His humour was so high-handed that the two soldiers laughed and Dank ruefully admitted that he was a lucky dog.
“You shall not marry into the Blithers family, my lad, if we can help it,” said the Count, pulling at his moustaches.
“I should say not!” said Dank, feeling for his.
“I should as soon marry a daughter of Hobbs,” said R. Schmidt, getting up from his chair with restored sprightliness. “If he had one, I mean.”
“The bonds of matrimony and the bonds of government are by no means synonymous,” said Dank, and felt rather proud of himself when his companions favoured him with a stare of amazement. The excellent lieutenant was not given to persiflage. He felt that for a moment he had scintillated.
“Shall we send a wireless to Blithers congratulating him on his coup?” enquired the Prince gaily.
“No,” said the Count. “Congratulating ourselves on his coup is better.”
“Good! And you might add that we also are trusting to luck. It may give him something to think about. And now where is Hobbs?” said royalty.
“Here, sir,” said Hobbs, appearing in the bed-room door, but not unexpectedly. “I heard wot you said about my daughter, sir. It may set your mind at rest, sir, to hear that I am childless.”
“Thank you, Hobbs. You are always thinking of my comfort. You may order luncheon for us in the Ritz restaurant. The head steward has been instructed to reserve the corner table for the whole voyage.”
“The ’ead waiter, sir,” corrected Hobbs politely, and was gone.
In three minutes he was back with the information that two ladies had taken the table and refused to be dislodged, although the head waiter had vainly tried to convince them that it was reserved for the passage by R. Schmidt and party.
“I am quite sure, sir, he put it to them very hagreeably and politely, but the young lady gave ’im the ’aughtiest look I’ve ever seen on mortal fice, sir, and he came back to me so ’umble that I could ’ardly believe he was an ’ead waiter.”
“I hope he was not unnecessarily persistent,” said the Prince, annoyed. “It really is of no consequence where we sit.”
“Ladies first, world without end,” said Dank. “Especially at sea.”
“He was not persistent, sir. In fact he was hextraordinary subdued all the time he was hexplaining the situation to them. I could tell by the way his back looked, sir.”
“Never mind, Hobbs. You ordered luncheon?”
“Yes, your ’ighness. Chops and sweet potatoes and—”
“But that’s what we had yesterday, Hobbs.”
A vivid red overspread the suddenly dismayed face of Hobbs. “’Pon my soul, sir, I—I clean forgot that it was yesterday I was thinking of. The young lady gave me such a sharp look, sir, when the ’ead waiter pointed at me that I clean forgot wot I was there for. I will ’urry back and—”
“Do, Hobbs, that’s a good fellow. I’m as hungry as a bear. But no chops!”
“Thank you, sir. No chops. Absolutely, sir.” He stopped in the doorway. “I daresay it was ’er beauty, sir, that did it. No chops. Quite so, sir.”
“If Blithers were only here,” sighed Dank. “He would make short work of the female invasion. He would have them chucked overboard.”
“I beg pardon, sir,” further adventured Hobbs, “but I fancy not even Mr. Blithers could move that young woman, sir, if she didn’t ’appen to want to be moved. Never in my life, sir, have I seen—”
“Run along, Hobbs,” said the Prince. “Boiled guinea hen.”
“And cantaloupe, sir. Yes, sir, I quite remember everything now, sir.”
Twenty minutes later, R. Schmidt, seated in the Ritz restaurant, happened to look fairly into the eyes of the loveliest girl he had ever seen, and on the instant forgave the extraordinary delinquency of the hitherto infallible Hobbs.
CHAPTER IX
THE PRINCE MEETS MISS GUILE
Later on R. Schmidt sat alone in a sheltered corner of the promenade deck, where chairs had been secured by the forehanded Hobbs. The thin drizzle now aspired to something more definite in the shape of a steady downpour, and the decks were almost deserted, save for the few who huddled in the unexposed nooks where the sweep and swish of the rain failed to penetrate. There was a faraway look in the young man’s eyes, as of one who dreams pleasantly, with little effort but excellent effect. His pipe had gone out, so his dream must have been long and uninterrupted. Eight bells sounded, but what is time to a dreamer? Then came one bell and two, and now his eyes were closed.
Two women came and stood over him, but little did they suspect that his dream was of one of them: the one with the lovely eyes and the soft brown hair. They surveyed him, whispering, the one with a little perplexed frown on her brow, the other with distinct signs of annoyance in her face. The girl was not more than twenty, her companion quite old enough to be her mother: a considerate if not complimentary estimate, for a girl’s mother may be either forty, fifty or even fifty-five, when you come to think of it.
They were looking for something. That was quite clear. And it was deplorably clear that whatever it was, R. Schmidt was sitting upon it. They saw that he was asleep, which made the search if not the actual recovery quite out of the question. The older woman was on the point of poking the sleeper with the toe of her shoe, being a matter-of-fact sort of person, when the girl imperatively shook her head and frowned upon the lady in a way to prove that even though she was old enough to be the mother of a girl of twenty she was by no means the mother of this one.
At that very instant, R. Schmidt opened his eyes. It must have been a kindly poke by the god of sleep that aroused him so opportunely, but even so, the toe of a shoe could not have created a graver catastrophe than that which immediately befell him. He completely lost his head. If one had suddenly asked what had become of it, he couldn’t have told, not for the life of him. For that matter, he couldn’t have put his finger, so to speak, on any part of his person and proclaimed with confidence that it belonged to R. Schmidt of Vienna. He was looking directly up into a pair of dark, startled eyes, in which there was a very pretty confusion and a far from impervious blink.
“I beg your pardon,” said the older woman, without the faintest trace of embarrassment,—indeed, with some asperity,—”I think you are occupying one of our chairs.”
He scrambled out of the steamer rug and came to his feet, blushing to the roots of his hair.
“I beg your pardon,” he stammered, and found his awkwardness rewarded by an extremely sweet smile—in the eyes of the one he addressed.
“We were looking for a letter that I am quite sure was left in my chair,” said she.
“A letter?” he murmured vaguely, and at once began to search with his eyes.
“From her father,” volunteered the elderly one, as if it were a necessary bit of information. Then she jerked the rug away and three pairs of eyes examined the place where R. Schmidt had been reclining. “That’s odd. Did you happen to see it when you sat down, sir?”
“I am confident that there was no letter—” began he, and then allowed his gaze to rest on the name-card at the top of the chair. “This happens to be my chair, madam,” he went on, pointing to the card. “‘R. Schmidt.’ I am very sorry.”
“The steward must have put that card there while you were at luncheon, dear. What right has he to sell our chairs over again? I shall report this to the Captain—”
“I am quite positive that this is my chair, sir,” said the girl, a spot of red in each cheek. “It was engaged two days ago. I have been occupying it since—but it really doesn’t matter. It has your name on it now, so I suppose I shall have to—”
“Not at all,” he made haste to say. “It’s yours. There has been some miserable mistake. These deck stewards are always messing things up. Still, it is rather a mystery about the letter. I assure you I saw no—”
“No doubt the steward who changed the cards had sufficient intelligence to remove all incriminating evidence,” sa
id she coolly. “We shall find it among the lost, strayed and stolen articles, no doubt. Pray retain the chair, Mr.—” She peered at the name-card—”Mr. Schmidt.”
Her cool insolence succeeded in nettling a nature that was usually most gentle. He spoke with characteristic directness.
“Thank you, I shall do so. We thereby manage to strike a fair average. I seize your deck chair, you seize my table. We are quits.”
She smiled faintly. “R. Schmidt did not sound young and gentle, but old and hateful. That is why I seized the table. I expected to find R. Schmidt a fat, old German with very bad manners. Instead, you are neither fat, old, nor disagreeable. You took it very nicely, Mr. Schmidt, and I am undone. Won’t you permit me to restore your table to you?”
The elderly lady was tapping the deck with a most impatient foot. “Really my dear, we were quite within our rights in approaching the head waiter. He—”
“He said it was engaged,” interrupted the young lady. “R. Schmidt was the name he gave and I informed him it meant nothing to me. I am very sorry, Mr. Schmidt. I suppose it was all because I am so accustomed to having my own way.”
“In that case, it is all very easy to understand,” said he, “for I have always longed to be in a position where I could have my own way. I am sure that if I could have it, I would be a most overbearing, selfish person.”
“We must enquire at the office for the letter, my dear, before—”
“It may have dropped behind the chair,” said the girl.
“Right!” cried R. Schmidt, dragging the chair away and pointing in triumph at the missing letter. He stooped to recover the missive, but she was quick to forestall him. With a little gasp she pounced upon it and, like a child proceeded to hold it behind her back. He stiffened. “I remember that you said it was from your father.”
She hesitated an instant and then held it forth for his inspection, rather adroitly concealing the postmark with her thumb. It was addressed to “Miss B. Guile, S. S. Jupiter, New York City, N. Y.,” and type-written.
“It is only fair that we should be quits in every particular,” she said, with a frank smile.
He bowed. “A letter of introduction,” he said, “in the strictest sense of the word. You have already had my card thrust upon you, so everything is quite regular. And now it is only right and proper that I should see what has become of your chairs. Permit me—”
“Really, Miss Guile,” interposed her companion, “this is quite irregular. I may say it is unusual. Pray allow me to suggest—”
“I think it is only right that Mr. Schmidt should return good for evil,” interrupted the girl gaily. “Please enquire, Mr. Schmidt. No doubt the deck steward will know.”
Again the Prince bowed, but this time there was amusement instead of uncertainty in his eyes. It was the first time that any one had ever urged him, even by inference, to “fetch and carry.” Moreover, she was extremely cool about it, as one who exacts much of young men in serge suits and outing-caps. He found himself wondering what she would say if he were to suddenly announce that he was the Prince of Graustark. The thought tickled his fancy, accounting, no doubt, for the even deeper bow that he gave her.
“They can’t be very far away,” he observed quite meekly. “Oh, I say, steward! One moment, here.” A deck steward approached with alacrity. “What has become of Miss Guile’s chair?”
The man touched his cap and beamed joyously upon the fair young lady.
“Ach! See how I have forgot! It is here! The best place on the deck—on any deck. See! Two—side by side,—above the door, away from the draft—see, in the corner, ha, ha! Yes! Two by side. The very best. Miss Guile complains of the draft from the door. I exchanged the chairs. See! But I forgot to speak. Yes! See!”
And, sure enough, there were the chairs of Miss Guile and her companion snugly stowed away in the corner, standing at right angles to the long row that lined the deck, the foot rests pointed directly at the chair R. Schmidt had just vacated, not more than a yard and a half away.
“How stupid!” exclaimed Miss Guile. “Thank you, steward. This is much better. So sorry, Mr. Schmidt, to have disturbed you. I abhor drafts, don’t you?”
“Not to the extent that I shall move out of this one,” he replied gallantly, “now that I’ve got an undisputed claim to it. I intend to stand up for my rights, Miss Guile, even though you find me at your feet.”
“How perfectly love—” began Miss Guile, a gleam of real enthusiasm in her eyes. A sharp, horrified look from her companion served as a check, and she became at once the coolly indifferent creature who exacts everything. “Thank you, Mr. Schmidt, for being so nice when we were trying so hard to be horrid.”
“But you don’t know how nice you are when you are trying to be horrid,” he remarked. “Are you not going to sit down, now that we’ve captured the disappearing chair?”
“No,” she said, and he fancied he saw regret in her eyes. “I am going to my room,—if I can find it. No doubt it also is lost. This seems to be a day for misplacing things.”
“At any rate, permit me to thank you for discovering me, Miss Guile.”
“Oh, I daresay I shall misplace you, too, Mr. Schmidt.” She said it so insolently that he flushed as he drew himself up and stepped aside to allow her to pass. For an instant their eyes met, and the sign of the humble was not to be found in the expression of either.
“Even that will be something for me to look forward to, Miss Guile,” said he. Far from being vexed, she favoured him with a faint smile of—was it wonder or admiration?
Then she moved away, followed by the uneasy lady—who was old enough to be her mother and wasn’t.
Robin remained standing for a moment, looking after her, and somehow he felt that his dream was not yet ended. She turned the corner of the deck building and was lost to sight. He sat down, only to arise almost instantly, moved by a livelier curiosity than he ever had felt before. Conscious of a certain feeling of stealth, he scrutinised the cards in the backs of the two chairs. The steward was collecting the discarded steamer-rugs farther down the deck, and the few passengers who occupied chairs, appeared to be snoozing,—all of which he took in with his first appraising glance. “Miss Guile” and “Mrs. Gaston” were the names he read.
“Americans,” he mused. “Young lady and chaperone, that’s it. A real American beauty! And Blithers loudly boasts that his daughter is the prettiest girl in America! Shades of Venus! Can there be such a thing on earth as a prettier girl than this one? Can nature have performed the impossible? Is America so full of lovely girls that this one must take second place to a daughter of Blithers? I wonder if she knows the imperial Maud. I’ll make it a point to inquire.”
Moved by a sudden restlessness, he decided that he was in need of exercise. A walk would do him good. The same spirit of restlessness, no doubt, urged him to walk rather rapidly in the direction opposite to that taken by the lovely Miss Guile. After completely circling the deck once he decided that he did not need the exercise after all. His walk had not benefitted him in the least. She had gone to her room. He returned to his chair, conscious of having been defeated but without really knowing why or how. As he turned into the dry, snug corner, he came to an abrupt stop and stared. Miss Guile was sitting in her chair, neatly encased in a mummy-like sheath of grey that covered her slim body to the waist.
She was quite alone in her nook, and reading. Evidently the book interested her, for she failed to look up when he clumsily slid into his chair and threw the rug over his legs—dreadfully long, uninteresting legs, he thought, as he stretched them out and found that his feet protruded like a pair of white obelisks.
Naturally he looked seaward, but in his mind’s eye he saw her as he had seen her not more than ten minutes before: a slim, tall girl in a smart buff coat, with a limp white hat drawn down over her hair by means of a bright green veil; he had had a glimpse of staunch tan walking-shoes. He found himself wondering how he had missed her in the turn about the deck, and how she
could have ensconced herself so snugly during his brief evacuation of the spot. Suddenly it occurred to him that she had returned to the chair only after discovering that his was vacant. It wasn’t a very gratifying conclusion.
An astonishing intrepidity induced him to speak to her after a lapse of five or six minutes, and so surprising was the impulse that he blurted out his question without preamble.
“How did you manage to get back so quickly?” he inquired.
She looked up, and for an instant there was something like alarm in her lovely eyes, as of one caught in the perpetration of a guilty act.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, rather indistinctly.
“I was away less than eight minutes,” he declared, and she was confronted by the wonderfully frank smile that never failed to work its charm. To his surprise, a shy smile grew in her eyes, and her warm red lips twitched uncertainly. He had expected a cold rebuff. “You must have dropped through the awning.”
“Your imagination is superior to that employed by the author of this book,” she said, “and that is saying a good deal, Mr.—Mr.—”
“Schmidt,” he supplied cheerfully. “May I inquire what book you are reading?”
“You would not be interested. It is by an American.”
“I have read a great many American novels,” said he stiffly. “My father was an American. Awfully jolly books, most of them.”
“I looked you up in the passenger list a moment ago,” she said coolly. “Your home is in Vienna. I like Vienna.”
He was looking rather intently at the book, now partly lowered. “Isn’t that the passenger list you have concealed in that book?” he demanded.
“It is,” she replied promptly. “You will pardon a natural curiosity? I wanted to see whether you were from New York.”
“May I look at it, please?”
She closed the book. “It isn’t necessary. I am from New York.”
“By the way, do you happen to know a Miss Blithers,—Maud Blithers?”
Miss Guile frowned reflectively. “Blithers? The name is a familiar one. Maud Blithers? What is she like?”
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 115