CHAPTER VIII.
“A KIND OF WILD JUSTICE.”
THE business which had called Cyril to Vindobona once ended, he returned to Ludwigsbad with Mansfield, to find awaiting him at the hotel a note from Princess Soudaroff, couched in very urgent terms, and entreating him to come and see her that evening, as she was leaving the baths the next day with Usk and Philippa.
“Do you care to come with me, Mansfield?” he asked, tossing the note across to his secretary.
The smile of gratification which overspread Mansfield’s features at the question disappeared with startling suddenness, for the cuts on his face were still painful, and he murmured dolefully that he was not fit to go anywhere.
“Didn’t know you were so keen about your personal appearance,” said Cyril. “Nonsense! come at once.”
His objections disposed of in this summary fashion, Mansfield submitted with the best grace in the world when Cyril took him by the arm and fairly led him out of the house. Arrived at the gate of Princess Soudaroff’s lodgings, the prisoner found himself suddenly released.
“You may as well wait out here for a minute or two,” said Cyril. “I must explain the origin of your facial adornments, and I’m afraid you would blush yourself to death if you were listening. How many years is it, I wonder, since I was able to blush? I’ll call you in when I have finished.”
In this considerate intention Cyril was foiled by Usk and Philippa, who had been watching for his approach from the verandah, and came to meet him. Mansfield showed signs of a desire to escape, but Cyril seized him again and explained briefly that the fellow had saved his life, and had repented of the deed ever since. Having thus placed matters on a right footing, he went into the house to find the Princess, leaving the three young people together, Usk, with awestruck face, plying Mansfield with every conceivable variety of question. As for Philippa, the tears which threatened to overflow forbade her speaking, but she proffered timidly such little services as occurred to her, seating the hero in an easy-chair, and bringing him, in spite of his protests, a cushion and a footstool. When her further suggestions had been gratefully but firmly declined, she sat down and gazed at him with an expression that made the young man’s heart beat wildly.
“Oh, I say, Lady Phil,” he protested incoherently; “you mustn’t make so much of it. It wasn’t anything, really.”
“He would have been killed but for you,” persisted Philippa; “and you are dreadfully hurt.”
“Nothing but a bruise, truly; and these scratches on my face—not half as bad as those German fellows get in their college duels. I’m ashamed to be tied up so aggressively; but the doctor would do it.”
“Of course,” said Philippa wisely. “And you ought to be proud of your pieces of plaster. I am.”
“No accounting for tastes,” said Usk; for Mansfield was unable to do more than beam gratefully upon Philippa. “Did you get any chance of paying back the chap that threw the stone, old man?”
While Mansfield was fighting the battle o’er again in answer to the questions showered upon him, Cyril had found his way to Princess Soudaroff’s sitting-room. The old lady looked up with a smile as he entered. “We were expecting you,” she said.
“After the blood-curdling note you sent me, you couldn’t well do less, Princess. Please relieve my mind as soon as possible. What is wrong?”
“It was a conversation I had with Philippa that made me send for you. Have you noticed how unhappy she has been looking lately?”
Cyril shook his head solemnly. “Princess, Princess, if you have got a clergyman concealed in the next room, and want me to let my secretary marry Phil on the spot, I must tell you frankly I won’t do it. It wouldn’t be fair to Caerleon and Nadia.”
“As though I should dream of such a thing!” Princess Soudaroff was more nearly angry than Cyril had ever seen her. “A clandestine marriage for my darling Phil, and under my auspices! Lord Cyril, you should be ashamed of yourself for suggesting it. No, Philippa’s anxiety, and mine too, is all on your account.”
“Ought I to be more flattered by your interest, or grieved for your anxiety, Princess?”
“You are incorrigible, Lord Cyril. I assure you I am absolutely in earnest. Phil is making herself miserable with the notion that you are in love with the Princess of Dardania, although I have done my best to show her its absurdity. No man who had loved Queen Ernestine, however imperfectly, could transfer his affections to the woman who wrecked her happiness.”
“Your sentiments are mine, Princess.”
“Then what are you doing? Your passion for the Princess has become a by-word in her household. Even Princess Lida amused herself with it in talking to Phil. You cannot profess to be ignorant of this, Lord Cyril. You are not the man to drift into such a position blindfold, and I can only judge that you have some object in pursuing this course.”
“See what it is to have at hand a critic acquainted with all the follies of one’s youth! I must congratulate you upon your clear-sightedness, Princess.”
“But you and she have been enemies too long to work together with any confidence. It must be in the hope of improving your political position that you are trying to induce her to marry you.”
“No, Princess; there you are wrong.” Cyril spoke with a firmness that carried conviction. “Nothing on earth could make me marry the Princess of Dardania, or any woman in the world but Ernestine. I don’t know why I should tell you this, except that I suspect you to be in communication with Ernestine, and I don’t want to add to her troubles.”
“Then you still love Ernestine?”
“I still love Ernestine—have always loved her—though I own that for a few days I thought I should be glad never to see her again. She thwarted me, and at the time I could think of nothing but punishing her. I won’t cant and say that I suffered as much as she did; but when I turned my back on her, I punished myself. The want of her has tormented me ever since.”
“And now you are making love to her cousin!”
“I see you don’t understand me yet, Princess. I cherish a hope—a dream, you may call it—of finding my way some day to Ernestine, and entreating her forgiveness—her compassion. But something else must come first.”
“And what is that?”
“The woman who separated us has to be dealt with.”
“You are deliberately deceiving the unhappy creature?”
“You will make me conceited, Princess. Is it for me to plume myself upon having produced an impression upon the heart of her Royal Highness?”
The Princess waived the evasion away impatiently. “You are seeking to revenge yourself upon a woman.”
“When a woman has twice pitted her wits successfully against mine, Princess, she is entitled to be treated as a man.”
“But who are you, to revenge yourself upon her?”
“Simply a man she has injured. I treat her as she treated Ernestine.”
“As you treated Ernestine, you mean. Your hands are no cleaner than hers. It was your wounded ambition that enabled her to separate you from the Queen.”
“I don’t deny it, Princess. I behaved like a brute, I know—possibly like a fool, which is worse. But she has ruined young Michael, inflicted enormous injury upon Thracia, and hunted Ernestine rancorously from place to place.”
“You gave her the opportunity of doing it all. And think; you speak of returning to Ernestine. Would she wish you to avenge her wrongs in this way?”
“Certainly not; but then I don’t do it to gratify her. I tell you, Princess, a few days ago I had almost decided to be satisfied with the political portion of my revenge, and to forego the rest of it. Then the woman took it into her head to boast in my presence of her cruelty to Ernestine—to flaunt her own insolent charms in contrast with Ernestine’s misery—intending, I suppose, to complete her conquest of me; and I swore that she should have no mercy, since she showed none. That is why I am going on to the bitter end.”
“But how can you expect a blessing on what you are doing?”
Cyril’s momentary fury cooled into mild impatience. “My dear Princess, I am not in search of a blessing. What I want is revenge.”
“Think what sorrow you have brought upon Queen Ernestine already. Can you—dare you—expose her, when your lives are linked together, to the retribution which must follow upon this plot of yours?”
“I can bear my own punishment, Princess. It would be a singularly unjust dispensation of Providence that visited my sins on Ernestine. I fancy that had not occurred to you, had it?”
“Her love for you will make your punishment hers. She would not escape it if she could. Do you forget that the Princess of Dardania is an unscrupulous and vindictive woman? She is not likely to allow herself to be slighted with impunity, and she may make your life with Ernestine a misery to both of you.”
“If I succeed this time, Princess, the luck will have turned, and I am not afraid of its turning again.”
“Lord Cyril, will nothing turn you from your purpose? I have known you now for many years, and each time that I see you leaves a sadder impression on my mind than the last. It seems to me that God must deal with you very signally before you will learn to give up your own way. I am an old woman, on the very border of the grave, and I do entreat you, by any kindness you may have for me, by your love for Ernestine, by the great work in which you are engaged, to relinquish this plan of revenge.”
The old lady bent forward with clasped hands, panting in her eagerness, her eyes fixed anxiously on Cyril’s face. He met her look with good-humoured frankness.
“Really, Princess, I am sorry not to be able to please you. One doesn’t often get a chance of redressing the inequalities of the world a little, and I can’t give it up when it comes.”
“Then I feel it my duty to say that I intend to warn the Princess of Dardania against you. I shall postpone my journey for a day, and ask for an interview with her. I shall make no use of what you have told me, of course; to bear of my own suspicions should serve to put her on her guard.”
“As you please, Princess. Her Royal Highness may possibly prefer my word to yours, after all. How can the poor old lady be so quixotic as to show me her hand?” he asked himself as he went out. “It only means that I must be at the villa first.”
A cipher telegram from Czarigrad was awaiting him when he returned to his hotel. “Scythian opposition withdrawn; concession will probably be granted in a day or two,” it ran, and Cyril smiled.
“I think that for many reasons to-morrow will be a good day for undeceiving her Royal Highness, and possibly for electrifying the world,” he said to himself, all unconscious that Dr Texelius had already prepared the way for both processes, by means of the indictment so considerately drawn up by Prince Soudaroff.
When Cyril repaired to the villa early the next day, he was ushered into the great drawing-room, which he found deserted, almost for the first time in his experience. The servant who had admitted him went to seek Countess Birnsdorf, but had no sooner closed the door behind him than Cyril heard the Countess’s voice in the inner room.
“The Princess Soudaroff is very anxious to wait upon you, madame.”
“What, that old heretic?” Like other converts, the Princess was inclined to be more orthodox than the Orthodox themselves. “I don’t want to listen to her sermons. She hopes to convert me, I suppose? No, Birnsdorf, I won’t see her.”
“I think, madame, that her only wish is to express her thanks for your kindness to her god-daughter, Lady Philippa.”
“That is quite unnecessary. I sent a message to her by the girl, requesting her not to give herself the trouble. I can’t stand these psalm-singing Evangelicals, although I tolerated little Philippa for the sake of—her family.” Cyril smiled, gathering from this remark that the household at the villa had found Philippa’s society as little congenial as she had found theirs.
“The lady is very old, madame,” ventured the Countess, “and she seems extremely desirous to see you. She entreated me——”
“I tell you, Birnsdorf, I won’t see her. What impertinence! Tell her that I am engaged—that I am always engaged at this hour. As though I should put off Count Mortimer for the sake of receiving her! Didn’t you say you saw him coming? Bring him in, if he has arrived.”
Cyril had moved noiselessly to the farther side of the drawing-room before Countess Birnsdorf lifted the curtain that hung over the doorway. He caught the look of annoyance on her face as she realised that the door between the two rooms was open, but he met her with an expression so absolutely unmoved as enabled her to comfort herself with the assurance that he could not have heard anything.
“Her Royal Highness will receive you, Count,” she said, and the Princess looked up with a very natural start as he passed under the curtained doorway. She was reading a newspaper, which Cyril recognised immediately as the ‘Jewish Colonist,’ a journal conducted by Dr Texelius in German and Jargon, to promote the agricultural and commercial development of Palestine, and its re-population by the Hebrew race. It was not quite the kind of paper one would expect to find in the hands of a great lady of rigidly Orthodox views, but there could be no doubt that the Princess was deeply interested in it.
“Well, Count, are you come to scathe me with bitter reproaches?” she cried, looking up from the closely printed page.
“Alas, madame! your conscience must have outrun my just indignation. I was not even aware I had been injured until now.”
“What a misfortune it is to be in too great a hurry!” cried the Princess. “I thought, of course, that you had heard of my treachery from our friend here, and were come to denounce me. There is no hope of hiding it from you now.”
She handed him the paper, which displayed in a conspicuous position the announcement that it would appear no more under its present editorship. An editorial note explained that Dr Texelius, aware that his independent course was distasteful to the proprietor of the journal, felt it his duty to throw up his post and wreck the paper. His position thus indicated, the editor proceeded to business. He had always, he said, doubted the disinterestedness of Count Mortimer, but he had forborne to ventilate his suspicions until accident had shown them to be entirely justified. The man who posed as the high-minded friend of Israel was merely a vulgar schemer, seeking to exploit the greatest movement of the age for his own benefit. His ambition had led him to lend a ready ear to the blandishments of Scythia, the natural enemy of Zion, and he had fallen victim to the wiles of a Delilah hired to entrap him. While deceiving his unfortunate supporters, he had been deceived himself. The post of Governor of Palestine had been promised him, together with the hand of his enchantress, as the price of his care of Scythian interests throughout the negotiations, and in consideration of a large sum of money he was to resign his position in favour of a Scythian nominee immediately after his election. There had never been the slightest intention of keeping faith with him, however. The lady, whose identity was not obscurely hinted at, had held him in play as long as he was useful, only to cast him aside when she had done with him. He had betrayed Jewish interests in vain, and now that it suited Scythia to throw him over, he stood revealed in all his baseness as a faithless agent and an unsuccessful traitor. Through this indictment, couched in terms which did not err on the side of refinement, Cyril glanced carelessly, and, having read it, handed it back to the Princess.
“Well, what have you to say?” she asked him.
“I am utterly at a loss, madame. I have nothing to say.”
“What, Count! you don’t even feel called upon to testify the slightest sorrow for the way in which my name is involved in your proceedings?—for it is impossible for any one not to see who is meant.”
“Ah, madame, my assailant has displayed a scrupulous regard for your feelings. You are the conqueror throughout, not the victim.”
“Then you accept the rôle of victim, Count?”
“Even so, madame. What can I do but acknowledge your triumph and ask your gracious leave to retire? A discredited traitor is no fit associate for your Royal Highness.”
“Stop, Count! You have carried on this farce long enough. Why pretend to take the man’s nonsense seriously? You know as well as I do that whoever may have been deceived, you were not.”
“What, madame! Are you trying to restore my lost self-esteem! to re-establish your empire over me, according to Dr Texelius?” Cyril was smiling.
“Pray, Count, be serious. What is the object of raising a new barrier between us at this moment, when this kind enemy of yours has unintentionally broken them all down? The hero and heroine occupy the stage, every eye is fixed upon them, and the stupid audience, which thinks it has followed the play with the deepest attention, anticipates what it imagines to be the dénoûment. But it is mistaken, for it has failed to see what was before its eyes. The true dénoûment is the simplest, the most unconventional possible—all honour to the actors who have grafted it on so hackneyed a plot.”
“I fear I am very dense, madame. Am I to understand that you and I have been acting some comedy for the edification of the spectators? or should it be a tragedy?”
“Why play upon words, Count? A tragedy is what the audience expected, undoubtedly, for the fall of a great man is far more tragic than his death, but the slightest possible alteration in the original motif makes a happy ending not only natural, but inevitable.”
“My stupidity is colossal, madame. Might I venture to entreat you to point out to me the alteration to which you refer?”
“Are you trying to tease me, Count? The audience saw only a pair of politicians, each striving to outwit the other. But on the stage were a man and woman playing into each other’s hands.”
“With reference to what, madame?”
“You are indeed dense, my dear Count.” There was some irritation in the Princess’s tone. “You force me to speak with disagreeable plainness. They were playing for a crown and a ring. But why this extraordinary display of ignorance in a matter you have discussed with me for weeks?”
“It seems to me, madame, that one of the actors on the stage was under the same delusion as the audience. Would it suit your Royal Highness to drop metaphor for a moment, and let us see how we stand?”
The Princess was genuinely puzzled. She lifted her eyes to Cyril’s face, but discovered there no response to her smile. Was it possible that the man had misunderstood her from the beginning? No, it was merely that he was cautious, he would not commit himself without specific encouragement. “You cannot have forgotten our compact already?” she cried merrily.
“I was not aware that there was any compact between us, madame.”
The Princess began to perceive whither all this tended. “Not that I was to make you Prince of Palestine? and you——” she stopped suddenly.
“Far from it, madame. My hopes have never climbed so high.”
Horror was taking hold upon her, but she was still unconquered. “Let them make the effort, then, Count. Otherwise Europe will see you as the traitor this journalist calls you. You are too deeply involved to draw back with honour. I hold your reputation in my hands, and Prince Soudaroff is behind me. Choose! Safety and——” she touched the wedding-ring on her finger, “or——”
“Evidently, madame, you are unaware that I have just recommended the Emperor of Pannonia to nominate Prince Franz Immanuel of Schwarzwald-Molzau as his candidate for the post—one of the posts—you are good enough to offer me. His religious opinions are so truly liberal—for in view of the uncertainty as to his future he has been brought up on an admirably eclectic system, so as to be ready for any country that may need a king—that he seems the very man for it.”
The vague terror which had seized the Princess became certainty. Her face hardened, her lips grew tense, and her right hand went swiftly to her head. Cyril understood the movement. The peasant-girls of Dardania carry in their hair a silver-hilted dagger as a part of their elaborate head-dress, and the Princess had worn the national costume constantly before her widowhood. He wondered mechanically whether she had contrived to retain the weapon under the folds of her cap, and if so, how many seconds he had to live. Almost before the thought had crossed his mind, however, the hand dropped again, empty. The dagger was not there. The Princess pointed silently to the door, and he bowed and retreated. Her voice arrested him before he reached the threshold.
“Why have you done this?” she demanded passionately. “Oh, I know—I have not forgotten your threat to revenge yourself on me. But that I should have been deceived by you—I!”
She sat for a moment without speaking, then rose and came towards him.
“Come, Count, you have had your revenge, and enjoyed it, no doubt. You had a right to it, I will confess, so let it pass. We are quits now. Why not start afresh? Purely as a matter of business, don’t you think you are very foolish to quarrel with me? You and I together could do anything we chose. What is the use of pitting our wits continually against each other? You know what I can do for you—you have no prospects otherwise. Let us blot out the last quarter of an hour. Why should not our compact remain in force? What do you say?” She laid her hand upon his arm, and behind her honeyed smile a passionate eagerness shone in her eyes and trembled upon her lips. Many men would have succumbed to the temptation of the woman and what she offered. Not so Cyril.
“I can only repeat, madame, that I know of no compact.”
She drew back from him and stood erect. “Then there is some other woman,” she said, absolute certainty in her voice. “Is it Ernestine?”
“It is Ernestine.”
“I wish you joy, then. Go!”
She pointed again to the door, and he went out, conscious that she would have sold her soul for a weapon ready to her hand, and that if wishes could kill, neither Ernestine nor he would live much longer. In the excitement of the moment the Princess had ordered him out by the private door at the back of the boudoir, instead of that opening into the large drawing-room. As he entered the anteroom a female figure quitted it hastily by the opposite door, and the Scythian Captain Roburoff tried to look as if he had been alone for some hours.
“Ah, Roburoff, you here?” said Cyril, nodding to him.
“Simply on an errand for his Majesty, Count. I was the bearer of a letter to her Royal Highness.”
“And you were tempering duty with pleasure when I came in?”
The Scythian’s face darkened. “Do you—would you insult—pray consider, Count——”
“My dear fellow, we were all young once, even ladies-in-waiting. I wish you an uninterrupted interview next time.”
“All the same,” murmured Cyril, as he quitted the villa by the private door, leaving Captain Roburoff reassured, “I am much mistaken if the young lady was not Princess Lida, and not a dame d’honneur at all. I fear there are further troubles in store for my poor friend the Princess; but after thrusting King Michael back upon the unhappy girl once already, I really can’t bring myself to spoil her plans a second time. I wonder how long they have been carrying on this affair?”