“One would scarcely have anticipated,” he said, “that the people would so enthusiastically support the new King without once asking what were the views of the old Minister.”
“Why, what could you expect?” said Cyril. “You introduced the Bill; naturally they thought you approved of it.”
“They took it for granted,” said M. Drakovics. “The King is now everything; I have only to execute his orders.”
“Yes,” said Cyril, “you meant him to be figure-head, and he insists on steering. It must be slightly disconcerting.”
“You laugh at me, milord? I would ask you to remember that cases have been known in history in which a Minister who has raised a King to power has also deprived him of it.”
“And other cases in which the King has dispensed with the services of the Minister,” said Cyril, quickly. “I will back my reminiscences against yours, M. Drakovics. But it is foolish to go on quoting modern instances in this way, especially when you remember that Caerleon doesn’t care a straw whether you deprive him of the kingdom or not. You have done your best for the Bill, and laid my brother under an obligation. You can’t do without him, nor he without you; so don’t let us hear any more about dethroning kings and that sort of thing. It’s very bad form to talk to me in that way, at any rate, and I don’t like it. We shall rub along together very well if we are willing to give and take on both sides. And to cheer you, I’ll tell you something that will please you. I shouldn’t wonder if Caerleon has done a very good stroke of business in getting this Bill passed.”
“A good stroke for himself? Naturally so.”
“And for the kingdom too. Here is a regular assemblage of English papers which has just come in, and I have been looking through them to see how our proceedings are regarded. Our own men, poor beggars! are waiting for an authoritative pronouncement from the Government before saying anything; though it is easy to see that they consider Caerleon a rather dangerous lunatic at large. But the Radical papers, from which I was anticipating floods of eloquence, are checked in their wild career, most of them, by this Liquor Bill. They are nearly all committed to temperance reform at home, and they positively can’t slate the first man that’s courageous enough to try it, even if he is defying their dearly beloved Scythia. Of course their cry is for absolute prohibition; but none of them have been able to get so near it as even to bring about the adoption of the Scandinavian system, and though they scout the idea of compensation as unnecessary, they can’t help respecting a man who sacrifices a third of his civil list to form a fund for buying up licences. The non-temperance papers are rabid, naturally. Caerleon is a faddist, and a Puritan, and an Exeter Hall autocrat, and all the rest of it. In ‘Mendacity,’ Dickinson calmly—or rather frantically—demands that he should be impeached, not for his temperance legislation, of course, but for poaching on Scythia’s preserves. Rather a fine idea to impeach the king of a foreign country, whom you can’t possibly get hold of, isn’t it?”
“Then the English papers have awakened to a knowledge of our proceedings at last?” said M. Drakovics, with rather a sickly smile. “The Government has given no indication of its policy as yet, I suppose?”
“No,” returned Cyril; “but I think there is a storm brewing.”
“Ah!” said M. Drakovics, quickly. “Why?”
“On account of the extraordinary number of letters which have come for Caerleon from different family friends, old comrades of my father’s, and so on. The Master of his college has written, and the Bishop of Carsfield—who was head of Eton in our day—and a good many others whose names carry weight; and all their letters are in the same strain, begging him to reconsider the step he has taken, and return to England at once, while he has the chance. No doubt the Powers have begun to see that it’s all very well to send notes to St James’s demanding that Caerleon shall be recalled, but that St James’s has no power in the matter. If the Government had sent him out, it might recall him; but he came on his own initiative, and it would only be courting a rebuff to order him back if he wouldn’t come. Our men are too wise to lay themselves open to such a slight, but all the moral influence they can exercise unofficially will be brought to bear.”
“Ah!” said M. Drakovics again.
“For instance,” Cyril went on, “here is a long screed from Forfar, writing, as he says, not as leader of the party, but as a personal friend of Caerleon’s. That’s all very well; but it’s quite evident that the letter is a private warning from him and the Duke——”
“What Duke?” asked M. Drakovics.
“His brother-in-law, the Duke of Old Sarum, of course,” said Cyril, impatiently. “He entreats Caerleon to withdraw from Thracia immediately, and hints how very painful it would be for the Government to be forced to take action against him. He says that he has broken through strict official usage in sending him this friendly warning, and earnestly trusts he will accept it. After this they must act as they find necessary, and he will have to take the consequences. That last little touch of menace is the Duke’s, I know.”
“And what does the King say? Will he take the advice proffered by all these old friends and kind people?” asked M. Drakovics, anxiously.
“Rather not!” laughed Cyril. “He means to stick to you and Thracia. No; there’s only one thing that would uproot him, I think. If Forfar and the Duke had the sense to get a certain Person to write to him and request him as a favour to abdicate, and not to imperil the peace of Europe——”
“I see,” said M. Drakovics, “you mean the——”
“There is no need to mention names,” said Cyril. “I merely say that I am afraid Caerleon’s chivalry would incline him to follow the advice of a Person in such a position, and with so much experience.”
“But have they tried the expedient?” asked M. Drakovics, looking anxiously at the heap of papers on the table, as though he expected the letter of the Illustrious Personage to arrive by the ordinary post, bearing a 2½d. stamp.
“Not they!” said Cyril. “A bold, picturesque dash like that is quite undreamt of in their philosophy. But I will tell you what I have here—two more warnings. One is from a man who was at Pavelsburg with me. This is what he says: ‘Dear Cill,Que diable fait ton frère dans cette galère? If you will take a straight tip, get him out of it as quickly as you can. I say this for auld lang syne.’ The other is from Mrs Sadleir—not a letter, simply a sentence underlined in one of these precious newspapers—‘If he is wise, the so-called King will do his best to obtain recognition from Roum as soon as possible.’”
“Exactly,” said M. Drakovics, with a ghastly smile, “and my news this morning is that there is a hitch in our negotiations with Roum. Our agent at Czarigrad has been refused an audience, while a special Scythian mission was received with peculiar warmth.”
“Ah!” said Cyril, “and if the recognition is refused, you are a rebel, and Caerleon and I are filibusters. Decidedly, in such a case as this, nothing succeedsbutsuccess.Allons, monsieur! we are all in the same boat, and we may as well stick to the ship. It is possible that the Grand Signior was only trying to put Scythia off the scent. If it is so, we shall see. If not——”
The sentence was left unfinished as M. Drakovics departed shaking his head, and Cyril returned to his work of writing answers to his brother’s correspondents. He had no further private conversation with the Premier until one morning several days later, when M. Drakovics entered the office in great excitement.
“Milord, we are lost! Our agent at Czarigrad telegraphs that the recognition is definitely refused. There is arapprochementbetween Scythia and Pannonia—the Emperors have met. Secret negotiations are proceeding among the Powers, and the British Government is understood to have decided to remain neutral. There is only one thing that can save Thracia. His Majesty must marry the Princess Ottilie of Mœsia.”
“Indeed!” said Cyril. “What good will that do?”
“Everything. The King of Mœsia is the nephew of the Grand Duke of Schwarzwald-Molzau, and that house is connected with every reigning family in Europe. Moreover, the King, so I learn from my correspondent at Eusebia, would like the match. The Queen wishes her daughter to marry the Prince of Dardania, but he objects to him, and has more than hinted that he would prefer a son-in-law from Thracia. Again, we can offer an inducement. There is a strip of territory on our Mœsian frontier which has been ours since the last war. The people are really Mœsians by race, and give us more trouble than all our Thracians put together; but we have held fast to the territory, knowing that it would be useful as aquid pro quoin case we were ever desirous of obtaining a concession from Mœsia. The King would give anything to have it back, and in exchange for it we shall gain the strongest family alliance we could propose, and the help of Mœsia and the Mœsian army in case of war.”
“There seems to be a good deal of thequid pro quoin your philosophy,” said Cyril. “The difficulty will be to make Caerleon come into the scheme. How are you going to get him to propose?”
“There is no need for his Majesty to conduct the preliminary negotiations in person,” said M. Drakovics, drily. “I have already telegraphed to Eusebia instructing our agent to make formal proposals to the King for the hand of the Princess.”
“And this without telling Caerleon?” cried Cyril in astonishment. “Well, I don’t envy you when you try to break the news to him. If he kicks you down-stairs, don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”
“But it is you that will be kicked, milord, not I,” said M. Drakovics, calmly. “His Majesty is your charge, the kingdom is mine,—that is our agreement, as you know. I have done my part in this affair by setting on foot negotiations which will ensure the safety of the kingdom. It falls to you to bring his Majesty to acquiesce in them.”
Caught in his own trap in this way, Cyril passed a very bad quarter of an hour with M. Drakovics. The elder man was resolute, the younger furious—the ground of his fury being not so much the nature of the Premier’s action as the fact that he had taken it without consulting him. That M. Drakovics had exceeded his powers and got into a scrape, and was now looking to him to save him from the consequences, was Cyril’s view of the case; but as often as he urged it M. Drakovics replied with perfect calmness that it had been necessary to act immediately, and that if he had consulted Cyril the latter would have hesitated to agree without first sounding his brother, a course which would have destroyed all hope of success. Finally, M. Drakovics, with a cool obstinacy which showed Cyril another reason for his being called the Bismarck instead of the Kossuth of the Balkans, reiterated his demand that Cyril should undertake to acquaint Caerleon with the part it was desired that he should play.
“You see, milord,” he observed, frankly, “if the King was angry with me, and lost his temper so far as to address me rudely, or even, perhaps, to attempt to strike me, I am bound to resent it, for I represent Thracia. I should feel compelled to resign, and then Thracia is lost. But you are different, and, moreover, you are better acquainted than I am with his Majesty’s character, and the best way of approaching him on such a delicate matter.”
“It strikes me that my valour is the better part of your discretion,” said Cyril; “but there is something in what you say. Don’t imagine that I shall spare you, though. I quite see that Caerleon ought to marry this Mœsia girl—in fact, that it will probably make all the difference between success and a big smash if he does—but I don’t think you have acted on the square. You needn’t blame me if you are out of office this evening. Well, now to beard the lion in his den. It may as well be done at once, before an ecstatic telegram arrives from King Johann Casimir, welcoming his proposed son-in-law to his kingdom and his heart.”
M. Drakovics smiled to see Cyril pause in front of one of the mirrors in the corridor as he spoke, and rearrange his tie, which had become twisted in the heat of the argument; but when he saw him put his hands in his pockets and lounge idly into Caerleon’s study he understood him better. Cyril’srôlewas to be that of absolute innocence.
Caerleon was sitting at his writing-table, busied with the reports and telegrams from Thracian agents at the various European Courts which M. Drakovics had brought for his consideration, taking care to abstract the one from Eusebia. He looked up as Cyril came in.
“Have you heard of the different blows which are about to fall on us?” he said. “Things look pretty black.”
“Oh yes, Drakovics has been telling me about them,” returned Cyril. “I hear that you are to act Curtius, and throw yourself into the gulf.”
“By abdicating? Has Drakovics come to that already? I haven’t. I don’t mean to give up Thracia without a little fighting, unless they can find a better man whom the people will accept.”
“Something much more heroic than abdicating. There is a lady in the case. Marriage is the gulf.”
“Then I fear the gulf will remain unfilled,” said Caerleon, turning back to his papers.
“Oh, that’s all fudge. You know it’s the only thing to be done.”
“There’s no need to discuss the subject,” said Caerleon, coldly. “You know what I feel about it.”
“But what is the good of wearing the willow all your life——?”
“I have already said that I decline to discuss the subject with you,” said Caerleon, and Cyril saw that in speaking calmly he was putting a very strong constraint upon himself. He changed his tone instantly.
“Oh, very well. Of course I have no right to complain if you tell Drakovics things you won’t tell me. Still, it’s rather rough on a man.”
“What do you mean? You know perfectly well that nothing is further from my thoughts than to discuss my private affairs with Drakovics.”
“Oh, I suppose you call this a public affair,” returned Cyril, with the air of a man who has neither time nor inclination for such nice distinctions. “I don’t want to appear inquisitive, but perhaps you’ll let me know the day when it’s fixed?”
“Cyril, are you mad? or is this a particularly feeble joke? Tell me what you are driving at.”
“Of course it’s no business of mine,” Cyril went on, unheeding; “but when you have gone so far as to authorise Drakovics to make proposals in your name for the hand of a lady, I think I might have been told.”
“I send a proposal? and through Drakovics? You must be dreaming. Who is the lady?”
“Princess Ottilie of Mœsia.”
“A girl I have never spoken to in my life!” Caerleon’s tone was one of hopeless bewilderment.
“Oh yes, you have. You danced with her at the State ball two years ago, when the Mœsias visited England, don’t you remember? The King looked on and smiled approvingly, and the chaperons began to put their heads together and discuss seriously the best way of preventing foreign royalties from carrying off the biggest things in the marriage market. I believe they came to the conclusion that no princess ought ever to be allowed to marry a subject. With princes it was different, of course. You can’t have forgotten?”
“I remember her—a black-eyed, rather bouncing girl. But you don’t mean,” and Caerleon grew hot and cold as the recollection came back to him of the chaff he had endured from his friends on account of the unmistakable favour shown him by the royal guests,—“you don’t mean that they are on the track of that foolery again? They must be made to understand at once that it’s absolutely impossible. You never believed it?”
“I was very glad to hear it.”
“What! when you know that it’s less than a month since I asked Nadia O’Malachy to marry me, and that I would willingly chuck up the kingdom to-day if she would only take me?”
“I hoped,” said Cyril, deliberately, “that you regarded that affair as over and done with, and were intending to sacrifice your private feelings and do the best thing for the country.”
“You thought I was intending to be a scoundrel?”
“Iwishyou would not be melodramatic,” said Cyril, pathetically. “Here we are, between the devil, which is Scythia, and the deep sea of the neutrality of the other Powers, and you have the chance of settling everything on a firm foundation by marrying a very handsome girl belonging to one of the oldest houses in Europe. I am not given to preaching, but I do say that it would be a sin not to sacrifice your feelings in such a case, and marry her. The marriage would simply be the making of you and Thracia both.”
“I—will—not—do—it,” said Caerleon, forcing out the words slowly.
“As for Miss O’Malachy,” went on Cyril, “I give her credit for possessing much too good sense to wish to keep you a bachelor all your life for her sake. If you were to consult her, I am sure she would wish you to make a suitable marriage. In fact, I should think she has probably advised you already to do so.” The blow told, for Caerleon winced at the remembrance of the advice which it had been almost harder for him to hear from her lips than for Nadia to give. “She knew perfectly well what she was doing when she refused you. It meant that you were each to go your own way in the future, with no thought of the other. If you don’t marry, it will be thought you still have hopes of her.”
“And what is it to you if I have?” demanded Caerleon, so fiercely that Cyril jumped. He could not think of anything to say, and presently Caerleon resumed in a quieter tone, “But I have none. She put me on my honour to stick to the kingdom, and so long as I am king she will have nothing to do with me.”
“I knew she was a sensible woman!” said Cyril, triumphantly. “Now, Caerleon, let me advise you to take this thing quietly. See Princess Ottilie. You haven’t an idea what she is really like, and you may find her very like Miss O’Malachy——” (“I hope to goodness he won’t!” he added to himself), “or she may catch your heart at the rebound, or you may fall head over ears in love with her, and find that you really mistook your feelings last time——”
“I am so sure of my feelings,” interrupted Caerleon, “that I won’t pretend to run after another girl for anything you can offer me.”
“Then I should like to know what you mean to do,” said Cyril. “It’s not a private and personal matter; it is to save your kingdom.”
“Hang the kingdom!” cried Caerleon. “I won’t sell myself for the sake of Thracia. If I can’t be king and be a gentleman, let the kingdom go.”
“If you would only listen for a moment!” sighed Cyril. “This is what I was going to say. Take no further steps of any kind, and leave everything to Drakovics. Things can be formally arranged without your going near the girl, and the mere fact that the preliminaries are settled will do all we want. Once we are past this crisis, and Scythia and Pannonia have quarrelled again, you can pay a visit to Eusebia, and make yourself so disgustingly disagreeable that the Princess will be bound to throw you over.”
“Of all the shabby tricks!” cried Caerleon, pushing back his chair violently. “I declare, Cyril, if I didn’t know you were joking, I’d kick you out of the room. Entrap a girl into a bogus engagement for the sake of gaining a political advantage, indeed!”
“I only wish you had displayed a little of this aggressive virtue before,” said Cyril. “You quite gave Drakovics to understand, when he first offered you the crown, that you were prepared to fall in with his views on matrimony, and he has merely been acting upon that.”
“On the contrary, I disagreed with his ideas even then,” said Caerleon; “and if I hadn’t, what has happened since would have put my adopting them out of the question. You ought to know that. But perhaps it was you that put Drakovics up to this business about Princess Ottilie?” turning upon him sharply.
“No, on my honour,” said Cyril, eagerly, relieved at being able to deny with perfect truth this direct accusation. “Drakovics is a Spartan sort of fellow, and I suppose he thinks that as soon as you are off with the old love you may as well be on with a new. It’s his own idea altogether.”
“I beg your pardon, old man,” said Caerleon. “Everything is so crooked in this wretched place that I was even beginning to suspect you. But I am glad you had nothing to do with it. Just telephone to Drakovics to come up at once, will you?”
“Why?” asked Cyril, standing before the tube, lest his brother should resent his hesitation and insist on using it himself.
“That he may explain to the King of Mœsia that he has made a mistake, of course.”
“But, Caerleon, you can’t do things in that way!” cried Cyril. “Think of the girl! Why, the news is public property by this time, all over Europe, and there isn’t a soul that won’t believe but that you have found out something against her that has made you change your mind.”
“Then I will disown Drakovics’s action, and say that he acted without my authority.”
“Then he will resign, and you will lose the only man who possesses the confidence of the people, and can support you to any purpose at this juncture. You can’t do it, Caerleon. Besides, that again is a nasty one for the girl. Won’t you see her? No one can tell what might happen then.”
“If I see her, I shall simply tell her the whole story,” said Caerleon, grimly. “She will have no wish to marry me after that.”
“Let me tell her about the matter for you,” suggested Cyril.
“No, thank you,” returned his brother. “I have a pretty fair idea of the way you would speak of it—as a youthful indiscretion, of which I was ashamed. And I am not ashamed. I should be the proudest man on earth if Nadia were to be crowned with me this day two months.”
“Very well,” sighed Cyril. “I suppose if you will make an ass of yourself, you must. We are to arrange, then, for a personal interview, in the course of which you will, in so many words, refuse to marry Princess Ottilie?”
“There’s no occasion to do anything so rude. I shall simply tell her the truth, and leave it to her to refuse me. Or I’ll write to her. Yes, that’s much the best plan. It will save time and a lot of difficulty.”
“But you can’t!” cried Cyril, with his hand on the door. “Do you mean to write to a girl who hasn’t even accepted you, and tell her you won’t marry her? No, you must see her, as you say, and explain things. I’ll manage to get you an interview somehow, though it’s against my better judgment.”
“Be quick, then,” cried Caerleon after him, as he went out, “for if there’s any delay, I shall write to her myself.”
“Well?” asked M. Drakovics, anxiously, when Cyril appeared in his office. “How did his Majesty receive the news?”
“As badly as you could wish. He won’t hear of marrying Princess Ottilie, and wanted to telegraph his views at once to Eusebia. However, I have got him to consent to see the lady, so that the honour of refusing him may rest with her, and if we play our cards well, that ought to give us all we want.”
“How?” asked M. Drakovics, quickly.
“It will gain us time and a favourable impression, and if we can once succeed in separating Scythia and Pannonia, we ought certainly to be able to prevent their coming together again.”
“Undoubtedly we ought to be able to manage that. But how do you propose to bring about a coolness between them?”
“The coolness will come of its own accord fast enough when it is understood that Caerleon is going to marry Princess Ottilie, for the Empress of Pannonia was one of the Schwarzwald-Molzaus, and they always stick together. Our business, therefore, is to produce the impression, even if it is only a temporary one, that he is going to marry her.”
“Right!” said M. Drakovics, emphatically. “And your method?”
“We are to consider it settled, I suppose, that the King of Mœsia will take kindly to the idea? Very well; then as soon as his answer is received, you must telegraph to inquire whether he will give a private audience to a confidential envoy of the highest rank, in order to discuss matters connected with the proposed marriage. He is pretty safe to consent, and then either you or I must go to Eusebia.”
“But why?”
“In reality to arrange for this interview which is to end everything. But if the European public chooses to regard the mission in a different light, we cannot help it.”
“Ah!” said M. Drakovics. “But you must go. I dare not leave Bellaviste at this juncture. I cannot trust the townspeople.”
“Never mind,” said Cyril, “I will go. It will look even better, as it is a family matter. There is no need to wait for King Johann’s answer before making our preparations. If you will set about having relays of horses got ready for me at all the posting-stations, I shall be able to start as soon as things are settled.”
“And you will not have to go as far as Eusebia,” said M. Drakovics. “The King and Queen and Court are at Herzensruh, a country-seat which is only a few miles from our own frontier. Your idea is excellent, and yet—! Without a doubt, it would be still more effective if only we could produce the impression that the King himself was comingincognitoto plead his own cause. I suppose it would be impossible for you to personate him?”
“Considering that there is just eight inches’ difference between our heights, and that the King and Queen and Princess all know him by sight, it is probable that it would,” said Cyril. “But, believe me, monsieur, my visit will serve our views better than any romantic journey Caerleon himself could make.”
“What do you intend to say to King Johann?” asked M. Drakovics.
“My cue will be this. Caerleon is a very modest and retiring fellow, with an exaggerated idea of his own defects. He has been horrified to discover that proposals have been made for his marriage without his having had any opportunity of consulting privately the wishes of the Princess——”
“I see,” said M. Drakovics. “You may lay as much blame on me as you like,” he added, magnanimously. “I am a statesman, a plain man of business, knowing nothing of the subtleties of love-making, you perceive?”
“Precisely. Well, Caerleon cannot bring himself to believe that the Princess would be willing to accept him if she knew what he was really like. A ballroom acquaintance does not seem to him to form a sufficient foundation for a happy marriage, and he is afraid that his character and tastes might not attract the young lady’s fancy. This distressing diffidence is making his life such a burden to him, that I am sent to see whether a meeting between the young people cannot be arranged before anything irrevocable is settled. Of course, when the interview has once taken place, all will come right. It would be treason to the Princess to think otherwise. You see, if it is properly put, it is rather complimentary to her than not.”
“Yes; but then the meeting will destroy everything.”
“But we shall have done what we wanted, and you may be sure I will mention as late a date for it as possible. And I don’t despair of squaring Princess Ottilie. Caerleon has agreed to abide by her decision, and if she won’t consent to refuse him, he must marry her. There’s no doubt that if he told his story to King Johann, he would simply laugh at it, and the Princess might possibly do the same. But that must depend on any chance I may get of speaking to her alone. Where is the meeting to be?”
“There need be no difficulty about that. We have several matters in dispute with Dardania, and it has long been agreed that King Carlino and the Prince of Dardania should meet and talk them over under the excuse of a hunting-party. Now, our frontiers meet those of Mœsia and Dardania at a spot only three or four miles from Herzensruh, and it will be the easiest possible thing for the Mœsian royal family to arrange for an interview at the same time. The date and the exact details you will of course decide.”
“All right,” said Cyril; “but isn’t it rather a pity to have the Prince of Dardania knocking about on such a delicate occasion? He might be inclined to spoil sport.”
“Pooh!” cried M. Drakovics; “he may try, but he will not succeed. What chance has a prince when a king is in the way? All women are dazzled by a crown, and the Queen and her daughter will be the very first to scorn him.”
“Very conveniently for us,” said Cyril. “Well, we will consider that settled. Now for another highly important matter. The whole thing must be carried through with exaggerated secrecy, and yet the secret must leak out, do you see? or we shall have all our trouble for nothing.”
“Certainly,” said M. Drakovics. “A whisper to my agents on the various Bourses of Europe will ensure its dissemination.”
“Whispers are apt to be overheard,” said Cyril, “and I have a better plan. You remember Hicks, the American who gave us so much trouble over the O’Malachy business? Well, it so happens that he is spending two or three days here now after going to Bashi Konak and back. I met him last night, and he tried to pump me and find out how his Majesty was getting over his disappointment. Of course I told him nothing, only shook my head and looked knowing, and intimated that I could make startling revelations an if I would; but that is a good foundation for our business now.”
“And you knew nothing at that time of all this!” said M. Drakovics, with reluctant admiration.
“Of course not; but I was not going to give myself away by saying so. What would become of diplomacy if a man said plainly when he knew nothing about a thing? Hicks is going to be as good as a news-agency to us, but he will have to find out everything for himself. You understand?”
“I am deeply interested, milord. Pray proceed.”
“Well, in the evening you will bring out a special Gazette with an official announcement that the rumours which have been lately in circulation as to arapprochementbetween us and Mœsia are wholly premature and unauthorised. Of course there are no rumours whatever, but that is a detail. There will be some soon enough after thiscommuniqué, and it will stir Hicks up. Then, when it is dark, I will send down our English groom to the Hôtel Occidental, to inquire whether they can let us have two horses that are good for a hard long-distance ride next morning. We could use our own horses, naturally, but there would be no publicity in that. He will not say where they are to go, but he will hint mysteriously at a country not far to the west of us, and he will obstinately refuse to state who is going to travel. After that, I think it will be surprising if Mr Hicks doesn’t hire a window overlooking the west gate, and sit up all night to see the start.”
“And then?”
“I shall take only Wright with me, but you will accompany me to the gate, mentioning loud enough to be heard that the relays of horses are ready all the way. I shall be muffled up, as though to escape recognition; but when I am abreast of Hicks the muffler will slip for a moment—quite accidentally, of course—and he will just catch a glimpse of my face. That will be enough for him, and the news will be all over Europe by the evening. I only rely on you to take no further steps without consulting me, and to keep any papers which speak of the marriage as a certainty out of Caerleon’s way until I return.”
“But are you able to undertake so long a ride, milord?”
“Oh, I shall do it somehow. The more dead tired I am the better the impression will be—haste and eagerness so intense, you know, and all that sort of thing. Besides, I shall take it out of Caerleon a little. He will be horribly cut up when he finds that I have undergone so much fatigue just out of tenderness for his scruples, and it ought to make him easier to manage in future. Riding hard all the way, I should be back in three days. That is quite long enough to give him a fright.”
“Milord,” said M. Drakovics, with deep conviction, “I am more and more thankful that it is your brother, and not you, who is King of Thracia. Hitherto I have bemoaned my hard fate in having to manage a man with a conscience; but I perceive now that compared with a man without one he is simplicity itself to deal with.”
“Isn’t that pretty good, from you to me?” asked Cyril with slow scorn, and the Premier shrugged his shoulders and spread forth his hands deprecatingly as he bowed himself out.
If the interests of strict morality are to be considered, it would have been well that the several portions of Cyril’s scheme should not have met with the complete success which actually attended them. The appearance of the special Gazette with its enigmatical announcement created a great sensation in the city, which was heightened by the fact that the alarming foreign news of the morning had been eagerly noised abroad by Scythian sympathisers among the townspeople. Wright performed his business at the Hôtel Occidental with the most appropriate woodenness of manner, stoutly refusing to be drawn into any clear statement as to the intended destination of the travellers, but giving the necessary hints with an extensive facial contortion which he denominated a wink. Things had fallen out so well that Cyril felt a good deal of pleasurable excitement as he walked through the silent streets in the autumn twilight of the next morning but one, wondering whether Mr Hicks would be equal to the occasion. The King of Mœsia had replied with effusion, both to the first overtures made by M. Drakovics, and to the later telegram respecting the envoy, and the energetic sending of messages backwards and forwards, the news of which had in some way penetrated to the town, had heightened the popular excitement. The horses were waiting at the west gate, under charge of a mounted police official who was to escort the travellers during the first stage of their journey, and there was a little crowd of inquisitive citizens gathered at no great distance. A thrill of triumph ran through Cyril as he recognised among them the sallow face and scanty beard of the American, and he rejoiced that virtue should not be its own sole reward in the case of Mr Hicks’s early rising. He had muffled his throat and the lower part of his face in a silk scarf, and turned up his collar, and as he mounted his horse it was easy to let the scarf slip for a moment, which was all that the journalist required. He went back to the hotel with a sensation in his note-book, and Cyril rode away on his quest cheered by a pleasing consciousness of success.
Prior to this day’s experiences, Wright had always entertained a deep-rooted conviction that Lord Cyril’s horsemanship was far inferior to that of his brother, both as regarded skill and endurance; but now he was compelled to admit that he rode “like a Trojan,” whatever that vague but evidently expressive comparison might mean. With short halts for food and change of horses, they rode on hour after hour, being handed over by their first guide to a second, and so on at every stage, and arriving at Schloss Herzensruh late at night. Cyril found himself intrusted to the care of the master of the household, who treated him with breathless consideration, and intimated that he would be admitted in the morning to an intensely private and confidential interview with King Johann, and be allowed to depart early, so as to avoid comment. The King of Mœsia had not Cyril’s reasons for desiring an unauthorised publicity for the object of his errand, and the envoy congratulated himself that he had not trusted to the enterprise of Mœsian journalists.
Morning came, and Cyril was conducted with extreme precaution to the King’s private room, where there was a secretary on guard at the door, and a stalwart gamekeeper outside the window. Secrecy having been ensured by this means, King Johann greeted his guest with delight, and proceeded to lay bare to him his mind and the state of feeling in his kingdom far more thoroughly than he had any idea of doing. The impression that he produced on Cyril was that of a fussy, nervous man, half elated by the fact of his having emancipated himself from his wife’s control, and half afraid of the consequences. Throughout their married life it had always been his custom to follow her advice, and his kingdom had flourished exceedingly, until a few months before, when the little rift within the lute had originated in the double question of the marriage of Princess Ottilie, the only child of the royal couple, and the succession to the crown. The constitution of Mœsia did not allow a female to occupy the throne, and there was therefore no question of the Princess’s bringing that perilous dowry to her future husband; but while her mother wished her to marry the Prince of Dardania, a distant connection of her own, the King was prepared to allow her to marry any one else, but not the Prince. The reason for this difference of opinion was to be found in the fact that there was a strong party, both in the Mœsian Legislature and in the country, who desired the selection of Prince Alexis as their future ruler, anticipating that, when united with Dardania, the kingdom of Mœsia would be strong enough to strike awe even into her triumphant rival Thracia. The members of this party were most anxious for the marriage, and the Queen supported them with the calm determination which had always hitherto had its due weight with her more hasty husband; but some time after the affair had been considered as settled, its course was interrupted by an alien influence, wielded by the King’s uncle, the reigning Grand-Duke of Schwarzwald-Molzau. He had always regarded the kingdom of Mœsia as a snug preserve for one of the many cadets of his house, and it did not suit him at all that his plans should be crossed. Emissaries from Molzau were despatched to Mœsia, the King was invited to revisit the cradle of his race, and both there and in his own court he was cajoled, threatened, flattered, and bribed until he refused his consent to the projected marriage. The Queen was at first incredulous,—it seemed impossible that her power could have vanished with such suddenness; but the Schwarzwald-Molzaus had parted husband and wife only too effectually, and an armed neutrality now existed between them.
This was the state of affairs in Mœsia, when M. Drakovics replied to King Johann’s half-veiled hints as to the desirability of a closer alliance between the two kingdoms by the formal demand of Princess Ottilie’s hand for Caerleon—a demand which the monarch had hastened with somewhat unkingly eagerness to grant. With the Princess safely married to some one else, the Prince of Dardania would be deprived of one of the chief influences on which he relied for support in his candidature for the throne, while there was no fear that the Mœsians would ever elect Caerleon as their sovereign. The mutual hatred between Mœsia and Thracia was far too great for the two nations to consent to be united under any circumstances, and this left the way clear for the formal adoption by the reigning sovereign, and subsequent accession to the Mœsian throne, of one of the younger princes of the house of Schwarzwald-Molzau.
The first question of importance to be discussed between King Johann and his guest was that of the treaty, as to the provisions of which the King was nervously anxious. In fact, he was depending upon the acquisition of the disputed strip of country as a means of reconciling his subjects to the Thracian alliance, and preventing their mourning over the discomfiture of their favourite, Prince Alexis. Hence, although he heard it with wonder, he accepted with avidity the suggestion which Cyril had arranged with M. Drakovics should be made. In order to avoid the unpleasant savour of a bargain, in which the Princess would be handed over in return for the tract of land, the treaty respecting the disputed territory was to be drawn up and signed before any public announcement was made as to the marriage. The King did not appear to consider that it was less objectionable for his daughter to act as a seal upon the treaty than as an equivalent in it; but he grasped eagerly at the offer, and Cyril, who had been representing in the highest possible light the delicacy of his brother’s feelings, and the absolute certainty of his refusing to countenance anything in the nature of a bargain, heaved a sigh of unfeigned relief.
“This gives us a hold on the old fellow if the wedding doesn’t come off after all,” he thought, while the King was hugging himself in the idea that he had just achieved one of the most astute strokes of policy of modern times. It was agreed that the treaty should be signed as soon as it could be formally drawn up, and when King Johann suggested that this ratification might well take place at a personal meeting of the two sovereigns on the disputed territory, Cyril found the necessary opening for imparting the real object of his journey. The King listened in astonishment as he unfolded his story of Caerleon’s excessive humility, and his determination to consult the wishes of the Princess before he would consider himself engaged to her.
“But this is abs—romantic!” cried the King. “It is a piece of the Middle Ages. Naturally the girl will accept him when she has been instructed to do so. Why should she not? His fears are preposterous.”
“That is exactly my own view, sir,” said Cyril, in the tone of one whose endurance had been taxed to the utmost; “but I regret to say that I cannot enforce it upon my brother. However, after what your Majesty has just said of the docile disposition of her Royal Highness, I hope the matter will prove to be merely a form.”
“There is no doubt of that,” said the king, hastily. “If the King of Thracia is bent upon taking this course I must allow it, although he will find it a very bad precedent,—undermining his authority, admitting doubts as to his power, and so on. But I will give my daughter her orders, and the Queen and she both know by this time that it will be the worse for her if she does not obey.”
The irrepressible triumph which animated these words betrayed the exultation of the weak-minded man who had gained a victory over a strong-minded woman; but Cyril discreetly took no notice of the tone, wondering only whether the King had intended to conduct his daughter by main force to the altar, and whether he imagined his auditor to be labouring under the delusion that the marriage would be a voluntary one on the part of Princess Ottilie. It was agreed that the important interview should take place the day after the signing of the treaty, at a hunting-party to be given by the King at Schloss Herzensruh, the previous day’s business having been conducted on the strip of territory which belonged at present to Thracia, but which would pass to Mœsia by the treaty. This settled, the King rose, and signed to Cyril to accompany him.
“Now that is all arranged, I will present you to the Queen and the Princess,” he said; and Cyril, divining that the presentation was intended as a token of defiance to the Queen, followed him from the room with lively interest as he marched across the corridor and entered by the door which a servant threw open.
“This is the Lord Cyril Mortimer, brother and envoy extraordinary of the King of Thracia,” announced King Johann, in a voice which was in itself a declaration of war; but Cyril saw at a glance that the Queen and her daughter had no intention of taking up the gauntlet. Both were perfectly calm and very friendly, and inquired graciously after people they had met in England. Princess Ottilie was taller and thinner than when he had last seen her, and it struck him that she had lost the loud manner which had aroused Caerleon’s dislike. She was growing more like her mother; but Cyril felt that it would be long before the impulsive dark-eyed girl would attain to the stately calmness of the unintellectual, placid-looking lady who was said to possess one of the wisest heads in Europe. She had foiled M. Drakovics once, at a period of acute crisis, and the Thracian Premier had never forgiven her for her victory, although he was wont to consider it a feather in his cap, as in that of the statesman whom he most wished to resemble, that he had all the ladies against him. A few minutes’ confidential communication with the Queen would throw light on many things, Cyril thought; but this was impossible so long as the King remained in the room, moving about uneasily. Her parting words, however, surprised him not a little.
“Tell his Majesty that I am looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with him,” she said. “Among our many English friends, there is none that I remember with so much admiration. I feel that one can have the most perfect confidence in him.”
“Your Majesty is too good,” said Cyril, astonished. “I am sure my brother has never ventured to hope that he held such a place in your recollection.”
“He is the most perfect gentleman I ever knew,” she said emphatically, and Cyril pondered over her words as he rode away from the castle. The last sentence he felt at liberty to disregard. It was a taunt flung at her husband by the Queen as a reply to his challenge; but he scented danger in the expressions she had used at first.
“She’s up to something,” he said to himself, “but I can’t for the life of me see what it is. It’s all very well for Drakovics to say that women will do such and such things; but that’s where he and fellows of his stamp always go wrong—in imagining that they can generalise about women. It’s scarcely ever possible to judge of a woman’s probable conduct from precedents. She is quite capable of striking out a new line each time. I wonder now whether the Queen thinks she will be able to get round the old man, and make him break off the match? Well, so long as we get the treaty signed, and they don’t set to work too soon, it doesn’t much matter. If only the King had not hung about as he did, I could have found out a good many interesting things. But he was afraid they would let on about Prince Alexis, and so he has effectually stopped my giving the Princess a warning as to Caerleon’s little game. It’s his own fault if the scheme goes wrong. I wonder whether he will be able to carry through the business with Pannonia properly.”
This unpleasant doubt exercised Cyril’s mind frequently during his long ride. He had devoted the concluding portion of his interview with the King to coaching him delicately for the part he was to play, without actually making any suggestions as to the means to be used. King Johann flattered himself that he was an accomplished diplomatist, but his young visitor could scarcely have ventured to leave him to act alone if he had not felt the issue to be so clear that the worst bungling could hardly succeed in obscuring it. The King’s duty was merely to intimate to his uncle, the Grand-Duke of Schwarzwald-Molzau, that if Caerleon’s position in Europe were secured, and he were allowed to marry Princess Ottilie, the succession to the Mœsian throne would be left open for one of the younger princes of the parent house. There could be little doubt that he would welcome the suggestion, and contrive to bring about the desired change in the policy of the Powers by influencing Pannonian diplomacy through his daughter the Empress. Thus Cyril’s mind was tolerably at ease when, after nearly a day and a half of riding—for he had started too late to complete the return journey in one day—he reached the neighbourhood of Bellaviste. They were passing through a small village when the first distant glimpse of the city was obtained, and Wright urged his horse up to Cyril’s.
“Beg your pardon, my lord, but p’raps you’d like to rest ’ere for a hour or so, and give these ’ere ’orses a feed and a bit of a rub-down. It looks as though we didn’t know ’ow to treat a ’orse to bring ’im in like this, and me always a-jawin’ the stable-boys about it.”
“I am sorry that the stable-boys will have to lose their object-lesson to-day, Wright,” said Cyril, with a smile of the utmost gentleness, “for it is important for us to hurry. But you need not think I am ashamed of the state the horses are in. If you like to ride yours through the next puddle, and get him well splashed, I have no objection.”
Wright touched his hat, and fell back with an inarticulate grunt, making no attempt to profit by the permission accorded him. At Schloss Herzensruh he had fallen in with a fellow-exile in the person of King Johann’s coachman, who was also an Englishman, and he had informed him, in the course of a long and generally lugubrious exchange of confidences, that “a straighter rider than ’is Majesty, nor a pleasanter master, I don’t wish to see—and it do take something like a ’orse to carry ’is Majesty,” he added with professional pride; “but Lord Cyril—there! ’e’s beyond me.” Cyril smiled to himself over the groom’s look of bewilderment as he rode on, and reflected that it would have been a thousand pities to spoil the effect of their return by care for the appearance of the horses. As it was, when the dusty and travel-stained riders and their weary beasts entered the gates of Bellaviste, they created a sensation. A keen curiosity had been rife ever since Cyril’s departure, to account for which the wildest theories had been started, and his return promised fresh interest to the townsfolk. They gathered about him in crowds, and inquired anxiously the object of his journey, and whether all was well. To the first question he professed himself unable to give an answer; but on the subject of the second he was able to reassure his questioners, although the most audacious hints as to the King’s possible marriage could gain no confirmation from his lips until he met Mr Hicks.
“Well, Lord Cyril, guess his Majesty’s about got over his disappointment, anyway?” remarked the journalist confidentially.
Cyril responded in two words of the American’s own language, “You bet!” and rode on to the palace. Dismounting hastily, he forbade the servants to announce him, and hurrying up the steps, staggered into Caerleon’s study, and collapsed upon the sofa.
“What! back already?” said Caerleon, looking up from his papers.
Cyril sat up. “Already!” he remarked, tragically; “I have ridden night and day for the sake of a fad of yours, and this is all I get for it!”
“My dear fellow, what made you do such a thing?” cried Caerleon, rising and coming towards him. “I never thought of your rushing to Mœsia and back like this. We shall have you ill again. Let me get you some brandy.”
“You had better call one of the servants, and let me give the order,” said Cyril, with crushing irony. “Youare a temperance man. Well, at any rate I hope you will be pleased to know that I have made arrangements for you to meet the Princess.”
“Is it really necessary for me to meet her?” asked Caerleon, anxiously. “I have been hoping you would manage to nip the scheme in the bud without that.”
“When you forbade me to mention the matter!” cried Cyril, with natural indignation. “I had plenty of opportunities for telling the King your story, but you had hinted that I should misrepresent it, so I said nothing. Of course I did the wrong thing. Well, I have done all I can, and I am dead beat. Just let me alone, that’s all I want.”
He turned over on the sofa and went to sleep, for it was perfectly true that he was very tired after the three days’ ride, while Caerleon stood looking at him in much apprehension and self-reproach. To cover his brother with a rug and send for the Court physician to see him were obviously the only things for the King to do; but when the doctor averred that there was nothing amiss with the patient but fatigue, and prescribed merely rest and mental relaxation, he could not accept the comfort thus conveyed. When Cyril had been roused with much difficulty from the sofa, and persuaded to go to bed, Caerleon went round to the stables to speak to Wright, whom he found engaged in superintending the grooming of one of the horses, which he conceived had been neglected during his absence.
“Glad to see you looking so fit, Wright,” said his master, as Wright straightened himself against the wall, and touched his cap. “I was afraid I should find you dead beat. Lord Cyril seems to be tired out.”
“Do ’e, your Majesty?” responded Wright. “I ’adn’t noticed it. If you’ll believe me, I think as ’is lordship’s ’avin’ a little joke with you. ’E’s always tryin’ on them sort of games, beggin’ your Majesty’s pardon.”
This was added as an afterthought, in response to Caerleon’s look of astonishment, as the King turned on his heel, and walked away in displeasure. Wright was getting disgustingly impudent, he reflected. No doubt too much had been made of him, and he felt that he had a right to put on side, as the only Englishman among the servants, but he must be taught his place. Caerleon was painfully conscious that there was not always a complete unity of aims and agreement as to means between Cyril and himself, but that Wright should venture to notice the fact was insufferable. He should learn that being the King’s fellow-countryman did not necessarily make him his confidant, and a studied repressiveness of manner in addressing him for some days would go far to make him forget that he had been chosen as Cyril’s sole companion on his important mission—an honour which seemed to have encouraged him to presume. And upon this decision Caerleon proceeded to act, to the signal discomfiture of Wright, whose natural enemies the stable-boys asserted themselves unmercifully when they saw that the royal favour had forsaken him.
Cyril, in the meantime, was enjoying himself. In obedience to the orders of the physician, he spent several days on a sofa in his room, and had all the papers brought him for his amusement. In this way he was enabled to exercise a very effectual press censorship, weeding the journals carefully, and sending down for Caerleon’s perusal only such old-fashioned and painfully respectable prints as never hint at an approaching royal marriage until the betrothal is actually announced. Thanks to Mr Hicks, all the more modern and go-ahead papers were teeming with reports and rumours on the subject of an anticipated Mœsio-Thracian alliance, and two days after his return Cyril noted with satisfaction a paragraph in a semi-official German paper to the effect that the Emperor of Pannonia appeared inclined to recede from the policy he had adopted of giving Scythia a free hand with regard to Thracia, and to maintain an attitude of reserve. This in itself was cheering, but for several days the situation continued to be extremely unsettled, constant rumours ofrapprochementsand coolnesses coming to make matters doubtful. At last it was accepted as fairly certain that Scythia and Pannonia were unable to agree on the Thracian question, and that neither would trust the other to interfere; but before things had reached this dead-lock, which left matters as they had been before the two countries had arrived at their temporary agreement, Cyril had received a cipher message from King Johann Casimir to say that all was well.
This prepared the way for the signing of the treaty, which M. Drakovics had been drafting in accordance with Cyril’s notes of his conversation with the Mœsian sovereign; and when everything was ready, Caerleon and Cyril left Bellaviste for the frontier, in order to entertain the Prince of Dardania for a week’s hunting. The visit was a purely informal one, M. Drakovics only coming down twice to discuss various questions of policy, and the little party in the hunting-lodge found their stay very pleasant. The Prince of Dardania was young and athletic, and a mighty hunter, and displayed as much delight over his escape from the cares of State and the supervision of his Prime Minister as did Caerleon. The two became great friends, and their intimacy caused Cyril much apprehension, owing to his constant fear that they might discuss together the situation with respect to Mœsia. He gave himself endless trouble, and caught several colds, in accompanying them on all their expeditions, when he would much rather have remained sitting over the fire at the hunting-lodge or lounging about the little village; but he felt the absolute necessity of preventing their coming to an understanding. He knew that he was a hindrance to their enjoyment, for long walks were obliged to be curtailed, and bridges sought instead of fords, in consideration of his physical weakness; but Caerleon could not bring himself to suggest that he should remain at home, and Prince Alexis smiled and said nothing.
At times it struck Cyril that all his trouble was unnecessary, for that the Prince could not be aware that Caerleon was his rival; but it seemed impossible that the European gossip as to the approaching disposal of Princess Ottilie’s hand should not have reached his ears. More than once, also, Cyril caught him looking Caerleon over, in a musing, business-like fashion, as though he were taking stock of him, and after moments such as this he always redoubled his efforts to keep the two from being alone together. He felt sure that Prince Alexis knew what was going on when, in response to a question from Caerleon as to whether he intended to join the hunting-party at Schloss Herzensruh the day after the signing of the treaty, he replied that he could not well intrude on the King of Mœsia at such a purely family gathering, but that he would no doubt be able to pay his respects later. And yet it seemed strange that he made no attempt to win Caerleon over to his side, a fact which left Cyril still troubled by uncertainty, even after the treaty was signed. The points of difficulty between Thracia and Dardania had been satisfactorily arranged by the two sovereigns and their Ministers, and they were incorporated into an addition to the Mœsian treaty, although Cyril almost feared that the negotiations would fall through when he saw the meeting between King Johann Casimir and Prince Alexis. The King’s manner was nervously triumphant, and inclined to be unfriendly, and most men would have taken offence at it, especially after the rupture which had already occurred between them; but the Prince passed it by without notice, and all went off peaceably.
Thenext day was that appointed for the fateful hunting-party, and when Caerleon and Cyril bade farewell to Prince Alexis, who was returning for a few days to his capital of Bashi Konak, they were both conscious of concealing a good deal of excitement under a veil of calmness. Cyril fancied that there was a twinkle in the Prince’s eye as he wished them good sport, and he was roused again to wonder whether their guest knew anything of the affair in hand. However this might be, he departed without making any allusion to it, and Cyril awoke to the fact that Caerleon, who now realised for the first time the full falseness of his position, was in a state of misery and nervousness only to be described as pitiable. When Cyril recognised this fact he was appalled, for it seemed to him that the mere sight of his brother’s face was enough to betray to King Johann the artifice which had been employed against him; but presently he reflected that Caerleon’s disquietude and evident unhappiness fitted in exactly with the story he had told the King, and his mind was at ease as they rode through the forest together. At Schloss Herzensruh every one was waiting to start for the forest, and the lawn in front of the windows was occupied by a confused group of jägers, dogs, and beaters. The Queen did not appear on this occasion, but the King hurried to greet the brothers, and presented Caerleon at once to Princess Ottilie, who was looking sportsmanlike and ready for business in a Frenchcostume de chasse, with leather-faced skirt and many-pocketed jacket all complete, while a jäger behind her was holding her neat little rifle.
“I know how fond of sport you English are, and therefore I gave my daughter directions to wear this dress to-day in compliment to your brother,” said the King, complacently, to Cyril, when they had withdrawn a step or two from the pair, leaving Caerleon to devise and utter incoherent remarks on the weather, which were received by the Princess with demure politeness.
“And Caerleon bars a shooting woman above all things!” was Cyril’s agonised mental comment, even while he was assuring the King that although the Princess would look charming in anything, she was absolutely irresistible in hunting costume. But as he spoke, his thoughts were wandering, for it struck him that Princess Ottilie appeared to be very favourably inclined towards Caerleon. There was a hint of pleased excitement in her manner, which even the delight of wearing the mostchicand becoming of new dresses seemed inadequate to produce; and when, in response to one of her companion’s laboured remarks, she raised her eyes smilingly and scanned his face, it appeared to Cyril that the expression in them was more than friendly. The thought almost made him giddy. What if the whim of a strong-willed, fickle girl should succeed in doing what he and M. Drakovics, with all their statesmanship, had failed to achieve, and bring about Caerleon’s marriage with her? Although he had suggested the possibility of such a thing in order to comfort the Premier, he had never regarded it seriously himself; but now it struck him as by no means unlikely that Princess Ottilie might refuse to grant her unwilling suitor the dismissal he craved, in which case, Cyril decided, his brother would feel himself compelled to marry her. At this point the voice of King Johann broke in on his meditations.
“I am about to desire my daughter to show his Majesty the path through the forest which leads to the withered pine, a familiar landmark here,” said the King. “You and I will then lead the hunt in the opposite direction.”
“Excuse me,” said Cyril, hastily, “but I am afraid that such evident assistance would simply render my brother incapable of addressing himself to her Royal Highness at all. If we keep to our present order, your Majesty and I and the servants can easily turn into a fresh path when we are once in the wood.”
The King agreed to this plan, although not without some hesitation, and Cyril manœuvred the army of beaters so adroitly that before they had been ten minutes in the forest Caerleon and the Princess found themselves alone. The result of the discovery was absolutely to deprive Caerleon of the power of speech, and he walked on in silence beside his companion, who was firing off nervous little sentences at intervals. We are told, by those who should be well qualified to speak on the subject, that words are apt to fail him who desires to offer his hand and heart to the girl of his choice; but what is his difficulty compared with that of the man who finds it his duty to explain to an expectant lady why he doesnotpropose? The cold sweat stood on Caerleon’s brow as the Princess ceased her spasmodic remarks abruptly, and appeared from her silence to be expecting him to speak; but after an awful five minutes, in the course of which he twice cleared his throat and made a vain attempt to say something—it did not matter what—she herself, to his astonishment, broke the ice.
“I—I have something to say to your Majesty,” she began. “You have come here with the intention of—of marrying me——”
This was more and more terrible. It rushed into Caerleon’s tortured mind that Princess Ottilie must belong to a German variety of the New Woman, and that she was going to propose to him. How was he to manage to refuse her? She must be stopped at any cost.
“On the contrary,” he interrupted, floundering desperately into what he had to say—“your Highness is mistaken. I have no desire—no intention—no—no hope of marrying you.”
“Indeed!” cried Princess Ottilie, facing him with crimson cheeks and flashing eyes. “Then pray understand that your feelings are entirely reciprocated. I have no desire—no intention of marrying your Majesty,” and she made him an elaborate curtsey, which was rather incongruous when taken in conjunction with her gaiters and short skirts. But Caerleon was far too deeply impressed with the conviction that he had blundered horribly in beginning his delicate task to notice anything of the kind.
“I assure you,” he said, earnestly, “that nothing could be further from my mind than to wish to insult your Royal Highness. I can only ask you to pardon my bungling way of expressing myself. I came here intending to throw myself upon your mercy, and beg you to release me from an engagement which was entered into without my consent.”
Princess Ottilie still stood angry and irresolute, darting distrustful glances at him, but it seemed to Caerleon that she was more disposed to listen than at first. He hurried on—
“I will speak to you freely, Princess—not that I am ashamed of what I have to say; quite the contrary. There is a lady whom I love, and whom I would give anything to marry. But she has refused me—she is not of royal blood, and she considers that it would be prejudicial to the interests of Thracia were she to marry me. I have no hope of getting her to change her mind so long as I remain on the throne, but I will never marry any one else. It would be perjury. When I heard that Drakovics had set on foot negotiations for my marriage with you I was horror-struck, and tried to break them off at once. But it was pointed out to me that this might seem to cast a slur on you, and so—I didn’t do it. I think you will see that if I acted wrongly it was because I was desirous of doing nothing to hurt your feelings. I am truly sorry if what I said at first sounded rude, but I was anxious to get you to refuse me. You see that I could not possibly marry you, since I love Nadia.”
“Nadia—is that her name?” asked the Princess, sharply. She had been standing motionless, biting her glove, during Caerleon’s laboured and stammering harangue, her brows contracted into an anxious frown, but now her face relaxed. “I like to hear you say it. Your voice sounds as if you loved her. If I wished to tease you, I might insist on holding you to your engagement, but I don’t, for”—and she mimicked the words he had uttered some minutes before—“I also came here intending to throw myself on your mercy, and beg you to release me from an engagement which was entered into without my consent. Only,” and her voice took a tone of entreaty, “I have more to ask than you.”
“If I can help you in any way, pray command me,” said Caerleon, inexpressibly relieved to find himself transformed from a suppliant into a possible benefactor.
Princess Ottilie smiled anxiously. “You don’t know what you are promising, but I shall hold you to your offer. I am going to confide to you something that no one knows except my mother. It is she who has advised me to consult you, for she has the greatest confidence in your honour and discretion.”
This was spoken very quickly, as if it was a lesson, and Caerleon could only say that, in so far as it rested with him, the Queen and Princess should have no cause to repent of the honour they were doing him.
Almost before the words were out of his mouth, the girl went on speaking hurriedly, walking fast with her face turned away from him, and her hands twisting themselves nervously together: “I also have a romance, your Majesty—a love-story, you call it. After I had visited England with my parents two years ago, we spent some weeks at Pavelsburg, and there I met some one—a distant relation of my mother’s. All these political troubles had not happened then”—she looked up at him piteously—“and I might follow the dictates of my own heart. My father and mother were delighted; the Emperor was pleased. We could not help loving one another; but what happened afterwards would not have seemed so hard if all had not been so bright at first. He had spoken to my mother; she had told my father; but our engagement was not to be announced until we returned home, and the betrothal could take place publicly. But when we reached Eusebia, everything was changed. Your revolution—the Thracian revolution—had taken place; Scythia and Pannonia had quarrelled; the statesmen were playing chess on the map of Europe, and he and I were two of the pawns. He is related to the imperial family of Scythia, and Pannonia could not allow Scythian influence in the Balkans to be strengthened by his marriage with me. They did not tell us plainly that our duty compelled us to part,—they worked underground, through the Grand Duke, my father’s uncle; they sowed dissension between my father and mother; they made our home miserable; they have parted my Prince and me. That is my story, and no one has any pity for us.”
She paused and wrung her hands, her dark eyes searching Caerleon’s face, her lips quivering painfully.
“Don’t cry,” he said in alarm. “If I can help you I will. What is it that you want me to do?”
“There is no one I can trust, no one who will help me. My father orders me to marry you, and Pannonia and the whole of our own family are behind him. I could not escape; they would track me all over the world. My only hope is to divert their attention altogether for a time—for a few days, and so to obtain the chance of marrying my Prince.”
“But who is he—this happy man?” asked Caerleon.
“Alexis Alexievitch,” she replied, with a vivid blush.
“The Prince of Dardania!” cried Caerleon. “Why, we have been hunting together for a week, and he has never said a word about this.”
“He was to leave it all to me, unless he found some unexpected opportunity,” said the Princess. “He is making all the preparations. It is a difficult matter, because we must be married both by Greek and Lutheran rites, and he has found it best to bring a pastor from Weldart, from my mother’s people. The pastor cannot arrive for a week, and we must bridge over that time until I can escape into Dardanian territory, and be married. Now, do you see what I want you to do?”
“I really don’t,” said Caerleon, the wildest ideas of personation, elopement, and abduction chasing one another through his brain.
“I should have thought it was simple enough,” said the Princess, with a certain amount of contempt. “That week must be filled up, and therefore I want you to engage yourself to me for that time.”
“Oh!” said Caerleon, stupidly. “But I thought you made a very solemn ceremony of your betrothals here?”
“And you think your Mdlle. Nadia might object? Well, I will promise you by anything you like that I will not hold you to the engagement.”
“It’s not that,” he said, gruffly. “I am not going to tell a pack of lies.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the Princess in her turn. “But I’m afraid I can’t tell them for you. Do you really mind going through the form of betrothal, knowing that neither of us means it? You can say the words without intention, or with a mental reservation, you know. No? Well, I see what we must do. The betrothal must be put off for a week. I have sent for a new dress from Paris, and I will not appear at the ceremony until I have it to wear. My father will allow that plea. Have you not noticed that men who will calmly break a woman’s heart in a great matter, will let her have her way without difficulty in a little one, especially if it has anything to do with dress? It will be generally understood that we are engaged, and that will put the Schwarzwald-Molzaus off the scent.”