I.—THE DISINHERITED PRINCE.
It was the proud boast of the late Mr Charles James Stuart, of Balquhalloch, N.B., that he was the direct representative and lawful heir of the unfortunate royal family of Scotland. I do not quite know how he derived his descent, or from whom; but I feel sure that, had he lived at the beginning of the eighteenth instead of the nineteenth century, he would, with considerable confidence, have contested the right of Queen Anne and the earlier Georges to reign over the northern, if not also the southern portion of Great Britain. He was not born, however, until 1796; and at that time there were in the Highlands but few people who still chafed under Hanoverian rule. When, therefore, as a young man, he first went to London, instead of plotting rebellion against the authority of King George III., he fell in love with an English girl named Eleanor Tudor, who also claimed, and, I think, not without justice, to be lineally descended from royal ancestors. A portrait of this lady was until quite recently in the possession of her daughter, Miss Stuart. She was not beautiful; and I strongly suspect that Mr Stuart would not have wooed her, had she borne any other name than Tudor; but the prospect of once more uniting the old kingly stocks of England and Scotland proved too seductive to be resisted; and in the summer of 1817, the laird married Miss Tudor at St James’s, Piccadilly, and at once carried her off to his northern home. In the following year, Mrs Stuart gave birth to the above-mentioned daughter, who in due course received the name of Henrietta Maria; and when in 1820 a son was also born at Balquhalloch, he was, with equal fittingness, baptised Charles Augustus.
The old laird died in 1861; but in the meantime his son had grown up and married a pretty but penniless governess; and in 1857 a son, who was named Charles Edward, had been born to him. Mr Charles Augustus Stuart, who, I regret to say, had more respect for whisky than for his magnificent ancestry, was seized with apoplexy in 1878, shortly afterwards departing this life; and in 1880, when the events which I am about to narrate began, the only living representatives of the old laird were his daughter Henrietta Maria, an eccentric lady of sixty-two; and his grandson Charles Edward, a lively and, I may add, rather unscrupulous fellow of three-and-twenty.
Miss Stuart was a tall and very dignified person. Twenty years ago, the thirsty cravings of Charles Augustus had dragged him into pecuniary difficulties, from which he only extricated himself by selling Balquhalloch and all its contents to his sister; and from that time, Miss Stuart was mistress of the fine old house, and maintained herself there in a style almost worthy of the descendant of a hundred kings. She was rich, her mother’s relations having at different times bequeathed to her sums amounting in the aggregate to nearly three-quarters of a million; and she was generous, as all the poor of her neighbourhood would gladly testify; but, as I have already said, she was eccentric. She regarded herself as a British princess; she insisted upon her servants treating her as such; she lived in considerable state, and had a large household; and whenever she had occasion to sign her name, she signed it magnificently, ‘Henrietta Maria, P.’
Young Charles Edward, on the other hand, inherited no fortune worth speaking of. His father had squandered his means in dissipation; and dying, left a paltry five thousand pounds, upon the interest of which the son, until 1880, lived in chambers in the Inner Temple. Up to that time he had no direct communication with his magnificent aunt, who, after purchasing Balquhalloch, had quarrelled with his father. In the spring of the year, however, Charles Edward happened to be breakfasting with his friend Tom Checkstone, who called his attention to the following advertisement in the Morning Post:
‘A Personage of rank requires the services of a private secretary. Applicant must be energetic, well educated, of good address, and willing to spend the greater part of his time in the country.—Send full particulars to the Steward of the Household, Balquhalloch, N.B.’
‘Balquhalloch is your aunt’s place; is it not? I wonder who has taken it?’ asked Tom.
‘No one has taken it. My aunt always lives there; and, what is more, she is the Personage of rank.’
‘Your aunt! Have they been making her a peeress, then?’ demanded Tom incredulously.
‘She’s a little weak in her head, you know, on the subject of our supposed royal descent,’ returned Charles Edward; ‘and she insists upon regarding herself as a princess.’
‘And if she is a princess, what are you, Charlie?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t troubled myself to go deeply into the matter; but I suppose that in her estimation I am the legitimate king of England, or rather, of Great Britain. My grandfather claimed to be the representative of the House of Stuart; so, of course, as the only son of his only son, I inherit that great but somewhat barren honour.’
‘Well, I have made up my mind to write to your eccentric aunt’s Steward of the Household,’ said Tom. ‘I have little to do, and, what is far more serious, little to live upon; and if the Princess will give me five hundred a year, Her Royal Highness shall have my services.—Is she rich?’
‘O yes. I believe that she has a good twenty thousand a year, if not more.’
‘And yet she lets you live here on two hundred and fifty! I can’t say much for her princely liberality.—Do you know any one who will recommend me? And who is this Steward of hers?’
‘He is a Scotchman, named M‘Dum—Donald M‘Dum. He used to be merely a kind of farm-bailiff; but he falls in with all my aunt’s whims, and I rather fancy he is making a good thing out of his place.’
‘Not what you would call a very upright man?’ hazarded Tom.
‘By no means. From what I have heard, I should take him to be a regular money-grubber. George Fegan, of Figblossom Buildings, who was in Scotland last autumn, met him several times, and told me all about him.’
‘Ah, I shall go and see Fegan. Don’t you mention the matter. But remember one thing: if I get the appointment, I’ll guarantee that the old lady shall take you into immediate favour. I have an idea, a grand one. At present, never mind what it is. If this M‘Dum is as mercenary as you make out, we must raise money to bribe him to use his influence on my behalf; and the question is, how can we raise it? All my modest expectations are centred upon the death of my uncle Blighter, who, as you know, is already bedridden. When he dies, I shall come into a few thousands.—Will you lend me a thousand, if I want it?’
Checkstone and Stuart were old school-chums, and although not altogether prompt in satisfying the demands of their tailors, trusted one another completely.
‘I could realise my small investments,’ said Charlie; ‘but by doing so I should reduce my income by fifty pounds a year; so I hope that the favours from my aunt won’t be long in coming.’
‘Then you shall realise; and I’ll give you my promissory-note for the amount. But first I must see Fegan and make inquiries. I won’t do anything risky; trust me for that. While I benefit myself, I shall doubly benefit you. When I have called on Fegan, I shall at once, if necessary, go down to Balquhalloch and see the great M‘Dum. When I wire to you, you can realise; and I can draw upon you for any sum up to a thousand, eh?’
‘So be it,’ assented Charlie. ‘And I hope you will get the appointment and help me out of my difficulties. Why, if only my aunt would do the proper thing, I could marry. She might easily spare, say, a thousand a year; and with that addition to my income, Kate and I could do very well.’
‘That marrying craze of yours is like a millstone tied to your neck. You ought to look out for a girl with money. Kate Smith is an orphan, and has no expectations; and in any case, you might—if you will forgive my saying so—do better than marry a governess.’
‘My father married a governess!’ exclaimed Charlie warmly.
‘So much the worse. The race will be ruined! However, we won’t talk about that now. While you are a bachelor, there is still hope; and you shall have your thousand a year very soon, unless I am vastly mistaken.—Now I am off to see Fegan; so good-bye. If I go to Scotland to-night, you shall hear from me to-morrow. All depends upon Fegan’s report of the great M‘Dum.’