On the morning of Wednesday a paper of instructions arrived from Uncle Harry via Doughty Bridge, Yorks. It seemed to attach chief significance to the wine, which should be of the best quality and abundant in quantity. Deponent adjured his niece to be especially careful about the madeira, as all the royalties he had had the honour to meet at table were extremely partial to that beverage. "I am sending a case of ours in the care of Thomas, unknown to your father," was interspersed in the form of a note in the maternal hand. In effect, Uncle Harry's instructions might be said to resolve themselves into as much madeira and as little fuss as possible.
Fitz also was not inactive. He had accepted the impending visit of his father-in-law, wholly distasteful to him as there was reason to believe it was, in quite the temper of the philosopher. Since the King's enemies were so rife in our part of the world, the first thing he did was to take the Chief Constable into his confidence. He then went up to town, spent two hours in Whitehall at the feet of more than one Gamaliel, called upon the General Manager of the Great Mid-Western Railway and arranged for a special train to be run through from Southampton to Middleham, and rounded up his day with the purchase of a new silk hat at Scott's.
The historic Thursday came at last, and shortly after seven A.M. Mr. Nevil Fitzwaren set forth to Southampton, arrayed in a very smart Newmarket coat, patent leather boots and his new silk hat. Even when I had witnessed his setting out in the full panoply of war, I could hardly realise that we were on the threshold of so high an occasion. I hope I do not attach an undue importance to the kings of the earth. But even an insignificant unit of a constitutional country, with perhaps something of a slight personal bias in the direction of democracy, could not allay a thrill of lively anticipation of what the day would bring forth.
According to the journals of the age, Ferdinand the Twelfth stood for an advanced type of despot. His word was law in Illyria. I spent half my morning in the hunting up and perusal of a recent number of one of the magazines, in which appeared a character-study of this famous man by one who claimed to know him intimately. Therein he figured as a benevolent reactionary; as one who in the fullest sense of the term believed himself to be the father of his people. He dispensed justice alike to the rich and the poor; but whether he was right or whether he was wrong, he allowed no appeal from his verdicts.
In the opinion of the writer of the article, the King of Illyria was one of the strongest men of his epoch. Poised as he had been all his life on the crater of a volcano, which issued continual threats of eruption, he had abated no point of his public or domestic policy in response to the rumblings below. He believed himself to possess an infallible knowledge of that which was good for his people, and he was prone to dispense his universal panacea in liberal doses. Yet he differed fundamentally from other potentates of a similar faith, as, for instance, his Russian nephew and his Turkish and Persian contemporaries, inasmuch as he had faith in the essential virtue of his subjects.
In spite of the fact that the modern distemper of anarchy had infected his kingdom, and had led to three cowardly attempts on his life, Ferdinand the Twelfth had furnished a convincing proof of his strength of character by declining to saddle his people with the responsibility of what he chose to consider as isolated acts of fanaticism. From the earliest times any individual or body of freemen of the Kingdom of Illyria had enjoyed the right of personal access to their sovereign. He was ready to give them advice in the most commonplace affairs. In many ways he was more like an enlightened friend and neighbour of liberal views than a despotic ruler whose word was law. It was said that he would advise a working-man about the choice of a calling for his son, or he would fix the amount of a daughter's dowry. "To take the King's opinion" had become a proverbial phrase throughout the land; and it was said that in the case of two farmers haggling over the price of a horse, whenever the phrase was used it received a literal interpretation.
The consequence of this accessibility was an abundant popularity among all classes in the state. In living up to the letter of the truly royal tradition that every Illyrian enjoyed the King's friendship, he had conserved his power, and in spite of many a sinister growl in consequence of severe taxation and many flagrant abuses of authority, the volcano had remained inactive throughout a long and not inglorious reign. His campaign in the 'sixties against the might of Austria, culminating in the historic day of Rodova, had been a wonder for wise men, and had only been rendered possible by the almost superstitious faith of all classes of a comparatively small community.
In his final survey of the character and attainments of one of the most significant figures of the age, the writer of the article indulged in the prophecy that with Ferdinand the Twelfth a symbol of true kingship would pass away. The forces of modernism were too strong in Illyria, as elsewhere in Europe, to be held longer at bay. It was only by a miracle that the doors of the historic castle at Blaenau had been barred against them so long. Only an extraordinary personal power and an unflinching strength of will had kept them unforced. For none could deny that the sublime example of trusting all men and fearing none had gone hand in hand with the gravest abuses; yet, whatever was their nature, it could at least be said that they owed their origin to no ignoble source. A king in every true essential, Ferdinand the Twelfth had the defects of his qualities. The standard of well-being in Illyria was high, but it was by no means widely dispersed. As is the case within the borders of all despotisms, the rich were the rich and the poor were the poor in Illyria. In many respects the condition of the people recalled that of France before the Revolution; and it would be a source of surprise to none who were in a position to observe the present situation if, at the eleventh hour, the fate of Louis XVI overtook this present uncommonly able and uncommonly misguided ruler.
By the light of what this day was to bring forth, I made an anxious study of this document. If I cannot say that I derived reassurance from it, at least it did nothing to diminish my curiosity. It was to be our privilege to entertain a type of true kingliness under our roof. If one of those culinary disasters occurred to which even the best regulated households are susceptible, and we were constrained to offer burnt soup or an underdone cutlet to the father of his people, it was to be hoped that his trembling host and hostess would not have to forfeit their heads.
As far as the King's daughter was concerned, it had seemed to us that the announcement of his coming had brought unhappiness. Her alert, half-humorous, half-malicious interest in everything around her which made her charm, had seemed to give place to the brooding preoccupation of one who felt a deep distrust of coming events. In particular I thought this was shown in her relation to her small daughter.