Long Live the King!

"I must ask for grace before I reply to that speech," she said with a smile. "I have scarcely had time to form my own opinion of your character yet."

At that moment afternoon tea made its appearance, and with it the conversation branched off into other channels. We touched upon Pannonian politics guardedly, spoke of our childish recollections of the country somewhat more freely, and then, with positive relief, of the many friends with whom we were mutually acquainted. At last we rose to take leave.

"Will you let me say au revoir, not adieu, Princess?" inquired Max, as he took her hand. "I hope I may be permitted to see more of you during the time I am in town."

"I shall be very happy to see your Highness," she replied. "Will you remember that I am always at home to my friends on Thursday afternoons?"

When I bade her good-bye, I could have staked my word that her hand trembled.

"Good-bye," I said simply.

"Good-bye," she answered with corresponding brevity, and, as I looked into her face, I saw what I felt sure were tears rising in her eyes.

"What could it mean?" I asked myself, as we made our way downstairs. As far as I could see, nothing had occurred to cause her so much emotion.

That evening Max was my guest at mess, and afterwards we went on to two or three houses together, at none of which were we fortunate enough to meet the Princess. Next morning, however, we encountered her in the Row, and in the evening at a succession of dances. From that time forward, during the remainder of Max's stay in town, we seemed to be continually in her company. That Max had followed my example, and was by this time as madly in love with the Princess as I was myself, I am quite convinced. Never by word or deed, however, did he try to make me aware of the fact. But I could see that it existed. Of my own feelings I am not going to say anything. All things considered, it is better I should not. Those who have the wit to understand will be able to read between the lines.

It was during Max's stay in town that he completed the formalities connected with his decision to resign his commission in the Lancers.

At this juncture it is necessary that I should depart from the direct course of my narrative, in order to offer a few remarks upon Max's own personal condition during the few weeks he was with me in town. This, I must frankly confess, was at times of such a nature as to cause me the greatest possible alarm. He was as changeable as the summer breezes. At one moment he seemed all happiness; the next he was plunged into the depths of despair. At one time he would talk of Pannonia with the greatest affection, and appear to be sanguine as to his chance of some day ascending the throne; the next he would assure me that the Republic would last longer than we expected, and that, even if it did not, he would never live to be king. Extravagant though it may seem to say so, I feel bound to confess that there were occasions when I wondered whether the troubles of our unhappy House had not exercised an undue influence upon his mind. As may be supposed, my position at this particular time was far from being a happy one. To make it worse, the Princess had, for some reason or other, taken it into her head to be vexed with me. What I had done to offend her I could not see, but that she was angry with me was quite clear. It may possibly have been that she thought I was growing tired of the acquaintanceship, inasmuch as I was not quite so often with her. But I was resolved that, happen what might, Max should have a fair chance. He was the elder, and, if he were going to be king, their marriage would be only fit and proper. Therefore, if she preferred him to myself, he should have her, and I would do my best to appear delighted. If not, well, then it would be my turn to put my fortune to the test. It took some time to arrive at this decision, but that once done, the rest was easy. Oh, that dreadful time! It has often struck me as extraordinary that Max and I should have managed to come through it as satisfactorily as we did. Surely he must have guessed something of what was in my mind. But it is quite certain that, if he did, he never for one moment allowed me to suspect it. We met continually, discussed the various topics of the day with well-simulated interest, occupied ourselves with our round of amusements, as if the wolves were not all the time gnawing at our heartstrings, and to each other and the world in general were as friendly as two brothers could hope to be. Meanwhile, we both knew that every day was bringing us nearer the inevitable end.

To be precise, it was on Monday, the fourteenth day of July, that the climax came. Max had left me soon after lunch to ride in the Park with the Princess Ottilie. I was on duty that afternoon, so was unable, even had I desired to do so, to accompany them. Indeed, it was after six o'clock before I returned to my house, where I expected to find Max awaiting me. To my surprise, however, he was not there.

"Has not the Crown Prince returned?" I inquired of Felix, my imperturbable groom of the chambers.

"His Royal Highness left the house nearly an hour and a half ago," the man replied. "I thought your Highness was aware of his intention to leave London."

"To leave London!" I cried in astonishment. "What do you mean? What reason have you for supposing that he has left London?"

I was certain that he had not the least intention of doing so when we had lunched together.

"His Royal Highness gave me to understand that he intended paying a visit to their Majesties in the country," the man replied apologetically.

This sudden and entirely unexpected action on Max's part was inexplicable to me. Could he have proposed to the Princess, and had she refused him? I was still turning this problem over in my mind, when a letter, balanced against the inkstand on my writing table, attracted my attention. It was addressed to myself, and the handwriting was quite familiar to me. To pick it up and open it was the work of a moment.

My dear Paul (it ran) —

At last, thank Heaven, I have been able to come to a decision with myself. After years of doubt and darkness I can see light ahead. God knows whether I am doing right or wrong, but my belief is that it is my duty. I want you to be the first to hear it, and then to act as may seem best to you. Do you think, my brother, that your secret is unknown to me? Have you flattered yourself that I am not aware that you love Ottilie of Lilienhöhe as truly as I do myself? If so, you are wrong. I knew it from the first moment that you spoke of her to me. It was written on your face as plain as any words. At that time I had not seen her, and, in consequence, I was as careless of the future as I was of the present. From the fatal moment, however, that we crossed the threshold of the Prince's house in Curzon Street, I realised that I was destined by fate to be your rival. (Here followed a tribute to my own behaviour in the affair, which, with your permission, I will pass over.) … I saw her and loved her from the moment that I looked into her eyes. At first I resolved that nothing should induce me to play you false; but I did not know then the strength of my love, or the violence of the temptation to which I was to be subjected. I give you my word, Paul, that for the first fortnight I wrestled with myself and my love with all the strength of a man, who was despairing, and who wished to be honourable. But it proved too powerful for me in the end, and at last I was obliged to succumb. The devil was at my elbow whispering continually that it was not myself alone that I had to think of, but of my country. To marry the daughter of the Prince of Lilienhöhe would be to unite the two strongest factions in Pannonia, to bring peace and happiness to it as a nation, and to lift it again, from its place in the mire, to its former proud position among the great peoples of the earth. I can only wonder how it was that you did not see my misery. That it was misery for me I can only ask you to believe. The uncertainty was heart-breaking. One day I felt sure that she loved me, and, in consequence, I walked in an earthly paradise; the next I was certain that she did not, and then I tasted all the bitterness of hell. Meanwhile, my conscience was calling upon me to be as loyal to you as you had been to me. But it was of no avail. The temptation was more than I could withstand; at last I fell. My punishment, however, was not long in coming. This afternoon, as you know, I arranged to ride with the Princess in the Row. I met her near Hyde Park Corner, and I assure you, that I, who have never since our escape from Pannonia known the meaning of the word "fear," felt a tremor run through me as she rode towards me. But I soon discovered that I was not alone in my fear. The moment I saw her face I knew that she also was dreading our meeting. That was sufficient to tell me my fate. Failure had dogged me all my life, and it was scarcely likely that, when I desired something that was more to me than life itself, she would grant it to me. Having exchanged greetings with an appearance of pleasure on either side, we turned our horses' heads and made our way down the Row together. With a make-believe of composure, we discussed the trivialities of the day. This, however, did not last long. We began sentences and did not finish them, and at last lapsed altogether into silence. I stole a glance at her face, and, as I did so, enlightenment came to me. Her secret was a secret no longer. I knew, not only that she did not love me, but that her love was given elsewhere. I would have had pity on her, and have left my question unasked, but that the devil was still behind me, whispering in my ear, "Why do you trouble yourself about her feelings? What does it matter to you whether she loves anyone else or not? There are reasons of State why she should be your wife, and you have only to put them before her, backed up by her father's authority, and she must surrender." However, I had not fallen so low as that yet. I had still sufficient of the gentleman left to declare to myself that, if she did not love me, and the union was distasteful to her, I would not force it upon her. When we turned our horses, I brought mine a little closer to hers.

"Princess," I said, "will you take pity on me, and give me a plain answer to a question I want to ask you?"

Her face was bloodless in its pallor. She tried to answer, but no word escaped her lips. My God! man, you can't conceive what a brute I felt at that moment. And yet I was well aware that I must go on, that I should know no peace until I had tortured her to the end. All this time she was striving to be brave. Fortunately, there were few people about in that particular part of the Row, otherwise her agitation could scarcely have failed to attract attention.

"What is the question your Highness desires to ask me?" she faltered.

"Surely you can guess," I answered. "Ottilie, I love you, and I want you to tell me whether in return you can love me well enough to be my wife."

Though she must have known what was coming, a little cry escaped her.

"What can I say? What can I say?" she repeated in a choking voice. "Can you not see that I am prepared to do my duty at any cost to myself?"

"But you shall not do it at the expense of your heart," I answered. "Ottilie, do you love me?"

"Oh, why do you ask me?" she cried, with a catch of her breath that was almost hysterical. "How can I answer as you wish?"

"You have given me my answer," I returned. "It seems I have lived in a fool's paradise. But I have loved you, and, as God is my witness, I will not force you into a loveless marriage."

What I said to her after that can have no interest for anyone save our own two selves; let it suffice that, when I left her, I came on here. Strangely enough, I had no sooner quitted the Park than my composure returned to me, and by the time I had reached this room, I could stand off and look at everything in its proper light. And now one other matter, and the last. I know what you have thought of me these last few weeks, and the suspicions you have entertained – well, I might also say, concerning my sanity. But you are in error, my dear brother. No man was ever saner than I am at this moment. The result of it all is, as I said at the commencement of my letter, that I have arrived at a decision. I have come to an understanding with myself. By the time you open this letter I shall have left London, never, I hope, to return to it. As far as I am concerned, the farce of kingship is played out. I, for one, have been wearied to death by the performance. With this letter I cast it off. To-night I enter upon a new life, in which, please God, I shall comport myself more like a man than I have done hitherto. I have chosen a name which will not furnish any clue as to my identity, so that it will be impossible for you to trace me. Under it, as under a new banner, I shall fight and endeavour to win that self-respect which up to now I have never been able to attain. Look upon me as one who is dead, and try, if you can, to forgive me for the pain I have caused you these few weeks past. Remember always that, even though I gave way, I did not fall altogether. Try also to understand that my victory over myself was, in a great measure, a proof of my love for you. God bless you always. Think sometimes of

Your ever affectionate brother,

Max.

In a postscript there were a few directions as to what should be done with his valet, Theodore, and the manner in which his horses and other belongings should be disposed of.

For some moments after I had read it, I stood holding the letter in my hand, staring at it in blank amazement. I read it again and again, trying, in vain, to arrive at a proper understanding of it. Of one thing there could be no doubt. He had proposed to the Princess, and she had told him that she did not love him. He had accordingly determined to relinquish his position in society and to go abroad, rather than allow her to be forced into a marriage with a man she did not love. Was ever a man more noble? At the same time it occurred to me that he had often stated that nothing would give him greater pleasure than to endeavour to win a position for himself in a new country, where nobody knew him, and his rank could be of no assistance to his efforts. This was what he was going to do now. But it was impossible we could permit it. At any hazard I felt that I must find him, and argue it out with him, before he could leave England. For my father's and mother's, for his own, for mine, and for Pannonia's sakes, he must be prevented from committing this rash act. At that moment Felix entered the room once more.

"I have made inquiries," he began, "but Theodore declares he knows nothing of his master's movements. He was told to wait here until he received his instructions from your Highness."

"Tell him that I will see him later," I answered. "In the meantime give me my hat and call a hansom. I am going out."

A cab having been obtained, I bade the man drive me to the nearest telegraph office. Once there I wired to my father to know if he had seen anything of Max, and implored him, should he put in an appearance, to keep him until I arrived. Then I drove to Scotland Yard, where I sent in my card to the Chief Officer of the Detective Department. To him, in confidence, I imparted my fears, and told him that, if possible, I wanted my brother's whereabouts ascertained before it would be possible for him to leave England, convincing him, at the same time, of the necessity that existed for secrecy. This precaution he promised most religiously to observe. After that, I returned to my own abode to await the telegram from my father. At last it came. It was worded as follows: "Max left here more than an hour ago, having said good-bye to us prior to leaving for the Continent." I immediately sat down and scribbled a note to Scotland Yard, informing them of the discovery I had made. Then, when I had written another to my hostess of that evening, asking her to excuse me not being present at her dinner, on account of urgent private trouble, I took a hansom and drove to Waterloo. Instantly on my arrival at home I gave my father and mother a full account of all that had occurred. They, like myself, were overwhelmed by the suddenness of the catastrophe, and could give me no further information than that Max, after bidding them good-bye, had driven to Eastleigh, in order to catch, so they supposed, a train either for London or Southampton. I inquired at the station, but in vain. The station-master had not seen him, nor could he tell by what train he would have been likely to have travelled.

"There was the 6.50 up to town, your Royal Highness," he said, "and the 6.45 down to Southampton. He might have taken either."

Feeling sure that he would have not returned to London, I took the next train to Southampton and made inquiries there. But my efforts were in vain. No one seemed to have seen a person answering to his description. When next morning I called at the various shipping offices I was equally unsuccessful. Almost despairing, I applied for leave and remained at Southampton, day by day, for a week, watching the various boats that left for America and South Africa. So far as I could discover, however, Max was not on board any one of them. At last, wearied with waiting, and hopeless of hearing anything of him, I returned to town, calling en route at Rendlehurst to inform my father and mother of my ill-success.

From that moment, for many years, nothing was heard of poor ill-fated Max of Pannonia.

CHAPTER VII

And now a word to preface the story of Max's adventures as set forth by himself – from the time he wrote the famous letter to me.

Headstrong and wilful as he undoubtedly was, Max was the possessor of a habit which would not be supposed to agree in any way with his other characteristics. In our school days, prompted by a tutor who was method and preciseness in itself, we had been induced to cultivate the habit of keeping a diary. My own fits of application had their limits, and in consequence the record of my own daily life died a natural death within a week of its commencement. Max, however, must either have looked at it in another light, or have been composed of entirely different material. Having set his hand to it, his dogged determination insisted upon his carrying it through; in consequence, the habit grew upon him, and, fortunately for the story I have to tell, it lasted until the day of his death. It is from the last two volumes of this concise, and I might even add remarkable, history that I take the record as it is set down in the following pages. It will be observed that I have put it in the form of a narrative, told by myself, adding explanations where necessary, but in the main preserving the whole in as complete a form as it was originally written. How Max left the Princess Ottilie in the park after his ill-starred interview with her and rode away has already been told. A few other details, however, may prove of interest. As soon as he arrived, it would appear that Felix offered him refreshment, but he declined it, saying that he was in a hurry to catch a train to Hampshire. Seating himself at my writing-table he took a sheet of notepaper and composed the letter which was destined, a few hours afterwards, to cause me so much unhappiness. "Thank heaven, that's done," he said to himself, as he rose to his feet and placed the envelope, which he secured with his private seal, in a conspicuous position upon the table. "Paul will be certain to see it directly he returns." Then having rung the bell for Felix, he bade him send some one to call a cab. Telling him to inform Theodore, his valet, that he would receive his orders from myself, he went down to it, sprang in, and bade the man drive him with all speed to Waterloo. He had barely time to take his ticket, to see that the luggage he himself had packed and sent on ahead earlier in the day had started for Bristol, and then to catch the train. Indeed, the starting bell had already sounded as he crossed the platform.

"This won't do at all," Max said to himself, when they had rolled out of the station, and he had time to look round the luxurious compartment in which he was seated. "If I am going out into the world to win my way I should not be riding first class. I must travel third and save my money as much as possible. On the other side, wherever that may be, it will have to be corduroys instead of tweeds, and (here he took his cigar-case from his pocket and selected a weed) a clay pipe, I suppose, in place of the mess' extra special Laranagas." The train was an express, stopping only at Basingstoke and Eastleigh. At the latter place he alighted, and taking a cab in the station yard bade the man drive him as quickly as possible to Rendlehurst. It was nearly half-past six by the time he reached the house, where Anton, the head of my father's household, received him at the door.

"Anton," he said, "I must see my father and mother at once. Where are they?"

"Her Majesty is in the boudoir," the old man replied, in measured tones that contrasted forcibly with the other's excited state. "His Majesty has but lately returned from a walk, and is now in his study. I will acquaint him with your Royal Highness's arrival."

What transpired at that meeting is not set forth in the diary. It is sufficient, however, that in something less than half an hour he had said good-bye to them, though he did not know it, for ever, and was back in his cab en route, so it was popularly supposed, for Eastleigh. At the Foresham cross-roads he stopped the driver. "Pull up," he said. "It is a beautiful evening, and as I have plenty of time, I think I will walk the remainder of the distance." He paid his fare and, in order to avert suspicion, strolled slowly along the road the cab was following. When the man had turned the corner and was out of sight, he retraced his steps and set off at a brisk pace in the opposite direction. The evening was close and sultry, and signs of thunder were in the air. The roads and hedges were white with dust, and by the time he had reached the small station for which he was making, he was coated with a fine white powder. Interrogating the station-master, whom he found upon the platform, he inquired what time the next train was due for Salisbury.

"There is not one for nearly an hour, sir," the man replied. "It leaves here at half-past eight and reaches Salisbury at 9.25."

"That's a pity," said Max, who saw that he would not be able to get on to Bristol that night. "However, as it can't be helped, I must wait for it. I am much obliged to you."

The station-master, as a matter of form, compared his watch with the clock in the little waiting-room, then glanced up and down the line, and finally disappeared into his cottage, leaving Max to his own devices. The latter examined the various railway advertisements on the notice board, criticised the name of the station arranged in white flints on a neatly-kept bank beside the platform, and then decided that he felt hungry after his walk. Fifty yards or so further along the road was a small inn, and toward this he made his way. Entering the bar, which was unoccupied, he inquired of the buxom landlady if she could supply him with a meal.