CHAPTER XIII

THE FEAST OF ST JOHN BAPTIST

“As there’s a heaven above us,” wrote Lynborough that same night--having

been, one would fain hope, telepathically conscious of the hand-kissing

by the red lips, of the softly breathed “To-morrow!” (for if he were

not, what becomes of Love’s Magic?)--“As there’s a heaven above us, I

have succeeded! Her answer is more than a consent--it’s an appreciation.

The rogue knew how she stood: she is haughtily, daintily grateful. Does

she know how near she drove me to the abominable thing? Almost had I--I,

Ambrose Caverly--issued a writ! I should never, in all my life, have got

over the feeling of being a bailiff! She has saved me by the rightness

of her taste. ‘Knightly’ she called it to old Cromlech. Well, that was

in the blood--it had been my own fault if I had lost it, no credit of

mine if to some measure I have it still. But to find the recognition! I

have lit up the countryside to-night to celebrate that rare discovery.

“Rare--yes--yet not doubted. I knew it of her. I believe that I have

broken all records--since the Renaissance at least. Love at first sight!

Where’s the merit in that? Given the sight be fine enough (a thing that

I pray may not admit of doubt in the case of Helena), it is no exploit;

it is rather to suffer the inevitable than to achieve the great. But

unless the sight of a figure a hundred yards away--and of a back

fifty--is to count against me as a practical inspection, I am so

supremely lucky as never to have seen her! I have made her for myself--a

few tags of description, a noting of the effect on Roger and on

Cromlech, mildly (and very unimaginatively) aided my work, I admit--but

for the most part, and in all essentials, she, as I love her (for of

course I love her, or no amount of Feasts of St John Baptist should have

moved me from my path--take that for literal or for metaphorical as ye

will!)--is of my own craftsmanship--work of my heart and brain, wrought

just as I would have her--as I knew, through all delightful wanderings,

that some day she must come to me.

“Think then of my mood for to-morrow! With what feelings do I ring the

bell (unless perchance it be a knocker)! With what sensations accost the

butler! With what emotions enter the presence! Because if by chance I am

wrong----! Upon which awful doubt arises the question whether, if I be

wrong, I can go back. I am plaguily the slave of putting the thing as

prettily as it can be put (Thanks, Cromlech, for giving me the

adverb--not so bad a touch for a Man of Tombs!), and, on my soul, I have

put that homage of mine so prettily that one who was prudent would have

addressed it to none other than a married lady--_vivente marito_, be it

understood. But from my goddess her mortal mate is gone--and to

explain--nay, not to explain (which would indeed tax every grace of

style)--but to let it appear that the homage lingers, abides, and is

confined within the letter of the bond--that would seem scarce

‘knightly.’ Therefore, being (as all tell me) more of a fool than most

men, and (as I soberly hope) not less of a gentleman, I stand thus. I

love the Image I have made out of dim distant sight, prosaic shreds of

catalogued description, a vividly creating mind, and--to be candid--the

absolute necessity of amusing myself in the country. But the Woman I am

to see to-morrow? Is she the Image? I shall know in the first moment of

our encounter. If she is, all is well for me--for her it will be just a

question of her dower of heavenly venturousness. If she is not--in my

humble judgment, you, Ambrose Caverly, having put the thing with so

excessive a prettiness, shall for your art’s sake perish--you must, in

short, if you would end this thing in the manner (creditable to

yourself, Ambrose!) in which it has hitherto been conducted,

willy-nilly, hot or cold, confirmed in divine dreams or slapped in the

face by disenchanting fact--within a brief space of time, propose

marriage to this lady. If there be any other course, the gods send me

scent of it this night! But if she should refuse? Reckon not on that.

For the more she fall short of her Image, the more will she grasp at an

outward showing of triumph--and the greatest outward triumph would not

be in refusal.

“In my human weakness I wish that--just for once--I had seen her! But in

the strong spirit of the wine of life--whereof I have been and am an

inveterate and most incurable bibber--I rejoice in that wonderful moment

of mine to-morrow--when the door of the shrine opens, and I see the

goddess before whom my offering must be laid. Be she giant or dwarf, be

she black or white, have she hair or none--by the powers, if she wears a

sack only, and is well advised to stick close to that, lest casting it

should be a change for the worse--in any event the offering must be

made. Even so the Prince in the tales, making his vows to the Beast and

not yet knowing if his spell shall transform it to the Beauty! In my

stronger moments, so would I have it. Years of life shall I live in that

moment to-morrow! If it end ill, no human being but myself shall know.

If it end well, the world is not great enough to hold, nor the music of

its spheres melodious enough to sound, my triumph!”

It will be observed that Lord Lynborough, though indeed no novice in the

cruel and tender passion, was appreciably excited on the Eve of the

Feast of St John Baptist. In view of so handsome a response, the

Marchesa’s kiss of the hand and her murmured “To-morrow” may pass

excused of forwardness.

It was, nevertheless, a gentleman to all seeming most cool and calm who

presented himself at the doors of Nab Grange at eleven fifty-five the

next morning. His Ambassadors had come in magnificence; humbly he

walked--and not by Beach Path, since his homage was not yet paid--but

round by the far-stretching road and up the main avenue most decorously.

Stabb and Roger had cut across by the path--holding the Marchesa’s leave

and licence so to do--and had joined an excited group which sat on

chairs under sheltering trees.

“I wish she hadn’t made the audience private!” said Norah Mountliffey.

“If ever a keyhole were justifiable----” sighed Violet Dufaure.

“My dear, I’d box your ears myself,” Miss Gilletson brusquely

interrupted.

The Marchesa sat in a high arm-chair, upholstered in tarnished fading

gold. The sun from the window shone on her hair; her face was half in

shadow. She rested her head on her left hand; the right lay on her knee.

It was stripped of any ring--unadorned white. Her cheeks were pale--the

olive reigned unchallenged; her lips were set tight, her eyes downcast.

She made no movement when Lord Lynborough entered.

He bowed low, but said nothing. He stood opposite to her some two yards

away. The clock ticked. It wanted still a minute before noon struck.

That was the minute of which Lynborough had raved and dreamed the night

before. He had the fruit of it in full measure.

The first stroke of twelve rang silvery from the clock. Lynborough

advanced and fell upon his knee. She did not lift her eyes, but slowly

raised her hand from her knee. He placed his hand under it, pressing it

a little upwards and bowing his head to meet it half-way in its ascent.

She felt his lips lightly brush the skin. His homage for Beach Path and

his right therein was duly paid.

Slowly he rose to his feet; slowly her eyes turned upwards to his face.

It was ablaze with a great triumph; the fire seemed to spread to her

cheeks.

“It’s better than I dreamed or hoped,” he murmured.

“What? To have peace between us? Yes, it’s good.”

“I have never seen your face before.” She made no answer. “Nor you

mine?” he asked.

“Once on Sandy Nab you passed by me. You didn’t notice me--but, yes, I

saw you.” Her eyes were steadily on him now; the flush had ceased to

deepen, nay, had receded, but abode still, tingeing the olive of her

cheeks.

“I have rendered my homage,” he said.

“It is accepted.” Suddenly tears sprang to her eyes. “And you might have

been so cruel to me!” she whispered.

“To you? To you who carry the power of a world in your face?”

The Marchesa was confused--as was, perhaps, hardly unnatural.

“There are other things, besides gates and walls, and Norah’s head, that

you jump over, Lord Lynborough.”

“I lived a life while I stood waiting for the clock to strike. I have

tried for life before--in that minute I found it.” He seemed suddenly

to awake as though from a dream. “But I beg your pardon. I have paid my

dues. The bond gives me no right to linger.”

She rose with a light laugh--yet it sounded nervous. “Is it good-bye

till next St John Baptist’s day?”

“You would see me walking on Beach Path day by day.”

“I never call it Beach Path.”

“May it now be called--Helena’s?”

“Or will you stay and lunch with me to-day? And you might even pay

homage again--say to-morrow--or--or some day in the week.”

“Lunch, most certainly. That commits me to nothing. Homage, Marchesa, is

quite another matter.”

“Your chivalry is turning to bargaining, Lord Lynborough.”

“It was never anything else,” he answered. “Homage is rendered in

payment--that’s why one says ‘Whereas.’” His keen eager eyes of hazel

raised once more the flood of subdued crimson in her face. “For every

recognition of a right of mine, I will pay you homage according to the

form prescribed for St John Baptist’s Feast.”

“Of what other rights do you ask recognition?”

“There might be the right of welcoming you at Scarsmoor to-morrow?”

She made him a little curtsey. “It is accorded--on the prescribed terms,

my lord.”

“That will do for the twenty-fifth. There might be the right of

escorting you home from Scarsmoor by the path called--Helena’s?”

“On the prescribed terms it is your lordship’s.”

“What then of the right to see you daily, and day by day?”

“If your leisure serves, my lord, I will endeavour to adjust mine--so

long as we both remain at Fillby. But so that the homage is paid!”

“But if you go away?”

“I’m bound to tell you of my whereabouts only on St John Baptist’s

Feast.”

“The right to know it on other days--would that be recognised in return

for a homage, Marchesa?”

“One homage for so many letters?”

“I had sooner there were no letters--and daily homages.”

“You take too many obligations--and too lightly.”

“For every one I gain the recognition of a right.”

“The richer you grow in rights then, the harder you must work!”

“I would have so many rights accorded me as to be no better than a

slave!” cried Lynborough. “Yet, if I have not one, still I have

nothing.”

She spoke no word, but looked at him long and searchingly. She was not

nervous now, but proud. Her look bade him weigh words; they had passed

beyond the borders of merriment, beyond the bandying of challenges. Yet

her eyes carried no prohibition; it was a warning only. She interposed

no conventional check, no plea for time. She laid on him the

responsibility for his speech; let him remember that he owed her homage.

They grew curious and restless on the lawn; the private audience lasted

long, the homage took much time in paying.

“A marvellous thing has come to me,” said Lynborough, speaking slower

than his wont, “and with it a great courage. I have seen my dream. This

morning I came here not knowing whether I should see it. I don’t speak

of the face of my dream-image only, though I could speak till next St

John’s Day upon that. I speak to a soul. I think our souls have known

one another longer, ay, and better than our faces.”

“Yes, I think it is so,” she said quietly. “Yet who can tell so soon?”

“There’s a great gladness upon me because my dream came true.”

“Who can tell so soon?” she asked again. “It’s strange to speak of it.”

“It may be that some day--yes, some day soon--in return for the homage

of my lips on your hand, I would ask the recognition of my lips’ right

on your cheek.”

She came up to him and laid her hand on his arm. “Suffer me a little

while, my lord,” she said. “You’ve swept into my life like a whirlwind;

you would carry me by assault as though I were a rebellious city. Am I

to be won before ever I am wooed?”

“You sha’n’t lack wooing,” he said quickly. “Yet haven’t I wooed you

already--as well in my quarrel as in my homage, in our strife as in the

end of it?”

“I think so, yes. Yet suffer me a little still.”

“If you doubt----” he cried.

“I don’t think I doubt. I linger.” She gave her hand into his. “It’s

strange, but I cannot doubt.”

Lynborough sank again upon his knee and paid his homage. As he rose, she

bent ever so slightly towards him; delicately he kissed her cheek.

“I pray you,” she whispered, “use gently what you took with that.”

“Here’s a heart to my heart, and a spirit to my spirit--and a glad

venture to us both!”

“Come on to the lawn now, but tell them nothing.”

“Save that I have paid my homage, and received the recognition of my

right?”

“That, if you will--and that your path is to

be--henceforward--Helena’s.”

“I hope to have no need to travel far on the Feast of St John!” cried

Lynborough.

They went out on the lawn. Nothing was asked, and nothing told, that

day. In truth there appeared to be no need. For it seems as though Love

were not always invisible, nor the twang of his bow so faint as to elude

the ear. With joyous blood his glad wounds are red, and who will may

tell the sufferers. Sympathy too lends insight; your fellow-sufferer

knows your plight first. There were fellow-sufferers on the lawn that

day--to whom, as to all good lovers, here’s Godspeed!

She went with him in the afternoon through the gardens, over the sunk

fence, across the meadows, till they came to the path. On it they walked

together.

“So is your right recognised, my lord,” she said.

“We will walk together on Helena’s Path,” he answered, “until it leads

us--still together--to the Boundless Sea.”

MRS THISTLETON’S PRINCESS

I

The Great Ones of the Earth do not come our way much down at Southam

Parva. Our Member’s wife is an “Honourable,” and most of us, in

referring to her, make express mention of that rank; moreover she comes

very seldom. In the main our lot lies among the undistinguished, and our

table of precedence is employed in determining the dividing lines

between “Esquire,” “Mr,” and plain “John Jones”--a humble, though no

doubt a subtle, inquiry into the gradations of Society. So I must

confess to feeling a thrill when I read Mrs Thistleton’s invitation to

dinner at the Manor. Thistleton is lord of the manor--by purchase, not

by inheritance--and lives in the old house, proceeding every day to

town, where he has a fine practice as a solicitor (Bowes, Thistleton, &

Kent) in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Mrs Thistleton and the children (there

are eight, ranging from Tom, nineteen, to Molly, seven, so that the

practice needs to be fine), are, however, quite country folk. Indeed,

Mrs Thistleton comes of a county family--in a county situated, I must

not say judiciously but perhaps luckily, at the other end of England

from ours; distance prevents cavil in such matters, and, practically

speaking, Mrs Thistleton can say what she pleases about her parental

stock, besides exhibiting some highly respectable coat-of-armoured

silver to back her discreet vaunts. Mrs Thistleton is always discreet;

indeed, she is, in my opinion, a woman of considerable talent, and the

way in which she dealt with the Princess--with the problem of the

Princess--confirmed the idea I had of her.

The mention of the Princess brings me back to the card of invitation,

though I must add, in a minor digression, that the Thistletons are the

only people in Southam Parva who employ printed cards of invitation--the

rest of us would not get through a hundred in a lifetime, and therefore

write notes. The invitation card, then, sent to me by Mrs Thistleton was

headed as follows:--“To have the honour of meeting Her Royal Highness

the Princess Vera of Boravia.” Subsequent knowledge taught me that the

“Royal” was an embellishment of Mrs Thistleton’s--justifiable for aught

I know, since the Princess had legitimate pretensions to the throne,

though her immediate line was not at this time in occupation of it--but

never employed by the Princess herself. However, I think Mrs Thistleton

was quite right to do the thing handsomely, and I should have gone even

without the “Royal,” so there was no real deception. All of us who were

invited went: the Rector and his wife, the Doctor and his wife, old Mrs

Marsfold (the Major-General had, unfortunately, died the year before),

Miss Dunlop (of the Elms), and Charley Miles (of the Stock Exchange).

From what I have said already it will be evident that I am no authority,

yet I feel safe in declaring that never was etiquette more elaborately

observed at any party--I don’t care where. One of Thistleton’s clients

was old Lord Ogleferry, and at Lord Ogleferry’s he had once met a real

princess (I apologise to Princess Vera for stumbling, in my insular way,

into this invidious distinction, but, after all, Boravia is not a

first-class Power). Everything that Lord and Lady Ogleferry had done and

caused to be done for the real--the British--princess, Thistleton and

Mrs Thistleton did and caused to be done for Princess Vera;

uncomfortable things some of them seemed to me to be, but Thistleton,

over the wine after dinner, told us that they were perfectly correct.

He also threw light on the Princess’s visit. She had come to him as a

client, wishing him to recover for her, not, as Charley Miles flippantly

whispered to me, the throne of Boravia by force of arms, but a

considerable private fortune at present impounded--or sequestrated, as

Thistleton preferred to call it--by the _de facto_ monarch of Boravia.

“It’s the case of the Orleans Princes over again,” Thistleton observed,

as he plied a dignified toothpick in such decent obscurity as his napkin

afforded. This parallel with the Orleans Princes impressed us

much--without, perhaps, illuminating all of us in an equal degree; and

we felt that Charley betrayed a mercantile attitude of mind when he

asked briefly--

“What’s the figure?”

“Upwards of two million francs,” answered Thistleton.

I think we all wished we had pencil and paper; the Rector scribbled on

the menu--I saw him do it--and got the translation approximately

accurate. Imagination was left to play with the “upwards.”

“How much would you take for it--cash?” asked sceptical Charley.

“The matter is hardly as simple as that,” said Thistleton, with a slight

frown; and he added gravely: “We mustn’t stay here any longer.”

So we went upstairs, where Her Royal Highness sat in state, and we all

had a word with her. She spoke just a little English, with a pretty,

outlandish accent, but was not at all at home in the language. When my

turn came--and it came last--I ventured to reply to her first question

in French, which I daresay was a gross breach of etiquette. None the

less, she was visibly relieved; indeed she smiled for the first time and

chatted away for a few minutes quite merrily. Then Thistleton terminated

my audience. He used precisely this expression. “I’m afraid I must

terminate your audience,” he said. Against any less impressive formula I

might have rebelled; because I liked the Princess.

And what was she like? Very small, very slight, about half the size of

bouncing Bessie Thistleton, though Bessie was not yet seventeen, and the

Princess, as I suppose, nineteen or twenty. Her face was pale, rather

thin, a pretty oval in shape; her nose was a trifle turned up, she had

plentiful black hair and large dark eyes. In fact, she was a pretty

timid little lady, sadly frightened of us all, and most of all of Mrs

Thistleton. I don’t wonder at that; I’m rather frightened of Mrs

Thistleton myself.

Before I went, I tried to get some more information out of my hostess,

but mystery reigned. Mrs Thistleton would not tell me how the Princess

had come to put her affairs in Thistleton’s hands, who had sent her to

him, or how he was supposed to be going to get two million francs out of

the _de facto_ King of Boravia. All she said was that Her Royal Highness

had graciously consented to pay them a visit of a very few days.

“Very few days indeed,” she repeated impressively.

“Of course,” I nodded with a sagacious air. Probably Her Royal Highness

was due at Windsor the day after to-morrow; at any rate, that was the

sort of impression Mrs Thistleton gave.

“I wonder if the money’s genuine!” said Charley Miles as we walked home.

“Is she genuine herself?” I asked.

“Well, there’s a girl corresponding to her description, anyhow. I went

to the club to-day and looked her up. Ought to be Queen, too, if she ’ad

’er rights. (Here he was quoting). Oh yes, she’s all correct. But I

wouldn’t care to say as much for the fortune. Wonder if old Thistleton’s

taken it up on commission!”

“I hope she’ll get it. I liked the little thing, didn’t you, Charley?”

He cocked his hat rather more on one side and smiled; he is a

good-natured young man, and no fool in his own business. “Yes, I did,”

he answered. “And what the dickens must she have thought of us?”

I couldn’t reply to that, though I entertained the private opinion that

I, at least, had made a good impression.

So much for the introduction of the Princess. And now comes, of

necessity, a gap in my story; for the next day I went to Switzerland on

my annual holiday, and was absent from Southam Parva for two full

months. Not seeing the English papers during most of that period, I was

unable to learn whether Her Royal Highness Princess Vera of Boravia had

proceeded from the Manor House, Southam Parva, to the Castle, Windsor,

or anywhere else.

II

She had not, as a fact--and a fact which came to my knowledge even

before I reached my own threshold. I stepped into the train at Liverpool

Street, fat, brown, and still knickerbockered. In one corner of the

carriage sat Thistleton, in another Charley Miles.

“Not seen you for a day or two, old chap,” said the latter genially.

I nodded and sat down opposite Thistleton, who welcomed my reappearance

in a few well-chosen words. I reciprocated his civility with inquiries

after his family, and finally, before taking up my paper, I added--

“And your distinguished visitor? The charming Princess? Have you any

news of her?”

At the same moment I happened to catch Charley’s eye. It was cocked at

me in a distinctly satirical manner. For an instant I feared that the

Princess had run off with the spoons, or annexed Mrs Thistleton’s

garnets (we all knew them) to enrich the Boravian diadem. But after the

briefest pause--which was a pause, all the same--Thistleton answered--

“She is still with us, and very well indeed, thank you.”

He cleared his throat, opened _The Globe_, and said no more. Charley’s

eye drew me with an irresistible attraction; it was still cocked at me

over the top of the _Evening News_. But he made no remark, so I fell

back on my own organ of opinion, and silence was unbroken until we had

passed the station immediately before Beechington--we alight (as the

Company puts it) at Beechington for Southam Parva. Then, when there were

just three minutes left, Thistleton glanced at Charley, saw that he was

busy with his paper (the “racing” corner unless I’m mistaken), leant

forward and tapped my knee with his gold eyeglasses. I started slightly

and accorded him my attention. There seemed to be a little embarrassment

in his manner.

“By the way, Tregaskis,” he said, “you remember I told you that I was

engaged on certain--er--delicate negotiations on behalf of our guest?”

I nodded. “About Her Royal Highness’s private fortune?”

He nodded. “They involve,” he proceeded, “approaches to the present King

in--er--an amicable spirit--more or less amicable. We have thought it

well that for the present--provisionally and without prejudice--Her

Highness should employ a designation to which her claim is absolutely

beyond dispute. By a disuse--temporary, perhaps--of her proper style,

she may smooth certain--er--susceptibilities, and so render my task

easier and give us a better prospect of success. Our guest now prefers

to be known as the Countess Vera von Friedenburg.”

I nodded again--it was the only safe thing to do. Thistleton said no

more, save to express a hope (as he got into his waggonette) that they

would see me soon at the Manor. Charley and I started together to walk

the long mile from Beechington Station to Southam Parva; the cart was to

bring my luggage. We had covered some half of the distance when Charley

pushed his hat well over his left ear and ejaculated--

“Rum go, ain’t it, Treg? What do you make of it?”

“Her being still here, you mean?”

“Yes; and the business about her name. For a fortnight she was Her Royal

Highness. Then she was Her Highness for three weeks. And for the last

three she’s been Countess Vera von Friedenburg!”

“Thistleton gave what appeared to me an admirable reason.”

“I don’t believe he’ll get a _sou_, not if he offered to endorse the

cheque ‘Sarah Smith.’ Is it likely they’d part?” By “they,” I understood

him to mean the Court of Boravia.

“I’m sorry for her, then.”

“So am I, and for old Thistleton too. He’s out of pocket, I expect,

besides losing his comm. And there she is!”

“The Princess?”

“The Countess, you mean.” His smile was sardonic.

“Yes, there she is,” I agreed, not very hopefully however.

“Rum go!” he added, just as he had begun, and then fell to whistling the

ditty of the hour. He made only one more remark, and that fell from him

just as we parted.

“Ta-ta, Treg,” said he. “Old Thistles (he had an objectionable habit of

abbreviating names) has got a tidy practice; but there are a good many

mouths to fill, eh? And no comm.! Ta-ta!”

Was it really as bad as that? The thought made me uncomfortable. Poor

girl! The title that had filled our mouths would not fill hers. And her

descent in rank had been remarkable and rapid. Her fall in public esteem

had, as I soon found, kept pace with it. The word as to her style of

address had gone round. She was “Countess Vera” now. Mrs Marsfold said:

“Poor Countess Vera.” Miss Dunlop’s accent was less charitable: “Susan

Thistleton’s Countess” was her form of expression, and beneath it lay an

undoubted sneer at the Princess’s pretensions. Boravia, too, was spoken

of with scant respect. “Really a barbarous place, I’m told,” said the

Rector. “They call their kings kings; but of course----!” He shrugged

his shoulders, without, however, indicating what title the Boravians

might, in accordance with British standards, appropriate to the person

who had the doubtful good fortune of ruling over them. In fact,

they--and I don’t know that I am altogether entitled to except

myself--all felt a little hot when they remembered the high-mightiness

of that dinner-party.

I took advantage of Thistleton’s kind intimation and called on his wife.

It was a fine autumn afternoon, and while we sat in the drawing-room and

talked, I looked through the open windows on to the lawn. Countess Vera

sat there, surrounded by the four youngest Thistleton children--Gladys,

Myra, Molly, and the boy Evanstone (Mrs Thistleton was a Miss

Evanstone). The Countess and the children all held books in their hands,

and snatches of the French tongue fell on my ear from time to time.

“It’s really very perplexing,” said Mrs Thistleton, “and it’s difficult

to do the right thing. I’m sure you credit us with wanting to do the

right thing, Mr Tregaskis?”

“I’m sure you’d do the right and the kind thing.”

“The money she brought over is quite exhausted. Mr Thistleton has spent

a considerable sum in getting up her case and presenting it to the

Boravian Court. His efforts meet with no attention--indeed with absolute

contempt.”

“They’re not afraid of her?”

“Not in the least. And here she is--literally without a farthing! And

hardly a gown to her back--at least, hardly one suitable for----” She

broke off, ending: “But what do you know about gowns?”

“Rather a remarkable situation for a princess!”

“If she would let us beg for her, even! The Government might do

something. But she won’t hear of it. Then she says she’ll go. Where to?

What can she do? If she won’t beg, she’d starve. We can’t let her

starve, can we? But times aren’t good, and---- Oh, well, I must give you

some tea. Would you mind ringing?”

I obeyed. Merry laughs came from the children on the lawn.

“The kids seem to like her,” said I, for want of better consolation.

“She’s very nice to them. She’s helping them with their French.” She

caught me looking at her and blushed a little. I had not seen Mrs

Thistleton blush before. Suddenly the plan came before my eyes. There

was no need to blush for it; it seemed to me rather great--rather great,

perhaps, on both sides, but greater on Mrs Thistleton’s. “It gives her a

sense of--of doing something in return, I suppose,” Mrs Thistleton went

on.

The maid brought in tea.

“Is nursery tea ready?” Mrs Thistleton asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then send the children upstairs and tell the Countess that tea is

here.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Soon the Countess came--as small, as slight, as dark as ever, even more

timid. I rose as she entered; she bowed nervously, and, going to the

table, busied herself with making the tea. Mrs Thistleton lay back in

her arm-chair.

“Sit down, Mr Tregaskis,” she said. “You like making tea for us, don’t

you, Countess?”

“Yes, Mrs Thistleton, thank you,” said Countess Vera von Friedenburg.

But I didn’t sit down--I couldn’t do it. I leant against the table and

looked an ass all the time she made tea.

III

The next chapter, or division, or what you will, of this small history

may be very short. I write it with two objects, which seem to me to

justify its appearance, in spite of its fragmentary character. In the

first place, it serves to exhibit the final stage of the descent of the

Princess--the logical conclusion of the process which was begun when

Thistleton dropped “Royal” from between “Her” and “Highness” in the

train from Liverpool Street to Beechington. In the second place, it

exhibits Mrs Thistleton’s good sense and fine feeling for the

suitability of things. You couldn’t have princesses--nay, nor

countesses--about the house in that sort of position. It would have been

absurd.

So here it is. I seldom give even small dinner-parties; such gatherings

annoy my cook. But about a month after my return, I got leave to have

four or five friends, and I bade to my board the Rector and his wife and

Mr and Mrs Thistleton. If for no other reason than to “balance,” I said

in my note to Mrs Thistleton that I should be exceedingly pleased if

Countess Vera von Friedenburg would do me the honour of accompanying

them. Perhaps that was a mistake in taste. I meant no harm, and I don’t

think that Mrs Thistleton intended to rebuke me; though she did, I

imagine, mean to convey to me a necessary intimation.

“DEAR MR TREGASKIS,” she wrote, “Mr Thistleton and I are delighted

to accept your very kind invitation, and we shall be charmed, as

always, to meet our dear Rector and Mrs Carr. I am told to thank

you very sincerely for your kind invitation to our young friend,

but Fräulein Friedenburg agrees with me in thinking that during my

absence she had better stay with the children. Yours very

sincerely,

“SUSAN THISTLETON.”

Fräulein Friedenburg! Even her particle--her last particle--of nobility

gone! Fräulein Friedenburg! Her Royal Highness----! Let us forget--let

us and all Southam Parva forget!

It was not unkind of Mrs Thistleton. It was right and suitable. Who

should not come out to dinner, but stay and mind the children? Who save

Fräulein--Fräulein Friedenburg? It would have been a ludicrous position

for Her Royal Highness Princess Vera of Boravia. Leave it to Fräulein

Friedenburg!

So, as Fräulein Friedenburg, she passed into our ordinary lives, and out

of our ordinary thoughts, as is the way with things when they become

familiar. Mrs Thistleton’s courage and talent had saved the

situation--and her own face. The Princess was forgotten, and the

Thistletons’ nursery governess little heeded. Who does heed a nursery

governess much?

But one night, as I turned over the atlas looking for something else, I

came on the map of Boravia and saw the city of Friedenburg set astride

the great river, dominating the kingdom, a sentinel at the outposts of

Western Europe. If Divine Right were not out of fashion, the key of that

citadel should have been in the hand which ruled exercise-books for the

Thistleton children. For a few moments after that I went on thinking

about the nursery governess.

IV

So Fräulein--she soon came to be called just “Fräulein”--was not at my

dinner-party; but two or three weeks later I had a little talk with her.

I went up to the Manor one afternoon in October, seeking a game of

croquet with Bessie Thistleton--such are our mild delights at Southam

Parva--but found the whole family gone off to a Primrose League bazaar

at Beechington. Only Fräulein was at home, said the parlour-maid; and

Fräulein was visible in the garden, sitting under a tree, turning over

the leaves of a big book. I used the privilege of a friend of the house,

strolled out on to the lawn, and raised my hat to the--I mean to

Fräulein. She smiled brightly and beckoned to me to come and sit by her;

her words were beyond reproach, but her gestures were sometimes

obstinately un-Fräuleinish, if I may so express myself. I sat down in

the other deck-chair and said that it was very fine for so late in the

year.

She made no reply and, raising my eyes to her face, I found her looking

at me with an unmistakable gleam of amusement.

“Do you think this very funny?” she asked.

“I think it’s deplorable,” I answered promptly.

“It’s very simple. I owe Mr Thistleton two hundred pounds. I do this

till I have worked it off.”

“How many years?”

“Several, monsieur.”

“And after that?”

“The children will grow up.”

“Yes. And then?”

“Mrs Thistleton will give Fräulein Friedenburg a good character.”

“Meanwhile you work for nothing?”

“No. For clothes, for food, to pay my debt.”

“And how do you like it?”

That question of mine, which sounds brutal, was inspired and, as I still

believe, excused by the satirical amusement in her eyes; our previous

meetings had shown me no such expression. Her answer to the question had

its irony too. She turned over a dozen pages of the big book and came on

a picture. She held the book out to me, saying--

“That’s my home.”

I looked at the picture of her home, the great grim castle towering

aloft on the river bank. A few centuries ago the Turks had fallen back

beaten from before these giant walls. Then I glanced round Mrs

Thistleton’s gentle trim old garden.

“I think you’ve answered my question,” I said.

She closed the book, with a shrug of her thin little shoulders, and sat

silent for a moment. The oval of her face was certainly beautiful, and

the thick masses of her hair were dark as night, or the inside of a

dungeon in her castle of Friedenburg. (I liked to think of her having

dungeons, though I really don’t know whether she had.)

“And is it for ever?” I asked.

She leant over towards me and whispered: “They know where I am.” An

intense excitement seemed to be fighting against the calm she imposed on

herself; but it lasted only a moment. The next instant she fell back in

her chair with a sigh of dejection; a listless despair spread over her

face; the satirical gleam illuminated no more the depths of her eyes.

The veil had fallen over the Princess again. Only Fräulein sat beside

me.

Then I made a fool of myself.

“Are there no men in Boravia?” I asked in a low voice.

This at Southam Parva, in the twentieth century, and to the governess!

Moreover, from me, who have always been an advanced Liberal in politics,

and hold that the Boravians are at entire liberty to change the line of

succession, or to set up a republic if they be so disposed! None the

less, in the Thistletons’ garden that afternoon, I did ask Fräulein

whether there were men in Boravia.

She answered the question in the words she had used before.

“They know where I am,” she said, but now languidly, with half-closed

eyes.

That I might be saved from further folly, from offering my strong right

arm and all my worldly goods (I was at the moment overdrawn at the bank)

as a contribution towards a Legitimist crusade in Boravia--Fortune sent

interruption. The family came back from the bazaar, and most of them

trooped into the garden. Charley Miles was with them, having joined the

party at the _fête_ on his way back from town. As they all came up

Fräulein put the big book--with its picture of her home--behind her

back; I rose and walked forward to greet Mrs Thistleton. In an instant

Charley, passing me with a careless “Hallo, Treg!” had seated himself by

Fräulein and begun to talk to her with great vivacity and every

appearance of pleasure--indeed of admiration.

I joined Mrs Thistleton--and Bessie, who stood beside her mother. Bessie

was frowning; that frown was to me the first announcement of a new

situation. Bessie was grown up now, or so held herself, and she and

Charley were great friends. Charley was doing remarkably well on the

Stock Exchange, making his three or four thousand a year; I remembered

that Thistleton had thrown out a conjecture to that effect in

conversation with me once. As the father of a family of eight,

Thistleton could not neglect such a circumstance. And Charley was a

good-looking fellow. The frown on Miss Bessie’s brow set all this train

of thought moving in my mind. The fact that, the next moment, Miss

Bessie swung round and marched off into the house served to accelerate

its progress.

Mrs Thistleton cast a glance at the couple under the tree--Charley Miles

and Fräulein--and then suggested that I should go with her and see the

chrysanthemums. We went to see the chrysanthemums accordingly, but I

think we were both too preoccupied to appreciate them properly.

“It’s a very difficult position in some ways,” said Mrs Thistleton

suddenly.

It was so difficult as to be almost impossible. I paid my compliment

with absolute sincerity. “You’ve overcome the difficulties wonderfully,”

I remarked. “I never admired your tact more. Nobody thinks of her at

all now, except just as Fräulein.”

“I have been anxious to do the right thing, and she has improved the

children’s French.” She did not add that the liquidation of Thistleton’s

bill by services rendered was a further benefit. We cannot be expected

always to remember every aspect of our conduct.

“But it is difficult,” Mrs Thistleton went on. “And the worst of it is

that Bessie and she aren’t very congenial. With an ordinary

governess---- Well, the only thing is to treat her like one, isn’t it?”

“Does she object?”

“Oh no, never. But I can’t quite make her out. After all, she’s not

English, you see, and one can’t be sure of her moral influence. I

sometimes think I must make a change. Oh, I shouldn’t do anything

unkind. I should ask her to stay till she was suited, and, of course, do

all I could to recommend her. But Bessie doesn’t like her, I’m sorry to

say.”

By this time we had walked past all the chrysanthemums twice, and I said

that it was time for me to go. Mrs Thistleton gave me her hand.

“You don’t think me unkind?”

“Honestly, I think you have been kind all through, and I don’t think

you’ll be unkind now. The situation is so very----”

“Difficult? Yes,” she sighed.

I had been going to say “absurd,” but I accepted “difficult.” I would

have accepted anything, because I wanted to end the conversation and get

away. I was surfeited with incongruities--Mrs Thistleton, Bessie,

Charley Miles, and, above all, Fräulein--set in contrast with the

picture in the big book--with the castle of Friedenburg frowning above

the great river, waiting for its mistress, Princess Vera; the mistress

who came not because--I couldn’t get away from my own folly--because

there were no men in Boravia! “Absurd” was the right word, however.

V

The next few weeks developed the situation along the lines I had

foreseen, but endowed it with a new wealth of irony, so that it became

harder than ever to say whether we were dealing with tragedy or with

farce. The women of the village took arms against Fräulein. Mrs

Marsfold, Miss Dunlop (of the Elms), even the Rector’s gentle wife,

became partisans of Bessie Thistleton and demanded the expulsion of

Fräulein. Only Mrs Thistleton herself still resisted, still sought after

the kind thing, still tried to reconcile the interests of her family

with the duty she had undertaken towards the stranger within her gates.

But even she grew weaker. They were all against her, and Bessie had the

preponderating word with her father now. In fine, there was every

prospect that, even as the Princess Vera was banished from Boravia, so

Fräulein Friedenburg would be expelled from Southam Parva.

And why? She had designs on Charley Miles! That was the accusation; and

it was also, and immediately, the verdict. She wanted to catch Charley

Miles--and that three or four thousand a year which, by plausible

conjecture, he was making on the Stock Exchange! The Princess was now

utterly forgotten--she might never have existed. There was only the

designing governess, forgetful of her duty and her station, flying at

game too high for her, at the most eligible match in the village, at the

suitor (the destined suitor) of her employer’s daughter, at prosperous

Charley Miles of the Stock Exchange! The human mind is highly adaptable,

and the relativity of things is great. These two conclusions were

strongly impressed on my mind by the history of Fräulein Friedenburg’s

sojourn in the village of Southam Parva.

Charley had the instincts of a gentleman and was furious with “the old

cats,” as he called the ladies I have named, with a warmth which for my

part I find it easy to pardon. Yet his mind was as their minds; he was

no whit less deeply and firmly rooted in present facts. He may have been

a little afraid of Bessie, perhaps in a very little committed to her by

previous attentions. But that was not the main difficulty. That he was

in love with Fräulein I believed then and believe now; indeed, he came

very near to admitting the fact to me on more than one occasion. But he

was a young man of social ambitions, and the Thistletons stood high

among us. (I began by admitting that we do not dwell on the highest

peaks.) Mr Thistleton’s daughter was one thing, Mr Thistleton’s

governess another. That was Charley’s point of view, so that he wrestled

with erring inclination and overthrew it. He did not offer marriage to

Fräulein Friedenburg. He contented himself with denouncing the attempt

to banish her, for which, after all, his own conduct was primarily

responsible. But I found no time to blame him; he filled me with a

wonder which became no less overwhelming because, in regard to present

facts, it was in a large measure unreasonable. In truth, I couldn’t

stand firm on present facts. The walls, the towers, the dungeons of

Friedenburg, and the broad river running down below--these things would

not leave the visions of my mind. They stood in obstinate contrast to

Charley Miles and three or four thousand on the Stock Exchange.

One evening--it was a Monday, as I remember--Charley came to see me

after dinner, and brought with him a copy of _The Morning Post_, an

excellent paper, but one which, owing to the political convictions to

which I have already referred in connection with my feelings about the

lack of men in Boravia, I do not take in. He pointed to a spot in the

advertisement columns, and, without removing his hat from his head or

his cigar from his mouth, sank into my arm-chair.

“Mrs Thistles has paid for six insertions, Treg,” he said.

I read the first “insertion.”

“A lady strongly recommends her German nursery governess. Good

English. Fluent French. Music. Fond of children. Salary very

moderate. A good home principal object. Well-connected.--Mrs T.,

The Manor House, Southam Parva.”

Well-connected! I looked over to Charley with some sort of a smile. “The

good English is, of course, all right?” I said.

“Isn’t it an infernal shame?” he broke out. “She won’t stay a week after

that!”

“It may bring an engagement,” said I.

“Look here, do you think it’s my fault?”

“I’m glad she says Fräulein is well-connected.”

“Do you think it’s my fault? I--I’ve tried to play square--by her as

well as by myself.”

“I don’t think we need discuss the Princess.”

“Hallo, Treg!”

“Good heavens!--I--I beg pardon! I mean--why need we talk about

Fräulein’s affairs?”

“I was talking about mine.”

“I see no connection.”

He was not angry with me, though (as will have been seen) I had lost my

temper hopelessly and disastrously. He got up and stood in front of the

fire.

“I hadn’t the pluck, Treg, my boy,” he said. His voice sounded rather

dreary, but I had no leisure to pity him.

“Good Heavens, do you suppose she’d have looked at you?” I cried.

“Remember who she is!”

“That’s all very well, but facts are facts,” said Charley Miles. “I

didn’t mean to make trouble, Treg, old boy. On my honour, I didn’t.” He

made a long pause. “I hope I shall be asking you to congratulate me

soon, Treg,” he went on.

“Ask me in public, and I’ll do it.”

“That’s just being vicious,” he complained, and with entire justice.

“Bessie’s a first-rate girl.”

“I’m very sorry, Charley. So she is. She’ll suit you a mile better

than--than Fräulein.”

He brightened up. “I’m awfully glad you do think me right in the end,”

he said. “But I’m a bit sorry for Fräulein. She’d have had to go soon,

anyhow--when the children got a bit older. She’ll get a berth, I

expect.”

“No doubt,” said I. “And I’ll congratulate you even in private,

Charley.”

“You’re a decent old chap, but you’ve got a queer temper. I don’t above

half understand you, Treg.” He hesitated a little. “I say, you might go

and have a talk with Fräulein some day. She likes you, you know.”

“Does she?” The eager words leapt from my lips before I could stop them.

“Rather! Will you go?”

“Yes. I’ll have a talk with Fräulein.”

“Before she goes?”

“She’ll go soon?”

“I think so.”

“Yes, before she goes, Charley.”

With that, or, rather, after a little idle talk which added nothing to

that, he left me--left me wondering still. He was sorry for Fräulein,

and not only because she must go forth into the world; also because she

had not been invited to become Mrs Charley Miles! He conceived that he

had made a conquest, and he didn’t value it! His mistake of fact was

great, but it shrank to nothing before the immensity of his blunder in

estimation. I could account for it only in one way--a way so pleasing to

my own vanity that I adopted it forthwith. And I’m not sure I was wrong.

The veil had not been lifted for him, and he had no eyes to see through

it. For me it had been raised once, and henceforth eternally hung

transparent.

“That’s my home.” She had looked in that moment as if no other place

could be.

Now, however, she was advertising for a situation, and I speculated as

to how much of the truth Mrs Thistleton would deem it wise to employ in

justifying that sublime “Well-connected.”

VI

I saw her the next day but one--on the morning when the third

“insertion” appeared in _The Morning Post_. Bessie Thistleton had told

me, with obvious annoyance, that there had been no replies yet.

“Governesses are really a drug, unless they have a degree, in these

days,” she had said. “‘Where is she?’ Oh, somewhere in the garden, I

think, Mr Tregaskis.”

So I went into the garden and found her again under the tree. But her

big book was not with her now; she was sitting idle, looking straight

ahead of her, with pondering and, perhaps, fear in her great dark eyes.

She gave me her hand to shake. I kissed it.

“Nobody will kiss my hand in my next place,” she said.

“Why in heaven do you do it?”

“I can’t beg; and if I did, I don’t think I should receive.” She leant

forward, resting her hand on the arm of the chair. “We don’t know who

I’m to be,” she went on, smiling. “Nobody but Mrs Thistleton could carry

it off if I confessed to being myself! Who shall I be, Mr Tregaskis?”

I made no answer, and she gave a little laugh.

“You like to go?” I asked.

“No. I’m frightened. And suppose there’s another Mr Miles?”

“The infernal idiot!”

“He’s wise. Only--I’m amused. They’re right to send me away, though. I’m

such an absurdity.”

“Yes,” I assented mournfully. “I’m afraid you are.”

She leant nearer still to me, half whispering in her talk. “I should

never have liked him, but yet it hardly seemed strange that he should

think of it. I’m forgetting myself, I think. In my next place I wonder

if I shall remember at all!”

“You have your book and the picture.”

“Yes, but they seem dim now. I suppose it would be best to forget, as

everybody else does.”

“Not everybody,” I said very low.

“No, you don’t forget. I’ve noticed that. It’s foolish, but I like

someone to remember. Suppose you forgot too!”

One of her rare smiles lit up her face. But I did not tell her what

would happen if I forgot too. I knew very well in my own mind, though. I

was not trammelled by previous attentions, nor was I making three or

four thousand a year.

“You’ll tell me when you go--and where?” I asked.

“Yes, if you like to know.”

“And will ‘they’ know too?”

She looked at me with searching eyes. “Are you laughing?” she asked, and

it seemed to me that there was a break in her voice.

“God forbid, madam!” said I.

“Ah, but I think you should be. How the present can make the past

ridiculous!”

“Neither the past ridiculous nor the future impossible,” I said.

She laid her hand on my arm for a moment with a gentle pressure.

“We have an Order at home called The Knights of Faith. Shall I send you

the Cross some day--in that impossible future?”

“No. Send me your big book, with the picture of the great castle and

the broad river flowing by its base.”

She looked at me a moment, flushed but the slightest, and answered:

“Yes.” Then, as I remember, we sat silent for a while.

That silence was waste of time, as it proved. For, before it ended, Mrs

Thistleton came bounding (really the expression is excusable in view of

her unrestrained elation) out of the house, holding a letter in her

hand.

“Fräulein, an answer!” she cried.

We both rose, and she came up to us.

“And it sounds most suitable. I do hope you don’t mind London--though

really it doesn’t do to be fussy. A Mrs Perkyns, on Maida Hill--nice and

high! Only two little children, and she offers---- Oh, well, we can talk

about the salary presently.”

That last remark constituted an evident hint to me. I grasped my hat and

gave my hand to Mrs Thistleton.

“Good news, isn’t it?” said she. “And Mrs Perkyns says she has such

confidence in me--it appears she knew my sister Mary at Cheltenham--that

she waives any other references. Isn’t that convenient?”

“Very,” I agreed.

“You’re to go the day after to-morrow if you can be ready. Can you?”

asked Mrs Thistleton.

“I can be ready,” Fräulein said.

“In the morning, Mrs Perkyns suggested.”

“I can be ready in the morning.” Then she turned to me. “This is

good-bye, then, I’m afraid, Mr Tregaskis.”

“I shall come and see you off,” said I, taking her hand.

Mrs Thistleton raised her brows for a moment, but her words were

gracious.

“We shall all be down to wish her a good journey and a happy home.”

I made up my mind to say my farewell at the station--and I took my

leave. As I walked out of the front gate I met Thistleton coming from

the station. I took upon myself to tell him the news.

“Good,” said Thistleton. “It ends what was always a false, and has

become an impossible, situation.”

How about poor Mrs Perkyns, then? But I did not put that point to him.

She was forewarned by that “Well-connected.” As I walked home I pictured

Thistleton putting up a board before his residence: “Princesses,

beware!”

VII

It was no use telling me--as the Rector had told me more than once--that

the same sort of thing had happened before in history, that a French

_marquis_ of the old _régime_ was at least as good as a Boravian

princess, and that if the one had taught dancing as an _émigré_ the

other might teach French verbs in her banishment. The consideration was

no doubt just, and even assuaged to some degree the absurdity of the

situation--since absurd things that have happened before seem rather

less absurd somehow--but it did not console my feelings, nor reconcile

my imagination to Mrs Perkyns of Maida Hill, “nice and high” though

Maida Hill might be. On the morning of Fräulein’s departure I rose out

of temper with the world.

Then I opened the morning paper, and there it was! In a moment it seemed

neither strange nor unexpected. It was bound to be there some morning.

It chanced to be there this morning by happy fortune, because this was

the last morning in which I could help, the last morning when I could

see her eyes. But it was glorious. I am afraid it sent me half mad; yet

I was very practical. In a minute I had made up my mind what she would

want to do and what I could do. In another five minutes I was on my

bicycle, “scorching” to Beechington with that paper in one pocket, and

a cheque on the local branch of the London and County Bank in the other.

And humming in my ears was “Rising in Boravia!” “Rumoured Abdication of

the King!” “An Appeal to the Pretender!” Then, in smaller print:

“Something about Princess Vera of Friedenburg.”

I hoped she would get away before the Thistletons knew! Very likely she

would, for by now Thistleton was in the train for town, and he picked up

his _Times_ at the station; the family waited for it till the evening.

From the bank I raced to the station, and reached it ten minutes before

her train was due to leave Beechington. There she was, sitting on a

bench, all alone. She was dressed in plain black and looked very small

and forlorn. She seemed deep in thought, and she did not see me till I

was close to her. Then she looked up with a start. I suppose she read my

face, for she smiled, held out her hand, and said--

“Yes, I had a telegram late last night.”

“You’ve told them?” I jerked my thumb in the direction of the Manor.

“No,” she said rather brusquely.

“You’re going, of course?”

“To Mrs Perkyns’,” she answered, smiling still. “What else can I do?”

“Wire them that you’re starting for Vienna, and that they must

communicate with you there. Ah, there are men in Boravia!”

“And Mrs Perkyns? I should never get another character!”

“You’ll go, surely? It might make all the difference. Let them see you,

let them see you!”

She shook her head, giving at the same time a short nervous laugh. I sat

down by her. Her purse lay in her lap. I took it up; the Princess made

no movement; her eyes were fixed on mine. I opened the purse and slipped

in the notes I had procured at the bank. Her eyes did not forbid me. I

snapped the purse to and laid it down again.

“I had a third-class to London, and eight shillings and threepence,” she

said.

“You’ll go now?”

“Yes,” she whispered, rising to her feet.

We stood side by side now, waiting for the train. It was very hard to

speak. Presently she passed her hand through my arm and let it rest

there. She said no more about the money, which I was glad of. Not that I

was thinking much of that. I was still rather mad, and my thoughts were

full of one insane idea; it was--though I am ashamed to write it--that

just as the train was starting, at the last moment, at the moment of her

going, she might say: “Come with me.”

“Did it surprise you?” I said at last, breaking the silence at the cost

of asking a very stupid question.

“I had given up all hope. Yet somehow I wasn’t very surprised. You

were?”

“No. I had always believed in it.”

“Not at first?”

“No; of late.”

She looked away from me now, but I saw her lips curve in a reluctant

little smile. I laughed.

“I don’t think my ideas about it had any particular relation to external

facts,” I confessed. “I had become a Legitimist, and Legitimists are

always allowed to dream.”

She gave my arm a little pat and then drew her hand gently away.

“If it all comes to nothing, I shall have one friend still,” she said.

“And one faithful hopeful adherent. And there’s your train.”

When I put her in the carriage, my madness came back to me. I actually

watched her eyes as though to see the invitation I waited for take its

birth there. Of course I saw no such thing. But I seemed to see a great

friendliness for me. At the last, when I had pressed her hand and then

shut the door, I whispered--

“Are you afraid?”

She smiled. “No. Boravia isn’t Southam Parva. I am not afraid.”

Then--well, she went away.

VIII

Mrs Thistleton is great. I said so before, and I remain firmly of that

opinion. The last time I called at the Manor, I found her in the

drawing-room with Molly, the youngest daughter, a pretty and intelligent

child. After some conversation, Mrs Thistleton said to me--

“A little while ago I had an idea, which my husband thought so graceful

that he insisted on carrying it out. I wonder if you’ll like it! I

should really like to show it to you.”

I expressed a polite interest and a proper desire to see it, whatever it

was.

“Then I’ll take you upstairs,” said she, rising with a gracious smile.

Upstairs we went, accompanied by Molly, who is rather a friend of mine

and who was hanging on to my arm. Reaching the first floor, we turned to

the left, and Mrs Thistleton ushered me into an exceedingly pleasant and

handsome bedroom, with a delightful view of the garden. Not conceiving

that I could be privileged to view Mrs Thistleton’s own chamber, I

concluded that this desirable apartment must be the best or principal

guest-room of the house.

“There!” said Mrs Thistleton, pointing with her finger towards the

mantelpiece.

Advancing in that direction, I perceived, affixed to the wall over the

mantelpiece, a small gilt frame, elaborately wrought and ornamented with

a Royal Crown. Enclosed in the frame, and protected by glass, was a

square of parchment, illuminated in blue and gold letters. I read the

inscription:

_This Room was Occupied by Her Majesty the Queen of Boravia on the

Occasion of Her Visit to the Manor House, Southam Parva,_

_27th of June, 1902._

“It’s a very pretty idea, indeed! I congratulate you on it, Mrs

Thistleton,” said I.

“I do like it; and ‘the Queen’s Room’ sounds such a nice name for it.”

“Charming!” I declared.

“Why didn’t you put one in the little room upstairs too--the room she

slept in all the last part of the time, mamma?” asked Molly.

Well, well, children will make these mistakes. I think it was very

creditable to Mrs Thistleton that she merely told Molly to think before

she spoke, in which case (Mrs Thistleton intimated) she would not ask

such a large number of foolish questions.

So Mrs Thistleton has a very pleasant memento of her Princess. I have

one of her too--a big book, with a picture of the great castle and the

broad river flowing below. And in the beginning of the book is written:

“To him who did not forget--VERA.”

The description still applies.

THE NECESSARY RESOURCES

The affair had three obvious results: the marriage of Prince Julian, Sir

Henry Shum’s baronetcy, and the complete renovation of Lady

Craigennoch’s town house. Its other effects, if any, were more obscure.

By accident of birth and of political events Prince Julian was a

Pretender, one of several gentlemen who occupied that position in regard

to the throne of an important European country: by a necessity of their

natures Messrs Shum & Byers were financiers: thanks to a fall in rents

and a taste for speculation Lady Craigennoch was hard put to it for

money and had become a good friend and ally of Mr Shum; sometimes he

allowed her to put a finger into one of his pies and draw out a little

plum for herself. Byers, hearing one day of his partner’s acquaintance

with Lady Craigennoch, observed, “She might introduce us to Prince

Julian.” Shum asked no questions, but obeyed; that was the way to be

comfortable and to grow rich if you were Mr Byers’ partner. The

introduction was duly effected; the Prince wondered vaguely, almost

ruefully, what these men expected to get out of him. Byers asked himself

quite as dolefully whether anything could be made out of an indolent,

artistic, lazy young man like the Prince; Pretenders such as he served

only to buttress existing Governments.

“Yes,” agreed Shum. “Besides, he’s entangled with that woman.”

“Is there a woman?” asked Byers. “I should like to know her.”

So, on his second visit to Palace Gate, Mr Byers was introduced to the

lady who was an inmate in Prince Julian’s house, but was not received

in society. Lady Craigennoch however, opining, justly enough, that since

she had no girls she might know whom she pleased, had called on the lady

and was on friendly terms with her. The lady was named Mrs Rivers, and

was understood to be a widow. “And surely one needn’t ask for his death

certificate!” pleaded Lady Craigennoch. Byers, as he took tea in Mrs

Rivers’ boudoir, was quite of the same mind. He nursed his square chin

in his lean hand, and regarded his hostess with marked attention. She

was handsome; that fact concerned Byers very little; she was also

magnificently self-confident; this trait roused his interest in a

moment. He came to see her more than once again; for now an idea had

begun to shape itself in his brain. He mentioned it to nobody, least of

all to Mrs Rivers. But one day she said to him, with the careless

contempt that he admired,

“If I had all your money, I should do something with it.”

“Don’t I?” he asked, half-liking, half-resenting her manner.

“Oh, you make more money with it, I suppose.”

She paused for a moment, and then, leaning forward, began to discuss

European politics, with especial reference to the condition of affairs

in Prince Julian’s country. Byers listened in silence; she told him much

that he knew, a few things which had escaped him. She told him also one

thing which he did not believe--that Prince Julian’s indolent airs

covered a character of rare resolution and tenacity. She repeated this

twice, thereby betraying that she was not sure her first statement had

carried conviction. Then she showed that the existing Government in the

Prince’s country was weak, divided, unpopular, and poor; and then she

ran over the list of rival Pretenders, and proved how deficient all of

them were in the qualities necessary to gain or keep a throne. At this

point she stopped, and asked Mr Byers to take a second cup of tea. He

looked at her with interest and amusement in his shrewd eyes; she had

all the genius, the native power, with none of the training, none of the

knowledge of men. He read her so easily; but there was a good deal to

read. In one point, however, he read her wrongly; almost the only

mistakes he made were due to forgetting the possible existence of

unselfish emotion.

Prince Julian had plenty of imagination; without any difficulty he

imagined himself regaining his ancestral throne, sitting on it in

majesty, and establishing it in power. This vision Mrs Rivers called up

before his receptive mind by detailing her conversation with Mr Byers.

“You want nothing but money to do it,” she said. And Byers had money in

great heaps; Shum had it too, and Shum was for present purposes Byers;

so were a number of other persons, all with money. “I believe the people

are devoted to me in their hearts,” said Prince Julian; then he caught

Mrs Rivers by both her hands and cried, “And then you shall be my

Queen!”

“Indeed I won’t,” said she; and she added almost fiercely, “Why do you

bring that up again now? It would spoil it all.” For, contrary to what

the world thought, Prince Julian had offered several times to marry the

lady who was not received nor visited (except, of course, by Lady

Craigennoch). Stranger still, this marriage was the thing which the

Prince desired above all things, for, failing it, he feared that some

day (owing to a conscience and other considerations) Mrs Rivers would

leave him, and he really did not know what he should do then. When he

imagined himself on his ancestral throne, Mrs Rivers was always very

near at hand; whether actually on the throne beside him or just behind

it was a point which he was prone to shirk; at any cost, though, she

must be very near.

As time went on there were many meetings at Palace Gate; the Prince, Mr

Shum, and Lady Craigennoch were present sometimes; Mrs Rivers and Byers

were never wanting. The Prince’s imagination was immensely stimulated in

those days; Lady Craigennoch’s love for a speculation was splendidly

indulged; Mr Shum’s cautious disposition received terrible shocks. Mrs

Rivers discussed European politics, the attitude of the Church, and the

secret quarrels of the Cabinet in Prince Julian’s country; and Byers

silently gathered together all the money of his own and other people’s

on which he could lay hands. He was meditating a great _coup_; and just

now and then he felt a queer touch of remorse when he reflected that his

_coup_ was so very different from the _coup_ to which Mrs Rivers’

disquisitions and the Prince’s vivid imagination invited him. But he

believed in the survival of the fittest; and, although Mrs Rivers was

very fit, he himself was just by a little bit fitter still. Meanwhile

the Government in the Prince’s country faced its many difficulties with

much boldness, and seemed on the whole safe enough.

The birth and attributes of Rumour have often engaged the attention of

poets; who can doubt that their rhetoric would have been embellished and

their metaphors multiplied had they possessed more intimate acquaintance

with the places where money is bought and sold? For in respect of

awakening widespread interest and affecting the happiness of homes, what

is the character of any lady, however high-born, conspicuous, or

beautiful, compared with the character of a Stock? Here indeed is a

field for calumny, for innuendo, for hints of frailty, for whispers of

intrigue; the scandalmongers have their turn to serve, and the holders

are swift to distrust. When somebody writes Sheridan’s comedy anew, let

him lay the scene of it in a Bourse; between his slandered Stock and his

slandered dame he may work out a very pretty and fanciful parallel.

Here, however, the facts can be set down only plainly and prosaically.

On all the Exchanges there arose a feeling of uneasiness respecting the

Stock of the Government of Prince Julian’s country; selling was going

on, not in large blocks, but cautiously, continually, in unending

dribblets; surely on a system and with a purpose? Then came paragraphs

in the papers (like whispers behind fans), discussing the state of the

Government and the country much in the vein which had marked Mrs Rivers’

dissertations. By now the Stock was down three points; by pure luck it

fell another, in mysterious sympathy with the South African mining

market. Next there was a riot in a provincial town in the Prince’s

country; then a Minister resigned and made a damaging statement in the

Chamber. Upon this it seemed no more than natural that attention should

be turned to Prince Julian, his habits, his _entourage_, his visitors.

And now there were visitors; nobles and gentlemen crossed the Channel to

see him; they came stealthily, yet not so secretly but that there was a

paragraph; these great folk had heard the rumours, and hope had revived

in their breasts. They talked to Mrs Rivers; Mrs Rivers had talked

previously to Mr Byers. A day later a weekly paper, which possessed

good, and claimed universal, information, announced that great activity

reigned among Prince Julian’s party, and that His Royal Highness was

considering the desirability of issuing a Manifesto. “Certain ulterior

steps,” the writer continued, “are in contemplation, but of these it

would be premature to speak.” There was not very much in all this, but

it made the friends of the Stock rather uncomfortable; and they were no

more happy when a leading article in a leading paper demonstrated beyond

possibility of cavil that Prince Julian had a fair chance of success,

but that, if he regained the throne, he could look to hold it only by

seeking glory in an aggressive attitude towards his neighbours. On the

appearance of this luminous forecast the poor Stock fell two points

more: there had been a _sauve qui peut_ of the timid holders.

Then actually came the Manifesto; and it was admitted on all hands to be

such an excellent Manifesto as to amount to an event of importance.

Whoever had drawn it up--and this question was never settled--knew how

to lay his finger on all the weak spots of the existing Government, how

to touch on the glories of Prince Julian’s House, what tone to adopt on

vexed questions, how to rouse the enthusiasm of all the discontented.

“Given that the Prince’s party possess the necessary resources,”

observed the same leading journal, “it cannot be denied that the

situation has assumed an aspect of gravity.” And the poor Stock fell yet

a little more; upon which Mr Shum, who had a liking for taking a profit

when he saw it, ventured to ask his partner how long he meant “to keep

it up.”

“We’ll talk about that to-morrow,” said Mr Byers. “I’m going to call in

Palace Gate this afternoon.” He looked very thoughtful as he brushed his

hat and sent for a hansom. But, as he drove along, his brow cleared and

he smiled triumphantly. If the Prince’s party had not the necessary

resources they could do nothing; if they did nothing, would not the

drooping Stock lift up her head again? Now nobody was in a position to

solve that problem about the necessary resources so surely or so swiftly

as Mr Byers.

A hundred yards from Prince Julian’s house he saw Lady Craigennoch

walking along the pavement, and got out of his cab to join her. She was

full of the visit she had just paid, above all of Ellen Rivers.

“Because she’s the whole thing, you know,” she said. “The

adherents--good gracious, what helpless creatures! I don’t wonder the

Republicans upset them if that’s what they’re all like. Oh, they’re

gentlemen, of course, and you’re not, Byers”--(Mr Byers bowed slightly

and smiled acquiescently)--“but I’d rather have you than a thousand of

them. And the Prince, poor dear, is hardly better. Always talking of

what he’ll do when he’s there, never thinking how he’s going to get

there!”

Byers let her run on; she was giving him both instruction and amusement.

“And then he’s afraid--oh, not of the bullets or the guillotine or

whatever it is--because he’s a gentleman too, you know. (Or perhaps you

don’t know! I wonder if you do? Shum doesn’t; perhaps you do.) But he’s

afraid of losing her. If he goes, she won’t go with him. I don’t mean

as--as she is now, you know. She won’t go anyhow, not as his wife even.

Well, of course, if he married her he’d wreck the whole thing. But one

would hardly expect her to see that; or even to care, if she did. She’s

very odd.” Lady Craigennoch paused a moment. “She’s fond of him too,”

she added. “She’s a very queer woman.”

“A lady?” asked Mr Byers with a touch of satire.

“Oh yes,” said Lady Craigennoch, scornful that he needed to ask. “But so

odd. Well, you’ve seen her with him--just like a mother with her pet

boy! How hard she’s worked, to be sure! She told me how she’d got him to

sign the what’s-its-name. He almost cried, because he’d have to go

without her, you know. But she says it’s all right now; he won’t go back

now, because he’s given his word. And she’s simply triumphant, though

she’s fond of him, and though she won’t go with him.” Again Lady

Craigennoch paused. “People won’t call on that woman, you know,” she

remarked after her pause. Then she added, “Of course that’s right,

except for a reprobate like me. But still----”

“She’s an interesting woman,” said Byers in a perfunctory sympathy with

his companion’s enthusiasm.

Lady Craigennoch cooled down, and fixed a cold and penetrating glance on

him.

“Yes, and you’re an interesting man,” she said. “What are you doing, Mr

Byers?”

“Vindicating Right Divine,” he answered.

Lady Craigennoch smiled. “Well, whatever it is,” she said, “Shum has

promised that I shall stand in.” Again she paused. “Only,” she resumed,

“if you’re making a fool of that woman----” She seemed unable to finish

the sentence; there had been genuine indignation in her eyes for a

moment; it faded away; but there came a slight flush on her cheeks as

she added, “But that doesn’t matter if it’s in the way of business, does

it?”

“And Shum has promised that you shall stand in,” Byers reminded her

gravely.

Lady Craigennoch dug her parasol into the streak of earth that showed

between pavement and curbstone.

“Anyhow I’m glad I called on her,” she said. “I’m not much, Heaven

knows, but I’m a woman to speak to.”

“To cry to?” he hazarded.

“How do you know she cried? Think what she’d been through, poor thing!

Oh, you won’t find her crying.”

“I hope not,” said Mr Byers with a perfect seriousness in his slightly

nasal tones; and when they parted he said to himself, “That woman hates

having to know me.” But there were many people in that position; and he

spent much time in increasing the number; so the reflection caused him

no pain, but rather a sense of self-complacency; when people know you

who hate having to know you, you are somebody. The thought passed, and

the next moment he found himself being glad that Ellen Rivers had a

woman to speak to--or to cry to--even though it were only Lady

Craigennoch.

She was not crying when she received Mr Byers. She was radiant. She told

him that her part was done; now he must do his part; then the Prince

would do his: thus the great enterprise would be accomplished. That odd

pang struck Byers again as he listened; he recollected the beginning of

Lady Craigennoch’s unfinished sentence, “If you’re making a fool of that

woman----” That was just what he was doing. He escaped from the thought

and gratified his curiosity by turning the talk to Mrs Rivers herself.

“Accomplished, eh?” said he. “And it’s a crown for the Prince!”

“Yes, and great influence for you.”

“And you’ll be----”

“I shall be nothing. I shall go away.” She spoke quickly and decisively;

the resolution was there, but to dwell on it was dangerous.

“Where to?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Anywhere.”

“Back to your people?”

She looked at him for a moment. He had allowed himself to sneer. Her

manner, as she went on without taking any notice of his question, proved

that Lady Craigennoch had been right in saying that she was a lady.

“My work will be done,” she said. “From the first moment I knew the

Prince I determined to use my influence in this way. He only--he only

needed a little encouragement.”

“And a little money?”

“I gave him one, you’re giving him the other. We shall both be repaid by

his success.”

“You’re a very strange woman,” he said. Probably he did not know how

straight and hard his eyes were set on her; they could not leave her.

What a pity it was that she would not go with the Prince--as his wife,

or even (to use Lady Craigennoch’s charitably evasive phrase) as she was

now. To set the Prince on the seat of his ancestors was not an exploit

that appealed to Mr Byers; but to set this woman on a throne would be

worth--well, how much? Mr Byers detected this question in his own heart;

he could not help reducing things to figures. “Why don’t you go with

him?” he asked bluntly.

“It would prejudice him,” she answered simply, folding her hands in her

lap.

Then she stretched out a hand towards him and said suddenly, with a

sudden quiver in her voice, “I talk to you like this, and all the time

I’m wanting to go down on my knees and kiss your hands, because you’re

doing this.”

The lean hand held the square jaw; the attitude was a favourite one with

Mr Byers; and his eyes were still on her.

“Yes, that’s what I want to do,” she said with a nervous laugh. “It’s so

splendid of you.” Her breath came fast; her eyes were very bright. At

that moment Mr Byers wished that the quick breath and the bright eyes

were for him himself, not for the helper of the Prince; and for that

moment he forgot Mrs Byers and the babies in Portland Place; it was

years since he had had any such wish about any woman; he felt a sympathy

with Prince Julian, who had almost cried when he signed the Manifesto,

because, if he mounted the throne, Ellen Rivers would leave him.

“We want money now, directly,” she went on. “We want the Manifesto in

every house. I can manage the distribution. And we must pay

people--bribe them. We must sow seed. It’ll soon come up. And the Prince

will act at the proper time.”

“How much do you want now?” he asked.

“Half-a-million now, and another next month,” she said.

“And more before the end?”

“Yes, most likely. You can get it, you know.”

“And shall I ever get it back?”

“The Prince has given his word.” Mr Byers assumed a doubtful air. “Oh,

you’re not as stupid as that; you believe him,” she added almost

contemptuously. “Do you mean it’s a speculation? Of course it is. I

thought you had courage!”

“So I have,” said Byers. And he added, “I may want it all too.” What he

would want it for was in his mind, but he did not tell her.

He thought a great deal about the matter that evening as he sat by the

fire opposite to Mrs Byers, who knitted a stocking and said nothing; she

never broke in upon his thoughts, believing that a careless interruption

might cost a million. Millions were in his mind now, and other things

than millions. There was his faith with his associates; they were all

waiting his word; when he gave it, rumours would die away, reports be

contradicted, the Manifesto pooh-poohed; there would be buyings, the

Stock would lift up her head again, confidence would revive; and the

first to buy, the first to return to faith in the Stock, would be Mr

Byers and his associates; the public would come in afterwards, and when

the public came in he and his associates would go out again, richer by

vast sums. The money and his good faith--his honour among

financiers--bound him; and the triumph of his brains, the beauty of his

_coup_, the admiration of his fellows, the unwilling applause of the

hard-hit--all these allured him mightily. On the other side there was

nothing except the necessity of disappointing Mrs Rivers, of telling her

that the necessary resources were not forthcoming, that the agitation

and the Manifesto had served their turn, that the Prince had been made a

fool of, that she herself had been made a fool of too. Many such a

revelation had he made to defeated opponents, calmly, jestingly perhaps,

between the puffs of his cigar, not minding what they thought. Why

should he mind what Mrs Rivers thought? She would no longer wish to kiss

that lean strong hand of his; she might cry (she had Lady Craigennoch to

cry to). He looked across at his wife who was knitting; he would not

have minded telling anything to her. But so intensely did he mind

telling what he had to tell to Ellen Rivers that the millions, his good

faith, the joy of winning, and the beauty of the _coup_, all hung

doubtful in the balance against the look in the eyes of the lady at

Prince Julian’s. “What an infernal fool I am!” he groaned. Mrs Byers

glanced up for a moment, smiled sympathetically, and went on with her

knitting; she supposed that there must be some temporary hitch about the

latest million; or perhaps Shum had been troublesome; that was sometimes

what was upsetting Mr Byers.

The next morning Mr Shum was troublesome; he thought that the moment for

action had come; the poor Stock had been blown upon enough, the process

of rehabilitation should begin. Various other gentlemen, weighty with

money, dropped in with their hats on the back of their heads and

expressed the same views. Byers fenced with them, discussed the question

rather inconclusively, took now this side and now that, hesitated,

vacillated, shilly-shallied. The men wondered at him; they knew they

were right; and, right or wrong, Byers had been wont to know his own

mind; their money was at stake; they looked at one another

uncomfortably. Then the youngest of them, a fair boy, great at dances

and late suppers, but with a brain for figures and a cool boldness which

made him already rich and respected in the City, tilted his shining hat

still further back and drawled out, “If you’ve lost your nerve, Byers,

you’d better let somebody else engineer the thing.”

What her fair fame is to a proud woman the prestige of his nerve was to

Mr Byers. The boy had spoken the decisive word, by chance, by the

unerring instinct which in any sphere of thought is genius. In

half-an-hour all was planned, the Government of the Prince’s country

saved, and the agitation at an end. The necessary resources would not be

forthcoming; confidence would revive, the millions would be made, the

_coup_ brought off, the triumph won.

So in the next fortnight it happened. Prince Julian looked on with vague

bewilderment, reading the articles and paragraphs which told him that he

had abandoned all thought of action, had resigned himself to wait for a

spontaneous recall from his loving subjects (which might be expected to

assail his ears on the Greek Kalends), that in fact he would do nothing.

Mrs Rivers read the paragraphs too, and waited and waited and waited for

the coming of Mr Byers and the necessary resources; she smiled at what

she read, for she had confidence in the Cause, or at least in herself

and in Mr Byers. But the days went on; slowly the Stock rose; then in

went the public with a rush. The paragraphs and the articles dwindled

and ceased; there was a commotion somewhere else in Europe; Prince

Julian and his Manifesto were forgotten. What did it mean? She wrote a

note, asking Mr Byers to call.

It was just at this time also that Mr Henry Shum accepted the invitation

of the Conservative Association of the Hatton Garden Division of Holborn

Bars to contest the seat at the approaching General Election, and that

Lady Craigennoch gave orders for the complete renovation of her town

house. Both these actions involved, of course, some expense; how much it

is hard to say precisely. The house was rather large, and the seat was

very safe.

Prince Julian sat in his library in Palace Gate and Mrs Rivers stood

beside him, her hand resting on the arm of his chair. Now and then the

Prince glanced up at her face rather timidly. They had agreed that

matters showed no progress; then Mrs Rivers had become silent.

“Has Byers thrown us over?” the Prince asked at last.

“Hush, hush,” she answered in a low voice. “Wait till he’s been; he’s

coming to-day.” Her voice sank lower still as she whispered, “He can’t

have; oh, he can’t!”

There was silence again. A few minutes passed before the Prince broke

out fretfully, “I’m sick of the whole thing. I’m very well as I am. If

they want me, let them send for me. I can’t force myself on them.”

She looked down for a moment and touched his hair with her hand.

“If this has come to nothing I’ll never try again. I don’t like being

made a fool of.”

Her hand rested a moment on his forehead; he looked up, smiling.

“We can be happy together,” he murmured. “Let’s throw up the whole thing

and be happy together.” He caught her hand in his. “You’ll stay with me

anyhow?”

“You want me still?”

“You’ll do what I ask?” he whispered.

“That would put an end to it, indeed,” she said smiling.

“Thank Heaven for it!” he exclaimed peevishly.

A servant came in and announced that Mr Byers was in the drawing-room.

“Shall I come too?” asked the Prince.

“Oh no,” she answered with a strange little laugh. “What’s the use of

bothering you? I’ll see him.”

“Make him say something definite,” urged Prince Julian. “Let’s have an

end of it one way or the other.”

“Very well.” She bent down and kissed him, and then went off to talk to

Mr Byers.

The fair boy with the business brains might have been seriously of

opinion that there was something wrong with Byers’ nerve had he seen him

waiting for Mrs Rivers in the drawing-room, waiting to tell her that the

necessary resources were not forthcoming; he hoped that he need tell her

no more than that; he wished that he had not come, but he could not

endure the self-contempt which the thought of running away had brought

with it; he must face her; the woman could do no more than abuse him.

One other thought he had for a moment entertained--of offering to let

her stand in, as Mr Shum had let Lady Craigennoch; there was hardly any

sum which he would not have been glad to give her. But long before he

reached the house he had decided that she would not stand in. “By God, I

should think not,” he said to himself indignantly.

But he had one phrase ready for her. He reminded her of the paragraphs,

the rumours, and the Manifesto. “We have by these means felt the pulse

of the public,” he said. He paused, she said nothing. “The result is

not--er--encouraging,” he went on. “The moment is not propitious.”

“You promised the money if the Prince signed the Manifesto,” she said.

“Promised? Oh, well, I said I’d----”

“You promised,” said Mrs Rivers. “What’s the difficulty now?”

“The state of public feeling----” he began.

“I know that. We want the money to change it. She smiled slightly. “If

the feeling had been with us already we shouldn’t have wanted the

money.” She leant forward and asked, “Haven’t you got the money? You

said you had.”

“Yes, I’ve got it--or I could get it.”

“Yes. Well then--! Why have you changed your mind?”

He made no answer, and for a while she sat looking at him thoughtfully.

She did not abuse him, and she did not cry.

“I want to understand,” she said presently. “Did you ever mean to give

us the money?”

“Yes, upon my honour I----”

“Are you sure?” She forced him to look her in the face; he was silent.

She rose, took a Japanese fan from a side table, and sat down again; the

lower part of her face was now hidden by the fan; Byers saw nothing but

her eyes. “What did you mean?” she asked. “You’ve made us all--the

Prince, and his friends, and me--look very silly. How did that help you?

I don’t see what you could get out of that.”

She was looking at him now as though she thought him mad; she could not

see what he had got out of it; it had not yet crossed her mind that

there had been money to be got out of it; so ignorant was she, with all

her shrewdness, with all her resolution.

“And I understood that you were such a clever far-seeing man,” she went

on. “Lady Craigennoch always told me so; she said I could trust you in

anything. Do tell me about it, Mr Byers.”

“I can’t explain it to you,” he began. “You--you wouldn’t----”

“Yes, I should understand it if you told me,” she insisted.

If he told her he was a liar and a thief, she would understand. Probably

she would. But he did not think that she would understand the

transaction if he used any less plain language about it. And that

language was not only hard to use to her, but struck strangely on his

own head and his own heart. Surely there must be other terms in which to

describe his part in the transaction? There were plenty such in the

City; were there none in Palace Gate?

“It’s a matter of business----” again he began.

She stopped him with an imperious wave of the fan. Her eyes grew

animated with a sudden enlightenment; she looked at him for a moment or

two, and then asked, “Have you been making money out of it somehow?” He

did not answer. “How, please?” she asked.

“What does that matter?” His voice was low.

“I should like to hear, please. You don’t want to tell me? But I want to

know. It--it’ll be useful to me to understand things like this.”

It seemed to Mr Byers that he had to tell her, that this was the one

thing left that he could do, the one obligation which he could perform.

So he began to tell her, and as he told her, naturally (or curiously,

since natures are curious) his pride in the great _coup_ revived--his

professional pride. He went into it all thoroughly; she followed him

very intelligently; he made her understand what an “option” was, what

“differences,” what the “put,” and what the “call.” He pointed out how

the changes in public affairs might make welcome changes in private

pockets, and would have her know that the secret centre of great

movements must be sought in the Bourses, not in the Cabinets, of

Europe; perhaps he exaggerated here a little, as a man will in praising

what he loves. Finally, carried away by enthusiasm, he gave her the

means of guessing with fair accuracy the profit that he and his friends

had made out of the transaction. Thus ending, he heaved a sigh of

relief; she understood, and there had been no need of those uncivil

terms which lately had pressed themselves forward to the tip of his

tongue so rudely.

“I think I’d better not try to have anything more to do with politics,”

she said. “I--I’m too ignorant.” There was a little break in her tones.

Byers glanced at her sharply and apprehensively. Now that his story was

ended, his enthusiasm died away; he expected abuse now. Well, he would

bear it; she was entitled to relieve her mind.

“What a fool I’ve been! How you must have been laughing at me--at my

poor Prince and me!” She looked across to him, smiling faintly. He sat

twisting his hat in his hands. Then she turned her eyes towards the

fireplace. Byers had nothing to say; he was wondering whether he might

go now. Glancing at her for permission, he saw that her clear bright

eyes had grown dim; presently a tear formed and rolled down her cheek.

Then she began to sob, softly at first, presently with growing and

rising passion. She seemed quite forgetful of him, heedless of what he

thought and of how she looked. All that was in her, the pang of her dead

hopes, the woe for her poor Prince, the bitter shame of her own crushed

pride and helpless folly, came out in her sobs as she abandoned herself

to weeping. Byers sat by, listening always, looking sometimes. He tried

to defend himself to himself; was it decent of her, was it becoming,

wasn’t it characteristic of the lack of self-control and self-respect

that marks the sort of woman she was? It might be open to all these

reproaches. She seemed not to care; she cried on. He could not help

looking at her now; at last she saw him looking, and with a little

stifled exclamation--whether of apology or of irritation he could not

tell--she turned sideways and hid her face in the cushions of the sofa.

Byers rose slowly, almost unsteadily, to his feet. “My God!” he

whispered to himself, as he stood for a moment and looked at her. Then

he walked over to where she lay, her head buried in the cushions.

“It doesn’t make all that difference to you,” he said roughly. “You

wouldn’t have gone with him.”

She turned her face to him for a moment. She did not look her best; how

could she? But Mr Byers did not notice that.

“I love him; and I wanted to do it.”

Byers had “wanted to do it” too, and their desires had clashed. But in

his desire there had been no alloy of love; it was all true metal, true

metal of self. He stood over her for a minute without speaking. A

strange feeling seized him then; he had felt it once before with regard

to this woman.

“If it had been for you I’d have damned the money and gone ahead,” he

blurted out in an indistinct impetuous utterance.

Again she looked up; there was no surprise, no resentment in her face,

only a heart-breaking plaintiveness. “Oh, why couldn’t you be honest

with me?” she moaned. But she stopped sobbing and sat straight on the

sofa again. “You’ll think me still more of a fool for doing this,” she

said.

Was the abuse never coming? Mr Byers began to long for it. If he were

abused enough, he thought that he might be able to find something to say

for himself.

“You think that because--because I live as I do, I know the world

and--and so on. I don’t a bit. It doesn’t follow really, you know. Fancy

my thinking I could do anything for Julian! What do I know of business?

Well, you’ve told me now!”

“If it had been for you I’d have risked it and gone ahead,” said Byers

again.

“I don’t know what you mean by that,” she murmured vaguely. Byers did

not try to describe to her the odd strong impulse which had inspired

his speech. “I must go and tell the Prince about it,” she said.

“What are you going to do?” he demanded.

“Do? What is there to do? Nothing, I suppose. What can we do?”

“I wish to God I’d--I’d met a woman like you. Shall you marry him now?”

She looked up; a faint smile appeared on her face.

“Yes,” she said. “It doesn’t matter now; and he’ll like it. Yes, I’ll

marry him now.”

Two visions--one was of Mrs Byers and the babies in Portland Place--rose

before Byers’ thoughts.

“He hasn’t lost much then,” he said. “And you? You’ll be just as happy.”

“It was the whole world to me,” said she, and for the last time she put

her handkerchief to her eyes. Then she stowed it away in her pocket and

looked expectantly at her visitor; here was the permission to go.

“Will you take the money?” said he.

“What money?”

“What I’ve made. My share of it.”

“Oh, don’t be silly! What do I care what money you’ve made?”

He spoke lower as he put his second question.

“Will you forgive me?” he asked.

“Forgive you?” She laughed a little, yet looked puzzled. “I don’t think

about you like that,” she explained. “You’re not a man to me.”

“You’re a woman to me. What am I to you then?”

“I don’t know. Things in general--the world--business--the truth about

myself. Yes, you’re the truth about myself to me.” She laughed again,

nervously, tentatively, almost appealingly, as though she wanted him to

understand how he seemed to her. He drew in his breath and buttoned his

coat.

“And you’re the truth about myself to me,” he said. “And the truth is

that I’m a damned scoundrel.”

“Are you?” she asked, as it seemed half in surprise, half in

indifference. “Oh, I suppose you’re no worse than other people. Only I

was such a fool. Good-bye, Mr Byers.” She held out her hand. He had not

meant to offer his. But he took hers and pressed it. He had a vague

desire to tell her that he was not a type of all humanity, that other

men were better than he was, that there were unselfish men, true men,

men who did not make fools of women for money’s sake; yes, of women

whose shoes they were not worthy to black. But he could not say anything

of all this, and he left her without another word. And the next morning

he bought the “call” of a big block of the Stock; for the news of Prince

Julian’s marriage with Mrs Rivers would send it up a point or two. Habit

is very strong.

When he was gone, Mrs Rivers went upstairs to her room and bathed her

face. Then she rejoined Prince Julian in the library. Weary of waiting,

he had gone to sleep; but he woke up and was rejoiced to see her. He

listened to her story, called Mr Byers an infernal rogue, and, with an

expression of relief on his face, said:

“There’s the end of that! And now, darling----?”

“Yes, I’ll marry you now,” she said. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Thus, as has been said, the whole affair had only three obvious

effects--the renovation of Lady Craigennoch’s town house, a baronetcy

for Sir Henry Shum (services to the Party are a recognised claim on the

favour of His Majesty), and the marriage of Prince Julian. But from it

both Mrs Rivers and Mr Byers derived some new ideas of the world and of

themselves. Shall woman weep and hard men curse their own work without

result? The Temple of Truth is not a National Institution. So, of

course, one pays to go in. Even when you are in, it is difficult to look

at more than one side of it at once. Perhaps Mrs Rivers did not realise

this; and Mr Byers could not while he seemed still to hear her crying;

he heard the sobs for so many evenings, mingling oddly with the click of

his wife’s knitting-needles.

MISS GLADWIN’S CHANCE

I

Old Tom Gladwin was not a man to whom you volunteered advice. He had

made an immense deal of money for himself, and people who have done that

generally like also to manufacture their own advice on their own

premises; perhaps it is better done that way, perhaps there’s just a

prejudice in favour of the home trade-mark. Anyhow, old Tom needed no

suggestions from outside. You said, “Yes, Sir Thomas,” or “Of course

not, Sir Thomas,” or “Certainly, Sir Thomas.” At all events, you limited

your remarks to something like that if you were--as I was--a young

solicitor trying to keep his father’s connection together, of which Sir

Thomas’s affairs and the business of the Worldstone Park estate formed a

considerable and lucrative portion. But everybody was in the same story

about him--secretary, bailiff, stud-groom, gardener, butler--yes,

butler, although Sir Thomas had confessedly never tasted champagne till

he was forty, whereas Gilson had certainly been weaned on it. Even Miss

Nettie Tyler, when she came on the scene, had the good sense to accept

Sir Thomas’s version of her heart’s desire; neither had she much cause

to quarrel with his reading, since it embraced Sir Thomas himself and

virtually the whole of his worldly possessions. He was worth perhaps

half-a-million pounds in money, and the net rent-roll of Worldstone was

ten thousand, even after you had dressed it up and curled its hair, for

all the world as if it were a suburban villa instead of an honest,

self-respecting country gentleman’s estate, which ought to have been

run to pay three per cent. But the new-comers will not take land

seriously; they leave that as a prospect for their descendants when the

ready money, the city-made money, has melted away.

So I took his instructions for his marriage settlement and his new will

without a word, although they seemed to me to be, under the

circumstances, pretty stiff documents. The old gentleman--he was not

really old, fifty-eight or-nine, I should say, but he looked like a

granite block that has defied centuries--had, of course, two excuses. In

the first place, he was fairly crazy about Nettie Tyler, orphan daughter

of the old vicar of Worldstone, an acquaintance of two months’ standing

and (I will say for her) one of the prettiest little figures on a horse

that I ever saw. In the second, he wanted--yes, inevitably he wanted--to

found a family and to hand on the baronetcy which had properly rewarded

his strenuous and successful efforts on his own behalf; it was the sort

of baronetcy which is obviously pregnant with a peerage--a step, not a

crown; one learns to distinguish these varieties. Accordingly, to cut

details short, the effect of the new will and of the marriage settlement

was that, given issue of the said intended marriage (and intended it was

for the following Tuesday), Miss Beatrice Gladwin was to have five

hundred a year on her father’s death, and the rest went to what, for

convenience’s sake, I may call the new undertaking--to the Gladwin-Tyler

establishment and what might spring therefrom. Even the five hundred was

by the will only, therefore revocable. Five hundred a year is not

despicable, and is good, like other boons, until revoked. But think what

Beatrice Gladwin had been two months before--the greatest heiress in the

county, mistress of all! So the old will had made her--the old will in

my office safe, which, come next Tuesday, would be so much waste paper.

I have always found something pathetic about a superseded will. It is

like a royal family in exile.

Sir Thomas read over the documents and looked up at me as he took off

his spectacles.

“One great advantage of having made your own way, Foulkes,” he observed,

“is that you’re not trammelled by settlements made in early life. I can

do what I like with my own.”

And I, as I have foreshadowed, observed merely, “Certainly, Sir Thomas.”

He eyed me for a moment with an air of some suspicion. He was very acute

and recognised criticism, however inarticulate; an obstinacy in the bend

of one’s back was enough for him. But I gave him no more opening, and,

after all, he could not found an explicit reproach on the curve of my

spine. After a moment he went on, rasping the short grey hair that

sprouted on his chin:

“I think you’d better have a few minutes with my daughter. Put the

effect of these documents into plain language for her.” I believe he

half suspected me again, for he added quickly: “Free of technicalities,

I mean. She knows the general nature of my wishes. I’ve made that quite

clear to her myself.” No doubt he had. I bowed, and he rose, glancing at

the clock. “The horses must be round,” he said; “I’m going for a ride

with Miss Tyler. Ask if my daughter can see you now; and I hope you’ll

stay to lunch, Foulkes.” He went to the door, but turned again. “I’ll

send Beatrice to you myself,” he called, “and you can get the business

over before we come back.” He went off, opening his cigar-case and

humming a tune, in excellent spirits with himself and the world, I

fancied. He had reason to be, so far as one could see at the minute.

I went to the window and watched them mounting--the strong solid frame

of the man, the springy figure of the pretty girl. She was chattering

gleefully: he laughed in a most contented approval of her, and,

probably, with an attention none too deep to the precise purport of her

merry words. Besides the two grooms there was another member of the

party--one who stood rather aloof on the steps that led up to the hall

door. Here was the lady for whom I waited, Beatrice Gladwin, his

daughter, who was to have the five hundred a year when he died--who was

to have had everything, to have been mistress of all. She stood there in

her calm composed handsomeness. Neither pretty nor beautiful would you

call her, but, without question, remarkably handsome. She was also

perfectly tranquil. As I looked she spoke once; I heard the words

through the open window.

“You must have your own way, then,” she said, with a smile and a slight

shrug of her shoulders. “But the horse isn’t safe for you, you know.”

“Ay, ay,” he answered, laughing again, not at his daughter but round to

the pretty girl beside him. “I’ll have my way for four days more.” He

and his _fiancée_ enjoyed the joke between them; it went no further, I

think.

Beatrice stood watching them for a little while, then turned into the

house. I watched them a moment longer, and saw them take to the grass

and break into a canter. It was a beautiful sunny morning; they and

their fine horses made a good moving bit of life on the face of the

smiling earth. Was that how it would strike Beatrice, once the heiress,

now--well, it sounds rather strong, but shall we say the survival of an

experiment that had failed? Once the patroness of the vicar’s little

daughter--I had often seen them when that attitude obviously and

inevitably dominated their intercourse; then for a brief space, by

choice or parental will, the friend; now and for the future--my

vocabulary or my imagination failed to supply the exact description of

their future relations. It was, however, plain that the change to Miss

Beatrice Gladwin must be very considerable. There came back into my mind

what my friend, neighbour, and client, Captain Spencer Fullard of

Gatworth Hall, impecunious scion of an ancient stock, had said in the

club at Bittleton (for we have a club at Bittleton, and a very good one,

too) when the news of Sir Thomas’s engagement came out. “Rough on Miss

Beatrice,” said he; “but she’ll show nothing. She’s hard, you know, but

a sportsman.” A sportsman she was, as events proved; and none was to

know it better than Spencer Fullard himself, who was, by the way,

supposed to feel, or at least to have exhibited, even greater admiration

for the lady than the terms of the quoted remark imply. At the time he

had not seen Miss Tyler.

One thing more came into my head while I waited. Did pretty Nettie Tyler

know the purport of the new documents? If so, what did she think of it?

But the suggestion which this idea carries with it probably asked

altogether too much of triumphant youth. It is later in life that one is

able to look from other people’s points of view--one’s own not being so

dazzlingly pleasant, I suppose. So I made allowances for Nettie; it was

not perhaps so easy for Beatrice Gladwin to do the same.

II

Of course the one thing I had to avoid was any show of sympathy; she

would have resented bitterly such an impertinence. If I knew her at

all--and I had been an interested observer of her growth from childhood

to woman’s estate--the sympathy of the county, unheard but infallibly

divined, was a sore aggravation of her fate. As I read extracts from the

documents and explained their effect, freeing them from technicalities,

as Sir Thomas had thoughtfully charged me, my impassivity equalled hers.

I might have been telling her the price of bloaters at Great Yarmouth

that morning, and she considering the purchase of half-a-dozen. In fact,

we overdid it between us; we were both grotesquely uninterested in the

documents; our artificial calm made a poor contrast to the primitive and

disguise-scorning exultation of the pair who had gone riding over the

turf in the sunshine. I could not help it; I had to take my cue from

her. My old father had loved her; perhaps he would have patted her hand,

perhaps he would even have kissed her cheek: what would have happened to

her composure then? On the other hand, he would have been much more on

Sir Thomas’s side than I was. He used often to quote to me a saying of

his uncle’s, the venerable founder of the fine business we enjoyed:

“Every other generation, the heir ought to lay an egg and then die.” The

long minority which he contemplated as resulting from a family

bereavement _prima facie_ so sad would reëstablish the family finances.

The Chinese and Japanese, I am told, worship their ancestors. English

landed gentry worship their descendants, and of this cult the family

lawyer is high priest. My father would have patted Beatrice Gladwin’s

cheek, but he would not have invoked a curse on Sir Thomas, as I was

doing behind my indifferent face and with the silent end of my drily

droning tongue. I was very glad when we got to the end of the documents.

She gave me a nod and a smile, saying, “I quite understand,” then rose

and went to the window. I began to tie my papers up in their tapes. The

drafts were to go back to be engrossed. She stood looking out on the

park. The absurd impulse to say that I was very sorry, but that I really

couldn’t help it, assailed me again. I resisted, and tied the tapes in

particularly neat bows, admiring the while her straight, slim,

flat-shouldered figure. She looked remarkably efficient; I found myself

regretting that she was not to have the management of the estate. Was

that in her mind, too, as she surveyed it from the window? I do not

know, but I do know that the next moment she asked me if Spencer Fullard

were ill; she had not seen him about lately. I said that he was, I

believed, in robust health, but had been up in town on business. (He had

gone to raise a loan, if that’s material.) The subject then dropped. I

did not, at the time, see any reason why it had cropped up at all at

that particular and somewhat uncomfortable moment.

What had put Spencer Fullard into her head?