THE PRINCE IN THE FAIRY TALE.

Observer, Volume XL, Issue 7, 18 October 1919, Page 22

THE PRINCE IN THE FAIRY TALE.

By Leonard Merrick

HOW strange that still sounds when the solemn butler says it—to me, Bosie McLeod! I go, wraj>ped 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 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 a 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 yet; 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 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 1 had some second cousins, but I had not met them, and they showed no desire to meet me then. From one source and another 1 hud about three hundred pounds, and in my ignorance 1 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 to Paris 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 yon come back with me, child " she asked presently. "dome 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.

"The carriage is at the door, Madam."

"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 any one there would have been ashamed to lie abed. To begin withy there was the rushing of water outside, for taps there were none, and one by one the tenants clattered to a pump with a bucket t.o obtain their supply for the day. Then the hawkers made their appearance, each with his own peculiar chant- "Fine mackerel! Yqs, fine mackerel! Who will buy my fine mackerel this morning?" And "Mussels! Oh, mussels most delicious!" And "Watercress," and "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 goodhuinouredly as. Paris. In pictures it is always shown to us at night with its myriad lamps shining, or in tho 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 Viery, very early, and behold it smiling when it wakes to work. 1 havo 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 neighbours had an. air of opulence, need J say it? All of them bustled to tho pump with pails, all of them cooked their own meals, and it was rather a rai\e occurrence, I believe, Tor 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 fit 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 usfid 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 featherweight. Be seemed quite strong arid 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 ninetyeight stairs for her without thanking him. I mean it was impossible for

me just to say "Thank you," as if be 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 caii 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 rich; It's glorious—teaches him to be independent. Xrid 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 rich." "No, it isn't," he said. "For agirl 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 soiling 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 the 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 roturn for his extreme kindness, I am bound to say that Miss Niblett's later remarks were absurd. Miss Niblett said she would go downstairs with the pail herself for the 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 some one 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 did not 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 stire his buoyancy was just put on to hide his sufferings. •

When I had been living in the court about two months, the sight of his coat, and the idea of his privations, proved too bad to be borne. We had become such good 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 hot, 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? " "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 f Then my fiance 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 couldn't help regretting 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- , (To be continued next week.)