LITMIR.BIZ

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lodging. If I had had a sixpence about me, (which I had not) I should have sent a telegram to my approaching visitor.

      “But in any case,” I said aloud, addressing myself to the empty room, “I will not meet him tonight. I’ll go out and leave no message. If he comes he will think I have not yet had his letter. I can make an appointment to see him when I am better lodged, and better dressed.”

      I groped about the room for my hat and coat, and I was still engaged in a fruitless and annoying search, when I caught a sound of galloping horses’ hoofs coming to a stop in the street below. I paused and listened. There was a slight commotion in the basement, I heard landlady’s voice and then a deep masculine voice. After that steps, firm and even, ascended the stairs to my landing.

      “The devil is in it!” I muttered vexedly. “Here comes the very man I meant to avoid!”

      3

      The door opened. I could just perceive a tall shadowy figure standing on the threshold. I heard my landlady’s introductory words “A gentleman to see you sir,” words that were quickly interrupted by a murmur of dismay at finding the room in total darkness.

      “Well to be sure! The lamp must have gone out!” she exclaimed, then addressing the personage she had ushered thus far, she added, “I’m afraid Mr Tempest isn’t in after all, sir, though I certainly saw him about half-an-hour ago. If you don’t mind waiting here a minute I’ll fetch a light and see if he has left any message on his table.”

      The tall stranger advanced a pace or two, and a rich voice with a ring of ironical amusement in it called me by my name,

      “Geoffrey Tempest, are you there?”

      Why could I not answer? The strangest and most unnatural obstinacy stiffened my tongue. The majestic figure drew nearer, and once again the voice called,

      “Geoffrey Tempest, are you there?”

      I could hold out no longer, and like a coward, I came forward boldly to confront my visitor.

      “Yes, I am here,” I said. “I am ashamed to meet you here. You are Prince Rimanez of course. I have just read your note which prepared me for your visit, but I was hoping that my landlady would conclude I was out, and show you downstairs again. You see I am perfectly frank!”

      “You are indeed!” returned the stranger. “So frank that I cannot fail to understand you. You resent my visit this evening and wish I had not come!”

      I made haste to deny it, though I knew it to be true. Truth, even in trifles, always seems unpleasant!

      “Pray do not think me so churlish,” I said. “The fact is, I only opened your letter a few minutes ago, and before I could make any arrangements to receive you, the lamp went out. I am forced to greet you in this darkness, which is almost too dense to shake hands in.”

      “Shall we try?” my visitor enquired. “Here is my hand!”

      I at once extended my hand, and it was instantly clasped in a warm and somewhat masterful manner. At that moment a light flashed on the scene. My landlady entered, bearing ‘her best lamp’. She set it on the table. I believe she uttered some exclamation of surprise at seeing me, I did not hear, so entirely was I amazed and fascinated by the appearance of the man whose long slender hand still held mine. I am myself an average good height, but he was fully half a head taller than I, if not more than that. As I looked straightly at him, I thought I had never seen so much beauty and intellectuality combined in the outward personality of any human being. The finely shaped head denoted both power and wisdom, and was nobly poised on his shoulders. The countenance was a pure oval, and singularly pale. He had dark eyes, which had a curious and wonderfully attractive look of mingled mirth and misery. The mouth was firm, determined, and not too small. I felt as if I had known him all my life! And now face to face with him, I remembered my actual surroundings, – the bare cold room, the lack of fire, the black soot that sprinkled the carpetless floor, my own shabby clothes. He regarded me, smiling.

      “I know I have come at an awkward moment,” he said. “I always do! It is my peculiar misfortune. Well-bred people never intrude where they are not wanted. I’m afraid my manners leave much to be desired[10]. Try to forgive me if you can, for the sake of this,” – and he held out a letter addressed to me in my friend Carrington’s familiar handwriting. “And permit me to sit down while you read my credentials.”

      He took a chair and seated himself. I observed his handsome face and easy attitude with renewed admiration.

      “No credentials are necessary,” I said with all the cordiality I now really felt. “I have already had a letter from Carrington in which he speaks of you in the highest and most grateful terms. But the fact is – well! – really, prince, you must excuse me if I seem confused or astonished. I had expected to see quite an old man…”

      “No one is old, my dear sir, nowadays!” he declared lightly, “even the grandmothers and grandfathers are friskier at fifty than they were at fifteen. One does not talk of age at all now in polite society, it is ill-bred, even coarse. Indecent things are unmentionable – age has become an indecent thing. You expected to see an old man you say? Well, you are not disappointed – I am old. In fact you have no idea how very old I am!”

      I laughed at this piece of absurdity.

      “Why, you are younger than I,” I said, “or if not, you look like it.”

      “Ah, my looks belie me!” he returned gaily, “I am like several of the most noted fashionable beauties, – much riper than I seem. But read the introductory missive I have brought you.”

      I at once opened my friend’s note and read as follows,

      Dear Geoffrey.

      The bearer of this, Prince Rimanez, is a very distinguished scholar and gentleman, allied by descent to one of the oldest families in Europe, or for that matter, in the world. His ancestors were originally princes of Chaldea, who afterwards settled in Tyre. From thence they went to Etruria and there continued through many centuries. Certain troublous and overpowering circumstances have forced him into exile from his native province, and deprived him of a great part of his possessions. He has travelled far and seen much, and has a wide experience of men and things. He is a poet and musician of great skill, and though he occupies himself with the arts solely for his own amusement, I think you will find his practical knowledge of literary matters useful to you in your difficult career. In all matters scientific he is an absolute master.

      Wishing you both a cordial friendship,

      I am, dear Geoffrey,

      Yours sincerely

John Carrington.

      I glanced furtively at my silent companion. He caught my stray look and returned it with a curiously grave fixity. I spoke,

      “This letter, prince, adds to my shame and regret that I should have greeted you in so churlish a manner this evening. No apology can condone my rudeness, but you cannot imagine how mortified I felt and still feel, to be compelled to receive you in this miserable den.”

      The prince waived aside my remarks with a light gesture of his hand.

      “Why be mortified?” he demanded. “Rather be proud that you can dispense with the vulgar appurtenances of luxury. Genius thrives in a garret and dies in a palace. Is not that the generally accepted theory?”

      “Rather a mistaken one I consider,” I replied. “Genius usually dies of starvation.”

      “True! But there is an all-wise Providence in this, my dear sir! Schubert perished of want, but see what large profits all the music-publishers have made since out of his compositions! Honest folk should be sacrificed in order to provide for the sustenance of knaves!”

      He laughed, and I looked at him in a little surprise.

      “You speak sarcastically of course?” I said. “You do not really believe what you say?”

      “Oh, do I not!” he returned, with a flash of his fine eyes. “I

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