“Don’t know, I am sure. I shall speak to him and see.”
“No, Usk, you’d better not. You know father told us to be sure to consult Uncle Cyril at once if the slightest attempt was made to entangle us in politics while we were abroad, and I suppose this must be the sort of thing he meant.”
“Would you like me to tell Count Mortimer when I see him to-night, Lady Phil?” asked Mansfield. A horrible suspicion had seized him that Cyril might have some hand in the affair. He hated himself for the thought, but his short intercourse with his employer had served to assure him that over-scrupulousness was not one of Cyril’s failings. If he was indeed in King Michael’s confidence, and Philippa discovered the fact, the enthusiastic love she cherished for her uncle would be destroyed for ever, and Mansfield made up his mind to spare her the pain of such a disillusionment.
“Oh no,” she answered, flushing scarlet. “I could not let any one else tell him about such a horrid thing. I must do it myself.”
“I would make as little of it as possible,” said Mansfield, with assumed unconcern. “I shall see him before you do, that’s all.”
“Oh yes, please tell him, then. Perhaps he might say we ought not to have lost time. But you won’t leave me alone all afternoon, Usk, will you? or if Usk is called away, you’ll stay with me, won’t you, Mr Mansfield?”
Mansfield assured her of his constant attendance with a warmth that drew another warning look from Usk, and they returned to the rest of the party, who were all somewhat ruffled, owing to the obvious ill-temper of King Michael. He was seated between his fiancée and Princess Boris, doing his best to make both ladies uncomfortable, and the appearance of Philippa with her bodyguard produced no improvement in his mood, since all Prince Mirkovics’s tactics failed to separate the three. Even when Princess Lida claimed Philippa again after lunch as her companion, Usk and Mansfield followed the two girls at a discreet distance, much to the disapproval of the lady-in-waiting, who suspected in them a romantic adoration for her charge. By affecting an abnormal denseness, and complete ignorance of the French language, they succeeded in baffling their host’s efforts to detach them from Philippa, and when they returned to Ludwigsbad in the evening they were able to boast that King Michael had not ventured to approach her again. Mansfield saw Usk and his sister safely deposited at Princess Soudaroff’s lodgings, and returned reluctantly to the Hôtel Waldthier to tell his story to Cyril. He could not bring himself to look at his employer during the recital, for the fear which had seized him at first had become almost a certainty, and it was with a shock of anticipation rather than surprise that he heard Cyril say—
“So soon? The young rascal has lost no time, certainly.”
“Count, you didn’t know of this?” The agony of entreaty in his own voice startled Mansfield.
“May I ask what business it is of yours?”
“I couldn’t—I can’t believe it. Some one told me once that you spared no one when it was a question of politics, but I can’t believe you would expose your own niece to unpleasantness simply to further your schemes.”
“A Daniel come to judgment! The unpleasantness was soon over, on your own showing.”
“It would not have been in the case of any other girl. It might have led her into awful trouble. Lady Phil is different. She would not let herself be tempted by a crown.”
“In view of your position with regard to my brother’s family,” remarked Cyril icily, “your interference in this affair is open to objection.”
Mansfield’s accusing eyes fell, but he recovered himself quickly. “I can’t deny that I love Lady Phil, Count; but that doesn’t deprive me of the right a man has to help any girl that he may see placed in an unfair position.”
“And what is the exact nature of the help you propose to render?”
“To resign my post with you, and telegraph to Lord Caerleon. Lady Phil shall never hear the full truth, if I can help it. I think it would break her heart to know that you——”
Mansfield’s voice faltered, and Cyril’s keen eyes scrutinised him curiously.
“Do you know that you are a fool, Mansfield?—an honest, blundering idiot? I won’t accept your resignation, do you hear?—though I should be justified in doing so, after the way you have spoken to me. How dare you expect me to defend myself against your suspicions? You know you had given me up as a bad lot. Well, all I knew of the matter was a hint last night from Prince Soudaroff that young Michael had fallen in love with my niece, but I refused to have anything to do with it. And even now I know that you trust me no further than you can see me.”
“Forgive me, Count. If you knew how I hated the thought——”
“I should grovel before you in mingled pity and admiration, no doubt. But why I should care a farthing about your opinion of me I don’t know. I have never defended myself to any one before, but you are really too young and idyllic for this wicked world. Well, you may be easy about my niece. I will put a stop to King Michael’s love-making.”
Mansfield’s mind was in a whirl as he departed. He had not known hitherto what power Cyril possessed over him, nor with what mastery he could play upon his feelings; but he felt now that if he had found his employer guilty of the baseness he had suspected in him, it would have been a blow second only to the loss of Philippa herself. The unworthiness of his late suspicions cut him to the heart, and his whole demeanour the next day was a mute entreaty for pardon, which amused Cyril not a little. Even an incident which would have aroused his misgivings the day before had now no power to disturb his trust.
The early promenade and the open-air breakfast were over, and tranquillity had settled down upon the place for the space of those morning hours which Ludwigsbad holds sacred to rest and seclusion. At the Hôtel Waldthier Mansfield sat writing in the little anteroom of Cyril’s appartement, whence he could command the side-door which was reserved for Count Mortimer’s visitors. Many strange guests had Mansfield admitted at that door, from royal princes to poverty-stricken Jews, but it was startling even to him to observe a stage conspirator approaching it. The visitor wore a soft felt hat pulled down over his face, and a greatcoat with the collar turned up—an attire singularly unsuited to the weather,—and he glanced from side to side, starting at the slightest sound, in a very realistic manner. After stepping noiselessly up to the door, and apparently satisfying himself that he was unobserved, he returned on tiptoe to the gateway by which he had entered the garden, and brought back with him another person attired like himself. Together they approached Mansfield’s window, and the first man made signs expressive of a desire to enter without attracting attention. Leaving his desk, Mansfield admitted them at the private door. They entered without uttering a word, but, once in the room, the second turned down his collar and disclosed the features of King Michael.
“Are we alone, and unobserved?” he demanded of his companion.
“Absolutely so, my liege,” returned Captain Roburoff, in accents that suggested a certain difficulty in speaking. The King turned majestically to Mansfield, who half expected to hear himself addressed as “Minion.”
“Tell Count Mortimer that I wish to see him,” he said.
“I will inquire whether his Excellency is at leisure, sir,” responded Mansfield, who would have given much to deny the monarch admittance altogether. But although Cyril raised his eyebrows quizzically, and asked whether Mansfield would wish to be present during the interview, he rose at once and came to the door to welcome his royal visitor.
“To what am I indebted for this supreme honour, sir?” he inquired when they were alone.
“Be seated, Count,” replied King Michael affably. “I am here on a friendly errand, I assure you.”
Cyril bowed and obeyed, and his visitor continued—
“I perceive, Count, that you are surprised by this private visit. No doubt it will surprise you still more to learn that it is merely an earnest of my good-will towards you. I admit that when I came to the throne I acted hastily in accepting your resignation, but no one can regret it more than I do. I look to you, as a fair-minded man, to place the blame where it is due. My mind had been poisoned against you—by whom, you can guess.”
Cyril bowed again in silence. King Michael went on—
“I have made up my mind to redress the injustice into which I was hurried. In their eagerness to aggrandise their own family, my mother and the Princess of Dardania induced me to engage myself to Princess Ludmilla, and by means of this quasi-promise the Princess of Dardania has contrived to exercise a wholly unwarranted authority over myself and the kingdom. I have determined to put an end to it. The Princess’s influence is injurious to Thracia, and her daughter is personally distasteful to myself. The position which she hopes to occupy I destine for your niece, Lady Philippa Mortimer, and I desire your assistance in the matter.”
“Well?” interjected Cyril, with startling suddenness.
“I think you forget to whom you are speaking, Count.”
“No, sir. I do not forget that for the sake of the girl you now wish to cast aside you broke the heart of the mother who had sacrificed her life’s happiness for you and your kingdom.”
The King’s sallow face grew livid. “If all that is said is true, you are not the man to talk to me of cruelty to her Majesty, Count.”
“At least I can say that I have repented my cruelty from that day to this. You have not.” Cyril’s eyes were flashing, and his even voice was charged with thunder. King Michael and he had both risen to their feet, and were confronting each other angrily across the table.
“We are losing time in these irrelevant recriminations, Count,” said the King, recovering himself. “I wish you to undertake the conduct of this affair. You will return to office, of course—I give you carte blanche with regard to the wretched crew of incapables at present in power—but I do not know whether you will prefer to rid me of the Princess of Dardania and her daughter before setting to work. I leave the method to you—you are an old enemy of her Royal Highness, I believe?—and I don’t stipulate for any special tenderness towards either of them. Afterwards you will take the proper steps to obtain Lady Philippa’s hand for me. I believe I alarmed the young lady yesterday by avowing my sentiments too openly; no doubt she thought such warmth incorrect in view of Princess Lida’s presence in the company; but you will do everything in due form. You hesitate? You think I am making a cat’s paw of you?” A grim smile crossed Cyril’s face. “I am willing to repeat before witnesses the orders I have given you, if you will call in Roburoff and your secretary.”
“Quite unnecessary.” Cyril had regained his usual calm. “You broke the heart of the woman who gave up everything for you, and now you want to throw away the toy for the sake of which you did it. But that you won’t do. I don’t pose as a moralist, but I have some sense of the fitness of things. At the rate you are going, it won’t be long before you are unfit to speak to a decent woman, and you expect me to give you my niece! Why, I should have scruples about marrying you to Princess Lida, if I had any responsibility in the matter, but her mother and you settled that between you, and you shall stick to it. If I am not mistaken, she will turn out a match for you. But at any rate, for your mother’s sake, I will see that her wishes on the subject are carried out.”
The fierce irony of the tone roused the King to something very like frenzy. “If I don’t marry your niece, I’ll make you sorry that you refused her to me,” he muttered, his lips twitching and his fingers picking nervously at his chin.
“The first word you say against her will be the signal for your own destruction,” said Cyril coldly. “I am not in the habit of speaking idly, and I warn you that you are still on the throne only because I have not cared to dethrone you. But if you are good enough to furnish me with a reason for taking action——”
“I don’t revenge myself upon women,” snarled the King, forgetting his threat of the moment before.
“Ah, you are young yet,” replied Cyril pleasantly. “Permit me to attend your Majesty to the door.”
In the anteroom Captain Roburoff, who had been amusing himself with trying to torment Mansfield by means of hints as to the King’s matrimonial intentions, jumped up in a hurry when his sovereign appeared. He expected a return to the elaborate ceremonial which had marked their entrance into the hotel, but King Michael strode out of the room without a word, neglecting all the precautions he had seen fit to adopt, and Mansfield breathed freely. It was evident that here was no accepted lover, and the refusal appeared to have been accompanied by a little wholesome plain speaking. On Cyril the impression left by the interview was one of unmitigated disgust.
“That Ernestine’s boy!” he muttered, as Prince Mirkovics had done before him. “Well, it’s a good thing that the young blackguard forgot himself so far as to threaten poor little Phil. It forces me to make things safe by cutting the ground from under his feet. So now to business!”
CHAPTER VI.
DANAOS DONA FERENTES.
Telling Mansfield that he was going for a stroll, and should probably lunch at Princess Soudaroff’s—a piece of information that filled the secretary with unavailing envy—Cyril took the road which led to the villa occupied by the Princess of Dardania. Reaching the door, he was greeted with stares of surprise by the servants on the steps and in the hall, and his request to be permitted to wait upon the Princess was regarded with amazement, not unmixed with suspicion.
“Her Royal Highness does not receive visitors,” he was told, while his card was handed round and scrutinised with something of awe.
“I think her Royal Highness will receive me,” he answered calmly, wishing he was as sure of the fact as he pretended to be. No one knew better than he did that he was making a hazardous stroke. If it failed, his old enemy would have scored a point. But his confident air impressed the servants sufficiently to induce them to carry his name to the Princess, and her reception of it established him in their respect. Princess Ottilie was beginning to be anxious about the fulfilment of her compact with Prince Soudaroff. Two days had passed since his visit, and she had made no progress towards securing the coveted governorship for her son. Worse than this, there seemed to be no means even of sounding Cyril upon the subject, unless she went so far as to make direct advances, such as he would probably take delight in repulsing. Not knowing that she had become necessary to his schemes, she had never dared to hope that the first overtures would come from him, and the announcement that he asked to see her was music in her ears. She gave orders that he should be admitted at once, and when he was ushered into her boudoir he found her standing beside the table to receive him, a majestic figure in her sweeping black robes. Why was it that Cyril’s heart flew straightway to another woman who had worn similar weeds, which, so far from enhancing such beauty as she possessed, had only served to accentuate the slenderness of her form and deprive her of every vestige of colour? The Princess of Dardania looked more magnificent even than of old, the severity of the garb exhibiting her stately stature to the fullest advantage.
“A year ago,” she said, “I should have hesitated to receive Count Mortimer, fearing that he came as an enemy; but now”—her eyes strayed to the large portrait of her late husband which stood upon the table—“I cannot believe that he would seek my presence with the desire of adding to my misfortunes.”
“Indeed, madame, my sole reason for entreating an audience is the double hope of doing you a service and of obtaining a favour from you.”
“Tell me the last first, Count, that I may at any rate have the pleasure of granting it.”
“It grows out of the first, madame, and I will therefore ask permission to defer it for a moment. Your Royal Highness will recollect that when we last met I had the misfortune to differ from you with regard to the affairs of Thracia?”
The Princess remembered Prince Soudaroff’s hint, and trembled in spite of herself. Had her old enemy come to announce the downfall of her dearest hopes? She inclined her head slightly in answer to the question, but said nothing.
“You favoured a certain policy, madame, which I opposed. Your advice prevailed. I bowed to circumstances, and quitted Thracia. I have now no wish to disturb the settlement then arrived at, although I think your Royal Highness will perceive presently that I could easily do so.”
“I don’t understand you, Count. Pray do not speak in riddles.”
“To speak plainly, madame, the King of Thracia has been seized with a violent—we will hope only evanescent—passion for my niece.”
“Surely you forget that his Majesty is betrothed to my daughter, Count?”
“Say rather, madame, that his Majesty has forgotten it, since this morning he directed me to make formal proposals to my brother for his daughter’s hand.”
“Oh, really, Count, this is too absurd! His Majesty must be out of his mind.”
“The derangement is merely temporary, madame. My niece regards it in that light, I assure you. She was horrified by the King’s proposal.”
“I congratulate you on the good sense of the young lady, Count.”
“I am indeed to be congratulated, madame; but I can see that this vexatious affair may have disagreeable consequences, of which my niece does not dream. I understand that at the picnic yesterday his Majesty made her unpleasantly conspicuous by his attentions. Her natural impulse is to leave Ludwigsbad immediately; but such a flight would only cause the sensation we wish to avoid. You acknowledge, madame, that Lady Philippa has behaved well, you have honoured her parents with your friendship—you must see that there is only one means of averting such gossip as would be equally painful to you and to them.”
The Princess’s countenance cleared. “Have you heard, Count, that my daughter hurt her foot yesterday, and is condemned to the sofa for several days? She has conceived a romantic attachment for your pretty niece, and it would cheer her to have her society. Do you think Lady Philippa’s excellent godmother would spare her to us for a week? If so, I will send Countess Birnsdorf to bring her here.”
“I feel sure that Princess Soudaroff will rejoice to sacrifice herself on Princess Lida’s behalf, madame. The King, of course——”
“The King is about to join a shooting-party in the mountains. I heard the news just before you came.”
“That removes my sole anxiety, madame. Your Royal Highness will condescend to accept my thanks for your great kindness?”
“Wait, Count. There is something I wish to say. Do you remember telling me that if I tried to rule the Balkans without your help I should fail? It is true; I have proved it. But who could have imagined that it would be the ingratitude and disobedience of my own children which would bring about the fulfilment of your prophecy?”
“You have my sincerest sympathy, madame.”
“My eldest daughter, as you know, is married to King Albrecht of Mœsia. I thought him all I could desire; he seemed thoroughly in sympathy with my schemes; but no sooner was he married than he became a German of the Germans, and Bettine followed his example. Thus I lost Mœsia from my Slavonic confederation. But with my son it was even worse. You know, of course, that he was to marry the Grand-Duchess Sonya Eugenovna. Her mother has long been dead, and she spent much of her time with me. All seemed to go well between her and Alexis; but shortly before his father died, when I wished him to propose to her, he refused flatly. He had met Princess Emilia of Magnagrecia at the Pannonian Court, and declared that he would marry no one else. In vain I pointed out the disgrace he was bringing upon me; he married Princess Emilia a month ago; and now I am only welcome in Dardania, as in Mœsia, on sufferance. Surely even you must pity me?”
“Madame,” interposed Cyril, in tones of deep emotion, “your gracious confidence forces me to speak. The idea of detaching your son from the Grand-Duchess Sonya, and attracting him to the lady who is now his wife, was mine.”
The Princess sat as if stunned. She had known the truth perfectly well, and Cyril was aware of this. It was his confession that took her by surprise. “You have made amends by your chivalrous action to-day,” she said at last, with a sad smile.
“Your kindness overwhelms me, madame. Have I your Highness’s permission to retire? I know my presence must be distasteful.”
“No; there is something else you can do, Count. I have another son, and I have set my heart on his becoming governor of Palestine. That is in your power to bring about.”
“Alas, madame! Why ask me the one impossible thing? The decision does not rest with me, nor even with my friends.”
The Princess smiled more gently still. “I must take the will for the deed, I suppose?” she said. “That is poor comfort for an anxious mother, Count. But don’t think I blame you. You will come here occasionally when your niece is with us, and assure yourself that we are taking proper care of her? We need not sadden the young with the knowledge of our troubles. Come as often as you like, and do not feel compelled to ask for me. I cannot forget that I am growing old.”
“Then, madame, you succeed where all the rest of the world has failed,” responded Cyril, kissing the beautiful hand she held out to him. His manner was remorseful, and his eyes lingered on her face as he left the room. As soon as he was gone, the Princess crossed the floor to a large mirror.
“He was more nearly human than I have ever known him,” she mused. “What can it be?” She smiled consciously as her eyes fell upon the reflection in the glass. “Would it be possible? What a triumph! to have him at my feet! But he is dangerous; I dare not trust him. There is Ernestine, too; I must sound him on that subject. That will give me some clue to his present feelings. He is open to conviction on the subject of Kazimir, I think; but even that would be nothing in comparison with the joy of snatching him from Ernestine. But I must not think of that. I must keep cool. If he once gets the upper hand, all is lost. I am glad I thought of giving him a general invitation. Ah, Birnsdorf,” as the lady-in-waiting appeared at the door, “I want you to take one of the carriages, and go to Princess Soudaroff’s lodgings. You will carry a note from me, and bring back Lady Philippa Mortimer. Impress upon the old fanatic that Lida is making herself ill for want of the girl, and say anything else that occurs to you as likely to weigh with her.”
Countess Birnsdorf curtseyed and retired, and executed her mission with so much success that Philippa returned with her to the villa within an hour. Cyril had prepared Princess Soudaroff’s mind for the request, and the Countess worked skilfully upon her feelings; hence the easy victory.
The week of Philippa’s stay at the villa—a stay which she discovered to be intended as a reward for what Countess Birnsdorf called the “delicate correctness” of her conduct—was not a period of unmixed bliss. The house and grounds were beautiful, and the etiquette exacted by the Princess not excessive, but the atmosphere was new and disagreeable to Philippa. The air seemed full of plots, every one appeared to be playing a part, and the unreality oppressed her, while her usual home remedy for bad spirits, a brisk ride or a long ramble over the hills, was unattainable. She complained afterwards that she never had a chance of blowing the cobwebs away, restricted as she was to stately promenades with Countess Birnsdorf, or funereal drives in a closed carriage with the Princess. Nor were her troubles wholly physical. Her father’s wisdom in declining a crown, and preferring England to the Continent as a residence, commended itself to her more and more when she told herself that even she, placed in Princess Lida’s circumstances, might have learned to share her views of right and wrong. Princess Lida, she found, had fallen deeply in love, not with King Michael, but with a gentleman occupying an official position of some sort, to whose identity she gave no clue, intending, possibly, that Philippa should elicit it by means of cross-examination. But Philippa was disappointing. She was as much shocked as the Princess could desire, but not so much at the existence of the attachment as at the fact that it was not intended to lead to anything more. She listened with but slight interest to Princess Lida’s vivacious enumeration of the various artifices by which she and her lover contrived to carry on their flirtation under the very noses of the Princess of Dardania and Countess Birnsdorf, and she interrupted the history of a certain Court ball, at which the pair had succeeded in exchanging notes, by the question—
“But what do you mean to do about him?”
“Do? What is there to be done? I suppose we shall simply go on.”
“But you can’t intend to marry King Michael when you care for this other man?”
“Of course I do. It has been arranged for me.”
“What does that signify? It would be wrong.”
“Oh, you English, with your right and wrong! I don’t trouble my head with all that. I take my pleasure as it comes.”
“But you would be miserable, married to a man you didn’t love.”
“Oh, the good Philippa is trying to persuade me to run away with the other! I must tell mamma. She little thinks what a serpent she has welcomed into her home, to poison the innocent mind of her child! But you mistake me, my Lippchen. The misery would be if I married the other. I want jewellery and Paris gowns and a gay Court, not love in a four-roomed flat. One of the Pannonian Archduchesses has tried that. She comes to the Schloss (only to family gatherings, of course) in a common cab, and makes her own dresses, I believe. Can you imagine my doing that sort of thing?”
“I never thought of advising you to run away,” said Philippa indignantly, “and if you are only thinking of what you can get, you had certainly better not try it. But you could remain unmarried. That would be better than——”
“Than marrying the King? Thank you, Lippchen! It’s quite clear that you don’t know the sort of life a Princess leads if she doesn’t happen to marry. No position, no independence, patronised and pushed aside by her relations, obliged to become a dowdy old devotee through sheer terror of scandal, for there is no mercy for any one who is remotely suspected of a tendency to disgrace the house. A convent or a fortress, there’s your choice! No, I shall marry King Michael and keep him in order, at any rate in public, and we will have the gayest Court in Europe. Oh, you may trust me to keep up appearances when I have got the reality.”
Philippa was too much disgusted to answer, and Princess Lida, turning restlessly on her couch, broke into a laugh at the sight of her disapproving face.
“You are too delightfully innocent, Lippchen! But, after all, I am in the right. My mother has brought me up, educated me, trained me, with the sole intention of my making this marriage. You would not have me disappoint her—and myself? Is that how you intend to treat your parents when they present your future husband to you?”
“People don’t do that in England,” with dignity.
“Not among the lower orders, I know, but you are ‘highly well-born,’ as we say in German. Let us imagine an instance.” Princess Lida raised herself on her elbow. “Suppose that secretary of your uncle’s declared to you that he had conceived a passion for you”—she watched with delight the flood of crimson which overspread Philippa’s face at this rude handling of the secret, the existence of which she had scarcely owned even to herself—“and you were not insensible to it——”
“You have no right whatever to say such things!” cried Philippa, finding her tongue.
“But, my Lippchen,” with extreme simplicity, “no one could have seen the poor young man in your society the other day without perceiving what his feelings were. Your response I am only imagining for the sake of argument. Well, your parents declare the idea preposterous, and inform you that you have been destined all your life for some elderly red-faced provincial nobleman. What will you do?”
“Of course I would never marry any one without my father’s consent. But I should ask him to tell me his objections, and I know he would treat me as a reasonable being. Perhaps he might change his mind after a time, but if not, I should go on just as I was. He would never try to make me marry any one else.”
“Oh, you are too good, you and your parents!” cried Princess Lida, as Philippa, her fair face crimson, put forth her defence like a defiance; “but I have not such a considerate mother, and mamma has not such an easily contented daughter. You see, the game would not be worth the candle in my case.”
“That means you don’t love the other one well enough to give up anything for his sake?”
“Exactly. I want to keep what I have, and to get all I can. Meanwhile, I enjoy myself—quite decorously and without hurting any one.”
“But surely you are hurting him?”
“How? Oh, you mean if it came out. But I shan’t let it out, you see, nor will he, for he is far too comfortable in his present post, just as I am. Why shouldn’t I amuse myself like every one else? Mamma will have her train of adorers as soon as she receives people again. Even now she has your beloved uncle.”
“Princess!” Philippa’s cry was a passionate contradiction.
Princess Lida laughed. “Why, poor innocent Lippchen, you don’t imagine that Count Mortimer comes here every day to see you? It is my mother who is the attraction, not his dutiful niece. What! have I broken another idol?”
For Philippa had sprung up with an inarticulate exclamation and rushed out of the room. The sting of the accusation lay in the fact that her reason assured her of its truth. It was not to see her that Cyril paid his daily visits to the villa, passing on invariably from the large drawing-room into the boudoir beyond, there to pay his respects to the Princess. These interviews were protracted far beyond the limits ordained by ceremony, and Countess Birnsdorf had felt it necessary to apologise for their length by observing to Philippa that she was quite glad to see Count Mortimer coming in, for no one else had been able to induce the Princess to forget her sorrows in conversation since her bereavement. This information Philippa had received with a certain reserve, for the Princess had not struck her as overwhelmed with grief; but she saw now that the old lady had been endeavouring to divert her mind from a suspicion that had already troubled herself. But had the idea occurred to Cyril? Could he know that the purport of his visits was thus interpreted? Surely it could only be that, impelled at first merely by the desire of cheering the Princess, he had afterwards been attracted by the conversation of a clever and brilliant woman? At any rate, he should be warned what people were saying about him. With this resolve strong in her mind Philippa walked to the garden-gate to meet her uncle, attended only by Princess Lida’s white poodle. One glance at her troubled face showed Cyril that something serious was in the air; but, in his usual teasing fashion, he talked continuously on indifferent subjects. When they came in sight of the house Philippa stopped short, in agony lest the opportunity should be lost.
“Uncle Cyril, I want to ask you something. Is the Princess a friend of yours? Usk and I always thought she had done something to injure you.”
“So she did, Phil. But is it your creed that once an enemy always an enemy? No? Then you see I too can be virtuous and overlook my enemies’ faults—sometimes.”
“But they say—they say you want to marry her,” Philippa succeeded in bringing out.
“Do they? How kind of them! Would you like the Princess for an aunt, Phil? She’s a charming woman, isn’t she?”
“Oh, Uncle Cyril, you wouldn’t—you don’t mean it?”
“Well, Phil, I have no present intention of inviting her to become your aunt. Would you like to know why? Because I am afraid she would say no, of course, and your feelings might be hurt.”
They had reached the villa by this time, and Philippa was left to her own gloomy reflections. Whether her uncle was in earnest or not, it was quite clear that he had no intention of taking her into his confidence, and it did not occur to her that in the circumstances this might be rather advantageous than otherwise. The least suspicious of mortals, Philippa had not discovered that she was persistently catechised as to Cyril’s future plans and his past history. The art with which the subject was approached and the questions put was such that she had no idea of its existence, nor yet of the fact that her honest answers often caused much irritation to the questioner. Philippa knew nothing of her uncle but what he chose to tell her, together with the deductions drawn by Usk and herself from this evidence, and she could not tell more than she knew. The Princess was particularly curious as to the footing upon which Cyril now stood with Queen Ernestine. Did he keep up any communication with her, or had they parted for ever? Philippa had heard from Mansfield of Prince Mirkovics’s defence of Queen Ernestine, and her prejudices were somewhat modified; but she was still firm in the belief that her uncle had been very badly treated. It was, therefore, not without satisfaction that she informed the Princess of Cyril’s request, on his return from Thracia, that the Queen’s name should not be mentioned in his hearing, and added that, so far as she knew, he was of the same mind still.
“And you are all considerate enough to do as he asked?” cried the Princess, with a laugh in which relief mingled with something of pique. “Why, if I were one of his family, and he had made such a request of me, I should have done nothing but tease him to find out what he really felt.”
Acting, presumably, upon this principle, the Princess prepared to seek information from the best authority, since Philippa could tell her so little. When she received Cyril that afternoon, she was sad and preoccupied, and smiled only with difficulty.
“I fear you have had bad news, madame?” he suggested at last.
“Now how did you guess that?” she asked gratefully. “Yes, I have such a painful account of my cousin, Queen Ernestine, from Syria.” Her fingers played carelessly with a letter bearing a Roumi stamp as she spoke. The letter was more than a year old, but Cyril was not supposed to know that.
“Her Majesty is ill, madame?” he asked, in precisely the right tone of respectful sympathy. A single glance had shown him that the letter was not black-edged, and there was no fear that any news but the worst would make him betray himself.
“No, not exactly ill; but she is subject to such strange delusions. We hoped that the change of scene might benefit her, but I fear there can be no doubt that her mind is permanently affected. Would you believe it?—she will not see a man, or allow one to approach her. You know she is residing with the Königshof deaconesses at their Institution at Brutli, in the Lebanon? Well, I hear that only her ladies and female attendants are allowed to be with her there—the gentlemen must live in the village. It is entirely her own doing, for the Institution would be quite willing to receive them, but she refuses to see even the pastor belonging to the place. Isn’t it extraordinary?”
“Most extraordinary, madame.”
“And she has returned to the very deepest widow’s mourning, only wearing white instead of black. It almost seems,” added the Princess musingly, stealing a glance at Cyril from under the hand which was shading her eyes, “as if she had had some experience which had prejudiced her against your sex.”
“That seems the most probable explanation, madame. The difference with his Majesty, perhaps——”
“Oh, I don’t think that would account for it; do you? No, on second thoughts I rather fancy she must be conscious of having done a great injury to some man, so that remorse drives her to this seclusion.”
“It is possible, madame. There have been cases in which women have ruined the lives of men who were foolish enough to trust them.”
“You speak bitterly, Count. And what, in your opinion, is the usual effect of such behaviour upon the man?”
“Simply, madame, that he determines never to place his future in the power of a woman again.”
“Ah, you cherish your hatred so long, you men! We women soon grow tired of perpetual animosities. But have you ever known what it is to be so deceived, Count?”
“I have, madame.”
“And—and did you come to the usual determination?”
“Madame, I thought I had—until a week ago.”
The compliment was commonplace enough, but something in the tome, and in the glance which accompanied it, thrilled the heart of the Princess. Almost for the first time in her life she blushed like a girl, and she changed the subject with a haste and maladroitness that showed how deeply she was moved.
“By-the-bye, Count, I want you to tell me how your scheme is progressing. Is it true that, as I see by this morning’s paper, opposition to it is springing up in England?”
“Scarcely, madame. A vexatious incident has occurred, that is all.”
“Pray tell me about it. I thought you felt quite safe with regard to your own country?”
“True, madame, except for such incidents as this. Before coming here, I arranged matters with the Dowager Duchess of Old Sarum.”
“The Dowager? But has she any influence in politics?”
“The Duchess, madame, like my niece’s kind friend Princess Soudaroff, is a lady who takes a deep interest in the conversion of the Jews to Christianity. Fifty or sixty years ago people of her stamp believed that the Jews could only be restored to Palestine in a Christianised condition, and they founded the Jerusalem bishopric in order that the converts might find some one there to receive them. Now their views have undergone a slight change, and they think that the return to Palestine is to come first and the conversion after it. Naturally, then, they wish to hasten on the restoration, in order that the second desirable event may follow as quickly as possible. Before leaving England I had a long confidential talk with the Duchess, laid my plans before her, and pointed out the dangers to which they were exposed. She grasped the idea at once, and immediately volunteered her help to smooth matters in England. I accepted it gladly, for she has a strong influence over her son, the present Duke, and she is the sister of Mr Forfar. Oh, the Duchess is a dear old lady!”
“But surely she has failed you now?”
“By no means, madame. It is a sad fact that there are some people in England who take no interest in the conversion of the Jews—rather dislike them than otherwise, indeed. The most prominent of these anti-Semites (they are very mild, you understand) is Lord Ormsea, who holds a minor post in the administration. He has picked up some garbled idea of our intentions from the Continental press, and speaking two nights ago at a public meeting, he thought fit to denounce our scheme, and to invite the hostile attention of the Powers to it. That’s all.”
“And what measures do you intend to take?”
“I hear from my friend the Chevalier Goldberg that he has arranged for a fall in the price of Consols, madame, but I have told him that is a mistake. The fall could not affect British credit, but it would give colour to the accusations of Ormsea and his crew, and might stimulate the nation to active hostility. England won’t stand being bullied, though she will yield a good deal to friendly representations. I have written to the Duchess, and I don’t doubt that the Government will bring Ormsea to his senses in a very short time. Meanwhile, I hope the financial panic may be stopped before anything serious happens.”
“I wish you would tell me how you manage that sort of thing,” sighed the Princess.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, madame,” was the reply, delivered with so much suavity that the Princess could not decide whether want of will or want of ability constituted the obstacle.
“After all, England has very little interest in the matter,” she said.
“Little enough, madame, especially after declaring, in one of her periodical self-denying ordinances, that in no case would she permit an Englishman to become governor of Palestine.”
“You do not always see eye to eye with your countrymen, Count?”
“I fear, madame, that I can scarcely consider myself an Englishman at this late day, although my enemies are fond of saluting me with the name.”
There was meaning in Cyril’s tone, although the eyes which met those of the Princess were devoid of expression, and a novel and by no means unpleasant idea struck her. She was revolving it hastily in her mind when she spoke next, somewhat absently.
“Has anything happened?—does the deadlock still exist between your Syndicate and Scythia?”
“There is no alteration, madame. Before Scythia will allow us to have Palestine, she demands a promise that your son shall be the first governor.”
“It is a great pity—I mean that such a good work should be stopped. Will you accept me as an auxiliary, Count? or am I too transparent a plotter? I will write to Pavelsburg, and represent that you are powerless in the matter. Then perhaps the stipulation may be withdrawn.”
“Madame, I am overjoyed by your condescension.” Cyril did not consider it necessary to say that in any case the joint pressure of famine and poverty must cause the withdrawal of Scythian opposition in a day or two.
“Oh, I assure you it will be a great delight if I can give you any help. You will let me know how your difficulty with England ends? We shall miss your charming niece terribly. I hope Princess Soudaroff will spare her to us for a day now and then while she remains at Ludwigsbad.”
Cyril retired, well content. He had secured what was of the greatest moment to him, an invitation to continue his visits to the villa after Philippa had quitted it on the morrow. When he had left her, the Princess sat for some time musing deeply.
“I cannot be sure,” she murmured at last. “It is true that he seems to have no feeling for Ernestine but that of dislike—certainly he does not love her at this moment—but one can never tell. They might meet, and the sight of her might revive all the old feelings. Those caressing ways of hers!—and he is just the man to take a whimsical pleasure in her perpetual inconsistency. How is he to be tested? for I dare not risk anything until I am sure of him. He and I, reigning in Palestine! Palestine? we would rule the world. How I should triumph over Alexis and Bettine and the Powers! But there is always Ernestine in the background. How am I to be rid of the fear of her? Ah, that photograph! That will do what I want. He comes again, say, in a week; there will be time to have it enlarged. Birnsdorf!” she raised her voice, and the Countess entered, “I want you to write a letter to Vindobona for me at once.”
CHAPTER VII.
BREAKING WITH THE PAST.
A week had passed since Philippa’s departure from the villa before she entered it again, accompanied by her uncle, to spend the day with Princess Lida. Cyril’s presence had not been sought by his niece. In fact, poor Philippa, terrified lest she should be helping to involve him in the toils of the Princess of Dardania, had assured him plainly, almost rudely, that she preferred to go by herself. But Cyril could be singularly dense when he chose. He insisted that he had nothing particular to do, and could find no more delightful employment for an idle hour than escorting his niece to the villa. This assurance only confirmed Philippa’s fears, and the crowning touch was put to her misery by the message which awaited Cyril on his entrance, that the Princess would be glad to see him if he could spare her a few minutes. Philippa cast an imploring glance at him, but he smiled wickedly at the sight of her woe-begone face, and followed the servant sent to conduct him to the Princess’s boudoir.
“Some dodge on hand,” he muttered to himself, when the man had left him with the announcement that her Royal Highness would receive him in a short time. “I wonder what it is? Ah!”
His eye had been caught by an unfamiliar object in the room, a large portrait on an easel, carelessly draped with a gold and crimson scarf. It was turned away from him, and he went round the easel to look at it, only to recoil with a start which even his self-control could not restrain. The gay hues of the drapery served only to accentuate the utter desolation revealed by the photograph. A woman, dressed in white, was sitting listlessly upon a block of stone, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. The portrait revealed with cruel distinctness the grey hair, the lines in the worn face, and the unfathomable sorrow in the hopeless eyes. The Princess had given special directions that the reproduction was to be a faithful, not a flattering, one.
“Good heavens!” broke from Cyril under his breath, “and this is Ernestine!”
The wild rush of remorse and pity almost made him stagger, as he stood with clenched hands and compressed lip before the portrait; but it was succeeded by a vehement indignation against the woman who had deliberately prepared this miserable shock for him. “I showed you little mercy when last we met, dearest,” he muttered, addressing the pictured Ernestine; “but she shall have none.”
The sound of his own voice recalled him to himself, and before the faint frou-frou of the Princess’s silk-lined robes, sweeping over the polished floor, announced her approach, he had had time to compose his features, and to adopt an attitude of interest, not untouched with criticism, as he stood before the portrait. The Princess came rustling in, exquisitely dressed (during the past week she had mitigated the severity of her weeds in various scarcely perceptible ways, which caused the general effect to be considerably less sombre), graceful and gracious, with the utmost made of every good point in face and figure. Truth to tell, her mood at the moment was not of the most tranquil. It had been no part of her plan that Cyril should be left alone with the portrait of his old love. She had intended to confront him with it unexpectedly, and to scrutinise with jealous minuteness the effect it produced upon him, but the stupidity of the footman had prevented this. If she felt any anxiety as to the result of her experiment, she did not betray it, however. Her whole manner was expressive of a superb confidence in her own power to charm, as compared with the faded and unhappy woman in the photograph. As she entered, Cyril turned towards her with a start, letting his eye-glass drop from his hand.
“Pardon me, madame,” he said hastily, without waiting for her to speak first, “but I cannot help tracing in this portrait some resemblance to the features of my august mistress, Queen Ernestine. Surely it is not possible that the photograph is hers?”
“Now who can have put that portrait here?” cried the Princess, in tones of strong irritation. “Yes, it is the latest likeness of my poor cousin, and I have just had it enlarged at Vindobona, but it was not intended for exhibition in public. Birnsdorf is so officious!” She lifted the scarf as though to cover the picture with it, but Cyril stopped her.
“Permit me to entreat you to leave the portrait as it is, madame. If your Royal Highness needed a foil, you could find no better one than this.”
The callousness of the words would have disgusted most women, but they rejoiced the Princess’s heart. Her expedient had succeeded. She let the scarf fall, and stooped to look at the photograph more closely.
“There is no posing in it, you see,” she said. “My unhappy cousin never knew that she was watched. The original was merely a snap-shot taken by one of the doctors whom the King sent to Syria to visit his mother. There was some idea that it might be necessary”—possible was the word on the Princess’s tongue, but she had no intention of revolting Cyril by an undue display of her hatred towards the woman she had injured—“to place her under restraint, and indeed it was a fortnight before she would consent to receive the doctors. But when they saw her they found that violence formed no part of her disorder, merely extreme depression, as you perceive there.”
“Madame, it is too sad for words,” returned Cyril, in the perfunctory tone of one who finds it incumbent upon him to sympathise in a matter for which he has no sympathy. The Princess noticed his manner with marked satisfaction.
“Alas, Count! I have bored you. You must forgive me. My poor cousin and I have always been such devoted friends. But tell me how you have settled your dispute with England?”
“Without difficulty, madame. The day after my letter reached the Duchess of Old Sarum, Mr Forfar, speaking in London, took occasion to dissociate himself and the Government from the views expressed by Lord Ormsea, and very soon afterwards Lord Ormsea himself, in fear of losing his post, explained that his words were to be understood only in a Pickwickian sense. The slight fall in Consols was so adroitly managed that it seemed the result rather of public alarm than of a Jewish coup de main, and British opinion has definitely ranged itself on our side.”
“Good generalship usually meets with good fortune,” said the Princess, with a smile that converted the truism into an infinitely flattering compliment.
“You are too kind, madame. May I hope for your good wishes in the next little difficulty that lies before me?”
“Indeed you have them, Count. But what is this new trouble?”
“I am obliged to leave for Vindobona to-morrow, madame. One of our agents, whose name you may have heard, the scientist Texelius, has contrived to embroil himself with the Vindobona University, and the citizens, whose sympathies are strongly Anti-Semitic, are making a racial question of the matter.”
“And you leave to-morrow?” said the Princess, with an irritation which she made no attempt to conceal. “It seems quite impossible for me to keep in touch with your movement as I was hoping to do.”
“If I might have the honour of waiting upon you on my return, madame, it would be my delight to report such success as I may meet with. Your wonderful sympathy and kindness——”
“Oh, pray come, Count. You are not mistaken. I am deeply interested—perhaps more than is altogether wise,” she sighed. “You don’t know what a practical proof I have just given you of my sympathy. I have instructed my son Kazimir to withdraw from the candidature which was so embarrassing to you.”
“Madame, I am overwhelmed. When you graciously offered to exert your influence on our behalf, I little dreamed of this.”
“It is a sacrifice, I don’t deny,” said the Princess, sighing again. “With my son enthroned at Jerusalem, I should have little left to wish for. You know that in crusading times the Kings of Jerusalem were said to wear the crown of the world? But I felt it my duty, Count. Kazimir is too young, too inexperienced, for such a post. He would be merely the mouthpiece of Scythia, and I fear your poor Jews would be as badly off as they are now. Besides,” her eyes met Cyril’s, “there is a man who ought to be appointed, and he is not Kazimir.”
“Alas, madame, that I can exert no influence even in favour of your candidate!”
“It is unnecessary, Count. My candidate will win the suffrages of the Powers by virtue of his fitness for the post. Even now he would be found, like Themistocles, second on every list. He has links uniting him to all the Powers, but he is bound to none. He can work or fight his way to power, as may be necessary, and it would surprise me very much if he failed to keep what he had won.”
“Ah, madame! What hope is there that so suitable a person should ever obtain the post?”
“There is the help of friends, Count, and there is a curious condition suggested in a letter I have just received from Pavelsburg. The Emperor consents to withdraw the demand for an Orthodox Prince, but insists that Orthodox influence shall be present in some form in the new state. If the future governor were married to an Orthodox princess, for instance, all would be well. A quaint idea is it not?”
Cyril considered the matter as gravely as if he had believed that the Emperor was really responsible for the suggestion. “I fear, madame, that it is only mentioned because it is impracticable,” he said. “How could the person you speak of aspire so high?”
“Ah, Count, all is fair in—other fine arts as well as politics. Hearts move faster sometimes than the pens of diplomatists.”
“True, madame, but the world has sometimes occasion to say that presumption is rightly punished.”
“That, Count, will never be said of the man I mean. If he is willing to be guided by me, he will leave that part of the matter in my hands. He will continue his diplomatic campaign, and the rest is my business. Is there any reason why he should refuse to accept the arrangement, Count?”
“I see none, madame, unless he is a fool.”
Cyril kissed the hand held out to him, and retired. The Princess flung the scarf contemptuously over the portrait of Queen Ernestine.
“There!” she cried, “you have done your work, and I don’t want your miserable eyes staring at me any longer. Birnsdorf, call one of the servants to take this thing away.”
Following on the complete success of this morning’s experiment, however, the Princess’s plans were threatened by a danger of an entirely unforeseen character. Her son’s withdrawal of his candidature happened very opportunely for the Scythian Court, which was anxious to climb down gracefully from its untenable position, in view of the necessity for yielding to the demands of the United Nation. Still, the opportuneness of the fact could not be allowed to stifle inquiry as to its cause. There was something suspicious, or at any rate strange, about the Princess of Dardania’s proceedings, and a suitable emissary was despatched to look into them. The day after Cyril had left Ludwigsbad for Vindobona, economising the time spent in travelling by making notes for the letters which Mansfield, sitting opposite him, was working off with feverish haste on the typewriter, Prince Soudaroff arrived at the villa from the north, and requested to be allowed to wait upon her Royal Highness. The news of his advent paralysed the Princess with momentary dismay, but an instant’s reflection decided her to embark upon a bold course.
“You have no bad news for me, I hope, Prince?” she asked anxiously of the visitor, when he was ushered into her presence.
“None, madame; and I grieve to have alarmed your Royal Highness. My reason for intruding is a vexatious delay which has interrupted our communications. We understand that you have ordered your son to withdraw from his Palestine candidature, but we have not yet been informed of the reasons for your action.”
“No?” said the Princess sweetly, although this authoritative demand for an explanation roused her ire. “But you, Prince, can have had no difficulty in perceiving my motive?”
“I must confess with shame, madame, that your diplomacy is too deep for me,” was the cautious reply. Prince Soudaroff thought he could guess the motive very well, but he did not intend to exhibit his suspicions unnecessarily.
“You will make me too proud, Prince. That you should be baffled by my little plot, and find it necessary to come to me for information! Surely you must remember begging me to involve Count Mortimer in some intrigue that would bring about his political ruin?”
“Naturally I remember it, madame. This step, then, is a part of the process?”
“Undoubtedly, Prince. The unfortunate man is at this moment captivated by the double hope of winning my affections and finding himself appointed Governor of Palestine,” said the Princess, with a hardihood that was nothing less than magnificent. Prince Soudaroff listened in amazement.
“The scheme, madame, is colossal in its boldness and simplicity. How do you propose to bring about the dénoûment?”
“That will be your part, I think, unless I can see my way to secure the pleasure for myself. What do you say, Prince? Will Mortimer be sufficiently discredited when it is known that he was intriguing for his own advancement while posing as the disinterested friend of Israel?”
“It would be enough for Europe, madame, and for his enemies among the Jews; but there is a large section, with his friend the banker Goldberg at its head, that would care nothing so long as he did not betray them.”
“I see. Then we must think of something else. How would a secret understanding do—say that, in consideration of a handsome sum of money, he was to resign in favour of a Scythian Grand-Duke a month or so after his election?”
“It is an excellent idea, madame, for the Jews would be specially chagrined to find themselves outbidden. But permit me to ask whether your Royal Highness intends to appear as the temptress, or as a fellow-dupe, when the dénoûment comes?”
“As the temptress, of course,” replied the Princess, without a moment’s hesitation. “I can’t resign my European reputation, even for the sake of sparing Count Mortimer’s feelings.”
Prince Soudaroff found himself foiled. He had felt certain that the Princess would justify his suspicions at this point, but she had stood the test, and he had no option but to believe her. “May I ask whether your Royal Highness’s efforts have been attended with success hitherto?” he asked.
“I cannot boast that success is absolutely secure,” she replied thoughtfully. “Every man has his weak spot, as you know, Prince, but with some men it is very difficult to find. It is my impression, however, that Count Mortimer is safely landed.”
“You are not afraid that he is encouraging you in that belief for his own purposes?” Prince Soudaroff suggested, with becoming diffidence.
The Princess’s heart uttered an indignant contradiction, but her lips did not echo it.
“Do you know,” she said, leaning towards him confidentially, “that has struck me more than once? ‘What if he is merely amusing himself with me?’ I have said; but I have seen nothing, absolutely nothing, to justify the misgiving. And I am a woman of some little experience, Prince.”
“Indeed, madame, I have often envied you. Since all is secure, then, we may go forward. The pressure of circumstances has forced us to send orders to-day to our ambassador at Czarigrad to withdraw his opposition to the Jewish concession. When Count Mortimer is at the pinnacle of popularity among his friends on account of this success, I would propose that we make public his negotiations with you.”
“Excellent, Prince! You won’t publish my name, of course? My sons might object to that; but a few dots and dashes and asterisks would only add to the piquancy of the affair.” In her own mind she resolved quickly, “Then I must marry him before it is generally known that the concession is granted. That in itself will destroy most of the effect of the exposé when it comes; and as to the rest—well, I will make him Prince of Palestine whether Scythia or any one else stands in the way.”
“It is an unsatisfactory business,” Prince Soudaroff said to himself as he left the villa. “Clever men have undoubtedly been beguiled by astute women before now; but it is most unlike Mortimer. I can’t help suspecting that he has some plot on hand. At all costs we must anticipate him in exploding the mine.”
The news which had summoned Cyril to the Pannonian capital was sufficiently grave. Vindobona had long held a bad pre-eminence among the cities of Europe on account of its malignant Anti-Semitism, and that most militant of philosophers, Dr Texelius, had managed to bring matters to a climax at this very unpropitious moment. His feud with the town was of old standing. Some years before, when his fame was only beginning to spread beyond the bounds of his own seat of learning, he had been invited to deliver a course of lectures at Vindobona. The course was largely attended, but the students of the University, who came to scoff and remained to howl, formed the greater part of the audience. To lecture, save in dumb show, was impossible, and Dr Texelius shook the dust of Vindobona from his feet, declaring darkly that the city should yet rue the day it had insulted him. The passage of time and the spread of his fame did not tempt him to forget his threat, and he devised a scheme of vengeance, which he unfolded, under a promise of secrecy, to the Chevalier Goldberg. The financier pointed out that the plan would involve the Jews in universal odium, and brought pressure upon him promptly to renounce it. Dr Texelius consented, under protest, to forego his revenge, and would probably have kept his word but for a hostile move on the part of the University of Vindobona. The latest idea in the city was to boycott everything that was Jewish, and in an evil hour the University resolved to follow the fashion. A boycott was decreed forthwith against the works of Dr Texelius, which were extensively used by the students and professors belonging to the faculty of philosophy, and it proved disastrously effective. The injured author rose up in his wrath, and descended upon his foes with might and main in the columns of a newspaper owned by the Chevalier Goldberg. No one thought of boycotting that particular paper while the wordy war continued, for Dr Texelius had a pretty taste in opprobrious epithets, and the whole empire rang with the echoes of the strife. But the University remained unaffected by the wealth of logic showered upon it. Dr Texelius might demonstrate the iniquity, folly, illiberality, or anything else of its conduct, but it was not in his power to bring about the removal of his books from its Index Expurgatorins. Once convinced of this fact, the philosopher relieved his feelings in a parting letter that outdid all its predecessors in scurrility, and prepared to make use of more material weapons.
Such was the state of affairs when Cyril left Ludwigsbad, summoned to Vindobona by urgent letters from the Chevalier Goldberg, who was alarmed by his own knowledge of what Dr Texelius had proposed to do. Events developed rapidly during the few hours that followed, and when Cyril reached the city he found one of the Imperial chamberlains awaiting him on the railway platform, with a face of direful import.
“We were all in darkness last night,” he said, after a hurried greeting.
“Then Texelius has nobbled the gas company?” asked Cyril.
The official nodded. “We of the Court should not be sorry to see the municipality punished,” he said, “for they richly deserve it; but there will be barricades in every street, and a massacre of the Jews, if this goes on. The electric light is only in use in one or two quarters.”
The situation was serious enough. The lighting of the city was in the hands of a company, floated chiefly by means of Jewish capital, upon the dividends of which the Anti-Semitic majority of the municipality had for many years cast a covetous eye. An attempt to buy up the plant and fittings by force had been foiled by appeal to the courts of law, but the check served only to stimulate the townsmen to discover some means of coercing the company. The plan at length adopted involved the expenditure of an enormous sum of money, and a long course of litigation and chicanery, but it was successful in its object of exhausting the resources of the victims. The municipality was now in possession of a lighting system of its own, almost in working order, and the value of the company’s shares was rapidly approaching the vanishing point. But the new gas supply was not yet ready for use, and here Dr Texelius found his opportunity. When the strife first began, a committee of the company’s shareholders had been formed for the purpose of defending its rights, and since the majority of its members were Jews, he had now little difficulty in persuading them to unite in a last desperate effort. If it did not succeed in saving their property from spoliation, it would at least incommode their enemies seriously.
The day before that on which Cyril reached Vindobona was a holiday at the gasworks. The furnaces were allowed to grow cold, the retorts remained uncharged, the gas-holders empty, and as soon as the small amount of gas in reserve had been consumed, every jet in the city, after flickering precariously for a time, went out. Summer had passed its prime, and the evenings were drawing in, but the heat was still intense, and the citizens were enjoying themselves in their brilliantly lighted public gardens. On this particular evening the brilliance was somewhat to seek, and there were many complaints even before the moment at which all became darkness. An Anarchist plot was the first thought, and an irresistible panic seized the crowds of pleasure-seekers. Some rushed wildly hither and thither, others waited tremblingly in the stupefaction of terror. It was some time before even the police could collect their wits sufficiently to inquire into the mystery. At length, by the joint exercise of persuasion and moral force, as typified by the erection of temporary lights at the street-corners, and the employment of cavalry to disperse the crowds, they induced the populace to seek their homes, and a commission of inquiry was despatched post-haste to the gasworks. The explanation afforded by the few melancholy officials in charge was a simple one. Owing to the persistent machinations of its enemies, the company’s dues had been withheld from it, so that it was unable to procure coal for conversion into gas. Its whole reserve stock had been worked up, and prompt financial aid alone could enable it to obtain more. The honourable officials of police had better apply to the municipality. But the municipal gasworks, the police were well aware, would not be in working order, even if operations were carried on both day and night, for a fortnight at least, and it was impossible to contemplate the horror of a gas-famine lasting for that period. Hence the appearance of the Imperial chamberlain at the station to meet Cyril and convey him in a Court carriage to the Schloss, whither the Chevalier Goldberg had already been summoned; and hence also the furious mob assembled in the street outside, howling for the destruction of the Jews and the division of their property among the burgesses of Vindobona. Just as Cyril reached the carriage with his conductor, his servant Dietrich, who had been looking after the luggage, stepped up to him.
“Excellency,” he said hurriedly, “there is a riot. You cannot pass through the streets in safety.”
“I am not deaf,” said Cyril coldly—then, turning to the chamberlain with a smile, “My man is an old servant, and privileged, but I don’t feel obliged to humour him in everything.”
The chamberlain was beginning to look uncomfortable, but he nodded, and followed Cyril into the carriage. Mansfield took his place upon the opposite seat, and they drove out of the station, to be greeted with a storm of yells and execrations. “Traitor! renegade!” were the epithets that saluted Cyril as soon as his clear-cut, contemptuous profile was recognised, and the mob surged up to the carriage with fierce shouts of rage. Those who succeeded in reaching it attempted no actual violence, for the presence of the man who was so absolutely unmoved by their clamour seemed to paralyse them, but those behind, unable to catch a glimpse of the visitor, did not feel the influence of his silent scorn. Cyril had turned to make a remark to the chamberlain, when Mansfield sprang up with a cry, and threw himself before him, only just in time to intercept with his shoulder a large stone which was hurled through the window, the broken glass cutting him about the face.
“Well done, Mansfield!” cried Cyril, while the chamberlain called frantically to the coachman to turn and drive back again into the station.
“You would never turn tail before a mob?” cried Cyril, roused at last.
“How should I answer to the Emperor if you were injured, Count?” was the reply. “Besides, it is not expedient to expose the Court vehicles to insult—and—and this brave young man’s wounds ought to be dressed. I will merely send to the barracks in the next street for an escort of cavalry, and we shall not be more than a few minutes.”
The station was gained in safety, and a surgeon summoned, who adorned Mansfield’s face most artistically with strips of sticking-plaster, much to the disgust of the victim, who persuaded himself that he could have stanched the wounds with his handkerchief in another minute, if that idiot had not poked his nose in. When the decoration was complete, a troop of lancers was ready to escort the carriage, and the progress through the streets to the Schloss was made in gallant wise, a fence of bristling points and fluttering pennons separating the endangered visitors from the sullen, baffled mob.
At the Schloss the elaborate rules of the ordinary etiquette were suspended in view of the importance of the crisis, and Cyril was conducted at once to the Emperor’s private cabinet, where he found the Chevalier Goldberg and the Minister of the Interior. There was no time to be lost if Pannonia was to be saved from such an outbreak of Anti-Semitic fury as might spread all over the continent, and result in the settlement of the Jewish question in a much more drastic manner than was contemplated by the United Nation. The Chevalier had already telegraphed orders, at his own risk, for large supplies of coal, which was to be converted into gas as fast as it arrived from the various mining districts, but this was only a temporary expedient. It did not take long to arrange a concordat, since those assembled in council were genuinely anxious to come to an agreement, and in less than an hour it had been decided that a fair purchase price should be paid to the gas company by means of a loan from the Chevalier. This was to be guaranteed by the Imperial Government, and repaid by the municipality, to which coercion was to be applied if necessary. Every effort was to be made by the company to ensure the full supply of gas to the city that night and afterwards, and any deficiency was to be supplemented by means of a free distribution of oil to the poorer citizens. In conclusion, pressure was to be brought to bear by the Chevalier on the militant Dr Texelius, and he was to be ordered to leave Vindobona within twenty-four hours. A special Imperial proclamation spread the news of the settlement through the city, the streets were patrolled by troops, who dispersed the mob, and before long the only crowds to be found were in the vicinity of the railways, where they were watching the heavily laden coal-trucks as they rolled past on their way to discharge their load at the gasworks.