“THIS is the irony of fate!” said Mansfield to himself the next morning. The English mail had come in, and the city postman, going his leisurely rounds on his white donkey, was engaged in distributing the letters it brought. A few minutes before, he had placed in Mansfield’s hands that which should have been his passport to paradise. The Right Honourable Geoffrey Forfar wrote to say that one of his secretaries had accepted an appointment under Government, and he had much pleasure in fulfilling his promise with regard to the vacant post. Would Mansfield kindly arrange to take up his new duties as soon as his present employer could spare him?
Mr Forfar would have been surprised to learn that his kindly letter served but to inflict on its recipient torments worse than those of Tantalus. If the offer had only arrived yesterday, Mansfield reflected bitterly, he might have spoken to Philippa in time to forestall her royal suitor—but no, it did not turn up until Philippa was beyond his reach. That was how things always happened, he assured himself, for misfortune was developing in him the usual touch of cynicism. For a short time he had visions of accepting the post and returning to England forthwith, throwing himself into his new work with an ardour that carried all before it. He saw himself entering the House, backed by Mr Forfar’s influence and the prestige of his own reputation as a man with an unusual and practical knowledge of European politics, saw himself, equally famous as a thinker and a debater, accepting office and rising to giddy heights of power—and this was all undertaken for the sake of convincing the faithless Philippa that the true lover whom she had cast off to obtain a throne would have been able to give her something more than the love she despised. Unfortunately for Mansfield’s political future, his heart took fright instantly at the idea of leaving Syria while Philippa remained there. He must be on the spot, even if it was only to witness the complete destruction of his hopes. It is possible, also, that those hopes were not yet quite so absolutely dead as he imagined.
“I won’t answer this at once,” he said, thrusting the letter into his pocket, and turned to some notes which he was to write out for Cyril. He had scarcely sat down when he was interrupted by the Chevalier, who emerged from the inner room in a state of wild disorder. When he had asked to see Cyril, Mansfield had observed that he appeared to be labouring under great emotion, but now he seemed to have been tearing both his hair and his clothes. He dropped into a chair opposite Mansfield, and smote his forehead with his hands.
“De finest brain in Europe, and de stronk defence off Zion!” he murmured.
“I beg your pardon?” said Mansfield, astonished.
“You do not know? you hef not heard? All we hef done iss in fain, and Israel may return to deir keptifity to-morrow.”
“What has gone wrong?” Mansfield asked the question with great anxiety.
“Your master can plen no more; his brain iss inchured. And we, wid our scheme on de point of fulfilment, are left desolate.”
“That break-down the other day!” cried Mansfield.
“Yes, det must hef been de first menifestation off de melady. Ach, Mortimer, my frient, I could always trust in you! While you lifed, Zion was safe. And now you life still, but your mind iss dead. No, no,” as Mansfield started up frantically, “dere iss no medness. He can do eferythink but plen, but so can all de rest. Our head iss gone.”
“And now that he can’t help you, you care no more about him?”
“Hef I gifen you reasson to say det?” asked the Chevalier, with real dignity. “Because I lament my country in peril, must I hef lost sight off my frient? It iss de Queen det hess told me de frightful noose. Ah, dere iss a woman! de Count hess much left still since he hess her. She dessired to point out to me de risk. You see it? Efery nation and efery statesman hess somethink against him. He hess played dem all off against one anoder, and only his wits hef safed him again and again. Now he iss powerless, and when dey find it out, dey will come about him like birds off prey. A week ago de influence off de Syndicate, exerted through me, would hef presserfed him from all annoyance, but now de Syndicate iss split in two. Until we discofer how far de disaffection extends, I dare not trust efen my broders. Your master must not remain here, nor would he be safe in Europe—efen in America. De Queen propoces det immediately upon deir merrich dey shell go to dis estate off hers in de desert, where dey will be in safety until efents hef defeloped demselfs. We shell soon see what frients he hess left. I need not ask wheder you are true. Do me de fafour to beliefe det I am so also, efen dough my nation hess profed ungrateful to its benefector.”
“I am sorry,” said Mansfield. “I had no business to say what I did.”
“Det iss well. Trust me, and help me to do what I can for him, det iss all I ask.”
He went away, and Mansfield took Mr Forfar’s letter out of his pocket again. “This settles it!” he said, and sitting down at the table, dashed off a grateful refusal of the Prime Minister’s offer. As soon as it was finished, he went out and posted it.
Having thus burnt his boats and cut himself off from every hope of Philippa, he felt that he had done all that could be expected of him, and owed himself a reward. It is needless to say that the reward took the shape of a sight of Philippa, and when he had dutifully attended Cyril to the Queen’s house in the afternoon, he betook himself forthwith to the Caerleons’ rooms in Spyridion’s hotel, where he was able to watch Philippa pouring out tea, and to luxuriate in absolute misery. The excitement of the night before had left Philippa white and tired, and her hand shook as she lifted the teapot, but Mansfield decided that her exhaustion was due to the mental struggle she must have undergone before she could bring herself to contemplate marrying King Michael, and he steeled his heart against her. Her father attributed her obvious unhappiness to a very different cause, and when Mansfield took his leave he walked a little way with him.
“I suppose you heard nothing from Forfar by the mail, Mansfield?” he asked. “I saw him just before we left England, and he hinted that Jowell would probably go to the India Office, so that he would soon need a new assistant secretary.”
“Yes, I heard from him,” replied Mansfield, his heart beginning to beat with uncomfortable speed, “and he offered me the post. But I refused it.”
“Refused it!” cried Lord Caerleon, with unconcealed dismay.
“You see,” Mansfield went on, “I—I felt there was no particular reason why I should go back to England,” he looked straight at his companion, “and it would take a great deal to make me leave Count Mortimer in the present state of his affairs.”
“But come, Mansfield—I have a right to ask, after what you said to me early in the year—have you changed your mind?”
“How dare you——” began Mansfield furiously, then his tone altered. “I beg your pardon, I’m a sulky brute; but—well, imagine that you were in my place, Lord Caerleon, forbidden to speak to Lady Phil, and then finding that another fellow had stepped in and cut you out.”
“But he has not cut you out. We are all on your side. Phil’s only reason for taking time to consider her answer is that she may not hurt the King’s feelings. I am certain she doesn’t care a rap for him.”
“Well, at any rate, I’m not such a cad as to cut in and spoil the other fellow’s game,” and Mansfield marched on with an air of superior virtue which Lord Caerleon found extremely irritating. He could not well say that he particularly wished to see the very thing done which Mansfield regarded with such righteous disapprobation, but he felt that he was being treated with scant justice. True, he had banished Mansfield originally for his own good—here he stopped; was it not rather because he did not want to lose his daughter? Still, it was not his fault that this second suitor had appeared, and nothing had been farther from his thoughts than to drive Philippa into a loveless marriage by separating her from the man whom he now suspected that she liked. It was hard to throw the onus of rejecting the King’s suit entirely on Philippa and himself, and things would have been much simpler if it could have been refused on the ground that she was already engaged to some one else. However, since Mansfield chose to consider that he had been ill-used, and could hardly be commanded to propose to Philippa against his will, the plan was not practicable.
Lord Caerleon made no further attempt to alter the course of events, and Mansfield, grimly resolute, continued to torment himself with the sight of Philippa and her royal suitor. King Michael was following Prince Mirkovics’ advice, and endeavouring to enlist Philippa’s sense of duty upon his side. Since his coup d’état of the summer, he had developed an abnormal interest in affairs of State, and he recounted his plans, hopes, fears, failures, successes, and aspirations to Philippa at suitable length. The recital bored her extremely, but she would not have been her mother’s daughter if she could have brought herself to throw cold water on any man’s good intentions, and she honestly did her best to sympathise with the King. Her task was not made easier by Usk, who continued to regard his would-be brother-in-law with unmitigated aversion. King Michael sought his acquaintance in the most flattering way, and extended the same honour to Mansfield and Mr Judson, never perceiving that his gracious determination to put people at their ease had the invariable effect of making them uncomfortable. The three Cambridge men were quite ready to overlook his position, which was, after all, not his own fault; but he could not forget it, and the consequence was that the friendship languished, and that among themselves they accused him of “putting on side,” and stigmatised him as “wretchedly bad form.” It is true that Usk once expressed in private a wish that the King was his brother; but only, as he explained immediately, that he might feel justified in punching his head.
While Philippa’s affairs were in this unsettled state, the time of her uncle’s marriage was rapidly approaching. The wedding had been fixed for New Year’s day, and it had been the secret design of the Chevalier and his party that after the ceremony a deputation from the Jewish provisional government should wait upon the newly married pair and offer them the crown, if such it might be called, of Palestine. But this was now recognised to be out of the question. When the sensation caused by the appearance of the Yellow Pamphlet, and the subsequent repudiation of Cyril by half the Jewish world, had a little subsided, the journalists of the Continent held their breath for a time, realising what they had done. The man whom they had helped to vilify had never been known to forgive an insult, and the issue of that brutum fulmen, the message framed by Mr Hicks and Paschics in order to gain time, threw them into a state approaching panic. What blow had Count Mortimer in preparation?
But as the days passed on and still nothing happened, a sensation of relief diffused itself visibly among Cyril’s opponents, while his supporters became correspondingly dejected. Presently a brief message from the Emperor of Pannonia, forwarded through the Chevalier’s confidential agent in Vindobona, put the question in a nutshell. What measures did Count Mortimer mean to take in order to re-establish his predominant influence in the counsels of the Syndicate? Whether the charges brought against him in the Yellow Pamphlet were true or false did not signify in the least; but unless the Jews were unanimous in preferring him to any other ruler, the Emperor could go no further in recommending his selection by the Powers. While the question of the answer to be returned to this intimation was being discussed between Cyril and the Chevalier—the one in a frenzy of alarm and indecision, the other in an agony of helplessness—the matter was taken out of their hands. It became known throughout Europe that Count Mortimer’s brain was affected, and that he was no longer to be feared.
How the jealously guarded secret had leaked out could not at first be discovered, but the report was afterwards traced to Don Ramon of Arragon’s assistant, who had access to his case-books. He had been a student of the University of Vindobona, and was therefore almost inevitably an anti-Semite, and he had shared his discovery with Colonel Czartoriski, with whom he had come in contact at Damascus. Acting upon instructions from his mistress, Colonel Czartoriski communicated the news to the press, and Anti-Semitism all over the Continent went mad with joy. Nor were the professed enemies of Zion alone in their exultation, for the Government papers (those of Pannonia and Thracia alone excepted) took up the slanderous tale in language equally bitter, if slightly more decorous. The man who had known how to impose his will on Europe was helpless—might be knocked down and jumped upon, metaphorically speaking—and there was no lack of moralists to improve the occasion. The vilest calumnies, the most outrageous accusations, were gravely detailed as matters of fact, the attacks growing bolder as each historian, finding that the victim made no sign, strove to outdo his neighbour. The statesmen who had smarted under Cyril’s yoke added their quota of titbits of confidential information, to be duly worked up by the fortunate journalist to whom they were whispered, the result being generally a fable that astonished no one more than the original narrator himself. In short, the only wonder was that the political world could have been so long held in subjection by a charlatan so abjectly worthless and contemptible as Count Mortimer was shown to be.
But while the storm was raging in Europe, and its echoes reached with painful distinctness the ears of the little group of friends at Damascus, there reached them also an intimation that behind all the sound and fury there was a purpose that signified something. On the morning of the 28th of December, General Banics paid an early visit, first to Lord Caerleon and then to the Chevalier, bringing an urgent request from Queen Ernestine that they would come to her at once. Apprehensive of danger, they lost no time in complying, and as they were ushered into the Queen’s presence, Ernestine came forward to meet them in her impulsive way, holding out her hands.
“I have sent for you,” she said, “because you are dear and faithful friends of mine, and I can trust you to help me in the frightful danger which is threatening the man we all love. You will not let them separate me from him?”
“Nefer, unless it iss your Machesty’s own dessire,” said the Chevalier.
“But we know that nothing could be further from the Queen’s wishes,” said Lord Caerleon indignantly. “Command us, madame, for anything that we can do.”
“I knew I could rely upon you both.” She cast an encouraging glance at the discomfited Chevalier. “Then please sit down, and let me tell you what I have heard this morning from my dear old friend Princess Soudaroff. She says she was afraid to telegraph, lest the message should be stopped or the enemy discover that we had been warned, but she writes in the greatest anxiety and haste. She is at present in Paris, and her brother-in-law, Prince Soudaroff, had just paid her a flying visit when she wrote. Naturally, as she says, they discussed Count Mortimer’s misfortunes, and something that Prince Soudaroff let fall gave her the idea that a plot was preparing against him. She questioned him closely, and though he evaded her inquiries with the most consummate skill, she is convinced that the Emperor Sigismund and my own family are taking measures to prevent our marriage. What roused her suspicions was a remark which escaped Prince Soudaroff about a Hercynian ship of war suddenly ordered to the Levant, and she suggests that they will attempt to kidnap the Count before New Year’s Day, and convey him to some place of confinement on the plea that he is mad. They will act in my interests, to save me from such an unfortunate marriage, you see! But I won’t be saved from it. How shall we checkmate them?”
“Madame,” said the Chevalier, as she paused abruptly, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed, “de Goldberg millions hef profed demselfs off little afail lately, but at least dey will suffice to buy de gerrison off Damascus for a week. Efery men in it shell be your serfant, and guard de Count.”
“But is such a measure advisable?” asked Lord Caerleon. “The other side can out-bribe us, and bring diplomatic pressure to bear as well. How would you like to steal a march on them, madame? You are not inclined to set an inordinate value upon wedding-dresses and festivities?”
“In comparison with the bridegroom?” Ernestine smiled. “No, indeed. If it had not been for the wishes of my son and my faithful servants, I would have chosen the quietest wedding possible.”
“Under the circumstances, madame, his Majesty and your ladies will no doubt waive their natural wishes. The time required by law for publishing the notice of the intended marriage at the British Consulate expires to-day. To-morrow, then——”
“I see,” said the Queen, blushing brightly.
“His Excellency Count Mortimer, madame,” said General Banics, presenting himself at the door, and Cyril entered the room, his unexpected appearance making the three conspirators look highly confused.
“What are you plotting against me?” he asked sharply.
“Do you know that you have not wished me good morning?” asked Ernestine, rising. “Our friends will excuse us for a moment, I know,” and she made him a sign to follow her out into the verandah. After a few minutes they returned, Ernestine flushed and smiling, with her hand in his.
“Caerleon, Chevalier,” said Cyril, “you have heard of the new danger that threatens me, and you know that the Queen”—he raised her hand to his lips—“would not refuse to share it. But to avoid complications, and to forestall the enemy, she has consented to allow our marriage to take place to-morrow instead of New Year’s Day.”
“A good idea. Very sensible and prudent,” said Lord Caerleon heartily, admiring the delicate tact with which Ernestine had contrived to make the suggestion come from Cyril instead of herself. “We had decided that it would be better for the marriage to take place at the Consulate in any case, so that it will make no difference.”
“I understand that Mr Judson can perform the service at the Consulate,” said the Queen quickly. “I should not like a purely civil marriage.”
“Det iss all right,” said the Chevalier. “I hef talked to Colonel Monckton a great deal about de metter. De merrich can take place et de Consulate in his pressence, and nothink more will be wanted.”
“Perhaps,” said Lord Caerleon to his brother, rather doubtfully, “it might be as well if you left for the desert immediately after the ceremony. If there is any idea of kidnapping you, they might still carry you off, and set the lawyers to work to declare the marriage invalid.”
“We will leave Damascus as soon as the ceremony is performed,” said the Queen calmly. “When we are together and out of their reach they can do nothing against us. The Emperor Sigismund has no jurisdiction over me, and no court in the world would deny that Count Mortimer, an Englishman born, could be legally married at a British Consulate. On his side the marriage must stand, and if they declare it invalid on mine—well, we will be married over and over again until they are content to allow it to stand. But there must not be the slightest suspicion of any flaw. You will see to that, messieurs?” She looked at the three men.
“There shall be none,” responded Lord Caerleon.
“It will be better,” said Cyril, “to tell no one but Monckton of our change of plan until the morning. With the best intentions in the world, Phil and the young fellows could not help letting it be seen that they had an important secret in charge, and the least slip might ruin us. I suppose, Chevalier,”—he was fingering absently Princess Soudaroff’s letter, which the Queen had asked him to read,—“it has occurred to you that Vladimir Alexandrovitch had some object in giving away his fellow-conspirators like this?”
“You mean det he intended to let you hef a hint to escape, Count?”
“Not necessarily. I think he has some other plan on hand—more important to him, though not to the Emperor Sigismund—and he has deliberately sacrificed his ally in order to divert your attention from his own game.”
“But what iss det?” cried the Chevalier distractedly.
“Ah, that you must not ask me. I could have told you once, I don’t doubt, but now”—he shrugged his shoulders. “Think it out if you can, Chevalier.”
“It iss hopeless, Count. I gif it up. My aim now iss to see you safely merried to her Machesty, and I can think of nothink else.”
The three conspirators took their leave of the Queen, and departed to put things in train for the next day’s ceremony. Lord Caerleon paid a visit to Colonel Monckton, the British Consul, and bespoke his consent to the change of date and his assistance in the necessary arrangements. Cyril sent Paschics to look for Yeshua (the blind man had returned to Damascus with the Queen and her escort), who was to find his way to the sheikh of the Beni Ismail, and tell him that he and his tribe would be needed to guard their sovereign and her husband to Sitt Zeynab two days earlier than the time agreed upon. The Chevalier, on his side, devised a little plan of his own for hoodwinking the enemy, and having laid his train, devoted his attention to procuring the tents and supplies for the journey.
The next morning there was a kind of informal reception at the British Consulate. The Chevalier took Mr Judson there to make final arrangements with the Consul, and Lady Caerleon looked in to have a talk with Mrs Monckton. Paschics appeared with a document which needed signing, and an unfortunate accident led to the invasion of the house by several other and more important guests. The Queen and her son, with General Banics and M. Stefanovics in attendance, were going out for a ride with Lord Caerleon, Philippa, and Usk, but just outside the Consulate the Queen’s horse cast a shoe. It was only natural that her Majesty and her companions should be invited into the house for a few minutes; but it was certainly strange that Baroness von Hilfenstein, Madame Stefanovics, and Fräulein von Staubach should have chosen that particular time for calling upon Mrs Monckton in a body. Possibly, however, they felt the need of some distraction after the shock they had received when their mistress informed them that the exquisite creation in grey and silver, fresh from a Parisian atelier, which had arrived that morning, would not be worn on New Year’s day. Curiously enough (Philippa said afterwards that the array of coincidences in connection with this wedding surpassed those associated with the name of Mr Wemmick), Cyril invited Mansfield to take a stroll with him as far as the Consulate just at this time.
“What’s this I hear about you from my brother, Mansfield?” he asked, as they started; “that you have refused Forfar’s post?”
“I prefer to stay with you, Count. I don’t want to change.”
“But you can’t stay with me. Do you know where you are going at this moment? You are going to see me married, which means that we must part.”
“But, Count——” gasped Mansfield, in dire dismay.
“I don’t wish to be unkind, but doesn’t it strike you that you would be just a little de trop on the honeymoon trip? And really, you know, it would be a perfect farce for me to drag two secretaries about with me now.”
“And you mean to keep Paschics, and kick me out?”
“My dear Mansfield, don’t look at me as if I had pierced your young heart to its depths. Paschics must stay with me. He has worked under me more than twenty years, and asks nothing better than to go on as he has done. It would be sheer cruelty to send him adrift at his age. But you have your life before you, and I am not going to see you stranded in the desert with me or any one else.”
“You are not treating me well,” said Mansfield hoarsely. “I have not deserved to be turned off at a moment’s notice like this. You do it because you know how I—how fond—how much I think of you, and you feel that you can treat me like a dog.”
“That’s right. Your way of taking it relieves me infinitely. Do you know that your precipitate refusal of Forfar’s offer has given me a great deal of trouble—most inconsiderate of you to bother a man in this way just on the eve of his wedding. The Chevalier and I have put our heads together, and he has found a berth for you——”
“Hang the Chevalier!” cried Mansfield. Cyril went on, unmoved.
“He wants an Englishman to act as his agent in superintending his various model farms and gardens in Palestine. He doesn’t expect you to see that he isn’t cheated, for that would be hopeless; but he thinks you are capable of discovering whether the work is done or not, which seems to be rather a moot question at present. It will be a life after your own heart, with plenty of riding about. You will choose a spot that suits you and build your house, and in a year or so I haven’t a doubt you will bring a wife to inhabit it.”
“Why you should say that, I don’t know. You know as well as I do——”
“Well?” for Mansfield faltered.
“That Lady Phil will marry King Michael.”
“Don’t you think you are taking things a little too much for granted?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care, anyhow. It seems I have to lose everything I care about—first Lady Phil, then you.”
Cyril made no answer. Perhaps he had no comfort to offer; perhaps no time to offer it. They were entering the Consulate, and Mr Hicks, who was lounging in the doorway, greeted them with portentous solemnity and an almost imperceptible wink. The guests who had assembled in such a casual way were gathered in one of the larger rooms, and Mr Judson, wearing his surplice, was in readiness. Often as most of those present had pictured this wedding to themselves, they had never anticipated anything like the real scene—the large bare room, hastily decorated with a collection of European nicknacks and Oriental draperies gathered from all corners of the house, the bride wearing her riding-habit and the bridegroom a tweed suit, and the motley assemblage of spectators, in which King Michael stood side by side with the Chevalier Goldberg, and the American journalist rubbed shoulders with the Thracian Court officials. It was only fitting that the pair whose history had at so many points touched that of the Hebrew race should be united by the son of a Jewish convert; but the irony of the occasion found its climax in the fact that the woman who had risked so much in defence of the forms of her religion should be debarred not only from the services of a clergyman of her own church, but even from the use of a consecrated building, and should bear the deprivation without a murmur.
In an incredibly short space of time the service which seemed so brief and meant so much was over, and Cyril and his wife were receiving the congratulations of the rest. There was small scope for oratory in the farewells. Mansfield’s sore heart was a little comforted by the grip of Cyril’s hand as he passed him in the doorway, even though the accompanying words were merely, “Don’t be a silly fool!” Another horse had been brought round for the Queen’s use, and the riding-party made a fresh start; but this time it included Cyril. Paschics and Dietrich were to join their master outside the city, convoying Fräulein von Staubach, who insisted upon her right to attend the Queen now that her turn had come round. The men took off their hats as the party rode away, but turned immediately to rebuke the ladies for shedding tears. Such a display of pocket-handkerchiefs was calculated to attract undesirable attention, they said, and Baroness von Hilfenstein and Madame Stefanovics retreated into the inmost recesses of the house, to guard against endangering the Queen’s safety by their uncontrollable emotion. But the fugitives rode safely through the city and out at the gate, meeting the sheikh as had been arranged, without being challenged by a single official.
That evening the yacht White Lady, lying in Beyrout roadstead, suddenly hoisted English colours and the Thracian royal standard, and put to sea, in company with the Thracian gunboat St Gabriel. It was remarked as peculiar by curious observers on shore that the Hercynian war-ship which had arrived that morning immediately slipped her cable and followed them.