“Pray don’t trouble yourself, Highness,” said Dr Gregorescu hastily. “I will conduct the young lady to the gate.”
“No, Gregorescu. It is not that I distrust your vigilance, but I must satisfy myself that the gate is properly locked. It is a perfect nightmare to me. I am thinking of having it bricked up.”
The doctor offered no further objection, and Helene was conducted to the gate in solemn procession. Cyril bade her a lofty farewell, the bolts grated home, and, dazed and bewildered, she found herself outside.
Fora moment Helene stood irresolute, unable to realise her position. Then the nearness of the fierce Dardanians and the still more terrible doctor occurred to her, and she walked away with tottering steps. Fear drove her on, for even when she had plunged into the wood, she thought she heard the bushes crackling behind her, and she could not feel safe until she came upon Jakob once more. The quiet glade, with the old man still snoring peacefully under his tree, seemed a haven of refuge, and she staggered towards him, her knees knocking together, and collapsed helplessly on the ground. The gasping sobs which she could not repress awoke Jakob, who was much concerned to find her in such a state. She would not tell him what had alarmed her, and as Jakob was firmly under the impression that he had only dozed off for a second or two, he attributed her fright to a snake, and expended much energy in beating about among the tree-roots and last year’s dead leaves with a stick. He found nothing, naturally, and seeing that Helene was quite incapable of going on with her sketch, suggested that they should return to the inn, lest Hannele should scold him for allowing her Highness to sit on the ground. There were unmistakable marks of mould on Helene’s linen skirt, which meant a cross-examination from Hannele, and in desperation she stood up, supporting herself against a tree, while Jakob removed the stains as well as he could with his handkerchief and the water he had carried for her painting.
“There, Highness!” he said at last, looking up with honest pride. “It will dry before we reach home, and Hannele will be none the wiser.”
“Thanks, Jakob,” his mistress answered absently. “Do you know whether the two English gentlemen who were on the terrace this morning are staying another night?”
“Their horses were being saddled when we started, Highness,” replied Jakob, with placid indifference. “There is nothing to see at Drinitza except the river-cave, so why should they stay?”
Helene’s heart sank. For a moment the wild idea of rescuing Cyril immediately had occurred to her. Usk was away, and William with him, but surely those two Englishmen might be depended upon to help another Englishman? Now that hope was gone; and with deeper sinking of heart she remembered that the Chevalier had started on one of his periodical journeys to Vindobona, so that it would be no use to send in to Novigrad. There was the landlord, at any rate, an old soldier, and there were two or three men employed about the inn, and several strong fellows in the village, and there was Jakob, who might be trusted to follow her leading—but was it right, was it even prudent, to oppose these men, practically unarmed, to the Dardanians, each of whom was a kind of walking arsenal? She turned the matter over in her mind as they walked back to the inn, and at last decided to lay it before the landlord, and see what he thought. But disappointment was awaiting her when she arrived, for the landlord had gone into Novigrad for the day.
This last blow was too much for Helene, and she resigned herself meekly into the hands of Hannele, who had brooded over her mistress’s sharp words all the time of her absence, and now had the additional grievance of her evident exhaustion to gratify her. She took peremptory possession of Helene, removed her gown and shoes, fed her with soup, and made her lie down, scolding all the time, and having adjured her to go to sleep, went away to scold Jakob.
Helene had yielded to her ministrations and reproaches because she had no spirit to resist; but the moment the door had closed behind the maid her head started up from the pillow. She could not think properly lying down, and that great guarded house in the forest seemed to be crying out to her to do something. What should she do? what could she do? The memory of that helpless prisoner, who did not even realise that he was in prison, drew her back to the Pelenko mansion as though with cords. If only she had made herself known to him, spoken to him in English, addressed him by his own name, surely recollection would have returned to the dulled brain? And she had remained speechless, not uttering a word, terror and astonishment holding her so fast in their grip that she had made no use whatever of this tremendous opportunity! How could she meet Usk and Mr Hicks, who had dared so much for Cyril’s rescue without result, if she had to confess to them that she had been face to face with him and had not even spoken?
The thought was intolerable, and in a moment she was out of bed and throwing on the pink cotton gown which Hannele had finished mending, and had left prominently on the back of a chair as if to reproach her. Too much engrossed in her quest to think of her own dignity, she crept down the stairs with her shoes in her hand, and once safely past the room in which she could hear Hannele’s voice rating Jakob, put them on, and turned into the path which led up the hill. At the summit she paused, breathless, and put on her gloves. There was absolutely no reason why she should feel so frightened, as if she were doing something dreadful. Why should she not go out for a walk alone if she chose? She was an Englishwoman now, and Usk had often laughed at her because she disliked to go down the street without Hannele or Jakob in attendance. She was simply taking an afternoon walk, and what possible objection could there be to her going round by the Pelenko mansion? She did not even know that she should try to obtain entrance to the grounds—certainly not by that dreadful corner, which the Dardanian who had watched her must know well, if Cyril did not—but it might save time later if she walked round the place and looked carefully to see if there was any other way of getting in. As if to emphasise to herself the perfect propriety and openness of her intentions, she did not take the usual way through the forest, but went straight down to the high road, and walked along it in a westerly direction until she could see the battered chimneys of the house rising above the encircling trees. She shivered as she turned into the rugged lane, miscalled a road, which led up to the gates, and her eyes sought narrowly among the undergrowth on either hand for the brightness and glitter of the Dardanian dress. There seemed to be no one lying in wait just here, however, and she went on to the gates, which had always been fast shut when Usk and she had caught a glimpse of them hitherto. A gasp of astonishment broke from her when she reached them. On this day, of all days, they were open, as if to invite her to enter.
“It is a miracle!” thought Helene reverently; “a sign, perhaps, that the good God will allow me to do something to help the dear Count,” and with a prayer on her lips she passed fearlessly in. The drive which led through the thick shrubbery was as rough and full of ruts as the lane outside—nay, the shrubbery was encroaching upon it, for bushes were springing up among the weeds which concealed the gravel. As she neared the house, however, she heard the pawing of impatient horses, and thought it prudent to creep into the wood. Reaching the end of the drive, and peeping through the branches, she saw to her amazement a carriage, laden with luggage, standing before the door. Several of the Dardanians were at work adjusting the various packages, and others were lounging about in front of the house. Presently Cyril appeared on the steps, and for one moment she thought he had seen her, for his eyes seemed to meet hers, but he turned to send his servant back for something, and, without looking at her, began to wave and twist his hands about in a way that appeared to her woefully aimless and imbecile. Apparently impatient of the delay, he entered the carriage after a moment or two, and drawing up the window nearest her, proceeded to trace figures of some sort listlessly upon the glass with his finger. To Helene, as she watched, it looked as if he had written the word “Not,” but she could not be sure, since she naturally saw it backwards, as if reflected in a mirror. Before he could get any further, Dr Gregorescu came quickly down the steps, and apologising for being late, stepped into the carriage. Helene watched breathlessly to see what would happen next; but just as one of the Dardanians mounted the box, something was flung over her from behind, and she felt herself pulled down among the bushes.
It was no use to struggle, and she could not cry out. She was held down firmly, and the cloak, or whatever the covering might be, was pressed tightly over her face. She had almost lost consciousness when the pressure was relaxed, and she lay helpless and motionless until she felt some one shaking her by the shoulder, and heard a voice speaking in an unknown tongue. She looked up into the sunken eyes of an old woman, who was holding in one hand the rough woollen cloak which had served as a gag. The stranger was blaming her for venturing into such a place, Helene gathered, and warning her that if she had been discovered, her life would have been the forfeit. Realising the old woman’s meaning, she remembered suddenly all that had passed, and springing up, she peered through the bushes again. The carriage and its attendants were gone, and the crushed weeds in the drive showed where it had passed. She turned to run after it, but the old woman caught her by the arm, and intimated by signs that it was travelling so fast she would never catch it. Resorting to signs in her turn, Helene did her best to inquire whether the old woman could take her by a short cut through the forest to the road, that she might see what direction the carriage was taking, but the old woman expressed the most lively fear at the prospect, moderating her gestures, however, when she saw Helene put her hand into her pocket. It was not often that the girl carried a purse, for there was nothing to buy at Drinitza, and she rather liked making Usk pay everything for her when they went into Novigrad, but it was well to have a little loose change at hand ready for going into the village, on account of the beggars. If the beggars were not duly noticed and relieved, they were apt to curse the passer-by, and Helene had a nervous dislike of being cursed. Her purse happened fortunately to be in the pocket of the pink gown, and she emptied the store of small coins it contained into the old woman’s hand, with the result that the owner grinned widely, and made signs indicative of her willingness to start at once.
They crept down the drive again, and once outside the gate, plunged into the forest to the right, avoiding the lane, and very soon found themselves mounting a steep slope. This part of the woods Helene had not explored with Usk, and she was therefore obliged to rely entirely on the old woman, who hobbled along, helping herself up the steepest places by clutching at the bushes, with wonderful agility. On they went, now up and now down, through such mazes of forest that Helene decided she must come back by the road, or she would never be able to find her way home by herself. Moreover, as the first excitement of the chase died down, she became conscious that she had gone through a good deal since first starting out that morning, and that her limbs, shaking with fatigue and agitation, would scarcely carry her. But she struggled on bravely, and at last the old woman stopped on the very brink of what seemed to be a wooded cliff, and pointing straight downwards, said something which Helene took to mean that the road was there.
The declivity was not quite so steep as it looked, but Helene soon found that it was impossible to walk down it. The only plan was to run whenever a clear space appeared, bringing up against a friendly tree when she was out of breath, and then picking her way slowly from one trunk to another. It was natural that she should run faster than the old woman, and therefore it did not surprise her to find herself in front; but when she reached the foot of the cliff, and discovered that her companion had not followed her, and she was all alone, it struck her that she had been rather shabbily treated. She sat down, thankfully enough, upon a fallen tree, keeping in the shade so that her light dress might not attract attention, and with her eyes fixed upon the stretch of road to the left, waited patiently. This was a part of the road that she and Usk had never reached, even in their drives, and she felt sure that she must be a good deal in advance of the carriage, which had to follow the many windings necessary for the maintenance of a comparatively slight gradient. For a time she was so glad to rest that she thought of nothing but the relief to her tired feet, but after a while it occurred to her that the afternoon was wearing away, and that she had a very long distance to walk home. Moreover, the road was lonely. Not a creature had passed while she sat on the log, and there was no sign of a human habitation anywhere. The best plan would certainly be to walk back towards Drinitza, and so meet the mysterious carriage. On that quiet road she would hear it coming a long way off, and be able to hide in the wood until it had passed. Or perhaps it might not pass at all—which was a contingency that had not occurred to her before—but in that case she would know that it had taken the only other direction possible, the road leading to Klotsch, so that her walk would not have been in vain.
Rising from the log, she turned to the left, in the direction, as she had never doubted, of Drinitza, and set out boldly along the road. Before she had gone far, however, it struck her that the sun, now approaching its setting, should have been behind her, instead of which it was in front.
“How stupid I am!” she said wearily, beginning to retrace her steps. “My head is so confused that I was actually going the wrong way. And yet I don’t see how—but it’s no good trying to work it out now. I must simply go on.”
On and on she went, still without recognising any familiar landmark, until she was too tired to look at anything but the long white ribbon of road which seemed to unfold itself endlessly before her. At last the growing dusk made her lift her eyes to the sky again, and there was the sun, now sinking behind the hills, in front of her once more! The truth flashed upon her. The unfamiliar scenery was accounted for. She had been right at first, but at that point the road doubled back upon itself, in order to skirt the base of the cliff she had descended, so that for a little while its direction was actually west instead of east. But at the end of the turn she would have found herself looking eastwards again, whereas now she had been walking away from home with every step she took.
For the moment Helene was overwhelmed. She could never walk back to Drinitza now, she knew, and she was utterly alone, in a district which did not seem to possess a single inhabitant. Tired and cold, and faint with hunger, she sat down by the roadside and cried weakly. Unless another miracle occurred to help her, she must spend the night where she was, and even in the morning Usk would have no means of knowing where to look for her. But again she saw a miracle in what followed close upon the despairing little prayer she sent up. From the forest behind her came the lively sound of ungreased waggon-wheels, faint at first in the distance, but gradually increasing in nearness and excruciating distinctness. A vehicle of some kind was jolting over a rough forest-track, and presently she could hear the ejaculations addressed by the driver to his oxen. So comforting was the knowledge that a fellow-creature was at hand, that she ran forward impulsively as the heads of the oxen appeared, but the driver was far too busy to notice her until he had safely manœuvred his team and the long rough waggon, laden with wood, from the side-track into the main road. Then he seemed suddenly to become aware that he had heard a human voice, and he looked down from his stately height—he was a huge Dardanian—to see a little pale girl, in dusty and draggled European dress, weeping bitterly, and sobbing forth entreaties in two or three languages. It was well for Helene that her giant was better-tempered than giants are generally supposed to be, and kind-hearted as well, for although he could not understand either French, German, or English, and shook his head vigorously when she tried to explain that she wanted to get back to Drinitza, he offered her a seat on the wood in his waggon, and actually lifted her up there when she hesitated. She made no further opposition after that. Where he might be taking her, she had no idea, but presumably it was to his home, and possibly to some place where she might find the means of communicating with Usk.
The oxen tramped on patiently, and the waggon began to jolt again as the road became worse, but Helene dozed spasmodically on her rough couch. It was not until the waggon came to a standstill that she really awoke, to find herself in the one street of a little Dardanian frontier village, the white walls and dark roofs of which were glorious in the after-glow of sunset, and made a kind of theatrical background for the gigantic men and strapping women in red and blue and gold-embroidered white garments who were crowding round to hear of the strange adventure which had happened to Petros. Before Helene was fairly awake, the smallest man in the crowd asked her in broken German for her papers, and it was evident that a bad impression was produced by her confession that she had none. The small man had something to do with the customs, apparently, for she gathered from the cross-examination which followed that he suspected her of smuggling, though it was not clear what she had to smuggle, with the exception of her worn and weary self. Moreover, he fastened upon her statement that her husband was English as his own excuse for not understanding her German, and they argued at cross-purposes for some time, while the listening villagers made remarks that were evidently uncomplimentary in their nature. To Helene’s horror, he succeeded at last in making it plain that she would be detained for the night as a suspicious character in the hut in which the customs business was carried on; and already she saw herself led to prison before the eyes of the crowd of curious villagers, and locked up hungry and tired, and, above all, alone. In despair, she turned to the tallest man in the crowd, who also seemed to hold some position of authority, and fortunately remembering the word used by the Dardanians to designate their ruler, did her best to explain that the Prince was her cousin, and would hold the villagers responsible for their treatment of her. She could not be sure that she was really understood, but the people seemed to be impressed, and the tall man and the small man consulted together. Presently she distinguished a sound sufficiently like the Illyrian word for “telegraph” to assure her that they were talking of telegraphing somewhere for directions, and she seized upon the proposal with almost hysterical joy.
“Oh, let me telegraph to my husband!” she cried to the little man, “and just let me rest somewhere till he comes, and he will pay anything you like.”
Whether the mention of payment stimulated the official wits, or whether the man was afraid of getting into trouble through over-zeal, he appeared to understand and approve of the suggestion. The big man lifted Helene down from the waggon as if she had been a baby, and after she had thanked the driver for his kindness, the scene changed to the post-office, of which the big man was in charge. Here a fresh difficulty occurred, for Helene had no money, and the simplicity of modern dress precluded her from resorting to the time-honoured expedient of offering jewellery in pledge. She had not even a watch with her, and the postmaster became stern and implacable once more. The little man came to the rescue by pointing out that she had a gold ring on her finger, but she pleaded so piteously that she could not give up her wedding-ring, that matters were at a deadlock again. Then the postmaster, apparently prompted by his handsome, slipshod wife, proposed a compromise. He would send the telegram, and wait for the payment until the morning; but Helene and the ring must remain in pawn, so to speak, since she would not be separated from it. She should spend the night in the post-office, which was a lean-to attached to his own house, and could only be entered through the room in which he and his family slept; and if there was no answer to the telegram in the morning, the ring must be given up. There were few things to which Helene would not have agreed at that moment, and she wrote out the telegram, surrounded by the eager and curious circle of villagers, all bristling with weapons. She wrote it in German, as the customs-officer’s help would enable the postmaster to make it less unintelligible in that language than in French or English; and when the whole assembly had looked at it wisely, heard it translated and explained, and discussed the meaning, it was allowed to be sent. When, after a good deal of squabbling between the postmaster and the customs-officer over the spelling of the words, the message had at last been despatched, Helene, who had been upheld by her anxiety so far, staggered forward, and clutching feebly at the office-desk, slipped to the floor. Instantly the postmaster’s wife, who seemed to have been severely repressed hitherto by her husband, took possession of her, and ordered the other villagers out of the room. It was clear she was saying that whoever the girl might be, she was faint and exhausted, and should not be tormented any more by stupid unsympathetic men. Even this good Samaritan could not provide a softer couch than the bench which ran along one end of the room, but she brought a sheepskin as a coverlid and a rolled-up apron for a pillow, and a frugal meal of black bread and milkless tea. She was so obviously sympathetic and compassionate that Helene kissed her impulsively as she covered her up, and the Dardanian woman smiled broadly as she kissed her in return, and patted her shoulder with a friendly hand as she bade her sleep well and not be frightened.
The inhabitants of this primitive village appeared all to retire to rest as soon as darkness came on, so that Helene had enjoyed a long, dreamless sleep when a furious knocking at the outer door aroused the household, although dawn was only just breaking. The postmaster was disinclined to rise, thinking that some impatient neighbour had come early to inquire for a letter, and that the labours of the department would be appreciably increased if such proceedings were to be allowed. But the knocking continued, and a voice shouted something threatening in an unknown tongue, which was emphasised by vigorous kicks at the door, and the postmaster’s wife suddenly shrieked a malediction at him.
“Fool! pig!” she screamed. “Can’t you hear? It is the little white lady’s husband. Let him in this minute.”
The postmaster obeyed, not forgetting to don his beltful of weapons before he opened the door; and it was with a huge revolver in his hand that he confronted the young man who entered with a hasty step, but recoiled abruptly when he met the intent gaze of the rest of the family, peering at him over their sheepskin coverlids.
“Where is my wife?” he demanded, holding out a telegram to the postmaster, then began a hasty apology; but the postmaster saw no need for shyness. Striding to the door of the office, he threw it open, and bowing to Usk, invited him to enter, while the wife and children sat up in bed, their eyes bright with interest. A moment later, when Usk was sitting on the bench beside Helene, holding her in his arms, and alternately kissing and scolding her, while she laughed and cried at once, a murmur of excited admiration drew their attention to the door, where they beheld the whole family gazing at them open-mouthed.
“Oh, shut the door!” cried Helene hysterically. “The whole village will be here in a moment, as they were last night. Oh, Nym, how white you look!”
“Considering that we have been riding all night, you can scarcely expect us to look very blooming. I think you’ve hurried us here on false pretences, Nell. We couldn’t make head or tail of your telegram, but we gathered that you were in dire distress, so Hicks and I, with the landlord and Jakob, mounted and rode to your rescue at once, with William driving the buggy. We had an awful time of it in the dark, but we kept on; and now I find you comfortably asleep, and able to criticise our looks. Do you think that shows proper gratitude, Lady Usk?”
“You mustn’t criticise mine,” laughed Helene unsteadily, as she stood up with difficulty, a forlorn little figure with tumbled hair and dark-ringed eyes. “Oh, it was so dreadful, Nym! They nearly made me give them my wedding-ring to pay for the telegram. But they were very kind afterwards, and it’s all right now.”
“Well, suppose you put yourself to rights a bit. Hicks is seeing after breakfast. Will a pocket-comb be of any service to you? And when you feel quite equal to it—not before, mind, by any means—I should be interested to know what got you into this fix.”
Helene, tugging at her hair with the comb, stopped suddenly, and turned upon him a face full of horror. “Nym, I had forgotten it for the moment, but it is almost as bad as the worst we have imagined. I have seen the dear Count twice, and he didn’t know me. He is—mad.”
“Do you mean that he’s anywhere here?” cried Usk, springing up.
“No; I lost him again. It was in trying to trace him that I came to this place. He is under the care of a dreadful doctor, who has a number of Dardanians to keep guard over him, and he thinks he is Prince Shishman Pelenko, and that people are plotting against his life.”
“Be quick with your hair,” said Usk, “and you can tell Hicks everything at the same time as me. He may think of something that ought to be done at once.”
But when Helene told the story of her doings the day before at the open-air breakfast table, Mr Hicks was as much at a loss as Usk to know what to do next, and sat silent and meditative, even while devouring his food at his usual speed. His experience as a war-correspondent had taught him never to neglect the chance of a good meal, and his skill in foraging had succeeded in providing one even in this unpromising spot. The table, which he had requisitioned from the custom-house, was placed in the open space in front of the post-office, the only flat piece of ground in the whole village, apparently, and the villagers stood round and watched the meal with much interest. When it was over, Usk held an open-air court of justice, and prompted by Helene, paid the postmaster for the telegram, and his wife for the night’s lodging—much to her distress, for she would only accept the money to buy something for her children. Petros the waggoner was less diffident, and received his silver with pride, saying he would give it to his sweetheart to sew on her cap; and the customs-officer was so anxious to press his own claims to a reward that Usk at last yielded, advising him to buy a German dictionary. When this was settled, the horses were brought out again, and the visitors departed, their hosts speeding them on their way with afeu-de-joieof revolver-shots, which was gratifying, if a little alarming. Usk was driving Helene in the buggy, and presently Mr Hicks rode up close beside them.
“Lady Usk,” he said, “there’s a question or two I’d like to have you answer if you don’t mind. You said Count Mortimer was moving his hands in a queer sort of a way when he stood on the doorstep. Can you show me just how he did it?”
“Something like this,” said Helene, imitating the movements as well as she could remember them.
“Is that so?” asked Mr Hicks, and nodded gravely.
“What is it?” asked Helene, alarmed by his tone.
“The deaf-and-dumb alphabet, I guess, and he’s no more lost his mind than you and I have.”
“But he didn’t know me in the least. He could not be in his right mind.”
“That’s just his smartness, you bet. He made out to disarm the suspicions of the folks that have him in charge by pretending not to recognise you.”
“Oh, and I didn’t know the alphabet, and now we have lost him again!” cried Helene. “It’s all my fault. He was trying to tell me something. Oh, if I had only known!” and she burst into tears. “Perhaps we shall never see him again.”
Mr Hicks was thinking deeply. “I guess I’ll ride on ahead,” he said to Usk. “I don’t see but the notion that’s just come to me may be right. We know the carriage didn’t pass along this road, and I’ll go on to Klotsch, and see if it passed there. If not, I’ll get another horse and ride to Novigrad all I’m worth, and have them give me a warrant, or police permit, or whatever they call it, to search the Pelenko house. For if the carriage has not been seen on the road, it seems clear to me that it just waited around in the woods somewhere while Lady Usk was got out of the way, and then went right back to the house. And if the Count is there yet, why——”
“Underground!” cried Helene. “He began to speak of passages, or something of that kind.”
“We’ll see. I’ll ride on, anyway.”
But Mr Hicks’s haste was in vain. Police assistance was obtained, and the Pelenko mansion duly searched, the old servants left in charge showing even the subterranean rooms, which had been constructed in Roumi days as a refuge in case of need. They knew that the foreign doctor, and the mad gentleman who imagined himself to be Prince Shishman, and the Dardanian servants, had all left the day before, but they could not say where they had gone. They had travelled in their own carriage, but no one had seen it on the road. The mystery was as deep as ever.
Thefifth Neustrian Revolution was complete. Theplébiscitehad been taken, and by an overwhelming majority Prince Timoleon Lucanor Malasorte was requested to proclaim himself Emperor of the Neustrians. Such a request was naturally regarded as a command by the person most concerned, and the telegram which informed foreign countries of the result of theplébiscitecontained also the first proclamation of the Emperor Timoleon V. A semi-officialcommuniquéaccompanying the intelligence announced that the betrothal of the new monarch to the Grand-Duchess Sonya Eugenovna, cousin of the Emperor of Scythia, would take place almost immediately, and that this union would cement a closer alliance between the two countries than could ever have subsisted while the government of one was an autocracy and of the other a republic. These items of news were received without surprise by Europe generally, but in one distant corner of the continent they resulted in a wholly unexpected series of events.
It happened that there was a luncheon-party at the Palace at Bellaviste, to which the Premier, who had but just received the message from Neustria, came late, bringing the telegram with him. He said nothing until the meal was over, but then asked for an immediate audience of the King. Displeased by the breaking-up of her party, and no more disposed than she had been as Miss Steinherz to accept meekly anything that interfered with her wishes, Queen Félicia sent her equerry to ask her husband and Prince Mirkovics what the news was. The King, who had learnt by experience that his bride was quite capable of pursuing him and assisting at the interview unless her request was complied with, sent her a copy of the telegram, which she read as she moved about among her guests.
“Logan, come right here. I want you this instant!” were the words that startled the room, and made Baroness Radnika, who had accompanied the new Queen as her mistress of the household, look round in distress. She had thought Félicia cured of her Americanisms, but at the first moment of excitement the old habits revived. A covert glance of amusement passed between the ladies of the British and United States legations, and the Baroness threw herself bravely into the breach by trying to start a fresh subject of conversation as Maimie responded to Félicia’s summons.
“Read that, now. I might have been an empress to-day,” said the Queen, putting the telegram into her friend’s hand.
“Well, I guess it isn’t my fault you are not,” was the swift answer, given in an undertone, for Félicia’s words had been distinctly audible.
“That is so. And we can’t alter things now, any way.”
“No; you’ll just have to make the best of them.”
That was all, but Félicia remained pensive for the rest of the day, and there were those at hand who watched her every look and treasured up any incautious word. One of these was King Michael’s aide-de-camp, Captain Andreivics, to whom his master had recently intimated that he might make himself useful by marrying Maimie, so that, while still about the Court, she might be removed from her position of paramount influence with Félicia. Somewhat against his will, so far as his personal feelings were concerned, but with a keen sense of the direction in which his material interests pointed, the aide-de-camp had done his best to obey, only to find himself smartly refused by Maimie, and to become, as he shrewdly suspected, a never-failing subject of amusement to his lady-love and the Queen. To-day he saw his opportunity for a neat little revenge on both of them, for even at this early date the married life of the royal couple was by no means a path of roses. The King’s marriage had been extremely popular in Thracia, on account of the reputed wealth of the bride, which was expected to descend in a golden shower on all classes of the community. But it had proved rather to resemble the grants made to deserving objects by certain philanthropic bodies, which require as a condition of their reception that at least an equal amount shall be raised by the locality benefited. Moreover, the thrifty Thracians, already disturbed in their minds by the cost of the festivities incident upon the state entry of the King and Queen into their capital, found that their new sovereign had no intention of serving the country at the cost of her own wishes. Addresses presented by impassioned patriots implored her to adopt the national costume, which it was quickly known she had pronounced hideous, and to encourage local manufactures by wearing no materials but those made in Thracia, which she flatly refused to do. King Michael had never shown himself particularly amenable to the wishes of his people in the past, but he had a lively sense of the value of popularity, and felt that it would be an excellent thing for Félicia to make a few little sacrifices in the interests of the nation and the dynasty. Unfortunately, however, Félicia did not take this view of things. The King had already become aware that to be her husband meant chiefly that he was responsible for providing her with a “good time” generally, and that any attempt to coerce her would be either ignored or laughed aside. He had sufficient self-control to behave as if his forced acquiescence was due to a natural willingness to indulge his bride as far as possible, but he was keenly on the look-out for some means of inflicting an exemplary defeat upon her. It was unfortunate for him that in the first fall he tried with her, he himself was the defeated party. Félicia’s yacht, the Bluebird, in which they had spent the honeymoon, was about to convey them on a series of visits to various foreign Courts. King Michael wished to arm the vessel and change her status to that of a warship, thus doubling the numerical strength of the Thracian navy at one stroke; but Félicia not only refused her assent to the change, but persisted in continuing to sail the ship under the Stars and Stripes, and retaining her American crew. King Michael saw Maimie’s hand in this, and lacking the wisdom which would have led him to wait for the moment when the crew would begin to grumble at serving so far from home, argued the matter with Félicia on every possible occasion. His only hope of success lay in winning her over to his side, for her marriage-contract secured to her the absolute control of the vessel, but he could not bring himself to let the subject drop, and begin again when she had forgiven his persistence, and things were thus ripe for a quarrel between the two.
As for Félicia, she had obtained her ambition, and it wholly failed to satisfy her. Considered as the capital of a Balkan state, Bellaviste was wonderfully advanced, but to her it seemed dull, behind the times, and above all, provincial. The Thracians, who had so sturdily resisted Queen Ernestine’s efforts to Europeanise them, were not more ready to succumb to the fascinations of Queen Félicia, even when these were backed by the prestige of her wealth, and she was beginning to see that her intention of gathering a gay society around her was not likely to become a reality. People who were accustomed to Lutetia and Vindobona might pay a flying visit to this far corner of Europe if a series of special festivities was in progress, but they would not make a long stay, and most emphatically they would never regard Bellaviste seriously as a spot which must be visited once a year. Thus disillusioned, Félicia found herself suddenly face to face with the fact that by her own action, or inaction, long ago she had thrown away the chance of reigning as the supreme arbitress of taste and fashion in the city which to her, as to all good Americans, was the actual centre of the world. Instead of setting the fashions, all she could now do was to be allowed, by the special favour of the greatcouturiersshe patronised, to follow them at secondhand, and her taste could only be imposed upon the small and often recalcitrant circle of Thracian officialdom, instead of upon an admiring world.
Left to herself, Félicia would doubtless have followed Maimie’s prudent advice, and, with the common-sense on which she prided herself, have determined to make the best of her position, but she had gained too many enemies to be allowed to do this. Captain Andreivics found an ally in one of the many ladies to whom King Michael’s unguarded attentions in past years had given hopes of sharing his throne, hopes doomed to be blighted by a sudden and somewhat tardy recollection on his part of the duty he owed to his house. Félicia’s remark to Maimie, her obvious depression during the rest of the day, offered abundant material for disturbing the mind of a husband who was already notoriously prone to jealousy, and almost without knowing it, the conspirators added a touch here, and deepened a shadow there, until the least that could be imagined was that Félicia had played off Prince Timoleon Malasorte and himself against one another until her very marriage-day, and had only chosen him at last because she distrusted his rival’s prospects of establishing himself on the Neustrian throne. Whispers followed as to a certain mysterious cabinet in the inner boudoir which was sacred to her Majesty and Miss Logan. This cabinet had never been seen open, but ladies on duty in the outer rooms had heard it closed and locked, after the Queen and her favourite had sat for a long time rustling papers and talking in low tones. What more likely than that the cabinet contained love-letters, which would prove to King Michael that he had been cruelly duped by his bride, and in which she took a stolen pleasure even now?
There was this amount of inherent probability in the suggestions which Captain Andreivics ventured, somewhat gingerly at first, to throw out, that King Michael was very well aware Félicia had played off Usk and himself against one another in the manner described, so that she might quite conceivably have treated a third unfortunate in the same way without their knowledge. He had viewed her treatment of Usk with a fine indifference, but he was the last man to submit meekly to similar usage himself. Moreover, if there was any foundation for the aide-de-camp’s hints, Maimie also had deceived him in the most barefaced way, which demanded condign punishment. A strong man would have taxed both women openly with the alleged deception, but King Michael preferred to work on different lines. Armed with various bunches of keys, he made his way that evening by a private passage from his rooms to Félicia’s. The door opening into the passage from the inner boudoir was locked, but he opened it with a master-key, after listening to make sure that Félicia and Maimie were not talking inside. The room was empty, and switching on the electric light, he began to try the lock of the cabinet—a fanciful thing of old French workmanship, but well made and in excellent repair—with one key after another. To his disgust, there was not one that would open it, though he found two that seemed to fit. Striking a match, and examining the lock closely by its light, he saw where the difficulty lay, and that it was easily overcome. The blade of his knife, inserted where the doors met, forced back the bolt at once, and the secrets of the cabinet lay open before him. Moreover, the cabinet was packed with them; the mass of evidence was enormous. But as he took out one thing after another at random, he grew more and more perplexed. There were ball-programmes, bouquet-holders,bonbonnières, cotillon gifts and favours, a few valentines or Christmas cards of a specially flattering character, some invitations to important or exclusive gatherings. It was an interesting social museum, but it was not what he wanted. He pulled out the drawer at the top. Photographs!—he clutched them eagerly. But they were all of Félicia herself, in every possible variety of dress and attitude, and each marked with the date and place of its taking. More angry than ever, he drew out the deep drawer at the bottom. It was very full, and the rustling of paper rewarded him as he plunged his hand into it. But it was all newspaper—a collection of cuttings from all sorts and conditions of American journals, forming Félicia’s social biography, from her school “graduation” and coming-out ball to her marriage, over which the journalistic mind appeared to have run riot. There were interviews with her of various dates, accompanied by unrecognisable portraits of herself and of “J. Bertram Steinherz, father of Miss Steinherz,” and of “the late Mrs Constance L. Steinherz,” and interior and exterior views of the family abode. Some of the accounts had a small piece of dress-material carefully pinned to them, evidently that of the gown worn at the ball or theatre-party in question, and all were neatly arranged and docketed.
King Michael stood before the rifled cabinet in a towering rage. He was in no mood for the consolation, of which the examination of his wife’s dearest treasures might have assured him, that she loved no one but herself; all he felt was that he was in an absurd and ungraceful position. To put everything back as he had found it was almost an impossibility, even if he could get the cabinet-door to lock again. If he could not, Félicia and that American woman would guess the truth at once. Only one person would tamper with the cabinet so clumsily if he ventured to do it all. He was beginning to lay the papers in the drawer as smoothly as he could, trusting that Félicia might not remember the exact order in which she had left them, when he was horrified by the sound of voices in the next room.
“I just wish that Paris store would hurry up with those albums, Maime,” said Félicia, and her voice was coming closer. “When one has them make things to one’s own design, they’re so awfully long about it.”
“I’d have them send one at a time, just as they’re finished,” Maimie answered. “Then we can start on your graduation right away.”
“I guess I will,” said Félicia, as she drew the curtain aside. “Say!” she cried shrilly, “and what are you doing here, Michael?”
She seemed to grow taller as he looked at her, and towered above him so magnificently that he was conscious of actual fear. He tried to bluster the matter out.
“And if I am here, madame, has not your husband a right to—to——”
“To go through my private papers?” with deadly quietness.
“Exactly. I claim that right, and I exercise it.”
“And to break into my bureau?” Her quick eye had caught sight of the knife, and she took possession of it before he could prevent her. “Thanks for the warning. You may claim your right just as much as ever you want to, but you’ve exercised it for the last time.”
“In that you will find yourself mistaken, madame.”
“You are pretty much mistaken if you think you’ll have the chance of doing it again. Why, you little miserable——” she stopped suddenly. “But I won’t call you names. You’ll hear plenty before long from other people.”
“In your present rank of life, madame, it is not the custom to make the world a sharer in family disputes.”
“It is unavoidable at times,” drawled Félicia—“when a separation is to be arranged, for instance.”
“This is preposterous. You have no grounds for anything of the kind.”
“Just wait until I go way back to the States and ask for one.”
“Do you imagine that you will be permitted to visit America for any such purpose? No, madame, let us look at this affair in a sensible light. If I have damaged your cabinet, I will replace it. Your interesting records you will find untouched, and I shall be happy to add some article of value to your collection—” he waved his hand towards the drawers of nicknacks—“to show my regret for this slight misunderstanding. You will be so good as to make your own choice.”
“And you think you can bribe an American woman to overlook an insult like this?” demanded Félicia, but Maimie was at her side.
“Don’t fuss over it any more to-night, Fay. Leave things till morning.”
“Miss Logan’s advice is excellent. I trust I shall find you in a more accommodating temper in the morning, madame. I wish you a very good night,” and King Michael left the room with what dignity he could muster. At a sign from Félicia, Maimie locked the door after him.
“Maime, what about the Bluebird’s steam launch?” asked Félicia quickly.
“It was to wait around at the steps up to midnight to see if there was any change in the orders for to-morrow. Are you real set on it, Fay?”
“Dead set,” responded Félicia through her teeth. “Send those girls to bed. Let them know I’m just pining for a walk on the terrace.”
While Maimie went obediently to dismiss the dressers, Félicia threw on a cloak, and pulled the hood over her head. She had another cloak ready for Maimie when she returned, but close upon her heels came Baroness Radnika, with an anxious face.
“You will not walk on the terrace to-night, madame?” she said uneasily. “It is cold, and the damp is rising from the river. I thought I would venture to speak when I heard Miss Logan telling your dressers.”
“I am going out,” said Félicia. “I can’t stay indoors to-night.”
“It is something more,” said the Baroness, coming closer, and laying her hands on Félicia’s shoulders. “Forgive me, madame, but I see it in your face. You will not gratify your slanderers by giving them such a handle against you? Ah, dear child, I loved your father; bear with me, and listen to me now. Don’t take this step, whatever it may be. You are excited—agitated——”
“Feel of my hand, Baroness. There’s no excitement there—not much! I’m real fond of you, but I can’t have you delay me this way. The step I am going to take is due to myself, and nobody will blame me when they know the reason. If you’ll sort these things here, I’ll be grateful, for I may send for them soon, and I’m sorry that you’ll just have to stay here till morning.”
She withdrew herself from the clinging hands as she spoke, and before the Baroness knew what she was going to do, she had passed under the curtain Maimie was holding, and locked the door of the larger boudoir. This portion of the palace was now deserted for the night, and the Baroness could not make up her mind to attract the attention of any of the sentries in the garden to her position. Perhaps she had misjudged Félicia; she might only be intending to walk on the terrace, as she had said, but the Baroness’s heart misgave her as she remembered that the Bluebird was lying at the mouth of the river, with her fires banked, in case the King and Queen should be able to make a start early on the morrow. She would have been more anxious still if she had known that the yacht’s steam-launch was waiting off the palace itself for orders, and that those orders were conveyed to it by Félicia in person. But when the astonishing news arrived in the morning that the Queen was missing, and that her yacht had steamed out to sea in the night, it was the Baroness, released after a weary vigil, who undertook to face the King in the first fury of his wrath. He would send his gunboat to pursue the Bluebird, he would telegraph to every port that she was to be detained, he would enlist the help of every government in Europe to restore his truant wife, and he would—he would—words failed to express the punishment that should be meted out to every one concerned in the affair. But the Baroness held her ground, and fought Félicia’s battle with a courage which was absolutely regardless of the King’s frantic displeasure. To prevent a scandal, and leave the way open for the two to be brought together again, was her only aim, and she had her reward, when she left the King’s presence at last, in the brief announcement which was to be added to the daily Court Circular:—