CHAPTER XXII.
THE HISTORY OF AN EVENING.
“I DID not expect to see you here to-night, Mr Mansfield.”
“I had no idea of coming, madame, but his Excellency insisted upon it. M. Paschics is here too.”
“Do you know whether Prince Ramon of Arragon has visited Count Mortimer yet?”
“Yes, madame, this afternoon.”
“You don’t happen to have heard what he thought of his health?”
“No, madame, I did not like to ask; but his Excellency seemed quite cheerful this evening. When I left the house, he was busy with his servant, looking over his things, I think.”
“I am glad he was in good spirits, but I should like to know exactly. Might I trouble you to ask Prince Ramon to come and speak to me?”
“I am honoured, madame.”
In order to welcome the illustrious visitors to Damascus, the Pannonian, Hercynian, and Thracian consuls had joined forces, determining to provide an entertainment that should throw into the shade everything of the kind that had been hitherto attempted in the city. Strings of bright-coloured lamps, rich draperies, and a profusion of greenery, had transformed the inner courtyard of the Pannonian Consulate, which was covered in for the occasion, into a fairy palace, and the display of dazzling uniforms, Parisian gowns, and gay national costumes, was not unworthy of its frame. Cyril was the only person of note at present in Damascus who was not to be seen, and although the Queen had begged him not to come, she felt vaguely uneasy at his absence. She welcomed Don Ramon with an anxious smile as he approached her, not in the best of tempers. Mansfield had disturbed him in the midst of a deeply interesting conversation. It was the Prince’s habit to carry his scientific researches even into his hours of ease, and the sight of a magnificent-looking old Syrian with a venerable white beard had proved an irresistible temptation. A request to be allowed to call upon him and take some measurements of his head had terrified the old man, and it was with the utmost relief that he took advantage of Mansfield’s approach to break away from this alarming stranger, quite regardless of his feelings in the matter. Moreover, like most of the Queen’s relations, Don Ramon had decided to ignore her intended marriage altogether. Ernestine might disgrace herself by an alliance with a mere noble if she liked, but her family were unaware of the existence of any such presumptuous person as her future husband. The Prince had visited Cyril at her request that afternoon, not as her fiancé, but as a former valued servant of the Thracian crown. His outraged family feelings combined at this moment with his scientific preoccupation to make his manner more than usually brusque.
“You have seen Count Mortimer, cousin?” the Queen asked him timidly. “I hope your opinion is favourable?”
“Favourable, my dear cousin? The man’s case is hopeless!”
“Hopeless!” she grasped at a pillar to support herself. “But what is the matter with him?”
“If I describe the injury in technical language you would be no wiser than before. The brain has ceased to perform one of its functions.”
“You mean that he will be—mad?”
“No, no; how you ladies rush at conclusions! There is no trace of mania whatever. The man is as sane as I am. He has simply lost the power of connected thought, of planning—plotting, if you like.”
“But how can this be? What has happened to him?”
“Over-strain after long and continued fatigue has done the mischief, by what he says.”
“But it is only temporary? Rest will cure him?”
“My dear cousin, this is not like the loss of sight or memory which has taken place as the result of a shock, and may be restored by another shock. The power is gone. He says that he felt as though something snapped in his brain, and that will serve very well as a popular description of what has occurred. The connecting-cord is broken, and he is incapable of carrying on a train of thought.”
“Oh, what will he do? what will he do?” moaned the Queen.
“Pray do not distress yourself, cousin. Many very worthy persons are born without the faculty of connected thought, and live happy lives, unconscious of the defect.”
If they were born without it, perhaps. But Cyril, who had possessed and lost it?
“You told him, cousin?”
“Naturally. He is not a child. He received the news with the utmost coolness, and conversed cheerfully as he escorted me to the door. But, my dear cousin, you are ill—about to faint. Allow me to call my wife, or one of your ladies.”
“No! no!” Ernestine seized his arm and held him back. “Take me to the cloakroom, that is all, and fetch Lord or Lady Caerleon. I want no one else. Don’t let people make a scene.”
She sank upon the couch to which he led her, and sat there with clenched hands and staring eyes until he returned with Philippa, the only member of the family whom he could find disengaged at the moment. Receiving another fervent entreaty to say nothing of Ernestine’s indisposition, he withdrew, and she turned frantically to Philippa.
“Will you come with me to your uncle, at once? He has had bad news, there is something wrong with his brain, and he has been told it too suddenly. His friends are away, and the shock——” Her voice failed her, but Philippa read in the piteous eyes the unspoken fear which had seized herself as she listened, and she grasped the two trembling hands in her own.
“Oh yes, yes; let us come this moment. Usk or Mr Mansfield will help us.”
But Usk was the centre of a group of laughing Greek girls, who were teaching him to pronounce their language properly, and Mansfield, having failed to get a word with Philippa all evening, had wandered away disconsolately with Mr Judson. Even Mr Hicks, engrossed in subjecting a Latin bishop to an informal interview, was so busy that Philippa could not catch his eye.
“There is only that elderly officer who belongs to your suite, madame, that I can see,” she said, hurrying back to the Queen.
“Banics? Oh, fetch him—he can be trusted.”
Philippa obeyed, and Ernestine addressed the astonished General with feverish eagerness. “Find us a carriage, Banics. I must go at once to Count Mortimer’s lodgings—at once, at once.”
“At this hour, madame? Allow me to request his Excellency to wait upon you instead,” was the sole protest General Banics permitted himself, but his mistress waved it aside wildly.
“You will kill me with all this delay! Find a carriage quickly. I tell you we must go at once.”
He hurried out, and Philippa wrapped the Queen in a dark cloak, drawing the hood over her head. They stood waiting breathlessly until General Banics reappeared, having taken forcible possession of the first carriage he came across. It belonged to a private individual, but a bakhshish to the servants, added to the awe-inspiring effect of the General’s uniform and his manner, enabled him to hire it for a short time, and he helped the ladies in and took his seat upon the box in disapproving silence. A short drive, during which the Queen and Philippa held each other’s hands in an agony of fear, brought them to the Hebrew quarter. To Philippa’s intense relief, although she could hardly have told why she felt relieved, the door of Cyril’s Jewish host stood open, and the porter was lounging on the threshold talking to a friend, so that the commotion usually needed before entrance could be obtained was not called for. Earlier in the day, Philippa and her parents had partaken of coffee with the family, in a scene that might have come straight from the pages of ‘Tancred,’ but now every one was away at the consuls’ entertainment, with the exception of the aged grandfather, who was roused from his slumbers by the servants, and came forth blinking and bewildered. Fortunately he recognised Philippa, but precious time passed while he lamented the unfitness of his poor house to receive the exalted young lady, wringing his hands the while. She cut him short at last in desperation.
“I must see my uncle at once, please. It is most important that this lady should speak to him. No, no; you are not to say that we are here!”
Fairly dashing past the servants, who were already starting off to announce her presence, she dragged the Queen in the direction of the staircase which led to Cyril’s rooms on the upper floor, leaving the old man still wringing his hands and murmuring feebly something about coffee. No one guessed who the elder woman was who followed Philippa so closely as she crossed the courtyard, although General Banics thought it well to station himself at the foot of the staircase, in case curiosity should be roused as to her identity. Entering the passage from which the rooms opened, the two ladies were confronted by the valet Dietrich, who appeared to have been placidly smoking a huge pipe in the dark.
“Where is Count Mortimer, Dietrich? I want to speak to him.” Philippa lowered her voice involuntarily.
“At work, gracious one. He must not be disturbed.”
“You know he never meant you were to keep me out. Let me pass, please.”
“Alas, gracious one! I have his Excellency’s orders to admit no one.”
“Dietrich!” Ernestine threw back her hood, and the flash of her diamonds dazzled the valet’s astonished eyes; “you must let me through. It is a matter of life and death for your master.”
“Pardon, Majesty, I dare not. I have my orders.”
Ernestine clasped her hands wildly. Philippa drew her aside.
“Slip round by the verandah while I distract Dietrich’s attention here,” she whispered hurriedly, and pushing past the servant, almost succeeded in gaining the door. While he sprang forward to stop her, the Queen slipped away and ran round to the window. It was open. Cyril was standing with his back to her, looking narrowly into something which he was holding up close to his eye.
“Cyril!” she shrieked, bursting into the room. He started violently, but as he turned to her he thrust what he was holding under a piece of paper lying on the table.
“Ernestine! how you startled me! You here—at this hour? What is the matter?”
“Give it to me! give it to me!” she cried, rushing to the table. As she had expected, a pistol lay under the paper. Cyril’s hand came upon hers with a firm grasp as she snatched it up.
“No, no, you shall not! Before my eyes, Cyril!” she screamed, trying to wrest the weapon from him. How it happened she could not tell, but as she struggled with him there was a sudden explosion, and a bullet whizzed close to her head, singeing her hair in its passage. Dazed and deafened, she loosed her hold of the pistol.
“There!” she cried, laughing hysterically. “Better me than yourself!”
Cyril, with an ashy face, picked up the pistol, which had fallen to the ground. The door opened impetuously, and Philippa’s horrified face looked in. Seeing that neither was hurt, she closed the door again, and meeting General Banics at the top of the stairs, assured him, in a voice which she vainly tried to render steady, that there was nothing wrong, A pistol had gone off by accident, that was all.
“Are you hurt, Ernestine? How came you here?”
“I wish I was hurt! I wish I had been killed!” she cried frantically, “for then you might have been sorry. Cyril, Cyril, I thought you loved me, and you don’t.”
“You are talking wildly, my dearest.”
“You don’t, and there is the proof of it.” She pointed to the discharged pistol. “It is cruel of you. What have I done that you should kill yourself to be rid of me?”
“Be reasonable, Ernestine. This is an old pistol that I came across in turning out my things. Am I to blame if it should happen to be loaded? Accidents with fire-arms are not, absolutely unheard-of events.”
“Oh, that was what the world was to believe, was it?” She swept him a superb curtsey. “Many thanks! But it is unnecessary to try to deceive me. I have spoken to Ramon, I know all. Cyril, my beloved,” her voice took a tone of the most poignant reproach, “have I deserved this? Am I such a fair-weather friend that you can’t trust me to cling to you in trouble as well as in prosperity?”
“My dear Ernestine, it is because I know you would cling to me that I decline to drag you down with my wretched self. I thought I should have a kingdom to offer you; I find I shan’t have even an independence. Therefore——” he pointed to the pistol.
“But you know that I only cared for the kingdom for your sake. Oh, Cyril, it is you I love, you I want. Your life is mine; you cannot—dare not—rob me of it. Think of the many years you made me suffer in loneliness. You owe me all those.”
He was silent, and she crept closer to him.
“Beloved, you don’t regret that I came in? that you have been held back from taking your life like a coward? I would never have believed any one who told me that you were afraid to face any future. You will be greater in adversity than in success. God is sending you this trial that your true strength may be shown.” Cyril shifted his position impatiently. “You would not, in a moment of despair, refuse the trial, fail under the test, and destroy your soul for ever?”
“Really, Ernestine, this kind of argument has no weight with me.”
“Then perhaps this will weigh with you.” Stung by his tone, she tore the diamond cross from her neck and held it towards him. “Whatever you do not believe, you know that God and Heaven and eternal judgment are realities to me. Understand, then, that if you take your own life, either to-night or afterwards, I swear that I will do the same, solemnly believing that my soul will be lost for ever in consequence of the deed. Oh, what am I saying?” She paused and trembled, but as he tried to wrest the cross from her, her fingers tightened upon it more firmly. “Yes, I will do it, without hesitation. God forgive me—no, I dare not ask Him to forgive me—God forgive you, if you drive me to it.”
Cyril dropped into a chair, and buried his face in his hands. She stood beside him, awaiting his decision with perfect calmness.
“If you die, I die,” she said again. At last he looked up.
“I give in, Ernestine. But I think you will often repent this evening’s work.”
“Never, even if you do.”
“I? I shall repent it every day—every hour—of my existence.” It was the bitter cry of the man who sees every interest and every pleasure in life snatched from him in a moment. “I am a useless, brainless log, and you force me to live.”
“Dearest, there is still so much that you can do.” The woman’s unselfishness led her to try to comfort him in his own way, instead of resenting the little value he set upon her love. “You never even discovered your loss until a very momentous crisis arose. If Philippa marries Michael, you can return to Thracia, and become Premier again.”
“Are you trying to tempt me to sacrifice poor Phil? Don’t you see that I could never go back to office as a humdrum, routine, red-tape Minister, incapable of effecting combinations or making bold strokes? I could not face a horrible monotony of that sort.”
“Then we will settle down in England, near——”
“And add another specimen to the British collection of political failures from the Continent? Hear myself continually pointed out as an awful warning of the dangers of leaving the beaten track? Never!”
“Well, then, we will go back to Sitt Zeynab. You shall reign there in peace, and no one can come near you against your will. Wherever you are, there I shall be happy.”
“My poor Ernestine, I am not worth it. You had better let me die, dear.” His eyes sought the pistol longingly. “I am a miserable, broken wretch, with no hope and no contentment left, and I shall lead you a terrible life.”
“No life with you could be terrible to me. To be near you is joy enough. It was not your success I loved, it was you, and you are the same still. I love you, Cyril, I love you.”
The passion of the tone, the eyes shining into his, the trembling hands laid upon his shoulders, stirred Cyril with a stronger emotion than he had ever known, and words came to his lips,—echoes, perhaps, of others heard long before in his childhood—he knew not how or whence.
“God do so to me and more also, Ernestine, if I ever forget what you have done for me to-night. Dearest, you understand. Some women would have upbraided me for despising their love, but you are not like that. And you will have your reward. Politics will never again separate me from you, at any rate.” He kissed her gently on the forehead, and wrapped her cloak round her. “You must go back, dear, or you will be missed. A curious little interlude in the evening’s entertainment, isn’t it? Well, your coming here has saved me, such as I am.”
Ernestine choked down her sobs as she clung to him. “You will live because I want you,” she said. “Perhaps you can’t rule the world, beloved, but you can make one woman very happy. You have done it already, and she is grateful.”
She went out, and found Philippa waiting anxiously in the passage.
“It’s all right, Phil. We have saved him,” she said, holding the girl’s hand tightly in hers as they passed down the steps and across the courtyard.
“But what had happened to him?” asked Philippa breathlessly, when they were in the carriage again.
“Something has given way in his brain. He will never be able to plan again.”
“He can’t plan? Oh, poor Uncle Cyril!” cried Philippa, appalled.
“Phil, you must help me to keep it a secret—at any rate until after we are married. I know they will part me from him if they can. Once I am his wife I don’t care what happens. Only his real friends must know of this terrible trouble, such as your father and the Chevalier Goldberg. And we must keep Michael in a good temper. My child, you see why he has come here? His manner in addressing you last night showed that sufficiently. Is there any hope for him? You know how I should rejoice to welcome you as a daughter.”
“I would do anything else in the world for you and Uncle Cyril,” burst from Philippa, “but not that. I don’t love him in the least. I don’t even—like him,” she was about to say, but changed it, feebly enough, into—“care for him.”
“It is not your fault, Phil. I ought to be the first person to know that love is not at one’s own command. But oh, dear child, if you could abstain from refusing him until after the wedding is over! I don’t mean that you should deceive him, of course, but if only you could prevent his proposing to you——”
“I’ll do what I can,” said Philippa doubtfully, but she felt that if King Michael had determined to propose to her, it was probable that he would do so, in spite of any obstacles she might put in his way. That this intuition of hers was a correct one she discovered as soon as she re-entered the assembly-room with the Queen. Her father was standing not far from the cloakroom door, and stepped forward to meet her.
“Why, Phil, I have been looking for you everywhere! I could not think what had become of you until the Prince of Arragon told me that he had left you with her Majesty.”
“Yes; I was seized with a sudden faintness, and Philippa was kind enough to remain with me until I felt better,” said Ernestine graciously, bestowing one of her rare smiles on Philippa as she turned towards the Thracian consul, who was anxious to present a relative to her.
“Phil,” said Lord Caerleon, taking his daughter aside, “the King has been speaking to me about you.”
“Oh, father!” exclaimed Philippa, in dismay.
“I suppose I ought to feel honoured,” continued her father ruefully, “but that youth riles me—there’s no other word for it. He asked to be allowed to visit me to-morrow at the hotel, graciously intimating that he considered me as in a sort of way a brother monarch, and therefore felt able to dispense with strict etiquette. I guessed what he wanted, and thought we might just as well settle matters without getting your name mixed up with his, so I said I couldn’t think of giving him the trouble. Thereupon he did you the honour to request me in so many words to regard him as a suitor for your hand, this being merely preliminary, as he explained, to a formal proposal through the proper channels. I said I hadn’t had any conversation with you lately on such subjects, but judging from the sentiments you expressed on the last occasion, I couldn’t give him any hope. Upon that he informed me that I wasn’t up to date. He is now a reformed character, father of his country and so on, the condescending patron of everything that’s good. I don’t want to laugh at any man’s reformation, Phil, but the fellow takes himself too seriously. I told him I didn’t see that it was much good bothering you about the matter, and he became very high and mighty indeed. He reminded me that young ladies did not receive offers of marriage from crowned heads every day, and intimated that such an honour ought to be accepted in a proper spirit. In other words, he warns you not to reject his offer without due consideration. I am telling you about it because he insisted I should, and I thought he might turn rusty and make some unpleasantness if I didn’t, but having laid the proposal before you, I can now go with a good conscience and tell him you refuse it.”
“Wait, father, please!” cried Philippa, in an uncertain voice. “I—I think I will take time to consider.”
Her father turned and gazed at her. “Phil!” he said, with more sorrow and disappointment in his voice than she had ever heard in it before.
“I think it’s only proper, as he says,” went on Philippa, with a laugh that was a little hysterical. Don’t you, father? I—I should not like to be too hasty.
“Phil, I wouldn’t insult you by imagining that you could be induced to marry a man you didn’t love for the sake of a crown, but what in the world are you driving at? You needn’t think anything of what I said just now about the fellow’s making himself unpleasant to your uncle and the Queen, for what harm could he do, after all?” Philippa shuddered. Her father did not know what terrible harm King Michael might do if he chose. “But at any rate, don’t give him a moral claim upon you in this way. It’s quite unnecessary to be so tender of his feelings.”
“Oh no, no moral claim,” said Philippa entreatingly. “You can tell him you are perfectly certain that delay will make no change in my feelings, but that if he wishes it, I will consent not to give him a final answer until the day after the wedding. It’s—it’s due to his position, father.” She laughed again. “I’m sure you can make him see it in that light.”
“I can’t make you out, Phil,” said Lord Caerleon doubtfully, as he left her. Presently he returned, pulling at his moustache in a way that showed him to be still puzzled.
“Well, Phil, I have given him your message, and he accepts it as merely his due. I can swear I’ve done my best to choke him off, but he won’t have it. I think he understands that he’s not to come hanging about the hotel, setting people talking, but he may do what he can, without making you conspicuous, to prepossess you in his favour—in conversation and so on. He seems very well satisfied, and I hope you are. I wish with all my heart you were safely engaged to—er—some other fellow.”
“Are you determining to turn me out of doors if I accept King Michael, father? Don’t you think your way of receiving a king as a would-be son-in-law is just a little—original?”
“Why, Phil?” cried her father in distress, catching sight at last of the tears in her eyes.
“Oh, father, I’m so miserable—so frightened—I don’t know what to do!” and Philippa laid her golden head on his shoulder, and sobbed there comfortably, as if she had gone back ten years, and been a little girl again.
“Do you want me to get rid of the fellow for you, Phil? I’ll do it like a shot. King or no king, I won’t have him making you cry with his silly nonsense.”
“No, no, it’s not that. Lend me your handkerchief, father dear. This lace thing is no good. Don’t you think mother would come home now?”
“I’m sure she would. I’ll go and ask her,” and poor Lord Caerleon went away thoroughly puzzled. Hitherto nothing had ever interrupted the perfect understanding between Philippa and himself, but now he was realising miserably that his little daughter had become a woman, and Lord Caerleon had always confessed that he did not understand women.
“Mansfield,” said Usk abruptly, when he and his friend were leaving the Consulate in company a little later, “that idiot is after Philippa again.”
“What, that Thracian beast?” Mansfield’s language was far from choice, but he was not without provocation. “Well, your father will soon kick him out.”
“That’s what I thought, but there’s no chance of that now. She has taken time to consider her answer, and we know what that means. I thought I’d tell you myself, before—before you could hear it from any one else.” Mansfield gasped, and Usk went on hurriedly, “I wouldn’t have believed it, but the fellow told me himself. Perhaps it’s a lie.”
“No fear!” was the sternly hopeless answer. “What would be the good, when a word with your father would put you right at once? She has been over-persuaded.”
“Yes, I know how it is. He has got round her with the notion that it’s her duty to sacrifice herself to him for the sake of his rotten kingdom, like a girl in a book. I’m awfully sorry, Mansfield—sick, too.”
Mansfield answered only by an inarticulate grunt.
“I wouldn’t have believed Phil was such an owl,” went on her brother. “Every one knows that sort of arrangement is bound to end in an awful smash. But never say die, old man; she may chuck him yet.”
“Not she,” returned Mansfield, with a fixed despair.