‘I am at any moment at your Royal Highness’s disposal,’ said Tom. ‘I can even take up my residence here to-day, should your Royal Highness wish it.’
‘Let it be so, then, Mr Checkstone. Mr M‘Dum shall conduct you to your apartments; and I myself will take an early opportunity of visiting them and of satisfying myself that you will be comfortable.’
The Princess signified that the audience was over; and Tom and the Steward backed out of the room, bowing low as they went.
‘You should not have said that you would come in to-day,’ said M‘Dum, as soon as the door was shut. ‘And besides, how can you do so? Where is your luggage?’
‘It is at the inn at Aberdumble,’ answered Tom. ‘I thought, under any circumstances, of staying in Scotland for a few weeks; and so I came prepared.’
‘Humph!’ ejaculated M‘Dum, who was somewhat annoyed at his protégé’s precipitancy.—‘Now, if you don’t mind, we will go back to my little office and complete our business arrangements.’
Ten minutes later, Mr M‘Dum was the richer by a promissory-note for eight hundred pounds, and Tom was formally installed as private secretary to the Princess Henrietta Maria. At the earliest possible moment he sent back the conveyance to Aberdumble, instructing the coachman to forward his luggage to the castle, and intrusting the man with two telegrams, worded in French, one being addressed to George Fegan, and the other to Charles Edward Stuart.
Later in the day, the Princess requested him to attend her in the library; and there, without many preliminaries, he began, under her supervision, to transcribe the contents of numerous musty documents in English, and to translate those of others that were written in French and Latin. He worked for only a couple of hours; and then the Princess, bidding him lay aside his pen, sat and talked to him about London, about politics, and about books. In the evening he played chess and smoked with Mr M‘Dum; and after the toddy had been done full justice to, he retired, well satisfied, to his own snug rooms on the second floor of the ancient keep.
Thus did he spend his time for a week and more, until one afternoon the Princess fell to talking about the sad fate of her family.
‘The principle of divine right,’ she said, ‘cannot be altered by popular clamour. It is a reality. She who at present sits upon the throne of these kingdoms is no more the Queen than you are. Excellent woman though she is, she is but the representative of usurpers. True kings cannot be made by vulgar acclamation, neither can wrong become right by lapse of time. But the blood of our race has been tainted. Our royal brother of sacred memory—though, to be sure, he never recognised his exalted position—married a commoner; and how can I expect that the child of that union should be worthy of his splendid ancestry? Ah, that child! What possibilities are his, if only he had the energy to seize them! But he cares nothing. He is content to live obscure. He will not accept his destiny.’