“No, your Beatitude must not thank me. Thank my son, who thus repays the injury you sought to do him.”
“You are right, madame,” replied the old man. “I thank his Majesty.”
Forsome time after these exciting events, there was peace in the Palace at Bellaviste, until the near approach of the date fixed for the Princess of Weldart’s departure for the South of France brought about another difference of opinion between the Regent and her Ministers. The breach caused by the Queen’s discovery of the part her mother had played with reference to the letter to the Emperor had soon been bridged over, for the young widow in her loneliness could not keep up a quarrel with the only person in whom her position and circumstances permitted her to confide. Indeed, it was the friendly relations existing between the mother and daughter which led to the fresh difficulty already mentioned, for Queen Ernestine, dreading the solitude of the long winter, and finding her life very monotonous and the cares of State uncomfortably heavy, conceived a desire that she and the little King should accompany the Princess to the Riviera. Full of enthusiasm for her new idea, she broached the subject to M. Drakovics and Cyril one morning, when the business on which they had come to consult her was ended. To her surprise and annoyance, the Premier showed no disposition to further her wishes.
“It is impossible, madame,” he said bluntly.
“Impossible? But I wish it!” she exclaimed, with the childishness which occasionally made Cyril long to put her in the corner.
“Impossible, madame,” repeated M. Drakovics, “if only from the point of view of propriety. To leave your kingdom, so lately bereaved of its head, for the gaieties of the Riviera, would be an unheard-of slight to the memory of your husband, and produce a most deplorable impression in the country.”
“That may be perfectly true,” thought Cyril, “but it was not your business to say it, at any rate in that way.” The Queen turned crimson, and cast a fiery glance at the Premier.
“I can assure your Excellency that the memory of my husband is quite safe in my hands. You are evidently unaware that my mother’s villa is situated in a most secluded spot, and that she sees no society, with the exception of members of her own family. Your Excellency’s insinuation is unpardonable.”
“I think, madame,” Cyril ventured to say, “that the Premier has not stated the chief objection to the journey your Majesty was proposing, but I am sure it is in his mind. In the present state of public affairs, it would be highly inexpedient, if not positively dangerous, for your Majesty and the King to be both absent from Thracia at the same time. His Excellency was unwilling to suggest the possibility of your accompanying her Royal Highness and leaving his Majesty behind, but that is the only alternative.”
“Ah yes, it is likely that I shall leave my child, is it not?” she asked with superb scorn, while her fingers beat a tattoo on the table with the inlaid paperknife. “One would have thought it would be perfectly clear to you, gentlemen, that it is on account of the King’s health I am anxious not to spend the winter at Bellaviste.”
“I trust, madame, that you have no reason for anxiety on his Majesty’s behalf? The Court physician’s reports are most reassuring.”
“Oh, naturally—there is nothing absolutely the matter with him, but he is growing too fast and becoming thin and pale. It is the fault of this town air, and the confined life here at the Palace. I want him to be in the country, where he can live simply and play with other children, and be merely a boy among boys.”
“The plan is an excellent one, madame,” said M. Drakovics, finding his tongue for the first time since the severe rebuke he had received; “but I must agree with Count Mortimer that it would be in the highest degree unwise for your Majesty and the King to quit the country at present.” The Queen frowned, but he went on valiantly, “What does your Majesty think of Praka as a winter residence? The climate is extraordinarily mild, and the combination of sea air and rural life would be excellent for his Majesty.”
“I don’t care for Praka,” returned the Queen shortly. “If we must remain in Thracia as state prisoners, I prefer to go to Tatarjé. The Villa Alexova, among the pine-woods, is an ideally lovely spot.”
“But, pardon me, madame—Tatarjé is a whole day’s journey from Bellaviste, even by rail. It is most important that your Majesty should not be far from the capital, in case of any sudden emergency.”
“You seem determined to oppose everything I suggest!” cried the Queen petulantly. “I detest Praka. If I am satisfied to leave your Excellency in charge of affairs, and merely to be informed by telegraph of what happens, surely there is nothing wrong in that?”
“I could not consent to undertake such a responsibility, madame.”
“But you are content to accept the responsibility of undermining the King’s health? Pray say no more, messieurs. We will discuss this matter again. As for me, I am weary of it,” and she swept out of the room, and sought refuge with her mother.
“They wish us to go to Praka,” she said, entering the morning-room.
“What did I tell you?” responded the Princess quickly. “Of course they choose Praka. No doubt they have settled it together long ago.”
“It would not surprise me,” the Queen agreed. “They seem to work together as though they had only one mind between them.”
“We must separate them. So long as they are united, we are powerless. I wish I could see a little more practical wisdom in you, Ernestine. It is all very well to pay the most exaggerated deference to these two men one day, and quarrel with them the next; but it merely cements their alliance instead of breaking it.”
“Why, what would you have me do?” asked the Queen listlessly.
“I would have you work on a definite plan. What is the use of your alternate sweetness and petulance if it all leads to nothing?”
“How can it lead to anything? I am pleasant to them if things are happening as I like, and I suppose I am petulant if I feel cross. One cannot act on a plan when one is angry.”
“That’s the very thing. You should never exhibit anger or pleasure unless to serve a purpose. You must learn to conceal your feelings.”
“I have never been able to do that hitherto. But what is the purpose which this concealment is to serve?”
“The estrangement of Count Mortimer from M. Drakovics. It is a very simple matter, and I really feel quite impatient when I see you wasting without any result quarrels and reconciliations which might effect so much.”
“One might think that I was in love with either or both of these gentlemen,” said the Queen lightly. Her mother frowned.
“Remember your position, Ernestine, pray. I should be afraid to engage you in any diplomatic intrigue worthy of the name; you are so absurdly susceptible to outside influence, and so unable to conceal its effect on you. Is it possible that you don’t see who is to blame for the way in which these men continue to act together?”
“No, indeed—unless you mean the men themselves?”
“I mean you. You have persisted in treating the two Ministers as though they were a double-faced automaton, working merely as a whole, when the slightest glimmering of common-sense should have led you to see that your only hope lay in considering them separately.”
“But what ought I to have done?”
“You should have treated them with the most even and impartial courtesy when they were together, reserving all your fluctuations of temper or spirits for the occasions on which you received either of them alone. Suppose Count Mortimer had requested an audience—you should have treated him with friendly kindness, deferred to his opinion, and taken the opportunity of lamenting that M. Drakovics never sympathised with your difficult position, nor understood your troubles. When you received M. Drakovics, you would have used similar measures, and complained of Count Mortimer, intimating, of course, that he himself was the only friend you possessed in Thracia. In this way each man, without the other’s knowing it, would grow to imagine himself to be high in your favour and confidence, and would look on his rival with a jealous eye, until they began to quarrel about the right of private audience. You would remain unobservant all this time, except when you interfered to heighten the agony a little. Jealousy would end by leading to a quarrel in your presence, when you could at once get rid of them both.”
“It all sounds very wicked and very mysterious,” said the Queen, stifling a yawn; “but I could never succeed in that kind of thing. I haven’t the brains or the tact for politics, mamma. And even if one could deceive M. Drakovics—I can quite believe that his vanity would lend itself to such a course—I don’t think I should be successful with Count Mortimer. He seems to be able to see through things. I did try to win him over once—it was about Sophie von Staubach’s appointment—but he saw it immediately, and it made me feel so dreadfully uncomfortable, though he did take my side.”
“Then with him you must act differently. Some men prefer to be approached without disguise, and you can flatter his weaknesses openly.”
“But he has none. The King used to say, ‘Mortimer has no vices except ambition, no pleasures even—except power.’”
“Except ambition and power! But that is everything, for the love of power can ruin a man just as surely as any other vice. This makes me hopeful, Ernestine, for your husband was a shrewd observer of character. We must approach Count Mortimer on his weak side. It might be as well occasionally to hint at the possibility of his superseding M. Drakovics as Premier. That will put his own thoughts into words. Then, in the meantime, there are other ways. Money confers power. One might assist him to marry an heiress. He ought to marry; but no doubt his poverty has prevented him hitherto.”
“But, dear mamma, I have not an unlimited choice of heiresses at hand to offer him.”
“You have one, which is quite enough. There is your maid of honour, Anna Mirkovics—her father fully expects you to select a husband for her, and she will be the richest woman in Thracia at her mother’s death. It would be an excellent match.”
“But Anna is terribly plain, and has no education, according to our ideas. Besides, even if Count Mortimer married her, how would it detach him from M. Drakovics?”
“You are rather dense to-day, my dear child. Naturally, I do not propose that you should give Anna to the Count without exacting any conditions. You would, of course, agree with him that, in return for your help in arranging the marriage, he should support you in future against M. Drakovics. The girl is so absurdly devoted to you that her influence would all be cast in the same direction.”
“And Anna is to be sold to him as the price of his support! I thought it was only princesses who were treated in that way? At any rate, I don’t intend to sacrifice her to a husband who would only marry her for her money. Moreover, I am certain that Count Mortimer would not consent to the bargain.”
“Not consent!” The Princess of Weldart’s eyebrows rose until they nearly met her hair. “My dear Ernestine, only give him the chance!”
“I will,” said the Queen, unmoved. “If I were not so sure that he would refuse, I would not risk Anna’s happiness; but I know he will.”
“I have not the slightest doubt that he will seize upon the idea with avidity.”
“And I am sure that you misjudge him. You have scolded me so often for yielding to the King’s dying wish, and consenting to a reconciliation with this man, that I wish him to justify himself to you. I believe that he is a sincere friend to Michael and myself, although he makes himself extremely disagreeable in fulfilling the duties imposed by his friendship. Well, you will see.”
“We shall see,” echoed the Princess; and the Queen, piqued by the incredulity of her tone, sat down and dashed off a request to Cyril to come to her immediately, as she wished to consult him upon a point of importance.
“I will send it at once,” she said, ringing the bell. To the servant who answered the summons she gave the note, desiring him to deliver it instantly, and as soon as he was gone she turned again to her mother.
“You must sit behind the screen,” she said. “I don’t want you to be able to say that he posed as a disinterested ally because you were present. And you must not reveal yourself, of course. It would scarcely do to have a ‘screen scene’—an unforeseendénoûmentof a dramatic order—in this little comedy of ours. It is quite exciting, isn’t it? I wonder how you will feel as you sit concealed, and listen to Count Mortimer’s noble sentiments!”
She was full of interest and animation as she hastened to arrange the screen round the Princess as she sat beside the fire, and walked backwards and forwards from the door to the table to assure herself that there was no possibility of Cyril’s catching a glimpse of the concealed auditor. Just as his footsteps were heard without, she jumped up again to arrange one side of the screen more easily, so that it might not look as though there was anything to hide, and only returned to her chair as the footman opened the door.
“You were pleased to send for me, madame?” said Cyril, as he entered.
“Yes; I wanted to talk about this plan of wintering in the country. Surely you can induce M. Drakovics to withdraw his opposition to our going to Tatarjé? The King and I are the persons chiefly concerned, after all.”
“The kingdom is also concerned, madame.”
“Oh, of course; but then—— Come, Count, I wish to go to the Villa Alexova; is not that enough? It is a lady’s reason, you know.”
“It is enough for a lady’s reason, madame; but not for a Queen’s reason.”
Queen Ernestine shrugged her shoulders. “Your definitions are too subtle for me, Count. I think you will use your influence with M. Drakovics, since I ask it?”
“Madame, I dare not use my influence to the injury of the kingdom.”
“The injury of the kingdom!” she cried indignantly. “You know as well as I do that the reason why M. Drakovics wants us to winter at Praka is that he has property there, and thinks that it will increase in value if the place becomes fashionable.”
“Your Majesty has the power of divining motives. My abilities are not of such a high order.”
“But surely it must make a difference when you know that?”
“I am afraid, madame, that it is not any part of my duty to inquire into the secret motives which may have prompted M. Drakovics in the advice he has thought fit to give your Majesty.”
“Duty, duty! All that you consider is your duty to M. Drakovics. Have you no duty to the King and to me?”
“Undoubtedly, madame. In this instance the duties coincide.”
“Why do you trifle with me in this way, Count? You promised my husband that you would befriend us—now I call upon you to fulfil your promise. We need a new party in Thracia, such a party as supported your English George III., the party of the King’s Friends, and you are the man to lead them.”
“I did not know that your Majesty was ambitious of becoming a power in politics,” returned Cyril, desperately puzzled as to her meaning. Surely she must have some object in talking in this apparently random way?
“What can I offer you to secure your allegiance, Count? We cannot expect to obtain support without paying for it, I know. Would you care to marry a rich wife? Prince Mirkovics’s daughter is in my charge, and with her fortune it would be very suitable for her to marry a Minister of State. Or would you prefer the reversion of the post which M. Drakovics holds? or both, perhaps?”
Cyril stood listening in astonishment as she ran on, half afraid to glance at his face, but determined to put him to the proof. “Madame——” he began, but she interrupted him.
“Or there is money, of course. We are not very rich in Weldart, but still, one can assist one’s friends occasionally. Would you——”
This time it was Cyril’s turn to interrupt. “Be good enough, madame,” he said fiercely, “to leave your sentence unfinished. I can forgive much in consideration of your youth; but it is impossible that you can be so childish as not to appreciate the insult you have thought fit to offer me.”
The Queen sat gazing at him helplessly, too much frightened to resent his words. “I am very sorry——” she murmured feebly; “I never thought—— I did not mean——”
“It is a pity that I promised your husband to remain in Thracia and do my best for you and his son, madame,” he went on, “for otherwise your Majesty would have succeeded by this time in driving me from your service, as you desire to do.”
“I don’t desire it——” began the Queen, gazing at his angry face as though the sight fascinated her; but she was interrupted suddenly.
“Que vous jouez à merveille votre rôle, M. le Comte!” cried the Princess’s voice from her hiding-place, and she emerged from behind the screen. Cyril turned upon Queen Ernestine.
“Is it possible, madame, that you have ventured to make this infamous proposition to me in the presence of a third person? Perhaps I shall discover that I have had the honour of furnishing a little entertainment to the whole of your Majesty’s Court?”
“No, no; indeed you are unjust, Count.”
“Is it so, madame? At any rate your Majesty has the satisfaction of realising that it is for the last time.”
“No, you are unjust still; you must let me speak. It was a trick, Count—a foolish jest. My m—— some one pretended to doubt you, and I assured them of your honour, and offered to test it in this way. I was wrong to do it, but I felt certain of your answer.”
“As I am no longer in your Majesty’s service, it may perhaps be permitted me to entreat you to remember your own position, madame, if you have no care for mine.”
“Count, you must not allow this foolishness of mine to deprive my son and Thracia of your services. I forbid it—I, your Queen.”
“There are certain insults, madame, which are so deadly as to absolve a subject from his allegiance.”
“Nothing can absolve you from your promise to my husband. You cannot desert my son and me when he confided us to your care.”
“Your Majesty asks too much. My friend the King would have been the last person to wish that my promise to him should bind me to remain exposed to such insults without having the right to resent them. To borrow your own words to the Premier, madame, your conduct has been unpardonable.”
“Not unpardonable, when you have been assured that the suggestion was made only in jest, and as a means of proving your fidelity in the eyes of others. Your Queen entreats you to retain your post, Count. Is not that enough? Must I fetch my son to join his entreaties with mine?”
“Be quiet, you little fool!” hissed the Princess into her daughter’s ear. Cyril caught the whisper, and it changed the current of his thoughts in a moment. He saw the whole plot now; and where the Queen’s pleading had failed to move him, a determination that the Princess should not be able to boast of having effected his removal from the Thracian scene succeeded. He turned again to Ernestine.
“I accept your explanation, madame,” he said; “but I can only beg you to remember that others might not be so complaisant.”
“And we will go to Praka,” she cried, as he prepared to depart.
“I will convey your Majesty’s message to the Premier,” he replied, still in the same frigid tone, with his hand on the door. It was not his intention to let the Queen down too easily this time. She had committed afaux pas, which might have been a fatal one, and she must be made aware of the fact. Suppose she had made her offer of a bribe to a man who had accepted it, or who, while refusing it, had done so with the intention of publishing the matter abroad? Cyril took a good deal of credit to himself for the tone he had maintained, and resolved to teach his young sovereign a lesson. It was quite evident that she had failed to realise the gravity of the insult she offered; but she could not always expect her inexperience to procure her immunity from the consequences of her foolish acts. The stars in their courses cannot be relied upon to fight invariably for the same person, even though she is young and beautiful and a Queen. Cyril had been too forbearing hitherto, and this was his reward. Queen Ernestine must now be made to understand that practical jokes and wayward tempers were all very well in an irresponsible schoolgirl, but might prove dangerous to the Regent of Thracia.
During the next few days Cyril never saw the Queen alone, and only rarely in company with M. Drakovics. Whenever he entered her presence, he knew that she was searching his face to see whether he had forgiven her, and the fact gave him a keen sense of pleasure, which he was careful to conceal, returning to the coldly deferential manner which he had preserved towards her in her husband’s lifetime, and which he succeeded in resuming with some difficulty, after the comparatively friendly intercourse of the past few weeks. It was the Queen herself who broke the ice at last, for it was not in her nature to remain passive in face of what she chose to consider injustice. She found her opportunity on the occasion of an official reception at the Palace, which the Ministers and their wives were expected to attend, on the anniversary of the declaration of Thracian independence. Cyril was standing a little apart from the other officials when she passed round the circle, addressing a few words to each person, and she spoke to him in English, which scarcely any one else understood.
“I see that you have not yet forgiven me, Count?”
“There are some things, madame, which may be forgiven, but never forgotten.”
“But surely that is a very undignified attitude of mind? If my little son adopted it, I should tell him he was sulky.”
“I know now by sad experience, madame, that no considerations will prevent you from treating me with the same frankness as his Majesty.”
“If that is the case, I will say at once that this change in your manner is extremely displeasing to me, Count. I do not choose to be reminded perpetually that I am in disgrace.”
Cyril groaned within himself. Would nothing teach this girl the most ordinary prudence or reserve? Her delicate and responsible position appeared to her only as a means of escaping from the shackles of conventionality. That she was Queen-Regent of Thracia was merely another reason for doing and saying what she chose. “Nothing could be further from my mind than to produce such an impression, madame,” he answered. “Your Majesty cannot doubt that?”
“Nor the impression that with respect to our wintering at Praka, you have gained a victory over me?”
“I was of opinion that I was going to Praka to make inquiries and arrangements on your behalf, madame, and at your wish.”
“Oh yes, you may go to Praka; but remember, Count, that when it is a question of bearing malice or a grudge, other people can do that as well as yourself.”
She passed on, leaving him to wonder what was meant by the implied threat contained in her last speech. He took an early opportunity of sounding Baroness von Hilfenstein on the subject, and found that the mistress of the robes also entertained misgivings.
“I feel almost certain that the Queen has some plan in her head,” she said; “but she has not communicated it to me. I fancy that she may intend to order a sudden move to Praka before your arrangements are complete, in order to catch you unprepared. At any rate, she has ordered me to warn all the ladies to have their dresses for the winter made in good time, and to be ready to travel at two hours’ notice. I hoped we should get on better when the Princess’s influence was removed, but she has left her tool behind. Fräulein von Staubach is not a friend of yours, Count.”
“I fear not, although I am not aware of having injured her.”
“It is not that, but she distrusts you. She is a good woman—an excellent, kind-hearted creature, full of sentiment—and she sees, as she thinks, the warm heart of the young Queen chilled, and its best impulses thwarted, by your statesmanship. Then the Princess has filled her with doubts as to your motives, and quite unconsciously she influences the Queen against you. She has no intention of interfering in affairs of state, but she cannot help regarding with suspicion any suggestion that comes from you.”
This was scarcely reassuring, and Cyril departed on his journey to Praka in no very cheerful frame of mind. He found a travelling companion in M. Drakovics, who was obliged to visit his Praka estate on business, and they agreed to journey back to Bellaviste together the next day. Cyril’s duty was merely to discover whether it was possible to provide sufficient accommodation for the Queen and her suite in the little village, now almost deserted for the winter, which formed the favourite marine resort of the wealthier Thracians, but in spite of the limited scope of the inquiry, his task was a difficult one. M. Drakovics had not built a house on his property, an omission which he now regretted, since it prevented his putting the Queen under an obligation by offering to lend her his villa; but he represented that it would be possible to accommodate one or two of the suite in the small farmhouse occupied by his bailiff, and by taking advantage of this offer, Cyril calculated that he should be able to find room for the whole of the Court. To live in tents, after the manner of the majority of the summer residents, would naturally be impossible in the winter.
Praka was not by any means a lively place, and its natural attractions, at any rate in the autumn, were soon exhausted, so that Cyril found himself ready and eager to quit it as soon as his business was done. The cooking at the little inn was bad, and the beds worse, facts which did not tempt him to linger, and he was waiting at the station some time before it was likely that M. Drakovics would arrive. As he walked up and down the rickety platform, while in the background Dietrich mounted guard over his bag, a telegram was handed to him. It was from the Baroness von Hilfenstein, and bore the date of the previous evening:—
“Her Majesty has just announced that the Court leaves for the Villa Alexova early to-morrow. I fear this will not reach you in time for you to prevent the move, but pray follow as soon as possible. It appears that the Queen sent Batzen to Tatarjé two days ago to make preparations; but he cannot have been able to do much in such a short time. Everything will be in confusion. I depend upon you.”
“Her Majesty has just announced that the Court leaves for the Villa Alexova early to-morrow. I fear this will not reach you in time for you to prevent the move, but pray follow as soon as possible. It appears that the Queen sent Batzen to Tatarjé two days ago to make preparations; but he cannot have been able to do much in such a short time. Everything will be in confusion. I depend upon you.”
“Excellent old woman!” was Cyril’s first thought as he read the missive. “If I have the pleasure of spoiling the Queen’s pretty little plot for making a fool of me, it is all thanks to you. So that is what old Batzen’s mysterious mission comes to, is it? I might have guessed; but the idea of employing the poor old parson on such an errand!”
The Herr Hofprediger Batzen was a venerable Lutheran clergyman to whom the charge of the little King’s moral and religious education was supposed to be intrusted; but as his Majesty was still rather young to receive regular instruction, his tutor’s time was more or less at the Queen’s disposal. Hence it was that his sudden departure from Court on one of her errands had excited no surprise, and people had considered the secrecy which enshrouded his destination as due to the desire for importance of the good pastor himself Cyril was wiser now, and could almost have laughed, in spite of his chagrin, when he thought of the tutor’s unfitness for his present task, and the pitiful muddle which would be the probable result of his attempt at housekeeping. But this was not the time for laughing, but for action, and Cyril hurried out to meet M. Drakovics as the Premier rode up to the station on his rough country horse.
“Would you like to hear what is our gracious sovereign lady’s last little game?” was the irreverent question with which the younger Minister greeted the elder. M. Drakovics raised his eyebrows.
“If you could assure me that she had eloped to join the ex-secretary Christophle, and had married him, I should not be heart-broken,” was his answer, as he dismounted.
“No, no, my friend; you are not to be Regent just at present. Her Majesty and the Court remove to-day to Tatarjé, and take up their abode at the Villa Alexova.”
“Mille tonnerres!” cried M. Drakovics, stamping furiously about the platform. “This woman will ruin in a day the kingdom I have been building up for nine years. I ask you, is it to be endured?”
“I’m afraid it must be so, since you can scarcely propose to cure it by superseding the Queen in the regency. But the news is certainly most serious. It would be better if you had told the Queen the real reasons for her not going to Tatarjé, as I advised at the time, instead of simply making out that it was too far away.”
“Would you have had me tell her that the Villa is within a drive of the country residence of her cousin the Princess of Dardania, and that that woman’s Court is a perfect hotbed of intrigues of all kinds?”
“I would not have had you do anything so foolish. Our old acquaintance, the Princess Ottilie, will no doubt do her best to entangle her Majesty in some of her schemes for the advancement of her husband’s dynasty; but she is not by any means the most dangerous person in the neighbourhood of Tatarjé. That bad pre-eminence is reserved for Colonel O’Malachy.”
“Oh, that old dotard!” said M. Drakovics contemptuously.
“Dotard if you like, but what is he doing where he is? You know that the air of Tatarjé seems to breed rebellion; that in my brother’s time the garrison supported the insurrection in favour of the house of Franza; and that Otto Georg had more trouble with the town and district than with all the rest of the kingdom.”
“It is all Bishop Philaret’s fault. He is stronger even than the Metropolitan in his pro-Scythian sympathies. You know they say that he threatened to get the Synod to excommunicate him for accepting a pardon from a non-Orthodox King?”
“I know. Well, that is the kind of danger the Queen would have recognised and appreciated. Anything that threatened her son’s faith or throne would have put her on her guard at once; but you would not tell her. And now, besides the Princess of Dardania, who is likely to be troublesome, but scarcely dangerous, we have the Bishop actively hostile, and Colonel O’Malachy biding his chance to reap a harvest for Scythia.”
“You remarked to me once,” cried M. Drakovics, turning savagely upon his supporter, “that in moments of crisis it was well to act, instead of wasting time in mutual recrimination. If I concealed from the Queen my true reasons for not wishing her to take the King to Tatarjé, it was because I knew that she would tell them to her mother, and that through her it would become known all over Europe that there was disaffection in Thracia. I took what seemed to me the wisest course; but no man’s wisdom can provide against a woman’s folly. I ask you now what you propose to do?”
“I propose to reach Tatarjé to-night, and resume my duties in connection with the Court.”
“To-night? but it will take us until mid-day to get back to Bellaviste, and Tatarjé is twelve hours’ journey farther on.”
“You don’t imagine that I intend to follow the Court meekly at a distance, giving them a twelve hours’ start, and to turn up the day after the fair in that way? No; I shall take the cross-country route, and so get there about midnight.”
“But the railway is not yet open all the way.”
“No; but it is sufficiently near completion to allow of the passing of ballast-trains. Milénovics was telling me so only yesterday. My man and I must find accommodation on the engine of one of those trains, and my things can be sent on to me from Bellaviste.”
The Premier’s eyes glistened, but he restrained himself. “You are the man for the present state of affairs,” he said; “for you know better than any of us how to spoil the success of a woman’s tricks. Mind, I rely upon you wholly as regards Tatarjé. I must get on as best I can at the capital; but the safety of the King, and therefore of Thracia, rests on your discretion. I may run down occasionally, of course; but you will be obliged to act on your own judgment if any difficulty arises. You can trust me to support you.”
A little further conversation on various important points followed, and the two Ministers separated to seek their respective trains. The first part of Cyril’s journey passed without discomfort, as the line had been in use some time; but when the section still in process of construction was reached, matters were very different. When the passengers were all obliged to quit the train, which went no farther, the disclosure of Cyril’s identity secured permission for himself and Dietrich to travel in the cab of the engine attached to a line of ballast-trucks which were just about to start; but so rough did the way in front appear that at first even the stolid German hesitated to follow his master. But there was no time for delay, and in response to Cyril’s “Be quick, Dietrich; either come or stay behind!” the valet shut his eyes, metaphorically speaking, and took the plunge. The journey was like a peculiarly realistic nightmare, owing to the swaying and jolting and clanking and leaping of the train, which varied matters occasionally by running off the rails and regaining them in some miraculous manner. It was an experience no one would wish to repeat; but as Cyril stood at eight o’clock that evening, bruised, dusty, and exhausted, on the platform of the country station at which the farther end of the new line joined that running to Tatarjé, he rejoiced. Three hours’ journey would bring him to his goal, and deprive the Queen of her anticipated triumph over her Ministers. His calculations were not mistaken. By midnight he had reached Tatarjé, only an hour or so later than the Court, and selected his quarters in the Villa, giving strict orders that the Queen was not to be informed of his arrival. In the distracted state of affairs consequent on Herr Batzen’s mission of preparation, the order was easy of fulfilment, and Cyril took a good night’s rest, and bided his time.
His time was not long in coming. In the morning the Queen and Baroness von Hilfenstein found themselves beset by a throng of tearful ladies and loudly complaining maids, who all expatiated upon the discomforts of the night, and the absolute lack of furniture and even food which prevailed in all parts of the house. Finding the Queen quite at a loss, the Baroness made the practical suggestion that Count Mortimer should be summoned, and matters given into his hands.
“Count Mortimer!” cried the Queen in astonishment. “But he is at Praka, or at any rate no nearer than Bellaviste.”
“Pardon me, madame; but I am almost certain I caught a glimpse of him coming to the Villa this morning.”
The Queen turned in bewilderment to the other ladies, one of whom hastened to assure her that she had found Count Mortimer established in an office on the ground-floor, and had complained to him of the state of affairs, when he had replied that he would do his best to remedy it as soon as he had the Queen’s authority. It was evident that the only thing to do was to send for him, and this the Queen did.
“When did you arrive, Count?” she asked, when he appeared.
“Last night, madame,” with a look of surprise.
“But how—how did you succeed in getting here?”
“It is my duty to accompany the Court, madame.”
“Yes; but—I thought you were at Praka?”
“On the contrary, madame, I am here, and ready to serve you.”
The Queen gave up the riddle with a sigh, and Cyril remained master of the situation. He knew that she would have given anything to ask for an explanation, which her dignity would not allow her to do, and he enjoyed his triumph in the intervals of his multifarious labours all day.
Lady Caerleonsat alone in the breakfast-room at Llandiarmid, with an unopened letter lying before her on the table. Her husband was staying with a friend in the Midlands for a few days’ shooting, and she had sent the children away to play, for she felt reluctant, almost afraid, to open the letter in their presence. The sight of the Thracian stamp and post-mark, and of the writing upon the envelope, brought back to her with unwelcome vividness the troubles of her girlhood, which had passed out of sight—almost out of mind—during the happy years of her married life. That writing she had last seen some months before her marriage, when her father had written to upbraid her for revealing his plot against Caerleon’s life to the intended victim, and had cast her off, as he declared, for ever. “I have no daughter now,” he had said, and she accepted his decision with a resignation which comprised in it something of relief. “You must be father and brother to me, as well as husband,” she had said to Caerleon on their wedding-day, looking into his face with her great serious eyes, “for I have no one but you;” and if she had experienced little difficulty in choosing between father and lover, she had never for a moment found reason to regret her choice. It was like tearing open an old wound to return now to the trials of those earlier days; but she shook off her reluctance after a time, and unfolded the letter with a determination to know the worst at once. As she looked at it, however, the apprehension faded from her face, for instead of conveying the curse which her father had sworn that he would send her with his dying breath, the words which met her eye were expressive of the greatest goodwill.
“My dear Nadia,—You will likely be surprised to receive a letter from me; but I feel I am growing old, and often lately I have been troubled to think that the one relation I have left in the wide world was living in enmity against me. Owing to reasons with which you are very well acquainted, it is not possible for me to take the step to which my feelings prompt me, and by paying you a visit in England, seek to end this sad state of things; but if you should feel moved to terminate it, be sure that you will find no obstacle in me. I have suffered of late from a painful and distressing illness, any recurrence of which, so the doctor informs me, would be fatal, and which may recur at any time. At this moment I am experiencing great relief from a course of the Tatarjé waters, and find my former strength wonderfully restored. My life has not been too happy, and now, lingering on the borders of a better world, I am conscious of a longing for that solace of family affection, from which circumstances have debarred me wholly of late years, and in a measure, as you know, all my days. I wish to blame no one, but I think your own heart will bear me out in this. It is not for me to sue for pity to my daughter; but if her filial feelings lead her to take the first steps towards a reconciliation, far be it from me to repulse her! You have children, Nadia—a son, I hear. Since your poor brother’s death and your disobedience I have had none; but I would like greatly to see yours before I die. It would afford me pleasure, also, to meet your husband again, for I have always entertained the highest respect for him, although we unfortunately differed in politics. Some years ago I received from him a very suitable and becoming letter, which I fear I may have failed to treat with the consideration it deserved. I do not ask his pardon; he will be able to understand something of the bitterness which fills a father’s heart under circumstances such as mine. I make no entreaties; I leave the matter with you. However you may decide to receive this overture of mine, I cannot forget that I am your father,“O’Malachy.”
“My dear Nadia,—You will likely be surprised to receive a letter from me; but I feel I am growing old, and often lately I have been troubled to think that the one relation I have left in the wide world was living in enmity against me. Owing to reasons with which you are very well acquainted, it is not possible for me to take the step to which my feelings prompt me, and by paying you a visit in England, seek to end this sad state of things; but if you should feel moved to terminate it, be sure that you will find no obstacle in me. I have suffered of late from a painful and distressing illness, any recurrence of which, so the doctor informs me, would be fatal, and which may recur at any time. At this moment I am experiencing great relief from a course of the Tatarjé waters, and find my former strength wonderfully restored. My life has not been too happy, and now, lingering on the borders of a better world, I am conscious of a longing for that solace of family affection, from which circumstances have debarred me wholly of late years, and in a measure, as you know, all my days. I wish to blame no one, but I think your own heart will bear me out in this. It is not for me to sue for pity to my daughter; but if her filial feelings lead her to take the first steps towards a reconciliation, far be it from me to repulse her! You have children, Nadia—a son, I hear. Since your poor brother’s death and your disobedience I have had none; but I would like greatly to see yours before I die. It would afford me pleasure, also, to meet your husband again, for I have always entertained the highest respect for him, although we unfortunately differed in politics. Some years ago I received from him a very suitable and becoming letter, which I fear I may have failed to treat with the consideration it deserved. I do not ask his pardon; he will be able to understand something of the bitterness which fills a father’s heart under circumstances such as mine. I make no entreaties; I leave the matter with you. However you may decide to receive this overture of mine, I cannot forget that I am your father,
“O’Malachy.”
Nadia read the letter through again, for its tone of injured rectitude was somewhat puzzling in view of the circumstances in which the breach between her father and herself had taken place. To say that Caerleon and he had “differed in politics” was a mild way of stating that the O’Malachy had plotted not merely to depose, but to murder, his would-be son-in-law when the latter occupied the Thracian throne. Perhaps it would be too much to expect any expression of regret for this unfortunate misunderstanding; but Nadia felt that her father was scarcely entitled to imply that all the misconduct was on her side and all the undeserved suffering on his own. Still, the fact that he had written this letter at all was more than she could have dared to hope, and she knew him well enough to recognise that it was only in accordance with his character to safeguard his own dignity as far as possible in thus making friendly overtures after his long silence, although this rendered it all the more difficult to know how to reply to the letter.
“I wish Carlino was at home!” she said at last. “I cannot tell what to say by myself. Ah, yes; I will send him the letter, and he shall tell me how I ought to answer it. How glad he will be to hear that what I have been longing and praying for ever since we were married has come to pass at last! We will take the children with us and go to Tatarjé, and papa’s heart will be softened. Perhaps he will be able to come back to England after all, and spend his old age here. If he is really changed, he might wish to do it, and some of Carlino’s friends in the Government would surely be able to make it safe for him. Oh, how delightful it would be to know that he was quiet and had given up plotting! I am certain Carlino feels it a trial to be connected with a Scythian secret service agent, though he never allows it to appear; and it will be a comfort to him to have him close at hand and to be able to keep an eye on him.”
It did not occur to Nadia, as she sat down at her writing-table to begin her letter to her husband, that the O’Malachy was scarcely likely to be either a very desirable or a particularly contented inhabitant of the Castle unless his character had altered very materially of late years; but Caerleon frowned a good deal over the proposal when it reached him the next morning. He had not bargained for receiving his father-in-law as an inmate of his family, and it seemed to him that it would make for the happiness of all concerned if the gallant officer should elect to end his days at some Continental health-resort. The annoyances which his presence at Llandiarmid was bound to entail would press most heavily on Nadia herself, and therefore she would be inclined to underrate them in prospect; but Caerleon had no intention of allowing his wife to be victimised by her father if he could possibly induce her to see that the sacrifice was not demanded of her. He had slight opportunity, however, of laying his views before her, for even before the time at which he was revolving in his mind the sentences which should produce the impression he desired without appearing to throw cold water on her schemes for her father’s reformation, Nadia had taken a sudden and most important step on her own account.
In the afternoon of the day on which Lady Caerleon had received her father’s letter, and forwarded it to her husband, Wright the coachman, returning from executing various commissions for his mistress in Aberkerran, brought out also a telegram addressed to her, which had been intrusted to him at the post-office, with the view of saving the trouble and expense of a special messenger. He lingered at the door while she opened the envelope, expecting to hear that Lord Caerleon was returning earlier than had been anticipated, or that he had been suddenly called to London; but to his great alarm she turned pale when the message met her eyes, and a startled cry broke from her—
“My father is dangerously ill, Wright, and entreats me to come and see him with the children before he dies. The telegram is from the doctor, who warns me not to lose a moment. We must leave by to-night’s train—the one Lord Cyril took when he was called away.”
“You and the children, my lady? and all in such a ’urry?” said Wright, in bewilderment. “’Ow ever will you get ready?”
“We must manage. I should never forgive myself if we were too late. I must telegraph to the Marquis to meet us in London. He is not so far from town as we are, and will be able to do it well.”
“But you wouldn’t go for to travel alone to town with the children, my lady?”
“Of course I shall take nurse. I think I will take you as well, Wright. You know something about travelling, and if anything should prevent the Marquis from meeting us, you would be most useful.”
“Yes, my lady; but what am I to say to my wife?”
“Tell her that I take you because you were with Lord Caerleon in Eastern Europe before, of course. Have the waggonette ready at six, and bring Stodart to take charge of the horses and drive them home.”
“Yes, my lady—but, begging your ladyship’s pardon, do you think as ’is lordship would approve of your startin’ off quite so quick without sendin’ ’im word fust?”
“My good Wright,” returned Nadia forbearingly, “I shall telegraph to Lord Caerleon before we get into the train. I should not think of going to Tatarjé without him; but it is just possible that he might not reach London quite in time for the Flushing boat, and might have to follow us by another. That is why I am taking you. But you may be quite sure that my husband will approve of my doing my duty.”
Wright retired, crushed, to give the necessary orders at the stables, and then to break the news of his sudden departure to his wife, who complained that the Marchioness was very thoughtless, and ’ad much better take one of the young fellows as didn’t suffer with the rheumatics, if she wanted to go trapesing about over the place, and not lead a respectable family man on such a wild-goose chase; but there! she never ’ad set much by them furriners. But this utterance struck at the root of all Wright’s ideas of the respect due to the “Family,” and he hastened to assure his grumbling spouse, while she packed his bag and he brought out the old passport which he cherished with a good deal of pride, that her ladyship was taking the proper course under the circumstances, and that he considered she was perfectly justified in what she did.
After all, in spite of Lady Caerleon’s promptness in deciding upon the journey, and her haste in preparing for it, there was not time for her to send off the telegram to her husband before the train started, and she was therefore obliged to give it into the hands of Stodart the groom, with instructions to despatch it immediately. Stodart was a well-intentioned young man; but on the present occasion the honour and glory of finding himself in sole command of the horses and carriage seems to have been too much for his self-control, for after driving through the principal streets to exhibit his grandeur to his acquaintances, he yielded to the invitation of a friend, and accepted a glass or two of beer at a public-house close to the post-office. There is no reason to suspect that he went beyond the two glasses; but the melancholy fact remains that when he reached the post-office it was too late to send the telegram that day. The crestfallen youth took it back to Llandiarmid, and confessed his dereliction of duty to the housekeeper, who rebuked him sharply for not having left the missive with some one in the town who could have despatched it as soon as the office opened. Stodart himself rode into Aberkerran at the earliest possible hour the next morning, and sent off the message; but by that time a weary and shivering little group, gathered on the platform at Victoria, had realised sadly that Lord Caerleon was not there to meet them, and had taken the Queenborough train without him. Nor did the misfortunes of the telegram end here. It did not reach the country-house at which Caerleon was staying until some time after the gentlemen had started for the distant coverts, and the hostess considered that it might well wait until she herself joined the sportsmen at lunch-time. Even then, she was thoughtful enough not to present it until after the meal, in case it should contain bad news, and then she forgot it until she and the other ladies were making their way home, so that when Caerleon at last received it he was forced to realise that his wife and children were already speeding across Europe away from him as fast as steam could carry them. His own man was on the sick-list, having been shot accidentally in the ankle by an amateur sportsman of the party, and he was obliged to telegraph to Llandiarmid that Robert the footman should meet him at Victoria the next morning with his passport and other necessaries for a Continental journey. He was already too late to catch the night-boat, and had the mortification of knowing that his utmost haste could not result in enabling him to be less than a day behind.
As for Nadia, she pursued her way with a timidity that was almost fear. Since her marriage she had scarcely been further than Aberkerran without Caerleon, and she felt worried and perplexed when Wright asked for directions or inquired her wishes. She had been independent enough at one time; but Caerleon had managed everything for her so long that she hardly knew how to act on her own responsibility. Happily a gleam of hope reached her at Cologne, where she received a telegram from her husband to say that he was starting to follow her, and would join her at the Hôtel du Roi Othon at Tatarjé, where the O’Malachy was staying. She found another piece of comfort in the behaviour of the children, who regarded the whole affair as a game of the most delightful kind.
From the moment at which Usk and Philippa were first told that instead of going to bed they were to take a journey to the other end of Europe in order to see grandpapa, who was ill, they seemed to themselves to have passed out of the regions of reality into those of romance. Their mother’s father had always been a shadowy figure to them. They knew all about their other grandfather, whose sword hung over the mantelpiece in father’s study, and whose medals and decorations they were allowed to look at as a treat on their birthdays. They could give detailed accounts of the various engagements in which he had taken part, and by mounting a chair in the picture-gallery they could indicate on his portrait the exact locality of each wound that he had received. Moreover, his monument faced them in church every Sunday, and had served to provide matter of extraneous interest during many long sermons. But with Grandpapa O’Malachy it was different. He was not dead; but he was away somewhere, and he never wrote to mother. Once Philippa, overhearing some words of gossip between her nurse and Wright, who had returned from his travels with a very low opinion of the O’Malachy, had asked her father point-blank whether grandpapa was a wicked man—an inquiry which Lord Caerleon could only parry by saying that little girls ought not to ask questions. This unprecedented snub, following on what she had already heard, Philippa accepted as an affirmative answer, and to her and to Usk their grandfather became for the future a compound of Guy Fawkes and of the wicked uncle of the Babes in the Wood. Many happy hours were spent by the two in the Abbey ruins “playing at grandpa”; but this was not guessed by their parents, for Philippa had issued an edict that “grandpa was not to be talked about, because it worried mother,” and Usk, who was her willing slave, obeyed her faithfully.
To be now actually on a journey to visit this mysterious, and therefore terrible and delightful, relative, was in itself an incredible joy; but it was heightened by the fact that he lived in the country where father was once king, and when they set foot on the Continent the children had reached a state of exaltation in which nothing would have surprised them, from Genii to Man Friday. Their excitement did not show itself outwardly. They ran races and played games up and down the corridor of the train, made friends with the other passengers, looked out on the strange people at the stations, and came to their mother ever and anon for petting and a story; but occasionally, when their extreme quietness prompted Nadia or their nurse to make a raid upon them in fear of some mischief, they would be found curled up together in the corner of a seat, Philippa telling Usk in a whisper tales of marvel respecting the wonders to be anticipated. When once the Thracian frontier had been crossed, they spent their time in rushing from window to window of the carriage, so as not to miss one scene of the enchanted land. All through the journey they had asked at each station whether this was father’s kingdom yet, and now they were happy. Nadia had rashly attempted to prove to them that Thracia had now another king, and in no way belonged to their father; but Philippa was persuaded that once a king meant always a king, and supported her contention by the historical examples of David King of Israel, King Alfred, and the Young Pretender.
There was abundant opportunity for the travellers to see as much of Thracia as they wished, and even more, for this portion of the railway had been damaged by a flood the day before, and progress was very slow. The train was timed to reach Tatarjé at three in the afternoon, but it did not get in until seven; and the children were roused from an uncomfortable slumber by their nurse that they might be put tidy before arriving. The station, so far as they could see, was very much like other stations, and the streets were chiefly remarkable for being narrow, badly paved, and smelly; but what did this signify? they were situated in Arcadia. Usk and Philippa were wide awake now, and able to notice their mother’s excitement. She was panting as she sat upright in the carriage, and her lips trembled. If she should be too late now, after this dreadful journey!
The loungers in the hall of the Hôtel du Roi Othon found a new subject of interest that evening in the stately lady who entered suddenly, followed by her children and servants, and demanded to be taken at once to the Herr Oberst O’Malachy’s room. The German waiter whom she had addressed looked at her in astonishment not unmixed with suspicion. The lady spoke German without the slightest foreign accent; but her companions were unmistakably English, and what could they want with the Scythian officer?
“I don’t know whether the Herr Oberst will see visitors,” he said.
“He will see me. I am his daughter, and have come straight from England because he sent for me. Take me to him immediately, if you please.” The waiter gave way before the tone of calm command.
“Madame will know best, no doubt,” he said with a bow, and led the way up-stairs, Nadia following him closely. Her journey was not in vain; for at least her father was not dead.
“Mother,” suggested Philippa, pulling at her mother’s cape as they reached the landing, “perhaps he means that grandpa is asleep.”
“I shan’t disturb him, Phil. You and Usk had better wait outside, and I will just go in very quietly and look at him.”
But the door which the waiter flung open with the announcement, “A lady from England to see the Herr Oberst,” was not that of a bedroom, and the children, looking in with astonished eyes, saw their mother pause and start as soon as she had crossed the threshold. A number of men were sitting round a table laden with fruit and wine in a gorgeously furnished sitting-room, and stared at the intruder in amazement; while a white-haired man at the head of the board, who seemed to be engaged in concocting a bowl of punch, dropped the lemon he had been manipulating, and turned round in his chair to gaze.
“And is ut you, Nadia?” he cried heartily, after a moment of stunned silence. “Come in, come in! My daughter, gentlemen.”
“You asked me to come. You said you were ill,” gasped Nadia, catching at the door to steady herself.
“And sure I was ill. If I’m all right again now, thanks to the doctor here, you’d not grudge ut me, would you?”
As she made no answer, but stood gazing at him with dilated eyes and parted lips, he rose and came towards her, supporting himself with a stick.
“’Twas good of you to come, Nadia, and if I’d known it would give you pleasure, sure I’d have stayed in bed to receive you. But never so much as a telegram to let me know you were coming; how in the world could I even meet you at the train? Come, sit down, and don’t stand looking at me like a voiceless banshee. What is ut, at all?”
Nadia sank down on the chair the waiter brought her; but still she said nothing, and the children, wondering exceedingly, came and stood beside her.
“Mother, is it grandpa?” asked Philippa in a whisper. She was mindful of her manners, if her mother had forgotten them.
“Yes; it is your grandfather,” replied Lady Caerleon with a strange laugh. “Go and speak to him.” The children obeyed.
“How do you do, grandpa?” asked Usk, who was the first to reach the tall stooping form by the table. “I hope you are quite well?” But he felt himself eclipsed at once when Philippa said pointedly in her turn, “How do you do, grandpa? I’m so glad you’re better.”
“But it is adorable!” cried one of the gentlemen, as Philippa stood on tiptoe to bestow a kiss on her grandfather. “Come and give me a keess also, leetle English Meess.”
“I don’t know who you mean,” said Philippa, disliking the speaker instinctively, but mindful of the duties of politeness. “My name is Lady Philippa Mortimer.”
“Mortimer!” said another. “No relation of our dear Count, surely?”
“Ah, would you like to know?” said the O’Malachy, trying to remove Philippa’s fur cap, but she withdrew herself from his hands.
“I can take off my hat myself, grandpa,” she said reprovingly, and did so. A cry of recognition broke from the company.
“Carlino’s daughter! There cannot be a doubt.”
“Exactly,” said the O’Malachy drily. “Have I won my bet, gentlemen?”
A chorus of affirmation greeted him, and Lady Caerleon laughed again—a hard, unmirthful laugh. Philippa looked at her anxiously.
“I’m very glad you’re better, grandpa,” she said; “but don’t you think you might have sent mother a telegram? Then we needn’t have hurried so, and we could have waited for father.”
“So!” cried another man; “and where then is the Herr Papa, little Goldenlocks?”
“Father missed the train, and we couldn’t wait, but he will be here to-morrow.”
“Aha!” said the gentleman who had wished to kiss Philippa. “There is something wrong here, Colonel.”
“How could I help ut?” demanded the O’Malachy. “I never dreamt of her arriving without um. However, ’tis only a day’s delay.”
“Father would never have let mother come alone,” said Philippa, up in arms at once; “but he couldn’t help it, for he didn’t know in time. And mother has been so dreadfully worried about him, and about you too, grandpa. It’s very bad for her to be worried, and she oughtn’t to be let do it.”
“Indeed! and who says that, milady?”
“Father says so, and he always keeps her from being worried, too.”
“What! the excellent Carlino is a considerate husband?” and the gentlemen laughed as though they thought it a huge joke. “He is a model of all the domestic virtues, is he not, milady?”
“I don’t know what that means; but if it means that father is good, of course he is.”
The gentlemen laughed again, which made Philippa angry.
“I don’t think it’s nice to laugh about father like that when we are there. Please, grandpa, we’re all very tired with the train, and mother is worried, I’m sure. Oh no, it must be that she’s so glad to know you are so much better than she expected. But I think she ought to rest a little. Can we get rooms here, do you think?”
“Delightful English common-sense!” cried Philippa’s enemy; but the O’Malachy interposed promptly.
“Of course you can, Phil. The waiter thought of that long ago, and has gone to see after them. I hear um coming back now, and he has your maid with um. I daresay you will like to see your rooms, Nadia. You don’t look fit to talk to-night; but I’ll hope to find you fresh and rested in the morning.”
Roused from her stunned condition by his words, Nadia rose, and, bowing coldly to the company, left the room with the children. While her mother was settling matters with the servants outside, Philippa discovered that she had left her cap behind, and ordered Usk to come back with her and fetch it. But the thought of traversing the long room again under the eyes of the diners was too much for Usk, and Philippa pushed the door open quietly, and went in by herself, to find her grandfather leaning over the table and talking earnestly in French, for the benefit, apparently, of a gentleman who had only just joined the party. The children were accustomed to speak French almost as regularly as English with their mother, and Philippa caught the words—
“The Jewess and her boy have put themselves in our power by coming here. We seize them and the Count at one blow, then proclaim our friend king, call out our people, and march on Bellaviste.”
“But what if our friend prove restive?”
“That will probably be the case; but we must find means to quiet him, and if all expedients fail, there is the boy. The Bishop would like that better. By all the——! what are you doing here, Philippa?”
“I came to get my hat, grandpa. It’s on your chair.”
“Take ut, then, and be off. Did you hear—— No, I won’t put ideas into the child’s head. Go to bed at once, like a good girl, and in the morning I’ll take you and your brother into the town and buy you some sweets.”
“One moment, Herr Oberst,” said the man with the German accent, before Philippa could utter her thanks. “I wish to satisfy myself that our friend’s daughter inherits his amiable peculiarities. Come here, little Goldenlocks,” and he poured her out a glass of wine, “drink this to the health of the dear Herr Grandpapa, who has recovered so quickly from his sickness under the care of the good doctor.”
“No, thank you,” said Philippa politely, for she had refused similar invitations before; “we are all teetotallers.”
“Excellent!” cried her new antagonist, while the rest shouted with laughter. “You are indeed happy in your descendants, Herr Oberst. Who could have believed that so virtuous a family existed in these degenerate days? What could be better for our plans?”
“Don’t tease the child,” said the O’Malachy, darting an angry glance at him. “Run away, Phil. Here’s a crystallised apricot for you. Can’t you see that I’m busy with these gentlemen?”
If the O’Malachy had intended to stamp on Philippa’s memory the conversation she had overheard, he could not have found better means to that end than his evident anxiety to get her out of the room, and his gift of the apricot. She was revolving many things in her mind as she passed through the door, and met her brother outside.
“I’m sure grandpapa’s friends are not nice, Usk,” she said, as she divided the apricot with him. “They laughed when I said we were teetotallers.”
“So do some of father’s friends—often,” objected Usk, with his mouth full of fruit. “Mr Forfar did.”
“Yes; but that was a different kind of laughing. This was horrid, like the people in Vanity Fair when Christian and Faithful were going through, I should think. And they said such funny things, too. But I’m not going to worry mother. I do wish father was here!”
“Excellency,” said Dietrich, entering his master’s office in the Villa Alexova, and standing at the salute, “I have just seen the young Countess.”
“Nonsense, Dietrich! You must be dreaming.” Cyril knew that for some inscrutable reason of his own—probably connected with linguistic difficulties—the valet always alluded to Philippa as “the young Countess.” “Lady Phil is with her parents in England.”
“Excellency, I met her in the street just now, attended by the coachman Wright, and they both spoke to me.”
“But what did they say?”
“They expressed pleasure on seeing me, Excellency; and the young Countess said that her lady mother had been summoned from England to attend the death-bed of the Herr Oberst O’Malachy, but that on arriving here they found him alive and well.”
“What devilry is the old wretch up to now?” muttered Cyril. “He has never been seriously ill since he came here. Did you tell Lady Phil that I was at Tatarjé, Dietrich?”
“No, Excellency; I had no orders. When the young Countess asked me why I was here, I said that I was on the business of the Herr Hofminister. But in case you should wish to speak to the little lady, I informed her that persons of respectable appearance were permitted to walk in the gardens of the Villa at this hour, and I see that she is in the chestnut-alley now.”
“Your wisdom, Dietrich, is only equalled by your talent for silence. You have judged correctly: I do wish to speak to the little lady;” and Cyril rose and put away his papers, and went out into the garden. When Philippa saw him advancing towards her, she flew to meet him with a scream of delight.
“Oh, Uncle Cyril, I am so glad! How nice of Dietrich not to tell us you were here, and give us such a lovely surprise! Mother is so dreadfully worried, and father won’t be here till this afternoon, and grandpapa is such a funny man. But you’ll do next best to father. It’ll be all right now.”
“Poor Phil, what a catalogue of woes! Where is your mother?”
“At the hotel. She and grandpa have been talking and talking, and I know mother cried, but grandpa was quite cheerful and joky. He said it would have gone to his heart to send a telegram to say we needn’t come, he was so counting on seeing us. He was going to take Usk and me out to buy us some sweets; but Usk was tired, and mother said he had better not go out until we go to meet father at the station this afternoon, and grandpa said it wouldn’t be fair to Usk to take me out alone. Mother wouldn’t go out; she said nothing should induce her to let Usk out of her sight. Please stoop down, Uncle Cyril; I want to whisper. I think mother’s frightened about something. And nurse wouldn’t come out. She said she dursen’t trust herself in these furrin streets, lest she should be murdered, and so I couldn’t have gone out at all if Wright hadn’t been here. But mother made him promise never to take his eyes off me for a second.”
Cyril looked up and met Wright’s gaze. The coachman shook his head solemnly. “I’m afraid it’s a bad business somehow, my lord; but the rights and the wrongs of it is quite beyond me.”
“Well, Phil,” said Cyril, “suppose I come with you and see your mother? Perhaps I shall be able to cheer her up a little; and at any rate it’s not long before your father will be here.”
“No; only a little more than two hours,” said Philippa, contentedly, putting her hand in Cyril’s as they turned to leave the garden. The sight of the Villa suggested a new topic to her mind.
“Oh, do you live in that big house, Uncle Cyril? It’s a little bit like Llandiarmid, isn’t it? only there aren’t any ruins.”
“No; the little Prince whom I told you about lives there. His father is dead now, and he is King.”
“But they are going to have another king as well, aren’t they? Grandpapa and his friends were talking last night about making a friend of theirs king.”
“Were they, indeed? They didn’t mention his name, I suppose?”
“No; they only saidnotre ami, just as they did when they were saying nasty things about father being a teetotaller. They said he had amiable peculiarities. Wasn’t it horrid of them? They were talking French, you know. Oh, and who is the Jewess, Uncle Cyril?”
“Why, don’t you know what a Jewess is, Phil?” Yet Cyril’s blood quickened, in spite of his careless tone, as he heard the cant name of the rabble for Queen Ernestine.
“Of course I know, uncle. I have heard the Jewish children sing, in London. Usk cried just a little, because they weren’t black; but I knew before that they wouldn’t be. But it was ever so long ago, and he was very little then.”
“But what made you ask about a Jewess now?” with some impatience.
“Oh, because grandpa said, ‘The Jewess and her boy are in our power.’ They talked about the Count, too, and the Bishop; but it didn’t sound so interesting.”
“Phil, try and remember exactly what you heard, and be very careful in telling it me. If you have the slightest recollection of any names, tell me them just as they sounded to you.”
“But there weren’t any names, Uncle Cyril. I don’t even know who the gentlemen were, except that one talked as if he was French, and another as if he was German. And they only said that about making their friend king, and that if he didn’t like it, there was the boy, and the Bishop would like that better, and something about marching to Bellaviste. Oh, here’s grandpa!”
They had come face to face with the O’Malachy in crossing the street into which the gate of the Villa opened. He swept his hat off with a flourish, and Cyril returned the salute carelessly.
“My niece has found me out, you see, O’Malachy. I hope you were not looking for her? I am taking her back to her mother as soon as we have done a little shopping. There was something about a doll in Thracian costume, wasn’t there, Phil?”