Chapter VII: A Family Likeness

There was a sense of mystery hanging over the Castle. Visitors were expected, and a whole suite of apartments, called the Queen’s Rooms (of course because Queen Elizabeth had occupied them on one of her progresses), had been prepared for them, much to Félicia’s astonishment and somewhat to her indignation. It seemed to her that she and her engagement had sunk into insignificance in view of this approaching visit of Lord and Lady Cyril Mortimer and the latter’s son. Why on earth should such a fuss be made about them? she wished to know; and she took refuge in an insulted determination not to show any interest in their coming, although Maimie’s eyes expressed abundant knowledge, and Usk was obviously willing to be questioned.

Lord Caerleon and his son drove into Aberkerran to meet the travellers, and afternoon tea was postponed until their return. This was a fresh grievance for Félicia, who declared herself as limp as a rag. In the intervals of eyeing the tea-table thirstily, she spared a little mild wonder for Lady Caerleon, who was moving nervously about the hall, altering the position of the furniture and rearranging the folds of curtains. The brougham drove up, and Lady Caerleon flew to the door to receive the white-haired lady whom her husband led up the steps. Félicia’s quick eye noticed at once that the visitor was wearing the most magnificent sables she had ever beheld, but her amazement was extreme when she saw Lady Caerleon only checked in a deep reverence by the newcomer’s seizing her hands and kissing her on both cheeks.

“Do tell, now!” whispered the astonished observer eagerly to Maimie. “Aren’t these English people real stiff? or is it because Lady Caerleon is a foreigner?”

“Nadia, my dear sister!” the visitor was saying reproachfully, as Maimie shot a glance of scorn at Félicia, “you will astonish your young friends. Present them, please--I mean, you will introduce them, won’t you?”

As Lady Caerleon complied with the request, in a curiously flurried manner, Félicia noticed that the stranger’s face did not look old, in spite of her white hair, and that she had a very sweet smile. In her bearing there was something so dignified, notwithstanding the gentleness of her words and looks, that Félicia felt as if she was being presented at Court. In Lady Cyril’s presence she suddenly saw herself as an outsider, and began to feel nervous about her manners and uncomfortable about her voice.

“But I’ll watch and see how she fixes things,” she told herself, with returning confidence. “I guess an American woman can just make herself over if she wants to, and not be beaten by any Eu-ropian court lady.”

Lord Cyril’s greeting restored her self-complacency. He was “just ordinary,” she decided at a glance, small and grey-haired, with blue eyes and unobtrusive manners, but he expressed it as his opinion that Usk was a very lucky fellow, which showed him to be a person of discernment. He had brought a secretary with him, it appeared, and his wife a lady companion, but Lady Cyril’s son, Baron von Neuburg, had been delayed on the Continent by the breakdown of a train, and would not arrive till the next day. Félicia was still oppressed by a sense of mystery. Why did Lady Caerleon seem to leave the initiative in everything to her sister-in-law, and why was Lady Cyril constantly on the point of taking the lead in another person’s house, to the obvious amusement of her husband? The secretary and the lady companion, who were introduced as M. Paschics and Mlle. Mirkovics, were stiff and silent, and appeared, no doubt unintentionally, to disapprove of what was going on; and, most unpardonable of all, Usk’s attention seemed to be devoted chiefly to his aunt, and not to his betrothed. It was not until tea was over, and the visitors had been shown to their rooms, that Félicia was able to mark her sense of his behaviour by refusing to come into the garden with him to see if there were any primroses out. Instead, she went upstairs with Maimie.

“Well!” she said, when they were in their own room, “I would like to know what’s come to all of the folks. Lady Cyril’s only a dowdy old thing after all, though her sables are too sweet for words, but they all treat her just like a queen.”

“And she is a queen,” said Maimie impatiently, “and her sables were given her by the Emperor of Scythia. She is Queen Ernestine of Thracia, who married Count Mortimer two years back, as Mr Hicks has told you time and time again, and her son, who comes here _incognito_ to-morrow as Baron von Neuburg, is the King of Thracia. I meant you to marry him.”

“Land alive!” was all that Félicia could say.

“I wanted to make you an empress, and you threw away your chance,” went on Maimie bitterly. “And this time I was going to have you marry a king, and a week before he comes you conclude to get engaged to Usk!”

“Why, Maimie Logan, have you lost your mind?” cried Félicia, recovering herself. “You know we would never be let do it.”

“I know you just would, then. I could fix it.”

“Well, it’s too late now, and I don’t care, any way. Usk is a real good fellow, and his folks are just lovely. I’m on yet.”

“I do wonder how you’ll feel when you come to live way down in the country all of the year, and be out in the air mornings and afternoons and evenings. You’ll have a nice round contented face like the Jones girls by then, rosy-cheeked and blowsy and dairymaidish.”

“You needn’t be nasty.” Félicia went to the glass and examined her face with some anxiety, but the pure creamy pallor was not yet vulgarised by any touch of red. She laughed. “Not much harm done this far, Maimie. I’ll tell you when I’m tired of Usk, any way.”

“No, you won’t,” said Maimie calmly. “You’re tired of him already. It’s getting more and more of a trial to have him stick to you the way he does, but you let him do it just to make me mad. When you’re tired clear out, you can let me know.”

“And you can round up a few of the kings you keep on hand, and have me choose,” responded Félicia.

Now that her perplexity was at an end, Félicia was prepared to take full advantage of the situation. Queen Ernestine’s obvious difficulty in masquerading in the English household as a younger son’s wife afforded her a malicious amusement, and she could not pardon Usk for refusing to respond to the frequent glances she flashed at him. At the same time, she watched the royal lady narrowly, hoping to discover the source of the peculiarly dignified charm of manner which characterised her. Those who knew could have told Félicia that it was the outcome of a life of sadness and self-repression, crowned at last with a tardy happiness chastened by apprehension. Her own soul, however, was not sufficiently awake to note more than that the Queen seemed to do and say the right thing by instinct, and that the grace of her bearing was only equalled by her consideration for others. Knowing little of her story, Félicia was captivated by her personality--although the attraction was no bar to the entertainment she derived from seeing her in a false position--and she felt quite virtuously indignant when Maimie, by what seemed an unpardonable piece of _gaucherie_, brought a shadow into the beautiful changeful eyes.

It appeared as though a demon of mischief had taken possession of Maimie that evening. The secretary and Mlle. Mirkovics had discreetly excused themselves after dinner, leaving the family party alone, and the four elders were gathered by the fire, talking. Usk and Félicia occupied a three-cornered settee at a little distance--it was a piece of furniture Usk liked, because the form of the seat obliged him to turn round and rest his arm on the back, if he was to face Félicia in talking to her. Between the two groups, at a little table close to the standard lamp, sat Maimie, looking through the annual volume of an illustrated paper some twenty or thirty years old, which she had disinterred from the library for reasons best known to herself. Occasionally she interjected remarks into the conversation of the party by the fire, enjoying the delightful feeling that she was outraging all etiquette, and yet that no one could rebuke her. It happened that the talk turned upon the escapade of a young member of a German princely family, who had recently disappeared from his home, and was understood to have managed to join the forces opposed to Great Britain in a little war which was then raging.

“Well, now, that’s queer!” said Maimie. “Here in this old paper there’s a case of the same sort. Just listen: ‘In connection with the ill-fated Prince Joseph of Arragon, a view of whose yacht, the Claudine, we published a fortnight ago, a Vindobona correspondent sends us a romantic story. It is understood that the official accounts of the Prince’s voyage to the South Seas were merely a blind, and that his journey was in reality a flight, in which he was accompanied by a charming young lady of noble birth, whose musical performances have been the delight of Vindobona this winter. It is even rumoured that they were privately married. However this may be, it is certain that not only Fräulein von Lilienkranz, but her duenna, Frau Schlesinger, and the latter’s daughter Julie, who was her constant attendant, disappeared at the exact time that the Prince’s voyage was announced. The keenest interest was felt here as to the _dénoûment_ of the romance which has been so tragically ended by the Australian billows----.’ Do tell, Fay!” Maimie broke off shrilly. “Julie Schlesinger! mightn’t that be my mother’s name? It caught my eye right away.”

“See if there’s a portrait,” suggested Félicia. “Maybe it was your mother in disguise, though I don’t just see how it works out.”

“No, there isn’t any. It says you couldn’t buy one in Vindobona--that either the Prince or his family had snapped all of them up, both of him and the lady, and destroyed them. There’s just the ship, two weeks back.”

Usk sprang up, as though to look at the picture, but when he was stooping over the book he whispered hastily, “Perhaps you don’t know that Prince Joseph was my aunt’s cousin?”

“Oh, I’m real sorry. How could I know?” Maimie whispered back, with a face of guileless innocence touched with anguish. Aloud, she made some remark about another picture on the same page, and Usk returned to his former seat. As he did so, he was struck by a certain alert look, which he knew well, on his uncle’s face. Félicia had turned her head when Maimie claimed her attention, and the lamplight fell full upon her profile, which was in a line with that of Queen Ernestine. Usk saw the two faces from one side, his uncle from the other, but at the same moment it flashed upon both of them that the profiles were extraordinarily alike. Lord Cyril cast a glance of calm scrutiny at his nephew, and resumed the conversation Maimie had interrupted. It was possible that he regarded the likeness as merely a coincidence, and Usk hoped this might be the case.

It might have seemed to strengthen this opinion that Lord Cyril made no remark to his nephew, but some hours later, when he looked into his wife’s boudoir, where she was spending a few minutes in chat with the sallow-faced lady-in-waiting, it was clear that he had not forgotten what he had seen.

“And what do you think of your niece that is to be, Ernestine?” he asked.

“She is very beautiful,” said the Queen, somewhat doubtfully, “but it does not seem to me that poor Usk has found her heart yet.”

“Perhaps she has none to find. What does Mlle. Mirkovics think?”

“Miss Steinherz has something of the _grand air_, though there is a want of repose in her manners,” was the temperate reply. “One would scarcely expect that in an American, perhaps. But she carries herself like a queen in her own right.”

“Every American woman is that by right of birth,” said Lord Cyril lazily. “Does Félicia’s face remind you of any one, Ernestine?”

“Oh, you have noticed it, then? The likeness haunted me all evening, until I happened to see her refusing to say good night to Usk. He had offended her in some way, and she would only let him kiss her hand. Then I saw a likeness to my aunt Claudine, who married the King of Cantabria. It was not a happy marriage, you know, Cyril, and her portrait has a look of haughty resignation about it--a kind of ‘scorn of scorn.’ It is only in profile that there is a likeness, for none of our family have that little rosebud mouth or those surprised eyebrows, and Félicia is much prettier than my aunt ever was.”

“It’s a curious coincidence,” said Cyril, apparently dismissing the subject as he left the room, but his mind was still busy with it. “There are more coincidences in the affair than this one, if I am not mistaken,” he said to himself. “There was that story which came out at the inquest, that the girl’s father was murdered by mistake for the Archduke Ferdinand Joachim. Come, this narrows it down. Weldart and Hohenstaufen! King Paul of Cantabria married a Weldart, and his mother was a Hohenstaufen. The girl shows no traces of Albret or Hohenstaufen features--happily for herself--but the Weldart look is very distinct, only fined and sharpened as European types so often are after a generation or two in America. Clearly, then, the deceased ‘Mr Steinherz’ was a son of Paul and Claudine. There were three of them. Ramon is still alive, as I know only too well. Florian died young--in somewhat discreditable circumstances, but he is indubitably dead. There remains the lost Joseph, and here, I think, we must look for the link. That shipwreck presents great possibilities. It looks a little fishy that Prince Joseph and his fair musician--oh, and the maid too, of course--should have contrived to escape when every one else on board was drowned. Was there collusion somewhere? I don’t see how or why the thing was worked. But perhaps they had trans-shipped before the end came? That’s more likely, and makes the whole thing credible. Well, Usk knows whatever there is to be known, and if I am at all acquainted with him, will make a clean breast of the whole matter to me at the earliest opportunity. Caerleon and Nadia know nothing, nor does the girl herself. She is too self-conscious to be a good actress. But the hanger-on--does she know? or was that artless discovery another coincidence? She also has possibilities. She allowed herself to be silenced by Usk, which she would hardly have done if she had been the brainless innocent she was impersonating for the moment. I am inclined to think she does know, and is keeping the thing dark for some reason of her own. What that may be is not apparent for the moment, but I think it is distinctly to the advantage of all concerned that silence should still be kept. To-morrow I shall probably hear what Usk thinks about it.”

The confidence which Cyril anticipated he received the next morning, when Usk and he were walking into Aberkerran. Queen Ernestine had invited her sister-in-law and the two girls to assist at the unpacking of a box of Eastern embroideries she had brought with her from her Syrian home, and Usk seized the opportunity of obtaining a private talk with his uncle, who had some telegrams to send off, and asking his advice. He told his tale as briefly as possible, anxious to make an end of a disagreeable task, and there were several points on which Cyril was obliged to seek further information by means of questions. When it was all clear in his mind, he walked on for a short time in silence.

“Is there anything you think I ought to do?” asked Usk at last.

“Do? What can you do? You are absolutely debarred from enlightening Félicia, as I understand, or even from informing any one else of the circumstances. Obviously, then, the only thing that practically concerns you is the marriage at St Mary Windicotes. That’s your starting-point. I suppose you didn’t think of running down there to look up the register before you went to America?”

“No; I had no opportunity.”

“Do it when you are next in town, and note especially whether there is that slip of paper pasted on the inside of the cover, or not. It is just possible that Steinherz _père_ made up the whole story on the strength of his likeness to the Archduke, though I allow that would not account for Félicia’s profile. That marriage once established, you are safe in England and America, at any rate, for people know better than to inquire too curiously into the pedigree of heiresses from the States. Of course it would not hold for a moment in Pannonia. There you would have to take your stand on the quasi-ceremony which Steinherz devised to spite his chaplain. If he had lived, it would almost certainly have been annulled on an appeal to Rome by his family, but as he was otherwise disposed of, no doubt they thought the less fuss made the better. As it is, you see, the sole evidence for it is the word of a dead man, for the other witnesses would know better than to testify to it unless the Emperor directed them to open their lips.”

“But would it in any circumstance be valid?”

“It is the kind of marriage that may be either valid or invalid at the will of the families concerned. If it was to the advantage of the Albrets to consider it an ordinary morganatic marriage, they would condone Steinherz’s defiance, and probably induce the Emperor to confer a title of nobility on Félicia. Or if there was something really important at stake--for instance, if you took it into your head to revive your father’s claim to Thracia, and made yourself troublesome in the Balkans, and they found they must buy you off--they might even be brought to recognise the marriage as fully valid and regular, and declare Félicia a Princess of Arragon, just as a bribe to you to stay at home. It has been done, notably about two hundred years ago, in a case intimately connected with English history, but naturally, the consideration would have to be a large one. And on the other hand, if they see no advantage to them in the matter, they can deny the Pannonian marriage, and refuse to recognise the English one, and continue to give out officially that Prince Joseph was drowned off the Australian coast, however forcibly it may be proved to them that he wasn’t.”

“I’m glad to hear you say this, for I still feel sometimes as if I was keeping Félicia out of something that was her due.”

“You needn’t. By the bye, I suppose Hicks will come to England for your wedding, about this trustee-business? I should like to go through these proofs which he has in charge. If I am to be co-trustee, I must know where we stand. But I don’t think you need be afraid the thing will ever come out. You won’t haunt the Pannonian Court, I presume?”

“No, indeed!” said Usk fervently. “England for me!”

“If Félicia will allow it. Ah, that reminds me. Is the companion--the Logan girl--supposed to know all this?”

“Miss Logan? Certainly not. I don’t think anything would have induced Mr Steinherz to tell her.”

“Still, that is no bar to her having discovered the facts for herself. I believe she knows, but I don’t quite see what use she means to make of her knowledge. I could wish that King Michael was not coming here, though. Is it necessary to warn you not to let Félicia see too much of him?”

“I wouldn’t spy upon her on any account.”

“Quite unnecessary, if you stick to her as closely as you do now. No one else could get a word with her. But it’s just possible she may get a little tired of your constant vigilance.”

“There’s no vigilance in the matter,” said Usk warmly; “it’s simply that I like to be with her, of course. And if I didn’t think she liked it as much as I do, I’d--I’d try to keep away from her a little.”

“Don’t imagine that I am blaming you or assailing her. I think I have mastered the art of letting people be miserable in their own way. If you prefer to be unhappy with Miss Steinherz rather than without her, far be it from me to interfere, even though your taste may surprise me as much as my own wife’s does. I merely advise you to remember that Michael has a truly royal eye for a pretty face, and that Félicia may not know the exact value of compliments and asseverations from a man in his position.”

“What’s bringing him here?” growled Usk.

“Pecuniary difficulties, of course. The last Drakovics Ministry left the country plunged in debt, and old Mirkovics, who is as honest as the day, but no financier, made no attempt to retrench. He thought that anything spent on the army or on public works must be so much to the good, while the King felt it his duty to look after the beautifying of the capital and the formation of the public taste, and between them they’ve called down the thunderbolt which used to hang over our heads in the old days.”

“You mean they’ve encroached upon the interest due on the Scythian loan?”

“Encroached? They haven’t paid any interest for three years. Of course Scythia lay low and accepted their excuses with a pleased smile, and equally, of course, she is demanding the arrears now.”

“But what can they do?”

“Oh, Scythia is most willing to suggest terms--and conditions also. One of the conditions is a Scythian marriage for Michael, and the others would deliver Thracia over, bound hand and foot, to Scythian influence. Pannonia and Hercynia are not much inclined to help, having seen all their warnings disregarded, but they will hardly be able to remain passive in view of such a complete surrender. The problem of the moment is to secure their moral support without requiring them to advance the corresponding cash, and King Michael is coming here in the hope of solving it.”

“I see. He has got himself into difficulties, and expects you to get him out of them?”

“Quite so. As soon as he found himself in this fix, he telegraphed to request me to return and reorganise Thracia. It showed a touching faith in me; and once, no doubt, I could have done what he expects of me, but not now. All I can do is to go through his affairs, and give him the advice of an ordinary business man--no brilliant strokes at this time of day. I know he thinks I can raise the necessary money among my Jewish friends by my personal influence, but they have something else on hand.”

“But do you mean,” cried Usk indignantly, “that King Michael insisted on your coming back to Europe in spite of the risk, and that is why you are here?”

“You forget that he’s my wife’s son. It pleases his mother when he turns to me for help, and I am glad to do what I can for him. But I had other reasons for coming home. There is one of them.” He pointed to two men, armed with fishing-rods and baskets, who passed at the moment, saluting Usk with marked deference.

“But those are the detectives who are down here to look after King Michael,” said Usk. “The stout one comes from Scotland Yard, and is sent by our Government, and the other, who belongs to some private office, is employed by the Thracian Minister.”

“He may belong to any number of private offices, but he is employed by the Scythian Secret Police, and he is here to spy upon me.”

“And my father has given him free leave to go anywhere he likes on our land, and to fish, and so on, and he has taken up his quarters in the village!” cried Usk, aghast. “But we’ll soon kick him out.”

“I beg you won’t do anything of the kind. His presence here is a testimony to my former importance, which I find very soothing. Moreover, he is to be made useful. You saw those cipher telegrams I sent off just now? They all have to do with a Zionist scheme for making me Prince of Palestine, and while I am here I shall be continually having letters and telegrams and even visitors, all connected with the same thing.”

“But this fellow will be spying about and spoil everything.”

“He will see and report everything, for that is what he is meant to do, but he will spoil nothing. The whole thing is a blind, intended just to keep the spies busy, and the rank and file of the Children of Zion quiet, for fear of their doing something rash. The real plot is a very different matter. You may as well know the main idea. The United Nation Syndicate has been reconstituted, but its object is to be attained in a new way. So long as Scythia holds Jerusalem, the Jewish ideal is necessarily incapable of realisation. She cannot be dispossessed by force; can diplomacy do anything? Besides the Jews there is another very powerful body whose interest it is to get her out, and both these communities have fixed upon a certain person as able to do it if any one can. No; I am not the happy man. My part is merely to cover up his tracks.”

“But the risk!” cried Usk. “Why should you run into danger for the sake of this other man?”

“To do old friends a good turn, I suppose. Or perhaps, now that I can’t play the game myself, it’s the next best thing to see other people doing it well. Have you guessed who the man is? It’s Malasorte, the Neustrian Pretender. He is to be assisted to make himself emperor at last.”

“But I don’t see----How will that----?” Usk was unwontedly perturbed.

“The Jesuits will arrange things for him at home, the Jews abroad. Moral support and ready cash, the two indispensables again. In return for their help, he has promised the Jews to turn Scythia out of Palestine.”

“And what has he promised the Jesuits?”

“Ah, that I don’t know, and there, it seems to me, is the weak point. What if the Jesuits also want Jerusalem? If so, he may hand it over to the Jews first, and then kick them out of it for the benefit of the other lot. ‘_Mala sorte, buona fede_’ is the family motto, you know, but no one ever thinks of quoting it except as ‘_Buona sorte, mala fede_.’”

“But why do the Jews and the Jesuits both think so much of him?”

“He is a very unusual man, no one can doubt it. His enemies are fond of asserting that he is not a genuine Malasorte, but his likeness to Timoleon I. is enough to disprove that calumny. His father was in the Scythian service, and married a Greek lady, descended, of course, from the Byzantine Emperors. That gives him a great pull with the Orthodox, and he is a personal friend of the Emperor of Scythia, who is very much under his influence. He believes he can induce him to withdraw his troops from Palestine, and Goldberg and the rest believe it too. So he is to have his chance.”

“It’s awfully queer how things are mixed up,” said Usk. “Do you know this chap wanted to marry Félicia?”

“This same man--Timoleon Lucanor? Yes, I remember, he was military attaché at Washington. And why didn’t he?”

“Her father didn’t think his chances good enough, I fancy.”

“No; I think the blood of the Albrets rose against the _parvenu_, even then. But this is interesting, Usk. Could Malasorte have had any idea of Mr Steinherz’s secret? No, of course not. He would not have allowed himself to be choked off in that case. It was the money he was after, and he missed what would have been better to him than millions. Did Miss Logan approve of his suit, do you know?”

“Yes; Hicks said she pushed it all she knew.”

“And yet she didn’t tell him? It’s pretty clear, then, that whatever she knows she has learnt since. My dear Usk, you may thank your stars that I am a wretched crack-brained failure, if you want to keep your Félicia. There are the makings of a most tremendous plot lying about--infinite possibilities--and I can’t see how to put them together.”