Part 1 (1/2)
The Adventure of Princess Sylvia.
by Mrs. C. N. Williamson.
CHAPTER I
THE ADVENTURE BEGINS
”Who is Sylvia? What is she, That all our swains commend her?”
”I'm dashed if I do!” said the Princess.
”My dear--if anyone should hear you!” groaned the Grand d.u.c.h.ess.
”He is a most estimable young man, I am sure, and a very suitable match.”
”Call him a match, if you like; he's certainly a stick. Anyway, he's not a match for me. There's only one existing.” And the Princess's eyes were lifted to the heavens, as if the being at whom she hinted were placed high as the sun that shone above her.
The Grand d.u.c.h.ess was not herself ”Hereditary.” Her dear lord and master had been that, which was perhaps the reason why such stateliness as she had was almost all acquired. She dropped it sometimes, when alone with her unmarried, unmanageable young daughter; and to-day (in the sweet, old-fas.h.i.+oned garden of the house at Richmond, lent by Queen Victoria) was one of these occasions. The Grand d.u.c.h.ess pouted, and looked like a plump, sulky, elderly child, as she inquired what the Princess Sylvia expected in the way of a matrimonial prize.
”What do I expect?” echoed the young lady. ”I expect an emperor.
In fact, _the_ Emperor.” For a few moments the Grand d.u.c.h.ess of Eltzburg-Neuwald remained dumb. Then she inadequately murmured, ”Dear me!” Yet her demeanour did not suggest a stricken mind. She merely looked surprised, with an added expression that might signify a slow mental readjustment.
”It is really not entirely impossible,” she commented at last. ”But-- the Emperor of Rhaetia is a very great man.”
”He is the only man,” returned the Princess calmly. ”He always has been. He is, and ever will be. He is the Napoleon of his generation, without Napoleon's meanness or brutality. Although he's not an Englishman, even you admit his virtues.”
”Don't speak as if I were bristling with English prejudices,” scolded the Grand d.u.c.h.ess. ”I ceased to be English when I married your father.
But why did you never mention this--er--desire of yours before?”
”I am far too maidenly,” responded Sylvia, ”to give my feeling any such bold name. _I_ have not ceased to be English, if my mother has.
Indeed, I give my feeling no name at all. I haven't spoken of it if there be an 'it' to speak of--before, simply because really I'm not crying for a particular toy to play with. I'm only saying, if I can't have _that_, I won't have another toy a poor, unworthy toy.”
”You call Prince Henri d'Ortens a 'poor, unworthy toy?'”
”Compared with the Emperor of Rhaetia and compared with me. Look at me, mother. Would I not make an empress?”
Sylvia laughed, sprang up from the seat that girdled the great trunk of the Lebanon cedar, and stood with her bright head erect, her lips still smiling.
The August sun streamed down upon the girl and bathed her in its glory. Her hair was a network of spun gold, under its radiance; her dark eyes jewels; her skin roses and snow; her simple white muslin gown a dazzling robe fit for a fairy, rather than an earthly princess.
Yes, she would make an empress, or she would make a G.o.ddess. So a man must have thought, even if he had not dared to love her. And so thought her mother.
”The dear Queen has never really favoured poor Henri,” murmured the Grand d.u.c.h.ess, a light of introspection in her eyes. Already the French Prince, with pretensions to the incomparable hand of Sylvia, was ”_poor_ Henri.” ”I mean, she has never favoured him as a match for you, though she intimated to me yesterday that she saw no insurmountable objections--if you cared for each other--”
”But we don't. At least I don't. Which is all that signifies.”
”Pray do not be so flippant. As for Maximilian of Rhaetia, it is perhaps natural that he has never been thought of in connection with you, my dear. He is, no doubt, the most sought after _parti_ in--well, yes, I may say in the world. Not a girl with Royal blood in her veins but would go on her knees to him--”
”I would not,” cried Sylvia. ”I might wors.h.i.+p him, but he should go on his knees to _me_.”
”I doubt if those knees will ever bend to man or woman,” said the Grand d.u.c.h.ess. ”That, however, is a mere matter of speech. I am serious now, and I wish you to be. Though you are a very beautiful girl, my child--there is no disguising that fact from you, as it has been dinned into your ears since you were old enough to understand-- and there is no better blood in Europe than runs in your veins; still, our circ.u.mstances are--er--unfortunately such that--that we are, for the present, slightly handicapped.”