"And now," said the Emperor, throwing a compassionate and ashamed glance upon his wife—"now set it at—let's see"—he paused, in deep thought—"at the 'Dear Old Home.'"
Frederick obeying, the purple drawing-room was quickly pervaded by a strain so soft and heartrending that it might have melted an actor-manager to modesty, or persuaded a tigress to be tame. It had its effect even upon the Empress. She started, glanced around her with agitation as the melody smote—or rather glided—upon the porches of her ears, composed herself to inflexibility, started again, regarded the orchestrion with an air of distracted enquiry, turned to the Emperor, and finally, with a wild and poignant cry of "Oh, Perry, Perry, that it should come to this!" fell upon his breast, and bedewed his frilled shirt-front with wifely tears.
There are scenes that must not be described, circumstances that must not be depicted, situations that must not be intruded upon. One of the chief of these is surely an Emperor and Empress in hysterics. Let the veil close. Let privacy immerse the prostrated couple.
Yet we must meet them again in circumstances perhaps even more tragic. We must follow them through ways foggy with misfortune.
The Sunday immediately preceding the Monday of Ascot week was a black-letter day indeed for Mr. and Mrs. Lite. No potentates on the eve of being thrust out from their kingdom ever suffered under a sense of greater indignity than did they as they saw their boxes being packed by valet and maid for departure, and wandered through the palace taking a last farewell of the many objects that they loved so dearly. Mrs. Lite was become entirely lachrymose under the weight of unmerited misfortune, but her husband could in almost all circumstances rely with certainty upon the support of his naturally violent temper, and on this, as on many other less terrible occasions, it buoyed him up, and prevented him from sinking into a condition of unmanly despondency. Instead of being simply sad, he was also furious, and although depression unutterable attacked his bleeding heart as the hour drew near when he must leave the home, the passionate antagonism which he increasingly felt against "the Londoners" kept him from breaking down, and even assisted his habitual vitality till it burnt with the fierceness of a flame fed by petroleum. Especially hot was his wrath against poor innocent Mr. Rodney, the unsuspicious cause of all this trouble. And one circumstance which increased the Bun Emperor's anger against the gentle owner of Mitching Dean was that Lady Sophia Tree's bun-praise, although it had been duly advertised in almost every paper in the kingdom, had not as yet occasioned any very unusual rush of infants upon the provender by the sale of which the Emperor and Empress lived. The sale had kept up, had even slightly increased, but that was all that could be said. Therefore the Emperor's troubled waters were not mingled with a sufficient quantity of oil to quiet them. And on this fateful Sunday his passion mounted to a climax. The veins of his ample forehead were already swelled at breakfast—in Winter Garden number one. His cheeks were flushed at lunch-time, and as the afternoon drew on he seemed perpetually on the verge of an ebullition of ungovernable fury. His large, gipsy-like eyes stared about him at all the familiar objects which he had collected in the home, objects hitherto only beheld by the very few persons—aristocratic bun-praisers and others—whom the Emperor honoured with his personal friendship. He held in one fat hand, and frequently referred to, a list, forwarded according to agreement by Mr. Rodney, of the members of the vile tribe who on the morrow were to take possession of his beautiful palace. The list was as follows:
Mrs. Verulam.
The Duchess of Southborough.
The Lady Pearl McAndrew.
Hon. Miss Bindler.
Lady Drake.
Mr. Van Adam.
Mr. Hyacinth Rodney.
The Duke of Southborough.
Mr. Ingerstall.
Mr. James Bush.
Over and over again did the Emperor con this list, and endeavour to conjure up an idea of what manner of women and men these unknown strangers might be. Over and over again did he read the names aloud to the Empress with a hard and guttural intonation. The only members of the tribe personally known to him were the Duke and Duchess of Southborough and Mr. Rodney. The latter he now loathed with all his soul. The two former he respected as thoroughly useful and efficient bun-praisers. What of the others? What of Mrs. Verulam, the Lady Pearl, Miss Bindler? What of Mr. Van Adam, Mr. Ingerstall, and Mr. James Bush? Names are sometimes suggestive, and call up pictures before the eyes of the imaginative. The Bun Emperor became imaginative under the combined influences of sorrow and temper, and, summoning the Empress to him in the hall built for the accommodation of Handel Festivals, he proceeded to go through a performance that was somewhat like a public school "call-over," without any answers from the boys.
"Sit down, Henrietta," he said in a loud and quivering voice.
The Empress sat on a chair just under the great organ, and in the shadow of the enormous staircase. The Emperor remained standing, as if at a desk.
"Mrs. Verulam!" he cried, and looked from his list to the Empress, consulting furiously her intuitions.