Long Live the King!

"My dear," said my father, one morning, addressing my mother, when we sat at breakfast, which, en passant, we took together in the homely English fashion, "I have received a letter that you will doubtless consider of some importance. The Count von Marquart is in England, and, with your permission, will pay us a visit to-day. May I instruct Beckerstein to telegraph to the effect that you will receive him?"

A look of pleasure came into my mother's face. What did Marquart's presence in England mean? Did it foretell a change in our lives? She hastened to assure my father that it would give her the utmost pleasure to see the old Minister who had served our House so faithfully. I thought of the Chancellor as I had last seen him, bending over my mother's hand as he bade her good-bye in the street beyond the palace, that terrible night on which we had fled from the Capital, and informed her in answer to her question that I remembered him perfectly. Strangely enough the enthusiasm which took possession of my mother and myself did not extend to my father and Max. The former, I am inclined to think, dreaded lest the Count's presence meant the commencement of an intrigue, which would eventually land him in Pannonia; but Max's reception of the news I am altogether at a loss to understand. The fact, however, remained, that the Count was in England, and that in a few hours we should see him once more.

For the remainder of the time that elapsed before he could be with us, my mother was filled with the greatest impatience. Never before had she been so well disposed towards the old man.

At last his carriage was seen rolling up the drive. Contrary to custom, and, perhaps, to etiquette, we had assembled on the terrace before the house, to await his arrival. Gradually the carriage drew nearer, and at last it pulled up at the steps. When the servants had opened the door, the figure of the aged statesman appeared, and ascended to where we were standing waiting to receive him. The time that had elapsed since we had last seen him had not played such havoc with him as we had expected. His back was still as straight, his glance as piercing; his moustache and hair may have been a little whiter, but it curled as fiercely as before. His age must have bordered close upon eighty, but his intellect was as keen as in his prime. He saluted my father and mother; then turned to Max. I saw his eyes wander over him with evident approval, taking in and appreciating the details of his appearance. "Here," doubtless he was saying to himself, "is a man worthy to be called king." Then he turned to me and took my hand. Immediately his expression changed and a look of bewilderment spread over his face. "Good Heavens! Michael's cross!" I heard him mutter to himself, and I could not have been mistaken, for the others of the party heard it also.

An awkward pause followed, during which I thought of that interview with the gipsy so many years before. Perhaps Max was thinking of it also, for his face grew very hard, and I knew by experience that he was battling with the temper that was trying to get possession of him. Nothing was said on the subject, however, and when Marquart had recovered his self-possession (why he should have lost it I cannot say) we followed our elders into the house. Though he endeavoured not to show it, I am inclined to believe that my father was more touched by his old Minister's visit than he would have liked us to suppose. At any rate, he forebore to indulge in his usual fits of cynicism. Though at dinner that evening he did not once refer to Pannonia, I feel certain a large portion of his thoughts were with her. Indeed, all things considered, it could scarcely have been otherwise. Since the establishment of the Republic, the old Chancellor had held aloof from public affairs. Nothing would induce him to take any part in the new state of things. "They have mounted their horse of folly," he had observed when he had been approached on the subject, "let them ride it to death. I, for one, will not attempt to stop them." With that he had retired to his castle at Friedelbain, and had sat himself down to work out his Logarithms and to wait for the old order to reassert itself. This he confidently believed would some day come to pass.

After dinner, my father and Marquart withdrew to the former's study, while Max and I joined our mother in the drawing-room. Her lady-in-waiting, for though we were in exile we still preserved the semblance of a Court, was reading to her; but when we entered, at a signal from my mother, she stopped and put away her book. It was easily seen that the former had been upset by something, for, when we spoke to her, her thoughts seemed far away, and she answered with a hesitation that was by no means usual to her. Another thing struck me as remarkable, and that was her treatment of Max. They had not quarrelled; indeed, I had never known them to do such a thing, and yet her behaviour towards him seemed based on something that I could not for the life of me understand. It was as if she were trying to make up to him for an unintentional wrong that she had done him, and which she feared he might not forgive when he discovered. To add further to this strange state of affairs, the more amiable she was towards him the more ill at ease did he become with her. He seemed restless, discontented, and yet particularly anxious to be on friendly terms with myself, the one person of all others, after what had happened that afternoon, whom he might have been forgiven had he ignored. I could not understand it all, and the more I thought of it the more it troubled me. Surely Max did not imagine that I deemed it likely I should ever ascend the throne! I could not believe that he would be so foolish as to attach any credence to the old superstition concerning the Michael cross, or that even if he did, he would be weak enough to allow it to embitter his life.

If I live to be a hundred I shall not forget that evening, every detail connected with which, as I have shown, is engraved upon my memory. It was considerably after ten o'clock before my father and Marquart joined us in the drawing-room. The former seemed in excellent spirits, the latter scarcely so happy. Doubtless he had come expecting to find his old master pining to be back in his own country once more. His shrewd common sense, however, must have shown him, before they had been very long together, that this was far from being the case. He found him contented with his lot, and far from desirous of again taking up the load of responsibility he had been so fortunate as to cast off. Knowing nothing of the strained state of affairs that had existed prior to their entrance, Marquart must not be blamed if he unwittingly intensified the unpleasantness of the situation. He seated himself by the side of my mother, and talked with her of bygone days, and of friends of whom she had long lost sight, thus raising a train of thoughts in her mind that could only give birth to hopes she must have felt in her heart would never now be realised. It was noticeable also that the Count's eyes wandered continually in my direction. In consequence, I did not appear at my best. Knowing that Max was watching me, and that my mother was nervous on his account, I would have given anything to have been able to slip quietly from the room, and not make my appearance in public again until Marquart had left the house. This, however, was out of the question. The Count was our guest, and it behoved me to remain with him. How thankful, therefore, I was when the time arrived for us to say good-night, I must leave you to imagine. In silence Max and I made our way to our own quarter of the house. I wanted to say something to him, and yet I did not know with what words to approach him. I remembered the look I had seen on his face that afternoon, and dreaded lest an explosion were imminent. Such, however, was not the case. Having reached my bedroom, we paused to bid each other good-night. Then Max put his hand on my shoulder and looked sadly down at me. There was an expression upon his face that I had never seen there before. It told me that he had battled with himself, and that, after a severe struggle, his better nature had come out triumphant.

"Poor old Paul!" he said in a kindlier tone than I think he had ever yet spoken to me. "Come what may, we will be friends. Whatever the future may have in store for us, we will not quarrel, will we? Shall we swear to that?"

"Of course we will be friends, Max," I answered. "We'll never be anything else, happen what may. Why should we?"

He did not answer my question, but shook me by the hand, and then, with a little sigh, turned and went along the corridor to his own room, while I went into mine, vainly trying to arrive at an understanding of the situation. One thing, at any rate, was certain: Max and I had agreed not to quarrel. Yet instinctively I felt that it had cost him something to speak to me as he had done. Poor Max! Poor Max! I have known many men, but few with such honest hearts as yours.

A few minutes later I was in bed, but, as I soon discovered, not to sleep. The stirring events of the day had exercised a greater effect upon my brain than I had imagined. My interview with Max was still too fresh in my memory to permit of my settling down to slumber. My heart was upbraiding me for not having met his advances with a greater show of warmth. While he had been all generosity to me, it struck me that I had been almost cold to him. How devoutly I wished that Marquart had never come to England at all! Unconsciously, it is true, he had done his best to estrange my brother and myself; he had put all sorts of thoughts in my mother's head that had better not have been there, and for what purpose? For the life of me I could not tell. What a strange world it is, after all, and what blind bats we mortals may consider ourselves! While I was fretting and worrying because Max was unhappy, Destiny was slowly moving forward her chessmen, in the ranks of which we none of us knew what parts we were to play. Looking back at that time, I am struck by two strange facts. If my mother could see sufficiently far into the future to entertain vague fears upon Max's account, and the latter, forewarned by fate, perhaps, thought it necessary to make me swear that we should ever remain friends, how was it that they could not see further? Had they done so, Max would have – but there, we could not see, so what more remains to be said? Let me return, therefore, to the point at which I broke off.

I had retired to rest for upwards of an hour when I caught the sound of a door being shut further along the corridor, and a moment later of a soft footfall outside my room. I wondered who it could be, for there was no room save Max's and my own in that quarter of the house, and I did not know of any one who would be likely to visit it. As I listened, the footfalls were accompanied by something that was very like a sob. I could restrain my curiosity no longer, but, springing from my bed, opened the door and looked out. A figure was making its way towards the main portion of the house, and one glance was sufficient to show me that it was my mother. She had been to Max's room, and was returning to her own, weeping bitterly. Had there been the remotest chance of my catching her, I should have run after her and attempted to comfort her, but I was too late. Feeling as if I were the cause of her unhappiness, I returned to bed, and once more set to work to try and unravel the mystery that surrounded us. Had I been able to guess what the future had in store for us, I might have been able to set it right. I wonder if I should have had the pluck to do so? In my own heart I like to think it possible.

CHAPTER V

In course of time and in accordance with the parental plans, Max had joined a regiment, the 123rd Lancers, and was quartered in the Midlands, while I was to embark upon my quest for military distinction as soon as I should be old enough for a commission. Eventually I was gazetted to a lieutenancy in Her Majesty's Household Cavalry. This necessitated my living in town; a distinct change from the quiet country life I had hitherto led. I was fortunate in being kindly received by my brother officers, and as my father and mother's friends went out of their way to show me attention, it may be taken for granted that I was about as satisfied with my lot in life as a man could well be. Pannonia seemed slipping every day further into the background, and there were even times when I was scarcely conscious of her existence. Strangely enough, my mother, upon whom time was steadily laying her hand, seemed to be abandoning the notion that we should return, and to be resigning herself to the idea that England was likely to be her home for the remainder of her existence. And that leads me to venture upon a little piece of moralising, the first and last, I trust, I shall indulge in.

We are led to believe by the doctors that once in every seven years our physical being undergoes a change. Might this not be so in other matters? Be that as it may, there is certainly a strange concurrence in numbers. I was eight years old when the gipsy woman told me my fortune, and brought about the first trouble between Max and myself; I was sixteen when von Marquart made his appearance in England, and marked another epoch in my life; and if the line of coincidence may be followed further, I might also observe that I was twenty-four when the third, and, perhaps in a certain sense, the most important event occurred, for the reason that from it so many other issues were developed. At the same time I must confess it is not a subject upon which I care to dwell for any length of time. It has both a pleasant and painful side, and while I am willing to state that it has proved my greatest blessing, I am also bound to admit that it has inflicted upon me a wound, the scar of which time will never be able to obliterate. And this brings me to another argument. Surely it must have struck you how often the greatest events find their origin in the simplest things. I will supply an instance. John Noakes, a village mechanic, drops in one Sunday afternoon, having nothing better to do, to take a cup of tea with Matthew Stoakes, whose daughter Jane, by the way, boasts a pretty face and a comely figure. Hitherto, John has never thought of sweethearting, or indeed of anything else but his carpenter's bench, and his bit of garden behind the cottage. Somehow this afternoon, however, he feels impelled towards his neighbour's house. He goes; old Matthew, to while away the time, reads to the assembled company a letter he has received from a brother in Australia. Though the writer himself would not appear to have done as well as he could have wished, he describes, with fine descriptive touches, the wealth other men have accumulated in that Eldorado of the South. John goes home with a notion at the back of his head that he too would like to try his luck there. The idea grows and flourishes. Eventually he sets sail for the Antipodes, and for upwards of thirty years nothing more is heard of him. When he returns to England after this long lapse of time he is several times a millionaire, and in a position to purchase half the country-side, which he promptly does. He plumes himself upon his shrewdness, and talks of his business capacity to his fellow-justices! He quite forgets, however, that, had it not been for that chance visit to old Matthew's house that sunny Sunday afternoon, and the letter that was read to him there, he might still be planing at his bench, a poorer and, in every respect, a humbler man. And so, gentle reader, I venture to suggest, it is with all of us. However we may be born, whatever may come to us from other people, there is always one little chance permitted us, and according as we seize it or neglect it, so it will make or mar our lives. Mine came to me in a quite unexpected fashion, and I must leave you to discover for yourselves in what manner I treated it, and what befell me and mine in consequence.

It has been popularly supposed that Her Majesty's Household Troops have no other occupation in life than to act as escorts to Royal carriages, to take part in public processions, and to sit like statues upon their chargers, in the pigeon-houses that ornament the front of the Horse Guards. A certain popular novelist has gone further, and has accused their officers of being as luxuriously housed as young duchesses, of breaking the hearts of beautiful ladies-in-waiting, and of committing various other petty sins, very charming no doubt in themselves, but much too improper for me to mention here. However that may be, I am prepared to state that my military duties were of a somewhat more arduous nature. Relaxations there were, it is true, and of the most pleasant description; and he would have been hard indeed to satisfy who could have been discontented with them. Nevertheless, the fact remains that our lives were not so easy as many people are wont to declare.

Despite a certain witty diplomatist's assertion that Paris is pre-eminently "the city of pretty women, while London is that of immaculate wives," I am prepared to contend that never in any other part of Europe have I seen so many beautiful women gathered together at one time as in the foggy metropolis of England. At the risk of being considered conceited, I must admit their kindness to myself. A heart less susceptible to their fascinations could not have failed to have been broken a dozen times in each successive season. As for me, I gave in at once without a struggle, and did not utter even a cry for mercy.

"It's a good thing for you that your position protects you," said one of our majors one afternoon as we drove home together from Hurlingham. "Had it been otherwise, you would have been caught long since."

A certain young unmarried American had been present that afternoon, and I am not going to say that there had not been some excuse for his admonition. At the same time I would not admit that he was right. To have done so would have been to deprive myself of a considerable amount of pleasure in the future.

"My dear fellow," I answered, "when Providence vouchsafes one such opportunities, it would be scarcely respectable on a mere mortal's part to neglect them. Miss Gedge was kind enough this afternoon to tell me that she 'just fairly adored princes,' and after an invitation of that description what could one do but make oneself as agreeable as possible? Put yourself in my place and see what you would do!"

"Not if I know it," he replied. "I would not run such a risk for the world."

Favoured though I had been, I was happy enough, so far, not to have been smitten by the Bow Boy's dart, and with this little explanation I will proceed to narrate the incident to which it is the prelude.

The week in question had been an exceptionally busy one. We had had a field day at Wormwood Scrubs on Monday, a regimental polo match at Hurlingham on Tuesday, a mess dinner given to the Hereditary Prince of Liedenvald on Wednesday, while on Thursday there was a garden party at Marlborough House, a state dinner at Buckingham Palace, and dances at no less than four houses afterwards. When I opened my eyes in the morning, it was with the feeling that I had a vast amount of work to get through before I should be able to close them again. How little I imagined the variety of emotions to which I was to be subjected before that event could take place! That afternoon, at the last moment, I was detained at the barracks for some little time; in consequence, it was considerably past four o'clock before I entered the gates of Marlborough House. Having paid my respects to the most charming hostess in England, if not in the world, I crossed the lawn in search of acquaintances. Seated under a tree I discovered my kind friend the Duchess of Laverstock. She was talking to the Russian Ambassador at the moment, but was kind enough to receive me very graciously.

The good fairy at her birth had bestowed upon Her Grace the rare gift – and, believe me, it is a rare one – of being able to make the person to whom she was speaking think that the amusement of the moment would be like leather and prunella to her, but for his, or her, participation in it.

"You are late, Prince Paul," she said, moving her parasol a little, in order to shade her face. "I have been expecting you for the last half-hour."

"Am I to be flattered by your interest or grieved at your disappointment?" I replied, seating myself beside her. "Perhaps you will decide for me. In any case, could you not induce the Duke to bring in a Bill to ameliorate the condition of lieutenants in Her Majesty's Household Cavalry? Think how they have worked us this week. It will take at least three months' leave to put me on my feet again."

The Duchess laughed good-humouredly.

"You must dine with us and give him your ideas on the subject," she said. "In the meantime I am going to talk seriously to you. I have brought a young friend with me to-day to whom you must really be introduced."

"Who is this friend you are so anxious I should meet? You have aroused my curiosity."

"Is it really in my power to do that?" she retorted. "You have at last paid me a compliment I can appreciate. But let us walk across the lawn; I fancy we shall find her at the further end. I saw her a few minutes since walking with Lord Newmarket."

"I only hope he has not been regaling her with any of his sporting reminiscences. It was Mary Bethbridge, I think, who declared that, when she was staying at Markingdale, even the wording of the family prayers reeked of the stables."

Talking in this strain, the amiable lady led me across the lawn towards a group of people who were clustered near the band. She was on the look-out for her friend, but who that friend was I am prepared to admit I had not the slightest idea. As all the world is, or should be, aware, the Duchess of Laverstock is an inveterate matchmaker. It is said that, at their place in Devonshire, she allows such of her farm servants as are bachelors a month to choose a sweetheart, six months to court in, a week to propose in, another month in which to marry, and – well, the long and the short of it is that since there were reasons of State why she could not do me an injury in that respect, I could not understand why she could have been so eager to find the lady in question. Putting up her glasses she examined the people about her attentively.

"Ah! there she is!" she said at last. "Come this way, Prince, and remember that you are to behave yourself very nicely, under pain of my severest displeasure."

So saying, she led the way towards a lady and a gentleman who had hitherto been hidden from our sight by the fashionable crowd. The man I recognised immediately; but his companion I could not remember ever to have seen before. One thing was certain, she was a wonderfully beautiful girl. She was exquisitely dressed, and carried herself with a distinction that raised her above the level of the other beauties. I seemed to know her face, and yet I could not recall where I had seen it before. Then, in a flash, I remembered.

"Princess Ottilie," I began, as soon as we stood face to face.

The Duchess stared at me in surprise.

"Can it be possible that you know each other?" she cried. "I had quite made up my mind that you had not met, and I was hoping to do you both a charitable action."

Turning to the girl before me, I said, "You are the Princess Ottilie, are you not?"

"Yes," she answered; "and if I am not mistaken you are Prince Paul of Pannonia. Do you remember that dreadful day when the horses ran away and nearly killed me at the palace gates?"

"Is it likely I shall ever forget it?" I returned. "The whole scene rises before my eyes at this moment. What an age has elapsed since then!"

The Duchess and Lord Newmarket, who were kindly souls, strolled away, leaving us together. I looked again at the girl; really she was remarkably beautiful. There could be no sort of doubt about that. I had never seen anyone in my life half so fair.

"Can we not discover a couple of chairs, and try to recall some other impressions?" I inquired.

"It would be very pleasant," she replied; and we accordingly strolled away together.

"If I may be allowed to say so, you have altered a great deal since I last saw you," I began, when we had found our chairs and had seated ourselves upon them.

"And perhaps I might return the compliment," she continued. "How strange it seems that we should meet here, does it not?"

"Very strange indeed," I answered. "You have not been back to Pannonia since that dreadful time?"