TWO CARDS PLAYED.
The morning following the scene with Ripon, his Majesty was in an
ill-temper. The events of the evening were not pleasant to remember;
then the King had lost largely at poker, and had passed a sleepless
night. Mrs. Carey had sent word that she had not recovered from her
fainting fit, and was not yet visible. Old Bugbee's promised remittance
had not arrived. And the entire court joined in what seemed a deliberate
effort to make things generally disagreeable. The pages who were on duty
at the royal toilet came in for some bad moments; and young Lord
Gladstone Churchill privately confided to Paran Paget that he had never
seen the old man in such a devil of a wax.
It seemed to the King that times had sadly changed from the regency of
his grandfather. Nobody had ever ventured to argue with him about the
desirability of the company he chose to keep. But now Wellington, the
Lord Chamberlain, and the Archbishop of Canterbury had as much as told
King George that he must break with Mrs. Carey. It was hard if he
couldn't have his own way even in the little court at the South End.
True, the papers had been full of Mrs. Carey these three months--the
last _Sunday Globe_ had contained a grand plan of her own and the royal
apartments, and the _Advertiser_ of the following day had printed,
without apparent reason, an editorial upon Mademoiselle de la Valliere.
But the King considered it highly impertinent of American journals to
make any personal comment whatever upon majesty, and had almost burst a
blood-vessel when approached soon after his arrival by an interviewer
from the New York _Herald_.
Still, there was one ugly fact remaining--Mrs. Carey's fainting fit.
What could have frightened her into that? Not Lord Brompton, with all
his rhodomontade--the King liked to call it rhodomontade; it soothed a
certain uneasy feeling he had had at times about his own part in the
affair. Brompton was ardent enough, but he was not well balanced; he was
impracticable; he did not properly sense the feeling of the times, but
was eager to force an opportunity. Well, well--where was Mrs. Carey? It
was audience time, and he meant to have her receive, with the ladies in
waiting. He rang the bell, and a page entered with a card. The King
looked at it, surprised; the card was something between an ordinary
visiting card and a tradesman's circular:
___________________________________
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| [COAT OF ARMS.] |
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| JARLEY JAWKINS, |
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| MASTER OF SOCIAL CEREMONIES |
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| and |
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| PURVEYOR OF GUESTS |
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| TO HIS MAJESTY THE KING. |
| |
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The King threw himself upon the throne--it was a fine old carved oak
chair, one which had come over in the Mayflower--and waited.
Jawkins entered, bowing low. It was the first time he had ever met his
Majesty face to face. As he slowly approached the throne his knees bent
at their hinges, until with the last step they touched the floor with a
heavy thud (Jawkins was a portly little man) as he kissed the royal hand
that was kindly extended. When he rose, which was with considerable
difficulty, he backed slowly away. As he saw no chair and did not dare
to turn around, there was nothing for it but to continue backing; which
he did, until he brought up with a crash against a large photograph of
Niagara that was hanging on the wall of the chamber. Here he stood
looking at the King, but hardly within speaking distance.
"Mr. Jawkins, I believe?"
"Sir, yes," said Jawkins, who did not like to say "Yes, sir," as being
too colloquial.
"We have often heard of you, Jawkins, and favorably," the monarch went
on. "I understand that several of our poorer gentlemen are indebted to
your exertions for their--ahem--pocket money."
Jawkins smiled. "Well, sir, I flatter myself I have been the discoverer
of retiring talent to some extent. But the money obligation is mutual,
sir--mutual." And Jawkins so far forgot himself as to slap his pockets.
"Dear me," said George the Fifth, "dear me. You must be very rich.
Is--is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Jawkins?"
Jawkins's manner suddenly changed, and he became again the serious man
of affairs. "Yes, your Majesty--there is something I wish to--to
suggest--merely suggest to your Majesty." The King was silent, and
Jawkins wiped his bald head with a handkerchief. His small head,
ordinarily of the shape and color of a ripe cherry, took a still deeper
red as he stammered for words with which to proceed. Finally he spoke;
humbly, in a manner almost servile, but fixed and cool.
"I have--to beg your Majesty--to consider--the propriety--of keeping
Mrs. Oswald Carey at court."
The King stared stonily at Jawkins, who cowered close to the wall, but
went on.
"After what happened at Aldershot?"
"Aldershot!"
Jawkins saw that he had arrested the King's attention, and went on,
hurriedly. "The day was lost at Aldershot almost without a blow. It was
because the enemy were prepared on all sides. They had known of the
planned rising for days. They were armed and ready at all points. All
the disaffected regiments were marched away, and with them many of the
officers who were in the plot. The whole force of the government was at
or around Aldershot that day. The fleet was in the river. Worst of all,
the secret of the conspiracy was carefully circulated among all the
officers on whom they could rely, with instructions to prepare their
men, even to sound them in advance. And it was Mrs. Carey herself who
carried the information to the government."
"Impossible." The King made as if to rise.
"One moment more, your Majesty--just a moment. I knew all this almost at
the time. Mrs. Carey was staying at a country house in one of my parties
when she met the leaders of the noble attempt. It was she who bore to
Bagshaw the written evidence upon which Sir John Dacre was shot, and the
others condemned to prison. Think but for one moment, your Majesty, the
day might still perhaps have been gained at Aldershot, but for one
thing--the King did not appear. Consider, sir. Who was it who prevented
your Majesty from going to Aldershot that day?"
Jawkins heard the King mutter a curse to himself. He hastened to
complete his victory, and pulling out a sealed document, unrolled it,
and handed it to the King. It was the reappointment, signed by Bagshaw,
of Oswald Carey to the Stamp and Sealing-Wax Office.
"This, your Majesty, was handed to me by President Bagshaw himself, to
give to Mrs. Carey, as his private agent."
King George looked over it hastily, and then rising, paced nervously up
and down the room. Jawkins kept silence.
After some minutes the King stopped in his walk. "Well--if this be
true--Mrs. Carey is an agreeable woman. Suppose I chose, without
trusting her, to permit her company--"
The King interrupted himself for a moment, as he caught Jawkins's eye.
Then he resumed his walk hastily. "Yes, yes," he concluded, "I suppose
you are right."
Jawkins looked carefully around the room, and then continued in a lower
voice, "Does your Majesty know--what they say at court--that Mrs. Carey
wishes to be the King's--" George stopped him with a look.
"Yes, yes--I know all that."
"The American divorce laws are very lax, they say," Jawkins went on,
"and if the King were to marry her--"
"Marry her!" thundered the King; "God, man, what do you mean?"
"If I proved to your Majesty that such was her aim?"
"She should leave the court this instant."
"Will your Majesty permit me to send for her?"
Jawkins rang the bell for a messenger.
While this scene was going on between Jawkins and the King, the fair
subject of their discussion was differently engaged. She, too, had
passed a sleepless night. The sight of Geoffrey Ripon again had won upon
her strangely, and his unworldly speech had struck some chord in the
depths of her own heart now long unused. There is no greater error than
to suppose the evil beings of this world all one consistent evil--that
would be to be perfect, as Lucifer, the father of lies, alone is
perfect. Every life is but a sum of actions, and in every action the
good and evil motives are most nicely balanced at the best. A slight
preponderance of evil or even some exaggerated habit of mind--a little
over-development of pride, of ambition, of passion, a too accented doubt
and an overcold analysis--suffices to throw the decision on the wrong
side of every case, so that the outward life appears, perhaps, one
consistent darkness and wrong. But no one knows how near at every step
the noble impulse came to winning.
As Eleanor Carey strained her beautiful eyes in wakeful memories that
night, the one memory that remained to her was Geoffrey Ripon. When she
forced herself to close them, and tried to dream, the one dream was the
dream of Geoffrey dying for his friend and laying his broken sword at
the feet of his King. When she tried to think of his picture, the one
picture she could bear to look upon was Geoffrey Ripon. It had come to
this. All the scheming and the passion of the world, and the hard
ambition, the cold, worldly will that lifted her almost to a seat upon
the throne--they brought her so far and left her at the feet of her old
lover. This was all.
When Mrs. Carey rose her mind was made up--this time shall we call it
for good or evil? Evil, yes; but not the same evil as yesterday's, nor
the evil of to-morrow. Her headache was feigned. Leaving this answer
with her maid to any inquiries, she stepped out in the early morning
into the streets. It was not hard for her to find out Geoffrey's hotel.
It was a lovely morning in April, before the east wind had sprung up
from the sea, and as she passed through the gardens the crocuses and the
little blue flowers looked up to her as if they smiled--as if they, too,
remembered other days. Mrs. Carey drew her veil about her face and
walked the faster.
Geoffrey had got up that morning as one who arises in a world that is
void. His mission to see the King was ended; now there was nothing left.
He owed to Margaret Windsor his liberty; with that gift she had richly
given all that his friendship could claim. And at the time she had nobly
told him, frankly, kindly, like a true American woman, that here it all
must end. She was to be married; and he, Geoffrey Ripon, was left--free.
But he loved her still; he loved her, and there was no hope in it. What,
then, was left to him? As he bitterly asked the question aloud, some one
opened the door of his room. Mrs. Oswald Carey entered.
"Mrs. Carey!"
"Geoffrey!"
Both were silent, and each stood looking at the other. Never had she
been more beautiful than then. Her old self-possession had gone; there
was a feminine weakness in her attitude, or quiver of the limbs, a
heaving of the breast that made her seem different from the Mrs. Carey
of late years, and beneath the long, trembling lashes he saw her eyes
glorious with the glamour as of youth, tenfold more potent. For a long
time, it seemed, he stood looking at her. At last her strength seemed to
give way, and sinking into a chair she took his hand and kissed it. Then
Geoffrey broke from her.
"This is no place for you," he said, coldly.
"Geoffrey, I have come to tell you again how I loved you. I ought never
to have left you. You will not cast me off from you now?" She spoke
pleadingly, and stretched out one white arm as if to draw him to her.
"The American girl whom you thought you loved is married. We have only
each other, Geoffrey, now. You know you loved me once." She rose to her
full height, and looked deep into his eyes, her own on a level with his.
"See," she faltered, "I leave a king for you." And she drew forth a
little miniature of George the Fifth and flung it on the floor at his
feet.
If Geoffrey had ever hesitated, it was not now, though Maggie Windsor
was lost to him, and then she had loved him. That was in the old, weak
days of his, before Dacre's death. "If Maggie Windsor is married, God
bless her!" he replied, simply. Then, walking to the door, he rang the
bell.
Mrs. Carey fell back upon the chair crying. Geoffrey left the room. A
minute after he had gone she rose, and drying her tears, went to the
entrance of the hotel, where she called a carriage and drove back to the
Court of St. James. She went directly into the King's anterooms. No one
was there but Jawkins.
"Ah, Mrs. Carey--just in time to remind you of our little compact," said
he. As she looked at him, he stood, smiling grossly, vulgar, sensual,
mean. All the years of her debasement came to her memory with a new
sting to her wounded pride, and she swept on, ignoring him.
"Come, come, Eleanor--among old friends, this won't do, you know. Give
me your hand. Let's see--what's the price to kiss it now? It used to
cost five shillings." And Jawkins imprinted an attempted kiss, clumsily,
upon the palm of the hand. "When do you leave the court? They don't like
you here overmuch, I fancy. But you've been well advertised."
Mrs. Carey lost control of herself for the first time that day.
"How dare you speak thus to me? I, who was--who am your--"
"Oswald Carey's wife," Jawkins spoke contemptuously.
"Your King's wife!" cried Mrs. Carey. Jawkins laughed and threw back a
curtain. Behind it stood the King. He did not look at her, but waved her
from him with his hand. She looked at him a minute or two, but then left
the room. As the door closed behind her the King looked up.
"Well, Jawkins, it's done."
"Yes, your Majesty."
"She was a devilish fine woman." Jawkins started to go.
"Stay, Jawkins, a moment. Ah! you told me you had made a good mint out
of--Are you in funds over here?"
"Quite, your Majesty."
"Jawkins, my bankers are devilish slow. I wish you could manage to
advance me a few thousands or so."