“You threaten me?” wept the Princess.
“Not if you behave decently,” he answered, with a roughness which only his desperate situation could excuse; “but if a man is supposed to be engaged, he has a right to have a voice in the proceedings of his—of the lady. The fact is, you think you can go as far as you like with me, and I won’t have it. You wouldn’t dare to carry on in this way with my brother Cyril, or any other man, because you know he might respond, and then you would get into trouble. But as I consider myself virtually engaged to some one else, and was soft-hearted enough to believe what you told me in the forest, you think you can make as big a fool of me as you like; but I’m not going to stand it.”
“You are brutal,” sobbed Princess Ottilie. “As you say, any other man would feel honoured to be treated in the way I treat you.”
“Let him,” said Caerleon. “I don’t; and I tell you plainly, it’s not to go on.”
“You are a monster to talk to me like this, at any rate,” she said, drying her eyes. “Now that you have delivered your lecture, and I have listened, I will only say one thing, that I would never allow my prince to speak to me as you have done.”
She vouchsafed no other expression of penitence, and even this remark Caerleon understood to be intended more as a hit; nor did his lecture seem to have had much effect upon her conduct, for when later in the day Cyril, on finding Princess Ottilie alone, noticed the heaviness of her eyes, and ventured to hope that she was not suffering from headache, she told him frankly that she had been crying, and gave him to understand that her tears were due to a doubt as to Caerleon’s real feelings towards her. A good deal of diplomacy was needed to soothe her apprehensions, and when Cyril left her, with his mind made up to seek Caerleon and warn him to be more careful, he found himself seized upon by the King, who was strongly of the opinion that something was wrong. Why did Caerleon look so gloomy? and why had he made the Princess cry that morning? were his unanswerable questions; and although Cyril, with what he told himself was perfect truth, urged that he could not imagine any reason why his brother, who was notoriously an advocate of love-matches, should engage himself to the Princess against his will, he was obliged to fall back on Caerleon’s imaginary unworthiness and low opinion of himself as an explanation. He saw that the King was only half satisfied, and the next day he was forced to feel that this tendency towards mistrust had made itself evident at a very inopportune moment.
Hosts and guests alike at Schloss Herzensruh breakfasted in their own rooms, and it was immediately after the early meal that Cyril received an intimation that the King desired his attendance as soon as possible. The wording of the message struck him as peculiar; but he finished his dressing hurriedly, and presented himself in the study. To his astonishment, he found King Johann surrounded by piles of newspaper packets bearing English stamps, which had just arrived by post. Several of them had been opened, and Cyril was surprised to see that each contained a copy of that well-known weekly, ‘Mendacity,’ dated two or three days back. Furthermore, on looking at those still unopened, he recognised in each case the cover of ‘Mendacity.’
“Lord Cyril,” said the King, and Cyril was surprised to see that the fussy little man could look really kingly, “I have sent for you because all the arrangements for my daughter’s engagement have been conducted through you, and also because I was anxious not to trouble your brother if this matter is susceptible of explanation. You see these papers? I think every one of my English friends has sent me a copy, and the same paragraph is marked in each. Perhaps you will kindly read it.”
He put one of the papers into Cyril’s hand, and he read the marked paragraph:—
“‘I have no desire to be reckoned among the “unco guid,” and it has always been my belief that young men will be young men. Still, I am not sorry that my Temperance friends should have the chance of learning the true character of the gay Lothario whom the criminal inertness of a Tory Government has permitted to establish himself on the throne of Thracia. We have heard a good deal lately about the superior morality of this gentleman. His people have all been made suddenly sober—not by Act of Parliament, but by his “royal” decree; he has sacrificed a large part of his income for the purpose of buying up licences, and he is about to put the finishing touch to his catalogue of good deeds by making a love-match with the wealthy and beautiful daughter of a neighbouring sovereign. Perhaps it will be news for some of my readers to learn that this so-called “King” is bound by every tie of honour to marry a Scythian lady of noble family, whose acquaintance he made before seizing upon the throne, and whom he subsequently abandoned in the most heartless manner, and under circumstances of peculiar cruelty. What does the Nonconformist conscience think of this? Scythia has a long account already outstanding against this choice specimen of the British aristocracy, and when the day of reckoning comes, the swords of her soldiers will not leap from their scabbards with the less alacrity for the remembrance of his behaviour towards their countrywoman.’”