Little as she imagined it, Cyril understood her feelings perfectly. He knew that she was quivering in every fibre under the insults hurled at her, knew how much the agony was increased by his own presence when they were uttered; and his own heart, which did not often interfere with his policy, supplied an additional sting, which Ernestine would not have inflicted even had it occurred to her mind—she owed it to herself that it was in the power of M. Drakovics to torment her in this way. For the moment, as he stood beside her with his hand on her shoulder, the thought was in his mind that, come what might, he would save her from further torture of the sort. He would cast away duties and prospects and high hopes and marry her at once, and face the world at her side, let that world say what it would about his motives. But the impulse was only momentary. Give up everything when his hand was even now grasping the prize, leave the field again to Drakovics when the day was his own at last, and for the sake of a woman? No, a thousand times no; although she was the woman he loved, and who loved him. After all, one must risk one’s queen in the game as well as one’s pawns.
“My darling,” he said gently, in response to her passionate outburst, for he could well afford to lavish upon her the small coin of kindness when the treasure of his ambition was untouched, “you are making me very unhappy by talking in this wild way. Can you imagine for an instant that I could remember a thing you wished forgotten? I will forget it completely if you will only banish it from your own mind, so that I may not be reminded of it by the look on your face. After all, it was aimed at me as much as you. Consider that it was addressed altogether to me, and help me to forget it. It hurt me far more than it did you.”
“Oh no, it could not do that,” sobbed Ernestine, but she allowed him to raise her head from the arm of the chair and lay it on his shoulder, and her tears became less bitter as he soothed and kissed her. Let no one under-estimate Cyril’s chivalry and self-control at this moment. He was wasting precious time in comforting her—time on which his political future might depend. There were a hundred things to do if he consulted his own interests, but he recognised that she possessed a claim upon him, and not a word or movement showed that he was putting strong constraint upon himself in remaining with her. To reward his patience, it was Ernestine herself who opened the way for the discussion of mundane matters.
“What have you done to your moustache?” she asked curiously, when she had dried her eyes, and could look at him again. “It seems to be a different shape, and surely the colour has changed?”
“I didn’t know you were such a keen observer,” said Cyril, taking off the false moustache he had worn since returning from his journey to Vienna, for he had been compelled to sacrifice his own to the efficiency of his various disguises. “You must put down the change to my illness—or to political exigencies if you like—but no one else must know, or we may have disastrous revelations. Shall I let it grow again, or not?”
“Of course. I don’t like you without it. It makes you look cruel, Cyril. But don’t let us talk of politics. I hate the word.”
“I am sorry to hear that, dear, for I am afraid that unless we can get through a little political business our lately departed friend may steal a march on us. I won’t mention him more than I can help,” as a shudder ran through her, “but if we are to make this escapade his last, we must strike while the iron is hot.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Ernestine, helplessly.
“I suppose we are to take it for granted that Drakovics will not be regarded as a possible Minister of the Crown in future?”
“Can you insult me by imagining that after what has passed I would ever receive him again as an adviser?”