Part 54 (1/2)

”It was certainly a pleasant and proud one, sir, as it always must be, to write to a mother in commendation of her son. By the way, Chevalier, you have forgotten to make your compliments to the Count on his promotion--”

”I have not heard of it, madam; what may it be?” asked Stubber.

”To the command of the Pahlen Hussars, sir,--one of the proudest 'charges' of the Empire.”

A rush of blood to Wahnsdorf's face was as quickly followed by a deadly pallor, and with a broken, faint utterance he said, ”Good-bye,” and left the room.

”A fine young fellow,--the very picture of a soldier,” exclaimed Stubber, looking after him.

”A chevalier of the olden time, sir,--the very soul of honor,” said the Princess, enthusiastically. ”And now for a little gossip with yourself.”

It is not ”in our brief” to record what pa.s.sed in that chatty interview; plenty of state secrets and state gossip there was,--abundance of that dangerous trifling which mixes up the pa.s.sions of society with the great game of politics, and makes statecraft feel the impress of men's whims and caprices. We were just beginning that era, ”the policy of resentments,” which has since pervaded Europe, and the Chevalier and the Princess were sufficiently behind the scenes to have many things to communicate; and here we must leave them while we hasten on to other scenes and other actors.

CHAPTER XLIII. DOINGS IN DOWNING STREET

The dull old precincts of Downing Street were more than usually astir.

Hackney-coaches and cabs at an early hour, private chariots somewhat later, went to and fro along the dreary pavement, and two cabinet messengers with splashed _caleches_ arrived in hot haste from Dover.

Frequent, too, were the messages from the House; a leading Oppositionist was then thundering away against the Government, inveighing against the treacherous character of their foreign policy, and indignantly calling on them for certain despatches to their late envoy at Naples. At every cheer which greeted him from his party a fresh missive would be despatched from the Treasury benches, and the whisper, at first cautiously muttered, grew louder and louder, ”Why does not Upton come down?”

So intricate has been the web of our petty entanglements, so complex the threads of those small intrigues by which we have earned our sobriquet of the ”perfide Albion,” that it is difficult at this time of day to recall the exact question whose solution, in the words of the orator of the debate, ”placed us either at the head of Europe, or consigned to us the fatal mediocrity of a third-rate power.” The prophecy, whichever way read, gives us unhappily no clew to the matter in hand, and we are only left to conjecture that it was an intervention in Spain, or ”something about the Poles.” As is usual in such cases, the matter, insignificant enough in itself, was converted into a serious attack on the Government, and all the strength of the Opposition was arrayed to give power and consistency to the a.s.sault. As is equally usual, the cabinet was totally unprepared for defence; either they had altogether undervalued the subject, or they trusted to the secrecy with which they had conducted it; whichever of these be the right explanation, each minister could only say to his colleague, ”It never came before _me_; Upton knows all about it.”

”And where is Upton?--why does he not come down?”--were again and again reiterated; while a shower of messages and even mandates invoked his presence.

The last of these was a peremptory note from no less a person than the Premier himself, written in three very significant words, thus: ”Come, or go;” and given to a trusty whip, the Hon. Gerald Neville, to deliver.

Armed with this not very conciliatory doc.u.ment, the well-practised tactician drew up to the door of the Foreign Office, and demanded to see the Secretary of State.

”Give him this card and this note, sir,” said he to the well-dressed and very placid young gentleman who acted as his private secretary.

”Sir Horace is very poorly, sir; he is at this moment in a mineral bath; but as the matter you say is pressing, he will see you. Will you pa.s.s this way?”

Mr. Neville followed his guide through an infinity of pa.s.sages, and at length reached a large folding-door, opening one side of which he was ushered into a s.p.a.cious apartment, but so thoroughly impregnated with a thick and offensive vapor that he could barely perceive, through the mist, the bath in which Upton lay reclined, and the figure of a man, whose look and att.i.tude bespoke the doctor, beside him.

”Ah, my dear fellow,” sighed Upton, extending two dripping fingers in salutation, ”you have come in at the death. This is the last of it!”

”No, no; don't say that,” cried the other, encouragingly. ”Have you had any sudden seizure? What is the nature of it?”

”He,” said he, looking round to the doctor, ”calls it 'arachnoidal trismus,'--a thing, he says, that they have all of them ignored for many a day, though Charlemagne died of it. Ah, Doctor,”--and he addressed a question to him in German.

A growled volley of gutturals ensued, and Upton went on:--

”Yes, Charlemagne,--Melancthon had it, but lingered for years. It is the peculiar affection of great intellectual natures over-taxed and over-worked.”

Whether there was that in the manner of the sick man that inspired hope, or something in the aspect of the doctor that suggested distrust, or a mixture of the two together, but certainly Neville rapidly rallied from the fears which had beset him on entering, and in a voice of a more cheery tone, said,--

”Come, come, Sir Horace, you 'll throw off this as you have done other such attacks. You have never been wanting either to your friends or yourself when the hour of emergency called. We are in a moment of such difficulty now, and you alone can rescue us.”

”How cruel of the Duke to write me that!” sighed Upton, as he held up the piece of paper, from which the water had obliterated all trace of the words. ”It was so inconsiderate,--eh, Neville?”

”I'm not aware of the terms he employed,” said the other.