Chapter 4

“Most assuredly. If you don't, I'll ask Mrs. Garrison to command you to do so,” he threatened, eagerly. He would have given his head to read the contents of the letter that caused her so much concern. All sorts of conjectures were racing through his brain.

“Oh, please don't do that!” she begged, and he saw real supplication in her eyes. “I wouldn't give you the letter for the world, and I--I--well, don't you see that I am embarrassed?”

“Give me the letter,” he commanded, Sternly.

“Do you wish me to hate you?” she blazed.

“'Heaven forbid!”

“Then forget that your name is on this--this detestable envelope,” she cried, tearing the missive into pieces. He looked on in wonder, chagrin, disappointment.

“By George, Dorothy, that's downright cruel. It was intended for me--”

“You should thank me. I have only saved you the trouble of destroying it,” she said, smiling.

“I would have kept it forever,” he said, fervently.

“Here's a small bit of the envelope which you may keep as a souvenir. See, it has your name--'Philip'--on it. You shall have that much of the letter.” He took it rather gracelessly and, deliberately opening his watch, placed it inside the case. “I'd give $10,000 to know what that letter had to say to me.”

“You can never know,” she said, defiantly, from the bottom of the steps, “for I have forgotten the contents myself.”

She laughed as she ran upstairs, but he detected confusion in the tone, and the faint flush was still on her cheek. He sat down and wondered whether the contents would have pleased or displeased him. Philosophically he resolved that as long as he was never to know he might just as well look at it from a cheerful point of view; he would be pleased.

IX. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

It would be difficult to define the emotions that consumed Miss Garrison as she entered her mother's boudoir. She could not conceal from herself the sensation of jubilant delight because he had come to Brussels. At the same time, even though his visit was that of a mere friend, it promised complications which she was loath to face. She went into the presence of her mother with the presentiment that the first of the series was at hand.

“What is Philip Quentin doing here, Dorothy?” demanded Mrs. Garrison. She was standing in the center of the room, and her attitude was that of one who has experienced a very unpleasant surprise. The calm, cold tone was not far from accusing; her steely eyes were hard and uncompromising. The tall daughter stood before her, one hand still clutching the bits of white paper; on her face there was the imprint of demure concern.

“I haven't had time to ask him, mamma,” she said, lightly, “Would it be quite the proper thing to demand the reason for his presence here when it seems quite clear that he is paying us a brief morning call?”

“Do not be absurd! I mean, what is he doing in Brussels? Didn't he say he was to return to New York last week?” There was refined belligerence in her voice. Dorothy gave a brief thought to the cool, unabashed young man below and smiled inwardly as she contemplated the reception he was to receive from this austere interrogator.

“Don't ask me, mamma, I am as much puzzled as you over his sudden advent. It is barely possible he did not go to New York.”

“Well, why didn't he?” This was almost a threat.

“It is a mystery we have yet to unravel. Shall we send for Sherlock Holmes?”

“Dorothy, I am very serious. How can you make light of this unwarranted intrusion? He is--”

“Why do you call it intrusion, mamma? Has he not the right to come? Can we close the door in his face? Is he not a friend? Can we help ourselves if he knocks at our door and asks to see us?” Dorothy felt a smart tug of guilt as she looked back and saw herself trudging sheepishly up the front steps beside the intruder, who had not been permitted to knock at the door.

“A gentleman would not subject you to the comments of--of--well, I may say the whole world. He certainly saw the paragraphs in those London papers, and he knows that we cannot permit them to be repeated over here. He has no right to thrust himself upon us under the circumstances. You must give him to understand at once, Dorothy, that his intentions--or visits, if you choose to call them such--are obnoxious to both of us.”

“Oh, mamma! we've talked all this over before. What can I do? I wouldn't offend him for the world, and I am sure he is incapable of any desire to have me talked about, He knows me and he likes me too well for that. Perhaps he will go away soon,” said Dorothy, despairing petulance in her voice, Secretly she was conscious of the justice in her mother's complaints.

“He shall go soon,” said Mrs. Garrison, with determination.

“You will not--will not drive him away?” said her daughter, quickly.

“I shall make him understand that you are not the foolish child he knew in New York. You are about to become a princess. He shall be forced to see the impregnable wall between himself and the Princess Ravorelli--for you are virtually the owner of that glorious title. A single step remains and then you are no longer Dorothy Garrison. Philip Quentin I have always disliked, even mistrusted. His reputation in New York was that of a man of the town, a rich roisterer, a 'breaker of hearts,' as your uncle has often called him. He is a daring notoriety seeker, and this is rare sport for him.” Mrs. Garrison's eyes were blazing, her hands were clenched, her bearing that of one who is both judge and executioner.

“I think you do him an injustice,” said Dorothy, slowly, a feeling of deep resentment asserting itself. “Philip is not what you call him. He is a gentleman.” Mother and daughter looked into each other's eyes squarely for a moment, neither flinching, both justifying themselves for the positions they were to take.

“You defend him?”

“As he would defend me.”

“You have another man to defend. Do you think of him?”

“You have yet to say that Ugo is no gentleman. It will then be time for defense, such as I am offering now.”

“We are keeping your friend waiting, Dorothy,” said Mrs. Garrison, with blasting irony. “Give him my compliments and say that we trust he may come every day. He affords us a subject for pleasant discussion, and I am sure Prince Ugo will be as charmed to meet him here as he was in London.”

“Don't be sarcastic, mamma. It doesn't help matters and--” began Dorothy, almost plaintively.

“Mr. Quentin certainly does not help matters, my dear. Still, if you will enjoy the comment, the notoriety that he may be generous enough to share with you, I can say no more. When you are ready to dismiss him, you shall find me your ally.” She was triumphant because she had scored with sarcasm a point where reason must have fallen far short.

“I might tell Rudolf to throw him into the street,” said Dorothy, dolefully, “only I am quite positive Phil would refuse to be thrown by less than three Rudolfs. But he is expecting you downstairs, mamma. He asked for you.”

“I cannot see him to-day. Tell him I shall be only too glad to see him if he calls again,” and there was a deep, unmistaken meaning in the way she said it.

“You will not go down?” Dorothy's face flushed with something akin to humiliation. After all, he did not deserve to be treated like a dog.

“I am quite content upstairs,” replied Mrs. Garrison, sweetly.

Dorothy turned from her mother without another word, and as she went down the stairs there was rebellion in her soul; the fires of resistance showed their first tiny tongues in the hot wave that swept through her being. Quentin was stretched out comfortably in a big chair, his back toward the stairs, his eyes upon the busy avenue below. She paused for a moment at the foot of the stairs and there was a strange longing to pass her fingers over the thick dark hair. The thought passed instantaneously, but there was a new shyness in her manner as she approached.

“Hullo,” he said, arising as he heard her footfall. “Been watching the people drive by. Pretty smart traps, some of them, too. The old families that came over in the Ark with Moses--er, Noah, I should say.” There was deep concern in the remark, but she was confident that he vaguely understood why she was alone.

“Mamma trusts you will excuse her this morning. She says she will be glad to see you when you come again.” She seated herself on a divan near the window, a trifle out of the glaring light of the August sun. She held in her hand a fan and the bits of paper had disappeared. “Isn't it dreadfully warm?”

“Looks like rain, too,” said he, briefly. Then, with new animation: “Tell me, what was in that letter?”

“Nothing but nonsense,” she replied, smiling serenely, for she was again a diplomat.

“How dare you! How dare you write nonsense to me? But, really, I'd like to know what it was. You'll admit I have a right to be curious.”

“It pleases me to see you curious. I believe it is the first time I ever saw you interested in anything. Quite novel, I assure you.”

“Don't you mean to tell me?”

“Assuredly--not.”

“Well, I think it's a roaring shame to write anything to a fellow that he can't be allowed to read. I wouldn't treat you that way.”

“I know you wouldn't. You are too good, and too sensible, and too considerate, and all the other kind of too's, while I am just an unaccountable ninny. If you ever did anything crazy you wouldn't like to have it found out, would you?”

“By all means! Then I could take treatment for the malady. Lean forward, Dorothy, so that I can see your eyes. That's right! Now, look at me squarely. Will you tell me what was in that letter?” She returned his gaze steadily, almost mockingly.

“No.”

“That's all I want to know. I can always tell by a girl's eyes whether she is stubborn.”

“I am not stubborn.”

“Well, I'll drop the matter for all time. Doubtless you were right when you said it was nonsense; you ought to know. Changing the subject, I think I'll like Brussels if I stay here long enough.” He was again nonchalant, indifferent. Under her mask of unconcern she felt a trifle piqued that he did not persist in his endeavor to learn the contents of the unfortunate letter.

“How long do you expect--I mean purpose to stay?” she asked.

“It depends on conditions. I may be crazy enough to stay six weeks and I may be crazy enough to go away next week. You see, I'm not committing myself to any specified degree of insanity; it won't make so much difference when I am found out, as you say. At present, however, I contemplate staying until that affair at St. Gudule.”

She could not hide the annoyance, the discomfiture, his assertion inspired. In a second she saw endless unpleasantries--some pleasantries, it is fair to say--and there seemed to be no gentle way of escape. At the same time, there came once more the queer flutter she had felt when she met him in the street, a half-hour before.

“You will find it rather dull here, I am afraid,” she found courage to say. “Or do you know many people--the American minister, perhaps?”

“Don't know a soul here but you and Mrs. Garrison. It won't be dull--not in the least. We'll ride and drive, go ballooning or anything you like--”

“But I can't, Phil. Do you forget that I am to be married in six weeks?” she cried, now frightened into an earnest appeal.

“That's it, precisely. After that you can't go ballooning with anybody but the prince, so for at least a month you can have a good time telling me what a jolly good fellow he is. That's what girls like, you know, and I don't mind in the least. If you want to talk about him by the hour, I won't utter an objection. Of course, I suppose you'll be pretty busy with your trousseau and so forth, and you'll have the house full of visitors, too, no doubt. But you can give me a little time.”

“I am sure mamma would not--”

“She never did approve, if that's what you were about to say. What is she afraid of? Does she imagine that I want to marry you? Good heavens!” So devout was his implied denial of such a project that she felt herself grow hot. “Doesn't she think the prince has you safely won? You are old enough to take care of yourself, I'm sure.”

“She knows that I love Prince Ugo, and that he is the only man I shall ever love. Her disapproval would arise from the needless exposure to comment. You remember what the London paper said about us.” If she thought that he was chilled by her bold opening assertion she was to find herself mistaken. He smiled complacently.

“I thought it was very nice of them. I am preserving the clipping,” he said, airily. “We can talk over this little difficulty with public opinion when we've had more time to think about it. You see, I've been here but ten hours, and I may be willing to leave tomorrow, that is, after I've seen more of the town. I may not like the king, and I'm quite sure the palace doesn't suit me. I'll come around to-morrow and we'll drive through one of these famous parks--”

“Oh, no, Phil! Really, you don't know how it embarrasses me--”

“I'll go away to-night, if you say you don't want to see me at all, Dorothy,” he said, seriously, rising and standing before her.

“I don't mean that. You know I want to see you--for old times' sake.”

“I shall go, nevertheless, if you merely hint that I am unwelcome.” She arose and suddenly gave him her hand.

“You are not unwelcome, and you are foolish to speak in that manner,” she said, seriously.

“And your mother?”

“She must endure what I endure.”

“Somewhere Baedeker says that the Bois de la Cambre is the finest park in Brussels,” said he, his eyes gleaming.

“I am quite sure Baedeker is reliable,” she agreed, with a smile.

“At three o'clock to-morrow afternoon, then, I will come for you. Will you remember me to your mother and tell her I am sorry not to see her to-day? Good-bye!”

She followed him to the door, and when he sped lightly down the steps there was a broad smile on the face of each. He turned and both laughed outright. “Where there's a will, there's a way,” she mused, as she went to her room upstairs. An hour later her daily letter to the prince was ready for the post. The only allusion to the visitor of the morning was: “Mr. Quentin--our New York friend, you will remember--made us a brief call this morning. He is quite undecided as to the length of his stay here, but I hope you will be here to see him.”

Then, dismissing Quentin from her mind, she sat down to dream of the one great event in her life--this wonderful, glorious wedding in old St. Gudule's. Already her trousseau was on a fair way to completion. She gave no thought to the fortune that these gowns were to cost, she considered not the glories she was to reap by becoming a real princess, she dwelt not on the future before her, for she knew she was to be happy with Ugo. Instead, she dreamed only of the “color scheme” that was to make memorable her wedding procession.

In her mind's eye she saw the great church thronged with the most brilliant, illustrious assemblage it had ever held (she was quite sure no previous gathering could have been more august), and a smile of pride came to her lips. The great chorus, the procession, the lights, the incomprehensible combination of colors, the chancel, the flowers, her wedding gown, and Ugo's dark, glowing face rushed in and out of her vision as she leaned back in her chair and--almost forgot to breathe. The thought of Ugo grew and grew; she closed her eyes and saw him at her side as they walked proudly from the altar with the good bishop's blessing and the song of the choir in their ears, the swelling of love in their souls. So vivid became the dream of his presence that she could almost feel his hand touching hers: she felt her eyes turn toward him, with all that great crowd watching, and her heart quivered with passion as his dark, happy eyes burnt through to her very soul. Somehow she heard distinctly the whisper, “My wife!”

Suddenly a strange chill came over this idle, happy dream, and she opened her eyes with a start, Ugo's face fading away like a flash. The thought had rushed in like a stab from a dagger. Would Philip Quentin be there, and would he care? Would he care?

X. TWO IN A TRAP

“Th' juke sent his card up, sir,” said Turk, his master was once more in his rooms at the Bellevue. Turk was looking eminently respectable in a new suit of blue serge.

“When?” asked Phil, glancing at Laselli's card. He had forgotten the Italian, and the sight of his name recalled the plot unpleasantly.

“'Bout eleven o'clock. I watched him leave th' hotel an' go down that street over there--th' same one you took a little earlier.”

“Watching me, I suspect. Haven't seen that detective fellow, have you, Turk? You ought to be able to scent a detective three miles away.”

“I can't scent in this language, sir.”

Early in the evening, as Quentin was leaving the hotel for a short stroll, he met the duke. The Italian accosted him familiarly and asked if he were trying to find a cool spot.

“I thought a ride on the tramcars might cool me off a bit,'” said Phil.

“I know the city quite well, and I, too, am searching for relief from the heat. Do you object to company in your ride or stroll?”

“Happy to have you, I assure you. If you'll be good enough to wait here for a moment, till I find my stick, I'll be with you.” The duke bowed politely, and Phil hastened back to his rooms. He secured his stick, and did more. Like a wise young man, he bethought himself of a possible trap, and the quest of the stick gave him the opportunity to instruct Turk to follow him and the duke and to be where he was needed in case of an emergency.

The tall, fresh-faced American in his flannels, and the short, bearded Italian in his trim frock coat and silk hat strolled leisurely forth into the crowded Place du Palais.

“Shall we walk awhile and then find a cafe where we may have something to drink?” asked the duke, his English so imperfect that no writer could reproduce it.

“I am in your hands, and at your mercy,” said the other, clinging close to him as they merged into the crowd.

“May I ask if you have many friends in Brussels?” Under the politeness of the inquiry Quentin, with amusement, saw the real interest. Looking calmly into the Italian's beady eyes, he said:

“I know but four persons here, and you are included in the list. My servant is another. Mrs. and Miss Garrison are old and particular friends, you know. In fact, my dear duke, I don't believe I should have come to Brussels at all were they not here.”

“They are most charming and agreeable,” murmured the duke. “This is such a frightful crowd Shall we not cross to the other side?”

“What's the use? I used to play football--you don't know what that is, I suppose--and I'll show you how to get through a mob. Get in front--that's right--and I'll bring up in the rear.” Laughing to himself, he brought his big frame up against the little man's back and surged forward. Sure enough, they went “through the mob,” but the duke was the volley end of the battering ram. Never in all his life had he made such hurried and seemingly unnecessary progress through a blockading crowd of roisterers. When they finally went lunging into the half-deserted Rue de la Madeleine, his silk hat was awry, his composure was ruffled, and he was very much out of breath. Phil, supremely at ease, heaved a sigh of satisfaction, drawing from the Italian a half-angry, half-admiring glance.

“Much easier than I thought,” said Quentin, puffing quietly at his cigar.

“We did it very nicely,” agreed the other, with a brave effort to equal the American's unconcern. Nevertheless, he said to himself many times before they reached the broad Boulevard Anspach, that never had he taken such “a stroll,” and never had he known how little difference there was between a steam and a human propeller. He almost forgot, as they sat at a small, table in front of a cafe, to institute his diplomatic search for the real object of the American's presence in Brussels.

It was twelve o'clock when they returned to the hotel, after a rather picturesque evening in the gay cafes.

Here is what the keen little Italian deduced: Quentin was to remain in Brussels until he took a notion to go somewhere else; Quentin had seen the prince driving on the Paris boulevards; the Bois de la Cambre offers every attraction to a man who enjoys driving; the American slept with a revolver near his pillow, and his manservant had killed six or seven men in the United States because of his marvellous skill with the pistol; Quentin was a most unsophisticated young man, with honesty and innocence in his frank eyes, although they sometimes grew rather searching; he could only be overcome by cunning; he was in love with Miss Garrison.

Quentin's conclusions: Laselli was a liar and an ass; Prince Ugo would be in Brussels within ten days; he was careless with the hearts of women and cruel with their love; French detectives are the best in the world, the most infallible; Miss Garrison loved the very ground the prince trod upon. He also discovered that the duke could drink wine as a fish drinks water, and that he seldom made overtures to pay for it until his companion had the money in hand, ready to do so.

Turk was waiting for him when he reached his rooms, and Turk was not amiable. A very attractive, innocent and demure young lady, who could not speak English except with her hands and eyes, had relieved him of a stickpin and his watch while he sat with her at a table not far from the man he was protecting with his vaunted “eagle eye.”

“An' she swiped 'em right under me nose, an' me eyes square on her, too. These people are too keen for me. They ain't a fairy in New York that could 'a' touched me without d' dope, lemme tell you. I t'ought I knowed a t'ing er two, but I don't know buttons from fishhooks. I'm d' easiest t'ing 'at ever went to Sunday school.”

It was with a flushed, rebellious face that Miss Garrison stepped into the victoria the next afternoon for the drive to the Bois de la Cambre. She had come from a rather trying tilt with her mother, and, as they drove off between the rows of trees, she felt that a pair of flaming eyes were levelled from a certain upstairs window in the Avenue Louise. The Biblical admonition to “honor thy father and thy mother” had not been entirely disregarded by this willful young lady, but it had been stretched to an unusual limit for the occasion. She felt that she was very much imposed upon by circumstances in the shape of an unreasonable mother and an inconvenient friend.

Mr. Quentin, more in love than ever, and more deeply inspired by the longing to win where reason told him he must fail, did not flatter himself into believing that Mrs. Garrison wholly approved of the drive. Instead, he surmised from the beginning that Dorothy's flushed cheeks were not from happiness, but from excitement, and that he was not altogether a shadowy cause. With rare tact he plunged at once to the bottom of the sea of uncertainty and began to struggle upward to the light, preferring such a course to the one where you start at the top, go down and then find yourself powerless to get back to the surface.

“Was your mother very much annoyed when you said you were coming out with me?” he asked. She started and a queer little tinge of embarrassment sprang into her eyes.

“How absurd!” she said, readily, however. “Isn't the avenue beautiful?”

“I don't know--yet,” he said, without looking at the avenue. “What did she say?” Miss Garrison did not reply, but looked straight ahead as if she had not heard him. “See here, Dorothy, I'm not a child and I'm not a lovesick fool. Just curious, that's all. Your mother has no cause to be afraid of me--”

“You flatter yourself by imagining such a thing as--”

“--because there isn't any more danger that I shall fall in love with you than there is of--of--well, of your falling in love with me; and you know how improbable--”