“But I can’t say that I want to marry you when I don’t,” objected Caerleon.
“Did they teach your Majesty that story about George Washington very carefully when you were a little boy? I have toiled through his history often, but it never left such a deep impression on me. Very well, you must say that you will marry me if I am willing, and I will say the same about you. That will make us both safe.”
“But, excuse me,” said Caerleon, “is all this really necessary? Don’t you think that if I spoke to your father, and told him what your feelings were, and interceded with him on behalf of Prince Alexis, he might relent?”
Princess Ottilie’s eyes flashed. “Your Majesty,” she said, “my mother went down on her knees to my father to entreat his pity for me, his only child, and without avail. Do you think that a stranger’s intercessions would have more effect on him?”
“But have you tried telling him that your happiness depends on this marriage, and refusing to have anything to say to any one but the Prince?”
“No; I have not done so lately,” said the Princess, in a peculiar tone. “I did at first; but do you know what the consequence would have been if I had persisted? They would have banished my mother from the kingdom, or imprisoned her in a fortress, and what could I have done then? Therefore I said no more. Of late we have endeavoured to appear resigned to our fate, confiding in your honour and generosity.”
“But would it not put things right if I were to withdraw from my proposal at once?”
“So far right that my father would oblige me to marry one of my cousins, the Schwarzwald-Molzaus, instead of you, and I could look for no mercy from him. You must help me. You cannot leave me to my misery, when I have trusted you in this way. Help me for the sake of your own Nadia, as you would wish another man to help her if she were in my place. Oh, your Majesty, you cannot refuse me!”
“Very well. I’ll do what I can,” said Caerleon, rather grudgingly, as it seemed even to himself, but the idea of the suggested deception was hateful to him.
“And you will tell no one what has passed between us?”
“Of course I won’t repeat your confidences without your permission.”
“Not even to your brother?”
“Not even to him, if you would rather not, though I don’t think I have ever kept anything secret from him before.”
“Your brother above all,” repeated the Princess, emphatically. “On your honour?”
“You don’t seem to trust him,” said Caerleon, feeling hurt.
“Not at all. It is simply that I owe him a little grudge. You know that he visited my father here nearly three weeks ago? I want to play him a trick in return for some things he did then. You understand, it is a whim of mine?”
“Yes,” returned Caerleon, only half satisfied.
“Ah! well, your Majesty, we are engaged—for a week. It will be necessary for us to appear in public together, but I will do my best not to be a very exacting companion. I know that you English do not make as much of betrothal as we Molzäuers do. Still, one must keep up appearances. I look to you to play your part.”
“In this way?” asked Caerleon, provoked by her mischievous tone, as he raised her hand to his lips.
“Ah, that is your custom? We in Germany should think it a little cold. If anything more is requisite, pray do the proper thing, without considering my feelings.”
“If my brother was here he would make a pretty speech about the honour’s being too great for safety,” said Caerleon. “I am not a good hand at compliments, and so, Princess, I must simply ask you not to tempt me.”
“Which is a polite way of saying that you decline the honour,” said the Princess, pouting slightly, and trying to withdraw her hand. At this interesting moment King Johann and Cyril, followed by the jägers, appeared at the end of the path. Cyril and the servants drew back hastily, but the King advanced with much dignity, and approached the pair.
“Is it possible that the dearest wish of my heart is granted me?” he asked in a voice broken by emotion. “You have arrived at an understanding?”
“If the Princess will take me, I hope—er—er—I am ready—er—I will marry her,” stammered Caerleon.
“And if his Majesty will have me, I shall welcome the honour of marrying him,” said Princess Ottilie boldly, a mischievous light in her black eyes.
“Then you really are engaged to her?” asked Cyril, incredulously, when the brothers next found themselves alone together.
“I suppose so,” returned Caerleon, gruffly enough.
“Well I am most extraordinarily delighted to hear it, of course. Congrats, and all that sort of thing, old man. I suppose she wouldn’t let you off?”
“That’s about it.”
“You ought to feel flattered by that, at any rate. She’s an awfully good-looking girl,—any amount of go in her. I shouldn’t wonder if you find her rather overpowering though, just at first. I’ll take her off your hands now and then if you do. She’ll think a heap more of you if you are busy sometimes.”
“I should have thought you would have recommended me to try and get used to her if I have got to marry her,” growled Caerleon.
Cyril laughed.
“What, in these progressive days?” he asked. “You are behind the age, old man. You will contrive to exist very happily together by making sure of never finding yourselves in the same place at the same time.” And he went away to draw up an official announcement to be sent to M. Drakovics for insertion in a special Gazette, stigmatising the circumstantial reports which had appeared of late on the subject of the King’s approaching marriage as absurdly premature, since the date even of the betrothal was not yet fixed. As for Caerleon, he prepared with a failing heart for his interview with the Queen, who had expressed a desire to see her daughter’sfiancé. The King himself led him into the boudoir where the Queen sat knitting, and was much relieved to see her kiss him on the forehead when he stooped to kiss her hand. He had feared that although Princess Ottilie had proved unexpectedly pliable, her mother would be more difficult to persuade; and he ascribed the gratifying reality partly to the Queen’s sense of his own masterful personality, and partly to the liking she had already expressed for her future son-in-law. Pitying the young man’s evident shyness and misery, King Johann volunteered to leave him alone with the Queen for a time lest his presence should prove a restraint on their mutual confidences, and the moment that he had left the room the Queen dropped her knitting and sat upright.
“I can never thank you sufficiently for what you have done to-day,” she said, in a quick sharp whisper. “You have helped me to save my child.”
“I am very glad if I have been so fortunate as to please you,” said Caerleon, lamely.
“My daughter has told me your story,” the Queen went on. “Your confidence in her has touched us both extremely. If ever I can in any way serve or befriend the young lady whom you love, I rely upon you to turn to me without hesitation.”
“Your Majesty is too good,” stammered Caerleon.
“There is one thing I wish to say while we are alone,” continued the Queen, rapidly. “It is uncertain when Prince Alexis will be able to complete the arrangements for the wedding, and even when I know the day I will not tell you. You are to be completely ignorant. The news must surprise you as much as any one. I am afraid that your engagement must last at least eight days; but you know that it is not now proposed to celebrate the betrothal until ten days hence. I hope you will not find the time very irksome, but my child is a little wayward occasionally. Here comes the King.”
When Caerleon went out from the Queen’s boudoir, with the King’s arm in his, it was to begin the most horrible fortnight of his life. If he had done wrong in yielding to Princess Ottilie’s entreaties, he was amply punished for it as the days went on. He loathed the idea of deceiving the King, tyrannical and weak-minded though he was; he loathed the delighted congratulations which came pouring in through M. Drakovics from all Thracia as soon as it became known that the date of the betrothal was actually fixed. He was deceiving the man whose bread he was eating, for on the return from the hunt the King had insisted that the brothers should take up their quarters at Schloss Herzensruh; he was deceiving Cyril, who had never, so he fondly believed, concealed a thought from him; he was deceiving his simple-minded subjects, and he was laying up a store of self-loathing which became in course of time almost unbearable. And, worst of all, he was turning his back on Nadia, forsaking her, and, so far as the world could see, preparing to marry another girl, exactly as she had begged him to do, and prophesied that he would do. This last aspect of the case would have made the situation intolerable to a woman, but Caerleon was possessed of a dogged patience which forced him to go on to the bitter end, having once given his promise to Princess Ottilie. But he discovered very soon that, although it had been easy enough to offer her his help in the forest, with her tearful eyes fixed upon him and her indignant voice ringing in his ears, it was much more difficult to carry out his promise gracefully.
He did his best, although it must be confessed that that best was but poor. When Cyril suggested mildly that it was usual to send presents to the lady in the course of an engagement, he followed his advice, and telegraphed to Paris and Vienna orders for jewellery and objects of art; but he did so with the bitter recollection that he had never given Nadia so much as a keepsake, while here he was showering costly gifts upon a girl for whom he did not care a straw. It was the same with the rides, on which it was the Princess’s will and pleasure that he should accompany her at least once a-day. He had never had the chance of riding with Nadia; but he had little opportunity of forgetting that Princess Ottilie had a splendid seat, and rode like an Englishwoman, as Cyril told her once, assuring her at the same time that it was the highest compliment he could pay her. At first, indeed, Caerleon welcomed the prospect of the rides, as likely to restrict his intercourse with hisfiancéeto the polite and friendly terms on which he felt it was both right and reasonable they should meet. But he had reckoned without Princess Ottilie, even as he had left out of his calculations the enterprising photographers who travelled from Bellaviste and Eusebia, and arranged cameras in ambush by the side of the road along which the riders were to pass, and the enthusiastic amateurs who took snap-shots at them with kodaks. The Princess had eyes like a hawk, and could detect the most artfully concealed camera some minutes before she came abreast of it, and distinguish a photographic maniac at any distance, and at the crucial moment she would begin a confidential low-toned conversation, which obliged Caerleon to lean politely towards her in order to hear what she said; or she would drop her riding-whip. It was against his principles, she had discovered, to allow the groom to pick it up, and thus she had the pleasure of seeing him dismount and rescue it himself, while the lurking enemy gloated over the negative he had secured, which was destined to appear after the lapse of a week or two, in a more or less appalling guise, in one of the Continental illustrated journals.
“It isn’t the riding I mind, but I do bar her tricks,” Caerleon bemoaned himself one day to Cyril, who had witnessed an incident of this kind.
“Never mind,” said Cyril. “She only wants to show you off.”
“If she carries on much more, I shall cut,” said the victim, gloomily.
“Beastly mean, if you do,” said Cyril. “The girl’s awfully gone on you. When I get her alone sometimes, and sing your praises to her, you should see how pleased she is. Don’t be a fool, old man. Any other chap would think himself in clover to have a smart, good-looking girl, and a princess too, in love with him to such an extent.”
“Well, I shall get thrown, then. That will stop the rides, at any rate.”
“Don’t, if you take my advice. She will insist on nursing you—rather like it than otherwise. As to your finding it a bore to go out with her——”
“I shouldn’t, if I wasn’t engaged to her,” groaned Caerleon.
“Oh, Lothario!” laughed Cyril, but he forbore to pursue the subject further. He was so highly delighted by the unexpected success of his diplomacy that he could afford to be generous. How the Princess had managed to draw Caerleon into the engagement he could not guess, but he was the last man in the world to quarrel with the accomplished fact. He could stand a good deal from Caerleon in these days, he told himself, taking credit for extraordinary forbearance towards a fellow who was as bad as a bear with a sore head. Why couldn’t he put a good face on it, as the Princess did? She had been obliged to discard her old love, but she didn’t let the fact spoil all her enjoyment of life—not she.
As will have been observed, Caerleon’s task was not made easier by hisfiancée. Princess Ottilie saw the full comedy of the situation, where he perceived only its tragic irony, and she took a lively pleasure in emphasising the details of the plot. A born actress, no mere tame acceptance of facts would content her, and she played shamelessly to the gallery. Ordinary love-making was poor,—everything for her must be intense, and surcharged with meaning. She never left Caerleon alone. Loving epithets flowed from her lips in a way that made him feel that he must be blushing scarlet a dozen times a-day. She claimed his time and attention as a right, obliged him to assist her in the most incongruous tasks, made him turn over the pages of her music for her during what seemed interminable hours (she was a most accomplished musician), and appealed in an injured tone to Cyril, or the Queen, or the ladies-in-waiting, if he showed signs of fatigue or preoccupation. The general effect produced was that of a modern and substantial Titania wooing a singularly unresponsive clown, to the great edification of the beholders.
Matterscame to a crisis on a certain dreadful evening when the Prince of Dardania, who was staying at one of his palaces a short distance on the other side of the frontier, dined at the castle. An invitation had been sent him, with what the King congratulated himself was a refinement of cruelty, that he might see with his own eyes how complete was the ruin of his hopes, and the scheme met with a success of which its originator had not dreamed. Whether through malice or through nervousness, Princess Ottilie overacted her part enormously that night, insomuch that she awakened doubts even in the mind of Prince Alexis, and thrilled Caerleon with a new horror. Perhaps she had changed her mind, and would after all refuse to release him,—and what would be his position in such a case? It comforted him to see that the Queen managed to exchange a few whispered words with the Prince, as he took his leave after an evening of chilling neglect, but he himself had an account to settle with Princess Ottilie. The next morning the pair had “words” in the conservatory, and Caerleon informed hisfiancéesuccinctly that he had no intention of being used as an instrument of torture with which to harass Prince Alexis.
“If you try it on again, I shall simply make the whole thing known,” he said.
“You threaten me?” wept the Princess.
“Not if you behave decently,” he answered, with a roughness which only his desperate situation could excuse; “but if a man is supposed to be engaged, he has a right to have a voice in the proceedings of his—of the lady. The fact is, you think you can go as far as you like with me, and I won’t have it. You wouldn’t dare to carry on in this way with my brother Cyril, or any other man, because you know he might respond, and then you would get into trouble. But as I consider myself virtually engaged to some one else, and was soft-hearted enough to believe what you told me in the forest, you think you can make as big a fool of me as you like; but I’m not going to stand it.”
“You are brutal,” sobbed Princess Ottilie. “As you say, any other man would feel honoured to be treated in the way I treat you.”
“Let him,” said Caerleon. “I don’t; and I tell you plainly, it’s not to go on.”
“You are a monster to talk to me like this, at any rate,” she said, drying her eyes. “Now that you have delivered your lecture, and I have listened, I will only say one thing, that I would never allow my prince to speak to me as you have done.”
She vouchsafed no other expression of penitence, and even this remark Caerleon understood to be intended more as a hit; nor did his lecture seem to have had much effect upon her conduct, for when later in the day Cyril, on finding Princess Ottilie alone, noticed the heaviness of her eyes, and ventured to hope that she was not suffering from headache, she told him frankly that she had been crying, and gave him to understand that her tears were due to a doubt as to Caerleon’s real feelings towards her. A good deal of diplomacy was needed to soothe her apprehensions, and when Cyril left her, with his mind made up to seek Caerleon and warn him to be more careful, he found himself seized upon by the King, who was strongly of the opinion that something was wrong. Why did Caerleon look so gloomy? and why had he made the Princess cry that morning? were his unanswerable questions; and although Cyril, with what he told himself was perfect truth, urged that he could not imagine any reason why his brother, who was notoriously an advocate of love-matches, should engage himself to the Princess against his will, he was obliged to fall back on Caerleon’s imaginary unworthiness and low opinion of himself as an explanation. He saw that the King was only half satisfied, and the next day he was forced to feel that this tendency towards mistrust had made itself evident at a very inopportune moment.
Hosts and guests alike at Schloss Herzensruh breakfasted in their own rooms, and it was immediately after the early meal that Cyril received an intimation that the King desired his attendance as soon as possible. The wording of the message struck him as peculiar; but he finished his dressing hurriedly, and presented himself in the study. To his astonishment, he found King Johann surrounded by piles of newspaper packets bearing English stamps, which had just arrived by post. Several of them had been opened, and Cyril was surprised to see that each contained a copy of that well-known weekly, ‘Mendacity,’ dated two or three days back. Furthermore, on looking at those still unopened, he recognised in each case the cover of ‘Mendacity.’
“Lord Cyril,” said the King, and Cyril was surprised to see that the fussy little man could look really kingly, “I have sent for you because all the arrangements for my daughter’s engagement have been conducted through you, and also because I was anxious not to trouble your brother if this matter is susceptible of explanation. You see these papers? I think every one of my English friends has sent me a copy, and the same paragraph is marked in each. Perhaps you will kindly read it.”
He put one of the papers into Cyril’s hand, and he read the marked paragraph:—
“‘I have no desire to be reckoned among the “unco guid,” and it has always been my belief that young men will be young men. Still, I am not sorry that my Temperance friends should have the chance of learning the true character of the gay Lothario whom the criminal inertness of a Tory Government has permitted to establish himself on the throne of Thracia. We have heard a good deal lately about the superior morality of this gentleman. His people have all been made suddenly sober—not by Act of Parliament, but by his “royal” decree; he has sacrificed a large part of his income for the purpose of buying up licences, and he is about to put the finishing touch to his catalogue of good deeds by making a love-match with the wealthy and beautiful daughter of a neighbouring sovereign. Perhaps it will be news for some of my readers to learn that this so-called “King” is bound by every tie of honour to marry a Scythian lady of noble family, whose acquaintance he made before seizing upon the throne, and whom he subsequently abandoned in the most heartless manner, and under circumstances of peculiar cruelty. What does the Nonconformist conscience think of this? Scythia has a long account already outstanding against this choice specimen of the British aristocracy, and when the day of reckoning comes, the swords of her soldiers will not leap from their scabbards with the less alacrity for the remembrance of his behaviour towards their countrywoman.’”
“‘I have no desire to be reckoned among the “unco guid,” and it has always been my belief that young men will be young men. Still, I am not sorry that my Temperance friends should have the chance of learning the true character of the gay Lothario whom the criminal inertness of a Tory Government has permitted to establish himself on the throne of Thracia. We have heard a good deal lately about the superior morality of this gentleman. His people have all been made suddenly sober—not by Act of Parliament, but by his “royal” decree; he has sacrificed a large part of his income for the purpose of buying up licences, and he is about to put the finishing touch to his catalogue of good deeds by making a love-match with the wealthy and beautiful daughter of a neighbouring sovereign. Perhaps it will be news for some of my readers to learn that this so-called “King” is bound by every tie of honour to marry a Scythian lady of noble family, whose acquaintance he made before seizing upon the throne, and whom he subsequently abandoned in the most heartless manner, and under circumstances of peculiar cruelty. What does the Nonconformist conscience think of this? Scythia has a long account already outstanding against this choice specimen of the British aristocracy, and when the day of reckoning comes, the swords of her soldiers will not leap from their scabbards with the less alacrity for the remembrance of his behaviour towards their countrywoman.’”
The time occupied in reading the paragraph through afforded Cyril the opportunity of collecting his thoughts, for he had guessed its drift from the very first sentences. Now he threw down the paper and cried hotly—
“I hope to goodness Caerleon has not seen this! If he has, he will simply go off to Scythia at once, and marry the girl whether she wishes it or not.”
“Then the story is true?” shouted the King, half rising from his chair, the veins in his forehead swelling.
“Like most lies, it rejoices in a substratum of truth,” answered Cyril, coolly.
“Be good enough to explain to me exactly what you mean,” said the King, his fury in a measure disarmed by the young man’s serenity.
“The facts are very simple,” returned Cyril. “During our tour in Hungary, we made the acquaintance of a Scythian officer and his family. The only daughter was a most estimable young lady, and my brother fell deeply in love with her. We may presume that his affection was not returned—at any rate, when he proposed to her, she refused him. That’s all, unless she has changed her mind by this time.”
“And you can assure me, on your honour as a nobleman, that there is no other foundation for this—this tale?”
Cyril drew himself up. “I have not the honour to understand your Majesty. Is it possible that you can for a moment have believed the story to be true?”
“There was some justification for such a belief, in this printed paper and in the anxiety of my English friends,” said the King, drily.
“If that is the case, I think your Majesty has shown pretty plainly that the prospect of a marriage between my brother and the Princess does not meet with your approval,” said Cyril, with awful coldness. “If your Majesty will permit me, I will communicate the fact to him, and we will leave the castle at once.”
“No, no! you are too hasty,” said King Johann, quickly. “It is surely only natural that I should resent such an aspersion on the character of my future son-in-law. Surely, too, I may complain of a want of openness on your part. Why have I heard nothing of this prior attachment?”
“One is not particularly anxious to publish it abroad that one’s brother has made a fool of himself,” said Cyril, frankly. “I don’t mind acknowledging that I was glad to hush the matter up. But Caerleon insisted on telling the Princess all about it, and I know that he did so before their engagement took place. No doubt that is one reason for his looking so seedy lately. Of course he felt that it wasn’t quite fair for a man with an experience of that kind fresh in his memory to seek the love of a whole-hearted, unworldly young girl like her Royal Highness.”
This was carrying the war into the enemy’s camp with a vengeance, and the King climbed down from his high horse somewhat hastily.
“I do not complain so much of the concealment of the matter from myself, as of the fact that other persons have been allowed to obtain a knowledge of it,” he said, wisely waiving the question of Princess Ottilie’s inexperience in affairs of the heart. Cyril made no remark, but accepted the words as confirmation of a suspicion which had occurred to him once or twice, that King Johann’s ignorance was merely official, and that he had all along been aware of the existence of Nadia, although he had acquiesced discreetly in the silence hitherto maintained with regard to her. “How do you suppose that the news reached England?” the King went on.
“From a Scythian source, no doubt,” answered Cyril, promptly. “Dickinson, the editor of ‘Mendacity,’ hunts up the scandals of all nations for his wretched rag. I suppose you have no Scythian newspaper of last week?”
“I remember now that one was sent me. It is evident that I have not so many kind friends in Scythia as in England. I put it on one side, for I do not myself read Scythian easily; and I thought—the Queen—about this marriage—things might be said——”
“As matters stand, it is a very good thing you did not,” said Cyril, answering the thought rather than the words. “Her Majesty might have misunderstood the whole affair. We all know that ladies are often apt to take strong prejudices, unfortunately.”
“Will you read it, and see what it says?” suggested the King.
“I don’t know much Scythian, but I might manage to puzzle it out,” said Cyril; and the King brought out a crumpled paper, which the two studied painfully for some minutes.
“Ah, here it is!” cried Cyril, and he began to translate rapidly and freely: “‘The Carlino-O’Malachy affair, of which so much has lately been heard in society, appears likely to have far-reaching consequences.’ Then there comes pretty much what we have just read in ‘Mendacity.’ Then it goes on: ‘With a view to obtaining authoritative information on the subject, a representative of this journal called yesterday upon Colonel O’Malachy, who was paying a flying visit to the city, and left this morning. Colonel O’Malachy is a veteran soldier, wearing a medal for distinguished services, and the order of the Byzantine Empire. He has served in——’ oh, that doesn’t signify. ‘The gallant officer maintained an attitude of strict reserve, but admitted that the published accounts of the Thracian usurper’s conduct are substantially true. The publicity which had been given to the matter was, however, quite contrary to his wishes and those of his family, for it was not, he said, the custom of a house which numbered kings among its ancestors to submit its wrongs to the arbitrament of a court either of law or of public opinion. Let but an appeal be made to arms, and he would trust to meet the English filibuster face to face on the soil he has seized, and to sheathe the sword, which had drunk Moslem blood in ’77, in his treacherous heart.’”
“That conclusion is rather fine,” observed Cyril. “I always knew that the O’Malachy was about as picturesque an old villain as remains unhung in these degenerate days; but I did not know he was quite capable of these heroics.”
“Perhaps a telegram which I received before you came in may throw some light upon the matter,” said the King. “It is from our Minister at Pavelsburg, telling me that this very paper had been warned by the censor, at his request, for publishing unauthorised news. He added that the news related to the King of Thracia.”
“Only warned? not suspended?” said Cyril. “That shows they were not sorry to have it believed, then. Well, I fear we can do nothing to bring Scythia to a sense of the error of her ways; but I think I can put a spoke in Dickinson’s wheel.”
“I am about to indite a formal complaint to the British Government,” said the King. “It is intolerable that a newspaper should be allowed to libel the sovereign of a neighbouring country in this way, especially when it is remembered that he is on the point of connecting himself with my family.”
“I’m afraid that will scarcely do,” said Cyril. “You see, for one thing, Caerleon isn’t exactly the sovereign of a neighbouring country—at least, no one seems quite to know whether he is a sovereign at all, or not.”
“But that will be satisfactorily settled before long,” said the King.
“If Pannonia supports us at Czarigrad in pressing anew for our recognition from Roum it will be, but not otherwise,” said Cyril, shortly. “But this uncertainty disposes of any idea of appealing to the British Government. What we have to do is to work upon Dickinson in a way he can understand.”
“And what is that?” asked King Johann.
“I know a man on the staff of the ‘Universe,’” answered Cyril, “and it will give him and his chief the purest pleasure to make Dickinson take a back seat over this business. I shall simply send him one little fact, and he will work it up with a few flourishes about Dickinson’s abnormal faculty for discovering mares’ nests, and a passing remark or two on the subject of his descent from the man who hated Aristides.”
“But what is the fact?” asked the King, eagerly.
“Merely this, that the brother of the much-injured lady is still an officer in my brother’s guard, and dined at our table, quite in a friendly spirit, the night before we left Bellaviste. If the O’Malachy had any sense of dramatic consistency, he would have ordered him to resign his commission; but as the idea hasn’t struck him, we are all right.”
“But the mere demonstration that the charge he has brought against your brother is an absurdity will not affect this Dickinson,” said the King.
“Oh yes, it will. The very suggestion that he has been taken in by such a ridiculous story will be a sufficient punishment for him.”
“But if the aim of his journal is to circulate lies, he cannot have any regard for the truth,” objected the King.
“He cares very much about his reputation as a shrewd man of the world,” said Cyril. “And you musn’t judge his paper from its title. That is Dickinson’s little joke. He calls it ‘Mendacity’ on thelucus a non lucendoprinciple, from a theory of his that the name is intended to indicate what the paper is not. The ‘Times,’ he says, is behind the times; the ‘Standard’ lags in the rear, instead of leading; and it is just the same with his paper—in each case the contents contradict the name. But some people think that there is more truth in the title than anywhere inside the cover.”
“So it would appear,” said the King.
“We are rather proud of Dickinson at home,” Cyril went on. “He is a purely English product, andfin de siècleat that. No other nation can rival his peculiar humour.” The King looked as though he, at any rate, found it difficult also to appreciate the bent of Mr Dickinson’s genius. “But the ‘Universe’ will have him on toast this time with a vengeance,” continued Cyril, cheerfully. “I suppose we may consider the little affair agreeably settled, sir? Perhaps I may remark that the sooner our application at Czarigrad is granted the easier we shall find it to deal with cases of this kind.”
“Naturally,” said the King, “before I took any steps whatever to promote a marriage between my daughter and your brother, it was understood that Pannonia would at once do her best to secure the recognition of your rights from Roum.”
This was a most satisfactory assurance, and Cyril went away well pleased. The morrow was the day fixed for the betrothal—a ceremony which, according to German ideas, would be wellnigh as indissoluble as marriage itself—and it struck him that the Emperor of Pannonia would probably consider it a pleasing and friendly act to begin to press the claims of Thracia on the Roumi Government immediately, in order to obtain Caerleon’s recognition by the suzerain Power as a graceful wedding-gift to the betrothed pair. All seemed to be prospering with Cyril’s schemes, and he prepared with a light heart for his departure from Schloss Herzensruh. It was considered more correct that the King of Thracia should arrive on Mœsian soil from his own territory on the morning of the betrothal, and the brothers were therefore to return to their shooting-box for the night. Caerleon’s state of mind was a pitiable one. The time fixed for his penance had all but dragged out its weary course, and yet he saw no hope of obtaining his release. What was he to do if no means of escape offered itself during the one day that was left? He was firmly resolved under no circumstances to take upon him the solemn vows of betrothal; but how was he to refuse to do so without either casting a slur on Princess Ottilie or betraying her secret? It is absurd, even humiliating, to be obliged to confess it, but the idea of flight presented itself to him more than once in tempting colours.
The first break in the clouds became visible at the mid-day meal, which might be considered either as a late breakfast or as an early lunch, and at which Princess Ottilie did not appear. She was not very well, her mother said, and had decided to remain in her room for the day; and she herself sent a special message to Caerleon to the effect that her indisposition was caused by grief regarding the anxiously expected Paris dress, which had indeed arrived, but was horribly cut, and made her look hideous. King Johann received the excuse with considerable seriousness, and remarked that his daughter had an undisciplined mind, and he hoped that Caerleon would teach her to be less frivolous when they were married; but it was evident that he regarded the cause of the illness as amply sufficient under the circumstances, and Caerleon recalled with some amusement the Princess’s words in the forest. He could afford to be amused now, for he guessed that Princess Ottilie intended on the morrow to urge her indisposition as a reason for postponing the betrothal; and, although the means were not such as he would have chosen, he was so nearly desperate by this time as to be ready to snatch at any prospect of escape. Hence he also was able to leave the castle cheerfully, and even to endure with patience the chaff in which Cyril indulged as they rode through the forest, although it dealt chiefly with engagement-rings and loss of bachelor freedom, and similar well-worn and appropriate themes.
The afternoon passed quickly, in its unwonted freedom from the Princess’s rather exacting society, and with the dusk arrived M. Drakovics, who had journeyed from Bellaviste expressly for the purpose of being present at the betrothal ceremony. Much to Caerleon’s relief, he made no pretence of congratulation, and displayed no special interest in the event of the morrow; but immediately after dinner produced a vast pile of reports and returns on the subject of the new liquor laws, and invited the King to go through them with him. Caerleon was only too glad to welcome any work that promised to distract his mind from the gnawing anxiety which assailed him whenever he reflected that it was possible that Princess Ottilie might not be able to carry out her plan after all, and he threw himself into the task with avidity. With Cyril it was otherwise. He was consumed by an intense restlessness, a haunting fear lest some unforeseen catastrophe should interfere with his schemes just as they were on the point of realisation; and he wandered from room to room, pausing now and then to turn over with unquiet fingers the documents which the other two were perusing so strenuously.
“What’s up, Cyril? Anything wrong?” asked Caerleon at last.
“Only the fidgets, as old nurse used to say when I was a kid. I’m as much excited as if it was I who was going to be betrothed to-morrow instead of you. I can’t keep quiet. I think I shall go for a walk.”
“Now? at this time of night?”
“Rather. I feel as if I had an inexhaustible fund of energy to work off. By the by, have those rubies arrived yet?”
“Yes. Wright went to fetch them from the town this afternoon. He was just in time to meet the Vienna express.”
“Did you send him on to Schloss Herzensruh with them?”
“No; of course not. I’m going to take them with me in the morning.”
“What an outer barbarian you are!” cried Cyril. “Do you expect Princess Ottilie to put them on in public? She must have them in time to study the effect properly in the glass, and admire herself in them. Give them to me, and I’ll take them to her at once.”
“You don’t mean that you would carry that case of jewels through the forest alone at night?”
“Who is to know that I am carrying it? It will go into my pocket. Besides, there are no robbers here; it’s a regular Forest of Arden, a most suitable place for a betrothal. So trot out the box.”
“A little later in the year the forest will be dangerous on account of the wolves; but they have not come down from the mountains yet, and Milord Cyril will be in no danger,” said M. Drakovics, who found Cyril’s restless peregrinations very trying.
“That reminds me,” said Caerleon gloomily, as he unlocked one of the table-drawers and took out the jewel-case; “there came a message this morning from one of the mountain villages, saying that several people have been killed by a large solitary wolf, which can neither be trapped nor shot. They think it’s a were-wolf, and they sent to beg me to come up and try to shoot it. It seems that my Express rifle has made a name for itself, and there’s some superstition about the King’s bullet, besides. It’s a horrid bother that I can’t go. I suppose I shall have to let Prince Alexis know. One can’t leave the people to be decimated on the chance of my having a day off some time next week. There you are, Cyril, if you are bent on going. Don’t lose those rubies, or I’ll tell the man to send in the bill to you.”
Cyril was already in the hall donning his fur-lined coat and cap; and putting the case in his pocket, he started on his lonely walk. Autumn was passing into winter, but there was no snow on the ground as yet, and the dry leaves crackled pleasantly under his feet as he struck into the moonlit path between the tall black tree-stems. For a short time he walked fast and steadily, in order to exorcise the feeling of excitement which possessed him; then he slackened his pace a little, and as the stillness of the forest made itself felt, began to whistle. He was tramping vigorously along, with his hands thrust deep in his pockets, when it seemed to him that he saw the figure of a man on the path some distance in front of him. The shadows cast by the moonlight from the tree-trunks were so perplexing that he could not be sure that his eyes had not deceived him; but his blood kindled with an excitement which was by no means disagreeable, as he assured himself that his revolver was in its usual pocket. If there was a man in front of him he had passed completely out of sight, and Cyril scanned narrowly the straight stems on either side of the path as he walked on, assuring himself that he was looking for some distorted tree which must have taken the shape of a human figure in the moonlight. No such trunk appeared, however; but at the next turn of the path he caught sight of a tall man leaning against a tree. His hand went to his revolver instantly; but he recognised the Prince of Dardania, and stepped back with a laugh.
“What! you here?” both exclaimed simultaneously. Cyril recovered himself first. “I didn’t know you were in the habit of taking midnight rambles on Thracian territory,” he said. “Are you meditating a woful sonnet?” He stopped hurriedly, remembering that the quotation was rather an unhappy one under the circumstances, and reflecting that there could be little doubt that Prince Alexis had been taking a last look at the abode of the lady of his love before she was lost to him for ever.
“Not exactly,” returned the Prince, with some hesitation. “In fact, I was wondering whether I might ask you to do me a good turn. But perhaps your own business is urgent?”
“Oh, I am not love, only love’s messenger,” said Cyril, carelessly. “I am taking a small parcel to Schloss Herzensruh from my brother.”
“Then, if you will, you can give me the very help I need,” said the Prince, turning and walking by Cyril’s side. “You see me, as you say in England, in a hole. The fact is, my dear Mortimer, I am in love.”
Cyril’s first remark was fortunately only uttered mentally, for it was not of a sympathetic character. “I hardly see how I am to help you,” he added aloud.
“No?” said the Prince; “but I do. Perhaps you may be surprised to hear that I love a lady of the Queen of Mœsia’s household?”
“A lady of the household!” cried Cyril. “But I thought——”
“That I was in love with the Princess? But, my dear friend, a screen is sometimes necessary. At any rate, both the Queen and the Princess know the truth now.”
“Then I suppose that’s the secret of the snubbing you got the other night? It certainly was tremendous. I was really sorry for you.”
“Well,” pursued the Prince, “the Queen has treated me better than I could have dared to hope. She is so good as to give her sanction to my plans for a private marriage to-night.”
“But why private?” asked Cyril.
“My friend, I have Ministers, who interest themselves unduly in my affairs at times. I wish to present my marriage to them as an accomplished fact.”
“I see; and no doubt the Queen thinks that a public wedding might encourage the rest of her ladies to go and do likewise, a consummation which would scarcely meet her views. Well, if the ruling power is so propitious, why don’t you go in and win?”
“That is all that I desire. I have everything prepared at my summer-palace five miles away, the chapel ready, witnesses, Greek and Lutheran clergy to perform the ceremony. But how shall I reach my bride? King Johann has peopled the forest in the neighbourhood of the castle with gamekeepers and frontier-guards, and if I am seen, all is lost. The news would be carried to him immediately, and he bears such a grudge against me that he would spare no pains to discover my object and to thwart it.”
“But still, I don’t see what you want me to do,” said Cyril.
“Merely this, to bring my bride from the castle, and escort her to me here. I have two good horses waiting, one with a lady’s saddle, and it will not take you long.”
“But do you think I am going to compromise myself in this way out of pure philanthropy?” said Cyril. “I insist on being asked to the wedding.”
“Then I fear that you will be obliged to escort the bride all the way to my house, while I start off on foot,” said the Prince, “for I have not brought another horse.”
“The honour is only too great,” returned Cyril. “I am determined that nothing shall do me out of my share of the fun. Why, I daresay you have never even thought of getting hold of any one to propose the health of the bridal pair, and I’ve been told I’m rather good at that sort of thing.”
“No; I have not, indeed,” said the Prince. “You are in earnest? Then I will give you your directions, and part from you here. When you have delivered your message, and left the castle, knock three times at the postern-door close to the angle of the wall on this side. If the mistress of the household opens it, say that you are come on my behalf to fetch Fräulein von Staubach.”
“What? the lectrice?” asked Cyril.
“Yes; Fräulein von Staubach is the Queen’s lectrice and secretary. You know her?” the Prince asked, rather anxiously.
“I have caught a glimpse of her once or twice—just enough to see that she was a fair-haired girl in spectacles. She doesn’t show up as much as some of the other ladies.”
“No; she is generally busy writing the Queen’s letters. But you will know her when you see her? The Princess might play you a trick. She has a mole on the back of her left wrist.”
“Oh, I shall know her all right. Then, when I have got her safe, we have only to mount and ride away, I suppose?”
“Yes; the horses are here, you see, tied to this tree.”
“But suppose we meet any of the gamekeepers? They will think it queer, to say the least, to see me riding about late at night with one of the Queen’s ladies.”
“Unless you say that Fräulein von Staubach has been summoned back to Germany by a sudden message, and that you are escorting her to the station, I don’t see what you can do; and that would leave a good deal unexplained,” said the Prince, laughing. “They are scarcely likely to stop you, and no blame can attach to you afterwards, when everything comes out. You are merely doing a friend a good turn.”
“All right, then,” said Cyril. “We shall meet again,” and he waved his hand as Prince Alexis started on his lengthy walk, while he went on to the castle.
Cyril’sappearance at so late an hour caused some surprise at Schloss Herzensruh, but his ostensible errand did not take long to perform. After receiving a promise from the high functionary to whom he delivered the jewels that they should be placed in the Princess’s hands immediately, and declining alike the King’s invitation to come in and rest and his offer of an escort through the forest, he was very soon outside the grounds again. When he had gone far enough to be out of sight of any one who might be looking after him from the porter’s lodge, he turned aside from the path, and made his way to the little door in the wall which Prince Alexis had described to him. It opened immediately at his third knock, and in the shadow behind it he saw two ladies standing, the taller of whom was unmistakably the Queen.
“I was not expecting you, Lord Cyril,” she said, but without any show of surprise.
“The Prince of Dardania has intrusted me with the honour of escorting Fräulein von Staubach over the frontier into his territory, your Majesty,” said Cyril, while the other lady giggled hysterically.
“My Sophie, control yourself,” said the Queen, with an authoritative touch on her shoulder. “You have met Lord Cyril Mortimer before, I think? I will not keep you here, in case my absence should be remarked. Lord Cyril, I may trust you?”
“I will do my best to justify the confidence which your Majesty and the Prince are reposing in me,” said Cyril. “But if you will pardon my hurrying you, I think that Fräulein von Staubach and I ought to start at once. We have a fairly long ride before us.”
“Farewell, my child!” said the Queen, pressing what struck Cyril as a very affectionate kiss on the girl’s forehead. “I shall expect to hear from you to-morrow.”
Fräulein von Staubach’s reply was inaudible; but she threw her arms round the Queen’s neck and kissed her vehemently, then, without looking back, she took Cyril’s offered arm and walked quickly away with him, the Queen locking the door after them. As they picked their way among the tree-trunks—for Cyril thought it better not to keep to the path—he stole a look once and again at his companion when they came to a patch of moonlight. She was of middle height, and apparently rather stout, although this might be the fault of her wraps, and her fair hair was elaborately frizzed in front, and gathered into the fashionable lump behind. Her eyes were concealed by her spectacles; but Cyril could just distinguish that her eyebrows were so fair as to be almost colourless under the long gauze veil which covered her face, and was tied in a bow under her chin. So far as he could tell, she was wearing a white evening dress, with the train carefully looped up, and a heavy fur cloak over it. A less suitable costume for a midnight ride in winter could scarcely be imagined, and he remarked that it might have been wise to come in a riding-habit.
“Oh, but I could not be married in a habit. What a hideous idea!” she exclaimed, in a high-pitched voice with a marked Low German accent, such as after that night Cyril could never hear without a shudder.
“I fear you will find it difficult to ride in that dress,” he persisted.
“It will be difficult for me to ride at all,” she said, with a giggle; and Cyril restrained with difficulty an exclamation of disgust. It began to be clear to him now why the Prince had so readily resigned to him the honour of escorting his bride from her old to her new home. They had reached the horses by this time, and Cyril prepared to assist his charge to mount.
“Put your left hand on my shoulder, and hold the pommel with your right,” he said; “and give me your left foot. Now, spring!”
He gave a mighty heave, and the lady sprang; but with such ill success that she came down again in the same place. A second and a third attempt failed in like manner, and Cyril lost patience.
“If I can’t mount you this time, Fräulein, I shall be obliged to take you back to the castle. It won’t do to keep you poised in mid-air all night.”
On this occasion, however, they were successful, thanks to a frantic effort on the part of Fräulein von Staubach, and Cyril mounted his own horse (the animals were fortunately quiet ones) and guided both into the path.
“Try to sit a little straighter in your saddle,” he said to his companion. “If the beast begins to trot, you will go off.”
“Oh no!” she giggled shrilly. “I shall hold round his neck.”
Cyril was silent in deep disgust, and resolved mentally that he would not speak to her again; but when a disposition on the part of the horses to break into a trot had been checked two or three times by little screams from her, he remarked drily—
“We shall never reach the palace to-night at this rate.”
“Never mind me, then,Mein Herr, I will hold to the pommel,” she responded valiantly, and Cyril set his teeth hard and urged the horses on. In some wonderful way his companion managed to keep her seat, and, with the help of a few directions from him, got on better than he had expected, although he still muttered wrathfully to himself that he was thankful there was no one about to see him giving riding-lessons to asack! Slowly the long miles were covered, and midnight had passed when the riders entered the courtyard of the Prince of Dardania’s palace, which Cyril had already visited with Caerleon. Here all was bustle, servants bearing torches were ranged on either side of the door, and Prince Alexis himself hastened anxiously forward to receive his bride, who slipped from her horse into his arms with a hysterical laugh.
“It has been almost too much!” Cyril heard her say, as the Prince led her up the steps, and it struck him that she had visibly increased in height since his first glimpse of her in the castle garden.
“I’ve heard of people who got two inches taller owing to the consciousness of success, but I never saw it happen before,” he said to himself, as he gave the horses into the charge of a servant, and allowed himself to be conducted into the palace by a bowing official. The door opened into a great hall, through which Prince Alexis had just led his bride into a side room, where Cyril had a momentary view of a number of Dardanian ladies, evidently of high rank, gathering around their future Princess; but his guide conducted him through a long passage into a chapel, where everything was in readiness for the celebration of the Greek marriage-rite. The space on one side of the aisle was filled with Dardanian chiefs and nobles, splendid-looking men in gorgeous national costumes; and as Cyril was ushered to his place among them, he wondered how long it would be before a similar throng was gathered together for Caerleon’s wedding, and how many different religious ceremonies it would take to marry him. He had abundant opportunity for meditation, for the Lutheran rite was proceeding in another room; but after a while the vacant seats on the other side of the chapel were filled by the ladies of whom he had caught a glimpse, and the bride and bridegroom entered, and advanced up the aisle. The lady’s face was hidden by an elaborate lace veil, and Cyril felt a momentary curiosity as to the means by which she had managed to bring it with her; but his attention was soon distracted to more important details. The half-married bride was undoubtedly taller than she had appeared in the garden, and carried herself regally; and as Cyril gazed at her by the flickering light of the lamps burning before the sacred pictures and on the dais, it struck him that she was otherwise altered. Fräulein von Staubach was fair, but he was almost certain that this girl’s knot of hair was dark; and when she turned her head for a moment, it seemed to him that her eyebrows also were dark and strongly marked.
What had happened? What was the meaning of this enigma? Had he been fooled? He listened eagerly to the words of the priest, trying to discover some clue to the mystery; but he was unacquainted with the service and with the language in which it was conducted, and he had no prayer-book. He gathered that some question was being asked of the bridegroom; but strain his ears as he would, he could not distinguish in it the name of Sophie von Staubach, while for one awful instant he was haunted by the dread that he had heard the words Ottilie Ivanovna. A moment or two more, and his fear was confirmed, for the question addressed to the bride was answered, not in the shrill Low German accents of Fräulein von Staubach, but in the clear decided tones of Princess Ottilie. Cyril was standing quietly by, while his brother’s bride was married to another man before his eyes! He sprang forward, but a hand laid upon his shoulder on either side held him back. He was gripped by the two stalwart Dardanians between whom he was standing.
“Monsieur must not disturb the ceremony,” said one of them in bad French; and Cyril, seeing that he was overmatched, resisted the temptation to disturb the ceremony to some purpose by a shout proclaiming the falseness of the bride, and remained mute and motionless throughout the protracted rite, with its prayers and incense, its presentation of the Common Cup, and its crowning and marching round the dais, although during the whole time the thought was forcing itself into his mind that Caerleon must have known of all this. The fact that he had been looking forward to such adénoûmentexplained both his willingness to enter into the engagement at all, and his callousness with regard to hisfiancée, while his anxiety and misery throughout the past week were accounted for by the uncertainty of his position. And Princess Ottilie! Cyril ground his teeth as he remembered her tormenting doubts as to Caerleon’s affection, and how he had comforted her, while all the time she had been carrying on this complicated train of deception. But, after all, her moral turpitude was nothing to that of Caerleon. Cyril, the shrewd, the far-sighted, the diplomatist, had been duped, and by the brother whom he had always regarded as an honest simpleton, whose every thought he believed that he knew. It may seem a paradox to say that when Cyril’s first rage had cooled, the effect of his discovery was to heighten very considerably his respect for Caerleon, but so it was. The man by whom he had been deceived in this way must be possessed of a certain amount of brains.
Cyril had arrived at this point in his meditations when the ceremony concluded, and the bridal company left the chapel to sign the register. He was among the foremost who followed them into the room in which the book was placed in readiness, and when she had written her name, Princess Ottilie offered the pen to him with a mischievous smile—
“Come, Lord Cyril; you will add your name as a witness?”
“I am much honoured, but your Royal Highness will not catch me twice,” he replied; and she turned away with a laugh. He felt tempted to make his escape at once; but pride forbade him to slink away and show himself defeated, and he determined to face her again, and tell her one or two home-truths. His opportunity came later, when the bridal pair had proceeded to the throne-room to receive the congratulations of those present, and his name was duly announced by the grand chamberlain.
“Now, Lord Cyril,” said the Princess, when he had uttered the requisite formula with just the shade of exaggeration which showed that his good wishes were not wholly sincere, “confess that you were completely deceived. Of course it would have been much more sensible to wear a riding-habit; but I knew that the real Sophie von Staubach would never consent to be married in one, and I felt that I must dress the character consistently.”
“The illusion was perfect,” returned Cyril. “I can only congratulate your Royal Highness on the skill with which you have rendered the first act of your—tragedy.”
“Tragedy?” asked Prince Alexis, sharply. “Why tragedy?”
“If I wished to be unpleasant,” said Cyril, “I might quote Shakespeare, and say, ‘She has deceived her father, and may thee.’ But that would be impolite, and besides, the tragedy to which I refer is not a domestic but a public one. It doesn’t require much foresight to prophesy that the results of this night’s work will be