TWO COMMON PEOPLE.

Auckland Star, Volume XLIII, Issue 306, 23 December 1912, Page 10

TWO COMMON PEOPLE.

By REX COLVILLE.

CHAPTER VI. ME. HAMMERCLUTCH'S THREAT. Sybil found her mother anxiously a uniting her return in the beautiful boudoir, whose windows opened on to the Ptrk—:he boudoir which formed part of The elaborate suite of apartments rented hy Mrs. van Camp. As usual she gushed -L her daughter. "Couid anything have been more tactful than the way I left you with that delightful Prince?" she asked, directly Sybil entered the room. "Sit right down and tell mc everything he said." Sybil obeyed her in so far as seating herself, but she kept silence. This transported her mother into a very whirlwind of delight. "Ah"' she cried, with many nods. "I iff, I see. He has spoken!" Sybil made no answer, but she raised her eves to her mother with an expression in them that that fond parent could :;o- L fathom. "Eh" she asked vaguely. "Has —has anything peculiar happened?" Sybil "nodded, still with that inscrutable e.vpres-ion in her eyes. "Something very peculiar," she said, slowly. ■'Something that may alter everything." Mrs. van Camp went pink; the nearest shade she could attain to white. "No—not the Prince?" she gasped. Sybil did not reply verbally, but stretched out her hf.nds with a gesture of weiriness and disgust. In a moment, her mother had thumped heavily into a kneeling position at her side and her much he-ringed fingers were striving to clutch the rather elusive palm of her daughter. Sybil shrank back into her chair, wincing from her mother's endearments. "Oh. mother! don't, don't'" she entreated. "Please leave mc alone." Mrs. van Camp rose with what grace she could muster. "It is strange," she whispered, "if a mother's bosom " But to her surprise, Sybil now flashed out at her. and the voice of exasperation made Mrs. van Camp jump perceptibly. "For Heaven's sake," cried Sybil, leaning forward in her chair and gripping its arms, whilst something very near tragedy shone in her eyes—"for Heaven's sake, mother, do not "bring mock sentimentality into this business." Mrs. van Camp accepted the hint philosophically. "Very well," she agreed with crisp directness. "Have yon settled your business negotiations with Prince Maximilian? Am I to cable your father?" "Mother." Sybil replied earnestly, "cannot—cannot" you see that everything is differenx?" . Mrs. van Camp searched her daughters face with something like alarm. "Different' Nonsense." she answered nrusquelv. "The Prince still wants the dollars and you still want the title. Different' Pooh! Every things the same. " Everything is not the same," was the grave reply. " Do you mean to say you See no difference in—m him?"_ v Xo "—boldly. " He—he is perhaps a little more—er—approachable, that's all. - He is not what I thought him, said Sybil. "Oh' All the better! ' "• It comes to this. I shall not marry him unless I love him." Mrs van Camp threw up her arms. "My dearest." she exclaimed, "what a quaint reason for marrying him. Who is talking sentiment now?" _ "I am. Sentiment, not sentimentality. The—Prince —is —is worthy of love." Mrs van Camp rolled in her chair in a paroxysm of delight. "Oh!" she cried iv ecstacy, " what a clever, clever fellow he is! Why, in Vienna, you were continually at loggerheads! I have heard you refer to him in the most unequivocal terms! And, to speak truly, he never displayed any feeling for you stronger than a contemptuous patronage! And now ha has made you think he Is •worthy of love. Oh — the clever, clever man ! ' " You —you think that his—his change of manner is a pretence?" Mrs van Camp permitted herself to be vulgar enongh to wink. "Much the same as your own change of manner." she said in sprightly raillery. "You are both playing a game for the benefit of the public so a3 to save your respective faces. It is the overture to the comic opera. "The Love Match.' Ha! ha! Jh. I do not blame you. though you cannot expect mc to be taken in with it!" She crossed the room and kisrsed her daughter affectionately. "There, there," she said, "play out your little game and come and tell mc when it is over. You are your father's daughter, and it would be wonderful indeed if you could not persuade yourself into thinking you are what you would like to be. I think it is very kind and considerate of the dear Prince to take the trouble to enter into the spirit of the masquerade. "Worthy to be loved!' Oh. my dear, you are too funny. And he? What has he told you. I suppose that he wishes you were a pauper, so that he could marry you for yourself alone!" She beamed down good-naturedly at the sweet face that was crimsoning under her sarcasm. "Pretend what you like," she said in conclusion, "and I'll cable poppa for the dollars when you have both salved your consciences." Then she went out. leaving Sybil staring at the carpet, her brows drawn with conflicting emotions, but her lips once again pushed into the old-time cynical curve. "Is it true?" Sybil was asking herself. "Is—is he only playing a game?" Meanwhile. Humphrey Chatterton was, metaphorically, walking on air; on air he turned into a tailor's in Conduit Street, and was measured, and on air returned to the Superb. His spirits, never low under the most depressing conditions, were now mountains h gh. No day had ever happened quite like this one before; it was unique—the j rarest jewel of a day. There was no gi. 1 in the world to equal Sybil, and t'li c '.'.as no love in the world to equal h:s lo'-e for her. Arrived at the Prince's rooms, his valet handei him a note. He broke th.3 ' sea.—an impusing one—and read as ioilous: — "Dear Mr. Chatterton, "Remember the spirit, as well as the letter of your agreement. "Yours truly, "Henry HaverfardV He flcng himself into a chair and the note into the fire. Sir Henry Haverford? Ah, yes; the Chief of the Emergency Agency. Irritating man! It was Utile short of impertinence for him to try to spoil precious moments of ecstatic tonj-cmplation! But what an uncanny

intuition -was his! By what magic had he guessed that Chatterton needed a reminder as to the terms of the agreement? "Remember my agreement," grumbled the young man with comic ruefulness. "It strikes mc that gentlemen with airpiftols are not going to let mc forget it. I consider I've done quite enough already to earn my money. Besides, I'd sooner see Sybil dead than married to that insufferable cad. I'm going to play my own hand henceforth." Which he proceeded to do, with considerable eclat, at Lady Parsifal's reception that night. He danced with nobody but Sybil, which, in itself, was sufficiently marked. But in the interval he contrived to get lost with her in so complete a manner that, long before the party broke up, his approaching marriage was freely canvassed. As a matter of fact, all Chatterton's available time that evening had been occupied in striving to break down a barrier of icy reserve behind which, in the interim, between that epoch-making conversation in the Park and the hour of Lady Parsifal's reception, Sybil seemed to have entrenched herself. It was not until the third valse had been sat out behind a discreetly-con-trived bank of china-blue hydrangias that Chatterton was able to penetrate a little beyond her outposts of chill reserve. Then, as the minor wailing of the fiddles sobbed themselves into silence, he boldly seized her hand and demanded an explanation. At once she withdrew her fingeys, though she persistently kept her eyes away from the magnetic fire burning in his. "I cannot trust you," she said, in a whisper, "and —and I cannot trust myself."' Impetuously he insisted in a more explicit explanation. "Sybil," he said, '"the very power of my love for you must carry conviction. How can you disbelieve? Look at mc, my beautiful darling, look into my eyes and then say it if you can." But she kept her face averted. The poison which her mother had carelessly administered had entered into her very soul. Because she wanted so much to believe him, because she wanted so much to believe herself and this strangely exquisite rapture that had come upon her as it were out of nothingness—the eternal mystery of birth —she doubted, feared. Were he and she "playing a game?" trying to persuade themselves into believing something which in their innermost beings, they knew was nonexistent? How, she asked herself, could she have changed so quickly? Her brain told her that this man. under whose fascination she had abandoned herself as a flower under the sun. was the same man for whom she felt a righteous disgust— whose private and public life she had held in abhorrence: yet her heart cried out, "Trust him, trust him," even while her brain whispered "beware." So the evening ended. He kissed heT hand, and it was cold; he sought her eyes, but read in them only pain. So he was rude to Mrs. van Camp, rude to Sir Henry Haverford, who offered him a cigarette, and superciliously arrogant to the man who helped him into his coat. Moreover, he told the chauffeur (and this in the hearing of all the world) to drive to "the devil." And "all the world" had smiled. This was the real Prince Maximilian, the boorish firebrand of Europe! The next morning, however, Humphrey Chatterton had quite regained his gaiety and his cheerful optimistic outlook and was. if possible, deeper—fathoms deeper—in love with Sybil. He sat smoking in the Prince's private salon conjuring up visions of his beloved. The beautiful ghosts passed before his eyes, deftly mingling with the lilac spirals from" his cigarette. Sybil in all her phases—always Sybil. An interruption came to his delicious musings in the person of an early visitor —a certain Mr. Ridgway K. Hammerclutch, who. to judge from his card, seemed to live in New York, Boston, Chicago, and Washington. Chatterton was not kept long waiting before discovering the purpose promp:ing so early a call. "I'm a plain American," announced the visitor —a declaration quite unnecessary, as his speech betrayed him—"and I've come to speak to you. Prince, right straight from the shoulder." Chatterton smiled politely, and motioned the tall, gaunt, but distinguished looking gentleman to a chair. "Look here." said Mr. Hammerclutch. in a voice that rasped while it drawled, "you're after the dollars. Correct mc if you ain't." Chatterton at once corrected Him "No." he said, smiling. "Guess again." His visitor pierced him with girnle' eyes. "Do you mean to tell mc that all these papers lie?" he asked, producing a sheaf of publications from his tail pocket. "I haven't read them." replied Chatterton. casually. "What are they about?" "You. About you. About you being after the dollars." "Then they lie," was the calm reply. "A few are American." went on Mr. Hammerclutch, still keeping his penetrating gaze fixed upon the spurious Prince, "but most of them are Con-ti-nen-tal. But they all agree on two things. First, that you're out for dollars; second, you are a blackguard." Chatterton's eyes flashed dangerously though his lips still smiled. "And," he asked politely, "do you agree?" Mr. Hammerclutch temporised. "This is a business interview," he said cautiously. Chatterton rose and stretched himself. "If that is so," he said, 'TD bid you good morning. I know nothing of the business." Mr. Hammerclutch made no move. "1 ain't going, you know, Prince," he said gently. "Not until Fm through." Chatterton's sense of humour asserted itself. What was the sense in his bein" annoyed at hearing Prince Maximilian called a blackguard? After all, it was perfectly true." "Well?" he asked, sitting down again. His visitor passed a hand across his capable, clean shorn face, drew a deep breath and began. "Say," he said gravely, "I don't expect you know it, but Fm just mad about Sybil van Camp. I've been in love with her since I helped to bath her about jighteen years ago. I was in love with tier then—l am still. I'm fifty now." Chatterton looked at him in astonishnent. 'If I can't marry Syb," went on 3<lr\ Bta.mmexckrt.ch, making his host wiuce by abbreviating his teloved's name, "and —I don't flatter myself I have much chance—l want to see her married to Borne real good feflow. J?aw, Prince,

you ain't that —you ain't a real good fellow, not by a bagful. Let mc read you a few cuttings from the Press— your Press notices, so to speak. Here's one from an Austrian paper; listen now: " 'Prince Maximilian of PlestichBresner is both weak and vicious.' "And here's another: " 'We are growing tired of chronicling his Highness' escapades, which have in them nothing of the true spirit of adventure, but much of wanton vice.' "Then this from a German paper— Conservative, by the way: " 'Prince Max is the cynic of Europe. He has announced himself as being in the marriage-market. "Twere either a brave or unscrupulous lady who would make a bid.' 'Finally, here is an extract from a [ Paris sheet: '■ 'It is amazing to us how Prince Maximilian has been tolerated so long, j He is a bully, a braggart, and a coward. His latest cruel act will, make his name execrated throughout Christendom.'" Mr. Hammerclutch thrust the papers back into his pocket. "Now," he said, "what I want to know is, how much will you take, Prince, to leave Sybil alone? I won't have her marrying you, not if it costs mc my last dollar. How much?" Chatterton felt a swift sympathy with this man, who had undoubtedly Sybil's true interests very near his heart. "Do you mean," he asked, "that you, out of your own pocket, would buy mc ft" with a sum of money equivalent to that which would come to mc as Sybil's dowry?" "Just that," said Mr. Hammerclutch. "I admire you, but I refuse," said Chatterton. The visitor's stern face relaxed a little. "Well," he said, "in a way I admire you a bit, too. You are not quite the grasping blackguard I thought you. But your decisions cut no ice, you know, j You've not got to marry, Syb, and that's ' all there is to it." "What do you propose doing?" "Why, this. Sybil's father and I are rivals in finance; I'm boss of a Ring which he kept out of. Mc and that Ring can squash van Camp into a clam. And we're going to do it. right now." | "Explain." I "You want to marry Sybil for the ! dollars shell have to her dowry. I'm going to move things so that she won't j have a dowry. I'm going to squeeze van j Camp so that there won't be enough to ' make a dowry fit for a Bowery girl. That's all." "You'll —you'll ruin Mr. van Camp?" ! Mr. Hammerclutch rose. ! "Oh, it won't come to that," he said confidently. "So soo-a as he finds that j the Ring's round him. he'll throw up. i You see, he's only got to agree to forbid his daughter's marrying you —which means no dowry—and the Ring will relax at once." "So—so Sybil will have no dowry V Chatterton's voicf shook with eagerness. "Not a bean," said Mr. Hammerclutch. • "Thank Heaven," said Chatterton, (To be continued daily.) I