At the end of the previous chapter I described our arrival in the kingdom of Gota, and the farewell we took of the men who had risked so much to bring about our safe arrival there. As it transpired, we arrived only just in time, for two days later my mother was taken seriously ill, and for upwards of a month lay at death's door. During that time the news we received from Pannonia was far from being satisfactory. The Prime Minister, the Count von Marquart, who still remained staunch to my father, had done his best to reduce the country's affairs to something like order, but his efforts were in vain. In consequence he was compelled to beat a hasty retreat to his country seat, and to leave it to its own devices. Trading on the popularity he believed himself to enjoy, the Prince of Lilienhöhe returned from exile, and, assisted by certain notorious enemies of the Ramonyi dynasty, made a vigorous attempt to seize the throne. He also was disappointed in his endeavour, for the country would have neither a Lilienhöhe nor a Ramonyi. What it wanted was a Republic of the French and American description, and a Republic, in hot haste, it was determined to have. As a result the Prince followed our example and crossed the Border with as much despatch as possible.
As soon as my mother was convalescent, it became necessary to arrive at some sort of an understanding as to what our future was to be. To return to our own country was out of the question; for many reasons, too numerous to mention, it was impossible for us to remain in Gota; while the neighbouring kingdoms were equally unsafe. It was King George himself, our host, who solved the problem for us. As a result my tenth birthday found us on English soil. Nowhere else in Europe could we hope to be so safe, and the affection I feel for that country may be said to have originated at the moment we set foot upon her shores. We were welcomed by the country at large, while, with thoughtful generosity, a royal residence was placed at our disposal until we should be in a position to find one for ourselves. This done, however, we settled down to the enjoyment of a quiet country life, and to wait until the course of events should make it possible for us to return to Pannonia once more. The change in our affairs proved exactly to my father's taste. He was no longer worried with the cares and responsibilities of kingship, but was able to give himself up entirely to the studies he so ardently loved. In my own heart I believe that, during the period of years that elapsed before his death, he had but one real fear, and that was the dread lest affairs should right themselves in Pannonia and he be called upon to resume his old life. With my mother it was altogether different. Where he rejoiced at his new-found liberty, she chafed and worried about the change in our lives. She could not forget that she was a king's wife and a king's daughter, and that in England we were exiles, turned out of our country and defrauded of our just rights. Where he scarcely spoke of his old life, and took but small interest in the country of his birth, she was invariably well informed as to all that occurred. She was fighting for her children's rights, and declared that she could never rest, or know any peace of mind, until we had come to our own again. Alas! for her happiness, poor soul, she did not live to see that day.
To Max and myself, accustomed as we were to the excitement of a Court, the new life came as a decided, and by no means welcome, change.
It was not long, however, before we became reconciled to it, and by the time we had been a year in England we could not only speak the language fluently, but were to all appearances veritable sons of the soil. It was a quiet life we led, but not an aimless one. The best of tutors were engaged for us, and the smallest detail of our studies was attended to by my mother with scrupulous exactness. We learnt to play cricket and football, to fence and box like English boys; and in order that our military education should not be neglected, it was decided that as soon as we were old enough, Max and I should enter the British Army, for which my mother entertained the greatest admiration. "The training," she was accustomed to say, "will prove of the greatest value to them when they return to Pannonia," and that seemed to settle it. Strangely enough, however, Max did not hail the arrangement with the delight that she had expected him to show. For some reason, as he grew up, his disposition seemed to change. He, who was at first a headstrong, impulsive boy, was developing into a silent and almost taciturn young man. The notion that he would not succeed to the throne of his ancestors, which he had conceived as a boy, now returned to him with renewed force. It grew with him and thrived upon the thoughts that fostered it. One little incident will be sufficient to show the hold this strange idea had upon him. He was nineteen at the time; I was scarcely sixteen. In appearance he was a tall, fine-looking young fellow, with clean-cut features, dark resolute eyes, and black hair, that he wore in a somewhat foreign fashion. While he was, to all intents and purposes, a man, I was still a boy, fairly well grown it is true, perhaps somewhat advanced for my years, but in many respects as inferior to Max as a child of six is to a lad of twelve.
"My dear," said my father, one morning, addressing my mother, when we sat at breakfast, which,en passant, we took together in the homely English fashion, "I have received a letter that you will doubtless consider of some importance. The Count von Marquart is in England, and, with your permission, will pay us a visit to-day. May I instruct Beckerstein to telegraph to the effect that you will receive him?"
A look of pleasure came into my mother's face. What did Marquart's presence in England mean? Did it foretell a change in our lives? She hastened to assure my father that it would give her the utmost pleasure to see the old Minister who had served our House so faithfully. I thought of the Chancellor as I had last seen him, bending over my mother's hand as he bade her good-bye in the street beyond the palace, that terrible night on which we had fled from the Capital, and informed her in answer to her question that I remembered him perfectly. Strangely enough the enthusiasm which took possession of my mother and myself did not extend to my father and Max. The former, I am inclined to think, dreaded lest the Count's presence meant the commencement of an intrigue, which would eventually land him in Pannonia; but Max's reception of the news I am altogether at a loss to understand. The fact, however, remained, that the Count was in England, and that in a few hours we should see him once more.
For the remainder of the time that elapsed before he could be with us, my mother was filled with the greatest impatience. Never before had she been so well disposed towards the old man.
At last his carriage was seen rolling up the drive. Contrary to custom, and, perhaps, to etiquette, we had assembled on the terrace before the house, to await his arrival. Gradually the carriage drew nearer, and at last it pulled up at the steps. When the servants had opened the door, the figure of the aged statesman appeared, and ascended to where we were standing waiting to receive him. The time that had elapsed since we had last seen him had not played such havoc with him as we had expected. His back was still as straight, his glance as piercing; his moustache and hair may have been a little whiter, but it curled as fiercely as before. His age must have bordered close upon eighty, but his intellect was as keen as in his prime. He saluted my father and mother; then turned to Max. I saw his eyes wander over him with evident approval, taking in and appreciating the details of his appearance. "Here," doubtless he was saying to himself, "is a man worthy to be called king." Then he turned to me and took my hand. Immediately his expression changed and a look of bewilderment spread over his face. "Good Heavens! Michael's cross!" I heard him mutter to himself, and I could not have been mistaken, for the others of the party heard it also.
An awkward pause followed, during which I thought of that interview with the gipsy so many years before. Perhaps Max was thinking of it also, for his face grew very hard, and I knew by experience that he was battling with the temper that was trying to get possession of him. Nothing was said on the subject, however, and when Marquart had recovered his self-possession (why he should have lost it I cannot say) we followed our elders into the house. Though he endeavoured not to show it, I am inclined to believe that my father was more touched by his old Minister's visit than he would have liked us to suppose. At any rate, he forebore to indulge in his usual fits of cynicism. Though at dinner that evening he did not once refer to Pannonia, I feel certain a large portion of his thoughts were with her. Indeed, all things considered, it could scarcely have been otherwise. Since the establishment of the Republic, the old Chancellor had held aloof from public affairs. Nothing would induce him to take any part in the new state of things. "They have mounted their horse of folly," he had observed when he had been approached on the subject, "let them ride it to death. I, for one, will not attempt to stop them." With that he had retired to his castle at Friedelbain, and had sat himself down to work out his Logarithms and to wait for the old order to reassert itself. This he confidently believed would some day come to pass.
After dinner, my father and Marquart withdrew to the former's study, while Max and I joined our mother in the drawing-room. Her lady-in-waiting, for though we were in exile we still preserved the semblance of a Court, was reading to her; but when we entered, at a signal from my mother, she stopped and put away her book. It was easily seen that the former had been upset by something, for, when we spoke to her, her thoughts seemed far away, and she answered with a hesitation that was by no means usual to her. Another thing struck me as remarkable, and that was her treatment of Max. They had not quarrelled; indeed, I had never known them to do such a thing, and yet her behaviour towards him seemed based on something that I could not for the life of me understand. It was as if she were trying to make up to him for an unintentional wrong that she had done him, and which she feared he might not forgive when he discovered. To add further to this strange state of affairs, the more amiable she was towards him the more ill at ease did he become with her. He seemed restless, discontented, and yet particularly anxious to be on friendly terms with myself, the one person of all others, after what had happened that afternoon, whom he might have been forgiven had he ignored. I could not understand it all, and the more I thought of it the more it troubled me. Surely Max did not imagine that I deemed it likely I should ever ascend the throne! I could not believe that he would be so foolish as to attach any credence to the old superstition concerning the Michael cross, or that even if he did, he would be weak enough to allow it to embitter his life.
If I live to be a hundred I shall not forget that evening, every detail connected with which, as I have shown, is engraved upon my memory. It was considerably after ten o'clock before my father and Marquart joined us in the drawing-room. The former seemed in excellent spirits, the latter scarcely so happy. Doubtless he had come expecting to find his old master pining to be back in his own country once more. His shrewd common sense, however, must have shown him, before they had been very long together, that this was far from being the case. He found him contented with his lot, and far from desirous of again taking up the load of responsibility he had been so fortunate as to cast off. Knowing nothing of the strained state of affairs that had existed prior to their entrance, Marquart must not be blamed if he unwittingly intensified the unpleasantness of the situation. He seated himself by the side of my mother, and talked with her of bygone days, and of friends of whom she had long lost sight, thus raising a train of thoughts in her mind that could only give birth to hopes she must have felt in her heart would never now be realised. It was noticeable also that the Count's eyes wandered continually in my direction. In consequence, I did not appear at my best. Knowing that Max was watching me, and that my mother was nervous on his account, I would have given anything to have been able to slip quietly from the room, and not make my appearance in public again until Marquart had left the house. This, however, was out of the question. The Count was our guest, and it behoved me to remain with him. How thankful, therefore, I was when the time arrived for us to say good-night, I must leave you to imagine. In silence Max and I made our way to our own quarter of the house. I wanted to say something to him, and yet I did not know with what words to approach him. I remembered the look I had seen on his face that afternoon, and dreaded lest an explosion were imminent. Such, however, was not the case. Having reached my bedroom, we paused to bid each other good-night. Then Max put his hand on my shoulder and looked sadly down at me. There was an expression upon his face that I had never seen there before. It told me that he had battled with himself, and that, after a severe struggle, his better nature had come out triumphant.
"Poor old Paul!" he said in a kindlier tone than I think he had ever yet spoken to me. "Come what may, we will be friends. Whatever the future may have in store for us, we will not quarrel, will we? Shall we swear to that?"
"Of course we will be friends, Max," I answered. "We'll never be anything else, happen what may. Why should we?"
He did not answer my question, but shook me by the hand, and then, with a little sigh, turned and went along the corridor to his own room, while I went into mine, vainly trying to arrive at an understanding of the situation. One thing, at any rate, was certain: Max and I had agreed not to quarrel. Yet instinctively I felt that it had cost him something to speak to me as he had done. Poor Max! Poor Max! I have known many men, but few with such honest hearts as yours.
A few minutes later I was in bed, but, as I soon discovered, not to sleep. The stirring events of the day had exercised a greater effect upon my brain than I had imagined. My interview with Max was still too fresh in my memory to permit of my settling down to slumber. My heart was upbraiding me for not having met his advances with a greater show of warmth. While he had been all generosity to me, it struck me that I had been almost cold to him. How devoutly I wished that Marquart had never come to England at all! Unconsciously, it is true, he had done his best to estrange my brother and myself; he had put all sorts of thoughts in my mother's head that had better not have been there, and for what purpose? For the life of me I could not tell. What a strange world it is, after all, and what blind bats we mortals may consider ourselves! While I was fretting and worrying because Max was unhappy, Destiny was slowly moving forward her chessmen, in the ranks of which we none of us knew what parts we were to play. Looking back at that time, I am struck by two strange facts. If my mother could see sufficiently far into the future to entertain vague fears upon Max's account, and the latter, forewarned by fate, perhaps, thought it necessary to make me swear that we should ever remain friends, how was it that they could not see further? Had they done so, Max would have——but there, we could not see, so what more remains to be said? Let me return, therefore, to the point at which I broke off.
I had retired to rest for upwards of an hour when I caught the sound of a door being shut further along the corridor, and a moment later of a soft footfall outside my room. I wondered who it could be, for there was no room save Max's and my own in that quarter of the house, and I did not know of any one who would be likely to visit it. As I listened, the footfalls were accompanied by something that was very like a sob. I could restrain my curiosity no longer, but, springing from my bed, opened the door and looked out. A figure was making its way towards the main portion of the house, and one glance was sufficient to show me that it was my mother. She had been to Max's room, and was returning to her own, weeping bitterly. Had there been the remotest chance of my catching her, I should have run after her and attempted to comfort her, but I was too late. Feeling as if I were the cause of her unhappiness, I returned to bed, and once more set to work to try and unravel the mystery that surrounded us. Had I been able to guess what the future had in store for us, I might have been able to set it right. I wonder if I should have had the pluck to do so? In my own heart I like to think it possible.
In course of time and in accordance with the parental plans, Max had joined a regiment, the 123rd Lancers, and was quartered in the Midlands, while I was to embark upon my quest for military distinction as soon as I should be old enough for a commission. Eventually I was gazetted to a lieutenancy in Her Majesty's Household Cavalry. This necessitated my living in town; a distinct change from the quiet country life I had hitherto led. I was fortunate in being kindly received by my brother officers, and as my father and mother's friends went out of their way to show me attention, it may be taken for granted that I was about as satisfied with my lot in life as a man could well be. Pannonia seemed slipping every day further into the background, and there were even times when I was scarcely conscious of her existence. Strangely enough, my mother, upon whom time was steadily laying her hand, seemed to be abandoning the notion that we should return, and to be resigning herself to the idea that England was likely to be her home for the remainder of her existence. And that leads me to venture upon a little piece of moralising, the first and last, I trust, I shall indulge in.
We are led to believe by the doctors that once in every seven years our physical being undergoes a change. Might this not be so in other matters? Be that as it may, there is certainly a strange concurrence in numbers. I was eight years old when the gipsy woman told me my fortune, and brought about the first trouble between Max and myself; I was sixteen when von Marquart made his appearance in England, and marked another epoch in my life; and if the line of coincidence may be followed further, I might also observe that I was twenty-four when the third, and, perhaps in a certain sense, the most important event occurred, for the reason that from it so many other issues were developed. At the same time I must confess it is not a subject upon which I care to dwell for any length of time. It has both a pleasant and painful side, and while I am willing to state that it has proved my greatest blessing, I am also bound to admit that it has inflicted upon me a wound, the scar of which time will never be able to obliterate. And this brings me to another argument. Surely it must have struck you how often the greatest events find their origin in the simplest things. I will supply an instance. John Noakes, a village mechanic, drops in one Sunday afternoon, having nothing better to do, to take a cup of tea with Matthew Stoakes, whose daughter Jane, by the way, boasts a pretty face and a comely figure. Hitherto, John has never thought of sweethearting, or indeed of anything else but his carpenter's bench, and his bit of garden behind the cottage. Somehow this afternoon, however, he feels impelled towards his neighbour's house. He goes; old Matthew, to while away the time, reads to the assembled company a letter he has received from a brother in Australia. Though the writer himself would not appear to have done as well as he could have wished, he describes, with fine descriptive touches, the wealth other men have accumulated in that Eldorado of the South. John goes home with a notion at the back of his head that he too would like to try his luck there. The idea grows and flourishes. Eventually he sets sail for the Antipodes, and for upwards of thirty years nothing more is heard of him. When he returns to England after this long lapse of time he is several times a millionaire, and in a position to purchase half the country-side, which he promptly does. He plumes himself upon his shrewdness, and talks of his business capacity to his fellow-justices! He quite forgets, however, that, had it not been for that chance visit to old Matthew's house that sunny Sunday afternoon, and the letter that was read to him there, he might still be planing at his bench, a poorer and, in every respect, a humbler man. And so, gentle reader, I venture to suggest, it is with all of us. However we may be born, whatever may come to us from other people, there is always one little chance permitted us, and according as we seize it or neglect it, so it will make or mar our lives. Mine came to me in a quite unexpected fashion, and I must leave you to discover for yourselves in what manner I treated it, and what befell me and mine in consequence.
It has been popularly supposed that Her Majesty's Household Troops have no other occupation in life than to act as escorts to Royal carriages, to take part in public processions, and to sit like statues upon their chargers, in the pigeon-houses that ornament the front of the Horse Guards. A certain popular novelist has gone further, and has accused their officers of being as luxuriously housed as young duchesses, of breaking the hearts of beautiful ladies-in-waiting, and of committing various other petty sins, very charming no doubt in themselves, but much too improper for me to mention here. However that may be, I am prepared to state that my military duties were of a somewhat more arduous nature. Relaxations there were, it is true, and of the most pleasant description; and he would have been hard indeed to satisfy who could have been discontented with them. Nevertheless, the fact remains that our lives were not so easy as many people are wont to declare.
Despite a certain witty diplomatist's assertion that Paris is pre-eminently "the city of pretty women, while London is that of immaculate wives," I am prepared to contend that never in any other part of Europe have I seen so many beautiful women gathered together at one time as in the foggy metropolis of England. At the risk of being considered conceited, I must admit their kindness to myself. A heart less susceptible to their fascinations could not have failed to have been broken a dozen times in each successive season. As for me, I gave in at once without a struggle, and did not utter even a cry for mercy.
"It's a good thing for you that your position protects you," said one of our majors one afternoon as we drove home together from Hurlingham. "Had it been otherwise, you would have been caught long since."
A certain young unmarried American had been present that afternoon, and I am not going to say that there had not been some excuse for his admonition. At the same time I would not admit that he was right. To have done so would have been to deprive myself of a considerable amount of pleasure in the future.
"My dear fellow," I answered, "when Providence vouchsafes one such opportunities, it would be scarcely respectable on a mere mortal's part to neglect them. Miss Gedge was kind enough this afternoon to tell me that she 'just fairly adored princes,' and after an invitation of that description what could one do but make oneself as agreeable as possible? Put yourself in my place and see what you would do!"
"Not if I know it," he replied. "I would not run such a risk for the world."
Favoured though I had been, I was happy enough, so far, not to have been smitten by the Bow Boy's dart, and with this little explanation I will proceed to narrate the incident to which it is the prelude.
The week in question had been an exceptionally busy one. We had had a field day at Wormwood Scrubs on Monday, a regimental polo match at Hurlingham on Tuesday, a mess dinner given to the Hereditary Prince of Liedenvald on Wednesday, while on Thursday there was a garden party at Marlborough House, a state dinner at Buckingham Palace, and dances at no less than four houses afterwards. When I opened my eyes in the morning, it was with the feeling that I had a vast amount of work to get through before I should be able to close them again. How little I imagined the variety of emotions to which I was to be subjected before that event could take place! That afternoon, at the last moment, I was detained at the barracks for some little time; in consequence, it was considerably past four o'clock before I entered the gates of Marlborough House. Having paid my respects to the most charming hostess in England, if not in the world, I crossed the lawn in search of acquaintances. Seated under a tree I discovered my kind friend the Duchess of Laverstock. She was talking to the Russian Ambassador at the moment, but was kind enough to receive me very graciously.
The good fairy at her birth had bestowed upon Her Grace the rare gift—and, believe me, it is a rare one—of being able to make the person to whom she was speaking think that the amusement of the moment would be like leather and prunella to her, but for his, or her, participation in it.
"You are late, Prince Paul," she said, moving her parasol a little, in order to shade her face. "I have been expecting you for the last half-hour."
"Am I to be flattered by your interest or grieved at your disappointment?" I replied, seating myself beside her. "Perhaps you will decide for me. In any case, could you not induce the Duke to bring in a Bill to ameliorate the condition of lieutenants in Her Majesty's Household Cavalry? Think how they have worked us this week. It will take at least three months' leave to put me on my feet again."
The Duchess laughed good-humouredly.
"You must dine with us and give him your ideas on the subject," she said. "In the meantime I am going to talk seriously to you. I have brought a young friend with me to-day to whom you must really be introduced."
"Who is this friend you are so anxious I should meet? You have aroused my curiosity."
"Is it really in my power to do that?" she retorted. "You have at last paid me a compliment I can appreciate. But let us walk across the lawn; I fancy we shall find her at the further end. I saw her a few minutes since walking with Lord Newmarket."
"I only hope he has not been regaling her with any of his sporting reminiscences. It was Mary Bethbridge, I think, who declared that, when she was staying at Markingdale, even the wording of the family prayers reeked of the stables."
Talking in this strain, the amiable lady led me across the lawn towards a group of people who were clustered near the band. She was on the look-out for her friend, but who that friend was I am prepared to admit I had not the slightest idea. As all the world is, or should be, aware, the Duchess of Laverstock is an inveterate matchmaker. It is said that, at their place in Devonshire, she allows such of her farm servants as are bachelors a month to choose a sweetheart, six months to court in, a week to propose in, another month in which to marry, and—well, the long and the short of it is that since there were reasons of State why she could not do me an injury in that respect, I could not understand why she could have been so eager to find the lady in question. Putting up her glasses she examined the people about her attentively.
"Ah! there she is!" she said at last. "Come this way, Prince, and remember that you are to behave yourself very nicely, under pain of my severest displeasure."
So saying, she led the way towards a lady and a gentleman who had hitherto been hidden from our sight by the fashionable crowd. The man I recognised immediately; but his companion I could not remember ever to have seen before. One thing was certain, she was a wonderfully beautiful girl. She was exquisitely dressed, and carried herself with a distinction that raised her above the level of the other beauties. I seemed to know her face, and yet I could not recall where I had seen it before. Then, in a flash, I remembered.
"Princess Ottilie," I began, as soon as we stood face to face.
The Duchess stared at me in surprise.
"Can it be possible that you know each other?" she cried. "I had quite made up my mind that you had not met, and I was hoping to do you both a charitable action."
Turning to the girl before me, I said, "You are the Princess Ottilie, are you not?"
"Yes," she answered; "and if I am not mistaken you are Prince Paul of Pannonia. Do you remember that dreadful day when the horses ran away and nearly killed me at the palace gates?"
"Is it likely I shall ever forget it?" I returned. "The whole scene rises before my eyes at this moment. What an age has elapsed since then!"
The Duchess and Lord Newmarket, who were kindly souls, strolled away, leaving us together. I looked again at the girl; really she was remarkably beautiful. There could be no sort of doubt about that. I had never seen anyone in my life half so fair.
"Can we not discover a couple of chairs, and try to recall some other impressions?" I inquired.
"It would be very pleasant," she replied; and we accordingly strolled away together.
"If I may be allowed to say so, you have altered a great deal since I last saw you," I began, when we had found our chairs and had seated ourselves upon them.
"And perhaps I might return the compliment," she continued. "How strange it seems that we should meet here, does it not?"
"Very strange indeed," I answered. "You have not been back to Pannonia since that dreadful time?"
As I said it the folly of the remark became apparent to me. Was it not my own father who had sent the Prince of Lilienhöhe into exile? And had not the latter, as soon as the Ramonyi dynasty was overthrown, stepped into the breach and attempted to seize the throne for himself? That for the moment I had embarrassed her I could see. However, she evaded it with a cleverness that showed she was not wanting in that rarest of all gifts—tact.
"We have been living in England for the last seven years," she replied, with a candour that concealed her real feelings. "My father declares that he is getting too old to move about, and sometimes I think he will never cross the Channel again."
I did not say so to her, though I thought it, that I deemed it a fortunate thing, not only for himself, but also for Pannonia, that he had come to so sensible a conclusion. How foolish and futile the whole business appeared when looked at through the diminishing glass of years! The feud between the two families, the constant quarrels, the scarcely veiled hatred on both sides, and then the last outbreak and its consequences! My father had sent Lilienhöhe into exile only to follow himself, a few days later. And now, strangest part of all, here was I, Paul of Pannonia, talking to Ottilie of Lilienhöhe in the garden of the Heir Apparent to the throne that had given us both shelter.
When Fate takes it into her head to jest, she does not do so in a half-hearted fashion. After a little while I inquired how it was I had not met her before.
"I was only presented last year," she answered; "and this season we were late in coming to town. Indeed, had it not been for the Prince of Liedenvald's visit to England, I doubt very much whether we should have come at all."
For once in my life I was grateful to my cousin Wilhelm.
Really she was beautiful. I remembered what a dainty, fragile child she had seemed that day when I had led her hand-in-hand, after the accident, to see the statues in the great hall at Pannonia. In that respect she had scarcely altered. Her beauty seemed of a different description from any I had met before. Her skin was so transparent, her hands and feet so small, her head so daintily poised, that the most fastidious critic could scarcely have discovered a fault in her. Later on she inquired for Max, and I furnished her with a faithful description of him, trying to make her realise what a splendid fellow he was.
"You admire him as much as ever, I can see," she said. "Your brother is fortunate in having so able a champion."
I did not grasp her meaning then, but it has become more plain to me since. We changed the topic, and after a while, feeling that it would not do for me to monopolise her altogether, I rose, remarking, as I did so, that I hoped to have the pleasure of meeting her again very soon. I ran over the list of houses to which I had invitations that evening, and inquired whether she was likely to be at any one of them.
"We are going to Lady Cummingdale's musical first," she said; "then we go on to the Countess of Winterbourne's dance, and afterwards to Lady Basingstoke's."
"Then perhaps I may have the pleasure of a dance with you at Winterbourne House?" I answered.
"I shall be very pleased," she returned.
At that moment a tall, handsome man, perhaps sixty years of age, with a fierce grey moustache and almost snow-white hair, crossed the lawn and made his way towards us. I did not know him, but I was soon to do so, for the Princess Ottilie took a step forward to meet him, saying as she did so:
"Papa, let me introduce you to Prince Paul of Pannonia."
The other gave a start and drew himself up to his full height.
"I am honoured in being permitted to make the acquaintance of his Royal Highness," he replied, a little stiffly, so I thought. "The last time I saw you, sir, was on the day you were baptised. I trust his Majesty and the Queen enjoy good health?"
I replied to the effect that they were as well as could be expected of people of their years, and after a few polite nothings made my adieu, vaguely wondering what my mother would say when she heard of the interview, as I had no doubt she very soon would.
That evening, during the long state dinner at Buckingham Palace, I found myself continually thinking of the pretty Princess. Never had an admirably arranged banquet seemed so tedious. I was all anxiety for it to be over, in order that I might get away to Winterbourne House. At last it came to an end, and very soon after I was bowling along in my cab towards Carlton Terrace. On entering the house I made my way up the crowded staircase to the ball-room, where dancing was in full swing. Having paid my respects to my hostess, I searched the room for Princess Ottilie. I discovered her dancing with one of the foreign military attachés. She was not aware of my presence, so I took up a position in an alcove and watched her. If she had looked beautiful that afternoon, she was doubly so now. I noticed that she was taller than the majority of women present, but her slender figure was so exquisitely proportioned that the fact at first glance was not apparent. The dance over, I accosted her.
"I hope your dances are not all bespoken, Princess," I said. "I have the liveliest recollection of your promise this afternoon."
"You may have the next waltz if you like," she answered. "We shall be going on to Lady Basingstoke's in half an hour, so that I do not know how many I shall have time for here."
"In that case I must have this one and endeavour to extort a dance from that house also," I retorted. "Experience has taught me that there is nothing like being beforehand in these little affairs."
Seeing how matters stood, the attaché, with all theaplombof a Frenchman, paid her a charming compliment, and gracefully took himself off. We thereupon passed into the conservatory together.
"Is your father here to-night?" I inquired. "I have not seen him."
"No," said she. "Papa never condescends to dance. He is probably playing ecarté at this moment at his club. I need not describe to you the pleasure it gave him to make your acquaintance this afternoon."
I glanced at her to see whether she were joking, but her face was as serious as even she could wish. Naturally, I expressed my delight at what she had told me, but I could not help believing that she had derived a wrong impression from her father's compliments. The Prince of Lilienhöhe had been such a determined foe of my family for so many years, that I could not see how making my acquaintance could possibly afford him pleasure. However, I had no time to give to the subject then, for the band was playing the introduction to the next waltz, and it was time to return to the ball-room. A few steps were sufficient to show me that the Princess, like all Pannonians, was an excellent dancer. To the melody of one of Strauss' waltzes I steered her through the crowd. The fragrance of her hair was intoxicating, and for some reason, I cannot explain what, it carried me back to the day, so many years ago, when she had taken my hand in hers, and had cemented our friendship with the three magic words, "I like you." How little we had dreamed then of the place where we should next meet, and under what circumstances it would be brought about! In those days the Ramonyi dynasty had seemed as firmly seated upon the throne as that of any other ruling family in Europe. Now we were in exile, and our country was given over to the tender mercies of the populace.
"Are you tired?" I inquired, when we had made the circuit of the room three or four times.
"Not in the least," she answered. "I am never tired of waltzing, and, if I may say so, you dance beautifully."
"I am afraid it is my only accomplishment," I replied.
"I shall hope to be a better judge of that later," she retorted. "You must remember that, so far, you have told me more concerning your brother than yourself. Are you always so enthusiastic about him and so reticent concerning yourself?"
"Always."
"Really! In that case I shall be quite anxious to see this Admirable Crichton. Does he never come to town?"
"Very seldom," I replied. "He is devoted to his profession."
"But surely he is fond of dancing, and of some of the little amusements that ordinary mortals indulge in?"
"I don't think he cares very much for them. I fear Max is not in any sense a lady's man."
"You are prepared then to admit that he has at least one fault?" she said. "I was beginning to believe he was scarcely human."
The waltz was gradually dying down, expiring like the fabled swan in softest music. When it had ceased altogether, I thanked my partner, and led her into the cool conservatory. The admiration I had felt for her from the beginning was fast turning to enthusiasm.
Half an hour later I followed her to Lady Basingstoke's house, and when, after another delicious waltz, I escorted her to her carriage, and was introduced to her chaperone, I was as near enchantment as a man could well be. Next day I did myself the honour of calling at her house, and was most graciously received; the morning following I met her in the Row. She was mounted on a neat thoroughbred, which she sat and handled with the grace and dexterity of an accomplished horsewoman. With the sunshine sparkling in her eyes and playing among the tresses of her hair, her trim figure clad in its well-cut habit, with just the suspicion of a tiny foot peeping from beneath her skirt, she presented a picture that a man would have been justified in walking miles to see. On the Monday following we met at a dance in Eaton Square, on the Tuesday at another at Wiltshire House, on Wednesday at the state concert at Buckingham Palace, and on Thursday and Friday at a multiplicity of dances. Take these things into consideration, and is it necessary for me to add that by the end of the week I was head over ears in love?
"My dear old fellow, how well you are looking!" said Max, as he drew off his gloves and brushed some dust from his coat sleeve. He had just arrived from Yorkshire, and had arranged to spend a portion of his leave in town before going down to Hampshire to visit our respected parents.
"I am wonderfully fit," I answered. "How are you?"
"Only pretty well," he replied, and I noticed as he spoke that his face looked older and more careworn than when I had last seen him. What was more, his manner seemed to have lost much of its old vivacity. The change startled me more than I can say, and my fears were far from being allayed when, half an hour later, he communicated to me the direful intelligence that he had determined to resign his commission in the army.
"I cannot get on with it," he said. "I do not take the least interest in it; and, if the truth must be told, I am far better out of it. I am only sorry that they ever permitted me to take it up."
"My dear old fellow," I answered, "this is the worst news that I have heard for a long time. You surely cannot be serious?"
"I could not be more serious if my life depended upon it," he returned. "Don't imagine that I have acted hastily and without thought. I have given the matter the fullest possible consideration, and the step I am about to take is the result. It will hurt our mother terribly, I fear, but it cannot be helped."
"And what do you intend to do when you have left the army?" I asked, more for the sake of saying something and having time to collect my thoughts, than for any other reason.
"I don't know," he replied gloomily. "Upon my word, I do not. The truth of the matter is, Paul, old man, I'm a failure, an abject failure. I have guessed it for years, and now I am certain of it."
He looked so sad, that I crossed the room and took his hand. "You musn't say that," I began. "You know how proud we all are of you, and how our hopes are centred on you."
Then, with what was for me unusual earnestness, I continued, "Think of Pannonia! This wretchedfiascoof a republic cannot endure much longer, and then our father will abdicate in your favour, and you will be king. Isn't that something to look forward to and to work for?"
He shook his head.
"If it were likely to happen, it might be," he answered. "But I know better. I am as certain, Paul, old boy, that I shall never sit upon the throne of Pannonia, as I am that I am standing before you now. I don't know why I should be so sure of it, but I am quite convinced that it is the case."
"It seems to me," I said in a fit of temper, "that the best thing you could do would be to consult a Harley Street physician. You are not yourself; you have run down and want a fillip."
He shook his head once more.
"It would take more than a Harley Street tonic to set me up," he replied. "But there, do not let us talk of my own wretched affairs. Tell me of yourself—what you have been doing, and how you like soldiering?"
I satisfied him upon these points, and then went on to tell him of my meeting with the Princess Ottilie. Though it was a difficult thing to do, I spoke of her with apparent unconcern. I had no wish that he should read my secret, not yet at any rate. He was extremely interested, and expressed a desire to be presented to her himself. Only too glad to agree to anything that would take him out of himself, I proposed that we should ask permission to call upon her. He assented, and I accordingly sat down to write a note to her, inquiring whether she would be at home that afternoon, and if so, if she would permit me to call and present my brother to her? This note I despatched, and when Max had made some changes in his attire, we went out and lunched together at the club. On our return, two hours later, my servant handed me a note. The handwriting was small, and in some respects un-English.
"The Princess will be very pleased to see us at four o'clock this afternoon, if we will call," I said in explanation.
Returning the note to its envelope, I placed it carefully in my pocket. The faint perfume of the paper seemed to linger in the room and to endow it with a sweetness it had not possessed before. With what eagerness I looked forward to that call! It seemed as if the laggard hours would never pass. At last, however, the time arrived, and Felix entered the room to inform us that the cab was at the door. Soon we turned into Curzon Street, and drew up before the door of the Prince of Lilienhöhe's residence. On entering, we were conducted to the drawing-room, where the Princess and the Baroness Roqsal, her chaperone, were awaiting our coming.
"Princess," I began, as I crossed the room and took her hand, "will you permit me the pleasure of presenting my brother to you?"
"It is very kind of you to bring him," she answered. Then, turning to Max, she continued: "I am delighted to see you. It is many years since we last met, but I remember you perfectly."
As he answered her, I glanced at his face and noticed the expression of admiration upon it.
"Do you know I am almost afraid of you," she said, when he had been presented to the Baroness, and we had seated ourselves.
"I am sorry to hear that," he replied. "I was not aware that I was such a dreadful personage. What have I done that you should fear me?"
"You have done nothing," she answered. "If anyone is to blame it is your brother. He has been singing your praises to an extent that has made me deem you almost superhuman."
"It seems almost a pity that I should shatter such a beautiful illusion, does it not?" he asked. "However, now that you know me, I fear its destruction is inevitable."
"I must ask for grace before I reply to that speech," she said with a smile. "I have scarcely had time to form my own opinion of your character yet."
At that moment afternoon tea made its appearance, and with it the conversation branched off into other channels. We touched upon Pannonian politics guardedly, spoke of our childish recollections of the country somewhat more freely, and then, with positive relief, of the many friends with whom we were mutually acquainted. At last we rose to take leave.
"Will you let me sayau revoir, not adieu, Princess?" inquired Max, as he took her hand. "I hope I may be permitted to see more of you during the time I am in town."
"I shall be very happy to see your Highness," she replied. "Will you remember that I am always at home to my friends on Thursday afternoons?"
When I bade her good-bye, I could have staked my word that her hand trembled.
"Good-bye," I said simply.
"Good-bye," she answered with corresponding brevity, and, as I looked into her face, I saw what I felt sure were tears rising in her eyes.
"What could it mean?" I asked myself, as we made our way downstairs. As far as I could see, nothing had occurred to cause her so much emotion.
That evening Max was my guest at mess, and afterwards we went on to two or three houses together, at none of which were we fortunate enough to meet the Princess. Next morning, however, we encountered her in the Row, and in the evening at a succession of dances. From that time forward, during the remainder of Max's stay in town, we seemed to be continually in her company. That Max had followed my example, and was by this time as madly in love with the Princess as I was myself, I am quite convinced. Never by word or deed, however, did he try to make me aware of the fact. But I could see that it existed. Of my own feelings I am not going to say anything. All things considered, it is better I should not. Those who have the wit to understand will be able to read between the lines.
It was during Max's stay in town that he completed the formalities connected with his decision to resign his commission in the Lancers.
At this juncture it is necessary that I should depart from the direct course of my narrative, in order to offer a few remarks upon Max's own personal condition during the few weeks he was with me in town. This, I must frankly confess, was at times of such a nature as to cause me the greatest possible alarm. He was as changeable as the summer breezes. At one moment he seemed all happiness; the next he was plunged into the depths of despair. At one time he would talk of Pannonia with the greatest affection, and appear to be sanguine as to his chance of some day ascending the throne; the next he would assure me that the Republic would last longer than we expected, and that, even if it did not, he would never live to be king. Extravagant though it may seem to say so, I feel bound to confess that there were occasions when I wondered whether the troubles of our unhappy House had not exercised an undue influence upon his mind. As may be supposed, my position at this particular time was far from being a happy one. To make it worse, the Princess had, for some reason or other, taken it into her head to be vexed with me. What I had done to offend her I could not see, but that shewasangry with me was quite clear. It may possibly have been that she thought I was growing tired of the acquaintanceship, inasmuch as I was not quite so often with her. But I was resolved that, happen what might, Max should have a fair chance. He was the elder, and, if he were going to be king, their marriage would be only fit and proper. Therefore, if she preferred him to myself, he should have her, and I would do my best to appear delighted. If not, well, then it would be my turn to put my fortune to the test. It took some time to arrive at this decision, but that once done, the rest was easy. Oh, that dreadful time! It has often struck me as extraordinary that Max and I should have managed to come through it as satisfactorily as we did. Surely he must have guessed something of what was in my mind. But it is quite certain that, if he did, he never for one moment allowed me to suspect it. We met continually, discussed the various topics of the day with well-simulated interest, occupied ourselves with our round of amusements, as if the wolves were not all the time gnawing at our heartstrings, and to each other and the world in general were as friendly as two brothers could hope to be. Meanwhile, we both knew that every day was bringing us nearer the inevitable end.
To be precise, it was on Monday, the fourteenth day of July, that the climax came. Max had left me soon after lunch to ride in the Park with the Princess Ottilie. I was on duty that afternoon, so was unable, even had I desired to do so, to accompany them. Indeed, it was after six o'clock before I returned to my house, where I expected to find Max awaiting me. To my surprise, however, he was not there.
"Has not the Crown Prince returned?" I inquired of Felix, my imperturbable groom of the chambers.
"His Royal Highness left the house nearly an hour and a half ago," the man replied. "I thought your Highness was aware of his intention to leave London."
"To leave London!" I cried in astonishment. "What do you mean? What reason have you for supposing that he has left London?"
I was certain that he had not the least intention of doing so when we had lunched together.
"His Royal Highness gave me to understand that he intended paying a visit to their Majesties in the country," the man replied apologetically.
This sudden and entirely unexpected action on Max's part was inexplicable to me. Could he have proposed to the Princess, and had she refused him? I was still turning this problem over in my mind, when a letter, balanced against the inkstand on my writing table, attracted my attention. It was addressed to myself, and the handwriting was quite familiar to me. To pick it up and open it was the work of a moment.
My dear Paul(it ran)—At last, thank Heaven, I have been able to come to a decision with myself. After years of doubt and darkness I can see light ahead. God knows whether I am doing right or wrong, but my belief is that it is my duty. I want you to be the first to hear it, and then to act as may seem best to you. Do you think, my brother, that your secret is unknown to me? Have you flattered yourself that I am not aware that you love Ottilie of Lilienhöhe as truly as I do myself? If so, you are wrong. I knew it from the first moment that you spoke of her to me. It was written on your face as plain as any words. At that time I had not seen her, and, in consequence, I was as careless of the future as I was of the present. From the fatal moment, however, that we crossed the threshold of the Prince's house in Curzon Street, I realised that I was destined by fate to be your rival. (Here followed a tribute to my own behaviour in the affair, which, with your permission, I will pass over.) ... I saw her and loved her from the moment that I looked into her eyes. At first I resolved that nothing should induce me to play you false; but I did not know then the strength of my love, or the violence of the temptation to which I was to be subjected. I give you my word, Paul, that for the first fortnight I wrestled with myself and my love with all the strength of a man, who was despairing, and who wished to be honourable. But it proved too powerful for me in the end, and at last I was obliged to succumb. The devil was at my elbow whispering continually that it was not myself alone that I had to think of, but of my country. To marry the daughter of the Prince of Lilienhöhe would be to unite the two strongest factions in Pannonia, to bring peace and happiness to it as a nation, and to lift it again, from its place in the mire, to its former proud position among the great peoples of the earth. I can only wonder how it was that you did not see my misery. That itwasmisery for me I can only ask you to believe. The uncertainty was heart-breaking. One day I felt sure that she loved me, and, in consequence, I walked in an earthly paradise; the next I was certain that she did not, and then I tasted all the bitterness of hell. Meanwhile, my conscience was calling upon me to be as loyal to you as you had been to me. But it was of no avail. The temptation was more than I could withstand; at last I fell. My punishment, however, was not long in coming. This afternoon, as you know, I arranged to ride with the Princess in the Row. I met her near Hyde Park Corner, and I assure you, that I, who have never since our escape from Pannonia known the meaning of the word "fear," felt a tremor run through me as she rode towards me. But I soon discovered that I was not alone in my fear. The moment I saw her face I knew that she also was dreading our meeting. That was sufficient to tell me my fate. Failure had dogged me all my life, and it was scarcely likely that, when I desired something that was more to me than life itself, she would grant it to me. Having exchanged greetings with an appearance of pleasure on either side, we turned our horses' heads and made our way down the Row together. With a make-believe of composure, we discussed the trivialities of the day. This, however, did not last long. We began sentences and did not finish them, and at last lapsed altogether into silence. I stole a glance at her face, and, as I did so, enlightenment came to me. Her secret was a secret no longer. I knew, not only that she did not love me, but that her love was given elsewhere. I would have had pity on her, and have left my question unasked, but that the devil was still behind me, whispering in my ear, "Why do you trouble yourself about her feelings? What does it matter to you whether she loves anyone else or not? There are reasons of State why she should be your wife, and you have only to put them before her, backed up by her father's authority, and shemustsurrender." However, I had not fallen so low as that yet. I had still sufficient of the gentleman left to declare to myself that, if she did not love me, and the union was distasteful to her, I would not force it upon her. When we turned our horses, I brought mine a little closer to hers."Princess," I said, "will you take pity on me, and give me a plain answer to a question I want to ask you?"Her face was bloodless in its pallor. She tried to answer, but no word escaped her lips. My God! man, you can't conceive what a brute I felt at that moment. And yet I was well aware that I must go on, that I should know no peace until I had tortured her to the end. All this time she was striving to be brave. Fortunately, there were few people about in that particular part of the Row, otherwise her agitation could scarcely have failed to attract attention."What is the question your Highness desires to ask me?" she faltered."Surely you can guess," I answered. "Ottilie, I love you, and I want you to tell me whether in return you can love me well enough to be my wife."Though she must have known what was coming, a little cry escaped her."What can I say? What can I say?" she repeated in a choking voice. "Can you not see that I am prepared to do my duty at any cost to myself?""But you shall not do it at the expense of your heart," I answered. "Ottilie, do you love me?""Oh, why do you ask me?" she cried, with a catch of her breath that was almost hysterical. "How can I answer as you wish?""You have given me my answer," I returned. "It seems I have lived in a fool's paradise. But I have loved you, and, as God is my witness, I will not force you into a loveless marriage."What I said to her after that can have no interest for anyone save our own two selves; let it suffice that, when I left her, I came on here. Strangely enough, I had no sooner quitted the Park than my composure returned to me, and by the time I had reached this room, I could stand off and look at everything in its proper light. And now one other matter, and the last. I know what you have thought of me these last few weeks, and the suspicions you have entertained—well, I might also say, concerning my sanity. But you are in error, my dear brother. No man was ever saner than I am at this moment. The result of it all is, as I said at the commencement of my letter, that I have arrived at a decision. I have come to an understanding with myself. By the time you open this letter I shall have left London, never, I hope, to return to it. As far as I am concerned, the farce of kingship is played out. I, for one, have been wearied to death by the performance. With this letter I cast it off. To-night I enter upon a new life, in which, please God, I shall comport myself more like a man than I have done hitherto. I have chosen a name which will not furnish any clue as to my identity, so that it will be impossible for you to trace me. Under it, as under a new banner, I shall fight and endeavour to win that self-respect which up to now I have never been able to attain. Look upon me as one who is dead, and try, if you can, to forgive me for the pain I have caused you these few weeks past. Remember always that, even though I gave way, I did not fall altogether. Try also to understand that my victory over myself was, in a great measure, a proof of my love for you. God bless you always. Think sometimes ofYour ever affectionate brother,Max.
My dear Paul(it ran)—
At last, thank Heaven, I have been able to come to a decision with myself. After years of doubt and darkness I can see light ahead. God knows whether I am doing right or wrong, but my belief is that it is my duty. I want you to be the first to hear it, and then to act as may seem best to you. Do you think, my brother, that your secret is unknown to me? Have you flattered yourself that I am not aware that you love Ottilie of Lilienhöhe as truly as I do myself? If so, you are wrong. I knew it from the first moment that you spoke of her to me. It was written on your face as plain as any words. At that time I had not seen her, and, in consequence, I was as careless of the future as I was of the present. From the fatal moment, however, that we crossed the threshold of the Prince's house in Curzon Street, I realised that I was destined by fate to be your rival. (Here followed a tribute to my own behaviour in the affair, which, with your permission, I will pass over.) ... I saw her and loved her from the moment that I looked into her eyes. At first I resolved that nothing should induce me to play you false; but I did not know then the strength of my love, or the violence of the temptation to which I was to be subjected. I give you my word, Paul, that for the first fortnight I wrestled with myself and my love with all the strength of a man, who was despairing, and who wished to be honourable. But it proved too powerful for me in the end, and at last I was obliged to succumb. The devil was at my elbow whispering continually that it was not myself alone that I had to think of, but of my country. To marry the daughter of the Prince of Lilienhöhe would be to unite the two strongest factions in Pannonia, to bring peace and happiness to it as a nation, and to lift it again, from its place in the mire, to its former proud position among the great peoples of the earth. I can only wonder how it was that you did not see my misery. That itwasmisery for me I can only ask you to believe. The uncertainty was heart-breaking. One day I felt sure that she loved me, and, in consequence, I walked in an earthly paradise; the next I was certain that she did not, and then I tasted all the bitterness of hell. Meanwhile, my conscience was calling upon me to be as loyal to you as you had been to me. But it was of no avail. The temptation was more than I could withstand; at last I fell. My punishment, however, was not long in coming. This afternoon, as you know, I arranged to ride with the Princess in the Row. I met her near Hyde Park Corner, and I assure you, that I, who have never since our escape from Pannonia known the meaning of the word "fear," felt a tremor run through me as she rode towards me. But I soon discovered that I was not alone in my fear. The moment I saw her face I knew that she also was dreading our meeting. That was sufficient to tell me my fate. Failure had dogged me all my life, and it was scarcely likely that, when I desired something that was more to me than life itself, she would grant it to me. Having exchanged greetings with an appearance of pleasure on either side, we turned our horses' heads and made our way down the Row together. With a make-believe of composure, we discussed the trivialities of the day. This, however, did not last long. We began sentences and did not finish them, and at last lapsed altogether into silence. I stole a glance at her face, and, as I did so, enlightenment came to me. Her secret was a secret no longer. I knew, not only that she did not love me, but that her love was given elsewhere. I would have had pity on her, and have left my question unasked, but that the devil was still behind me, whispering in my ear, "Why do you trouble yourself about her feelings? What does it matter to you whether she loves anyone else or not? There are reasons of State why she should be your wife, and you have only to put them before her, backed up by her father's authority, and shemustsurrender." However, I had not fallen so low as that yet. I had still sufficient of the gentleman left to declare to myself that, if she did not love me, and the union was distasteful to her, I would not force it upon her. When we turned our horses, I brought mine a little closer to hers.
"Princess," I said, "will you take pity on me, and give me a plain answer to a question I want to ask you?"
Her face was bloodless in its pallor. She tried to answer, but no word escaped her lips. My God! man, you can't conceive what a brute I felt at that moment. And yet I was well aware that I must go on, that I should know no peace until I had tortured her to the end. All this time she was striving to be brave. Fortunately, there were few people about in that particular part of the Row, otherwise her agitation could scarcely have failed to attract attention.
"What is the question your Highness desires to ask me?" she faltered.
"Surely you can guess," I answered. "Ottilie, I love you, and I want you to tell me whether in return you can love me well enough to be my wife."
Though she must have known what was coming, a little cry escaped her.
"What can I say? What can I say?" she repeated in a choking voice. "Can you not see that I am prepared to do my duty at any cost to myself?"
"But you shall not do it at the expense of your heart," I answered. "Ottilie, do you love me?"
"Oh, why do you ask me?" she cried, with a catch of her breath that was almost hysterical. "How can I answer as you wish?"
"You have given me my answer," I returned. "It seems I have lived in a fool's paradise. But I have loved you, and, as God is my witness, I will not force you into a loveless marriage."
What I said to her after that can have no interest for anyone save our own two selves; let it suffice that, when I left her, I came on here. Strangely enough, I had no sooner quitted the Park than my composure returned to me, and by the time I had reached this room, I could stand off and look at everything in its proper light. And now one other matter, and the last. I know what you have thought of me these last few weeks, and the suspicions you have entertained—well, I might also say, concerning my sanity. But you are in error, my dear brother. No man was ever saner than I am at this moment. The result of it all is, as I said at the commencement of my letter, that I have arrived at a decision. I have come to an understanding with myself. By the time you open this letter I shall have left London, never, I hope, to return to it. As far as I am concerned, the farce of kingship is played out. I, for one, have been wearied to death by the performance. With this letter I cast it off. To-night I enter upon a new life, in which, please God, I shall comport myself more like a man than I have done hitherto. I have chosen a name which will not furnish any clue as to my identity, so that it will be impossible for you to trace me. Under it, as under a new banner, I shall fight and endeavour to win that self-respect which up to now I have never been able to attain. Look upon me as one who is dead, and try, if you can, to forgive me for the pain I have caused you these few weeks past. Remember always that, even though I gave way, I did not fall altogether. Try also to understand that my victory over myself was, in a great measure, a proof of my love for you. God bless you always. Think sometimes of
Your ever affectionate brother,
Max.
In a postscript there were a few directions as to what should be done with his valet, Theodore, and the manner in which his horses and other belongings should be disposed of.
For some moments after I had read it, I stood holding the letter in my hand, staring at it in blank amazement. I read it again and again, trying, in vain, to arrive at a proper understanding of it. Of one thing there could be no doubt. He had proposed to the Princess, and she had told him that she did not love him. He had accordingly determined to relinquish his position in society and to go abroad, rather than allow her to be forced into a marriage with a man she did not love. Was ever a man more noble? At the same time it occurred to me that he had often stated that nothing would give him greater pleasure than to endeavour to win a position for himself in a new country, where nobody knew him, and his rank could be of no assistance to his efforts. This was what he was going to do now. But it was impossible we could permit it. At any hazard I felt that I must find him, and argue it out with him, before he could leave England. For my father's and mother's, for his own, for mine, and for Pannonia's sakes, he must be prevented from committing this rash act. At that moment Felix entered the room once more.
"I have made inquiries," he began, "but Theodore declares he knows nothing of his master's movements. He was told to wait here until he received his instructions from your Highness."
"Tell him that I will see him later," I answered. "In the meantime give me my hat and call a hansom. I am going out."
A cab having been obtained, I bade the man drive me to the nearest telegraph office. Once there I wired to my father to know if he had seen anything of Max, and implored him, should he put in an appearance, to keep him until I arrived. Then I drove to Scotland Yard, where I sent in my card to the Chief Officer of the Detective Department. To him, in confidence, I imparted my fears, and told him that, if possible, I wanted my brother's whereabouts ascertained before it would be possible for him to leave England, convincing him, at the same time, of the necessity that existed for secrecy. This precaution he promised most religiously to observe. After that, I returned to my own abode to await the telegram from my father. At last it came. It was worded as follows: "Max left here more than an hour ago, having said good-bye to us prior to leaving for the Continent." I immediately sat down and scribbled a note to Scotland Yard, informing them of the discovery I had made. Then, when I had written another to my hostess of that evening, asking her to excuse me not being present at her dinner, on account of urgent private trouble, I took a hansom and drove to Waterloo. Instantly on my arrival at home I gave my father and mother a full account of all that had occurred. They, like myself, were overwhelmed by the suddenness of the catastrophe, and could give me no further information than that Max, after bidding them good-bye, had driven to Eastleigh, in order to catch, so they supposed, a train either for London or Southampton. I inquired at the station, but in vain. The station-master had not seen him, nor could he tell by what train he would have been likely to have travelled.
"There was the 6.50 up to town, your Royal Highness," he said, "and the 6.45 down to Southampton. He might have taken either."
Feeling sure that he would have not returned to London, I took the next train to Southampton and made inquiries there. But my efforts were in vain. No one seemed to have seen a person answering to his description. When next morning I called at the various shipping offices I was equally unsuccessful. Almost despairing, I applied for leave and remained at Southampton, day by day, for a week, watching the various boats that left for America and South Africa. So far as I could discover, however, Max was not on board any one of them. At last, wearied with waiting, and hopeless of hearing anything of him, I returned to town, callingen routeat Rendlehurst to inform my father and mother of my ill-success.
From that moment, for many years, nothing was heard of poor ill-fated Max of Pannonia.
And now a word to preface the story of Max's adventures as set forth by himself—from the time he wrote the famous letter to me.
Headstrong and wilful as he undoubtedly was, Max was the possessor of a habit which would not be supposed to agree in any way with his other characteristics. In our school days, prompted by a tutor who was method and preciseness in itself, we had been induced to cultivate the habit of keeping a diary. My own fits of application had their limits, and in consequence the record of my own daily life died a natural death within a week of its commencement. Max, however, must either have looked at it in another light, or have been composed of entirely different material. Having set his hand to it, his dogged determination insisted upon his carrying it through; in consequence, the habit grew upon him, and, fortunately for the story I have to tell, it lasted until the day of his death. It is from the last two volumes of this concise, and I might even add remarkable, history that I take the record as it is set down in the following pages. It will be observed that I have put it in the form of a narrative, told by myself, adding explanations where necessary, but in the main preserving the whole in as complete a form as it was originally written. How Max left the Princess Ottilie in the park after his ill-starred interview with her and rode away has already been told. A few other details, however, may prove of interest. As soon as he arrived, it would appear that Felix offered him refreshment, but he declined it, saying that he was in a hurry to catch a train to Hampshire. Seating himself at my writing-table he took a sheet of notepaper and composed the letter which was destined, a few hours afterwards, to cause me so much unhappiness. "Thank heaven, that's done," he said to himself, as he rose to his feet and placed the envelope, which he secured with his private seal, in a conspicuous position upon the table. "Paul will be certain to see it directly he returns." Then having rung the bell for Felix, he bade him send some one to call a cab. Telling him to inform Theodore, his valet, that he would receive his orders from myself, he went down to it, sprang in, and bade the man drive him with all speed to Waterloo. He had barely time to take his ticket, to see that the luggage he himself had packed and sent on ahead earlier in the day had started for Bristol, and then to catch the train. Indeed, the starting bell had already sounded as he crossed the platform.
"This won't do at all," Max said to himself, when they had rolled out of the station, and he had time to look round the luxurious compartment in which he was seated. "If I am going out into the world to win my way I should not be riding first class. I must travel third and save my money as much as possible. On the other side, wherever that may be, it will have to be corduroys instead of tweeds, and (here he took his cigar-case from his pocket and selected a weed) a clay pipe, I suppose, in place of the mess' extra special Laranagas." The train was an express, stopping only at Basingstoke and Eastleigh. At the latter place he alighted, and taking a cab in the station yard bade the man drive him as quickly as possible to Rendlehurst. It was nearly half-past six by the time he reached the house, where Anton, the head of my father's household, received him at the door.
"Anton," he said, "I must see my father and mother at once. Where are they?"
"Her Majesty is in the boudoir," the old man replied, in measured tones that contrasted forcibly with the other's excited state. "His Majesty has but lately returned from a walk, and is now in his study. I will acquaint him with your Royal Highness's arrival."
What transpired at that meeting is not set forth in the diary. It is sufficient, however, that in something less than half an hour he had said good-bye to them, though he did not know it, for ever, and was back in his caben route, so it was popularly supposed, for Eastleigh. At the Foresham cross-roads he stopped the driver. "Pull up," he said. "It is a beautiful evening, and as I have plenty of time, I think I will walk the remainder of the distance." He paid his fare and, in order to avert suspicion, strolled slowly along the road the cab was following. When the man had turned the corner and was out of sight, he retraced his steps and set off at a brisk pace in the opposite direction. The evening was close and sultry, and signs of thunder were in the air. The roads and hedges were white with dust, and by the time he had reached the small station for which he was making, he was coated with a fine white powder. Interrogating the station-master, whom he found upon the platform, he inquired what time the next train was due for Salisbury.
"There is not one for nearly an hour, sir," the man replied. "It leaves here at half-past eight and reaches Salisbury at 9.25."
"That's a pity," said Max, who saw that he would not be able to get on to Bristol that night. "However, as it can't be helped, I must wait for it. I am much obliged to you."
The station-master, as a matter of form, compared his watch with the clock in the little waiting-room, then glanced up and down the line, and finally disappeared into his cottage, leaving Max to his own devices. The latter examined the various railway advertisements on the notice board, criticised the name of the station arranged in white flints on a neatly-kept bank beside the platform, and then decided that he felt hungry after his walk. Fifty yards or so further along the road was a small inn, and toward this he made his way. Entering the bar, which was unoccupied, he inquired of the buxom landlady if she could supply him with a meal.
"It all depends, sir, what you want," the latter replied, shaking her curls coquettishly at him; "if you'd like ham and eggs we can manage that, or maybe a bloater if so be you'd relish it, but I don't know that I can do better for you at this time o' night, at any rate."
Max decided in favour of the former, and a quarter of an hour later might have been observed in the landlady's own private parlour, seated before a steaming dish of ham and eggs, which he was devouring with an appetite that was the outcome of a four-mile walk. I have seen that landlady since, and have tried to make her understand who her guest was.
"Lor' bless you, sir," she said—for though I told her about Max, she had not the least notion of my identity—"I don't know anything about his being a prince, but what I do know is, that he ate his ham and eggs hearty enough for a king, as I told my old man afterwards."
His meal disposed of, Max paid the bill, and returned to the station to await the arrival of his train. The sun was sinking behind the trees on the other side of the cutting, and the whole heavens were suffused with crimson light. A belated cuckoo was wishing the world good-night in the far distance, and the tinkling of bells on the harness of a waggoner's team was wafted to him like faintest music upon the still evening air. As he strolled up and down the platform, his thoughts involuntarily returned to the Princess. He wondered whether she were thinking of him, and how long it would be before he would be able to school himself to forget her.
The first sign that heralded the train's approach was the arrival of a hobbledehoy rustic of about sixteen on the platform. He carried in one hand a bundle, tied up in a red pocket-handkerchief, and in the other a ground-ash stick, with which he beat his leg to the tune of a music-hall melody that had been popular in London some six months before. As Max passed him on his way to the booking-office to take his ticket, he civilly wished him good-evening. When the train entered the station, he followed the lad to a third-class compartment, and seated himself opposite him. They were the only two occupants of the carriage, and Max was in the humour for conversation. He felt as if he had been alone in the world for countless years, and for some reason the boy's broad Hampshire dialect was soothing to his ears. The lad was on his way to a new situation, so he informed his companion, a farm on the outskirts of the village of Dean. It was his first absence from home, and Max noticed that an ominous snuffle followed his statement of the fact. To the elder man there was something engaging about this encounter. They were both stepping out of their old into a new world, in order to gain experience, and were equally anxious, yet equally loth to say farewell to their old surroundings.
"I knew it was coming for a long time, sir," said the boy in a burst of confidence. "Father always had a sort of feeling that he wanted me to go along o' Mr. Simpkins, but, somehow, mother didn't kind o' fancy it. Not but that I can do my work, sir. I bain't afraid of work—not a bit of it. It's the going away from home and mother, that's the worst of it. But there, it will seem kind of strange at first, sir, I don't doubt; but bless you, I reckon somehow it will come right in the end. Anyways, I am going to do my best to make it."
For many a long day that homely speech was destined to live in Max's memory. It was an augury for the future; at any rate, he determined to regard it as such. When they reached Dean, and the boy had made his preparations to alight, Max held out his hand.
"Good-bye," he said. "I hope you may prosper in your undertaking. Like you, I, too, am starting out into the world to gain experience. I have wished you good luck; won't you do the same for me?"
The boy shyly took the hand held out to him, and, as he did so, he said: "God speed ye, sir, and thank ye kindly for the way you've let me talk to you. It's done me a world o' good."
A second later he was gone, and the train was on its way once more. In something under twenty minutes they had reached Salisbury, where Max discovered, as he had quite made up his mind he would do, that the last train for Bristol had departed. In consequence, he would be compelled to wait in Salisbury until morning for another. The disappointment was a severe one, for he had hoped to reach his destination before the night was over. In his present state, rapid travelling was exactly what he wanted; to feel he was dashing through the country, drawing nearer his goal with every mile, was like an antidote to pain, it prevented him from thinking. Now there was nothing for it but to find an hotel and to wait for morning.
As he made his way out of the station and down into the town, he thought of the last time he had visited that ancient city. Then he had been the favoured guest of a well-known nobleman in the neighbourhood, and his arrival had been the signal for quite a respectable crowd to gather in the station yard to see the Crown Prince of Pannonia. Flags had decorated the streets, and the civic authorities had offered him a hearty welcome in their council-house. Now a thick drizzle was falling as he walked along the muddy street, and the only welcome he received was the curse of a tipsy man who reeled and almost fell against him. When he had discovered a convenient hostelry he engaged a room, and afterwards strolled about the town. At last he found himself standing before the ancient cathedral, in what is perhaps the most peaceful and beautiful close in all the length and breadth of England. The graceful spire towered hundreds of feet into the moonlit sky, and as he watched it the clock struck ten, slowly and solemnly, as if it were aware of the important part it was playing in the passage of time. At the same moment I was alighting from my train at Southampton Docks, whither I had gone in search of him. Small wonder was it, since he was in Salisbury, that I could not find him.