THE QUEEN OF A DAY.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLIII, Issue 13325, 3 November 1906, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE QUEEN OF A DAY.

ipUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.]

BY J. 8. FLETCHER. Author of "When Charles the First was Kipg." " The Threshing Floor," " Grand Relations," etc. [copyright.] CHAPTER XIIT. , HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN*.. We were very silent, the Sister Superior and I, as we walked across from the vicarage to the hotel. For myself I was mainly conscious people always are at the great crises of life—of our immediate surroundings. It was a perfect spring evening—perfect as such an evening only can be" in an English village. Everything was green, fresh, sylvan; a thrush was pouring out its soul to heaven in a high elm ; the plaintive bleating of sheep sounded from a neighbouring farmstead; on the green in front of the hotel the village boys were playing cricket; on the banks of the little river two or three men sat in peaceful contemplation of the floats that dangled from their rods and lines. And in the distance, restful and good to the eye,lay the dark belt of forest in whose glades, centuries ago, Robin Hood and ids merry men used to keep high revelry beneath the great oaks. The Sister Superior sighed. I glanced at her and saw that she was looking about her with wistful eyes.

" This is a peaceful scene, sir," she said. "I have often heard of the pastoral charm of your English villages. Now I have seen it I could find it in my heart to wish that our dear child was going to scenes one-half so peaceful."

"I wish that, Sister, with all the strength in me! It is a cruel irony of faAe that this thing should be thrust upon her so suddenly.' "It seems, sir, as though the old Italia were dead. A Queen! I never saw a Queen in my life! And to think that I knew her, tended her, loved her as a little child. It is wonderful." . " She is still a woman, Sister. Nothing will change her heart." The Sister Superior sighed and shook her head. "Ah, yes, but she is a Queen. And kings and queens are high above all others. They must needs live in isolation. Not even the highest in the land are near them. They are apart. Is it not so'/'' " Yes, I suppose it is. But she will not change." She gave a quick, wistful glance. "It is veiy hard for you," she said. "It is no joy to you to know that she is a Queen." "I had rather she had been a beggarmaid!" I exclaimed. "Or that she were dead. What has she to look forward to? Intrigue, rebellion, murder you suppose these people, admittedly the most turbulent, the most difficult to manage of all the minor European States, will be ruled in the future any more easily than in the past?" "A woman may rule-them," she said gently. I made no answer to that. We had reached the inn. Wilson was taking the air in the garden; he acknowledged my presence by the merest flick of an evelid. Passing into the hall I saw that Hebblethwaite had mounted guard in the bar, which commanded a view of the door of the private sitting-room. He glanced inquisitively at my companion, but otherwise took no notice of us. The hostess came forward on seeing the Sister Superior, and at my request showed her into a private room. I promised to come for her in a few moments and then I went to my mother and Italia. Try to realise the truth as I would, she was still Italia to me. . I opened the door. The attitude in which I found them filled me with a great emotion. My mother sat in a low chair near , the window; 'Italia sat at her feet, her I arm resting on my mother's knee; my mother's arm around her shoulders. It was an attitude which betokened intense, wholehearted love and confidence, the pure, trusting love of mother and daughter. For a moment, in sight of this moving spectacle, I forgot my mission, I forgot the truth, and I stood gazing at the two beings whom 1 loved most in the world with all the rapture of a grateful son and an adoring lover. And then I remembered. ; It was Italia who first saw the trouble in my face. She sprang to her feet with a quick cry and came towards me with outstretched hands. \, " There is something wrong—something has happened! See —his eyes! What is it —tell quickly.",. I took her hands and led her back to my mother. She, too, had risen from her chair and stood gazing at me with great anxiety. - _ ■ " /hat is it, Henry?" she said. "Has anything happened? Anything seriousto give you anxiety? You look it." " Don't be alarmed," I said reassuringly and pressing Italia's hands. "It is only that I have just heard some new* —about you." "About me? —why do you regard me so strangely?" "Do I regard you strangely? I did not know"

It is as if I had suddenly gone a long way off. I am frightened." .\She turned to my mother with an almost piteous glance. "Madonna mia!—make him speak." Then I did a thing on the spur of the moment. I drew her to me and kissed her. What did I care that die was a queen and la nobody? She was my heart's love. The colour came back to her cheek and the light to her eyes. She disengaged herself, smiling, from my embrace. "But say what it is,'' she said. "It is that I have news for you," I repeated. " 1 have met with an old friend of yours— dear friend." "An old friend? Of mine? A dear friend'' But— is some jest! Ah, you are teasing me?" '• Xo. truly it is no jest." " But I have no old friends, no dear .; friends, except at —oh, that is impossible! Why, why do you not explain yourself?" She clapped her hands together and tapped an impatient foot upon the carpet her. eyes grew bright with the excitement of speculation and suspense. " Would you not like to see so ne of your old friends* from the convent?" ".The convent Her eyes grew round, child like —the flush in her cheeks deepened. She stared wonderingly from • ni? to my mother. I knew what she-was thinking—to her the convent seemed a long, long way off. •'For goodness sake, Henry!" said my mother, " tell the child what you've got v "' to tell her without all this absurd beating about, the bush. What is it?" ' I took Italia's hands and pressed them. "The Sister Superior of the Convent du Sacre Cceur has come to tee you," I said, ', - "and—she has a message for you which you must hear bravely." "Is it bad news, "Henry?" interjected lily mother. I gave her a meanitiig look and turned to Italia again. :..':'. It is surprising news," I said. "You will —brave?" She gazed at me incredulously. Her cheeks paled, her hands trembled a little ' in" mine. But her glance was steady : . enough. "Sister Angelique? Here? And a mes- •-, ( sage for me? Who should send me messages? I.know no one." 1 turned to my mother. >,'"'Mother, you" will find the Sister Superior in the opposite 'room. Will you ;|'-.i bring her here?" She left the parlour at once. And for the second time, without thought of the mighty gulf between us, 1 took Italia into my embrace and kissed hei passionately. a , •' "Italia! My love! Remember that lam your faithful lover and servant till the day • of my death ■4 '-,'•' She drew hei head backshe searched -; my very soul with her candid eyes. "My lover and servant? Not my— Oh!—what is it? Something has come be- .'. tween us!" :„':-5",';. The door opened—Sister Angelique stood on the threshold—my mother behind her. Italia was still Munching my eves with her :,;:;.;. own. , - .-, . " • ' - ; -. "What is it?'' she repeated insistently.

She saw me glance at the door; still holding my hand she turned to gaze at the black, sombre figure of the little Sister. I saw the blood rush back to her cheek and her lips part. With a sudden murmur of childish delight she darted from me, and throwing her arms about the Sister's neck covered her face with kisses. My mother and I with a. mutual instinct moved away to the window and left them together. They were laughing and crying over each other as women will—under any other circumstances it would have done my heart good to hear them, but now that Italia was out of my arms the knowledge of the truth had fallen upon me again like a heavy cloud and I was full of despair. My mother touched my arm. I looked at her—she, with the sharp vision, of a mother, saw the trouble in my face. ••What is it. Henry?" she whispered. "Is it trouble for herand you?" "What it is for her. mother, I cannot say. For me—well, it- is the extinction of all my hopes as regards her. 1 have lost her." " Lost her'.'" "As if she were dead. Have patience, mother, and you will learn everything*. Wait, until they have composed* themselves." We stood there, side by side, looking out upon the garden, where" Wilson, cool and phlegmatic, was smoking a cigar amongst the flower-beds, for several minutes. Then the Sister Superior spoke my name. •' Dr. Fordyce." We turned. She and Italia were sitting side by side; the Sister was holding her old pupil's hand; Italia was regarding-her old governess with a questioning wonder. The Sister Superior looked at me with an air of significant meaning. ■" We should deliver our message, I think, sir," she said. "It will come best from you, madam," I answered. . Italia's great eyes turned from one to the other of us. " But this is so mysterious!" she exclaimed. " Sister Angelique—tell me what it means!" The Sister patted the hand which lay in hers as gently as if she had been soothing a sick child. . • - > "My child." she said gently, "we taught you at the convent that duty must come first of all in all things if one would be good. We have brought you news of a great duly that has fallen upon you—a great duty. Will you be brave and try to do it?" She turned from the Sister to me—she searched my face. Then she turned to the sister again. "And—him?" she said. "Will itseparate—?" "He asks you—the man who loves you— to do your duty," said the Sister, in a ringing voice, marvellously strong and firm to come from so slight a figure. "Is it not so, sir?" She looked at me with an that might have quelled a mob. I bowed my head. And not trusting myself to speak I lifted Italia's hand and kissed it. I was not her subjectbut it was an act of homage.' Looking up I saw her turn pale to the very lips. Her eyes left mine and fixed themselves on the face of the woman at her side. ,*

"My child," said the Sister, "some of us in this world'are, through no choice of, our own, sometimes called upon at a sudden moment to assume responsibilities and duties of which we had never dreamed. Such a moment has come to you. The greatness that was in your nature from childhood must rise to the needs of that moment." She grew paler, more anxious, the intensity of her gaze deepened. "I have to tell you, my child," continued the Sister, " that a Certain mystery which has always hung about you has been cleared up. You do not remember your motheryou never did— remember nothing of your parentage but of the man whom you supposed to be your father." • "Supposed? Was he not, then, my father?" There was no note of regret, only of surprise, in her voice. It did not seem to me that this announcement gave her any pain. He was not your father. Your real father and mother died when you were an infant of very tender age." "But — that case, who were they? And who am I?" "* I saw the Sister take, a deep breath as if to nerve herself for the announcement which Fate had destined her to make. " My child, you have heard of Montalba —do you remember your old lessons in geography?" " Montalba? Yes, of course. It is one of the smallest kingdoms in Europe,' south, of the Balkans, very mountainousthe Montalbanians are a proud, haughty race, turbulent, warlike. Oh, I remember all that quite well. But what of Montalba, Sister Angelique?" The Sister's hold on her former pupil's t THE Sister's hold on her former pupil's hand tightened. My child, nerve yourself for the truth. Your father was Alexander the Sixth, King of Montalba—your mother, Hele'ne, his Queen. They were assassinated in the rising of eighteen years ago, but you, their only child, were rescued by one of your father's most faithful servants, the "man whom you know as Antonio' Romatti." I heard my mother, standing behind me. catch her breath sharply. The three of us—my mother, the Sister, myself—gazed steadfastly at the girl's face. ' Every vestige of colour had left it as the Sister spoka ; her eyes, fixed on some unseen tiling in front of her, seemed to - be searching the darkness of the past. A moment parsed—a ; moment of such silence as none can conceive. What was she thinking—what would she do—what say? She lifted her disengaged hand to her forehead and smoothed awav a lock of her glorious hair that had drifted over its high whiteness. Then she suddenly rose to her feet and swept our faces. " Her glance sped back to the uplifted, anxious face of the little Sister, who still clung to her hand. Her brows knitted, she almost frowned. And her voice came at last— Ceep, tense, as if from her very heairt. "My father—mv mother—King— Queen —their only child? Then . . "'. who'' • • . what? ... am I?"

The Sister dropped on her knees and pressed her lips to the. hand she held. As in my own case, it was an act of unconscious homage. , " Madam, it is God's will! Your Majesty is Queen of Monta'ba. Clod save you, madam, God bless yon!" She looked clown at the little black.figure wonderingly. And suddenly the hot colour flushed into her white face and she* bent and threw her strong young arms round the Sister and lifted her and kissed her. And holding her at arm's length she searched her very heart. " Sister Angelique, is this true?" " Before God, madam." She released her hold of the Sister, and clasping her hands she bent her head on her 'breast and stared at her interlaced fingers with moody, sombre eyes. Her bosom rose and fell with the turbulence of her feelings; it seemed to me that in another moment she would burst into passionate weeping. The Sister spoke half timidly. "Madam, there is waiting to see you a nobleman who spent his life in your "royal father's service, who has watched over you, who has brought about your accession to your father's throne—the Count Varitza. Will you sec him, madam?" She dM not look up. the word she breathed was almost inaudible. At a sign from Sister Angelique 1 quietly crossed the loom and opened the door. Count Varitza, his countess and Sir Francis Sewell were waiting in the hall. I beckoned them to enter. And as they passed me 1 whispered two word:-' —" knows." She raised her head as the old man entered and her glance swept his erect figure as a, lightning flash sweeps the rugged oak. And she looked every inch a queen as lit. dropped en his knees at her feet and put his liii.Tidfi'. between hers. As for him. whatever formal thing lie may have been going to say was transformed into a genuine burst of passionate adoration as he knelt gaV/.ing up into her grave and watchful face. "I was your father'.- faithful servant— often have I.lamented to God thai J died not with him. Now I thank Cod that I have lived to serve his" daughter. Cod bless your Majesty! God save yon!" Did she feel, I wondered, as she stood there, that Fate had suddenly lifted 'her high above, the rest of us to the heights inaccessible to ordinary human beings— she feel u.lone? I could not tell. At that moment she looked every inch a Queen.

CHAPTER XIV. THE ETERNAL FEMININE.

It was over. She knew—knew that she was no poor, friendless Italian girl about to make a humdrum marriage (as the unknowing world would ha.ve called it) with a middle-class English doctor, but the reigning Sovereign of a European kingdom— minor State, no doubt, of no power in European politics, but an ancient and a proud kingdom for all that. ft was all over. She and I had in an instant been forced as far asunder as the two poles. I looked at her as she stood there listening to the old statesman, who had now risen and was speaking earnestly to her in Italian, and then I went* out of the room and closed the door behind me. Hebbelthwaite was Mtill at his post in the bar-par-lour. I beckoned him to join me and we went out into the garden together. "There is nothing that need detain you here amy longer," I said. "This matter is over." With characteristic indifference, or seeming indifference, he asked no questions. "Very good, sir," lie said. , " I hope we've done all you wished?" "Everything," 1 answered. "I suppose you can return to town to-night?" " Oh, yes. sir. Plenty of trains from Retford, or on the Midland, on the other side of the district. I've been in these parts before. Wilson and I will get a bit of supper and then we'll find a conveyance to drive us to the station and get back to town." I made him a present of some money for Wilson Hiiul himself, and they thanked me and turned into the house again. 1 walked away into a quiet part of the garden. There, after a few minutes, my mother joined me. She sat down by my side in a rustic arbour and laid her*hand*on mine. ' For a few moments we did not speak. At last— "I suppose there is no doubt of the truth of all this, Henry?" she said. " 1 do not think there, is any doubt, mother," I answered. " Sir Francis Sewell told me thing— at least, all that was necessary—in" an interview which he had with me at the vicarage. No, I don't think there is any doubt.' Again we were silent. *> "Poor child said my mother at last. "Poor, poor child " Yes." I said. " I had rather have seen her dead, I think. A country and a people like that! She will be a puppet in the hands of her Ministers.' "I don't know,' said my mother in the tone which women use when they mean to convey that they know a good deal more than you give them credit for knowing. "I don't know. Henry. She has a mind and a will of her own and she will not he easily led." I laughed. "I know you have an exalted opinion of the power of your sex, mother," 1 said. ;' but come what Coil an ii experienced girl, almost a child, do against wily old diplomatists like Count Varitza and his companions—trained in every art of statecraft, with the added knowledge gained by nearly twenty years of plotting and planning? They will place her on the throne —and rule in her name." "We shall see," she said enigmatically. " But never mind that now. ] am thinking of you, my boy—of your disappointment." "Never mind that, mother, either. What is the use? It's Fate. One cannot prevent these things or alter them. Howdid I know that she was Queen of Montalba "She is a woman, Henry, still." "But not for me. Listen, mother. I can't sit doing nothing here. I will go for a walk in the forest, alone. After a time I will'come back to you. We must stay here to-night, I suppose are tired. Then to-morrow we will "go back to London to our old life and try to forget and to be happy." I bent and kissed her, and left her there wiping the tears away from her cheeks. I had said we would try to forget in order to comfort her, but I knew the words amounted to so much mockery. I should never forget. 1 walked for a long way through the forest glades, thinking. ' It-' had been one of my dreams since I had met Italia to bring her to this place some day and point out to her the scenes amidst which my boyhood was passed. That dream had come within an ace of accomplishment—it was not the least painful thought of the many I had that night that it had been so nearly accomplished. No man likes to think that the cup of happiness has been dashed from his lips at the very moment it touched them. But I tried not to think of myselfl wanted to think of her, the woman I loved. I endeavoured to recall all that I had ever known or heard of Montalba and its people. I remembered the assassination of Alexander the Sixth and his Queen —it, had filled all Europe with horror. The day chosen for the perpetration of the foul deed —instigated by a brother!—was a fete day on which all the people were abroad in the streets of Albanetta making merry. The guards of the palace, merry-making also, had relaxed their vigilance, and when the attack was made were easily overcome. The King and Queen had been slain in their own apartments and their personal attendants with them. And to most European nations the worst feature of the affair was that the arch-assassin, the fratricide Alexis, had been received by the people with acclamations and general favour. He had mounted the throne with his hands dyed with his brother's blood, and the Montalbanians bad applauded him. And now Alexis in his turn had been deposed and assassinated, and the woman I loved was called upon to ascend the throne from which he had been violently torn. What more likely than that she would experience a like fate?

It was dark when I returned to the hotel. I opened the door of the private sitting-room wondering what I should find there. My mother sat there—alone. I went up to her with a question in my eyes. "They are gone, my boy," she said, answering it. "All? "All. It was necessary that they should return to town to-night. But see— she left this for you." She handed me an envelope, addressed simply, " Henry." I carried it over to the lamp, and tearing it open drew out a sheet of paper on which a few lines were written : — '• My Dear.' may not even stay to say —not' good-bve, but auf wiedersehen to you, for they'tell me that there, is business awaiting me in London which must be attended to immediately ; but I want you to know that although this great duty has fallen upon me it can and shall make no difference to the fact that I am now and always,— Your Italia." 1 believe I laughed. Perhaps there was some «joy in the- laughter because of the love in the letter, but I think most of the laughter came from a sense of the delightful girlish inconsequence of the words she had' written. Poor child !—what chance had she of following the dictates of her own heart? My mother turned from gazing at the fire to gaze at me. "Wei!, Henry? Why do you laugh? Is there something amusing in Queen Olga's letter?" • Queen Olga? The phrase—or nameslips easily off your tongue, mother. You have soon learnt, your lesson "Don't be foolish, my boy. It is best to call things—and people—by their right names. I ask. why do you Idugh?" For answer J put the letter into her hands. She put on her spectacles, read the letter over two or three times, nodded her head, and handed it back to me. '•Humph!" she exclaimed. "I told you, Henrv. that she had a will of her own. I also tell you—don't forget it—that if she was a Queen she was also a woman." 1 laughed again, but' made no reply. Ere we separated that night 1 drew the special license from my pocket, and was about to tear it in half, preparatory to throwing it into the fire, when my mother stopped me. ■'What is that. Henry?" she asked, no doubt guessing what it was. ' Something that will never be wanted now, mother,'' I answered. She took it out of my hand. "One never knows what may be wanted ill this'-world, " she said. " Leave it in uncharge. ■' Next day we returned to Loudon. The events of'the previous forty-eight hours seemed like dreams —far, very far off. 1 , resumed my usual course of life —work, ' * " •"■ ■; ' V".

food,-rest, conversation with my mother. By tacit ' consent we said no more of Italia. I looked eagerly for news of her and of events connected with Montalba in the newspapers. At Albanetta a provisional Government in the name of Queen Olga The Seventh had been formed, and things were settling down, and the people looking forward to hailing their new Sovereign. Then on the third day after our return particulars as to Queen Olga's whereabouts oegan to appear in the London press. She was in London—at Claridge's Hotel—in the company of Count Nicholas Varitza—her late father King Alexander's trusted- Ministerand of his countess. She had had a most romantic exileshe was most beautiful and charming— would be adored by her subjects, and she would shortly leave London for Albanetta. Hut no word of her came from her to me. I did net expect it—the gates of her golden prison had already closed upon her. On the fifth day after our return from Saxonstowe I received a letter from Sir Francis Sewell asking me if I could make it convenient to call upon him during the day. I went round to his office in the course of the morning. And I was on tenterhooks until I got there. Sir Francis received me in his private room. He shook my hand very cordially, motioned me to a chair near his own, and looked at me with a somewhat whimsical expression. "Well, Dr. Fordyce. you ha.ve doubtless learnt from the newspapers that Her Majesty Queen Olga is staying at Claridge's with the Count and Countess Varitza?" I bowed. V " Count Varitza is very anxious that Her Majesty should immediately leave London for Albanetta." he continued. I I bowed again. He tapped bis knee with a paper-knife which he had picked up from the desk at which l.e sat. " Her Majesty," he went on, " appears to be a young woman of considerable force of character. Dr. Fordyce. She is. apparently, not the sort of ruler who is cpntent to place herself unreservedly in the hands of her Prime Minister. In other and plainer words, Queen Olga of Montalba has already shown that she likes to have her own way." Still I heard nothing that called for any reply from me. The only thought that had occurred to me was that if my mother had heard Sir Francis' last remark she would have turned on me in triumph and said, "There—what did I tell.you?" Some difference of opinion has already arisen between Queen Olga and Count Varitza.'' continued Sir Francis. "You, Dr. Fordyce, are the cause. Her Majesty appears to think that Love is much more important than Power. It is a nice situation." (To be continued on Saturday nest.)