MRS. ARBUTHNOT BEGINS TO TAKE NOTICE
It was a little before six when the ladies retired in the quest of
their lost repose. No sooner had they left us than we lit our pipes
and drew our chairs up to the fire. In patience I awaited the riddle
of the Chief Constable's presence being read to me.
"Arbuthnot,"--the great man sucked at his pipe pensively--"there are
several things that Fitzwaren and I are agreed that you ought to know."
Fitz nodded his head in curt but rather sinister approval.
"Yes, tell him," he said.
"Before Fitzwaren accepted your hospitality," said the great man, "he
asked my advice."
"Oh, really?" said I.
"And I think it only right to mention"--the air of the great man
reminded me of my old tutor expounding a proposition in Euclid--"that
it is upon my advice he has accepted it."
"I ought to feel honoured."
"Well, yes, perhaps you ought." The Chief Constable removed his pipe
from his lips and tapped it upon an extremely dirty boot. "But whether
you will feel honoured when you have heard all we have to say to you I
am not so sure."
"Nor I," said Fitz.
"You see, Arbuthnot, we have a rather delicate problem to deal with.
It is neither more nor less than the personal safety of the Princess."
"I hope," said I, "her Royal Highness will be at least as safe here as
she would be anywhere else."
"That is the crux of the whole matter. Fitzwaren and I have come to
the conclusion that, for the time being, the Princess will actually be
safer in this house than she would be in any other."
"Really!"
"Our local police, acting in conjunction with Scotland Yard, hope to be
able to ensure her safety, that is if she and her friends take
reasonable care."
"You may depend upon it, Coverdale, that as far as my wife and I are
concerned we shall do nothing to jeopardise it."
"That is taken for granted. But her present position is much more
critical than perhaps you are aware."
"I know, of course, that Ferdinand the Twelfth is determined to have
her back in Illyria."
"Yes, and further than that, the Republican Party is equally determined
that she never shall go back to Illyria. The events of last night have
furnished another proof of their sentiments."
"I don't understand."
"There is reason to believe that the destruction of the Grange is the
work of an incendiary. That is to say, a bomb was thrown through one
of the windows, as was the case at Blaenau recently. There can be no
question that the object of the crime was to kill the Princess, as it
was to kill the King, but in each case the business was bungled. In
this instance, rather miraculously, not a soul was hurt, although the
house, as you know, has been entirely destroyed. A bomb was thrown
into the dining-room, but as dinner happened to be half an hour later
than usual, nobody was there."
This grisly narrative gave me a sharp shock, I confess. And I must
have betrayed my state of mind, for the Chief Constable favoured me
with a smile of reassurance.
"Put your trust in the Middleshire police," said he, "with a little
assistance from the Yard. They won't play that game twice with us, you
can depend upon it. If the Yard had not been rather late with their
information they would never have played it at all. Our people were
actually on the way to the Grange when the outrage was committed."
For all the air of professional reassurance, the married man, the
father of the family, and the county member was thoroughly alarmed.
"It is all very well, Coverdale, but what guarantee is there that even
at this moment they are not dropping bombs into our bedrooms?"
"Four men in plain clothes are patrolling your park, and will continue
to do so as long as the Princess remains under your roof."
It would have been ungrateful not to express relief for this official
vigilance. But that it was felt in any substantial measure is more
than I can affirm.
"Of course, my dear fellow," said Fitz, "now that you are in possession
of all the facts of the case, you have a perfect right to withdraw the
offer of your hospitality. Coverdale and I are agreed that it will do
much to promote my wife's safety for the time being, because this house
will be kept under continual observation. But as soon as I can make
other arrangements I shall do so, of course. And if you really believe
that the safety of your house and family is involved, we shall have no
alternative but to go at once."
To what length ought we to carry our altruism? Here was a grave
problem for the married man, the father of the family, and the county
member. In spite of the opinion of the cool-headed and sagacious
Coverdale, I could not allay the feeling that to harbour the "Stormy
Petrel" was to incur a grave risk. But at the same time it was not in
me to turn her adrift into the highways and hedges.
"Now that we have had due warning of what to expect," said Coverdale,
"these gentry will not find it quite so easy to throw bombs in this
country as they do in Illyria. And if I thought for one moment you
were not justified in extending your hospitality to the Princess I
should certainly say so."
Events are generally too strong for the humble mortals who are content
to tread the path of mediocrity. We had already offered sanctuary to
the Crown Princess of Illyria. A little painful reflection seemed to
show that to revoke it now would be rather inhuman and rather cowardly.
All the same, it was impossible to view with enthusiasm the prospect of
four men in plain clothes continually patrolling the park.
"By the way," said the Chief Constable, "you will, I hope, treat this
business of the bombs as strictly confidential. It won't help matters
at all to find it in the morning papers."
"I appreciate that; but won't the servants be rather curious about
those four sportsmen in plain clothes?"
"Ostensibly they are there to look after a gang of burglars who are
expected in the neighbourhood."
"Not exactly a plausible story, I am afraid!"
"The story doesn't matter, so long as they don't suspect the truth.
And as Mrs. Fitzwaren's _incognito_ has been so well kept, there is no
reason why they should."
So much for the latest development of this amazing situation. From the
very moment the curtain had risen upon the first act of the
tragi-comedy of the Fitzwarens I had seemed to be cast for the
uncomfortable _rôle_ of the weak soul in the toils of fate. From the
beginning it had been contrary to the promptings of the small voice
within that I had borne a part in their destinies. And here they were
established under my roof, a menace to my household and the enemies of
all peace of mind.
It only remained to make the best of things and to hope devoutly that
Fitz would soon arrange to relieve us of the presence of the "Stormy
Petrel." But in spite of all the dark knowledge it was necessary to
keep locked up in one's heart, there was an aspect of the matter which
was rather charming. To watch the lion and the lamb lying down
together, a veritable De Vere Vane-Anstruther playing hostess to the
fair _equestrienne_ from a continental circus was certainly pleasant.
I think it is up to me to admit that at the core Mrs. Arbuthnot is as
sound as a bell. Certainly her demeanour towards her guests was
faultless. Indeed, it made me feel quite proud of her to reflect that
had she really known the true status of our visitor she could have done
nothing more for her comfort and for that of her _entourage_. Her
foibles were condoned and "her little foreign ways" were yielded to in
the most gracious manner; and after dinner that evening it was a great
moment when our distinguished guest volunteered to accompany on the
piano her hostess's light contralto.
I took this to be symbolical of the complete harmony in which the day
had been spent. Confirmation of this was forthcoming an hour later,
when we had the drawing-room to ourselves.
"Really she is not half such a trial as I feared she would be," Mrs.
Arbuthnot confessed.
"If you meet people fairly and squarely half-way," said I, in my
favourite _rôle_ of the hearthrug philosopher, "there are surprisingly
few with whom you can't find something in common."
"Perhaps there is such a thing as being too fastidious."
"We are apt to draw the line a little close at times, eh?"
"Some of these Bohemians must be rather interesting in their way," said
Mrs. Arbuthnot.
"No doubt they have some sort of a standard to which they try to
conform," said I, with excellent gravity.
"Of course she is not _exactly_ a lady. Yet in some ways she is
_rather_ nice. Doesn't look at things in the way we do, of course.
Awfully unconventional in some of her ideas."
"By unconventional you mean continental, I presume?"
"No, not continental exactly. At least, I was 'finished' in Dresden,
but I didn't learn anything of that kind."
"Had you been 'finished' in an Austrian circus perhaps you might have
done."
"I hardly think so. They don't seem to be ideas you could pick up. I
should think you would have to be born with them. They seem somehow to
belong to your past--to your ancestors."
"It has not occurred to me that circus-riders were troubled with
ancestors."
"Hardly, perhaps, in the sense that we mean. But there is something
rather fine in their way of looking at things."
"A good type of Bohemian would you say?"
"Surprisingly so in some ways. She doesn't seem to care a bit about
money and she is absolutely devoted to Fitz. She doesn't seem to care
a bit about jewels, either. She has got some positively gorgeous
things, and if there is anything I care to have she hopes I'll take it.
Of course I shall do nothing of the kind, but I should just love to
have them all."
"She appears to have had her admirers in Vienna, evidently."
"That is what one can't make out. She has three tiaras, and they must
be priceless."
"Nonsense, _mon enfant_. Even the glamour of the sawdust a thousand
times reflected cannot transmute paste into the real thing."
"But the odd part of it is they _are_ real. I am convinced of it; and
Adèle, my maid, who was two years with dear Evelyn, is absolutely sure."
"Is it conceivable that the possessor of three diamond tiaras would
choose to jump for a livelihood through a hoop in pink tights?"
"Yes, I know it's absurd. But nothing will convince me that her
diamonds are not real."
"And she offered you the pick of them?"
"The pick of everything except the smallest of the three tiaras, which
she thought perhaps her father might not like her to part with."
"One would have thought that he would at least have set his affections
upon the largest of the three."
"Really, I can hardly swallow the circus."
"You haven't by any chance asked her the question?"
"Dear no! One wouldn't like to ask a question of that sort unless one
knew her quite well. I don't think she was ever in a circus at all.
Or if she was, she may have been a sort of foundling."
"Stolen by gipsies from the ancestral castle in her infancy. After
all, there is nothing to prevent her father being a duke."
"I don't think it would surprise me, although, of course, she is rather
odd. But then in all ways she is so different from us."
"Did you observe whether she ate with her knife and drank out of the
finger-bowls?"
"Her manners are just like those of anybody else. I am asking Mary to
dine here on Friday, so that she can see for herself. It is her ideas
that are un-English; yet, judged by her own standard she might be
considered quite nice."
"Mrs. Arbuthnot, surely a very generous admission!"
"Let us be fair to everybody. I'm not sure that one couldn't get
almost to like her. There is something about her that seems to take
right hold of you. Personal magnetism, I suppose."
"Or some uncomfortable Bohemian attribute? Can it be, do you suppose,
that the standard the English gentlewoman likes the whole world to
conform to would be none the worse for a little wider basis?"
"Don't be a goose! A person is either a lady or she isn't, but she may
be frightfully entertaining and fascinating all the same."
"Yes, that has the hall-mark of truth. There are cases in history.
Miss Dolly Daydream, for example, of the Frivolity Theatre."
Mrs. Arbuthnot reproved me for the levity with which I treated a grave
issue. Upon the receipt of my apology she regaled me with the
astounding fact that Mrs. Fitz looked down on the English.
"Is it conceivable?" said I, the picture of incredulity.
"Really and truly she does. Quite laughs at us. Says we are so
stupid--so _bête_, that's her word. And she says we are so conceited.
She seems to think we have very little education in the things that
really matter."
"Is she old-fashioned enough to believe that there is anything that
really matters?"
"In a way she does."
"How antediluvian! What does she believe it is that really matters?"
"She seems to think it's the soul."
"Dear me! I hope you made it clear to her that that part of the
Englishman's anatomy is never mentioned in good society?"
"She knows that, I think. She says why the Romans are ashamed of it is
what she can't fathom."
"She pays us the compliment of comparing us to the Romans?"
"She says we are the Romans."
"In a re-incarnation, I presume?"
"I suppose she means that--she is so awfully odd. And for the Romans
to give themselves airs is too ridiculous."
"Has she no opinion of the Cæsars?"
"The Cæsars don't amount to much, in her opinion. We are going to have
another lesson before long, she says, and it will be a very good thing
for the world."
"If by that she means that materialism leads to a _cul-de-sac_, and
that it takes a better creed than that to raise a reptile out of the
mud, perhaps we might do worse than agree with her."
"She certainly never said anything about any 'isms.' But I don't
understand you anyway."
"It seems to me, _mon enfant_, she has had a good deal to say about the
'isms.' But then, as you say, she's so foreign. Was there anything
else about her that engaged your attention?"
"Heaps of things. She is terribly superstitious, a tremendous believer
in fate. She thinks everything is fore-ordained, and that the same
things keep happening over again."
"Doesn't her oddness strike you as rather out of date?"
"Absurdly. But it is not so much her ideas as the way she lives up to
them that makes her so different from other people. There was one
thing she told me really made me laugh. She said that Nevil was her
twin-soul, and that they lived in Babylon together about three thousand
years ago."
"I should think that is not unlikely."
"Be serious, Odo."
"There are more things in earth and heaven, Horatia, than are dreamt of
in your philosophy. Go to bed like a wise child, and dream of hunting
the fox, and see that this Viennese horsewoman doesn't addle that brain
too much."
Mrs. Arbuthnot confessed namely that she didn't feel in the least like
sleep.
"I think I'll have another cigarette," she said.
"Sitting up late and smoking to excess will destroy that magnificent De
Vere Vane-Anstruther nerve."
"Goose! Yet I am not sure that this circus woman hasn't destroyed it
already. Do you know, I've never been in the least afraid of anybody
before, but I rather think I'm a bit afraid of her. She really is
wonderfully odd."
A slight tremor seemed to invade the voice of Mrs. Arbuthnot. I was
fain to believe that such a display of sensibility was extremely
honourable to her. For, even judged as a mere human entity, our guest
was quite apart from the ordinary, and it would have implied a measure
of obtuseness not to recognise that fact.
Taking one consideration with another, I felt the hour was ripe to let
Mrs. Arbuthnot into the secret. As things were going so well, it was
perhaps not strictly necessary; yet at the same time I had a
premonition that I should not be forgiven if the wife of my bosom was
kept too long in innocence of our visitor's romantic lineage.
"That cigarette of yours," said I, "means another pipe for me, although
you know quite well that it makes me so bad-tempered in the morning.
But I think I ought to tell you something--that is if you will swear by
all your gods not to breathe a word to a living soul, not even to Mary
Catesby."
Mrs. Arbuthnot pricked up her ears properly.
"Why, of course. You mean it is something about this Mrs. Fitz? I
know it."
"What do you know?"
"I can't explain it, but as soon as I spoke to her it came upon me that
she was something quite deep and mysterious."
"Well, it happens that she is. Things are not always what they seem.
I am going to give you a guess."
"There is something Grand-Duchessy about her. You remember that woman
we met at Baden-Baden? In some ways she is rather like her."
"And do you remember your old friend the King of Illyria?--'the old
johnny with the white hair,' to quote Joseph Jocelyn De Vere."
"The dear old man in the Jubilee procession?"
"The Victor of Rodova; the representative of the oldest reigning
monarchy in Europe."
"Yes, yes. Such an old dear."
"Well, our friend Mrs. Fitz happens to be his only child, the Heiress
Apparent to the throne of Illyria. What have you to say to that?"
For the moment Mrs. Arbuthnot had nothing at all to say, but she looked
as though a feather would have knocked her over.
"It is a small world, isn't it, _mon enfant_?"
"It really is the oddest thing out!" Mrs. Arbuthnot's feminine
organisation was quite tense. "It doesn't surprise me, and yet it is
really too queer."
"Ridiculously queer that humdrum people like us should be entertaining
royalties unawares."
"Not nearly so queer as that she should have married Nevil Fitzwaren.
How did she come to marry him?"
"They are twin-souls who lived in Babylon three thousand years ago."
"That is merely silly."
"My authority is her Royal Highness."
"Fancy the Crown Princess of Illyria running off with a man like Fitz!"
"There is reason to suppose that he makes her happy."
"Why, one day she will be Queen of Illyria!"
"She may be or she may not."
"Well, I can't believe it anyway! There is no proof."
"There is no proof beyond herself. And I confess that to me she
carries conviction."
For an instant Mrs. Arbuthnot knitted her brows in the process of
thought. She then concurred with a perplexed little sigh.
"But how dreadfully awkward it will be," she said in a kind of rapture,
"for poor dear Mary Catesby!"