Part 3 — CHAPTER III THE PRINCE

Often later Rosemary wondered why she made no attempt to free herself and return to Percy, but at the time such an action would have seemed out of place and completely unnatural. She had as it were shot the rapids, and now she floated without effort in calm water under the guidance of one who undoubtedly knew how to steer. She felt no fear. The spell that bound her had eliminated that. Even surprise had died. And, oddly enough, she had not the faintest desire to go back to her recognized partner.

This man was an infinitely better dancer. There was poetry, romance, in his every movement. He held her lightly, but—she knew it within herself—quite irresistibly, not by physical strength but by a strange magnetism of personality which she had never before experienced, a fascination so potent that even the will to resist was absent.

She could barely see him in the dim light, but he seemed to find no difficulty in avoiding the crowd. She was no longer aware of the flying missiles or the winding streamers which had seemed to fetter her. The music had died down, though the throb of fever still seemed to linger in its rhythm. It was as though she danced in a dream.

She did not speak. She seemed to have left the world of speech. This man—or being—who danced so divinely might have been the inhabitant of another sphere. In all that he did he was wholly different from anyone that she had ever before encountered. There was something foreign about him, something quick and vitalizing which warmed her blood, awaking an answer scarcely conscious yet overwhelmingly spontaneous within herself. She felt as if until that moment she had never lived, and now all that there was of her was awake and pulsing. Dream or no dream, she was more vividly aware of the life within her than she had ever been before.

On and on they danced, and sometimes the music seemed to fade and sometimes to burst into strains so fiery that her very soul was singing. She no longer saw the thronging figures about them. They had faded into the background; they might never have been. All she knew was this marvellous, almost miraculous personality which with a king-like completeness absorbed her whole consciousness.

And then—again she never knew how it happened—suddenly she was on a staircase and being drawn upwards, still by that strength which compelled without forcing. The dimly-lit dance-hall faded away, and other lights dawned upon her. She went unquestioningly, even with eagerness, half-expecting a new world to open out before her, still throbbing with the wonder and delight of this great experience.

She scarcely felt the ground beneath her feet as she passed rapidly with her unknown partner down corridor after corridor, all deserted, until they came to a door which he opened and which closed with a catch when they had passed through, shutting out all sounds of the music and dancing far behind them.

She found herself in what appeared to be the end of a long and somewhat narrow passage, very poorly lighted by a distant lamp. There were dark oak doors at intervals, and the walls were panelled to the ceiling. They were not unlike the walls at Little Staple, and for a second or two an odd sense of dread assayed her. She thought that the spell was broken and she was just awaking to find herself back in the humdrum drabness of her daily life. Then she caught sight of herself in a long narrow mirror which had been fastened to the door through which they had just passed, and the vision reassured her. Those bridal robes had no place in Little Staple. She smiled to herself as she realized that she had half-expected that glance to reveal a boyish figure in riding-breeches.

She turned to the man beside her and looked up at him, a faint frown of perplexity on her child-like face. "Where have I seen you before?" she said.

His face with its dark thin features smiled back at her, and she found his smile entrancing. He was attired in a black Court dress, and his princely carriage impressed her deeply. "It must have been in another star," he said, "where kindred spirits meet."

But she continued to gaze at him, unconvinced. "I am certain I have seen you somewhere," she said; and then, after a moment's rapid thought, "Yes, of course! I saw you downstairs at The King's Head. You were standing on the hearth when I went through."

"Quite true," he admitted. "I heard you laugh and I had to follow you."

"But that wasn't the first time," persisted Rosemary, still looking puzzled. "I've seen you before somewhere."

"'We met, 'twas in a crowd,'" he chanted softly. "Do you know I had the same feeling myself when I first saw you? It must have been in that other star."

He was bending towards her with the gallantry of one accustomed to move in high places. An odd tremor went through Rosemary.

"Are you a prince, I wonder?" she said.

He took her hand. "Not quite so near to a prince as you to a bride," he said. "Do you know that you are the loveliest bride I have ever seen—and that is saying much!"

"Oh, am I?" she whispered, deeply colouring. "Was that why you danced with me?"

He laughed—a low, baffling laugh. "Was it against your will?" he said.

"Oh no!" said Rosemary. "I loved it. It—was the most wonderful thing that ever happened."

"Ah, Cinderella!" he said. "What will you do when the clock strikes twelve?"

She started somewhat guiltily. "It must be long past twelve," she said. "I suppose—I ought to go back."

"Oh, why do that?" he said. "It is much more interesting to go on."

Her hand lay in his. She looked up at him with a child's gay confidence. "I don't want to go at all," she said. "I wish you had come sooner."

"What! Am I too late?" he jested. "Suppose the gates are shut behind you, and there is no return!"

"Oh!" gasped Rosemary. "What made you say that?"

She saw herself standing in the shabby room at the Vicarage, with the Vicar just finishing his tea and Mrs. Hudson sitting stiffly by, clicking her knitting-needles. She heard the Vicar's kindly, commonplace voice uttering the very warning which had fallen so differently from this stranger's lips.

"There is always a way back," she said, as one asserting an incontrovertible truth.

"For those who lack the courage to go on?" he questioned.

Her eyes darkened. "I don't know what you mean," she said rather quickly. "Of course, one would always rather go on. It's so much more interesting."

"Much," he agreed. "But to-night's fire will be to-morrow's ashes. And you can't be always a bride."

"I've never been one yet," she said, and again she glanced half-wistfully at the wedding draperies that clothed her. "You wouldn't know me if you were to see me as I am every day."

"I should know you anywhere," he declared, "just as I knew you in that other star. You are too lovely to forget."

She glowed at his words, though if Percy had uttered them she would have scoffed. Quite suddenly, almost without her own volition, she found herself answering him in his own vein. "I know now why I came—why I had to come—why I don't want to go back."

"Ah!" he said softly. "So I don't need to tell you that!" He lifted the hand he held and put it to his lips. "I was looking for a bride," he said. "But I hardly expected to find her quite so soon."

He was drawing her to him, and she did not resist. All the normal boundaries of her life were withdrawn that night. She was utterly without experience in the ways of men, and the glamour of the unknown dazzled her. It seemed that everything that had hitherto been denied her was held out to her in that hour, and like a child before whom a glittering mass of gems is spread she sought to grasp and hold it all.

With his arms about her she sensed again that power which was more magnetic than actual, and she gave herself up to it because she could do no other. He held her conquered, dominated, at a touch.

It was only when his lips found hers that sharp misgiving smote her and she shrank, seeking to avoid them. She might as well have tried to avoid her own soul, for his kiss was so close, so intimate, so deeply compelling, that it was as if a flame went through her whole being, setting every nerve aglow. For the first time she was aware of a mastery that permitted no evasion and would not even recognize her half-shamed withdrawal. Burning from head to foot she stood as it were locked to him, unable to resist, unable to move, until that kiss was over. Then, gasping, she hid her face, feeling that something had gone from her which would never be hers again.

He kept his arm around her, holding her pressed against his shoulder. "What is it?" he whispered after a moment. "Frightened—or only shy?"

She could not answer him, could not tell him that she was overwhelmingly ashamed, any more than she could have explained why that sense of shame so possessed her. But when he tried to lift her face again to his own, she resisted him definitely for the first time.

"I think—if you don't mind—I'll go back now," she said.

"What is it?" he said again. "Have I hurt you—offended you?"

"Oh no!" she said. "No! Please don't think that! Only—only——"

"Only," he mocked softly, "you want to keep the gates open behind you just in case of accidents. I know—I know! Well, you needn't be afraid. They are still open, and only your hand can close them."

She had begun to draw herself away, but at that she paused. Somehow he had made her feel childish and absurd.

"I am not afraid," she said. "But I think we have gone far enough for to-night."

"For to-night!" Again he repeated her words. "Is that what you always say after the first kiss?"

The hot colour flooded her face anew, proclaiming more forcibly than any words that no man had ever kissed her before.

He laughed softly at the sight. "I thought so," he said. "But every bride expects to be kissed, you know. You ought to have thought of that before."

Again she knew that he was drawing her, and she was as clay in his hands to do with as he would. For the second time she yielded, knowing within herself that as she did so he took more than he had previously taken, practically stamping out her powers of resistance. It even seemed for a few seconds as though she lost consciousness in that fiery clasp, only opening her eyes again when she felt it relax.

"Ah, that's better!" he whispered. "Poor little shy rose that has never been kissed before! What a lot you have to learn!"

She was panting a little though she sought to hide it, to look and speak naturally. "It is only for to-night," she said, as if in self-defence. "I don't suppose—we shall ever meet again—afterwards."

"Oh, don't you?" he said. "Don't you? What about that other star? Why should we never meet again? Tell me that!"

"I—don't know," she faltered, still half-startled and half-attracted by his ardour.

"Shall I tell you why we should?" he said.

She nodded, but her eyes were downcast.

"Look at me!" he said.

She hesitated, then slowly complied. His eyes looked deeply into hers—dark eyes that drew and held. She noted for the first time a long scar down the side of his face, stretching from temple to chin, which must once have been a terrible wound. Again she had that haunting feeling that she had seen those features before, but the scar baffled her. That was unfamiliar.

He bent towards her without speaking, and she suddenly realized that he was waiting for something—waiting for something. And as she faced him, it passed from his mind to hers—a clear message which there was no mistaking. Till that moment she had not kissed him. He was waiting for her kiss.

Why she withheld it she could not have said, since she had already given him so much. But some influence was at work within her, strongly urging her. She drew back from him, quivering.

"You won't?" he said.

She turned her face aside. "I can't—yet," she faltered.

"Yet!" he echoed. "Well, well! Doesn't that mean that we shall meet again?"

He laughed at her with the words, and she felt an odd sense of relief. She had almost expected him to be angry.

"Yes—yes! Another time!" she said. "When we know each other better."

"Must we wait for another time?" he said.

She was catching at a straw. "Oh, I think so," she said. "We—don't even know each other's names yet."

"That is soon remedied," he said.

But she clung to her straw. "No—no! Don't let us know! It would spoil everything. I am Cinderella and you are the prince—for to-night."

"And you are going to run away from me," he said, "and leave me only one little shoe to find you by?"

Was there a strange wistfulness in his voice? She did not know. But there was certainly something in it that appealed to her very strongly, and that night of emancipation had carried her beyond all known rules. She stood wavering.

"Are you?" he said.

She looked into the half-arrogant, half-pleading face so near her own, and her brief resistance died. Yet she glanced around her uneasily, for the inner voice would not be stilled.

"Someone might find us here," she whispered. "Percy is sure to be looking somewhere."

He straightened himself. "He won't look here," he said. "You don't know where you are? Come! I will show you."

With his arm about her he led her down the passage between the rows of doors, turned a corner at the end and paused on the threshold of a room.

"Oh!" said Rosemary in astonishment. There was a glow of firelight within. She stood, looking up at him. "This is the room someone lent me to change in," she said.

He made a courteous gesture. "Yes, mine," he said. "And yours for as long as you care to make it so."

But she still stood on the threshold. "How did we get here?" she said.

He indicated the way he had led her. "There is a connecting door with the Town Hall, not generally used."

"Oh!" said Rosemary again. "Then—you meant to bring me here!"

He smiled enigmatically. "I knew you would have to come sooner or later."

He was waiting for her to enter. She went slowly forward. The firelight invited her. She had dressed in such haste a few hours before that she had hardly noticed it. Now with a feeling of physical weariness she welcomed the cheery glow.

She stood before it, her bridal draperies falling all around her, and felt the comforting warmth creeping all about her.

From behind her came the soft shutting of the door and the shooting of a bolt. "That will make everything safe," he said.

She heard him come up to her, but she did not turn. Did she realize in those few seconds that the gates were closing and that there would be no return? Impossible to say, but it was no unwilling prisoner who waited in the red glow of the fire. Her heart was beating fast and hard. As he reached her, she turned, throbbing, to give him what he had asked.

But the next moment with a gasp she drew back. The fitful firelight playing on his face had shown her something—something which made her catch her breath and gasp. Its hard lines were eliminated. She saw only the straight, patrician features with their look of high daring and command. The burden of years was lifted from him, and in that moment she saw him as a being from another world—a being whom she had long known and worshipped from afar.

"Oh!" she said. "It is you!"

He was looking at her oddly, as though the firelight had revealed something to him also.

"Why didn't I recognize you before?" he said in a puzzled tone. "You are just as you used to be—not a day older!"

She caught back a laugh that had a hysterical sound even to herself. "You couldn't recognize me. You have never seen me before. But I ought to have known you. You—are Dick Dynamo!"

"Dick what?" he said sharply.

"Dick Dynamo!" She repeated the name with absolute conviction, but she had begun to tremble. "Aunt Bobby is still waiting for you," she said.

"Who?" he said almost violently; and then, controlling himself as she shrank: "Oh, don't be frightened, child! Come here and tell me what you mean!"

She went, still trembling. He put out his hand and drew her close to him, looking at her searchingly.

"Why do you tell me I have never seen you before?" he said. "You are Bobby, aren't you? You couldn't be anyone else. You must forgive me for not knowing you. But it's a good many years ago since you threw me over, isn't it?"

His voice rang cold. She turned her face from his look. "She never threw you over," she whispered almost inarticulately. "She is waiting for you still."

"What do you mean?" he said.

With quivering lips she told him. "Bobby is my aunt. I—I am only Rosemary."

"Ah! Rosemary!" He caught at the name. "I used to call her that. It means Remembrance."

"She is my aunt," Rosemary told him again. "She has never forgotten you. We live near here—at Little Staple Farm—she and Aunt Matilda and I."

"Matilda!" he said. "Yes, I remember Matilda. But you—I don't quite see where you come in. Whose child are you?"

She lifted her head. "I was their brother's child," she said. "He died before I was born. My mother is dead too."

"Their brother!" said Dick Dynamo. "But—they never had a brother. It was the old man's one regret—'two lovely daughters but never a son.'"

"Oh, you're wrong!" Rosemary said quickly. "My father's name was Robert. He was Aunt Bobby's twin."

But the man beside her shook his head, and his face was set like granite. "There never was a son," he said.

"But I know it!" she persisted. "I am his child, I tell you! Oh, why do you look like that?" She drew herself away from him with swift misgiving. "Why do you?" she repeated. "Why do you? You—you couldn't have known them all."

"Oh yes, I knew them," he said. "I knew them very well. It may interest you to hear that Bobby—your aunt as you call her—ruined my life. I see why now. Well, well!" He stopped abruptly and was silent for a space.

Rosemary bent down over the fire with the realization that she was very cold. His silence was like a stone wall, repelling her. She stretched her chill fingers to the blaze, feeling curiously shaken and unsure of herself.

The tension became unbearable at last. She forced herself to speak. "Why do you say that of Aunt Bobby? I'm sure she never gave you up. Why, she still wears your ring."

"Yes, she kept the ring," he said.

Something in his voice pierced her. She stood up and faced him. "And she has been true to you all these years!" she maintained. "Why have you kept her waiting so long? Why didn't you come back sooner?"

He made a sharp movement. His hand closed on her shoulder. "I'll tell you the truth," he said harshly, "because nothing but the truth will serve. Bobby was engaged to me long ago, but she wouldn't come abroad with me, and after I went she wrote and threw me over. She gave as her reason that she didn't care enough. And God knows anyway that was the truth. For now I came back and find—you!"

"Me!" gasped Rosemary in bewilderment.

"Don't you understand?" he said. "I always knew I had plenty of rivals, but I believed in her—I always believed in her. I thought at least she was virtuous! I didn't think her capable of—that!"

"Oh!" said Rosemary. She went backwards as though he had dealt her a stunning blow, groping for the mantel-piece for support; but her eyes remained on his face, searching it by the leaping firelight with an agonized intensity. "Do you mean—do you mean—" she said—"that I am her—her—her child?"

Her voice failed on the last word; she could utter no more. She stood, white to the lips, waiting.

The man's face changed. He went to her, drew her very gently to him and held her.

"Oh, poor child!" he said. "Poor little Cinderella! That's broken the spell with a vengeance. Yes, I'm afraid that is what I mean. But lean on me! I'll help you—I'll see you through."

His voice and touch held nothing but kindness. She turned on the instant, turned and clung to him convulsively with a wild rush of tears.

"Oh, take me away!" she implored him brokenly. "Take me away! I can never go back. I'd rather go with you—anywhere."