"THE EMPEROR WILL UNDERSTAND"
IT was for the refuge of isolation that Sylvia fled to her own room.
Between her bedchamber and the Grand Duchess's was a boudoir, which
they shared; and it was the door of this intermediate room that gave
admittance, from the corridor outside, to both. To the girl's
surprise, as she entered--her one comfort the assurance of being
undisturbed--her mother looked reproachfully up from a pile of silken
cushions on the sofa. Josephine was rubbing her hands, and the air was
pervaded with the pungent fragrance of sal volatile.
"I thought you were _never_ coming!" ejaculated the Grand Duchess. If
she noticed her daughter's pallor, she believed it due to anxiety
about herself.
Sylvia stared, half dazed, unable yet to separate her mind from her
own private misfortunes.
"Never coming!" she echoed mechanically. "Why--are you ill--did you
expect me?"
"I nearly fainted downstairs," returned the Grand Duchess, "and it is
entirely your fault. You ought not to have exposed me, at my age, to
such terrible shocks. Josephine, you can go."
Sylvia grew as cold as ice. She could think of but one explanation.
Otto von Markstein had not been the only spy. Somehow, news of what
had happened in the garden had reached the Grand Duchess, reducing her
to this extremity. The Princess was scarcely conscious of hearing the
door close after the banished Josephine, yet instinctively she waited
for the click of the latch. "How did you know?" she asked dully.
"How did I know? I had a telegram. A most alarming, disconcerting
telegram. The question is, how did _you_ know that I knew, and how did
you--did I--oh, I am so distressed, I hardly know _anything_!"
The word "telegram" showed Sylvia that somehow, somewhere,
misunderstanding had entered in. Her mother's fretful complaints pried
among her nerves like hot wires; yet could she have believed it, the
new pain was the best of counter-irritants.
"Are you suffering still, dear?" she questioned, carefully
controlling her voice. With the Grand Duchess, it was always best to
go back to the beginning, not to attempt picking up loose ends in the
middle; thus, one sooner reached the end of a tangle.
"Yes, I am ill; very ill _indeed_. Did no one tell you, no one send you
to me, as I asked?"
"I have seen no one since I left you--no one, that is, who could tell
me anything. Won't _you_ tell--now?"
The Grand Duchess pointed a plump, dimpled forefinger toward a
sixteenth-century writing-table. "The telegram's there, if you care to
see it," she remarked crossly. She did not often lose her temper, or
at least, not for long; but she had really borne a great deal of late,
and, as she had observed, it was all Sylvia's fault, therefore it was
Sylvia's turn to suffer now.
On the desk lay a crumpled piece of paper. Sylvia picked it up and
read, written in English:
"Somebody making inquiries here about De Courcys. Beg to advise you
immediately to explain all, or leave present place of residence; avoid
almost certain unpleasantness. Have just heard of complications.--
WEST."
"Well, what do you think of that?" irritably demanded the Duchess,
vexed at Sylvia's calmness. "Isn't it enough to make any one faint?
That I--_I_, a woman in my position should be forced to appear a--er--
an _adventuress_! If it were not so dreadful, it would be absurd. You
might show a _little_ feeling, since it is for you that I have done it
all."
"I have plenty of feeling, mother," said Sylvia. "Only I--seem somehow
rather stunned just now. I suppose Lady West means that busy bodies
have been trying to find out things about the De Courcys. We have
provided for most contingencies, but we had not thought of spies--_till
to-night_."
"I allowed myself to be led by you," declared the Grand Duchess, "when
I ought to have controlled you, as my child. I should never have
allowed myself to be placed in such an ignominious plight. But here I
am, in it; and here you are also--which is quite as bad, if not worse.
You have brought us into this trouble, Sylvia; the least you can do is
to get us out. And, after all"--brightening a little--"there is, thank
goodness, a way to do that. It ought not to be so _very_ difficult."
"What way--do you mean?"
"I wonder you ask--since there is only one. Stop this foolish child's
game that you have deluded me into playing; explain everything to the
Emperor and to Baroness von Lynar, and be prepared to turn the tables
on our enemy whoever that may be. Your dear father always said that I
had a head for emergencies, once I could get the upper hand of my
nerves, and I hope--I _think_, he was right."
"But what you propose is impossible, mother."
Sylvia spoke in a low, constrained voice, and the Grand Duchess,
rising from among her pillows, suddenly observed for the first time
that there was something strange in the girl's manner and appearance.
She admired her daughter, as a bewildered hen-mother might admire the
beautiful, incomprehensible ball of golden fluff that sails calmly
away beyond her control in a terrifying expanse of water, while she
herself can only cluck protest from the bank. The Grand Duchess had
almost invariably yielded her will to Sylvia's in the end; but she
told herself that she had done so once too often, and the weaknesses
of her past buttressed her obstinacy in the present.
"I tell you it isn't impossible," she exclaimed. "It can't be
impossible, when it's the only way left to save our dignity. We
mustn't let our enemies have the first move. You meant to make a sort
of dramatic revelation, sooner or later. Well, it must be sooner, that
is all, my dear."
"Ah, I meant--I meant!" echoed Sylvia, the sound of a sob in her
voice. "Nothing has happened as I meant, mother. You were right; I was
wrong. We ought never to have come to Rhaetia."
The Grand Duchess's heart gave a thump. If Sylvia were thus ready to
admit herself in the wrong, without a struggle, then matters must
indeed have reached an alarming pass. Not a jest; not a single
flippancy! The poor lady was seriously distressed.
"Not--come--to--Rhaetia?" she repeated as incredulously as if she had
not herself lately made the same assertion. "Why--why--what--"
"I scarcely know how to tell you," said Sylvia, with lowered lashes.
"But I suppose I must."
"Of course you must. I thought you looked upset. You were with _him_--
in the music-room. Yes; I remember. Did you try to explain, and he--
was it as I feared, only this evening before dinner? Wouldn't he
forgive the decep----"
"He knows nothing about it."
"Well, what then? Don't keep me in suspense. I've had enough to try me
without that." And the Grand Duchess raised a little jewelled
vinaigrette to her nostrils. It had been given her by Queen Victoria,
and was particularly supporting in a time of trial.
Sylvia's lips were so dry that she found difficulty in articulating.
There were some things it was extremely embarrassing to tell one's
mother.
"We--went out into the garden--to see the moon--or something," she
managed to begin. "He asked me to be--his wife. Oh--wait, wait,
please! _Don't_ say anything yet! I didn't know what to make of it,
and--he had to explain. He put it as inoffensively as he could, but--
oh! mother, I--I was only good enough to be his _morganatic_ wife!"
The storm had burst at last. There had always been mental and
temperamental barriers between the parent and child; but, after all, a
mother is a mother; and nothing better has ever been invented yet.
Sylvia fell on her knees by the sofa, and, burying her head in her
mother's lap, sobbed as if parting with her youth.
The Grand Duchess thought of the last time when the girl had so knelt
beside her, the bright hair under her caressing hand; and the contrast
between _then_ and _now_ brought motherly tears to her eyes. That time
had been in the dear old river garden at Richmond, when Sylvia had
coaxed away her promise to help forward this very scheme--this
disastrous, miserable, _mad_ scheme. Poor little Sylvia, so young, so
inexperienced, so thoroughly girlish for all her naughty obstinacy and
recklessness, sweet and loving and impulsive! The child had been so
full of hope then; why, only a few hours ago, she had said she was the
happiest creature on earth!
All the Grand Duchess's resentment melted away as she rocked the
sobbing girl in the comfortable cradle of her arms, murmuring and
crying over her--the hen-mother, over the golden duckling that had
ventured into water too rough and treacherous.
"There, there, dear," she crooned. "It isn't so very dreadful; not
half as bad as you made me think. I'm sure he _meant_ well. It showed,
at any rate, that he loved you. Just at first, it came as rather a
_shock_, of course, knowing who we are; but if you had really been
Miss de Courcy, I suppose--I suppose it would have been a great
_compliment_."
"I call it an insult; I called it so to him," gasped Sylvia in the
midst of sobs.
"Oh, dear me, not as bad as that--not at all! Many ladies of very high
standing have been in such positions, and every one has thoroughly
respected them. Though, of course, such a thing would never do for
_you_; you must reflect that Maximilian couldn't _know_ that."
"He ought to have known--known that I would never consent. That no
woman with English blood in her veins would ever consent. It was an
insult. It has shown how poor was his estimate of me. It was--it was!
It has broken my heart. It has killed me. Oh, mother, it's all at an
end--everything I lived for. I can never bear to see him after this."
"You'll feel differently to-morrow, pet," purred the Grand Duchess,
smoothing the tumbled waves of yellow hair.
"Never!"
"You are too young to fully understand the etiquette of Courts.
Remember, _his_ point of view is different from yours."
"That is the reason I am so miserable. His point of view is hateful. I
want to go away--to go away at once."
Her earnest emphasis forced conviction. She really meant it. This was
no girlish whim, to be repented in a few hours, a lovers' quarrel, to
be made up to-morrow. The Grand Duchess's kindly face, already deeply
clouded, was utterly obscured in gloom. The small features seemed lost
behind their expression of distress.
"But surely you will tell him the truth, or let me, and give him a
chance to--to speak again? Now, more than ever----"
"What good would it do? Everything is spoiled. Of course, if he knew I
were Sylvia of Eltzburg-Neuwald, he would be sorry for what had
happened, even if he thought I had brought it all on myself. But that
would be too late to mend anything. Don't you see, don't you
understand, that I valued his love because it was given to me, just
_me_, not the Princess? If he said, 'Now that I know you are Sylvia, I
can have the pleasure of offering my _right_, instead of my _left_
hand to you, as my wife, and everything can be very pleasant and
regular,' I should not care for that at all. No, we must go home,
mother; and the Emperor Maximilian of Rhaetia must be informed that
Sylvia of Eltzburg-Neuwald has decided not to marry. That will be our
one revenge--the only one we can have--that little slap in the face to
His Imperial Majesty; so pitiful a slap, since he will never know that
Princess Sylvia who won't marry him, and Miss de Courcy who can't, are
one and the same. But, mother, I did love him--I did love him so!"
"Then forget and forgive--and be happy, while you can."
"I can't. I've just told you why. Oh, do let us make our plans to get
out of this hateful house as soon as possible."
The Grand Duchess resigned herself to the inevitable, and only a deep
sigh told the tale of the effort resignation cost her. For once she
was expected to take the initiative, and the responsibility was a
stimulant; this one consolation was left her.
"Well," she said, after a moment's abstruse reflection, "the telegram
will give us an excuse. I was so overcome on reading it that I had to
sit down again after getting suddenly up from my chair and borrow the
Baroness's smelling-salts--poor, inadequate Rhaetian stuff. Every one
was alarmed, and I explained, without going into particulars, that I
had received most _disturbing_ news from England. Directly I felt more
like myself, I came upstairs, requesting that you should be sent to
me, when you returned--though you were not to be specially _called_. I
begged the Baroness not to be anxious, but she said that, before she
went to bed, I really must allow her to stop at the door and inquire
how I was. We might say to her that the telegram had compelled our
immediate return to England."
"Listen," whispered Sylvia. "There's someone at the door now."
She sprang to her feet, and, with the marvellous facility for meeting
a conventional emergency possessed by all women in palace or tenement,
between the time of rising and walking to the door, she had conquered
the disorder of her countenance. Her hair was smoothed back into
perfection; the laces on her dress had fallen into their original old
graceful lines; her face, though flushed, would show no sign of tears
in the softly shaded light.
Sylvia herself opened the door and gracefully besought the inquiring
Baroness to come in. Immediately after the scene in the garden, she
could not have done this so quietly; but she had cried her heart out
now, and reviled the offender to a sympathetic audience, thus
facilitating the return of self-control. Even if the Baroness von
Lynar guessed that she had been weeping, it would only be put down to
the score of that mysterious "bad news."
"How good of you!" breathed the Grand Duchess, with a less coherent
undertone of appreciation from Sylvia. "Oh, yes, thank you, _so_ much
better; quite well again, though still very anxious. _Somebody_ must
have been kind enough to tell dear Mary, for here she is, you see; and
she and I have been talking matters over. We are quite _desolated_ at
breaking our delightful visit suddenly short, but unluckily it can't
be helped. This _unfortunate_ news from home! We must positively not
lose an hour in returning."
Baroness von Lynar was genuinely disconcerted, though perhaps her
guests would scarcely have been flattered had they divined the true
cause of her intense desire to detain them. Miss de Courcy had been
the bright particular star of the house party at Lynarberg, as the
mistress of the castle delicately declared, and it was grievous that
the sky must be robbed of its most brilliant ornament. But it was far
more grievous that Maximilian should be annoyed, and the Baroness's
own pretty, secret little scheme probably be brought to confusion.
"It is too cruel!" she exclaimed, with unwonted sincerity. "What shall
we do without you? We could better have spared any others among our
guests. Our poor party will be hopelessly shattered by your loss.
Could you not wire home that you are coming at your earliest
convenience, dear Lady de Courcy, and stay with us at least until the
day after to-morrow, when the Emperor's visit will be over?"
"Alas! I am afraid we could not do even that," regretted the Grand
Duchess, her eyes on Sylvia's face. "It is necessary that we reach
England as soon as possible. We were thinking of quite an early train
to-morrow. You will forgive us, I know, dear Baroness von Lynar; but
we have both been so upset by these sad tidings that we shall hardly
be equal to facing any of our kind friends here again. These things
are so unnerving, you know--and I give way so easily of late years. As
a great favour to us both, pray mention to no one that we are going,
until we have actually gone. If you would allow us to leave our adieux
to be said by you, we would beg you for a carriage after an early cup
of coffee in our rooms; then we could pick up Miss Collinson and the
luggage we left at the Hohenburgerhof, and catch the Orient express
from Salzbrück to Paris."
The Baroness was aghast at her own defeat and her powerlessness to
retrieve it. For once she failed in tact. "But the Emperor?" she
exclaimed. "He will be deeply hurt if he is denied the sad privilege
of bidding you farewell."
The Grand Duchess hesitated, and Sylvia entered the conversational
lists for the first time. "The Emperor will understand," she said
quietly; "I said good-bye to him--for us both--to-night."