Lord Alistair's Rebellion

“I have my information from a person in the confidence of one of the Royal Family. The Queen cannot last more than three days.”

Stuart had received the news with a slight shock. For him, as for all his generation, the venerable figure seated on the throne had almost a legendary character. It seemed impossible to think of the British Empire without Queen Victoria; the idea of a new head on the coins and postage-stamps was strange and incredible.

But, apart from these reflections the Frenchman’s announcement did not strike him as having any importance for himself, and he was unable to understand the excitement with which Des Louvres took him by the arm and drew him towards the door of the room.

“Most of the others are here,” Des Louvres said in a voice lowered to a whisper. “I telegraphed to them as soon as I heard. They are in there, waiting for you to take the chair.”

Then for the first time it struck Alistair that the approaching demise of the Crown was an event likely to prove a crisis, and that Des Louvres expected him to play a part in keeping with his ancestral traditions and outlawed state.

Nothing loth, he passed into the room where the committee was assembled, the strongest feeling in his mind one of amusement at the thought of the terror likely to be excited in the bosom of the Chevalier Vane and his brother at the prospect of a serious collision with the authorities.

He found the Chevalier inside, looking pale and anxious, while Wickham’s face bore the calmer expression of one whose mind was made up. Mr. St. Maur was also present, looking little less comfortable than the Chevalier, and the party was reinforced by the Hon. Gerald St. John and Mr. Basil Dyke. The Decadents were complete, with the one exception of Mendes, whose complaisance had never extended to the length of enrolling himself among the comrades or followers of the Comte des Louvres.

Stuart had scarcely seated himself when Egerton Vane rose precipitately to his feet, to explain his position.

Des Louvres had cruelly refrained from assigning anything more definite than “important business” as the object of the meeting; and when on their arrival they learned the character of the crisis, the brothers felt themselves entrapped. This was the moment of all others when they would have wished the Guild to practise the modesty of self-effacement; and if the Guild was going, on the contrary, to do anything rash, it was the moment which they would have chosen silently to sever their connection with the Guild. They knew better than the Frenchman the sentiment entertained by her subjects towards the dying Queen, and they had no desire to face the storm that would be provoked by any demonstration of disrespect.

“Our secretary has called us together rather hastily,” the Chevalier began in a plaintive tone. “No doubt the news he has received is very important, if it is reliable.”

“It is absolutely reliable,” interrupted the Count.

The Chevalier drew a laboured sigh, as he resumed: “In that case, whatever our political views may be, I am sure we shall all feel that at such a moment we must share to a certain extent in the national mourning for the loss of a venerated and respected—er—personage. I am not sure that our secretary has acted altogether discreetly—though of course he meant it for the best—in summoning a meeting of the Guild at such a moment; but as we are here, I suggest that it would be a graceful act on our part to pass a resolution recording our—er—respect and—er—sympathy with the family of the—er—the Queen!”

The speaker brought out the last word with a defiant jerk, and sat down hastily, hoping to evade a rebuke at the hands of Des Louvres. But he was agreeably surprised to see that astute schemer rise and second his proposition. The French Count had the sense to interpret the situation rightly, and to see that the fears of a man like Egerton Vane were a useful index to the state of English opinion. Evidently it would be wise to propitiate the public sentiment by such a resolution as Vane had suggested.

The Chevalier had the gratification of seeing his proposition carried unanimously. But this concession made to policy, Des Louvres lost no time in coming to business.

“In three days from now the throne will be vacant, and the Guild will have to show whether it is capable of taking action in accordance with its principles. Since the successful rebellion of 1688 no usurping Sovereign has ever been allowed to ascend the throne without a protest being made on behalf of the legitimate heirs. On this occasion it is clearly our duty to make that protest, and the only question is how we should proceed.”

This bold challenge was received in chilling silence. Stuart glanced round the room with a disdain he hardly tried to conceal, and saw one after the other shrink back.

Without rising from his seat, St. John put a question to the secretary.

“Has the Princess been consulted?”

Des Louvres shook his head.

“Her Majesty’s position is a difficult one,” he explained. “As a German Princess she is exposed to pressure from Berlin. We cannot expect her to give us any open countenance. As long as she does not publicly repudiate us, that is as much as we have any right to ask.”

After a silence full of eloquence, the waverers found a champion in Mr. Basil Dyke. The novelist was on the eve of completing his reconciliation with the bourgeoisie by marriage with a lady whose father’s liver pills enjoyed a celebrity such as literature cannot attain, although it was part of the understanding that in the future Mr. Dyke’s productions were to be recommended in the same organs of publicity as his father-in-law’s. The reformed Decadent looked forward to entering the House of Commons in the character of a supporter of Church and Throne; and with such a prospect in view it was evidently time for him to dissociate himself from the political profligacies of his youth.

“I cannot agree with the Comte des Louvres that we have any right to speak on behalf of the Princess, without her express authority,” he said. “Neither do I see what we have to gain by coming forward at this particular time. We have proclaimed our principles, the public is aware of them, and any assertion of them at this moment would be taken badly. It would be said that we were guilty of bad taste—that we were advertising ourselves on the occasion of a funeral.”

Alistair smiled. It seemed to him very English, this unctuous horror of advertisement on the part of a man who had won notoriety with a treacherous libel and was about to confirm it by an alliance with liver pills. Basil Dyke was clearly marked out for a knighthood under the new reign. He was one of those whom England delights to honor.

There was no doubt that the novelist had on his side the majority of those present. The disappointed Count vainly tried to strike a responsive chord.

“What is the Guild for, if it is not to act at a crisis like this?” he demanded.

The Hon. Gerald St. John gave him his answer:

“Our mission is to educate, not to indulge in vulgar demonstrations, like Socialists and people of that kind. For my part I have never pretended to take any interest in Mary III. My quarrel is with respectability and I shall wait to see whether the new Court is respectable before I condemn it.”

Des Louvres bit his lip. “You English are always respectable,” he sneered.

“Not at all,” was the good-tempered answer. “Our middle class is always respectable, I grant you; but our aristocracy is generally wicked. And we have had lots of disreputable Kings. I have every hope that the Victorian Age will be succeeded by a Restoration.”

“Charles II. was a Stuart,” protested the Legitimist agent.

“Well, if it comes to that, I don’t know that your German Princess is any more of a Stuart than the people in possession. There seems to me very little to choose between Bavaria and Saxe-Coburg. George IV. was a man with many fine qualities.”

Des Louvres began to lose his temper.

“Of course, if anybody is afraid of the consequences I don’t expect them to come forward,” he said sneeringly.

The insult that cannot be pardoned is the one that we feel to be deserved. Egerton Vane, St. Maur, and the bridegroom-elect rose to their feet together.

“After that I shall go home. Come, Wickham,” cried the Chevalier. Mr. St. Maur was understood to mutter that if anything did happen the Comte des Louvres would probably be the first out of the country. Dyke inquired whether a foreigner was qualified to dictate to Englishmen their line of conduct at a national crisis.

The hubbub was subdued by the chairman’s voice. Alistair had been bored by the debate, much as a boy fresh from his first term at school is bored by the forgotten interests of the nursery. He felt that he had outgrown all this kind of thing; it was wide of the mark; it led nowhere, and promised nothing. But he was in just that mood when action of any kind offered a temptation which it was impossible to resist, and he felt a keen pleasure in asserting himself for the last time among those who had been his followers for so long.

“Before Des Louvres talks about being afraid, suppose he tells us what he wants us to do?”

The mutterings of strife died down, and all eyes were turned on the Count. His response was ready instantly.

“I consider the Guild ought to issue a formal Assertion of the right of Queen Mary III. to the throne.”

“Have you got the Assertion there?”

Des Louvres produced it, and read it aloud. It was received in dead silence.

“Well,” said Alistair, “what next? What do you want to do with that thing?”

“It ought to be posted up all over London, the moment the death of the Queen is announced.”

“Who is to post it up?”

This time Des Louvres had no answer ready. He glanced doubtfully round the uneasy faces of his colleagues, and drew his own conclusions. Dyke could not resist a sneer.

“Surely that is the secretary’s duty.”

The Frenchman was stung into accepting the challenge.

“I will post up one if everyone else will do the same,” he said.

The chairman looked slowly round him.

“I agree to put up one,” he said deliberately.

There was another silence, during which the two Vanes consulted each other’s countenances. The same thought had occurred to each. What was to prevent them from taking a copy of the treasonable document and discreetly disposing of it in private?

The Hon. Gerald St. John shrugged his shoulders. “If Stuart is going to post one up, I shall do the same, though I don’t agree with it.”

The Chevalier Vane rose to his feet with considerable emotion.

“Give me a copy, and I will do my duty,” he said sublimely. “I answer for my brother as well.”

Mr. St. Maur had meanwhile been deciding on his private course of action. Convinced that the present proceedings must be taken seriously by the authorities, he had resolved to earn his own pardon by a whole-souled repentance. He lowered his eyes to the ground, as he said:

“For my part I am compelled to dissociate myself from this manifesto at such a time. I desire that my protest may be recorded in the minutes of the Guild.”

The Chevalier and his brother exchanged alarmed glances. The idea that their courageous undertaking might be recorded in writing had not occurred to them.

“Surely there will be no record taken of to-night’s meeting!” Egerton exclaimed. “These proceedings are confidential!”

Des Louvres hastened to reassure him. He had conceived a suspicion from St. Maur’s manner, and determined to balk him.

“I am in the hands of the committee,” he said. “But in my opinion it will be best to make no entry beyond the names of those present, and to state that the proceedings were of a private character.”

Basil Dyke sprang to his feet.

“In that case I shall withdraw at once!” he declared. “I consider you had no right to bring us here without warning us of what you were going to propose. This is high treason. I shall resign my membership of the Guild.”

“I move that Mr. Dyke’s resignation be accepted,” said Alistair swiftly, going through the necessary formalities, as the irate novelist made his way to the door.

Wickham Vane cast a reproachful glance at his brother.

“If there is going to be any record of to-night’s meeting, I shall go as well,” he announced.

Des Louvres saw that he must give way.

“Have it as you please,” he remarked. “As I said, I am in your hands.” Then, with a warning glance in St. Maur’s direction, he added: “That concludes the business of the meeting. Those who have undertaken to post up copies of the Assertion had better remain behind to consult as to the most appropriate places.”

The informer was obliged to take the hint.

“Very well, gentlemen,” he said, as he rose to go. “Remember that if this lands you in trouble, I have done my best to save you.”

“That fellow means to betray us,” said Des Louvres, as the door closed behind the Irishman. “He will turn King’s evidence if the police get on our track.”

Egerton Vane turned white. But stealing a look at his brother, he was reassured by the placid expression that stole over Wickham’s face.

In the discussion that followed it was settled that Stuart should put up the manifesto at the most important spot—the gallery of St. James’s Palace, from which the new Sovereign is wont to be proclaimed. The others selected other points about the Metropolis, and Des Louvres undertook to post copies to members of the Guild in the provinces, with instructions to affix them to the church doors. The secretary possessed a typing machine, and each of the volunteers was in possession of his copy as he came away.

Alistair strolled home slowly, to find his wife in a state of some excitement.

“Do you know what is happening?” she asked eagerly, as he came in. “The Queen is dying.”

Alistair stared at her.

“What, is it in the papers already?” he exclaimed.

It was Molly’s turn to stare.

“Then you knew it? Who told you? Oh, of course, that man Des Louvres.”

“Who told you?” demanded Alistair. He noticed that Molly was rouged to the eyebrows, and that she had been drinking.

“Mr. Mendes told me,” she said in a hard, defiant voice. “He called here just after you had gone. He wants us to go and dine with him.”

“You can go if you like,” Alistair said listlessly.

The dinner with Mendes took place three nights afterwards. It was given in London’s most expensive restaurant, and Lord and Lady Alistair were the only guests. Mendes was as cool and composed as ever, chatting with his guests as if no interruption had ever occurred in their intercourse. Molly was voluble and restless, emptying her glass as often as the waiter filled it with champagne. Alistair ate and drank little, and hardly spoke except when his host addressed to him a direct question. He felt strangely out of place, as he sat there, looking abstractedly from one to the other of his companions, and wondering what he was doing there between them, and how it was all going to end.

Suddenly, just as the sweets were being brought round, there was a stir outside, and a man came in hurriedly with a sheaf of papers under his arm. He went through the long, brilliantly lit saloon, leaving a paper on each little table, and as he approached Mendes he said in his ear in a subdued voice:

“The Queen is dead, sir.”

Alistair slowly filled his own glass with wine, lifted it up, and emptied it.

“It is the end of an age,” he said, as he set it down again, and rose deliberately to his feet.

Mendes glanced at him curiously.

“Yes, it is the end of some things,” he answered composedly. “Are you off?”

“I have an engagement,” said Alistair dryly.

The two men shook hands quietly, but not without cordiality. Each of them had found something in the other to respect.

Alistair was leaving without bestowing more than a nod on Molly, when she surprised him by getting up.

“You don’t want me?” she said, with the husky accent which came into her voice when she had been drinking a good deal.

“No,” said Alistair, puzzled.

“Then good-bye.”

She held out a beringed hand, and Alistair took it nervously, inly afraid of a scene. Then he went without looking back.

It was midnight before he let himself into the little art kitchen in Beers Cooperage, and saw by the light of the match which he had struck to show him the way upstairs a white envelope lying on the floor. The flap bore the printed name of the hotel in which he had dined that night, and he tore it open, with a sensation of knowing all about it, and having expected it all along.