A NEW FACTOR.
“The gracious gentleman will pardon me, but--he has the appearance
of a divine of the English Church?”
The young clergyman who was standing watching the pigeons in the
Piazza San Marco turned and looked curiously at the deferential Jew
who had addressed him in English. “Certainly, I am a clergyman of the
Church of England,” he said.
“Will the gracious divine do me the favour to accompany me on board
the yacht White Lady, which is lying in the lagoon? There is one of
his compatriots who stands in urgent need of his ghostly services.”
“The White Lady? That’s Lord Ormsea’s yacht, isn’t it? I’m afraid Lord
Ormsea would not consider me very sound, from his point of view, but
if he told you to fetch any clergyman you met, no doubt the case is
urgent. Yes, of course I’ll come. What is the matter with the sick
person?”
“I was not told, gracious sir. If the venerable divine will give
himself the trouble to step this way, I have a gondola waiting.”
There was the usual mass of tourists and idlers thronging the
Piazzetta as the clergyman followed his guide through it, and he did
not observe that the Jew exchanged signals with a co-religionist in
the crowd, who disappeared immediately. Ill informed as the messenger
seemed to be as to the cause of his embassy, he was an eminently
conversational person. The sight of the Giudecca, as they passed it,
set flowing such a stream of historical reminiscence that the
clergyman listened in fascinated silence, and scarcely noticed the
length of the journey, or the fact that the yacht was lying close to
the Porto di Lido, in readiness to proceed to sea. It struck him,
however, as strange that the sailors who were at hand to help him up
the side made no reference to the invalid for whose benefit he had
been summoned on board, and that the Jew hurried him across the deck
before he could reply to the captain’s civil words of welcome.
Understanding that the owner was in the saloon, he followed his guide
below, and found himself in the presence, not of that militant
Neo-Anglican, Lord Ormsea, but of a stout, bearded gentleman of
unmistakably Hebraic appearance.
“De Referend Alexander Chudson, I think?” said the stranger, coming
forward with outstretched hand. “My dear sir, I am unspeakably
grateful to you for hurryink so promptly to de assistance off my poor
frient.”
“I beg your pardon, I understood I was coming on board Lord Ormsea’s
yacht?” said Mr Judson diffidently. His host laughed.
“Oh, den you hef not heard det I hef hired de White Lady for three
years? I shell take her to Cowes next summer. Permit me to introdooce
myself--de Chefalier Goldberg, off de house off Goldberg Frères,
Findobona and Lutetia.”
Mr Judson bowed and murmured politely. “Will you kindly let me see the
sick person at once?” he added. “I never like losing a moment in these
cases.”
The Chevalier waved his hands. “Pressently, pressently, my dear sir.
But what did you say--de sick person? Dere iss no one sick.”
“Surely I haven’t come to the wrong ship, have I? I understood from
the messenger that there was an Englishman on board dangerously
ill--and he brought me here.”
“Oh, dere iss some mistake! Did det fool employ dose words?”
“Well, now that I remember, he did not exactly. He said that the man
needed my ghostly services, I believe.”
“Ah, det explains de metter!” cried the Chevalier, laughing joyously.
“It iss to merry de Englishman, not to bury him, det you are wanted,
my dear sir.”
“But that’s impossible!” cried the clergyman, starting back. “The
marriage would not be legal.”
The Chevalier’s countenance exhibited every sign of the deepest
dejection. “But dis iss a blow!” he cried. “What iss de law, referend
sir?”
Mr Judson’s own mind was not quite clear about the matter, but he did
his best to give reasons for his very definite impression that the
celebration of the marriage of a British subject in foreign parts,
without the presence of one of Her Majesty’s representatives, would
render all concerned in it liable to divers pains and penalties. The
Chevalier heard him to the end with great politeness, putting
questions now and then which led the conversation into pleasant little
legal byways, and finally observed complacently--
“But dis will be all right, you see, for de merrich iss to take place
at Damascus, and de British Consul will be dere.”
“Damascus! But you said it was to be on board. What!--why--we are
moving!”
“We hef been mofink some time, my dear sir. You are on your way to
Syria, where de bride and bridegroom are waitink.”
“But this is intolerable, sir! This is kidnapping!”
“It shell be my endeafour to make it fery tolerable to you, my dear
sir--an agreeable extension off your holiday, det iss all.”
“But I must go back to my work. I am expected.”
“Now, come,” the Chevalier laid a paternal hand on Mr Judson’s
coat-sleeve, “be reassonable, my dear sir. Your luggich iss all
brought on board. My achent hess telegrephed to your rector det you
are summoned suddenly to Pelestine. Your bill at de hotel iss paid, de
proprietor iss told det you are unexpectedly called away. Eferythink
iss complete, no mystery, no trouble.”
“Really, I think you are the coolest hand I ever met.”
“You compliment me too much. See, you receife your pessich out and
home again, and fife hundret pounts for your _douceur_--your fee. You
gif your rector ten pounts for his fafourite Society--it iss for de
confersion off de Chews, iss it not?--and you go beck and tell him
more about de Chews den he efer knew before.”
There was a malicious twinkle in the curate’s eye. “Now, how in the
world did you guess that we were interested in the Jews at our place?”
“You hef been seen wanderink about de Giudecca, you hef spoken to many
Chews in oder parts off Fenice, and asked dem questions about deir
faith.”
“That’s true. I have made many inquiries of them, and for a very good
reason. You will be interested to know that I am the son of Salathiel
Yehudi, the converted Jew, who has spent the greater part of his life
at Baghdad, as a missionary to his own people.”
An instantaneous change swept over the Chevalier’s smiling face. “Det
apostate!” he cried, then took refuge in Hebrew, “that vile serpent!
that betrayer of Israel! and I have welcomed his son on board my
ship!”
“You will allow me to remind you that I had no desire to come on board
your ship, and that I am quite ready to leave it.”
“Pardon me. You understend Hebrew? I should not hef thought----”
“My father has brought us all up to claim our share in the privileges
of our race. We are proud of being Israelites, I assure you. But,” as
the Chevalier shuddered involuntarily, “perhaps you will now be kind
enough to put me on shore?”
“My dear sir, what iss det you say? put you on shore? No, no, you are
needed. You hef studied de phenomena off de pressent Return? You hef
heard off Count Mortimer? He it iss det dessires your serfices. He iss
to merry de moder off de King of Thracia, and dere are reassons off
state why it should be done quietly.”
“But, my good sir, why go about it in this theatrical fashion? If I
chose to make a fuss, I could set Europe ringing with your
extraordinary proceedings.”
“Ah, you do not know: I hef tried. I meet an English clerchyman, an
old acquaintance, at Fenice: I engache him to sail wid me and perform
dis merrich, gifink him no names. He agrees. What should suddenly
possess him to write to his wife and tell her about de mysterious
business, so det de lady telegrephs beck ‘Must be somethink wronk.
Inform de police and return home.’ My dear sir, det referend men left
Fenice at once, and telegrephed to me from de frontier to say det he
was gone. He also informed de police of de metter, and dey suspect me
of intendink to kidnep an heiress--me! Dey would hef detained de
yacht, I beliefe, if I hed stayed here lonker. Det iss why I kidnep
you.”
“But really, you know--How am I to be sure that it’s all right?”
“My dear sir, you shell hef a prifate interfiew wid de bridegroom
before de ceremony--wid de Queen also, if she will consent to receife
you. But I am forgettink. De Count’s broder, de Marquis off Caerleon,
iss comink on board at Brindisi wid his femily, to assist et de
weddink. If you are not setisfied when you hef seen dem, you shell
leafe de ship at once. Now are you confinced off my _bona fides_?”
“Quite,” said the clergyman politely. He did not mention that during
his theological course at Latimer Hall, he had met Lord Usk two or
three times on Sunday evenings at the Principal’s, but the
recollection afforded him a distinct gratification. If his host had
provided another trap for him, he had at any rate the means of turning
the tables.
But it was undoubtedly the genuine Usk who came on board at Brindisi
with his parents and sister, and showed himself as delighted to meet a
fellow-Man (in the Cambridge sense) as Mr Judson was to see him. Thus
reassured, the curate was quite satisfied to fall in with the
arrangement so unceremoniously made for him. The Chevalier treated his
guests with princely hospitality, and the voyage was pleasant and
uneventful. The only cloud on the horizon appeared at Larnaka, where
the Chevalier found waiting for him at his agent’s some news that
perturbed him considerably. He discussed it at length with his
secretary and two or three of the chief Jews of the place, then sent
off several long telegrams to Damascus, and returned to his guests
with his usual cheerfulness restored.
“I hef put it all in your broder’s hends, my lord,” he said gleefully
to Lord Caerleon, who expressed a hope that he had not received bad
news. “I hef thrown it upon his shoulders, and I feel safe. He will
not fail me.”
The Chevalier’s telegrams were opened by Paschics, who rode into
Damascus daily in order to keep the office-work from falling into
arrears, and now returned immediately to Brutli with a peremptory
demand for Count Mortimer’s presence in the city, since a fresh crisis
had arisen with which he alone could deal. Cyril’s disinclination for
work was as marked as it had been when his illness began, but he
allowed himself to be dragged from his pleasant lotos-eating existence
by the ruthless Paschics, and swept with his whole train down to
Damascus. The imperious summons was all the more distasteful, since
Ernestine was intending to leave Brutli for the city the next day. The
house, which had been placed at her disposal by a wealthy German
merchant who had married a former deaconess, would not be ready to
receive her until the time originally fixed, so that she would be
deprived of Cyril’s escort on the journey. Paschics saw, or thought he
saw, that he had incurred his leader’s deep displeasure by his
persistence in demanding his return, and as soon as the cavalcade was
out of sight of the Institution, he pressed forward to Cyril’s side.
“Indeed, Excellency, it is absolutely necessary. There is----”
“Oh, don’t din the whole thing into me just now, Paschics. When we get
to Damascus will be time enough. I can’t think when I am riding.”
Paschics fell back to his former station, trying to remember whether
he had ever heard his employer object hitherto to thinking in any
circumstances. He himself was thoroughly alarmed by the crisis, and he
half feared that Cyril failed to realise its seriousness. As soon as
they reached the house he hurried him into the room where they had
been accustomed to work; and while Mr Hicks sat down to examine a
series of urgent telegrams which had arrived for him, and Mansfield
uncovered the typewriter in readiness to begin operations, he
summarised as tersely as possible the state of affairs described by
the Chevalier’s correspondents.
Ten days before, the readers of all the more important papers
throughout Europe had found themselves confronted by an advertisement
bidding them to “Look out for the Yellow Pamphlet!” The advertisement
appeared each succeeding day in a different position and in different
type, and a week after its first insertion the Yellow Pamphlet burst
upon the world. The newsvendors were laden with it, the bookstalls
groaned under it, and it was sent gratuitously to vast numbers of
prominent people everywhere, especially among the Jews. Printed in
English, French, German, and Jargon, it made its appearance
simultaneously all over Europe, Egypt, and Algeria; and it was a
significant fact that the Anti-Semitic papers, together with a good
many journals which were not supposed to share their views, devoted a
large portion of their issue on the day of its publication to quoting
from its contents and drawing inferences from them. Enormous as the
cost of production must have been, the _brochure_ had sold, said the
telegrams, in such numbers that it was probable it would bring an
appreciable profit to its proprietor. Its title was “The Syndicate and
its Hero,” and it was addressed to all honest men. With an affectation
of judicial impartiality which rendered its statements all the more
damaging, it set out to prove that the United Nation Syndicate,
despite its professedly philanthropic object, was in reality nothing
less than a scheme for rendering the Jews absolutely masters of the
world. The steps by which, under Cyril’s leadership, the Syndicate had
coerced one government after another, until it had borne down all
opposition to its Palestine scheme, were traced with as much
minuteness as was requisite to vouch for the writer’s knowledge of his
subject. Then came the application. Practice had made perfect, and
there was no room for doubt that the machinery, tested by means of
these various trial trips, as they might be called, would quickly be
used for larger ends. The world lay helpless at the feet of the Jew,
but--it was for the Jew to consider whether this triumph was not
likely to be too dearly bought.
Having exposed the real nature of the aims of the Syndicate, the
pamphlet proceeded to deal with its hero--Cyril. Between Count
Mortimer and the Jews there existed an unholy alliance, by virtue of
which he was to be raised to a position commensurate with his
ambitious designs, in return for his betrayal of Christendom. His
first attempt to make himself Prince of Palestine had been balked by
the address of the lady to whom he had confided his schemes, and the
sturdy honesty of Dr Texelius; but he had found a more adaptable tool.
Another lady, whose former history was not unconnected with his own,
and who, on his fall, had quitted society in a fit of pique at her
loss of political power, was willing to return to it in any capacity
that might offer her a scope for a fancied talent of intrigue. Thus
worthily supported, Count Mortimer had proceeded, in the most
barefaced manner, to force himself upon the world as the only possible
ruler of Palestine, as a conjurer forces a particular card upon his
audience. He had openly assumed the title of Prince of the Jews, and
in that name had traversed Palestine and the surrounding countries
from end to end, making treaties on his own authority, and organising
a _plébiscite_ which was designed to give his usurpation the
semblance of legality. This desirable end effected, he would continue
to play into the hands of the Syndicate, with the added prestige of
place and power to assist him, while they would maintain and
strengthen his position by virtue of their command of the world’s
finance. The position would be a proud one for him, no doubt; but was
it worth while for the Jews to drive Europe to desperation, and bring
upon themselves universal hatred, which was only too likely to lead to
universal reprisals, merely in order to provide a throne for Count
Mortimer?
Thus far the Yellow Pamphlet. The telegrams added that on the
afternoon of the day of publication representatives of the press had
interviewed a number of the prominent personages in various countries
to whom it had been sent. On the subject of the revelations contained
in it, the utmost horror and detestation was expressed by one and all
of those appealed to. Everywhere the timid, cowering before the
prospect of popular fury, sought to save themselves by sacrificing
some one else, and the bold rejoiced cynically in the chance of
ridding themselves of a severe master. The scapegoat was the same in
both cases. All the Hebrews who conceived themselves to have any
grudge against Cyril--Texelius, the theoretical republican Rubenssohn,
the English Jews, the schemers he had disappointed at Jerusalem and
Alexandria--displayed the most engaging ignorance of any political
designs on the part of their nation. It had never entered their minds
that the Syndicate could have any but a purely philanthropic object;
but if they had been misled, let it be summarily crushed as soon as
its work in acquiring Palestine was done. In any case it was clear
that Count Mortimer must be thrown overboard. He had traded upon the
guileless simplicity of the Hebrew community in order to secure his
own advancement, and corrupted the innocence of its keenest minds.
There would be justice as well as policy in flinging him to the wolves
that were clamouring for Jewish blood.
This prompt repudiation of Cyril and all his ways had proved so
convincing to the general public that the mob which had set out to
wreck the Jewish houses remained to acclaim their owners, and Semite
and Anti-Semite were exchanging pledges of eternal friendship all over
Europe. Before the joint influence of fear and interest, the United
Nation collapsed like a house of cards. The kings of finance, who had
no sentimental care for Palestine--Paris, rather than Jerusalem,
flaunting herself as the Holy City of their gilded dreams--had at
first yielded unwillingly to the Chevalier’s enthusiasm, backed up by
the monetary pressure he had contrived to exert, and now welcomed the
opportunity of throwing off the yoke. The orthodox Rabbis, who, with a
few exceptions, had used all their influence in opposition to the
Zionist movement, and had viewed its progress with fear and aversion,
as likely to transfer their power to the hands of the free-thinking
Jews and such enthusiasts as Rabbi Schaul, gloried openly in the
_exposé_. The rank and file of the Children of Zion alone remained
faithful. Thus the Jewish world was split in two, and the unanimity
demanded by the Emperor of Pannonia was absolutely unattainable.
Paschics laid down the last telegram, and looked expectantly at his
employer.
“This is the sort of thing that only a woman would do, and there is
only one woman who could have done it,” said Cyril. He was playing
idly with a paper-knife as he sat at the table.
“But what is to be done, Excellency?” demanded Paschics, with anxious
eagerness. Cyril buried his face in his hands without replying, and
sat silent for some time. When he raised his head his face was
haggard.
“Leave it for a while,” he said. “Mansfield, get out the chessboard,
and we will have a game.”
The others stared at him in bewilderment, but Mansfield obeyed. It had
become rather unusual for them to play, since Cyril invariably won,
which deprived the contests of all their interest. This time, however,
Mansfield won easily. To his astonishment he saw great drops standing
on his employer’s brow when he looked up.
“Another!” said Cyril hoarsely.
Mansfield set the board afresh, and perceiving from his antagonist’s
keen anxiety that he attached some special importance to this
particular game, determined to play so carelessly as to make it
impossible for him not to win. Perhaps he was in the mood to regard a
victory here as a good omen for his success with regard to the larger
issues at stake. But Cyril saw the intention, and dashed his fist down
on the board.
“For heaven’s sake, Mansfield, don’t humour me as if I was a child! I
haven’t come to that yet. Play your hardest.”
Rearranging the pieces, Mansfield obeyed, and won the game with
ludicrous ease, not daring to glance at his opponent’s face. Cyril sat
for a moment playing with the pieces, then pushed his chair back and
stood up.
“I believe my brain’s gone,” he said unsteadily. “I can think of
nothing. The game is up, Paschics. It must all go.”
“Land’s sake, Count!” cried Mr Hicks, “bluff it out. You’ll be all
right in a day or two. Bluff will carry you through yet.”
“It may, but I feel pretty certain it won’t. No, Hicks, I’m cornered.
Do your best with it, Paschics. Oh, to be for one hour--for ten
minutes--the man I was a month ago! But that’s all over now.”
“Say, Count, you’re sick yet,” Mr Hicks cried after him as he went
out. “You bet you’ll be as spry as ever some time soon. Mr Mansfield,”
he added hastily, “if I were you I guess I’d give Dietrich the word to
keep an eye on his master, and not leave any shooting-irons lying
around.”
Mansfield rushed out with frantic haste, and Mr Hicks and the
horrified Paschics put their heads together and drew up a document
which might help to postpone the need of an explanation for a day or
two. Count Mortimer was still suffering from the effects of the
dastardly attack made upon him at Jericho, but he left his character
and his cause confidently in the hands of Europe, in the full
assurance that, until he was able to vindicate them himself, judgment
would be suspended. When this had been despatched, there was no more
that they could do. If Cyril did not regain his former powers of mind,
all, as he had said, was lost.
He returned to the room after about an hour of restless pacing up and
down upon the house-top, with Mansfield, who fondly believed himself
unseen, dogging him from behind the trellis the whole time. He seemed
to have shaken off for the present the horror which had seized him in
its grip, and apologised for his agitation, after approving the steps
which Paschics had taken.
“I must see a specialist,” he added carelessly, “and no doubt he will
be able to put me right. Not a word of this, please, especially to the
Queen. And, Mansfield, you will be interested to know that I don’t
intend to commit suicide just at present, so that you need not devote
your leisure hours to keeping me in view.”
“Ernestine, are you on good terms with your cousin Prince Ramon of
Arragon?”
“He and his wife called upon me this afternoon--before we were at all
settled, indeed. I think they mean to be friendly. But were you
thinking of inviting them to the--the wedding, Cyril?”
“Not for a moment. I was wondering whether Prince Ramon would object
to my consulting him professionally?”
Don Ramon of Arragon was the representative of one of those junior
branches of the Pannonian Imperial house which have been deprived of
political power by the changes of the nineteenth century. Far from
murmuring over his loss of sovereignty, he had accepted the inevitable
with marked satisfaction, and devoted himself to the study of
medicine, giving his services freely to all who chose to consult him.
He was now well known as a specialist in diseases of the brain, and
rumour said that even his pious intention in visiting Palestine was
not unmixed with the desire of investigating certain forms of madness
supposed to be peculiar to the East.
“Oh, I’m sure he would not mind,” said the Queen eagerly. “But, Cyril,
you said you were so much better.”
“My head doesn’t feel quite as clear as it ought, that’s all.”
“You are sure it is nothing worse--quite sure? What a comfort it is
that the Ramons should be here just now! We are not to expect their
sympathy or countenance for our betrothal, I could see that; but I
think Ramon will be quite ready to meet you privately, in any case.
Cyril, do you mind my asking whether you are going to this
entertainment of the consuls’ to-morrow night?”
“I was not intending to go, but I will, if you wish.”
“No, I don’t. I could not bear to see Ramon put before you. Oh, my
beloved, you don’t know how I long to see you really Prince of
Palestine, unquestionably first on your own soil. I feel quite wicked
on state occasions. I want to go down and take your hand and lead you
up beside me, and say to every one, ‘Yes, he is your king, and mine
too. Don’t dare to offer me any honours that you would refuse to
him!’”
“My dear child, actually tears! If you only knew how little I care for
all that sort of thing.”
“But I care. I want every one to recognise, as I do, how great you
are. It hurts me when they show me all kinds of honour because I
happen to wear a crown, and leave you in the background, when every
man there ought to be on his knees before you. You pretend not to feel
it, for my sake, but I know you do. It makes me tingle with shame.
When we are married, I shall be only your wife and nothing else, and
no one shall put me before you.”
“Then I hope for both our sakes that the Emperor Sigismund will not
pay another visit to Palestine--during our reign, at any rate.” Cyril
smiled rather unsteadily.
“As if I cared for him, or anything he could say! Cyril, I want you to
bring your brother and his family to dine with me to-night, if they
arrive in time. Your relations are to be mine, and I want to know them
all--the little girl whom Michael loves, and the rest as well. It
shall be purely a family party. I remember your sister-in-law, she had
such a beautiful face, and your brother looked so thoroughly
English--so reliable. Do you think they will be willing to love me?”
“Madame, it doesn’t become your Majesty to fish for compliments. Your
commands shall be obeyed,” and Cyril bowed himself out of her presence
backwards in the orthodox manner.
Whether the Queen’s anxiety was real or not, it proved to be wholly
unnecessary. Her guests that evening took her to their hearts with one
accord. She was so beautiful, so gracious, so devoted to Cyril, that,
to use their own expression, Usk and Philippa “simply grovelled” at
her feet from the first moment they saw her. It was no more possible
that she had ill-treated Cyril than that he had ill-treated her, and
Philippa fell back on the theory of a misunderstanding, for which both
might perhaps be slightly to blame, but no more. Her parents took an
equal delight in the reconciliation, for they knew, as Philippa could
not know, the true story of the long waiting-time during which the
Queen’s hair had grown grey, and of the broken engagement which had
made such a grievous blank in her life.
After dinner it was decided that the mildness of the season justified
the seeming rashness, and the Queen led her guests out into the
marble-paved courtyard. There was a good deal of happy talk about the
future as they sat under the carved arcades of curious inlaid work,
and watched the fountains springing up among the orange- and
lemon-trees. The rest remembered afterwards that Cyril refused, with
some impatience, to discuss the probability of his obtaining the
governorship of Palestine. It was in the hands of the Powers, he said,
and the less it was talked about the better were his chances. He
changed the subject almost irritably, but there was no other cloud
upon the brightness of the evening. Even Mansfield was happy, although
he was not included in the party. He had been dining with the
household, and now, as he stood leaning against the pillars at the
other end of the courtyard, smoking with M. Stefanovics, he could
feast his eyes upon what seemed to him the most beautiful sight in the
world. The blue and silver wrap which Philippa had thrown about her
had fallen back, and the moonbeams lighted up her crown of golden
curls. Not even the fact of his exclusion from the Queen’s table could
sadden Mansfield, for Philippa had been disappointed about it,
Philippa had said it was a shame, Philippa had refused to see reason
in the matter until she had appealed in vain to her uncle himself.
But while at one end of the courtyard Philippa, sitting beside the
Queen, painted glowing pictures of the future, and Mansfield, at the
other, watched her and dreamt delicious dreams, a loud shouting became
audible. The sound came from the street, which was separated from the
inner court by an outer one, occupied by the Queen’s suite and the
servants. Some one was demanding admittance, and with no uncertain
voice. The group under the arcade turned and looked at one another, as
the porter was heard inquiring who the late arrival might be, and
Cyril felt himself growing pale. Was there at hand the announcement of
a new crisis, with which he must again confess his incapacity to deal?
It was not, however, Paschics or the Chevalier, but General Banics,
who appeared at the entrance of the passage leading to the door, and
taking three strides across the courtyard, announced--
“Madame, his Majesty!”
“How dare you, Banics? I forbade you to announce me!” cried a voice,
and King Michael, casting a scathing glance at his former tutor,
stepped out into the moonlight after him. “I hope, madame, there is a
welcome for me in this delightful gathering?”
The Queen had grasped Cyril’s arm involuntarily as her son entered.
Now she loosed her clutch, but her fingers closed round his as she
stepped forward. “Any reconciliation with me must include him,” was
the announcement conveyed by her attitude, and King Michael read it
aright.
“You will not refuse to allow me a share in your happiness, mother? My
sole desire is to stand beside you on this auspicious occasion, and do
honour to your choice. Count, I will tell you frankly that there is no
man I would welcome into my family more heartily than yourself.”
“No reason whatever to doubt that statement!” thought Cyril grimly,
while the Queen, her eyes full of tears, raised her son and kissed him
as he stooped to kiss her hand.
“This is the crowning point of my happiness, little son,” she
murmured, employing the old tender diminutive.
“You have stolen a march upon me, mother,” pursued the King, quite at
his ease. “I hoped to have the honour of presenting the Lady Philippa
to you myself, but you have been before me.” Philippa crimsoned with
indignation as she yielded her finger-tips unwillingly to be kissed.
“My friend Usk, too! And these--I have no need to ask--these must be
the honoured parents of the Lady Philippa.”
Having saluted Lord and Lady Caerleon with marked distinction, King
Michael took a chair, and signed affably to the rest to be seated. “I
must apologise for appearing in this dress,” he said, looking at his
mother, but including Philippa, as he indicated the undress naval
uniform he was wearing, “but I have had no opportunity of changing my
clothes. I have made no attempt to secure rooms at a hotel, as I hoped
my mother might be able to find a corner for me here. I have only two
or three people with me--that is all I could bring, since I came as
far as Beyrout on a ship of war.”
This explanation was ample for those who knew that the Thracian
sea-going navy consisted of a single gunboat of moderate size, and the
Queen summoned M. Stefanovics and gave him the necessary directions.
The King continued to converse with the greatest affability,
“patronising the whole show,” as Usk complained to Mansfield
afterwards, but the pleasantness of the evening had vanished with his
entrance. That the Queen felt this she showed when she rose as the
signal for her guests to depart. She had meant this family party to be
free from the trammels of Court etiquette, but how could she carry out
her intention when her son made evident in every word and action the
intense condescension with which he was prepared to behave towards her
new relations?