by J. C. Snaith
CHAPTER XXIX
THE CAST OF THE DIE
Upon the return to Dympsfield House, three telegrams in cypher werewaiting for the King. Two secretaries, who with divers otherunofficial members of his suite were staying at the Coach and Horses,were in possession of the library, which had been placed at the royaldisposal. At dinner that evening we were informed that the Teutonicdisplay of red fire had provoked a grave internal crisis in Illyria.The National Bank was about to suspend payment; Consolidated Stock wasat fifty-nine; and his Majesty must leave these shores in the course ofSaturday.
I could not repress a sigh of relief, although, to be sure, this was nomore than the evening of Wednesday.
"Old Vesuvius is beginning to rumble again," said the King, with alaugh that sounded rather sinister, "but he cannot make us believe inhim. How say you, my child?"
He looked across the table at the Princess, who was as pale as death.
Here was the indication of the final and supreme crisis for her and forher husband, and the hearts of those to whom she had come to mean muchwere torn with pity. Elemental, uncontrollable forces had her in theirtoils.
Fitz, too, had all our pity. The strain of true grandeur at the heartof the man, which all that was superficial could not efface, hadasserted itself in this season of anguish. A lesser nature might havetaken steps to relieve his wife of the torment of his presence. But inthe watches of the night he had referred the question, and now, comewhat must, he would meet his fate.
There was reason to believe that he had already thrown his weight inthe scale on the side of Ferdinand. He had stopped short ofself-immolation, it was true; he had placed another interpretation onthe Voice; but it seemed to me, his friend, that his whole bearing wasa piece of altruistic heroism which could have had few parallels.
"Ferdinand is right," he said as we kept vigil in my quarters. "Theinterests of a great people are of more account than a chap like me. Iknow it, and Sonia knows it too."
The words were torn from him. It was curious how this contained andself-reliant spirit yearned for the sanction that it was in the powerof a sympathetic understanding to bestow. If he dealt himself a mortalwound he must have a friend at his side. If he had superhumanstrength, at least he had human weakness. Men of valour are proud as arule. Fitz in the hour of his passion had a humility, a craving forthe countenance of his fellows that I could only do my best to renderin a humble way. The walk of mediocrity saves us from many things, butI suppose there are seasons in the lives of some who wear its badgewhen we would willingly forgo its comfortable consciousness of immunityfor some diviner gift.
It was as though my unhappy friend was bleeding, perhaps to death, andI knew not how to stanch his wound.
Neither of us sought our beds that night, but sat and smoked hour afterhour, in silence for the most part, beside a dead fire. He wished meto be near him, almost as a dumb animal yearns for those who show asympathetic understanding of its pain, even if they are powerless tomake it less.
As thus we sat together my mind envisaged the chequered career of mycompanion in all its phases. I recalled him in his first pair oftrousers at his private school; I recalled him as my fag in that largercosmogony in which afterwards we dwelt together. As his senior, inthose days I had unconsciously regarded him as less than myself. Butthis night, as I sat with him, consumed with pity for the tragic wreckof his fortunes, I realised that he was one whose life was passed on ahigher, more significant plane than mine could ever occupy.
It was good to feel that I had nothing with which to reproach myself inregard to my attitude towards him in those distant days. His fits ofdepression, his outbursts of devilry, his dislike of games, the streakof fatalism that was in him, his impatience of all authority, hadexposed him to many hardships. But I was glad to think that I need notaccuse myself of imperfect sympathy towards this fantastically odd, yethigh and enduring spirit.
Thursday came and passed in gloom. Even Ferdinand, that heart ofsteel, was feeling the poignancy of the crisis. Throughout the daySonia did not appear. But in the evening Irene sat with her in herroom.
"If I were she," she declared to me later, with tearful defiance, "Iwould not go back--that is, unless they accepted my husband as theirfuture king."
"They cannot do that."
"I think the King himself is so wrong. He hates Nevil, and he has notthe least affection for poor little Marie, his granddaughter. It is adreadful state of things."
I concurred dismally. Yet it was a state of things arising sonaturally, so inevitably out of the special circumstances of the casethat it seemed almost to forfeit a little of its tragic significance.
"If only she is strong enough to hold out until Saturday!" said myfeminine counsellor. "But I am rather afraid. She is quite weak insome ways."
"There is a weakness, isn't there, which is a higher form of strength?"
"Can you mean that she will not be weak if she consents to return toIllyria to marry the Archduke Joseph?"
"She owes a duty to her people."
"She owes a duty to her husband and child."
Thursday ended as it began and Friday brought no solace. The Princessreappeared among us in the afternoon. She was pale and composed, andas the twilight of the January afternoon was gathering, she and Fitzrode out together. The King, at the same hour, walked in the muddylanes with von Schalk.
"They leave us to-morrow morning at eleven," Mrs. Arbuthnot informedme, "and Sonia has not had her things packed. I believe the worst isover. She would have told me had she decided to go."
I was unable to share her optimism. From the first I had felt that thestars in their courses would prove too much for the unhappy lady. Andnothing had occurred to remove that fear.
The King returned from his walk, and suave and subtle of countenance,it pleased him to toy with a cup of Mrs. Arbuthnot's tea, while hetoasted his muddy gaiters at the fire.
"My daughter has not returned from her ride?"
"No, sir," I answered him.
"The last ride together," said the King, gently. "One of yourexcellent English poets has a poem about it, has he not?"
A thrill passed through my nerves at the almost cruel directness of theKing's speech. I saw that in the same moment the eyes of Mrs.Arbuthnot had filled with tears.
"You have great poets in England," said the King, softly. "They arethe chief glories of a nation, and your country is rich in them. Wehave great poets in Illyria also. There is Bolder. We are all proudto be the countrymen of Bolder. When you come to see us at Blaenau Ithink you will like to meet him."
As the King spoke in his paternal voice, I was conscious of his handupon the breast of my coat. He had pinned a piece of black ribbon uponit, to which was attached a silver star.
"I am afraid, sir," I said, suffering some embarrassment, "no man everdid less to deserve the Order of the Silver Star of Illyria."
The King took my hand in his with that wonderful cordial simplicitythat was so hard to resist.
"A friend in need is a friend indeed, Mr. Arbuthnot, as your Englishsaying has it. And, madame, when together we lead the cotillon atBlaenau, I hope you will honour us by wearing this."
The King laid a jewel of much beauty upon the tea-table.
"Oh, sir," said Mrs. Arbuthnot, smiling faintly through wet eyelashes.
Standing before the fire, teacup in hand, the King talked to us quitesimply and pleasantly and sincerely. He was a man of great power ofmind and his outlook upon life was large and direct.
"You have many ways in this country that I should like to see in ours,"he said. "But we in Illyria make haste slowly. The climate is not sobracing. I am afraid we do not think so forcibly. And there is awider gulf between the rich and the poor."
There was a note of regret in the King's tone. He seemed to be turninghis eyes to the future, and in the process his face grew tired andmelancholy. It was then that I realised that this man of infinitevigour and power was said to be near t
he end of his course.
At dinner we were enlivened by his gaiety. His charm was hard toresist, so rich and full it was and so spontaneous. But my thoughtsstrayed ever away from the King, his wisdom and his persiflage, tothose who were one flesh in the sight of God, who were dining togetherfor the last time.
Their courage was a noble, even an amazing thing. The stoicism withwhich they ate and drank and bore a part in the conversation while achasm had opened beneath their feet was almost incredible. Throughoutthe perpetual oscillation from comedy to tragedy, from tragedy tocomedy, from comedy to tragedy again of their life together, they hadborne their parts with a heroic constancy, and even in this dark phasethey were equal to their task.
The die was cast. On the morrow the Princess would return to herpeople, marry the Archduke, and when the time came accept the throne.It was part of the dreadful covenant the King had exacted that shewould never see Fitz and their child again.
I passed a night of weary wretchedness. Do what I would, I could notkeep Fitz out of my thoughts. About three o'clock I rose and dressedand put on my overcoat and walked out into the garden. Somehow Iexpected to find him there. But there was not a trace of him, andevery window in the house was dark. A spirit of desolation seemed topervade everything--so dark and chill was the night. There was not astar to be seen.
I went back to my room, coaxed up the fire, seated myself beside it andlit a pipe. Presently I heard a footfall on the stairs. It was Irene,pale and weary with much weeping. Daylight found her asleep in my armswith her head on my shoulder.
The day of the King's departure had come at last. There was a generalscurry of preparation, but precisely at eleven o'clock a procession ofsix motor cars started from our door for Middleham railway station,whence a special train would proceed to Southampton. It was Sonia'swish that Irene and I should accompany her to the train; and poor Fitz,half stunned as he was, determined to play out the game to the end, andwith one of his odd outbursts of cynicism affirmed his sportsmanlikeintention of "being in at the death."
The King, his daughter, the Chancellor, and Mrs. Arbuthnot were in thesecond car, preceded by a special escort from Scotland Yard. Fitz andI had the third to ourselves; the Secretaries were in the fourth; thefifth and sixth conveyed the valets, her Royal Highness's maid, and aconsiderable quantity of luggage.
As the procession, at the modest rate of twelve miles an hour, cameinto the pleasant village of Lymeswold, where our revered Vicar has hiscure of souls, there was a considerable amount of bunting displayed inthe vicinity of the Coach and Horses. And from the windows of theVicarage itself depended the Union Jack side by side with the silverStar of Illyria on a green ground. Mrs. Vicar waved a whitepocket-handkerchief from the gate of the manse, but the Vicar wasbearing a chief part in a more dramatic tableau that had been arrangedon the village green. Here the village school was drawn up, the girlsin nice white pinafores and the boys looking almost painfully wellwashed. Each had a small flag that was waved frantically, and theVicar standing at their head led a prodigious quantity of cheering,while Ferdinand the Twelfth took off his hat and bowed.
But all this was merely a prelude to the historic spectacle that wecame upon presently. At the top of the steep hill leading to the MarlPits, that favourite haunt of "the stinkin' Middleshire phocks," lo andbehold! all the Crackanthorpe horses, all the Crackanthorpe men, not tomention their ladies, their hounds and the entire hunt establishment,even unto Peter the terrier, were assembled in full array of battle, asbecame the hour of eleven o'clock in the morning of a rare scenting dayin the middle of January. The cavalcade lined each side of the road,and our motor cars passed through it on their lowest speed, to arunning accompaniment of cheers and hunting noises and a waving of hatsand handkerchiefs.
Evidently the scene had been carefully stage-managed and formed ahandsome and appropriate _amende_. It did not fail of its appeal tothe broken-hearted circus rider from Vienna. She responded by kissingher hand repeatedly, and her father lifted his hat and bowedcontinually as though it were a state procession.
The heart of Mrs. Arbuthnot was in pieces, but it was a great moment inthe history of the clan. The china-blue eyes were brimming over withtheir tears, but they were still capable of radiating a subtle femininelight of triumph. The noble Master blew a blast on his horn and hisaide-de-camp, Joseph Jocelyn De Vere Vane-Anstruther, marked the royalprogress by hoisting his hat on his whip. As we passed Mrs. Catesby,who looked very red, the brims of whose hat looked wider and whosewhole appearance approximated more nearly than ever to that of Mr.Weller the Elder, I bestowed a special salutation upon her, of, I fear,somewhat ironical dimensions. The Great Lady responded by shaking herwhip at me in a decidedly truculent manner.
Our procession passed on to Middleham railway station, which we reachedabout a quarter to twelve. A considerable crowd had assembled aboutits precincts. The roadway and the entrance to the station wereguarded by a body of mounted police, and a small detachment of theMiddleshire Yeomanry in the charge of no less a person than MajorGeorge Catesby, who saluted us with his sword.
On the platform we were received by a number of local dignitaries, andforemost among these, tall and austere, but with the faint light ofhumour in his countenance, was Lieutenant-Colonel John ChalmersCoverdale, C.M.G., late of his Majesty's Carabineers.
The King and his Chancellor took a brief but cordial leave of us andstepped briskly into the royal saloon; and then I felt the pressure ofa woman's hand, and I heard a low, broken whisper, "Be good for my saketo Nevil and little Marie." The Princess then took the hands of Mrs.Arbuthnot in each of her own, kissed her wet cheeks, and was handedinto the train by the husband she had promised never to see in thislife again.