The Man Who Understood Women and Other Stories/The Prince in the Fairy Tale
THE PRINCE IN THE FAIRY TALE
"The carriage is at the door, Madam" How strange that still sounds when the solemn butler says it—to me, Rosie McLeod! I go, wrapped in furs, down the great staircase, pass the two footmen—whose pomposity, if I may own the truth, rather frightens me—and enter my carriage in a dream. For a few minutes my grandeur seems unreal; I am remembering winters when I used to shiver in a spring jacket, and japan my summer straw. I feel as Cinderella must have felt on her way to the Ball, and, indeed, I hold my history no less fairy-like than hers, and my hero no less charming than her Prince. I want to write the tale, and to think that, far away in dear old England, other girls will read it. I ought to explain that I am writing in New York, a city that I never expected to see in all my life. But let me begin at the beginning!
The beginning, then, was a draughty flat in West Kensington. In looking back at it I see always a delicate, sweet-faced woman sitting by the fire, and a dark slip of a girl sketching at a table covered by a faded green cloth. The woman was my mother; the girl was I. I know now that I had very little talent, but I meant to be an artist. When I sold my copy of "Shoeing the Bay Mare" one morning, while I was working at the National, I was prouder of myself than I have ever been since. Pray don't think I am vain of it now; copies of that were rather easy to sell, and the girls in my time were accordingly eager for their turn to begin it; I only mention the matter because it was the first and the last money that my mother saw me earn. Dear little mother! But we were very happy together, weren't we, although we were poor? Dear little mother, if you were living to-day, what lovely, lovely things you should have! …
At her death I was left quite alone. It is true that I had some second cousins, but I had not met them, and they showed no desire to meet me then. From one source and another I had about three hundred pounds, and in my ignorance I expected to support myself by my brush before the sum had melted. When I was free of the flat I took a lodging in Bayswater, and continued to study at a life-class. Excepting that I worked. and hoped, and very often cried, there is nothing to tell you of the next two years.
Then one afternoon I saw Miss Niblett in Kensington Gardens. She was an artist who had long been an acquaintance of ours. As far back as I remember she used to drop in to tea about twice a year, and talk of the great things she was going to do. She never seemed to grow any older, nor to do the great things. She was a spirited, chirpy little woman, and when she settled in Paris both my mother and I had missed her occasional visits very much. In the Broad Walk she greeted me as brightly as ever, and we strolled to the Round Pond, and talked for an hour. She was returning in a week's time, and I heard that she was living there in the cheapest possible way, occupying a studio and bedroom in the quarter called "Montparnasse," and marketing and cooking for herself. She told me of the great things she was going to do.
"Why don't you come back with me, child?" she asked presently. "Come and study in Paris, and then you won't be so lonely. Wouldn't you like to?"
"I should love it," I faltered, with a heart-thump, "but"
"But, what?"
"I don't know. … For one thing, I can't speak French."
"Tut," cried Miss Niblett. "Hundreds of the girls don't speak French. You'll learn." For a minute we sat silent, gazing at the toy ships sailing across the pond. Then she added briskly, "You had better come!"
"All right," I said. And that was how I went.
Yes, I went to study in Paris, and to live in the queerest fashion imaginable. Our rooms were up ninety-eight stairs of a dingy house in a dilapidated court. At six o'clock in the morning the court used to wake, and be so exceedingly busy—and cheerful withal—that anyone there would have been ashamed to lie abed. To begin with, there was the rushing of water outside, for tap there was none, and one by one the tenants clattered to a pump with a bucket, to obtain their supply for the day. Then the hawkers made their appearance, each with his own peculiar chant. "It arrives, it arrives, the mackerel! Who wishes for my fine mackerel this morning?" And "The mussels! the mussels most delicious!" And "Some milk—some fresh milk?" And I mustn't forget the noise that was made by shaking out the rugs from every window. I have never seen a city that opens its eyes so good-humouredly as Paris. In pictures it is always shown to us at night with its myriad lamps shining, or in the afternoon when it is frivolous, and its fountains flash; but, in my own little unimportant opinion, if one would know Paris at its sweetest and its best, one should get up very, very early, and behold it smiling when it wakes to work.
I have told you that we lived up ninety-eight stairs; I must tell you something about the people who lived on the lower landings. Of course the lower the landing, the higher the rent, but none of our neighbors had an air of opulence, need I say it? All of them bustled to the pump with pails, all of them cooked their own meals; and it was rather a rare occurrence, I believe, for everybody in that house to cook a dinner on the same day. On the floor below ours there was a madame Troquet, who painted fans and chocolate boxes for a livelihood—the expensive and gorgeous boxes covered with satin, which fortunate people have sent to them at Christmas, and on their birthdays. Still lower there was an American youth who was studying Medicine. I am afraid he did not study it very hard; I should be sorry to think that if I were ill in America one day, he might be called in to prescribe for me. Lower still there were two young Frenchmen; one of them wrote verses, and his companion made sketches for some of the papers. And—there was another American, who had moved in while Miss Niblett was in London. So good-looking!
He was about seven-and-twenty, and, oh! he was shabby. It made my heart ache to see the threadbare clothes he wore, even there where I had come to take threadbare clothes for granted. I used to meet him at the pump sometimes, and then he always insisted on carrying my pail for me. I felt horrid to let him do it. I guessed he didn't have enough to eat and needed all his strength to drag his own pail up the stairs. Not that he showed any signs of weakness. He would mount beside me as gaily as if he liked the work and the bucket were no more than a feather-weight. He seemed quite strong and happy, and I have told you how nice-looking he was, haven't I?
A girl cannot allow a young man to carry a pail of water up ninety-eight stairs for her without thanking him. I mean it was impossible for me just to say "Thank you," as if he had handed me the toast, or picked up my sunshade. Of course we spoke as we went up the stairs. He told me he was an art student, like me, and I thought that no poor young man had ever been more courageous and contented with his lot—if one call a little a "lot." He talked as if he loved the life. To listen to him one would have imagined that poverty—"bohemianism" he termed it—was a kind of treat—a privilege for the Select, like a ticket for the Royal Enclosure. I used to forget to pity him till I looked at his coat.
"I think you are very brave," I couldn't help saying once.
"Brave?" he exclaimed. "Why, how's that? Where's the hardship? I think it's just the right thing for a man to carry home his bread for breakfast, and dine for a franc when he's flush. It's glorious—teaches him to be independent. And you?" he went on in a different tone. "Is it very hard for you?’"
"Oh, I am one of the wealthy—for the time being," I laughed. "I have quite a fortune as yet."
"What shall you do when you have squandered your millions?" People did not stand on ceremony with one another at our pump.
"Paint," I said.
"Nobody to help you?" he asked.
"My own right hand," said I.
He regarded it ruefully. "The prospect is not so charming as the hand," he murmured, "is it?"
"It's glorious," I declaimed, "for a girl to carry home her bread for breakfast, and dine for a franc when she's flush."
"No, it isn't," he said. "For a girl it's a different thing altogether. You'll excuse my contradicting you? Besides, even a franc wants earning when you have no allowance from home."
"I shall sell my Work," I declared valiantly. In those days I always spelt my work with a capital W.
"I guess pictures take a deal of selling sometimes."
"I suppose you mean that you don't think I shall ever paint well?"
"I haven't seen anything you have done," he answered; "how could I mean that? … Here we are at the top!"
We had reached our door, and Miss Niblett was standing there, a stiff little figure of disapproval. Considering that I was only showing the young man simple civility in return for his extreme kindness, I am bound to say that Miss Niblett's later remarks were absurd. Miss Niblett said she should go downstairs with the pail herself in future.
When she came up the next morning I was all ears. Was she alone? … No, I could hear her speaking; and then there were steps, as someone turned away. "That Mr. Martin is certainly polite," she said, as she entered; "he insisted on bringing it up for me."
"Who did?" I inquired loftily.
"That Mr. Martin," she repeated. "Who else do you suppose would take the trouble?"
"Oh! I didn't know his name was 'Martin,’" I explained. "You seem to be on very friendly terms with him."
"Tut," said Miss Niblett. "Don't be ridiculous, child, and make haste with the coffee, do!"
Though I did not meet Mr. Martin at the pump any more, I very often chanced to meet him on my way home from the art school. Each time I liked him better, and of course I knew I wasn't doing all the liking myself. He never said anything, but a girl can always tell, can't she? When I heard of the shifts that some of the young men in the house were put to for a meal, and thought that his straits must be as cruel as any of them, I could have cried. There were moments when food almost choked me, as I pictured him sitting half starved in his room, his chin sunk on his breast. I never saw him with his chin sunk on his breast—never despondent in any way—but I was sure his buoyancy was just put on to hide his sufferings.
When I had been living in the court for about two months, the sight of his coat, and the idea of his privations, proved too bad to be borne. We had become such comrades by then—for the walk from the school took a long time, especially if one didn't walk very fast—that I thought he would let me speak like a sister to him.
"Mr. Martin," I murmured one day as we went home, "I want you to do me a great favour, please."
"Why, certainly," he said. "Right now! What is it?"
"Well," I said, "we are both students, and we are very good friends, and it's all nonsense for you to reply that because I'm a girl you can't regard me as a real chum." And when I had stammered that, I turned red, and gazed at the tips of my shoes.
"But I haven't replied anything of the sort," he said, with a laugh; "I'm waiting to hear what you want me to do."
"You won't be offended?" I asked.
"I'm sure I could never be offended with you,' he said earnestly.
"Or hurt?" I added.
"I'm sure you would never hurt me."
"Well, then, I want you to let me lend you a little money till things are better. Will you?"
His eyes widened at me; and then he—blushed. He did, he blushed; I saw the colour spread right up to his temples. I hated myself, though I had done my best to say it all delicately.
"I am very, very grateful to you," said Mr. Martin. "Believe me, I'm not in need of money. But you're a chum, indeed."
"Oh, you're too proud to confess," I gulped—and there was a lump in my throat that I couldn't swallow.
We were crossing one of the bridges, and I stopped and looked at the sun sinking, while I tried to blink my tears back. He stood there by me, and was quiet for a minute. When he spoke, I hardly recognised his voice, it trembled so much.
"Will you tell me something?" he whispered.
I nodded.
"Why did you say this to me?"
"Because I know you are poor, and I'm poor and can understand. But I could spare a small sum easily, and I thought you'd be great enough to let me help you."
"You have helped me," he answered; "helped me to ask you a question that I hadn't the pluck to put. … Dear little chum, do you care for me?"
"Yes," I told him.
"Enough to wait till a pauper can afford to marry you?"
"Yes," I told him.
"I love you," said Mr. Martin, "with all my heart!"
And the boats were sailing down the river, and a crowd was on the bridge, but I couldn't see them. In all Paris there was no one but ourselves. We were alone in the sunset—he and I!
I knew what Miss Niblett would say, and she said it—"Tut!" She warned me that I was doing a rash, an improvident thing. And after she had reproached herself for bringing me to France, and prophesied a hopeless waiting and the workhouse for me by turns, she hugged me splendidly, and wished me happiness. There you have Miss Niblett!
Then my fiancé was invited up to supper, and we were merry. I was annoyed to see that, while I was making the salad, she had examined him about his prospects. Of course I did see it, when I came back, by his embarrassed look and Miss Niblett's air of dissatisfaction. Still I repeat that we were merry that evening, although I could not help regretting that I had so often spoken to her of my fear that he didn't get enough to eat. It wasn't quite nice, while we sat at supper, to think she was reflecting that a substantial meal was by way of being a novelty to my lover. It hurt me, that.
Good little Miss Niblett! Though she had let me prepare the supper so that she might have a chance to pester him with questions, she made amends by clearing the things away herself. And shut the door behind her! That was the first time he kissed me. After all that has happened since, the scene remains clear and living to me—the little lamp-lit room, half studio, half parlour, the scent of the mignonette in the open window, and the Promised Land I saw beyond. When I am old and grey, it will be living to me still—his voice, his touch, and the joy that was singing in my heart.
And by-and-by we all went out. "I have pennies to spend," pleaded my lover, "let's be lavish!" Could I be wise on such a night? Away we sped from Montparnasse into the Paris where the cabs darted and the cafés glittered; and we had syrups and fizzy waters under the trees in the starlight, and made believe that we were rich. I thought Miss Niblett must have been in love herself once upon a time—she was so tactful. It was a long ramble that we took. Like children we joked outside a jeweller's window, pretending to choose the costliest of engagement rings; like vagrants we loitered by a great house where a reception was being held. Yes, we stood there on the pavement and watched the grand people arriving; and for the first time for hours I remembered we were poor.
"Why aren't we going to a party? How lovely it would be!"
"Are you keen on parties?" my lover asked, "Perhaps I could take you to one this week. Shall I try?"
"A party like that?" I laughed. "Yes, please!"
"Ah, well," he replied, "I can't guarantee that it will be quite like that. Still, I guess it will be rather fun. Will Miss Niblett go, too?"
"I?" she exclaimed. "Don't talk nonsense!"
"I wonder," he said, "which is the best place in this city to hire a suit of dress-clothes for the evening. My social gaieties have given me no cause to find out."
That was all. We turned homeward. I thought with Miss Niblett that he had been talking nonsense. Imagine how surprised I was to hear him revive the subject after a day or two.
"Well, it's all right," he said; "I've managed it. We're invited."
"Invited?" I echoed. "Invited where?"
"Why, to the festivity to-morrow night."
"But," I cried, "you didn't really mean it, did you? You didn't suppose I'd go? The people are strangers to me."
"Oh, that's nothing," he answered. "In Society they often go to strangers' parties. It's rather chic."
"Well, we aren't in Society," I reminded him. "I'm not chic. I can't go junketing with a lot of students I've never seen before."
"You'll never be a bohemian, Rosie," he said; "you don't seem to catch on to the tone of the quarter at all. Now, do come! If you're a good girl you shall be rewarded. You see I have my clothes ready, and it would disappoint me some not to get a chance to show 'em off."
He made such a point of it that I promised. But I wasn't pleased. Besides being reluctant to intrude, I was annoyed at the thought of having put him to expense. Also the idea of his going to a party in a hired suit was distasteful to me. I went to my school as cross as two sticks.
Early the next morning he ran upstairs in a great hurry to borrow our newspaper. I wondered why he wanted it, for he always read Le Matin, and we took The New York Herald. However, we were busy, and let him have it, though we hadn't looked at it ourselves yet. We were busy examining the white silk frock that I meant to wear. I was for freshening it with some new tulle, and Miss Niblett kept saying that it would be folly to spend the money. The argument lasted such a long time that I didn't go to school at all that day. Miss Niblett won.
And then behold an afternoon of amazement! As I was boiling the kettle, there came a rap at the door, and whom should I admit but a stylish young woman with a note and a large box! The note consisted of four words—"Frills for the Fairest," and the box contained—a dress. But, my dears, a dress that I can't describe to you! I should need a page to do it justice; such a dress as the fairy godmother might have created when she changed a pumpkin to a chariot.
"What does it mean?" I gasped.
"Is that from him?" stammered Miss Niblett.
"Oh, don't you know it's from him?" I cried hotly. "Now I see why you wouldn't let me buy the tulle! But how can he have paid for it, and how could you encourage him?"
I thought she was going to cry. "Rosie," she whimpered, "he told me he wanted to give you a dress, and asked me to help him, but I never imagined he meant a dress like that; I didn't indeed! How could I? Oh, my child, look at the name on the lid—look where it comes from!"
"Mademoiselle will try it on?" suggested the young woman coolly.
"What does she say?" I demanded. She spoke French, of course. It is to be hoped she didn't understand English.
"She says you had better try it on."
"This is madness," I faltered. I looked from the young woman to Miss Niblett; I looked from Miss Niblett back to the frock. "Madness!" I repeated—and tried it on. Oh, what a frock! There were exclamations, and pins, and stitches. And in the middle of it all came another bang at the door.
A porter in uniform stood on the landing. He, too, bore a note and a box; he, too, behaved as if miracles happened every day in the year.
Four words again—"Suède for the Sweetest."
Gloves, if you please!—a stack of them with I can't tell you how many buttons, and the faintest odour of violets. I know now that in the whole of Paris there is only one shop that sells gloves quite like those; and that they are famous all over the world.
A knock at the door! By this time we opened it speechlessly—we just glanced at each other, and tottered. And again four words—"Bonds for the Best." I tore off the brown paper with hands that shook. Under the brown paper, tissue paper; under the tissue paper, the glint of velvet, pale blue; I drew out a jewel case; I pressed a spring, and
"Oh, gracious!" screamed Miss Niblett.
Shimmering on the satin with which the case was lined lay a "rope" of pearls fit for an empress. Not even a string—a "rope"! Three times round the neck it would wind, and hang almost to the waist. We fell on to the sofa, dazed.
"Are they real?" Miss Niblett panted. "Oh, my dear! Give me the case. My dear! They are real, I'm sure they are. Oh, my dear! they must be worth thousands upon thousands of pounds. What does it all mean?"
And for the rest of the day not a glimpse of my fiancé, not a message from him. Monsieur Martin was out, the concierge told us when we inquired. It had been arranged that he should come for me at ten o'clock, and at half-past eight I began to dress. We lit every candle in the flat that evening. At five minutes to ten I was ready—all but one glove. We sat trembling with curiosity. Then we heard him—singing on the stairs; and he tapped as the hour struck.
"Now!" we both cried. "Perhaps you'll explain?"
If his clothes weren't his own, he had discovered a remarkable establishment; I noted that, despite my dizziness. I fancy I have mentioned how nice-looking he was, but I had never really done him justice before. He was worthy to take his frock out. He stood there admiringly, presenting a bouquet.
"Explain?" he murmured. "Oh, you mean those things I sent you? My dear ladies, patience is one of the most beautiful of virtues—let us cultivate it! Rosie, you're a dream of loveliness. I thought perhaps you'd like a few flowers. Shall we go?"
And we went. I had expected to see a cab at the corner; there was a brougham, with a footman waiting on the kerb.
"Not mine," said the Man of Mystery, "I assure you. Hired."
"Like your clothes?" I flashed.
"Much more so," he said serenely. "Would you prefer the window up, or down, dear?"
"Either," I said, "if you'll tell me where we're going."
"Why, to the party," he replied; "I thought you knew."
"You don't ask me to believe we're going to a student's supper, dressed like this?"
"Well, no," he said. "I guess we'd be a trifle overpowering, eh? But I never told you it was a student's supper. That student was an invention of your own."
We rolled along luxuriously. To my bewilderment, it seemed that all the capital was astir that night. Crowds, crowds everywhere in the brilliant streets—Paris was a panorama of lights and faces. After a while we began to move more slowly, other vehicles impeded us. I could hear the jangling of horses' bits, the orders of the police.
"We're drawing close," said my lover.
The clatter of hoofs was to right and left of us now. From the window I saw the glare of carriage lamps, caught glimpses of great ladies' gowns and jewelled heads. The brougham swung through gates into a courtyard.
"We are there," said my lover.
I stood on the steps of a palace. On either side of me soldiers were drawn up, startling, spectacular. Music swelled through the doorway. Flunkeys bowed at our approach.
"Where have you brought me?" I whispered. "Whose house is this?"
"He's called the President of the French Republic," was the answer. "Don't be shy."
We passed through the dazzle of the hall. The lights blinded me, and the scent of the roses was very strong. I heard great names spoken, names that made me catch my breath. As those awe-inspiring names were uttered, the scene became more and more unreal. And the guests, the guests who bore the historical names, looked quite ordinary, prick-me-and-I-shall-bleed persons. I think that was the most vivid impression I had in the Elysée—the difference between the persons and their names.
Soon through the throng—among the regal toilettes of the women, and the groups of distinguished, "decorated" men—I grew conscious of the figure of an elderly gentleman, with iron-grey hair and a rather sad smile, moving near to us. I recognised him by the photographs that I had seen—and I knew it was the President himself.
"Now," said the voice at my side, "I'm going to present you to him. Try to look as if you liked it."
For an instant I saw the other end of the glittering salon turning very, very small and dim, and I thought I was going to faint. I hadn't the slightest notion whether I ought to put out my hand to him, or kiss his hand, or sweep a curtsey. And if you want to know which of the three I did, I'm unable to tell you; but my lover affirmed afterwards that I was "real charming"—and you may take his word for it, if you are kind enough. I can't pretend that it convinces me, for I never felt such a gawk in all my days.
I don't know how long we stayed at the Elysée; I have a vague recollection of eating an ice. But the next thing I remember clearly is our entering the brougham again, and driving away into the fresh sweet air. Then I leant towards him.
I said, "If you've any consideration for me, you'll answer right off and tell me whether I'm awake or asleep. I have pinched myself three times, and I'm still not sure."
"You darling!" he laughed. "I was afraid you'd read it all before I confessed; that was why I stole your newspaper."
"So you did!" I exclaimed. "Why are you in the paper?"
"Well, you see, my Rosie Posy, I bought those pearls for you yesterday," he said, "and I had to get the bank to identify me; I suppose the jewellers chattered last night." He took the paper from his overcoat, and there, if you can believe me, by the light of the little electric lamp over our heads, this is what I saw:
"An American Millionaire's Son in
Montparnasse!
Mr. Martin McLeod Plays at
Poverty!!
The Extraordinary Experiment of a
Young Crœsus!!!"
After that, what remains for me to tell you? What his father said? Well, his father didn't object to me a bit, and always declares that Martin's marriage was the most sensible action of his life. Though that's nonsense. We spend six months of the year in America, and the other six in Europe. Miss Niblett is still in Paris. I am afraid she will never do the "great things," but she will never be hard up any more, for my "prince" is as generous as he is rich. The story I have tried to write is finished. Isn't it as marvellous as any fairy tale? But it is true! And I wonder if any other woman has ever been so blessed as I, and thank God for my great happiness.
"The carriage is at the door. Madam."
Oh, is it indeed? Well, I am not going out just yet, for there is a little girl running across the room to say that "Mother has been writing long enough, and must come and play." And there's Martie—Martie with his arm round me, looking down in my face.