THE MAN OF DESTINY
It was not in looks alone that Fitz resembled the Man of Destiny. The
peremptory decision of his manner fitted him for the part. The
beautiful musician and her subtle cadences were significant to him only
in so far as they could serve his will. Fitz entered in the midst of a
rhapsody played divinely; and with an unconcerned air he went straight
up to the piano, and, with Napoleonic effrontery, placed his elbow
across the music.
"Sorry to interrupt you, Countess, but there is no time to lose."
The Countess lifted her fingers from the keys, and her teeth flashed in
a smile that had an edge to it.
A shrug of the shoulders from the _pianiste_; and Fitz began to talk
with considerable volubility in his fluent Illyrian. My nurture has
been expensive; and on the admirable English principle of the more you
pay for your education the less practical knowledge you acquire, let it
cause no surprise that my acquaintance with the Illyrian tongue is
limited to a few expletives. Therefore I was unable to follow the
course of Fitz's conversation.
Perforce I had to be content with watching his play of gesture. This,
too, was considerable. The air of languor which it had pleased him to
assume in the crises of his fate was laid aside in favour of a
wonderful ardour and conviction. He drummed his fingers on the top of
the piano and urged his views with a fervour that might have moved the
Sphinx.
At first the fair musician did not seem prepared to take Fitz
seriously. Her smile was arch, and inclined to be playful. But Fitz
was in an epic mood.
He had not come so far upon a momentous enterprise to be gainsaid by a
woman's levity. The man began to wax tremendous. He kept his voice
low, but the veins swelled in his forehead, and he beat the palm of his
right hand with the fist of his left.
Before such a force of nature no woman could be expected to maintain
her negative attitude. Fitz's Illyrian became volcanic. In the end
the lady at the piano spread her hands, said "Hein!" and rose from the
music stool. A moment she stood irresolute, but the gaze upon her was
that of a serpent fixed upon the eyes of a bird. The man's
determination had won the day. For, clearly at his behest, she quitted
the room, and Fitz, white and tense, yet with blazing eyes, followed
her.
For the moment it seemed that he had forgotten his fellow conspirators.
But as soon as he had passed out of the room he turned back.
"Stay where you are," he said. "You will be wanted presently."
The five of us were left staring after him through the open door of the
drawing-room. It was the Chief Constable who broke the silence.
"What's his game now?"
"He appears to be engaged in convincing a woman against her will," said
I. "Were you able to follow the conversation?"
"Not altogether. He appears to have made up his mind that Madame shall
do something, and Madame appears to have made up hers that she won't.
But exactly what it is, I can't say. I don't mind betting a shilling,
all the same, that the damned fellow will get his way. Upon my word I
have never seen his equal!"
The Chief Constable laughed in a hollow voice, and removed another bead
of honest perspiration from his countenance.
Fitz's departure with the Countess marked the renewal of our suspense.
Here were the five of us landed indefinitely, biting our thumbs. The
situation was rather absurd. Five law-abiding Englishmen assembled
with fell intent in a private house, yet knowing very little of the
business they had on hand. Each had made his way by stealth, and under
false pretences, into the very heart of the place. In this comfortable
drawing-room we had no _locus standi_ at all. To all in the
establishment we were total strangers, and to us they were equally
strange. Would Fitz never return? Would the call to action never be
made? A man with a high forehead and the look of an official came to
the threshold of the room, looked in upon us pensively, and then went
away again. Two minutes later a second individual repeated the
performance. Doubtless we were five strange and unexpected birds--but
the whole business was beginning to be ridiculous.
I looked at my watch. It was twenty-five minutes past ten. Then the
undefeated O'Mulligan sat down at the piano and began to play the
latest masterpiece in vogue at the Tivoli. The strains of his
searching melody had the effect of bringing to us another servant with
a further supply of coffee.
"Can you tell me if the Ambassador is dining out to-night?" I said to
the servant.
"Yes, sir," said the man who was English. "At Buckingham Palace, but
he will be home before eleven."
"Is the Crown Princess dining there also?"
"No, sir, I believe not."
"She is in the suite of rooms on the next floor?" I said carelessly.
"Yes, sir."
When the man had withdrawn I was congratulated.
"Well done, you!" said Coverdale. "Useful information."
"I wonder if Fitz knows as much," said I.
"Of course he does. The infernal fellow has thought this thing out
pretty well. He knows the game he's playing."
This was reassuring from one whose habit was averse from optimism.
Inspired with the knowledge that his Excellency was dining at
Buckingham Palace, Alexander O'Mulligan began to pound away more
heartily than ever upon the upright grand.
"Give your imitation of church bells and a barrel organ, Alec," said a
humble admirer, insinuating a trifle more ease into his bearing.
"Do you think they will mind if we smoke here?" said Brasset,
plaintively. "I am dying for a cigarette."
However, before the Master of the Crackanthorpe could have recourse to
this aid to his existence, Fitz returned. He was alone, and he was
peremptory.
"What an infernal din you fellows kick up!" He fixed his dæmonic gaze
upon the amateur middle-weight champion. "Leave that piano and come
and be presented to my wife."
At last we were coming to the horses. There was a perceptible squaring
of shoulders and a shooting of cuffs, and then Fitz led the way out of
the room, followed by Coverdale and the rest of us in review order. We
were conducted up another marble staircase and along a lengthy
corridor, through a succession of reception-rooms, until at last we
found ourselves in an apartment larger and more ornate than all the
others. Its sombre richness was truly imposing. Pictures, tapestry,
candelabra, carpets and furniture all combined to give it the air of a
state chamber.
Three ladies were seated at the far end of this magnificent room. One
was the fair musician upon whom Fitz had imposed his will; another was
a mature and stately dame, with snow-white hair and patrician features;
and the third, reclining upon a chair with a high gilt back, was the
"Stormy Petrel," the Crown Princess of Illyria.
As soon as we came into the room the two other ladies rose, leaving the
Princess seated in state. Fitz presented each of us with all the
formality that the most sensitive royalty could have desired. His
manner of recommending us to her Royal Highness was dignified,
authoritative and not without grace. As far as we were concerned, I
hope our bearing was not lacking in the necessary punctilio.
Hitherto it had been our privilege to see Mrs. Fitz out hunting in her
famous scarlet coat, when to be sure she had been the centre of much
critical observation. But at such times the princess was merged in the
brilliant horsewoman; and it goes to prove how easily "the real thing"
may pass for the mere audacity of the intrepid adventuress, if one
comes to consider that the bearing of "the circus rider from Vienna"
awoke no suspicions in respect of her status.
It would be easy to indulge in a page of reflection upon the subject of
Mrs. Fitz. Her style was quite as pronounced in the saddle as it was
in the salon, but the experts in that elusive quality had failed, as
they do occasionally, to appreciate its authenticity. Doubtless they
would have failed again to render the genuine thing its meed, had we
not the assurance of Fitz that we were in the presence of the heiress
to the oldest monarchy in Europe.
It is time I attempted to describe this noble creature. But it is vain
to seek to portray a great work of nature. Above all else I think she
must be regarded as that. She was prodigal in beauty; imperious in the
vividness of her challenge; splendid in the arresting candour of her
dark and disdainful eyes. There was a compelling power before which
the world of men and things was prone to yield; but there was pathos
too in that valiant self-security, which knew so little yet exacted so
much; and beyond all else there was the immemorial fascination of a
luckless, intensely sentient being, who seemed in her own person to be
the epitome of an entire sex at the dawn of the twentieth century.
One by one we paid our homage, and it was not rendered less by the
romance of the circumstances.
"You are brave men!" she said in a voice wonderfully low and clear in
quality. "We Sveltkes have known always how to esteem men of courage."
Coverdale, as the doyen of the party, took upon himself to speak for
us. He held himself erect and bowed much too stiffly to pass muster as
a courtier. But he had a kind of plain, almost rough, sincerity which
atoned a little for his resolute absence of grace.
"If we are to have the privilege, ma'am," said the Chief Constable, "of
making ourselves useful, I am sure we shall all feel very proud and
honoured."
There is often something rather charming in a plain man's attempt at
the ornate. So honourable an awkwardness caused the eyes of her Royal
Highness to glow with humour and kindliness.
"_Mais oui, mon cher_, I know it well, _les Anglais sont des hommes
honnêtes_." Suddenly she laughed quite charmingly, and enfolded the
six of us in a glance of the highest benevolence, with which,
doubtless, her favourite dogs and horses had often been indulged. "Do
you know, there is something in _les Anglais_ that I like much. Quiet
fellows, eh, always a little _bête_, but so--so trustworthy. Yes, I
like them much."
There was something soft and quaint and entirely captivating in the
accent of her Royal Highness. The smile in her eyes was frankness
itself.
"I hope, ma'am," said the Chief Constable, still labouring valiantly
with his politeness, "that we shall deserve praise."
The Princess continued to smile. A very characteristic smile it was.
A little girl admiring her array of dolls, or old Frederick of Prussia
reviewing his regiment of giants, might have been expected to indulge
in a very similar gesture. We were honest Englishmen, quiet fellows, a
little _bête_, who were always to be trusted; and her _naïveté_ was
such, that it was bound to inform us of these facts.
"You must know my ladies. They will like to know you, I am sure."
The elder was the Margravine of Lesser Grabia; the fair admirer of
Strauss the Countess Etta von Zweidelheim. The bows were profound; and
not for a moment did the look of high indulgence quit the face of her
Royal Highness.
"The Margravine is a dear good creature, Colonel Coverdale. Many times
she has helped me when I could not do my sums. I never could do sums,
because I always thought they were stupid. But she is such a kind,
faithful soul, my dear Colonel, and not at all stupid, like the sums
she used to set me. As for her cooking, it is excellent. If you are
not otherwise engaged, my dear Colonel, I should recommend you to marry
her."
The younger section of her Royal Highness's bodyguard, Brasset, Jodey
and O'Mulligan, gave ground abruptly. The amateur middle-weight
champion of Great Britain nearly disgraced us all by choking audibly.
But really the expression of blank dismay upon the weather-beaten
countenance of the Chief Constable was stupendous. However, his
presence of mind and his courtier-like politeness did not for a moment
desert him.
"Delighted, I'm sure," he murmured.
"I feel sure, a man so brave as Colonel Coverdale has a good wife
already," said the lady of the patrician features, speaking excellent
English with great amiability.
A further development of this alluring topic was precluded by the
entrance of a fourth lady into the room. She carried an opera cloak.
Clearly this was designed for the use of the Princess.'
Her Royal Highness, however, preferred to tarry. Fitz, hovering round
her chair, found it hard to veil his impatience. Too plainly the
delay, which was wanton and unnecessary, was setting his nerves on
edge. His wife must have been conscious of it, since she patted his
sleeve with an air at once soothing and maternal. Nevertheless she
showed no haste to forgo the comfort of the room or the pleasure of the
society in which she sat.
"I was hoping," said Fitz, "that we could get away before the return of
von Arlenberg."
The smile of the Princess was of rare brilliancy.
"Ah yes, the dear Baron. Perhaps it is better."
Fitz took the cloak from the hands of the lady, but before he could
place it around his wife's shoulders voices were heard at the far end
of the long room.
Three men had entered.
The first of these to approach us was a tall, stout and florid
personage wearing full Court dress and so many decorations that he
looked like a caricature. Certainly he was a magnificent figure of a
man, but, at this moment, a little lacking in serenity. His face
showed traces of a consternation that would have been almost comic had
it not been rather painful. At the sight of the six of us he spread
out his hands and gesticulated to those who had come with him into the
room.
In an undertone he said something in Illyrian, which I did not
understand.
In striking contrast to the perturbation of the Ambassador the manner
of the Princess was as amiable and composed as if she were seated in
the castle at Blaenau.
"Ah, Baron, you have dined well?"
"Excellently, madam, excellently!" said the Ambassador. The
consternation in his face was slowly deepening.
"_Très bien_; it is well. I have heard my father say that cooking was
the only art in which the good English are not quite perfect. And _le
bon roi Edouard_, I hope he is in good health?"
"In robust health, madam, in robust health."
The dismay in the eyes of the Ambassador was rather tragic. His gaze
was travelling constantly to meet that of his two companions, stolid
men who yet were at a loss to conceal their uneasiness. On the other
hand, the air of the Princess was charmingly cool and _dégagé_.
"Baron," said she, "do you know my husband?"
Her smile, as she spoke, acquired a malice that made one think of a
sword.
"Madam, I have not the privilege," said the Ambassador coldly.
Somehow the manner of the reply gave one an enlarged idea of his
Excellency's calibre. If in such a situation it is permissible for a
humble spectator to speak of himself, I felt my throat tighten and my
heart begin to beat.
"Well, Baron," said the Princess, "it is a privilege that I am sure you
covet. His Excellency the Herr Baron von Arlenberg, my dear father's
representative in England, Mr. Nevil Fitzwaren, squire of Broadfields,
in the County of Middleshire."
The Ambassador bowed gravely and then held out his hand.
Fitz returned the bow of Ferdinand the Twelfth's representative
slightly and curtly, but ignored his hand altogether.