“Precious little; when you consider what she would lose on remarrying. And suppose the Prince of Weldart, or the Emperor Sigismund, relented so far as to allow us to settle down in strict seclusion in some corner of their dominions. I cannot flatter myself that I am what you may call a domesticated man; I have no interest in agricultural pursuits; hunting bores me. Can you imagine that I should prove a particularly amiable husband, shut up in some deserted village in rural Germany, with nothing to do? I am not qualified to go about conducting Bible-readings, like your friend Count Wratisloff, even if I felt called—I believe that is the proper word—to do it.”
“But surely such a state of things could only last for a year or two?”
“It would last throughout our lives, and the lives of our children, unless it was put an end to by a miracle. No, Princess—I am speaking to you plainly—I would do anything for Ernestine that it is fair to ask of a man; but spend my days as the morganatic husband of a Princess who had disgraced herself by contracting a misalliance, ostracised by every Court in Europe and by society everywhere, that I will not do.”
The Princess looked at Cyril’s lowering brow and compressed lips in perplexity. He was revealing to her a new side of his character, and she scarcely knew how to approach him.
“Then you do not love her?” she said at last.
“I beg your pardon; I do love her. Now please don’t quote Caerleon to me, and say that he was ready to chuck away a kingdom for the sake of your goddaughter. I know he was, but that doesn’t make me resemble him. No doubt it would be very nice if I did: life would be quite idyllic and much less complicated if we all went blundering along like Caerleon, with only room for one idea in our heads at one time; but in my private opinion Caerleon was a fool. Pray don’t imagine that I regret the way in which things have turned out, or think that any one else would have suited him better as a wife than Nadia; but Caerleon and I are two different people, and what he can do with a good grace would be utterly impossible to me.”
“You cannot love her!” said the Princess sharply.
“Now it is you who are doing me an injustice. I love her—as I have never loved any woman before. If she was not Queen—if she was a peasant-girl—I would marry her to-day, and look forward hopefully to living happy ever after. There would be some chance of it, too,” he added meditatively, “for you would never find her in the same mood two minutes together. One would have too much variety ever to be bored.”
“Please don’t talk like that,” the Princess looked pained. “The fact is, Lord Cyril, your love is willing to give, but not to receive. One of your English poets says something of the kind.”
“Ah, I fear I have got a little out of the current of English literature of late years.”