MAN AND WIFE.
“This is the irony of fate!” said Mansfield to himself the next
morning. The English mail had come in, and the city postman, going his
leisurely rounds on his white donkey, was engaged in distributing the
letters it brought. A few minutes before, he had placed in Mansfield’s
hands that which should have been his passport to paradise. The Right
Honourable Geoffrey Forfar wrote to say that one of his secretaries
had accepted an appointment under Government, and he had much pleasure
in fulfilling his promise with regard to the vacant post. Would
Mansfield kindly arrange to take up his new duties as soon as his
present employer could spare him?
Mr Forfar would have been surprised to learn that his kindly letter
served but to inflict on its recipient torments worse than those of
Tantalus. If the offer had only arrived yesterday, Mansfield reflected
bitterly, he might have spoken to Philippa in time to forestall her
royal suitor--but no, it did not turn up until Philippa was beyond his
reach. That was how things always happened, he assured himself, for
misfortune was developing in him the usual touch of cynicism. For a
short time he had visions of accepting the post and returning to
England forthwith, throwing himself into his new work with an ardour
that carried all before it. He saw himself entering the House, backed
by Mr Forfar’s influence and the prestige of his own reputation as a
man with an unusual and practical knowledge of European politics, saw
himself, equally famous as a thinker and a debater, accepting office
and rising to giddy heights of power--and this was all undertaken for
the sake of convincing the faithless Philippa that the true lover whom
she had cast off to obtain a throne would have been able to give her
something more than the love she despised. Unfortunately for
Mansfield’s political future, his heart took fright instantly at the
idea of leaving Syria while Philippa remained there. He must be on the
spot, even if it was only to witness the complete destruction of his
hopes. It is possible, also, that those hopes were not yet quite so
absolutely dead as he imagined.
“I won’t answer this at once,” he said, thrusting the letter into his
pocket, and turned to some notes which he was to write out for Cyril.
He had scarcely sat down when he was interrupted by the Chevalier, who
emerged from the inner room in a state of wild disorder. When he had
asked to see Cyril, Mansfield had observed that he appeared to be
labouring under great emotion, but now he seemed to have been tearing
both his hair and his clothes. He dropped into a chair opposite
Mansfield, and smote his forehead with his hands.
“De finest brain in Europe, and de stronk defence off Zion!” he
murmured.
“I beg your pardon?” said Mansfield, astonished.
“You do not know? you hef not heard? All we hef done iss in fain, and
Israel may return to deir keptifity to-morrow.”
“What has gone wrong?” Mansfield asked the question with great
anxiety.
“Your master can plen no more; his brain iss inchured. And we, wid our
scheme on de point of fulfilment, are left desolate.”
“That break-down the other day!” cried Mansfield.
“Yes, det must hef been de first menifestation off de melady. Ach,
Mortimer, my frient, I could always trust in you! While you lifed,
Zion was safe. And now you life still, but your mind iss dead. No,
no,” as Mansfield started up frantically, “dere iss no medness. He can
do eferythink but plen, but so can all de rest. Our head iss gone.”
“And now that he can’t help you, you care no more about him?”
“Hef I gifen you reasson to say det?” asked the Chevalier, with real
dignity. “Because I lament my country in peril, must I hef lost sight
off my frient? It iss de Queen det hess told me de frightful noose.
Ah, dere iss a woman! de Count hess much left still since he hess her.
She dessired to point out to me de risk. You see it? Efery nation and
efery statesman hess somethink against him. He hess played dem all off
against one anoder, and only his wits hef safed him again and again.
Now he iss powerless, and when dey find it out, dey will come about
him like birds off prey. A week ago de influence off de Syndicate,
exerted through me, would hef presserfed him from all annoyance, but
now de Syndicate iss split in two. Until we discofer how far de
disaffection extends, I dare not trust efen my broders. Your master
must not remain here, nor would he be safe in Europe--efen in America.
De Queen propoces det immediately upon deir merrich dey shell go to
dis estate off hers in de desert, where dey will be in safety until
efents hef defeloped demselfs. We shell soon see what frients he hess
left. I need not ask wheder you are true. Do me de fafour to beliefe
det I am so also, efen dough my nation hess profed ungrateful to its
benefector.”
“I am sorry,” said Mansfield. “I had no business to say what I did.”
“Det iss well. Trust me, and help me to do what I can for him, det iss
all I ask.”
He went away, and Mansfield took Mr Forfar’s letter out of his pocket
again. “This settles it!” he said, and sitting down at the table,
dashed off a grateful refusal of the Prime Minister’s offer. As soon
as it was finished, he went out and posted it.
Having thus burnt his boats and cut himself off from every hope of
Philippa, he felt that he had done all that could be expected of him,
and owed himself a reward. It is needless to say that the reward took
the shape of a sight of Philippa, and when he had dutifully attended
Cyril to the Queen’s house in the afternoon, he betook himself
forthwith to the Caerleons’ rooms in Spyridion’s hotel, where he was
able to watch Philippa pouring out tea, and to luxuriate in absolute
misery. The excitement of the night before had left Philippa white and
tired, and her hand shook as she lifted the teapot, but Mansfield
decided that her exhaustion was due to the mental struggle she must
have undergone before she could bring herself to contemplate marrying
King Michael, and he steeled his heart against her. Her father
attributed her obvious unhappiness to a very different cause, and when
Mansfield took his leave he walked a little way with him.
“I suppose you heard nothing from Forfar by the mail, Mansfield?” he
asked. “I saw him just before we left England, and he hinted that
Jowell would probably go to the India Office, so that he would soon
need a new assistant secretary.”
“Yes, I heard from him,” replied Mansfield, his heart beginning to
beat with uncomfortable speed, “and he offered me the post. But I
refused it.”
“Refused it!” cried Lord Caerleon, with unconcealed dismay.
“You see,” Mansfield went on, “I--I felt there was no particular
reason why I should go back to England,” he looked straight at his
companion, “and it would take a great deal to make me leave Count
Mortimer in the present state of his affairs.”
“But come, Mansfield--I have a right to ask, after what you said to me
early in the year--have you changed your mind?”
“How dare you----” began Mansfield furiously, then his tone altered.
“I beg your pardon, I’m a sulky brute; but--well, imagine that you
were in my place, Lord Caerleon, forbidden to speak to Lady Phil, and
then finding that another fellow had stepped in and cut you out.”
“But he has not cut you out. We are all on your side. Phil’s only
reason for taking time to consider her answer is that she may not hurt
the King’s feelings. I am certain she doesn’t care a rap for him.”
“Well, at any rate, I’m not such a cad as to cut in and spoil the
other fellow’s game,” and Mansfield marched on with an air of superior
virtue which Lord Caerleon found extremely irritating. He could not
well say that he particularly wished to see the very thing done which
Mansfield regarded with such righteous disapprobation, but he felt
that he was being treated with scant justice. True, he had banished
Mansfield originally for his own good--here he stopped; was it not
rather because he did not want to lose his daughter? Still, it was not
his fault that this second suitor had appeared, and nothing had been
farther from his thoughts than to drive Philippa into a loveless
marriage by separating her from the man whom he now suspected that she
liked. It was hard to throw the onus of rejecting the King’s suit
entirely on Philippa and himself, and things would have been much
simpler if it could have been refused on the ground that she was
already engaged to some one else. However, since Mansfield chose to
consider that he had been ill-used, and could hardly be commanded to
propose to Philippa against his will, the plan was not practicable.
Lord Caerleon made no further attempt to alter the course of events,
and Mansfield, grimly resolute, continued to torment himself with the
sight of Philippa and her royal suitor. King Michael was following
Prince Mirkovics’ advice, and endeavouring to enlist Philippa’s sense
of duty upon his side. Since his _coup d’état_ of the summer, he had
developed an abnormal interest in affairs of State, and he recounted
his plans, hopes, fears, failures, successes, and aspirations to
Philippa at suitable length. The recital bored her extremely, but she
would not have been her mother’s daughter if she could have brought
herself to throw cold water on any man’s good intentions, and she
honestly did her best to sympathise with the King. Her task was not
made easier by Usk, who continued to regard his would-be
brother-in-law with unmitigated aversion. King Michael sought his
acquaintance in the most flattering way, and extended the same honour
to Mansfield and Mr Judson, never perceiving that his gracious
determination to put people at their ease had the invariable effect of
making them uncomfortable. The three Cambridge men were quite ready to
overlook his position, which was, after all, not his own fault; but he
could not forget it, and the consequence was that the friendship
languished, and that among themselves they accused him of “putting on
side,” and stigmatised him as “wretchedly bad form.” It is true that
Usk once expressed in private a wish that the King was his brother;
but only, as he explained immediately, that he might feel justified in
punching his head.
While Philippa’s affairs were in this unsettled state, the time of her
uncle’s marriage was rapidly approaching. The wedding had been fixed
for New Year’s day, and it had been the secret design of the Chevalier
and his party that after the ceremony a deputation from the Jewish
provisional government should wait upon the newly married pair and
offer them the crown, if such it might be called, of Palestine. But
this was now recognised to be out of the question. When the sensation
caused by the appearance of the Yellow Pamphlet, and the subsequent
repudiation of Cyril by half the Jewish world, had a little subsided,
the journalists of the Continent held their breath for a time,
realising what they had done. The man whom they had helped to vilify
had never been known to forgive an insult, and the issue of that
_brutum fulmen_, the message framed by Mr Hicks and Paschics in order
to gain time, threw them into a state approaching panic. What blow had
Count Mortimer in preparation?
But as the days passed on and still nothing happened, a sensation of
relief diffused itself visibly among Cyril’s opponents, while his
supporters became correspondingly dejected. Presently a brief message
from the Emperor of Pannonia, forwarded through the Chevalier’s
confidential agent in Vindobona, put the question in a nutshell. What
measures did Count Mortimer mean to take in order to re-establish his
predominant influence in the counsels of the Syndicate? Whether the
charges brought against him in the Yellow Pamphlet were true or false
did not signify in the least; but unless the Jews were unanimous in
preferring him to any other ruler, the Emperor could go no further in
recommending his selection by the Powers. While the question of the
answer to be returned to this intimation was being discussed between
Cyril and the Chevalier--the one in a frenzy of alarm and indecision,
the other in an agony of helplessness--the matter was taken out of
their hands. It became known throughout Europe that Count Mortimer’s
brain was affected, and that he was no longer to be feared.
How the jealously guarded secret had leaked out could not at first be
discovered, but the report was afterwards traced to Don Ramon of
Arragon’s assistant, who had access to his case-books. He had been a
student of the University of Vindobona, and was therefore almost
inevitably an anti-Semite, and he had shared his discovery with
Colonel Czartoriski, with whom he had come in contact at Damascus.
Acting upon instructions from his mistress, Colonel Czartoriski
communicated the news to the press, and Anti-Semitism all over the
Continent went mad with joy. Nor were the professed enemies of Zion
alone in their exultation, for the Government papers (those of
Pannonia and Thracia alone excepted) took up the slanderous tale in
language equally bitter, if slightly more decorous. The man who had
known how to impose his will on Europe was helpless--might be knocked
down and jumped upon, metaphorically speaking--and there was no lack
of moralists to improve the occasion. The vilest calumnies, the most
outrageous accusations, were gravely detailed as matters of fact, the
attacks growing bolder as each historian, finding that the victim made
no sign, strove to outdo his neighbour. The statesmen who had smarted
under Cyril’s yoke added their quota of titbits of confidential
information, to be duly worked up by the fortunate journalist to whom
they were whispered, the result being generally a fable that
astonished no one more than the original narrator himself. In short,
the only wonder was that the political world could have been so long
held in subjection by a charlatan so abjectly worthless and
contemptible as Count Mortimer was shown to be.
But while the storm was raging in Europe, and its echoes reached with
painful distinctness the ears of the little group of friends at
Damascus, there reached them also an intimation that behind all the
sound and fury there was a purpose that signified something. On the
morning of the 28th of December, General Banics paid an early visit,
first to Lord Caerleon and then to the Chevalier, bringing an urgent
request from Queen Ernestine that they would come to her at once.
Apprehensive of danger, they lost no time in complying, and as they
were ushered into the Queen’s presence, Ernestine came forward to meet
them in her impulsive way, holding out her hands.
“I have sent for you,” she said, “because you are dear and faithful
friends of mine, and I can trust you to help me in the frightful
danger which is threatening the man we all love. You will not let them
separate me from him?”
“Nefer, unless it iss your Machesty’s own dessire,” said the
Chevalier.
“But we know that nothing could be further from the Queen’s wishes,”
said Lord Caerleon indignantly. “Command us, madame, for anything that
we can do.”
“I knew I could rely upon you both.” She cast an encouraging glance at
the discomfited Chevalier. “Then please sit down, and let me tell you
what I have heard this morning from my dear old friend Princess
Soudaroff. She says she was afraid to telegraph, lest the message
should be stopped or the enemy discover that we had been warned, but
she writes in the greatest anxiety and haste. She is at present in
Paris, and her brother-in-law, Prince Soudaroff, had just paid her a
flying visit when she wrote. Naturally, as she says, they discussed
Count Mortimer’s misfortunes, and something that Prince Soudaroff let
fall gave her the idea that a plot was preparing against him. She
questioned him closely, and though he evaded her inquiries with the
most consummate skill, she is convinced that the Emperor Sigismund and
my own family are taking measures to prevent our marriage. What roused
her suspicions was a remark which escaped Prince Soudaroff about a
Hercynian ship of war suddenly ordered to the Levant, and she suggests
that they will attempt to kidnap the Count before New Year’s Day, and
convey him to some place of confinement on the plea that he is mad.
They will act in my interests, to save me from such an unfortunate
marriage, you see! But I won’t be saved from it. How shall we
checkmate them?”
“Madame,” said the Chevalier, as she paused abruptly, her eyes bright
and her cheeks flushed, “de Goldberg millions hef profed demselfs off
little afail lately, but at least dey will suffice to buy de gerrison
off Damascus for a week. Efery men in it shell be your serfant, and
guard de Count.”
“But is such a measure advisable?” asked Lord Caerleon. “The other
side can out-bribe us, and bring diplomatic pressure to bear as well.
How would you like to steal a march on them, madame? You are not
inclined to set an inordinate value upon wedding-dresses and
festivities?”
“In comparison with the bridegroom?” Ernestine smiled. “No, indeed. If
it had not been for the wishes of my son and my faithful servants, I
would have chosen the quietest wedding possible.”
“Under the circumstances, madame, his Majesty and your ladies will no
doubt waive their natural wishes. The time required by law for
publishing the notice of the intended marriage at the British
Consulate expires to-day. To-morrow, then----”
“I see,” said the Queen, blushing brightly.
“His Excellency Count Mortimer, madame,” said General Banics,
presenting himself at the door, and Cyril entered the room, his
unexpected appearance making the three conspirators look highly
confused.
“What are you plotting against me?” he asked sharply.
“Do you know that you have not wished me good morning?” asked
Ernestine, rising. “Our friends will excuse us for a moment, I know,”
and she made him a sign to follow her out into the verandah. After a
few minutes they returned, Ernestine flushed and smiling, with her
hand in his.
“Caerleon, Chevalier,” said Cyril, “you have heard of the new danger
that threatens me, and you know that the Queen”--he raised her hand to
his lips--“would not refuse to share it. But to avoid complications,
and to forestall the enemy, she has consented to allow our marriage to
take place to-morrow instead of New Year’s Day.”
“A good idea. Very sensible and prudent,” said Lord Caerleon heartily,
admiring the delicate tact with which Ernestine had contrived to make
the suggestion come from Cyril instead of herself. “We had decided
that it would be better for the marriage to take place at the
Consulate in any case, so that it will make no difference.”
“I understand that Mr Judson can perform the service at the
Consulate,” said the Queen quickly. “I should not like a purely civil
marriage.”
“Det iss all right,” said the Chevalier. “I hef talked to Colonel
Monckton a great deal about de metter. De merrich can take place et de
Consulate in his pressence, and nothink more will be wanted.”
“Perhaps,” said Lord Caerleon to his brother, rather doubtfully, “it
might be as well if you left for the desert immediately after the
ceremony. If there is any idea of kidnapping you, they might still
carry you off, and set the lawyers to work to declare the marriage
invalid.”
“We will leave Damascus as soon as the ceremony is performed,” said
the Queen calmly. “When we are together and out of their reach they
can do nothing against us. The Emperor Sigismund has no jurisdiction
over me, and no court in the world would deny that Count Mortimer, an
Englishman born, could be legally married at a British Consulate. On
his side the marriage must stand, and if they declare it invalid on
mine--well, we will be married over and over again until they are
content to allow it to stand. But there must not be the slightest
suspicion of any flaw. You will see to that, messieurs?” She looked at
the three men.
“There shall be none,” responded Lord Caerleon.
“It will be better,” said Cyril, “to tell no one but Monckton of our
change of plan until the morning. With the best intentions in the
world, Phil and the young fellows could not help letting it be seen
that they had an important secret in charge, and the least slip might
ruin us. I suppose, Chevalier,”--he was fingering absently Princess
Soudaroff’s letter, which the Queen had asked him to read,--“it has
occurred to you that Vladimir Alexandrovitch had some object in giving
away his fellow-conspirators like this?”
“You mean det he intended to let you hef a hint to escape, Count?”
“Not necessarily. I think he has some other plan on hand--more
important to him, though not to the Emperor Sigismund--and he has
deliberately sacrificed his ally in order to divert your attention
from his own game.”
“But what iss det?” cried the Chevalier distractedly.
“Ah, that you must not ask me. I could have told you once, I don’t
doubt, but now”--he shrugged his shoulders. “Think it out if you can,
Chevalier.”
“It iss hopeless, Count. I gif it up. My aim now iss to see you safely
merried to her Machesty, and I can think of nothink else.”
The three conspirators took their leave of the Queen, and departed to
put things in train for the next day’s ceremony. Lord Caerleon paid a
visit to Colonel Monckton, the British Consul, and bespoke his consent
to the change of date and his assistance in the necessary
arrangements. Cyril sent Paschics to look for Yeshua (the blind man
had returned to Damascus with the Queen and her escort), who was to
find his way to the sheikh of the Beni Ismail, and tell him that he
and his tribe would be needed to guard their sovereign and her husband
to Sitt Zeynab two days earlier than the time agreed upon. The
Chevalier, on his side, devised a little plan of his own for
hoodwinking the enemy, and having laid his train, devoted his
attention to procuring the tents and supplies for the journey.
The next morning there was a kind of informal reception at the British
Consulate. The Chevalier took Mr Judson there to make final
arrangements with the Consul, and Lady Caerleon looked in to have a
talk with Mrs Monckton. Paschics appeared with a document which needed
signing, and an unfortunate accident led to the invasion of the house
by several other and more important guests. The Queen and her son,
with General Banics and M. Stefanovics in attendance, were going out
for a ride with Lord Caerleon, Philippa, and Usk, but just outside the
Consulate the Queen’s horse cast a shoe. It was only natural that her
Majesty and her companions should be invited into the house for a few
minutes; but it was certainly strange that Baroness von Hilfenstein,
Madame Stefanovics, and Fräulein von Staubach should have chosen that
particular time for calling upon Mrs Monckton in a body. Possibly,
however, they felt the need of some distraction after the shock they
had received when their mistress informed them that the exquisite
creation in grey and silver, fresh from a Parisian _atelier_, which
had arrived that morning, would not be worn on New Year’s day.
Curiously enough (Philippa said afterwards that the array of
coincidences in connection with this wedding surpassed those
associated with the name of Mr Wemmick), Cyril invited Mansfield to
take a stroll with him as far as the Consulate just at this time.
“What’s this I hear about you from my brother, Mansfield?” he asked,
as they started; “that you have refused Forfar’s post?”
“I prefer to stay with you, Count. I don’t want to change.”
“But you can’t stay with me. Do you know where you are going at this
moment? You are going to see me married, which means that we must
part.”
“But, Count----” gasped Mansfield, in dire dismay.
“I don’t wish to be unkind, but doesn’t it strike you that you would
be just a little _de trop_ on the honeymoon trip? And really, you
know, it would be a perfect farce for me to drag two secretaries about
with me now.”
“And you mean to keep Paschics, and kick me out?”
“My dear Mansfield, don’t look at me as if I had pierced your young
heart to its depths. Paschics must stay with me. He has worked under
me more than twenty years, and asks nothing better than to go on as he
has done. It would be sheer cruelty to send him adrift at his age. But
you have your life before you, and I am not going to see you stranded
in the desert with me or any one else.”
“You are not treating me well,” said Mansfield hoarsely. “I have not
deserved to be turned off at a moment’s notice like this. You do it
because you know how I--how fond--how much I think of you, and you
feel that you can treat me like a dog.”
“That’s right. Your way of taking it relieves me infinitely. Do you
know that your precipitate refusal of Forfar’s offer has given me a
great deal of trouble--most inconsiderate of you to bother a man in
this way just on the eve of his wedding. The Chevalier and I have put
our heads together, and he has found a berth for you----”
“Hang the Chevalier!” cried Mansfield. Cyril went on, unmoved.
“He wants an Englishman to act as his agent in superintending his
various model farms and gardens in Palestine. He doesn’t expect you to
see that he isn’t cheated, for that would be hopeless; but he thinks
you are capable of discovering whether the work is done or not, which
seems to be rather a moot question at present. It will be a life after
your own heart, with plenty of riding about. You will choose a spot
that suits you and build your house, and in a year or so I haven’t a
doubt you will bring a wife to inhabit it.”
“Why you should say that, I don’t know. You know as well as I do----”
“Well?” for Mansfield faltered.
“That Lady Phil will marry King Michael.”
“Don’t you think you are taking things a little too much for granted?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care, anyhow. It seems I have to lose
everything I care about--first Lady Phil, then you.”
Cyril made no answer. Perhaps he had no comfort to offer; perhaps no
time to offer it. They were entering the Consulate, and Mr Hicks, who
was lounging in the doorway, greeted them with portentous solemnity
and an almost imperceptible wink. The guests who had assembled in such
a casual way were gathered in one of the larger rooms, and Mr Judson,
wearing his surplice, was in readiness. Often as most of those present
had pictured this wedding to themselves, they had never anticipated
anything like the real scene--the large bare room, hastily decorated
with a collection of European nicknacks and Oriental draperies
gathered from all corners of the house, the bride wearing her
riding-habit and the bridegroom a tweed suit, and the motley
assemblage of spectators, in which King Michael stood side by side
with the Chevalier Goldberg, and the American journalist rubbed
shoulders with the Thracian Court officials. It was only fitting that
the pair whose history had at so many points touched that of the
Hebrew race should be united by the son of a Jewish convert; but the
irony of the occasion found its climax in the fact that the woman who
had risked so much in defence of the forms of her religion should be
debarred not only from the services of a clergyman of her own church,
but even from the use of a consecrated building, and should bear the
deprivation without a murmur.
In an incredibly short space of time the service which seemed so brief
and meant so much was over, and Cyril and his wife were receiving the
congratulations of the rest. There was small scope for oratory in the
farewells. Mansfield’s sore heart was a little comforted by the grip
of Cyril’s hand as he passed him in the doorway, even though the
accompanying words were merely, “Don’t be a silly fool!” Another horse
had been brought round for the Queen’s use, and the riding-party made
a fresh start; but this time it included Cyril. Paschics and Dietrich
were to join their master outside the city, convoying Fräulein von
Staubach, who insisted upon her right to attend the Queen now that her
turn had come round. The men took off their hats as the party rode
away, but turned immediately to rebuke the ladies for shedding tears.
Such a display of pocket-handkerchiefs was calculated to attract
undesirable attention, they said, and Baroness von Hilfenstein and
Madame Stefanovics retreated into the inmost recesses of the house, to
guard against endangering the Queen’s safety by their uncontrollable
emotion. But the fugitives rode safely through the city and out at the
gate, meeting the sheikh as had been arranged, without being
challenged by a single official.
That evening the yacht White Lady, lying in Beyrout roadstead,
suddenly hoisted English colours and the Thracian royal standard, and
put to sea, in company with the Thracian gunboat St Gabriel. It was
remarked as peculiar by curious observers on shore that the Hercynian
war-ship which had arrived that morning immediately slipped her cable
and followed them.