CHAPTER VI.
DANAOS DONA FERENTES.
TELLING Mansfield that he was going for a stroll, and should probably lunch at Princess Soudaroff’s—a piece of information that filled the secretary with unavailing envy—Cyril took the road which led to the villa occupied by the Princess of Dardania. Reaching the door, he was greeted with stares of surprise by the servants on the steps and in the hall, and his request to be permitted to wait upon the Princess was regarded with amazement, not unmixed with suspicion.
“Her Royal Highness does not receive visitors,” he was told, while his card was handed round and scrutinised with something of awe.
“I think her Royal Highness will receive me,” he answered calmly, wishing he was as sure of the fact as he pretended to be. No one knew better than he did that he was making a hazardous stroke. If it failed, his old enemy would have scored a point. But his confident air impressed the servants sufficiently to induce them to carry his name to the Princess, and her reception of it established him in their respect. Princess Ottilie was beginning to be anxious about the fulfilment of her compact with Prince Soudaroff. Two days had passed since his visit, and she had made no progress towards securing the coveted governorship for her son. Worse than this, there seemed to be no means even of sounding Cyril upon the subject, unless she went so far as to make direct advances, such as he would probably take delight in repulsing. Not knowing that she had become necessary to his schemes, she had never dared to hope that the first overtures would come from him, and the announcement that he asked to see her was music in her ears. She gave orders that he should be admitted at once, and when he was ushered into her boudoir he found her standing beside the table to receive him, a majestic figure in her sweeping black robes. Why was it that Cyril’s heart flew straightway to another woman who had worn similar weeds, which, so far from enhancing such beauty as she possessed, had only served to accentuate the slenderness of her form and deprive her of every vestige of colour? The Princess of Dardania looked more magnificent even than of old, the severity of the garb exhibiting her stately stature to the fullest advantage.
“A year ago,” she said, “I should have hesitated to receive Count Mortimer, fearing that he came as an enemy; but now”—her eyes strayed to the large portrait of her late husband which stood upon the table—“I cannot believe that he would seek my presence with the desire of adding to my misfortunes.”
“Indeed, madame, my sole reason for entreating an audience is the double hope of doing you a service and of obtaining a favour from you.”
“Tell me the last first, Count, that I may at any rate have the pleasure of granting it.”
“It grows out of the first, madame, and I will therefore ask permission to defer it for a moment. Your Royal Highness will recollect that when we last met I had the misfortune to differ from you with regard to the affairs of Thracia?”
The Princess remembered Prince Soudaroff’s hint, and trembled in spite of herself. Had her old enemy come to announce the downfall of her dearest hopes? She inclined her head slightly in answer to the question, but said nothing.
“You favoured a certain policy, madame, which I opposed. Your advice prevailed. I bowed to circumstances, and quitted Thracia. I have now no wish to disturb the settlement then arrived at, although I think your Royal Highness will perceive presently that I could easily do so.”
“I don’t understand you, Count. Pray do not speak in riddles.”
“To speak plainly, madame, the King of Thracia has been seized with a violent—we will hope only evanescent—passion for my niece.”
“Surely you forget that his Majesty is betrothed to my daughter, Count?”
“Say rather, madame, that his Majesty has forgotten it, since this morning he directed me to make formal proposals to my brother for his daughter’s hand.”
“Oh, really, Count, this is too absurd! His Majesty must be out of his mind.”
“The derangement is merely temporary, madame. My niece regards it in that light, I assure you. She was horrified by the King’s proposal.”
“I congratulate you on the good sense of the young lady, Count.”
“I am indeed to be congratulated, madame; but I can see that this vexatious affair may have disagreeable consequences, of which my niece does not dream. I understand that at the picnic yesterday his Majesty made her unpleasantly conspicuous by his attentions. Her natural impulse is to leave Ludwigsbad immediately; but such a flight would only cause the sensation we wish to avoid. You acknowledge, madame, that Lady Philippa has behaved well, you have honoured her parents with your friendship—you must see that there is only one means of averting such gossip as would be equally painful to you and to them.”
The Princess’s countenance cleared. “Have you heard, Count, that my daughter hurt her foot yesterday, and is condemned to the sofa for several days? She has conceived a romantic attachment for your pretty niece, and it would cheer her to have her society. Do you think Lady Philippa’s excellent godmother would spare her to us for a week? If so, I will send Countess Birnsdorf to bring her here.”
“I feel sure that Princess Soudaroff will rejoice to sacrifice herself on Princess Lida’s behalf, madame. The King, of course——”
“The King is about to join a shooting-party in the mountains. I heard the news just before you came.”
“That removes my sole anxiety, madame. Your Royal Highness will condescend to accept my thanks for your great kindness?”
“Wait, Count. There is something I wish to say. Do you remember telling me that if I tried to rule the Balkans without your help I should fail? It is true; I have proved it. But who could have imagined that it would be the ingratitude and disobedience of my own children which would bring about the fulfilment of your prophecy?”
“You have my sincerest sympathy, madame.”
“My eldest daughter, as you know, is married to King Albrecht of Mœsia. I thought him all I could desire; he seemed thoroughly in sympathy with my schemes; but no sooner was he married than he became a German of the Germans, and Bettine followed his example. Thus I lost Mœsia from my Slavonic confederation. But with my son it was even worse. You know, of course, that he was to marry the Grand-Duchess Sonya Eugenovna. Her mother has long been dead, and she spent much of her time with me. All seemed to go well between her and Alexis; but shortly before his father died, when I wished him to propose to her, he refused flatly. He had met Princess Emilia of Magnagrecia at the Pannonian Court, and declared that he would marry no one else. In vain I pointed out the disgrace he was bringing upon me; he married Princess Emilia a month ago; and now I am only welcome in Dardania, as in Mœsia, on sufferance. Surely even you must pity me?”
“Madame,” interposed Cyril, in tones of deep emotion, “your gracious confidence forces me to speak. The idea of detaching your son from the Grand-Duchess Sonya, and attracting him to the lady who is now his wife, was mine.”
The Princess sat as if stunned. She had known the truth perfectly well, and Cyril was aware of this. It was his confession that took her by surprise. “You have made amends by your chivalrous action to-day,” she said at last, with a sad smile.
“Your kindness overwhelms me, madame. Have I your Highness’s permission to retire? I know my presence must be distasteful.”
“No; there is something else you can do, Count. I have another son, and I have set my heart on his becoming governor of Palestine. That is in your power to bring about.”
“Alas, madame! Why ask me the one impossible thing? The decision does not rest with me, nor even with my friends.”
The Princess smiled more gently still. “I must take the will for the deed, I suppose?” she said. “That is poor comfort for an anxious mother, Count. But don’t think I blame you. You will come here occasionally when your niece is with us, and assure yourself that we are taking proper care of her? We need not sadden the young with the knowledge of our troubles. Come as often as you like, and do not feel compelled to ask for me. I cannot forget that I am growing old.”
“Then, madame, you succeed where all the rest of the world has failed,” responded Cyril, kissing the beautiful hand she held out to him. His manner was remorseful, and his eyes lingered on her face as he left the room. As soon as he was gone, the Princess crossed the floor to a large mirror.
“He was more nearly human than I have ever known him,” she mused. “What can it be?” She smiled consciously as her eyes fell upon the reflection in the glass. “Would it be possible? What a triumph! to have him at my feet! But he is dangerous; I dare not trust him. There is Ernestine, too; I must sound him on that subject. That will give me some clue to his present feelings. He is open to conviction on the subject of Kazimir, I think; but even that would be nothing in comparison with the joy of snatching him from Ernestine. But I must not think of that. I must keep cool. If he once gets the upper hand, all is lost. I am glad I thought of giving him a general invitation. Ah, Birnsdorf,” as the lady-in-waiting appeared at the door, “I want you to take one of the carriages, and go to Princess Soudaroff’s lodgings. You will carry a note from me, and bring back Lady Philippa Mortimer. Impress upon the old fanatic that Lida is making herself ill for want of the girl, and say anything else that occurs to you as likely to weigh with her.”
Countess Birnsdorf curtseyed and retired, and executed her mission with so much success that Philippa returned with her to the villa within an hour. Cyril had prepared Princess Soudaroff’s mind for the request, and the Countess worked skilfully upon her feelings; hence the easy victory.
The week of Philippa’s stay at the villa—a stay which she discovered to be intended as a reward for what Countess Birnsdorf called the “delicate correctness” of her conduct—was not a period of unmixed bliss. The house and grounds were beautiful, and the etiquette exacted by the Princess not excessive, but the atmosphere was new and disagreeable to Philippa. The air seemed full of plots, every one appeared to be playing a part, and the unreality oppressed her, while her usual home remedy for bad spirits, a brisk ride or a long ramble over the hills, was unattainable. She complained afterwards that she never had a chance of blowing the cobwebs away, restricted as she was to stately promenades with Countess Birnsdorf, or funereal drives in a closed carriage with the Princess. Nor were her troubles wholly physical. Her father’s wisdom in declining a crown, and preferring England to the Continent as a residence, commended itself to her more and more when she told herself that even she, placed in Princess Lida’s circumstances, might have learned to share her views of right and wrong. Princess Lida, she found, had fallen deeply in love, not with King Michael, but with a gentleman occupying an official position of some sort, to whose identity she gave no clue, intending, possibly, that Philippa should elicit it by means of cross-examination. But Philippa was disappointing. She was as much shocked as the Princess could desire, but not so much at the existence of the attachment as at the fact that it was not intended to lead to anything more. She listened with but slight interest to Princess Lida’s vivacious enumeration of the various artifices by which she and her lover contrived to carry on their flirtation under the very noses of the Princess of Dardania and Countess Birnsdorf, and she interrupted the history of a certain Court ball, at which the pair had succeeded in exchanging notes, by the question—
“But what do you mean to do about him?”
“Do? What is there to be done? I suppose we shall simply go on.”
“But you can’t intend to marry King Michael when you care for this other man?”
“Of course I do. It has been arranged for me.”
“What does that signify? It would be wrong.”
“Oh, you English, with your right and wrong! I don’t trouble my head with all that. I take my pleasure as it comes.”
“But you would be miserable, married to a man you didn’t love.”
“Oh, the good Philippa is trying to persuade me to run away with the other! I must tell mamma. She little thinks what a serpent she has welcomed into her home, to poison the innocent mind of her child! But you mistake me, my Lippchen. The misery would be if I married the other. I want jewellery and Paris gowns and a gay Court, not love in a four-roomed flat. One of the Pannonian Archduchesses has tried that. She comes to the Schloss (only to family gatherings, of course) in a common cab, and makes her own dresses, I believe. Can you imagine my doing that sort of thing?”
“I never thought of advising you to run away,” said Philippa indignantly, “and if you are only thinking of what you can get, you had certainly better not try it. But you could remain unmarried. That would be better than——”
“Than marrying the King? Thank you, Lippchen! It’s quite clear that you don’t know the sort of life a Princess leads if she doesn’t happen to marry. No position, no independence, patronised and pushed aside by her relations, obliged to become a dowdy old devotee through sheer terror of scandal, for there is no mercy for any one who is remotely suspected of a tendency to disgrace the house. A convent or a fortress, there’s your choice! No, I shall marry King Michael and keep him in order, at any rate in public, and we will have the gayest Court in Europe. Oh, you may trust me to keep up appearances when I have got the reality.”
Philippa was too much disgusted to answer, and Princess Lida, turning restlessly on her couch, broke into a laugh at the sight of her disapproving face.
“You are too delightfully innocent, Lippchen! But, after all, I am in the right. My mother has brought me up, educated me, trained me, with the sole intention of my making this marriage. You would not have me disappoint her—and myself? Is that how you intend to treat your parents when they present your future husband to you?”
“People don’t do that in England,” with dignity.
“Not among the lower orders, I know, but you are ‘highly well-born,’ as we say in German. Let us imagine an instance.” Princess Lida raised herself on her elbow. “Suppose that secretary of your uncle’s declared to you that he had conceived a passion for you”—she watched with delight the flood of crimson which overspread Philippa’s face at this rude handling of the secret, the existence of which she had scarcely owned even to herself—“and you were not insensible to it——”
“You have no right whatever to say such things!” cried Philippa, finding her tongue.
“But, my Lippchen,” with extreme simplicity, “no one could have seen the poor young man in your society the other day without perceiving what his feelings were. Your response I am only imagining for the sake of argument. Well, your parents declare the idea preposterous, and inform you that you have been destined all your life for some elderly red-faced provincial nobleman. What will you do?”
“Of course I would never marry any one without my father’s consent. But I should ask him to tell me his objections, and I know he would treat me as a reasonable being. Perhaps he might change his mind after a time, but if not, I should go on just as I was. He would never try to make me marry any one else.”
“Oh, you are too good, you and your parents!” cried Princess Lida, as Philippa, her fair face crimson, put forth her defence like a defiance; “but I have not such a considerate mother, and mamma has not such an easily contented daughter. You see, the game would not be worth the candle in my case.”
“That means you don’t love the other one well enough to give up anything for his sake?”
“Exactly. I want to keep what I have, and to get all I can. Meanwhile, I enjoy myself—quite decorously and without hurting any one.”
“But surely you are hurting him?”
“How? Oh, you mean if it came out. But I shan’t let it out, you see, nor will he, for he is far too comfortable in his present post, just as I am. Why shouldn’t I amuse myself like every one else? Mamma will have her train of adorers as soon as she receives people again. Even now she has your beloved uncle.”
“Princess!” Philippa’s cry was a passionate contradiction.
Princess Lida laughed. “Why, poor innocent Lippchen, you don’t imagine that Count Mortimer comes here every day to see you? It is my mother who is the attraction, not his dutiful niece. What! have I broken another idol?”
For Philippa had sprung up with an inarticulate exclamation and rushed out of the room. The sting of the accusation lay in the fact that her reason assured her of its truth. It was not to see her that Cyril paid his daily visits to the villa, passing on invariably from the large drawing-room into the boudoir beyond, there to pay his respects to the Princess. These interviews were protracted far beyond the limits ordained by ceremony, and Countess Birnsdorf had felt it necessary to apologise for their length by observing to Philippa that she was quite glad to see Count Mortimer coming in, for no one else had been able to induce the Princess to forget her sorrows in conversation since her bereavement. This information Philippa had received with a certain reserve, for the Princess had not struck her as overwhelmed with grief; but she saw now that the old lady had been endeavouring to divert her mind from a suspicion that had already troubled herself. But had the idea occurred to Cyril? Could he know that the purport of his visits was thus interpreted? Surely it could only be that, impelled at first merely by the desire of cheering the Princess, he had afterwards been attracted by the conversation of a clever and brilliant woman? At any rate, he should be warned what people were saying about him. With this resolve strong in her mind Philippa walked to the garden-gate to meet her uncle, attended only by Princess Lida’s white poodle. One glance at her troubled face showed Cyril that something serious was in the air; but, in his usual teasing fashion, he talked continuously on indifferent subjects. When they came in sight of the house Philippa stopped short, in agony lest the opportunity should be lost.
“Uncle Cyril, I want to ask you something. Is the Princess a friend of yours? Usk and I always thought she had done something to injure you.”
“So she did, Phil. But is it your creed that once an enemy always an enemy? No? Then you see I too can be virtuous and overlook my enemies’ faults—sometimes.”
“But they say—they say you want to marry her,” Philippa succeeded in bringing out.
“Do they? How kind of them! Would you like the Princess for an aunt, Phil? She’s a charming woman, isn’t she?”
“Oh, Uncle Cyril, you wouldn’t—you don’t mean it?”
“Well, Phil, I have no present intention of inviting her to become your aunt. Would you like to know why? Because I am afraid she would say no, of course, and your feelings might be hurt.”
They had reached the villa by this time, and Philippa was left to her own gloomy reflections. Whether her uncle was in earnest or not, it was quite clear that he had no intention of taking her into his confidence, and it did not occur to her that in the circumstances this might be rather advantageous than otherwise. The least suspicious of mortals, Philippa had not discovered that she was persistently catechised as to Cyril’s future plans and his past history. The art with which the subject was approached and the questions put was such that she had no idea of its existence, nor yet of the fact that her honest answers often caused much irritation to the questioner. Philippa knew nothing of her uncle but what he chose to tell her, together with the deductions drawn by Usk and herself from this evidence, and she could not tell more than she knew. The Princess was particularly curious as to the footing upon which Cyril now stood with Queen Ernestine. Did he keep up any communication with her, or had they parted for ever? Philippa had heard from Mansfield of Prince Mirkovics’s defence of Queen Ernestine, and her prejudices were somewhat modified; but she was still firm in the belief that her uncle had been very badly treated. It was, therefore, not without satisfaction that she informed the Princess of Cyril’s request, on his return from Thracia, that the Queen’s name should not be mentioned in his hearing, and added that, so far as she knew, he was of the same mind still.
“And you are all considerate enough to do as he asked?” cried the Princess, with a laugh in which relief mingled with something of pique. “Why, if I were one of his family, and he had made such a request of me, I should have done nothing but tease him to find out what he really felt.”
Acting, presumably, upon this principle, the Princess prepared to seek information from the best authority, since Philippa could tell her so little. When she received Cyril that afternoon, she was sad and preoccupied, and smiled only with difficulty.
“I fear you have had bad news, madame?” he suggested at last.
“Now how did you guess that?” she asked gratefully. “Yes, I have such a painful account of my cousin, Queen Ernestine, from Syria.” Her fingers played carelessly with a letter bearing a Roumi stamp as she spoke. The letter was more than a year old, but Cyril was not supposed to know that.
“Her Majesty is ill, madame?” he asked, in precisely the right tone of respectful sympathy. A single glance had shown him that the letter was not black-edged, and there was no fear that any news but the worst would make him betray himself.
“No, not exactly ill; but she is subject to such strange delusions. We hoped that the change of scene might benefit her, but I fear there can be no doubt that her mind is permanently affected. Would you believe it?—she will not see a man, or allow one to approach her. You know she is residing with the Königshof deaconesses at their Institution at Brutli, in the Lebanon? Well, I hear that only her ladies and female attendants are allowed to be with her there—the gentlemen must live in the village. It is entirely her own doing, for the Institution would be quite willing to receive them, but she refuses to see even the pastor belonging to the place. Isn’t it extraordinary?”
“Most extraordinary, madame.”
“And she has returned to the very deepest widow’s mourning, only wearing white instead of black. It almost seems,” added the Princess musingly, stealing a glance at Cyril from under the hand which was shading her eyes, “as if she had had some experience which had prejudiced her against your sex.”
“That seems the most probable explanation, madame. The difference with his Majesty, perhaps——”
“Oh, I don’t think that would account for it; do you? No, on second thoughts I rather fancy she must be conscious of having done a great injury to some man, so that remorse drives her to this seclusion.”
“It is possible, madame. There have been cases in which women have ruined the lives of men who were foolish enough to trust them.”
“You speak bitterly, Count. And what, in your opinion, is the usual effect of such behaviour upon the man?”
“Simply, madame, that he determines never to place his future in the power of a woman again.”
“Ah, you cherish your hatred so long, you men! We women soon grow tired of perpetual animosities. But have you ever known what it is to be so deceived, Count?”
“I have, madame.”
“And—and did you come to the usual determination?”
“Madame, I thought I had—until a week ago.”
The compliment was commonplace enough, but something in the tome, and in the glance which accompanied it, thrilled the heart of the Princess. Almost for the first time in her life she blushed like a girl, and she changed the subject with a haste and maladroitness that showed how deeply she was moved.
“By-the-bye, Count, I want you to tell me how your scheme is progressing. Is it true that, as I see by this morning’s paper, opposition to it is springing up in England?”
“Scarcely, madame. A vexatious incident has occurred, that is all.”
“Pray tell me about it. I thought you felt quite safe with regard to your own country?”
“True, madame, except for such incidents as this. Before coming here, I arranged matters with the Dowager Duchess of Old Sarum.”
“The Dowager? But has she any influence in politics?”
“The Duchess, madame, like my niece’s kind friend Princess Soudaroff, is a lady who takes a deep interest in the conversion of the Jews to Christianity. Fifty or sixty years ago people of her stamp believed that the Jews could only be restored to Palestine in a Christianised condition, and they founded the Jerusalem bishopric in order that the converts might find some one there to receive them. Now their views have undergone a slight change, and they think that the return to Palestine is to come first and the conversion after it. Naturally, then, they wish to hasten on the restoration, in order that the second desirable event may follow as quickly as possible. Before leaving England I had a long confidential talk with the Duchess, laid my plans before her, and pointed out the dangers to which they were exposed. She grasped the idea at once, and immediately volunteered her help to smooth matters in England. I accepted it gladly, for she has a strong influence over her son, the present Duke, and she is the sister of Mr Forfar. Oh, the Duchess is a dear old lady!”
“But surely she has failed you now?”
“By no means, madame. It is a sad fact that there are some people in England who take no interest in the conversion of the Jews—rather dislike them than otherwise, indeed. The most prominent of these anti-Semites (they are very mild, you understand) is Lord Ormsea, who holds a minor post in the administration. He has picked up some garbled idea of our intentions from the Continental press, and speaking two nights ago at a public meeting, he thought fit to denounce our scheme, and to invite the hostile attention of the Powers to it. That’s all.”
“And what measures do you intend to take?”
“I hear from my friend the Chevalier Goldberg that he has arranged for a fall in the price of Consols, madame, but I have told him that is a mistake. The fall could not affect British credit, but it would give colour to the accusations of Ormsea and his crew, and might stimulate the nation to active hostility. England won’t stand being bullied, though she will yield a good deal to friendly representations. I have written to the Duchess, and I don’t doubt that the Government will bring Ormsea to his senses in a very short time. Meanwhile, I hope the financial panic may be stopped before anything serious happens.”
“I wish you would tell me how you manage that sort of thing,” sighed the Princess.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, madame,” was the reply, delivered with so much suavity that the Princess could not decide whether want of will or want of ability constituted the obstacle.
“After all, England has very little interest in the matter,” she said.
“Little enough, madame, especially after declaring, in one of her periodical self-denying ordinances, that in no case would she permit an Englishman to become governor of Palestine.”
“You do not always see eye to eye with your countrymen, Count?”
“I fear, madame, that I can scarcely consider myself an Englishman at this late day, although my enemies are fond of saluting me with the name.”
There was meaning in Cyril’s tone, although the eyes which met those of the Princess were devoid of expression, and a novel and by no means unpleasant idea struck her. She was revolving it hastily in her mind when she spoke next, somewhat absently.
“Has anything happened?—does the deadlock still exist between your Syndicate and Scythia?”
“There is no alteration, madame. Before Scythia will allow us to have Palestine, she demands a promise that your son shall be the first governor.”
“It is a great pity—I mean that such a good work should be stopped. Will you accept me as an auxiliary, Count? or am I too transparent a plotter? I will write to Pavelsburg, and represent that you are powerless in the matter. Then perhaps the stipulation may be withdrawn.”
“Madame, I am overjoyed by your condescension.” Cyril did not consider it necessary to say that in any case the joint pressure of famine and poverty must cause the withdrawal of Scythian opposition in a day or two.
“Oh, I assure you it will be a great delight if I can give you any help. You will let me know how your difficulty with England ends? We shall miss your charming niece terribly. I hope Princess Soudaroff will spare her to us for a day now and then while she remains at Ludwigsbad.”
Cyril retired, well content. He had secured what was of the greatest moment to him, an invitation to continue his visits to the villa after Philippa had quitted it on the morrow. When he had left her, the Princess sat for some time musing deeply.
“I cannot be sure,” she murmured at last. “It is true that he seems to have no feeling for Ernestine but that of dislike—certainly he does not love her at this moment—but one can never tell. They might meet, and the sight of her might revive all the old feelings. Those caressing ways of hers!—and he is just the man to take a whimsical pleasure in her perpetual inconsistency. How is he to be tested? for I dare not risk anything until I am sure of him. He and I, reigning in Palestine! Palestine? we would rule the world. How I should triumph over Alexis and Bettine and the Powers! But there is always Ernestine in the background. How am I to be rid of the fear of her? Ah, that photograph! That will do what I want. He comes again, say, in a week; there will be time to have it enlarged. Birnsdorf!” she raised her voice, and the Countess entered, “I want you to write a letter to Vindobona for me at once.”