“How can I tell? Well, yes; suppose she does.”
“Oh, that makes it all right, of course; if it would be a comfort to her. A man couldn’t fight shy of making what amends he could, just because of what people might say, could he? If she seemed inclined to forgive him, I suppose he would have to tell her about the money, and see what she said. If she was willing to take him on again——”
“He must be doubly grateful, and behave better in future,” interrupted Cyril, finishing the sentence for him. “Thanks, Mansfield. See what a good thing it is to know exactly what other people ought to do! Well, Chevalier, the oracle has spoken, and the die is cast. I go to Palestine.”
The Chevalier’s beaming countenance testified his delight, and he proceeded to draw up, and submit for Cyril’s approval, a paragraph to be sent to the newspapers, stating that Count Mortimer was about to visit Palestine in the interests of the Jewish race, with a view to the discovery of spots where new colonies might advantageously be located. When the paragraph appeared the next day, the Princess of Dardania was among those into whose hands it came. She smiled contemptuously at the reason given for the journey, and called to Countess Birnsdorf for writing materials. That evening Colonel Czartoriski passed through Vindobona on his way to Syria, in charge of an autograph letter from his mistress, which he was ordered to deliver to no one but Queen Ernestine herself. The old soldier was frankly exultant on the subject of his errand. The villain who had lured away Princess Lida would at any rate not be allowed to find happiness with another woman.
In the meantime, the person whose life was most deeply affected by Princess Lida’s elopement bore himself with the utmost equanimity. It was Prince Mirkovics who outstripped the courier despatched from Ludwigsbad, and carried the news to King Michael in his mountain shooting-box. When he had delivered himself of his self-imposed message, the old nobleman paused suddenly, his weather-beaten face shining with fresh hope. The King, who had listened to the announcement with sullen acquiescence, glanced up and perceived his expression.
“What is it, Prince? You look as if a bright idea had struck you.”
“That is the case, sir. Does it not occur to your Majesty that this event removes the chief obstacle to your marriage with Lady Philippa Mortimer?”
The King laughed harshly. “The chief obstacle?” he said. “You should have heard what Count Mortimer said when I spoke to him on the subject. I might have been a pickpocket. He told me I was not fit to look at her.”
“Sir,” said Prince Mirkovics, “I am no courtier. I cannot, as your Majesty knows, twist my rough tongue to speak smoothly, and I will not attempt to say that Count Mortimer was wrong. Even when I was doing my utmost to marry you to Carlino’s daughter a few weeks back, I was ashamed of my own schemes. You were not fit then to address words of love to her, sir; you are not fit now. But the remedy lies in your own hands. Do you wish to be worthy of the lady?”
“You mean that I might promise to give up all this sort of thing?” King Michael gave a comprehensive wave of the hand, which included at once the pictures that adorned the walls of his room, the empty bottles on the table, and the scattered cards strewing the floor. “If she would marry me, I should be perfectly willing to make such a promise—and I would keep it, too,” he added, with some anxiety, for Prince Mirkovics still looked forbidding.