II
The King's recovery was the event of the new year, not only giving it an auspicious send-off, but lending thereafter a peculiar flavor to the whole social calendar. For months, addresses of congratulation kept coming in from all the societies and public bodies in the kingdom, and at every philanthropic function in which any member of royalty took part during the next twelve-month it gave pith to all the speeches and focussed the applause. Its influences extended to every department of public life; it affected politics, trade, public holiday, art, science; it invaded literature, increased the circulation of the newspapers, and lent inspiration even to poetry.
And those being the facts, how useless for satirists and cynics to pretend any longer that monarchy as an institution was not firmly and inextricably imbedded in the very life and habits of the Jingalese people?
Even at the universities the theme chosen for the prize poem that year was the King's recovery from sickness; and though the prizes were few an unusually large number of the rejected poems, owing to the popularity of their subject, were published in the local newspapers. Perhaps only a few of them were good, but one at least achieved success, and was recited at all charity bazaars, concerts, and theatrical entertainments given in the ensuing year. One couplet alone shall be here quoted, portraying as it does in graphic phrase the national suspense during those weeks of prolonged crisis when telegram after telegram continued to pour monotonous negation on the hopes of an expectant people—
"Swift o'er the wires the electric message came,
He is no better: he is much the same!"
Even amateur reciters could make an effect out of lines like that. Many of them did, and on one occasion the Princess Charlotte was a conspicuous member of the touched and attentive audience. It was a difficult moment for her, but with the help of a handkerchief she concealed her emotion, and the papers referred to it appreciatively as a touching incident.
The joy-bells that rang for a King's recovery, rang also for the public announcement of a royal betrothal. Prince Fritz had returned to the enchantment of his Charlotte's society at the earliest possible moment, and was in consequence one of the royal family group which went in state to the Cathedral to return thanks for the sovereign's restoration to health.
Across that bright scene we have to note the passing of one shadow which, though not of impenetrable gloom, should not fail to enlist the equable sympathy of kindly hearts. Max still moved upon the public stage with a pensive and a chastened air. In the last month he had matured visibly, yet he did not mourn as one without hope, for he remembered that in the Church of Jingalo virginity could only vow itself for a limited number of years, and he knew that time could bring wisdom to inexperience, and make conspicuous the virtue of a heart that would not take "no." Also he had certain fireworks up his sleeve whose brightness, when they were let off, would penetrate even to the most cloistral abode—he had, that is to say, his Royal Commission to work on, and the preparation of a minority report which could not fail, when it was divulged, to startle the world. He was even beginning to have hopes that three or four others would sign it; for to be in a minority with royalty has its charm.
But though he still believed in the future he was for the moment in very solitary plight. His Countess, to whom alone he could go for comfort in his grief, had cried over him and kissed him with all the motherly kindness imaginable; and then, disturbed by the very depth of her pity and afraid of what might come of it—her heart being but tender clay—had suddenly packed up her traps and flown, leaving, if you would like to know, most of her jewels behind her. And Max, sending after her with his own hands those souvenirs of the past, had added a few tender words of regret and thanks which to her dying day that good woman cherished and said her prayers over.