The first American King

“Do you think it will surely come? Are you confident that this entire hypothesis of yours is correctly grounded?” and Professor Dean peered with wistful anxiety into Kearns’ face.

That personage stared silently for a moment into the Professor’s inquiring eyes, and then answered with imperturbability:

“Will ducks swim?”

“I believe that according to established natural laws,” answered the Professor acidly, “they will.”

“Will this air-ship of yours fly?”

This time the Professor’s reply showed some warmth.

“Hasn’t it been tested? Haven’t you seen for yourself? Aren’t you satisfied?” he inquired.

“Perfectly,” conceded Kearns bluntly. “Well; just as sure as ducks swim and as your air-ship flies—and mighty high and rapid is its flight, I’ll admit—so surely will my hypothesis, as you call it, turn out scientifically correct and I’ll run my quarry to ground. I’m not accustomed to failure, you know, and I certainly can’t afford to fail in this case. Didn’t the warning say that the next will be the last? That means, I take it, there is going to be at least one more warning and, judging from past success, they’ll adopt the same means and the same methods as before. This is just about the time when things are due; the night, too, judging from present indications, looks as if it would be the right kind. I’d not be astonished if this was the night!”

The conversation was held in a spacious apartment of the Summer Palace immediately to the west of the King’s sleeping apartment, forming part of the suite in the palace assigned to the affairs of the Chancellerie. Stretching across the apartment upon two rests, which brought it to a level with the wide bay windows, was a machine resembling in length and general contour an ordinary steam launch, but differing materially from a steam launch in its various accessory details. It was Professor Dean’s much-prized air-ship—christened by Kearns “The Royal Dean.”

The various component parts of this air-ship had been manufactured with much secrecy at one of the royal dockyards. The parts had then been forwarded to a secluded portion of the country, where a temporary workshop had been fitted up for the Professor. There the assembling of the parts had taken place and the final and successful tests made. Thanks to the careful and elaborate precautions taken, no inkling of the nature of the work had filtered abroad. Only three of the workmen engaged on the assembling really knew that an air-ship had been turned out, and these three were very securely taken care of for the present.

The same careful and secret precautions were observed in bringing the air-ship to the Summer Palace and installing it there. At Kearns’ suggestion, the Court had abandoned the Summer Palace at the time the work was first begun, the Queen and her suite going to Emberton, and the King and his suite to the City Palace.

At last the work on the air-ship had been completed and that portion of the Chancellerie suite adjoining the King’s sleeping apartment had been given over to Kearns. There, after certain preliminary work in connection with one of the big bay windows so as to permit of the ready exit of the air-ship, the installation had taken place.

Then and not until then, Kearns gave the word and the King and Queen, accompanied by their respective suites, returned to the Summer Palace. This return took place while there were yet three nights left of the waning moon—just in the nick of time, as Kearns put it.

There was, however, one matter troubling Kearns. The necessity of secrecy and also of compactness of construction had been such that it had only been possible to construct an air-ship of very moderate dimensions—an air-ship equipped to carry only two persons. Now, one of these persons must necessarily be Professor Dean, since he alone was competent to navigate the aërial craft. Who was to be the other passenger? Equally obviously—as Kearns himself was compelled regretfully to admit—it could not be Kearns. In following the attacking party, it was impossible to predict what situations might be encountered or what exigencies might arise. To cope properly with these situations and meet these exigencies, necessarily required some person who was familiar with existing conditions and customs, otherwise the whole pursuit might result in failure and the marauders escape. A man who had only recently excited the risibilities and the wonderment of rustics by inquiring for a horse and carriage was hardly the right man for the task. Sadly and with woebegone mien, Kearns had to concede it.

The solitary passenger accompanying the Professor must be a man familiar with existing conditions—a man of authority, of resource and of courage. Casting about them for a selection, neither Kearns nor the Professor could think of any person possessing better qualifications for the work in hand than Captain Stanley Mortimer, of the Imperial Guard. Following upon Beatrice’s introduction and the Captain’s invitation to visit his quarters, they had both formed his acquaintance; he had shown them various little attentions and kindnesses; both were impressed with him.

But Captain Mortimer’s military duties as an officer of the Guard might possibly interfere with his movements on the critical night. There must also be a substitute, in case of emergency, and naturally they selected Captain Mortimer’s comrade, Captain Ralph Swords.

Reluctantly, therefore, Kearns consented and the subject was broached to the two officers, under strictest promise of secrecy. To no one must they breathe one word of the expedition, neither before nor after the event, until relieved from their respective promises by Mr. Kearns.

Both eagerly consented to embark upon what promised to be at least an interesting adventure. They had contemplated leaving the Imperial Guard and exchanging into another regiment, but in view of this adventure they decided to postpone matters.

Following his customary methods, Kearns communicated these selections to no one—not even to the King. Mr. Kearns liked to deal only in results.

In addition to the air-ship, there was a “little side invention,” as Mr. Kearns termed it, which gave that gentleman much satisfaction and comfort. The Professor dubbed it “an aërestograph,” but Kearns preferred to refer to it as “the aërial telegraph.” This latter not inaptly described it. It was an instrument fastened to the end of a support some four feet in height. Supplied each with one of these instruments, two persons many miles apart could interchange messages, without the use of any connecting wire, provided there were no interfering obstructions. The Professor referred to it as an exceedingly simple invention, based to some extent upon the same principles as those applied by Marconi, but with apparatus much simplified. One of these instruments was mounted in the room in the Chancellerie given over to Kearns; the other instrument was stored away in the air-ship. By rising in the air-ship to a sufficient altitude to clear intervening obstructions, there would thus be constant possibility of communication between the air-ship and Kearns. By means of this instrument, Kearns felt that he was at least in touch with the Professor and the news.

So matters stood on the night of the recorded conversation between the Professor and Kearns. The night was dark—slightly hazy and overcast—corresponding in many respects, as Kearns noted with joy, to the night when the previous visitation had taken place. To complete further the resemblance, a ball was being held in the Summer Palace—not upon the scale of magnificence of the preceding event, but a Court ball, nevertheless, with all the accessory brilliancy and gayety.

Shortly after midnight, the Professor, Kearns and Captain Mortimer sat watching in the room of the Chancellerie assigned to them. Immediately next to them, but separated by a solid wall, was the King’s sleeping apartment, in the antechamber of which Captain Swords was on duty as Officer of the Day.

Not long after midnight a messenger handed a note to the sentinel at the end of the corridor. It was passed on from sentinel to sentinel until it reached Captain Swords. It was a delicately perfumed little missive, addressed in a large and straggling feminine handwriting. The Captain tore it open and read:

Captain Swords smiled as he read, afterward standing for a moment, reflecting, with the note between his fingers. With the air of a man who has suddenly made up his mind, he left the antechamber, walked up the corridor past the King’s apartment and knocked lightly at the nearest door of the Chancellerie suite. Captain Mortimer promptly responded to the summons and a brief whispered conference took place between them. Then Captain Mortimer turned to Kearns and whispered:

“I suppose ’twouldn’t do for me to absent myself for half an hour—to go downstairs for one dance.”

“Why not?” replied Kearns. “The King hasn’t yet retired and isn’t likely to for some time. It’s certainly too early to expect anything. Go, by all means, but don’t stay too long.”

Still Captain Mortimer hesitated.

“I shouldn’t like by my absence to spoil any chance,” he said.

“No danger,” answered Kearns; “besides, should anything happen unexpectedly, we could summon Captain Swords.”

“But he’s on duty in the King’s antechamber.”

“Well, we could immediately send for you to take his place.”

“That would be somewhat irregular,” objected Captain Mortimer.

“Go,” insisted Kearns. “You’ll be perfectly safe in doing so, provided you are back here by the time the King retires.”

“Oh, long before that,” answered the Captain, and off he started for the ball-room, Captain Swords returning to his post of duty in the antechamber.

On reaching the ball-room, Captain Mortimer had little difficulty in discovering Beatrice, seated between Dorothy Brandon and Baroness Maquehaye. He made his way to where they sat and, presenting himself before them, bowed.

“I come under orders from Captain Swords,” he said to Beatrice, “to act as his proxy for this waltz. May I have that honor?”

But the young lady looked up at him with large and mischievous eyes.

“I’m so angry with Captain Swords,” she answered severely, “that I’ll not dance with him even by proxy. I’ve decided to give the waltz to Count D’Arville, of the French Legation. Ask Miss Brandon. Perhaps she may take pity on—Captain Swords’ proxy.”

At these audacious words, Miss Brandon turned several colors and cast a sharp and furious glance upon Beatrice, who sat demurely looking up at the Captain. Captain Mortimer also glanced quickly at the speaker, but if the glance conveyed astonishment it certainly contained no anger. With presence of mind, he turned to Dorothy.

“You’ve witnessed my discomfiture,” he said. “Won’t you take pity on me?”

“As a proxy?” she asked, with an arch upward flash of the eyes.

“As a proxy, or—as you will!”

For answer she rose and took his arm.

They gained their positions upon the floor; the band struck up the opening bars. Once more his arm encircled her; once more he held her to him, as they glided around and around, amid the maze of waltzers. Again he felt the intoxication of her presence; the sweet, pleasurable thrill of physical contact which set heart and nerves a-throb within him. Through his brain there flitted the wild phantasy that for the mad joy of holding her enfolded in his arms, her heart crushed against his heart, his lips to her lips—that for one long minute of such ecstasy he would be willing to suffer instant annihilation thereafter. Then came the thought, sharp as a sword-thrust, that perhaps this waltz was their last, their eternal farewell; that never again might he hold her thus. So they danced on, the minutes seeming as seconds, until the band played the final bar and the waltz was at an end.

Half-dazed, he started to lead her back to her seat, but with a gentle restraining pressure upon his arm, she stopped him.

“I don’t want to return yet,” she said, and the look she gave him was half-beseeching, half-imperious. “Let us walk around a little. You don’t mind, do you?”

Mind! What was he not willing to pay for every additional moment that gave him her gracious presence!

He did not—he could not—answer, but he instantly turned and with her on his arm, walked in the opposite direction. There was too much crowding upon the floor for comfortable walking; mechanically, without intention on his part, he made his way to the entrance to the great conservatory and they passed in.

“I suppose this is the last place I should seek,” he said, at last finding speech and scarce knowing what he was saying.

“Why?” she asked archly.

“A soldier, you know, seldom cares to revisit the scene of a reverse,” he said.

“I have read somewhere,” she answered demurely, “that all great soldiers seek to retrieve a reverse, and Captain Mortimer, it is said, is a great soldier.”

“I thank you for the compliment,” he answered with some embarrassment; “but I fear you are amusing yourself at my expense.”

“One doesn’t amuse oneself,” she answered gravely, “at the expense of those who wear that Order,” and she touched lightly with her gloved finger-tips the Columbia Cross glittering upon his breast. “You must tell me some day the story of how that was won,” she continued in a low voice. “I’d like to hear the details from your own lips.”

“I fear narration is not my strong point,” he answered, again evincing embarrassment. “Besides,” he added hastily, “the credit of that affair really belonged most largely to the dearest fellow on earth—my comrade, Ralph Swords.”

“I’ve heard of Captain Swords’ connection with that affair,” said Dorothy dryly; “but I don’t always believe quite all I hear.”

“No?”

“No,” she replied, “just as people sometimes say things they don’t fully mean, I suppose. For instance,” she continued with meaning, “indelicate and careless remarks in the excitement of play at baccarat!”

“Indelicate and careless remarks—baccarat!” he repeated, with evident wonderment. “I realize I am stupid, but I don’t understand.”

She turned her great eyes upon his face and as she saw the perplexity there her heart gave a joyful leap. Long ago she had to herself fully exonerated him and had pitilessly condemned herself for having ever entertained a single doubt. Now, it seemed, the entire story of the infamous Brooke was a falsehood woven out of whole cloth. Still, with the spirit of inquisition natural to womankind, she determined to probe the entire matter to the bitter end.

“Yes; at baccarat, I said,” she answered gayly. “Weren’t you with the Tenth before you came to the Guards?”

“Yes,” he answered, wondering what was coming next.

“And the Tenth were sorry gamblers, were they not?” she persisted. “Was there not a great deal of baccarat playing toward the close of the season at Oldport?”

“I don’t know whether I ought to disclose the secrets of the mess-room,” he replied; “but I don’t mind admitting what was generally known and talked about. Your information is quite correct, I regret to say.”

“You regret?” she asked. “Why? It is rumored that Captain Mortimer was one of the most assiduous devotees.”

“Then rumor falsifies,” he answered gravely; “for I disapprove upon military grounds of all forms of gambling in military quarters. I never played baccarat in a regimental mess-room in my life.”

She gave a little cry of astonishment and joy. Complete, indeed, was this refutation of the tale of the Brooke!

“Why,” she exclaimed, with the inconsequence of a true woman, “why did you never tell me this before?”

“Tell you before!” he repeated. “Why should I?”

“Never mind,” she answered, panting, “I’m still quite angry with you.”

“Angry?” he asked, perturbed. “Why? Because I haven’t played baccarat?”

“No, no,” she retorted impatiently. “Because you are so credulous.”

“Credulous?”

“Yes,” she replied petulantly. “What was that interesting story told to you at the last ball regarding a certain lady who shall be nameless? A story which you accepted and believed, I suppose!” she added indignantly.

He stared straight ahead and made no reply.

“Oh, it was told to you in strictest confidence, I presume?” she pouted.

“That which I’m told in confidence I make a point of forgetting I’ve ever heard,” he replied, fencing. “You surely will not blame me?”

“That’s doubtless right,” she admitted; “but let me say,” she added with meaning, “the waters of a certain Brooke may babble not only unceasingly, but also very falsely. Will you bear that in mind if you should remember a certain confidence?”

“You’re not angry with me?” he pleaded.

“Very little,” she answered; “in fact, so little that you may have the next waltz—if you care for it.”

A troubled look came into his face.

“I fear I can’t,” he replied with disappointment. “I’m on duty and must return at once.”

“On duty!” she exclaimed; “why, I understood Captain Swords was on guard to-night?”

“Yes,” he replied, “he is; but I’m on special duty—a scouting expedition, I might say.”

“A scouting expedition!” she repeated. “You speak as if it were a time of war. Tell me about it.”

“I can’t,” he answered reluctantly. “I am pledged upon honor not to speak of it.”

Her blue eyes opened wide in mingled astonishment and concern.

“If there is so much secrecy,” she said slowly, “it must be a matter of importance. Is there any danger to—to—you?”

“I could hardly say there is,” he answered lightly. “Call it an interesting little adventure—nothing more serious than that.”

But she was not lightly to be put aside.

“On your honor, is there no danger?”

“None that I know of,” he answered reassuringly.

“That you know of?” she repeated. “Then you can’t tell.”

“No,” he admitted, “the circumstances are so novel—so unusual—I can’t tell.”

They had reached a secluded part of the great conservatory and stood facing each other, she with downcast eyes, he looking down upon her with rapt admiration.

“I must return,” he whispered; “although never did I go to duty so unwillingly.”

She took his arm and they walked slowly back toward the ball-room.

“Why so silent?” he whispered to her as they walked.

She sighed.

“I have a foreboding,” she answered sadly, “that this undertaking—this secret expedition of which you cannot speak—is one of difficulty and of danger.”

“No, no,” he answered cheerily; “you’re mistaken. But,” he added in a low voice, “were it so, would you care?”

For answer, she looked upward and her glance met his. Softly he whispered to her and more softly still came her whispered reply—a reply that brought the light to his eyes and the hot flush of joy to his cheeks.

It was with that light in his eyes, that color in his cheeks, they passed out of the conservatory into the ball-room. Not ten paces from them as they entered stood a man wearing the uniform of the Imperial Guard. As they walked, he looked after them, with black brows bent and an expression in the dark face that was not good to look upon. He turned sharply at a tap from a lady’s fan upon his arm, the scowl still upon his face.

“Ah, Lady Brooke!”

“A word with you, Milord Ashley,” she said.

He led her aside and they stood for some minutes engaged in conversation.

“I’ll do it,” he said to her as she was about to pass on. “You may count upon my managing it.”

“And you may count upon me,” she answered, “to repair matters when the proper time comes. As you are aware, I still have some influence with His Majesty.”

Lord Ashley bowed low.

“Repair, eh!” he muttered under his black mustache when she had gone, “if you’ll consult the past, Milady, you’ll find that when I’ve finished with those who cross my path, there’s little left to repair! Your suggestion is good, though, Milady! You certainly are a born intrigante. An excellent suggestion, indeed! And I’ll lose no time in carrying it out!”