THE EXPECTED GUEST
In the face of this manifesto by the powers, there was only one course
to adopt. That course was submission. Fitz, while professing to
sympathise with my embarrassment, was too cynical to help me much. The
hospitality of the Hall might be more regal in its character, but then,
if the august visitor came to us, think what a snug family party we
should be!
The King was due at Southampton that day week, and his dutiful
son-in-law proposed to meet him there. In spite of his casual and
nonchalant airs, he had an inborn instinct for behaving well on great
occasions. Ferdinand the Twelfth having affirmed his determination to
visit our shores, it seemed to Fitz that it behoved all concerned to
make the best of a bad business. It was a sad bore that he should have
decided to do any such thing, but at the same time it might prove an
amusing and possibly an instructive experience to have the victor of
Rodova dwelling among us in Middleshire.
For Mrs. Arbuthnot these were great days. Almost the first thing she
did was to borrow an under-footman from Yorkshire. She also provoked a
state of anarchy in the kitchen by engaging for a fortnight a cordon
bleu lately in the service of a nobleman. Our much-maligned and
occasionally inebriated household goddess was fairly good for plain
dishes, but certainly not for such as were to be set before a king.
Upon inquiry of his daughter as to what dishes would make the best
appeal to the royal palate, the Princess was fain to declare that if
the victor of Rodova might be said to have a weakness for anything in
particular it was for tomatoes.
It was my privilege to be present when, one morning at breakfast, the
mandate was issued to Joseph Jocelyn De Vere that for the time being it
was necessary that he should seek other quarters.
"I am really so sorry," said his sister in a birdlike voice, "I am
really so dreadfully sorry. But what can we do? Two rather important
members of the Illyrian Cabinet are coming from Blaenau to see dear
Sonia, and of course it is only right that we should put them up."
"That is what all that talk about Count This and Baron That amounts to,
is it?" said the young fellow, coolly. "Well, now, Mops, you don't
suppose I am going to put myself to the trouble of clearin' out for a
couple of bally foreigners, do you? This box suits me very well, and
the Coach and Horses is quite a second-rate sort of pub."
"You can have your meals here, of course, but it would hardly be right
to send foreigners of distinction to the village inn."
"Foreigners of distinction! Why, it would take the King himself to
uproot me."
Such a moment was too much for Mrs. Arbuthnot's dramatic sense.
"Well, it so happens," said she, with a carefully calculated unconcern,
"it is the King himself."
Jodey laid down his coffee-cup.
"Tell that to the Marines!" said he.
"If you don't believe me, you had better ask Sonia. Of course, it is a
tremendous secret. The visit is a strictly private one, and his
Majesty's _incognito_ must be rigidly preserved."
"I should rather think so," said the sceptical youth. "I expect Fitz
is pulling your leg."
"Oh no, he isn't," said Mrs. Arbuthnot. "Why should he, pray? The
King arrives at Southampton on Thursday, and Nevil will meet him there.
His Chancellor, Baron von Schalk, accompanies him, and they are coming
straight to us."
"If it don't beat cock-fightin'!"
"It is really quite natural that the dear old King should wish to see
his daughter," said Mrs. Arbuthnot, with pensive dignity.
But it is only fair to Mrs. Arbuthnot to say that her dramatic
announcement had wrought sensibly upon her brother.
"I suppose there is no help for it," he said, cheerfully. "I expect I
shall have to clear out. But I daresay Brasset will find me a crib if
I explain how it is."
"There must be not a word of explanation to anybody," said Mrs.
Arbuthnot, with an official air. "Not a soul must know it is the King."
"Brasset will be all right. He's an awfully diplomatic beggar; been an
_attaché_ at Paris, and so on. You can trust him to keep a secret."
Mrs. Arbuthnot pondered. The gravity of her mien was enormous.
"Well, if you tell Reggie Brasset, you must give me your word of honour
that you positively won't speak of it to another living being.
Strictly _incog._, you know, and if it got out there might be serious
international complications. Of course I had to write and tell Mama,
else she would never have let me have Thomas. Besides, she is
consulting Uncle Harry upon one or two points of etiquette."
"Oh, is she! Evidently going to be a devilish well-kept secret this
is!"
"I should think it is. Why, I haven't even told Mary Catesby, yet I
suppose I shall have to, because she is frightfully well up in that
sort of thing."
"If you don't disdain a word of advice from a lowly quarter," said I,
modestly, "you will leave Mary Catesby out of your calculations."
My only guerdon was the flash of an imperious china-blue eye. Other
reward there was none.
"Seems to me," said Jodey, "we had better have Brasset to dine with us
pretty often. You will want somebody to talk to the old buffer. I'm
not much of a hand at conversation myself."
"No, Joseph," I ventured to remark, "but you are good and brave and
modest. How goes the ballad that Irene so charmingly discourses? 'Be
good, sweet child, and let who will be clever.'"
I desisted, for from two points of the compass a double-distilled
Vane-Anstruther gaze was trained upon me. My relation by marriage
drank his coffee and fished out a vile old pipe, and lit it amid the
most magniloquent silence to which I have ever been a contributor.
But events were moving apace. The passing of each day brought us
sensibly nearer the all-important event. With advice and aid from her
Royal Highness, Mrs. Arbuthnot proceeded to set her house in order with
no uncertainty. The King liked a room with a south aspect, it
appeared, and a bath-room leading out of his dressing-room. By a
special dispensation of providence these things happened to be
forthcoming. Red was the predominant hue of the carpet and
bed-hangings in the chamber of state. The picturesque fancy occurred
to Mrs. Arbuthnot that purple would be more appropriate. Her Royal
Highness thought it really didn't matter, but Joseph Jocelyn De Vere,
who was called in to arbitrate, concurred with Mrs. Arbuthnot. The
bill from Waring's was £65 12_s._ 9_d._ less five per cent. discount
for cash.
On the morning of Wednesday a paper of instructions arrived from Uncle
Harry _via_ Doughty Bridge, Yorks. It seemed to attach chief
significance to the wine, which should be of the best quality and
abundant in quantity. Deponent adjured his niece to be especially
careful about the madeira, as all the royalties he had had the honour
to meet at table were extremely partial to that beverage. "I am
sending a case of ours in the care of Thomas, unknown to your father,"
was interspersed in the form of a note in the maternal hand. In
effect, Uncle Harry's instructions might be said to resolve themselves
into as much madeira and as little fuss as possible.
Fitz also was not inactive. He had accepted the impending visit of his
father-in-law, wholly distasteful to him as there was reason to believe
it was, in quite the temper of the philosopher. Since the King's
enemies were so rife in our part of the world, the first thing he did
was to take the Chief Constable into his confidence. He then went up
to town, spent two hours in Whitehall at the feet of more than one
Gamaliel, called upon the General Manager of the Great Mid-Western
Railway and arranged for a special train to be run through from
Southampton to Middleham, and rounded up his day with the purchase of a
new silk hat at Scott's.
The historic Thursday came at last, and shortly after seven A.M. Mr.
Nevil Fitzwaren set forth to Southampton, arrayed in a very smart
Newmarket coat, patent leather boots and his new silk hat. Even when I
had witnessed his setting out in the full panoply of war, I could
hardly realise that we were on the threshold of so high an occasion. I
hope I do not attach an undue importance to the kings of the earth.
But even an insignificant unit of a constitutional country, with
perhaps something of a slight personal bias in the direction of
democracy, could not allay a thrill of lively anticipation of what the
day would bring forth.
According to the journals of the age, Ferdinand the Twelfth stood for
an advanced type of despot. His word was law in Illyria. I spent half
my morning in the hunting up and perusal of a recent number of one of
the magazines, in which appeared a character-study of this famous man
by one who claimed to know him intimately. Therein he figured as a
benevolent reactionary; as one who in the fullest sense of the term
believed himself to be the father of his people. He dispensed justice
alike to the rich and the poor; but whether he was right or whether he
was wrong, he allowed no appeal from his verdicts.
In the opinion of the writer of the article, the King of Illyria was
one of the strongest men of his epoch. Poised as he had been all his
life on the crater of a volcano, which issued continual threats of
eruption, he had abated no point of his public or domestic policy in
response to the rumblings below. He believed himself to possess an
infallible knowledge of that which was good for his people, and he was
prone to dispense his universal panacea in liberal doses. Yet he
differed fundamentally from other potentates of a similar faith, as,
for instance, his Russian nephew and his Turkish and Persian
contemporaries, inasmuch as he had faith in the essential virtue of his
subjects.
In spite of the fact that the modern distemper of anarchy had infected
his kingdom, and had led to three cowardly attempts on his life,
Ferdinand the Twelfth had furnished a convincing proof of his strength
of character by declining to saddle his people with the responsibility
of what he chose to consider as isolated acts of fanaticism. From the
earliest times any individual or body of freemen of the Kingdom of
Illyria had enjoyed the right of personal access to their sovereign.
He was ready to give them advice in the most commonplace affairs. In
many ways he was more like an enlightened friend and neighbour of
liberal views than a despotic ruler whose word was law. It was said
that he would advise a working-man about the choice of a calling for
his son, or he would fix the amount of a daughter's dowry. "To take
the King's opinion" had become a proverbial phrase throughout the land;
and it was said that in the case of two farmers haggling over the price
of a horse, whenever the phrase was used it received a literal
interpretation.
The consequence of this accessibility was an abundant popularity among
all classes in the state. In living up to the letter of the truly
royal tradition that every Illyrian enjoyed the King's friendship, he
had conserved his power, and in spite of many a sinister growl in
consequence of severe taxation and many flagrant abuses of authority,
the volcano had remained inactive throughout a long and not inglorious
reign. His campaign in the 'sixties against the might of Austria,
culminating in the historic day of Rodova, had been a wonder for wise
men, and had only been rendered possible by the almost superstitious
faith of all classes of a comparatively small community.
In his final survey of the character and attainments of one of the most
significant figures of the age, the writer of the article indulged in
the prophecy that with Ferdinand the Twelfth a symbol of true kingship
would pass away. The forces of modernism were too strong in Illyria,
as elsewhere in Europe, to be held longer at bay. It was only by a
miracle that the doors of the historic castle at Blaenau had been
barred against them so long. Only an extraordinary personal power and
an unflinching strength of will had kept them unforced. For none could
deny that the sublime example of trusting all men and fearing none had
gone hand in hand with the gravest abuses; yet, whatever was their
nature, it could at least be said that they owed their origin to no
ignoble source. A king in every true essential, Ferdinand the Twelfth
had the defects of his qualities. The standard of well-being in
Illyria was high, but it was by no means widely dispersed. As is the
case within the borders of all despotisms, the rich were the rich and
the poor were the poor in Illyria. In many respects the condition of
the people recalled that of France before the Revolution; and it would
be a source of surprise to none who were in a position to observe the
present situation if, at the eleventh hour, the fate of Louis XVI
overtook this present uncommonly able and uncommonly misguided ruler.
By the light of what this day was to bring forth, I made an anxious
study of this document. If I cannot say that I derived reassurance
from it, at least it did nothing to diminish my curiosity. It was to
be our privilege to entertain a type of true kingliness under our roof.
If one of those culinary disasters occurred to which even the best
regulated households are susceptible, and we were constrained to offer
burnt soup or an underdone cutlet to the father of his people, it was
to be hoped that his trembling host and hostess would not have to
forfeit their heads.
As far as the King's daughter was concerned, it had seemed to us that
the announcement of his coming had brought unhappiness. Her alert,
half-humorous, half-malicious interest in everything around her which
made her charm, had seemed to give place to the brooding preoccupation
of one who felt a deep distrust of coming events. In particular I
thought this was shown in her relation to her small daughter.
Prior to the receipt of the King's letter, Mrs. Fitz had shown no undue
devotion to this piece of mischief incarnate who answered to the name
of Marie, who defied her governess, bullied the servants and the
domestic pets, and who fiercely contended in season and out with Miss
Lucinda, a milder and more legitimate household despot. But by the
time we had come to this historic Thursday, it was as though her mother
could not bear this elf out of her sight. It was, of course, natural
that she should ardently wish that Marie should behave nicely to her
Grandpapa, but there was something almost tragic in this new anxiety
concerning her. There could be no doubt its root struck deep.
To those who understood her ways and moods, it was clear that something
weighed upon her heavily. It was even in the expression of her face;
there was a strange decline of her vivacity, and a slackening of
interest in the things around her. By the time Thursday came she
seemed most unhappy.
The Crackanthorpe had no fixture for that day, and in the light of
after events, perhaps, it had been well if they had. All the morning
she was curiously silent and _distraite_. She divided most of her time
between the stables and the society of her horses and the nursery and
the society of her singularly wilful and intractable daughter. At
luncheon she refused every dish, contenting herself with a glass of
water and a piece of dry toast. Not a word did she speak until near
the end of the meal, when quite suddenly she clasped her hands to her
head, and exclaimed in a deep guttural voice, hardly recognisable as
her own--
"I t'ink I will go mad!"
There was something indescribably tragic in the exclamation. I rose
and withdrew from the room, and made a sign to the servants to follow.
Mrs. Arbuthnot was left alone with the unhappy lady, and as I went out
I remarked to her that I was going into the library.
About ten minutes afterwards, Irene came to me there. She was looking
pale and anxious and not a little alarmed.
"She is suffering dreadfully, poor thing," she said, not without a
suspicion of tears. "She is almost out of her reason, and she is
making a frantic effort to control herself."
"Can you gather what the trouble is?"
"She has a terrible fear of something. What it is I don't know. She
keeps talking in Illyrian."
"Is it her father's coming?"
"Yes, it has upset her dreadfully."
"Is she afraid of him?"
"Yes, pathetically afraid. But there is also something else she fears."
"I suppose she is thinking of her husband and her child?"
"Yes, poor soul! How I wish we could help her!"
"It is not easy to help the children of destiny."
"Never until now have I realised what a dreadful life it is these
people lead. She is suffering terribly. Do you know of anybody who
understands the stars?"
"The stars!"
"Yes, she says she wants to know what the stars are doing. It is
ridiculous superstition, of course, and I told her so. But she shook
her head in the oddest way, and she looked so tragic and unhappy that
she nearly made me cry."
"Isn't there an astrologer in Bond Street? But it's a hundred to one
he's a charlatan."
"They all are, of course."
"The Princess doesn't appear to think so. And there is my cracked old
Uncle Theodore who lives in Bryanston Square. He is supposed to be no
end of an authority upon the stars."
"Well, it is utterly ridiculous, but I am afraid nothing can be done
with her until she has consulted somebody. Give her your Uncle
Theodore's address and let her catch the 2.20 to town, and she will be
back before the King comes."
"She can't go alone. In her present state of mind somebody must be
with her. Can't you persuade her to wait until she has seen her
father?"
"She is suffering so much that it would be a mercy to relieve the
strain in any way."
"Very well, I will take her to see old Theodore. I will send him a
wire to tell him that a lady is coming to consult him about the stars;
and also I had better telephone to Coverdale to let him know what's
happening. It is hardly wise to go to London without an escort. Then
there is the monarch to be arranged for. But Fitz will wire the
authorities direct from Southampton the approximate time of his
arrival."
Luckily Coverdale was at the Sessions Hall. But when I informed him of
the Princess's sudden determination to go to town by the 2.20 he very
nearly fused the wires. "How the blank did she suppose that with her
blank father due at Middleham at 6.50 the Middleshire Constabulary
could arrange for her to go gallivanting to the blank metropolis that
blank afternoon?" Without venturing in any way to enlighten the
official nescience or to mitigate its temperature, I attempted with
infinite tact and patience to explain, yet withholding all reference to
the stars as I did so, that in the circumstances there was no help for
it. This being a matter upon which the Princess had fully made up her
mind, it behoved the Middleshire Constabulary to defer to her wishes
with the best possible grace.
"Well, my friend," said the Chief Constable, "let me tell you, you are
running a devil of a risk. But I shall communicate with Scotland Yard,
and ask them to look after you. Still, as the King arrives this
evening, the four men you have with you had better remain on duty at
the house. And," concluded the head of the Middleshire Constabulary,
"I would to God the whole blank, blank crowd----!!"
A married man, a father of a family, and a county member somewhat
hurriedly replaced the receiver.