Seaman’s little bow to the chairman was good-humoured, tolerant, a little wistful. The Duke’s few words, prefaced by an indignant protest against the intrusion of a German propagandist into an English patriotic meeting, did nothing to undo the effect produced by this undesired stranger. When the meeting broke up, it was doubtful whether a single adherent had been gained to the cause of National Service. The Duke went home full of wrath, and Seaman chuckled with genuine merriment as he stepped into the taxi which Dominey had secured, at the corner of the street.
“I promised you entertainment,” he observed. “Confess that I have kept my word.”
Dominey smiled enigmatically. “You certainly succeeded in making fools of a number of respectable and well-meaning men.”
“The miracle of it extends further,” Seaman agreed. “Tonight, in its small way, is a supreme example of the transcendental follies of democracy. England is being slowly choked and strangled with too much liberty. She is like a child being overfed with jam. Imagine, in our dear country, an Englishman being allowed to mount the platform and spout, undisturbed, English propaganda in deadly opposition to German interests. The so-called liberty of the Englishman is like the cuckoo in his political nest. Countries must be governed. They cannot govern themselves. The time of war will prove all that.”
“Yet in any great crisis of a nation’s history,” Dominey queried, “surely there is safety in a multitude of counsellors?”
“There would be always a multitude of counsellors,” Seaman replied, “in Germany as in England. The trouble for this country is that they would be all expressed publicly and in the press, each view would have its adherents, and the Government be split up into factions. In Germany, the real destinies of the country are decided in secret. There are counsellors there, too, earnest and wise counsellors, but no one knows their varying views. All that one learns is the result, spoken through the lips of the Kaiser, spoken once and for all.”
Dominey was showing signs of a rare interest in his companion’s conversation. His eyes were bright, his usually impassive features seemed to have become more mobile and strained. He laid his hand on Seaman’s arm.
“Listen,” he said, “we are in London, alone in a taxicab, secure against any possible eavesdropping. You preach the advantage of our Kaiser-led country. Do you really believe that the Kaiser is the man for the task which is coming?”
Seaman’s narrow eyes glittered. He looked at his companion in satisfaction. His forehead was puckered, his eternal smile gone. He was the man of intellect.
“So you are waking up from the lethargy of Africa, my friend!” he exclaimed. “You are beginning to think. As you ask me, so shall I answer. The Kaiser is a vain, bombastic dreamer, the greatest egotist who ever lived, with a diseased personality, a ceaseless craving for the limelight. But he has also the genius for government. I mean this: he is a splendid medium for the expression of the brain power of his counsellors. Their words will pass through his personality, and he will believe them his. What is more, they will sound like his. He will see himself the knight in shining armour. All Europe will bow down before this self-imagined Caesar, and no one except we who are behind will realise the ass’s-head. There is no one else in this world whom I have ever met so well fitted to lead our great nation on to the destiny she deserves.—And now, my friend, tomorrow, if you like, we will speak of these matters again. Tonight, you have other things to think about. You are going into the great places where I never penetrate. You have an hour to change and prepare. At eleven o’clock the Prince von Terniloff will expect you.”
Chapter VII
There had been a dinner party and a very small reception afterwards at the great Embassy in Carlton House Terrace. The Ambassador, Prince Terniloff, was bidding farewell to his wife’s cousin, the Princess Eiderstrom, the last of his guests. She drew him on one side for a moment.
“Your Excellency,” she said, “I have been hoping for a word with you all the evening.”
“And I with you, dear Stephanie,” he answered. “It is very early. Let us sit down for a moment.”
He led her towards a settee but she shook her head.
“You have an appointment at half-past eleven,” she said. “I wish you to keep it.”
“You know, then?”
“I lunched today at the Carlton grill room. In the reception-room I came face to face with Leopold von Ragastein.”
The Ambassador made no remark. It seemed to be his wish to hear first all that his companion had to say. After a moment’s pause she continued:
“I spoke to him, and he denied himself. To me! I think that those were the most terrible seconds of my life. I have never suffered more. I shall never suffer so much again.”
“It was most unfortunate,” the Prince murmured sympathetically.
“This evening,” she went on, “I received a visit from a man whom I took at first to be an insignificant member of the German bourgeoisie. I learnt something of his true position later. He came to me to explain that Leopold was engaged in this country on secret service, that he was passing under the name which he gave me,—Sir Everard Dominey, an English baronet, long lost in Africa. You know of this?”
“I know that tonight I am receiving a visit from Sir Everard Dominey.”
“He is to work under your auspices?”
“By no means,” the Prince rejoined warmly. “I am not favourably inclined towards this network of espionage. The school of diplomacy in which I have been brought up tries to work without such ignoble means.”
“One realises that,” she said. “Leopold is coming, however, tonight, to pay his respects to you.”
“He is waiting for me now in my study,” the Ambassador asserted.
“You will do me the service of conveying to him a message from me,” she continued. “This man Seaman pointed out to me the unwisdom of any association between myself and Leopold, under present conditions. I listened to all that he had to say. I reserved my decision. I have now considered the matter. I will compromise with necessity. I will be content with the acquaintance of Sir Everard Dominey, but that I will have.”
“For myself,” the Ambassador reflected, “I do not even know what Von Ragastein’s mission over here is, but if in Berlin they decide that, for the more complete preservation of his incognito, association between you and him is undesirable—”
She laid her fingers upon his arm.
“Stop!” she ordered. “I am not of Berlin. I am not a German. I am not even an Austrian. I am Hungarian, and though I am willing to study your interests, I am not willing to place them before my own life. I make terms, but I do not surrender. Those terms I will discuss with Leopold. Ah, be kind to me!” she went on, with a sudden change of voice. “Since those few minutes at midday I have lived in a dream. Only one thing can quiet me. I must speak to him, I must decide with him what I will do. You will help?”
“An acquaintance between you and Sir Everard Dominey,” he admitted, “is certainly a perfectly natural thing.”
“Look at me,” she begged.
He turned and looked into her face. Underneath her beautiful eyes were dark lines; there was something pitiful about the curve of her mouth. He remembered that although she had carried herself throughout the evening with all the dignity which was second nature to her, he had overheard more than one sympathetic comment upon her appearance.
“I can see that you are suffering,” he remarked kindly.
“My eyes are hot, and inside I am on fire,” she continued. “I must speak to Leopold. Freda has asked me to stay and talk to her for an hour. My car waits. Arrange that he drives me home. Oh! believe me, dear friend, I am a very human woman, and there is nothing in the world to be gained by treating me as though I were of wood or stone. Tonight I can see him without observation. If you refuse, I shall take other means. I will make no promises. I will not even promise that I will not ca
ll out before him in the streets that he is a liar, that his life is a lie. I will call him Leopold von Ragastein—”
“Hush!” he begged her. “Stephanie, you are nervous. I have not yet answered your entreaty.”
“You consent?”
“I consent,” he promised. “After our interview, I shall bring the young man to Freda’s room and present him. You will be there. He can offer you his escort.”
She suddenly stooped and kissed his hand. An immense relief was in her face.
“Now I will keep you no longer. Freda is waiting for me.”
The Ambassador strolled thoughtfully away into his own den at the back of the house, where Dominey was waiting for him.
“I am glad to see you,” the former said, holding out his hand. “For five minutes I desire to talk to your real self. After that, for the rest of your time in England, I will respect your new identity.”
Dominey bowed in silence. His host pointed to the sideboard.
“Come,” he continued, “there are cigars and cigarettes at your elbow, whisky and soda on the sideboard. Make yourself at home in that chair there. Africa has really changed you very little. Do you remember our previous meeting, in Saxony?”
“I remember it perfectly, your Excellency.”
“His Majesty knew how to keep Court in those days,” the Ambassador went on. “One was tempted to believe oneself at an English country party. However, that much of the past. You know, of course, that I entirely disapprove of your present position here?”
“I gathered as much, your Excellency.”
“We will have no reserves with one another,” the Prince declared, lighting a cigar. “I know quite well that you form part of a network of espionage in this country which I consider wholly unnecessary. That is simply a question of method. I have no doubt that you are here with the same object as I am, the object which the Kaiser has declared to me with his own lips is nearest to his heart—to cement the bonds of friendship between Germany and England.”
“You believe, sir, that that is possible?”
“I am convinced of it,” was the earnest reply. “I do not know what the exact nature of your work over here is to be, but I am glad to have an opportunity of putting before you my convictions. I believe that in Berlin the character of some of the leading statesmen here has been misunderstood and misrepresented. I find on all sides of me an earnest and sincere desire for peace. I have convinced myself that there is not a single statesman in this country who is desirous of war with Germany.”
Dominey was listening intently, with the air of one who hears unexpected things.
“But, your Excellency,” he ventured, “what about the matter from our point of view? There are a great many in our country, whom you and I know of, who look forward to a war with England as inevitable. Germany must become, we all believe, the greatest empire in the world. She must climb there, as one of our friends once said, with her foot upon the neck of the British lion.”
“You are out of date,” the Ambassador declared earnestly. “I see now why they sent you to me. Those days have passed. There is room in the world for Great Britain and for Germany. The disintegration of Russia in the near future is a certainty. It is eastward that we must look for any great extension of territory.”
“These things have been decided?”
“Absolutely! They form the soul of my mission here. My mandate is one of peace, and the more I see of English statesmen and the more I understand the British outlook, the more sanguine I am as to the success of my efforts. This is why all this outside espionage with which Seaman is so largely concerned seems to me at times unwise and unnecessary.”
“And my own mission?” Dominey enquired.
“Its nature,” the Prince replied, “is not as yet divulged, but if, as I have been given to understand, it is to become closely connected with my own, then I am very sure you will presently find that its text also is Peace.”
Dominey rose to his feet, prepared to take his leave.
“These matters will be solved for us,” he murmured.
“There is just one word more, on a somewhat more private matter,” Terniloff said in an altered tone. “The Princess Eiderstrom is upstairs.”
“In this house?”
“Waiting for a word with you. Our friend Seaman has been with her this evening. I understand that she is content to subscribe to the present situation. She makes one condition, however.”
“And that?”
“She insists upon it that I present Sir Everard Dominey.”
The latter did not attempt to conceal his perturbation.
“I need scarcely point out to you, sir,” he protested, “that any association between the Princess and myself is likely to largely increase the difficulties of my position here.”
The Ambassador sighed.
“I quite appreciate that,” he admitted. “Both Seaman and I have endeavoured to reason with her, but, as you are doubtless aware, the Princess is a woman of very strong will. She is also very powerfully placed here, and it is the urgent desire of the Court at Berlin to placate in every way the Hungarian nobility. You will understand, of course, that I speak from a political point of view only. I cannot ignore the fact of your unfortunate relations with the late Prince, but in considering the present position you will, I am sure, remember the greater interests.”
His visitor was silent for a moment.
“You say that the Princess is waiting here?”
“She is with my wife and asks for your escort home. My wife also looks forward to the pleasure of renewing her acquaintance with you.”
“I shall accept your Excellency’s guidance in the matter,” Dominey decided.
The Princess Terniloff was a woman of world culture, an artist, and still an extremely attractive woman. She received the visitor whom her husband brought to her in a very charming little room furnished after the style of the simplest French period, and she did her best to relieve the strain of what she understood must be a somewhat trying moment.
“We are delighted to welcome you to London, Sir Everard Dominey,” she said, taking his hand, “and I hope that we shall often see you here. I want to present you to my cousin, who is interested in you, I must tell you frankly, because of your likeness to a very dear friend of hers. Stephanie, this is Sir Everard Dominey—the Princess Eiderstrom.”
Stephanie, who was seated upon the couch from which her cousin had just risen, held out her hand to Dominey, who made her a very low and formal bow. Her gown was of unrelieved black. Wonderful diamonds flashed around her neck, and she wore also a tiara fashioned after the Hungarian style, a little low on her forehead. Her manner and tone still indicated some measure of rebellion against the situation.
“You have forgiven me for my insistence this morning?” she asked. “It was hard for me to believe that you were not indeed the person for whom I mistook you.”
“Other people have spoken to me of the likeness,” Dominey replied. “It is a matter of regret to me that I can claim to be no more than a simple Norfolk baronet.”
“Without any previous experience of European Courts?”
“Without any at all.”
“Your German is wonderfully pure for an untravelled man.”
“Languages were the sole accomplishment I brought away from my misspent school days.”
“You are not going to bury yourself in Norfolk, Sir Everard?” the Princess Terniloff enquired.
“Norfolk is very near London these days,” Dominey replied, “and I have experienced more than my share of solitude during the last few years. I hope to spend a portion of my time here.”
“You must dine with us one night,” the Princess insisted, “and tell us about Africa. My husband would be so interested.”
“You are very kind.”
Stephanie rose slowly to her feet, leaned gr
acefully over and kissed her hostess on both cheeks, and submitted her hand to the Prince, who raised it to his lips. Then she turned to Dominey.
“Will you be so kind as to see me home?” she asked. “Afterwards, my car can take you on wherever you choose to go.”
“I shall be very happy,” Dominey assented.
He, too, made his farewells. A servant in the hall handed him his hat and coat, and he took his place in the car by Stephanie’s side. She touched the electric switch as they glided off. The car was in darkness.
“I think,” she murmured, “that I could not have borne another moment of this juggling with words. Leopold—we are alone!”
He caught the flash of her jewels, the soft brilliance of her eyes as she leaned towards him. His voice sounded, even to himself, harsh and strident.
“You mistake, Princess. My name is not Leopold. I am Everard Dominey.”
“Oh, I know that you are very obstinate,” she said softly, “very obstinate and very devoted to your marvellous country, but you have a soul, Leopold; you know that there are human duties as great as any your country ever imposed upon you. You know what I look for from you, what I must find from you or go down into hell, ashamed and miserable.”
He felt his throat suddenly dry.
“Listen,” he muttered, “until the hour strikes, I must remain to you as to the world, alone or in a crowd—Everard Dominey. There is one way and one way only of carrying through my appointed task.”
The Great Impersonation Page 7