“We will dress up a pillow in his clothes, and Mrs Jones shall carry it. If we are hurried away to the Bishop’s palace at once, they will not detect the trick until the morning, which will—— Oh, is that you, Mrs Jones?”
“Yes, ma’am, it is; and hearin’ no good of myself, as they say no eavesdroppers don’t. I think I see myself carryin’ about a pillow dressed up in his Majesty’s clothes, and the precious lamb himself left to that there Frawline!”
“Mrs Jones, we cannot take you with us.” Cyril spoke sharply, noting that Mrs Jones was ready equipped for the journey. “You would be recognised anywhere,” for tales of the magnificence of demeanour of the King’s nurse, and her unbending deportment towards the natives of her land of exile, circulated wherever the Court moved, “and that would ruin the whole scheme. You must stay here, and obey the orders of the Baroness, and so help us to save the King.”
“Thank you, my lord; and what if I declines to stay here?”
“Then you will have the responsibility of destroying the King’s only chance of escape. We are in your hands, Mrs Jones. If you will stay behind, it will help to gain time for us to get beyond the reach of pursuit; but you may as well go and inform the conspirators at once that we are trying to escape as insist on coming with us. Which is it to be?”
“My lord, if me stayin’ here can help the King and your lordship to escape, I’ll stay here till Doomsday, and no one shan’t drag me from the house, not if wild horses was to try it. I thank you, my lord, for talkin’ to me like a reasonable Christian woman, and here I stays, and no thanks to no one else, neither!”
And Mrs Jones retired with added dignity, just as the Queen entered the room, looking absurdly young and girlish in her grey tweed dress and simple hat, and followed by Fräulein von Staubach, with the little King, well wrapped up, fast asleep in her arms.
“One moment before we start, madame,” said Cyril. “From this time forward you are an English lady, Mrs Weston, and I am your brother, Arthur Cleeves. Your Christian name is Lilian. The King is your son Tommy, Fräulein von Staubach is his German nurse Julie, and my clerk Paschics, who is waiting for us on the other side of the park, is Carlo, an Italian courier. We are travelling by road, and our carriage has broken down, which makes it necessary for us to hire a country cart to convey us to the next posting-station. Let me impress upon you the necessity of speaking nothing but English, and of keeping to our assumed names, even when no strangers are present, for the sake of practice. I think you had better give me the child, Fr—Julie, and I will take my sister’s bag, if you can manage your own. Now we had better start—Lilian.”
The Queen gave Baroness von Hilfenstein a half-tearful, half-smiling glance, for the old lady’s face was a study when she heard Cyril’s words, and it was with difficulty that she restrained herself from insisting, even at this late hour, on the abandonment of the scheme. “Take care of her Majesty,” she whispered anxiously to Fräulein von Staubach, holding her back from descending the stairs after the other two; “remind her constantly of her position. Maintain all the restraints possible, and remember that if anything happens, I shall never forgive you or myself.”
Very much flurried, and totally unable to comprehend the full force of the warning, Fräulein von Staubach nevertheless promised faithfully to observe it, and hurried down the steps after her mistress, who had reached the door at the foot of the staircase. Here the fugitives stood for a moment in the shadow, listening to the beating of their own hearts, while M. Stefanovics, emerging from the doorway, joined the sentry in his walk, and accompanied him to the end of the terrace, where he directed his attention to an imaginary glare in the sky over the city, which he suggested was due to a street-fire. While the sentry, deeply interested (for he knew something of the plot, and was watching for any sign of its being carried out), was doing his best to see the remarkably faint and fitful glow pointed out to him, Cyril directed the Queen and Fräulein von Staubach to cross the terrace as quietly as possible, and conceal themselves among the shrubs on the farther side. The next moment he followed them; but the interval had been long enough to allow a fear to seize him which covered his brow with cold sweat. What if the conspirators were already in hiding among those very bushes? But no one appeared, and no movement was made, and he led the way through the gardens, walking on the grass wherever he could so as to avoid making any sound, and then through a wicket-gate into the park. Here their progress was much more satisfactory, for they were quite out of sight from the house, and could walk rapidly over the turf, although it required some care to avoid coming into unpleasantly close and sudden contact with the trees. But when the more open ground was left behind, and it was necessary to plunge into a thick wood, the ladies found their difficulties greatly increased, and the more so that Cyril, encumbered as he was with the sleeping child and the Queen’s bag, could do little to aid them. They made no complaint, and toiled on bravely through briers and wet bushes, which had a perverse way of springing back and striking the unwary traveller on the face; but it was no small relief to Cyril when they reached the boundary of the estate, and a whistle from him brought up Paschics to relieve him temporarily of the burden of the little King, and to help the ladies over the fence. They descended the steep bank to the road, where the Queen stopped suddenly, aghast at the sight of the vehicle awaiting them, and then laughed until the tears came into her eyes. It was the usual light wooden cart of the more advanced among the farmers, without springs or tilt, and provided with a board by way of driving-seat. The floor was covered thickly with straw, and there were several rugs stowed away in the front, while the two rough, stout little horses had had their bells carefully removed.