A CROWNED QUEEN
THE ROMANCE OF A MINISTER OF STATE
By
SYDNEY C. GRIER
AUTHOR OF
‘AN UNCROWNED KING,’ ‘IN FURTHEST IND,’ ETC.
(_Second in the Balkan Series_)
THIRD IMPRESSION
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
MCMVII
_All Rights reserved_
CONTENTS.
I. AN INTERRUPTED HOLIDAY
II. IN THE PRESENCE OF DEATH
III. THE BATTLE OF THE CREEDS
IV. AN AMATEUR DIPLOMATIST
V. HEAVILY HANDICAPPED
VI. A DAUGHTER’S DUTY
VII. TWO KINGS OF BRENTFORD
VIII. A FAMILY COMPACT
IX. “WAYS THAT ARE DARK, AND TRICKS THAT ARE VAIN”
X. A NEW RELATIONSHIP
XI. WAYFARING
XII. METAMORPHOSES
XIII. IN THE GREENWOOD
XIV. THE _JUDENHETZE_
XV. “WE TWO STOOD THERE WITH NEVER A THIRD”
XVI. THIS WORKING-DAY WORLD
XVII. “THE MAN WHOM THE QUEEN DELIGHTETH TO HONOUR”
XVIII. FRIENDLY INTERVENTION
XIX. A LITTLE TOO FAR
XX. IN QUEST OF THE WHEREWITHAL
XXI. PARLEYINGS WITH CERTAIN PEOPLE
XXII. THE EDUCATION QUESTION
XXIII. IN SIGHT OF THE GOAL
XXIV. A COMBAT _À OUTRANCE_
XXV. TO THE VICTOR THE SPOILS
A CROWNED QUEEN.
CHAPTER I.
AN INTERRUPTED HOLIDAY.
The carriage from Llandiarmid Castle had been waiting for a quarter
of an hour at the little country station, and the horses were
beginning to toss their heads and paw the ground restlessly, to the
great scandal of the coachman.
“This ’ere train of yours is late again, Mr Prodger,” he grumbled to
the station-master, who was combining business with pleasure by
perusing a grimy copy of a Welsh newspaper at the same time that he
kept an eye on the porter who was engaged in weeding the platform
flower-beds. Mr Prodger took up the challenge promptly.
“I wass sooner believe you do be early nor the train late, Mr Wright,”
he responded. “’Deed and I wass.”
“Me early!” was the wrathful answer; “when ’er ladyship come round to
the stables ’erself, and tell me to ’urry, because there wasn’t but
barely time to meet the train, the notice was that short! No, Mr
Prodger, it’s my belief as there’s been a haccident somewhere on this
bloomin’ line, and a nice tale I’ll ’ave to go back and tell the
Markiss and my lady.”
“There goes the signals,” put in the footman. “The train’ll be ’ere in
a minute.”
“Iss, sure,” said the station-master, “the train do be oll right. She
wass not have you for driver, Mr Wright, see you?”
Chuckling over this Parthian shot, Mr Prodger retired to his own
domains, and Wright turned upon the footman, who had interfered so
unwarrantably in the discussion.
“What are you a-doin’ of ’ere, Robert? Why ain’t you on the platform
waitin’ to take ’is lordship’s things?”
“I ain’t never seen ’is lordship,” pleaded Robert. “I was waitin’ to
arst you what ’e was like.”
“Oh, yes, there’s so many passengers stops ’ere,” returned his
superior, with a terrific sneer. “’E’ll be lost in the crowd, ’e
will.”
“But do ’e favour the Markiss?” persisted the footman.
“Well, they both ’as fair ’air and blue eyes, if you go for to call
that a likeness. But you look out for a under-sized gentleman, with a
’aughty voice, and a slave-driver kind of a way with ’im. That’s Lord
Cyril.”
With this graphic description to guide him, Robert ventured upon the
platform, and succeeded in identifying the traveller of whom he was in
search. Wright’s lips settled themselves into a peculiarly grim smile
when his subordinate returned escorting a small fair man enveloped in
a fur-lined overcoat--a garment which excited the somewhat derisive
wonder of the loiterers around. They touched their caps as Lord Cyril
passed, it is true--it was an attention they were bound to pay to the
brother of “the Markiss,” but behind his back they asked one another
with ill-concealed grins whether “oll the chentlemen wass wear ladies’
clooks in the furrin parts he did come from?” If Lord Cyril noticed
their amusement, he heeded it no more than did the stolid German valet
who followed with his bag, and it was with a pleasant smile that he
looked up at Wright.
“Glad to see you again, Wright. You look as fit as ever. So you are
coachman now, are you?”
“Yes, my lord--this five year.”
“Your shadow has not grown less, I see?” remarked Lord Cyril lazily.
“Well, my lord, we ain’t none of us no younger nor we used to be,” was
the somewhat aggressive answer, for Wright had caught sight of a faint
smile on Robert’s face. Discipline must be maintained, even in social
intercourse of this kind, and the coachman bethought himself hastily
of his duties. “Beg your pardon, my lord, but ’er ladyship bid me tell
you as she ’ad some ladies comin’ as she couldn’t put off, and ’is
lordship and Lady Philippa was gone out ridin’ before your telegram
come, so she ’oped you wouldn’t take it unkind not bein’ met by none
of the family.”
“Not at all. I quite understand,” said the visitor cheerfully, with
his foot on the carriage-step. “It’s a pleasure to see your friendly
face again, Wright. I must come and have a talk with you about old
times in the harness-room one of these days.”
“Much honnered, my lord, I’m sure,” was Wright’s response, but his
face betrayed small appreciation of the prospective pleasure. Robert
looked at him with some timidity as he climbed to his place, and it
was not until they were fairly on the road to the Castle that the
question he was burning to ask escaped the footman’s lips.
“I say, Mr Wright, was that true as they was all sayin’ in the
servants’-’all the night I come--about the Markiss ’avin’ been a king
once, somewhere in furrin parts, I mean?”
“It’s as true as you’re settin’ there,” responded Wright solemnly,
“that seven year back or thereabouts ’is lordship was as much a king
as Queen Victorier is queen.” This was stretching the truth a little,
but Wright paused to allow the information to sink in before he added,
“I was ’is Majesty’s--I mean ’is lordship’s--’ead groom then, so I
know.”
“You ain’t jokin’?” asked the bewildered Robert.
“Jokin’? Look ’ere, my lad--you ’ave cool cheek enough for the
job--you ask ’is lordship ’imself whether ’e wasn’t King of Thracia
for three months, and if ’e didn’t set on a throne and ’ave all the
swells a-bowin’ down to ’im. ’E might ’ave married a real Princess if
’e’d liked, but she were a bad lot, and ’e knew it. Oh, there ain’t no
doubt about ’is ’avin’ been King, though you mayn’t choose to believe
it.”
“I ain’t a-goin’ for to contradick you, Mr Wright,” said Robert
penitently. “And did Lord Cyril take on the kingdom after ’im?”
Wright snorted. “No; Lord Cyril ain’t never been King, nor won’t be,”
he said. “’E was in Thracia with the Markiss, and made ’imself useful
about the place--sort of general ’andy man, as you might say. Then
when me and the Markiss gave up the job and come ’ome, ’e stayed on
and done the same sort of business for the new King--Hotter George ’is
name is.”
“But why did ’is lordship give up the job?” asked Robert, deeply
interested. Wright looked mysterious.
“That were about the time as ’is lordship got married, my lad; and
when there’s a lady concerned it ain’t for you nor yet for me to say
why or wherefore in such a case.” This explanation did not explain
much, and the impression it was calculated to convey was not by any
means the correct one; but wild horses could not have dragged from
Wright the confession that Lord Caerleon had left his Balkan kingdom
as a prisoner, dethroned by a counterrevolution to that which had
resulted in his being offered the crown. While Robert was meditating
on his oracular utterance, Wright was looking ahead, and, just in time
to prevent a further question which was trembling on the footman’s
lips, he exclaimed--
“Why, there’s ’is lordship and Lady Phil comin’ along! You get down
and ask Lord Cyril if ’e’d like to stop for them, Robert. They’ll be
up with us before we get past the lodge.”
Robert obeyed, and Lord Cyril ordered him at once to wait. Stepping
out of the carriage, the visitor stood watching the approaching
riders, a tall man on a large chestnut horse, and a fair-haired little
girl on a Shetland pony. They quickened their pace when they saw him.
“Why, Cyril, old man!” cried Lord Caerleon, “how did you get here? I
thought we were not to expect you for a month or so yet?”
“I was able to get off earlier, after all. I’ll explain presently.
Just now I should like to be introduced to my niece.”
“That won’t take very long. Phil, this is your uncle Cyril.”
“Do you think I’m like father, Uncle Cyril?” inquired Lady Philippa
breathlessly, after bestowing a kiss on her newly found relative.
“His very image,” responded her uncle.
“Oh, I am _so_ glad. Usk is just like mother, and it’s so much nicer
to be different. Nurse is always saying we shall grow out of it, but I
don’t believe we ever shall.”
“Let us walk up to the house together, Cyril,” said Lord Caerleon. “I
want to ask you any number of things. Robert can lead my horse. Phil,
you might ride on and tell your mother we are all right, in case she
should be worrying about us.”
“Oh yes, we mustn’t let mother get worried,” said Philippa sedately,
trotting her pony through the lodge-gate as she spoke.
“Has Nadia started nerves?” asked Cyril of his brother.
“Not exactly, but she gets fearfully anxious about the children and me
when we are out of her sight. She does her best to hide it, but even
Phil has found it out, as you see. Do you know that when that child
was thrown one day when she was out riding with me, she mounted again
and we rode on to Aberkerran to get her head plastered up by the
doctor there, rather than frighten her mother by coming in with blood
on her face? Plucky, wasn’t it?”
“Phil is a chip of the old block, I see. You look pretty flourishing,
Caerleon. Any regrets for the lost kingdom?”
“None!” responded Caerleon emphatically. “If I only knew that you were
safely out of it too, I should feel perfectly happy.”
“Then Otto Georg would abdicate, which would be a European calamity.”
“He certainly keeps you with him most persistently. I don’t know how
he made up his mind to let you take a holiday now.”
“Well, the fact is--this mustn’t be mentioned, of course--that the
domestic horizon at the Palace has been somewhat clouded of late
years, and I have often thought it might conduce to peace and
happiness if I took myself off for a little while; but Otto Georg has
never consented to let me go before.”
“Yes, I was afraid from what the papers said that you two didn’t
exactly hit it off with the Queen and her relations. What’s all the
fuss about?”
“I’ll tell you about it when we have a smoke to-night. We’re too close
to the Castle now.”
“Yes, and there’s Nadia waiting for us on the steps,” said Caerleon,
quickening his pace.
“So she is. Why, Caerleon, your wife looks younger than when you
married her! And though I never used to be able to see it, she is
certainly wonderfully handsome.”
“Thanks,” said Caerleon drily. “I knew that all along.”
It seemed almost incredible to Cyril that the queenly woman who came
down the steps to meet him could ever have been the girl against whose
marriage with his brother he had once waged a bitter and by no means
scrupulous war. Nadia Caerleon would never be one of those who take
life easily; but she had lost the half-startled, half-suspicious look
which had set Cyril against her at the beginning of their
acquaintance, and to her natural dignity there was now added something
of the repose and assurance of manner which mark the _grande dame_.
“I was so sorry not to be able to meet you, Cyril,” she said, as she
shook hands with him, “but the Needlework Guild were holding a
committee meeting here, and I could not forsake them.”
“Certainly not,” said Cyril. “I know of old that if there are two
courses before you, you always make a point of choosing the one you
like least.”
“I see that you have not changed at all in these seven years,” she
said, smiling, as she led the way into the hall.
“Perhaps not,” said Cyril in his own mind, “but you have; or you would
have hastened to assure me that I was much mistaken, and that you
preferred the committee meeting.”
“You won’t be long, Carlino?” Nadia was saying to her husband. “I told
the children that they might have tea with us in the hall, and they
will be down very soon.”
Almost before Caerleon and Cyril had laid aside their hats and coats,
the children were upon them, Philippa looking very demure in her pink
dress, and holding the hand of her brother, who was a year younger
than herself. Yet that the interval which had elapsed since her father
had sent her on in advance had not been altogether devoted to personal
adornment was evidenced when she looked up from her cake and
remarked--
“What a funny man your servant is, Uncle Cyril!”
“Oh, you have discovered the taciturn Dietrich, then?” said Cyril.
“Oh yes,” put in Usk. “We went to see him unpacking your things. Nurse
came to see him too, because he is a foreigner.”
“You must be rather hard up for sights here, I should imagine. Well,
did you find him communicative?”
“I don’t know what that word means, Uncle Cyril.”
“Could you get him to talk to you?”
“Not very much,” said Philippa thoughtfully. “We wanted him to tell us
why you had a different kind of crown on your brushes and things from
what father has, and he said it was because you were a different kind
of gentleman. And we knew that before.”
“Dietrich is always cautious,” said Cyril; “but his most useful
characteristic is his extreme truthfulness.”
“Gratifying, no doubt,” said Caerleon; “but in what way useful?”
“Because he is the most stolid person I know. Every one who sees him
jumps to the conclusion that no one could possibly be as stupid as
Dietrich looks, and hence, when he tells the exact truth about my
movements, they always suspect him of trying to put them off the scent
for some reason or other, and they go off in the wrong direction,
which is sometimes a very good thing for me.”
“Why?” asked Usk, gazing at his uncle with astonished grey eyes which
were exactly like his mother’s.
“Because I don’t particularly want them to follow me about everywhere,
that’s all.”
The two children meditated upon this answer for a minute or two, and
then, apparently failing to arrive at any satisfactory solution, gave
it up, and dragged their father to the side-table to show him a
picture in one of the illustrated papers. Cyril looked after them with
a smile.
“It strikes one as queer that if things had fallen out differently
that little fellow would be Crown Prince of Thracia to-day, instead of
Otto Georg’s son,” he remarked to his sister-in-law.
“Yes,” said Nadia, with a slight shiver. “Tell me,” she added
suddenly, “do you think Carlino looks well--happy?”
“Couldn’t look better or happier, I should say,” was the reassuring
answer.
“It is not about the kingdom--I know he is glad to have got rid of
that--but do you think he looks like other Englishmen in his
position?”
“Yes, exactly; only perhaps rather more thoroughly contented than most
of them. But why do you ask?”
“It is because I am always afraid that I keep him back from the things
he would naturally like to do. When he brought me here first, whenever
the ladies of the neighbourhood came to call, and did not find
everything just as they expected, they always said to me, ‘Oh, you are
a foreigner, Lady Caerleon. _Of course_ you would not understand.’ And
I have always tried to understand, but I can’t make myself really
English, and it is a comfort to know that you think I have not done
him harm.”
Her face was so anxious that Cyril felt inclined to tease her by
inventing some imaginary alteration in Caerleon for which to blame
her, but he resisted the temptation, and remarked--
“I don’t wonder at your having felt strange at first, but no one would
call you a foreigner now. You seem to have taken to your new country
much more kindly than the Queen of Thracia has to hers.”
“Ah, your Queen!” said Nadia. “I wanted to ask you about her. Is she
very beautiful? One cannot trust the papers.”
“Well, she has dark hair, which looks copper-coloured in the sun, and
very peculiar eyes. They may be either brown or green or grey, and I
have seen them appear quite blue. As for being beautiful, she might
possibly be pretty if she looked pleasant, but since her marriage I
have never seen her anything but decidedly cross.”
“Oh, then she is not happy, poor thing!” said Nadia pityingly. “And
every one said it was a love-match!”
“Surely you didn’t believe that stereotyped lie? You must have noticed
that the papers trot it out whenever a royal wedding is announced. It
is simply put in as a sort of salve to the consciences of the readers.
If they were told there was a ghastly tragedy going on behind all the
pageantry they are admiring, it might make them feel uncomfortable for
a moment, and therefore they jump joyfully at the notion that an
unfortunate child of sixteen is madly in love with a _blasé_ and
unromantic German just upon fifty!”
“But you are the King’s friend, are you not? Was the poor Queen really
married at sixteen?”
“She was seventeen about a month after her marriage. She is not
twenty-two yet. Yes, I am the King’s friend, and I have no particular
reason to like the Queen; but for all that, I can see that their
marriage was a hideous mistake. It’s quite clear to any one that she
is not happy, but I own that my pity is chiefly for Otto Georg. He was
driven into it as much as she was; but he is not such a picturesque
figure, and therefore he gets no sympathy.”
“And yet you helped to bring this marriage about!” said Nadia, looking
at him in astonishment. Before he could answer, he felt a light touch
on his arm, and found Philippa beside him.
“Oh, Uncle Cyril, father says if you aren’t tired we might have a game
in the picture-gallery. Please, please, don’t be tired!”
“I am afraid you are bringing up your daughter to be a tyrant, Nadia,”
said Cyril, as he rose, perhaps not altogether sorry to break off the
conversation at this point, and no more was said on the subject of
Balkan politics or of the domestic troubles of the Court of Bellaviste
until the two brothers settled themselves in Caerleon’s den for a talk
late at night.
“Then you like your present berth well enough to stick to it still?”
said Caerleon suddenly, without leading up to the subject in any way.
“Most certainly I do; or at any rate I am not quite such a cad as to
chuck it and leave poor old Otto Georg to face things alone. The first
two years I was at Bellaviste we were like brothers. Everything went
swimmingly, and it might be doing so still if that old owl Drakovics
had not got it into his sapient head that it was time seriously to set
about securing the succession to the throne.”
“But the King’s marriage was talked of from the very first,” objected
Caerleon, ignoring his brother’s disrespectful reference to the great
Thracian Prime Minister.
“Yes; but so long as it was only talk it didn’t matter. When Otto
Georg became nervous about it, I used to comfort him with the
reflection that threatened men live long. But when I caught Drakovics
one day with a lot of photographs of unmarried princesses spread out
on the table in front of him, I knew that he meant business.”
“And you promptly demanded to have a finger in the pie?”
“I don’t know about demanding, but I had one, naturally. It happened
just then that Drakovics was nursing a grudge against the Three
Powers. He was supposed to have looked with a friendly eye on the
agitation which was being fomented against Roumi rule in the territory
of Rhodope, and Hercynia had stirred up Pannonia and Magnagrecia to
put pressure on him to disavow it. Therefore he had an idea that it
would be a good thing--convey a salutary warning and so on--to score
off the Three Powers by marrying Otto Georg to a princess whose
sympathies were somewhat Scythian, without being dangerously so. The
only difficulty was to find the lady. The most suitable of the rival
beauties appeared to be the Princess Ernestine of Weldart, but he was
afraid that the fortunes of her father’s family were altogether bound
up with those of Scythia.”
“And then came your innings?”
“Well, I did happen to remark that the lady’s mother, who was
originally a Hercynian princess, aunt or cousin or something of the
Emperor, had been for years on bad terms with her husband, and would
undoubtedly have brought up her daughter as a German rather than a
Slav. That was one of the many useful pieces of information I picked
up in that fortnight which you and I spent at Schloss Herzensruh. The
Queen of Mœsia is a sister of the Prince of Weldart, you remember?”
“I really don’t; I had other things to think of at that time. You seem
to have these wretched Germans at your fingers’ ends.”
“It’s my business, you see. Well, that settled matters. I undertook to
bring Otto Georg up to the scratch, while Drakovics managed the
necessary ceremonial details. And you know what the end was--a big
wedding at Molzau, with two Emperors present and a Grand-Duke to
represent the third, and royal and serene highnesses without number.”
“I know that you got into some sort of trouble on the occasion which I
never could make out.”
“Not exactly trouble--just a little bother. The fact was that I found
myself a fish out of water in that gorgeous company. Otto Georg
insisted on my accompanying him, and tried to get me a precedence to
which, being merely his secretary, I was certainly not entitled. You
know the awful fuss those smaller Courts make about things of the
kind. Then the Weldarts treated me with marked coldness--I have to
thank the Queen of Mœsia for that, I believe--and it spread to the
Hercynian people. Their attendants imitated their behaviour, and when
I resented that sort of second-hand contumely, one of the Hercynian
officers sent me a challenge. If I am a bit of a dab at anything, it
is at fencing, as you know, and I was not surprised when I wounded
him. Every one else was, though, and Sigismund of Hercynia was nearly
wild on hearing that one of his officers had been beaten in sword-play
by a civilian. The rest of the Hercynians got together and laid a
little plot, the principal feature of which was that they should all
challenge me in turn, so as to make pretty sure of finishing me off at
last. Somehow it got to Otto Georg’s ears--he must have felt
suspicious about my absence on the day of the duel, for we had to
settle matters at a decent distance from the Court and from the
festivities, and then I imagine he questioned Dietrich, who had
guessed the whole affair, and disapproved of it vigorously;--and he
laid it before his brother-in-law, the Emperor of Pannonia. They put
their heads together and devised a plan, which they sprang on the
illustrious assemblage. Otto Georg took a leaf out of the books of the
Scythian Court, and invented a new portfolio for me as Minister of the
Household, and the Emperor--I don’t know how he managed it--created me
a Count. That settled the question of precedence for the future.”
“I am sorry you should have discarded your own English title for a
Pannonian Countship,” said Caerleon.
“It is only when I am abroad. I should never dream of sporting a
foreign title at home; but the courtesy designation caused endless
difficulties over there, although the Germans have so many of them.”
“And after that all went merrily?”
“Well, we heard no more of the duels. But there is a black mark down
against my name in Sigismund of Hercynia’s books, and when we got back
to Thracia there was the piper to pay in quite a different matter.
Drakovics always persists that it was my fault; but I never professed
to be either a thought-reader or a prophet, and how in the world was I
to guess that as soon as the wedding festivities were over, the
Princess of Weldart would definitely break with her husband, and come
and quarter herself upon us at Bellaviste? She said that she had kept
up appearances hitherto for her daughter’s sake, but that it wasn’t
necessary any longer, now that Princess Ernestine was safely married.
Even granting that, Otto Georg and I couldn’t quite see why we were to
be victimised instead of the Prince of Weldart; but there she was, and
we had to make the best of her. She is a terrific woman--ought to have
been abbess of some convent, or perhaps the head of a band of
canonesses, as she is a Lutheran. At any rate, she did away with the
slight hope there was that the marriage might turn out a success. The
little Queen had been in abject terror of her husband at first, but
she seemed to be beginning to believe that he meant to be kind to her,
and then her mother arrived. It was unfortunate, too, that she arrived
with a strong prejudice against your humble servant--derived from the
Queen of Mœsia, of course. I should have thought that I was too lowly
an individual to be honoured with such persistent enmity; but she
persuaded Queen Ernestine that I was Otto Georg’s evil genius, and
made her frantically jealous of my influence over him. She did not
care a straw for him herself, and let him know it; but she could not
bear to see that he made a friend of me.”
“But surely,” suggested Caerleon, “in such a delicate matter, the
obvious thing was for you to retire?”
“That was how it struck me; but as often as I broached the subject,
Otto Georg swore that if I forsook him he would abdicate. He said that
Thracia would be intolerable if he was left to the tender mercies of
the Queen and her mother on one side and Drakovics on the other. So I
stayed on, and the Palace has been divided between two opposing
parties ever since. I don’t mean to say that it’s all the Queen’s
fault. Otto Georg is neither a saint nor an angel, and he has declared
more than once that his wife must take the first steps in the most
unmistakable way if he is ever to be reconciled with her again. She
won’t do that; but once or twice she has seemed to soften a little,
and I believe he might have gone in and won if it hadn’t been for that
pig-headed obstinacy of his. I daren’t say much to him, for it’s a
ticklish thing interfering between man and wife at the best of times;
but I believe a workable compromise might have been arranged on the
basis of his getting rid of me, and the Queen’s getting rid of her
mother.”
“But surely the Princess is not at Bellaviste now?”
“No; she went too far when she began to interfere with Drakovics. Some
time ago she took it into her head that Milénovics, our Public Works
Minister, had insulted her by not turning up at a visit of inspection
she made to the bridge of boats which is being constructed across the
river above Bellaviste. She hadn’t given him any notice, but that
didn’t signify. At any rate, she demanded of Otto Georg that he should
be dismissed. I went to see Drakovics about it on the King’s behalf,
and I can tell you that old man was ‘riz’ to some purpose. He refused
to send any message through me, and went to the King at once with an
ultimatum--either the Princess must go or the Ministry would. Otto
Georg was quite satisfied to get rid of his mother-in-law; but we
should have found the Queen and her mother very hard to persuade if
the Powers had not stepped in. Pannonia knew that there was a good
deal of discontent in Thracia already, owing to the number of Germans
who have been imported to fill various offices, and that if Drakovics
went, another revolution was only a matter of time. So she gave a
gentle hint to Hercynia, and Sigismund brought pretty strong pressure
to bear upon his aunt. He sent her an invitation to visit his Court,
which was virtually a command, and she had to go. Of course she and
the Queen put it all down to me, but I really can’t plead guilty in
this case. One must not risk needless revolutions with a young dynasty
like this of Otto Georg’s. By the bye, Caerleon, do you ever have any
communication with that precious father-in-law of yours?”
“I can’t say that I have,” returned Caerleon, with some constraint in
his tone. The fugitive Irish rebel of 1848, who was spending his old
age as a spy in the employ of Scythia, was not a relative of whom he
could reasonably be expected to be proud.
“He doesn’t apply to you for money? I had an idea--you have no house
in town, and you don’t make much show here--that he might be living
upon you all this time.”
“Oh no, quite the contrary. I wrote to him soon after we were married,
suggesting, as delicately as I could, that he should accept a suitable
income from me, and retire from the Scythian service. Nadia was
extremely anxious that he should have the chance of leading a decent
life for his few remaining years. But my letter was returned--not
unopened, but unanswered--and since then we have heard no more of
him.”
“Then he is at his old tricks again--I thought so. He has been in
Thracia for some time, avowedly drinking the waters at Tatarjé. I
told you that there was a good deal of discontent about, and no doubt
he is doing his best to suck some advantage out of it for his
employers. But I don’t believe that any section of the people would
join in a plot the object of which was merely to restore Scythian
supremacy, though it would not surprise me if there was another
revolution the first day that they found any one to rally round. If
you came to Thracia, now----”
“But how is it that the O’Malachy ventures to set foot in the country?
I should have thought Drakovics would have had something to say to
that.”
“Oh, he was included in the amnesty in honour of the birth of the
Crown Prince. I wanted to except him, but Drakovics was particularly
anxious not to give any offence to Scythia just then, and chose to
think that he had probably reformed. I knew there wasn’t much chance
of his having done that unless he had a comfortable livelihood secured
to him, and you say you have not been permitted to be his banker.”
“No, my savings were intended for quite another purpose. Look here,
Cyril, I want you to chuck this Thracian job, and settle down at home,
or go abroad in the Diplomatic Service, if you prefer it. I can’t bear
your being mixed up with all this shady political business, and Nadia
fully agrees with me. It’s not easy to put by much in these bad times,
but we have never quite lived up to our income, and I can let you have
ten or fifteen thousand pounds to start on to-morrow, if you’ll only
become an Englishman again instead of a hybrid cosmopolitan.”
“Do you really think me capable of sponging on you in this way?”
“Well, let us call it a loan, then. It’s all the same to me.”
“With the certainty that neither principal nor interest would ever be
repaid? No, old man. I’m awfully obliged both to you and Nadia, but I
won’t take your money. You will need it all in a few years, when the
children’s education has to be thought of. And besides, I am spoilt
for England by this time. After the life I have led these eight years,
do you seriously imagine I could take a subordinate post, even in
Diplomacy? You know that a good appointment would be just about as
accessible as the moon to me.”
“I thought of your standing for the Aberkerran Division.”
“And getting in, of course; and spending how many years as a private
member?”
“Nonsense, Cyril! With your experience, you would be a man to be
reckoned with by any Government. We should see you Under-Secretary for
Foreign Affairs in no time.”
“_Under_-Secretary? And with that pompous old brute the Duke spoiling
everything I had on hand, and taking the credit of anything that
succeeded in spite of him? Thanks, Caerleon; the House of Commons is
all very well in its own little way, but it’s not big enough for me.”
“But what are you aiming at?”
“At having a hand on the reins, that’s all--but then, Europe is the
coach. There’s not much show about my ambitions, but a remarkable
amount of solid reality. I don’t ask for the things other people
covet--money or love or pleasure--but I must be behind the scenes and
pull the wires. It doesn’t matter to me whether my power is recognised
by the man in the street or not, so long as I know that I have it, and
can make the puppets dance.”
“And Otto Georg?” asked Caerleon drily.
“Otto Georg is a puppet for whom I have a foolish weakness. To give
him and the silly little Queen a chance of composing their
differences, I have sacrificed myself so far as to quit the stage for
three months, in spite of his entreaties and my own better judgment.
For his sake I hope he won’t command my return before the time is up,
but for my own I trust he will.”
“Then you will take care of Uncle Cyril, Phil, and amuse him?”
“Oh yes, mother,” and Philippa climbed into the carriage for another
kiss. “I’m going to take him all round, and explain _everything_.”
“Poor Uncle Cyril!” said Caerleon. “Haven’t you forgotten that he knew
his way about the place a good many years before you were born, Phil?”
“Oh dear!” gasped Philippa in dismay, as she returned to the doorstep.
“Did you really, Uncle Cyril?”
“I’m afraid I did once, but very likely I have forgotten half of it.
We’ll see which of us remembers the stories best.”
This was a proposal entirely to Philippa’s taste, and she led her
obedient uncle away as soon as the carriage had driven off. To her
great distress, however, his reminiscences proved invariably to be
incorrect, and frequently also to be humorous in character, a trait
which jarred on her sense of fitness.
“I don’t believe you were really here when you were a little boy,
Uncle Cyril,” she remarked at last, as he found her a comfortable seat
on the safest portion of the wall of the ruined Abbey.
“But your father was, and we were always together until he went to
school.”
“Then I can’t think,” meditatively, “why it is that you aren’t the
least little bit like father. Father is so splendid and good.”
“And I am not good? Poor me!”
“I----I didn’t mean that exactly, Uncle Cyril. I meant perhaps you
were good in a different way--perhaps it’s a London way. Nurse always
says London is a very wicked place.”
“Thank you again, Phil! Or am I to understand that you are labouring
to express the difference between the Absolute and the Relative?”
“Oh no, you don’t understand one bit. It is like the children where
nurse was last, when she lived at General Clarendon’s. His
grandchildren were so dreadfully good you can’t think! They never
quarrelled, or did anything they liked, or wanted to do anything they
were told not to, or forgot to come to have their hands washed and put
on clean pinafores. Well, one day when nurse had been telling us a lot
about them, Usk said all at once, ‘I don’t believe they were always as
good as that. I expect you’ll tell the children where you go next how
good we were.’ Wasn’t it _dreadful_? And nurse was so angry! She put
on her spectacles and looked at Usk and said, ‘Well, my lord, at any
rate I’ll take my oath that never in all my experience did I know a
young gentleman stand up to me before and call me a liar to my face.’”
“We seem to be wandering a little from the point of the argument,”
suggested Cyril mildly.
“Oh, but don’t you see it shows--no, I don’t mean that--I can’t think
what I meant---- Oh, Uncle Cyril, there’s a telegraph-boy! Let us race
and catch him before he gets to the house.”
Before Cyril could even rise from his seat, she was at the foot of the
wall and running across the park at a pace which the boy, who was
lounging comfortably along the drive, and displaying his interest in
the natural objects on either side to the extent of throwing stones at
them, made no attempt to excel or even to emulate. When Cyril came up,
Philippa was in possession of the telegram, and was ordering the boy
to go on to the Castle and get some bread and cheese and lemonade from
the cook.
“That was a nice boy,” she remarked with much gratification, as the
boy departed. “He touched his cap, and said, ‘Thank you, my lady.’
Sometimes they just race off without saying anything. But mother says
we mustn’t be cross, because they haven’t had any one to teach them
better.”
“As the boy is going up to the house after all, he might as well have
taken the telegram,” observed her uncle.
“Oh, but Usk and I always get father’s telegrams and give them to him.
Besides, it’s for you.”
“For me? Give it me at once, Phil.”
“Oh, Uncle Cyril, but you must pay the postman!” cried Philippa, in
bitter reproach, holding the missive behind her. “Father always does.
It’s one kiss for each letter, and two for a paper, and three for a
telegram.”
Cyril made the required payment, rather perfunctorily, it must be
confessed, and tore open the envelope. His face changed as he read the
message, and he crumpled the paper in his hand, and thrust it into his
pocket.
“Come, Phil,” he said, “we must go back to the Castle, and tell the
ingenuous Teuton to pack up my things.”
“Oh, that means Dietrich!” cried Philippa delightedly. “You do call
him such funny names, Uncle Cyril. But is it from the House? Father
lets Usk and me have his telegrams to play post-office with when he
has done with them, and they always say, ‘Division comes on to-morrow
night. Expect you by morning mail.’ Is yours that kind?”
“Not quite,” said Cyril, walking on so fast that the child could
scarcely keep pace with him, “but it brings me my marching orders,
Phil. I must start for Thracia to-night.”