CONTENTS.

I. AN INTERRUPTED HOLIDAY

II. IN THE PRESENCE OF DEATH

III. THE BATTLE OF THE CREEDS

IV. AN AMATEUR DIPLOMATIST

V. HEAVILY HANDICAPPED

VI. A DAUGHTER’S DUTY

VII. TWO KINGS OF BRENTFORD

VIII. A FAMILY COMPACT

IX. “WAYS THAT ARE DARK, AND TRICKS THAT ARE VAIN”

X. A NEW RELATIONSHIP

XI. WAYFARING

XII. METAMORPHOSES

XIII. IN THE GREENWOOD

XIV. THE JUDENHETZE

XV. “WE TWO STOOD THERE WITH NEVER A THIRD”

XVI. THIS WORKING-DAY WORLD

XVII. “THE MAN WHOM THE QUEEN DELIGHTETH TO HONOUR”

XVIII. FRIENDLY INTERVENTION

XIX. A LITTLE TOO FAR

XX. IN QUEST OF THE WHEREWITHAL

XXI. PARLEYINGS WITH CERTAIN PEOPLE

XXII. THE EDUCATION QUESTION

XXIII. IN SIGHT OF THE GOAL

XXIV. A COMBAT À OUTRANCE

XXV. TO THE VICTOR THE SPOILS

CHAPTER I. AN INTERRUPTED HOLIDAY.

The carriage from Llandiarmid Castle had been waiting for a quarter of an hour at the little country station, and the horses were beginning to toss their heads and paw the ground restlessly, to the great scandal of the coachman.

“This ’ere train of yours is late again, Mr Prodger,” he grumbled to the station-master, who was combining business with pleasure by perusing a grimy copy of a Welsh newspaper at the same time that he kept an eye on the porter who was engaged in weeding the platform flower-beds. Mr Prodger took up the challenge promptly.

“I wass sooner believe you do be early nor the train late, Mr Wright,” he responded. “’Deed and I wass.”

“Me early!” was the wrathful answer; “when ’er ladyship come round to the stables ’erself, and tell me to ’urry, because there wasn’t but barely time to meet the train, the notice was that short! No, Mr Prodger, it’s my belief as there’s been a haccident somewhere on this bloomin’ line, and a nice tale I’ll ’ave to go back and tell the Markiss and my lady.”

“There goes the signals,” put in the footman. “The train’ll be ’ere in a minute.”

“Iss, sure,” said the station-master, “the train do be oll right. She wass not have you for driver, Mr Wright, see you?”

Chuckling over this Parthian shot, Mr Prodger retired to his own domains, and Wright turned upon the footman, who had interfered so unwarrantably in the discussion.

“What are you a-doin’ of ’ere, Robert? Why ain’t you on the platform waitin’ to take ’is lordship’s things?”

“I ain’t never seen ’is lordship,” pleaded Robert. “I was waitin’ to arst you what ’e was like.”

“Oh, yes, there’s so many passengers stops ’ere,” returned his superior, with a terrific sneer. “’E’ll be lost in the crowd, ’e will.”

“But do ’e favour the Markiss?” persisted the footman.

“Well, they both ’as fair ’air and blue eyes, if you go for to call that a likeness. But you look out for a under-sized gentleman, with a ’aughty voice, and a slave-driver kind of a way with ’im. That’s Lord Cyril.”

With this graphic description to guide him, Robert ventured upon the platform, and succeeded in identifying the traveller of whom he was in search. Wright’s lips settled themselves into a peculiarly grim smile when his subordinate returned escorting a small fair man enveloped in a fur-lined overcoat—a garment which excited the somewhat derisive wonder of the loiterers around. They touched their caps as Lord Cyril passed, it is true—it was an attention they were bound to pay to the brother of “the Markiss,” but behind his back they asked one another with ill-concealed grins whether “oll the chentlemen wass wear ladies’ clooks in the furrin parts he did come from?” If Lord Cyril noticed their amusement, he heeded it no more than did the stolid German valet who followed with his bag, and it was with a pleasant smile that he looked up at Wright.

“Glad to see you again, Wright. You look as fit as ever. So you are coachman now, are you?”

“Yes, my lord—this five year.”

“Your shadow has not grown less, I see?” remarked Lord Cyril lazily.

“Well, my lord, we ain’t none of us no younger nor we used to be,” was the somewhat aggressive answer, for Wright had caught sight of a faint smile on Robert’s face. Discipline must be maintained, even in social intercourse of this kind, and the coachman bethought himself hastily of his duties. “Beg your pardon, my lord, but ’er ladyship bid me tell you as she ’ad some ladies comin’ as she couldn’t put off, and ’is lordship and Lady Philippa was gone out ridin’ before your telegram come, so she ’oped you wouldn’t take it unkind not bein’ met by none of the family.”

“Not at all. I quite understand,” said the visitor cheerfully, with his foot on the carriage-step. “It’s a pleasure to see your friendly face again, Wright. I must come and have a talk with you about old times in the harness-room one of these days.”

“Much honnered, my lord, I’m sure,” was Wright’s response, but his face betrayed small appreciation of the prospective pleasure. Robert looked at him with some timidity as he climbed to his place, and it was not until they were fairly on the road to the Castle that the question he was burning to ask escaped the footman’s lips.

“I say, Mr Wright, was that true as they was all sayin’ in the servants’-’all the night I come—about the Markiss ’avin’ been a king once, somewhere in furrin parts, I mean?”

“It’s as true as you’re settin’ there,” responded Wright solemnly, “that seven year back or thereabouts ’is lordship was as much a king as Queen Victorier is queen.” This was stretching the truth a little, but Wright paused to allow the information to sink in before he added, “I was ’is Majesty’s—I mean ’is lordship’s—’ead groom then, so I know.”

“You ain’t jokin’?” asked the bewildered Robert.

“Jokin’? Look ’ere, my lad—you ’ave cool cheek enough for the job—you ask ’is lordship ’imself whether ’e wasn’t King of Thracia for three months, and if ’e didn’t set on a throne and ’ave all the swells a-bowin’ down to ’im. ’E might ’ave married a real Princess if ’e’d liked, but she were a bad lot, and ’e knew it. Oh, there ain’t no doubt about ’is ’avin’ been King, though you mayn’t choose to believe it.”

“I ain’t a-goin’ for to contradick you, Mr Wright,” said Robert penitently. “And did Lord Cyril take on the kingdom after ’im?”

Wright snorted. “No; Lord Cyril ain’t never been King, nor won’t be,” he said. “’E was in Thracia with the Markiss, and made ’imself useful about the place—sort of general ’andy man, as you might say. Then when me and the Markiss gave up the job and come ’ome, ’e stayed on and done the same sort of business for the new King—Hotter George ’is name is.”

“But why did ’is lordship give up the job?” asked Robert, deeply interested. Wright looked mysterious.

“That were about the time as ’is lordship got married, my lad; and when there’s a lady concerned it ain’t for you nor yet for me to say why or wherefore in such a case.” This explanation did not explain much, and the impression it was calculated to convey was not by any means the correct one; but wild horses could not have dragged from Wright the confession that Lord Caerleon had left his Balkan kingdom as a prisoner, dethroned by a counterrevolution to that which had resulted in his being offered the crown. While Robert was meditating on his oracular utterance, Wright was looking ahead, and, just in time to prevent a further question which was trembling on the footman’s lips, he exclaimed—

“Why, there’s ’is lordship and Lady Phil comin’ along! You get down and ask Lord Cyril if ’e’d like to stop for them, Robert. They’ll be up with us before we get past the lodge.”

Robert obeyed, and Lord Cyril ordered him at once to wait. Stepping out of the carriage, the visitor stood watching the approaching riders, a tall man on a large chestnut horse, and a fair-haired little girl on a Shetland pony. They quickened their pace when they saw him.

“Why, Cyril, old man!” cried Lord Caerleon, “how did you get here? I thought we were not to expect you for a month or so yet?”

“I was able to get off earlier, after all. I’ll explain presently. Just now I should like to be introduced to my niece.”

“That won’t take very long. Phil, this is your uncle Cyril.”

“Do you think I’m like father, Uncle Cyril?” inquired Lady Philippa breathlessly, after bestowing a kiss on her newly found relative.

“His very image,” responded her uncle.

“Oh, I am so glad. Usk is just like mother, and it’s so much nicer to be different. Nurse is always saying we shall grow out of it, but I don’t believe we ever shall.”

“Let us walk up to the house together, Cyril,” said Lord Caerleon. “I want to ask you any number of things. Robert can lead my horse. Phil, you might ride on and tell your mother we are all right, in case she should be worrying about us.”

“Oh yes, we mustn’t let mother get worried,” said Philippa sedately, trotting her pony through the lodge-gate as she spoke.

“Has Nadia started nerves?” asked Cyril of his brother.

“Not exactly, but she gets fearfully anxious about the children and me when we are out of her sight. She does her best to hide it, but even Phil has found it out, as you see. Do you know that when that child was thrown one day when she was out riding with me, she mounted again and we rode on to Aberkerran to get her head plastered up by the doctor there, rather than frighten her mother by coming in with blood on her face? Plucky, wasn’t it?”

“Phil is a chip of the old block, I see. You look pretty flourishing, Caerleon. Any regrets for the lost kingdom?”

“None!” responded Caerleon emphatically. “If I only knew that you were safely out of it too, I should feel perfectly happy.”

“Then Otto Georg would abdicate, which would be a European calamity.”

“He certainly keeps you with him most persistently. I don’t know how he made up his mind to let you take a holiday now.”

“Well, the fact is—this mustn’t be mentioned, of course—that the domestic horizon at the Palace has been somewhat clouded of late years, and I have often thought it might conduce to peace and happiness if I took myself off for a little while; but Otto Georg has never consented to let me go before.”

“Yes, I was afraid from what the papers said that you two didn’t exactly hit it off with the Queen and her relations. What’s all the fuss about?”

“I’ll tell you about it when we have a smoke to-night. We’re too close to the Castle now.”

“Yes, and there’s Nadia waiting for us on the steps,” said Caerleon, quickening his pace.

“So she is. Why, Caerleon, your wife looks younger than when you married her! And though I never used to be able to see it, she is certainly wonderfully handsome.”

“Thanks,” said Caerleon drily. “I knew that all along.”

It seemed almost incredible to Cyril that the queenly woman who came down the steps to meet him could ever have been the girl against whose marriage with his brother he had once waged a bitter and by no means scrupulous war. Nadia Caerleon would never be one of those who take life easily; but she had lost the half-startled, half-suspicious look which had set Cyril against her at the beginning of their acquaintance, and to her natural dignity there was now added something of the repose and assurance of manner which mark the grande dame.

“I was so sorry not to be able to meet you, Cyril,” she said, as she shook hands with him, “but the Needlework Guild were holding a committee meeting here, and I could not forsake them.”

“Certainly not,” said Cyril. “I know of old that if there are two courses before you, you always make a point of choosing the one you like least.”

“I see that you have not changed at all in these seven years,” she said, smiling, as she led the way into the hall.

“Perhaps not,” said Cyril in his own mind, “but you have; or you would have hastened to assure me that I was much mistaken, and that you preferred the committee meeting.”

“You won’t be long, Carlino?” Nadia was saying to her husband. “I told the children that they might have tea with us in the hall, and they will be down very soon.”

Almost before Caerleon and Cyril had laid aside their hats and coats, the children were upon them, Philippa looking very demure in her pink dress, and holding the hand of her brother, who was a year younger than herself. Yet that the interval which had elapsed since her father had sent her on in advance had not been altogether devoted to personal adornment was evidenced when she looked up from her cake and remarked—

“What a funny man your servant is, Uncle Cyril!”

“Oh, you have discovered the taciturn Dietrich, then?” said Cyril.

“Oh yes,” put in Usk. “We went to see him unpacking your things. Nurse came to see him too, because he is a foreigner.”

“You must be rather hard up for sights here, I should imagine. Well, did you find him communicative?”

“I don’t know what that word means, Uncle Cyril.”

“Could you get him to talk to you?”

“Not very much,” said Philippa thoughtfully. “We wanted him to tell us why you had a different kind of crown on your brushes and things from what father has, and he said it was because you were a different kind of gentleman. And we knew that before.”

“Dietrich is always cautious,” said Cyril; “but his most useful characteristic is his extreme truthfulness.”

“Gratifying, no doubt,” said Caerleon; “but in what way useful?”

“Because he is the most stolid person I know. Every one who sees him jumps to the conclusion that no one could possibly be as stupid as Dietrich looks, and hence, when he tells the exact truth about my movements, they always suspect him of trying to put them off the scent for some reason or other, and they go off in the wrong direction, which is sometimes a very good thing for me.”

“Why?” asked Usk, gazing at his uncle with astonished grey eyes which were exactly like his mother’s.

“Because I don’t particularly want them to follow me about everywhere, that’s all.”

The two children meditated upon this answer for a minute or two, and then, apparently failing to arrive at any satisfactory solution, gave it up, and dragged their father to the side-table to show him a picture in one of the illustrated papers. Cyril looked after them with a smile.

“It strikes one as queer that if things had fallen out differently that little fellow would be Crown Prince of Thracia to-day, instead of Otto Georg’s son,” he remarked to his sister-in-law.

“Yes,” said Nadia, with a slight shiver. “Tell me,” she added suddenly, “do you think Carlino looks well—happy?”

“Couldn’t look better or happier, I should say,” was the reassuring answer.

“It is not about the kingdom—I know he is glad to have got rid of that—but do you think he looks like other Englishmen in his position?”

“Yes, exactly; only perhaps rather more thoroughly contented than most of them. But why do you ask?”

“It is because I am always afraid that I keep him back from the things he would naturally like to do. When he brought me here first, whenever the ladies of the neighbourhood came to call, and did not find everything just as they expected, they always said to me, ‘Oh, you are a foreigner, Lady Caerleon. Of course you would not understand.’ And I have always tried to understand, but I can’t make myself really English, and it is a comfort to know that you think I have not done him harm.”

Her face was so anxious that Cyril felt inclined to tease her by inventing some imaginary alteration in Caerleon for which to blame her, but he resisted the temptation, and remarked—

“I don’t wonder at your having felt strange at first, but no one would call you a foreigner now. You seem to have taken to your new country much more kindly than the Queen of Thracia has to hers.”

“Ah, your Queen!” said Nadia. “I wanted to ask you about her. Is she very beautiful? One cannot trust the papers.”

“Well, she has dark hair, which looks copper-coloured in the sun, and very peculiar eyes. They may be either brown or green or grey, and I have seen them appear quite blue. As for being beautiful, she might possibly be pretty if she looked pleasant, but since her marriage I have never seen her anything but decidedly cross.”

“Oh, then she is not happy, poor thing!” said Nadia pityingly. “And every one said it was a love-match!”

“Surely you didn’t believe that stereotyped lie? You must have noticed that the papers trot it out whenever a royal wedding is announced. It is simply put in as a sort of salve to the consciences of the readers. If they were told there was a ghastly tragedy going on behind all the pageantry they are admiring, it might make them feel uncomfortable for a moment, and therefore they jump joyfully at the notion that an unfortunate child of sixteen is madly in love with a blasé and unromantic German just upon fifty!”

“But you are the King’s friend, are you not? Was the poor Queen really married at sixteen?”

“She was seventeen about a month after her marriage. She is not twenty-two yet. Yes, I am the King’s friend, and I have no particular reason to like the Queen; but for all that, I can see that their marriage was a hideous mistake. It’s quite clear to any one that she is not happy, but I own that my pity is chiefly for Otto Georg. He was driven into it as much as she was; but he is not such a picturesque figure, and therefore he gets no sympathy.”

“And yet you helped to bring this marriage about!” said Nadia, looking at him in astonishment. Before he could answer, he felt a light touch on his arm, and found Philippa beside him.

“Oh, Uncle Cyril, father says if you aren’t tired we might have a game in the picture-gallery. Please, please, don’t be tired!”

“I am afraid you are bringing up your daughter to be a tyrant, Nadia,” said Cyril, as he rose, perhaps not altogether sorry to break off the conversation at this point, and no more was said on the subject of Balkan politics or of the domestic troubles of the Court of Bellaviste until the two brothers settled themselves in Caerleon’s den for a talk late at night.

“Then you like your present berth well enough to stick to it still?” said Caerleon suddenly, without leading up to the subject in any way.

“Most certainly I do; or at any rate I am not quite such a cad as to chuck it and leave poor old Otto Georg to face things alone. The first two years I was at Bellaviste we were like brothers. Everything went swimmingly, and it might be doing so still if that old owl Drakovics had not got it into his sapient head that it was time seriously to set about securing the succession to the throne.”

“But the King’s marriage was talked of from the very first,” objected Caerleon, ignoring his brother’s disrespectful reference to the great Thracian Prime Minister.

“Yes; but so long as it was only talk it didn’t matter. When Otto Georg became nervous about it, I used to comfort him with the reflection that threatened men live long. But when I caught Drakovics one day with a lot of photographs of unmarried princesses spread out on the table in front of him, I knew that he meant business.”

“And you promptly demanded to have a finger in the pie?”