Chapter X: "the Emperor Will Understand"

IT was for the refuge of isolation that Sylvia fled to her own room. Between her bedchamber and the Grand Duchess's was a boudoir, which they shared; and it was the door of this intermediate room that gave admittance, from the corridor outside, to both. To the girl's surprise, as she entered--her one comfort the assurance of being undisturbed--her mother looked reproachfully up from a pile of silken cushions on the sofa. Josephine was rubbing her hands, and the air was pervaded with the pungent fragrance of sal volatile.

"I thought you were _never_ coming!" ejaculated the Grand Duchess. If she noticed her daughter's pallor, she believed it due to anxiety about herself.

Sylvia stared, half dazed, unable yet to separate her mind from her own private misfortunes.

"Never coming!" she echoed mechanically. "Why--are you ill--did you expect me?"

"I nearly fainted downstairs," returned the Grand Duchess, "and it is entirely your fault. You ought not to have exposed me, at my age, to such terrible shocks. Josephine, you can go."

Sylvia grew as cold as ice. She could think of but one explanation. Otto von Markstein had not been the only spy. Somehow, news of what had happened in the garden had reached the Grand Duchess, reducing her to this extremity. The Princess was scarcely conscious of hearing the door close after the banished Josephine, yet instinctively she waited for the click of the latch. "How did you know?" she asked dully.

"How did I know? I had a telegram. A most alarming, disconcerting telegram. The question is, how did _you_ know that I knew, and how did you--did I--oh, I am so distressed, I hardly know _anything_!"

The word "telegram" showed Sylvia that somehow, somewhere, misunderstanding had entered in. Her mother's fretful complaints pried among her nerves like hot wires; yet could she have believed it, the new pain was the best of counter-irritants.

"Are you suffering still, dear?" she questioned, carefully controlling her voice. With the Grand Duchess, it was always best to go back to the beginning, not to attempt picking up loose ends in the middle; thus, one sooner reached the end of a tangle.

"Yes, I am ill; very ill _indeed_. Did no one tell you, no one send you to me, as I asked?"

"I have seen no one since I left you--no one, that is, who could tell me anything. Won't _you_ tell--now?"

The Grand Duchess pointed a plump, dimpled forefinger toward a sixteenth-century writing-table. "The telegram's there, if you care to see it," she remarked crossly. She did not often lose her temper, or at least, not for long; but she had really borne a great deal of late, and, as she had observed, it was all Sylvia's fault, therefore it was Sylvia's turn to suffer now.

On the desk lay a crumpled piece of paper. Sylvia picked it up and read, written in English:

"Somebody making inquiries here about De Courcys. Beg to advise you immediately to explain all, or leave present place of residence; avoid almost certain unpleasantness. Have just heard of complications.-- WEST."

"Well, what do you think of that?" irritably demanded the Duchess, vexed at Sylvia's calmness. "Isn't it enough to make any one faint? That I--_I_, a woman in my position should be forced to appear a--er-- an _adventuress_! If it were not so dreadful, it would be absurd. You might show a _little_ feeling, since it is for you that I have done it all."

"I have plenty of feeling, mother," said Sylvia. "Only I--seem somehow rather stunned just now. I suppose Lady West means that busy bodies have been trying to find out things about the De Courcys. We have provided for most contingencies, but we had not thought of spies--_till to-night_."

"I allowed myself to be led by you," declared the Grand Duchess, "when I ought to have controlled you, as my child. I should never have allowed myself to be placed in such an ignominious plight. But here I am, in it; and here you are also--which is quite as bad, if not worse. You have brought us into this trouble, Sylvia; the least you can do is to get us out. And, after all"--brightening a little--"there is, thank goodness, a way to do that. It ought not to be so _very_ difficult."

"What way--do you mean?"

"I wonder you ask--since there is only one. Stop this foolish child's game that you have deluded me into playing; explain everything to the Emperor and to Baroness von Lynar, and be prepared to turn the tables on our enemy whoever that may be. Your dear father always said that I had a head for emergencies, once I could get the upper hand of my nerves, and I hope--I _think_, he was right."

"But what you propose is impossible, mother."

Sylvia spoke in a low, constrained voice, and the Grand Duchess, rising from among her pillows, suddenly observed for the first time that there was something strange in the girl's manner and appearance. She admired her daughter, as a bewildered hen-mother might admire the beautiful, incomprehensible ball of golden fluff that sails calmly away beyond her control in a terrifying expanse of water, while she herself can only cluck protest from the bank. The Grand Duchess had almost invariably yielded her will to Sylvia's in the end; but she told herself that she had done so once too often, and the weaknesses of her past buttressed her obstinacy in the present.

"I tell you it isn't impossible," she exclaimed. "It can't be impossible, when it's the only way left to save our dignity. We mustn't let our enemies have the first move. You meant to make a sort of dramatic revelation, sooner or later. Well, it must be sooner, that is all, my dear."

"Ah, I meant--I meant!" echoed Sylvia, the sound of a sob in her voice. "Nothing has happened as I meant, mother. You were right; I was wrong. We ought never to have come to Rhaetia."

The Grand Duchess's heart gave a thump. If Sylvia were thus ready to admit herself in the wrong, without a struggle, then matters must indeed have reached an alarming pass. Not a jest; not a single flippancy! The poor lady was seriously distressed.

"Not--come--to--Rhaetia?" she repeated as incredulously as if she had not herself lately made the same assertion. "Why--why--what--"

"I scarcely know how to tell you," said Sylvia, with lowered lashes. "But I suppose I must."

"Of course you must. I thought you looked upset. You were with _him_-- in the music-room. Yes; I remember. Did you try to explain, and he-- was it as I feared, only this evening before dinner? Wouldn't he forgive the decep----"

"He knows nothing about it."

"Well, what then? Don't keep me in suspense. I've had enough to try me without that." And the Grand Duchess raised a little jewelled vinaigrette to her nostrils. It had been given her by Queen Victoria, and was particularly supporting in a time of trial.

Sylvia's lips were so dry that she found difficulty in articulating. There were some things it was extremely embarrassing to tell one's mother.

"We--went out into the garden--to see the moon--or something," she managed to begin. "He asked me to be--his wife. Oh--wait, wait, please! _Don't_ say anything yet! I didn't know what to make of it, and--he had to explain. He put it as inoffensively as he could, but-- oh! mother, I--I was only good enough to be his _morganatic_ wife!"

The storm had burst at last. There had always been mental and temperamental barriers between the parent and child; but, after all, a mother is a mother; and nothing better has ever been invented yet. Sylvia fell on her knees by the sofa, and, burying her head in her mother's lap, sobbed as if parting with her youth.

The Grand Duchess thought of the last time when the girl had so knelt beside her, the bright hair under her caressing hand; and the contrast between _then_ and _now_ brought motherly tears to her eyes. That time had been in the dear old river garden at Richmond, when Sylvia had coaxed away her promise to help forward this very scheme--this disastrous, miserable, _mad_ scheme. Poor little Sylvia, so young, so inexperienced, so thoroughly girlish for all her naughty obstinacy and recklessness, sweet and loving and impulsive! The child had been so full of hope then; why, only a few hours ago, she had said she was the happiest creature on earth!

All the Grand Duchess's resentment melted away as she rocked the sobbing girl in the comfortable cradle of her arms, murmuring and crying over her--the hen-mother, over the golden duckling that had ventured into water too rough and treacherous.

"There, there, dear," she crooned. "It isn't so very dreadful; not half as bad as you made me think. I'm sure he _meant_ well. It showed, at any rate, that he loved you. Just at first, it came as rather a _shock_, of course, knowing who we are; but if you had really been Miss de Courcy, I suppose--I suppose it would have been a great _compliment_."

"I call it an insult; I called it so to him," gasped Sylvia in the midst of sobs.

"Oh, dear me, not as bad as that--not at all! Many ladies of very high standing have been in such positions, and every one has thoroughly respected them. Though, of course, such a thing would never do for _you_; you must reflect that Maximilian couldn't _know_ that."

"He ought to have known--known that I would never consent. That no woman with English blood in her veins would ever consent. It was an insult. It has shown how poor was his estimate of me. It was--it was! It has broken my heart. It has killed me. Oh, mother, it's all at an end--everything I lived for. I can never bear to see him after this."

"You'll feel differently to-morrow, pet," purred the Grand Duchess, smoothing the tumbled waves of yellow hair.

"Never!"

"You are too young to fully understand the etiquette of Courts. Remember, _his_ point of view is different from yours."

"That is the reason I am so miserable. His point of view is hateful. I want to go away--to go away at once."

Her earnest emphasis forced conviction. She really meant it. This was no girlish whim, to be repented in a few hours, a lovers' quarrel, to be made up to-morrow. The Grand Duchess's kindly face, already deeply clouded, was utterly obscured in gloom. The small features seemed lost behind their expression of distress.

"But surely you will tell him the truth, or let me, and give him a chance to--to speak again? Now, more than ever----"

"What good would it do? Everything is spoiled. Of course, if he knew I were Sylvia of Eltzburg-Neuwald, he would be sorry for what had happened, even if he thought I had brought it all on myself. But that would be too late to mend anything. Don't you see, don't you understand, that I valued his love because it was given to me, just _me_, not the Princess? If he said, 'Now that I know you are Sylvia, I can have the pleasure of offering my _right_, instead of my _left_ hand to you, as my wife, and everything can be very pleasant and regular,' I should not care for that at all. No, we must go home, mother; and the Emperor Maximilian of Rhaetia must be informed that Sylvia of Eltzburg-Neuwald has decided not to marry. That will be our one revenge--the only one we can have--that little slap in the face to His Imperial Majesty; so pitiful a slap, since he will never know that Princess Sylvia who won't marry him, and Miss de Courcy who can't, are one and the same. But, mother, I did love him--I did love him so!"

"Then forget and forgive--and be happy, while you can."

"I can't. I've just told you why. Oh, do let us make our plans to get out of this hateful house as soon as possible."

The Grand Duchess resigned herself to the inevitable, and only a deep sigh told the tale of the effort resignation cost her. For once she was expected to take the initiative, and the responsibility was a stimulant; this one consolation was left her.

"Well," she said, after a moment's abstruse reflection, "the telegram will give us an excuse. I was so overcome on reading it that I had to sit down again after getting suddenly up from my chair and borrow the Baroness's smelling-salts--poor, inadequate Rhaetian stuff. Every one was alarmed, and I explained, without going into particulars, that I had received most _disturbing_ news from England. Directly I felt more like myself, I came upstairs, requesting that you should be sent to me, when you returned--though you were not to be specially _called_. I begged the Baroness not to be anxious, but she said that, before she went to bed, I really must allow her to stop at the door and inquire how I was. We might say to her that the telegram had compelled our immediate return to England."

"Listen," whispered Sylvia. "There's someone at the door now."

She sprang to her feet, and, with the marvellous facility for meeting a conventional emergency possessed by all women in palace or tenement, between the time of rising and walking to the door, she had conquered the disorder of her countenance. Her hair was smoothed back into perfection; the laces on her dress had fallen into their original old graceful lines; her face, though flushed, would show no sign of tears in the softly shaded light.

Sylvia herself opened the door and gracefully besought the inquiring Baroness to come in. Immediately after the scene in the garden, she could not have done this so quietly; but she had cried her heart out now, and reviled the offender to a sympathetic audience, thus facilitating the return of self-control. Even if the Baroness von Lynar guessed that she had been weeping, it would only be put down to the score of that mysterious "bad news."

"How good of you!" breathed the Grand Duchess, with a less coherent undertone of appreciation from Sylvia. "Oh, yes, thank you, _so_ much better; quite well again, though still very anxious. _Somebody_ must have been kind enough to tell dear Mary, for here she is, you see; and she and I have been talking matters over. We are quite _desolated_ at breaking our delightful visit suddenly short, but unluckily it can't be helped. This _unfortunate_ news from home! We must positively not lose an hour in returning."

Baroness von Lynar was genuinely disconcerted, though perhaps her guests would scarcely have been flattered had they divined the true cause of her intense desire to detain them. Miss de Courcy had been the bright particular star of the house party at Lynarberg, as the mistress of the castle delicately declared, and it was grievous that the sky must be robbed of its most brilliant ornament. But it was far more grievous that Maximilian should be annoyed, and the Baroness's own pretty, secret little scheme probably be brought to confusion.

"It is too cruel!" she exclaimed, with unwonted sincerity. "What shall we do without you? We could better have spared any others among our guests. Our poor party will be hopelessly shattered by your loss. Could you not wire home that you are coming at your earliest convenience, dear Lady de Courcy, and stay with us at least until the day after to-morrow, when the Emperor's visit will be over?"

"Alas! I am afraid we could not do even that," regretted the Grand Duchess, her eyes on Sylvia's face. "It is necessary that we reach England as soon as possible. We were thinking of quite an early train to-morrow. You will forgive us, I know, dear Baroness von Lynar; but we have both been so upset by these sad tidings that we shall hardly be equal to facing any of our kind friends here again. These things are so unnerving, you know--and I give way so easily of late years. As a great favour to us both, pray mention to no one that we are going, until we have actually gone. If you would allow us to leave our adieux to be said by you, we would beg you for a carriage after an early cup of coffee in our rooms; then we could pick up Miss Collinson and the luggage we left at the Hohenburgerhof, and catch the Orient express from Salzbrück to Paris."

The Baroness was aghast at her own defeat and her powerlessness to retrieve it. For once she failed in tact. "But the Emperor?" she exclaimed. "He will be deeply hurt if he is denied the sad privilege of bidding you farewell."

The Grand Duchess hesitated, and Sylvia entered the conversational lists for the first time. "The Emperor will understand," she said quietly; "I said good-bye to him--for us both--to-night."