"My dear old fellow, how well you are looking!" said Max, as he drew off
his gloves and brushed some dust from his coat sleeve. He had just
arrived from Yorkshire, and had arranged to spend a portion of his leave
in town before going down to Hampshire to visit our respected parents.
"I am wonderfully fit," I answered. "How are you?"
"Only pretty well," he replied, and I noticed as he spoke that his face
looked older and more careworn than when I had last seen him. What was
more, his manner seemed to have lost much of its old vivacity. The
change startled me more than I can say, and my fears were far from being
allayed when, half an hour later, he communicated to me the direful
intelligence that he had determined to resign his commission in the
army.
"I cannot get on with it," he said. "I do not take the least interest in
it; and, if the truth must be told, I am far better out of it. I am only
sorry that they ever permitted me to take it up."
"My dear old fellow," I answered, "this is the worst news that I have
heard for a long time. You surely cannot be serious?"
"I could not be more serious if my life depended upon it," he returned.
"Don't imagine that I have acted hastily and without thought. I have
given the matter the fullest possible consideration, and the step I am
about to take is the result. It will hurt our mother terribly, I fear,
but it cannot be helped."
"And what do you intend to do when you have left the army?" I asked,
more for the sake of saying something and having time to collect my
thoughts, than for any other reason.
"I don't know," he replied gloomily. "Upon my word, I do not. The truth
of the matter is, Paul, old man, I'm a failure, an abject failure. I
have guessed it for years, and now I am certain of it."
He looked so sad, that I crossed the room and took his hand. "You musn't
say that," I began. "You know how proud we all are of you, and how our
hopes are centred on you."
Then, with what was for me unusual earnestness, I continued, "Think of
Pannonia! This wretched _fiasco_ of a republic cannot endure much
longer, and then our father will abdicate in your favour, and you will
be king. Isn't that something to look forward to and to work for?"
He shook his head.
"If it were likely to happen, it might be," he answered. "But I know
better. I am as certain, Paul, old boy, that I shall never sit upon the
throne of Pannonia, as I am that I am standing before you now. I don't
know why I should be so sure of it, but I am quite convinced that it is
the case."
"It seems to me," I said in a fit of temper, "that the best thing you
could do would be to consult a Harley Street physician. You are not
yourself; you have run down and want a fillip."
He shook his head once more.
"It would take more than a Harley Street tonic to set me up," he
replied. "But there, do not let us talk of my own wretched affairs. Tell
me of yourself--what you have been doing, and how you like soldiering?"
I satisfied him upon these points, and then went on to tell him of my
meeting with the Princess Ottilie. Though it was a difficult thing to
do, I spoke of her with apparent unconcern. I had no wish that he should
read my secret, not yet at any rate. He was extremely interested, and
expressed a desire to be presented to her himself. Only too glad to
agree to anything that would take him out of himself, I proposed that we
should ask permission to call upon her. He assented, and I accordingly
sat down to write a note to her, inquiring whether she would be at home
that afternoon, and if so, if she would permit me to call and present my
brother to her? This note I despatched, and when Max had made some
changes in his attire, we went out and lunched together at the club. On
our return, two hours later, my servant handed me a note. The
handwriting was small, and in some respects un-English.
"The Princess will be very pleased to see us at four o'clock this
afternoon, if we will call," I said in explanation.
Returning the note to its envelope, I placed it carefully in my pocket.
The faint perfume of the paper seemed to linger in the room and to endow
it with a sweetness it had not possessed before. With what eagerness I
looked forward to that call! It seemed as if the laggard hours would
never pass. At last, however, the time arrived, and Felix entered the
room to inform us that the cab was at the door. Soon we turned into
Curzon Street, and drew up before the door of the Prince of Lilienhoehe's
residence. On entering, we were conducted to the drawing-room, where the
Princess and the Baroness Roqsal, her chaperone, were awaiting our
coming.
"Princess," I began, as I crossed the room and took her hand, "will you
permit me the pleasure of presenting my brother to you?"
"It is very kind of you to bring him," she answered. Then, turning to
Max, she continued: "I am delighted to see you. It is many years since
we last met, but I remember you perfectly."
As he answered her, I glanced at his face and noticed the expression of
admiration upon it.
"Do you know I am almost afraid of you," she said, when he had been
presented to the Baroness, and we had seated ourselves.
"I am sorry to hear that," he replied. "I was not aware that I was such
a dreadful personage. What have I done that you should fear me?"
"You have done nothing," she answered. "If anyone is to blame it is your
brother. He has been singing your praises to an extent that has made me
deem you almost superhuman."
"It seems almost a pity that I should shatter such a beautiful illusion,
does it not?" he asked. "However, now that you know me, I fear its
destruction is inevitable."
"I must ask for grace before I reply to that speech," she said with a
smile. "I have scarcely had time to form my own opinion of your
character yet."
At that moment afternoon tea made its appearance, and with it the
conversation branched off into other channels. We touched upon Pannonian
politics guardedly, spoke of our childish recollections of the country
somewhat more freely, and then, with positive relief, of the many
friends with whom we were mutually acquainted. At last we rose to take
leave.
"Will you let me say _au revoir_, not adieu, Princess?" inquired Max, as
he took her hand. "I hope I may be permitted to see more of you during
the time I am in town."
"I shall be very happy to see your Highness," she replied. "Will you
remember that I am always at home to my friends on Thursday afternoons?"
When I bade her good-bye, I could have staked my word that her hand
trembled.
"Good-bye," I said simply.
"Good-bye," she answered with corresponding brevity, and, as I looked
into her face, I saw what I felt sure were tears rising in her eyes.
"What could it mean?" I asked myself, as we made our way downstairs. As
far as I could see, nothing had occurred to cause her so much emotion.
That evening Max was my guest at mess, and afterwards we went on to two
or three houses together, at none of which were we fortunate enough to
meet the Princess. Next morning, however, we encountered her in the Row,
and in the evening at a succession of dances. From that time forward,
during the remainder of Max's stay in town, we seemed to be continually
in her company. That Max had followed my example, and was by this time
as madly in love with the Princess as I was myself, I am quite
convinced. Never by word or deed, however, did he try to make me aware
of the fact. But I could see that it existed. Of my own feelings I am
not going to say anything. All things considered, it is better I should
not. Those who have the wit to understand will be able to read between
the lines.
It was during Max's stay in town that he completed the formalities
connected with his decision to resign his commission in the Lancers.
At this juncture it is necessary that I should depart from the direct
course of my narrative, in order to offer a few remarks upon Max's own
personal condition during the few weeks he was with me in town. This, I
must frankly confess, was at times of such a nature as to cause me the
greatest possible alarm. He was as changeable as the summer breezes. At
one moment he seemed all happiness; the next he was plunged into the
depths of despair. At one time he would talk of Pannonia with the
greatest affection, and appear to be sanguine as to his chance of some
day ascending the throne; the next he would assure me that the Republic
would last longer than we expected, and that, even if it did not, he
would never live to be king. Extravagant though it may seem to say so, I
feel bound to confess that there were occasions when I wondered whether
the troubles of our unhappy House had not exercised an undue influence
upon his mind. As may be supposed, my position at this particular time
was far from being a happy one. To make it worse, the Princess had, for
some reason or other, taken it into her head to be vexed with me. What I
had done to offend her I could not see, but that she _was_ angry with me
was quite clear. It may possibly have been that she thought I was
growing tired of the acquaintanceship, inasmuch as I was not quite so
often with her. But I was resolved that, happen what might, Max should
have a fair chance. He was the elder, and, if he were going to be king,
their marriage would be only fit and proper. Therefore, if she preferred
him to myself, he should have her, and I would do my best to appear
delighted. If not, well, then it would be my turn to put my fortune to
the test. It took some time to arrive at this decision, but that once
done, the rest was easy. Oh, that dreadful time! It has often struck me
as extraordinary that Max and I should have managed to come through it
as satisfactorily as we did. Surely he must have guessed something of
what was in my mind. But it is quite certain that, if he did, he never
for one moment allowed me to suspect it. We met continually, discussed
the various topics of the day with well-simulated interest, occupied
ourselves with our round of amusements, as if the wolves were not all
the time gnawing at our heartstrings, and to each other and the world in
general were as friendly as two brothers could hope to be. Meanwhile, we
both knew that every day was bringing us nearer the inevitable end.
To be precise, it was on Monday, the fourteenth day of July, that the
climax came. Max had left me soon after lunch to ride in the Park with
the Princess Ottilie. I was on duty that afternoon, so was unable, even
had I desired to do so, to accompany them. Indeed, it was after six
o'clock before I returned to my house, where I expected to find Max
awaiting me. To my surprise, however, he was not there.
"Has not the Crown Prince returned?" I inquired of Felix, my
imperturbable groom of the chambers.
"His Royal Highness left the house nearly an hour and a half ago," the
man replied. "I thought your Highness was aware of his intention to
leave London."
"To leave London!" I cried in astonishment. "What do you mean? What
reason have you for supposing that he has left London?"
I was certain that he had not the least intention of doing so when we
had lunched together.
"His Royal Highness gave me to understand that he intended paying a
visit to their Majesties in the country," the man replied
apologetically.
This sudden and entirely unexpected action on Max's part was
inexplicable to me. Could he have proposed to the Princess, and had she
refused him? I was still turning this problem over in my mind, when a
letter, balanced against the inkstand on my writing table, attracted my
attention. It was addressed to myself, and the handwriting was quite
familiar to me. To pick it up and open it was the work of a moment.
MY DEAR PAUL (it ran)--
At last, thank Heaven, I have been able to come to a decision with
myself. After years of doubt and darkness I can see light ahead.
God knows whether I am doing right or wrong, but my belief is that
it is my duty. I want you to be the first to hear it, and then to
act as may seem best to you. Do you think, my brother, that your
secret is unknown to me? Have you flattered yourself that I am not
aware that you love Ottilie of Lilienhoehe as truly as I do myself?
If so, you are wrong. I knew it from the first moment that you
spoke of her to me. It was written on your face as plain as any
words. At that time I had not seen her, and, in consequence, I was
as careless of the future as I was of the present. From the fatal
moment, however, that we crossed the threshold of the Prince's
house in Curzon Street, I realised that I was destined by fate to
be your rival. (Here followed a tribute to my own behaviour in the
affair, which, with your permission, I will pass over.) ... I saw
her and loved her from the moment that I looked into her eyes. At
first I resolved that nothing should induce me to play you false;
but I did not know then the strength of my love, or the violence of
the temptation to which I was to be subjected. I give you my word,
Paul, that for the first fortnight I wrestled with myself and my
love with all the strength of a man, who was despairing, and who
wished to be honourable. But it proved too powerful for me in the
end, and at last I was obliged to succumb. The devil was at my
elbow whispering continually that it was not myself alone that I
had to think of, but of my country. To marry the daughter of the
Prince of Lilienhoehe would be to unite the two strongest factions
in Pannonia, to bring peace and happiness to it as a nation, and to
lift it again, from its place in the mire, to its former proud
position among the great peoples of the earth. I can only wonder
how it was that you did not see my misery. That it _was_ misery for
me I can only ask you to believe. The uncertainty was
heart-breaking. One day I felt sure that she loved me, and, in
consequence, I walked in an earthly paradise; the next I was
certain that she did not, and then I tasted all the bitterness of
hell. Meanwhile, my conscience was calling upon me to be as loyal
to you as you had been to me. But it was of no avail. The
temptation was more than I could withstand; at last I fell. My
punishment, however, was not long in coming. This afternoon, as you
know, I arranged to ride with the Princess in the Row. I met her
near Hyde Park Corner, and I assure you, that I, who have never
since our escape from Pannonia known the meaning of the word
"fear," felt a tremor run through me as she rode towards me. But I
soon discovered that I was not alone in my fear. The moment I saw
her face I knew that she also was dreading our meeting. That was
sufficient to tell me my fate. Failure had dogged me all my life,
and it was scarcely likely that, when I desired something that was
more to me than life itself, she would grant it to me. Having
exchanged greetings with an appearance of pleasure on either side,
we turned our horses' heads and made our way down the Row together.
With a make-believe of composure, we discussed the trivialities of
the day. This, however, did not last long. We began sentences and
did not finish them, and at last lapsed altogether into silence. I
stole a glance at her face, and, as I did so, enlightenment came to
me. Her secret was a secret no longer. I knew, not only that she
did not love me, but that her love was given elsewhere. I would
have had pity on her, and have left my question unasked, but that
the devil was still behind me, whispering in my ear, "Why do you
trouble yourself about her feelings? What does it matter to you
whether she loves anyone else or not? There are reasons of State
why she should be your wife, and you have only to put them before
her, backed up by her father's authority, and she _must_
surrender." However, I had not fallen so low as that yet. I had
still sufficient of the gentleman left to declare to myself that,
if she did not love me, and the union was distasteful to her, I
would not force it upon her. When we turned our horses, I brought
mine a little closer to hers.
"Princess," I said, "will you take pity on me, and give me a plain
answer to a question I want to ask you?"
Her face was bloodless in its pallor. She tried to answer, but no
word escaped her lips. My God! man, you can't conceive what a brute
I felt at that moment. And yet I was well aware that I must go on,
that I should know no peace until I had tortured her to the end.
All this time she was striving to be brave. Fortunately, there were
few people about in that particular part of the Row, otherwise her
agitation could scarcely have failed to attract attention.
"What is the question your Highness desires to ask me?" she
faltered.
"Surely you can guess," I answered. "Ottilie, I love you, and I
want you to tell me whether in return you can love me well enough
to be my wife."
Though she must have known what was coming, a little cry escaped
her.
"What can I say? What can I say?" she repeated in a choking voice.
"Can you not see that I am prepared to do my duty at any cost to
myself?"
"But you shall not do it at the expense of your heart," I answered.
"Ottilie, do you love me?"
"Oh, why do you ask me?" she cried, with a catch of her breath that
was almost hysterical. "How can I answer as you wish?"
"You have given me my answer," I returned. "It seems I have lived
in a fool's paradise. But I have loved you, and, as God is my
witness, I will not force you into a loveless marriage."
What I said to her after that can have no interest for anyone save
our own two selves; let it suffice that, when I left her, I came on
here. Strangely enough, I had no sooner quitted the Park than my
composure returned to me, and by the time I had reached this room,
I could stand off and look at everything in its proper light. And
now one other matter, and the last. I know what you have thought of
me these last few weeks, and the suspicions you have
entertained--well, I might also say, concerning my sanity. But you
are in error, my dear brother. No man was ever saner than I am at
this moment. The result of it all is, as I said at the commencement
of my letter, that I have arrived at a decision. I have come to an
understanding with myself. By the time you open this letter I shall
have left London, never, I hope, to return to it. As far as I am
concerned, the farce of kingship is played out. I, for one, have
been wearied to death by the performance. With this letter I cast
it off. To-night I enter upon a new life, in which, please God, I
shall comport myself more like a man than I have done hitherto. I
have chosen a name which will not furnish any clue as to my
identity, so that it will be impossible for you to trace me. Under
it, as under a new banner, I shall fight and endeavour to win that
self-respect which up to now I have never been able to attain. Look
upon me as one who is dead, and try, if you can, to forgive me for
the pain I have caused you these few weeks past. Remember always
that, even though I gave way, I did not fall altogether. Try also
to understand that my victory over myself was, in a great measure,
a proof of my love for you. God bless you always. Think sometimes
of
Your ever affectionate brother,
MAX.
In a postscript there were a few directions as to what should be done
with his valet, Theodore, and the manner in which his horses and other
belongings should be disposed of.
For some moments after I had read it, I stood holding the letter in my
hand, staring at it in blank amazement. I read it again and again,
trying, in vain, to arrive at a proper understanding of it. Of one thing
there could be no doubt. He had proposed to the Princess, and she had
told him that she did not love him. He had accordingly determined to
relinquish his position in society and to go abroad, rather than allow
her to be forced into a marriage with a man she did not love. Was ever a
man more noble? At the same time it occurred to me that he had often
stated that nothing would give him greater pleasure than to endeavour to
win a position for himself in a new country, where nobody knew him, and
his rank could be of no assistance to his efforts. This was what he was
going to do now. But it was impossible we could permit it. At any hazard
I felt that I must find him, and argue it out with him, before he could
leave England. For my father's and mother's, for his own, for mine, and
for Pannonia's sakes, he must be prevented from committing this rash
act. At that moment Felix entered the room once more.
"I have made inquiries," he began, "but Theodore declares he knows
nothing of his master's movements. He was told to wait here until he
received his instructions from your Highness."
"Tell him that I will see him later," I answered. "In the meantime give
me my hat and call a hansom. I am going out."
A cab having been obtained, I bade the man drive me to the nearest
telegraph office. Once there I wired to my father to know if he had seen
anything of Max, and implored him, should he put in an appearance, to
keep him until I arrived. Then I drove to Scotland Yard, where I sent in
my card to the Chief Officer of the Detective Department. To him, in
confidence, I imparted my fears, and told him that, if possible, I
wanted my brother's whereabouts ascertained before it would be possible
for him to leave England, convincing him, at the same time, of the
necessity that existed for secrecy. This precaution he promised most
religiously to observe. After that, I returned to my own abode to await
the telegram from my father. At last it came. It was worded as follows:
"Max left here more than an hour ago, having said good-bye to us prior
to leaving for the Continent." I immediately sat down and scribbled a
note to Scotland Yard, informing them of the discovery I had made. Then,
when I had written another to my hostess of that evening, asking her to
excuse me not being present at her dinner, on account of urgent private
trouble, I took a hansom and drove to Waterloo. Instantly on my arrival
at home I gave my father and mother a full account of all that had
occurred. They, like myself, were overwhelmed by the suddenness of the
catastrophe, and could give me no further information than that Max,
after bidding them good-bye, had driven to Eastleigh, in order to catch,
so they supposed, a train either for London or Southampton. I inquired
at the station, but in vain. The station-master had not seen him, nor
could he tell by what train he would have been likely to have travelled.
"There was the 6.50 up to town, your Royal Highness," he said, "and the
6.45 down to Southampton. He might have taken either."
Feeling sure that he would have not returned to London, I took the next
train to Southampton and made inquiries there. But my efforts were in
vain. No one seemed to have seen a person answering to his description.
When next morning I called at the various shipping offices I was equally
unsuccessful. Almost despairing, I applied for leave and remained at
Southampton, day by day, for a week, watching the various boats that
left for America and South Africa. So far as I could discover, however,
Max was not on board any one of them. At last, wearied with waiting, and
hopeless of hearing anything of him, I returned to town, calling _en
route_ at Rendlehurst to inform my father and mother of my ill-success.
From that moment, for many years, nothing was heard of poor ill-fated
Max of Pannonia.