REASONS OF STATE.
The reader will without doubt expect to hear that the King appeared
in public at his usual hour the next morning, bearing the traces of
the night’s vigil in his haggard face and deeply lined brow; that he
went through the day’s business with invincible resolution, but with
an abstracted manner, the gloom of which was lightened by an
occasional unconquerable sigh; and that he frequently put his hand to
his forehead as though to push back the brooding weight of care which
oppressed him. It is disappointing to be obliged to chronicle the fact
that Caerleon made no attempt to act in this heroic but rather
harrowing fashion. He did not appear at all outside his own rooms, but
remained shut up in his study, where he buried himself in the piles of
blue-books and parliamentary reports for which he had sent to London,
growling at Cyril through the door when he besieged him in his
retreat, and sending word to M. Drakovics that if he had anything
special to communicate he might state his message in writing. For
three days he laboured unceasingly, consulting authorities, drawing
up, testing, and destroying draft schemes, guarded by the faithful
Wright, who had been summoned from the stables by a sudden message
from his master, and informed all comers that “’is Majesty was not to
be disturbed.” The fact that he would have found great pleasure in
knocking the Premier down, if he had attempted to force an entrance
into the room, undoubtedly contributed to the success of his
guardianship.
It happened fortunately that nothing occurred during the three days to
render necessary an interview between the King and his Minister, and
Cyril and M. Drakovics, giving out that Caerleon had not yet recovered
from the illness which had attacked him at the ball, took things into
their own hands, and got through a large amount of important business.
In so far as international politics were concerned, their course lay
at present chiefly in the direction of bluff, for the Powers, scarcely
recovered from their surprise at Caerleon’s election, had not as yet
determined upon the action to be taken in the matter. Notes and
protests were flying about from cabinet to cabinet, and the papers
announced daily, with awful and mysterious joy, that such and such a
statesman had been closeted for over an hour with such and such a
potentate, or that this great personage had visited that great
personage, and that each had emerged from the interview with a clouded
brow. In England, Parliament was enjoying a long recess, and the few
stray politicians who were in the habit of arrogating to themselves an
interest in the peace of Europe were reduced to writing frantic
letters to the papers to demand that a special session should be
summoned immediately for the purpose of dethroning Caerleon, or else
to inquire why the Government did not at once recognise him as King of
Thracia, according to the direction taken by their respective
sympathies.
But Cyril’s chief concern was with less responsible
individuals,--inventors who wished Caerleon to purchase the secret of
their new and destructive engines of warfare, or Englishmen who were
anxious either to enlist in the Thracian army or to raise a troop of
irregular horse in the King’s name. To them all Cyril replied with a
polite assurance that at the present moment the Thracian army was on
so satisfactory a footing that his Majesty had no intention of
increasing it, but that when he did so, the correspondent’s obliging
offer should be borne in mind. This form of words committed Caerleon
to nothing, while intimating also that although he desired peace he
was prepared for war, and it was calculated to convey a gentle warning
to Scythia, and to keep the rest of Europe in a state of agreeable
expectancy. Cyril was not a little pleased with his own capacity for
statecraft, and he did his best to raise the spirits of M. Drakovics,
who was inclined to fear that the King’s persistent seclusion
foreshadowed some kind of _coup d’état_, or even a determination to
govern altogether without a Minister in future. Caerleon was merely
working off his disappointment, Cyril assured the Premier, and he
would be all right in a day or two. But even Cyril had not calculated
on the manner in which his brother had employed his time in his
solitude. It was brought to his knowledge at last through the medium
of Wright, who on the third evening after the ball entered the
smoking-room, where Cyril was sitting with M. Drakovics, and laid a
large sealed envelope on the table between them.
“’Is Majesty says, my lord, will you and ’is Excellency,” with a nod
in the direction of the Premier, “kindly read that, and be ready to
discuss with ’im to-morrow any improvements you can suggest.”
It was with no small apprehension that Cyril and M. Drakovics, when
Wright had departed, opened and read the paper. They did not quite
know what they feared, but their brows grew no lighter as they
advanced, and at the close Cyril summed up in a tone of utter
despair--
“A strict system of licensing to be established for three years all
through the kingdom, preparatory to the general adoption of a
modification of the Gothenburg scheme! It is the biggest thing ever
undertaken in the temperance way!”
“It is absolutely impossible,” said M. Drakovics. “It cannot be done.”
“I am very much afraid it will have to be done,” said Cyril, “if you
mean to keep your king. Caerleon has always been mad on the subject of
temperance. His extreme views on that question destroyed his chances
of office in England, and it would be just like him to risk his crown
by putting them forward now. Besides, monsieur, it is just possible he
may have noticed that there is sometimes a slight confusion as to
which of you is King and which is Minister, and that he means to have
it cleared up.”
“It cannot be done,” repeated M. Drakovics, hopelessly, as he rose to
go home, taking the paper with him; but when he met his sovereign in
the morning he found that the plea of impossibility was not accepted.
“I am not King for my own pleasure, nor did I come here to rule
Thracia in accordance with your ideas, M. Drakovics,” said Caerleon,
“but for her own good. If I can’t do that, I had better go back to
England.”
“But this legislation is undertaken so suddenly--so early in your
Majesty’s reign,” objected M. Drakovics.
“Exactly. The people are well affected towards me just now, and will
accept a change more readily than they would later, when things had
settled down. But of course I have no intention of forcing my views on
them against their will.”
“Your Majesty will listen to my advice on the subject?”
“As to the best method of introducing the scheme, certainly. I know
that you agree with me as to the necessity of stringent
legislation--you have said so several times. I think it will be best
to bring in the measure at once as a Government bill, letting it be
known at the same time that my retaining the crown depends upon its
passing without delay.”
“This is interfering with the liberty of the subject with a
vengeance!” said Cyril. “Are you really bent on risking your crown in
this way, Caerleon?”
“I will not rule over a nation of drunkards,” returned Caerleon.
“But set to work gradually. Do things by degrees,” urged Cyril.
“And establish vested interests,” said Caerleon, quickly, “and thus
have all our difficulties at home reproduced? No; things are in a
state of chaos at present, and there is just this chance of bringing
them into order. The more thoughtful among the people see that
something must be done, and the Thracians will understand--and
appreciate--a single act of authority--call it despotism if you
like--better than any amount of compromises.”
“But why not go the whole hog, then, and decree prohibition right off?
I know that is what you temperance fanatics are always aiming at in
the far distance.”
“Because it would simply lead to the spread of smuggling and secret
distilling, and an illicit traffic which the police would be bribed to
condone. They would be corrupted, and the people as bad as ever.
Moreover, we should need to revise our commercial treaties, especially
with Pannonia, so as to forbid the importation of spirits, and this is
too big a thing to be carried through in a hurry, particularly just
now. And then, though you call me a fanatic, I am not so bigoted a
temperance man as to feel called upon to deprive those people of
alcohol for whom a moderate amount of it may be desirable, or even
necessary. I merely wish to keep the younger generation from growing
up with a taste for dram-drinking, and to make it impossible for men
to meet at the _cafés_ and muddle themselves with adulterated spirits
as they do now.”
“But why fool about with licences at all, instead of establishing your
beloved Gothenburg system at once throughout the kingdom?”
“Because our present statistics are so imperfect that we have no idea
either as to the number of existing public-houses, or the proportion
which would meet the actual needs of the country. At present, any man
who has a front yard and a table has only to borrow a bench or two and
get in a cask of spirits on credit, and there is a new dram-shop. To
buy out all these fellows at once would entail an expense impossible
for us to meet. In future, as you see, no further taverns are to be
opened, except by permission from the central authority, while each
year, by means of the sum of money I propose to appropriate for the
purpose from my civil list, the rights of a certain number of existing
proprietors will be compulsorily acquired. By the end of the third
year we ought to have reduced the multitude of public-houses to
something corresponding with the needs of the country, and then there
will be a chance for the Gothenburg system. The surviving publicans,
who will have been chosen for their good behaviour and careful
management during the three years of probation, will have become used
to State control, and will have the choice of continuing their
employment as salaried servants of the State, or of being bought out
at once. I know the scheme is not perfect, but it is the best I can
devise with the means at our disposal. We have to deal with the
Thracians as we find them.”
“Then what are the advantages you claim?”
“Restriction without confiscation, the limitation of public-houses to
the smallest possible number, the placing of control in the hands of
an impartial central department, with trustworthy inspectors at its
command, instead of biassed local bodies, and the chance of weaning
the younger generation from the drinking habits of their fathers.”
“I call it grandmotherly legislation,” murmured Cyril.
“There are worse things even than that. I am convinced that this is
our one opportunity of action, while the country is in its present
unsettled state. The licensing plan will be established before the
people know where they are, and according to the scheme that will
develop into the Gothenburg system as soon as the idea has become
general. If you will be so good as to have the Bill drafted, M.
Drakovics, I shall be glad to go through the several clauses with
you.”
And Caerleon saw his brother and his Prime Minister retire
discomfited. The die was cast. He had embarked on the course Nadia had
pointed out, and begun the work to which she had urged him. At least
she would know that he was doing his best. His action might be
unconstitutional, but if so, that was for the people to resent. If
they were wise, they would prefer to be well governed, even by a
stretch of the royal prerogative, rather than continue in their
present state. If they were not wise, they might seek another king.
But the Thracians proved that they were wise. Caerleon’s researches
into the social life of Bellaviste, and some of his speeches to
prominent persons since he had been in the city, had awakened public
feeling on the subject of the drinking customs of the community. The
chief desire of the people was to appear in the eyes of Europe as an
enlightened nation, and it was a grievous blow for them to discover
that they had struck their new King as an assemblage of drunkards. The
reproach must be rolled away, and the proposal for reform was
accordingly received with acclamation. M. Drakovics was sufficiently
far-sighted to perceive that divided councils at this juncture would
ruin the future of the kingdom without doing any good to the question,
and on the principle of giving up his own way with a good grace when
he surrendered it at all, he threw himself loyally into the King’s
scheme, bestowed endless trouble on the drafting and details of the
measure, and introduced it himself in one of his famous speeches. Nor
did his pains end here. It was necessary to press the Bill through all
its stages as quickly as possible, as, in spite of the enthusiasm with
which it was received, a strong opposition to its provisions soon made
itself felt, which gathered strength as time went on. The distillers
and shopkeepers of Bellaviste, who had been among the staunchest
supporters of the late king, but who had profited much by the
excitement of the revolution and the thirst it engendered, were
disposed to resist strenuously any interference with their thriving
trade of spirit-selling. Opposed to them were the bulk of the national
party, young students and politicians principally, with a sprinkling
of old patriots who remembered the emancipation of Thracia from the
Roumi yoke, and the simple and frugal life which had preceded the rule
of the later Franzas. These men had the courage of their convictions.
A temperance society, which had been founded by the wife of a former
British Consul-General, and had for some time led a languishing
existence in Bellaviste, took a new lease of life, and added numbers
of enthusiastic converts every day to its roll. Caerleon was
unanimously entreated to become the president, and consented to accept
the office, whereupon a loyal member made a suggestion for a new medal
bearing the King’s portrait, which was taken up with enthusiasm, and a
large supply ordered. From that day forward the display of a blue
ribbon, with one of these medals hanging from it, betokened the ardent
Carlinist; and those English reformers who deprecate the degrading of
the temperance question into a matter of party politics, would have
been forced to admit that in Bellaviste to have taken the pledge was
the unerring mark of a member of the national party. But in spite of
the ardour of the new converts, the voting power of the liquor-sellers
would have swamped the Bill in the Legislative Assembly, if M.
Drakovics had not summoned to his aid in the Upper House his
supporters from the provinces. The chieftains rallied around him at
his call, and since they all entertained a wholesome dislike and
contempt for the vices of the city, they voted with one accord for the
Bill, which was passed triumphantly into law. M. Drakovics stood by it
to the end without flinching; but when it had received the King’s
assent, he relieved his mind in private to Cyril.
“One would scarcely have anticipated,” he said, “that the people would
so enthusiastically support the new King without once asking what were
the views of the old Minister.”
“Why, what could you expect?” said Cyril. “You introduced the Bill;
naturally they thought you approved of it.”
“They took it for granted,” said M. Drakovics. “The King is now
everything; I have only to execute his orders.”
“Yes,” said Cyril, “you meant him to be figure-head, and he insists on
steering. It must be slightly disconcerting.”
“You laugh at me, milord? I would ask you to remember that cases have
been known in history in which a Minister who has raised a King to
power has also deprived him of it.”
“And other cases in which the King has dispensed with the services of
the Minister,” said Cyril, quickly. “I will back my reminiscences
against yours, M. Drakovics. But it is foolish to go on quoting modern
instances in this way, especially when you remember that Caerleon
doesn’t care a straw whether you deprive him of the kingdom or not.
You have done your best for the Bill, and laid my brother under an
obligation. You can’t do without him, nor he without you; so don’t let
us hear any more about dethroning kings and that sort of thing. It’s
very bad form to talk to me in that way, at any rate, and I don’t like
it. We shall rub along together very well if we are willing to give
and take on both sides. And to cheer you, I’ll tell you something that
will please you. I shouldn’t wonder if Caerleon has done a very good
stroke of business in getting this Bill passed.”
“A good stroke for himself? Naturally so.”
“And for the kingdom too. Here is a regular assemblage of English
papers which has just come in, and I have been looking through them to
see how our proceedings are regarded. Our own men, poor beggars! are
waiting for an authoritative pronouncement from the Government before
saying anything; though it is easy to see that they consider Caerleon
a rather dangerous lunatic at large. But the Radical papers, from
which I was anticipating floods of eloquence, are checked in their
wild career, most of them, by this Liquor Bill. They are nearly all
committed to temperance reform at home, and they positively can’t
slate the first man that’s courageous enough to try it, even if he is
defying their dearly beloved Scythia. Of course their cry is for
absolute prohibition; but none of them have been able to get so near
it as even to bring about the adoption of the Scandinavian system, and
though they scout the idea of compensation as unnecessary, they can’t
help respecting a man who sacrifices a third of his civil list to form
a fund for buying up licences. The non-temperance papers are rabid,
naturally. Caerleon is a faddist, and a Puritan, and an Exeter Hall
autocrat, and all the rest of it. In ‘Mendacity,’ Dickinson calmly--or
rather frantically--demands that he should be impeached, not for his
temperance legislation, of course, but for poaching on Scythia’s
preserves. Rather a fine idea to impeach the king of a foreign
country, whom you can’t possibly get hold of, isn’t it?”
“Then the English papers have awakened to a knowledge of our
proceedings at last?” said M. Drakovics, with rather a sickly smile.
“The Government has given no indication of its policy as yet, I
suppose?”
“No,” returned Cyril; “but I think there is a storm brewing.”
“Ah!” said M. Drakovics, quickly. “Why?”
“On account of the extraordinary number of letters which have come for
Caerleon from different family friends, old comrades of my father’s,
and so on. The Master of his college has written, and the Bishop of
Carsfield--who was head of Eton in our day--and a good many others
whose names carry weight; and all their letters are in the same
strain, begging him to reconsider the step he has taken, and return to
England at once, while he has the chance. No doubt the Powers have
begun to see that it’s all very well to send notes to St James’s
demanding that Caerleon shall be recalled, but that St James’s has no
power in the matter. If the Government had sent him out, it might
recall him; but he came on his own initiative, and it would only be
courting a rebuff to order him back if he wouldn’t come. Our men are
too wise to lay themselves open to such a slight, but all the moral
influence they can exercise unofficially will be brought to bear.”
“Ah!” said M. Drakovics again.
“For instance,” Cyril went on, “here is a long screed from Forfar,
writing, as he says, not as leader of the party, but as a personal
friend of Caerleon’s. That’s all very well; but it’s quite evident
that the letter is a private warning from him and the Duke----”
“What Duke?” asked M. Drakovics.
“His brother-in-law, the Duke of Old Sarum, of course,” said Cyril,
impatiently. “He entreats Caerleon to withdraw from Thracia
immediately, and hints how very painful it would be for the Government
to be forced to take action against him. He says that he has broken
through strict official usage in sending him this friendly warning,
and earnestly trusts he will accept it. After this they must act as
they find necessary, and he will have to take the consequences. That
last little touch of menace is the Duke’s, I know.”
“And what does the King say? Will he take the advice proffered by all
these old friends and kind people?” asked M. Drakovics, anxiously.
“Rather not!” laughed Cyril. “He means to stick to you and Thracia.
No; there’s only one thing that would uproot him, I think. If Forfar
and the Duke had the sense to get a certain Person to write to him and
request him as a favour to abdicate, and not to imperil the peace of
Europe----”
“I see,” said M. Drakovics, “you mean the----”
“There is no need to mention names,” said Cyril. “I merely say that I
am afraid Caerleon’s chivalry would incline him to follow the advice
of a Person in such a position, and with so much experience.”
“But have they tried the expedient?” asked M. Drakovics, looking
anxiously at the heap of papers on the table, as though he expected
the letter of the Illustrious Personage to arrive by the ordinary
post, bearing a 2½d. stamp.
“Not they!” said Cyril. “A bold, picturesque dash like that is quite
undreamt of in their philosophy. But I will tell you what I have
here--two more warnings. One is from a man who was at Pavelsburg with
me. This is what he says: ‘Dear Cill, _Que diable fait ton frère dans
cette galère_? If you will take a straight tip, get him out of it as
quickly as you can. I say this for auld lang syne.’ The other is from
Mrs Sadleir--not a letter, simply a sentence underlined in one of
these precious newspapers--‘If he is wise, the so-called King will do
his best to obtain recognition from Roum as soon as possible.’”
“Exactly,” said M. Drakovics, with a ghastly smile, “and my news this
morning is that there is a hitch in our negotiations with Roum. Our
agent at Czarigrad has been refused an audience, while a special
Scythian mission was received with peculiar warmth.”
“Ah!” said Cyril, “and if the recognition is refused, you are a rebel,
and Caerleon and I are filibusters. Decidedly, in such a case as this,
nothing succeeds _but_ success. _Allons_, monsieur! we are all in the
same boat, and we may as well stick to the ship. It is possible that
the Grand Signior was only trying to put Scythia off the scent. If it
is so, we shall see. If not----”
The sentence was left unfinished as M. Drakovics departed shaking his
head, and Cyril returned to his work of writing answers to his
brother’s correspondents. He had no further private conversation with
the Premier until one morning several days later, when M. Drakovics
entered the office in great excitement.
“Milord, we are lost! Our agent at Czarigrad telegraphs that the
recognition is definitely refused. There is a _rapprochement_ between
Scythia and Pannonia--the Emperors have met. Secret negotiations are
proceeding among the Powers, and the British Government is understood
to have decided to remain neutral. There is only one thing that can
save Thracia. His Majesty must marry the Princess Ottilie of Mœsia.”
“Indeed!” said Cyril. “What good will that do?”
“Everything. The King of Mœsia is the nephew of the Grand Duke of
Schwarzwald-Molzau, and that house is connected with every reigning
family in Europe. Moreover, the King, so I learn from my correspondent
at Eusebia, would like the match. The Queen wishes her daughter to
marry the Prince of Dardania, but he objects to him, and has more than
hinted that he would prefer a son-in-law from Thracia. Again, we can
offer an inducement. There is a strip of territory on our Mœsian
frontier which has been ours since the last war. The people are really
Mœsians by race, and give us more trouble than all our Thracians put
together; but we have held fast to the territory, knowing that it
would be useful as a _quid pro quo_ in case we were ever desirous of
obtaining a concession from Mœsia. The King would give anything to
have it back, and in exchange for it we shall gain the strongest
family alliance we could propose, and the help of Mœsia and the
Mœsian army in case of war.”
“There seems to be a good deal of the _quid pro quo_ in your
philosophy,” said Cyril. “The difficulty will be to make Caerleon come
into the scheme. How are you going to get him to propose?”
“There is no need for his Majesty to conduct the preliminary
negotiations in person,” said M. Drakovics, drily. “I have already
telegraphed to Eusebia instructing our agent to make formal proposals
to the King for the hand of the Princess.”
“And this without telling Caerleon?” cried Cyril in astonishment.
“Well, I don’t envy you when you try to break the news to him. If he
kicks you down-stairs, don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”
“But it is you that will be kicked, milord, not I,” said M. Drakovics,
calmly. “His Majesty is your charge, the kingdom is mine,--that is our
agreement, as you know. I have done my part in this affair by setting
on foot negotiations which will ensure the safety of the kingdom. It
falls to you to bring his Majesty to acquiesce in them.”
Caught in his own trap in this way, Cyril passed a very bad quarter of
an hour with M. Drakovics. The elder man was resolute, the younger
furious--the ground of his fury being not so much the nature of the
Premier’s action as the fact that he had taken it without consulting
him. That M. Drakovics had exceeded his powers and got into a scrape,
and was now looking to him to save him from the consequences, was
Cyril’s view of the case; but as often as he urged it M. Drakovics
replied with perfect calmness that it had been necessary to act
immediately, and that if he had consulted Cyril the latter would have
hesitated to agree without first sounding his brother, a course which
would have destroyed all hope of success. Finally, M. Drakovics, with
a cool obstinacy which showed Cyril another reason for his being
called the Bismarck instead of the Kossuth of the Balkans, reiterated
his demand that Cyril should undertake to acquaint Caerleon with the
part it was desired that he should play.
“You see, milord,” he observed, frankly, “if the King was angry with
me, and lost his temper so far as to address me rudely, or even,
perhaps, to attempt to strike me, I am bound to resent it, for I
represent Thracia. I should feel compelled to resign, and then Thracia
is lost. But you are different, and, moreover, you are better
acquainted than I am with his Majesty’s character, and the best way of
approaching him on such a delicate matter.”
“It strikes me that my valour is the better part of your discretion,”
said Cyril; “but there is something in what you say. Don’t imagine
that I shall spare you, though. I quite see that Caerleon ought to
marry this Mœsia girl--in fact, that it will probably make all the
difference between success and a big smash if he does--but I don’t
think you have acted on the square. You needn’t blame me if you are
out of office this evening. Well, now to beard the lion in his den. It
may as well be done at once, before an ecstatic telegram arrives from
King Johann Casimir, welcoming his proposed son-in-law to his kingdom
and his heart.”
M. Drakovics smiled to see Cyril pause in front of one of the mirrors
in the corridor as he spoke, and rearrange his tie, which had become
twisted in the heat of the argument; but when he saw him put his hands
in his pockets and lounge idly into Caerleon’s study he understood him
better. Cyril’s _rôle_ was to be that of absolute innocence.
Caerleon was sitting at his writing-table, busied with the reports and
telegrams from Thracian agents at the various European Courts which M.
Drakovics had brought for his consideration, taking care to abstract
the one from Eusebia. He looked up as Cyril came in.
“Have you heard of the different blows which are about to fall on us?”
he said. “Things look pretty black.”
“Oh yes, Drakovics has been telling me about them,” returned Cyril. “I
hear that you are to act Curtius, and throw yourself into the gulf.”
“By abdicating? Has Drakovics come to that already? I haven’t. I don’t
mean to give up Thracia without a little fighting, unless they can
find a better man whom the people will accept.”
“Something much more heroic than abdicating. There is a lady in the
case. Marriage is the gulf.”
“Then I fear the gulf will remain unfilled,” said Caerleon, turning
back to his papers.
“Oh, that’s all fudge. You know it’s the only thing to be done.”
“There’s no need to discuss the subject,” said Caerleon, coldly. “You
know what I feel about it.”
“But what is the good of wearing the willow all your life----?”
“I have already said that I decline to discuss the subject with you,”
said Caerleon, and Cyril saw that in speaking calmly he was putting a
very strong constraint upon himself. He changed his tone instantly.
“Oh, very well. Of course I have no right to complain if you tell
Drakovics things you won’t tell me. Still, it’s rather rough on a
man.”
“What do you mean? You know perfectly well that nothing is further
from my thoughts than to discuss my private affairs with Drakovics.”
“Oh, I suppose you call this a public affair,” returned Cyril, with
the air of a man who has neither time nor inclination for such nice
distinctions. “I don’t want to appear inquisitive, but perhaps you’ll
let me know the day when it’s fixed?”
“Cyril, are you mad? or is this a particularly feeble joke? Tell me
what you are driving at.”
“Of course it’s no business of mine,” Cyril went on, unheeding; “but
when you have gone so far as to authorise Drakovics to make proposals
in your name for the hand of a lady, I think I might have been told.”
“I send a proposal? and through Drakovics? You must be dreaming. Who
is the lady?”
“Princess Ottilie of Mœsia.”
“A girl I have never spoken to in my life!” Caerleon’s tone was one of
hopeless bewilderment.
“Oh yes, you have. You danced with her at the State ball two years
ago, when the Mœsias visited England, don’t you remember? The King
looked on and smiled approvingly, and the chaperons began to put their
heads together and discuss seriously the best way of preventing
foreign royalties from carrying off the biggest things in the marriage
market. I believe they came to the conclusion that no princess ought
ever to be allowed to marry a subject. With princes it was different,
of course. You can’t have forgotten?”
“I remember her--a black-eyed, rather bouncing girl. But you don’t
mean,” and Caerleon grew hot and cold as the recollection came back to
him of the chaff he had endured from his friends on account of the
unmistakable favour shown him by the royal guests,--“you don’t mean
that they are on the track of that foolery again? They must be made to
understand at once that it’s absolutely impossible. You never believed
it?”
“I was very glad to hear it.”
“What! when you know that it’s less than a month since I asked Nadia
O’Malachy to marry me, and that I would willingly chuck up the kingdom
to-day if she would only take me?”
“I hoped,” said Cyril, deliberately, “that you regarded that affair as
over and done with, and were intending to sacrifice your private
feelings and do the best thing for the country.”
“You thought I was intending to be a scoundrel?”
“I _wish_ you would not be melodramatic,” said Cyril, pathetically.
“Here we are, between the devil, which is Scythia, and the deep sea of
the neutrality of the other Powers, and you have the chance of
settling everything on a firm foundation by marrying a very handsome
girl belonging to one of the oldest houses in Europe. I am not given
to preaching, but I do say that it would be a sin not to sacrifice
your feelings in such a case, and marry her. The marriage would simply
be the making of you and Thracia both.”
“I--will--not--do--it,” said Caerleon, forcing out the words slowly.
“As for Miss O’Malachy,” went on Cyril, “I give her credit for
possessing much too good sense to wish to keep you a bachelor all your
life for her sake. If you were to consult her, I am sure she would
wish you to make a suitable marriage. In fact, I should think she has
probably advised you already to do so.” The blow told, for Caerleon
winced at the remembrance of the advice which it had been almost
harder for him to hear from her lips than for Nadia to give. “She knew
perfectly well what she was doing when she refused you. It meant that
you were each to go your own way in the future, with no thought of the
other. If you don’t marry, it will be thought you still have hopes of
her.”
“And what is it to you if I have?” demanded Caerleon, so fiercely that
Cyril jumped. He could not think of anything to say, and presently
Caerleon resumed in a quieter tone, “But I have none. She put me on my
honour to stick to the kingdom, and so long as I am king she will have
nothing to do with me.”
“I knew she was a sensible woman!” said Cyril, triumphantly. “Now,
Caerleon, let me advise you to take this thing quietly. See Princess
Ottilie. You haven’t an idea what she is really like, and you may find
her very like Miss O’Malachy----” (“I hope to goodness he won’t!” he
added to himself), “or she may catch your heart at the rebound, or you
may fall head over ears in love with her, and find that you really
mistook your feelings last time----”
“I am so sure of my feelings,” interrupted Caerleon, “that I won’t
pretend to run after another girl for anything you can offer me.”
“Then I should like to know what you mean to do,” said Cyril. “It’s
not a private and personal matter; it is to save your kingdom.”
“Hang the kingdom!” cried Caerleon. “I won’t sell myself for the sake
of Thracia. If I can’t be king and be a gentleman, let the kingdom
go.”
“If you would only listen for a moment!” sighed Cyril. “This is what I
was going to say. Take no further steps of any kind, and leave
everything to Drakovics. Things can be formally arranged without your
going near the girl, and the mere fact that the preliminaries are
settled will do all we want. Once we are past this crisis, and Scythia
and Pannonia have quarrelled again, you can pay a visit to Eusebia,
and make yourself so disgustingly disagreeable that the Princess will
be bound to throw you over.”
“Of all the shabby tricks!” cried Caerleon, pushing back his chair
violently. “I declare, Cyril, if I didn’t know you were joking, I’d
kick you out of the room. Entrap a girl into a bogus engagement for
the sake of gaining a political advantage, indeed!”
“I only wish you had displayed a little of this aggressive virtue
before,” said Cyril. “You quite gave Drakovics to understand, when he
first offered you the crown, that you were prepared to fall in with
his views on matrimony, and he has merely been acting upon that.”
“On the contrary, I disagreed with his ideas even then,” said
Caerleon; “and if I hadn’t, what has happened since would have put my
adopting them out of the question. You ought to know that. But perhaps
it was you that put Drakovics up to this business about Princess
Ottilie?” turning upon him sharply.
“No, on my honour,” said Cyril, eagerly, relieved at being able to
deny with perfect truth this direct accusation. “Drakovics is a
Spartan sort of fellow, and I suppose he thinks that as soon as you
are off with the old love you may as well be on with a new. It’s his
own idea altogether.”
“I beg your pardon, old man,” said Caerleon. “Everything is so crooked
in this wretched place that I was even beginning to suspect you. But I
am glad you had nothing to do with it. Just telephone to Drakovics to
come up at once, will you?”
“Why?” asked Cyril, standing before the tube, lest his brother should
resent his hesitation and insist on using it himself.
“That he may explain to the King of Mœsia that he has made a mistake,
of course.”
“But, Caerleon, you can’t do things in that way!” cried Cyril. “Think
of the girl! Why, the news is public property by this time, all over
Europe, and there isn’t a soul that won’t believe but that you have
found out something against her that has made you change your mind.”
“Then I will disown Drakovics’s action, and say that he acted without
my authority.”
“Then he will resign, and you will lose the only man who possesses the
confidence of the people, and can support you to any purpose at this
juncture. You can’t do it, Caerleon. Besides, that again is a nasty
one for the girl. Won’t you see her? No one can tell what might happen
then.”
“If I see her, I shall simply tell her the whole story,” said
Caerleon, grimly. “She will have no wish to marry me after that.”
“Let me tell her about the matter for you,” suggested Cyril.
“No, thank you,” returned his brother. “I have a pretty fair idea of
the way you would speak of it--as a youthful indiscretion, of which I
was ashamed. And I am not ashamed. I should be the proudest man on
earth if Nadia were to be crowned with me this day two months.”
“Very well,” sighed Cyril. “I suppose if you will make an ass of
yourself, you must. We are to arrange, then, for a personal interview,
in the course of which you will, in so many words, refuse to marry
Princess Ottilie?”
“There’s no occasion to do anything so rude. I shall simply tell her
the truth, and leave it to her to refuse me. Or I’ll write to her.
Yes, that’s much the best plan. It will save time and a lot of
difficulty.”
“But you can’t!” cried Cyril, with his hand on the door. “Do you mean
to write to a girl who hasn’t even accepted you, and tell her you
won’t marry her? No, you must see her, as you say, and explain things.
I’ll manage to get you an interview somehow, though it’s against my
better judgment.”
“Be quick, then,” cried Caerleon after him, as he went out, “for if
there’s any delay, I shall write to her myself.”