“Oh, Uncle Cyril!” murmured Philippa, squeezing his hand ecstatically, and Cyril passed on with a nod to the O’Malachy, and entered the first toyshop they reached. He knew that the O’Malachy was watching them, and the thought nerved him to remain patient and apparently interested while Philippa discussed the merits of innumerable dolls, and minutes of priceless value slipped away. The old man was still looking in at a shop-window near at hand when they came out, and Cyril was obliged to walk home with Philippa, instead of intrusting her to Wright’s care as he had intended; but he controlled his anxiety so well that the child did not even discover that his mind was preoccupied. When they arrived at the porch of the hotel, he stopped and looked at his watch.
“Why, Phil, I shan’t be able to come in and see your mother after all. We oughtn’t to have spent so much time in choosing the doll. But tell her that I shall be sure to look in this afternoon. Say that I beg her particularly not to be frightened by anything she may hear—and, by the bye, ask her from me not to go to meet your father at the station. That’s a little treat which I want for myself, do you see?”
“Oh yes, Uncle Cyril,” said Philippa, smiling at the idea of a grown-up person’s wanting a treat, and she waved her hand to him as he took off his hat to her and turned away. He still walked slowly, but his mind was strung to its highest pitch, and his plans were working themselves out.
“Less than two hours now. First to make things safe about our friends the enemy, and then to stop Caerleon, and prevent his coming here. You very nearly won this time, O’Malachy; but if I beat you in this nest of rebellion, with a disaffected garrison, I think you will have to shut up shop for good and all.”
The message which Philippa brought from Cyril served in some degree to allay her mother’s anxiety, and the continued absence of the O’Malachy tended to the same result. He had said that he was going to lunch with a friend or two at the Kursaal, and that he would return afterwards and take Nadia and the children to meet Caerleon at the station; but, innocent as this programme sounded, his daughter derived no comfort from it. She felt that she had blundered into the midst of a web of conspiracy, of whose extent and object alike she was ignorant, and she was equally afraid of remaining inactive, and of taking any step that might increase the difficulties which surrounded her. What her father’s plans might be she could not divine; but that they were of a perilous nature, and boded evil to Caerleon and the children, she was convinced, while the keenest sting of her position lay in the fact that she was helpless to find a way out of the trap into which her own credulity had led her, and was now leading her husband. Therefore she was devoutly thankful when there was no sign of the O’Malachy’s return, even though she attributed his delay, quite unjustly on this occasion, to his having imbibed at lunch, somewhat freely, liquors more potent than the Tatarjé waters.
It was past three o’clock, and Usk and Philippa, after a little lively squabbling, had settled themselves in the two front windows of the hotel sitting-room “to watch for father,” while their mother flitted about uneasily, now glancing out of one window or the other, and then trying to occupy herself with a book. The children were just engaged in an argument dealing with the respective probabilities of the clock’s being fast and the train’s being late, when their attention was suddenly distracted by the sounds of an altercation on the landing outside the room.
“You ’old your jaw,” they heard Wright’s voice say, as the door was violently opened and then unceremoniously shut, “and don’t come ’ere frightenin’ ’er ladyship with your tales.”
“I must tell ’er ladyship,” was the reply, in a choked voice, which suggested that Wright had the speaker by the collar, and the door opened again, this time admitting Wright and Robert, the young Llandiarmid footman, both in a somewhat ruffled condition.
“What is the meaning of this?” inquired Lady Caerleon in astonishment. “Robert! how did you come here?”
“Please, my lady, ’is lordship brought me with ’im from ’ome, because Mr Franks were ill and not allowed to travel.”
“What! is the Marquis here? What do you mean by forcing your way into the room before your master, Robert?”
“Please, my lady, ’is lordship ain’t ’ere. ’E’ve been arrested.”
“Arrested!” Nadia dropped into a chair, and pressed her hand to her side. “What do you mean? Tell me.”
“We got along all right, my lady, me and ’is lordship, until something over ’arf a hour ago, when we come to Velisi, which is the station next before this one, as your ladyship knows. Then ’is lordship got out to look what they ’ad on the bookstall, seein’ as the two last ’adn’t no English books at all, and ’e didn’t come back. I was keepin’ ’is place for ’im, and the train was just movin’ on, when I see ’is lordship bein’ took away by four of them pleece they ’as ’ere, with their big ’ats and their queer swords. I tried to jump out after ’im, but the people in the carriage ’eld me back; and I made up my mind to come on ’ere and tell your ladyship.”
“You were quite right,” said Nadia mechanically; but Philippa broke in—
“But, Robert, you saw the policemen take father prisoner? Really policemen? You’re sure it was father?”
“Certain sure, my lady. I’d give all I ’ave so I could say different, but I can’t,” and Robert gulped down a sob.
Philippa’s valiant heart failed her. She had all a well-brought up British child’s veneration for the law, which she looked upon as a species of ogre, given to pouncing, by means of its instruments the police, upon unfortunate individuals who had in some way become obnoxious to it, quite irrespective of their guilt or innocence, and locking them up. It never occurred to her to object that her father had committed no crime, but she brought forward the only consolation she could suggest.
“Don’t look like that, mother,” she urged, with broken voice. “It must be a mistake. They couldn’t take father prisoner if they knew who he was. They wouldn’t dare to do it. They must have thought it was some one else. Oh, mother, they can’t put father in prison?” she ended, sobbing wildly as she caught her mother’s hand.
“Hush, Phil, my poor Phil,” said Nadia quietly, soothing the excited child, and holding out a hand to Usk, down whose face the tears were rolling slowly. “I want you both to be very quiet and good, while I think what we can do for poor father. Of course it is a mistake; but we must be very careful not to make it worse by anything we do or say. Wright, please order a carriage at once, and tell nurse I want to speak to her as you pass.”
Wright returned from his errand almost as soon as nurse entered the room, and Nadia signed to him to shut the door. Philippa, exhausted by the violence of her grief, was crying quietly in her mother’s arms, and Usk was sobbing on the floor beside her, with his face buried in her dress; but her own eyes were tearless, and her voice quite calm.
“I want to speak to you all before the carriage comes, so that you may know what to do. I am afraid that the Government here, finding that Lord Caerleon was coming to Thracia, must have jumped to the conclusion that he was plotting to place himself on the throne again, and thought they would make things safe by arresting him.”
“I’m afraid that’s about it, your ladyship,” said Wright hoarsely, when she paused and looked at him. “Of course there’s Lord Cyril——”
“I fear that Lord Cyril must have been arrested as well, for he has not come here as he said he would. Well, there is no need to be frightened. They can’t possibly do the Marquis any harm. I am going now to the Queen-Regent. If any one can help us she can; and I hope that when I have explained the circumstances she will give me an order for Lord Caerleon’s release, and let us leave for England at once. But, of course, it is possible that she has no power without consulting M. Drakovics, and it may even be necessary to apply to the British Minister to bring pressure to bear, which might mean some delay. Nurse, I want you to begin to pack everything at once. If Lord Caerleon is sent to prison, of course I shall go with him——”
“Oh, my lady! to prison!” cried nurse tearfully.
“And then you and Robert must take the children back to England, starting to-night. They must be kept out of danger. Wright, I must have you here, for you know the country——”
“My lady, I wouldn’t go back now, not if you was to send me!” said Wright, with ferocious resolution. Nadia inclined her head.
“I knew you would feel that, Wright. Now, nurse, please dress the children to come to the Palace with me. Phil, be brave; we are going to see what we can do to help father. Let nurse wash your face and put on your best hat.”
With a last choking sob Philippa obeyed, calling up memories of Lady Nithsdale, Jeanie Deans, and other heroines who had pleaded for the lives of imprisoned relatives. Their examples so fortified her that she was even able to rebuke Usk for asking in a doleful whisper whether they cut people’s heads off the very moment they were taken prisoner, and to inform him that if he frightened mother and made her cry, it would be his fault if—if anything dreadful happened; but here the reprover belied her own admonitions by winking away a few tears very hastily.
A few minutes later M. Stefanovics, who was waiting in the hall of the Villa to receive a visitor whom the Queen was expecting, hurried to the door on hearing a carriage drive up, only to find that the lady who mounted the steps with her children was quite a stranger to him. One of the footmen stopped her before she reached the threshold, saying that visitors were not at present admitted to view the Villa, as the Queen was residing there; but she astonished him by saying that her business was with the Queen, and passed on. The rest of the servants were too much impressed by her manner to bar her way; but at the door she was met by M. Stefanovics himself.
“I wish to see the Queen,” she said, barely noticing him.
“Pardon me; but has madame received her Majesty’s commands to present herself at this hour? No?” as she shook her head; “then perhaps she is an early friend of the Queen? In that case——”
“No; her Majesty would not know me, but I am sure she will see me if you tell her my reason for coming. My name is——”
“Pardon me,” said M. Stefanovics again, waving away politely the card which Nadia held out to him; “but I should be deceiving madame with false hopes if I encouraged her to remain. Her Majesty does not receive this afternoon.”
“Still I must ask you to be so kind as to entreat her to grant me a short interview. My husband has been arrested under a misapprehension, and I am relying upon the Queen for his release.”
“But it is impossible, madame! Such matters are the concern of the Minister of the Interior or of the Premier, not of her Majesty. Let me entreat madame to retire, and forward her request to the proper quarter, or at least to turn into my office here, and draw up her petition in writing for presentation to the Queen. Her Majesty is at this moment expecting the arrival of her cousin, the Princess of—— But here is the Princess arriving!”
And the harassed chamberlain hurried out on the steps once more, wondering what he was to do with this sad-eyed woman who could not be brought to take No for an answer. Only an hour ago Cyril had given him strict injunctions not to admit any strangers to the Villa that afternoon upon any pretext, and he was torn between natural kindness of heart and a determination to obey his orders. The children watched him with wide-eyed awe as he escorted into the hall a dark-haired lady magnificently dressed, leading a little girl of two or three years old by the hand; but Nadia uttered a despairing moan as she stood aside among the pillars of the vestibule. The sound roused Philippa to instant action.
“Mother, don’t!” she cried, and running out into the hall faced the strange lady boldly. “Oh, please, are you in a dreadful hurry to see the Queen?” she asked. “Because, if not, would you mind letting mother see her first, just for a minute? It is so fearfully important.”
“Who are you, little one?” asked the Princess kindly. “I have seen you before, have I not?”
“I don’t think so,” faltered Philippa, overwhelmed with sudden shyness, but M. Stefanovics interrupted her. “It is a lady who says that her husband has been arrested by mistake, madame, and she is anxious to entreat her Majesty to obtain his release. I have assured her that it is the business of the Minister of the Interior, but I cannot induce her to go away. I think she must be English.”
“English!” cried the Princess, as though a light had flashed upon her. “Now I know you, my child. You are Carlino’s little daughter.”
“Carlino is what mother calls father,” said Philippa timidly, but the Princess was already crossing the hall to her mother.
“And you are Nadia!” she said, taking her hand in both hers. “Pardon me, dear madame, but I knew your husband long ago, and I have heard him speak of you. The tone of his voice as he mentioned your name so impressed itself upon my mind that I have thought of you as Nadia ever since.”
“And you are the Princess Ottilie,” said Nadia slowly, looking into the dark eyes which met hers with a friendly light in them. “Forgive me, I should say the Princess of Dardania.”
“Thanks to Lord Caerleon,” was the instant answer. “Ah, madame, you know the story—how your husband sacrificed his own feelings that he might assist a helpless girl, driven almost desperate by the cruelty of her circumstances. That girl stands before you now. Will you not allow one who owes her happy married life to the magnanimity of Lord Caerleon to help you in your trouble? Even the mouse helped the lion, you know.”
“Madame, you are too good,” stammered Nadia.
“Good? No, I am not that, madame, but I hope I am not ungrateful. ‘Our Princess never forgets a friend, or forgives a foe’—that is what they say of me in Dardania, and they say it also in certain of the chancelleries of Europe,” she laughed maliciously. “Tell me now what it is that is troubling you? Your husband has been arrested through some stupid mistake of the police?”
“I do not know, madame. He was to join me this afternoon; but his servant arrived without him, bringing word that his master had been arrested suddenly at Velisi. There was no dispute with the police, so far as I know.”
“At Velisi?” The Princess looked thoughtful. “Lord Caerleon had not been warned not to enter the country, or in any other way made himself obnoxious to the Government, had he?”
“Oh no. He could not have crossed the frontier more than an hour.”
“And that would barely have allowed time for a message to be sent to Bellaviste and answered. No; the order for the arrest must have come from here. And the only person with authority sufficient to venture on such a step is your husband’s brother, Count Mortimer.”
“Impossible, madame! My husband and his brother are on the best of terms.”
“Unfortunately, madame, you must know, as I do, that no considerations of friendship or affection would be allowed to stand in the way of Count Mortimer’s plans. It is possible that he fears your husband’s return to Thracia may undermine his own influence here, and that would be quite sufficient to cause him to arrest him.”
“I can’t believe it,” Nadia repeated helplessly; but unfortunately her memory tallied only too well with that of the Princess. If Cyril had any scheme in view, it was not likely that he would allow Caerleon to interfere with its success.
“In any case,” went on the Princess, “you were taking the right course when you came to the Queen. She is the only person who would have both the authority and the courage to demand an explanation from Count Mortimer—with the exception of Drakovics, of course. We will go up-stairs and see her now. Come, my Lida,” and she held out her hand to her little girl, who had been clinging to her dress.
“Oh, mayn’t I take her?” entreated Philippa. “Usk and I will hold her hands all the way up-stairs, and we will be so careful. She shan’t fall, really and truly. Come, baby darling.”
“Her name is Ludmilla,” said the Princess, laughing; “Lida is her pet name.”
“I know; just as I’m called Phil,” assented Philippa, with a beaming smile, as she and Usk, with little Princess Ludmilla between them, began to mount the stairs after their mother and the Princess. Just as they reached the top, Nadia paused suddenly.
“Madame,” she said, “I cannot believe that Count Mortimer is responsible for his brother’s arrest. I entreat your Royal Highness not to prejudice his position with her Majesty by suggesting it.”
“If the Queen did not order the arrest, Count Mortimer must have done so,” returned the Princess inexorably. “We shall see.”
Absurd though the idea appeared to Nadia, it was nevertheless the case that the Princess was much nearer the truth in accusing Cyril than his sister-in-law in defending him, and no one would have acknowledged the acuteness of his fair opponent more readily than Cyril himself. At the moment that the conversation was taking place in the hall of the Villa, he was crossing the railway platform at Velisi, on his way to the police-station, to which Caerleon had been hurried. He found the occupants a good deal disturbed in their minds, and it needed all his commendations for their prompt obedience to his orders to reassure them. Oh yes, the English traveller had been arrested, and was now detained in the parlour of the superintendent’s house, which they had thought it advisable to place at his disposal, since it was evident he must be a great man in his own country. He had been angry, very angry, at his arrest, and had threatened his assailants with unheard-of penalties—the nature of which they understood only very imperfectly, however, since Caerleon had almost lost the small knowledge of Thracian of which he had once been possessed. Did his Excellency really intend to grant this very violent person an interview? Surely he would at least allow two of the police to be present, with drawn swords, so as to be able to repel any attempt at attack? But Cyril refused the offered protection, and entered the parlour boldly. He found Caerleon pacing up and down, still in his travelling ulster, and looking absurdly large and substantial for the little room. He turned when Cyril entered, and faced him in blank astonishment, which changed quickly to anger as the memory of his wrongs returned upon him.
“Well, Cyril, this is a pretty state of things!” he cried. “May I ask what it means? I am taken into custody in a public place, and when I ask why, they tell me it is by your order.”
“I never told them to tell you so, at any rate,” said Cyril. “Now be reasonable, Caerleon, and don’t shout the house down. I would have given you a week’s notice if I could; but since I only had ninety minutes myself in which to save the kingdom, I couldn’t afford to lose time.”
“If you could make time just now to explain what you mean, you would place me under a deep obligation to you,” said Caerleon, with bitter irony.
“That sounds more like business. I am always delighted to explain things away afterwards, provided I have a free hand at the critical moment. The fact is, I didn’t want you at Tatarjé, and I don’t now.”
“Don’t you think you are really too flattering?”
“It must sound so, I suppose; and yet it is the sober truth. If this interrupted journey of yours had turned out as it was intended to do, my occupation would have been gone, for the simple reason that the throne of baby Michael would have been gone too.”
“You don’t accuse me of carrying dynamite about with me, I hope?”
“Not at all. You are the dynamite yourself.”
“If these are your explanations, Cyril,” said Caerleon shortly, “all I can say is that they are a good deal darker than your proceedings, and they are dark enough, in all conscience.”
“Now don’t get waxy, old man. I’m afraid the lapse of years has disturbed your faith in me a little, hasn’t it? I assure you honestly I mean what I say. You have come to the very worst place in Thracia, at the very worst time, and in the very worst way. Come, you can’t say that that’s not plain speaking, can you?”
“I can’t see that it throws much light on the subject.”
“Then I must enlighten you. Neither you nor Nadia seems to have realised that there are still a good many people in Thracia who regard you as having a considerable right—or even the paramount right—to the throne; and yet I told you plainly when I was with you that I hoped you would keep away from this part of the world.”
“But I renounced all my rights of my own free will.”
“Who is to know that it was of your own free will? It might have been done perforce, or under a misapprehension, or anything. And, in any case, the renunciation does not ensure your never wishing—or merely being willing if requested—to resume your rights.”
“Stuff, Cyril! Why should I wish to resume them?”
“Why should any one wish to be a king? I know, of course, that you had quite enough of it when you were here; but then I was not afraid of you, but of others who might make a catspaw of you.”
“Many thanks.”
“There you are again! You really should not be so touchy. Can’t you see that although the people who have a theoretical belief in your claims might be content to let you go with a few sighs and vain regrets, there are others who might be glad to exploit their views and feelings for their own purposes?”
“I don’t see what harm they could do if they were.”
“I do, unfortunately. The head and front of this offending is your respected father-in-law, our old friend O’Malachy. He knows that you are not likely to revisit Thracia by your own wish, and therefore he works upon you through your wife. Guessing that you won’t let her come alone, he brings her here by a telegram to say that he is dying, and longs to see her. He gets her and the children into his hands, to use either as hostages or as puppets, you see, and he is prepared to proclaim you King as soon as you arrive. The town is notoriously disloyal, the garrison honeycombed with disaffection, the Bishop, who is the biggest man in these parts, hates the Queen, and the little King is in their power. What better starting-place could you desire for another revolution? Even if you kicked successfully, there is Usk, whom the Bishop would prefer to you, because he could begin by converting him to the Orthodox faith.”
“But why in the world should the O’Malachy want to make either poor little Usk or myself King?”
“He doesn’t; that is merely a means to an end. But he does very much want to give Scythia a pretext for interfering in our affairs. With two Kings, and a civil war in active progress, she would be able to send troops to enforce order, and those troops would leave the country at the Greek Kalends. Little Michael’s conversion would be insisted upon as the price of support. Drakovics would go under and so should I, and the Queen would either be assisted in her duties by Bishop Philaret and the general of the army of occupation as co-regents, or provided with a second husband, and thus shunted.”
“But how in the world did you find all this out, and why didn’t you take precautionary measures before?”
“I had my first inkling of it less than three hours ago, through a few words which Phil overheard. Of course I knew that the O’Malachy wasn’t here for any good purpose, but that’s nothing new. Since I left Phil I have been working up the plot, and taking steps to frustrate it, at the same time. It was clear that the soldiers and townspeople were to rise some time to-day, probably on your arrival. It was equally clear that they could not rise without leaders; and of course I have a list, through the secret police, of all the suspicious characters that have been hanging about Tatarjé of late. They are under arrest in their own abodes at present, and are to be kept under police supervision, without being allowed to communicate with any one, until you are safely out of Thracia. When things are clear, they will be released with an apology.”
“But why not punished or expelled?”
“Ah, that is the difficulty of making use of an amateur spy, and a child at that. No tribunal would convict on the only evidence I can produce, although it has been enough to enable me to explode the plot. But I shall get the Court back to Bellaviste as soon as possible, and with you and your wife and family safe in England, the plotters can’t do much.”
“But how did my arrest come into your plans?”
“Very simply. I wanted you not to come on to Tatarjé, but to return to the frontier, where Nadia and the children could join you. I started to meet you; but I had run it too close, and I saw you would have left Velisi long before I got here. I couldn’t be sure that a telegram would stop you, and therefore I employed physical force.”
“Wasn’t it a slight oversight, if you meant your scheme to be a secret, that you didn’t have my man arrested too?” asked Caerleon drily. “As it is, he went on in the train to Tatarjé.”
Cyril jumped out of his chair. “No,” he said, sinking back again, “don’t be afraid. I am not going to use strong language, but if ever a man might be excused for doing so——! Didn’t you tell me in your very last letter that Franks had got potted by some idiotic duffer who was out shooting with you, and that you were servantless so long as he was hors de combat?”
“What a memory you have for little things! Unfortunately it has played you false here, though, for I brought Robert with me instead.”
“And I pictured you as rejoicing in your freedom! What possessed you to bring a raw lad on a journey like this?”
“I had no intention whatever of taking him, so you were right there. But I telegraphed to him to bring me some things to town, in order to save time, and he was so broken-hearted when he found that he was not to go with me, that I let him come.”
“And what do you expect him to do at Tatarjé?”
“Well, I should say that he would go straight to Nadia, and terrify her out of her wits by telling her that I am gone to prison.”
“Exactly; and Nadia will proceed at once to do something heroic. Will she come here and insist on sharing your captivity, or will she go to the Queen and demand your release?—that is the question. There will be a train in from Tatarjé in a few minutes, so we shall soon see whether she is coming here.”
But the question was to be answered even before the train came in. A deprecating knock at the door heralded the police superintendent with “A telegram for his Excellency the Minister,” and Cyril tore it open.
“Now the fat is in the fire with a vengeance!” he said, when the man had left the room, keeping his eyes upon Caerleon, as though he feared an attack from behind. “Evidently Nadia has gone to the Queen. Stefanovics says, ‘Her Majesty desires your Excellency to present yourself at the Villa immediately. Pray do not delay.’ That is a little warning from himself, of course. Well, I suppose we must take the train back. Oh, you may as well come too. Nadia will suspect me of having made away with you if I don’t produce you in the flesh, and I hope I have provided against the rising for which your appearance was intended to be the signal. At any rate, I have done my part. If the Queen spoils things, it won’t be the first time, and she will suffer as much as I shall. Come along.”
“Not until I get hold of a hat and a decent coat. You don’t expect me to appear in a garb like this?”
“Yes, I do; it’s an excellent disguise. No one in his senses will suspect you of coming to start a revolution in this get-up. Here, turn the collar of that ulster up, and pull your cap well down over your eyes. If I can get you into Tatarjé and out again without being recognised, I will. I shall have a carriage at the station.”
“I should much prefer not to be recognised,” said Caerleon uncomfortably, as they left the police-office. Cyril laughed.
“You must see that in a case like this it is my bounden duty to minimise your personal advantages as far as possible. If you were not tall and straight and fair-haired, with a beautiful wife and two fine children, there would be no need to be afraid of you; but as it is, what chance has a poor, wretched little woman, who has succeeded in alienating every single person with whom she has anything to do, in comparison with you and your family? There wouldn’t even be the excitement of a struggle. The Queen and little Michael would go down like ninepins. But if I smuggle you through in that venerable ulster and a cap which may have cost you twopence-halfpenny when it was new (but I doubt it), your worst enemy couldn’t accuse either of us of trying to catch the public eye. So come along.”
Ensconced in the corners of a reserved carriage, they made the journey without discovery, and at Tatarjé Cyril succeeded in transferring his brother unnoticed to the closed landau which was in waiting. They drove straight to the Villa, and entered by a side-door, thus gaining Cyril’s office without meeting any one.
“Stay here till I want you,” commanded Cyril. “There are some cigars in that drawer; but keep the door shut, for the Queen objects to smoking, as she does to most things. When I produce you, it will be by way of a grand tableau.”
He hurried up-stairs, and the servant announced him at the door of the anteroom. The lady sitting there, who happened to be Baroness von Hilfenstein’s daughter Paula, gave him a look full of interest and excitement as he passed, and said in a low voice—
“The Princess of Dardania is with her Majesty.”
“This is more thrilling even than I thought,” he murmured back, with his hand upon the door, and immediately entered, to find Nadia sitting on the sofa between the Queen and the Princess. Before he could do more than bow to the royal ladies, Philippa sprang up from the corner where she had been playing with the other children, and, running to him, caught his hand.
“Oh, Uncle Cyril, these ladies have been saying such horrid things about you. I thought that one,” indicating the Princess, “was nice, but,” in a perfectly audible whisper, “I don’t now. They say that it was you who had father put in prison!”
“And you are the only one to believe in me?” said Cyril. “Brave little girl!”
“Oh no, Cyril,” said Nadia eagerly. “It is only that the Queen and the Princess don’t know you as we do, and so can’t see the absurdity of the idea. If you would just assure them that you had nothing to do with Caerleon’s arrest, they must be convinced.”
“I should be delighted to oblige you if it was in my power,” returned Cyril. “Unfortunately it is not possible, since the arrest was effected by my order.”
Nadia sank back speechless and horrorstruck, and Queen Ernestine and the Princess of Dardania exchanged looks of triumph.
“What did I tell you?” asked the Princess.
“Count Mortimer,” said the Queen with energy, holding Nadia’s hand in hers, and rising in order to give greater effect to her words, “owing to various unfortunate circumstances, I have feared at times that I was unable to judge you impartially; but I can say truthfully that I should never have suspected you of such an action as this. What your motive can have been I am at a loss to imagine——”
“Surely you need not ask the motive,” interrupted the Princess. “Count Mortimer feared lest the lustre of his well-earned popularity should be in the slightest degree dimmed by the appearance of a rival star in the Thracian sky.”
“I could have hoped,” the Queen went on, “that your motive was a worthier one than the gratification of such base jealousy; but I grieve to be obliged to think that this is not the case.”
“No, Ernestine,” said the Princess, “you are doing Count Mortimer an injustice. I never said that his jealousy was personal in its character, for it is political. Lord Caerleon, like any one else who stands in the way of his brother’s schemes, must be crushed.”
“Does that make it any better?” cried the Queen. “It is infamous! That you should have attempted to carry out such a despicable purpose by means of the authority with which I was induced at my husband’s dying entreaty to invest you, is merely an additional crime, Count.”
“Oh, Uncle Cyril,” entreated Philippa, “do say something! I know it was a mistake, or—or you did it for fun. Please do tell them.”
“You don’t understand, Phil, that when the Queen and the Princess are pleased to accuse me, it is my duty to listen in silence, and rejoice to find myself honoured with so much of their attention.”
“If you can possibly suggest the very smallest excuse for your extraordinary action, Count,” said the Queen, “I beg that you will at once bring it forward.”
“Madame, if your Majesty considers that I have no excuse, I would not be so wanting in respect as to offer any.”
“Oh, Cyril,” cried Nadia, “won’t you explain? I know there must be some good reason for all that has happened, but you are torturing me.”
“At least pity your sister,” said the Queen, more gently; “and offer any explanation that may seem to you to be adequate.”
“No explanation that I can offer is likely to be satisfactory to your Majesty,” said Cyril. “You were good enough to observe, madame, that it was at the late King’s wish that I was intrusted with my present office. The duties of that office I must continue to strive to fulfil as long as I hold it. My popularity in the country signifies to me as little as the favour of your Majesty, which I cannot flatter myself I have ever had the honour of possessing. It was not in defence of my own popularity that I had my brother arrested to-day, but in that of the kingdom of my master, your son.”
“Are you trying to excuse yourself by casting suspicion upon your brother?” cried the Princess; but Cyril did not flinch.
“Madame,” he went on, still addressing himself to the Queen, “but for the steps I have found it necessary to take to-day, the King and yourself would now be prisoners, and my brother proclaimed King of Thracia once more. Unknown to him, a conspiracy had been formed with that object in view, and this conspiracy I have foiled by the means which have had the misfortune to displease you.”
“Oh, Cyril, I can never thank you enough!” cried Nadia. “You have saved us from utter misery. Carlino will express our gratitude to you himself, for the idea of reigning here again would horrify him.”
“You have reason to believe in the existence of this conspiracy, then, madame?” asked the Queen sharply, turning to her.
“Madame, it explains many things that have terrified and perplexed me since I have been at Tatarjé, and my brother has relieved me from a horrible anxiety.”
“It is evident that we have misjudged you, Count,” said the Queen, “although I cannot but say that your methods of working are open to grave misconstruction. Pray remember that in future I wish to be kept informed if you find it needful to take any action of the kind.”
“But, Ernestine,” said the Princess, as Cyril bowed, “is poor Lord Caerleon to be left languishing in a dungeon while you instruct Count Mortimer in his duties? Should he not be released?”
“If your Majesty will allow me, I will send for my brother,” said Cyril, and on receiving permission, he left the room.
“Stefanovics,” he said, catching sight of the chamberlain in the hall, and scenting a joke, “send the man who is in my office there to me, will you?”
A smothered exclamation of “Your Majesty!” showed him that the recognition had been complete, and hastily descending the stairs, he found M. Stefanovics on his knees, kissing Caerleon’s hand, much to the embarrassment of its owner.
“Come, this won’t do,” said Cyril. “What about your oath to King Michael, Stefanovics? I’m sure it was a good thing I took all my precautions, if a stalwart supporter of the reigning dynasty like yourself can be carried away so completely. Lord Caerleon is a simple British tourist, do you understand? Come along, Caerleon. By the bye, could you possibly manufacture any engagement that required you to get home at once?”
“There’s no need. The County Council meets in three days, and as chairman——”
“Of course, the very thing—vague and sufficiently high-sounding. Now prepare for a surprise.”
The surprise Cyril intended was the presence of the Princess of Dardania; but Nadia met her husband in the doorway, and at first neither of them found it possible to give a thought to the other occupants of the room. When Nadia was calm again, Cyril led his brother in and presented him to the Queen, excusing his very uncourtierlike appearance by explaining that he had merely come to Tatarjé to fetch his wife and children, and must leave again for England that evening. He further defined the County Council as something between a Provincial Diet and the Imperial Reichstag, for the Queen’s benefit, and succeeded in impressing her with the idea that for Caerleon to be late in arriving at his post would be a crime but little removed from high treason. He had so much to say that it was not until the visitors were taking their leave of the Queen that the Princess of Dardania was able to address herself directly to Caerleon.
“I trust you have not forgotten me, Lord Caerleon?” she said graciously; “or that most interesting fortnight of your visit to Schloss Herzensruh?”
“Madame,” responded Caerleon, with perfect truth, “it would be absolutely impossible for me to forget either the one or the other.”
“You are too flattering,” said the Princess, making him a curtsey, as she had done once in that far-off time; “but I can interpret your meaning with the help of your words and actions then. Ah well, Lord Caerleon, you piqued me not a little in that fortnight, for I could not make you care for me, in spite of all my efforts; but now that I have seen your wife, I can understand, and pardon.”
“I suppose you have met Lord Caerleon before, Ottilie?” said Queen Ernestine to her cousin, with a shade of disapproval in her tone, when the visitors had departed. “You seemed to know him very well.”
“I had every opportunity of knowing him,” responded the Princess, “for he and I were once engaged—for nearly a fortnight.”
“Oh, forgive me, Ottilie,” said the Queen, blushing painfully. “I had no idea that this was the gentleman who——I didn’t mean to recall unpleasant memories. Lady Caerleon is a very handsome woman, is she not?”
“Is that last remark intended to soothe my lacerated feelings?” inquired the Princess, with a merry laugh at this sudden change of subject. “If you only knew it, Nestchen, that is just the most painful part of the matter. Can you conceive that Lord Caerleon had the bad taste to prefer the lady who is now his wife to me?”
“I should prefer not to discuss the subject,” said the Queen, frigidly, but with evident confusion. “If I had had the faintest idea that Lord Caerleon was the person who——I should certainly not have admitted him to my presence.”
“My sweetest Nestchen, if you must play the prude, try to do so with a little discrimination. ‘The person who——’ twice over! Tell me, I entreat you, what poor Lord Caerleon has done?”
“I don’t wish to recall the matter, Ottilie; and I wonder that you should care to make a joke of it.”
“My dear Ernestine,”—there was a dangerous glitter in the Princess’s eyes,—“I must insist on your explaining these extraordinary insinuations. It is quite evident to me that you have picked up an erroneous idea of Lord Caerleon’s conduct in the past, and apparently of mine as well. As I do not choose to lie under imputations of such a kind, I beg of you to tell me exactly what you have heard on the subject, if you wish us to remain friends.”
“I am quite content to let the matter rest, Ottilie; but if you will make me speak, I must say that I have heard nothing definitely, for my mother would never permit the affair to be discussed in my hearing. Still, I gathered from stray remarks and hints let drop by different people that you had—well, formed an attachment for a gentleman not of royal blood, and that when your parents expressed their disapproval you eloped with him, but were brought back before you could reach a place of safety, and that afterwards you were married to the Prince of Dardania.”
“Your story is most circumstantial and most romantic, Nestchen, but unfortunately it has got hopelessly mixed. I did run away to be married; but it was not with Lord Caerleon, and I was not brought back, for I was safely married, and to Alexis Alexievitch. He was the lover of whom my parents disapproved, whereas I was engaged to Lord Caerleon with their full knowledge and approval.”
“You ran away with the Prince of Dardania?” cried the Queen, horror and astonishment struggling in her voice.
“I did, indeed; but you seem to think that makes things worse instead of better.”
“Oh no; not at all—— But surely it was unnecessary? And are you in earnest when you say that your parents approved of Lord Caerleon’s attachment?”
“Poor Lord Caerleon can scarcely be said to have been attached to me. As I said just now, he preferred another lady, and was determined to marry no one else. The attachment was a political expedient, devised by his brother and Drakovics; but my father was delighted with the idea, and all the Schwarzwald-Molzaus honoured it with their approval.”
“Impossible, Ottilie!”
“I am telling you the truth. Carlino was King of Thracia then, you must remember.”
“Oh, that makes a difference, of course. A crowned and anointed King——”
“Carlino was neither. He had not been crowned at the time, and as matters turned out, he never was to be. If I had married him, however, I think I may say that your husband would never have sat upon the Thracian throne, Ernestine.”
“Why, what could you have done?”
“Do you think I would have allowed my husband to resign his rights? Why, if he had been deprived of them, I would have set Europe in a blaze before I would have submitted; but to resign them meekly of his own accord——! No. Je maintiendray should have been my motto.”
“But still,” urged Queen Ernestine, waiving the question, “I cannot see how your family could have permitted Lord Caerleon to aspire to your hand before he was crowned. Surely such an alliance would have been subversive of all the traditions of our order?”
“My dear Ernestine, do you really believe that we belong to a separate race of beings, with some ethereal fluid in their veins, instead of blood like other mortals? No wonder that we in Dardania hear tales occasionally of troubles at the Thracian Court, caused by the Queen’s treatment of her entourage!”
“My dear Ottilie,”—with some resentment,—“no arguments could make me regard such a marriage as anything but morganatic.”
“And the mere wearing of a crown would make the difference? But suppose Carlino had been crowned, and had afterwards abdicated, what then? Would the marriage have been regular as long as he was King, but have become morganatic when he no longer possessed the crown?”
“The effect of the anointing would still remain, I suppose,” said the Queen doubtfully, but her words were drowned by a peal of laughter from her cousin.
“Nestchen, you are too delicious! Why weren’t you born before 1789? You ought to be put into a museum, and labelled, ‘Extraordinary survival of medieval methods of thought.’ Don’t you see that we have given up all those ideas of a superior caste nowadays? It is merely a matter of policy. Say that a parvenu mounts a throne and seems likely to retain it; surely the wisest thing to do is to welcome him into your mystic circle, and hold him there by chains so strong that your interests and his become identical? Lord Caerleon could show his quarterings with the best of us Germans; but if M. Drakovics were to become King of Thracia to-morrow, there are very few Courts at which he would be refused if he came seeking a bride.”
“Do you really mean this, Ottilie—that royal marriages are now arranged purely as matters of policy, and absolutely without regard to the claims of blood or the traditions of a princely house?”
“Absolutely. Why, my dear child, you seem to have no idea of the necessities of State. Surely you must see that if a young Princess falls in love with a simple noble, it is really immoral for them to marry; but that it is both right and eminently suitable for her to be handed over to any roturier who may succeed in winning himself a throne? What is the use of an exclusive caste unless outsiders may be admitted into it for a consideration? You must try to understand the wheels within wheels a little, Nestchen.”
“All this is quite new to me,” said the Queen, slowly and sadly. “I thought only the lower orders regarded matters in that light.”
“But why should it make you unhappy, Ernestine?”
“Because it reminds me so strongly of my own marriage. At least I have had the comfort hitherto of feeling that there was something heroic about the way in which I was sacrificed, but you have taken away that consolation. I thought myself like Iphigenia, or that other poor princess—what was her name?—whose marriage with a man whom she detested set the seal upon a treaty; but now you make me feel that I was merely a counter in a very sordid game.”
“Exactly. I never felt that there was anything heroic about my engagement to Lord Caerleon, I assure you; but then, of course, I knew the game which was being played. Surely you must have seen it in your own case?”
“How could I? I was only sixteen, and you know what my life had been. You know that my mother and I spent nearly all our time at our castle in the mountains—for my mother’s health, it was said. When we came down to Weldart for the winter, my parents would appear together on public occasions, but they never met in private. Hitherto I have thought that they kept up appearances to prevent my being saddened with the knowledge of their dissensions, but I suppose you have a different explanation of that also?”
“Well, it would naturally have looked bad if they had separated openly, and eligible princes might have hesitated to take a bride from such a divided household. The family prestige must be considered in cases of this kind, of course. But tell me how the Fairy Prince came at last.”
“If you laugh at me, Ottilie, I shall hate you.”
“My dear Nestchen, I am not laughing. Heaven forbid that I, who gained my own way, should laugh at any one less fortunate.”
The Queen sat silent a moment, then began again, speaking hurriedly. “We came down from the mountains that autumn a little earlier than usual. I was very loath to leave the Castle, for I loved the free, wild life, and when once my lessons were over, I might roam about the hill-paths with my mother’s ladies, or—which I liked much better—with some of the girls from the village. But when we reached Weldart, I found that there were changes there. I was to take my place in society, my presence was expected at all the Court entertainments. That in itself was delightful, but there was more. The Palace was filled with guests. They came and went, but the King of Thracia and his suite stayed longest of all. He was the most distinguished man present, and he paid me marked attention. The ladies-in-waiting congratulated me continually in private. ‘Such a great soldier,’ they said, ‘so brave, so good, so wise, and he talks to no one but our little Princess!’ My head was turned, Ottilie. I thought him the handsomest and most courteous man I knew. He looked old, certainly, even for his years, but that, I thought, was due to the hardships of war. He saw that I took pleasure in his society, and it pleased him——”
“One moment, Ernestine. What was your mother doing while this was going on?”
“My mother watched it all, and said nothing. Day after day I saw her with the same unyielding face, set like a mask, but she would not speak to me on the subject, even when I appealed to her. She would neither encourage me in my liking for King Otto Georg, nor dissuade me from it. It was grandmamma of Weldart who counselled me in the matter. She called me into her room one evening when the King had danced with me several times, and I was so happy that I could scarcely keep myself from dancing then. Grandmamma called me to sit upon a low stool beside her, and took my chin in her hand. ‘So!’ she said. ‘Do you know what a little bird has just whispered to me, Nestchen? It said that the good King wishes to take my little mountain wild-flower back to Thracia with him. How would a crown look on this little head?’ I was frightened at first, and said I was so happy as I was that I did not wish to be married and go away. ‘Pschutt!’ said grandmamma, ‘little girls must be married. Do you want to be like your Aunt Amalie?’ She knew that I had always a dread of Aunt Amalie, and that to become a canoness was the last thing I desired; and she went on, ‘I know perfectly well that the very idea of making a choice is an absurdity. Who could hesitate between the life of a canoness and that of a Queen? Your father might have just as well presented his Majesty to you without any fuss as your future husband, but they do things differently nowadays. But at any rate, when the King speaks to you, be sure to say how greatly you appreciate the honour he is offering you, and remind him how young and inexperienced you are.’ That was all, you see, Ottilie. It was taken for granted that I should accept the King, and positively I did not realise that there was any alternative open to me.”
“And he proposed to you soon after?”
“The very next day; and I did as I was told, and accepted him. They gave me no time to regret my choice. The wedding was hurried on, and the interval was filled with a whirl of gaiety. I was kissed, and blessed, and praised, and congratulated, and petted until I began to think that I was doing something great. Then there were all my new clothes, and the jewellery, and the wedding-presents, and the addresses of congratulation—something new and delightful offered itself for every hour of the day. The King attended me everywhere, brought me presents continually, gratified every wish I could express. I had no time to think, but if I had thought, I should have decided that I was perfectly happy.”
“But I thought you said that you regarded your marriage as a sacrifice made for the sake of your house, or of your order, or something of the kind?”
“That was afterwards; I am coming to it now. It was the night before the wedding; I had been trying on my crown and jewels for the morrow. Some of my cousins thought the crown was too heavy for my head, but I laughed. ‘Who finds a crown too heavy?’ I said, and we gave back the jewels to the proper official to be kept safe for the night, and then I went to bed. In the middle of the night I was awakened by some one’s coming into the room with a light, and I saw my mother standing with her back to me and looking at my wedding-dress, which was spread out upon the couch. Presently she took it up and turned it about, handling it so roughly that I was horrified. ‘Oh, mamma, mamma, you will spoil my dress!’ I cried out. She turned and came towards me with such a terrible face that I crouched down among the pillows in actual fear. ‘I would tear it to shreds, or burn it to ashes, if that would have the slightest effect in preventing this marriage!’ she said. I could only look at her, trembling, and she went on, ‘Foolish child! do you imagine that the King loves you? He loathes the very idea of marriage, and is merely driven to it by his advisers for the sake of securing the succession. He is false through and through, and as wicked as he is false. You think it is hardship which makes him look so old? The last war in which he served was that of 1870: it is the wicked pleasures of the life he has led which have aged him.’ ‘Oh, mamma, what has he done?’ I sobbed. ‘Never mind,’ she replied; ‘it is enough for you to know that he is not fit to touch your hand.’ I got out of bed, shivering with cold and terror. ‘You have come to save me, mamma,’ I said; ‘you want me to run away. I am ready. You were right in thinking that I would do anything to avoid marrying such a man.’ She looked at me in astonishment. ‘Get back into bed, Ernestine, and don’t talk nonsense,’ she said. ‘Do you think you are living in a romance? It is your destiny to make this marriage; all princesses go through the same experience. I suffered it myself, but I had no one to warn me beforehand. I had to find out everything—all the falseness and horror of it—but at least I have spared you that pain.’ ‘You can’t mean to say that you will sacrifice me to this man, mamma?’ I said; ‘what have I done, that you should be so cruel?’ ‘You have been born a princess,’ she answered; ‘that is enough. One must pay for being great.’ ‘But what good can my misery do to any one?’ I cried. ‘None,’ she said; ‘but it is that to which you were born. You are fulfilling your destiny, you are avoiding a scandal, you are obeying the traditions of your house. Where a low-born girl might flinch, a Princess of Weldart must go on to the bitter end. Noblesse oblige.’ She stood looking at me again as I lay and sobbed, and then said sharply, ‘But don’t let me see you hugging your chains. You have been warned, and there is no excuse for further blindness. It is your husband’s place to suffer as well as yours.’ Then she went away, and left me in the dark.”
“It was infamous!” cried the Princess hotly. “If your mother’s own married life had been miserable, she might at least have allowed you the chance of doing better.”
“You must not say that. I am convinced that the strain of watching the preparations which she could not interrupt had told upon her mind for the time, and made her persuade herself that she was doing the kindest thing in warning me of what lay before me. I think that perhaps she had expected me to perceive the truth by some intuition, and rebel against my fate, and that she was disappointed by my satisfaction with it. But you know as well as I do that she could not have been actuated by malevolence.”
“Her kindness was most cruel, then. But tell me what followed.”
“I shuddered and sobbed myself to sleep when she was gone. In the morning my cousins exclaimed at my looks when they came to wake me. I told them that I had had bad dreams, and all the time they were helping me to dress they were disputing whether it was a good or a bad omen. My mother came in several times, and altered the draping of my train, or suggested to the hairdresser a slight rearrangement of my crown or my myrtle-blossoms, which would improve the general effect. She would not allow me to speak to her, and I could scarcely believe that her visit in the night was not a dream. I tried to catch her eye—to give her an imploring glance—but she met me with a cold hard look that offered me no sympathy. When I was quite ready, grandmamma came in to see me before starting for the chapel. My cousins were giving the finishing touches to their own dresses in another room, and for the moment we were practically alone. I seized the opportunity. ‘Grandmamma,’ I said, clasping my hands, ‘save me, I entreat you. I do not want to marry the King. The very thought terrifies me.’ She looked at me keenly, and said in her hardest voice, ‘What has terrified you, Ernestine? Who has been calumniating your bridegroom to you?’ I dared not betray my mother, and all that I could do was to falter out that I was frightened, and could not the ceremony be put off? Then she laughed and pinched my cheek, and said playfully, ‘Foolish little wild-flower! of course it is frightened at the thought of being transplanted into the great world. I should think very poorly of you, little one, if you could part without a tremor from a home and parents such as yours. But remember, say nothing to any one else of this, for they might not make allowances for you as I can.’ ‘Grandmamma!’ I cried, springing towards her as she gathered up her train to leave the room, ‘It is not that——’ But she turned and said, ‘Whatever it is, Ernestine, you are too late now,’ and went out. I heard her say to Aunt Amalie at the door, ‘It is a good thing that the King is so much preoccupied with this affair of the Mortimer’s precedence, or he would notice that something was wrong. The silly child looks like a ghost.’ I knew the name of the secretary Mortimer. I had seen him constantly in attendance on the King, and heard of the difficulties as to precedence which had sprung up between him and my cousin Sigismund’s Hercynian officers; but I realised now that he had come between me and my last hope of safety, and that is only an image of what he has done ever since.”
“Good!” cried the Princess; “I also hate him. But go on.”
“What is the use? You know well enough that no miracle happened to save me. In the chapel, when they put my hand into that of the King, I fainted where I stood. They said that it was owing to the weight of my dress and jewels; but it was through sheer horror. They revived me in some way, and the service was finished. At the wedding banquet I was so dazed by the strong restoratives they had given me, that I could only sit silent and look straight before me; but I still remember the dreadful smile on my mother’s face when the Emperor Sigismund, in proposing the health of the bridal pair, said that my parents could give me with absolute confidence and joy to the amiable and chivalrous monarch who had been his father’s comrade on many a battlefield. I suppose that my cousins took me up-stairs, and changed my wedding-gown for my travelling-dress; but I don’t remember it. I only know that the day was getting darker and darker when we started for the Lustschloss, although it was only three in the afternoon. There was some talk of our waiting until the storm was over; but we had only about five miles to go, and they thought we should arrive before the rain came on; so we drove out through the decorated streets into the gathering blackness. The King said something kind and reassuring to me; but I did not understand, and could only stare at him stupidly. He thought I was overdone, or affected by the weather, and advised me to lean back and try to sleep a little; but I could not. As I sat looking out, there came a great flash of lightning, and almost immediately we were in the midst of the most tremendous thunderstorm I ever saw. Presently Count Mortimer, who had been riding with the other attendants, came to the window of the carriage and suggested that we should take refuge in an inn close at hand, as the horses were alarmed by the lightning. We did as he advised; and the passing through the rain from the carriage to the house seemed to remove the paralysis from my mind. I felt myself awake again; and the moment I was alone with the King, I threw myself at his feet, and implored him with tears to allow me to return to my mother. I don’t know what I said, or what wild promises I made him; but I know I caught at his sword and entreated him to kill me if he would not let me go. He must have been utterly amazed, for I saw him look round helplessly (I suppose he wished to consult Count Mortimer), but he raised me up and led me to a chair, and entreated me to sit down. Then he took another chair beside me, and begged me to listen to him. He said that if he had had the faintest idea that the marriage was disagreeable to me, he would never have proposed it; that he felt he was far too old for me, but that my kindness to him had encouraged him to hope that he might succeed in making me happy. He could only ask my forgiveness for the suffering he had caused me, and promised to do all that he could to lighten it. But (and he was very firm in this) it was too late now to undo what had been done. To allow me to return home would be to inflict a deadly and most undeserved slight on my family and on all the royal personages who had been present at the wedding, besides bringing very injurious suspicions on myself. We were bound together now; let us both resolve to make the best of it. He comforted me so kindly and so delicately that my terror began to diminish, and I reflected that death would soon release me from my troubles, since no one could live long in such misery. You see what a baby I was, Ottilie; I thought one could die when one wished.”
“Forgive my saying so, Ernestine, but you had no excuse for quarrelling with a husband who could speak to you so gently after the outburst of loathing to which you had treated him.”
“One excuse you know; it was Count Mortimer. Sometimes I think I had another, but you shall hear. I became partially reconciled to my lot when I realised that there was no escaping it, and the King left no effort untried to comfort me and keep me contented. We left the Lustschloss—I was glad of it, for it was horrible to have continual visits from all my relations, spying, remarking, criticising, trying to find out how the slave they had just sold got on with her master—and came to Thracia, where every one was prepared to welcome me with the greatest delight and kindness. Not a wish that I could express was ungratified, and new pleasures were suggested every day. I was beginning to look back with shame upon my fears on the wedding-day, when in some way everything went wrong once more. When we had been married rather more than a month, I received a letter from my mother, written evidently in great excitement. ‘At last,’ she said, ‘I have torn off the mask which, for your sake, I have worn so long. Your father and I have come to a definite agreement to separate, and I have bidden farewell to Weldart for ever. I am now a wanderer, unless my daughter will offer me a shelter for the remainder of my miserable life.’ What could I do, Ottilie? I ran sobbing to the King and showed him the letter, demanding that he should join his entreaties with mine to induce my mother to come to us at once. He consented, but without enthusiasm, as it seemed to me, and came to me about half an hour later, when I was writing my letter in transports of grief and indignation.”
“Ah, he had been consulting Count Mortimer, I suppose?”
“Undoubtedly. ‘You are entreating your mother to pay us a visit, little one?’ he said. ‘Not a visit,’ I answered in astonishment; ‘I am inviting her to make her home with us.’ ‘We must not be too precipitate,’ he said, ‘for this climate may not suit her, or she may not care for our ways, and yet she might feel a delicacy in telling us that she would prefer to move. I think, Liebchen, that it will be well to ask her simply on a visit at first. A visit can always be extended, but it is not so easy to break off an established custom.’ ‘But that is nothing,’ I said; ‘it is a home that I wish to offer her, for she is homeless. She might go to any number of places on a visit.’ ‘Have you thought that this will mean an absolute rupture of relations with your father and grandmother?’ he asked. ‘I don’t care about them!’ I cried; ‘I want my mother. We were never separated before, and you cannot tell how lonely I have been without her. I shall die if you will not let her come.’ The sight of my tears moved him, and he told me to do as I pleased——”
“It was a great pity,” said the Princess.
“Ottilie!” cried the Queen resentfully, “it is evident that you do not know that my mother has been almost my only comfort all these years. If she disturbed the tranquillity in which we were living, it was merely because she saw it was a fool’s paradise. On the very evening of her arrival, when we were alone together, she said to me, ‘So you are hugging your chains, as I foresaw you would do!’ I asked her how this could be, and she replied, ‘It is simple enough. You are the King’s slave, and he is the slave of the Mortimer.’ She would not say any more, but I saw the truth of her words. It flashed upon me all at once that Count Mortimer directed the whole course of our lives. It was he who suggested all our plans, who encouraged the King to accompany me on all occasions, who kept him continually up to the mark, if I may say so. It flashed upon me also why he did this. He knew my wretched story, knew the way in which I had been bought and sold—nay, he had probably taken a chief part himself in making the bargain, and he wished to see the prisoner content with her captivity. If I could be brought to seem happy there would be the less likelihood of scandal, and the more chance of his appearing a skilled diplomatist. From that moment I hated him. I resolved to thwart his schemes, and I did so. I refused to accept his suggestions; I did not welcome the King’s company when he offered it. I made it very clear that any plan in which Count Mortimer’s influence could be traced was displeasing to me.”
“Foolish child!” cried her cousin; “was there no one to warn you?”
“I was frightened myself sometimes when I saw that I was alienating the King from myself instead of from Count Mortimer, but that made me only the more determined to succeed. I tried tears and reproaches, and entreaties and ridicule, but my husband was not to be moved. He told me plainly that I was seeking to banish the man who could do most to smooth my path, and was most willing to do it. When I persisted, he said that Count Mortimer was indispensable to him, and that he never went wrong except when he was too lazy or too soft-hearted to follow his advice. I knew what he meant; but I would not cease from my attempts, although they only tended to make the King spend less time in my society, and more in that of Count Mortimer. So the time dragged on until Michael was born, and then I determined, as my mother advised me, to make one great effort to oust my enemy. The King was delighted with his son, and became once more as kind to me as he had been at first. On the day of the christening, when he was sitting alone with the baby and me after the ceremony, I appealed to him suddenly to dismiss Count Mortimer. In his first astonishment he refused point-blank, and left me in displeasure. I was determined not to yield, for I could not bear that he should be able to comfort himself with the society of his friend when I was angry with him. If Count Mortimer were gone, my mother and I should find it much more easy to deal with the King.”
“In other words, he would be at your mercy? Oh, Ernestine, I must say it, what a little fool you were!”
“Probably. If it was so, I have been punished for my folly. My husband came to me again the next morning, and said that he was about to make a proposal to me which he begged me to consider calmly and without prejudice, since he was convinced that the happiness of our married life depended upon it. Nothing would induce him, he said, to dismiss Count Mortimer; but Count Mortimer himself was prepared to retire from the Court in the hope of restoring peace between us. Only, the King said, he would not accept this sacrifice except upon one condition—that my mother also should leave Thracia. He would not mince matters, for he was convinced that our unhappiness was due to her, since I had shown no dislike to Count Mortimer before her arrival. Once rid of the two elements of discord, we would start afresh, and try to be as happy as such an ill-assorted couple could be. Well, you do not need to be told that I rejected the proposal with horror. I told the King that it was an outrage and an infamy, and that I would suffer anything rather than yield. He left me again, and we resumed our double life, the King and Count Mortimer against my mother and me. I would not quit Thracia, as my mother advised, for I could not endure to let Count Mortimer triumph in the idea that he had driven me away; but it could not be expected that I should assist in any of his schemes. He and the King had the idea that Thracia was for the Thracians, and should be kept as Thracian as possible, and my mother and I did what we could to introduce German customs and habits instead.”
“You can scarcely expect me to agree with you there,” said the Princess, “since my husband and I have always aimed at carrying out in Dardania the methods which the King thought best for Thracia.”
“We were not thinking of what was best for the country,” explained the Queen innocently. “We wanted to have everything as it ought to be—as it is in Germany—and also to make the King angry.”
“Well, it is quite evident that you were successful in that part of your wish.”
“Yes; we were all very unhappy. Then, as you know, my mother was forced by the intrigues of the Ministry to leave Thracia, and I was so lonely and miserable that once or twice I even tried to make friends with my husband; but he either pretended not to notice my attempts, or he laughed at them, so that I left off trying. And then Count Mortimer went to England for a holiday, and I thought there might be some chance for me, but I saw even less of the King than before, and he would scarcely speak to me. Then he was taken ill, and you know that on his death-bed he made me promise not to dismiss Count Mortimer, and so he was left to tyrannise over me still. Can you wonder that I hate him?”
“You do hate him?” asked the Princess, with interest.
The Queen’s face flushed hotly. “You would hate him in my place,” she said. “He thwarts all my plans, and he is always justified by the result. He is continually putting me in the wrong, and no one who sees it can have a doubt but that he is right. I make a great effort to take him by surprise, and it is evident that he knew of my intention as soon as I did. I would give anything to be able to turn the tables on him!”
“I don’t wonder you get into trouble if that is your feeling.”
“At any rate, I can do one thing. I know that after to-day Count Mortimer will try to make me return to Bellaviste, for neither he nor M. Drakovics wished us to come here, but I will not go.”
“What a rebellious little person you are, Ernestine! But I do most earnestly advise you to get rid of Count Mortimer before your boy is old enough to marry, unless you want your own story repeated.”