FIRING THE FIRST SHOT.
Returning to his hotel, Cyril found a letter awaiting him in the
handwriting of his brother, Lord Caerleon.
“What’s up?” he said to himself, as he opened the envelope and drew
out the closely written sheets. “Something must be wrong for Caerleon
to favour me with such an imposing epistle. Probably some kind
mischief-maker on this side of the Channel has told him that I have
given myself over body and soul to the Jews, and he is trying to avert
the catastrophe. It would save time to burn the letter and wire to him
that the deed is done, but that might hurt his feelings, so here
goes!”
He lit a cigar and sat down with the air of a martyr to read the
letter, but his brow cleared when he found that it contained none of
the anxious entreaties he had expected. His brother needed his help,
it seemed, and the occasion of the request was curiously connected
with the subject of his conversation with the Chevalier Goldberg.
“You may remember,” wrote Lord Caerleon, “a young fellow named
Mansfield, who prepared Usk for college, and was staying with us when
you were here two years ago. He is a thoroughly nice chap, and as we
all took a fancy to him, Usk has brought him down again two or three
times since he has been at Cambridge. That was all very well, but why
should he take it into his head to fall in love with Phil? I suppose
you will smile your superior smile when you read that sentence; but I
give you my word that the thought of such a thing had never entered my
mind. It’s only yesterday that Phil was about as high as the table,
and running wild about the park with her hair flying loose. How is an
unsuspecting parent to know that she has suddenly grown up, and is
actually old enough to contemplate matrimony? I can tell you it was a
frightful shock to Nadia and me. We sat looking at one another in
consternation, until Nadia rallied sufficiently to remind me in a
faint voice that the child will be twenty-one next month. Many girls
are married before that, as she very truly added, but what comfort
does that afford when one finds oneself all at once regarded as a
stern and venerable elder? Well, as I said, we can have no possible
objection to young Mansfield himself, except on the ground that he has
nothing to do. He is a distant connection of Forfar’s, and has the
promise of a private secretaryship when a vacancy occurs, but that may
not be for years. He has been hanging on at Cambridge since he took
his degree, writing prize essays and (at least this is my private
idea) keeping Master Usk up to the mark; but he sees as clearly as I
do that that can’t go on. He came to me very honourably when he first
discovered the state of his feelings, and said that he did not dare
ask me to sanction an engagement at present, but if he could get some
settled employment, might he speak to Philippa? You know that
desperation will make the most guileless of men artful, and therefore
you won’t wonder that I resorted to a mean expedient in order to keep
my daughter a little longer. I said that Phil was so very young for
her age, and had seen so little of the world (this is absolutely true,
you know), that I should prefer him not to speak to her for a year in
any case. In the meantime he might be getting something to do, and she
should have a London season, and pay a visit to her godmother in
Germany. It was a bitter pill, I could see, but he took it very well,
and left Llandiarmid without saying a word to Phil, so that she knows
nothing about the business. At least, that is my contention; but Nadia
is under the impression that Phil has her own ideas on the subject.
Still, the child is not pining, or I should give way at once. No doubt
she sees, like a sensible girl, that it is the best possible thing for
the young fellow not to be at a loose end any longer. Well, old man,
you see by this time what I want of you. Do you know any one among
your acquaintances who would take an Englishman as secretary, who is
nothing very great in the way of attainments, but has the memory of a
second-class in Modern Languages to fall back upon? He has travelled a
good deal, and is a thoroughly pleasant fellow, rather too literary
for my taste, but there’s no harm in that. He has something of his own
since his father’s death, so that a high salary is not an object; what
he wants is to be set to regular work, and taught to run in harness.
If you know of anything suitable, I will bless you for ever, for my
conscience is pricking me (and I believe Nadia, in her secret
thoughts, blames me too) for condemning Phil and this inconvenient
youth to a lengthy separation just because I don’t want to lose the
child.” ...
Long before he had reached this point, Cyril’s mind was made up, and
his answer to his brother’s letter contained his response to the
appeal made to him:--
“I want a second secretary, and your Mansfield is the very man for me.
Please write to him at once, and let him meet me at the Hôtel
Waldthier at Ludwigsbad this day week. We shall not haggle about
terms, though Paschics will continue to do most of the work. By the
bye, if association with me is likely to do your young friend harm in
the future, don’t let him come, but if there is no risk of his
suffering in that way, he may take my word for it that he will learn a
good deal that will be of use to him.”
About two o’clock the next day Cyril presented himself at Count
Temeszy’s house for his interview with the Hercynian Imperial
Chancellor, who was paying a strictly private visit of twelve hours or
so to his sister. When Cyril’s request was sprung upon him at the
Opera, Gyula Temeszy had declared roundly that there was no prospect
of his brother-in-law’s visiting Vindobona at present. When it
appeared, however, that Cyril was well acquainted with the Baron’s
movements, he not only promised him the desired interview, but invited
him to lunch. This invitation Cyril refused, in view of the
complications which might ensue when Baron de la Mothe von Elterthal
had told his hosts of his discoveries at Czarigrad, and he had reason
to congratulate himself upon his foresight. The Temeszy servants, who
had hitherto bowed almost to the ground before him, received him on
this occasion with a perfunctory civility that was little less than
insulting; and when they turned him over to Baron de la Mothe von
Elterthal’s personal attendant, the man’s manner showed a scarcely
veiled insolence. Ushering Cyril into an unoccupied room, he promised
to carry the noble Count’s name to his master, but added that his
Excellency was very much engaged, and might not be able to see him.
For a quarter of an hour Cyril waited impatiently, within earshot of
the luncheon-room in which, to judge from the noise and laughter, the
Baron was the life and soul of a jovial party, then he rose and rang
the electric bell sharply.
“Present my compliments to his Excellency,” he said, watch in hand,
when the servant appeared, “and tell him that as the fifteen minutes I
was able to spare him have expired, I regret not to be able to see
him.”
The man, taken aback by this turning of the tables, poured forth a
torrent of apologies and entreaties, but Cyril waved them aside, and
passed down the grand staircase with a calm _hauteur_ of demeanour
which compelled the respect of the servants in the hall. This time
none of them failed in the due observances, and he left the house like
an honoured guest. Before he had gone more than a few steps, Count
Temeszy ran after him, bare-headed.
“Pray come back, Mortimer. I can’t think what the servants were doing,
that they didn’t send in your name.”
“Sorry I have no time to spare.”
“Nonsense; come back. I can’t let Caerleon’s brother be turned away
from my door like this.”
Count Temeszy spoke with evident embarrassment, and Cyril was quick to
draw the inference that he was now only to be tolerated as Caerleon’s
brother. He withdrew his arm from the Hungarian’s grasp.
“Thanks, Temeszy; but there are doors enough open to me without
darkening those where I am unwelcome. I will tell Caerleon how
faithful you are to your ideas of friendship.”
“But my brother-in-law is most anxious to see you. He is awaiting you
at this moment with the greatest eagerness.”
“My dear Count Temeszy, you only increase my regret that I cannot
possibly spare him another moment. I am lunching at the Café Viborg,
and you must excuse me if I hurry away.”
Leaving Count Temeszy disconsolate on the pavement, Cyril disengaged
himself with a ceremonious bow, and walked on. It was without any
surprise that, when he was seated at his lunch a little later, he saw
the Count and his brother-in-law enter the café. Glancing in his
direction as if accidentally, they crossed the room to speak to him,
and almost immediately a friend on the other side of the place claimed
Count Temeszy’s attention. With a muttered apology, he joined him at
his table, and Baron de la Mothe von Elterthal sat down casually
opposite Cyril.
“You had something to say to me, I believe?” he remarked.
“Not that I know of,” was the disconcerting reply. “Hearing that you
would be in Vindobona, I set aside a quarter of an hour for you for
the sake of auld lang syne, but that was all.”
“My brother-in-law understood that you were most anxious to see me. In
fact, he was lamenting all morning that you had refused his invitation
to lunch, until I reminded him that it was perhaps just as well, for
at such short notice it would be difficult to ensure that there should
be no pork on the table.”
Cyril smiled. “You are in good spirits to-day, Baron. Still, I would
advise you, as a friend, to let your jokes remain entirely between
ourselves. Other people might fail to appreciate them.”
“That is as I please,” snapped the Baron. “Once more, have you
anything to say to me?” as Cyril raised his eyebrows in well-bred
surprise at his tone.
“Nothing whatever,” said Cyril, choosing a cigarette with care. “Allow
me to offer you---- You will not? No?”
“Perhaps,” said the Baron darkly, leaning across the table, “you are
not aware that I know all about your visit to Czarigrad, and the part
you played there?”
“My dear Baron, this is ancient history. I am not aware that there is
any reason why the whole world should not know as much.”
“You have no objection to the world’s knowing that you have sold
yourself to the Jews, that you are the paid agent of the enemies of
Christendom?”
“If it was true, I should probably object very much. As things are, I
can only admire your simple faith, Baron.”
“At least,” said the Baron, changing his tactics suddenly, “neither
you nor your new allies will benefit by your diplomacy on this
occasion. I fancy I have put a spoke in your wheel, my dear Count.”
“What!”--there was unmistakable alarm in Cyril’s voice--“you have not
been so unwise as to interfere? When it was suggested to me the other
day that you might possibly do so, I laughed at the notion. ‘The Baron
is my friend and a man of sense,’ I said, ‘he could not do such a
foolish thing.’ And now you wish me to understand that you have done
it? My dear Baron, I am deeply concerned. Is there no way in which we
can release you from this very unfortunate _impasse_?”
“I don’t understand you,” with evident anxiety. “Surely you are
confusing my position with your own?”
“Baron, this is not the time for joking. Is it possible that in the
course of your researches at Czarigrad you never discovered that the
Palestine scheme and your Anatolian concession stand or fall
together?”
“Pray, what do you know about the Anatolian concession, Count?”
“Just as much as I need to know. I am aware that it is of a very
far-reaching character, and that a high and illustrious personage in
Hercynia is determined to obtain it. You could not imagine, Baron,
that I, your friend, could remain ignorant of your troubles of the
last few months? Do you think I don’t know of the immense difficulties
you have had to encounter, and the fact that your Emperor is
graciously pleased to believe that you are secretly opposing his will
and encouraging the Grand Seignior to refuse to grant the concession?
Your continuance in office depends upon your obtaining it, I am well
aware, and now you have deliberately postponed it for an indefinite
time. This is terrible!”
“The whole thing is your doing!” burst from the Chancellor. Cyril eyed
him with mild reproof.
“This accusation is unworthy of you, Baron, when I am doing my best to
extricate you from your deadlock.”
“Tell me exactly what your threats are worth. Whether you are a paid
agent of the Children of Zion, or a Quixotic philanthropist,”
sneeringly, “the trap is yours, I know that.”
“I have neither the power nor the necessity to threaten. I simply say
that if our concession is refused, yours will be refused also, or if
ours is merely delayed, yours will suffer in the same way. If ours is
granted----”
“Yes?” with intense eagerness.
“Yours will also be granted when the time comes, and Baron de la Mothe
von Elterthal will continue to be the chief ornament of the Hercynian
bureaucracy and the favoured adviser of his sovereign.”
“What are they paying you for this?” broke out the Baron. “Thunder and
lightning, man! if you are hard up, why not apply to us? We would have
found some place for you, or screwed a decent subsistence out of
ungrateful Thracia. Why accept the first offer, instead of waiting for
a higher?”
“You are agitated, my dear Baron. Take one of these cigarettes, just
to please me, and calm yourself. Did you ever, in the course of our
former dealings together, find that any good came of trying to insult
me?”
“Never; I always paid for it dearly. Yes, you are right, I am a fool.
No doubt I am expiating at this moment the errors of my last interview
with you. What?” as Cyril’s impassive face relaxed slightly, “I am
right. Oh, pray consider all that I said about money withdrawn. You
are taking your revenge upon Europe, I see. You would destroy the
world, if you could, to punish the faults of mankind towards you.”
“This is very interesting, Baron, but not particularly practical.”
“No? Well, tell me, how can you and your Children of Zion, with their
hoarded centimes and kopecks and piastres, hope to oppose yourselves
to the power of the Hercynian empire? We can tire you out at
Czarigrad, simply because we have a longer purse.”
“I will let you into a secret, Baron. Try your experiment, and oppose
our concession. You will find that it is not you who will tire us out,
but we you, and for this reason, that you will be pitting yourself
against all the Jews in the world. The Children of Zion are backed by
a syndicate composed of the capitalists of all nations, and Hercynia
would scarcely be well advised to enter on a war with them. I don’t
ask you to accept this merely on my authority. Make the experiment,
and you will see whether the result bears out my warning.”
“This is a very serious matter, Count.” The Baron had sat lost in
wonder, supporting his chin on his hand, for some minutes. “Do you see
that you are practically declaring war on Europe?”
“Not quite, Baron. It is not necessary for all Europe to oppose itself
to the United Nation. Think of the other side of the picture. What a
future would lie before the country which had the support of all the
Jews in the world!”
Baron de la Mothe von Elterthal drew a long breath. “You dazzle me,
Count! Am I to understand this as an offer?”
“As a conditional offer,” said Cyril, rising; “conditional on your
supporting us at Czarigrad. I will leave you to think it over, for I
must get back to my hotel, unless I am to lose the train for
Charlottenbad.”
“We part as--as friends, I hope? Gyula,” as Count Temeszy paused near
them, in the course of an impatient promenade up and down the room, “I
am venturing to ofter Count Mortimer a seat in your carriage. We might
drive him to his hotel.”
“With the greatest pleasure,” said Count Temeszy, in hopeless
bewilderment, and presently the servants were edified to behold Count
Mortimer seated beside the Hercynian Chancellor in their master’s
carriage, and not only escorted up the steps of the hotel by the man
who had denounced him that morning as a pervert to Judaism, but
fervently embraced at parting. As for Cyril himself, it did not
surprise him in the least to receive, a week later, a cipher telegram
from the Chevalier Goldberg to the following effect:--
“Hercynian opposition suddenly withdrawn, after various attempts to
out-manœuvre us in matter of Anatolian concession. Fear secrecy is
now at an end, for business has become known to English journalist.
Suspect Hercynian Embassy at Czarigrad of communicating news, hoping
to rouse Scythia to action.”
“So!” murmured Cyril to himself, in the long-drawn, meditative German
fashion, as he translated the cipher. “Then the battle is beginning in
earnest. That is a smart dodge of yours, my dear Baron, to set Scythia
on our track, knowing that we can’t hope to bring the matter home to
you. I suppose the English papers all revelled in a nice little
sensation yesterday. Mr Mansfield!”
Cyril was sitting in the balcony belonging to his _appartement_ in the
Hôtel Waldthier at Ludwigsbad, and a young man came hurriedly to the
window in answer to his summons. There was nothing in any way
remarkable about the new secretary’s appearance--at least to an
English eye. Brown-haired and hazel-eyed, tall, broad-shouldered, and
carelessly dressed, he would have been passed over at home as “a most
ordinary-looking man,” but on the Continent it was his fate to attract
attention as a typical Englishman wherever he went.
“Have you found anything in the papers about our business?” Cyril
asked him.
“I was just going to bring your Excellency this.” Mansfield tendered a
Vindobona evening journal to his employer.
“Just read me the paragraph. And by the way, don’t ‘Excellency’ me in
private. The King was good enough to continue me in the use of the
title when I left Thracia, but it may be kept for state occasions. And
don’t call me ‘sir,’ as you have done once or twice, or it will get
about that I am arrogating to myself princely honours. I must ask you
to address me as ‘Count,’ if your instinctive veneration for me
demands the use of some epithet.”
The reproof was given so genially that it was impossible to take
offence, and Mansfield, who had grown very red, returned gradually to
his normal colour, and translated the paragraph with very fair
fluency:--
“The London ‘Fleet Street Gazette’ publishes a telegram from its
correspondent in Czarigrad which exposes a deep-laid conspiracy on the
part of the Jews to possess themselves of Palestine. A concession is
on the point of being obtained from the Grand Seignior which
authorises the development of the whole country by a Hebrew syndicate,
and its colonisation by Jewish immigrants. The intermediary at
Czarigrad is understood to have been the Englishman Mortimer, of
Thracian notoriety.”
Mansfield’s voice dropped when he came to the last word, and he
glanced fearfully at Cyril, expecting to find him pained, possibly
indignant; but seeing that he was smoking placidly, he took heart of
grace.
“I expected this. Are you a thin-skinned person, Mansfield?”
“I don’t think so--I really don’t know,” stammered Mansfield.
“I mean, can you stand being generally cold-shouldered, if not
actually cut? Do you yearn for constant communion with your kind?”
“I suppose I could stand being sent to Coventry without whining. Is
that the sort of thing?”
“Exactly. If I am not mistaken, that is the fate which will be meted
out to you and me for the next few days. If your spirits are liable to
give way under it, you had better go home at once.”
“Count!” There was no mistaking the chagrin in the young man’s tone,
and Cyril laughed encouragingly.
“That’s all right. I only wanted to prepare you for the worst. Well,
shall we take a little stroll? If you are anxious to put my powers of
prophecy to the proof, we might pay a few visits.”
The prospect of being turned from the doors of the persons visited did
not commend itself to Mansfield, however, and Cyril and he strolled
across the bridge and into the tree-shaded Neue Wiese or promenade.
The stern regulations in vogue at Ludwigsbad permit an afternoon walk,
but do not enforce it, and the gardens and the Königspark were not
therefore crowded with _Kurgäste_, as would be the case a little
later n the day. Still, there were a fair number of restless sufferers
endeavouring to satisfy their consciences by a feverish activity in
lounging up and down, or taking duty drives to points of interest, in
company with the faithful relations who had attended them into exile,
and Mansfield watched with a painful attention their demeanour towards
his employer. He himself had arrived only the day before, and Cyril
had carried him off almost immediately to an informal dinner-party at
an open-air restaurant, where a little knot of men bearing historic
names, and of women famous all over Europe for their beauty, had
laughed and talked and jested, as they discussed the unappetising fare
allowed them, like members of a very happy, simple-hearted, and united
family. The novelty of the occasion had a little intoxicated him, and
when the party broke up at nine o’clock it had needed a brisk walk
along the Charlottenbad road, and an indulgence in thoughts of
Philippa, such as he rarely allowed himself, to enable him to sleep at
all. The unexpected friendliness of these great people had been
astonishing enough, but it would be nothing compared with a sudden
change to coolness, such as Cyril seemed to anticipate. Just as
Mansfield, in his thoughts, had reached this point, he saw a carriage
approaching in which sat the loveliest and friendliest of the ladies
of the evening before. The Countess von Hohenthurm was a celebrated
Pannonian beauty, and was commonly considered the haughtiest woman in
the empire; but she had taken Mansfield under her wing at the
dinner-party, explaining the half-veiled personal allusions with which
the conversation was largely sprinkled, and confiding to him various
indiscreet revelations respecting notable people then staying or
expected at the baths. As she came towards him now, Mansfield raised
his hand instinctively towards his hat, but Cyril’s voice at his side
said, “Wait. It is possible that the lady has not the pleasure of your
acquaintance.”
The idea seemed preposterous, for the Countess, in response to some
remark made by the elderly lady who was driving with her, had turned
her head in the direction of the two Englishmen, but there was no
glance of recognition as her eyes met theirs. Without the movement of
a muscle or the slightest change of colour, she looked through them
both at the trees behind. It was beyond question that in the world of
the Countess von Hohenthurm there existed no such persons as Count
Mortimer and his secretary.
“Don’t look so utterly crushed,” said Cyril, giving Mansfield’s arm a
gentle shake. “Didn’t I tell you how it would be?”
Mansfield walked on in silence, with compressed lips. Presently they
met two of the gentlemen with whom they had dined, but these were so
deeply engrossed in conversation as to be unable to recognise them.
Next they passed a rustic seat, behind which rose a rock bearing an
inscription to the effect that the Archduke Ferdinand Joachim desired
to testify to the benefit he had derived from a course of the
Ludwigsbad waters. Here there sat a hideous elderly man, of generous
proportions, who was laying down the laws of fashion to two or three
admiring disciples, with all the confidence to be expected in the
recognised arbiter of taste at the baths. He also had been one of the
guests of the night before, and Mansfield had conceived an instinctive
dislike to him--a dislike which was not now lessened by his putting up
an eyeglass, and wondering audibly, in terms of unnecessary emphasis,
“Who those fellows might be that looked like Englishmen?”
“Well?” said Cyril, as they passed on; “was I a true prophet?”
“Yes; oh yes. But why--what does it all mean?”
“It means that they believe, or pretend to believe, that we are
leagued with the Jews against them, and therefore, very naturally,
they feel obliged to mark their disapproval of us.”
“But will it go on? How long will they keep it up?”
“Oh yes, it will go on, for exactly three days and a half. Remember
that. Until then, I fear that you and I shall be confined to each
other’s society. Pray talk as much as you like. I shall be delighted
to listen.”
“I should like to say a word or two to that fellow,” muttered
Mansfield, indicating by a backward glance the oracle of fashion.
“I earnestly hope you won’t. In the first place, he would not
understand your German, and your righteous indignation would therefore
be wasted. In the next, I would rather not kill him if I can help it.”
“Kill him? how?”
“With a sword, my dear youth. Excuse me, but you are really so
refreshingly young. Is it beyond your powers of imagination to
conceive that if you insulted him he would forthwith challenge me?”
“I can look after my own quarrels, Count,” very haughtily.
“In that case I should very soon have a funeral to look after in the
British cemetery,” was the calm reply. “The man is a noted duellist,
and you would be at his mercy in two minutes. With me as his
antagonist, I will be conceited enough to say, things would be
reversed. Since you are so kind as to propose to quarrel with him on
my account, perhaps I may be allowed to intimate that I prefer a
living secretary to a dead one.”
Mansfield, with an embarrassed laugh, yielded the point, although he
did not succeed in arriving all at once at his employer’s pitch of
philosophy. As they walked on, Cyril amused himself by detecting and
commenting upon the shifts to which his acquaintances were reduced in
order to escape seeing him. The ostracism was complete, and he pointed
out to Mansfield that it must have been decreed only that
morning--probably as soon as the Vindobona papers arrived. It so
happened that there were no royal personages at the baths at present;
but among the sojourners there was a large contingent of the Pannonian
nobility, and it was from these, doubtless, that the fiat had gone
forth which declared Count Mortimer to be from henceforth beyond the
pale of society. A determined enemy, or even a mere busybody, could
easily have found means to promulgate the news during those hours of
the morning which were supposed to be devoted to rest, when authority
had once spoken. It proved that no one was sufficiently courageous to
disobey the edict but the officials of the place, who themselves
saluted Cyril with an expression which said that this courtesy was not
a reflection of their personal feelings, and that their sympathies
were with his opponents. Matters were not improved on the arrival of
the English papers, for it was discovered that the Vindobona journal
which had done all the mischief had omitted one item of special
interest in its quotation from the ‘Fleet Street Gazette.’ “The sudden
collapse of the Hercynian opposition to Count Mortimer’s scheme,”
wrote the correspondent at Czarigrad, “is thought here to be the
result of the kind of business arrangement vulgarly known as a ‘deal.’
In other words, the Imperial Government has been bought off.” This was
enough. The hatred always smouldering between the two Teutonic empires
burst forth once more in the breasts of their representatives at
Ludwigsbad, and the few Hercynians at the baths found themselves
shunned almost as completely as Cyril, with whom their own convictions
effectually forbade them to fraternise.