“But how—how did you succeed in getting here?”
“It is my duty to accompany the Court, madame.”
“Yes; but—I thought you were at Praka?”
“On the contrary, madame, I am here, and ready to serve you.”
The Queen gave up the riddle with a sigh, and Cyril remained master of the situation. He knew that she would have given anything to ask for an explanation, which her dignity would not allow her to do, and he enjoyed his triumph in the intervals of his multifarious labours all day.
CHAPTER VI.
A DAUGHTER’S DUTY.
Lady Caerleon sat alone in the breakfast-room at Llandiarmid, with an unopened letter lying before her on the table. Her husband was staying with a friend in the Midlands for a few days’ shooting, and she had sent the children away to play, for she felt reluctant, almost afraid, to open the letter in their presence. The sight of the Thracian stamp and post-mark, and of the writing upon the envelope, brought back to her with unwelcome vividness the troubles of her girlhood, which had passed out of sight—almost out of mind—during the happy years of her married life. That writing she had last seen some months before her marriage, when her father had written to upbraid her for revealing his plot against Caerleon’s life to the intended victim, and had cast her off, as he declared, for ever. “I have no daughter now,” he had said, and she accepted his decision with a resignation which comprised in it something of relief. “You must be father and brother to me, as well as husband,” she had said to Caerleon on their wedding-day, looking into his face with her great serious eyes, “for I have no one but you;” and if she had experienced little difficulty in choosing between father and lover, she had never for a moment found reason to regret her choice. It was like tearing open an old wound to return now to the trials of those earlier days; but she shook off her reluctance after a time, and unfolded the letter with a determination to know the worst at once. As she looked at it, however, the apprehension faded from her face, for instead of conveying the curse which her father had sworn that he would send her with his dying breath, the words which met her eye were expressive of the greatest goodwill.
“My dear Nadia,—You will likely be surprised to receive a letter from me; but I feel I am growing old, and often lately I have been troubled to think that the one relation I have left in the wide world was living in enmity against me. Owing to reasons with which you are very well acquainted, it is not possible for me to take the step to which my feelings prompt me, and by paying you a visit in England, seek to end this sad state of things; but if you should feel moved to terminate it, be sure that you will find no obstacle in me. I have suffered of late from a painful and distressing illness, any recurrence of which, so the doctor informs me, would be fatal, and which may recur at any time. At this moment I am experiencing great relief from a course of the Tatarjé waters, and find my former strength wonderfully restored. My life has not been too happy, and now, lingering on the borders of a better world, I am conscious of a longing for that solace of family affection, from which circumstances have debarred me wholly of late years, and in a measure, as you know, all my days. I wish to blame no one, but I think your own heart will bear me out in this. It is not for me to sue for pity to my daughter; but if her filial feelings lead her to take the first steps towards a reconciliation, far be it from me to repulse her! You have children, Nadia—a son, I hear. Since your poor brother’s death and your disobedience I have had none; but I would like greatly to see yours before I die. It would afford me pleasure, also, to meet your husband again, for I have always entertained the highest respect for him, although we unfortunately differed in politics. Some years ago I received from him a very suitable and becoming letter, which I fear I may have failed to treat with the consideration it deserved. I do not ask his pardon; he will be able to understand something of the bitterness which fills a father’s heart under circumstances such as mine. I make no entreaties; I leave the matter with you. However you may decide to receive this overture of mine, I cannot forget that I am your father,
“O’Malachy.”
Nadia read the letter through again, for its tone of injured rectitude was somewhat puzzling in view of the circumstances in which the breach between her father and herself had taken place. To say that Caerleon and he had “differed in politics” was a mild way of stating that the O’Malachy had plotted not merely to depose, but to murder, his would-be son-in-law when the latter occupied the Thracian throne. Perhaps it would be too much to expect any expression of regret for this unfortunate misunderstanding; but Nadia felt that her father was scarcely entitled to imply that all the misconduct was on her side and all the undeserved suffering on his own. Still, the fact that he had written this letter at all was more than she could have dared to hope, and she knew him well enough to recognise that it was only in accordance with his character to safeguard his own dignity as far as possible in thus making friendly overtures after his long silence, although this rendered it all the more difficult to know how to reply to the letter.