Sir Roger smiled, and changed the subject.
But in a few days, what had been foreshadowed in their conversation came true. One of the chief results of the General Election was the triumphal return of Sergius Thord as Deputy for the Metropolis by an enormous majority; and in the evening of the day on which the polling was declared, great crowds assembled beneath the windows of his house,—that house so long known as the quarters of the Revolutionary Committee,—roaring themselves hoarse with acclamation. He was, of course, called out before them to speak,—and he yielded to the clamorous demand, as perforce he was bound to do, but strangely enough, with extreme reluctance.
A certain vague weariness depressed his spirits; his undisputed election as one of the most important Government-representatives of the people, lacked the savour of the triumph he had expected;—and like all those who have worked for years to win a coveted post and succeed at last in winning it, he was filled with the fatal satiety of accomplishment. Power,—temporal power,—was after all not so great as it had seemed! He had climbed—he had striven; but all the joy was contained in the climbing and the striving. Now that he had gained his point there seemed nothing left to prick afresh his flagging ambition. Nevertheless, he succeeded in addressing his enthusiastic followers and worshippers with something of his old fervour and fire,—sufficiently well, at any rate, to satisfy them, and send them off with renewed shouts of exultation, expressive of their continued reliance on his courage and ability. But, when left alone at last, his heart suddenly failed him.
“What is the use of it!” he thought wearily; “True, I now represent the city,—I lead its opinions—I am its mouth-piece for the State,—and the wrongs and injuries done to the million are mine to bring before the Government; and my business it will be to force remedial measures for the same. But what then? There will be, there must be, constant discussion, argument, contradiction,—for there are always conflicting opinions in every aspect of human affairs,—and it will be my work to put down all contradiction,—all opposition,—and to carry the People’s Cause with a firm hand. Yet—after all, if I succeed, it will be the King’s doing,—not mine! To him I partly owe my present power; the power I had before, was all my own!”
Sullen and silent he brooded on the changes in his fortunes with no very satisfied mind. While he could not, as a brave man, refuse his respect and homage to the monarch who had quietly made himself complete master of the ‘Revolutionary’ organisation, and who had succeeded in turning thousands of disaffected persons into ardent Loyalists, he was nevertheless troubled by a lurking suspicion that Lotys had secretly known and favoured the King’s scheme. Vaguely ashamed in his own mind of the idea, he yet found himself giving way to it now and again, as he remembered how she had defended his life,—not once but twice,—and how she had often frankly declared her admiration for the unselfishness, heroism, and tireless energy of the so-called ‘Pasquin Leroy.’ After much perplexed meditation, he came at last to one resolve.
“She must be my wife!” he said, his eyes gleaming with a sudden fire of passion and determination combined; “If,—as she says,—she does not love me, she must learn to love me! Then, all will be well! With her, it is possible I may reach still greater heights; without her, I can do nothing!”
Meantime, while the results of the Election to what was now called ‘The Royal Government,’ were being daily recorded in all parts of the world, and the King himself, from a selection of the ablest and most honourably-proved men of the time, was forming a new Ministry, the news of these radical changes in the kingdom’s affairs, spreading rapidly everywhere by cable, as news always spreads nowadays, reached a certain far corner in one of the most beautiful provinces of India,—a corner scarcely known to the conventional traveller,—where, in a wondrous palace, lent to them by one of the most civilised and kindly of Oriental potentates,—a palace surrounded by gardens that might have been a true copy of the fabled Eden, Prince Humphry and the fair ‘Gloria’ of his life, were passing a happy, ‘hidden-away’ time of perfect repose.
The evening on which they learned that their own nation demanded their return was ‘like the night of Al-Kadir, better than a thousand months.’ All day long the heat had been intense,—and they had remained indoors enjoying the coolness of marble courts and corridors, and plashing fountains,—but with the sunset a soft breeze had sprung up, and Gloria, passing into the shadiest corner of the gardens, had laid herself down in a silken hammock swung between two broad sycamore trees, and there, gently swaying to and fro, she watched her husband reading the various European journals that had arrived for his host by that day’s mail. Beautiful always, she had grown lovelier than ever in these halcyon days of rest, when ‘Love took up the harp of Life and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass’d in music out of sight.’ To her native grace she now united a distinctive dignity which added to her always gracious and queenly charm, and never had she looked more exquisite than now, when rocking gently in the suspended network of woven turquoise silk fringed with silver, she rested her head against cushions of the same delicate hue, and turned her expressive eyes enquiringly towards her husband,—wondering what kept him so silent, and what was the cause of the little line of anxiety which furrowed his brow. Clad in a loose diaphanous robe of white, with a simple band of silver clasping it round her supple form, her rich hair caught carelessly back with a knot of scarlet passion-flowers, she looked a creature too fair for earth, a being all divine; and the Prince presently turning his glances towards her, evidently thought so, from the adoring tenderness with which he bent over her and kissed the ripe, red, smiling lips which pouted so deliciously to take the offered caress.
“They want us back, my Gloria!” he said; “The Nation asks for me—and for you!”
She raised herself a little on one arm.