Читать книгу A Crowned Queen - Sydney C. Grier - Страница 10

Table of Contents

Lady Caerleon sat alone in the breakfast-room at Llandiarmid, with an unopened letter lying before her on the table. Her husband was staying with a friend in the Midlands for a few days’ shooting, and she had sent the children away to play, for she felt reluctant, almost afraid, to open the letter in their presence. The sight of the Thracian stamp and post-mark, and of the writing upon the envelope, brought back to her with unwelcome vividness the troubles of her girlhood, which had passed out of sight—almost out of mind—during the happy years of her married life. That writing she had last seen some months before her marriage, when her father had written to upbraid her for revealing his plot against Caerleon’s life to the intended victim, and had cast her off, as he declared, for ever. “I have no daughter now,” he had said, and she accepted his decision with a resignation which comprised in it something of relief. “You must be father and brother to me, as well as husband,” she had said to Caerleon on their wedding-day, looking into his face with her great serious eyes, “for I have no one but you;” and if she had experienced little difficulty in choosing between father and lover, she had never for a moment found reason to regret her choice. It was like tearing open an old wound to return now to the trials of those earlier days; but she shook off her reluctance after a time, and unfolded the letter with a determination to know the worst at once. As she looked at it, however, the apprehension faded from her face, for instead of conveying the curse which her father had sworn that he would send her with his dying breath, the words which met her eye were expressive of the greatest goodwill.

“My dear Nadia,—You will likely be surprised to receive a letter from me; but I feel I am growing old, and often lately I have been troubled to think that the one relation I have left in the wide world was living in enmity against me. Owing to reasons with which you are very well acquainted, it is not possible for me to take the step to which my feelings prompt me, and by paying you a visit in England, seek to end this sad state of things; but if you should feel moved to terminate it, be sure that you will find no obstacle in me. I have suffered of late from a painful and distressing illness, any recurrence of which, so the doctor informs me, would be fatal, and which may recur at any time. At this moment I am experiencing great relief from a course of the Tatarjé waters, and find my former strength wonderfully restored. My life has not been too happy, and now, lingering on the borders of a better world, I am conscious of a longing for that solace of family affection, from which circumstances have debarred me wholly of late years, and in a measure, as you know, all my days. I wish to blame no one, but I think your own heart will bear me out in this. It is not for me to sue for pity to my daughter; but if her filial feelings lead her to take the first steps towards a reconciliation, far be it from me to repulse her! You have children, Nadia—a son, I hear. Since your poor brother’s death and your disobedience I have had none; but I would like greatly to see yours before I die. It would afford me pleasure, also, to meet your husband again, for I have always entertained the highest respect for him, although we unfortunately differed in politics. Some years ago I received from him a very suitable and becoming letter, which I fear I may have failed to treat with the consideration it deserved. I do not ask his pardon; he will be able to understand something of the bitterness which fills a father’s heart under circumstances such as mine. I make no entreaties; I leave the matter with you. However you may decide to receive this overture of mine, I cannot forget that I am your father,

“O’Malachy.”

Nadia read the letter through again, for its tone of injured rectitude was somewhat puzzling in view of the circumstances in which the breach between her father and herself had taken place. To say that Caerleon and he had “differed in politics” was a mild way of stating that the O’Malachy had plotted not merely to depose, but to murder, his would-be son-in-law when the latter occupied the Thracian throne. Perhaps it would be too much to expect any expression of regret for this unfortunate misunderstanding; but Nadia felt that her father was scarcely entitled to imply that all the misconduct was on her side and all the undeserved suffering on his own. Still, the fact that he had written this letter at all was more than she could have dared to hope, and she knew him well enough to recognise that it was only in accordance with his character to safeguard his own dignity as far as possible in thus making friendly overtures after his long silence, although this rendered it all the more difficult to know how to reply to the letter.

“I wish Carlino was at home!” she said at last. “I cannot tell what to say by myself. Ah, yes; I will send him the letter, and he shall tell me how I ought to answer it. How glad he will be to hear that what I have been longing and praying for ever since we were married has come to pass at last! We will take the children with us and go to Tatarjé, and papa’s heart will be softened. Perhaps he will be able to come back to England after all, and spend his old age here. If he is really changed, he might wish to do it, and some of Carlino’s friends in the Government would surely be able to make it safe for him. Oh, how delightful it would be to know that he was quiet and had given up plotting! I am certain Carlino feels it a trial to be connected with a Scythian secret service agent, though he never allows it to appear; and it will be a comfort to him to have him close at hand and to be able to keep an eye on him.”

It did not occur to Nadia, as she sat down at her writing-table to begin her letter to her husband, that the O’Malachy was scarcely likely to be either a very desirable or a particularly contented inhabitant of the Castle unless his character had altered very materially of late years; but Caerleon frowned a good deal over the proposal when it reached him the next morning. He had not bargained for receiving his father-in-law as an inmate of his family, and it seemed to him that it would make for the happiness of all concerned if the gallant officer should elect to end his days at some Continental health-resort. The annoyances which his presence at Llandiarmid was bound to entail would press most heavily on Nadia herself, and therefore she would be inclined to underrate them in prospect; but Caerleon had no intention of allowing his wife to be victimised by her father if he could possibly induce her to see that the sacrifice was not demanded of her. He had slight opportunity, however, of laying his views before her, for even before the time at which he was revolving in his mind the sentences which should produce the impression he desired without appearing to throw cold water on her schemes for her father’s reformation, Nadia had taken a sudden and most important step on her own account.

In the afternoon of the day on which Lady Caerleon had received her father’s letter, and forwarded it to her husband, Wright the coachman, returning from executing various commissions for his mistress in Aberkerran, brought out also a telegram addressed to her, which had been intrusted to him at the post-office, with the view of saving the trouble and expense of a special messenger. He lingered at the door while she opened the envelope, expecting to hear that Lord Caerleon was returning earlier than had been anticipated, or that he had been suddenly called to London; but to his great alarm she turned pale when the message met her eyes, and a startled cry broke from her—

“My father is dangerously ill, Wright, and entreats me to come and see him with the children before he dies. The telegram is from the doctor, who warns me not to lose a moment. We must leave by to-night’s train—the one Lord Cyril took when he was called away.”

“You and the children, my lady? and all in such a ’urry?” said Wright, in bewilderment. “’Ow ever will you get ready?”

“We must manage. I should never forgive myself if we were too late. I must telegraph to the Marquis to meet us in London. He is not so far from town as we are, and will be able to do it well.”

“But you wouldn’t go for to travel alone to town with the children, my lady?”

“Of course I shall take nurse. I think I will take you as well, Wright. You know something about travelling, and if anything should prevent the Marquis from meeting us, you would be most useful.”

“Yes, my lady; but what am I to say to my wife?”

“Tell her that I take you because you were with Lord Caerleon in Eastern Europe before, of course. Have the waggonette ready at six, and bring Stodart to take charge of the horses and drive them home.”

“Yes, my lady—but, begging your ladyship’s pardon, do you think as ’is lordship would approve of your startin’ off quite so quick without sendin’ ’im word fust?”

“My good Wright,” returned Nadia forbearingly, “I shall telegraph to Lord Caerleon before we get into the train. I should not think of going to Tatarjé without him; but it is just possible that he might not reach London quite in time for the Flushing boat, and might have to follow us by another. That is why I am taking you. But you may be quite sure that my husband will approve of my doing my duty.”

Wright retired, crushed, to give the necessary orders at the stables, and then to break the news of his sudden departure to his wife, who complained that the Marchioness was very thoughtless, and ’ad much better take one of the young fellows as didn’t suffer with the rheumatics, if she wanted to go trapesing about over the place, and not lead a respectable family man on such a wild-goose chase; but there! she never ’ad set much by them furriners. But this utterance struck at the root of all Wright’s ideas of the respect due to the “Family,” and he hastened to assure his grumbling spouse, while she packed his bag and he brought out the old passport which he cherished with a good deal of pride, that her ladyship was taking the proper course under the circumstances, and that he considered she was perfectly justified in what she did.

After all, in spite of Lady Caerleon’s promptness in deciding upon the journey, and her haste in preparing for it, there was not time for her to send off the telegram to her husband before the train started, and she was therefore obliged to give it into the hands of Stodart the groom, with instructions to despatch it immediately. Stodart was a well-intentioned young man; but on the present occasion the honour and glory of finding himself in sole command of the horses and carriage seems to have been too much for his self-control, for after driving through the principal streets to exhibit his grandeur to his acquaintances, he yielded to the invitation of a friend, and accepted a glass or two of beer at a public-house close to the post-office. There is no reason to suspect that he went beyond the two glasses; but the melancholy fact remains that when he reached the post-office it was too late to send the telegram that day. The crestfallen youth took it back to Llandiarmid, and confessed his dereliction of duty to the housekeeper, who rebuked him sharply for not having left the missive with some one in the town who could have despatched it as soon as the office opened. Stodart himself rode into Aberkerran at the earliest possible hour the next morning, and sent off the message; but by that time a weary and shivering little group, gathered on the platform at Victoria, had realised sadly that Lord Caerleon was not there to meet them, and had taken the Queenborough train without him. Nor did the misfortunes of the telegram end here. It did not reach the country-house at which Caerleon was staying until some time after the gentlemen had started for the distant coverts, and the hostess considered that it might well wait until she herself joined the sportsmen at lunch-time. Even then, she was thoughtful enough not to present it until after the meal, in case it should contain bad news, and then she forgot it until she and the other ladies were making their way home, so that when Caerleon at last received it he was forced to realise that his wife and children were already speeding across Europe away from him as fast as steam could carry them. His own man was on the sick-list, having been shot accidentally in the ankle by an amateur sportsman of the party, and he was obliged to telegraph to Llandiarmid that Robert the footman should meet him at Victoria the next morning with his passport and other necessaries for a Continental journey. He was already too late to catch the night-boat, and had the mortification of knowing that his utmost haste could not result in enabling him to be less than a day behind.

As for Nadia, she pursued her way with a timidity that was almost fear. Since her marriage she had scarcely been further than Aberkerran without Caerleon, and she felt worried and perplexed when Wright asked for directions or inquired her wishes. She had been independent enough at one time; but Caerleon had managed everything for her so long that she hardly knew how to act on her own responsibility. Happily a gleam of hope reached her at Cologne, where she received a telegram from her husband to say that he was starting to follow her, and would join her at the Hôtel du Roi Othon at Tatarjé, where the O’Malachy was staying. She found another piece of comfort in the behaviour of the children, who regarded the whole affair as a game of the most delightful kind.

From the moment at which Usk and Philippa were first told that instead of going to bed they were to take a journey to the other end of Europe in order to see grandpapa, who was ill, they seemed to themselves to have passed out of the regions of reality into those of romance. Their mother’s father had always been a shadowy figure to them. They knew all about their other grandfather, whose sword hung over the mantelpiece in father’s study, and whose medals and decorations they were allowed to look at as a treat on their birthdays. They could give detailed accounts of the various engagements in which he had taken part, and by mounting a chair in the picture-gallery they could indicate on his portrait the exact locality of each wound that he had received. Moreover, his monument faced them in church every Sunday, and had served to provide matter of extraneous interest during many long sermons. But with Grandpapa O’Malachy it was different. He was not dead; but he was away somewhere, and he never wrote to mother. Once Philippa, overhearing some words of gossip between her nurse and Wright, who had returned from his travels with a very low opinion of the O’Malachy, had asked her father point-blank whether grandpapa was a wicked man—an inquiry which Lord Caerleon could only parry by saying that little girls ought not to ask questions. This unprecedented snub, following on what she had already heard, Philippa accepted as an affirmative answer, and to her and to Usk their grandfather became for the future a compound of Guy Fawkes and of the wicked uncle of the Babes in the Wood. Many happy hours were spent by the two in the Abbey ruins “playing at grandpa”; but this was not guessed by their parents, for Philippa had issued an edict that “grandpa was not to be talked about, because it worried mother,” and Usk, who was her willing slave, obeyed her faithfully.

To be now actually on a journey to visit this mysterious, and therefore terrible and delightful, relative, was in itself an incredible joy; but it was heightened by the fact that he lived in the country where father was once king, and when they set foot on the Continent the children had reached a state of exaltation in which nothing would have surprised them, from Genii to Man Friday. Their excitement did not show itself outwardly. They ran races and played games up and down the corridor of the train, made friends with the other passengers, looked out on the strange people at the stations, and came to their mother ever and anon for petting and a story; but occasionally, when their extreme quietness prompted Nadia or their nurse to make a raid upon them in fear of some mischief, they would be found curled up together in the corner of a seat, Philippa telling Usk in a whisper tales of marvel respecting the wonders to be anticipated. When once the Thracian frontier had been crossed, they spent their time in rushing from window to window of the carriage, so as not to miss one scene of the enchanted land. All through the journey they had asked at each station whether this was father’s kingdom yet, and now they were happy. Nadia had rashly attempted to prove to them that Thracia had now another king, and in no way belonged to their father; but Philippa was persuaded that once a king meant always a king, and supported her contention by the historical examples of David King of Israel, King Alfred, and the Young Pretender.

There was abundant opportunity for the travellers to see as much of Thracia as they wished, and even more, for this portion of the railway had been damaged by a flood the day before, and progress was very slow. The train was timed to reach Tatarjé at three in the afternoon, but it did not get in until seven; and the children were roused from an uncomfortable slumber by their nurse that they might be put tidy before arriving. The station, so far as they could see, was very much like other stations, and the streets were chiefly remarkable for being narrow, badly paved, and smelly; but what did this signify? they were situated in Arcadia. Usk and Philippa were wide awake now, and able to notice their mother’s excitement. She was panting as she sat upright in the carriage, and her lips trembled. If she should be too late now, after this dreadful journey!

The loungers in the hall of the Hôtel du Roi Othon found a new subject of interest that evening in the stately lady who entered suddenly, followed by her children and servants, and demanded to be taken at once to the Herr Oberst O’Malachy’s room. The German waiter whom she had addressed looked at her in astonishment not unmixed with suspicion. The lady spoke German without the slightest foreign accent; but her companions were unmistakably English, and what could they want with the Scythian officer?

“I don’t know whether the Herr Oberst will see visitors,” he said.

“He will see me. I am his daughter, and have come straight from England because he sent for me. Take me to him immediately, if you please.” The waiter gave way before the tone of calm command.

“Madame will know best, no doubt,” he said with a bow, and led the way up-stairs, Nadia following him closely. Her journey was not in vain; for at least her father was not dead.

“Mother,” suggested Philippa, pulling at her mother’s cape as they reached the landing, “perhaps he means that grandpa is asleep.”

“I shan’t disturb him, Phil. You and Usk had better wait outside, and I will just go in very quietly and look at him.”

But the door which the waiter flung open with the announcement, “A lady from England to see the Herr Oberst,” was not that of a bedroom, and the children, looking in with astonished eyes, saw their mother pause and start as soon as she had crossed the threshold. A number of men were sitting round a table laden with fruit and wine in a gorgeously furnished sitting-room, and stared at the intruder in amazement; while a white-haired man at the head of the board, who seemed to be engaged in concocting a bowl of punch, dropped the lemon he had been manipulating, and turned round in his chair to gaze.

“And is ut you, Nadia?” he cried heartily, after a moment of stunned silence. “Come in, come in! My daughter, gentlemen.”

“You asked me to come. You said you were ill,” gasped Nadia, catching at the door to steady herself.

“And sure I was ill. If I’m all right again now, thanks to the doctor here, you’d not grudge ut me, would you?”

As she made no answer, but stood gazing at him with dilated eyes and parted lips, he rose and came towards her, supporting himself with a stick.

“’Twas good of you to come, Nadia, and if I’d known it would give you pleasure, sure I’d have stayed in bed to receive you. But never so much as a telegram to let me know you were coming; how in the world could I even meet you at the train? Come, sit down, and don’t stand looking at me like a voiceless banshee. What is ut, at all?”

Nadia sank down on the chair the waiter brought her; but still she said nothing, and the children, wondering exceedingly, came and stood beside her.

“Mother, is it grandpa?” asked Philippa in a whisper. She was mindful of her manners, if her mother had forgotten them.

“Yes; it is your grandfather,” replied Lady Caerleon with a strange laugh. “Go and speak to him.” The children obeyed.

“How do you do, grandpa?” asked Usk, who was the first to reach the tall stooping form by the table. “I hope you are quite well?” But he felt himself eclipsed at once when Philippa said pointedly in her turn, “How do you do, grandpa? I’m so glad you’re better.”

“But it is adorable!” cried one of the gentlemen, as Philippa stood on tiptoe to bestow a kiss on her grandfather. “Come and give me a keess also, leetle English Meess.”

“I don’t know who you mean,” said Philippa, disliking the speaker instinctively, but mindful of the duties of politeness. “My name is Lady Philippa Mortimer.”

“Mortimer!” said another. “No relation of our dear Count, surely?”

“Ah, would you like to know?” said the O’Malachy, trying to remove Philippa’s fur cap, but she withdrew herself from his hands.

“I can take off my hat myself, grandpa,” she said reprovingly, and did so. A cry of recognition broke from the company.

“Carlino’s daughter! There cannot be a doubt.”

“Exactly,” said the O’Malachy drily. “Have I won my bet, gentlemen?”

A chorus of affirmation greeted him, and Lady Caerleon laughed again—a hard, unmirthful laugh. Philippa looked at her anxiously.

“I’m very glad you’re better, grandpa,” she said; “but don’t you think you might have sent mother a telegram? Then we needn’t have hurried so, and we could have waited for father.”

“So!” cried another man; “and where then is the Herr Papa, little Goldenlocks?”

“Father missed the train, and we couldn’t wait, but he will be here to-morrow.”

“Aha!” said the gentleman who had wished to kiss Philippa. “There is something wrong here, Colonel.”

“How could I help ut?” demanded the O’Malachy. “I never dreamt of her arriving without um. However, ’tis only a day’s delay.”

“Father would never have let mother come alone,” said Philippa, up in arms at once; “but he couldn’t help it, for he didn’t know in time. And mother has been so dreadfully worried about him, and about you too, grandpa. It’s very bad for her to be worried, and she oughtn’t to be let do it.”

“Indeed! and who says that, milady?”

“Father says so, and he always keeps her from being worried, too.”

“What! the excellent Carlino is a considerate husband?” and the gentlemen laughed as though they thought it a huge joke. “He is a model of all the domestic virtues, is he not, milady?”

“I don’t know what that means; but if it means that father is good, of course he is.”

The gentlemen laughed again, which made Philippa angry.

“I don’t think it’s nice to laugh about father like that when we are there. Please, grandpa, we’re all very tired with the train, and mother is worried, I’m sure. Oh no, it must be that she’s so glad to know you are so much better than she expected. But I think she ought to rest a little. Can we get rooms here, do you think?”

“Delightful English common-sense!” cried Philippa’s enemy; but the O’Malachy interposed promptly.

“Of course you can, Phil. The waiter thought of that long ago, and has gone to see after them. I hear um coming back now, and he has your maid with um. I daresay you will like to see your rooms, Nadia. You don’t look fit to talk to-night; but I’ll hope to find you fresh and rested in the morning.”

Roused from her stunned condition by his words, Nadia rose, and, bowing coldly to the company, left the room with the children. While her mother was settling matters with the servants outside, Philippa discovered that she had left her cap behind, and ordered Usk to come back with her and fetch it. But the thought of traversing the long room again under the eyes of the diners was too much for Usk, and Philippa pushed the door open quietly, and went in by herself, to find her grandfather leaning over the table and talking earnestly in French, for the benefit, apparently, of a gentleman who had only just joined the party. The children were accustomed to speak French almost as regularly as English with their mother, and Philippa caught the words—

“The Jewess and her boy have put themselves in our power by coming here. We seize them and the Count at one blow, then proclaim our friend king, call out our people, and march on Bellaviste.”

“But what if our friend prove restive?”

“That will probably be the case; but we must find means to quiet him, and if all expedients fail, there is the boy. The Bishop would like that better. By all the——! what are you doing here, Philippa?”

“I came to get my hat, grandpa. It’s on your chair.”

“Take ut, then, and be off. Did you hear—— No, I won’t put ideas into the child’s head. Go to bed at once, like a good girl, and in the morning I’ll take you and your brother into the town and buy you some sweets.”

“One moment, Herr Oberst,” said the man with the German accent, before Philippa could utter her thanks. “I wish to satisfy myself that our friend’s daughter inherits his amiable peculiarities. Come here, little Goldenlocks,” and he poured her out a glass of wine, “drink this to the health of the dear Herr Grandpapa, who has recovered so quickly from his sickness under the care of the good doctor.”

“No, thank you,” said Philippa politely, for she had refused similar invitations before; “we are all teetotallers.”

“Excellent!” cried her new antagonist, while the rest shouted with laughter. “You are indeed happy in your descendants, Herr Oberst. Who could have believed that so virtuous a family existed in these degenerate days? What could be better for our plans?”

“Don’t tease the child,” said the O’Malachy, darting an angry glance at him. “Run away, Phil. Here’s a crystallised apricot for you. Can’t you see that I’m busy with these gentlemen?”

If the O’Malachy had intended to stamp on Philippa’s memory the conversation she had overheard, he could not have found better means to that end than his evident anxiety to get her out of the room, and his gift of the apricot. She was revolving many things in her mind as she passed through the door, and met her brother outside.

“I’m sure grandpapa’s friends are not nice, Usk,” she said, as she divided the apricot with him. “They laughed when I said we were teetotallers.”

“So do some of father’s friends—often,” objected Usk, with his mouth full of fruit. “Mr Forfar did.”

“Yes; but that was a different kind of laughing. This was horrid, like the people in Vanity Fair when Christian and Faithful were going through, I should think. And they said such funny things, too. But I’m not going to worry mother. I do wish father was here!”

“Excellency,” said Dietrich, entering his master’s office in the Villa Alexova, and standing at the salute, “I have just seen the young Countess.”

“Nonsense, Dietrich! You must be dreaming.” Cyril knew that for some inscrutable reason of his own—probably connected with linguistic difficulties—the valet always alluded to Philippa as “the young Countess.” “Lady Phil is with her parents in England.”

“Excellency, I met her in the street just now, attended by the coachman Wright, and they both spoke to me.”

“But what did they say?”

“They expressed pleasure on seeing me, Excellency; and the young Countess said that her lady mother had been summoned from England to attend the death-bed of the Herr Oberst O’Malachy, but that on arriving here they found him alive and well.”

“What devilry is the old wretch up to now?” muttered Cyril. “He has never been seriously ill since he came here. Did you tell Lady Phil that I was at Tatarjé, Dietrich?”

“No, Excellency; I had no orders. When the young Countess asked me why I was here, I said that I was on the business of the Herr Hofminister. But in case you should wish to speak to the little lady, I informed her that persons of respectable appearance were permitted to walk in the gardens of the Villa at this hour, and I see that she is in the chestnut-alley now.”

“Your wisdom, Dietrich, is only equalled by your talent for silence. You have judged correctly: I do wish to speak to the little lady;” and Cyril rose and put away his papers, and went out into the garden. When Philippa saw him advancing towards her, she flew to meet him with a scream of delight.

“Oh, Uncle Cyril, I am so glad! How nice of Dietrich not to tell us you were here, and give us such a lovely surprise! Mother is so dreadfully worried, and father won’t be here till this afternoon, and grandpapa is such a funny man. But you’ll do next best to father. It’ll be all right now.”

“Poor Phil, what a catalogue of woes! Where is your mother?”

“At the hotel. She and grandpa have been talking and talking, and I know mother cried, but grandpa was quite cheerful and joky. He said it would have gone to his heart to send a telegram to say we needn’t come, he was so counting on seeing us. He was going to take Usk and me out to buy us some sweets; but Usk was tired, and mother said he had better not go out until we go to meet father at the station this afternoon, and grandpa said it wouldn’t be fair to Usk to take me out alone. Mother wouldn’t go out; she said nothing should induce her to let Usk out of her sight. Please stoop down, Uncle Cyril; I want to whisper. I think mother’s frightened about something. And nurse wouldn’t come out. She said she dursen’t trust herself in these furrin streets, lest she should be murdered, and so I couldn’t have gone out at all if Wright hadn’t been here. But mother made him promise never to take his eyes off me for a second.”

Cyril looked up and met Wright’s gaze. The coachman shook his head solemnly. “I’m afraid it’s a bad business somehow, my lord; but the rights and the wrongs of it is quite beyond me.”

“Well, Phil,” said Cyril, “suppose I come with you and see your mother? Perhaps I shall be able to cheer her up a little; and at any rate it’s not long before your father will be here.”

“No; only a little more than two hours,” said Philippa, contentedly, putting her hand in Cyril’s as they turned to leave the garden. The sight of the Villa suggested a new topic to her mind.

“Oh, do you live in that big house, Uncle Cyril? It’s a little bit like Llandiarmid, isn’t it? only there aren’t any ruins.”

“No; the little Prince whom I told you about lives there. His father is dead now, and he is King.”

“But they are going to have another king as well, aren’t they? Grandpapa and his friends were talking last night about making a friend of theirs king.”

“Were they, indeed? They didn’t mention his name, I suppose?”

“No; they only said notre ami, just as they did when they were saying nasty things about father being a teetotaller. They said he had amiable peculiarities. Wasn’t it horrid of them? They were talking French, you know. Oh, and who is the Jewess, Uncle Cyril?”

“Why, don’t you know what a Jewess is, Phil?” Yet Cyril’s blood quickened, in spite of his careless tone, as he heard the cant name of the rabble for Queen Ernestine.

“Of course I know, uncle. I have heard the Jewish children sing, in London. Usk cried just a little, because they weren’t black; but I knew before that they wouldn’t be. But it was ever so long ago, and he was very little then.”

“But what made you ask about a Jewess now?” with some impatience.

“Oh, because grandpa said, ‘The Jewess and her boy are in our power.’ They talked about the Count, too, and the Bishop; but it didn’t sound so interesting.”

“Phil, try and remember exactly what you heard, and be very careful in telling it me. If you have the slightest recollection of any names, tell me them just as they sounded to you.”

“But there weren’t any names, Uncle Cyril. I don’t even know who the gentlemen were, except that one talked as if he was French, and another as if he was German. And they only said that about making their friend king, and that if he didn’t like it, there was the boy, and the Bishop would like that better, and something about marching to Bellaviste. Oh, here’s grandpa!”

They had come face to face with the O’Malachy in crossing the street into which the gate of the Villa opened. He swept his hat off with a flourish, and Cyril returned the salute carelessly.