“If you are content that I should remain here without forgiving you——”
“But I am not. I shall be perfectly miserable until you do. Ah, you do forgive me. You know that it is only because I love you so much that I cannot bear anything to come between us. I am jealous of politics, Cyril; I am afraid they may separate us from one another. I know it is wrong and foolish; but it is because I love you. You will forgive me? I will try to conquer the feeling, and I will never, never say again what I did just now. Like M. Drakovics, I was mad for the moment.”
“I don’t want to seem hard on you, Ernestine—on my honour I don’t—but you make it very difficult for me to stay here. I can never feel sure that you will not take offence at some necessary move of mine and do something that will shatter my plans and make a fool of me in the face of Europe. You see what I mean?”
“Cyril, you don’t think that I would let any one else see that I was displeased with you? My dearest, I would uphold you to the world if we were in the midst of a quarrel. Only try me; and see if anything would make me forsake you. Do you know that I had a letter from my mother this morning, scolding me for having taken you back to your house in my carriage when you were wounded—just as Baroness von Hilfenstein scolded me when she heard of it? How delighted I should have been to be able to tell them the truth! But since you will not allow that, I have written to tell my mother that I should despise myself if I had neglected to do such a small service to a man who had been attacked solely on account of his faithfulness to Michael and to me.”
“You quixotic little person! Don’t defy the proprieties too boldly, or we shall have a commission of inquiry consisting of your mother and aunts coming here to investigate matters, which might lead to alarming discoveries.”
“I should not mind. You cannot say that I should forfeit the regency if it became known that I was engaged to you.”
“No; but my remaining here would be very strongly felt to be an impropriety, and besides, dear, you don’t seem to see that we—or at any rate I—have more in view than simply being able to marry at the end of eleven years or so without damage to Michael and his kingdom.”
“Why, what is that?” she asked, surprised.
“I want our marriage to be recognised. If your cousin Sigismund—who is very strong on these matters—chose to regard it as morganatic, all Europe would go with him.”
Ernestine’s eyes blazed. “Let it!” she said; “I don’t care. You and I know what we mean to do, and when we are married we will go to England and live in a cottage, and be simply Mr and Mrs Mortimer. There are no morganatic marriages there, are there?”
“You would at least be Lady Cyril Mortimer, so there is no need to contemplate quite such a descent,” said Cyril, disregarding the question. “But I think you must see that it would be more satisfactory to me if the marriage was recognised.”
“I would not have you degrade yourself by appealing to Sigismund for any favour—or even any right—whatever.”
“There is no question of appealing to any one. My aim will simply be to establish myself in such a position that either Sigismund or the Emperor of Pannonia will have no difficulty in recognising our marriage—or might even be glad to do it.”
“But how would you do that? Have you any plan?”
“I have some sort of an idea.”
“Cyril, you are wonderful! I will never grumble at your devotion to politics again, since I know what is involved. Oh, there is Michael!” as youthful footsteps crossed the anteroom at a run, and the handle of the door was violently agitated. “He will want me to tell him a story now that his lessons are over. Say good morning nicely to Count Mortimer, my little son. Then I will not detain you longer, Count.”
“Poor dear little woman!” was Cyril’s thought as he left her. “She is so easily managed that it seems almost a shame to try it on with her. But it was really necessary to make that no more scenes of jealousy should occur at inconvenient times.”
He went back to his house, passing on the way Sir Egerton Stratford, who was taking an afternoon ride. It gave Cyril intense pleasure to respond to the startled and almost mechanical salutation of the British Minister, and he anticipated with glee the explanation which could not be long delayed. But he had no time to call at the Legation at present, and there was a good deal of business to be arranged immediately with Prince Mirkovics and the rest of his colleagues, in view of the important political changes to be announced on the morrow. When he had got rid of them he returned to the Palace, where he had a long interview with Stefanovics in his office, after which he prepared to go home, thinking that he had accomplished a pretty fair day’s work for an invalid. But his time for rest had not yet arrived, for just as he was on the point of locking his desk for the night, Baroness von Hilfenstein entered the room, to his great astonishment.
“What can I do for you, Baroness?” he asked. “Pray sit down.”
The old lady complied, but seemed to have some difficulty in declaring the object of her visit. At last she spoke in a kind of gasp.
“Count, I have been making up my mind for some days—since I saw how political events were tending, indeed—to seek this interview with you, but I have found no opportunity hitherto. At last, fearing that I should be too late, I asked her Majesty’s permission not to appear this evening, pleading a headache, and thus succeeded in finding you alone. May I ask if it is settled that you take office to-morrow, and if you have any hope of retaining it?”
“It is a little unusual to communicate political details of this kind to any one outside Cabinet circles,” said Cyril, “but to you, Baroness, I cannot hesitate to speak freely. So far as anything human can be said to be settled, it is settled that I enter upon office, and (although this is not generally known) I have strong hopes of being able to maintain my position.”
“Would it appear to you extremely strange, Count, if I entreated and advised you very strongly to give up your intention, and to return to England for good?”
“I fear I should regard it as inconceivably strange, Baroness.”
“Nevertheless, that is what I am here to do. Can you not imagine a reason?”
“Really, Baroness, I am unable to do so.”
“Think. Is there nothing, no possible complication, in your circumstances, or in those of the—Court, which might make it undesirable for you to remain?”
“I fear I am very dense, Baroness, but I do not see anything of the kind.”
“Then I must speak plainly. I know that you are a gentleman and a man of honour, Count, and therefore I need not entreat you to keep what I say a secret. I trust you as I would a son of my own.”
Cyril bowed, in much perplexity. “Is she going to tell me that her daughter has fallen in love with me?” he thought. “That would be a complication with a vengeance!”
“On the evening on which you left Tatarjé, Count,” the Baroness went on, “you may remember that in view of your plan of escorting her Majesty in disguise to a place of safety, I told you that I was afraid of circumstances. Now I have reason to believe that my fears were justified. Need I speak more plainly?”
“I begin to understand you, Baroness. You would imply that her Majesty does me the honour to regard me with more than friendly feelings?”
“You are right, Count. I have observed a change in her Majesty’s way of speaking of you since our return from Tatarjé, but that I ascribed simply to natural gratitude. Her anxiety when you were wounded, however, and the grief she displayed on learning of your serious condition, have made it evident to me that—that her feelings towards you have changed in the direction you indicate.”
“I can never sufficiently admire, Baroness, the delicacy and discretion with which you are handling this most difficult topic. But you must consider that you have revealed to me a most astonishing and gratifying fact. What steps do you expect me to take in consequence of this revelation, if I may venture to inquire?”
“Can you ask, Count? To a nobleman of your high character there is but one course open—to sever immediately and for ever your connection with the Court, and thus render it easy for her Majesty to forget this temporary indiscretion.”
“I see; and you do not think that such a course might tend to bring matters to a climax?”
“Count! her Majesty is a Princess of Weldart, and knows thatnoblesse oblige. She could only be grateful to you for the delicacy of your conduct.”
“And my feelings in the matter, Baroness——?”
“It is quite impossible that you can have any feelings in the matter, Count. The crisis is one which demands a correct attitude, not fine feelings.”
“Thank you, Baroness. It is unfortunate that you should have pointed this out a little late in the day. Who knows but I might have been able to assume a correct attitude if I had been warned in time! But as it is—I know that you are a woman of honour, and will keep what I say a secret. Are you prepared for a shock, Baroness? I do not want to startle you too much. The Queen and I have been engaged ever since our return from Tatarjé—nearly a year ago now.”
“Lieber Himmel!” was the shocked exclamation of the Baroness. “I wish you had not told me,” she broke out, after a few moments of horror-struck silence.
“Not at all,” said Cyril politely. “We shall be glad to think that you are a sharer in our secret.”
“I do not doubt it, Count. But do you consider what is my duty in the matter?”
“I know what I should consider your duty, my dear Baroness, but whether you will see it at first in the same light is open to question.”
“And what is your view of my duty, may I ask?”
“To go on as before, seeing and knowing nothing. Anything else could do no good, and would only make the Queen miserable.”
“You appear to disregard the absolute necessity of my laying the matter before her Majesty’s family, that they may exercise their influence to bring about your removal from Thracia.”
“But why should I be removed from Thracia?”
“Because it is absolutely impossible for you to remain here.”
“How? If we have been engaged for nearly a year without so much as rousing your suspicions, it seems to me quite possible that we should go on in the same way.”
“When you have the presumption to aspire to the hand of her Majesty?”
“Precisely. Now, Baroness, listen to me. The Queen does not propose to marry me until the King is of age, and the regency at an end—which means a twelve years’ engagement. You will be at hand to watch over the decorum of the whole thing—as you have been doing unconsciously hitherto. Now isn’t it better to acquiesce in that quiet and peaceful state of affairs than to hound me out of Thracia, and then discover one fine day that the Queen had escaped to join me?”
“But you cannot marry her Majesty.”
“Pardon me, Baroness; we differ on that point. I mean to try.”
The Baroness sat nonplussed for a time. “After all,” she murmured, “eleven years may bring about many changes.”
“Quite so. It is natural that our hopes with regard to any such changes should differ, but we will not quarrel over that.”
“You are inducing me to betray my trust, Count.”
“I would not do such a thing for the world, Baroness. Only remind me, and I will see that the Queen relieves you formally of your duties before our marriage takes place. You shall not be forced to countenance it in your official capacity. As a private friend of both parties, of course——”
“I am overwhelmed,” said the Baroness, not in allusion to Cyril’s considerate offer, as he opened the door for her. “I could never have suspected this of you, Count.”
“Ah, Baroness, we live and learn—some of us. Others live and love.”
And he went back into the office to laugh quietly over the disdainful pose of the Baroness’s head and the contemptuous swish of her skirts as she swept away from him. He had no fear that she would betray him, or even attempt to prejudice Ernestine against him. The whole affair was a crime that admitted of no palliation—but the good lady had a tender corner for him in her heart.
To his great relief, Cyril found that no further interviews were demanded of him that night, for he was so tired that he made no objection when Dr Danilovics arrived, in a towering rage, to conduct him home. The doctor’s lectures on the proper treatment and correct behaviour of invalids during the drive back to Cyril’s house might have edified a whole medical school, but they were lost on their present auditor, for Cyril was fast asleep in the corner of the carriage when he reached his destination.
“Take charge of him,” said the doctor wrathfully, delivering the invalid over to Paschics and Dietrich; “I wash my hands of him. What can a self-respecting medical man do with a patient who acts like a madman, and expects nature to cure him—especially when nature does it?”
In spite of his own indiscreet behaviour, and thanks to the unprofessional conduct of nature, Cyril slept well, and awoke refreshed in the morning, to hear from Dietrich that the British Minister had called to see him, and on being told that he was not up, had said that he would come again in an hour.
“He means to have it out,” said Cyril to himself. “Well, one can’t say that life has been dull during the last few days. It’s only a pity that all this pleasurable excitement can’t manage to distribute itself a little more.”
When he went down to his study, he found Sir Egerton waiting for him—not sitting down, as would have been the case on ordinary occasions, but standing wrathfully in the middle of the room, like Nemesis armed with a riding-whip. As Cyril entered, the British Minister stepped forward with a stiff bow.
“Good morning, Count Mortimer. Your sudden restoration to health is as astonishing as it is gratifying. You may have observed that I was surprised to see you yesterday. As a matter of fact, I had heard it said that you would accompany your colleagues to the Palace, but I imagined that the report had been spread by your servants in order to put off as long as possible the discovery of your escape.”
“I am sure you can’t have been half as glad to see me again as I was to see you. A friendly face——”
“Excuse my interrupting you. Five days ago, by representing yourself to be in a state of abject terror almost amounting to madness, you induced me to smuggle you out of the city, on the understanding that you would not return to Thracia. Now I find you back again, and apparently quite restored to health. I should be glad to know what all this means.”
“Simply that three days’ rest and change gave tone to my nerves and set me up again. You forget that I expressed my intention of returning if that should prove to be the case, Stratford.”
“Sir Egerton Stratford to you in future, if you please.”
“I beg your Excellency’s pardon most humbly. Well, then, Sir Egerton Stratford, may I ask to what you object in my return?”
“You were no more ill at that time than you are now. You had some scheme in your head for capturing the government, and you made a catspaw of me to enable you to carry it out. Instead of getting you out of Thracia, I have in some way or other made you a present of the Premiership. I don’t pretend to understand how you have worked it, but it is quite clear that I played into your hands and ensured the success of your plot.”
“Not at all. You are judging yourself too hardly. You did a kindness to a poor beggar in a tight place. Well, don’t try to get behind that. You may be sure that I shall keep your act of charity dark, and I don’t think you’ll want to publish it abroad, though I fancy you had some idea in your head of preventing me from returning to Thracia by making known the manner of my leaving it, eh? If I had not been so anxious to keep you from getting into trouble I should have taken you into my confidence, so be grateful.”
“You know perfectly well that if you had told me your intentions I should have refused entirely to take any part in furthering them.”
“Ah, well, perhaps that was one of my reasons for reticence. But you shouldn’t go back on your good deed now it’s done.”
“I have not asked advice from you, Count Mortimer, and after what has happened, I am scarcely likely to take it. You succeeded in getting my help in a discreditable job by means of a dirty trick, which was successful because I regarded you as a friend and an honourable man. Now that you are proved not to be the one, it is impossible for you to continue to be the other. I wish you a very good morning. In future, if you should take the trouble to call at the Legation, Lady Stratford will not be at home.”
“I knew Stratford would be fearfully wild when he realised that he had been had,” reflected Cyril, as the British representative departed, “but I didn’t expect he would put on frills quite to such an extent. I suppose he can’t get over my having worked on his feelings. Well, the best of friends must part. But it will be a bore not to be able to drop in at the Legation in the evenings.”
Thecoup d’étatwas complete. M. Drakovics had accepted the ultimatum conveyed to him by Stefanovics with a submission which was as touching as it was generally unexpected. It was true, he said, that the overwork and excitement of the last few weeks had so affected his health that in a moment of irritation he had lost command of his temper, and addressed the Queen in terms which were wanting in the respect due to her position. That this one indiscretion should blot out the remembrance of long years of faithful service to the Crown and to Thracia was only just, and he would retire meekly into private life, not to leave it again unless summoned by some peril threatening his beloved country. This pathetic farewell was not, of course, intended for the public ear. The ‘Gazette’ and other newspapers announced merely that the Premier’s resignation was due to the state of his health, but a more detailed explanation was necessary for the benefit of the Ministry and of the foreign Courts which were connected by ties of relationship or of traditional policy with that of Bellaviste. By these Courts the news of the fall of M. Drakovics and of Cyril’s accession to power was received and acknowledged without comment or opposition—a fact which would have confirmed Cyril, had he needed confirmation, in the belief that the end was not yet. The Powers were waiting for some further development of the situation.
As for the members of the Drakovics Cabinet, they accepted the state of affairs, for the most part, with great philosophy. One or two of the more violent partisans of Bishop Philaret resigned rather than become involved in the nomination of Bishop Socrates as Metropolitan; but the rest, the most important of whom was M. Milénovics, the Minister of Public Works, transferred their allegiance to Cyril without difficulty. A possible cause of unpleasantness was also removed by the resignation of Vassili Drakovics, who had occupied the position which in England would be called that of Parliamentary Under-Secretary to his more distinguished relative. If he had not taken this step, it would have been difficult to know what to do with him, since to allow him to remain in the Treasury would have been to keep M. Drakovics informed of the financial circumstances of his successors, with which it was most undesirable that he should be acquainted; but his appointment to the lucrative, if slightly incongruous, post of curator of the National Museum in Bellaviste immediately upon his resignation, satisfied all parties. The populace of Bellaviste, finding the streets patrolled by troops, public meetings prohibited, and a strict censorship maintained over the Press, realised that the new Administration was as well able to protect itself as the old one had been, and that it did so in much the same way, and they acquiesced contentedly in the change.
Cyril was far too prudent to expose his slender forces to defeat in a Legislature elected to support M. Drakovics, and the only business which he laid before the House was the voting of a valedictory address to the ex-Premier—a patriotic duty to which no opposition could be offered. As soon as the address had been voted, the Legislature was dissolved, and Thracia found itself in the throes, somewhat artificial in the case of a Balkan State, of a General Election. Thanks to the custom of the country, according to which it was unnecessary for a Minister to occupy a seat in the Legislature, Cyril and the majority of his colleagues were not troubled by any need of looking after their own positions; but the fight was none the less carefully organised. During the time which elapsed between the dissolution and the actual election, Cyril worked out his dispositions with the greatest precision, observing with amusement that M. Drakovics was still acting the part of the sulky Achilles, evidently waiting until the sinews of war should fail the opposite party. His expectation that victory would fall into his hands without an effort on his part was so obvious that his inaction began at last to alarm the more nervous of Cyril’s colleagues, who thought that the ex-Premier must have some greatcoupin preparation. Their leader succeeded in calming their apprehensions by reminding them of the solid financial basis on which the Cabinet rested, but not before the uneasiness had spread to the Palace, where M. Drakovics was regarded much as a foreign foe would have been.
“Cyril,” said Ernestine, when her Prime Minister sought an interview with her one day, “are you sure we shall win?”
“I never prophesy unless I have got a straight tip, but I see no reason why we should not win.”
“But elections always seem to be so uncertain.”
“They need not be so here, at any rate. It is the natural thing for the Government to win, and I believe it will.”
“But isn’t there something not quite right about that?”
“There might be in England, but not in Thracia. What good is a Government if it is not to tell the people how to vote?”
“But suppose they won’t vote as you tell them?”
“What should make them turn rusty? And besides, the local authorities throughout the country have received the warning they have always been accustomed to get from Drakovics, that any district which elects an Opposition candidate will immediately suffer a change in its governing body. Of course other precautions have been taken as well, but that is sufficient to show them that we mean business.”
“But did not M. Drakovics himself begin his career by winning an election against the Government candidate?”
“Yes, but the Government was caught napping first, and then bungled the whole thing. I don’t intend to repeat either mistake.”
“If he comes back there will be a struggle between him and me, for we cannot both rule in Thracia after what has happened. But if your precautions are so complete, Cyril, what is M. Drakovics depending upon? You don’t think that he has really accepted his defeat, and means to retire altogether?”
“Not in the least. He is counting on our cash giving out. He knows to a piastre what he left in the treasury, and can calculate what we could raise in the way of advances out of our own pockets, and perhaps—as you once suggested—by selling your jewels. He thinks, no doubt, that we shall be stranded just about the time that the elections come off—I refrained purposely from hurrying them on in order to give him a little pleasurable excitement—that we shall try frantically to borrow money all over Europe and be unable to do it, that the army will mutiny for want of pay, and that the permanent officials everywhere will turn to the man who was so long responsible for their salaries, and that he will have a walk-over. That is as may be.”
“But how is it that we shall not be stranded?”
“Ah, that is a state secret.”
“But it ought not to be kept a secret from me.”
“I’m afraid it must be, in this case. You see, if your mother or any of your relations ask you where we got the money, I want you to be able to answer with a clear conscience that you don’t know.”
“But why should they ask? I daresay Ottilie will—she is always interested in politics—but I don’t think it would occur to my mother.”
“Not unless she was put up to it, but it would not surprise me if she was. Did I understand you to mean that the Princess of Dardania is coming here?”
“Yes; she has been talking of it for some time, but in her letter this morning she says that she hopes to come as soon as the elections are over, and to bring the children as well.”
“‘When the hurly-burly’s done; when the battle’s lost and won’? Does she intend to stay long?”
“Not long in Bellaviste, I think, but she talks of taking a villa at Praka for the summer. They have no sea-coast in Dardania, of course, and it will be so good for the children to spend a month or two by the sea. It will be delightful for me to have her so close. I daresay I shall take Michael and two or three attendants, and stay with her for a week or so.”
“Very delightful. I suppose, Ernestine, that it is no use——”
“Now, Cyril, I know that you are going to say something against Ottilie, and I don’t want to hear it. You have a prejudice against her, and I am sorry for it, but I can’t give her up because you and she don’t get on.”
“‘Don’t get on’ is a mild term for the relations existing between her Royal Highness and myself. You know that she detests me, and that she would do anything in the world to injure me?”
“You don’t imagine that I would let her turn me against you?”
“Quite the contrary. I fear that you may defend me so vigorously when she speaks against me as to arouse her suspicions and give her an opening for action. When you saw her last you and I were at daggers drawn, you know, and the sudden change of front——”
“But what would it signify if she did suspect? If you would only allow me, I would tell her everything, and enlist her on our side. I am sure she would sympathise with us.”
“Undoubtedly! No, Ernestine—I am speaking seriously—I must put my veto upon that. If you inform the Princess of Dardania of our engagement, you are deliberately ruining our hopes.”
“I would never tell her without your leave, of course. But you will persist in regarding Ottilie as an intriguer, and she is my favourite cousin, an excellent wife, and the best mother that I know.”
“I would not attempt to deny it. But perhaps you will allow me to point out that she practically governs Dardania, since her husband is only too well pleased to go out hunting while she does his work. She has got him into hot water several times through her endeavours—which, I will do her the justice to say, are generally successful—to add to the power and influence of the principality, and she has a finger in every pie in Europe. Not an intriguer! My dear Ernestine, that woman is one of the great intriguers of the world.”
“At least, she is my cousin,” said Ernestine, much vexed, “and therefore deserves consideration at your hands. Well, we will not talk of her, Cyril, since we cannot agree, and I will remember your warnings, but I cannot behave coldly to her—far less have nothing to do with her, as you evidently wish. She and I have always been special friends.”
With this the subject was dropped, and Cyril found political affairs sufficiently engrossing for some time afterwards to cause him to forget his old enemy. His forecast of the conduct of M. Drakovics proved correct. Immediately before the elections there was a recurrence all over the kingdom of the activity of the ex-Premier’s party, although their leader himself continued to remain in retirement. Deliberate bids were made for the support of the army and of the Government officials, as Cyril had prophesied, and riotous mobs assembled as though at a preconcerted signal in all the larger towns, and perambulated the country. If M. Drakovics had been right in his calculations, he would have snatched a complete victory, but so well had the secret of the Chevalier Goldberg’s millions been kept, that the chief source of his opponent’s strength was absolutely unknown to him. The army remained loyal, the officials fulfilled their bounden duty in promoting the return of Government candidates, the priests who had inculcated rebellion were arrested without provoking an insurrection, and the mobs melted away at the sight of the troops. The Ministry met the Legislature with a majority almost equalling that which had first raised M. Drakovics to power, and Europe awoke to the fact that Count Mortimer was established as Premier of Thracia. To the Powers which had expected to see a conflict in which both aspirants to office would find political destruction, leaving the way open for the administration of advicead libitumto the Queen, and even (for a consideration) of help in money or men, the reality was startling, but there was nothing to do except to submit to circumstances. The Mortimer Ministry was in possession, and it had evidently come to stay.
Already, before the dissolution, Bishop Socrates had been nominated as Metropolitan, and duly elected by the Synod. Until the elections were over he held his post as it were on sufferance, feeling not at all sure that he might not find himself suddenly superseded by Bishop Philaret; but now he settled down to improve the discipline of his diocese, his labours being much lightened by the depression which had fallen upon the more vigorous malcontents, owing to the collapse of their hopes. Very shortly after the meeting of the Legislature the Estimates were introduced and promptly voted, the greatest admiration and praise being expressed for the patriotic conduct of the new Premier, who had, as it was now understood, advanced from his own pocket a sum large enough to tide the country over the election. This sum, for which he was firm in refusing to accept any interest, was duly repaid to him, and by him handed over immediately to Herr Stockbaum, whose employer wrote at once to say that he had never believed Cyril would be able to repay the money, and he had therefore written it off as a bad debt. Merely to avoid giving him the trouble of altering his accounts, would not Count Mortimer do him the favour of accepting it? But Cyril was obdurate. He had a high respect for money, coupled with a lively sense that in some positions it was advisable to be known to be without it, and his bank-account remained at its former modest level, much to the disgust of M. Drakovics, who felt certain that he was on the track of a very ugly conspiracy, which might be exposed with much profit if only he could put his finger on the source from which his successor had obtained the much needed assistance.
That the money was not a part of Cyril’s hereditary fortune, and could not be the result of savings from his salary, no one knew better than M. Drakovics, who had always been wont to keep an eye (but privately, in order not to hurt their feelings) on the pecuniary position of his colleagues. Moreover, it had not been provided by any of the Powers, the ex-Premier’s spies assured him of this, and just at present there was no company or individual seeking concessions from whom it might have been received as a bribe. To deepen the mystery, the offices occupied at Frankfort by Messrs Outis, Niemand, and Other were closed immediately after the money had been repaid to them, as M. Drakovics ascertained easily, and the enterprising firm disappeared as suddenly as it had arisen, leaving not a rack behind.
It was while M. Drakovics was pursuing these financial researches, in the vain hope of tracking down his successful rival and bringing him to ruin, that the Princess of Dardania arrived at Bellaviste with her four children—the Princesses Elisabeth and Ludmilla and the Princes Alexis and Kazimir, whose arrival was hailed with joy by King Michael. The Prince of Dardania had gone to Pavelsburg on a visit to the Scythian Court; but his wife, who had been invited to accompany him, was of opinion that her presence was more needed in Thracia. For some days she observed with great care the facts which came to her notice, and arrived at several provisional conclusions, which she laid aside for future consideration, but she made no attempt to discuss matters with her cousin. It was Ernestine herself who first touched upon the subject of politics, when the Princess had spent about a week at the Palace.
“I have had such a strange letter from mamma,” said the Queen, coming in her impulsive way into the room where her cousin was sitting alone. “I wrote to ask when she was coming to see me again, for it is a year and a half since she was here, and she says that she will not enter Thracia so long as Count Mortimer is Premier.”
“Does she expect him to resign in order to open the way for her to return?”
“Oh no, but she seems to expect me to turn him out. She says that she sympathises with me deeply in having such a man forced upon me, but that the present state of affairs is entirely my own fault, since the Court influence, properly used, would have prevented him altogether from attaining power. She advises me to set in motion intrigues against him, and so render his position untenable. When that is effected she will gladly return to Bellaviste; but she cannot consent to humiliate herself by meeting Count Mortimer under present circumstances.”
“My dear Nestchen, your mother is a frightfully bad conspirator! Do you mean to say that she has written that in black and white? Why, Count Mortimer could desire nothing better in order to strengthen his position than the publication of such a letter, which he has no doubt read before it reached you. And when do you intend to set these intrigues on foot?”
“Never!” said the Queen emphatically. “I cannot tell why, Ottilie, but you, like every one else, seem to think that I regard Count Mortimer as an enemy.”
“Well, Nestchen, you must pardon us if we are wrong, but when I saw you last, at Tatarjé, I certainly heard from your own lips that you hated Count Mortimer, and that he was the cause of all the unhappiness of your married life.”
“Oh, please don’t remind me of the dreadful things I said then! It makes me ashamed to think that I could ever have been so blind. Wasn’t it only a just retribution that such a short time after I had been abusing Count Mortimer, Michael and I should owe our very lives to his devotion and presence of mind?”
“It provided you with a reason for modifying your opinion of him, no doubt. But surely, Ernestine, your gratitude might have stopped short of allowing him to make himself the most powerful man in Thracia. You may be sure that it will not be long before he will make use of his elevation to try and oust you from the regency.” This last remark, be it observed, was what is known in vulgar parlance as a feeler.
“Oust me from the regency!” cried Ernestine hotly; then her tone changed. “My dear Ottilie, how little you know him!” she said, with a superior smile. “I assure you that you are quite mistaken.”
“But he has ousted Drakovics, and is in possession of his place;”—the Princess was observing her cousin curiously, but with something of satisfaction in her look.
“No, there you are wrong again, Ottilie. He would be in his old post now, if it were not for me. When M. Drakovics tried to force upon me an appointment which was most distasteful to me for many reasons, I sent for Count Mortimer and ordered him to oppose him. I can’t tell you the whole story now, but although it has ended in Count Mortimer’s becoming Premier, it was due to me that he severed himself from M. Drakovics at all.”
“How delightful to have a knight-errant at command, ready to fight one’s battles in this way! Really, Nestchen, I envy you. I wish we had a Count Mortimer (with a few variations) in Dardania. But you don’t imagine that he would have accepted your commission if it had not fallen in with his own views, and promised to lead to the goal at which he was secretly aiming?”
“I can’t judge about that, since I am not Count Mortimer’s confessor.” The Queen spoke sharply, and as though the thought were an unwelcome one. “At any rate, if the idea of the Premiership had entered his mind, I am sure that he well deserved the prize, and I feel quite content that he should hold it.”
“There is nothing like a thorough conversion when one is about it. And you are now in the habit of taking Count Mortimer’s advice on every subject that may happen to be under discussion, I suppose?”
“I ask it, certainly—and in nearly every case I take it.”
“That is just what I thought. Well, Ernestine, doesn’t it strike you that it would have been kinder to let me know this before I visited you?”
“Why, what possible difference can it make to you, Ottilie?”
“I came here,” pursued the Princess of Dardania sadly, “full of hope for the future. It seemed to me that this visit of mine to you would mark the beginning of the fulfilment of the compact which you and I made with one another a year ago, before this change had come over you. Our children were to grow up together, and to learn to love one another from their earliest years, you will remember. Surely you might at least have warned me not to bring Lida with me.”
“But why should you not bring Lida? What change has come over me? I cannot imagine what you mean.”
“My dear Ernestine, you must be very well aware that Count Mortimer would never sanction a marriage between your son and any child of mine.”
“I am sure you are mistaken, Ottilie. Count Mortimer would be as anxious to secure Michael’s happiness as we are. I am so certain of this, that nothing but my agreement with you to keep the matter secret has prevented me from telling him of our plan. I have only been waiting for your consent.”
“And nothing would induce me to give it. To betray our scheme to Count Mortimer would be to ruin it. No, Ernestine, hear me out. Though you have so strangely constituted yourself his champion, you cannot forget the man’s past record. He would have sacrificed his own brother by a loveless marriage for the sake of a political advantage—he would have sacrificed me. So much for his general practice. Now as to this particular case. I refused to be sacrificed, and succeeded in outwitting him: he has never forgiven me. Even if political considerations rendered the match between Michael and Lida advisable—and from his point of view they do not—I believe that his hatred for me would lead him to prevent its taking place. His aim will be to marry Michael to one of Sigismund’s daughters—you know what their surroundings are like, and what amount of choice would be given to them in the matter, poor things!—and to tell him of our compact would simply ensure its never being fulfilled.”
“But Michael and Lida could not be married without his knowledge. Besides, I am sure I could persuade him——”
“When you know as much of Count Mortimer as I do, Ernestine, you will know that you might as well try to persuade a stone wall.” The Queen flushed indignantly, but checked the protest which had nearly escaped her lips. “Our hope lies in his having no suspicion of what is going on until the young people are old enough to have come to an understanding. Then you would have everything on your side in preventing their being sacrificed to political considerations; and if, after all, Count Mortimer was too strong for us, we could arrange for the children to be married as Alexis and I were.”
“A runaway match!” said the Queen, shocked, but a recollection that occurred to her served to modify the feeling. It was not so very long ago that she herself had suggested a similar proceeding to Cyril. “I don’t for a moment think that we shall be obliged to adopt such an expedient, Ottilie. I am sorry you won’t let me tell Count Mortimer what my wishes are, for I think you are making a mistake, but please understand that I was never more determined to adhere to our compact. My first duty now is to Michael, and nothing—not even Count Mortimer—shall induce me to allow him to be sacrificed to political expediency.”
“If you please, madame,” said Paula von Hilfenstein, appearing at the door, “your private secretary” (Baroness Paula called him “the Herr private secretary von Essen”) “has brought a number of letters, and asks whether your Majesty will be pleased to sign them.”
“Just as I was having my first long talk with you, Ottilie!” said the Queen, rising. “Well, the Regent must be at the service of the State, I suppose; but do wait here, and I will come back when I have finished.”
She rustled out of the room, her long black robes trailing after her, and the Princess watched her with a curious, meditative smile.
“Ah, my dear Ernestine,” she reflected, “it is a good thing I came here when I did! It is the merest chance that your new friend has not already broached a project of marriage for Michael, and converted you to his views. In not doing so he has committed a fault in tactics, by which I shall contrive to profit. But what I should most like to know is, what there is exactly between you and him. You are in love with him, of course—any one could see that—and I have not a doubt that he knows it, but the question is, do you know it as well? That innocent manner of yours might mean either that you were quite ignorant or that you had everything settled with him. Now which is it?”
She sat musing, with her chin supported on her hand, weighing probabilities in her mind, and not knowing that the information she needed was at that moment on its way to her. The messenger of fate burst into the room in the person of King Michael, following a wild fumbling at the door, and pursued by retributive justice in the form of Baroness Paula. “Majestät!” she was beginning, “why have you run away from your nurse?” but like the intruder, she stopped short on catching sight of the Princess of Dardania.
“I will take care of him until his nurse comes to fetch him,” said the Princess pleasantly, holding out her hand to the child, and Baroness Paula retreated. “What do you want here, my little Michael?”
“I want to hide something—something of mamma’s,” returned King Michael, recovering his presence of mind, and beginning to pull the curtains about. “You won’t tell, will you, Tant’ Ottilie?”
“Certainly not. What is it—a piece of paper?”
“Mamma keeps it in her Bible,” returned King Michael, exhibiting a crumpled paper ball, “and to-day it fell out. I want her to look for it. It will be so funny. Oh dear, there isn’t a place anywhere!” with a heavy sigh, “and I hear nursie coming.”
“Why not smooth it out, and put it under the corner of the rug?” asked the Princess. “Your mother would never think of looking there.”
The King obeyed precipitately, and was patting the rug down with his hand to make it lie flat again when Mrs Jones appeared, panting.
“Well, sir, and wherever have you been and got to, may I ask? There was your cousins all playin’ so quiet and pretty, and me just turnin’ my back like for a moment, when you up and slip out of the nursery. You come along back this minute, if you please, or I’ll tell Count Mortimer of you when he asks me next how you’ve been behavin’ yourself of late. You’re gettin’ beyond me, and that I’ve said before. Beggin’ your Highness’s pardon, ma’am, but anything like his Majesty’s contrary ways no one ever did see.”
The Princess of Dardania smiled graciously as Mrs Jones disappeared, dragging her refractory charge by the hand, but the moment the door was shut she moved her chair across to the corner of the rug with which King Michael had been busied. What the paper he had purloined might contain she had no idea, but it was evidently precious to Ernestine, and her cousin was too clever a woman to let slip any chance of gaining information that might prove valuable. Stooping slightly as she sat, she lifted the corner of the rug, holding it ready to drop into its place again on the slightest alarm, and took up the paper. It was in Ernestine’s writing, and at first sight resembled nothing so much as the calendars which schoolboys make to show how many days remain before the holidays, but the Princess’s eyes gleamed as she realised its purport. At the top was written, “April 12th, 18—” (the date was that of the preceding year), and below came “June 18th,” King Michael’s birthday, repeated twelve times. Two of these were crossed off, bringing the record to the time at which the Princess held it in her hand.
“April 12th of last year!” she said to herself. “That was when she was wandering about the country with him. Michael was three then, he is just five now. By the time the end of this list is reached he will be sixteen, he will have come of age. And after that, what? Nothing! But no doubt it would be unnecessary, as well as dangerous, to add anything further. They have an understanding, then. But what if she married him secretly on that 12th of April? Oh, if only she did, I could ruin him with a word! Is it possible? Married, actually married, and concealing the fact lest she should lose the regency, and he his chance of the Premiership? Could it be? Let me think; I must not be rash. It would not do to put myself in his power by accusing him of having married her, and finding that he had not. He would make me the laughingstock of Europe. Besides, is it probable? No; he is not the man to risk his political future for the sake of a woman. Take it, then, that they are merely engaged. They will be married when Michael is of age—if I allow it. I do not think I shall, but it might be necessary to buy his acquiescence in something—perhaps in Michael’s marriage with Lida, and then I should have an equivalent to offer. Silence for the present, then. I hold the card, but do not show it. And above all things, I must keep Ernestine from telling me the whole affair. I could get her to confide in me now, if I liked to try, but it would hamper my action. No; she has chosen to link her fortunes with his, and she must not be surprised if I fight for my own hand.”
The sound of the opening of the anteroom door reached her. Ernestine was returning. She replaced the paper, dropped the rug over it, and moved her chair back to its former position. When the Queen entered the room, her cousin looked up lazily.
“I don’t know whether you have lost any of your State documents, Ernestine, but Michael was very busy hiding a paper of some kind under the rug just now.”
The Queen stooped to pick up the paper. Her face flushed as she saw what it was, and she thrust it hastily into her pocket, with a glance at the Princess, whose eyes were fixed on her novel.
“What was Michael doing here?” she asked.
“Oh, he escaped from his nurse and ran in, that was all. What a splendid little fellow he is, Ernestine—so high-spirited and impatient of control! And I think it is so wise of you to keep him with you so long. I had practically lost my boys when they were his age—they were always about with their father. Of course that is all right, for Alexis is no disciplinarian; but when I think of Sigismund’s poor little sons, how they are made into soldiers before they are out of the cradle, so to speak, and tormented with drill all day long, it makes me feel that Michael is far better off with his mother alone.”
“Some one was saying the other day that he was getting too old to be left entirely with women,” said the Queen.
“Ah, I know who that was—Count Mortimer, of course. He actually made the same remark to Fräulein von Staubach. The poor thing told me about it, and owned that it came as a painful shock to her.” The Princess forgot to mention that when the first surprise had passed, Fräulein von Staubach had admitted the truth of Cyril’s words. “Really, Ernestine, you will be obliged to take measures to keep that man in his place. He interferes in everything.”
“I think you forget that I value Count Mortimer’s opinion highly, Ottilie. I have myself often thought of late that a stronger hand over him would be good for Michael. He is very passionate at times, and fearfully self-willed. He ought to be taught self-control, and I am afraid we are too gentle with him.”
“Ah, that is Count Mortimer again! He wants the poor child brought up like English boys, who call their father ‘sir’ and ‘the governor,’ and never see their mother except in full dress. Seriously, Ernestine, think before you hand your boy over either to the English or the German system. You have to be both father and mother to him, remember. At least keep him with you as long as possible.”
“I will. You are right, Ottilie. It was only because your advice agreed so well with my own wishes that I distrusted its wisdom at first. Of course Michael must be educated as a German—his father would have wished it, I am sure—but I will not let him be subjected to military discipline for some time yet.”
“I think I have put a spoke in your wheel for the present, my dear Count!” said the Princess to herself. “While you are discovering that, I shall hope to find a few other ways of smoothing your path. Just now I should like to see Drakovics, and find out exactly what he knows about your matrimonial schemes.”
When the Princess of Dardania conceived a wish, it was usually not long before she contrived to gratify it, and the first portion, at any rate, of this one was attained by means of a morning visit to the town Museum. It was only natural that the curator should conduct her Royal Highness round the building, and in the course of conversation with him, the Princess learned that M. Drakovics was anxious to sell a part of his Praka estate as building-land. As the Princess wished to buy land on which to build her proposed villa, the next step was obviously to run over to Praka and see the estate, in order to report upon it to her husband. Unfortunately for the Princess’s hopes, although the building-land was satisfactory, the interview with the ex-Premier was not. M. Drakovics could not forget the day when he had shared with Cyril the ignominy of being outwitted by the Princess Ottilie of Mœsia, and while he was obviously ready to work any ill to Cyril that he conveniently could, he was much more anxious to find out what his visitor knew than to impart any information of his own. As this was exactly the Princess’s case, the two diplomatists parted with mutual dissatisfaction, tempered only in the one case by the prospect of receiving a good price for his land, and in the other by the hope of possessing in the future a coign of vantage from which to direct the development of the situation. But if the Princess had failed to find the helper she desired in her campaign against Cyril, she had at least succeeded in leading Ernestine to thwart him in the matter which at present he had most at heart, the method of the little King’s education. When, after due consultation with the officials of the Court and the Treasury, he had drawn up a scheme constituting a technically separate household for the King, and arranging for the appointment of military and other instructors, Ernestine refused so much as to consider the subject at present.
“He is only five years old, Cyril. Even his father would have left him under my control until he was seven.”
“But he is not under your control—that is the worst of it. I do not want to hurt your feelings, Ernestine, but you must have noticed that it is no use to tell him to do anything unless you are prepared to back up your order with physical force. It is the same with his nurse and with Fräulein von Staubach.”
The Queen flushed with vexation. “You cannot think that you know as much about children as a mother does,” she said.
“Won’t you allow that I know more about boys, having been one myself?”
“Not about German boys.” She thought of her cousin’s remarks on the subject. “We educate our children much more by means of love than you English do.”
“My dear Ernestine, I don’t care what the means may be, so long as the result is satisfactory, which it is not at present. Your boy wants discipline. If his father had lived, his authority would have reinforced yours.”
The word “discipline” was an unfortunate one, for Ernestine’s thoughts flew at once to the poor little Hercynian Princes whose woes the Princess of Dardania had described so feelingly. “I like Michael to be happy and free,” she said. “I will not have him turned into a miniature drill-sergeant.”
“No one wishes him to be, but he ought to feel that there is some authority he must recognise. It is not only you and the other women who spoil him, Ernestine, but Batzen and the rest as well. The other day I caught him imitating poor old Batzen to his face, with Pavlovics and two of the pages looking on and laughing at him.”
“How can they help it when he is so quaint? He picks up things in the most extraordinary way. You want to crush all the fun out of him.”
“My dear Ernestine, you seem to think that I have some personal feeling in the matter. Please leave me out of account. What I am anxious about is the future. The boy is a king already. There are plenty of people, and always will be, to flatter and encourage him, but if he once gets out of hand we shall never be able to train him properly. And what will the result be? I am not exactly what any one would call straitlaced, but I don’t mind saying that even you have seen enough of the world to know that he will simply rush to ruin. He must learn to obey—to subordinate his own wishes to those of others—if he is ever to rule. I only wish we could have sent him to an English public school. The games, and the association with other boys, would have done him a world of good.”
“I knew it!” cried Ernestine, almost in tears. “I knew you wanted him to be brought up in that barbarous English way, without even the necessaries of life, and to break all his limbs at football.”
“Don’t misrepresent me, please. I know that the English school is out of the question, unfortunately. Nor would I wish to take him entirely out of your hands at his present age. All I wanted to do was to appoint a military man as his governor, with authority to raise a small cadet corps of little boys with whom the King could work and drill, and learn something of discipline. Other lessons would follow, of course, and other instructors be necessary, but Michael would not find it such a change if things were done in this gradual way, and if the other boys shared all his work and play.”
“That can all come later. He is too young at present. I give way to you very often, Cyril; but I must stand firm in this. I know that it is a temptation to let you regulate Michael’s education for me as you do everything else; but I must not yield to it. I am his mother, and I must use my own judgment in dealing with him. I could not bear that his spirit should be broken at his age. Oh, yes; I know that he is precocious; but that only means that he needs more care and tenderness than other boys. You mean well; but how can you enter into a mother’s feelings?”
“Very well; don’t worry about it,” said Cyril, accepting the situation with easy philosophy when he saw that her resolution was fixed. “I was only anxious for the child’s own good, so don’t blame me if he turns out badly.”
He shrugged his shoulders as he went away, reflecting that even the most sensible of women would make fools of themselves over a child, and Ernestine—as he had long known—was not one of the most sensible of women. It was just like her to look at things in this absurd way, and he was sorry he had wasted his time and wounded her maternal feelings to no purpose. After all, as she said, she left everything else in his hands, and if she chose to ruin her boy by over-indulgence, that was her own affair. Long afterwards, in looking back at this time, Cyril reflected cynically that in the matter of King Michael’s education he must have been afflicted with judicial blindness, for it did not occur to him that it must have needed an external stimulus to rouse Ernestine to such strong opposition to his views. Had it done so, he would have known where to look for the intrusive force; but he was content to ascribe her perverseness to her own character, and the part which the Princess of Dardania had played in the matter remained unsuspected.
The Princess was very busy for some time after this. Her bargain with M. Drakovics for the piece of land at Praka was duly approved by her husband (a mere form this) and ratified, and then came the business of the building of the villa. What with interviews with architects and contractors and her own passion for overlooking the progress of affairs and paying surprise visits to the workmen, it is not astonishing that the Princess of Dardania spent a good deal of time in Thracia during the next year. To a lady of her mental and bodily activity, it was a mere trifle to undertake the eighteen hours’ journey from Bashi Konak to Bellaviste, run down to Praka and inspect the building operations, and return home to take her part in a Court festivity; but she felt it necessary to apologise for her restlessness to the Queen.
“You know,” she said, “some one must see that things are properly done, and Alexis cannot endure to be dragged away from his hunting and his model farm. He is quite an Englishman in that respect. I feel dreadfully ashamed to make your house an inn in this way, Ernestine; but I can’t resist having a peep at you and the boy, and the children always give me so many messages for Michael. You must return the compliment when the villa is built. I shall expect you almost to live with me in the summer.”
Ernestine saw her come and go with a vague feeling of alarm. It seemed to her as though Ottilie now regarded Michael as her property, held in trust for Lida, and that these frequent visits were merely excuses for seeing that he was being brought up according to her wishes. There was now an effectual barrier between Cyril and the Queen on the subject of her son’s education, and neither of them alluded to it. Ernestine ought to have been satisfied; but she was not. She felt as though it would have been safer to have Cyril as her confidant in the matter than her cousin. It so happened that an invitation to Scythia for the whole princely family prevented them from occupying the Villa Dardanica during the first summer after its erection, and, encouraged by her temporary emancipation from the Princess’s guardianship, Ernestine herself suggested to Cyril that the changes which he had proposed in the King’s surroundings should be carried into effect at once, although the child was still only six years old. But the opportunity had gone by. The Estimates for the year had been passed without making the necessary provision for the change, other employment had been found for the elderly officer selected as the King’s governor, and nothing more could be done until the pupil attained the age of seven.
The next year, therefore, the change took place. Mrs Jones returned to England with a pension and the proud consciousness of duty done, Fräulein von Staubach resumed her old post of lectrice (the Queen hated reading aloud), a learned young Lutheran “candidate of theology” was imported to replace the venerable Herr Batzen, and King Michael contrived to learn much at the same time the necessity for outward obedience to his military tutor and the delights of tyrannising over his regiment of boys. His life was not a very arduous one, for it did not take long for his instructors to discover that his Majesty had ruled his own immediate circle so completely that it was impossible without an undignified and generally unsuccessful struggle to make him do anything that he did not wish to do. It might even be said that he had succeeded in discovering a royal road to learning, for his natural precocity and his strongly developed imitative faculty combined to enable him to pick up knowledge, whether it was of a desirable character or the reverse, with extraordinary facility.
In spite of this fairly easy life, however, the Princess of Dardania discovered that her future son-in-law was overworked. Not content with carrying him off to Praka for his summer holidays and inviting him to Bashi Konak to spend Christmas, she gave him instructions to let her know whenever his surroundings bored him or he felt that a change from his lessons would be desirable, and an invitation immediately followed. His mother protested, but in vain. If King Michael wished to stay with his cousins, stay with them he would, and Ernestine did not at first perceive that while she represented to her son law and order, the Princess and her family were becoming more and more closely identified in his mind with liking and liberty. The Court at Bellaviste was dull—none knew it better then Ernestine—but the Princess of Dardania dispensed on all but State occasions with the strict etiquette which Baroness von Hilfenstein imposed on all who came beneath her sway. In his capital the young King was necessarily surrounded by attendants and tutors, but the one condition of his visiting his cousins was that he should bring with him only the minimum number of servants and no one in authority. Again his mother remonstrated, but this time the Princess was her opponent, pointing out the benefit to the boy’s health of the freer life, the advantage to him of leading the happy outdoor life of her own boys with their father, and the humanising influences of the constant society of the Princesses Bettine and Lida. Ernestine was worsted at every point, but it was the knowledge that her boy’s wishes pointed in the same direction that induced her to submit.
“Ernestine,” said Cyril to her once, “that boy of yours is being weaned away from us. He had far rather be with your cousin and her family than here.”
“Oh, do you think so?” asked the Queen, with a sharp pang at her heart, for she had been cherishing the belief that the change which was so sadly evident to herself was invisible to others. “But it is natural that he should like to be with other young people, and he is so fond of them all.”
“He is fonder of your cousin than any of them. I hear that he sits listening to her for hours together as she talks. My dear Ernestine, is it a matter of indifference to you that another woman is stealing your son’s heart from you?”
It was a cruel question, but he was anxious to arouse her to a perception of the greatness of the emergency. She grew whiter as she answered.
“Should I make things any better by trying to detach him from his chosen friends? No; at least I am happy while he is happy.”
“He will be obliged to detach himself from them some day. This Paul and Virginia kind of life can’t go on for ever. Can’t you try to get hold of him again, Ernestine? He was absolutely devoted to you at one time—that time when you were so jealous of his being fond of me.”
“Ah, but I am growing old and grey-haired and tired,” she said wearily, “and I feel differently, too. He does love me still, but I dare not risk the loss of his love by setting myself against his friends. I have so little that I am afraid of losing everything.”
“Old? nonsense!” cried Cyril. “My dear child, I am nearly ten years older than you are, and I feel as young as ever. You are not thirty-five yet.”
“Thirty-two,” she said seriously, not perceiving that he had purposely over-estimated her age. “But I feel old. Ottilie has her husband and children—she keeps young. Surely she need not have stolen my one child from me? Oh, Cyril,” she threw out her hands towards him with a passionate gesture, “you are all I have left. Don’t forsake me.”
“Forsake you? Who ever thought of such a thing?” asked Cyril, putting his arm round her tenderly. It was one of the moments at which something (it could not have been conscience, for he prided himself on having none) asked him inconvenient questions as to his share in the hardship of this twelve years’ waiting as compared with Ernestine’s. “We have not very long to wait now, dear. In less than three years Michael will be of age.”
“Yes, but—I have become so much accustomed to this waiting that I can’t believe in happiness, Cyril. I am afraid—I feel still that even yet, if I stood in the way of your political success, you would brush me out of your path—me!”
“I think you don’t believe in me, that is very evident. Never mind; in three years’ time we will see which was right.”
“Halfan hour to wait here! Wake up, Mansfield, and don’t be so atrociously slack. We must have a little walk and stretch our legs.”
The speaker was a young Englishman, scarcely more than a boy, who had just returned from questioning the guard as the Balkan express to Vienna slowed down preparatory to entering the station at Bellaviste. His companion, the appeal to whom was emphasised by throwing a folded newspaper at his head, was a man some five years older, with “Cambridge” written all over him.
“Oh, draw it mild, Usk. What a troubled spirit you are! You know your father begged us not to set foot in Thracia if we could help it.”
“But we can’t help it. It would be a sin and an impossibility not to seize such an opportunity of getting a little fresh air. Look here; we won’t even go into the town—just trot up and down that street leading from the station. There can’t be any danger in that, for I’m not like Philippa. No middle-aged Thracian, coming across me casually, would strike an attitude in the gutter and gasp out, ‘Carlino’s child! Will your Highness graciously permit me the ineffable honour of kissing your hand?’ I might be any one, from a scion of British royalty——”
“To a junior Irish member,” said Mansfield. “I say,” as they walked down the platform, “look at the gorgeous saloon they are adding to our train. Some one very great must be expected.”
“The Thracian royalties, no doubt,” returned Usk, “on their way to this wedding at Molzau. What luck to see them! Philippa will be awfully jealous.”
“No; don’t you remember that we saw they arrived at Molzau some days ago? But it must be some one big, for look at these grave and reverend signiors who are assembling to give him a send-off. Perhaps it’s your uncle.”
“What a lark! I think we will go and annex seats in his carriage, Mansfield. It would be such a spree for the railway people to be trying to get us out, while we persisted that we couldn’t understand what they said.”
“And such a spree for you to be arrested and to have to give your name, after all Lord Caerleon’s warnings. Don’t be an ass, Usk. If you want a walk, come out.”
“Wretched dull street this,” grumbled Usk, as they tramped steadily up and down outside the station. “I suppose it’s too soon to expect the people to have begun their decorations yet for the King’s coming of age. Queer idea for a fellow to come of age at sixteen, isn’t it? I wonder how he feels when he thinks of this day fortnight—whether he is much cocked-up about it. I say, do you happen to have observed that this place is acafé? Let’s sit down and refresh the inner man.”
They took their seats at one of the little tables outside, and were welcomed with enthusiasm by the proprietor, who proved able to understand their German and also to make them understand his. Business was slack just at this hour, and he remained to talk to them while they drank their coffee, observing artlessly that it was not often that two honourable foreign gentlemen honoured his house with a visit. The street was beginning to fill now, and Usk and his friend gained a good deal of information as to the national costumes and the callings pursued by their various wearers. But it was not long before their attention was distracted by the appearance of an old man, for whom, as he was drawn slowly along in a bath-chair, the crowd everywhere made way respectfully. His hair and his bushy moustache were snow-white, but the eyes, which flashed a suspicious glance at the two Englishmen, were full of life.
“Who is that?” asked Usk of the landlord, when the old man passed.
“Is it possible that the honourable gentleman does not know? That is the great patriot, Milos Drakovics.”
“Drakovics!” said Usk and Mansfield together, rising to look after the bath-chair, and the elder man added meditatively, “It’s a case of ‘Under his hoary eyebrows still flashed forth quenchless rage,’ isn’t it? One wouldn’t care to stand in that old man’s path even now.”
“The honourable gentlemen are fortunate in being able to get such a good view of the Liberator of Thracia, since they have never seen him before,” observed the landlord. “Of late years he has been in bad health, and has lived on his estates at Praka, in the provinces, but no doubt he has come to Bellaviste to be present at the King’s coming of age. The festivities will take place in a fortnight, and it would be impossible to hold them with Drakovics absent. The honourable gentlemen are come to Bellaviste to view the ceremony?”
“No, we are merely passengers by the express,” said Mansfield. “Surely M. Drakovics has come up from the country a little early?”
“Ah, no doubt he needs time to recover from the fatigue of the journey. But I must say it surprises me that he should be here to witness the departure of his Excellency the Premier to attend the royal marriage at Molzau. From all that is said, there is no love lost between them.”
“Ah, the Premier—that is Count Mortimer, surely?” asked Usk, adding in English to Mansfield, “Now we shall have a chance of seeing my uncle as others see him. He is an Englishman, is he not?” he asked in German.
“That is so. A countryman of the honourable gentleman’s, I make no doubt?”
“Yes, we are English. Is Count Mortimer popular?”
“Ah, there you puzzle me, honourable sir. His Excellency is universally recognised as the greatest statesman in the Balkans—some say in Eastern Europe—and any measure advised by him is as good as carried already. But popular—no, I think not. His Excellency is a man without friends. At one time, so they say, he was often at the British Legation, and enjoyed himself occasionally among his own countrymen there; but years ago—when he became Premier, indeed—he broke off this habit. No doubt he felt that he must now become altogether a Thracian, and not risk the discovery of his plans by any foreigner, even one of his own people, in the hours of social intercourse. It is the same with his subordinates, who respect him while they fear him, but do not love him. Those who do their duty are well paid and liberally rewarded, but they say that Count Mortimer never hesitates to sacrifice a man for the sake of a scheme. That gives a feeling of insecurity, as the honourable gentleman no doubt sees? It is a very fine thing to have a share in setting the current of European policy, but not so fine for one’s dead body to be used as a stone in the embankment that determines its course—even at the will of his Excellency. And the common people do not like him because he does not care either for their applause or their disapproval, and also because—the honourable gentleman will not misunderstand me?—he has no vices. Drakovics every one knew. He would come down to the Hôtel de Ville and explain his policy and carry the people with him. He was violent often, and they said unscrupulous—he did not object to make money occasionally, he took his glass of brandy when he wanted it—but he was a man whom other men could understand. Count Mortimer is mysterious—not like a man at all. He lives on politics, he never unbends. Everything he says or does is directed to some end, like the movements of a machine, and produces, as surely as the machine does, the intended effect, but he never explains anything. He cares as little for hooting as for cheering, and as little for his supporters as for his opponents. Now you shall see. Here he comes.”