Chapter I: Practical Politics

“It is Colonel Wylie, isn’t it? I say, I beg your pardon if I’ve made a mistake.” The speaker’s boyish tones grew doubtful as he looked at the grey hair and hollow cheeks of the fellow-passenger to whom he spoke, but the sunken eyes, peculiarly blue in contrast with the leaden complexion, reassured him. “It is you, Wylie, after all. But what have you been doing to yourself?”

“Spending five years in the Nile swamps. I don’t wonder you didn’t know me. I came face to face with myself in a big mirror on the hotel stairs at Cairo, and got a shock--wondered who the poor devil was with the cadaverous countenance.”

“Miss Teffany knew you at once.”

“Now that’s what I call really flattering. I can’t be so absolutely unrecognisable if she knew me.”

“Did you guess she was on board?”

“Saw her come on deck before you did.”

“But you haven’t spoken to her.” There was wonder in the younger man’s voice.

“How was I to know that she would recognise me? And when you found her out, I hadn’t the heart to disturb you.”

“She sent me to fetch you to her now, though.”

Wylie laughed at the faint sigh that accompanied the words. “Rough on you,” he said. “Well, you’re not changed at any rate--not a day older. Come, don’t let us keep her waiting.”

They crossed the deck towards a lady in a noticeably well-cut tweed travelling-coat and hat, who sat alone, protected by the presence at a little distance of an elderly maid of the most rigid type of respectability. She looked up eagerly, almost anxiously, as Wylie approached, but the blue eyes met hers with curiosity rather than interest. The seven years since their last meeting had worked no such doleful change in Zoe Teffany as in the man who had once loved her; she had worn well, as women say of one another. She was a woman not to be passed over, alert, keenly interested in life, though an occasional fugitive look of wistfulness betrayed that life had not brought her all she had once confidently expected from it. She shook hands heartily with Wylie.

“Now I really believe in this adventure,” she said. “With you our old party is complete.”

“Your brother and his wife are here?” asked Wylie.

“No, I am to meet them when I land. But have they told you nothing of their plans?”

“Nothing. I was lounging about on the Riviera, desperately dull, when your brother’s letter reached me. He merely said that things were moving in Emathia, and reminded me of my old promise to back him up. It was only a joke at the time, but as I am forbidden the tropics, and can’t face an English spring, it seemed good enough now, so here I am.”

His glance forbade her to pity him, and Zoe looked hastily away. “Then you have a great deal to learn,” she said, making room for him beside her. “Lord Armitage, if you will bring that deck-chair closer, we can talk without being overheard.”

“_Lord_ Armitage?” asked Wylie.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” groaned the bearer of the title. “Second cousin three times removed dies to bother me, and leaves me the family honours--me, if you please. I have to chuck my work, and buy pictures instead of making them, and if I go into a studio, there’s no hope of getting the old chaff, for the fellows hang on my words with bated breath, because I’m a patron of art! So that’s why I’m here.”

“You will be the Byron of Emathian independence,” said Zoe encouragingly. “Think of the halo of respectability that the presence of an English nobleman and his yacht will throw over our proceedings!”

Something in Armitage’s face warned Wylie that aspirations less abstract than a yearning for Emathian independence had drawn him into the adventure, and he smiled grimly to himself. Zoe looked a little hurt.

“You are laughing at our having to begin again from the very beginning,” she said. “Seven years does seem a long time to waste, I suppose--especially as when we saw you last we were full of golden anticipations, thinking that in a few months Maurice and Eirene would at any rate be on their way to a throne. The blow fell the very same day, you know.”

“You think your brother should have decided differently?”

“Never for one moment. But I am not sure that Eirene doesn’t--sometimes. It was really very galling to see Professor Panagiotis fling himself heart and soul into the cause of the rival claimant, the instant Maurice had refused his terms.”

“It doesn’t seem to have done the rival claimant much good, so far.”

“Ah, but that’s because they had a violent quarrel just two years ago. Prince Christodoridi swore that the Professor was only working for his own advantage all along, and the Professor declares that the Prince has shown the blackest ingratitude.”

“And the thieves having fallen out, the honest man comes by his own? Or is it a case of everything coming to him who knows how to wait?”

“Both, I think,” said Zoe, laughing. “Eirene would certainly tell you that Maurice knows how to wait only too well. Of course, it was hard on her--the way their marriage fell flat, I mean. The Scythian Court simply ignored the whole thing, and all her other royal acquaintances followed their example. She just dropped out, and it was as if she didn’t exist. Well, you know, she had begun at Stone Acton by being very much on her dignity--expecting royal honours, in fact. The people round were tremendously interested at first, but they very soon began to ask what sort of a Princess this could be, who was never noticed by any of our own royalties. They bored her, too,--I don’t wonder at that; they have often bored me,--and she snubbed them, and gave a great deal of offence. And then there came the Romance of the Long-Lost Uncle.”

“This is thrilling,” said Wylie. “Princess Eirene’s uncle?”

“No, ours--our cousin, at least; a very very distant cousin. His name was Teffany-Wise, and he was descended from the daughter of Prosper Teffany, a younger son who emigrated from Penteffan to the West Indies about the end of the seventeenth century. I met him in Jamaica when I went round the world, and I wrote home that he looked ineffably old, and capable of any wickedness. He had a sort of inscrutable parchment-like face, you know. I always thought he made his money by slave-trading, but Maurice says its palmy days were over long before his time, unless he was as old as the Wandering Jew, and that he was probably only a speculator in Chicago slum tenements. At any rate, there he was, immensely rich, without a relation nearer than ourselves, and frightfully excited over the newspaper accounts of our Emathian adventures. You see, if the royalties ignored Maurice, the journalists didn’t, and he let himself be interviewed pretty often, because he thought it was only due to Eirene to make her position perfectly clear. It seemed that Mr Teffany-Wise had always had an ambition to use his money in restoring the fortunes of the family, but until he heard about us he didn’t know who there was left. So he talked to me, and then suddenly sailed for home, and descended on Stone Acton in a shower of gold, and supplied Eirene with the object in life she wanted.”

“And that was----?”

“To hustle Maurice into putting himself forward publicly as a candidate for the throne of Emathia. He was determined not to move until he received an invitation, and she was determined he should. She has made a sort of religion of the Theophanis claims since the Long-Lost Uncle appeared. Why, she has turned the library at Stone Acton into a regular throne-room, with crimson hangings--imperial purple, you know--and two gilded chairs on a daïs under a canopy. Oh, it mayn’t seem very dreadful to you, but you don’t know Stone Acton. It was always such a _sensible_ house! And she has been having the most extraordinary people there--refugees and conspirators and so on--till the neighbourhood was scandalised. That was Mr Teffany-Wise’s doing. He saw that there was no hope of Professor Panagiotis and the Emathian Greeks for the present, so he turned boldly to the Slav party--the Thracian Committees and their followers--and bid for their support.”

“Backing his offer with hard cash, I presume?” said Wylie. “That explains the increased activity and boldness of the Emathian insurgents this last year or two. But the Roumis mean business now. I suppose your long-lost relative has no objection to being morally guilty of a massacre or two?”

“He thought they were unavoidable but disagreeable incidents--useful, too, since they would stir the indignation of Europe.”

“Well, so far as I can see, he is likely to be gratified. And has his game been worth the candle?”

“I believe he thought so. At any rate, the national sentiment is much more strongly developed than when we were in Emathia. Then the reformers talked of uniting with Thracia or Mœsia or Morea, according to their tastes, but now they are all inclining to the thought of an Emathian nation. Most of them would like a republic, of course, but they know the Powers would never hear of that, and Maurice’s refusal to bind himself body and soul to the Greeks pleased them. So before Mr Teffany-Wise died, he had practically got things settled.”

“Oh, he is dead, then?”

“Yes; he insisted on interviewing the Committees and leaders of bands for himself, and inspecting their work, and they passed him on from one to another all through the disturbed districts. It was winter, and he was chased by the Roumis, and the hardships were too much for him. Of course you think I’m a brute to talk like this, but I can’t forgive that man. He has spoilt Maurice’s life.”

“If your brother is what I remember him, it would be difficult for any one to do that,” said Wylie.

“No one could, except through Eirene. But you must expect to see Maurice a good deal changed. It isn’t either comfortable or dignified for a man to have to go through life as a drag on his wife’s wheel.”

“Then I gather that your sister-in-law has not changed?”

“No, Eirene is Eirene still--only more so. She would not have been quite so bad but for the Uncle. He left his property in trust, to be used for restoring the family to the Imperial throne. That was natural enough, but he gave Eirene power to use the interest as she thought best, though she can’t touch the capital without Maurice’s consent.”

“Injudicious,” said Wylie.

“Injudicious? It was mad! And Eirene is so unfair. She has no sense of what can be done and what can’t. Little Constantine--their boy--was born just after the news of the will came, and she was very ill. Their two first babies died--really and truly I believe it was because she always worried and excited herself so much--and she knew how anxious Maurice was. Well, she sent for him and made him promise that he would open communications with the Slav leaders, instead of waiting for them to approach him. She got better, and little Con is all right, and of course Maurice had to keep his promise. So he wrote to say that if he received a definite invitation from them, he would place himself at their head, and negotiations have been going on ever since. Then Professor Panagiotis threw himself into the fray, and now there is really some prospect of Maurice’s being accepted as candidate both by the Greek and Slav parties.”

“Well, surely that was worth waiting for?”

“Oh, I suppose so, but I hate its having come about in this way! The massacres, you know--the Committees are really provoking them, so as to force the hand of Europe, and things may be much worse yet.”

“Probably; but I see their drift now--to get to work while Scythia and Pannonia are both too busy with their own internal concerns to interfere. But why are we starting from this side?”

“Oh, we have to settle the preliminaries first,--‘a conference of the powers,’ you know,--and it is to be done under cover of this great Pan-Balkanic Athletic Festival that the Prince of Dardania is holding.”

“Armitage representing the athletic capabilities of the party, I suppose?” said Wylie, with a humorous shrug. “I’m afraid you can’t depend on me much.”

“No, we go as spectators. The Princess of Dardania is a lady of literary tastes, and was kind enough to want to see _me_,” said Zoe, with a side glance at him as she rose. “It is getting a little cold here, I think. I will write one or two letters in the cabin.”

There was nothing to show whether Wylie had detected any special meaning in her tone as he escorted her across the deck, and when he returned to Armitage it was to smoke in silence, as if all his interest was concentrated on the rocky coast they were passing. The younger man lost patience.

“Well?” he said, with repressed excitement.

“Well?” returned Wylie.

“Do you find her altered, or not?”

“Much as she was, only more so,” cruelly adapting Zoe’s own description of her sister-in-law.

Armitage was obviously disappointed. “You have kept up with her doings, perhaps? I suppose even your exile was lightened by a Society paper now and then?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t read them if it was.”

“Then you have heard people talk of her? Of course she’s an awfully well-known woman. When she is in town, one meets her everywhere. Her travels, you see--and her personality--and her books----”

“Ah, I thought I was intended to understand that she had succeeded in perpetrating something in that line.”

“Rather!” said Armitage vivaciously, encouraged by the faint hint of interrogation in the tone. “She’s a success, you know. Not a popular success--five hundred thousand copies and all that--but with the right people. All the clever women swear by her. They say she voices the unrest of the modern woman better than anybody else.”

“Oh yes--misunderstood by her family, unappreciated by her husband, too lofty to be happy, and too self-contained to be wicked--the usual jargon,” muttered Wylie impatiently.

“More head than heart,” pursued Armitage, then broke off quickly. “I say, I believe you’ve been reading them. She calls herself Zeto.”

“What, her books? No, thank you.”

Again a dead stop. But Armitage was not to be baulked.

“I don’t know why you shouldn’t. It would be only natural, surely? You seemed pretty hard hit when you went.”

“You seem to forget that when I went to the Soudan I put her out of my head.”

“But could you manage it?”

“Generally, I’m thankful to say.”

“Ah, but not always? Don’t think I’m trying to pry into your affairs,” burst out Armitage in his boyish way, “but it means a lot to me. I’ll stand aside without a word if you’re going to ask her again, but if not---- Well, I might have some little chance.”

“Oh, don’t mind me. I told her I should never ask her again, and I haven’t the slightest wish to do it. If my swamps and slave-raiders have done nothing else for me, they have cured me of all that sort of thing. I’m not bragging--or whatever you might call it--but telling you a simple fact. Women don’t interest me now, and other things do. I used to imagine I could combine the two, but now I know better. If my blessing is all you want to make you happy, go in and win. But if this business comes to anything, she will be for neither of us. You see that?”

And while Armitage acquiesced, with a rueful face, Zoe was saying to herself, as she adjusted her hat in the cabin mirror, “Of course I never expected him to forgive me the moment he saw me again. It would have been nice if he had, but it wouldn’t have been a bit like him.”

During the remainder of the voyage down the coast the adventurers made no further attempt to discuss their prospects. They excited considerable interest on board the Ungaro-Croata steamer, where the mutual relations of the handsome lady who had the history and archæology of the region at her fingers’ ends, the sick officer, and the “Milordo” with the artistic neckties, who from force of habit was constantly pulling out a sketch-book and jotting down the bold outlines of a headland or the handsome face of a fisher-lad, were freely canvassed, but even the urbane and polyglot captain confessed himself at a loss. The sick officer knew something of a good many languages, and asked very telling questions, and both the lady and the “Milordo” had visited these parts before; but they all talked so freely that there was no chance of finding out anything more about them, averred the worthy sailor. He and a few of his passengers enjoyed a mild sensation when the steamer reached the little red-roofed town, whose white houses seemed to rise sheer from the blue water, where the three English were to land. Here an elderly man, whose spectacled eyes gave the impression of an incongruous contrast with his aquiline profile, came on board to meet them, and bowed over Zoe’s hand with a respect that was almost reverential; but the spectators could hear nothing of the colloquy that ensued while the luggage was being got on shore.

“I come as the messenger of your august brother, madame,” he said. “He thought it well you should know that he enters on this campaign not as Mr Teffany, but as Prince Maurice Theophanis.”

“Which means that I am to call myself Princess Zoe, I suppose? This is the Princess’s doing, of course?”

“Her advice, and mine also, went farther, madame, but the Prince declines to style himself Imperial Highness--far less Emperor--until his claims are recognised. He has taken the present step almost entirely with the view of preventing embarrassment to the Prince of Dardania.”

“Surely it will rather cause him embarrassment?” began Zoe hesitatingly, and Wylie broke in.

“Have you made sure of your ground, Professor? An ambiguous position is awkward enough, but the Prince of Dardania may not relish finding himself committed to support the Theophanis claims, and it would be more awkward if he repudiated his invitation.”

The Professor scarcely vouchsafed him a glance. “Madame,” he said to Zoe, “your brother’s friends have not been idle in anticipation of his arrival. The Prince of Dardania is already committed in private to our cause, which will assure him, if it succeeds, the possession of Illyria. In this his brother-in-law, the King of Magnagrecia, is equally interested, so that we have already attached one of the great Powers to our side. It is to the three Liberal Powers, England, Neustria, and Magnagrecia, that we look for support in our effort to rescue Emathia from the Roumi yoke, and in bringing forward as our proposed High Commissioner--for we go no further as yet--a man not only chosen by the Emathian leaders themselves, but distinguished by European approval, we offer them a means of intervention such as they have never yet enjoyed.”

“Oh, Professor Panagiotis has thought it all out!” laughed Armitage. “Wylie, you and I must take a back seat. You are aide-de-camp, I suppose--or equerry, which is it?--and I am--what am I? Oh, lord-in-waiting, of course.”

“You are both Maurice’s good friends, who have come to help him, not to be his servants,” said Zoe quickly.

“Pardon me, Princess,” said Wylie, very distinctly. “We are your brother’s servants. We have come here for nothing but to put ourselves under his orders--to help him to his rights if we can, but not to claim any share in his confidence.”

He fell behind with Armitage, perhaps not caring to face the blankness of Zoe’s look as she accepted mechanically the Professor’s assistance across the rough stones of the jetty. The younger man seemed hardly satisfied, and Wylie answered his unspoken question.

“Must show at once that we see how the land lies. I know these fellows’ jealousy of any influence but their own. If they are not to bring Teffany’s future to smash by working against us, we must be content to remain in the background. I suppose he’s not much better fitted to cope with them than he used to be--not a full-blown statesman yet, or even a diplomat?”

“Thank goodness, no! Absolutely straight, good man of business, steady as Old Time, happiest when he’s playing the country squire. But the Princess--she’s a diplomatist, or anything you like. You’ll understand what an imperial bearing means when you see her, if you don’t now.”