TWO COMMON PEOPLE.

Auckland Star, Volume XLIII, Issue 311, 30 December 1912, Page 10

TWO COMMON PEOPLE.

_j CHAPTER XL Z HAPPY IK LOVE. "Humphrey Chatterton dropped the Iwphonc receiver back into its bracket, tlfeii stretched out hie arms in a luxuripjis gesture of relief. "So that's over," he murmured. "I am Do-longer a prince." The shrill staccato of a news-hoy caught his ear*, and he stepped out on to the balcony to hear his message. "SPrinee Maximilian denies Constitution. Death to the Reformers," came up tepbim from the street below. He stepped back into the room. "The fat," he murmured, "appears to be-slap in the fire."' 3loodily he entered his bedroom, lojisked the door, and took from their hijing place the suit of rusty blue serge, the" shabby boots and the disreputable hat which he had been wearing when first accosted by Major Chavarard outside the police station. rWe meet again." he remarked, bowing to the articles of apparel; then, having dressed, he surveyed himself in the huge cheval glass. -•?Do you know." he said to hi 3 reflection. "I seem to like you better in these." Be turned away. "It's bad luck," he muttcTed, "that I hadn't an opportunity of explaining everything to Sybil before this coxcomb braggart of a Prince woke up. 1 wonder what she will be thinking. I must hurry, or—or I may find myself denied hex presence. Chatterton, my boy, it's totXeh and go, or—or —t.ouch and stay." It was bitterly cold outside, so he popped into a haberdasher's shop and purchased a thick muffler, in which he concealed the lower portion of his face. He" then set out for the Hyde Park Hotel*,' Only a week had elapsed since last he"; felt the pavement of Piccadilly unpleasantly chill beneath his feet. A magic week —a week on the outskirts of fairyland, a week of danger, adventure and love. And now he stood on the very threshold of the Enchanted Land. Would the golden gate be barred against him, or would love prove the open sesame? ■Once again the indifference of Londoners stood him in good stead. No one noticed him- as he strode along, his hat pulled well over his eyes. He wa3 glad of. this, as he had no wish to be mistaken for the Prince, whose notoriety, since the issue of the morning papers, had increased tenfold. On through the, flowing stream of pedestrians went Humphrey Chatterton, the keen air reminding hnn of threadbare places in his clothing, and whipping his cheeks into a ruddy glow. « -At Hyde Park Corner, the gorgeous white motor of Mrs. van Camp caught his eye. and he drew a breath of relief when he saw that it contained only one occupant, and that not Sybil. She would be alone, then. Good! .As he drew near to the great hotel, be became aware of what was surely an unusual crowd, for that time in the morning, hovering in its vicinity. Then, through a momentary gap in the throng, he caught the glint of policemen's helmets, and saw the mob 3way and give TC"&y, before what was evidently their pSFlfie persuasion. Fearing he hardly knew what. Chatterton grasped the arm of a loiterer Who w»9- grudgingly "moving along.*' ""What's the trouble?" he asked brusquely. "What's the crowd there for?" J-Why shouldn't they be here?' refcrted" the man argmnentatively, still ijsentful at police interference. "This i 2 a free country, isn't it?" ; Chatterton replied that he had always lien given to suppose so. 2 "And so *aye I," agreed the other. "But here's getting too much officialdom now4Havs. °one can't stop to look at a splash of blood on the pavement without being hustled as though one were a pickpocket. Besides," he added, importantly. "1 was a witness. I saw it all. They'll be wanting mc to give evidence, and'then I'll be there—or p'raps not." ; Chatterton restrained his excitement ■$ith a supreme effort. A horrible suspicion flashed upon him—a suspicion that almost took away his breath and sent the colour ebbing from his cheeks. ° Sybil! Where was she? Was s-he g-afe"— or —or "'a splash of blood upon the pavement," and just outside her hotel? The suspicion had scarce been born ■when horrible confirmation of it tortured his brain. The Prince's denial of the proclamation! What would be more likelT to drive the deformers to a pitch of frenzy than this—as they must suppoge —crowning act of treachery on his part. Revenge —that would be their iinniediate concern. Revenge on the Prince —and through Sybil! They had already abducted her to force his hand: now—now —oh, Heavens! had they "silled her? - "I never saw a young woman look iniore —more tragic—that's the word." -"rent on the man, ruminating. "She'd make her fortune as Lady Macbeth. There she stood c# the steps of the 'otel. with 'er fair hair blowing back in the wind, and such a look in her eye3 —my! you'd n' thought the end of the world had come." Chatterton took a grip on himself. "Will you please tell mc exactly what happened?" he jerked out tensely. "I am telling you, ain't I? Some young man—some foreign prince or other. London's full of "em—had just reached the entrance of the 'Yde Park 'Otel when he wae stopped by some bloke with a grievance. I dunno what passed between 'em. but I had just time to hear the second chap say. 'May so end all traitors,' as 1 was passing. "With that he whips rert a revolver and shoots the foreign lord right through the head, and down he falls at his feet like a log. Of course the noise dazed mc. and by the rime I'd got my wits back the murderer had vanished. Then, ju3t as the crowd came buzzing round, and the police got wind of it down comes the young lady out of the hotel. You should a' seen her face! She "' . But he was talking to space, for Chatterton had gone —w36. indeed, already squirming, elbowing, and pushing his way ihrnugh the loitering morbid crowd magnetised by the ominous splash of crimson on the pavement. \'p the broad staircase of the Hyde Park Hotel he dashed, leaping two steps at a time, and did not pause until he stood, panting, at the door of Mrs van Camp's salon. Here he halted for a moment to recover his breath and attempt to steady the wild beating of his heart. Prince Maximilian was dead—and Sybil —Sybil thought that it was he! From within the room came a low tooaning—the almost emotionless, unexpressivc moan of one who mourns at the graveside of hope; the moaning of the body when the spirit is moribund-

By REX COLVILLE.

Slowly. silently. Humphrey Chatterton turned "the handle and gently pushed open the door. She was sitting alone in that great, imposing, ivory-and-goUl room, sitting with her elbows on her. knees, her chin in the palms of her hands, staring, staring out into vacancy with wide, unseeing, shadowed eyes. He stopped just inside the doorway, awed, spellbound at the picture of despair. Xo tear dimmed her eyes, there was no quivering of the lips, no abandonment to grief—only the steady, dogged hopelessness of she who looks out into the future knowing that all the to-mor-row shall be as to-day." He whispered her name and took a step towards her. She heard his voice, but did not dare turn lier head. He ■messed that she thought it was memory playing a trick upon her—that it was no numan voice she heard. He saw her shiver as she crouched in the chair, shiver and. as it were, nestle deeper into her enfolding thoughts; but now_her eves were blinking back the tears-ytne •'to-morrows.-' of her vision swam in a scalding moisture that might have been her heart's blood itself. He could bear this picture of valiant struggling against woe no longer. "Sybil" he cried, stretching out his arms and striding across the room to "he iira" herself back in her chair with a little half strangled gasp, her eyes wide with fright, her arms dangling inertly at her side. He threw himself on his knees beside her, and seized one cold, limp hand. •■Sybil." he said again, earnestly, '"it is I. See. I am unharmed. It is I —really I who kneel at your feet. Oh. my beloved." He raised her hand and kissed it passionately again and again. "I am flesh and blood." he cried half laughingly and half anxiously. "Sybil, my dearest, bravest girl, let mc quench the fear in those great eyes of yours. This is no dream, my darling—this is real, real." She leaned swiftly forward and gazed deep into his eyes; he held his breath with sheer wonder at the glory of her beauty. "Yes; it is you," she whispered at last. "My real self at last," he answered. "Your real self," she repeated, still dazed. "But when I stood upon the hotel steps just now and—and —saw " She shuddered violently, and covered her eyes with her hand. * 'That was not I," he whispered, gently. She took away her hand and searched his face with pitiful eagerness. "It was Prince Maximilian of PrestichBlesner," she murmured huskily. He bowed his head. " It was Prince Max.milian," he echoed. The colour was rushing back into her face, and her eyes had lost their brooding, "But—but you— —" she stammered. " I am my Veal self. The man whom your mother beckoned to her motor at Hyde Park Corner a week ago. The man in the shabby suit." She let her eyes run over hie clothing. Then suddenly she smiled—suddenly and bewilderingly. It was the half-amased, wholly tolerant, maternal smile that never failed to lift Chatterton up to realms of rapture. " Why, yes," she said, softly. "You are wearing the shabby suit now." " I am. It is part of my real self — the suit, the boots, the hat —all shabby." •' All shabby.' , she repeated, with a lingering wistfulnese. " Let mc explain." he urged, and forthwith poured out the history of his adventure, omitting nothing, but always insisting upon the high motive that had carried him through—his great love for her. " I know," he said, still kneeling and looking up at her with worship in his eyes, " that to love you was, for a man in my position, one of the most astonishingly impudent things I could have done. Of course I see that now, but " She bent her head a little lower, and tried to summon a frown; "Oh, you 3ee that now, do you?" she asked gravely, but his head was bowed, and he could not see the yearning in her eyes. "Yes, yes," he answered, "I—a pauper, an adventurer, a—a nobody, to think of you! I don't think I could have had a conscience." "I am sure you had not." He Kfted his head, and the light that was in her eyes dazzled him. He swayed as he knelt, and she steadied him with her own worsiiipful hand. "When the Prince died," she said tenderly, "the mock-Sybil and the mockPrince died with him. The mock-Sybil had, indeed, been at death's door for some days past, and the real Sybil was struggling to get out of the chrysalis stage." He caught at her meaning. "And what a beautiful grey-golden butterfly she has emerged!" he cried. She laughed, and caressed him with her eyes. "And the mock-Prince?" she asked. "His chrysalis stage was rank and pomp and power. What is he now?" "An adventurer in a shabby suit," he answered humbly. "An adventurer in a. shabby suit, whose name I do not even know." "Humphrey C'hatterton." "Humphrey Chatterton!" she lingered lovingly over the syllables. "Then let mc tell this adventurer in the shabby suit, this Humphrey"—again she lingered —"this Humphrey Chatterton that he is the bravest man the real Sybil has ever mct —t-he bravest and the—the dearest. Let me— —" His face was radiant, but even so, it was less radiant than her own as she gloried in the words of her confe«sion. "Let mc tell him," she went on with a little sob of joy, "that whatever the poor passionless mock-Sybil may have felt—if the poor dead thing can ever have really felt anything, which 1 doubt —that this real Sybil, -who now takes your dear brawa face in her hands and lifts it np —up. thus—until the blue eyes of it are like stars against her ■own —this real Sybil is prouder of the man in the shabby suit and old boots, prouder and happier in his love than she had ever hoped to be of anything in the mock-Sybil's life, Humphrey!"' Ten minutes latpr the footsteps of Mrs. van Camp were heard along the corridor. "Here's mother." said Sybil, then laughingly kissed him. "Be brave. ,, she said. Humphrey squared his shoulders, echoing her smile. <c Well take things as they come," he said, with Lie old guy laugh. THE END. '