Chapter VI Solonika’s Summer-House
And when a lady’s in the case,
You know, all other things give place.
—Gay: Fables.
The General’s was one of those angelic, choleric dispositions that frequently blow up under pressure of sudden anger, but emerge smiling from the havoc of the explosion, bearing no malice. When we met him at the breakfast table the next morning, the only reference he made to the boyish escapade of the night before was concealed in his pleasant greeting.
“Good morning, children.”
“Good morning, sir,” we unisoned like a Greek chorus.
“What new deviltry are you two planning this morning?”
We assured him that we felt our age and the responsibilities of life, and that we intended henceforth to be very good boys indeed if he would cease reminding us of our youth.
The talk about the table was of the impending coronation. The General was impatient for news as to how the preparations for that great event were progressing. During his rapid journey to America, in search of Nicholas, much had been done, but he had no doubt much remained undone.
“How would you both like to run down to Nischon with me?” he asked. “We will be back by nightfall if we take the machine.”
To my surprise Nicholas did not immediately acquiesce. He usually found it agreeable to do what the General proposed, but for some reason he did not grow enthusiastic over the coronation. As for myself, it did not suit my purpose to go to the capital city, much as I desired to see it. I had other plans, but I could not tell the General for fear of risking his displeasure. For, notwithstanding his admonition to the contrary, I intended to go over to Castle Dhalmatia and see the Prince. Down in my heart I suppose was the hope that I might also make the acquaintance of his twin sister the Princess Solonika. Ever since I heard their romantic story from the General’s lips, I experienced a great desire to get to the bottom of the mystery and prove the General right or wrong. The opportunity of seeing Nischon was mine any time, but the chance of visiting the inhospitable Castle in the guise of a physician was not to be lost.
“The king has set his heart upon making this occasion one long to be remembered in Bharbazonia, and we must stand ready to help him,” continued the General. “He will be happy to see you, the heir of Framkor, Nicholas. He loves the young men of his country and was much interested in my trip to find you.”
Still Nicholas remained silent.
“Don’t you care to go?” asked Palmora.
“If my preference is to be considered, Godfather,” said Nick, “I would rather stay at home. I will gladly accompany you another time. But to-day I am tired after our long journey.”
“And you?” said the General turning to me.
“I would rather stay here with Nick.”
“All right,” he replied, “I will go alone, provided I may borrow your car, Nick.”
“Gladly,” said Nick, relieved at being let off so easily.
Teju Okio brought the big machine under the porte-cochère, and we were preparing to see the General off when a lone horseman cantered up the driveway among the trees, his long Spanish cloak waving in the breeze and his sword jangling at his side. He was a good looking black haired youth, and he rode his charger with the ease of a cavalryman. It took all his horsemanship to get his restive animal to face the running engines, but by dint of a liberal use of spurs and much coaxing he finally came within hailing distance.
The General seemed to recognize him and returned his salute graciously. Upon the rider’s breast, under his wind-tossed cloak, was the same kind of a Greek cross, two parallel bars and one at an angle, which I had seen both the General and Nicholas wearing upon the yacht. Whatever his business was, it was speedily transacted. He shouted a question at the General, received a reply, waved a parting salute, and was off like the wind, his struggling steed showing a fine pair of heels to the demon in the porte-cochère.
“The Grand Duke Marbosa seems much concerned for my safe arrival,” said Nick. “His messenger is here early.”
“I suppose Marchaud, the innkeeper, has spread the news of our return,” said the General.
“What have I to do with Marbosa?” said Nick.
“I’ll tell you about that when I see you to-night,” replied the General, waving his hand to Teju Okio. The Jap boy threw in his clutch, the General’s head went back, and they were off for Nischon.
“There is some mystery here,” said Nick, watching the car thoughtfully until it was gone from sight.
“Who is Marbosa?” I asked.
“He is the recognized leader of the nobles of Bharbazonia and a great friend of the General’s. He is about Palmora’s age, but as hot-headed and impetuous as a youth.”
It was too fine a day to be indoors, and I suggested that we employ the morning by riding about the country on horseback. Nick forgot the weariness he had offered the General as an excuse for remaining behind and readily assented. The stables were in the rear of the castle and we found them full of the finest horses money could buy. Nick conversed with the stablemen by means of the sign language, remembering his American character, and we were soon upon the road astride the best travellers I have ever seen.
“Wither awa’,” I cried gaily as we left the estate, coming into the public road by the porter’s lodge and gates which I recognized from the evening before.
“Let us go to Dhalmatia and see how the Prince is this morning,” said Nick.
I turned my head to hide the smile. So he, too, was interested in the Prince? I wondered if the General’s suspicions had at last awakened in Nick’s breast a desire similar to my own, or was it that he wished to improve his acquaintance with the future king?
“On to the lair of the Red Fox,” I said.
Nick’s estates, I found, were on one side of the road and the Red Fox’s on the other. The entrances were at opposite ends and about two miles apart. I remembered that it must have been over this very highway that Nick’s father and his friend the General had hurriedly galloped that memorable night twenty years ago drawn by the strange ringing of the natal bell. Our journey was made more decorously, but upon a strangely similar errand as far as I was concerned.
The castle on the hill was visible from the road. Although it stood bathed in sunlight in the clearing high above the woodland, it retained all its sombreness. And the General’s remarks came back to me with renewed force. Had I been alone I might have turned back.
No one came forward to take our horses when we dismounted. The silent battlements grinned down upon us as though to warn us away. I held the bridle reins while Nick beat upon the oaken door with the handle of his riding crop.
The butler who answered was the old man who had held the lantern the night before. He resembled his master in grimness of manner and secrecy of method, opening the door slightly and blocking the aperture with his body, as if he suspected we had come to filch the bric-a-brac, or make way with the Prince. As soon as he laid eyes upon us he addressed himself to a task he appeared to relish.
“The master bids me thank you,” he said in French, usual in Bharbazonian households because, as I afterward learned, it was the court language, “for the expression of good will which your presence implies; he is sorry that the custom of denying himself to visitors, which has been his for years, compels him to refrain from entertaining you. To Monsieur le Physician, he desires me to say that his son has so far recovered as to make any further calls unnecessary.”
The insult took our breath away and we could manage no words to reply.
“I wish you a very good afternoon,” said the doorman, gravely. Then he gently but firmly closed the door in our faces.
What little hold Nick retained upon his temper was lost when, in remounting, owing to the restiveness of his horse, he twice missed his stirrup. The animal was one of those high-spirited fellows that show much white around the eye and cannot stand the approach of a rider. Nick made matters worse by belabouring him both with his riding whip and the toe of his boot, so that I had to pull up on the road and wait for him.
I scarcely knew what to make of our unceremonious reception, and could attribute the Duke’s action to one of two things. Either as an offspring of Bharbazonia he was mediæval and unused to the polite usages of the present day; or he had something to conceal.
“My respect for the General increases,” I said as we rode off together.
“Why?” growled Nick.
“The General knew his man better than we did.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He strongly advised me not to visit Dhalmatia, and said the Red Fox would insult us.”
“Humph,” said Nick, “I wish you had told me. I should not have given him the opportunity.”
“Well, after all,” I suggested, “the Fox has a right to exclude us if he is so minded. A man’s castle is his home, I take it.”
“Bharbazonians do not treat each other with such scant courtesy.”
“You forget that we are two Americans to him. But even Bharbazonia is known to Baedeker, I suppose.”
“Can you, the rejected physician, who yesterday stood ready to treat his son, forgive him so lightly?”
“Assuredly, when I remember that I was also one of the party which contributed to his son’s fall.”
“You are too good-natured, Dale. I could choke him with pleasure. One of these days when his son is king I shall compel an apology.”
By common consent when we reached the highway we turned away from Framkor and rode past the Duke’s estate, the length of which was plainly marked by an almost endless hedge. As we came opposite a pretty little summer-house, enclosed in glass and used as a winter conservatory, I caught sight of the prince’s face behind the glass. His profile was toward us and, as he was sitting, only his head and shoulders were visible. Not hearing our hoof beats on the soft dirt road he did not look up as we passed. Here was an opportunity of accomplishing our purpose in spite of the Duke. Nothing loath I embraced it.
“If you are minded to talk to the Fox’s son before he is king,” I exclaimed, indicating the summer-house, “here is your chance.”
Seeing the Prince, Nick put his horse to the hedge without a word and I followed. As we struck the ground on the other side, the Prince looked quickly up. He watched us tie our horses to a tree, but made no effort to rise when we burst open the door and unceremoniously entered.
On the threshold we both stopped in surprise, our hostility giving place to embarrassment and a natural consternation. We suddenly found ourselves not, as we expected, in the presence of the Prince, but standing stupidly before a surprised and beautiful young woman. She was about the Prince’s age and bore a striking resemblance to him. She had the same sleepy brown eyes. Her hair was of the same titian shade, but it was long and gathered in a soft knot at the back of her head. It was her crowning glory and she wore it without a part after the manner of the French pompadour.
Her dress was one I had not expected to find in Bharbazonia. It was a tailor-made suit of the then fashionable “smoke” colour and beneath her short skirt peeped a pair of patent leather shoes with tops to match the colour of her dress. Could she have been transferred from her summer-house to the Rittenhouse square promenade, she would not have been out of the picture nor have caused comment except for her great beauty.
With well-bred composure she calmly looked from Nick to me without altering her position in her comfortable chair or even lowering her book. Although apparently unmoved, she was alert to our every move, questioning with her glance the reason for our intrusion. Many another girl under similar circumstance might have cried out, but she was neither overcome with feminine modesty nor afraid.
For my part I was conscious of feeling like a small boy caught with a pocketful of stolen apples. Nick must have been afflicted in a like manner, for our hats came off simultaneously, and we bowed as low as the difference in our training would permit.
“We beg your pardon,” began Nick, recovering his composure. “We expected to find the Prince here—the resemblance is so wonderful—we beg your pardon.”
There was another awkward pause as she waited for him to continue and then, seeing that he had lost his voice, she spoke. I shall never forget the feeling that went through me as I listened to her ringing contralto, full of Homeresque quality, clear as a bell.
“From the manner of your entrance, one would imagine you meant him harm,” she said.
Nick’s composure forsook him entirely and I came to the rescue. There was nothing timorous about this young woman. She looked me frankly in the face. The subtle charm of her femininity came to me with the odour of the surrounding flowers and took a firm grasp upon my heart.
“We are just come from the castle,” I hastened to say, “where we sought to inquire after the health of the Prince. The Duke turned us from the door.”
“And may I inquire who you are?”
“I am Dr. Dale Wharton and this is Mr. Nicholas Fremsted.”
She returned the compliment.
“I am Solonika, the Prince’s sister,” she replied.
We both bowed again like two automatons controlled by the same string.
“I see that you are not English,” she added.
“No,” Nick replied quickly as if he were not sure of my answer, “we are both Americans.”
“So?” she said, looking at Nick as if she were trying to place him in her memory. Her quizzical expression reminded me of the Prince when he had watched Nick in the same manner.
“Now that we have been introduced most properly,” she continued with the shadow of a smile, “perhaps you will sit down and have tea with me. Perhaps also I may make amends for my father’s seeming lack of hospitality.”
“Therese,” she called to a French maid who promptly emerged from behind a Japanese screen in the rear of the room, “chairs for the gentlemen.”
While Nick engaged the Princess in conversation I had opportunity to examine the summer-house. It has always been my belief that one reveals character in the arrangement and decoration of one’s favourite rooms. The little den had the atmosphere of a college man’s smoking room, except for the flowers that were banked high at the windows which formed the wall of the summer-house on the side toward the road. Here and there convenient openings were left for a view of the highway. If the Princess had fitted up this lounging place out of a feeling of monotony which remote living in the castle brought her, she succeeded admirably in arriving at privacy and at the same time avoiding loneliness.
The other three walls were done in dark red burlap richly hung with pictures. Drinking steins of every nation, together with valuable china and porcelain ware, adorned the plate rail around the sides. But what caught my eye was a lifesize, full-length picture of Solonika herself dressed in the bright-coloured garb of a Bharbazonian peasant girl, poised upon the tips of her dainty toes in the midst of a native dance. Close beside it was another canvas of the Prince in the pure white finery of a most gorgeous court costume, covered with lace and furbelows sufficient to arouse the envy of a French king.
In one corner was an artist’s easel on which stood a half finished landscape of the King’s Highway, showing the Turk’s Head Inn in the foreground. The room was neither masculine nor feminine and I was at a loss to find a reason for the presence of a large copy of Wehr-Schmidt’s painting of “Down Among the Dead Men,” which occupied the entire rear wall, unless it might be that the Prince also had a hand in the decorations. Else why should such prominence be given a scene in which a number of reckless swordsmen were forcing a frightened clergyman to drink an abhorred health, singing as they threatened him with their levelled points:
“And he who will this health deny,
Down among the dead men let him lie.”
Therese, the maid, was serving the tea when I came back from my mental wandering and began to take an interest in the conversation.
“Brother is much better this morning,” the Princess was saying. “Father has difficulty in keeping him in bed. Although his arm is still painful, he is a lively youth and hard to keep down.”
“He will not suffer any further inconvenience from his fall?” asked Nick.
“None whatever. After all, it was his own fault. He sometimes is such a careless rider. When the colt reared at sight of your conveyance, Raoul says he made the mistake of pulling him back. The sight of your car was so unexpected; I suppose he was as much surprised as the horse. Think of it! An automobile in Bharbazonia!”
She threw back her head and laughed heartily at the thought, and we could do nothing else but laugh with her. The charm of the girl was contagious and we forgot the Duke’s unpleasantness.
“Why, it was only a week ago they burned a witch at the stake for some offence against the Church. I was not a bit sorry when I heard it, for she was the one who prophesied that Raoul would never be King of Bharbazonia—and behold along comes this automobile, chug-chugging through the middle ages almost making that prophecy come true. We are growing modern.”
“Dear old Bharbazonia,” sighed Nick, off his guard for the moment.
The Princess heard the remark, and I saw her compare my own blond head with Nick’s black curls, while the puzzled look returned.
“Dear old Bharbazonia,” was all she said, but I fancied her interest in him increased from that moment. It was the call of the blood.
“Do you know Bharbazonia?” she asked him later.
He admitted that he had visited the country on different occasions, always as the guest of General Palmora.
“On one of my trips I had the pleasure of meeting the Prince at Nischon. He was visiting his uncle the King.”
“Ah,” she said, “I thought so.”
She nodded her head several times as if his remark explained many things.
“But I never had the pleasure of meeting you before,” he added.
“I have seen you,” she hastened to say. “If I remember correctly that was four years ago. You and the General rode by these windows frequently on that occasion. That was the year the Grand Duke of Framkor died.”
Nick made no reply at this mention of his father’s name. And, if she were trying to discover his identity under directions from her suspicious father, she made nothing out of him.
“I suppose, if one could trace it back, I should be found to be a relation of his,” he said. “My family is Russian. I was born in St. Petersburg and later became a world wanderer and finally an American. Dale and I were chums at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia.”
“Friends,” she mused. “I have always been interested in friendship. I never had a friend.”
“You have had no opportunity, living here all your life.”
“Oh, but I have been away to school. I have met those there whom I would have called friends, but father you know is a curious man, and I cannot have them visit me here.”
“You have missed a great deal in life,” said Nick.
“Have I?” she laughed. “I do not think so. Friendship between men is not lasting. I wonder if a woman could not loosen the bonds of affection between you two at any time she chose?”
“I doubt it,” said Nick, staunchly.
“I have often wondered what would happen if a woman had come between David and Jonathan, or Damon and Pythias or any of the famous chums of history,” she said.
“A woman is only a woman,” said Nick with a smile, “but the world holds nothing so dear as the friends one makes in youth and cleaves to until the end. I do not think the woman lives who could part Dale and me.”
“Don’t be too sure,” she smiled back between half closed eyes.
It was almost dark when we arose to take our leave after a most pleasant afternoon. Nick, true to his Bharbazonian instinct, made his leave-taking consist of a sweeping bow, but I put out my hand in American fashion.
“Good-bye, your Highness,” I said, “I trust that we will see you soon again.”
She hesitated for the fraction of a second before extending her hand. Perhaps she was not familiar with hand-shaking as a leave-taking habit. For the first time during the afternoon she seemed timid. When I released her hand the arm fell to her side. “Oh!” she exclaimed as if in pain, although I could have sworn that I had not used more strength in my leave-taking than one would with a Dresden doll.
But, when I reached the door and bowed myself across the threshold, she was standing by her chair smiling brightly.
“Good-bye,” she said, “I have had such a pleasant afternoon. Please do not cherish resentment and come to the castle. The Prince and I will be glad to see you both. I shall tell father he must apologize.”
She came to the door and watched us mount and put our horses over the hedge. We both waved our hands to her as the bend in the road shut her from view.
It wasn’t until we turned in at Framkor gate that a possible explanation of the significance of Solonika’s suppressed cry of pain came home to me and I exclaimed aloud:
“It was the right arm of the Prince that was dislocated!”
“Well,” said Nick, “and what of that?”