“Yes, my lady—but, begging your ladyship’s pardon, do you think as ’is lordship would approve of your startin’ off quite so quick without sendin’ ’im word fust?”
“My good Wright,” returned Nadia forbearingly, “I shall telegraph to Lord Caerleon before we get into the train. I should not think of going to Tatarjé without him; but it is just possible that he might not reach London quite in time for the Flushing boat, and might have to follow us by another. That is why I am taking you. But you may be quite sure that my husband will approve of my doing my duty.”
Wright retired, crushed, to give the necessary orders at the stables, and then to break the news of his sudden departure to his wife, who complained that the Marchioness was very thoughtless, and ’ad much better take one of the young fellows as didn’t suffer with the rheumatics, if she wanted to go trapesing about over the place, and not lead a respectable family man on such a wild-goose chase; but there! she never ’ad set much by them furriners. But this utterance struck at the root of all Wright’s ideas of the respect due to the “Family,” and he hastened to assure his grumbling spouse, while she packed his bag and he brought out the old passport which he cherished with a good deal of pride, that her ladyship was taking the proper course under the circumstances, and that he considered she was perfectly justified in what she did.
After all, in spite of Lady Caerleon’s promptness in deciding upon the journey, and her haste in preparing for it, there was not time for her to send off the telegram to her husband before the train started, and she was therefore obliged to give it into the hands of Stodart the groom, with instructions to despatch it immediately. Stodart was a well-intentioned young man; but on the present occasion the honour and glory of finding himself in sole command of the horses and carriage seems to have been too much for his self-control, for after driving through the principal streets to exhibit his grandeur to his acquaintances, he yielded to the invitation of a friend, and accepted a glass or two of beer at a public-house close to the post-office. There is no reason to suspect that he went beyond the two glasses; but the melancholy fact remains that when he reached the post-office it was too late to send the telegram that day. The crestfallen youth took it back to Llandiarmid, and confessed his dereliction of duty to the housekeeper, who rebuked him sharply for not having left the missive with some one in the town who could have despatched it as soon as the office opened. Stodart himself rode into Aberkerran at the earliest possible hour the next morning, and sent off the message; but by that time a weary and shivering little group, gathered on the platform at Victoria, had realised sadly that Lord Caerleon was not there to meet them, and had taken the Queenborough train without him. Nor did the misfortunes of the telegram end here. It did not reach the country-house at which Caerleon was staying until some time after the gentlemen had started for the distant coverts, and the hostess considered that it might well wait until she herself joined the sportsmen at lunch-time. Even then, she was thoughtful enough not to present it until after the meal, in case it should contain bad news, and then she forgot it until she and the other ladies were making their way home, so that when Caerleon at last received it he was forced to realise that his wife and children were already speeding across Europe away from him as fast as steam could carry them. His own man was on the sick-list, having been shot accidentally in the ankle by an amateur sportsman of the party, and he was obliged to telegraph to Llandiarmid that Robert the footman should meet him at Victoria the next morning with his passport and other necessaries for a Continental journey. He was already too late to catch the night-boat, and had the mortification of knowing that his utmost haste could not result in enabling him to be less than a day behind.
As for Nadia, she pursued her way with a timidity that was almost fear. Since her marriage she had scarcely been further than Aberkerran without Caerleon, and she felt worried and perplexed when Wright asked for directions or inquired her wishes. She had been independent enough at one time; but Caerleon had managed everything for her so long that she hardly knew how to act on her own responsibility. Happily a gleam of hope reached her at Cologne, where she received a telegram from her husband to say that he was starting to follow her, and would join her at the Hôtel du Roi Othon at Tatarjé, where the O’Malachy was staying. She found another piece of comfort in the behaviour of the children, who regarded the whole affair as a game of the most delightful kind.
From the moment at which Usk and Philippa were first told that instead of going to bed they were to take a journey to the other end of Europe in order to see grandpapa, who was ill, they seemed to themselves to have passed out of the regions of reality into those of romance. Their mother’s father had always been a shadowy figure to them. They knew all about their other grandfather, whose sword hung over the mantelpiece in father’s study, and whose medals and decorations they were allowed to look at as a treat on their birthdays. They could give detailed accounts of the various engagements in which he had taken part, and by mounting a chair in the picture-gallery they could indicate on his portrait the exact locality of each wound that he had received. Moreover, his monument faced them in church every Sunday, and had served to provide matter of extraneous interest during many long sermons. But with Grandpapa O’Malachy it was different. He was not dead; but he was away somewhere, and he never wrote to mother. Once Philippa, overhearing some words of gossip between her nurse and Wright, who had returned from his travels with a very low opinion of the O’Malachy, had asked her father point-blank whether grandpapa was a wicked man—an inquiry which Lord Caerleon could only parry by saying that little girls ought not to ask questions. This unprecedented snub, following on what she had already heard, Philippa accepted as an affirmative answer, and to her and to Usk their grandfather became for the future a compound of Guy Fawkes and of the wicked uncle of the Babes in the Wood. Many happy hours were spent by the two in the Abbey ruins “playing at grandpa”; but this was not guessed by their parents, for Philippa had issued an edict that “grandpa was not to be talked about, because it worried mother,” and Usk, who was her willing slave, obeyed her faithfully.
To be now actually on a journey to visit this mysterious, and therefore terrible and delightful, relative, was in itself an incredible joy; but it was heightened by the fact that he lived in the country where father was once king, and when they set foot on the Continent the children had reached a state of exaltation in which nothing would have surprised them, from Genii to Man Friday. Their excitement did not show itself outwardly. They ran races and played games up and down the corridor of the train, made friends with the other passengers, looked out on the strange people at the stations, and came to their mother ever and anon for petting and a story; but occasionally, when their extreme quietness prompted Nadia or their nurse to make a raid upon them in fear of some mischief, they would be found curled up together in the corner of a seat, Philippa telling Usk in a whisper tales of marvel respecting the wonders to be anticipated. When once the Thracian frontier had been crossed, they spent their time in rushing from window to window of the carriage, so as not to miss one scene of the enchanted land. All through the journey they had asked at each station whether this was father’s kingdom yet, and now they were happy. Nadia had rashly attempted to prove to them that Thracia had now another king, and in no way belonged to their father; but Philippa was persuaded that once a king meant always a king, and supported her contention by the historical examples of David King of Israel, King Alfred, and the Young Pretender.
There was abundant opportunity for the travellers to see as much of Thracia as they wished, and even more, for this portion of the railway had been damaged by a flood the day before, and progress was very slow. The train was timed to reach Tatarjé at three in the afternoon, but it did not get in until seven; and the children were roused from an uncomfortable slumber by their nurse that they might be put tidy before arriving. The station, so far as they could see, was very much like other stations, and the streets were chiefly remarkable for being narrow, badly paved, and smelly; but what did this signify? they were situated in Arcadia. Usk and Philippa were wide awake now, and able to notice their mother’s excitement. She was panting as she sat upright in the carriage, and her lips trembled. If she should be too late now, after this dreadful journey!
The loungers in the hall of the Hôtel du Roi Othon found a new subject of interest that evening in the stately lady who entered suddenly, followed by her children and servants, and demanded to be taken at once to the Herr Oberst O’Malachy’s room. The German waiter whom she had addressed looked at her in astonishment not unmixed with suspicion. The lady spoke German without the slightest foreign accent; but her companions were unmistakably English, and what could they want with the Scythian officer?
“I don’t know whether the Herr Oberst will see visitors,” he said.