But as the days passed on and still nothing happened, a sensation of relief diffused itself visibly among Cyril’s opponents, while his supporters became correspondingly dejected. Presently a brief message from the Emperor of Pannonia, forwarded through the Chevalier’s confidential agent in Vindobona, put the question in a nutshell. What measures did Count Mortimer mean to take in order to re-establish his predominant influence in the counsels of the Syndicate? Whether the charges brought against him in the Yellow Pamphlet were true or false did not signify in the least; but unless the Jews were unanimous in preferring him to any other ruler, the Emperor could go no further in recommending his selection by the Powers. While the question of the answer to be returned to this intimation was being discussed between Cyril and the Chevalier—the one in a frenzy of alarm and indecision, the other in an agony of helplessness—the matter was taken out of their hands. It became known throughout Europe that Count Mortimer’s brain was affected, and that he was no longer to be feared.
How the jealously guarded secret had leaked out could not at first be discovered, but the report was afterwards traced to Don Ramon of Arragon’s assistant, who had access to his case-books. He had been a student of the University of Vindobona, and was therefore almost inevitably an anti-Semite, and he had shared his discovery with Colonel Czartoriski, with whom he had come in contact at Damascus. Acting upon instructions from his mistress, Colonel Czartoriski communicated the news to the press, and Anti-Semitism all over the Continent went mad with joy. Nor were the professed enemies of Zion alone in their exultation, for the Government papers (those of Pannonia and Thracia alone excepted) took up the slanderous tale in language equally bitter, if slightly more decorous. The man who had known how to impose his will on Europe was helpless—might be knocked down and jumped upon, metaphorically speaking—and there was no lack of moralists to improve the occasion. The vilest calumnies, the most outrageous accusations, were gravely detailed as matters of fact, the attacks growing bolder as each historian, finding that the victim made no sign, strove to outdo his neighbour. The statesmen who had smarted under Cyril’s yoke added their quota of titbits of confidential information, to be duly worked up by the fortunate journalist to whom they were whispered, the result being generally a fable that astonished no one more than the original narrator himself. In short, the only wonder was that the political world could have been so long held in subjection by a charlatan so abjectly worthless and contemptible as Count Mortimer was shown to be.
But while the storm was raging in Europe, and its echoes reached with painful distinctness the ears of the little group of friends at Damascus, there reached them also an intimation that behind all the sound and fury there was a purpose that signified something. On the morning of the 28th of December, General Banics paid an early visit, first to Lord Caerleon and then to the Chevalier, bringing an urgent request from Queen Ernestine that they would come to her at once. Apprehensive of danger, they lost no time in complying, and as they were ushered into the Queen’s presence, Ernestine came forward to meet them in her impulsive way, holding out her hands.
“I have sent for you,” she said, “because you are dear and faithful friends of mine, and I can trust you to help me in the frightful danger which is threatening the man we all love. You will not let them separate me from him?”
“Nefer, unless it iss your Machesty’s own dessire,” said the Chevalier.
“But we know that nothing could be further from the Queen’s wishes,” said Lord Caerleon indignantly. “Command us, madame, for anything that we can do.”
“I knew I could rely upon you both.” She cast an encouraging glance at the discomfited Chevalier. “Then please sit down, and let me tell you what I have heard this morning from my dear old friend Princess Soudaroff. She says she was afraid to telegraph, lest the message should be stopped or the enemy discover that we had been warned, but she writes in the greatest anxiety and haste. She is at present in Paris, and her brother-in-law, Prince Soudaroff, had just paid her a flying visit when she wrote. Naturally, as she says, they discussed Count Mortimer’s misfortunes, and something that Prince Soudaroff let fall gave her the idea that a plot was preparing against him. She questioned him closely, and though he evaded her inquiries with the most consummate skill, she is convinced that the Emperor Sigismund and my own family are taking measures to prevent our marriage. What roused her suspicions was a remark which escaped Prince Soudaroff about a Hercynian ship of war suddenly ordered to the Levant, and she suggests that they will attempt to kidnap the Count before New Year’s Day, and convey him to some place of confinement on the plea that he is mad. They will act in my interests, to save me from such an unfortunate marriage, you see! But I won’t be saved from it. How shall we checkmate them?”
“Madame,” said the Chevalier, as she paused abruptly, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed, “de Goldberg millions hef profed demselfs off little afail lately, but at least dey will suffice to buy de gerrison off Damascus for a week. Efery men in it shell be your serfant, and guard de Count.”
“But is such a measure advisable?” asked Lord Caerleon. “The other side can out-bribe us, and bring diplomatic pressure to bear as well. How would you like to steal a march on them, madame? You are not inclined to set an inordinate value upon wedding-dresses and festivities?”
“In comparison with the bridegroom?” Ernestine smiled. “No, indeed. If it had not been for the wishes of my son and my faithful servants, I would have chosen the quietest wedding possible.”
“Under the circumstances, madame, his Majesty and your ladies will no doubt waive their natural wishes. The time required by law for publishing the notice of the intended marriage at the British Consulate expires to-day. To-morrow, then——”
“I see,” said the Queen, blushing brightly.
“His Excellency Count Mortimer, madame,” said General Banics, presenting himself at the door, and Cyril entered the room, his unexpected appearance making the three conspirators look highly confused.
“What are you plotting against me?” he asked sharply.
“Do you know that you have not wished me good morning?” asked Ernestine, rising. “Our friends will excuse us for a moment, I know,” and she made him a sign to follow her out into the verandah. After a few minutes they returned, Ernestine flushed and smiling, with her hand in his.
“Caerleon, Chevalier,” said Cyril, “you have heard of the new danger that threatens me, and you know that the Queen”—he raised her hand to his lips—“would not refuse to share it. But to avoid complications, and to forestall the enemy, she has consented to allow our marriage to take place to-morrow instead of New Year’s Day.”
“A good idea. Very sensible and prudent,” said Lord Caerleon heartily, admiring the delicate tact with which Ernestine had contrived to make the suggestion come from Cyril instead of herself. “We had decided that it would be better for the marriage to take place at the Consulate in any case, so that it will make no difference.”
“I understand that Mr Judson can perform the service at the Consulate,” said the Queen quickly. “I should not like a purely civil marriage.”
“Det iss all right,” said the Chevalier. “I hef talked to Colonel Monckton a great deal about de metter. De merrich can take place et de Consulate in his pressence, and nothink more will be wanted.”
“Perhaps,” said Lord Caerleon to his brother, rather doubtfully, “it might be as well if you left for the desert immediately after the ceremony. If there is any idea of kidnapping you, they might still carry you off, and set the lawyers to work to declare the marriage invalid.”
“We will leave Damascus as soon as the ceremony is performed,” said the Queen calmly. “When we are together and out of their reach they can do nothing against us. The Emperor Sigismund has no jurisdiction over me, and no court in the world would deny that Count Mortimer, an Englishman born, could be legally married at a British Consulate. On his side the marriage must stand, and if they declare it invalid on mine—well, we will be married over and over again until they are content to allow it to stand. But there must not be the slightest suspicion of any flaw. You will see to that, messieurs?” She looked at the three men.
“There shall be none,” responded Lord Caerleon.
“It will be better,” said Cyril, “to tell no one but Monckton of our change of plan until the morning. With the best intentions in the world, Phil and the young fellows could not help letting it be seen that they had an important secret in charge, and the least slip might ruin us. I suppose, Chevalier,”—he was fingering absently Princess Soudaroff’s letter, which the Queen had asked him to read,—“it has occurred to you that Vladimir Alexandrovitch had some object in giving away his fellow-conspirators like this?”
“You mean det he intended to let you hef a hint to escape, Count?”
“Not necessarily. I think he has some other plan on hand—more important to him, though not to the Emperor Sigismund—and he has deliberately sacrificed his ally in order to divert your attention from his own game.”
“But what iss det?” cried the Chevalier distractedly.
“Ah, that you must not ask me. I could have told you once, I don’t doubt, but now”—he shrugged his shoulders. “Think it out if you can, Chevalier.”
“It iss hopeless, Count. I gif it up. My aim now iss to see you safely merried to her Machesty, and I can think of nothink else.”
The three conspirators took their leave of the Queen, and departed to put things in train for the next day’s ceremony. Lord Caerleon paid a visit to Colonel Monckton, the British Consul, and bespoke his consent to the change of date and his assistance in the necessary arrangements. Cyril sent Paschics to look for Yeshua (the blind man had returned to Damascus with the Queen and her escort), who was to find his way to the sheikh of the Beni Ismail, and tell him that he and his tribe would be needed to guard their sovereign and her husband to Sitt Zeynab two days earlier than the time agreed upon. The Chevalier, on his side, devised a little plan of his own for hoodwinking the enemy, and having laid his train, devoted his attention to procuring the tents and supplies for the journey.
The next morning there was a kind of informal reception at the British Consulate. The Chevalier took Mr Judson there to make final arrangements with the Consul, and Lady Caerleon looked in to have a talk with Mrs Monckton. Paschics appeared with a document which needed signing, and an unfortunate accident led to the invasion of the house by several other and more important guests. The Queen and her son, with General Banics and M. Stefanovics in attendance, were going out for a ride with Lord Caerleon, Philippa, and Usk, but just outside the Consulate the Queen’s horse cast a shoe. It was only natural that her Majesty and her companions should be invited into the house for a few minutes; but it was certainly strange that Baroness von Hilfenstein, Madame Stefanovics, and Fräulein von Staubach should have chosen that particular time for calling upon Mrs Monckton in a body. Possibly, however, they felt the need of some distraction after the shock they had received when their mistress informed them that the exquisite creation in grey and silver, fresh from a Parisian atelier, which had arrived that morning, would not be worn on New Year’s day. Curiously enough (Philippa said afterwards that the array of coincidences in connection with this wedding surpassed those associated with the name of Mr Wemmick), Cyril invited Mansfield to take a stroll with him as far as the Consulate just at this time.
“What’s this I hear about you from my brother, Mansfield?” he asked, as they started; “that you have refused Forfar’s post?”
“I prefer to stay with you, Count. I don’t want to change.”
“But you can’t stay with me. Do you know where you are going at this moment? You are going to see me married, which means that we must part.”
“But, Count——” gasped Mansfield, in dire dismay.
“I don’t wish to be unkind, but doesn’t it strike you that you would be just a little de trop on the honeymoon trip? And really, you know, it would be a perfect farce for me to drag two secretaries about with me now.”
“And you mean to keep Paschics, and kick me out?”
“My dear Mansfield, don’t look at me as if I had pierced your young heart to its depths. Paschics must stay with me. He has worked under me more than twenty years, and asks nothing better than to go on as he has done. It would be sheer cruelty to send him adrift at his age. But you have your life before you, and I am not going to see you stranded in the desert with me or any one else.”
“You are not treating me well,” said Mansfield hoarsely. “I have not deserved to be turned off at a moment’s notice like this. You do it because you know how I—how fond—how much I think of you, and you feel that you can treat me like a dog.”
“That’s right. Your way of taking it relieves me infinitely. Do you know that your precipitate refusal of Forfar’s offer has given me a great deal of trouble—most inconsiderate of you to bother a man in this way just on the eve of his wedding. The Chevalier and I have put our heads together, and he has found a berth for you——”
“Hang the Chevalier!” cried Mansfield. Cyril went on, unmoved.
“He wants an Englishman to act as his agent in superintending his various model farms and gardens in Palestine. He doesn’t expect you to see that he isn’t cheated, for that would be hopeless; but he thinks you are capable of discovering whether the work is done or not, which seems to be rather a moot question at present. It will be a life after your own heart, with plenty of riding about. You will choose a spot that suits you and build your house, and in a year or so I haven’t a doubt you will bring a wife to inhabit it.”
“Why you should say that, I don’t know. You know as well as I do——”
“Well?” for Mansfield faltered.
“That Lady Phil will marry King Michael.”
“Don’t you think you are taking things a little too much for granted?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care, anyhow. It seems I have to lose everything I care about—first Lady Phil, then you.”
Cyril made no answer. Perhaps he had no comfort to offer; perhaps no time to offer it. They were entering the Consulate, and Mr Hicks, who was lounging in the doorway, greeted them with portentous solemnity and an almost imperceptible wink. The guests who had assembled in such a casual way were gathered in one of the larger rooms, and Mr Judson, wearing his surplice, was in readiness. Often as most of those present had pictured this wedding to themselves, they had never anticipated anything like the real scene—the large bare room, hastily decorated with a collection of European nicknacks and Oriental draperies gathered from all corners of the house, the bride wearing her riding-habit and the bridegroom a tweed suit, and the motley assemblage of spectators, in which King Michael stood side by side with the Chevalier Goldberg, and the American journalist rubbed shoulders with the Thracian Court officials. It was only fitting that the pair whose history had at so many points touched that of the Hebrew race should be united by the son of a Jewish convert; but the irony of the occasion found its climax in the fact that the woman who had risked so much in defence of the forms of her religion should be debarred not only from the services of a clergyman of her own church, but even from the use of a consecrated building, and should bear the deprivation without a murmur.
In an incredibly short space of time the service which seemed so brief and meant so much was over, and Cyril and his wife were receiving the congratulations of the rest. There was small scope for oratory in the farewells. Mansfield’s sore heart was a little comforted by the grip of Cyril’s hand as he passed him in the doorway, even though the accompanying words were merely, “Don’t be a silly fool!” Another horse had been brought round for the Queen’s use, and the riding-party made a fresh start; but this time it included Cyril. Paschics and Dietrich were to join their master outside the city, convoying Fräulein von Staubach, who insisted upon her right to attend the Queen now that her turn had come round. The men took off their hats as the party rode away, but turned immediately to rebuke the ladies for shedding tears. Such a display of pocket-handkerchiefs was calculated to attract undesirable attention, they said, and Baroness von Hilfenstein and Madame Stefanovics retreated into the inmost recesses of the house, to guard against endangering the Queen’s safety by their uncontrollable emotion. But the fugitives rode safely through the city and out at the gate, meeting the sheikh as had been arranged, without being challenged by a single official.
That evening the yacht White Lady, lying in Beyrout roadstead, suddenly hoisted English colours and the Thracian royal standard, and put to sea, in company with the Thracian gunboat St Gabriel. It was remarked as peculiar by curious observers on shore that the Hercynian war-ship which had arrived that morning immediately slipped her cable and followed them.
“Phil, I want a word or two with you.”
“I’m so glad, father. I’ve been longing for a talk. Let us come up to the roof.”
They mounted to the marble terrace, shaded by orange-trees in pots, and Lord Caerleon began to pull off withered leaves as busily as if he had had no other intention in coming. Suddenly he turned to his daughter, who sat watching him patiently, the usual sparkle of fun missing from her blue eyes.
“Phil, the King wants your answer. You promised he should have it the day after the wedding, and that is to-day.”
“I don’t think he ought to take a mean advantage of your having put the wedding forward two days, do you, father? But perhaps it’s as well to get it over.”
“I—I hope you’ve thought what you’re doing, Phil?”
“Well, it hasn’t needed very much thought. I have known all along what I should say.”
“Phil,” Lord Caerleon spoke with tremendous energy, “I am awfully anxious about you. It’s not that I distrust your common-sense, for you are old enough to judge for yourself, nor that I suspect you for a moment of intending to marry for the sake of a crown. But I was talking things over with your mother last night, and she is very much cut up—afraid that your sense of duty will lead you to accept the King. I don’t want to bias you unfairly—we have always prided ourselves on leaving you as free as possible—but you may not have thought what such a marriage would involve. I have tested the delights of royalty, you know, and I felt that I could not stand it alone. With your mother to help me I might have managed it, but—you know how things fell out. I suppose it may be different when you are born to it—I am sure I hope so for the sake of all royal personages—but I am absolutely certain that my little girl could never support such a burden and that of a loveless marriage at the same time. I am only thinking of your happiness, Phil.”
“Oh, father, I know that. But I’m not nearly as good as you and mother think. I never dreamed of accepting the King.”
“Phil, Phil! then why did you take time to consider his offer?”
“Don’t look so miserable, father. Can’t you really guess? It was just after the Queen—Aunt Ernestine, I mean—and I had found out about poor Uncle Cyril. She begged me to keep the King in a good temper, and this was the only way of doing it. And it was quite successful, you see. He has been on his best behaviour the whole time, and everything has gone off well.”
“And now?”
“Oh, now,” Philippa shook herself uncomfortably,—“now I have to pay the bill.”
“I’ll settle matters with the King for you, Phil. It wasn’t like you to do such a thing, and I shall be horribly ashamed, but your intention was good, at any rate.”
“No, father, I won’t put it upon you. I am the sinner, and I must bear the penalty. Yes, I suppose it was rather like doing evil that good might come, wasn’t it? You can’t think how wicked and miserable I have felt, and Usk and—people—have been so horrid, and I couldn’t explain. But you see how it was, don’t you? I would have done anything to help Uncle Cyril.”
“Yes, I see, Phil. But I am more sorry than I can say. I am afraid——”
“Oh, father, don’t say you are disappointed in me, or you’ll break my heart. I don’t care if all the whole world turn their backs upon me, if my own people trust me still—indeed I don’t.”
“Poor little Phil! I hope it mayn’t be as bad as that.”
“Well, I can’t help it if it is. Please let the King come up here, father, if he will have his answer. It’s a horrid thing to do, but it has got to be done. Would you rather have an ambitious daughter scheming for a throne, or a wicked flirt entangling the affections of poor young men and then casting them aside?”
Lord Caerleon’s smile was troubled as he went down the stairs, and Philippa fairly shivered. She felt miserably that her hands were not clean in the matter, and this unprecedented experience handicapped her seriously as regarded the approaching interview. With the instinct of self-protection, she straightened her tie as she heard footsteps ascending the staircase, tucked away a curl that was straggling over her brow, and did her best to look absolutely unapproachable, and even rather indignant at being subjected to such an ordeal. Her blushes she could not control, however, and King Michael, never a very close observer, may be pardoned for reading in them, when he reached the roof, an encouragement to his suit.
“You have sent for me to tell me that you will share my throne, Lady Phil?” he cried, with genuine delight and admiration in his tones.
Philippa’s downcast eyes were raised suddenly, and met his with an indignant flash. It was this young man’s misfortune that he could never forget his throne. “No, certainly not—just the opposite,” she replied promptly.
“But you—you gave me hope.” The King was angry in his turn.
“That I never did. It isn’t my fault if you took it.”
“But why did you ask for time?”
“I didn’t. You insisted I was not to give an answer at once.”
“Oh, you thought you would make a fool of me, Lady Phil?”
It was on the tip of Philippa’s tongue to reply that no such process was needed, but she choked back the retort. “I warned you I should not change,” she said.
“But your taking time to think gave me ground for hope, and all the considerations I have urged in your hearing the last few days could only influence you in my favour. Have you given them due thought?”
“No,” said Philippa, with sudden humility, “I haven’t, because it would be no good. Nothing could ever make me marry you. The truth is that I didn’t refuse you definitely because I thought you would make yourself disagreeable to your mother and Uncle Cyril if I did. I haven’t treated you well, and I am very sorry and very much ashamed.”
“You are willing to take the responsibility of throwing me back into my old way of life, and undoing all the good that the last few months have effected in the kingdom? I suppose you know that I shall go to the bad, and that my ruin and the ruin of Thracia will be on your head?”
“I can’t marry you for the sake of your kingdom.”
“Then I presume that there is nothing left for me to do but to retire as gracefully as I can.”
“Yes, there is something else to do,” said Philippa sharply. “You ought to learn to take a disappointment like a man, not like a baby.”
“Pray continue, Lady Phil. You have the right to rebuke me.”
The sarcastic tone roused Philippa’s anger. “I did treat you badly, and I have told you I am sorry for it,” she cried. “You are very angry with me, but it never seems to strike you how selfish you have been all this time. You know that I don’t care a scrap for you, but you have been trying to get me to marry you by making out that it would be for the good of your kingdom. You know that I should be miserable—perfectly miserable—but you don’t mind a bit.”
“On my honour as a king, I would do my best to make you happy.”
“But you couldn’t; how could you? You aren’t the right person. Besides,” Philippa rushed on hastily, “even if I cared for you I couldn’t bear to be a Queen. I want to be free, to be able to go about and do as I like. It would kill me to be cooped up and never able to get away from people.”
“But that is my life, always.”
“Oh, you like it. You would be miserable if you hadn’t people for ever hanging about and keeping an eye on you. But I have heard all about it from my father, and though I suppose one could just bear it if one loved a person very much, still—well, I don’t love you, you know.”
“It is a happy prospect for me, since you consider me unable to inspire love, and yet think that love alone could induce a woman to take up such a burden.”
“Oh, but you might find some one who liked it, some princess who was born to that sort of thing. Besides, there’s no reason why another person should not love you, though I don’t.”
“Pardon me, Lady Phil—my selfishness?”
“But you must cure that. Don’t talk about going to the bad and ruining your kingdom because I refuse you. It’s a miserable, cowardly thing to say. What has your kingdom got to do with me? It’s yours, not mine, and you are responsible for it. Besides, you can’t pretend that all the interest you have taken in it lately has been for my sake. You know you find it interesting yourself. These last few months you have been a real king, looking into things and forming your own opinion about them, and your people are pleased. You couldn’t go back to your old way of leaving everything to your Ministers if you wished. You are far too fond of power.”
“Indeed, Lady Phil, I believe you are right.” The King looked surprised, and somewhat ashamed. “After what you have said I can’t very well be so selfish as to entreat you again to make yourself miserable for my sake, and I will try to feel glad that I am to be miserable instead. I may be lonely, but at least you will be happy.”
“Oh, no!” cried Philippa, her eyes filling with tears. “It’s too late.”
“Allow me to ask you one question,” said King Michael, judiciously ignoring the tears. “Do you refuse me because you care for any one else? I think I have the right to ask, for if I am so fortunate as to be without a rival, there might be some hope for me in the future.”
“Oh, no!” cried Philippa again. Then, her honest heart fearing that the negative might convey a false impression, she added, in an agony of blushes, “It isn’t fair—it is very unkind of you to ask, because he has never said anything, but there is some one.”
“Thank you. That was all I wanted to know,” said the King. He lifted Philippa’s reluctant hand and kissed it, then took his leave gravely.
“Why, he is a man after all!” said Philippa to herself, as he went down the steps. She was too miserable to rise and look after him, or she would have seen him stop in crossing the court, and address Mansfield, who was driving the gold-fish to distraction by throwing pebbles into the fountain. Wild horses could not have dragged Mansfield from the hotel that morning. He had been bearing from the Chevalier of the duties and emoluments of his new post, but his interest had been so languid that the financier was half offended, and had taken his departure without giving him an invitation to accompany him to Jerusalem, as he had intended. It was a relief to Mansfield to see him go, for he had only one wish, to be left alone. Philippa was to make her decision to-day, and he must know the worst. As he sat upon the edge of the fountain, and took half-hearted shots at the gold-fish, he became aware that King Michael was approaching him, had paused beside him. To triumph over his discomfiture, of course! thought Mansfield, and refused to turn his head and look at his rival.
“Mr Mansfield,” said the King, “I yield in your favour the match at billiards which we were to decide this evening. It was foolish of me to contest the point, for your success was never in doubt. Only,” his tone was so significant that Mansfield glanced up in spite of himself, “let me advise you never again to throw down your cue in disgust before the end. It is not fair to—the game.”
Their eyes met, and Mansfield read the meaning which underlay the words.
“You are a good fellow!” he said hastily. “I ought to have known that your mother’s son couldn’t be a cad.”
“Allow me to thank you in my mother’s name,” and King Michael went on his way, lighting a cigarette with a hand which did not shake more than a very little. Mansfield watched him out of sight, then, waking as if from a dream, mounted the staircase four or five steps at a time, and presented himself suddenly before Philippa.
“I’ve been a regular beast, Lady Phil,” he cried. “Forgive me.”
Philippa raised a tear-stained face with a little start.
“Oh!” she said, “it’s you!”
“You do forgive me, don’t you?” persisted Mansfield.
“But what has it to do with me?” Philippa was on the defensive again.
“I thought you were going to marry the King.”
“But what has that to do with you?” with the faintest suspicion of a smile about the corners of the mouth.
“It’s because I love you. Oh, Phil, you know it, you have known it for a long time. It nearly drove me mad to think I had lost you.”
Philippa drew herself up. “But how do you know you haven’t?” she asked. “And, besides, how can you lose a thing you have never had?”
Mansfield turned pale, but recovered himself promptly. “Are you trying to torment me because you know I care for you?” he demanded.
“I think you are a little too fond of taking things for granted,” said Philippa demurely, looking away from him.
“Well, there shall be no doubt about it in future,” said Mansfield, seizing her hands. “Look at me and tell me whether you care for me or not. Answer me, Phil.”
“Oh, you are hurting my wrists! You are unkind! I—I——”
“If you don’t care for me, it can’t hurt you to look at me and say so. I will let you go the moment you do.”
“It’s very wrong of you to tempt me to tell a story,” said Philippa, with a sigh.
“By all means tell the truth, then.”
“But then you won’t let me go. There! I knew it.”
“Then you do care? Tell the truth, Phil.”
“Just a little.” For one moment the blue eyes met Mansfield’s, then they were hidden; but he was satisfied.
“Ugh! it is cold,” cried Usk, throwing his reins to a gorgeously apparelled groom. “What a blessing to get in out of this beastly wind!”
It was the second of January, and the genial, if unseasonable, weather of the past month had been succeeded by hard frosts and biting blasts, most difficult to cope with in a summer city like Damascus. Usk and Mr Judson dismounted from their horses and entered the hotel, stamping vigorously to warm their frozen feet.
“A cup of Phil’s hottest tea suggests itself as a suitable restorative,” Usk went on. “After all, there are some advantages in her choosing to sit over the stove with her young man instead of facing the wintry wind. Come in, Judson. The family party is assembled, you see. What!” with an instantaneous change of tone as his eye fell upon Philippa’s dark-blue habit and Mansfield’s leggings, “you unblushing pair of frauds, do you mean to say that you went out, after all?”
“Oh, we had a little ride on our own account,” said Philippa calmly.
“Your society is always delightful, Usk, but sometimes it is slightly wearing,” said Mansfield, who had endured a good deal at the hands of his future brother-in-law during the last three days.
“Ah, you lazy beggar, I know now why you cried off going to Jerusalem with the poor old Chevalier! It’s perfectly sickening to see Phil demoralising you with her attentions when she won’t even give her only and frozen brother a cup of tea.”
“Sit still, Phil. I will pour out the tea,” said Lady Caerleon, with a loving pat on her daughter’s shoulder. In Philippa’s love-story her mother renewed her own youth, and in her overflowing happiness forgot to curb the little caressing ways which she had spent her married life in trying to repress as un-English.
“I wonder we haven’t had a telegram from the Chevalier, or, at any rate, from Hicks,” said Mansfield, jumping up to pour some more water into the teapot for Lady Caerleon. “They both promised to let us know how the transfer of power went off.”
“It’s a curious thing,” said Lord Caerleon; “but I met Monckton just now, and he tells me that no telegrams have come from Jerusalem to-day or yesterday, and no letters to-day. They hear that there has been a heavy snowfall in the south, and the Jerusalem trains have not arrived at Jaffa, so the post may be interrupted; but it seems queer that the city should be altogether isolated.”
“I hope poor old Goldberg hasn’t got snowed up on his journey,” laughed Usk. “Hicks has a pretty fair idea of making himself comfortable; but the Chevalier doesn’t know the ropes as he does. Besides, it must be soothing to be able to turn an honest penny out of one’s misfortunes by writing a column or two about them.”
“Perhaps the Roumis have refused to budge, after all,” suggested Mr Judson. “They are quite capable of holding on in spite of their promises, and the provisional government have no means of making them turn out.”
“That would be a deadlock, indeed,” said Lord Caerleon. “We must hope——”
“Why, here’s the Chevalier himself!” cried Usk, and all eyes were turned to the doorway, where the financier stood like a man in a dream, travel-stained and bent, with disordered garments.
“My dear Chevalier!” said Lord Caerleon, advancing and taking him by the arm. “Come and sit down; you are ill—frozen, perhaps.”
“I am not ill, but sick at heart. Yerushalem, de holy city, de choy off de whole earth”—his voice rose into a cry of agony—“iss in de hends off Scythia. O God——” he broke into Hebrew, “the heathen are come into Thine inheritance.... Oh that Thou wouldst rend the heavens, that Thou wouldst come down, that the mountains might flow down at Thy presence!”
“Cyril’s warning!” cried Lady Caerleon.
“Yes,” said the Chevalier heavily, “he warned me, but I did not see. None off us saw. We are helpless widout him. O my broder, de cheriot off Israel and de horsemen dereof! All our labour iss in fain. I hef beggared myself for dis!”
“But how did it happen?” urged Mr Judson. “How was it possible——”
“Dey hed deir plens laid. Eferythink wass arranched beforehend. Dey knoo det widout de Count we hed no head to metch Prince Soudaroff’s. Efen de Armenians—de irreconcilables—hed been squared.”
“But did you escape?” cried Lord Caerleon; “or were you warned in time?”
“I heard de noose yesterday efenink, Mr Hicks and I were delayed in our chourney by de snow—we were fumink to think we hed missed de great ceremony. Den, ess we approached de City on horsebeck, we were met by Levinssohn, one off de profissional gofernment, who hed escaped, and pauced to warn me, lest de enemy should get command of de Goldberg millions by seizink me. He told us de story.”
“Yes, yes, and what had happened?” cried everybody.
“De transfer off power wass made yesterday mornink in proper form, de Roumi gofernor hendink ofer to de consuls de charche off de Holy Places, and to de profissional gofernment de control off de city and de remainink troops. Dere wass great rechoicink—light and gledness, a feast and a goot day. De Letins were celebratink de feast off de Circumecision, de Greeks, busy preparink to fissit Bethlehem for deir Christmas Day, were all widin doors. It iss not known how de disturbance began. I cannot beliefe det my people—but dey hef bitter memories to afenche, and dey hef disappointed me griefously off late. At any rate, de Letins declare det de Chews broke in upon one off deir serfices, and insulted de worshippers. De noose spread like wildfire, de Letins poured from all deir churches and confents, and gadered in de street before de Serai, now become de bureau off de profissional gofernment. De members were all assembled et deir deliberations. Suddenly dey found de buildink besieched, so det dey must needs berricade demselfs in. De consuls, hearink de uproar, ordered de Roumi troops to clear de street and quell de disturbance, but dey hed been got at. Dey refuced to mofe except under de orders off de profissional gofernment, and dose orders it wass impossible to obtain, on account off de mob riotink between. De consuls, attemptink to use deir influence, were insulted and derided. Den de Scythian consul propoced a plen. ‘Dere are here’ said he, ‘two thousand or more Scythian and Thracian pilgrims, who hef all done military serfice and are amenable to discipline. In a quarter off an hour I can assemble dem from de different confents where dey are quartered, and dey will ect ess police under de orders off de consular body, armed wid sticks and such oder weapons ess dey can improfice.’ De consuls were doubtful, and de British consul propoced to arm de Chews instead, but de idea wass scouted. Arm de wicked bloodthirsty Chews against de mild chentle Christians—nefer! De crisis wass acute, and de consuls yielded. Den appeared a marfel. De two thousand pilgrims were dere—and a thousand more wid dem—and wonderful to relate, dere wass also de Scythian Cheneral Adrianoff, on pilgrimache, two or three colonels and machors, seferal captains, lieutenants, sub-lieutenants, all on pilgrimache—officers for an army. De pilgrims assembled, profided wid sticks by de monks. De Cheneral Adrianoff wass neturally put in command off de force. ‘Shoulder arms!’ and beholt, efery stick wass a rifle! Emmunition wass immediately forthcomink, and so wass a machine-gun and its kerrich. De Cheneral Adrianoff marched out to conquer. De street was quickly cleared, de Cheneral approaches to release and reassure de members off de gofernment, when a tumult arices amonk his own men. De Bishop Philaret off Tatarjé hess discofered a plot on de part off de Chews to blow up de Church off de Holy Sepulchre wid dynamite. All de Christians off efery sect and church are transported wid rache. Perish de Chews! De pilgrims dessire to tear de gofernment to pieces, de Cheneral Adrianoff places de members under arrest to save dem from dese frients off order. A new confusion! De Roumis hef been informed by de Bishop det de plot wass directed also against de Haram-es-Sherif—de holy place off all Israel from de beginnink!—and all de soldiers come runnink to put demselfs under de orders off de Cheneral to fight against dose wretched Chews. In fiew off de serious state of affairs, de Cheneral does not hessitate a moment. He clears de streets, proclaims himself gofernor off de city ess representink de Emperor off Scythia, and reliefes de consuls off deir functions ess guardians off de Holy Places. De British and Pannonian consuls protest; dey cannot ressist, for anoder miracle hess heppened. Efery Greek or Scythian church and confent and larche buildink hess become a fort. Cannon are mounted on deir walls, de monks are soldiers, dere iss emmunition in plenty. To de stupefection off de consuls, de Cheneral’s forces occupy efery strategical point, dey command efery corner off de city. Scythia hess been preparink de ground for many years, now she hess played her game, and won.”
“But this is monstrous, unheard-of!” cried Lord Caerleon. “It will never be allowed to go on. England——”
“England,” said the Chevalier bitterly, “will protest.”
“But the rest of the Powers—Neustria, Hercynia——”
“Neustria iss led by de noce by Scythia. Hercynia hess, no doubt, receifed gretifyink assurances—her consul did not efen go through de form off protestink. Pannonia and Magnagrecia will be coerced or flettered into ecquiescence.”
“Then you think it is useless to struggle against this outrageous usurpation?”
“We shell make representations, doubtless. But do we wish to be deprifed altogeder off de Land we hef bought? We must submit to circumstances, until”—there was a cunning gleam in the Chevalier’s eye—“we can alter dem. Det will be de task off de remainder off my life—to return de poisson of dese reptiles upon deir own head. I tell you”—he turned fiercely upon Mr Judson, who had made a deprecating gesture—“I would conclude an alliance wid de Enemy off menkind himself to get dis wronk redressed!”
“Oh, Chevalier!” cried Lady Caerleon, “be patient. Can you not wait upon God a little longer? Think how wonderfully He has furthered your plans during the last few years—how the way of the Kings of the East has been prepared in spite of what seemed insuperable obstacles.”
“Kinks off de East!” cried the Chevalier. “A month ago we were de kinks off de worrlt! Shell we rest contented wid a gofernment sittink at Hebron or Nablûs, regulatink metters off commerce and land, when de Holy City iss in de hends of idolaters, persecutors, creepink things, and de sons off de apostate are gadered togeder to mock at us?”
“You are misjudging me, Chevalier,” remonstrated Mr Judson, against whom the last sentence had been directed. “I feel the wrong done as deeply as you do, although the study of prophecy had warned me that some blow of the kind might be expected.”
“At least leafe us our prophecies!” cried the Chevalier. “May we not interpret dem in our own way, or must de renegades steal dem also?”
“We have no wish to rob you of them; but you must not try to exclude us Hebrew Christians from the heritage of Israel. Yours are the adoption, and the glory, and the covenants, and the promises; but they are ours, too. Don’t refuse our help. I think you have no idea of the deep interest taken in the Jewish question in Evangelical circles in England. Give us leave to do what we can to arouse these English friends of Zion, and stimulate them to action. Believe me, when the facts are fully known, there will be such a strong feeling throughout the country, with regard to the action of Scythia, that the Government will be forced to insist on her withdrawing from Jerusalem.”
“Accept help from de apostate? Nefer, son off a traitor! I will unite wid Christians, wid agnostics, wid Reformed Chews, wid de Adfersary himself, in de cause off Zion, but not wid you. You hef no part in de congregation off Israel.”
“Come, Chevalier,” said Lady Caerleon, laying her hand on his clenched fist, as he shook it furiously at Mr Judson, “you are over-excited. Rest a little, and have a cup of tea,” she motioned the young people away, “and then we will talk things over quietly, and see what can be done.”
“Have you thought what all this will mean to Uncle Cyril?” asked Philippa of Mansfield, as they left the room together. He nodded gravely.
“I know. He came into my mind first thing. It’s awful.”
“To see all his work undone, and to know that he can’t put it right!” wailed Philippa, breaking down suddenly. “I think his heart will break, or—or——” the more terrible fear remained unuttered.
“Do you know,” said Mansfield diffidently, “I don’t think it will break him altogether. It might have done once, but he has some one else to think of now. He will have his wife to comfort and take care of, and that helps a man, Phil.”
“‘It is very good for strength, To know that some one needs you to be strong,’” reflected Philippa. “Oh, dear!” she cried, with a watery smile, “I’m quoting poetry again, just as Uncle Cyril told me not to.”
It is possible that Philippa’s anxiety might have been somewhat relieved if she could have read a confidential letter from Queen Ernestine to her mother, written some months later:—