AT THE COURT OF ST. JAMES.
The news of the arrival of Mrs. Oswald Carey in Boston caused some
flutter in social circles. Her precise relations to the exiled King
became at once a subject for speculation. Men of the world, with a taste
for scandal, shrugged their shoulders and laughed knowingly. Charitably
disposed people, who did not believe in bothering their heads about
their neighbors' affairs, preferred to give her the benefit of the
doubt. The serious question was whether society ought to open its doors
to her. Her reputation as a beauty had preceded her. The American public
had long been familiar with her fascinating face. Should she be welcomed
as a sister or treated to the cold shoulder, which the world regards as
the due of Mary Magdalene?
Girls settle everything in America. Two married women and a maiden met
to discuss the propriety of inviting Mrs. Oswald Carey to five o'clock
tea. One of them brought the particulars of her life vouched for by the
most charming attaches of the court. Her career had been peculiarly sad.
She was the victim of a most affecting romance. The man whom she loved
with all the passion of which woman is capable had discarded her for
another. She had been left poor and friendless. She had supported
herself by painting china and by the pittance derived from the sale of
her photographs, the last not of course quite the thing, but pardonable
under the circumstances. Then, and not until then, she might have been
somewhat unconventional.
"Girls," exclaimed the maiden, "even if she has been a little indiscreet
in the past, a grand, superb woman such as she ought not to be judged by
ordinary standards."
"Besides, the King is old enough to be her father," said another. "I
don't believe there is anything in these stories."
"It would be a pity to offend the dear old King," said the third.
And so it was settled. Mrs. Carey accepted their invitation. She came,
saw, and conquered. Her charms were sufficient to deafen all but a few
of the _jeunesse doree_ to the unsavory rumors still in circulation,
notwithstanding the denial of their truth by the maiden and her
associates. This trio took to themselves the credit of having overcome
the squeamishness of society, and as a reward for their perspicuity they
considered themselves entitled to intimacy with their idol. Very
speedily, as may be imagined, the clever woman took advantage of these
proffers of friendship. Before a fortnight had elapsed she had drawn
tears from her three auditors by a narration of the story of her life.
"How sad! how pathetic! how you must have suffered!" they exclaimed
together, and Eleanor Carey, weeping with them, murmured in the
intervals of her sobs, "It is almost worth suffering to have such
friends as you."
The dear old King! In the early days of his exile there had been much to
flatter the pride of the deposed sovereign. On his first appearance at
the theatre the orchestra had played "God Save the King," and a buzz of
sympathetic interest spread through the audience. He had risen and
bowed. For the next few days the Old Province House was beset with
callers. The fashion and intelligence of the city paid their respects to
royalty in misfortune. The Princess Henrietta, the King's only child, a
stout, hearty-looking girl of eighteen, without beauty, made her _debut_
into society under these auspices. The first year, despite the change in
their circumstances, had been passed happily and with comparative
content by the exiles.
But time, in its craving for novelties, does not spare even potentates.
King George the Fifth soon ceased to occupy the public attention, except
in a minor degree. After their curiosity had been satisfied people began
to laugh a little at the ceremonies and liveries of a court which
existed only by courtesy. When the King went to the theatre the stage
box was no longer at his disposal unless he paid for it, and on the
opening night at the opera the claims of the family of ex-Senator
Baggely, of Idaho, were regarded by the manager as superior to his. His
exchequer, too, was low. He was said to be wholly dependent on what
Bugbee allowed him. Rumors began to spread regarding the crown jewels.
One of the best known hotel-keepers in the city was said to have a
mortgage on them. The royal carriage was presently dragged by only one
horse. The other, a magnificent bay gelding, was reported to have the
distemper, a trifling ailment, which would last but a few days. The
animal did not reappear, however, until a reporter discovered it months
after among the blooded stock of a New York banker. So it went from bad
to worse. Soon the King and his daughter walked upon ordinary
occasions, and when they did drive made use of the public stable. A
groom in livery on the box beside the driver alone distinguished the
equipage. At last one day the King took the Princess Henrietta aside and
said:
"My child, we must leave this place. I cannot afford to remain at the
Old Province House any longer."
"What! leave the Old Province House, the residence of the colonial
governors?" cried the Princess, who had picturesque and sentimental
notions despite her portly appearance. "It is renouncing the last
prestige of royalty. Oh, I hope your Majesty will not persevere in this
determination."
The King shook his head mournfully. "Our present apartments are too
expensive. Besides, I have--eh--eh--advantageous proposals from the
proprietor of a South End establishment, who desires to improve the tone
of his hotel and neighborhood. I think if I accede to them we may be
able to have our carriage again."
"Oh, father, it is better to be poor and preserve our self-respect."
King George took a pinch of snuff and sighed meditatively. "It will be
only for a little while. My party will soon restore me to the throne of
England." He paused, and his voice trembled. He took out his
handkerchief and wiped his watery eyes, which were blinking worse than
usual. "If we do not move, Henrietta, I cannot see how we shall be able
to pay the rent. You know I only have what Bugbee allows me."
"Oh, my poor father," cried the Princess, and she flung her arms
lovingly about his neck, "has it come to this? I cannot bear to see you
in such distress. Let me earn something for our support. I have been
idle long enough. I could be a good governess, I think, with my
knowledge of modern languages. Very possibly, the Waitstill C. Hancocks
would engage me to teach their children. They have been very friendly,
you know."
"No, no, Henrietta, I will hear nothing of the kind. What! a Princess of
the House of Hanover go out to service! This is the final stroke!" He
repulsed her with indignation.
"But, your Majesty, consider. If I do not do something we shall starve."
"Not if we accept the terms to which I have alluded," said the King,
mysteriously.
"Do you mean, your Majesty, that you have sold yourself?" asked the
Princess. For an instant a suspicion passed through her mind, which she
dismissed straightway. There were those about the court who declared the
monarch was a miser and had a fortune hidden away in his strong box.
"It is merely a case of fair exchange," replied King George, doggedly.
"The fellow wants to raise the character of his house. He will give me
lodging in return for my patronage. I do not see anything out of the way
in that."
"Oh, father! I will not be a party to such a degradation," burst out
Henrietta, and she began to cry.
In the end, however, the royal exodus to the South End took place, and a
new era of prosperity dawned upon the House of Hanover. By his
arrangement with his new landlord, the King was enabled to keep up a
more imposing state. He bought fresh liveries for his retainers and
refitted his carriage. There was a report that he had made money in a
grain corner. His anxious expression wore away, and he gained flesh.
The public took little interest in him, to be sure; but among
fashionable people he was a great favorite. The coupes of the rich
trundled over the pavements to his retreat at the St. James Hotel. The
Court of St. James, it was called, with an obvious but happy pertinency.
The King passed his day at the whist-table in the swell West End Club.
He dined out frequently, and was a familiar figure at large
entertainments. The Honorable Waitstill C. Hancock always treated him at
his receptions (which were among the most elegant of their kind) with
marked deference. It must have been very gratifying to the exiled
monarch to note the courtly tone in which his host remarked, "Your
Majesty, will you take Mrs. Hancock in to supper?"
Time passed, and one day the city awoke to hear that the King had gone
off on a fishing trip to Florida. A splendidly furnished steam yacht,
large enough, if needs were, for ocean travel, had come into the harbor
in the evening, and sailed away the following morning with the royal
exile on board. The Princess Henrietta had remained behind. There were
rumors in circulation which tended to discredit the truth of the alleged
destination of the yacht. Mariners from the docks declared her to be
equipped for fighting. People remembered, too, that the King during the
past few weeks had been seen to handle larger sums of money than was his
wont. He had made purchases of army apparel and several silver-mounted
revolvers.
A few weeks later the news of the insurrection at Aldershot and its
suppression were flashed over the cable. The King, so the subsequent
despatches said, was supposed to be concealed in London, and a large
reward had been offered for his apprehension. The good people of Boston
were somewhat surprised, therefore, one morning to hear that the
incoming steamer from England had a royal freight. When the King was
asked what luck he had had in fishing, he blinked his watery eyes and
answered, mysteriously, "You will know presently." This was his reply to
the friends who met him as he walked down the plank of the vessel. A
moment after all eyes were directed to the beautiful woman who emerged
from the cabin and entered the carriage with the ex-sovereign. All doubt
of her identity was removed when the Court Circular of the following
morning announced the arrival of Mrs. Oswald Carey. Apartments had been
engaged for her contiguous to those occupied by his Majesty.
One evening, about four weeks subsequent to the return of the royal
party, the King was disturbed by the entrance of the Princess Henrietta
into his _cabinet de travail_. He was engaged in footing up his gains
and losses at whist during the week, and the interruption caused him to
glower slightly at his daughter. But she was far too excited to observe
his manner.
"Father," she said abruptly, "I can endure it no longer."
"Endure what, your Royal Highness?"
"The presence of that woman. Either she must leave the court or I will."
The eyes of the Princess flashed angrily.
"I am at a loss as to your meaning, Henrietta. Do you refer to the Lady
Muriel Howard?"
"You know that I do not. There can be only one to whom such language is
applicable. Mrs. Carey is not a proper person to remain at court."
The King scratched his chin thoughtfully. "What has she done?"
"Done, father? Is not her reputation in the past evil enough to
disqualify her for the society of your daughter?"
"You have been misinformed, Princess. Mrs. Carey is a long-suffering and
much-abused woman. I do not speak at random. I know her intimately."
"So I am given to understand," replied the daughter, with bitterness.
"Lady Constance Percy inquired this morning if her Majesty was well."
"You do not choose your ladies in waiting with discretion. Mrs. Oswald
Carey has a husband whose existence shows at once the absurdity of your
disagreeable and unfilial suspicion. I have no purpose, Henrietta, to
take another consort." The King wiped his eyes with a gentle melancholy.
"And you will send her away, will you not, father? I do not wish to be
disrespectful, but I cannot endure her presence."
"Send who away?"
"Mrs. Oswald Carey."
"She amuses me, child. Her great beauty is delightful to gaze at." King
George put a lozenge into his mouth and sighed reflectively. He was a
victim to asthma. The east winds of Boston cut him to the bone.
"Do not compel me, your Majesty, to be more explicit. I repeat, either
this woman or I must leave your court."
The late ruler of England wrung his hands. "I see you are resolved to
drive me to distraction. This is the final stroke. My daughter wishes to
desert me. Lear," he added, piteously, "was only a touch to me. You are
Goneril and Regan combined in one."
He scowled angrily at her. Just then the door was opened, and a
gentleman of the bedchamber announced that dinner was served.
"Is the court in waiting?"
"Yes, your Majesty."
"This is my birthday," observed the King, moodily.
"So it is," cried Henrietta; "how remiss of me not to have spoken of
it."
But her father paid no attention to her words. He was fumbling in his
pocket. "How many will there be at table?" he inquired of the equerry.
"Fourteen, Sire."
"Humph! Lady Constance Percy and Lady Rosamond Temple do not drink
champagne. Neither does Paran Paget. Lord Gladstone Churchill swore off
yesterday." He spoke as if soliloquizing, and went through a process of
calculation on the fingers of one hand. He handed a key to his retainer.
"Tell the Lord Chamberlain to have two quarts and one pint," he said.
"And Lady Muriel Howard is on no consideration to have more than a
single glass. Come, Henrietta."
Dinner was always served for the royal party in the main dining-hall of
the hotel. The large table in the middle of the room was reserved for
them. First appeared the master of the household bearing the wand of
office. The King came next, followed by the Princess and her three Maids
of Honor, Lady Constance Percy, Lady Rosamond Temple, and Lady Muriel
Howard, all alike duennas of a certain age. The first named were sober,
prim-looking persons, but Lady Muriel Howard, who wore low-neck,
corkscrew curls, and carried an enormous fan, ogled the various
occupants of the dining-room through her eyeglass as she advanced. The
remainder of the retinue included the Duke of Wellington, an old
nobleman of threescore and ten, and a half-dozen lesser peers, nearly
all of whom were on the shady side of sixty. Lord Gladstone Churchill,
Paran Paget, and Sir Humphry Davy, who were always in attendance on the
person of the sovereign, were the only youthful spirits. It was the
former of these who had furnished the romantic story of Mrs. Carey's
early life to the society lady. As the royal party walked to their table
a few guests of the hotel rose and remained standing until the King had
signified by a glance that all should be seated.
The royal bill of fare was distinct from the _table d'hote._ The
proprietor of the house allowed under his contract with the King a
certain sum daily for the cuisine. The King was entitled to save
anything he could on that amount. To-day there was a boiled dinner.
Boiled chickens at one end of the table and boiled corned beef at the
other followed the soup.
"How good an _entree_ would taste," whispered Lord Cecil Manners to the
Earl of Kildare, casting a glance at a neighboring table, where a
_vol-au-vent_ of sweetbreads was being passed by the servant.
"What was that you said, Lord Cecil?" asked the King, sharply.
"I was calling his lordship's attention to the champagne glasses,"
answered the peer, with a silly giggle.
"It is my birthday," explained the King. "You shall drink my health
later on in the repast."
There was a flutter of congratulation around the table.
"How indecorous of me not to have remembered," said the Duke of
Wellington, with old-fashioned courtesy.
"Many happy returns of the day," said Lady Muriel Howard, and she
whisked her handkerchief coquettishly at her sovereign.
King George presided at one end of the table, and the Princess Henrietta
at the other. The nobility were seated according to their rank. Lady
Muriel Howard being the eldest daughter of the Duke of Norfolk, the
first peer of the realm, sat on the King's right, and the Duke of
Wellington in the seat of honor by the Princess. Midway down the table
was a vacant chair, and it was noticed that the King glanced frequently
with an air of impatience toward the door in the intervals of the
carving. He preferred to carve the dinner himself. Two servants waited
upon the company.
"His Majesty is out of sorts to day. He has given me only drumsticks,"
murmured Lady Muriel to the companion on her other side.
"Where is Mrs. Oswald Carey?" asked the monarch at last.
"Here she comes, your Majesty," said Lady Constance Percy, nodding
toward the entrance.
Mrs. Carey, in a superb black velvet costume, cut square in front, with
a Maltese cross of brilliants resting upon her bosom, swept grandly
across the dining hall. She held a small bunch of flowers in her hand.
The head waiter of the hotel, bowing almost to the ground, waved her
toward the royal table. Everybody in the room paused to gaze at the
superb beauty. The master of the household drew back her chair, but she
did not stop until she reached the King.
"Sire," she said, with a profound courtesy, "pardon my tardiness, and
accept, if you will, these roses in commemoration of your birthday."
The King looked delighted. "Yes, it is my birthday," he answered. "I was
afraid you would come too late for the champagne."
Mrs. Carey was about to retire to her seat when the King exclaimed,
"Lady Muriel, if it's all the same, I'll get you to change seats with
Mrs. Carey. Am I not your sovereign?" he inquired, noticing the glum
looks of the outraged maid of honor.
All through the rest of the meal Mrs. Carey and the King whispered
together. "I have taken a great liberty," said she at last.
"And what is that? The only liberty that I should object to your taking
would be taking yourself away."
"I have invited a party of friends to your drawing-room to-night. I had
promised a sweet girl, who seems to have taken an interest in me, to
chaperone a theatre party, and she is going to bring her guests here
instead. Does this inconvenience your Majesty?"
"Nothing that you could do would inconvenience me," and he gurgled as he
drank his champagne.
"She plays her cards well, _n'est-ce pas_," said Lady Muriel to her new
neighbor, Lord Gladstone Churchill.
King George caught her saturnine expression. He turned to the master of
the household at his elbow. "Did I not order that Lady Muriel Howard
should have only one glass of wine?"
"She insisted on more, your Majesty," groaned the major-domo.
"Am I not King?" said the monarch, and he pounded on the table so that
the glasses rang.
This incident attracted every one's attention. Conversation flagged, and
presently the Princess gave the signal for rising from the table. The
ladies went out in advance, each turning as she left her seat and making
a low courtesy to the King. Mrs. Carey was the last in the procession.
As she passed through the door, her glance fell full on a man standing a
little to one side, and gazing at her intently. She faltered, but only
for an instant.
"Why, Mr. Jawkins, when did you arrive? Welcome to court," she cried in
a cordial, conciliatory tone, holding out her hand.
Jawkins bowed stiffly, not seeming to see Mrs. Carey's hand. "Yes, I am
come," he answered, "but small thanks to you, madam."
Dissimulation was not one of Jawkins's accomplishments.
"This is no place for a scene," she said, in a low tone. "If you wish an
interview with me there will be an opportunity later. The drawing-room
begins at ten. You will see me there." She smiled and showed her teeth
ravishingly, despite the serious purport of her words.
"It is the King I wish to see, Mrs. Carey, not you," Jawkins replied
significantly.
"Ah, indeed?" said the beauty, and she followed the Princess up the
staircase.
The rest of the royal party remained only a few minutes in the
dining-room. The King enjoyed a stroll through the corridor after
dinner. He liked to chat with the habitues of the hotel and watch the
billiard-players. To-night the Duke of Wellington and young Paget were
in special attendance.
The King stepped up to the cigar counter. "Something mild and not too
expensive," said he.
The attendant indicated several brands for his selection.
"Three for a quarter?" asked the ex-ruler, as he picked up three
ten-cent cigars.
The man nodded, and the King, having presented a cigar to each of his
companions, lit his own. His eye presently fell upon a pile of trunks,
all of the latest and most improved manufacture, and marked with the
letters "J. J." "A new arrival, I see," he said to a denizen of the
hotel who knew everybody, and who derived pleasure from the prestige of
conversing with royalty.
"Yes, your Majesty. A--a--a subject of yours, if I mistake not. He signs
himself 'Jarley Jawkins, London.' Will your Majesty honor me with a
light?"
"Jarley Jawkins!" cried the King. "It must be the individual caterer of
whose wealth we have heard so much. His attentions to my friends during
the interregnum deserve recognition. Several of them have been saved
from absolute want by his generosity."
"That is the gentleman," whispered the other, indicating Jawkins, who
was smoking in apparent unconsciousness and watching a game of pool. "I
saw him just now talking with the famous beauty, Mrs. Oswald Carey."
"With Mrs. Carey?" exclaimed the King. "I have never heard her speak of
him." The incident disturbed him little. He was too much absorbed by the
idea of Jawkins's wealth. He hoped to be able to borrow some money from
him. He turned to Paget and charged him to see that Jawkins was invited
to the drawing-room that evening.
Meanwhile Mrs. Carey had retired to her own chamber, which she was
pacing in some perturbation of spirit. The presence of Jawkins was a
veritable spectre at the feast. The expression of his face haunted her.
She felt certain that he meant mischief. What was it he purposed to do?
He had asked to see the King. Probably he had discovered that it was she
who betrayed the conspiracy to the government, and was determined to
revenge himself by exposing her. She smiled at the thought, and the
picture rose before her of the monarch pouring out protestations of love
at her feet on the night when that band of gallant gentlemen were laying
down their lives at Aldershot to restore his throne. If this was all
that Jawkins had wherewith to prejudice her with the King, she need not
fear the astute manager. But she could not feel wholly free from dread.
She was aware that Jarley Jawkins was not a man to be trifled with.
She went down to the parlor where the royal reception was to be held, so
as to be in time to receive her own guests. It was early, and no one had
yet arrived. The windows were open in order to cool the atmosphere. The
floor had been covered with white linen drugget. At one end of the room,
on a dais, stood a throne. A grand piano was in a corner. A colored
waiter put his head inside the door, and, announcing that the musicians
had arrived, inquired if they were to tune up at once.
"You must see the Lord Chamberlain," answered Mrs. Carey. She felt sad
this evening, and the tawdry character of this entertainment was
contrasted in her mind with the traditions of drawing-rooms at
Buckingham Palace.
A cornet-player, a fiddler, and a female pianist entered, and the squeak
of their instruments in process of reconstruction soon jarred upon her
nerves. She started to leave the room, but encountered the Princess
Henrietta and her maids of honor at the door, who each regarded her
with a haughty look. One or two peers were loitering in the corridor
putting on their gloves. At its further end a group of chambermaids were
ensconced to view the arrivals. The musicians struck up "Rule
Britannia," and Mrs. Carey, looking back, saw that the ladies had seated
themselves. The reception was about to begin. She joined the others, and
the nobility speedily arrived. Before many minutes the King appeared,
attended by the Lord Chamberlain, a fuzzy little man in red stockings
and pumps, and mounted the throne.
"God save George the Fifth, King of Great Britain and Ireland, Emperor
of India, Sultan of Egypt, and Defender of the Faith," cried the Lord
Chamberlain, and the drawing-room began. It was the Chamberlain's duty
to present to the sovereign each person who had never been at court
before. Invitations had been sent to all Englishmen in the city and to
certain carefully selected Americans. The guests began to arrive
rapidly, and in half an hour the apartment was filled. All the English
people wore regular court costume, but the strangers were permitted, as
a special favor, to appear in ordinary evening dress. The duty of
introducing the Americans devolved upon the proprietor of the hotel.
Mrs. Carey kept on the lookout for her friends. About 10.30 and an
instant, among the names announced, she heard "Mr. Abraham Windsor, Miss
Windsor." It was as if she had received an electric shock. She had
neglected to inquire who were to compose the party. For an instant she
was too surprised to think, then she looked and saw the King talking
with evident admiration to her pretty rival. Her hate returned, and with
it the wound of her despised love bled afresh. Stepping forward, she
said in her most congratulatory tones, "How charming! we meet again,
Miss Windsor, but under different circumstances." There was a suppressed
triumph in her tone. The young girl had to take the proffered hand, but
it was plain enough to Mrs. Carey that if Maggie had known whom she was
to encounter at court the meeting would never have taken place. Their
eyes met, and in those of the American there was scorn and pride. "How
do you do, Mrs. Carey," was all she said.
Her father came to Maggie's rescue. "Why, Mrs. Carey, your most
obedient! This is like old times," and he proceeded to monopolize the
beauty.
"Isn't she entrancing!" whispered the aesthetic maiden, Mrs. Carey's
friend, in Miss Windsor's ear.
"I have met her before," she said, quietly.
"Have you! Oh, in England, of course."
But Maggie did not heed her words. The noise of voices at the door
attracted her attention. The crowd was giving way before the wand of the
Lord Chamberlain, and it was evident from the commotion that something
unusual was about to take place. She looked and saw two men advance with
eager step and fall on bended knee at the foot of the throne amid a buzz
of excitement.
"My Sovereign and my King," they cried together.
"Rise, Duke, rise," said George the Fifth, wiping with genuine emotion
his watery eyes, and he stepped down to clasp the hands of an old man
with a bald head, whom Maggie recognized to be the Duke of Bayswater.
"Rise, Featherstone, rise," said the King to the other.
"Most Gracious Sovereign, I kiss your hand." Featherstone it was, and he
pressed his lips against the knuckles of the sometime King; but the
words were spoken coldly, like words of duty. Lost in amazement at this
unusual scene, Miss Windsor had failed to observe a young man follow
soberly and even sadly in the footsteps of the other two and stand
aloof, though expectantly. Her eyes and those of the King must have
fallen upon him almost at the same moment. The heart in her bosom leapt
wildly. Pale and worn as he was, she recognized Geoffrey Ripon.
"Lord Brompton!" exclaimed the King, and he grew confused, for the peer
did not kneel as the others had done. "Lord Brompton, I am glad to see
you," and he remounted the throne.
"Sire, I have come to bring you a legacy from John Dacre," said Ripon,
and he drew from his breast as he spoke a smoke-stained and tattered
piece of the royal banner and laid it at the foot of the throne. "This
is from Aldershot, sir."
A murmur spread through the room, and the color mounted to the King's
face. "Sirrah, I do not understand you. I am your King."
"As for myself," said Geoffrey, without regarding the monarch's frown,
"I return this, which my ancestor more than a century ago first
unsheathed in fealty to the House of Hanover." He took from its scabbard
the sword with which Maggie had girded him that day when he courted her
in the haunted chamber of Ripon House, and snapped the blade in twain.
He flung the pieces on the ground and turned to leave the room. At the
first step he encountered the glance of the woman he loved bent upon him
with an expression in which pride and tenderness were strangely
intermingled. He bowed low to her, and was gone.