she agreed. “Thank you very much.”

There was a pause: The prince had leisure to perceive what he had done, and his mind misgave him somewhat. He had given her John Stuart's rooms, and John Stuart could not stay at the palace all the time.

A far more important matter was that of the proprieties. Miss Stuart could not very well become the guest of an unmarried man. But it was too late to withdraw his offer; indeed, he could not withdraw it without revealing his secret. He foresaw trouble when she did learn it, grave trouble. But it could not be helped now; he could only follow his usual custom and leave the matter on the knees of the gods. The frown cleared from his brow.

When, some time later, there came a ring at the bell, a knocking at the front door, and the sound of voices in the hall, the prince guessed that Bletsoe was informing the Earl of Bastable of Miss Stuart's error. He wondered whether he was about to be amused, merely, or to get into trouble.

The door opened, and Bletsoe ushered in the Earl of Bastable. He was wearing an air of bewilderment, and stammered as he greeted Agatha.

She received him with no warmth, but with considerable surprise.

“Fancy you two knowing one another!” she said.

“I was never so surprised in my life as to learn that you were here,” said the Earl of Bastable, and he looked it.

“It's not a bit more odd than that you two should know one another,” the prince put in firmly. Then he added, in the harsh, didactic accents of John Stuart: “It's a small world.”

“All the same, it's odd that it should be as small as all that,” said Agatha with reason.

“You're right,” agreed the Earl of Bastable.

There was a pause. Then the earl changed the subject by asking how things were going at the theater; and Agatha entered upon a recital of her quarrel with the manager which had led to the loss of her part in “The Skating Girl.”

Then, to the relief of the prince, when the clock struck four, she rose hastily, and said that she must be going, as she had many things to do. The Earl of Bastable did not offer to go with her to help her, but he invited her to dine with him at the Ritz on the following night. She accepted the invitation, and the prince accompanied her to the front door and put her into a cab. She paused, with her foot on the step, and said:

“There's no doubt that growing rich has improved you immensely.”

“Thank you,” said the prince.

“This is a rum go!” growled the Earl of Bastable, as the prince came back into the smoking room.

“Yes?” said the prince in a tone of amiable inquiry.

“Of course it is. And how did it come about? Who is this John Stuart? How on earth did his sister come to mistake you for him? Hasn't she ever seen him, or hasn't she seen him for years? She never told me she had a brother. I never heard of him till you mentioned him last night. Where is he?” His sentences almost tumbled over one another in his eager curiosity.

The prince explained.

“Of all the mad games But there! They're the only kind that ever really amuse you,” said the Earl of Bastable, when the prince had concluded. “But my hat! There'll be the deuce to pay when it comes out!”

“Oh, it won't come out. Why should it?”

“Well, you don't have the best of luck, you know.” The earl spoke despondently. “And then such a lot of people know it—Sir Horace, Bletsoe, myself, and this John Stuart. A secret's no secret when three people know it, and that's four—five with yourself.”

Bromide, oh, bromide!” said the prince cheerfully. “If it isn't a secret, it will be a conspiracy of silence. Who is going to gain anything by telling? Sir Horace is the only dangerous person, and he'll get into worse trouble than I shall, if it comes out. I've told him he will.”

“There's some one you've forgotten—Miss Stuart.”

“Oh, she won't find out. She was never on good enough terms with her brother to be much interested in him. Why, she never had the slightest suspicion this afternoon; and as long as I don't smile, she won't have.” He paused as it flashed across him that this was the moment to let the earl know of the arrangements she had made; then he added: “It will be a bit awkward, though, having her always on the spot—living here.”

“Living here? What do you mean?” cried the Earl of Bastable loudly.

“She has arranged to take up her abode here. She didn't think that her bachelor brother should live in a large house and she pay for lodgings. And I'm bound to admit there's a good deal to be said for her point of view,” said the prince in a dispassionate tone.

“But it would never do! Never!”

The prince shrugged his shoulders with an air of helplessness.

“How could I say no?”

“Think what people would say! She wouldn't have a scrap of character left, if it came out that she'd been living in your house—not a scrap!”

“Goodness knows I don't want her in the house. But what am I to do? I can't have this splendid idea wrecked on a simple social rock like that.”

“You must stop her!”

“Stop her? You know her—does she look a likely person to stop?”

The Earl of Bastable was silent. His frown was very near a scowl. The prince's belief in the firmness of Miss Agatha Stuart was so well founded.