They were rattling down Aberkerran High Street as Cyril said this, and as the dogcart drew up outside the station the impassive Dietrich advanced to meet his master.
“Excellency,” he said, with a military salute, for he had served in the Hercynian army, and could not succeed in emancipating himself from the methods of address thus learned, “the train is on the point of departure, and although I have warned the officials that it must not start without your lordship, they are swearing that they will not delay it longer for the Queen Victoria herself.”
“Then I haven’t a moment!” cried Cyril, breaking into the valet’s deliberate German phrases. “Good-bye, Caerleon; give my love to Nadia and the children. I’ll come back soon, and finish my visit properly.”
He grasped his brother’s hand, and rushed into the station, followed by Dietrich, who had already secured his ticket, reaching the platform just in time to enter a carriage as the train was moving off. Settling himself comfortably in a corner seat, he tried hard to banish thought and devote himself to his cigar; but even the best-trained mind will sometimes revolt against a policy of abstraction, and Cyril’s was by no means proof against the excitement of the crisis which he foresaw to be imminent. From the evening papers, which he obtained as the train approached London, he learned that King Otto Georg had been thrown from his horse during a review, and that the fall had brought on a return of the old malady. A specialist had been summoned from Vienna, and M. Drakovics was in constant attendance at the Palace, since a change for the worse in the King’s condition might occur at any moment. On reaching London, Cyril received a telegram from M. Drakovics himself, which had been addressed in the first instance to Llandiarmid, and was forwarded thence by Caerleon, mentioning merely the fact of the King’s illness, and entreating him to hasten back to Thracia. Since he was already travelling as fast as express trains could carry him, he was unable to make any further effort in this direction; and although he found a certain amount of satisfaction during the earlier stages of his journey in planning to save time by means of short cuts and curtailed halts, this resource was exhausted before very long. He was conscious of a disinclination, very unusual with him, to distract his thoughts by reading, or by entering into conversation with his fellow-passengers, and he found himself, therefore, reduced to considering in all possible lights a prospect which was far from being a pleasing one. The papers, Belgian, German, and Austrian, which he obtained in the course of his journey, all told the same tale, that the King was still alive, but could not be expected to recover, while his sufferings were so great that he was kept almost continuously under the influence of opiates. The future looked very black, and Cyril could not decide whether it was blacker in his own case or in that of the kingdom. When the Queen found herself in possession of the reins of power, there was little hope that she would accept the assistance either of M. Drakovics or of himself in the duties of government, and he began to wonder whether it would not be the more dignified course to resign office immediately on the King’s death, instead of waiting to be dismissed. But if Thracia were deprived at once of King and Premier, and handed over to the tender mercies of an incapable and unpopular regent, she would scarcely succeed in weathering the political storm which would ensue, and another revolution would mean almost certainly the outbreak of a European war. To forsake his post now was not to be thought of.
“Otto Georg may have been able to leave some message for me,” said Cyril to himself, as he left the train at Bellaviste, “giving an idea of his views under the circumstances; but if he hasn’t, I’ll stick to office for his sake until I’m turned out, and try to keep baby Michael on the throne. We are bound to fail, I suppose, and I shall risk my reputation as a statesman, but one must be ready to run some risks for a friend.”
Learning from the railway officials, who greeted him respectfully, that the King was still living, he drove straight to the Palace, intending to go to his own rooms and don his Ministerial uniform at once, so as to be ready in case of a summons to the sick-room. Passing along the corridor, however, he found himself suddenly face to face with the little Crown Prince and his English nurse. Mrs Jones was a sister of Wright, the Llandiarmid coachman, although she had enjoyed greater educational advantages, and she owed her position to the recommendation of Lady Caerleon, for which reason she regarded Cyril with marked favour and deference, while waging a chronic warfare with the other officials belonging to the Palace. On this occasion she stopped him to inquire after the health of the family at Llandiarmid, while the little Prince, his face still wet with tears, made unavailing efforts to climb into his arms.
“It is the Herr Graf!” he cried, in his baby German, burying his face in Cyril’s fur cuff. “Come and play wild beasts, Herr Graf. Papa is ill, and can’t walk about, but you can put that fur thing over your head, and roar.”
“Not now, Prinzchen,” said Cyril, dexterously disencumbering himself of the coat, in which Prince Michael proceeded immediately to envelop his own small person. “We might disturb the poor papa.”
“Bless his little heart!” said Mrs Jones, wiping her eyes; “how should he understand that his poor pa is struck for death?”
“The King is dying, then,” asked Cyril anxiously.