In course of time and in accordance with the parental plans, Max had
joined a regiment, the 123rd Lancers, and was quartered in the Midlands,
while I was to embark upon my quest for military distinction as soon as
I should be old enough for a commission. Eventually I was gazetted to a
lieutenancy in Her Majesty's Household Cavalry. This necessitated my
living in town; a distinct change from the quiet country life I had
hitherto led. I was fortunate in being kindly received by my brother
officers, and as my father and mother's friends went out of their way to
show me attention, it may be taken for granted that I was about as
satisfied with my lot in life as a man could well be. Pannonia seemed
slipping every day further into the background, and there were even
times when I was scarcely conscious of her existence. Strangely enough,
my mother, upon whom time was steadily laying her hand, seemed to be
abandoning the notion that we should return, and to be resigning herself
to the idea that England was likely to be her home for the remainder of
her existence. And that leads me to venture upon a little piece of
moralising, the first and last, I trust, I shall indulge in.
We are led to believe by the doctors that once in every seven years our
physical being undergoes a change. Might this not be so in other
matters? Be that as it may, there is certainly a strange concurrence in
numbers. I was eight years old when the gipsy woman told me my fortune,
and brought about the first trouble between Max and myself; I was
sixteen when von Marquart made his appearance in England, and marked
another epoch in my life; and if the line of coincidence may be followed
further, I might also observe that I was twenty-four when the third,
and, perhaps in a certain sense, the most important event occurred, for
the reason that from it so many other issues were developed. At the same
time I must confess it is not a subject upon which I care to dwell for
any length of time. It has both a pleasant and painful side, and while I
am willing to state that it has proved my greatest blessing, I am also
bound to admit that it has inflicted upon me a wound, the scar of which
time will never be able to obliterate. And this brings me to another
argument. Surely it must have struck you how often the greatest events
find their origin in the simplest things. I will supply an instance.
John Noakes, a village mechanic, drops in one Sunday afternoon, having
nothing better to do, to take a cup of tea with Matthew Stoakes, whose
daughter Jane, by the way, boasts a pretty face and a comely figure.
Hitherto, John has never thought of sweethearting, or indeed of anything
else but his carpenter's bench, and his bit of garden behind the
cottage. Somehow this afternoon, however, he feels impelled towards his
neighbour's house. He goes; old Matthew, to while away the time, reads
to the assembled company a letter he has received from a brother in
Australia. Though the writer himself would not appear to have done as
well as he could have wished, he describes, with fine descriptive
touches, the wealth other men have accumulated in that Eldorado of the
South. John goes home with a notion at the back of his head that he too
would like to try his luck there. The idea grows and flourishes.
Eventually he sets sail for the Antipodes, and for upwards of thirty
years nothing more is heard of him. When he returns to England after
this long lapse of time he is several times a millionaire, and in a
position to purchase half the country-side, which he promptly does. He
plumes himself upon his shrewdness, and talks of his business capacity
to his fellow-justices! He quite forgets, however, that, had it not been
for that chance visit to old Matthew's house that sunny Sunday
afternoon, and the letter that was read to him there, he might still be
planing at his bench, a poorer and, in every respect, a humbler man. And
so, gentle reader, I venture to suggest, it is with all of us. However
we may be born, whatever may come to us from other people, there is
always one little chance permitted us, and according as we seize it or
neglect it, so it will make or mar our lives. Mine came to me in a quite
unexpected fashion, and I must leave you to discover for yourselves in
what manner I treated it, and what befell me and mine in consequence.
It has been popularly supposed that Her Majesty's Household Troops have
no other occupation in life than to act as escorts to Royal carriages,
to take part in public processions, and to sit like statues upon their
chargers, in the pigeon-houses that ornament the front of the Horse
Guards. A certain popular novelist has gone further, and has accused
their officers of being as luxuriously housed as young duchesses, of
breaking the hearts of beautiful ladies-in-waiting, and of committing
various other petty sins, very charming no doubt in themselves, but much
too improper for me to mention here. However that may be, I am prepared
to state that my military duties were of a somewhat more arduous nature.
Relaxations there were, it is true, and of the most pleasant
description; and he would have been hard indeed to satisfy who could
have been discontented with them. Nevertheless, the fact remains that
our lives were not so easy as many people are wont to declare.
Despite a certain witty diplomatist's assertion that Paris is
pre-eminently "the city of pretty women, while London is that of
immaculate wives," I am prepared to contend that never in any other part
of Europe have I seen so many beautiful women gathered together at one
time as in the foggy metropolis of England. At the risk of being
considered conceited, I must admit their kindness to myself. A heart
less susceptible to their fascinations could not have failed to have
been broken a dozen times in each successive season. As for me, I gave
in at once without a struggle, and did not utter even a cry for mercy.
"It's a good thing for you that your position protects you," said one of
our majors one afternoon as we drove home together from Hurlingham. "Had
it been otherwise, you would have been caught long since."
A certain young unmarried American had been present that afternoon, and
I am not going to say that there had not been some excuse for his
admonition. At the same time I would not admit that he was right. To
have done so would have been to deprive myself of a considerable amount
of pleasure in the future.
"My dear fellow," I answered, "when Providence vouchsafes one such
opportunities, it would be scarcely respectable on a mere mortal's part
to neglect them. Miss Gedge was kind enough this afternoon to tell me
that she '_just fairly adored princes_,' and after an invitation of that
description what could one do but make oneself as agreeable as possible?
Put yourself in my place and see what you would do!"
"Not if I know it," he replied. "I would not run such a risk for the
world."
Favoured though I had been, I was happy enough, so far, not to have been
smitten by the Bow Boy's dart, and with this little explanation I will
proceed to narrate the incident to which it is the prelude.
The week in question had been an exceptionally busy one. We had had a
field day at Wormwood Scrubs on Monday, a regimental polo match at
Hurlingham on Tuesday, a mess dinner given to the Hereditary Prince of
Liedenvald on Wednesday, while on Thursday there was a garden party at
Marlborough House, a state dinner at Buckingham Palace, and dances at no
less than four houses afterwards. When I opened my eyes in the morning,
it was with the feeling that I had a vast amount of work to get through
before I should be able to close them again. How little I imagined the
variety of emotions to which I was to be subjected before that event
could take place! That afternoon, at the last moment, I was detained at
the barracks for some little time; in consequence, it was considerably
past four o'clock before I entered the gates of Marlborough House.
Having paid my respects to the most charming hostess in England, if not
in the world, I crossed the lawn in search of acquaintances. Seated
under a tree I discovered my kind friend the Duchess of Laverstock. She
was talking to the Russian Ambassador at the moment, but was kind enough
to receive me very graciously.
The good fairy at her birth had bestowed upon Her Grace the rare
gift--and, believe me, it is a rare one--of being able to make the
person to whom she was speaking think that the amusement of the moment
would be like leather and prunella to her, but for his, or her,
participation in it.
"You are late, Prince Paul," she said, moving her parasol a little, in
order to shade her face. "I have been expecting you for the last
half-hour."
"Am I to be flattered by your interest or grieved at your
disappointment?" I replied, seating myself beside her. "Perhaps you will
decide for me. In any case, could you not induce the Duke to bring in a
Bill to ameliorate the condition of lieutenants in Her Majesty's
Household Cavalry? Think how they have worked us this week. It will take
at least three months' leave to put me on my feet again."
The Duchess laughed good-humouredly.
"You must dine with us and give him your ideas on the subject," she
said. "In the meantime I am going to talk seriously to you. I have
brought a young friend with me to-day to whom you must really be
introduced."
"Who is this friend you are so anxious I should meet? You have aroused
my curiosity."
"Is it really in my power to do that?" she retorted. "You have at last
paid me a compliment I can appreciate. But let us walk across the lawn;
I fancy we shall find her at the further end. I saw her a few minutes
since walking with Lord Newmarket."
"I only hope he has not been regaling her with any of his sporting
reminiscences. It was Mary Bethbridge, I think, who declared that, when
she was staying at Markingdale, even the wording of the family prayers
reeked of the stables."
Talking in this strain, the amiable lady led me across the lawn towards
a group of people who were clustered near the band. She was on the
look-out for her friend, but who that friend was I am prepared to admit
I had not the slightest idea. As all the world is, or should be, aware,
the Duchess of Laverstock is an inveterate matchmaker. It is said that,
at their place in Devonshire, she allows such of her farm servants as
are bachelors a month to choose a sweetheart, six months to court in, a
week to propose in, another month in which to marry, and--well, the long
and the short of it is that since there were reasons of State why she
could not do me an injury in that respect, I could not understand why
she could have been so eager to find the lady in question. Putting up
her glasses she examined the people about her attentively.
"Ah! there she is!" she said at last. "Come this way, Prince, and
remember that you are to behave yourself very nicely, under pain of my
severest displeasure."
So saying, she led the way towards a lady and a gentleman who had
hitherto been hidden from our sight by the fashionable crowd. The man I
recognised immediately; but his companion I could not remember ever to
have seen before. One thing was certain, she was a wonderfully beautiful
girl. She was exquisitely dressed, and carried herself with a
distinction that raised her above the level of the other beauties. I
seemed to know her face, and yet I could not recall where I had seen it
before. Then, in a flash, I remembered.
"Princess Ottilie," I began, as soon as we stood face to face.
The Duchess stared at me in surprise.
"Can it be possible that you know each other?" she cried. "I had quite
made up my mind that you had not met, and I was hoping to do you both a
charitable action."
Turning to the girl before me, I said, "You are the Princess Ottilie,
are you not?"
"Yes," she answered; "and if I am not mistaken you are Prince Paul of
Pannonia. Do you remember that dreadful day when the horses ran away and
nearly killed me at the palace gates?"
"Is it likely I shall ever forget it?" I returned. "The whole scene
rises before my eyes at this moment. What an age has elapsed since
then!"
The Duchess and Lord Newmarket, who were kindly souls, strolled away,
leaving us together. I looked again at the girl; really she was
remarkably beautiful. There could be no sort of doubt about that. I had
never seen anyone in my life half so fair.
"Can we not discover a couple of chairs, and try to recall some other
impressions?" I inquired.
"It would be very pleasant," she replied; and we accordingly strolled
away together.
"If I may be allowed to say so, you have altered a great deal since I
last saw you," I began, when we had found our chairs and had seated
ourselves upon them.
"And perhaps I might return the compliment," she continued. "How strange
it seems that we should meet here, does it not?"
"Very strange indeed," I answered. "You have not been back to Pannonia
since that dreadful time?"
As I said it the folly of the remark became apparent to me. Was it not
my own father who had sent the Prince of Lilienhoehe into exile? And had
not the latter, as soon as the Ramonyi dynasty was overthrown, stepped
into the breach and attempted to seize the throne for himself? That for
the moment I had embarrassed her I could see. However, she evaded it
with a cleverness that showed she was not wanting in that rarest of all
gifts--tact.
"We have been living in England for the last seven years," she replied,
with a candour that concealed her real feelings. "My father declares
that he is getting too old to move about, and sometimes I think he will
never cross the Channel again."
I did not say so to her, though I thought it, that I deemed it a
fortunate thing, not only for himself, but also for Pannonia, that he
had come to so sensible a conclusion. How foolish and futile the whole
business appeared when looked at through the diminishing glass of years!
The feud between the two families, the constant quarrels, the scarcely
veiled hatred on both sides, and then the last outbreak and its
consequences! My father had sent Lilienhoehe into exile only to follow
himself, a few days later. And now, strangest part of all, here was I,
Paul of Pannonia, talking to Ottilie of Lilienhoehe in the garden of the
Heir Apparent to the throne that had given us both shelter.
When Fate takes it into her head to jest, she does not do so in a
half-hearted fashion. After a little while I inquired how it was I had
not met her before.
"I was only presented last year," she answered; "and this season we were
late in coming to town. Indeed, had it not been for the Prince of
Liedenvald's visit to England, I doubt very much whether we should have
come at all."
For once in my life I was grateful to my cousin Wilhelm.
Really she was beautiful. I remembered what a dainty, fragile child she
had seemed that day when I had led her hand-in-hand, after the accident,
to see the statues in the great hall at Pannonia. In that respect she
had scarcely altered. Her beauty seemed of a different description from
any I had met before. Her skin was so transparent, her hands and feet so
small, her head so daintily poised, that the most fastidious critic
could scarcely have discovered a fault in her. Later on she inquired for
Max, and I furnished her with a faithful description of him, trying to
make her realise what a splendid fellow he was.
"You admire him as much as ever, I can see," she said. "Your brother is
fortunate in having so able a champion."
I did not grasp her meaning then, but it has become more plain to me
since. We changed the topic, and after a while, feeling that it would
not do for me to monopolise her altogether, I rose, remarking, as I did
so, that I hoped to have the pleasure of meeting her again very soon. I
ran over the list of houses to which I had invitations that evening, and
inquired whether she was likely to be at any one of them.
"We are going to Lady Cummingdale's musical first," she said; "then we
go on to the Countess of Winterbourne's dance, and afterwards to Lady
Basingstoke's."
"Then perhaps I may have the pleasure of a dance with you at
Winterbourne House?" I answered.
"I shall be very pleased," she returned.
At that moment a tall, handsome man, perhaps sixty years of age, with a
fierce grey moustache and almost snow-white hair, crossed the lawn and
made his way towards us. I did not know him, but I was soon to do so,
for the Princess Ottilie took a step forward to meet him, saying as she
did so:
"Papa, let me introduce you to Prince Paul of Pannonia."
The other gave a start and drew himself up to his full height.
"I am honoured in being permitted to make the acquaintance of his Royal
Highness," he replied, a little stiffly, so I thought. "The last time I
saw you, sir, was on the day you were baptised. I trust his Majesty and
the Queen enjoy good health?"
I replied to the effect that they were as well as could be expected of
people of their years, and after a few polite nothings made my adieu,
vaguely wondering what my mother would say when she heard of the
interview, as I had no doubt she very soon would.
That evening, during the long state dinner at Buckingham Palace, I found
myself continually thinking of the pretty Princess. Never had an
admirably arranged banquet seemed so tedious. I was all anxiety for it
to be over, in order that I might get away to Winterbourne House. At
last it came to an end, and very soon after I was bowling along in my
cab towards Carlton Terrace. On entering the house I made my way up the
crowded staircase to the ball-room, where dancing was in full swing.
Having paid my respects to my hostess, I searched the room for Princess
Ottilie. I discovered her dancing with one of the foreign military
attaches. She was not aware of my presence, so I took up a position in
an alcove and watched her. If she had looked beautiful that afternoon,
she was doubly so now. I noticed that she was taller than the majority
of women present, but her slender figure was so exquisitely proportioned
that the fact at first glance was not apparent. The dance over, I
accosted her.
"I hope your dances are not all bespoken, Princess," I said. "I have the
liveliest recollection of your promise this afternoon."
"You may have the next waltz if you like," she answered. "We shall be
going on to Lady Basingstoke's in half an hour, so that I do not know
how many I shall have time for here."
"In that case I must have this one and endeavour to extort a dance from
that house also," I retorted. "Experience has taught me that there is
nothing like being beforehand in these little affairs."
Seeing how matters stood, the attache, with all the _aplomb_ of a
Frenchman, paid her a charming compliment, and gracefully took himself
off. We thereupon passed into the conservatory together.
"Is your father here to-night?" I inquired. "I have not seen him."
"No," said she. "Papa never condescends to dance. He is probably playing
ecarte at this moment at his club. I need not describe to you the
pleasure it gave him to make your acquaintance this afternoon."
I glanced at her to see whether she were joking, but her face was as
serious as even she could wish. Naturally, I expressed my delight at
what she had told me, but I could not help believing that she had
derived a wrong impression from her father's compliments. The Prince of
Lilienhoehe had been such a determined foe of my family for so many
years, that I could not see how making my acquaintance could possibly
afford him pleasure. However, I had no time to give to the subject then,
for the band was playing the introduction to the next waltz, and it was
time to return to the ball-room. A few steps were sufficient to show me
that the Princess, like all Pannonians, was an excellent dancer. To the
melody of one of Strauss' waltzes I steered her through the crowd. The
fragrance of her hair was intoxicating, and for some reason, I cannot
explain what, it carried me back to the day, so many years ago, when she
had taken my hand in hers, and had cemented our friendship with the
three magic words, "I like you." How little we had dreamed then of the
place where we should next meet, and under what circumstances it would
be brought about! In those days the Ramonyi dynasty had seemed as firmly
seated upon the throne as that of any other ruling family in Europe. Now
we were in exile, and our country was given over to the tender mercies
of the populace.
"Are you tired?" I inquired, when we had made the circuit of the room
three or four times.
"Not in the least," she answered. "I am never tired of waltzing, and, if
I may say so, you dance beautifully."
"I am afraid it is my only accomplishment," I replied.
"I shall hope to be a better judge of that later," she retorted. "You
must remember that, so far, you have told me more concerning your
brother than yourself. Are you always so enthusiastic about him and so
reticent concerning yourself?"
"Always."
"Really! In that case I shall be quite anxious to see this Admirable
Crichton. Does he never come to town?"
"Very seldom," I replied. "He is devoted to his profession."
"But surely he is fond of dancing, and of some of the little amusements
that ordinary mortals indulge in?"
"I don't think he cares very much for them. I fear Max is not in any
sense a lady's man."
"You are prepared then to admit that he has at least one fault?" she
said. "I was beginning to believe he was scarcely human."
The waltz was gradually dying down, expiring like the fabled swan in
softest music. When it had ceased altogether, I thanked my partner, and
led her into the cool conservatory. The admiration I had felt for her
from the beginning was fast turning to enthusiasm.
Half an hour later I followed her to Lady Basingstoke's house, and when,
after another delicious waltz, I escorted her to her carriage, and was
introduced to her chaperone, I was as near enchantment as a man could
well be. Next day I did myself the honour of calling at her house, and
was most graciously received; the morning following I met her in the
Row. She was mounted on a neat thoroughbred, which she sat and handled
with the grace and dexterity of an accomplished horsewoman. With the
sunshine sparkling in her eyes and playing among the tresses of her
hair, her trim figure clad in its well-cut habit, with just the
suspicion of a tiny foot peeping from beneath her skirt, she presented a
picture that a man would have been justified in walking miles to see. On
the Monday following we met at a dance in Eaton Square, on the Tuesday
at another at Wiltshire House, on Wednesday at the state concert at
Buckingham Palace, and on Thursday and Friday at a multiplicity of
dances. Take these things into consideration, and is it necessary for me
to add that by the end of the week I was head over ears in love?