Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26)

by Edgar Rice Burroughs

  “And if mother refuses?” queried the young man.

  The girl raised her shapely shoulders and threw her hands outward, palms up. “If I were a star reporter on a great metropolitan daily,” she said, “I should, I think, be more resourceful than your helpless inquiry indicates you to be.”

  “I suppose that you’d run off with the girl?’ he said, laughing.

  “That is precisely what I should do,” replied Miss Gwendolyn Bass.

  “Well, so shall I,” he cried.

  “With the gardener’s daughter, I presume?” asked an acid voice behind them.

  The two turned surprised faces in the direction of the speaker. Mr. Hemmington Main rose, rather red of face, and bowed low.

  “Mrs. Bass, I’m — I’m mighty sorry,” he stammered, that you chanced to overhear our joking remarks. It was my intention to come to you and Mr. Bass and ask your daughter’s hand in a perfectly regular manner. I love—”

  The older woman stopped him with uplifted hand. “It is useless, Mr. Main,” she said, coldly. “I have other — higher ambitions for my only child. Good afternoon, Mr. Main,” and she extended her hand to lay it upon the arm of her daughter. “Come, Gwendolyn!”

  It was ten days later that Mr. Hemmington Main received in his morning’s mail a letter superscribed in the scrawly and beloved backhand with which he was so familiar — a letter which, after several pages of far greater interest to Mr. Main than to us, ended with: “and so Mother is dragging me off to Europe, ostensibly to forget you; but actually, I am positive, to barter me for a title with a red neck and soiled linen. Father is as mad as I; but helpless. He is for you — horse, foot and artillery — just as I knew he would be. Go and see him — you can weep on one another’s shoulder; and in the mean time, Hemmy, take it from me, I’ll never, never, never, never marry anybody but you.”

  And so it was that within that very day Mr. Hemmington Main was ushered into the private office of Abner J. Bass, where the older man greeted his visitor with the kindly smile and the warm handclasp which had been such important factors in the up-building of the Bass millions.

  “I know why you have called, my boy,” he said, without waiting for Mr. Main to explain his mission. “If you hadn’t come I should have sent for you — I need your help. Mrs. Bass is, naturally, ambitious for the future of Gwendolyn — so am I; but, unfortunately, in this instance we are not agreed as to what constitutes the elements of a desirable future for our daughter. I could not get away at this time to accompany them abroad — not that I could have accomplished anything had I gone; for Mrs. Bass is, as you know, a very strong character — but I feel that you might accomplish a great deal were you on the spot. Will you go?”

  Mr. Hemmington Main was quite taken off his feet by the suddenness of this unexpected proposition — or, it would have been closer to the truth to have said that he was almost taken off his feet, for Mr. Main was never quite taken off them in any emergency. And now he was on the point of jumping at this splendid suggestion when there rose before his mind’s eye a sordid vision — the same old, squalid specter that had clung so tenaciously to his coat tails and held him into the rut of hard labor since the completion of his college days — Hon. Poverty, with his empty stomach and frayed trousers.

  Abner J. Bass noticed the younger man’s hesitation, and he guessed its cause.

  “You won’t have to worry about the financial end of the undertaking,” he said. “I’ll see to that.”

  “But I couldn’t go that way, sir,” expostulated Mr. Main. “Can’t you see that I couldn’t do it?”

  “No, I can’t see anything of the sort,” replied Mr. Bass. “If my money is going to be used to buy a husband for Gwendolyn, I am going to see that it buys a husband she wants; and if you love her half as much as she deserves you won’t let pride stand in the way of her happiness. Don’t be foolish, Main; we’ve got to work together, each giving what he has to give — you, youth, vigor and resourcefulness; I, financial backing,” and without waiting for a reply the older man wheeled about to his desk, opened a check book and filled in a blank check.

  “Here,” he said, extending the bit of paper toward Hemmington Main, “take this for preliminary expenses, and then draw on me for as much more as you may need, when you need it — I’ll make the necessary arrangements through our London office. Now run along, and get busy.”

  Chapter Two

  PRINCE BORIS of Karlova stood at attention in the presence of his august sire. The latter was large and red of neck, bullet headed and heavy jowled. He hammered his desk with a huge fist, the while he roared his denunciation in stentorian tones.

  “You are better fitted for a court jester than a crown prince,” he shouted. “Your escapades are the gossip of the capitol. Scullery maids and hostlers know you better than do the nobility of the unhappy kingdom which some day will be forced to acknowledge you its king. You are a disgrace to the royal blood of the house of Kargovitch. You — you — you—”

  “Otherwise,” interrupted the crown prince, “I am everything which your majesty could desire.”

  The face of King Constans of Karlova turned from red to purple, he half rose from his chair and beat upon the desk with two fists instead of one.

  “Enough of your impudence!” he cried. “You are under arrest, sir! Go to your quarters, and remain there — indefinitely.”

  “Yes, Sire,” replied Prince Boris; “but I suggest that you place a guard over me, as I have not given you my parole. Confinement is irksome to me — I shall escape, if I can; and then there is no telling but that I may marry a scullery maid and infuse into the veins of the Kargovitches a few ounces of red blood.”

  “Your marriage already is arranged,” roared the king. “It was upon that subject I wished to speak with you — your impudence drove it from my mind. You will wed the Princess Mary of Margoth — if she will have you; and you will remain under arrest until Baron Kantchi has arranged the time of your visit to the court of Margoth.”

  The young man took a step toward his father.

  “But, your majesty,” he exclaimed, “I do not wish to marry yet — and above all others I do not wish to marry a Margoth princess, who, unquestionably has a scrawny neck and the temper of a termagant.”

  “It is immaterial whether she has any neck or any temper,” replied the king; “you are going to marry her; and I trust that she will be able to accomplish what I have failed to — the awakening in you a realization of the obligations of your exalted birth.”

  “I hope so,” said the crown prince aloud; but what he thought is not recordable.

  The king touched a bell upon his desk, and an instant later an officer of the guard entered the apartment and bowed low before his sovereign.

  “You will conduct Prince Boris to his quarters,” said Constans. “He is under arrest. Place a guard over him, as he has refused us his parole.”

  The officer bowed again, and backed from the presence, followed by the crown prince.

  In silence the two traversed the corridors of the palace until they came to the apartments of Prince Boris. A soldier, already on guard there, saluted as the two passed within; and a moment later the officer emerged and transmitted to the sentry the orders of the king.

  Within the apartment Boris glanced at his watch. A smile touched his lips. “An hour,” he murmured, “ — I can barely make it.”

  He approached the door and opened it. The sentry saluted, stiff and rigid. The crown prince examined the man’s features — he did not recognize them. The man was a recruit in the palace guard. Boris sighed. A veteran might have been easier to handle, for the veterans all loved the crown prince.

  “My man,” said Boris, “if you will just cast your eyes in the other direction for a moment you will not see me escape — and what people don’t see, you know, won’t ever do them any harm.”

  The sentry wheeled about and faced the crown prince, barring the doorway with his rifle.

  “I am sorry, your highness,�
� he said respectfully; “but I cannot do it — I cannot violate the oath I took when I was sworn into the king’s service.”

  “Quite right,” exclaimed Boris. “I am glad to hear you say that — it goes to prove that you are a loyal fellow. I saw that you were new in the service and I wished to test you — you did well to refuse.”

  He turned to re-enter the room, but as he was about to close the door after him he paused and cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the sentry.

  “You have never before stood guard before my apartment?” he asked.

  “Never, your highness,” replied the soldier.

  “And your sergeant told you nothing about my nightmares?” continued the prince.

  “Nothing, your highness.’

  “He should have,” commented Boris. “He should have instructed you that I am subject to nightmares, and that when you hear me moaning or crying out in my sleep you should come in at once and awaken me.

  “But your highness’s valet sleeps in the adjoining apartment,” suggested the soldier; “ — he will awaken you.”

  “He sleeps like a dead man,” replied Boris. “Nothing awakens him. If you hear me, come in at once and awaken me — do you understand?”

  “Yes, your highness,” and the soldier saluted again.

  “Good-night,” said the prince, “and lose no time when you hear me — I usually have them early in the night, when I first fall asleep.”

  “Good-night, your highness,” replied the sentry. “I will come if I hear you.”

  For a few minutes Prince Boris moved about his apartment, talking in low tones to his valet; but he did not remove his clothes. Presently he dismissed the man, turned out his lights and clambered into bed with all his clothes on. A broad smile illumined his countenance, and it was with difficulty that he repressed a chuckle.

  Beyond the door the sentry stood in statuesque rigidity in the corridor. The great clock at the far end of the passageway ticked out the seconds. Slowly the minutes passed. Silence reigned in this part of the palace, though it was still early in the evening.

  Presently the sentry cocked an attentive ear — instantly alert. An unmistakable moan had issued from the apartment of the crown prince. It was immediately followed by a smothered wail. The sentry wheeled, turned the knob and entered the apartment. As he crossed quickly toward the bed where Prince Boris lay his back was toward the doorway leading into the adjoining apartment where the prince’s valet was supposed to be sleeping like a dead man, and so the sentry did not see the dark robed figure which glided into the bed chamber of the prince and followed him to the royal bed-side.

  Another moan came from the tossing figure upon the bed. The sentry leaned over and shook the sleeper by the shoulder; and as he did so the bed clothes rose suddenly and enveloped his head, a pair of strong arms encircled his neck about the bed clothes and another pair of arms seized him from behind.

  A moment later he lay bound and gagged upon the bed recently occupied by Prince Boris of Karlova. A dark robed figure glided silently from the apartment, and the crown prince touched a button which flooded the room with light. The sentry looked up into the smiling face of his captor.

  “Awfully sorry, my man,” said Prince Boris; “but I have a very important engagement for this evening — see you later. Hope you find my bed comfortable; and whatever you do don’t have a nightmare, for my man is a very heavy sleeper — just like a dead man, you know,” and Boris of Karlova slipped a light cloak over his shoulders and passed out into the corridor before his apartments.

  Ten minutes later a solitary horseman rode slowly through the darker streets of the capitol and out of the city by the long unguarded west gate. Once in the country he put spurs to his mount and rode at a sharp trot along the wide, grey pike.

  Chapter Three

  KARLOVA is a mountainous little kingdom. Sovgrad, its capitol city, lies in a fertile little hollow surrounded by many hills through which the old Roman road winds in an easterly direction toward the frontier and Margoth. Just beyond the shoulder of the first of the low foot hills a dirt road diverges northward from the main highway and passing beneath overhanging trees wriggles to and fro through a grim and forbidding forest. Five or six miles above the Roman road it skirts a royal hunting preserve, the favorite abode of Prince Boris. Scarce a quarter of a mile within the wood and a hundred yards back from the dirt road lies an old inn — a place of none too savory reputation, where questionable characters from the city of Sovgrad were reputed to meet and concoct their deviltries against the majesty of the law.

  Here too were wont to foregather a little coterie of another class — a half dozen young sprigs of the ancient nobility of Karlova, lured by the spirit of romance and adventure to this haunt of the lower world, and enticed by the cookery of the inn keeper’s wife and the vintages of the black cellars to numerous repetitions of their original excursion, until now they had become regular patrons of the, establishment.

  Tonight three of them sat at a round table in a tiny alcove, sipping their wine and venturing various explanations of the lateness of one whose empty chair broke the circle at the little board.

  There was Alexander Palensk, whose father is prime minister of Karlova, and Nicholas Gregovitch, the son of General Demitrius Gregovitch, minister of war. The third, Ivan Kantchi, is the oldest son of the Karlovian ambassador to Margoth, and all three are officers in The Black Guard — the crack regiment of the Karlovian army.

  The fourth member of the party — he whose chair still remained vacant — was riding at a rapid trot along the Roman road as Ivan Kantchi asked, for the fortieth time: “What could have delayed him? Why the devil doesn’t he come?”

  “Calm thyself, Little One,” admonished Alexander Palensk, with an affectionate smile at the giant Ivan, whose six-foot-six had won him the loving diminutive; “our brother is doubtless afraid to ride after dark. The wood is gloomy, and, as is well known, infested by goblins. Chances are that he turned back before quitting the Roman road and has fled home to his nurse’s arms.”

  “Screaming in terror,” added Nicholas Gregovitch, whereupon all three fell to laughing; but beneath his levity, Ivan Kantchi was still worried.

  “You know,” he said, after a moment’s silence, “that The Rider is reputed to have been seen in this neighborhood quite recently. There have been no less than three highway robberies on the Roman road within the month, and all perpetrated by a lone horseman who answers the description of the fellow who has worked the southern provinces for the past three or four years. I think I shall ride toward the city and have a look for our friend.”

  “Oh, sit down, Little One,” cried Alexander, “and let us finish this bottle in peace — if he has not come by then we will all ride forth and rescue him from the clutches of The Rider or the goblins, whichever has abducted our tender little playmate.”

  Ivan dropped back into his chair. “It is unfortunate,” he said, “that Prime Ministers couldn’t bequeath a little more brain power to their offspring.”

  “Gesundheit!” cried Alexander, raising his glass and grinning good naturedly at his friend.

  Where the dirt road leaves the Roman road just within the foothills a horseman reined his mount to the left and entered the dark and gloomy precincts of the wood. He rode slowly, letting his beast pick its own way, since he could scarce see his own hand before his face. Gradually his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, but yet a walk was the only gait possible along the black and winding road.

  He had covered perhaps half the distance between the Roman road and the inn when a figure loomed suddenly ahead of him — a tall man upon a large horse — blocking the way. Even in the dark the rider could see the glint of reflected light upon the barrel of a long revolver which was leveled straight at his breast.

  “Hold up your hands!” whispered the stranger.

  The rider did as he was bid. The other slid from his saddle and approached him. Deft fingers felt over his person in search of weapons, of which t
he rider carried none.

  “Dismount!” commanded the stranger.

  The victim lowered his hands to the pommel of his saddle.

  “Who the devil are you?” he asked. “Is it that I have the honor of addressing The Rider?” The tone was mocking.

  “Get down, or you’ll get hurt,” replied the highwayman surlily. “I am The Rider, and if you know anything of me you must know that I don’t put up with any trifling.”

  Through the darkness the rider grinned down upon the man who held his bridle rein and covered him with a long and villainous looking revolver.

  “‘The Rider,’” he repeated. “A name to conjure with!”

  “Get down, you fool,” growled the highwayman.

  “‘The Rider,’” continued the horseman, ignoring the other’s command. “How envious my friends will be when I tell them that I have indeed been waylaid by that notorious, nay, let us say, famous gentleman of the road. But will they believe me? They will think me but an idle boaster — unless I take some token of the adventure—”

  “Enough, idiot!” cried The Rider, releasing the bridle rein and stepping forward to seize the horse- man and drag him from his saddle. “Do you think that I have all night and the next day to trifle with a second groom or a grocer’s clerk, who doubtless won’t yield the price of a bottle of stale beer?”

  He seized his victim’s arm roughly to unhorse him, and at the same instant the latter lunged forward upon the bandit, carrying him heavily to the ground, flat upon his back. Long, powerful fingers closed upon The Rider’s pistol wrist, while, with his right hand, the horseman found the other’s throat.