A DAUGHTER’S DUTY.
Lady Caerleon sat alone in the breakfast-room at Llandiarmid, with
an unopened letter lying before her on the table. Her husband was
staying with a friend in the Midlands for a few days’ shooting, and
she had sent the children away to play, for she felt reluctant, almost
afraid, to open the letter in their presence. The sight of the
Thracian stamp and post-mark, and of the writing upon the envelope,
brought back to her with unwelcome vividness the troubles of her
girlhood, which had passed out of sight--almost out of mind--during
the happy years of her married life. That writing she had last seen
some months before her marriage, when her father had written to
upbraid her for revealing his plot against Caerleon’s life to the
intended victim, and had cast her off, as he declared, for ever. “I
have no daughter now,” he had said, and she accepted his decision with
a resignation which comprised in it something of relief. “You must be
father and brother to me, as well as husband,” she had said to
Caerleon on their wedding-day, looking into his face with her great
serious eyes, “for I have no one but you;” and if she had experienced
little difficulty in choosing between father and lover, she had never
for a moment found reason to regret her choice. It was like tearing
open an old wound to return now to the trials of those earlier days;
but she shook off her reluctance after a time, and unfolded the letter
with a determination to know the worst at once. As she looked at it,
however, the apprehension faded from her face, for instead of
conveying the curse which her father had sworn that he would send her
with his dying breath, the words which met her eye were expressive of
the greatest goodwill.
“My dear Nadia,--You will likely be surprised to receive a letter
from me; but I feel I am growing old, and often lately I have been
troubled to think that the one relation I have left in the wide world
was living in enmity against me. Owing to reasons with which you are
very well acquainted, it is not possible for me to take the step to
which my feelings prompt me, and by paying you a visit in England,
seek to end this sad state of things; but if you should feel moved to
terminate it, be sure that you will find no obstacle in me. I have
suffered of late from a painful and distressing illness, any
recurrence of which, so the doctor informs me, would be fatal, and
which may recur at any time. At this moment I am experiencing great
relief from a course of the Tatarjé waters, and find my former
strength wonderfully restored. My life has not been too happy, and
now, lingering on the borders of a better world, I am conscious of a
longing for that solace of family affection, from which circumstances
have debarred me wholly of late years, and in a measure, as you know,
all my days. I wish to blame no one, but I think your own heart will
bear me out in this. It is not for me to sue for pity to my daughter;
but if her filial feelings lead her to take the first steps towards a
reconciliation, far be it from me to repulse her! You have children,
Nadia--a son, I hear. Since your poor brother’s death and your
disobedience I have had none; but I would like greatly to see yours
before I die. It would afford me pleasure, also, to meet your husband
again, for I have always entertained the highest respect for him,
although we unfortunately differed in politics. Some years ago I
received from him a very suitable and becoming letter, which I fear I
may have failed to treat with the consideration it deserved. I do not
ask his pardon; he will be able to understand something of the
bitterness which fills a father’s heart under circumstances such as
mine. I make no entreaties; I leave the matter with you. However you
may decide to receive this overture of mine, I cannot forget that I am
your father,
“/O’Malachy/.”
Nadia read the letter through again, for its tone of injured rectitude
was somewhat puzzling in view of the circumstances in which the breach
between her father and herself had taken place. To say that Caerleon
and he had “differed in politics” was a mild way of stating that the
O’Malachy had plotted not merely to depose, but to murder, his
would-be son-in-law when the latter occupied the Thracian throne.
Perhaps it would be too much to expect any expression of regret for
this unfortunate misunderstanding; but Nadia felt that her father was
scarcely entitled to imply that all the misconduct was on her side and
all the undeserved suffering on his own. Still, the fact that he had
written this letter at all was more than she could have dared to hope,
and she knew him well enough to recognise that it was only in
accordance with his character to safeguard his own dignity as far as
possible in thus making friendly overtures after his long silence,
although this rendered it all the more difficult to know how to reply
to the letter.
“I wish Carlino was at home!” she said at last. “I cannot tell what to
say by myself. Ah, yes; I will send him the letter, and he shall tell
me how I ought to answer it. How glad he will be to hear that what I
have been longing and praying for ever since we were married has come
to pass at last! We will take the children with us and go to Tatarjé,
and papa’s heart will be softened. Perhaps he will be able to come
back to England after all, and spend his old age here. If he is really
changed, he might wish to do it, and some of Carlino’s friends in the
Government would surely be able to make it safe for him. Oh, how
delightful it would be to know that he was quiet and had given up
plotting! I am certain Carlino feels it a trial to be connected with a
Scythian secret service agent, though he never allows it to appear;
and it will be a comfort to him to have him close at hand and to be
able to keep an eye on him.”
It did not occur to Nadia, as she sat down at her writing-table to
begin her letter to her husband, that the O’Malachy was scarcely
likely to be either a very desirable or a particularly contented
inhabitant of the Castle unless his character had altered very
materially of late years; but Caerleon frowned a good deal over the
proposal when it reached him the next morning. He had not bargained
for receiving his father-in-law as an inmate of his family, and it
seemed to him that it would make for the happiness of all concerned if
the gallant officer should elect to end his days at some Continental
health-resort. The annoyances which his presence at Llandiarmid was
bound to entail would press most heavily on Nadia herself, and
therefore she would be inclined to underrate them in prospect; but
Caerleon had no intention of allowing his wife to be victimised by her
father if he could possibly induce her to see that the sacrifice was
not demanded of her. He had slight opportunity, however, of laying his
views before her, for even before the time at which he was revolving
in his mind the sentences which should produce the impression he
desired without appearing to throw cold water on her schemes for her
father’s reformation, Nadia had taken a sudden and most important step
on her own account.
In the afternoon of the day on which Lady Caerleon had received her
father’s letter, and forwarded it to her husband, Wright the coachman,
returning from executing various commissions for his mistress in
Aberkerran, brought out also a telegram addressed to her, which had
been intrusted to him at the post-office, with the view of saving the
trouble and expense of a special messenger. He lingered at the door
while she opened the envelope, expecting to hear that Lord Caerleon
was returning earlier than had been anticipated, or that he had been
suddenly called to London; but to his great alarm she turned pale when
the message met her eyes, and a startled cry broke from her--
“My father is dangerously ill, Wright, and entreats me to come and see
him with the children before he dies. The telegram is from the doctor,
who warns me not to lose a moment. We must leave by to-night’s
train--the one Lord Cyril took when he was called away.”
“You and the children, my lady? and all in such a ’urry?” said Wright,
in bewilderment. “’Ow ever will you get ready?”
“We must manage. I should never forgive myself if we were too late. I
must telegraph to the Marquis to meet us in London. He is not so far
from town as we are, and will be able to do it well.”
“But you wouldn’t go for to travel alone to town with the children, my
lady?”
“Of course I shall take nurse. I think I will take you as well,
Wright. You know something about travelling, and if anything should
prevent the Marquis from meeting us, you would be most useful.”
“Yes, my lady; but what am I to say to my wife?”
“Tell her that I take you because you were with Lord Caerleon in
Eastern Europe before, of course. Have the waggonette ready at six,
and bring Stodart to take charge of the horses and drive them home.”
“Yes, my lady--but, begging your ladyship’s pardon, do you think as
’is lordship would approve of your startin’ off quite so quick without
sendin’ ’im word fust?”
“My good Wright,” returned Nadia forbearingly, “I shall telegraph to
Lord Caerleon before we get into the train. I should not think of
going to Tatarjé without him; but it is just possible that he might
not reach London quite in time for the Flushing boat, and might have
to follow us by another. That is why I am taking you. But you may be
quite sure that my husband will approve of my doing my duty.”
Wright retired, crushed, to give the necessary orders at the stables,
and then to break the news of his sudden departure to his wife, who
complained that the Marchioness was very thoughtless, and ’ad much
better take one of the young fellows as didn’t suffer with the
rheumatics, if she wanted to go trapesing about over the place, and
not lead a respectable family man on such a wild-goose chase; but
there! she never ’ad set much by them furriners. But this utterance
struck at the root of all Wright’s ideas of the respect due to the
“Family,” and he hastened to assure his grumbling spouse, while she
packed his bag and he brought out the old passport which he cherished
with a good deal of pride, that her ladyship was taking the proper
course under the circumstances, and that he considered she was
perfectly justified in what she did.
After all, in spite of Lady Caerleon’s promptness in deciding upon the
journey, and her haste in preparing for it, there was not time for her
to send off the telegram to her husband before the train started, and
she was therefore obliged to give it into the hands of Stodart the
groom, with instructions to despatch it immediately. Stodart was a
well-intentioned young man; but on the present occasion the honour and
glory of finding himself in sole command of the horses and carriage
seems to have been too much for his self-control, for after driving
through the principal streets to exhibit his grandeur to his
acquaintances, he yielded to the invitation of a friend, and accepted
a glass or two of beer at a public-house close to the post-office.
There is no reason to suspect that he went beyond the two glasses; but
the melancholy fact remains that when he reached the post-office it
was too late to send the telegram that day. The crestfallen youth took
it back to Llandiarmid, and confessed his dereliction of duty to the
housekeeper, who rebuked him sharply for not having left the missive
with some one in the town who could have despatched it as soon as the
office opened. Stodart himself rode into Aberkerran at the earliest
possible hour the next morning, and sent off the message; but by that
time a weary and shivering little group, gathered on the platform at
Victoria, had realised sadly that Lord Caerleon was not there to meet
them, and had taken the Queenborough train without him. Nor did the
misfortunes of the telegram end here. It did not reach the
country-house at which Caerleon was staying until some time after the
gentlemen had started for the distant coverts, and the hostess
considered that it might well wait until she herself joined the
sportsmen at lunch-time. Even then, she was thoughtful enough not to
present it until after the meal, in case it should contain bad news,
and then she forgot it until she and the other ladies were making
their way home, so that when Caerleon at last received it he was
forced to realise that his wife and children were already speeding
across Europe away from him as fast as steam could carry them. His own
man was on the sick-list, having been shot accidentally in the ankle
by an amateur sportsman of the party, and he was obliged to telegraph
to Llandiarmid that Robert the footman should meet him at Victoria the
next morning with his passport and other necessaries for a Continental
journey. He was already too late to catch the night-boat, and had the
mortification of knowing that his utmost haste could not result in
enabling him to be less than a day behind.
As for Nadia, she pursued her way with a timidity that was almost
fear. Since her marriage she had scarcely been further than Aberkerran
without Caerleon, and she felt worried and perplexed when Wright asked
for directions or inquired her wishes. She had been independent enough
at one time; but Caerleon had managed everything for her so long that
she hardly knew how to act on her own responsibility. Happily a gleam
of hope reached her at Cologne, where she received a telegram from her
husband to say that he was starting to follow her, and would join her
at the Hôtel du Roi Othon at Tatarjé, where the O’Malachy was
staying. She found another piece of comfort in the behaviour of the
children, who regarded the whole affair as a game of the most
delightful kind.
From the moment at which Usk and Philippa were first told that instead
of going to bed they were to take a journey to the other end of Europe
in order to see grandpapa, who was ill, they seemed to themselves to
have passed out of the regions of reality into those of romance. Their
mother’s father had always been a shadowy figure to them. They knew
all about their other grandfather, whose sword hung over the
mantelpiece in father’s study, and whose medals and decorations they
were allowed to look at as a treat on their birthdays. They could give
detailed accounts of the various engagements in which he had taken
part, and by mounting a chair in the picture-gallery they could
indicate on his portrait the exact locality of each wound that he had
received. Moreover, his monument faced them in church every Sunday,
and had served to provide matter of extraneous interest during many
long sermons. But with Grandpapa O’Malachy it was different. He was
not dead; but he was away somewhere, and he never wrote to mother.
Once Philippa, overhearing some words of gossip between her nurse and
Wright, who had returned from his travels with a very low opinion of
the O’Malachy, had asked her father point-blank whether grandpapa was
a wicked man--an inquiry which Lord Caerleon could only parry by
saying that little girls ought not to ask questions. This
unprecedented snub, following on what she had already heard, Philippa
accepted as an affirmative answer, and to her and to Usk their
grandfather became for the future a compound of Guy Fawkes and of the
wicked uncle of the Babes in the Wood. Many happy hours were spent by
the two in the Abbey ruins “playing at grandpa”; but this was not
guessed by their parents, for Philippa had issued an edict that
“grandpa was not to be talked about, because it worried mother,” and
Usk, who was her willing slave, obeyed her faithfully.
To be now actually on a journey to visit this mysterious, and
therefore terrible and delightful, relative, was in itself an
incredible joy; but it was heightened by the fact that he lived in the
country where father was once king, and when they set foot on the
Continent the children had reached a state of exaltation in which
nothing would have surprised them, from Genii to Man Friday. Their
excitement did not show itself outwardly. They ran races and played
games up and down the corridor of the train, made friends with the
other passengers, looked out on the strange people at the stations,
and came to their mother ever and anon for petting and a story; but
occasionally, when their extreme quietness prompted Nadia or their
nurse to make a raid upon them in fear of some mischief, they would be
found curled up together in the corner of a seat, Philippa telling Usk
in a whisper tales of marvel respecting the wonders to be anticipated.
When once the Thracian frontier had been crossed, they spent their
time in rushing from window to window of the carriage, so as not to
miss one scene of the enchanted land. All through the journey they had
asked at each station whether this was father’s kingdom yet, and now
they were happy. Nadia had rashly attempted to prove to them that
Thracia had now another king, and in no way belonged to their father;
but Philippa was persuaded that once a king meant always a king, and
supported her contention by the historical examples of David King of
Israel, King Alfred, and the Young Pretender.
There was abundant opportunity for the travellers to see as much of
Thracia as they wished, and even more, for this portion of the railway
had been damaged by a flood the day before, and progress was very
slow. The train was timed to reach Tatarjé at three in the afternoon,
but it did not get in until seven; and the children were roused from
an uncomfortable slumber by their nurse that they might be put tidy
before arriving. The station, so far as they could see, was very much
like other stations, and the streets were chiefly remarkable for being
narrow, badly paved, and smelly; but what did this signify? they were
situated in Arcadia. Usk and Philippa were wide awake now, and able to
notice their mother’s excitement. She was panting as she sat upright
in the carriage, and her lips trembled. If she should be too late now,
after this dreadful journey!
The loungers in the hall of the Hôtel du Roi Othon found a new
subject of interest that evening in the stately lady who entered
suddenly, followed by her children and servants, and demanded to be
taken at once to the Herr Oberst O’Malachy’s room. The German waiter
whom she had addressed looked at her in astonishment not unmixed with
suspicion. The lady spoke German without the slightest foreign accent;
but her companions were unmistakably English, and what could they want
with the Scythian officer?
“I don’t know whether the Herr Oberst will see visitors,” he said.
“He will see me. I am his daughter, and have come straight from
England because he sent for me. Take me to him immediately, if you
please.” The waiter gave way before the tone of calm command.
“Madame will know best, no doubt,” he said with a bow, and led the way
up-stairs, Nadia following him closely. Her journey was not in vain;
for at least her father was not dead.
“Mother,” suggested Philippa, pulling at her mother’s cape as they
reached the landing, “perhaps he means that grandpa is asleep.”
“I shan’t disturb him, Phil. You and Usk had better wait outside, and
I will just go in very quietly and look at him.”
But the door which the waiter flung open with the announcement, “A
lady from England to see the Herr Oberst,” was not that of a bedroom,
and the children, looking in with astonished eyes, saw their mother
pause and start as soon as she had crossed the threshold. A number of
men were sitting round a table laden with fruit and wine in a
gorgeously furnished sitting-room, and stared at the intruder in
amazement; while a white-haired man at the head of the board, who
seemed to be engaged in concocting a bowl of punch, dropped the lemon
he had been manipulating, and turned round in his chair to gaze.
“And is ut you, Nadia?” he cried heartily, after a moment of stunned
silence. “Come in, come in! My daughter, gentlemen.”
“You asked me to come. You said you were ill,” gasped Nadia, catching
at the door to steady herself.
“And sure I was ill. If I’m all right again now, thanks to the doctor
here, you’d not grudge ut me, would you?”
As she made no answer, but stood gazing at him with dilated eyes and
parted lips, he rose and came towards her, supporting himself with a
stick.
“’Twas good of you to come, Nadia, and if I’d known it would give you
pleasure, sure I’d have stayed in bed to receive you. But never so
much as a telegram to let me know you were coming; how in the world
could I even meet you at the train? Come, sit down, and don’t stand
looking at me like a voiceless banshee. What is ut, at all?”
Nadia sank down on the chair the waiter brought her; but still she
said nothing, and the children, wondering exceedingly, came and stood
beside her.
“Mother, is it grandpa?” asked Philippa in a whisper. She was mindful
of her manners, if her mother had forgotten them.
“Yes; it is your grandfather,” replied Lady Caerleon with a strange
laugh. “Go and speak to him.” The children obeyed.
“How do you do, grandpa?” asked Usk, who was the first to reach the
tall stooping form by the table. “I hope you are quite well?” But he
felt himself eclipsed at once when Philippa said pointedly in her
turn, “How do you do, grandpa? I’m so glad you’re better.”
“But it is adorable!” cried one of the gentlemen, as Philippa stood on
tiptoe to bestow a kiss on her grandfather. “Come and give me a keess
also, leetle English Meess.”
“I don’t know who you mean,” said Philippa, disliking the speaker
instinctively, but mindful of the duties of politeness. “My name is
Lady Philippa Mortimer.”
“Mortimer!” said another. “No relation of our dear Count, surely?”
“Ah, would you like to know?” said the O’Malachy, trying to remove
Philippa’s fur cap, but she withdrew herself from his hands.
“I can take off my hat myself, grandpa,” she said reprovingly, and did
so. A cry of recognition broke from the company.
“Carlino’s daughter! There cannot be a doubt.”
“Exactly,” said the O’Malachy drily. “Have I won my bet, gentlemen?”
A chorus of affirmation greeted him, and Lady Caerleon laughed
again--a hard, unmirthful laugh. Philippa looked at her anxiously.
“I’m very glad you’re better, grandpa,” she said; “but don’t you think
you might have sent mother a telegram? Then we needn’t have hurried
so, and we could have waited for father.”
“So!” cried another man; “and where then is the Herr Papa, little
Goldenlocks?”
“Father missed the train, and we couldn’t wait, but he will be here
to-morrow.”
“Aha!” said the gentleman who had wished to kiss Philippa. “There is
something wrong here, Colonel.”
“How could I help ut?” demanded the O’Malachy. “I never dreamt of her
arriving without um. However, ’tis only a day’s delay.”
“Father would never have let mother come alone,” said Philippa, up in
arms at once; “but he couldn’t help it, for he didn’t know in time.
And mother has been so dreadfully worried about him, and about you
too, grandpa. It’s very bad for her to be worried, and she oughtn’t to
be let do it.”
“Indeed! and who says that, milady?”
“Father says so, and he always keeps her from being worried, too.”
“What! the excellent Carlino is a considerate husband?” and the
gentlemen laughed as though they thought it a huge joke. “He is a
model of all the domestic virtues, is he not, milady?”
“I don’t know what that means; but if it means that father is good, of
course he is.”
The gentlemen laughed again, which made Philippa angry.
“I don’t think it’s nice to laugh about father like that when we are
there. Please, grandpa, we’re all very tired with the train, and
mother is worried, I’m sure. Oh no, it must be that she’s so glad to
know you are so much better than she expected. But I think she ought
to rest a little. Can we get rooms here, do you think?”
“Delightful English common-sense!” cried Philippa’s enemy; but the
O’Malachy interposed promptly.
“Of course you can, Phil. The waiter thought of that long ago, and has
gone to see after them. I hear um coming back now, and he has your
maid with um. I daresay you will like to see your rooms, Nadia. You
don’t look fit to talk to-night; but I’ll hope to find you fresh and
rested in the morning.”
Roused from her stunned condition by his words, Nadia rose, and,
bowing coldly to the company, left the room with the children. While
her mother was settling matters with the servants outside, Philippa
discovered that she had left her cap behind, and ordered Usk to come
back with her and fetch it. But the thought of traversing the long
room again under the eyes of the diners was too much for Usk, and
Philippa pushed the door open quietly, and went in by herself, to find
her grandfather leaning over the table and talking earnestly in
French, for the benefit, apparently, of a gentleman who had only just
joined the party. The children were accustomed to speak French almost
as regularly as English with their mother, and Philippa caught the
words--
“The Jewess and her boy have put themselves in our power by coming
here. We seize them and the Count at one blow, then proclaim our
friend king, call out our people, and march on Bellaviste.”
“But what if our friend prove restive?”
“That will probably be the case; but we must find means to quiet him,
and if all expedients fail, there is the boy. The Bishop would like
that better. By all the----! what are you doing here, Philippa?”
“I came to get my hat, grandpa. It’s on your chair.”
“Take ut, then, and be off. Did you hear---- No, I won’t put ideas
into the child’s head. Go to bed at once, like a good girl, and in the
morning I’ll take you and your brother into the town and buy you some
sweets.”
“One moment, Herr Oberst,” said the man with the German accent, before
Philippa could utter her thanks. “I wish to satisfy myself that our
friend’s daughter inherits his amiable peculiarities. Come here,
little Goldenlocks,” and he poured her out a glass of wine, “drink
this to the health of the dear Herr Grandpapa, who has recovered so
quickly from his sickness under the care of the good doctor.”
“No, thank you,” said Philippa politely, for she had refused similar
invitations before; “we are all teetotallers.”
“Excellent!” cried her new antagonist, while the rest shouted with
laughter. “You are indeed happy in your descendants, Herr Oberst. Who
could have believed that so virtuous a family existed in these
degenerate days? What could be better for our plans?”
“Don’t tease the child,” said the O’Malachy, darting an angry glance
at him. “Run away, Phil. Here’s a crystallised apricot for you. Can’t
you see that I’m busy with these gentlemen?”
If the O’Malachy had intended to stamp on Philippa’s memory the
conversation she had overheard, he could not have found better means
to that end than his evident anxiety to get her out of the room, and
his gift of the apricot. She was revolving many things in her mind as
she passed through the door, and met her brother outside.
“I’m sure grandpapa’s friends are not nice, Usk,” she said, as she
divided the apricot with him. “They laughed when I said we were
teetotallers.”
“So do some of father’s friends--often,” objected Usk, with his mouth
full of fruit. “Mr Forfar did.”
“Yes; but that was a different kind of laughing. This was horrid, like
the people in Vanity Fair when Christian and Faithful were going
through, I should think. And they said such funny things, too. But I’m
not going to worry mother. I do wish father was here!”
“Excellency,” said Dietrich, entering his master’s office in the Villa
Alexova, and standing at the salute, “I have just seen the young
Countess.”
“Nonsense, Dietrich! You must be dreaming.” Cyril knew that for some
inscrutable reason of his own--probably connected with linguistic
difficulties--the valet always alluded to Philippa as “the young
Countess.” “Lady Phil is with her parents in England.”
“Excellency, I met her in the street just now, attended by the
coachman Wright, and they both spoke to me.”
“But what did they say?”
“They expressed pleasure on seeing me, Excellency; and the young
Countess said that her lady mother had been summoned from England to
attend the death-bed of the Herr Oberst O’Malachy, but that on
arriving here they found him alive and well.”
“What devilry is the old wretch up to now?” muttered Cyril. “He has
never been seriously ill since he came here. Did you tell Lady Phil
that I was at Tatarjé, Dietrich?”
“No, Excellency; I had no orders. When the young Countess asked me why
I was here, I said that I was on the business of the Herr Hofminister.
But in case you should wish to speak to the little lady, I informed
her that persons of respectable appearance were permitted to walk in
the gardens of the Villa at this hour, and I see that she is in the
chestnut-alley now.”
“Your wisdom, Dietrich, is only equalled by your talent for silence.
You have judged correctly: I do wish to speak to the little lady;” and
Cyril rose and put away his papers, and went out into the garden. When
Philippa saw him advancing towards her, she flew to meet him with a
scream of delight.
“_Oh_, Uncle Cyril, I am so glad! How nice of Dietrich not to tell us
you were here, and give us such a lovely surprise! Mother is so
dreadfully worried, and father won’t be here till this afternoon, and
grandpapa is such a funny man. But you’ll do next best to father.
It’ll be all right now.”
“Poor Phil, what a catalogue of woes! Where is your mother?”
“At the hotel. She and grandpa have been talking and talking, and I
know mother cried, but grandpa was quite cheerful and joky. He said it
would have gone to his heart to send a telegram to say we needn’t
come, he was so counting on seeing us. He was going to take Usk and me
out to buy us some sweets; but Usk was tired, and mother said he had
better not go out until we go to meet father at the station this
afternoon, and grandpa said it wouldn’t be fair to Usk to take me out
alone. Mother wouldn’t go out; she said nothing should induce her to
let Usk out of her sight. Please stoop down, Uncle Cyril; I want to
whisper. I think mother’s frightened about something. And nurse
wouldn’t come out. She said she dursen’t trust herself in these furrin
streets, lest she should be murdered, and so I couldn’t have gone out
at all if Wright hadn’t been here. But mother made him promise never
to take his eyes off me for a second.”
Cyril looked up and met Wright’s gaze. The coachman shook his head
solemnly. “I’m afraid it’s a bad business somehow, my lord; but the
rights and the wrongs of it is quite beyond me.”
“Well, Phil,” said Cyril, “suppose I come with you and see your
mother? Perhaps I shall be able to cheer her up a little; and at any
rate it’s not long before your father will be here.”
“No; only a little more than two hours,” said Philippa, contentedly,
putting her hand in Cyril’s as they turned to leave the garden. The
sight of the Villa suggested a new topic to her mind.
“Oh, do you live in that big house, Uncle Cyril? It’s a little bit
like Llandiarmid, isn’t it? only there aren’t any ruins.”
“No; the little Prince whom I told you about lives there. His father
is dead now, and he is King.”
“But they are going to have another king as well, aren’t they?
Grandpapa and his friends were talking last night about making a
friend of theirs king.”
“Were they, indeed? They didn’t mention his name, I suppose?”
“No; they only said _notre ami_, just as they did when they were
saying nasty things about father being a teetotaller. They said he had
amiable peculiarities. Wasn’t it horrid of them? They were talking
French, you know. Oh, and who is the Jewess, Uncle Cyril?”
“Why, don’t you know what a Jewess is, Phil?” Yet Cyril’s blood
quickened, in spite of his careless tone, as he heard the cant name of
the rabble for Queen Ernestine.
“Of course I know, uncle. I have heard the Jewish children sing, in
London. Usk cried just a little, because they weren’t black; but I
knew before that they wouldn’t be. But it was ever so long ago, and he
was very little then.”
“But what made you ask about a Jewess now?” with some impatience.
“Oh, because grandpa said, ‘The Jewess and her boy are in our power.’
They talked about the Count, too, and the Bishop; but it didn’t sound
so interesting.”
“Phil, try and remember exactly what you heard, and be very careful in
telling it me. If you have the slightest recollection of any names,
tell me them just as they sounded to you.”
“But there weren’t any names, Uncle Cyril. I don’t even know who the
gentlemen were, except that one talked as if he was French, and
another as if he was German. And they only said that about making
their friend king, and that if he didn’t like it, there was the boy,
and the Bishop would like that better, and something about marching to
Bellaviste. Oh, here’s grandpa!”
They had come face to face with the O’Malachy in crossing the street
into which the gate of the Villa opened. He swept his hat off with a
flourish, and Cyril returned the salute carelessly.
“My niece has found me out, you see, O’Malachy. I hope you were not
looking for her? I am taking her back to her mother as soon as we have
done a little shopping. There was something about a doll in Thracian
costume, wasn’t there, Phil?”
“_Oh_, Uncle Cyril!” murmured Philippa, squeezing his hand
ecstatically, and Cyril passed on with a nod to the O’Malachy, and
entered the first toyshop they reached. He knew that the O’Malachy was
watching them, and the thought nerved him to remain patient and
apparently interested while Philippa discussed the merits of
innumerable dolls, and minutes of priceless value slipped away. The
old man was still looking in at a shop-window near at hand when they
came out, and Cyril was obliged to walk home with Philippa, instead of
intrusting her to Wright’s care as he had intended; but he controlled
his anxiety so well that the child did not even discover that his mind
was preoccupied. When they arrived at the porch of the hotel, he
stopped and looked at his watch.
“Why, Phil, I shan’t be able to come in and see your mother after all.
We oughtn’t to have spent so much time in choosing the doll. But tell
her that I shall be sure to look in this afternoon. Say that I beg her
particularly not to be frightened by anything she may hear--and, by
the bye, ask her from me not to go to meet your father at the station.
That’s a little treat which I want for myself, do you see?”
“Oh yes, Uncle Cyril,” said Philippa, smiling at the idea of a
grown-up person’s wanting a treat, and she waved her hand to him as he
took off his hat to her and turned away. He still walked slowly, but
his mind was strung to its highest pitch, and his plans were working
themselves out.
“Less than two hours now. First to make things safe about our friends
the enemy, and then to stop Caerleon, and prevent his coming here. You
very nearly won this time, O’Malachy; but if I beat you in this nest
of rebellion, with a disaffected garrison, I think you will have to
shut up shop for good and all.”