Long Live the King by Guy Boothby (sites to read books for free TXT) 📖

charming manners, tall graceful figure, and _insouciant_ cavalry swagger, possessed a fascination for them which they seemed incapable of resisting. It was not long before he had made himself extremely popular, not only with the English portion of the population, but also with the Spanish.

"Be careful, Mortimer, my boy," Brockford would say to him, when he greeted him on his return from a ball or similar social function. "When you have seen as much of this little corner of the world as I have, you will know how dangerous women can be, and how they have it in their power to mar a man's career at its commencement. Many an excellent young fellow have I seen out here, only too anxious and ready to make his way in the world; then he has fallen in love, been egged into matrimony, only to find himself shelved and done for by all save his wife's relations, as soon as the knot was tied. I don't want that to happen to you."

"You needn't have any fear on my account," answered Max with a laugh. "I'm not very likely to fall in love. I have been inoculated, and I fancy I am proof against the infection."

"No man is proof against it," replied Brockford solemnly. He was well acquainted with the traps and pitfalls of Rio society, and he did not want the man, to whom he had taken such a liking, to make a _fiasco_ of his life, just when there seemed a good chance of his succeeding in it. He need not have bothered himself about it just then, however, for another factor had been imported into the problem, and, before the week was over, Max was down with fever. For some time he lay at death's door, but, thanks to his wonderful constitution, he managed in the end to pull through. It was a near enough chance, however, to cause his friends a considerable amount of anxiety.

Indeed, from what I have since learned, there was one period in the course of the fever when the gravest apprehensions were entertained for his safety. All things considered, it was perhaps as well for him that Brockford was with him during his delirium. Although even then, he did not altogether reveal his secret, he said enough to show his friend that, in his old life, he had been something more than the mere cavalry officer he pretended.

"From the very first I felt sure there was some mystery about him," said the latter to himself one evening, when he had left the sick-room for a well-earned rest. "I don't fancy, however, that I have quite got to the bottom of it yet. But there, it's his secret and not mine, and, if he doesn't care to tell me, why should I bother myself?"

So saying, the kindly old fellow returned once more to the sick-room to minister as patiently to the wants of his restless patient as if he had been a nurse all his life. Strangely enough, as Brockford has since told me, it was of myself that Max talked most. "His constant cry," said the latter, "was something to this effect: 'As I cannot win her for myself, I will not spoil Paul's life. No! Paul shall have his chance with her!' and so he would continue for hours at a time. Sometimes he would vary it by informing the world that 'Paul should have her, for he could make her happier than I could ever do.' Then he would suddenly sit up in bed and call wildly for a horse, adding that he had made an appointment to meet the Princess in the Park, and must not, on any account, keep her waiting."

At last consciousness returned, and little by little he grew stronger, until, in due course, he was pronounced to be out of danger. Some time, however, elapsed before he was in a position to return to his duties. He had now been in Brazil upwards of eighteen months, and was beginning to regard himself as an old inhabitant.

On the day that he was sufficiently recovered to be able to return to the office he was invited to dine in the evening at the house of his employer.

It was a jovial party that sat down to dinner. The old merchant kept a liberal table, and he and the Senora, between them, did the honours with regal dignity. The two pretty daughters of the house laid themselves out to be charming, the younger, Estrella, taking care that Max wanted nothing. After dinner they adjourned to the verandah, where a lovely view of the city, stretched out on the plain below, and of the harbour was obtainable. Max was in the best possible spirits, and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the society of the pretty Estrella, who was seated beside him, fanning herself, as only a Spanish girl can, with a coquettish lace fan, and airing her scanty knowledge of the English language. The elder sister, Maraquinha, who was an accomplished musician, was playing a variety of dreamy melodies in the room behind them. The Senora had gone to sleep, according to custom, and Brockford and the merchant were smoking like volcanoes, and talking politics, at the further end of the verandah.

When a young man, whose heart has once been shattered, is willing to admit that he has admired another young woman, ever since he set eyes on her, it is only natural to suppose that his heart is still capable of feeling some emotion. Though Max was not in the least in love with the pretty Senorita, he could not but confess that he entertained a sincere regard for her. A great love, such as he had felt for the Princess Ottilie, for instance, could never come to him again; but he asked himself why, if it were true that he had decided never to return to his old life, he should not choose a wife from the people with whom he had thrown in his lot, and settle down to a quiet married life in his new home? Moreover, he was quite aware that Montezma was anxious that his daughters should marry, and he felt confident enough of the old man's liking for himself to be sure that, in spite of the difference in nationality, the union would be far from distasteful to him. On the contrary, it was just possible that--but there he came to a sudden stop. He had got on to dangerous ground, where it behoved him to walk warily.

At last it became time for Brockford and himself, if they wished to get back to the island before midnight, to bid the family good-bye. They accordingly entered the house to take a stirrup cup, and it was then that an event occurred which was destined to cause Max more uneasiness than anything that had happened since his arrival in Brazil, the fever excepted. They were standing beside the table in the dining-room, when Maraquinha, who, as I have already explained, had hitherto been occupied at the piano in the drawing-room, made her appearance, carrying in her hand an illustrated newspaper.

"Senor Mortimer," she cried, with a smile upon her face, "are you aware that we are fortunate enough to possess a portrait of yourself?"

At first Max did not realise the importance of her words. She was of a jocular disposition, and his first thought was that, following her favourite pastime, she had made a caricature of himself.

"I am honoured indeed, Senorita," he said. "I trust the likeness is a flattering one."

"You shall judge for yourself," she answered. "Here it is."

So saying, she opened the paper she had brought with her, and placed it on the table before him. One glance was sufficient to show him that it was a reproduction of an old photograph of himself, taken by a London firm of photographers shortly after he had joined his regiment. Underneath was printed "_The Missing Crown Prince of Pannonia_."

As Max looked at it, he felt himself grow deadly pale. A great fear lest it should be noticed swept over him, and for a moment, do what he would, he could not recover his self-control. At last, almost by a superhuman effort, he managed to get himself in hand, and, while pretending to look more closely at the picture, said:

"All things considered, it is not a bad likeness, is it? I wonder if I were to go to England, and pretend to be the original, whether they would let me take his place in society. He does not look so tall as I am, but the likeness is certainly remarkable."

"So like that, without a very great stretch of imagination, we might even take it to be the same person," said Maraquinha suspiciously.

"Permit me to see it?" said Brockford, stretching his arm across the table.

The paper was accordingly handed to him, and he studied it attentively.

"What do you think of it?" asked Max, who felt as if a cold hand were being placed upon his heart.

"I'm afraid the likeness doesn't strike me as being such a good one," he answered, more to shield Max, I fancy, than for any other reason. "Judging from this picture, I should say the eyes of the Crown Prince must have been of a different colour to yours, and his hair would certainly not be so dark. However, dark or fair, it is time we were thinking of making a start for the island. Good-night, Senor Montezma; Senora and Senoritas, I have the honour to bid you good-night; your hospitality has charmed us."

Max followed his example, and five minutes later they were on their way back to the beach.

The journey back to the island that evening was a silent one. Max, for one, had more than sufficient wherewith to occupy his mind. The existence of the portrait had come to him as a decided shock. It had roused suspicions in other people's minds that years might not be able to allay. He had begun to think himself free of the old life and to feel convinced that it would never influence him again. And now, here it was, rising like a ghost of the past, to confront him at the very moment when a life of peaceful happiness seemed within his grasp.

When they reached the island they left the launch and walked up to the house, still in silence. For the first time since they had known each other, a dark shadow lay between them. As soon as they reached the verandah, however, Brockford placed his hand upon Max's shoulder.

"You and I have got to have a talk together before we go to bed to-night," he said. "There are things that must be settled once and for all."

"I am at your disposal, of course," Max replied, but not with too much grace. "What is it you want to say to me?"

"There is nothing I _want_ to say to you," Brockford answered, with an accent on the _want_. "It's what I feel I _must_ say, both in your interests and my own. Don't think I am going to pry into your private affairs. My sole desire is to help you, if I possibly can. It's a delicate position for a man to be placed in; for, you see, I have only my suspicions to go upon, and I may give you pain without intending it. I think, however, that those suspicions are strong enough to bear the weight of what I'm going to say to you. The picture you saw to-night came to you as a painful surprise, did it not? And yet it did not astonish me, for I had