Jennie Baxter, Journalist
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Robert Barr >> Jennie Baxter, Journalist
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"If your Excellency but knew how welcome you are, your visits would not
have such long intervals between."
"It is most kind of you, Princess, to cheer an old man's heart by such
gracious words. It is our misfortune that affairs of State chain us to
our pillar, and, indeed, diplomacy seems to become more difficult as the
years go on, because we have to contend with the genius of rising young
men like Lord Donal Stirling here, who are more than a match for old
dogs that find it impossible to learn new tricks."
"Indeed, your Excellency," said his lordship, speaking for the first
time since the Ambassador began, "the very reverse of that is the case.
We sit humbly at your feet, ambitious to emulate, but without hope of
excelling."
The old man chuckled again, and, turning to the girl, began to make his
adieux.
"Then my former rooms are waiting for me at the Castle?" he concluded.
"Yes, your Excellency, with the addition of two red rocking-chairs
imported from America, which you will find most comfortable
resting-places when you are free from the cares of State."
"Ah! The rocking-chairs! I remember now that you were expecting them
when I was there. So they have arrived, safely, I hope; but I think you
had ordered an incredible number, to be certain of having at least one
or two serviceable."
"No; only a dozen, and they all came through without damage."
"You young people, you young people!" murmured the Ambassador, bending
again over the hand presented to him, "what unheard-of things you do."
And so the old man shuffled away, leaving many compliments behind him,
evidently not having the slightest suspicion that he had met anyone but
the person he supposed himself addressing, for his eyesight was not of
the best, and an Ambassador meets many fair and distinguished women.
The girl sat down with calm dignity, while Lord Donal dropped into his
chair, an expression of complete mystification on his clear-cut, honest
face. Jennie slowly fanned herself, for the heat made itself felt at
that elevated situation, and for a few moments nothing was said by
either. The young man was the first to break silence.
"Should I be so fortunate as to get an invitation to the Schloss
Steinheimer, may I hope that a red rocking-chair will be allotted to me?
I have not sat in one since I was in the States."
"Yes, one for you; two for the Ambassador," said Jennie, with a laugh.
"I should like further to flatter myself that your double generosity to
the Ambassador arises solely from the dignity of his office, and is not
in any way personal."
"I am very fond of ambassadors; they are courteous gentlemen who seem to
have less distrust than is exhibited by some not so exalted."
"Distrust! You surely cannot mean that I have distrusted you, Princess?"
"Oh, I was speaking generally," replied Jennie airily. "You seem to seek
a personal application in what I say."
"I admit, Princess, that several times this evening I have been
completely at sea."
"And what is worse, Lord Donal, you have shown it, which is the one
unforgivable fault in diplomacy."
"You are quite right. If I had you to teach me, I would be an ambassador
within the next five years, or at least a minister."
The girl looked at him over the top of her fan, covert merriment lurking
in her eyes.
"When you visit Schloss Steinheimer you might ask the Prince if he
objects to my giving you lessons."
Here there was another interruption, and the announcement was made that
the United States Ambassador desired to renew his acquaintance with
the Princess von Steinheimer. Lord Donal made use of an impatient
exclamation more emphatic than he intended to give utterance to, but on
looking at his companion in alarm, he saw in her glance a quick flash of
gratitude as unmistakable as if she had spoken her thanks. It was quite
evident that the girl had no desire to meet his Excellency, which is not
to be wondered at, as she had already encountered him three times in her
capacity of journalist. He not only knew the Princess von Steinheimer,
but he knew Jennie Baxter as well.
She leaned back in her chair and said wearily,--
"I seem to be having rather an abundance of diplomatic society this
evening. Are you acquainted with the American Ambassador also, Lord
Donal?"
"Yes," cried the young man, eagerly springing to his feet. "He was a
prominent politician in Washington while I was there. He is an excellent
man, and I shall have no difficulty in making your excuses to him if you
don't wish to meet him."
"Thank you so much. You have now an opportunity of retrieving your
diplomatic reputation, if you can postpone the interview without
offending him."
Lord Donal departed with alacrity, and the moment he was gone all
appearance of languor vanished from Miss Jennie Baxter.
"Now is my chance," she whispered to herself. "I must be in my carriage
before he returns."
Eager as she was to be gone, she knew that she should betray no haste.
Expecting to find a stair at the other end of the gallery, she sought
for it, but there was none. Filled with apprehension that she would meet
Lord Donal coming up, she had difficulty in timing her footsteps to the
slow measure that was necessary. She reached the bottom of the stair in
safety and unimpeded, but once on the main floor a new problem presented
itself. Nothing would attract more attention than a young and beautiful
lady walking the long distance between the gallery end of the room and
the entrance stairway entirely alone and unattended. She stood there
hesitating, wondering whether she could venture on finding a quiet
side-exit, which she was sure must exist in this large house, when, to
her dismay, she found Lord Donal again at her side, rather breathless,
as if he had been hurrying in search of her. His brows were knit and
there was an anxious expression on his face.
"I must have a word with you alone," he whispered. "Let me conduct you
to this alcove under the gallery."
"No; I am tired. I am going home."
"I quite understand that, but you must come with me for a moment."
"Must?" she said, with a suggestion of defiance in her tone.
"Yes," he answered gravely. "I wish to be of assistance to you. I think
you will need it."
For a moment she met his unflinching gaze steadily, then her glance
fell, and she said in a low voice, "Very well."
When they reached the alcove, she inquired rather quaveringly--for she
saw something had happened which had finally settled all the young man's
doubts--"Is it the American Ambassador?"
"No; there was little trouble there. He expects to meet you later in the
evening. But a telegraphic message has come from Meran, signed by the
Princess von Steinheimer, which expresses a hope that the ball will be a
success, and reiterates the regret of her Highness that she could not be
present. Luckily this communication has not been shown to the Duchess.
I told the Duke, who read it to me, knowing I had been with you all the
evening, that it was likely a practical joke on the part of the Prince;
but the Duke, who is rather a serious person, does not take kindly
to that theory, and if he knew the Prince he would dismiss it as
absurd--which it is. I have asked him not to show the telegram to
anyone, so there is a little time for considering what had best be
done."
"There is nothing for me to do but to take my leave as quickly and
as quietly as possible," said the girl, with a nervous little laugh
bordering closely on the hysterical. "I was about to make my way out by
some private exit if I could find one."
"That would be impossible, and the attempt might lead to unexpected
complications. I suggest that you take my arm, and that you bid farewell
to her Grace, pleading fatigue as the reason for your early departure.
Then I will see you to your carriage, and when I return I shall
endeavour to get that unlucky telegram from the Duke by telling him
I should like to find out whether it is a hoax or not. He will have
forgotten about it most likely in the morning. Therefore, all you have
to do is to keep up your courage for a few moments longer until you are
safe in your carriage."
"You are very kind," she murmured, with downcast eyes.
"You are very clever, my Princess, but the odds against you were
tremendous. Some time you must tell me why you risked it."
She made no reply, but took his arm, and together they sauntered through
the rooms until they found the Duchess, when Jennie took her leave of
the hostess with a demure dignity that left nothing to be desired. All
went well until they reached the head of the stair, when the Duke, an
ominous frown on his brow, hurried after them and said,--
"My lord, excuse me."
Lord Donal turned with an ill-concealed expression of impatience, but he
was helpless, for he feared his host might not have the good sense to
avoid a scene even in his own hall. Had it been the Duchess, all would
have been well, for she was a lady of infinite tact, but the Duke, as he
had said, was a stupid man, who needed the constant eye of his wife upon
him to restrain him from blundering. The young man whispered, "Keep
right on until you are in your carriage. I shall ask my man here to call
it for you, but please don't drive away until I come."
A sign brought a serving man up the stairs.
"Call the carriage of the Princess von Steinheimer," said his master;
then, as the lady descended the stair, Lord Donal turned, with no very
thankful feeling in his heart, to hear what his host had to say.
"Lord Donal, the American Ambassador says that woman is not the Princess
von Steinheimer, but is someone of no importance whom he has met several
times in London. He cannot remember her name. Now, who is she, and how
did you come to meet her?"
"My Lord Duke, it never occurred to me to question the identity of
guests I met under your hospitable roof. I knew the Princess five years
ago in Washington, before she was married. I have not seen her in the
interval, but until you showed me the telegraphic message there was no
question in my mind regarding her."
"But the American Ambassador is positive."
"Then he has more confidence in his eyesight than I have. If such a
question, like international difficulties, is to be settled by the
Embassies, let us refer it to Austria, who held a long conversation with
the lady in my presence. Your Excellency," he continued to the Austrian
Ambassador, who was hovering near, waiting to speak to his host, "The
Duke of Chiselhurst has some doubt that the lady who has just departed
is the Princess von Steinheimer. You spoke with her, and can therefore
decide with authority, for his Grace seems disinclined to accept my
testimony."
"Not the Princess? Nonsense. I know her very well indeed, and a most
charming lady she is. I hope to be her guest again before many months
are past."
"There, my Lord Duke, you see everything is as it should be. If you will
give me that stupid telegram, I will make some quiet inquiries about it.
Meanwhile, the less said the better. I will see the American Ambassador
and convince him of his error. And now I must make what excuses I can to
the Princess for my desertion of her."
Placing the telegram in his pocket, he hurried down the stair and out to
the street. There had been some delay about the coming of the carriage,
and he saw the lady he sought, at that moment entering it.
"Home at once as fast as you can," he heard her say to the coachman. She
had evidently no intention of waiting for him. He sprang forward, thrust
his arm through the carriage window, and grasped her hand.
"Princess," he cried, "you will not leave me like this. I must see you
to-morrow."
"No, no," she gasped, shrinking into the corner of the carriage.
"You cannot be so cruel. Tell me at least where a letter will reach you.
I shall not release your hand until you promise."
With a quick movement the girl turned back the gauntlet of her long
glove; the next instant the carriage was rattling down the street, while
a chagrined young man stood alone on the kerb with a long, slender white
glove in his hand.
"By Jove!" he said at last, as he folded it carefully and placed it
in the pocket of his coat. "It is the glove this time, instead of the
slipper!"
CHAPTER IX.
JENNIE REALIZES THAT GREAT EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEHIND.
Jennie Baxter reached her hotel as quickly as a fast pair of horses
could take her. She had succeeded; yet a few rebellious tears of
disappointment trickled down her cheeks now that she was alone in the
semi-darkness of the carriage. She thought of the eager young man left
standing disconsolately on the kerb, with her glove dangling in his
hand, and she bitterly regretted that unkind fortune had made it
possible for her to meet him only under false pretences. One consolation
was that he had no clue to her identity, and she was resolved never,
never to see him again; yet, such is the contrariness of human nature,
no sooner was she refreshed by this determination than her tears flowed
more freely than ever.
She knew that she was as capable of enjoying scenes like the function
she had just left as any who were there; as fitted for them by
education, by personal appearance, or by natural gifts of the mind, as
the most welcome of the Duchess's guests; yet she was barred out from
them as effectually as was the lost Peri at the closed gate. Why had
capricious fate selected two girls of probably equal merit, and made one
a princess, while the other had to work hard night and day for the mere
right to live? Nothing is so ineffectual as the little word "why"; it
asks, but never answers.
With a deep sigh Jennie dried her tears as the carriage pulled up at
the portal of the hotel. The sigh dismissed all frivolities, all futile
"whys"; the girl was now face to face with the realities of life, and
the events she had so recently taken part in would soon blend themselves
into a dream.
Dismissing the carriage, and walking briskly through the hall, she said
to the night porter,--
"Have a hansom at the door for me in fifteen minutes."
"A hansom, my lady?" gasped the astonished man.
"Yes." She slipped a sovereign into his hand and ran lightly up the
stairs. The porter was well accustomed to the vagaries of great ladies,
although a hansom at midnight was rather beyond his experience. But if
all womankind tipped so generously, they might order an omnibus, and
welcome; so the hansom was speedily at the door.
Jennie roused the drowsy maid who was sitting up for her.
"Come," she said, "you must get everything packed at once. Lay out my
ordinary dress and help me off with this."
"Where is your other glove, my lady?" asked the maid, busily unhooking,
and untying.
"Lost. Don't trouble about it. When everything is packed, get some
sleep, and leave word to be called in time for the eight o'clock express
for Paris. Here is money to pay the bill and your fare. It is likely I
shall join you at the station; but if I do not, go to our hotel in Paris
and wait for me there. Say nothing of our destination to anyone, and
answer no questions regarding me, should inquiries be made. Are you sure
you understand?"
"Yes, my lady." A few moments later Jennie was in the cab, driving
through the nearly deserted streets. She dismissed her vehicle at
Charing Cross, walked down the Strand until she got another, then
proceeded direct to the office of the _Daily Bugle_, whose upper windows
formed a row of lights, all the more brilliant because of the intense
darkness below.
She found the shorthand writers waiting for her. The editor met her at
the door of the room reserved for her, and said, with visible anxiety on
his brow, "Well, what success?"
"Complete success," she answered shortly.
"Good!" he replied emphatically. "Now I propose to read the typewritten
sheets as they come from the machine, correct them for obvious clerical
errors, and send them right away to the compositors. You can, perhaps,
glance over the final proofs, which will be ready almost as soon as you
have finished."
"Very well. Look closely to the spelling of proper names and verify
titles. There won't be much time for me to go carefully over the last
proofs."
"All right. You furnish the material, and I'll see that it's used to the
best advantage."
Jennie entered the room, and there at a desk sat the waiting
stenographer; over his head hung the bulb of an electric light, its
green circular shade throwing the white rays directly down on his open
notebook. The girl was once more in the working world, and its bracing
air acted as a tonic to her overwrought nerves. All longings and regrets
had been put off with the Paris-made gown which the maid at that moment
was carefully packing away. The order of nature seemed reversed; the
butterfly had abandoned its gorgeous wings of gauze, and was habited in
the sombre working garb of the grub. With her hands clasped behind her,
the girl paced up and down the room, pouring forth words, two hundred to
the minute, and sometimes more. Silently one stenographer, tiptoeing in,
replaced another, who as silently departed; and from the adjoining room,
the subdued, nervous, rapid click, click, click of the typewriting
machine invaded, without disturbing, her consciousness. Towards three
o'clock the low drone of the rotaries in the cellar made itself felt
rather than heard; the early edition for the country was being run off.
Time was flying--danced away by nimble feet in the West End, worked away
by nimble fingers in Fleet Street (well-named thoroughfare); play and
work, work and play, each supplementing the other; the acts of the
frivolous recorded by the industrious.
When a little more than three hours' dictating was finished, the voice
of the girl, now as hoarse as formerly it had been musical, ceased; she
dropped into a chair and rested her tired head on the deserted desk,
closing her wearied eyes. She knew she had spoken between 15,000 and
20,000 words, a number almost equal in quantity to that contained in
many a book which had made an author's fame and fortune. And all for the
ephemeral reading of a day--of a forenoon, more likely--to be forgotten
when the evening journals came out!
Shortly after the typewriter gave its final click the editor came in.
"I didn't like to disturb you while you were at work, and so I kept at
my own task, which was no light one, and thus I appreciate the enormous
strain that has rested on you. Your account is magnificent, Miss Baxter;
just what I wanted, and never hoped to get."
"I am glad you liked it," said the girl, laughing somewhat dismally at
the croaking sound of her own voice.
"I need not ask you if you were there, for no person but one who was
present, and one who knew how to describe, could have produced such a
vivid account of it all. How did you get in?"
"In where?" murmured Jennie drowsily. She found difficulty in keeping
her mind on what he was saying.
"To the Duchess of Chiselhurst's ball."
"Oh, getting in was easy enough; it was the getting out that was the
trouble."
"Like prison, eh?" suggested the editor. "Now, will you have a little
wine, or something stronger?"
"No, no. All I need is rest."
"Then let me call a cab; I will see you home, if you will permit me."
"I am too tired to go home; I shall remain here until morning."
"Nonsense. You must go home and sleep for a week if you want to. Rouse
up; I believe you are talking in your sleep now."
"I understand perfectly what you are saying and what I am doing. I have
work that must be attended to at eight. Please leave orders that someone
is to call me at seven and bring a cup of coffee and biscuits, or rolls,
or anything that is to be had at that hour. And please don't trouble
further. I am very thankful to you, but will express myself better later
on."
With this the editor had to be content, and was shortly on his way to
his own well-earned rest. To Jennie it seemed but a moment after he had
gone, that the porter placed coffee and rolls on the desk beside her
saying, "Seven o'clock, miss!"
The coffee refreshed the girl, and as she passed through the editorial
rooms she noted their forlorn, dishevelled appearance, which all places
show when seen at an unaccustomed hour, their time of activity and
bustle past. The rooms were littered with torn papers; waste-baskets
overflowing; looking silent, scrappy, and abandoned in the grey morning
light which seemed intrusive, usurping the place of the usual artificial
illumination, and betraying a bareness which the other concealed. Jennie
recognized a relationship between her own up-all-night feeling and the
spirit of the deserted rooms.
At the railway station she found her maid waiting for her, surrounded by
luggage.
"Have you got your ticket?"
"Yes, my lady."
"I have changed my mind, and will not go to Paris just now. Ask a porter
to put those trunks in the left-luggage office, and bring me the keys
and the receipt."
When this was done and money matters had been adjusted between them,
Jennie gave the girl five pounds more than was due to her, and saw
her into the railway carriage, well pleased with the reward. A hansom
brought Jennie to her flat, and so ended the exhausting episode of the
Duchess of Chiselhurst's ball.
Yet an event, like a malady, leaves numerous consequences in its train,
extending, who shall say, how far into the future? The first symptom of
these consequences was a correspondence, and, as there is no reading
more dreary than a series of letters, merely their substance is given
here. When Jennie was herself again, she wrote a long letter to
the Princess von Steinheimer, detailing the particulars of her
impersonation, and begging pardon for what she had done, while giving
her reasons for doing it; but, perhaps because it did not occur to her,
she made not the slightest reference to Lord Donal Stirling. Two answers
came to this--one a registered packet containing the diamonds which the
Princess had previously offered to her; the other a letter from the
Princess's own hand. The glitter of the diamonds showed Jennie that she
had been speedily forgiven, and the letter corroborated this. In fact,
the Princess upbraided her for not letting her into the secret earlier.
"It is just the jolly kind of thing I should have delighted in," wrote
her Highness. "And then, if I had known, I should not have sent that
unlucky telegram. It serves you right for not taking me into your
confidence, and I am glad you had a fright. Think of it coming in at
that inopportune moment, just as telegrams do at a play! But, Jennie,
are you sure you told me everything? A letter came from London the day
before yours arrived, and it bewildered me dreadfully at first. Don
Stirling, whom I used to know at Washington (a conceited young fellow he
was then--I hope he has improved since), wrote to say that he had met a
girl at the Duchess of Chiselhurst's ball who had a letter inviting the
Princess von Steinheimer to the festivity. He thought at first she was
the Princess (which is very complimentary to each of us), but found
later that she wasn't. Now he wants to know, you know, and thinks, quite
reasonably, that I must have some inkling who that girl was, and he begs
me, by our old friendship, etc., etc., etc. He is a nice young man, if a
trifle confident (these young diplomatists think they hold the reins of
the universe in their hands), and I should like to oblige him, but I
thought first I would hear what you had to say about it. I am to address
him care of the Embassy at St. Petersburg; so I suppose he's stationed
there now. By the way, how did he get your glove, or is that merely brag
on his part? He says that it is the only clue he has, and he is going to
trace you from that, it seems, if I do not tell him who you are and
send him your address. Now, what am _I_ to say when I write to St.
Petersburg?"
In reply to this, Jennie sent a somewhat incoherent letter, very
different from her usual style of writing. She had not mentioned the
young man in her former communication, she said, because she had been
trying to forget the incident in which he was the central figure. In no
circumstances could she meet him again, and she implored the Princess
not to disclose her identity to him even by a hint. She explained the
glove episode exactly as it happened; she was compelled to sacrifice
the glove to release her hand. He had been very kind in helping her to
escape from a false position, but it would be too humiliating for her
ever to see him or speak with him again.
When this letter reached the Schloss at Meran, the Princess telegraphed
to London, "Send me the other glove," and Jennie sent it. A few days
later came a further communication from the Princess.
"I have puzzled our young man quite effectually, I think, clever as
he imagines himself to be. I wrote him a semi-indignant letter to St.
Petersburg, and said I thought all along he had not really recognized
me at the ball, in spite of his protestations at first. Then I saw how
easily he was deluded into the belief that I was some other woman, and
so the temptation to cozen him further was irresistible. Am I not a good
actress? I asked him. I went on to say, with some show of anger, that a
quiet flirtation in the gallery was all very well in its way, but when
it came to a young man rushing in a frenzy bare-headed into the street
after a respectable married woman who had just got into her carriage and
was about to drive away, it was too much altogether, and thus he came
into possession of the glove. As the remaining glove was of no use to
me, I had great pleasure in sending it to him, but warned him that if
the story of the gloves ever came to the ears of my husband, I should
deny having either owned or worn them. I should like to see Don's amazed
look when the other glove drops out of my letter, which was a bulky
package and cost ever so much in postage. I think the sending of the
glove was an inspiration. I fancy his lordship will be now completely
deluded, and that you need have no further fear of his finding you."
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