“What in the world are you doing, Lenchen? That paper is mine.”
“Then you had no business to bring it here. It’s a shame!” The stove-door clanged, and there was a sound of fire-irons. “As if I would let it lie about for him to see! She must be wickeder than I could ever have imagined it possible for a woman to be, to go and break his heart——”
Usk stood hesitating on the threshold as Helene, with a flushed face, rose from her knees before the stove. It had not struck him at first that he was one of the persons alluded to, but now the truth was clear. It was something about Félicia that she had been unwilling for him to see, and of late he had thought less and less about Félicia, and might almost be said to have forgotten her. Helene read in his face that he had heard and understood, but she misread the blankness of his expression when he realised the change which had come over his mind.
“The new guide-book has come. Wouldn’t you like to look at it?” she asked, beckoning him into the library. No sooner were they out of earshot of Prince Franz than she turned to him with tears in her eyes.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “I only wished to save you pain.”
“You are very good,” said Usk, “but I don’t quite understand——”
“Oh, it was a portrait of the Princess Félicia, and an interview with her, in an American paper, and I knew it would bring it all back to you—all the pain. If——if——” she hesitated—“if it would comfort you at all to talk to me about her, please do. I am so very sorry for you.”
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t,” said Usk, feeling rather guilty.
“I thought if you felt that it wasn’t her fault—that she was coerced by her family—it might comfort you to say so.”
“It was something much more vulgar than that—simply the desire for a crown.” Usk spoke with momentary fierceness, born of recollection.
“Ah, you are bitter. I do not wonder. You have borne it all in such silence. I have felt for you, but I did not like to say anything, lest you might be beginning to forget. I hoped you might still be able to believe the best of her, for that is always a comfort, isn’t it?”
“But you don’t,” objected Usk.
“How could I, when she has made my friend suffer?” demanded Helene passionately. “But I would if it would comfort you,” she added.
“You are too kind,” said Usk, with sufficient moodiness to satisfy her; and when he was alone he told himself again that he had been brought here on a fool’s errand. When Helene sent him the ring, she only meant to assure him of her sympathy under the treatment he had met with from Félicia.
Hence it was somewhat disconcerting to Usk when his uncle appeared suddenly on the scene, for whereas he was quite satisfied to go on from day to day enjoying the present and not troubling about the future, it was only too probable that Cyril would look to hear something definite. He met the party as they came down from the mountains one evening, sunburnt and hungry after a long day’s wandering. The two girls had decorated themselves and the pony with wreaths of flowers, and even Prince Franz’s Tyrolese hat was ornamented with a garland which he was forbidden to remove on pain of his wife’s severe displeasure. Usk, in consideration of his nationality, was allowed to escape with a buttonhole, which Helene had made up for him with great care; and Princess Resi’s obedient husband hinted that he would not mind being an Englishman too for once.
“But this is treason, disloyalty!” cried Theresia. “How shall we punish him, Lenchen? Oh, I know! If you say another word, Franz, we will put a wreath round your neck as well. We have plenty of flowers left.”
“You have, indeed,” said a new voice, as Cyril came face to face with them at a turn of the path. “Princess Helene might be posing as Flora.”
Helene smiled shyly from her high seat on the pony, where she was holding the luncheon-basket heaped up with flowers, and offered him a mountain-rose for his coat.
“After this mark of favour, I think I ought to be allowed to lead the pony,” said Cyril. “Usk, the Princess will dispense with your services for the present.”
Usk looked round in apprehension, fearing that his uncle had misunderstood the state of affairs, but Helene spoke hastily, lest his feelings might be hurt.
“Oh, please, if you would not mind Lord Usk’s walking on the other side,” she said anxiously to Cyril. “The pony knows him so well.”
Cyril smiled, and allowed Usk to retain his position. “Surely there can be no fear of the pony’s running away?” he said. “Even music seems to have no effect upon him. I found my way to you by hearing your singing far above me. I hope I did not put a stop to it?”
“We were pretending to be peasants,” said Theresia, “but we had left off singing before we met you, Count. We are getting so near the castle, you see.”
“Arcadian peasants, surely?” said Cyril, with an involuntary glance at Prince Franz’s hat. “And is the Princess Helene sorry to leave the upland meadows and the flowers, and come back to reality?”
“Oh no; we are bringing the flowers with us, you see,” answered Princess Resi for her.
“Which things are an allegory,” said Cyril; but what he meant he did not explain just then. He spent the evening at the Schloss with Queen Ernestine and Usk, watching all that went on without seeming to do so, and gaining a much clearer idea of the state of affairs than his nephew gave him credit for possessing. When they returned to Luisenruh, and the Queen had gone indoors, he suggested to Usk that they should smoke in the garden, and Usk could not think of any sufficient reason for declining.
“Well?” said Cyril at last, when Usk had exhausted himself in the endeavour to confine the conversation to general subjects. “Any news, Usk? Have you settled anything?”
Usk’s first impulse was to feign ignorance, but he knew it would be no use. “With Princess Helene, do you mean?” he asked. “No; I haven’t settled anything, because there’s nothing to settle. You were all mistaken. She only cares for me just as she does for her brother.”
“This is really very strange,” said Cyril gravely. “I should have thought the girl’s own mother ought to know the state of her feelings, but of course the girl herself must know it better. Do you say she told you this plainly? In that case, surely you would have found it better to leave at once? You have your father’s dignity to think of as well as your own, you know.”
“I’m afraid she might make herself ill again if I wasn’t here to look after her,” explained Usk anxiously; and Cyril was seized with a violent fit of coughing, due, he remarked, to something wrong with his cigar. “But she didn’t tell me all this,” Usk added, with some reluctance. “I saw it for myself.”
“You mean you have never proposed to her yet? But you must, you know. It will be merely a formality, of course, since you are aware what the answer will be, and you can go away immediately afterwards.”
“But,” objected Usk, “she might be afraid—of giving me pain——”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you. Oh, you mean she might accept you for fear of hurting your feelings by refusing? That would put you in a very awkward position, certainly. Your feelings have not changed, I suppose?”
“How could they?” was the tragic reply. “Félicia is still—nothing can——”
“Nothing can undo the fact of her intervention in your life, you mean? Quite so. When you start with an absolute impossibility of that kind, it simplifies matters, if only in the direction of cutting off one way of escape. Otherwise I should have thought—— I may be at fault in such a delicate matter, but if you were each prepared to marry out of pure tenderness for the other’s feelings, it seems to put it on rather a fair footing, doesn’t it?”
“No doubt it all strikes you as awfully funny, but——”
“My dear Usk, far from it! I fully appreciate the seriousness of a situation in which it is equally difficult for you to propose or not to propose, to be accepted or refused. I never remember coming across anything quite like it before. If you see any way in which I can help you, pray tell me. How you and Princess Helene are ever to learn each other’s real sentiments while sparing each other’s feelings, I don’t know. Unless, perhaps, you were to intimate that you intended to serenade her one night, and I took your place,à laCyrano. But I am getting rather old to play Romeo, and, besides, your aunt might object.”
Usk growled angrily but incoherently, then turned to his uncle.
“Why you should think it funny I don’t know,” he said, with some inconsistency. “I don’t. But what I want to know is, why should I propose to her at all? Why not simply go away?”
“But I thought her health would suffer? You don’t think so now? Because you have been received here as a suitor accepted by her parents, and it would be a blackguardly thing to do. It would be a cruel slur on the lady herself, and a most undeserved insult to the Grand-Duke and Duchess. Surely your father’s son is bound to be a gentleman, Usk?”
Even in the darkness Cyril was conscious of the start with which his nephew flung up his head. “You don’t understand,” said Usk coldly. “I am only anxious to do what is best for her. But think of it, Uncle Cyril,” his tone changed suddenly; “she is such a child, so young. I don’t believe she has ever thought of this kind of thing at all.”
“Girls have a habit of growing into women very much more suddenly than you would expect. At least you might try if she understands.”
“I don’t like to disturb her. She has been so perfectly happy lately.”
“My dear Usk, this idyllic life in meads of asphodel is very nice, but it can’t last always. Little Helene must learn to come down into reality like that pleasant sister-in-law of hers, and she will do it with a much better grace than you think. She will bring the flowers with her, as Princess Franz said, if only you will let her.”
“But why not let things go on as they are? We might drift into an understanding at last, without making such a fuss about it.”
“Because the rest of the world is not standing still while you are drifting. In plain English, we must begin to make arrangements for Michael and Félicia’s wedding. Things are so far advanced that it’s safe to go to work quietly. It is not expedient that they should be married in Thracia, as they are both Protestants. They can’t be married at Vindobona, for the same reason, and therefore Molzau, as the seat of his family, is the natural place. Unless you have any objection, I should prefer to get you out of the way first. You have no particular wish to hang about at the ceremony, have you?”
“I? No, indeed!” Usk shuddered. “Well, I’ll speak to her somehow, and get something settled, but I shall always feel myself the biggest blackguard on the face of the earth.”
All the next day Usk went about with a remorsefully resolute expression, which was correctly interpreted not only by his uncle but by Princess Theresia, who was sympathetically prepared to give him every possible assistance. The wanderings of the four young people led them that day into one of the most difficult parts of the mountains, and about noon they left the pony at the hut of one of the Grand-Duke’s gamekeepers, since it would only be an encumbrance in their climb. The girls were very tired when they approached the hut again in the evening, and, to her husband’s alarm, Princess Resi seemed even more exhausted than her sister-in-law. She hung heavily on his arm, and walked so slowly that Usk and Helene were soon out of sight in front.
“You are much more tired than Lenchen,” said Prince Franz. “You must ride instead of her, or at least you must take turns.”
“I won’t! Why, it would spoil everything. No, you are not to shout to them, Franz. I won’t have you interrupt them.” Then, as he looked at her in astonishment, “He has been making up his mind to do it all day, and he shall have his chance.”
“To speak to Helene, do you mean? Well, I hope you see now that even an Englishman feels a little diffidence in the presence of a daughter of Schwarzwald-Molzau?”
“Because he has taken so long about it, you mean? Franz, it does surprise me to see how foolish even a rather nice man, such as yourself, can be!”
“At least I’m not too dull to see that your fatigue has suddenly disappeared in the heat of argument.”
“Ah, you onlysee. Iknow, and I know just what his feelings are.”
Prince Franz received this assurance with a shout of laughter, but he consented to lag behind with his wife. Usk and Helene had not noticed their considerate conduct, however. Helene was keeping up bravely, in spite of her fatigue, laying plans for fresh expeditions, and wondering why her companion received them in such a half-hearted way. He did not seem to be listening, she thought, and at last he broke into one of her sentences.
“Take my hand here, won’t you? It’s a stiff bit.” Then a few moments of silence, and he spoke again suddenly. “I’m afraid I shan’t be here much longer. My uncle was saying last night that I ought to be off.”
This was the plan Usk had devised, after much cogitation, for breaking the ice, and preparing Helene for the proposal which was bound to be so startling to her, but its immediate effect alarmed him. He felt her stumble, and a shiver ran through the arm which was passed through his. Presently she said wearily—
“I am so tired—so terribly tired. Do you think you could leave me here, and fetch the pony from the hut? I feel as if I could not walk any farther.”
Much perplexed, and wondering guiltily whether his announcement was to blame for this sudden exhaustion, Usk sought out a large stone by the wayside.
“Of course. Sit here, and I will bring the pony to you in a minute. What an idiot I was not to see that we were going too far for you! But you will catch cold.”
He felt in the inner pocket of his jacket for the warm scarf his mother had placed there, adjuring him always to wear it in the mountains, and wrapped it round Helene’s neck, tucking the ends into her coat and buttoning it. She pushed his hands away.
“Oh, don’t! I can’t bear it!” she cried, then added hastily, “I shall be too hot, I mean.”
“I am a brute!” thought Usk, lingering near her, but she bade him go with a gesture which aroused in him something of indignation. Helene to treat him in this way! Then he realised the truth of his uncle’s words. She was a woman, after all.
Usk made short work of the climb to the gamekeeper’s hut, and himself helped to saddle the pony. Helene had not been alone five minutes when the clatter of hoofs on the stones announced his return. She began to apologise for her rudeness in a gentle, tired voice from which all ring of happiness had departed, but he seemed to have no time to listen to her. He had her mounted and well on the homeward way before he would speak, in his new-born terror lest Prince and Princess Franz should come up and interrupt them.
“I want to ask your advice, Princess,” he began. “I am in trouble—in a difficulty.”
“Oh, if I could help you,” she said, with a quick return of pleasure.
“It’s about a man who—whom I know. He can’t make up his mind what to do. May I tell you about him?” She gave him a breathless permission, and he went on. “This man was in love with a girl, awfully lovely and all that, and she—jilted him for some one else. Then he met another girl, and got very fond of her, but he felt that he never could love any one again as he had loved the first girl. And it seemed to him that it wasn’t fair to ask the second girl to love him when he couldn’t care for her as he ought. I can’t tell you exactly how he felt about it——”
“Perhaps I can,” she said. “The first girl was so beautiful that she had only to command, and it was a joy to him to obey. She seemed to know the right thing to be done, as if she had been a prophetess, and the second girl was only a poor little thing to whom he had been kind. She could not advise him, and he would never think of asking her for advice. But because he had been kind to her, he pitied her, and cared for her in a sort of way——” her voice thrilled with pain.
“No, no!” cried Usk. “It’s not that. He really is awfully fond of her, but he can’t feel that it would be fair to ask her to marry him when he doesn’t love her as he did the first girl.”
“He adored the first, and the other he is only—fond of?” said Helene. “I think the second girl should be asked whether that is enough for her.”
“Is it, Lenchen?” He looked up at her as he walked beside the pony.
“One thing I must know first,” she said hastily. “See, she comes to you again, the Princess Félicia, and holds out her hands. She says, ‘I am free. I hardened my heart against you for the sake of a crown, but I find that I cannot live without you. I have always loved you best, and I have broken loose and come back to you. Take me.’ And you would, would you not?”
“Rather not!” cried Usk. “She has broken me of that kind of thing. I should only want to know what she expected to gain by it.”
“You.”
“But that’s not enough for her. She despises me, you see. And I come and offer you what she despises. Do you wonder I’m ashamed?”
“And I accept it,” said Helene. “Does it seem to you very poor-spirited to be content with what you offer me? Perhaps it is, but—I can’t do without you. All my strength seems to forsake me when you are away. The day you left Nice, when we met you on your way to the station, I was praying—oh, so earnestly!—that the good God would change your mind, and make you decide to stay. It would have been a miracle, you say? But why not? I knew I could not hold out against my parents and Ivan Petrovitch if you were gone. But you went away, and I seemed to have no power to resist. I allowed papa to tell Ivan Petrovitch that I would marry him, and I prayed that I might die soon, before the day could come. Do you wonder, then, that I am content now? But listen to me, please.” She laid her hand on his shoulder as he walked beside her. “I am glad you have told me all your feelings, because it relieves me from one of my fears, at least. I am content, but I am not satisfied. I shall not be satisfied until you can tell me from your heart that you love me best.”
“But really, you know,” protested Usk, “it’s simply that I can’t help knowing that if I had to live the time over again since last August I should do exactly the same—as regards Félicia, I mean.”
“I know—and I want you to be able to say, ‘If I had known Helene then, I should have loved her best.’ It sounds impossible, does it not? and you are honest; you will not say it does not. But let me try. Do not steel your heart against me, that is all I ask. You promise, then?” as Usk took her hand and pressed his lips to it. “And you will say nothing of this to any one? It is our secret, yours and mine.”
“I feel as if every one ought to know how wretchedly, miserably ashamed I feel beside you,” he muttered.
“So? I would have liked you to feel proud—and just a little pleased,” and Helene smiled at him with trembling lips. Usk looked at her as if he hardly realised the meaning of her words, then his strained expression relaxed, and he smiled too.
“This part of the path is rather steep. I think I ought to hold you on the pony,” he said, and did so.
“There’s one thing I want to ask you,” said Helene presently.
“To the half of my kingdom, such as it is! Only let me hear it.”
“You have a Christian name, haven’t you? I want to have a name for you that other people don’t use—not to have to call you after a place, like a king in Shakespeare. Do you think Cordelia called her husband ‘France’?”
“My Christian name is Edmund,” said Usk gravely.
“Oh, and Edmund in ‘King Lear’ is so horrible! I couldn’t call you that.”
“I’m sorry. It’s a family name, you see. But as you’re such a Shakespearean scholar, have you ever read ‘Henry V.’?”
“I don’t think so. No; I’m sure I haven’t. But I will, as soon as I get home.”
“Oh no; you needn’t,” hastily. “There’s a fellow in that called Nym—a delightful person—and Nym was short for Edmund, you know. That’s a name you can have quite to yourself, if you like it.”
“Yes; I like it. But I shall only use it when we are alone, lest other people should find it out. Nym!—I believe it is the name of a horrid person after all,” as Usk smiled involuntarily. “Then I shall call you by it all the same, just to punish you. Well, Nym, do you still think you must go away soon?”
“Not without you. I shall want you to help me with my election when I get back to England. I’m sure I could never get through it alone.”
“Oh, do you mean that I may help you—really help you—in your parliamentary work? What may I do? I know so little.”
“Oh, you can help me with my speeches—look up references, and that sort of thing,” said Usk vaguely. “And you could canvass, of course.”
“Canvass? But that is to ask people to vote for you, is it not? And the English great ladies allow the voters to kiss them, don’t they?”
“Youhad better not, unless you want me to fight the voters all round. No; the way of going to work nowadays is to get at the electors’ wives, and make them promise to influence their husbands.”
“I see. I am to say to them, ‘You must tell your husband to vote for mine, because I am the person who knows best, and I can assure you how good he is.’”
“You are nothing but a child after all,” laughed Usk. “And a few minutes ago I thought you had turned into a woman who was quite a stranger to me.”
“A child for you to love, and a woman to love you,” said Helene, very low.
“Oh, Nym, I am so frightened!”
“Why? About what your father will say, do you mean?”
“No; it’s something I have done.”
“What wickedness have you been up to now? An infant like you!—aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
“Not exactly ashamed,” said Helene seriously, “but terrified.”
“Hadn’t you better confess? My mind is duly prepared for horrors.”
“If you’ll call me Little Nell, I will.”
“Little schemer, I think. Well, Little Nell?”
Helene put her hand through his arm, and clasped his wrist tightly. “It seemed such a splendid idea when it came to me first. It was the very evening that we were—engaged, you know, and I was so happy I could not sleep, and rather frightened, too, because mamma had been sitting by me and crying, and saying all the relations would be so angry. Then I remembered that the Emperor Sigismund was hunting near Neuburg this week, and I thought I would write to him, and get him on our side. And I did.”
“How frightfully enterprising! And what does he say?”
“There hasn’t been time for an answer yet. But last night it seemed to me that it would have been so much better not to write to him until—until everything was over, you know. And the answer might come to-day, if he wrote at once. And I am so frightened. I don’t know what to do.”
“It strikes me you’re much too independent for an engaged young woman. You deserve a good scolding. Why didn’t you say anything to me?”
“I thought it would be such a nice surprise. I never imagined he might be angry, somehow. Please scold me, Nym. Then perhaps I shall not be so frightened.”
“I don’t think there’s much need for me to scold you,” said Usk gravely, rising to look down the path which led to the Lauterbach plateau from the lower world. He and Helene were sitting on the roof of the Moorish kiosk which was one of the less bizarre erections scattered about the gardens, and commanded one of the widest views. “There are people coming up, Lenchen, and one of them looks like——”
“Not cousin Sigismund himself? Oh, Nym!” She was white and trembling, and her hands gripped his arm convulsively. “Can’t we escape?”
“Where to? Why, Nell, what is there to be afraid of? He can’t eat you.”
“But if he should want to send you away? He shan’t, he shan’t! If he does, I will go too. You won’t give me up, Nym?”
“You silly child! I shan’t be asked. They’ll want you to give me up.”
“Then we are quite safe, for I won’t.”
“He’s looking this way; he’s seen you, Nell. Wave your hand and don’t be frightened. We’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Of course not. I’m not ashamed. Oh, Nym, he is telling the rest to ride on. He is dismounting and coming up here. What shall we do? Let us go down—quick!”
“Remember that you’ll have to ask if you may present me,” said Usk hurriedly as he followed her down the outside stair. At the foot he waited, expecting Helene to go forward alone to greet the soldierly man in hunting costume and Tyrolese hat who had just mounted the knoll on which the summer-house stood, but she caught his arm and dragged him forward with her.
“Oh, cousin Sigismund, please—this is Usk!”
A more informal presentation there could not have been, and the Emperor, finding his hand forced, looked almost embarrassed and decidedly annoyed. He acknowledged Usk’s presence coldly, greeted Helene with paternal kindness, and sat down on the piazza of the summer-house, motioning her to a seat beside him; but she preferred to stand, still gripping Usk’s arm as though to hold him fast.
“I don’t think your friend will run away, Lenchen,” said the Emperor, with an involuntary smile, as he glanced at the two culprits before him; and Helene laughed nervously as she released Usk’s arm, still retaining her hold of his hand, however. Her eyes sought her cousin’s face anxiously.
“I suppose you know you are a very fortunate young man?” said the Emperor abruptly to Usk; and both hearers felt that it was not at all what he had intended to say.
“Most fortunate, sir.” Usk squeezed Helene’s hand reassuringly.
“Have you any explanation to offer of your pres——” Usk felt that Helene darted a look of angry reproach at the questioner—“of the ambition which has led you to seek an alliance with the house of Schwarzwald-Molzau?”
“I can’t say it was exactly ambition, sir. I—I love the Princess——”
“I love him,” interrupted Helene calmly.
The Emperor frowned. “My dear cousin, as a favour to me, allow Lord Usk to answer for himself. Do you intend to seek a career in Germany, Lord Usk? You hold a commission in the British army, I believe?”
“Only in the Yeomanry, sir. If I might speak freely to your Majesty——”
“By all means. That is what I desire.”
“I have no wish to live anywhere but in England, sir. I am my father’s only son, and have many ties at home. I hope to enter Parliament before long, and devote myself to a political career.”
“And we shall live in a tall, narrow black house in a square, and I shall drive him to the House of Commons every evening, and sit up and look out quotations for his speeches until he comes back,” said Helene ecstatically.
“At least you have not idealised the prospect!” said the Emperor drily to Usk, then turned to Helene. “My dear little cousin, might I ask you to be so very kind as to go and tell your mother of my arrival? You will do me this favour, won’t you?”
“If you command me as Emperor, I suppose I must,” said Helene undauntedly, though Usk could feel that she was shaking; “but for anything short of that I can’t—I mean, I won’t go.”
“Really we could talk business much better,” said Usk, aghast, and at his wits’ end to know how to act and speak without either offending the Emperor or wounding Helene’s feelings. She looked at him with high disdain.
“The Emperor wishes to get rid of me that he may say things to you which will make you give me up, but he shall say them before me, or not at all.”
“As you will, little cousin,” said the Emperor carelessly. Then he turned suddenly a penetrating gaze on Usk. “What part does this intended marriage of yours play in the plans of your uncle Count Mortimer? If there is any question of a revival of your father’s preposterous claim to the throne of Thracia, understand that it will not be permitted. The unbridled ambition of you Mortimers has already endangered the peace of Europe too often.”
This time it was Usk who could not help smiling. “If your Majesty knew my father, you would see how strange it sounds to hear you speak of unbridled ambition in connection with him. He went to Thracia against his will, led on by circumstances, and left it with the most intense pleasure. He would do anything rather than go back there or allow me to go.”
“You will find it more generally accepted that your father’s ambition failed him at a critical moment. He aspired to enter the ranks of reigning sovereigns without submitting to their limitations, and preferred a marriage of affection to one arranged for state reasons. I am only doing honour to the foresight of that most accomplished statesman, Count Mortimer, when I say that if the marriage he projected for his brother with the lady who is now the Dowager Princess of Dardania had taken place, we should probably have had a Mortimer dynasty firmly established in Thracia to-day, and the Balkans would be less of a menace to European peace. But your father withdrew from Thracia, and neither he nor his son will be allowed to return there.”
“May I remind your Majesty that my uncle has devoted his life to the work of strengthening the throne of the present King of Thracia?”
“I do not presume to fathom your uncle’s plans. But I see that he has reappeared on the political stage after the check he received in the Scythian occupation of Jerusalem, and I augur badly from that.”
“Indeed, sir, he is visiting Europe purely on King Michael’s account.”
“And yet I know him to be at this moment the centre of a widely extended conspiracy, the object of which is to establish him as ruler of Palestine. You would have me believe that he contrives to ally himself with half the reigning houses of Europe in a fit of absence of mind, as you English like it to be thought that you built up a world-empire? No; if Count Mortimer really wished only to set the affairs of Thracia in order, and return as a private person to his retreat in the desert, his judgment is at fault. He should have married his stepson to the Princess Helene, and you to the American heiress, leaving her in her original obscurity until the wedding was over.”
“But I would never have married Michael!” cried Helene, in dismay.
“You would if Count Mortimer had wished you to do so, much as you are now marrying his nephew, my dear Lenchen,” was the reply. Helene was about to make an angry answer, but Usk stopped her.
“It is not for me to defend my uncle,” he said hesitatingly, “but if your Majesty would grant him even a short interview, I think he would be able to convince you of the honesty of his intentions.”
“Count Mortimer is as yet scarcely in a position that would entitle him to ask for an interview,” was the reply, “and in view of the propaganda he is carrying on, I must decline to receive him in audience. My Chancellor would no doubt be interested in his plans if he cared to impart them to him. I can quite believe that you have the fullest belief in your uncle,” this as Usk was digesting the snub as best he might, “but it is merely another proof of his astuteness. If you have any regard for his safety, you might warn him that to persist in his present course will be dangerous in the extreme. He is too much of a firebrand to be left at large in Europe, and if I feel this, what must be the sensations of those whose policy he is deliberately opposing? He will do well to bury himself in the desert again as soon as possible. This morning I should have advised him also to give up all hope of the ambitious alliance he has devised for you, but provided that you and your father refuse to allow yourselves to be drawn into his schemes——” the Emperor paused.
“Oh, you are going to be kind? You will take our part?” gasped Helene.
“Certainly not. I cannot bestow my approval on such marriages as this, but in the circumstance, and especially if Count Mortimer leaves Europe immediately, I will not oppose it.”
“The Princess Helene and I are most grateful to you, sir,” said Usk, wondering that Helene did not speak. But as the Emperor rose to meet her mother, who had heard of his arrival and come to look for him, she pressed her lover’s arm.
“You do believe that I love you, Nym? Even if we have to part, you will never let anything keep you from believing that?” and her face was pale and anxious again.
“Why, of course not!” said Usk. “But what should part us now?”
It happened that Queen Ernestine was spending the morning at the Schloss, and when the Grand-Duchess brought in the Emperor she was unable to escape, much to her disgust. The Emperor was very glad to meet her, and anxious to talk to her about King Michael’s marriage, but he was careful only to allude to Cyril as if he were still a trusted minister of state. The Queen had far too muchsavoir faireto expose herself to such a rebuff as Usk had incurred, but it was gall and wormwood to her that her husband’s existence should be thus pointedly ignored. Her cousin had played a prominent part in bringing about her unhappy first marriage, and this still rankled in her mind, so that the time seemed interminable to her which she spent in answering his questions and receiving his suggestions. The Emperor departed after lunch, and she returned quickly to Luisenruh, where Cyril came out to greet her with a smile.
“Well, Ernestine, so you have had a visitor? The excursions and alarms penetrated even to my quiet retreat here. Was he in a good temper?”
“I think so—for him. He won’t object to Usk’s marrying Helene, though he doesn’t approve of it, and I am thankful for that. And he approves of all that has been arranged about Michael—thinks that Molzau is quite the best place for the wedding, and that your idea of getting my aunt Amalie to escort Félicia to meet her father’s people is excellent. But, Cyril——”
“I thought there was something behind. What is it?”
“I don’t think he wants you to be at the wedding.”
“Is that all? I never thought of being there. The apple of discord would be nothing to me. The party would scarcely separate without bloodshed.”
“Then I shall certainly not go either.”
“My dear Ernestine, you must. How could you, Michael’s own mother, and on excellent terms with him, be absent? Without me you will have no difficulties about precedence. Do you think I could stand your reducing yourself to a Countess, as I know you would do when you saw me relegated to my proper place? You must think of Michael’s feelings a little.”
“I shall speak to Michael. He can’t be so ungrateful as to let you be slighted after all you have done for him.”
“What can Michael do when he comes in conflict with the unbending laws of etiquette? No, Ernestine, listen; I have it all nicely mapped out. We shall both be at Helene’s wedding, at any rate; we won’t let them do me out of that. Then we will pick up your aunt Amalie and run down to Nice again, and see Félicia safely into the hands of her father’s family. You will return to Molzau for the wedding, and I shall go on to Thracia. Michael and Mirkovics have give mecarte blancheas to reorganising the government offices, so as to prevent corruption in future, and you will join me at Bellaviste. Then we shall be ready to welcome Michael and Félicia, and as soon as they have settled down we will take our leave and be off to Sitt Zeynab, and spend a quiet old age dispensing justice to the Arabs under our own palm-trees.”
“But I would rather not wait for that until after the wedding. I should like to go back at once, Cyril—at once, this very day.”
“I’m afraid we can’t annihilate time and space quite to that extent. But I suppose this means that the Emperor has been saying unpleasant things? I have had Helene here, drowned in tears, and offering to give up Usk if his marrying her would really bring me into danger. What does the man mean by trying to frighten two women? Why not say what he has to say to me?”
“He told me distinctly that you were in danger as long as you remained in Europe and persisted in your schemes. Poor little Lenchen must have heard the same.”
“Probably. If we were punished as severely for our evil deeds as for our good ones, we should come off pretty badly, shouldn’t we, Ernestine? I’m sure the best thing I ever did in my life was when I threw myself on your mercy and induced you to marry me, and I’m tolerably certain the next best was bringing Usk and Helene together, and yet it’s just those two things these people can’t forgive me.”
“But must you stay, Cyril? Do let us go.”
“Before we have seen the young people made happy? No, no; we’ll see the thing through after having so much to do with it.”
“Well, then, as soon as Michael’s wedding is over, you can meet me at Trieste, and we will leave for Beyrout at once. Why should you run into danger for the sake of Prince Malasorte?”
“It’s not that. I failed my friends when they trusted me, and now that they have thrown in their lot with Malasorte, I won’t spoil their plans a second time, as I should do if I left Europe before he brings off hiscoup d’état. They trust him, and I don’t, but if I can help them a bit by getting public suspicion concentrated on me instead of him, I will. And that’s my last word, Ernestine.”
With a couple of weddings approaching, there was no time to lose, and the Schwarzwald-Molzau family were most anxious to get the less important of the two over, and be able to devote themselves to the preparations for the gorgeous state ceremonial which would mark the marriage of King Michael. Hence Usk made a hasty business journey to England very shortly after the Emperor’s visit, and when he returned it was in company with his parents, who were duly installed by the Grand-Duke, not with the best possible grace, in a wing of the great Schloss at Molzau. The transaction with the Aberkerran and Western Hills Railway Company, to which Cyril had alluded, proved, when carried out on the lines he suggested, highly beneficial to Lord Caerleon’s exchequer; and he was able to leave on the minds of the Molzau people an impression of sober magnificence which checked any misgivings as to the match their little Princess was making. Quite unintentionally, Lord Caerleon also produced a distinct impression on the Grand-Duke, who revenged himself afterwards by alluding to him as “the stone image,” but at the time actually asked Cyril whether his brother would like to be received with the honours due to an ex-sovereign, purely as a compliment, of course, and without prejudice to King Michael’s rights. Cyril declined the offer on Caerleon’s behalf, but he derived a good deal of amusement as well as relief from the fact that his brother could overawe the irascible Grand-Duke to such an extent that the occasion was not marked by a single burst of temper. The wedding was very quiet. Princess Theresia induced her mother to be present, and that amiable lady, who was always at her daughter’s beck and call, shed the lustre of her historic jewels on the ceremony, but Europe as a whole turned its head away and refused to be aware of what was taking place. When the wedding was over, the bride and bridegroom, with what Usk regarded as a preposterous retinue of servants, and Helene as the lowest number with which it would be respectable to travel, betook themselves to the Lebanon, where they were to meet Philippa and her husband, who had been prevented from coming to the wedding by the authoritative claims of a son and heir only a month old. The Grand-Duchess, who had maintained for the past three months a defiant attitude towards circumstances irresistibly suggestive of a ruffled hen defending its brood, bewailed the loss of Helene with floods of tears to Lady Caerleon, Queen Ernestine, Princess Florian, and Princess Resi by turns, and then settled down to her usual duty of acting as a buffer between her husband and his surroundings. Lord and Lady Caerleon returned to England, and Cyril and his wife journeyed back to Nice, in company with Princess Amalie of Weldart, the Queen’s aunt, who disapproved highly of Helene’s marriage, but had not been able to bring herself to stay away from the wedding.
Félicia was now very near the realisation of her hopes. Princess Amalie, who was her great-aunt, was to take charge of her at Nice and deliver her over to Don Ramon of Arragon, who was to await her with his family at the Pannonian seaport close to which her father’s youth had been passed. Her position was now recognised in the Court circle, and after the reception by her uncle it would be made evident to the world. With considerate regard for the endurance both of Félicia and her new-found relatives, it had been arranged that her marriage with King Michael was to follow as soon as the long journey from the coast to Molzau would allow, and this visit to Nice was for her a delightful whirl of congenial toils. Dresses, jewellery, furs, decorations and furniture for the palace at Bellaviste, servants’ liveries, the exact constitution of her court, all these things had to be thought of, discussed, decided upon. King Michael was determined to spare no pains nor expense in gratifying the wishes of his bride; and it was well that Félicia had the good taste and loving advice of the Baroness Radnika at hand, and also the wide experience of Mr Hicks, whose sarcastic humour restrained her from not a few follies. Revelling in the interest she excited, for her story had long since leaked out, she was absolutely busy and perfectly happy, save for one shadow of a cloud in her sky.
“Maimie,” she exclaimed incredulously, as they were looking through the letters and papers that awaited them on their arrival at Nice. “Come and look here—right now. Usk is married!”
“Well, I guess he hasn’t wasted much time lamenting you,” said Maimie.
“It’s to the Grand-Duke’s daughter, the little pale girl—and they haven’t ever told us!”
“Why, you know every one said she must be in love with some other man when she was engaged to the Scythian Prince and looked so miserable. Of course it was Usk, and now Count Mortimer has had him marry her.”
“He’ll be real good to her,” said Félicia slowly.
“What’s that to you, any way?” was the sharp response.
“Oh, I don’t know. Say, Maimie, is the ‘chapel attached to the Grand-Ducal Palace at Molzau’ the same as the Schlosskirche where I’m to be married? No bridesmaids, of course—I do hate that. I always meant to design the cunningest costumes for my bridesmaids. ‘The Marchioness of Caerleon was gowned in panne of an exquisite shade of heliotrope, with the famous family emeralds’—guess she looked just elegant, don’t you? ‘Her Royal Highness Princess Florian of Arragon ingris argentbrocade, the corsage almost covered with the magnificent Mohacsy diamonds,’ ‘the Princess Franz Immanuel of Schwarzwald-Molzau’—that’s my cousin Resi, of course—‘in pink satin and pearls.’ What did the Grand-Duchess wear, I’d like to know? Crimson velvet, I guess. ‘The bride’s travelling-dress was trimmed with exquisite Eastern embroidery, sent from Palestine by the bridegroom’s sister, Lady Philippa Mansfield.’ Did Phil mean that for me when she bought it, do you think, Maimie? But there don’t seem to be much to say about her wedding-gown—just that she wore the Caerleon pearls. I guess I shall go one better in gowns, any way.”
“I just know you will,” responded Maimie. “Why, you’ll be a queen, Fay.”
“That is so.” Félicia’s tone sounded a little wistful. “I can’t seem to feel real happy, Maimie. It’ll be you and me one side, and Michael the other, all the time. Being queen will be just elegant, but—— Michael’s awfully in love with me, but I don’t trust him, and he don’t trust me.”
“And Usk you did trust,” cried Maimie, much alarmed by the turn the conversation was taking, “and he marries another girl right away, before you’re married yourself, even. Don’t you see the way it is, Fay? It’s just that he won’t look as if he had been jilted—just pride, and not anything more. He don’t care a red cent for this other girl, but he’s set on making you mad. I wouldn’t have him do it.”
“No, I don’t feel mad, only a little sorry. And not real sorry, either, for I wouldn’t go way back now. It’s just that it’s the end, Maimie.”
“That’s so, and I’m real glad of it, for you won’t ever be able to reproach yourself about Usk again. And as to Michael, don’t be afraid. We’ll fix him up some way. You and I will have some place just all to ourselves, so’s we can forget all of the stuff the Baroness has been teaching us, and have a good time together, chewing gum and talking the way we choose, and no other person shall come in there.”
“And you don’t hate turning into a hired girl?” asked Félicia, rather doubtfully.
“Not a cent, so long as you are queen. I’d as lief be hired girl as not, so’s I can fix it that I wait on you. They won’t turn you into a statue while I’m around.”
It was only when she was alone with Félicia that Maimie ventured to speak thus freely nowadays. She had fallen quite naturally into the position of her friend’s confidential lady-in-waiting, and had profited by the teachings of Baroness Radnika a good deal more readily than Félicia herself. Her influence was invaluable, said the Baroness, and no one dreamed of the absolute equality to which the two girls returned when they were unobserved. When Princess Amalie arrived, she took a great fancy to Maimie. Félicia was just a little difficult to manage sometimes, she admitted, “but that good creature Logan” could nearly always persuade her to see reason. Princess Amalie was a cheerful old lady, whose temper did not seem to have been soured by the fact that her lack of beauty had driven her family to provide for her by making her a canoness. The semi-conventual title ensured her a position of independence, a sufficient income, and a home at the Stift, or Institution, whenever she was not visiting her relations, which was very seldom, for she made up for not possessing a family of her own by taking the keenest interest in the affairs of her large circle of nephews and nieces. In nearly all the Courts of Europe she was “everybody’s aunt,” and every one confided in her, although she had a perfect genius for betraying secrets to the very people to whom they ought not to be told. Very soon after her arrival at Nice Félicia knew of all the discourteous and uncomplimentary remarks her uncle Don Ramon had made when he found himself forced to acknowledge an American niece, and Maimie had heard a second time that Cyril had advised King Michael to get rid of her before he married Félicia. Both of them had drunk in with keen delight Princess Amalie’s account of the disgust felt by all the younger branches of the Schwarzwald-Molzau family and their relations over Helene’s marriage, and the almost total lack of wedding-presents and royal guests. It was this which pleased Félicia most, but Maimie took an even greater pleasure in the further resolution which seemed to have been generally formed by King Michael’s family, that they would not attend his wedding if Count Mortimer was to be present. Any slight inflicted upon the man who had tried to separate her from Félicia she accepted as a boon to herself, and it happened that there was another person who felt with her.
About three days after Princess Amalie’s arrival, it struck her suddenly that she ought to call upon the Princess of Dardania, who was also her niece, but whom she had not seen for some time, owing to the unfortunate series of events which had long ago alienated the Princess from her relations. Félicia was driving with Queen Ernestine, with whom she agreed as well as could be expected when they had not a single taste or thought in common, and as Princess Amalie’s owndame d’honneurwas ill, she borrowed Maimie for the afternoon. Maimie had by this time become accustomed to being regarded as a mere chattel, an appendage to Félicia, and was by no means loath to accompany the old lady, from whose chatter she expected to pick up a good deal of useful information. She knew that the Princess of Dardania had an old grudge against Count Mortimer, and as she sat silent and apart during the visit, holding Princess Amalie’s lap-dog, she heard, as she had anticipated, the canoness beginning her tale afresh. Every disparaging remark, every calculated rebuff, was detailed over again, the Princess of Dardania listening with lazy satisfaction, commenting on what she heard rather with her great black eyes and arched eyebrows than by word of mouth.
“Then what is the poor Count to do, while Ernestine queens it at Molzau, and he is shut out?” she asked at last. “Will he go to England, to his brother?”
“I don’t quite know,” said Princess Amalie, unwilling to confess herself at a loss. “Ah, but Miss Logan will know. They were explaining their plans to Félicia last night, and she was there.”
“And did Miss Logan happen to hear how Count Mortimer proposed to enjoy his week of liberty?” asked the Princess.
“He is going to Thracia, madame, and her Majesty is to join him there.”
“To Thracia—from the south of Pannonia? It will be a long journey.”
Maimie was conscious of something in the Princess’s tone which seemed like repressed excitement. She answered promptly, “He intends to go through Illyria, madame. There is only a few miles of country between the Pannonian and Mœsian railways, and he will save time by driving from one to the other instead of taking the long round.”
“To drive across Illyria—— Ah!” said the Princess slowly. Again there was that hint of eagerness in her manner, and Maimie caught it. The Princess looked up, and saw the responsive sparkle in her eye. Instantly her own face changed. “Illyria is a country of very beautiful scenery. I have travelled there a good deal,” she said, with a dead calmness in her tone, and Maimie was left to wonder what memory, or what project, had provoked that sudden excitement. For some reason she suspected that it did not bode well for Count Mortimer, and she was glad of it, though it was not evident to her what the Princess could do to annoy him.
A few days later, the Bluebird left the Western Mediterranean for the port at which Don Ramon of Arragon was to welcome his niece. The Queen and Cyril were on board, so was Princess Amalie, and so also was Mr Hicks, who was understood to occupy the position of the late Prince Joseph’s man of business. A high honour was awaiting Félicia, for the Emperor of Pannonia happened to be visiting the port; and when Don Ramon’s arrival was delayed, through some accident or mistake which was hinted not to be altogether accidental, he took upon himself the duty of welcoming her and Princess Amalie. Queen Ernestine went northwards to Molzau, Cyril started on his journey to Thracia, and Félicia, with her train of followers, was delivered into the hands of her uncle. He proved to be a stern-faced elderly man, early soured by the loss of all his prospects, and interested in humanity only from the point of view of a student of brain disease. His wife was so completely his shadow that she was known as “la Ramona” at the Pannonian Court; but she had individuality enough to disapprove very heartily of heretics, Americans, and people who were nothoffähiggenerally, and to regard Félicia as an example of all three. The daughters were uninteresting girls, keenly on the look-out for something shocking in everything their new cousin said or did, and Félicia expressed privately to Maimie her opinion that even if her whole fortune had been divided among them they would not have married. But these unpleasing family characteristics were merely spots in the sun. Félicia’s ambition was on the eve of attainment. She was recognised as a daughter of Arragon, and as the Princess Doña Feliciana Josefa was on her way to Molzau to receive a crown—and incidentally, to marry a king.
“Well, Phil, what do you think of your sister-in-law? Isn’t she an amusing child?”
“She is amusing, but she’s not a child—or at any rate, she’s a woman as well.”
“No, Phil, I swear to you I feel like a showman, or old Barlow in ‘Sandford and Merton,’ or a benevolent uncle taking a small kid to the Zoo—like anything but a husband. Now, do we look like a married couple?”
“Not a bit. How funny! It was only this morning that it struck me you looked like a kind elder brother taking his little sister out on a half-holiday. Helene was hanging on your arm and looking up into your face, and chattering hard the whole time.”
“Of course. She’s nothing but a child. She has been nowhere, seen nothing, heard nothing, and her mother has done all she could to keep her a baby. Everything is new and interesting to her, and life is a nice new game. I keep thinking of that absurd story of the wife of some literary man who chose a house because ‘the garden would be so lovely for her and Percy to play in.’ I’m certain Helene would be attracted by a good lot of bushes. She’d think they would be so convenient for hide-and-seek.”
“I’m glad the more obvious literary parallel hasn’t occurred to you,” said Philippa severely.
“More obvious even than that? Oh, I know! David Cop——”
“If you say it, I shall throw this book at you. She is a dear little thing, Usk, and you don’t appreciate her a bit.”
“I know she’s a dear little thing, and I’m awfully fond of her. And no doubt it’s most excellent for her to be firmly convinced that I know everything. Plenty of men would give their ears for their wives to think so. But it’s horribly embarrassing for me when she looks up at me just like a child and asks some perfectly impossible question.”
“No, not like a child. A child is never satisfied if you can’t answer it. ‘Don’t you know? Why don’t you know? Does anybody know? Thenwhydon’t you know?’ You used to go on like that yourself; I can remember it quite well. But when Helene finds she has asked a question you can’t answer, she’s dreadfully afflicted, and looks round to make sure that Fred and I haven’t noticed.”
“Poor little girl! But really, Phil, we get on perfectly well, and she’s continually assuring me that she was never so happy in her life.”
“Yes; but I am in constant terror that her eyes will be opened. I always try to draw her in when you and I are talking. Don’t you see how it is? You consult me about what you are going to do, but you tell her about it when it’s all settled. And she has a right to be consulted.”
“Oh, nonsense! I don’t want her to worry herself. She’s a dear little comrade as it is, and I believe I’d rather she remained a child, after all. She—she’s so awfully contented and satisfied now, you know.”
Philippa nodded her head sagely. “That’s just it. You think that as a woman she would demand more from you. But she is a woman in the way she loves you, Usk. I can see that.”
“My dear Phil, you are most penetrating and far-sighted, I don’t doubt, but after all, I’m Helene’s husband, and I may be allowed to know her better than you do. Look at her now, tormenting old Fred with a catechism on vine-growing. She’s only a child, vividly interested in everything, and devoted to me just because I’ve been kind to her—as if I could help it. I suppose she’ll grow up some day, but I’m not going to turn her into a little old woman before the time.”
Philippa rose and looked over the carved wooden railing that safeguarded the balcony, for the house stood on a precipitous hillside. Up the winding path her husband and Helene were slowly climbing, with a pleasant murmur of voices, after visiting the vineyard which occupied a more gradual slope below. Far in the distance could be seen the blue of the Mediterranean, with a wilderness of hills between, some bare and rugged, others cultivated almost to the summit. The native house in which the Mansfields had taken refuge from the heat and possible fever of the Palestinian lowlands where their work lay was situated on the western slope of Mount Lebanon.
“They won’t be here for a minute,” said Philippa hastily. “Usk, tell me quickly—I’m most frightfully anxious—is it because you are still in love with Félicia that you can’t care properly for Helene?”
Usk laughed. “You’ve quite determined that I’m a brute to Helene. No, Phil, I can’t say that I feel the very slightest envy of King Michael. If Félicia was cruel, she was kind too. As I was not to love her, she left me nothing to do but hate her. No, I don’t mean that exactly. You know, don’t you?”
“And now she has probably had her wish, and been a queen, for two days. It doesn’t seem at all fair or moral. Even Becky Sharp never quite succeeded in getting what she wanted. But she’s out of your way, and I’m glad of it. Poor little Helene must ‘dree her ain weird,’ I suppose, as you won’t listen to what I say about her.”
“A telegram!” cried Helene, running up the steps at the end of the balcony. “We met the servant coming from Beyrout with the letters, and he had this for you, Usk. What can it be?”
“What can it be?” echoed Usk, as he tore open the envelope. “I say!” his tone changed. “Just listen: ‘Your uncle has disappeared. Meet me immediately at Novigrad,viâTrieste.—Ernestine.’ What does it mean?”
“Uncle Cyril disappeared!” gasped Philippa.
“They’ve murdered him at last!” cried Mansfield. “Don’t stand staring, Usk; they shall pay for it! We’ll track them to the world’s end.”
“It doesn’t say he’s dead,” suggested Helene, very pale. “Perhaps it’s brigands, and they are holding him to ransom.”
“Well, at any rate, we must find him,” said Mansfield. “If we go down to Beyrout to-night, we can catch the steamer to-morrow morning, Usk.”
“No, no,” said Usk, recovering himself. “You must stay here. We can’t leave the girls alone. Besides, there’s your work.”
“Hang the work!” cried Mansfield. “The girls will look after one another.”
“No,” said Helene, very quietly, but with white determination, “I am going with Usk.”
“Nonsense, Lenchen! I can’t take you. You’ll stay with Phil and the baby.”
“I am going with you,” repeated Helene. “Or if you refuse to let me come with you, I shall follow you by the next steamer, and Phil will help me, because she knows I am right in going.”
“She is, indeed, Usk,” said Philippa. “With you to take care of her, what reason is there why she shouldn’t go?”
“Why, dozens! It’s simply preposterous. I shall be rushing about into all sorts of places, where I couldn’t take a lady. You don’t know how rough things are in Illyria.”
“I can live upon black bread and goats’ milk,” said Helene calmly, “and you couldn’t.”
“But I can’t trail about a whole procession of servants. Everything may depend upon following up a clue quickly.”
“Then we will leave some of them behind. I promised mamma I would never travel without Hannele and Jakob—she was afraid of my becoming English and independent, so she made me promise not to go about unattended,” explained Helene rather piteously to Philippa—“so we must take them; but with your William besides, we can manage quite well.”
“Now you know you only want William because his name is the same as the groom’s in ‘Mademoiselle Mathilde,’” said Usk unkindly.
“No,” said Helene, with dignity. “It is because it is not suitable for my husband to have no attendant while I have two.”
“And look here, Usk,” said Mansfield; “you can establish your wife and the servants comfortably at some safe centre while you go off and follow up clues. It’ll be much better for her to have some one with her.”
“That is not what I want,” objected Helene—“to be left safe and comfortable while Usk goes into danger. I want to go with him and help.”
“Oh, but you don’t want to be in the way, Lenchen,” said Philippa, speaking with the authority of a whole year of matrimonial experience. “You will do as Usk thinks best, I know, and he’ll take you with him wherever he can, won’t you, Usk?”
“Rather!” said Usk forgivingly, and Helene brushed away a threatening tear or two, and smiled up at him.
“Because, you see,” Philippa went on, “this is such an awful thing that we must none of us think about ourselves at all, only about Uncle Cyril and how to find him. We had better settle that you are to telegraph for Fred the moment you want him, Usk. I don’t think he ought to leave Palestine until you see what there is to be done, for I know the Chevalier Goldberg considers his presence here very important.”
“I hate being made a part of a plot and not seeing how it works,” said Mansfield gloomily. “If you wire I’ll come like a shot, Usk. Which is the quickest way?”
“To land in Dardania and cross the mountains, if the steamers fit. Why does Aunt Ernestine tell me to come round by Trieste, I wonder?”
“Because she has reason to distrust Dardania, probably. It’s quite possible that our friend the Dowager Princess has allies there still.”
“You are puzzling Helene,” said Usk. “She doesn’t know all the ins and outs of the family differences.”
“Oh, I know that Cousin Ottilie was very angry about Aunt Ernestine’s marriage, and said horrid things about the dear Count,” said Helene; and then the subject dropped, as Philippa suggested that it was time to pack.
Five days later Usk and Helene, with their diminished retinue, were landing at Trieste, after eagerly seizing upon the papers brought out by the boats which boarded the steamer outside the harbour. When they left Beyrout, no news had arrived concerning the disappearance of Count Mortimer beyond the Queen’s telegram, but in these European papers it was the sensation of the hour. The circumstances appeared equally simple and perplexing. The Count, with his secretary and valet, had left the Pannonian railway at its termination on the eastern border of the Illyrian Provinces, and, like other travellers, hired a carriage to convey him across the debatable land which was owned by Roum, partially occupied by Pannonia, and unceasingly coveted both by Dardania and Mœsia. The Roumi Government had refused persistently, and from its own point of view wisely, to allow any railway to be built across this strip of territory, but there was a carriage road, kept in good order by Pannonian military engineers, which connected the Pannonian railway system on the western border with that of Mœsia on the east. Quitting Novigrad in Illyria, the party had arrived safely at a posting-station bearing the uneuphonious name of Klotsch, situated near the point at which the main road into Dardania crossed, almost at right angles, that which joined the two railways. Here, while the horses were changed, the travellers alighted for dinner, only to find when the meal was over that their driver had got drunk. The landlord volunteered to provide another, but he had to be sought for in the village, and Count Mortimer, who was obviously impatient at the delay, decided to walk on with his secretary, and allow the carriage, with the valet and the luggage, to overtake him. It was a long light summer evening, and he was anxious to reach the Mœsian frontier that night. The carriage started about a quarter of an hour later, but the driver and the valet were astonished to find that they did not come up with the walkers, although the horses were fresh and the road good. In ever-increasing astonishment they drove the whole way to the customs-station on the Mœsian border without meeting any one, and learned there that Count Mortimer and his companion had not arrived. The valet became immediately very much excited, and demanded a force of gendarmes from the Pannonian frontier-post, in order to go back and make a thorough search on both sides of the road for his master, who, he declared, must have been waylaid and murdered. The officer in charge of the post received the demand with contempt and some resentment, for the road was regarded as particularly safe, but the valet’s earnestness, and his declaration that he believed his master had enemies who would stick at nothing to get him out of the way, induced him to send a patrol with torches to search the roadsides as far as Klotsch. Messengers were also sent along the road which led into the Dardanian highlands, to inquire whether the two men had taken the wrong turning and gone that way by mistake; but neither at the one country-seat which stood in the neighbourhood, nor in any of the poor hamlets along the road, had anything been seen of them. The country-house belonged to Prince Valerian Pelenko, a cousin of the Prince of Dardania, and he himself, travelling to “Europe,” had passed through Klotsch with his attendants shortly after the carriage had started. He had not met it, for it would have passed the cross-road before his carriage turned into the main highway, and most certainly he had not met the missing men, for his attendants would have been sure to report at the posting-station the astonishing sight of two “European” gentlemen walking unattended along the road. Extraordinary as it seemed, there was no doubt that Count Mortimer and his secretary had disappeared as completely as though they had not been, and that the disappearance had taken place on the high road and almost in broad daylight. There were no signs of a struggle, and tentative suggestions of a landslip, or a fall over a steep place on the edge of the road, were scouted at once, for there was absolutely not the slightest indication of either. The English papers, taking up Count Mortimer’s cause with a vigour they had seldom displayed during his career, were drawing parallels between his disappearance and that of the unfortunate Mr Benjamin Bathurst in the early years of the nineteenth century, and hinting that as similar influences were in all probability at work, the fate of the one was likely to remain, like that of the other, an unsolved mystery. The Neustrian, Scythian, and Roumi papers, relying on the known antipathy of their respective Governments to the Pannonian occupation of the Illyrian Provinces, were urgent and eloquent in their representations that Pannonia had now conclusively proved herself unfitted to discharge her duties, since she could not even protect travellers on the high road. The Pannonian papers, unable to deny the facts, took refuge in the assertion that Count Mortimer’s disappearance was purely voluntary. For reasons of his own he had made up his mind to vanish, and he had done so, and who could be held responsible for the doings of a man whose pride it had always been to baffle and astonish the rest of Europe? This was the state of things at present. Queen Ernestine, in the deepest grief and anxiety, was at Novigrad, where Lord Caerleon had joined her as fast as steam could bring him from England, and they were making a comprehensive search throughout the whole district, aided by the best detectives that money could procure.
“It looks hopeless!” said Usk despondently to Helene, as they walked up the quay at Trieste. “One almost wonders—— Now then, where are you going to?” The words were addressed to a loutish youth, apparently a dockyard loafer of the usual type, who had lurched up against him; but as the man withdrew with a surly apology, Usk found a piece of paper in his hand. Guessing that it contained some secret information, he unfolded one of the newspapers he had bought, as if to look at the page again, and laid the paper against it. “Look here, Helene!” he said.
Helene glanced quickly at the scrap of writing.