by J. C. Snaith
CHAPTER XXIII
PROVIDES AN ILLUSTRATION OF THE THEORY THAT THINGS ARE NOT ALWAYS WHATTHEY SEEM
When the old man returned with this sustenance for the material state,I was moved to inquire how it was that such an intellectual rawhead andbloodybones as this too-assiduous diver into the sunless sea of theoccult should subscribe to a journal of such a texture and complexion.
"Is it, Peacock, do you suppose, that, like Francis the first LordVerulam, he would take all knowledge for his province?"
"He goes racing, sir," said Peacock, not without a suggestion of pride."And, what is more, sir, he wins so much money that none of thebookmakers will have anything to do with him these days if they canhelp it. Why, do you know, sir, he has given me the name of the winnerof the Derby three years running a whole fortnight before the race."
"Did you reconcile it with your conscience, Peacock, to back the horse?"
"Not the first time, sir, because, you see, I was hardly convinced itwould win. It was a new fad with him then. But when I found it didwin, and he gave me the tip the next year, it seemed to be flying inthe face of providence, as it were, to throw away the chance, so I hadon a sovereign and won nine pounds ten."
"And the third time, Peacock?"
"The third time, sir, I made it five and I won forty. And if I canstand his goings on, sir, until next Epsom week, and he gives me thetip again, I intend to put on all my savings."
I had scarcely the heart to ask the old fellow what his conscience hadto say in the matter. Doubtless it was one of those organisms thatonly responded to the call of the higher metaphysics. It was apatrician conscience, no doubt, which only concerned itself with theultimate.
Anyhow, before I could gratify my curiosity on this point, there-emergence of my Uncle Theodore saved his retainer from an inquiry.A glance at my watch convinced me that we had not a moment to lose ifwe were to catch the 5.28 from the Grand Central station.
Uncle Theodore took an almost paternal leave of his visitor. Heconducted her to the taxicab which awaited us; and in a voice ofgentleness, of winning deference, he bade her God-speed. When sheoffered him her hand, as it seemed almost timidly, he pressed it to hislips.
"Fear nothing," I heard him say under his breath softly, and I thoughtthe unhappy lady smiled wanly with her great gaunt eyes.
As I was about to enter the cab, Theodore placed his hand on myshoulder.
"Look after her, my dear boy." His voice had the fervour of abenediction.
My companion appeared to have shed much of her distraction in thecourse of her interview with the weird inhabitant of Bryanston Square.The sovereignty of the soul seemed once more in her keeping. No longerdid she convey the impression of one passing through an insupportablemental crisis. Whatever fate had in store for her, it was as thoughshe had strength to endure it.
It was in the nature of a race against time to the Grand Centralstation. I had promised the driver of our taxi a substantial guerdonif he caught the train. Undoubtedly he did his best, but fate decreedthat he was not to earn it. An anxious study of my watch revealed theissue to be still in the balance; but just as it began to seem that wewere gaining a little on the clock, there came a sharp report, followedby an almost simultaneous crash of glass, and then a confusedsuccession of happenings.
Our vehicle stopped abruptly; a brief interval of nothingness seemed tointervene; and the next thing of which I was cognisant was that thelights had gone out and that a man with a pale face and astraw-coloured moustache was looking in at us through the window.
"Hope you are not hurt, sir." The voice sounded remote, but I coulddetect its note of anxiety. "Is the lady all right?"
Somewhat dazed, almost as if I were passing through a dream, I heardthe voice of my companion speaking with calmness and reassurance. ThenI heard the voice of the man again:
"I am afraid your Royal Highness will have to go on in another taxi."
And then the door opened, and I got out unsteadily and found myself inthe midst of much traffic and a press of people. I then grew consciousthat some of these had a way with them, and that they were directingthings with a sort of calm officiousness.
My dazed senses welcomed the helmet of a policeman.
"Call a taxi, please," said I, addressing him in a voice that somehowdid not seem to belong to me. "Must catch the 5.28 Grand Central,whatever happens. Will give you my card."
As I spoke I turned to help my companion out of the vehicle, and in theact nearly measured my length on the kerb. Strong and sympathetichands seemed to come about me, and again the voice of the man with thestraw-coloured moustache sounded in my ear, decisive but kindly andrespectful.
"There is a doctor across the road, sir. Can you walk, sir? Lean yourweight on me."
"5.28 Grand Central," was my incoherent, almost involuntary rejoinder."The Princess."
"Yes, yes, sir," said the voice of my friend in need breaking in againon my senses. "The Princess will be all right with us."
Almost as if by magic a passage was made for us through the whirlpoolof traffic. We seemed to be in the middle of a street that appearedquite familiar, and policemen and extremely efficient persons in darkovercoats seemed to abound.
"The Princess," I continued to mutter vaguely at intervals.
"I am with you," said a low and calm voice at my side.
She was helping my unknown friend to support me across the road. Bysome subtle means her nearness seemed to brace and stimulate myfaculties.
"I fear we shall not catch the 5.28, ma'am," I said.
"What _does_ it matter?" The tone of her voice seemed to give mestrength and capacity.
A few yards away, down a side street, was the house of a doctor. Itseemed but a very little while before I was in a cosy, well-lightedroom, with a fire burning cheerfully, and a tall, genial individualwith a red head and a Scotch accent was talking to me and holding me bythe arm.
"Pray sit down, madam," I heard him say in his pleasant brogue. "Ihope you are none the worse for your accident?"
"Not at all, t'ank you," replied my companion in a cordial tone; andthen the man who had taken charge of me was heard to say to a colleaguewho had followed us into the house, "Perhaps the Doctor will allow youto use his telephone, Mr. Johnson. Ring up the Superintendent and thengo and see what Inspector Mottrom is doing."
The Doctor gave me a bottle to sniff, and then for the first time Irealised that I had an intolerable stinging in the arm. I glanced atit and saw that the sleeve of my coat was soaked with blood.
"If you will come into the surgery," said the Doctor, following thedirection of my glance, "we will have a look at it. A breakage ofglass, apparently."
"Yes," said my friend in need, who was evidently a Scotland Yardinspector, answering for me promptly, "the cab was pretty well smashedup." Then he added in an undertone for my private ear, "Don't mentionthe shots, sir. I am going to telephone to the railway people toarrange for a special train as soon as you are ready to go on. I thinkit will be safer, and two of our inspectors will accompany the train."
"Thank you very much indeed," I said, gratefully.
Never until that moment had I fully realised the organised efficiencyof the Metropolitan Police.
As soon as I entered the surgery I came perilously near to a fall onthe carpet, somewhat to my disgust, for I appeared to have sustained noinjury beyond the damage to my arm. Further recourse, however, to thesmelling-bottle defeated this temporary weakness.
After traversing the injured member with light and deft fingers, theDoctor procured a bowl of warm water, a sponge and a pair of scissors.He cut away the sleeve of the overcoat, then of the coat and the shirt,revealing a state of things at which I had no wish to look. After theapplication of an antiseptic in warm water he was able to give anopinion.
"I am afraid," he said, "this is not the work of glass." He workedover the quivering flesh with a finger. "A bullet has been at workhere. It has glanced along the lower arm appar
ently, but it does notappear to have lodged in it. An incised wound. There may be afracture. Can you move your arm in this way?"
With this request I was able somewhat painfully to comply.
"That is good," said the Doctor. "No fracture."
It was surprising how soon and how readily the injured member yieldedto the deft skill of this good Samaritan. Twenty minutes of assiduoustreatment, which, however, was fraught with some pain, as it includedthe operation of stitching, did much not only for the damaged limb butalso for its owner. By that time I seemed to have quite overcome theshock of these events; and with my arm encased in bandages and restingin a black silk handkerchief, and the good Doctor having lent me anovercoat to replace my own mutilated one, I was given a pretty stiffbrandy-and-soda and pronounced fit to travel.
"It is undoubtedly the work of a bullet," said the Doctor at the end ofhis labours. "But I suppose it is no business of mine. If I am notmistaken, the men who brought you here are Scotland Yard detectives."
I smiled at the Doctor's perspicacity and asked him to be good enoughto take a card out of my cigar-case.
"Some day, perhaps, I shall be able to explain to you what the accidentreally was and how it came to happen. In the meantime I cannot do morethan thank you most sincerely for all that you have done for me."
There and then I took leave of this true friend, and with a sense ofdevout thankfulness that I was no worse off than I was, continued thejourney to the Grand Central station. When at last we came to thatwell-known terminus the great clock over the entrance was pointing tofive minutes past six.
Our arrival there seemed an event of some importance, to judge by thedemeanour of a number of people who appeared to take an interest in it.Indeed, so much respectful attention did it excite that it seemed to berather in the nature of an anti-climax to have to pay our Jehu.
As soon as we had entered the booking-hall no less a personage than thestation-master, frock-coated and gold-laced, came up to us and took offhis hat.
"Train ready to start, sir, as soon as her Royal Highness desires.Platform No. 5. This way, sir, if you will kindly follow me."
We passed along to Platform No. 5, engaging as we did so thegood-humoured interest of the British Public. Here a special saloonwas awaiting us, also a carriage for the accommodation of our friendsfrom Scotland Yard. By a quarter past six we had started on ourjourney.
My companion had borne all our vicissitudes _en route_ from BryanstonSquare with the greatest fortitude and composure. It was no newexperience for her chequered life to be exposed to the bullets of theassassin. This latest effort of the King's enemies she appeared toregard with stoical indifference. Even in the shock of the calamityitself she did not lose her self-possession. And through all ourtribulations her attitude of maternal solicitude was charmingly sincere.
As I came to regard her from the opposite corner in our special saloon,it was clear that a great change had been wrought in her by the visitto the magician of Bryanston Square. It was a change wholly for thebetter. In lieu of the overwrought intensity which had been so painfulfor her friends to notice, was that calm and assured outlook upon theworld of men and things which had ever been her predominantcharacteristic in so far as we had known her.
"Irene will scold me dreadfully," she said, "for bringing you home likethis."
"Surely it is the reverse of the case, ma'am. Instead of me lookingafter you, I really don't know what I should have done without yourhelp."
"My poor Odo, you won't be able to hunt for a month at least."
"Perhaps it is for the best. I shall have more time to think about thedragon of socialism which is threatening to devour us all."
"Even here you have that disease"--there was a half-humorous lift ofthe royal eyebrow--"even in this quaint place. Why, it is a diseasethat is spreading all over the world. If only the dear people wouldunderstand that it was never intended that they should think forthemselves; that it is so much wiser, so much less expensive, so muchmore profitable in every way that they should have those who are usedto policy to think for them! How can Jacques Bonhomme, dear, good,ignorant, stupid fellow, know what is good for him, what is good forhis country, what is good for Europe, what is good for the whole world!"
"The trouble, ma'am, as far as this island is concerned, is that ourJacques is becoming such a shrewd, sensible personage, who is learningto go about with his eyes uncommonly wide open."
"Ants and bees and dogs and horses, my good Odo, are shrewd andsensible enough, but Jacques must learn to keep his place. Everythingis good in its degree, but I cannot believe that a watchmaker is fittedto wind up the clock of state any more than a common soldier is fittedto win the day of Rodova."
"Ah, the day of Rodova! I wonder if we shall find the Victor waitingfor us when we get back to Dympsfield House."
I thought a faint cloud passed over the brows of my companion.
"_Mais, oui,_" she said in a soft, low tone. "I wonder. And oldSchalk. He is such a character. You will die when you see Schalk."
"A very able minister, is he not, ma'am?"
"Like all things, my good Odo," said her Royal Highness, "Schalk isgood in his degree. He has his virtue. He is learned in the law, forinstance, but there are times when, like poor Jacques Bonhomme, Schalkwould aspire to take more on his shoulders than nature intended theyshould bear. But there, do not let us complain about Schalk. He isthe faithful servant of an august master; do not let us blame him if hegrows old and difficult. I once had a hound that grew like Schalk. Inthe end I had to destroy the honest creature, but of course that is notto say my father will destroy Schalk."
"Quite so, ma'am," said I, with a grave appreciation of the finedistinction that it might please his Majesty to draw in the case ofBaron von Schalk.
I relapsed into reverie. What kind of a man was this celebratedsovereign? How would he harmonise with the humble middle-class Englishsetting to which he was on the point of confiding himself? At thisstage it was vain to repine, but as I reclined on the cushions of ourroyal saloon, with my arm throbbing intolerably and my temples too,what would I not have given to be through with the onerous duty ofentertaining such a guest!
As thus I sat with our train proceeding full steam ahead to Middleham,my nerves began to rise up in mutiny. Why, oh, why! had I not beenfirmer? What could a comparative child, without the slightestexperience of any walk of life save her own extremely circumscribedone, know of the exigencies of such a situation? How could sheappreciate all that was involved in it? A kind of mental nausea cameupon me when I realised that I had allowed myself to become responsiblefor the personal safety and the general well-being of the King ofIllyria during his sojourn in England.
The anxieties in which his daughter had involved us were severe enough,but in the case of her father they seemed a hundred times more complex.Certainly they were far too much to ask of any private individual inthe middle station of life. It was in vain that I invoked an incipientsense of humour. Sitting alone with a Crown Princess in a specialtrain, with a bullet wound in your arm, is not apparently an idealsituation in which to exercise it. I might laugh as much as I liked atpoor George Dandin himself. His embarrassments in the pass to whichhis wife's infatuation for realms beyond their own had brought himmight be truly comic, but the married man, the father of the family,and the county member was quite unable, in his present shatteredcondition, to accept them with the detachment due to the true Olympianlaughter.
Not to put too fine a point upon the matter, the married man, thefather of the family, and the county member was in an enfeebled mental,physical and moral state when our special made its first stop. With astartled abruptness I emerged from my unpleasant speculations. Couldwe be at Middleham already? Hardly, for according to my watch it wasonly ten minutes past seven. I let down the window and found that itwas Risborough.
In about a minute the guard of the train, the local station-master, andthe two detectives who were accompanying us as far as
Middleham, cameto the door of the carriage.
"Extremely sorry, sir," said the station-master, "but you won't be ableto go beyond Blakiston. There's been a terrible accident to the 5.28."
My heart gave a kind of dull thump at this announcement.
"The driver ran right through Blankhampton with all the signals againsthim. The train has been smashed up to matchwood."
"My God!"
The station-master dropped his voice.
"The full number of casualties has not yet been ascertained, sir, butat least half the passengers are killed or injured."
"How ghastly!"
"Awful, sir, awful. It is the worst accident we have ever had on theGrand Central system."
"Poor souls, poor souls!" said my companion. "God rest them!"
"We haven't had a really bad accident for twenty-two years. But thisbreaks our record with a vengeance. I can't think what the poor chapwas doing. As good a driver as we've got, to go and do a thing likethat----"
The station-master, a venerable and grizzled man with a stern, heavilylined face, suddenly lost his voice.
"Fate," said my companion with a sombre smile. "Who shall explain theworkings of destiny?"
Who, indeed! Had it not been for the bullets of the would-be assassinwe should, in all probability, at that moment have been both among thedead. What, after all, does our human foresight matter in the sum ofthings? All the same, I could not help recalling with a sense ofwonder my Uncle Theodore's anxiety that we should not travel by theill-fated 5.28.
"You will be able to go on as far as Blakiston," said thestation-master, "and the Company has arranged for motor cars to meetthe train to take you on to Middleham."
"What is the distance from Blakiston to Middleham?"
"About eighteen miles."
When the train went forward the current of my thoughts was alteredcompletely. My former speculations seemed mean beyond comparison withsuch an event as this. Who shall read the ways of providence? A fleshwound in the arm and a late dinner were a small price to pay after all.
Upon arriving at Blakiston we found two motor cars awaiting us: one forthe Princess, the other for our escort. A consultation with thechauffeurs disclosed the fact that by proceeding direct home _via_Parlow and Little Basing instead of by way of Middleham, a matter ofseven miles would be saved. Therefore, after a wire had been sent toMiddleham to inform our people of this change of route, we entered uponthe final stage of our adventurous journey.
In spite of the fact that we exposed ourselves to the charge of drivingrecklessly, even if not to the actual danger of the public, ourdestination was reached without further mishap. By twenty-five minutesto nine we had turned in at the lodge gates of Dympsfield House. Allthe windows of that abode were a blaze of light. Doubtless the royalguest had arrived and, let us hope, was enjoying his dinner.
However, no sooner had we entered the house than we were met by Mrs.Arbuthnot. She was dressed for a gala night, very _decolletee_ in herbest gown, carrying a great quantity of sail in the way ofjewels--jewels were being worn that year--and with a coiffure thatabsolutely baffles the pen of the conscientious historian. But, alas!Mrs. Arbuthnot was on the verge of tears.
