CHAPTER VII

THE FATEFUL DAY BEGINS

Ethel finished her letter, and went up on deck to find grandma. A splendid day was appearing, with its marvelous light flooding space. Morgana was building her palaces in the heavenly azure. Golden darts across battlemented clouds were driving away the birds of night. The sun rose up, enormous in size. In front of the yacht the city, with its minarets and domes, showed like a vision of the Orient. The castle, scarcely outlined, seemed floating above the waters.

“Brave Helia! the heavens are celebrating her—how splendid the mirage is, grandma!” said Ethel.

“You see, Ethel,” Mrs. Rowrer remarked, “mirages are not easily appreciated with glasses. At my age I perceive rather the chill of the mist.”

“My dear grandma!” said Ethel, as she kissed her, “don’t you think that what Helia did was simply grand? Even with your glasses you can distinguish heroism. Helia is what I call a woman! When I think that I might have done it—what would I not give to be in her place, grandma!”

“Are you jealous, Ethel?”

“Oh, grandma!”

No; Ethel was not jealous. But for the last few days nothing had gone well with her. She was not like Helia, who had so many reasons to be joyful—and who yet was sad. Ethel had genuine cares. First, she had not risen to the mark like Helia; next—and oh, what a grudge she had against Will for it!—when she saw the poor refugees without food or shelter, she remarked to her brother how much wretchedness there was to comfort, that something ought to be done. It would even be an acknowledgment of the duke’s hospitality.

“It’s already done!” was Will’s answer. “I cabled from the city yesterday; one of our freight steamers will quit Odessa at once with grain and food.”

“There I am!” Ethel said, in comic despair.

Ethel looked far off at the city and castle, for the yacht had taken to the open on account of drifting currents. She was thinking of Morgania. The manner in which the duke would understand his duty under the present circumstances would be a standard by which to judge the man.

That the duke had stayed on in Paris when he ought to have been in Morgania—that she could willingly forgive, since it was for her that he stayed. But that now he should be brave, loyal to his people, with a burning zeal for progress and all that is good—that would be more pleasing to her than all his attentions.

“What is the matter, grandma? You have something on your mind,” said Ethel to her grandmother, who was looking toward the mountains.

“It is nothing,” said grandma. “I was thinking of Will, who is over there, and fearing some accident might happen to him.”

“Just now he risks nothing,” said Ethel. “It is all enthusiasm among the people. Will is to take the most pressing measures. The enemy is sure to return, but the duke will be ready—unless he wastes too much time.”

They heard the stroke of oars, and a small boat came alongside.

“I’m sure it’s the duke coming to congratulate us,” said Ethel. “He must have returned—and you’ll see, grandma, he will thank me for saving Morgania, and will put his heart at my feet! He will say the people wish me, that they are crying for me! Watch him, grandma, when I tell him that it is not I, it is Helia! You’ll see his expression: ‘Helia! hum—hum—charming, very charming, but, really—’”

“You judge the duke wrongly, Ethel.”

“She’s right, all the same!” thought Suzanne.

“The duke knows what he’s about, grandma! But it is not he,” she said, looking over at the boat. “They are two—in long coats! That’s not local color.”

“They are my two bears—Zrnitschka, Bjelopawlitji! _Sauve qui peut!_” Suzanne muttered to herself.

It was, indeed, the two delegates. They had been chosen because they were accustomed to diplomatic missions; and, moreover, they spoke French.

They came up—bent themselves double.

They presented the duke’s excuses. “Monseigneur was unable to come—he was presiding at the Assembly of Notables with Monseigneur Adalbert.”

“Ah, by the way,” said grandma, “how is the little fellow? and Sœurette?”

“Monseigneur Adalbert is well—and the little girl also. They’re playing together on the terrace all the time.”

Then the delegates explained their mission. They had come to invite the heroine to land in the evening. The people were preparing a monster welcome for her. Immense crowds were coming in from all parts. Nothing like it had been seen in the memory of man. Monseigneur, the duke, would remain to give orders, that all might be worthy of the expected guest. The duke begged Miss Rowrer to be present with him afterward at the reception in the throne-room—and he laid his heart at her feet.

“There—just as I thought!” was Ethel’s reflection. “The duke believes it was I!”

Ethel turned to Suzanne: “Ask Mlle. Helia—or, rather, no! it’s useless to ask her; she would not come—I know her! But she will not refuse it to me as a service,” she argued within herself, “we will go together, with Helia at the head. She shall have her triumph this evening.”

Suzanne showed signs of trouble. The delegates had recognized her and bowed low. The name “Helia” struck them. It came back with the memories of their strange diplomatic soirée.

“What is the matter?” Ethel asked Suzanne, sharply. “Do you know them?”

“No—that is—yes!” answered Suzanne.

“Really, is it yes or no?”

“_Eh bien_, yes.”

“Where did you see them? At Paris?—at the duke’s place?”

“At the duke’s—yes—that is—no! It was one evening when Mademoiselle Helia—”

“Do they know Helia?”

“No!—or, rather—”

“Or rather yes?” interrupted Ethel.

“I am trying to tell you—”

“Good—you’ll tell me later.”

The delegates thought they were talking of the evening reception.

“Messieurs,” Ethel said to them, “it is understood. Thank the duke—I shall be there at the appointed hour.”

The delegates bowed, and Ethel accompanied them to the rail.

“Be careful not to fall, M. Zrnitschka, M. Bjelopawlitji! See, messieurs,” she added, pointing to a tarpaulin which they were arranging at the yacht’s side, “that is a bath-room—it’s a tropical invention. The tarpaulin is held by bars stretched out on the top of the water and making a rigid square. It’s a genuine bath-tub, five meters long and wide, and four feet deep. That does not prevent me from jumping over it when I wish, and I take a little turn in the open. That is the real bath-tub for me!” And she pointed to the sea.

Ethel could not keep her face straight at the frightened look of the delegates, who kept on bowing and bowing as they clambered down the steps.

“What ought I to say?” Suzanne was thinking within herself. She would have to tell all the stories about the duke and Helia, and perhaps about Phil,—“and I who don’t know how to lie!”

Ethel quietly took her seat by grandma, without speaking to Suzanne of anything at all.

“It’s Helia’s day,” she thought. “It would be bad taste to crush the brave young girl with my dresses when she has only simple things.”

“Very well, Suzanne,” Ethel said aloud. “I do not need you for the present. See that everything is ready for this evening—a simple street-gown.”

Ethel’s curiosity, however, had been excited. What could there have been in common between the duke and Helia and Suzanne? She now remembered a few passing words. Caracal had finally told her his story of the Louvre gardener, and Adam and Eve. She recalled his expressions. Phil never spoke to her of Helia, although he recounted willingly the adventures of his youth. Against this were his occasional embarrassment, certain hidden allusions, and his salon portrait of the young girl in the midst of flowers surrounded by a flight of doves; and then, why should Phil, only yesterday, have dropped his eyes and blushed at the mad bravery of Helia? Did he, then, know the secret of it?

It was not pleasant to Ethel to go into such questions. Helia’s melancholy, and her daring, her seeking for death when she was only twenty—it was not natural! Miss Rowrer did not need to know more. She understood all, so she believed.