transcriber's notes: this etext was produced from "worlds of if" november . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. obvious typesetting errors have been corrected. ======================================================== gambler's world by keith laumer illustrated by gaughan i retief paused before a tall mirror to check the overlap of the four sets of lapels that ornamented the vermilion cutaway of a first secretary and consul. "come along, retief," magnan said. "the ambassador has a word to say to the staff before we go in." "i hope he isn't going to change the spontaneous speech he plans to make when the potentate impulsively suggests a trade agreement along the lines they've been discussing for the last two months." "your derisive attitude is uncalled for, retief," magnan said sharply. "i think you realize it's delayed your promotion in the corps." retief took a last glance in the mirror. "i'm not sure i want a promotion," he said. "it would mean more lapels." ambassador crodfoller pursed his lips, waiting until retief and magnan took places in the ring of terrestrial diplomats around him. "a word of caution only, gentlemen," he said. "keep always foremost in your minds the necessity for our identification with the nenni caste. even a hint of familiarity with lower echelons could mean the failure of the mission. let us remember that the nenni represent authority here on petreac. their traditions must be observed, whatever our personal preferences. let's go along now. the potentate will be making his entrance any moment." magnan came to retief's side as they moved toward the salon. "the ambassador's remarks were addressed chiefly to you, retief," he said. "your laxness in these matters is notorious. naturally, i believe firmly in democratic principles myself--" "have you ever had a feeling, mr. magnan, that there's a lot going on here that we don't know about?" magnan nodded. "quite so. ambassador crodfoller's point exactly. matters which are not of concern to the nenni are of no concern to us." "another feeling i get is that the nenni aren't very bright. now suppose--" "i'm not given to suppositions, retief. we're here to implement the policies of the chief of mission. and i should dislike to be in the shoes of a member of the staff whose conduct jeopardized the agreement that will be concluded here tonight." * * * * * a bearer with a tray of drinks rounded a fluted column, shied as he confronted the diplomats, fumbled the tray, grabbed and sent a glass crashing to the floor. magnan leaped back, slapping at the purple cloth of his pants leg. retief's hand shot out to steady the tray. the servant rolled terrified eyes. "i'll take one of these, now that you're here," retief said. he took a glass from the tray, winking at the servant. "no harm done," he said. "mr. magnan's just warming up for the big dance." a nenni major-domo bustled up, rubbing his hands politely. "some trouble here?" he said. "what happened, honorables, what, what...." "the blundering idiot," magnan spluttered. "how dare--" "you're quite an actor, mr. magnan," retief said. "if i didn't know about your democratic principles, i'd think you were really mad." the servant ducked his head and scuttled away. "has this fellow...." the major-domo eyed the retreating bearer. "i dropped my glass," retief said. "mr. magnan's upset because he hates to see liquor wasted." retief turned to find himself face-to-face with ambassador crodfoller. "i witnessed that," the ambassador hissed. "by the goodness of providence, the potentate and his retinue haven't appeared yet. but i can assure you the servants saw it. a more un-nenni-like display i would find it difficult to imagine!" retief arranged his features in an expression of deep interest. "more un-nenni-like, sir?" he said. "i'm not sure i--" "bah!" the ambassador glared at retief, "your reputation has preceded you, sir. your name is associated with a number of the most bizarre incidents in corps history. i'm warning you; i'll tolerate nothing." he turned and stalked away. "ambassador-baiting is a dangerous sport, retief," magnan said. retief took a swallow of his drink. "still," he said, "it's better than no sport at all." "your time would be better spent observing the nenni mannerisms. frankly, retief, you're not fitting into the group at all well." "i'll be candid with you, mr. magnan. the group gives me the willies." "oh, the nenni are a trifle frivolous, i'll concede," magnan said. "but it's with them that we must deal. and you'd be making a contribution to the overall mission if you merely abandoned that rather arrogant manner of yours." magnan looked at retief critically. "you can't help your height, of course. but couldn't you curve your back just a bit--and possibly assume a more placating expression? just act a little more...." "girlish?" "exactly." magnan nodded, then looked sharply at retief. retief drained his glass and put it on a passing tray. "i'm better at acting girlish when i'm well juiced," he said. "but i can't face another sorghum-and-soda. i suppose it would be un-nenni-like to slip the bearer a credit and ask for a scotch and water." "decidedly." magnan glanced toward a sound across the room. "ah, here's the potentate now!" he hurried off. retief watched the bearers coming and going, bringing trays laden with drinks, carrying off empties. there was a lull in the drinking now, as the diplomats gathered around the periwigged chief of state and his courtiers. bearers loitered near the service door, eyeing the notables. retief strolled over to the service door, pushed through it into a narrow white-tiled hall filled with the odors of the kitchen. silent servants gaped as he passed, watching as he moved along to the kitchen door and stepped inside. ii a dozen or more low-caste petreacans, gathered around a long table in the center of the room looked up, startled. a heap of long-bladed bread knives, french knives, carving knives and cleavers lay in the center of the table. other knives were thrust into belts or held in the hands of the men. a fat man in the yellow sarong of a cook stood frozen in the act of handing a knife to a tall one-eyed sweeper. retief took one glance, then let his eyes wander to a far corner of the room. humming a careless little tune, he sauntered across to the open liquor shelves, selected a garish green bottle and turned unhurriedly back toward the door. the group of servants watched him, transfixed. as retief reached the door, it swung inward. magnan, lips pursed, stood in the doorway. "i had a premonition," he said. "i'll bet it was a dandy," retief said. "you must tell me all about it--in the salon." "we'll have this out right here," magnan snapped. "i've warned you!" magnan's voice trailed off as he took in the scene around the table. "after you," retief said, nudging magnan toward the door. "what's going on here?" magnan barked. he stared at the men, started around retief. a hand stopped him. "let's be going," retief said, propelling magnan toward the hall. "those knives!" magnan yelped. "take your hands off me, retief! what are you men--?" retief glanced back. the fat cook gestured suddenly, and the men faded back. the cook stood, arm cocked, a knife across his palm. "close the door and make no sound," he said softly. magnan pressed back against retief. "let's ... r-run...." he faltered. retief turned slowly, put his hands up. "i don't run very well with a knife in my back," he said. "stand very still, magnan, and do just what he tells you." "take them out through the back," the cook said. "what does he mean?" magnan spluttered. "here, you--" "silence," the cook said, almost casually. magnan gaped at him, closed his mouth. two of the men with knives came to retief's side and gestured, grinning broadly. "let's go, peacocks," one said. retief and magnan silently crossed the kitchen, went out the back door, stopped on command and stood waiting. the sky was brilliant with stars. a gentle breeze stirred the tree-tops beyond the garden. behind them the servants talked in low voices. "you go too, illy," the cook was saying. "do it here," another said. "and carry their damn dead bodies down?" "pitch 'em behind the hedge." "i said the river. three of you is plenty for a couple of nenni. we don't know if we want to--" "they're foreigners, not nenni. we don't know--" "so they're foreign nenni. makes no difference. i've seen them. i need every man here; now get going." "what about the big guy? he looks tough." "him? he waltzed into the room and didn't notice a thing. but watch the other one." at a prod from a knife point, retief moved off down the walk, two of the escort behind him and magnan, another going ahead to scout the way. magnan moved closer to retief. "say," he said in a whisper. "that fellow in the lead; isn't he the one who spilled the drink? the one you took the blame for?" "that's him, all right. he doesn't seem nervous any more, i notice." "you saved him from serious punishment," magnan said. "he'll be grateful; he'll let us go." "better check with the fellows with the knives before you act on that." "say something to him," magnan hissed, "remind him." * * * * * the lead man fell back in line with retief and magnan. "these two are scared of you," he said, grinning and jerking a thumb toward the knife-handlers. "they haven't worked around the nenni like me; they don't know you." "don't you recognize this gentleman?" magnan said. "he did me a favor," the man said. "i remember." "what's it all about?" retief asked. "the revolution. we're taking over now." "who's 'we'?" "the people's anti-fascist freedom league." "what are all the knives for?" "for the nenni; and for all you foreigners." "what do you mean?" magnan gasped. "we'll slit all the throats at one time. saves a lot of running around." "what time will that be?" "just at dawn; and dawn comes early, this time of year. by full daylight the paffl will be in charge." "you'll never succeed," magnan said. "a few servants with knives! you'll all be caught and killed." "by who, the nenni?" the man laughed. "you nenni are a caution." "but we're not nenni--" "we've watched you; you're the same. you're part of the same blood-sucking class." "there are better ways to, uh, adjust differences," magnan said. "this killing won't help you, i'll personally see to it that your grievances are heard in the corps courts. i can assure you that the plight of the downtrodden workers will be alleviated. equal rights for all--" "these threats won't work," the man said. "you don't scare me." "threats? i'm promising _relief_ to the exploited classes of petreac!" "you must be nuts," the man said. "you trying to upset the system or something?" "isn't that the purpose of your revolution?" "look, nenni, we're tired of you nenni getting all the graft. we want our turn. what good would it do us to run petreac if there's no loot?" "you mean you intend to oppress the people? but they're your own group." "group, schmoop. we're taking all the chances; we're doing the work. we deserve the payoff. you think we're throwing up good jobs for the fun of it?" "you're basing a revolt on these cynical premises?" "wise up, nenni. there's never been a revolution for any other reason." "who's in charge of this?" retief said. "shoke, the head chef." "i mean the big boss. who tells shoke what all to do?" "oh, that's zorn. look out, here's where we start down the slope. it's slippery." "look," magnan said. "you." "my name's illy." "mr. illy, this man showed you mercy when he could have had you beaten." "keep moving. yeah, i said i was grateful." "yes," magnan said, swallowing hard. "a noble emotion, gratitude. you won't regret it." "i always try to pay back a good turn," illy said. "watch your step now on this sea-wall." "you'll never regret it," magnan said. "this is far enough," illy motioned to one of the knife men. "give me your knife, vug." the man passed his knife to illy. there was an odor of sea-mud and kelp. small waves slapped against the stones of the sea-wall. the wind was stronger here. "i know a neat stroke," illy said. "practically painless. who's first?" "what do you mean?" magnan quavered. "i _said_ i was grateful. i'll do it myself, give you a nice clean job. you know these amateurs; botch it up and have a guy floppin' around, yellin' and spatterin' everybody up." "i'm first," retief said. he pushed past magnan, stopped suddenly, drove a straight punch at illy's mouth. * * * * * the long blade flicked harmlessly over retief's shoulder as illy fell. retief whirled, leaped past magnan, took the unarmed servant by the throat and belt, lifted him and slammed him against the third man. both scrambled, yelped and fell from the sea-wall into the water. retief turned back to illy. he pulled off the man's belt and strapped his hands together. magnan found his voice. "you.... we.... they...." "i know," retief said. "we've got to get back," magnan said, "warn them!" "we'd never get through the rebel cordon around the palace. and if we did, trying to give an alarm would only set the assassinations off early." "we can't just...." "we've got to go to the source; this fellow zorn. get him to call it off." "we'd be killed! at least we're safe here." illy groaned and opened his eyes. he sat up. "on your feet, illy," retief said. illy looked around. "i'm sick," he said. "the damp air is bad for you. let's be going." retief pulled the man to his feet. "where does zorn stay when he's in town?" he demanded. "what happened? where's vug and...." "they had an accident. fell in the pond." illy gazed down at the restless black water. "i guess i had you nenni figured wrong." "us nenni have hidden qualities. let's get moving before vug and slug make it to shore and start it all over again." "no hurry," illy said. "they can't swim." he spat into the water. "so long, vug. so long, toscin. take a pull, at the hell horn for me." he started off along the sea wall toward the sound of the surf. "you want to see zorn, i'll take you to see zorn," he said. "i can't swim either." iii "i take it," retief said, "that the casino is a front for his political activities." "he makes plenty off it. this paffl is a new kick. i never heard about it until maybe a couple months ago." retief motioned toward a dark shed with an open door. "we'll stop here," he said, "long enough to strip the gadgets off these uniforms." illy, hands strapped behind his back, stood by and watched as retief and magnan removed medals, ribbons, orders and insignia from the formal diplomatic garments. "this may help some," retief said, "if the word is out that two diplomats are loose." "it's a breeze," illy said. "we see cats in purple and orange tailcoats all the time." "i hope you're right," retief said. "but if we're called, you'll be the first to go, illy." "you're a funny kind of nenni," illy said, eyeing retief, "toscin and vug must be wonderin' what happened to 'em." "if you think i'm good at drowning people, you ought to see me with a knife. let's get going." "it's only a little way now," illy said. "but you better untie me. somebody's liable to stick their nose in and get me killed." "i'll take the chance. how do we get to the casino?" "we follow this street. it twists around and goes under a couple tunnels. when we get to the drunkard's stairs we go up and it's right in front of us. a pink front with a sign like a big luck wheel." "give me your belt, magnan," retief said. magnan handed it over. "lie down, illy," retief said. the servant looked at retief. "vug and toscin will be glad to see me," he said. "but they'll never believe me." he lay down. retief strapped his feet together and stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth. "why are you doing that?" magnan asked. "we need him." "we know the way. and we don't need anyone to announce our arrival. it's only on three-dee that you can march a man through a gang of his pals with a finger in his back." magnan looked at the man. "maybe you'd better, uh, cut his throat," he said. illy rolled his eyes. "that's a very un-nenni-like suggestion, mr. magnan," retief said. "if we have any trouble finding the casino, i'll give it serious thought." there were few people in the narrow street. shops were shuttered, windows dark. "maybe they heard about the coup," magnan said. "they're lying low." "more likely, they're at the palace picking up their knives." they rounded a corner, stepped over a man curled in the gutter snoring heavily and found themselves at the foot of a long flight of littered stone steps. "the drunkard's stairs are plainly marked," magnan sniffed. "i hear sounds up there," retief said. "sounds of merrymaking." "maybe we'd better go back." "merrymaking doesn't scare me," retief said. "come to think of it, i don't know what the word means." he started up, magnan behind him. * * * * * at the top of the long stair a dense throng milled in the alley-like street. a giant illuminated roulette wheel revolved slowly above them. a loudspeaker blared the chant of the croupiers from the tables inside. magnan and retief moved through the crowd toward the wide-open doors. magnan plucked at retief's sleeve. "are you sure we ought to push right in like this? maybe we ought to wait a bit, look around...." "when you're where you have no business being," retief said, "always stride along purposefully. if you loiter, people begin to get curious." inside, a mob packed the wide, low-ceilinged room, clustered around gambling devices in the form of towers, tables and basins. "what do we do now?" magnan asked. "we gamble. how much money do you have in your pockets?" "why ... a few credits." magnan handed the money to retief. "but what about the man zorn?" "a purple cutaway is conspicuous enough, without ignoring the tables," retief said. "we've got a hundred credits between us. we'll get to zorn in due course, i hope." "your pleasure, gents," a bullet-headed man said, eyeing the colorful evening clothes of the diplomats. "you'll be wantin' to try your luck at the zoop tower, i'd guess. a game for real sporting gents." "why ... ah ..." magnan said. "what's a zoop tower?" retief asked. "out-of-towners, hey?" the bullet-headed man shifted his dope-stick to the other corner of his mouth. "zoop is a great little game. two teams of players buy into the pot. each player takes a lever; the object is to make the ball drop from the top of the tower into your net. okay?" "what's the ante?" "i got a hundred-credit pot workin' now, gents." retief nodded. "we'll try it." the shill led the way to an eight-foot tower mounted on gimbals. two perspiring men in trade-class pullovers gripped two of the levers that controlled the tilt of the tower. a white ball lay in a hollow in the thick glass platform at the top. from the center, an intricate pattern of grooves led out to the edge of the glass. retief and magnan took chairs before the two free levers. "when the light goes on, gents, work the lever to jack the tower. you got three gears. takes a good arm to work top gear. that's this button here. the little knob controls what way you're goin'. may the best team win. i'll take the hundred credits now." * * * * * retief handed over the money. a red light flashed on, and retief tried the lever. it moved easily, with a ratcheting sound. the tower trembled, slowly tilted toward the two perspiring workmen pumping frantically at their levers. magnan started slowly, accelerated as he saw the direction the tower was taking. "faster, retief," he said. "they're winning." "this is against the clock, gents," the bullet-headed man said. "if nobody wins when the light goes off, the house takes all." "crank it over to the left," retief said. "i'm getting tired." "shift to a lower gear." the tower leaned. the ball stirred, rolled into a concentric channel. retief shifted to middle gear, worked the lever. the tower creaked to a stop, started back upright. "there isn't any lower gear," magnan gasped. one of the two on the other side of the tower shifted to middle gear; the other followed suit. they worked harder now, heaving against the stiff levers. the tower quivered, moved slowly toward their side. "i'm exhausted," magnan gasped. he dropped the lever, lolled back in the chair, gulping air. retief shifted position, took magnan's lever with his left hand. "shift it to middle gear," retief said. magnan gulped, punched the button and slumped back, panting. "my arm," he said. "i've injured myself." the two men in pullovers conferred hurriedly as they cranked their levers; then one punched a button and the other reached across, using his left arm to help. "they've shifted to high," magnan said. "give up, it's hopeless." "shift me to high," retief said. "both buttons!" magnan complied. retief's shoulders bulged. he brought one lever down, then the other, alternately, slowly at first, then faster. the tower jerked, tilted toward him, farther.... the ball rolled in the channel, found an outlet-- abruptly, both retief's levers froze. the tower trembled, wavered and moved back. retief heaved. one lever folded at the base, bent down and snapped off short. retief braced his feet, took the other lever with both hands and pulled. there was a rasp of metal friction, and a loud twang. the lever came free, a length of broken cable flopping into view. the tower fell over as the two on the other side scrambled aside. "hey!" bullet-head yelled. "you wrecked my equipment!" retief got up and faced him. "does zorn know you've got your tower rigged for suckers?" "you tryin' to call me a cheat or something?" the crowd had fallen back, ringing the two men. bullet-head glanced around. with a lightning motion, he plucked a knife from somewhere. "that'll be five hundred credits for the equipment," he said. "nobody calls kippy a cheat." * * * * * retief picked up the broken lever. "don't make me hit you with this, you cheap chiseler." kippy looked at the bar. "comin' in here," he said indignantly, looking to the crowd for support. "bustin' up my rig, callin' names...." "i want a hundred credits," retief said. "now." "highway robbery!" kippy yelled. "better pay up," somebody called. "hit him, mister," someone else said. a broad-shouldered man with graying hair pushed through the crowd and looked around. "you heard 'em, kippy. give," he said. the shill growled but tucked his knife away. reluctantly he peeled a bill from a fat roll and handed it over. the newcomer looked from retief to magnan. "pick another game, strangers," he said. "kippy made a little mistake." "this is small-time stuff," retief said. "i'm interested in something big." the broad-shouldered man lit a perfumed dope stick. "what would you call big?" he said softly. "what's the biggest you've got?" the man narrowed his eyes, smiling. "maybe you'd like to try slam." "tell me about it." "over here." the crowd opened up, made a path. retief and magnan followed across the room to a brightly-lit glass-walled box. there was an arm-sized opening at waist height. inside was a hand grip. a two-foot plastic globe a quarter full of chips hung in the center. apparatus was mounted at the top of the box. "slam pays good odds," the man said. "you can go as high as you like. chips cost you a hundred credits. you start it up by dropping a chip in here." he indicated a slot. "you take the hand grip. when you squeeze, it unlocks. the globe starts to turn. you can see, it's full of chips. there's a hole at the top. as long as you hold the grip, the bowl turns. the harder you squeeze, the faster it turns. eventually it'll turn over to where the hole is down, and chips fall out. "on the other hand, there's contact plates spotted around the bowl. when one of 'em lines up with a live contact, you get quite a little jolt--guaranteed nonlethal. all you've got to do is hold on long enough, and you'll get the payoff." "how often does this random pattern put the hole down?" "anywhere from three minutes to fifteen, with the average run of players. oh, by the way, one more thing. that lead block up there--" the man motioned with his head toward a one-foot cube suspended by a thick cable. "it's rigged to drop every now and again. averages five minutes. a warning light flashes first. you can take a chance; sometimes the light's a bluff. you can set the clock back on it by dropping another chip--or you can let go the grip." retief looked at the massive block of metal. "that would mess up a man's dealing hand, wouldn't it?" "the last two jokers who were too cheap to feed the machine had to have 'em off. their arms, i mean. that lead's heavy stuff." "i don't suppose your machine has a habit of getting stuck, like kippy's?" the broad-shouldered man frowned. "you're a stranger," he said, "you don't know any better." "it's a fair game, mister," someone called. "where do i buy the chips?" the man smiled. "i'll fix you up. how many?" "one." "a big spender, eh?" the man snickered, but handed over a large plastic chip. iv retief stepped to the machine, dropped the coin. "if you want to change your mind," the man said, "you can back out now. all it'll cost you is the chip you dropped." retief reached through the hole, took the grip. it was leather padded hand-filling. he squeezed it. there was a click and bright lights sprang up. the crowd ah!-ed. the globe began to twirl lazily. the four-inch hole at its top was plainly visible. "if ever the hole gets in position it will empty very quickly," magnan said, hopefully. suddenly, a brilliant white light flooded the glass cage. a sound went up from the spectators. "quick, drop a chip," someone called. "you've only got ten seconds...." "let go!" magnan yelped. retief sat silent, holding the grip, frowning up at the weight. the globe twirled faster now. then the bright white light winked off. "a bluff!" magnan gasped. "that's risky, stranger," the gray-templed man said. the globe was turning rapidly now, oscillating from side to side. the hole seemed to travel in a wavering loop, dipping lower, swinging up high, then down again. "it has to move to the bottom soon," magnan said. "slow it down." "the slower it goes, the longer it takes to get to the bottom," someone said. there was a crackle and retief stiffened. magnan heard a sharp intake of breath. the globe slowed, and retief shook his head, blinking. the broad-shouldered man glanced at a meter. "you took pretty near a full jolt, that time," he said. the hole in the globe was tracing an oblique course now, swinging to the center, then below. "a little longer," magnan said. "that's the best speed i ever seen on the slam ball," someone said. "how much longer can he hold it?" magnan looked at retief's knuckles. they showed white against the grip. the globe tilted farther, swung around, then down; two chips fell out, clattered down a chute and into a box. "we're ahead," magnan said. "let's quit." retief shook his head. the globe rotated, dipped again; three chips fell. "she's ready," someone called. "it's bound to hit soon," another voice added excitedly. "come on, mister!" "slow down," magnan said. "so it won't move past too quickly." "speed it up, before that lead block gets you," someone called. the hole swung high, over the top, then down the side. chips rained out of the hole, six, eight.... "next pass," a voice called. the white light flooded the cage. the globe whirled; the hole slid over the top, down, down.... a chip fell, two more.... retief half rose, clamped his jaw and crushed the grip. sparks flew. the globe slowed, chips spewing. it stopped, swung back, weighted by the mass of chips at the bottom, and stopped again with the hole centered. [illustration] chips cascaded down the chute, filled the box before retief, spilled on the floor. the crowd yelled. retief released the grip and withdrew his arm at the same instant that the lead block slammed down. "good lord," magnan said. "i felt that through the floor." retief turned to the broad-shouldered man. "this game's all right for beginners," he said. "but i'd like to talk a really big gamble. why don't we go to your office, mr. zorn?" * * * * * "your proposition interests me," zorn said, grinding out the stump of his dope stick in a brass ashtray. "but there's some angles to this i haven't mentioned yet." "you're a gambler, zorn, not a suicide," retief said. "take what i've offered. the other idea was fancier, i agree, but it won't work." "how do i know you birds aren't lying?" zorn snarled. he stood up, strode up and down the room. "you walk in here and tell me i'll have a task force on my neck, that the corps won't recognize my regime. maybe you're right. but i've got other contacts. they say different." he whirled, stared at retief. "i have pretty good assurance that once i put it over, the corps will have to recognize me as the legal government of petreac. they won't meddle in internal affairs." "nonsense," magnan spoke up. "the corps will never deal with a pack of criminals calling themselves--" "watch your language, you!" zorn rasped. "i'll admit mr. magnan's point is a little weak," retief said. "but you're overlooking something. you plan to murder a dozen or so officers of the corps diplomatique terrestrienne along with the local wheels. the corps won't overlook that. it can't." "their tough luck they're in the middle," zorn muttered. "our offer is extremely generous, mr. zorn," magnan said. "the post you'll get will pay you very well indeed. as against the certain failure of your planned coup, the choice should be simple." zorn eyed magnan. "offering me a job--it sounds phony as hell. i thought you birds were goody-goody diplomats." "it's time you knew," retief said. "there's no phonier business in the galaxy than diplomacy." "you'd better take it, mr. zorn," magnan said. "don't push me, junior!" zorn said. "you two walk into my headquarters empty-handed and big-mouthed. i don't know what i'm talking to you for. the answer is no. n-i-x, no!" "who are you afraid of?" retief said softly. zorn glared at him. "where do you get that 'afraid' routine? i'm top man here!" "don't kid around, zorn. somebody's got you under their thumb. i can see you squirming from here." * * * * * "what if i let your boys alone?" zorn said suddenly. "the corps won't have anything to say then, huh?" "the corps has plans for petreac, zorn. you aren't part of them. a revolution right now isn't part of them. having the potentate and the whole nenni caste slaughtered isn't part of them. do i make myself clear?" "listen," zorn said urgently, pulling a chair around. "i'll tell you guys a few things. you ever heard of a world they call rotune?" "certainly," magnan said. "it's a near neighbor of yours. another backward--that is, emergent--" "okay," zorn said. "you guys think i'm a piker, do you? well, let me wise you up. the federal junta on rotune is backing my play. i'll be recognized by rotune, and the rotune fleet will stand by in case i need any help. i'll present the cdt with what you call a _fait accompli_." "what does rotune get out of this? i thought they were your traditional enemies." "don't get me wrong. i've got no use for rotune; but our interests happen to coincide right now." "do they?" retief smiled grimly. "you can spot a sucker as soon as he comes through that door out there--but you go for a deal like this!" "what do you mean?" zorn looked angrily at retief. "it's fool-proof." "after you get in power, you'll be fast friends with rotune, is that it?" "friends, hell! just give me time to get set, and i'll square a few things with that--" "exactly. and what do you suppose they have in mind for you?" "what are you getting at?" "why is rotune interested in your take-over?" zorn studied retief's face. "i'll tell you why," he said. "it's you birds. you and your trade agreement. you're here to tie petreac into some kind of trade combine. that cuts rotune out. well, we're doing all right out here. we don't need any commitments to a lot of fancy-pants on the other side of the galaxy." "that's what rotune has sold you, eh?" retief said, smiling. "sold, nothing!" * * * * * zorn ground out his dope-stick, lit another. he snorted angrily. "okay; what's your idea?" he asked after a moment. "you know what petreac is getting in the way of imports as a result of the agreement?" "sure. a lot of junk." "to be specific," retief said, "there'll be , tatone b- dry washers; , glo-float motile lamps; , earthworm minor garden cultivators; , veco space heaters; and , replacement elements for ford monomeg drives." "like i said. a lot of junk." retief leaned back, looking sardonically at zorn, "here's the gimmick, zorn," he said. "the corps is getting a little tired of petreac and rotune carrying on their two-penny war out here. your privateers have a nasty habit of picking on innocent bystanders. after studying both sides, the corps has decided petreac would be a little easier to do business with. so this trade agreement was worked out. the corps can't openly sponsor an arms shipment to a belligerent. but personal appliances are another story." "so what do we do--plow 'em under with back-yard cultivators?" zorn looked at retief, puzzled. "what's the point?" "you take the sealed monitor unit from the washer, the repeller field generator from the lamp, the converter control from the cultivator, et cetera, et cetera. you fit these together according to some very simple instructions. presto! you have one hundred thousand standard-class y hand blasters. just the thing to turn the tide in a stalemated war fought with obsolete arms." "good lord!" magnan said. "retief, are you--" "i have to tell him," retief said. "he has to know what he's putting his neck into." "weapons, hey?" zorn said. "and rotune knows about it?" "sure they know about it. it's not too hard to figure out. and there's more. they want the cdt delegation included in the massacre for a reason. it will put petreac out of the picture; the trade agreement will go to rotune; and you and your new regime will find yourselves looking down the muzzles of your own blasters." zorn threw his dope-stick to the floor with a snarl. "i should have smelled something when that rotune smoothie made his pitch." zorn looked at his watch. "i've got two hundred armed men in the palace. we've got about forty minutes to get over there before the rocket goes up." v "you'd better stay here on this terrace out of the way until i've spread the word," zorn said. "just in case." "let me caution you against any ... ah ... slip-ups, mr. zorn," magnan said. "the nenni are not to be molested--" zorn looked at retief. "your friend talks too much," he said. "i'll keep my end of it. he'd better keep his." "nothing's happened yet, you're sure?" magnan said. "i'm sure," zorn said. "ten minutes to go. plenty of time." "i'll just step into the salon to assure myself that all is well," magnan said. "suit yourself," zorn said. "just stay clear of the kitchen, or you'll get your throat cut." he sniffed at his dope-stick. "what's keeping shoke?" he muttered. magnan stepped to a tall glass door, eased it open and poked his head through the heavy draperies. as he moved to draw back, a voice was faintly audible. magnan paused, head still through the drapes. "what's going on there?" zorn rasped. he and retief stepped up behind magnan. "--breath of air, ha-ha," magnan was saying. "well, come along, magnan!" ambassador crodfoller's voice snapped. magnan shifted from one foot to the other then pushed through the drapes. "where've you been, mr. magnan?" the ambassador's voice was sharp. "oh ... ah ... a slight accident, mr. ambassador." "what's happened to your shoes? where are your insignia and decorations?" "i--ah--spilled a drink on them. sir. ah--listen...." the sound of an orchestra came up suddenly, blaring a fanfare. zorn shifted restlessly, ear against the glass. "what's your friend pulling?" he rasped. "i don't like this." "keep cool, zorn," retief said. "mr. magnan is doing a little emergency salvage on his career." the music died away with a clatter. "--my god," ambassador crodfoller's voice was faint. "magnan, you'll be knighted for this. thank god you reached me. thank god it's not too late. i'll find some excuse. i'll get a gram off at once." "but you--" "it's all right, magnan. you were in time. another ten minutes and the agreement would have been signed and transmitted. the wheels would have been put in motion. my career ruined...." retief felt a prod at his back. he turned. "doublecrossed," zorn said softly. "so much for the word of a diplomat." * * * * * retief looked at the short-barreled needler in zorn's hand. "i see you hedge your bets, zorn," he said. "we'll wait here," zorn said, "until the excitement's over inside. i wouldn't want to attract any attention right now." "your politics are still lousy, zorn. the picture hasn't changed. your coup hasn't got a chance." "skip it. i'll take up one problem at a time." "magnan's mouth has a habit of falling open at the wrong time--" "that's my good luck that i heard it. so there'll be no agreement, no guns, no fat job for tammany zorn, hey? well, i can still play it the other way, what have i got to lose?" with a movement too quick to follow, retief's hand chopped down across zorn's wrist. the needler clattered as zorn reeled, and then retief's hand clamped zorn's arm and whirled him around. "in answer to your last question," retief said, "your neck." "you haven't got a chance, doublecrosser," zorn gasped. "shoke will be here in a minute," retief said. "tell him it's all off." "twist harder, mister," zorn said. "break it off at the shoulder. i'm telling him nothing!" "the kidding's over, zorn," retief said. "call it off or i'll kill you." "i believe you," zorn said. "but you won't have long to remember it." "all the killing will be for nothing," retief said. "you'll be dead and the rotunes will step into the power vacuum." "so what? when i die, the world ends." "suppose i make you another offer, zorn?" "why would it be any better than the last one, chiseler?" retief released zorn's arm, pushed him away, stooped and picked up the needler. "i could kill you, zorn. you know that." "go ahead!" retief reversed the needler, held it out. "i'm a gambler too, zorn. i'm gambling you'll listen to what i have to say." zorn snatched the gun, stepped back. he looked at retief. "that wasn't the smartest bet you ever made, mister; but go ahead. you've got maybe ten seconds." "nobody doublecrossed you, zorn. magnan put his foot in it. too bad. is that a reason to kill yourself and a lot of other people who've bet their lives on you?" "they gambled and lost. tough." "maybe you haven't lost yet--if you don't quit." "get to the point!" retief spoke earnestly for a minute and a half. zorn stood, gun aimed, listening. then both men turned as footsteps approached along the terrace. a fat man in a yellow sarong padded up to zorn. zorn tucked the needler in his waistband. "hold everything, shoke," he said. "tell the boys to put the knives away. spread the word fast. it's all off." * * * * * "i want to commend you, retief," ambassador crodfoller said expansively. "you mixed very well at last night's affair. actually, i was hardly aware of your presence." "i've been studying mr. magnan's work," retief said. "a good man, magnan. in a crowd, he's virtually invisible." "he knows when to disappear all right." "this has been in many ways a model operation, retief." the ambassador patted his paunch contentedly. "by observing local social customs and blending harmoniously with the court, i've succeeded in establishing a fine, friendly, working relationship with the potentate." "i understand the agreement has been postponed." the ambassador chuckled. "the potentate's a crafty one. through ... ah ... a special study i have been conducting, i learned last night that he had hoped to, shall i say, 'put one over' on the corps." "great heavens," retief said. "naturally, this placed me in a difficult position. it was my task to quash this gambit, without giving any indication that i was aware of its existence." "a hairy position indeed," retief said. "quite casually, i informed the potentate that certain items which had been included in the terms of the agreement had been deleted and others substituted. i admired him at that moment, retief. he took it coolly--appearing completely indifferent--perfectly dissembling his very serious disappointment." "i noticed him dancing with three girls wearing a bunch of grapes apiece. he's very agile for a man of his bulk." "you mustn't discount the potentate! remember, beneath that mask of frivolity, he had absorbed a bitter blow." "he had me fooled," retief said. "don't feel badly; i confess at first i failed to sense his shrewdness." the ambassador nodded and moved off along the corridor. retief turned and went into an office. magnan looked up from his desk. "ah," he said. "retief. i've been meaning to ask you. about the ... ah ... blasters. are you--?" retief leaned on magnan's desk, looked at him. "i thought that was to be our little secret." "well, naturally i--" magnan closed his mouth, swallowed. "how is it, retief," he said sharply, "that you were aware of this blaster business, when the ambassador himself wasn't?" "easy," retief said. "i made it up." "you what!" magnan looked wild. "but the agreement--it's been revised! ambassador crodfoller has gone on record...." "too bad. glad _i_ didn't tell him about it." * * * * * magnan leaned back and closed his eyes. "it was big of you to take all the ... blame," retief said, "when the ambassador was talking about knighting people." magnan opened his eyes. "what about that gambler, zorn? won't he be upset?" "it's all right," retief said, "i made another arrangement. the business about making blasters out of common components wasn't completely imaginary. you can actually do it, using parts from an old-fashioned disposal unit." "what good will that do him?" magnan whispered, looking nervous. "we're not shipping in any old-fashioned disposal units." "we don't need to," retief said. "they're already installed in the palace kitchen--and in a few thousand other places, zorn tells me." "if this ever leaks...." magnan put a hand to his forehead. "i have his word on it that the nenni slaughter is out. this place is ripe for a change. maybe zorn is what it needs." "but how can we _know?_" magnan yelped. "how can we be sure?" "we can't," retief said. "but it's not up to the corps to meddle in petreacs' internal affairs." he leaned over, picked up magnan's desk lighter and lit a cigar. he blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. "right?" magnan looked at him, nodded weakly. "right." "i'd better be getting along to my desk," retief said. "now that the ambassador feels that i'm settling down at last--" "retief," magnan said, "tonight, i implore you. stay out of the kitchen--no matter what." retief raised his eyebrows. "i know," magnan said. "if you hadn't interfered, we'd all have had our throats cut. but at least," he added, "we'd have died in accordance with regulations!" end the yillian way by keith laumer the ceremonious protocol of the yills was impressive, colorful--and, in the long run, deadly! i jame retief, vice-consul and third secretary in the diplomatic corps, followed the senior members of the terrestrial mission across the tarmac and into the gloom of the reception building. the gray-skinned yill guide who had met the arriving embassy at the foot of the ramp hurried away. the councillor, two first secretaries and the senior attaches gathered around the ambassador, their ornate uniforms bright in the vast dun-colored room. ten minutes passed. retief strolled across to the nearest door and looked through the glass panel at the room beyond. several dozen yill lounged in deep couches, sipping lavender drinks from slender glass tubes. black-tunicked servants moved about inconspicuously, offering trays. a party of brightly-dressed yill moved toward the entrance doors. one of the party, a tall male, made to step before another, who raised a hand languidly, fist clenched. the first yill stepped back and placed his hands on top of his head. both yill were smiling and chatting as they passed through the doors. retief turned away to rejoin the terrestrial delegation waiting beside a mound of crates made of rough greenish wood stacked on the bare concrete floor. as retief came up, ambassador spradley glanced at his finger watch and spoke to the man beside him. "ben, are you quite certain our arrival time was made clear?" second secretary magnan nodded emphatically. "i stressed the point, mr. ambassador. i communicated with mr. t'cai-cai just before the lighter broke orbit, and i specifically----" "i hope you didn't appear truculent, mr. magnan," the ambassador said sharply. "no indeed, mr. ambassador. i merely----" "you're sure there's no vip room here?" the ambassador glanced around the cavernous room. "curious that not even chairs have been provided." "if you'd care to sit on one of these crates----" "certainly not." the ambassador looked at his watch again and cleared his throat. "i may as well make use of these few moments to outline our approach for the more junior members of the staff; it's vital that the entire mission work in harmony in the presentation of the image. we terrestrials are a kindly, peace-loving race." the ambassador smiled in a kindly, peace-loving way. "we seek only a reasonable division of spheres of influence with the yill." he spread his hands, looking reasonable. "we are a people of high culture, ethical, sincere." the smile was replaced abruptly by pursed lips. "we'll start by asking for the entire sirenian system, and settle for half. we'll establish a foothold on all the choicer worlds. and, with shrewd handling, in a century we'll be in a position to assert a wider claim." the ambassador glanced around. "if there are no questions----" * * * * * retief stepped forward. "it's my understanding, mr. ambassador, that we hold the prior claim to the sirenian system. did i understand your excellency to say that we're ready to concede half of it to the yill without a struggle?" ambassador spradley looked up at retief, blinking. the younger man loomed over him. beside him, magnan cleared his throat in the silence. "vice-consul retief merely means----" "i can interpret mr. retief's remark," the ambassador snapped. he assumed a fatherly expression. "young man, you're new to the service. you haven't yet learned the team play, the give-and-take of diplomacy. i shall expect you to observe closely the work of the experienced negotiators of the mission. you must learn the importance of subtlety." "mr. ambassador," magnan said, "i think the reception committee is arriving." he pointed. half a dozen tall, short-necked yill were entering through a side door. the leading yill hesitated as another stepped in his path. he raised a fist, and the other moved aside, touching the top of his head perfunctorily with both hands. the group started across the room toward the terrestrials. retief watched as a slender alien came forward and spoke passable terran in a reedy voice. "i am p'toi. come this way...." he turned, and the group moved toward the door, the ambassador leading. as he reached for the door, the interpreter darted ahead and shouldered him aside. the other yill stopped, waiting. the ambassador almost glared, then remembered the image. he smiled and beckoned the yill ahead. they milled uncertainly, muttering in the native tongue, then passed through the door. the terran party followed. "---- give a great deal to know what they're saying," retief overheard as he came up. "our interpreter has forged to the van," the ambassador said. "i can only assume he'll appear when needed." "a pity we have to rely on a native interpreter," someone said. "had i known we'd meet this rather uncouth reception," the ambassador said stiffly, "i would have audited the language personally, of course, during the voyage out." "oh, no criticism intended, of course, mr. ambassador." "heavens," magnan put in. "who would have thought----" retief moved up behind the ambassador. "mr. ambassador," he said, "i----" "later, young man," the ambassador snapped. he beckoned to the first councillor, and the two moved off, heads together. outside, a bluish sun gleamed in a dark sky. retief watched his breath form a frosty cloud in the chill air. a broad doughnut-wheeled vehicle was drawn up to the platform. the yill gestured the terran party to the gaping door at the rear, then stood back, waiting. retief looked curiously at the gray-painted van. the legend written on its side in alien symbols seemed to read "egg nog." * * * * * the ambassador entered the vehicle, the other terrestrials following. it was as bare of seats as the terminal building. what appeared to be a defunct electronic chassis lay in the center of the floor. retief glanced back. the yill were talking excitedly. none of them entered the car. the door was closed, and the terrans braced themselves under the low roof as the engine started up with a whine of worn turbos. the van moved off. it was an uncomfortable ride. retief put out an arm as the vehicle rounded a corner, just catching the ambassador as he staggered, off-balance. the ambassador glared at him, settled his heavy tri-corner hat and stood stiffly until the car lurched again. retief stooped, attempting to see out through the single dusty window. they seemed to be in a wide street lined with low buildings. they passed through a massive gate, up a ramp, and stopped. the door opened. retief looked out at a blank gray facade, broken by tiny windows at irregular intervals. a scarlet vehicle was drawn up ahead, the yill reception committee emerging from it. through its wide windows retief saw rich upholstery and caught a glimpse of glasses clamped to a tiny bar. p'toi, the yill interpreter, came forward, gestured to a small door. magnan opened it, waiting for the ambassador. as he stepped to it, a yill thrust himself ahead and hesitated. ambassador spradley drew himself up, glaring. then he twisted his mouth into a frozen smile and stepped aside. the yill looked at each other then filed through the door. retief was the last to enter. as he stepped inside, a black-clad servant slipped past him, pulled the lid from a large box by the door and dropped in a paper tray heaped with refuse. there were alien symbols in flaking paint on the box. they seemed, retief noticed, to spell "egg nog." ii the shrill pipes and whining reeds had been warming up for an hour when retief emerged from his cubicle and descended the stairs to the banquet hall. standing by the open doors, he lit a slender cigar and watched through narrowed eyes as obsequious servants in black flitted along the low wide corridor, carrying laden trays into the broad room, arranging settings on a great four-sided table forming a hollow square that almost filled the room. rich brocades were spread across the center of the side nearest the door, flanked by heavily decorated white cloths. beyond, plain white extended to the far side, where metal dishes were arranged on the bare table top. a richly dressed yill approached, stepped aside to allow a servant to pass and entered the room. retief turned at the sound of terran voices behind him. the ambassador came up, trailed by two diplomats. he glanced at retief, adjusted his ruff and looked into the banquet hall. "apparently we're to be kept waiting again," he muttered. "after having been informed at the outset that the yill have no intention of yielding an inch, one almost wonders...." "mr. ambassador," retief said. "have you noticed----" "however," ambassador spradley said, eyeing retief, "a seasoned diplomatist must take these little snubs in stride. in the end---- ah, there, magnan." he turned away, talking. somewhere a gong clanged. in a moment, the corridor was filled with chattering yill who moved past the group of terrestrials into the banquet hall. p'toi, the yill interpreter, came up and raised a hand. "waitt heere...." more yill filed into the dining room to take their places. a pair of helmeted guards approached, waving the terrestrials back. an immense gray-jowled yill waddled to the doors and passed through, followed by more guards. "the chief of state," retief heard magnan say. "the admirable f'kau-kau-kau." "i have yet to present my credentials," ambassador spradley said. "one expects some latitude in the observances of protocol, but i confess...." he wagged his head. the yill interpreter spoke up. "you now whill lhie on yourr intesstinss, and creep to fesstive board there." he pointed across the room. "intestines?" ambassador spradley looked about wildly. "mr. p'toi means our stomachs, i wouldn't wonder," magnan said. "he just wants us to lie down and crawl to our seats, mr. ambassador." "what the devil are you grinning at, you idiot?" the ambassador snapped. * * * * * magnan's face fell. spradley glanced down at the medals across his paunch. "this is.... i've never...." "homage to godss," the interpreter said. "oh. oh, religion," someone said. "well, if it's a matter of religious beliefs...." the ambassador looked dubiously around. "golly, it's only a couple of hundred feet," magnan offered. retief stepped up to p'toi. "his excellency the terrestrial ambassador will not crawl," he said clearly. "here, young man! i said nothing----" "not to crawl?" the interpreter wore an unreadable yill expression. "it is against our religion," retief said. "againsst?" "we are votaries of the snake goddess," retief said. "it is a sacrilege to crawl." he brushed past the interpreter and marched toward the distant table. the others followed. puffing, the ambassador came to retief's side as they approached the dozen empty stools on the far side of the square opposite the brocaded position of the admirable f'kau-kau-kau. "mr. retief, kindly see me after this affair," he hissed. "in the meantime, i hope you will restrain any further rash impulses. let me remind you _i_ am chief of mission here." magnan came up from behind. "let me add my congratulations, retief," he said. "that was fast thinking----" "are you out of your mind, magnan?" the ambassador barked. "i am extremely displeased!" "why," magnan stuttered, "i was speaking sarcastically, of course, mr. ambassador. didn't you notice the kind of shocked little gasp i gave when he did it?" the terrestrials took their places, retief at the end. the table before them was of bare green wood, with an array of shallow pewter dishes. some of the yill at the table were in plain gray, others in black. all eyed them silently. there was a constant stir among them as one or another rose and disappeared and others sat down. the pipes and reeds were shrilling furiously, and the susurration of yillian conversation from the other tables rose ever higher in competition. a tall yill in black was at the ambassador's side now. the nearby yill fell silent as he began ladling a whitish soup into the largest of the bowls before the terrestrial envoy. the interpreter hovered, watching. "that's quite enough," ambassador spradley said, as the bowl overflowed. the yill servant rolled his eyes, dribbled more of the soup into the bowl. "kindly serve the other members of my staff," the ambassador said. the interpreter said something in a low voice. the servant moved hesitantly to the next stool and ladled more soup. * * * * * retief watched, listening to the whispers around him. the yill at the table were craning now to watch. the soup ladler was ladling rapidly, rolling his eyes sideways. he came to retief, reached out with the full ladle for the bowl. "no," retief said. the ladler hesitated. "none for me," retief said. the interpreter came up and motioned to the servant, who reached again, ladle brimming. "i ... don't ... like ... it!" retief said, his voice distinct in the sudden hush. he stared at the interpreter, who stared back, then waved the servant away. "mr. retief!" a voice hissed. retief looked down at the table. the ambassador was leaning forward, glaring at him, his face a mottled crimson. "i'm warning you, mr. retief," he said hoarsely. "i've eaten sheep's eyes in the sudan, ka swe in burma, hundred-year _cug_ on mars and everything else that has been placed before me in the course of my diplomatic career. and, by the holy relics of saint ignatz, you'll do the same!" he snatched up a spoon-like utensil and dipped it into his bowl. "don't eat that, mr. ambassador," retief said. the ambassador stared, eyes wide. he opened his mouth, guided the spoon toward it---- retief stood, gripped the table under its edge and heaved. the immense wooden slab rose and tilted, dishes sliding. it crashed to the floor with a ponderous slam. whitish soup splattered across the terrazzo. a couple of odd bowls rolled across the room. cries rang out from the yill, mingling with a strangled yell from ambassador spradley. retief walked past the wild-eyed members of the mission to the sputtering chief. "mr. ambassador," he said. "i'd like----" "you'd like! i'll break you, you young hoodlum! do you realize----" "pleass...." the interpreter stood at retief's side. "my apologies," ambassador spradley said, mopping his forehead. "my profound apologies." "be quiet," retief said. "wha--what?" "don't apologize," retief said. p'toi was beckoning. "pleasse, arll come." retief turned and followed him. the portion of the table they were ushered to was covered with an embroidered white cloth, set with thin porcelain dishes. the yill already seated there rose, amid babbling, and moved down the table. the black-clad yill at the end table closed ranks to fill the vacant seats. retief sat down and found magnan at his side. "what's going on here?" the second secretary said angrily. "they were giving us dog food," retief said. "i overheard a yill. they seated us at the bottom of the servants' table----" "you mean you know their language?" "i learned it on the way out. enough, at least." the music burst out with a clangorous fanfare, and a throng of jugglers, dancers and acrobats poured into the center of the hollow square, frantically juggling, dancing and back-flipping. black-clad servants swarmed suddenly, heaping mounds of fragrant food on the plates of yill and terrestrials alike, pouring a pale purple liquor into slender glasses. retief sampled the yill food. it was delicious. conversation was impossible in the din. he watched the gaudy display and ate heartily. iii retief leaned back, grateful for the lull in the music. the last of the dishes were whisked away, and more glasses filled. the exhausted entertainers stopped to pick up the thick square coins the diners threw. retief sighed. it had been a rare feast. "retief," magnan said in the comparative quiet, "what were you saying about dog food as the music came up?" retief looked at him. "haven't you noticed the pattern, mr. magnan? the series of deliberate affronts?" "deliberate affronts! just a minute, retief. they're uncouth, yes, crowding into doorways and that sort of thing...." he looked at retief uncertainly. "they herded us into a baggage warehouse at the terminal. then they hauled us here in a garbage truck----" "garbage truck!" "only symbolic, of course. they ushered us in the tradesman's entrance, and assigned us cubicles in the servants' wing. then we were seated with the coolie class sweepers at the bottom of the table." "you must be.... i mean, we're the terrestrial delegation! surely these yill must realize our power." "precisely, mr. magnan. but----" with a clang of cymbals the musicians launched a renewed assault. six tall, helmeted yill sprang into the center of the floor and paired off in a wild performance, half dance, half combat. magnan pulled at retief's arm, his mouth moving. retief shook his head. no one could talk against a yill orchestra in full cry. he sampled a bright red wine and watched the show. there was a flurry of action, and two of the dancers stumbled and collapsed, their partner-opponents whirling away to pair off again, describe the elaborate pre-combat ritual, and abruptly set to, dulled sabres clashing--and two more yill were down, stunned. it was a violent dance. retief watched, the drink forgotten. the last two yill approached and retreated, whirled, bobbed and spun, feinted and postured--and on the instant, clashed, straining chest-to-chest--then broke apart, heavy weapons chopping, parrying, as the music mounted to a frenzy. [illustration] evenly matched, the two hacked, thrust, blow for blow, across the floor, then back, defense forgotten, slugging it out. and then one was slipping, going down, helmet awry. the other, a giant, muscular yill, spun away, whirled in a mad skirl of pipes as coins showered--then froze before a gaudy table, raised the sabre and slammed it down in a resounding blow across the gay cloth before a lace and bow-bedecked yill in the same instant that the music stopped. in utter silence the dancer-fighter stared across the table at the seated yill. with a shout, the yill leaped up, raised a clenched fist. the dancer bowed his head, spread his hands on his helmet. retief took a deep gulp of a pale yellow liqueur and leaned forward to watch. the beribboned yill waved a hand negligently, spilled a handful of coins across the table and sat down. the challenger spun away in a screeching shrill of music. retief caught his eye for an instant as he passed. and then the dancer stood rigid before the brocaded table--and the music stopped off short as the sabre slammed down before a heavy yill in ornate metallic coils. the challenged yill rose and raised a fist. the other ducked his head, put his hands on his helmet. coins rolled. the dancer moved on. twice more the dancer struck the table in ritualistic challenge, exchanged gestures, bent his neck and passed on. he circled the broad floor, sabre twirling, arms darting in an intricate symbolism. the orchestra blared shrilly, unmuffled now by the surf-roar of conversation. the yill, retief noticed suddenly, were sitting silent, watching. the dancer was closer now, and then he was before retief, poised, towering, sabre above his head. the music cut, and in the startling instantaneous silence, the heavy sabre whipped over and down with an explosive concussion that set dishes dancing on the table-top. * * * * * the yill's eyes held on retief's. in the silence, magnan tittered drunkenly. retief pushed back his stool. "steady, my boy," ambassador spradley called. retief stood, the yill topping his six foot three by an inch. in a motion almost too quick to follow, retief reached for the sabre, twitched it from the yill's grip, swung it in a whistling cut. the yill ducked, sprang back, snatched up a sabre dropped by another dancer. "someone stop the madman!" spradley howled. retief leaped across the table, sending fragile dishes spinning. the other danced back, and only then did the orchestra spring to life with a screech and a mad tattoo of high-pitched drums. making no attempt to following the weaving pattern of the yill bolero, retief pressed the other, fending off vicious cuts with the blunt weapon, chopping back relentlessly. left hand on hip, retief matched blow for blow, driving the other back. abruptly, the yill abandoned the double role. dancing forgotten, he settled down in earnest, cutting, thrusting, parrying; and now the two stood toe to toe, sabres clashing in a lightning exchange. the yill gave a step, two, then rallied, drove retief back, back---- and the yill stumbled. his sabre clattered, and retief dropped his point as the other wavered past him and crashed to the floor. the orchestra fell silent in a descending wail of reeds. retief drew a deep breath and wiped his forehead. "come back here, you young fool!" spradley called hoarsely. retief hefted the sabre, turned, eyed the brocade-draped table. he started across the floor. the yill sat as if paralyzed. "retief, no!" spradley yelped. retief walked directly to the admirable f'kau-kau-kau, stopped, raised the sabre. "not the chief of state," someone in the terrestrial mission groaned. retief whipped the sabre down. the dull blade split the cloth and clove the hardwood table. there was utter silence. the admirable f'kau-kau-kau rose, seven feet of obese gray yill. broad face expressionless to any terran eyes, he raised a fist like a jewel-studded ham. retief stood rigid for a long moment. then, gracefully, he inclined his head, placed his finger tips on his temples. behind him, there was a clatter as ambassador spradley collapsed. then the admirable f'kau-kau-kau cried out and reached across the table to embrace the terrestrial, and the orchestra went mad. gray hands helped retief across the table, stools were pushed aside to make room at f'kau-kau-kau's side. retief sat, took a tall flagon of coal-black brandy pressed on him by his neighbor, clashed glasses with the admirable and drank. iv retief turned at the touch on his shoulder. "the ambassador wants to speak to you, retief," magnan said. retief looked across to where ambassador spradley sat glowering behind the plain tablecloth. "under the circumstances," retief said, "you'd better ask him to come over here." "the ambassador?" magnan's voice cracked. "never mind the protocol," retief said. "the situation is still delicate." magnan went away. "the feast ends," f'kau-kau-kau said. "now you and i, retief, must straddle the council stool." "i'll be honored, admirable," retief said. "i must inform my colleagues." "colleagues?" f'kau-kau-kau said. "it is for chiefs to parley. who shall speak for a king while he yet has tongue for talk?" "the yill way is wise," retief said. f'kau-kau-kau emptied a squat tumbler of pink beer. "i will treat with you, retief, as viceroy, since as you say your king is old and the space between worlds is far. but there shall be no scheming underlings privy to our dealings." he grinned a yill grin. "afterwards we shall carouse, retief. the council stool is hard and the waiting handmaidens delectable. this makes for quick agreement." retief smiled. "the king is wise." "of course, a being prefers wenches of his own kind," f'kau-kau-kau said. he belched. "the ministry of culture has imported several terry--excuse me, retief--terrestrial joy-girls, said to be top-notch specimens. at least they have very fat watchamacallits." "the king is most considerate," retief said. "let us to it then, retief. i may hazard a fling with one of your terries, myself. i fancy an occasional perversion." f'kau-kau-kau dug an elbow into retief's side and bellowed with laughter. ambassador spradley hurried to intercept retief as he crossed to the door at f'kau-kau-kau's side. "retief, kindly excuse yourself, i wish a word with you." his voice was icy. magnan stood behind him, goggling. "mr. ambassador, forgive my apparent rudeness," retief said. "i don't have time to explain now----" "rudeness!" spradley barked. "don't have time, eh? let me tell you----" "lower your voice, mr. ambassador," retief said. spradley quivered, mouth open, speechless. "if you'll sit down and wait quietly," retief said, "i think----" "_you_ think!" spradley spluttered. * * * * * "silence!" retief said. spradley looked up at retief's face. he stared for a moment into retief's gray eyes, closed his mouth and swallowed. "the yill seem to have gotten the impression i'm in charge," retief said, "we'll have to keep it up." "but--but--" spradley stuttered. then he straightened. "that is the last straw," he whispered hoarsely. "_i_ am the terrestrial ambassador extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary. magnan has told me that we've been studiedly insulted, repeatedly, since the moment of our arrival. kept waiting in baggage rooms, transported in refuse lorries, herded about with servants, offered swill at table. now i and my senior staff, are left cooling our heels, without so much as an audience while this--this multiple kau person hobnobs with--with--" spradley's voice broke. "i may have been a trifle hasty, retief, in attempting to restrain you. blaspheming the native gods and dumping the banquet table are rather extreme measures, but your resentment was perhaps partially justified. i am prepared to be lenient with you." he fixed a choleric eye on retief. "i am walking out of this meeting, mr. retief. i'll take no more of these deliberate personal----" "that's enough," retief snapped. "you're keeping the king waiting. get back to your chair and sit there until i come back." magnan found his voice. "what are you going to do, retief?" "i'm going to handle the negotiation," retief said. he handed magnan his empty glass. "now go sit down and work on the image." * * * * * at his desk in the vip suite aboard the orbiting corps vessel, ambassador spradley pursed his lips and looked severely at vice-consul retief. "further," he said, "you have displayed a complete lack of understanding of corps discipline, the respect due a senior agent, even the basic courtesies. your aggravated displays of temper, ill-timed outbursts of violence and almost incredible arrogance in the assumption of authority make your further retention as an officer-agent of the diplomatic corps impossible. it will therefore be my unhappy duty to recommend your immediate----" there was a muted buzz from the communicator. the ambassador cleared his throat. "well?" "a signal from sector hq, mr. ambassador," a voice said. "well, read it," spradley snapped. "skip the preliminaries." "congratulations on the unprecedented success of your mission. the articles of agreement transmitted by you embody a most favorable resolution of the difficult sirenian situation, and will form the basis of continued amicable relations between the terrestrial states and the yill empire. to you and your staff, full credit is due for a job well done. signed, deputy assistant secretary----" spradley cut off the voice impatiently. he shuffled papers, eyed retief sharply. "superficially, of course, an uninitiated observer might leap to the conclusion that the--ah--results that were produced in spite of these ... ah ... irregularities justify the latter." the ambassador smiled a sad, wise smile. "this is far from the case," he said. "i----" the communicator burped softly. "confound it!" spradley muttered. "yes?" "mr. t'cai-cai has arrived," the voice said. "shall i----" "send him in at once." spradley glanced at retief. "only a two-syllable man, but i shall attempt to correct these false impressions, make some amends...." the two terrestrials waited silently until the yill protocol chief tapped at the door. "i hope," the ambassador said, "that you will resist the impulse to take advantage of your unusual position." he looked at the door. "come in." t'cai-cai stepped into the room, glanced at spradley, turned to greet retief in voluble yill. he rounded the desk to the ambassador's chair, motioned him from it and sat down. * * * * * "i have a surprise for you, retief," he said, in terran. "i myself have made use of the teaching machine you so kindly lent us." "that's fine. t'cai-cai," retief said. "i'm sure mr. spradley will be interested in hearing what we have to say." "never mind," the yill said. "i am here only socially." he looked around the room. "so plainly you decorate your chamber. but it has a certain austere charm." he laughed a yill laugh. "oh, you are a strange breed, you terrestrials. you surprised us all. you know, one hears such outlandish stories. i tell you in confidence, we had expected you to be overpushes." "pushovers," spradley said, tonelessly. "such restraint! what pleasure you gave to those of us, like myself of course, who appreciated your grasp of protocol. such finesse! how subtly you appeared to ignore each overture, while neatly avoiding actual contamination. i can tell you, there were those who thought--poor fools--that you had no grasp of etiquette. how gratified we were, we professionals, who could appreciate your virtuosity--when you placed matters on a comfortable basis by spurning the cats'-meat. it was sheer pleasure then, waiting, to see what form your compliment would take." the yill offered orange cigars, stuffed one in his nostril. "i confess even i had not hoped that you would honor our admirable so signally. oh, it is a pleasure to deal with fellow professionals, who understand the meaning of protocol!" ambassador spradley made a choking sound. "this fellow has caught a chill," t'cai-cai said. he eyed spradley dubiously. "step back, my man. i am highly susceptible. "there is one bit of business i shall take pleasure in attending to, my dear retief," t'cai-cai went on. he drew a large paper from his reticule. "the admirable is determined than none other than yourself shall be accredited here. i have here my government's exequatur confirming you as terrestrial consul-general to yill. we shall look forward to your prompt return." retief looked at spradley. "i'm sure the corps will agree," he said. "then i shall be going," t'cai-cai said. he stood up. "hurry back to us, retief. there is much that i would show you of yill." "i'll hurry," retief said and, with a yill wink: "together we shall see many high and splendid things!" end +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | coming in the march issue of if-- | | | | the madman from earth | | by keith laumer | | | | tybalt | | by stephen barr | | | | a great new cover novelette by poul anderson--plus short | | stories, theodore sturgeon's column, features, etc. on sale | | january th at all newsstands. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note and errata | | | | this e-text was produced from 'worlds of if' january . | | extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s.| | copyright on this publication was renewed. | | | | one instance of 'tubos' has been corrected to 'turbos'. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ none scanned images of public domain material from the google print archive. the dollar library parlous times the dollar library of american fiction * * * * * the girl at the halfway house. by e. hough. parlous times. by d. d. wells. lords of the north. by a. c. laut. the chronic loafer. by nelson lloyd. her mountain lover. by hamlin garland. etc. etc. etc. * * * * * london: wm. heinemann. parlous times * * * * * a novel of modern diplomacy * * * * * by david dwight wells author of "her ladyship's elephant," "his lordship's leopard" [illustration] * * * * * london: william heinemann. contents chapter page i. the conspiracy ii. wanted--a chaperon iii. parlous times iv. a lady in distress v. a gentleman in distress vi. afternoon tea vii. an irate husband viii. diplomatic instructions ix. a house-warming x. before dinner xi. after dinner xii. a morning call xiii. the serious side of miss fitzgerald's nature xiv. the serious side of the secretary's nature xv. the secretary's intentions xvi. man proposes xvii. her husband xviii. the door with the silver nails xix. a midnight message xx. the wisdom of age xxi. the resources of diplomacy xxii. a little commission xxiii. forty thousand pounds xxiv. a very awkward predicament xxv. the rustle of a skirt xxvi. face to face xxvii. the marriage register xxviii. two questions xxix. in which death is a relief xxx. two letters xxxi. miss fitzgerald burns her boats xxxii. the top of the tower xxxiii. the secret of the door xxxiv. within the tower xxxv. the short way out xxxvi. the day of reckoning xxxvii. the price of knowledge xxxviii. the price of love xxxix. the price of silence xl. the price of a lie chapter i the conspiracy "forty thousand pounds is a pretty sum of money." "bribery is not a pretty word." "no--there should be a better name for private transactions when the amount involved assumes proportions of such dignity." the speaker smiled and glanced covertly at his companion. "darcy is our man without doubt. can you land him? he may hold out for the lion's share and then refuse on the ground of--honour." "darcy and honour! that is a far call." "there is much unsuspected honesty going around." "perhaps--but not darcy." "but what if he refuse?" "he cannot." "why not?" "that's my secret. i force darcy's hand for you, and in return i expect fair recognition." "you have our promise, but it must be to-night. there is no time to lose. i'll go on to the house. where will you see darcy?" "leave that to me. until morning--_adios_," and he vanished among the deep shadows and dark shrubbery. * * * * * the sun had sunk red and fiery below the edge of the waving mesa, and a full tropical moon shed its glory over the landscape, making dark and mysterious the waving fields of cane, which surrounded the whitewashed courts of the palatial hacienda. the building was brilliantly lighted within, and from it came such sounds of discordant merriment as could be produced only by a singularly inferior native orchestra. through one of the long french windows which gave on to the veranda of the house, there stepped forth the figure of a man. he stood for a moment taking long breaths of the heavy miasmatic air, as if it were grateful and refreshing after the stifling atmosphere of the ballroom. had he not worn the uniform of a british officer he would still have been unmistakably military in appearance, standing six feet or over, a fine specimen of an animal, and handsome to look upon. but it was a weak face for a soldier, in spite of its bronze and scars, a weakness which was accentuated by the traces of a recent illness. to judge from his pallor it had been severe. the man had a pair of shifty grey eyes, which never by any chance looked you straight in the face, and now expressed ill-concealed ennui and annoyance. not the countenance of a joyful bridegroom certainly, and yet, he had but that moment left the side of his wife of a few hours, the most beautiful woman in that south american state, and the only child and sole heiress of its most famous planter, señor de costa. up to that day the progress of his suit and the many obstacles which might intervene to prevent its successful consummation, had given a certain zest to the game. now that he had won, he was heartily sick and tired of the whole affair. seizing a moment when his wife was dancing with one of her relations, he had stolen out on the broad veranda to be alone, and to pull himself together in order that he might play out the rest of what was, to him, a little comedy; and to the woman within--well, time would show. the soft moonlight tempted him. his place was in the ballroom, he knew, but he put one foot off the edge of the piazza, and as it pressed the soft grass under his feet, he fell a willing victim to the spell of the night, and strolled slowly off into the darkness. his meditations were not, however, destined to remain uninterrupted. he had gone scarcely thirty yards when a lithe figure rose suddenly out of a clump of bushes, and touching him softly on the arm, whispered in perfect english, without the faintest touch of spanish accent:-- "hist, señor darcy. a word with you, and speak softly." "who the devil are you?" demanded colonel darcy, instinctively feeling for his revolver, for in this remote and not over well-governed section, a night encounter did not always have a pleasant termination. "i mean you no harm," said the stranger, "only good." "then why couldn't you come to the house and see me there?" demanded the officer brusquely. "it was out of consideration for your excellency," replied the stranger quietly. "i had the honour to serve under your excellency some years ago, in england." "impossible!" said the colonel. "you are spanish, but----" "of spanish parents, señor, but english-born. i joined the regiment at blankhampton. my room-mate was sergeant tom mannis." darcy drew in his breath sharply. "your excellency may remember he died of fever." "i never saw or heard of your friend!" "though he was your excellency's body-servant," suggested the stranger. darcy bit his moustache. "when he died," continued the speaker, "he bequeathed certain papers to me, containing evidence of a ceremony performed over a certain officer of his regiment, then stationed in ireland, in the month of august three years ago." "ah," said the colonel, "i think i see the drift of your remarks, my friend. you wish to have a little chat with me, eh?" the man nodded. "it is a pleasant night," continued darcy, "suppose we stroll a trifle farther from the house." he slipped his hand furtively behind him. "with pleasure," acquiesced the other. "but," he added, as they took their first step forward, "the señor will find only blank cartridges in his revolver. it is a matter that i attended to personally." darcy swore under his breath. aloud he said, simply:-- "say what you have to say, and be quick. i shall be missed from the ballroom." the man nodded again, and plunged abruptly into his narration. "there is an island at the mouth of the x----river, off the coast of this country, as you have probably heard. it contains large manufactories for the sale of a staple article, which we produce. owing to an amiable arrangement between the heads of the firm in england and our government, a monopoly of this article is secured to them, in return for which certain officials in this country receive thousands of pesetas a year. as your excellency may remember, a treaty is pending between this country and great britain, looking to the secession of the island to the latter. if the treaty succeeds, the monopoly, owing to your accursed free-trade principles, will cease, and the island and its products be thrown open to competition." "it has been suggested by certain patriotically disposed personages, with a desire for their country's good, that a prearranged disposition of forty thousand pounds in gold among a majority of the members of the cabinet who are to pass upon the treaty some six months hence, might result in its rejection." "well," said darcy, shortly, "what of that?" "the only difficulty that remains, is the transportation of the bullion from england to our capital. those interested in the matter have felt that if an englishman of undoubted integrity," there was just a suspicion of sarcasm in the speaker's tones, "who is so highly connected in this country that the usual customs formalities would be omitted on his re-entry, i say, if this englishman could see his way to bringing over the gold, things might be satisfactorily arranged." "a very interesting little plot," said the officer. "and what would the philanthropic englishman receive for his services?" "he would receive at the hands of the president of the company a packet of papers, formally the property of sergeant tom mannis, of her britannic majesty's --th fusiliers, lately deceased." "and what would prevent the philanthropic but muscular englishman from wringing the neck of the low-down sneak who has proposed this plan to him, and taking the papers out of his inside pocket?" "because, excellency, they are now in the safe of the manufacturing company." "and the president of that company?" "is a guest at your excellency's wedding." darcy clenched his hands nervously. he was battling silently, skilfully, not to betray the dread which was unnerving him. the music floated out from the house--fitful and discordant. "an englishman," he said slowly, "never gives way to a threat, but of course, if he could be brought to see the purely philanthropic side of the argument, and receive--well, say, five per cent. of the bullion carried, for his travelling expenses, he might see his way to sacrifice his personal interests for the good of his adopted country." "good," said the stranger. "the president will meet you the day after to-morrow, at three o'clock in the afternoon, at the capital in the san carlos club." "very well," said darcy. "go. someone's coming!" the figure of the stranger faded into the darkness, and a moment later the soft footsteps of a woman approached. "ah, _mia carrissima_," he said, taking her in his arms. "you have missed me." "yes," she said, with a little sigh of satisfied relief, as she felt his strong embrace about her. "but why did you leave me? i do not understand." "the air of the room oppressed me. i came out to breathe." "i did not know," she said. "i was frightened." and as she raised her face to him, he saw that she had been crying. she might well have commanded any man's attention. tall and slight, lissome in every movement of her exquisitely shaped figure, barely thirty, and very fair withal. even the tears which sparkled on her long lashes could not obscure the superb black eyes full of a passion which betrayed castilian parentage as surely as did those finely-chiselled features, and that silky crown of hair which, unbound, must have descended to her feet. half spanish, half greek, she was a woman to be looked upon and loved. "but, inez, surely you trusted me?" came the suave tones of expostulation from her husband. "trusted you, my knight? have i not trusted you this day with my soul, with my whole life? you have been so near to death's door, and i have been so near to losing you, that i fear now, every moment you are out of my sight." "oh, i don't think there is any danger," he said, laughing. "i am strong enough now, though i daresay i should never have pulled through without such a plucky nurse." "ah, yes," she said. "i can shut my eyes and see you now, how frightfully ill and worn you were, when you came to my father's house that night, three months ago, invalided home from india." "yes," he said. "it was the greatest stroke of luck in my life that i should have lost my way and have been obliged to beg your hospitality for the night." "and then the fever. the next morning you were delirious. for days you knew nothing, understood nothing, yet you talked, talked, always." colonel darcy shifted uneasily. "one generally does that," he said. "the raving of delirium." "you said things that meant nothing usually. but one name you were always repeating, a strange english name of a woman." "and it was?" he murmured, stroking her hair. "belle. la belle, i think you meant. and the other name, i do not remember. it sounded harsh, and i did not like it." he laughed nervously. "there is nothing for you to be jealous about, _cara mia_," he said. "it was the name of a playmate of my childhood. i had not heard or thought of it for years. but that is the way in fever. the forgotten things, the things of no importance come uppermost in the mind." "and then," she went on, "came that happy day when you knew us, and then you grew stronger and better, and i realised that you would be going away from us for ever." "did you think?" he asked softly, "that i could ever have forgotten my nurse?" "i had been unhappy and very lonely. i feared to hope for joy again, till the day that you told me you loved me." and she hid her face on his shoulder to hide her blushes. "come," he said. "we must think of the present. i have a little surprise for you. i have been going over my affairs, and i do not think it will be necessary to take you away from home for so long a time as i had first thought. i hope that in six months we may be able to return." "oh!" she cried. "that is indeed good news! i dread your england. it is so far away, and so strange." "i shall try to teach you to love it. but we must be returning to the house. our guests will miss us." "oh, yes," she replied. "i meant to have told you. the president of some great manufacturing company has arrived to pay his respects, and is anxious to speak with you." chapter ii wanted--a chaperon aloysius stanley, secretary of a south american embassy, was not happy. yet he was counted one of the most fortunate young men in london. of good family, and large fortune, he had attained a social position, which not a few might envy. his rooms faced the park, he belonged to the swellest and most inane club in town, was _ex officio_ a member of the court, and knew at least two duchesses, not perhaps intimately, but well enough to speak to at a crush. he had been christened aloysius, because his father owned a large plantation in a south american republic--no, it was a dictatorship then--and had named his son after the saint on whose day he had been born, out of consideration for the religious prejudices of the community. his name, then, was aloysius stanley, and this was the reason his intimates called him "jim." his other titles were "my dear colleague," when his brethren in the diplomatic corps wanted anything of him, and "mr. secretary" when his chief was wroth. having shown no special aptitude for growing sugar he had been early put into diplomacy, under the erroneous impression that it would keep him out of mischief. he was, on the evening on which he is first introduced to us, standing in the immaculate glory of his dress suit, on the top step of the grand staircase of the hyde park club. his party, a very nice little party of six, had all arrived save one, and that one was his chaperon. the two young ladies, safe in harbour of the cloak-room, awaited her coming to flutter forth; the two gentlemen wandered aimlessly about the now nearly deserted reception-room, for dinner was served and most of the brilliant parties had already gone to their respective tables. surely she would come, he told himself; something unavoidable had detained her. lady rainsford was much too conscientious to leave an unfortunate young man in the lurch without sending at least a substitute--yet, with it all, there was the sickening suspicion that she might have met with a carriage accident in crowded piccadilly; have received, as she was on the point of starting, the news of some near relative's death; some untoward accident or stroke of fate, which took no count of social obligations, and would leave him in this most awful predicament. why had he departed from his invariable rule of asking two married ladies--what if it did cramp him in the number of his guests? anything was better than this suspense! if fate was only kind to him this once, he vowed he would never, as long as he lived, tempt her again in this respect. hark--what was that! a hansom was driving at break-neck speed up to the ladies' entrance. some other belated guest--lady rainsford had her own carriage--no, a man--and-- good heavens! it, was her ladyship's--butler. something had happened. he needed no page to summon him--he rushed down, two stairs at a time. "no, sir, no message," explained the flustered butler--"i come on my own responsibility--seeing as her ladyship had fainted dead away as she was just a putting on her opera cloak--and knowing as she was coming to you, sir, as soon as the doctors had been sent for, i jumps into a cab and comes here to let you know as you couldn't expect her no-how--her not having revived when i left--and-- thank you, sir----" as stanley, cutting short his volubility, pressed a half-sovereign into his hand, to pay him for his cab fare and his trouble--adding as he did so:-- "pray request her ladyship not to worry herself about me, i shall be able, doubtless, to make other arrangements--and--express my deep regrets at her indisposition." the man touched his hat and was gone, and the secretary slowly reascended the stairs. "make other arrangements!" ah, that was easier said than done. what would his guests say when he confessed to them his awkward dilemma? lady isabelle mclane would raise her eyebrows, call a cab, and go home, would infinitely prefer to do so than to remain under the present conditions. but belle? without doubt belle fitzgerald would do the same--not because she wished to, but because lady isabelle did. and the two men--they would probably stay and chaff him about it the rest of the evening. lieutenant kingsland always chaffed everybody--he could stand that--but kent-lauriston's quiet, well-bred cynicism, would, he felt, under the circumstances, simply drive him mad. yet, they must be told. he must face the music, or find a chaperon, and how could he do the latter in a maze of people whom he did not know, and who were all engaged to their own dinner-parties? outside the club it was hopeless, for there was no time to send for any lady friend, even were such an one dressed and waiting to come at his behest. a telephone might have saved the situation, but london is above telephones; they are not sufficiently exclusive. no, he must meet his fate, and bear it like a man, and none of his guests would ever forget it or forgive him, or accept any of his invitations again. stanley ascended the stairs with the sensations of an early christian martyr going to the arena--indeed, he felt that a brace of hungry lions would be a happy release from his present predicament. as he reached the top step, a conversation, carried on in the low but excited tones of a man and a woman, reached his ears, which caused him to pause, partly out of curiosity at what he heard, but more because the words carried, in their meaning, a ray of hope to his breast. "i tell you, i will not dine with those men. it is an insult to have asked me to receive them, they are----", but here the man, evidently her husband, interrupted earnestly in a low tone of voice, begging her to be silent, but she did not heed his request. "i tell you," she continued, as he passed on to the dining-rooms, "i will go back alone. ugh! how i despise you!" loathing and contempt stung in her words. "if only my father were here, he would never permit----" she turned suddenly, and crossed the hall to the staircase, coming face to face with the secretary. "what-- inez? you? i did not know you were in london. but of course-- i might have known-- then that was colonel darcy? i have never had an opportunity to congratulate him or--to wish you every happiness," he added bitterly. "don't, jim! don't!" there was something suspiciously like a sob in her low voice. "that is a mockery i cannot stand--at least from you." "i fail to understand how my wishes, good or otherwise, would mean anything to madame darcy." "no--you do not understand. that is just it. oh, jim--it has all been a piteous, horrible mistake. they lied to me--and then you did not come back. they said you were--oh, can't you see?" the secretary looked at the beautiful face before him, now flushed and distressed. how well he knew every line of that exquisite profile and the hair parted low and drawn back lightly from the brow. "let me explain," he urged hotly. madame darcy had recovered her self-possession and drew herself up with a gesture of proud dignity. "no--" she answered gently. "this is neither the time nor place for explanations between us. will you see me to my carriage--please?" "oh, don't go! i need you so. please stay and help me out of a most embarrassing situation." "what can i do for you?" "well, you see it is a most awkward predicament. my chaperon has been taken suddenly ill at the last moment, and is unable to be present," he began, plunging boldly into his subject. "as i am entertaining two young ladies at dinner to-night, you will understand my unfortunate situation. will you honour me by accepting the vacant place at the head of my table, as my chaperon?" madame darcy said nothing for a moment, but looked intently at the secretary. "who form your party, mr. stanley?" she asked presently. "do not call me mr. stanley, inez." "it is better--at least for the present." "as you wish, madame darcy," he acquiesced stiffly. "i cannot explain now--but believe me it is wiser. and your party consists of--?" "lady isabelle mclane, daughter of the dowager marchioness of port arthur, miss fitzgerald, a niece of lord axminster, lieutenant kingsland, of the royal navy, and lionel kent-lauriston--well, everybody knows him." she smiled. "yes," she said, "i have met him; he is most charming." in saying which she but voiced the generally accepted verdict of society. everyone knew kent-lauriston and everyone liked him. he was a type of the most delightful class of englishman. with all his insular prejudices strong within him, and combining in his personality those rugged virtues for which the name of britain is a synonym, he had in addition that rarest of talents, the quality of being all things to all men; for he was possessed of great tact and sympathy flavoured with a cheerful cynicism which hurt no one, and lent a piquancy to his conversation. it was said of him, were he put down in any english shire, he would not need to walk five miles to find a country house where he would be a welcome and an honoured guest. "then i may hope that you will do me this great kindness?" continued the secretary. "i accept with pleasure." "and colonel darcy----" he began. "my husband," she replied, not waiting for him to finish his sentence, "cannot possibly have any objection to my dining with my country's diplomatic representative. i will speak to him, however, and tell him when to order my carriage," and she passed into the next room. though unperceived himself, the secretary saw reflected in a great mirror the scene that followed; her proud reserve as she delivered her dictum to her husband, his gesture of impatient anger, and the look which attended it; and finally the contempt with which she turned her back on him and swept out of the room. a moment later she was by stanley's side, saying:-- "will you take me to your guests?" as she entered the reception room on the secretary's arm, he trembled with evident agitation. her marvellous beauty, the wonderful charm of her voice and manner brought to mind only too vividly a realising sense of something he had once hoped for--of something which, of late, he had tried to forget. yet he was about to give a dinner to a lady whose future relations with himself had been a subject of debate for some months, not only in his own mind, but in the minds of his friends. miss fitzgerald was the guest of the evening, and, it must be allowed, was one of the most winsome, heart-wrecking, irish girls that ever delighted the gaze of a youth. she was tall, fair, and almost too slim for perfection of form, though possessed of a lissomeness of body that more than compensated for this lack, and she had, in addition, the frankest pair of blue eyes, and the most gorgeous halo of golden hair, that could well be imagined. she was possessed of a legendary family in ireland, and numerous sets of relations, who, though not very closely connected, were much in evidence in the social world of london. she had, however, no settled abiding place, and no visible means of support. she was sparkling, light-hearted, and perfect dare-devil, and the town rang with the histories of her exploits. all the men were devoted to her, and as a result, she was cordially hated by all the dowagers, because she effectively spoiled the chances of dozens of other less vivacious but more eligible debutantes. the remainder of the guests were brought together rather by circumstance than by design. kent-lauriston had been especially invited, because the secretary knew him to be greatly prejudiced against the fascinating belle, with regard to any matrimonial intentions she might be fostering. miss fitzgerald herself had suggested the lieutenant, and the lieutenant had opportunely hinted that his distant connection lady isabelle did not know miss fitzgerald, and as they were all to meet in a country house in sussex at the end of the week, perhaps it would be pleasanter to become acquainted beforehand. at madame darcy's coming, such a feeling of relief was made manifest that her task would have been light, had not her charm of manner served to put all immediately at their ease. the ladies welcomed her warmly as a solution of an embarrassing situation, and with men she was always a favourite, so the little party lost no time in seeking their already belated dinner. at first, indeed, there was a little constraint, owing to the fact that lady isabelle, a type of the frigid high-class british maiden, was disposed to assume an icy reserve towards miss fitzgerald, a young lady of whom she and her mother, a dragon among dowagers, thoroughly disapproved. the conversation was desultory, as is mostly the case at dinners, and not till the champagne had been passed for the second time did it become general, then it turned upon racing. "you were at ascot, i suppose?" asked miss fitzgerald of madame darcy. "oh, yes," she replied, "they are very amusing--your english races." she spoke with just the slightest shade of foreign intonation, which rendered her speech charming. "i was on half a coach with four horses." "what became of the other half?" queried the lieutenant. "that is not what you call it--it is not a pull----?" she ventured, a little shy at their evident amusement. "perhaps you mean a drag," suggested stanley, coming to the rescue. "yes, that is it," she laughed, a bewitching little laugh, clear as a bell, adding, "i knew it was something it did not do." "i always go in the royal enclosure," murmured miss fitzgerald languidly, turning her gaze on the secretary, while she toyed with the course then before her. "it's beastly dull, but then one must do the correct thing." it was a very simple game she was playing--quite pathetic in its simplicity--but dangerous in the presence of lady isabelle, in whose veins a little of the dragon blood certainly ran, as well as a great deal that was blue, and miss fitzgerald's assumption was a gage of battle not to be disregarded. "really. i gave up the enclosure several years ago. it is getting so common nowadays," said her ladyship, growing a degree more frigid while the irish girl flushed. "perhaps miss fitzgerald enjoyed a run of luck to compensate her for the assemblage?" suggested kent-lauriston drily. "no," responded that young lady. "i came a beastly cropper." "that was too bad for you," he replied. "or somebody else," suggested the lieutenant, and amidst a burst of laughter miss fitzgerald regained her good humour. "possibly our host had better luck," ventured kent-lauriston. "oh, his diplomacy never bets," laughed miss fitzgerald. "he is much too busy hatching plots at the legation." "i protest!" cried that gentleman. "don't you believe them, madame darcy. i'm entirely harmless." "yes?" she said. "i thought one must never believe a diplomat." "oh, at the present day, and in a country like england, our duties are very prosaic." "come now, confess," cried miss fitzgerald, laughing. "haven't you some delightfully mysterious intrigue on hand, that you either spend your days in concealing from your brother diplomats, or are dying to find out, as the case may be?" "i'm sorry to disappoint you," he replied gravely, "but my duties and tastes are not in the least romantic." "at least, not in the direction of diplomacy," murmured the lieutenant, giving the waiter a directive glance towards his empty champagne glass. "you have a beautiful country, miss fitzgerald," came the soft voice of madame darcy, who had heard the aside, and was sorry for the young girl at whom it was directed. "oh, ireland, you mean. yes, i love it." "we are mostly irish here," laughed lieutenant kingsland. "one of my ancestors carried a blackthorn, and miss belle fitzgerald." "belle fitzgerald!" she said, starting and looking keenly at the irish girl, who turned towards her as her name was mentioned, "are you the belle fitzgerald who knows my husband, colonel darcy--so--well----" "your husband?" she said slowly, looking madame darcy straight in the face. "your husband? no, i have never met _your_ husband. i do not know him." lieutenant kingsland, seeing the attention of the company diverted from his direction, half closed his eyes, and softly drew in his breath. just then the orchestra made an hejira to the drawing-room, and the little party hastened to follow in its footsteps, in search of more music, liqueurs, coffee, cigarettes, and the most comfortable corner. "my dear jim," expostulated his guest of honour, half an hour later, "there is not a drop of green chartreuse, and you know i never drink the yellow. do be a good boy and run over to the dining-room, and persuade the steward to give us some." as he rose and left them, obedient to the irish girl's request, she leaned over to kingsland, who was seated next her, and handing him a square envelope, said quietly, and in a low voice:-- "i want this given to colonel darcy before stanley returns--his party is still in the dining-room. don't let our crowd see you take it." "oh, i say," he expostulated, inspecting the missive which was blank and undirected, "it's a risky thing to do, especially in the face of the whopper you just told his wife about not knowing him." "i had to, 'dottie'--i had indeed--she's so jealous she would tear the eyes out of any woman who ventured to speak to him." "i won't do anything for you if you call me 'dottie.' you know i hate it." "well, jack then--dear jack--do it to please me and don't stand there talking, stanley may return any minute." "all right, i'll go." "and don't flourish that envelope, it's most important and--it's too late." "the chartreuse is coming," broke in the secretary. "i met the steward in the hall--a letter to be posted?" he continued, seeing the missive, which the lieutenant held blankly in his hand. "give it to me, and i'll attend to it." a sharper man might have saved the situation, but sharpness was not one of kingsland's attributes, and dazed by the sudden turn of affairs, he allowed stanley to take the letter. "why, it's not addressed!" he exclaimed, examining the envelope which bore no mark save the initials a. r. in blue, on the flap. "whom is it to go to?" "i don't know," replied the lieutenant, shamefacedly. "where did it come from?" kingsland looked about for help or an inspiration, and finding neither fell back on the same form of words, repeating, "i don't know." miss fitzgerald had started up on the impulse of the moment, but sank back in her seat as the secretary said, slipping the missive into the inside pocket of his dress-coat:-- "i am afraid i must constitute myself a dead-letter office, and hold this mysterious document till called for." chapter iii parlous times "we are living in parlous times," said the chief confidential clerk, of the departmental head of the south american section of her majesty's foreign office. mr. stanley, secretary of south american legation, bowed and said nothing. inwardly, he wondered just what "parlous" meant, and made a mental note to look it up in a dictionary on the first opportunity that offered. the chief confidential clerk was the most genial of men, who always impressed one with the feeling that, diplomatic as he might be at all other times, this was the particular moment when he would relax his vigilance and unburden his official heart. as a result, those who came to unearth his secrets generally ended by telling him theirs. in this instance neither of the speakers knew anything of the subject in hand, a treaty relating to the possession of a sand bar at the mouth of a certain south american river. a matter said to have had its rise in a fit of royal indigestion, in the sixteenth century. somehow it had never been settled. each new ministry, each new revolutionary government was "bound to see it through," and the treaty was constantly on the verge of being "brought to an amicable conclusion," just as it had been for nearly three hundred years. the fate of nations had, in short, drifted on that sand-bar and stuck fast, at least the fate of one nation and the clemency of another. the chief confidential clerk was not conscious that he was really ignorant of the subject in hand--no true diplomat ever is--the young secretary was painfully aware of his own unenlightenment. "you are to understand," his minister had said, "that you know nothing concerning the status of the treaty." "but, i do not know anything, your excellency," admitted the secretary. "so much the better," replied the minister, "for then you cannot talk about it." the result of this state of affairs was, that at the end of half an hour the chief confidential clerk had discovered that the secretary knew nothing, while the secretary had discovered--nothing. "we are living in parlous times," said the english official, "parlous times, mr. stanley." then his lunch arrived, and the interview closed in consequence. "i wonder," said the secretary, half to himself and half to the horse, as he trundled clubwards in a hansom, "i wonder if i could write out a report of that last remark; it might mean so much--or so little." stanley did not worry much over his failure to extract information at the foreign office, because he was much more worried over deciding whether he was really in love with belle fitzgerald. that young lady had been the cause of much anxiety to all those friends who had his interests at heart, and from whom he had received advice and covert suggestions, all tending to uphold the joys of a bachelor existence as compared with the uncertainties of married life. they had spoken with no uncertain voice. it was he who had wavered, to-day, believing that she was the one woman on earth for him; to-morrow, sure that it was merely infatuation. now his decision had been forced. he was invited to a house-party at her aunt's, mrs. roberts; belle would be there, and if he accepted, he would, in all probability, never leave roberts' hall a free man. miss fitzgerald and the secretary had seen a great deal of each other during the season just drawing to a close. at first, as he assured himself and his friends, it was merely "hail, fellow, well met," but when he came to know the irish girl better, their relations assumed a different significance, as he gradually realised the isolated position she occupied. interest had changed to pity. he regretted that, for lack of guidance, she seemed to be her own worst enemy, and feared that her really sweet nature might be hardened or embittered from contact with the world. he told himself he must decide at once whether he loved this wilful girl, and should ask her to give him the right to protect her from the world and from herself. yet stanley was keenly sensitive of the rashness of the step he contemplated. the sweet bells of memory ring out whether land or sea separates us. in spite of much honest effort on his part, the picture of a beautiful face could not be banished from his mind. now, just when he was convincing himself that he could put the past behind him, inez crossed his path again. he grew bitter at the thought. "she did not trust me. she never loved me or she could not have married that scoundrel, darcy. it is all over now--and belle needs a protector." on the other hand, he realised how many reasons opposed such a course of action. his father, his colleagues, and society, demanded something better of him. that very social position which had put him in the way of meeting his inamorata required of him in return that he should not make a mesalliance, while sober common sense assured him with an irritating persistence that the world could not be persuaded to perceive that miss fitzgerald had any of the necessary qualifications for the position which he proposed to give her. but he was young and high-spirited, and these very limitations which society imposed, irritated him into a desire to do something rash. he was still, however, possessed of a substratum of worldly wisdom, and knowing that left to his own devices he would certainly go to mrs. roberts', regardless of what might follow, he resolved to give himself one more chance. if he could not guide himself, he might, in this crisis, be guided by the stronger will of another. he determined to ask advice of his friend kent-lauriston. in a case of this sort, lionel kent-lauriston was thoroughly in his element, having assisted at hundreds of the little comedies and tragedies of life, which do more to determine the future of men and women than any great crisis. his creed may be summed up in the fact that he loved all things to be done "decently and in order." in a word he was a connoisseur of life, and the good things thereof. unobtrusive, always harmonious, he knew everyone worth knowing, went everywhere worth going. lucky the youth who had him for his guide, philosopher and friend. he could show him life's pleasantest paths. stanley was one of these favoured few. they had met soon after he came to england, and the younger man had conceived a genuine admiration for the older. it seems hardly necessary to say, that kent-lauriston, though (or because) a bachelor, was an authority on matchmaking. he had reduced it to a fine art. his keen eye saw the subtle distinction between the vulgar buying and selling of a woman, with the consequent desecration of the marriage service, and the blind love, which, hot-headed, sacrifices all the considerations of wisdom to the passion of the hour. "never marry without love," he would say, "but learn to love wisely." it was to this man that the secretary determined to make confession. kent-lauriston, he was sure, did not approve of the match and would use his strongest arguments to dissuade him from it. stanley knew this was the moral tonic he needed. he did not believe it would be successful, but he determined to give it a fair trial. the secretary reached his decision and his destination at one and the same moment, and feeling that his good resolutions would be the better sustained by a little nutriment, made his way to the luncheon table for which this particular club was justly famous; indeed, few people patronised it for anything else, situated as it was, almost within city limits, and boasting, as its main attraction, an excellent view of the most uninteresting portion of the thames. happening to look in the smoking-room, on his way upstairs, stanley caught sight of lieutenant kingsland. "hello!" he said. "you lunching here?" "i don't know," returned the other, laughing uneasily. "i'm inclined to think not. viscount chilsworth asked me to meet him here to-day; but, as he's half an hour late already----" "you think your luncheon is rather problematical?" "i was just coming to that conclusion." "make it a certainty, then, and lunch with me." "my dear fellow, you forget that i dined with you last night." "what of that? when i first came to london, i was told that an english club was a place where one went to be alone--but i prefer company to custom." "yes--but there are limits to imposing on a friend's hospitality. while i'm about it, i might as well share your breakfast and bed." "not the latter, in any event, as long as i'm in small bachelor quarters." the lieutenant laughed. "well, then," he began, "if you'll forgive me----" "there's one thing i won't forgive you," interrupted the secretary, "and that is keeping me a moment longer from my lunch, for i'm ravenously hungry. i just want to send a telegram to kent-lauriston, asking him to meet me at the club this afternoon, and then i'll be with you." once they were settled at the table and the orders given, their conversation turned to general subjects. "i suppose we'll all meet at the end of the week in sussex," said the lieutenant. "yes," replied stanley, "at mrs. roberts'." "is it to be a large party?" "i don't imagine so. sort of house-warming. they've just inherited the estate. belle fitzgerald, you and i, and the port arthurs-- i don't know who else." "that reminds me," exclaimed kingsland, "i must hurry through lunch. i promised the marchioness i'd do a picture exhibition with her ladyship at three, and it's nearly two, now." "under orders as usual, i see," said his host, and the lieutenant shrugged his shoulders and looked sheepish. he was weak, impecunious, handsome and dashing, and rumour said just a bit wild, and, moreover, was known throughout the social world of london as the tame cat of the dowager marchioness of port arthur; a very distant relative of his, and as the especially privileged companion of her only daughter, lady isabelle mclane, on the tacit understanding that he would never so far forget himself as to aspire to that daughter's hand. "i say," remarked that officer, who did not relish the turn which the conversation had taken, "tell me something about your country." "do you desire a complete geographical and political disquisition?" asked the secretary, laughing. "hardly. what's it like?" "the climate and government of my country are both tropical." "i suppose you mean intense, and subject to violent changes." the secretary looked out of the window at the most uninteresting view of the thames, saying: "i think we're going to have a thunderstorm." "am i to take that remark in a political sense?" inquired the lieutenant. "i don't believe i've told you," said his host abruptly, discontinuing an inopportune subject, "that i'm a south american only by force of circumstances. my parents were born in the states." "my dear fellow," kingsland hastened to assure him, "i never had the least intention of prying into your affairs, domestic or diplomatic. i was merely wondering if the country you represent brought forth any staple products, which would yield a profitable return to foreign investment?" the secretary mentioned one--which was said to be connected prominently with the treaty which was the subject of his recent visit to the foreign office--and so was naturally uppermost in his mind--"but," he added, "that staple is practically a monopoly, controlled by a firm of manufacturers, whose headquarters are in london, and, unless they fail, the outside public would have little chance in the same field." "i suppose their failure is hardly likely." "i'm not so sure of that--it all depends on a treaty now pending between your government and mine. frankly, if i had any money to invest, i would not expend it in that direction." "thank you. by the way, if your land doesn't produce good investments, it certainly brings forth beautiful women. what wonderful beauty that madame darcy has, who dined with us last night." "our fathers are old friends," replied stanley. "ah, what a pity," said the lieutenant. "i don't understand." "that she should not have married you, i mean, instead of that bounder darcy. i have heard his name more than once in official circles, and there's precious little to be said in his favour. but his wife--ah, there's a woman any man might be proud to marry. such beauty, such refinement, so much reserve. rather a contrast to our fascinating belle, eh?" "i have the greatest respect for miss fitzgerald," said the secretary stiffly. "yes, but not of the marriageable quality," said the lieutenant, speaking _ex cathedra_ as one who had also been in the fair irish girl's train. "oh no, my dear fellow, a woman of madame darcy's type is the woman for you. the fitzgerald, believe me, would break a man's heart or his bank account, in no time." "look here," said stanley shortly, "i don't like that sort of thing." "don't turn nasty, old chap," said kingsland. "i'm only speaking for your good. i'd be the last man to run down a woman. i love the whole sex, and the little fitzgerald is no end jolly, to play with, but to marry--! by the way, have you heard of her latest exploit. the town's ringing with it. she----" "thanks, i'd rather not hear it," replied the secretary, who just now was trying to forget some phases of her nature. "by jove!" broke in the lieutenant--"speaking of angels--there she is now." "what, down in this section of the city?" "yes, in a hansom cab." "an angel in a hansom!" cried the secretary, "that's certainly a combination worth seeing," and rising, he stepped to the window, followed by kingsland. the two men were just in time to see the lady in question dash by along the embankment, and to note that she was not alone. indeed, even the fleeting glimpse which they caught of her companion was sufficiently startling to engrave his likeness indelibly on their minds. he was an oldish man, of say sixty, clad in a nondescript grey suit of no distinguishable style or date, surmounted by a soft felt hat of the type which distinguished americans are said to affect in london, while his high cheek bones and prominent nose might have given him credit for having indian blood in his veins, had not his dead white skin belied the charge. he was possessed, moreover, of huge bushy brows, beneath which a ferret's keen eyes peeped out, and were never for an instant still. "gad!" exclaimed the lieutenant, "this promises to be the strangest escapade of all." "who the devil is he?" demanded stanley, facing around, with almost an accusing note in his voice. the lieutenant returned his glance squarely. "why, he's the man who gave her--i mean, who was talking to her last night at the hyde park club." "last night? i don't remember seeing him." "it was when you were waltzing up and down stairs in search of a chaperon." "who is he?" "don't know, i'm sure," replied the lieutenant brusquely, lighting a cigarette, and thrusting his hands in his trousers' pockets. "but you must have some idea?" "never saw him before last night, i assure you. must be off now, old chap. late for my appointment already. thanks awfully for the lunch. see you at lady rainsford's tea this afternoon? yes. all right. hansom!" and he was gone. chapter iv a lady in distress after lunch the secretary returned to the legation and made out his report to his minister, concerning the treaty. he had looked up the word "parlous" in the dictionary, and found that it meant, "whimsical, tricky,"--a sinister interpretation he felt, when connected with anything diplomatic; moreover the foreign office was distressingly uninformed on the subject, another reason for suspicion. yet, as far as he knew--only the mere formalities of settlement remained, the ratification by vote of his home government--the exchange of protocols--and behold it was accomplished--much to the credit of his minister and the satisfaction of all concerned. doubtless the visit was nothing more than a bit of routine work, and his private affairs seeming for the time more important, he dismissed it from his mind as not worthy of serious consideration and compiled an elaborate report of three pages, not forgetting to mention the arrival of the chief clerk's lunch, as matter which might legitimately be used to fill up space. this done, he was about to leave the office in order to meet his appointment with kent-lauriston, when john, the genial functionary of the legation, beamed upon him from the door, presenting him a visiting card, and informing him that a lady was waiting in the ante-room. "an' she's that 'ansome, sir, it would do your eyes good to see 'er." the secretary answered somewhat testily that his eyes were in excellent condition as it was, and that the lady did not deserve to be seen at all for coming so much after office-hours, and delaying him just as he was about to keep an appointment--then his eyes happened to fall on the card and his tone changed at once. "madame darcy!" he exclaimed. "why, what can have brought her to see me!--john, show the lady in at once, and--say my time is quite at her service." a glance at his fair chaperon of the night before, as she entered the room, told him that she was in great trouble, and he sprang forward to take both her hands in his, with a warmth of greeting which he would have found it hard to justify, except on an occasion of such evident sorrow. "inez--madame darcy," he said, leading her to his most comfortable arm-chair--"this is indeed a pleasure--but do not tell me that you are in distress." "i am in very great trouble." "anything that i can do to serve you--i need hardly say," he murmured, and paused, fascinated by this picture of lovely grief. "i was prompted to come to you," she replied, "by your kindness of last evening, for i knew you had seen and understood, and were still my friend, and also my national representative in a foreign land, to ask your aid for a poor country-woman who is in danger of being deprived of her freedom, if not of her reason." "but surely you are not speaking of yourself!" "yes, of myself." the young diplomat said nothing for a moment or two, he was arranging his ideas--adjusting them to this new and interesting phase of his experience with madame darcy. as a secretary of legation is generally the father confessor of his compatriots--he had ceased to be surprised at anything. people may deceive their physician, their lawyer, or the partner of their joys and sorrows; but to their country's representative in a strange land they unburden their hearts. "tell me," he said finally, breaking the silence, "just what your trouble is." "i need sympathy and help." "the first you have already," he replied with a special reserve in his manner, for he felt somehow that it was hardly fair that she should bring herself to his notice again, when he had almost made up his mind to marry a lady of whom all his friends disapproved. indeed, in the last few minutes the force of kingsland's remarks had made themselves felt very strongly, and he especially exerted himself to be brusque, feeling in an odd kind of way that he owed it to miss fitzgerald. so putting on his most official tone he added, "to help you, madame darcy, i must understand your case clearly." "don't call me by that name--give me my own--as you once did. my husband's a brute." "quite so, undoubtedly; but unfortunately that does not change your name." "would you mind shutting the door?" she replied somewhat irrelevantly. they were, as has been said, in the secretary's private office, a dreary room, its furniture, three chairs, a desk and a bookcase full of forbidding legal volumes, its walls littered with maps, and its one window looking out on the unloveliness of a london business street. as he returned to his seat, after executing her request, she began abruptly:-- "you're not a south american." "no, my father was a northerner, but, as you know, he owned large sugar plantations in your country, and if training and sympathy can make me a south american, i am one." "you're a protestant." "yes, so are you." "it is my mother's faith, and though i was brought up in a convent at new orleans, i've not forsaken it. i feel easier in speaking to you on that account." "you may rest assured, my dear, that what you say to me will go no farther. 'tis my business to keep secrets." "two years ago," she began abruptly, plunging into her story, "after our--after you left home, an englishman, a soldier returning from the east incapacitated by a fever, and travelling for his health, craved a night's rest at my father's house. as you know, in a country like ours, where decent inns are few and far between, travellers are always welcome. it was the hot season, we pressed him to stay for a day or two, he accepted, and a return of the fever made him our guest for months. he needed constant nursing--i--i was the only white woman on the plantation." "i see," said stanley. "you nursed him, he recovered, was grateful, paid you homage." "remember i was brought up in a convent. i was so alone and so unhappy. he told me you had married. i believed him--trusted him. "quite so. his name was darcy. he is a liar." "he is--my husband." "a gentleman--i suppose?" "the world accords him that title," she replied coldly. "i understand-- he's a man of means?" "he has nothing but his pay." "and you--but that question is unnecessary. señor de costa's name and estates are well known--and you are his only child." "yes, you're right," she burst out. "it's my money, my cursed money! why do men call it a blessing! oh, if i could trust him, i'd give him every penny of it. but i cannot, it's the one hold i have on him, and because i will not beggar myself to supply means for his extravagances he dares----" "not personal violence, surely?" "to put me away somewhere--in a retreat, he calls it. that means a madhouse." "my dear madame darcy!" "call me inez de costa, i will _not_ have that name of darcy, i hate it." "my dear inez, then; your fears are groundless; they can't put sane people in madhouses any longer in england, except in cheap fiction--it's against the law." "it's very easy for you to sit there and talk of law. you, who are protected by your office, but for me, for a poor woman whose liberty is threatened!" "i assure you that you're in no such danger as you apprehend." "but if i were put away, you would help me?" "you shall suffer no injustice that we can prevent. you may return home and rest easy on that score." "i shall never return to that man." "why not return to your father?" "would that i could!" she exclaimed, her eyes brimming with tears. "but how can i, with no money and no friends?" "i thought you said----" began the secretary, but his interruption was lost in the flow of her eloquence. "i've not a penny. i can cash no cheque that's not made to his order, and to come to you i must degrade myself by borrowing a sovereign from my maid. i've travelled third-class!" the secretary smiled at the ante-climax, saying: "many people of large means travel third-class habitually." "but not a de costa," she broke in, and then continued her narration with renewed ardour. "i've no roof to shelter me to-night. no where to go. no clothes except what i wear. no money but those few shillings; but i would rather starve and die in the streets than go back to him. i'm rich. i've powerful friends. you can't have the heart to turn away from me. have you forgotten the old friendship? you must do something--something to save me----" and in the passion, of her southern nature she threw herself at his feet, and burst into an agony of tears. stanley assisted her to rise, got her a glass of water, and had cause, for the second time in that interview, to thank his stars that love had already shot another shaft, because if it were not for belle, his official position, and the fact that the señora had one husband already--well--it was a relief to be forced to tell her that legations were not charitable institutions, and that much as he might desire to aid her, neither he nor his colleagues could interfere in her private affairs. "then you refuse to assist me--you leave me to my fate!" she cried, starting up, a red flush of anger mantling her cheek. "not at all," he hastened to say. "on the contrary, i'm going to help you all i know how. i can't interfere myself, but i can refer you to a friend of mine, whom you can thoroughly trust, and who's in a position to aid you in the matter." "and his name?" "his name is peter sanks, the lawyer of the legation, a gentleman, truly as well as technically. a countryman of yours who has practised both here and at home, and who always feels a keen interest in the affairs of his compatriots. he has chambers in the middle temple. i'll give you his address on my card." "you're most kind-- i'll throw myself without delay on the clemency of this señor----" "sanks." "_madre de dios!_ what a name!" "i dare say he was don pedro sanchez at home, but that would hardly go here. i've written him a line on my visiting card, requesting him to do everything he can for you, and, of course, i need hardly say to you, as a friend, not as an official, that my time and service are entirely devoted to your interests. there is nothing that i possess which you may not command." "and for me, you do this?" she asked, looking up wistfully in his face. he took her two little hands in his, and bending over, kissed the tips of their fingers. "i cannot express the gratitude," she began. "don't," he said, cutting short her profuse thanks. "it's nothing, i assure you. here is my card to sanks. better go to him at once, or you may miss him. it's nearly three o'clock." and feeling that it was unsafe to trust himself longer in her presence, he touched the bell, saying to the confidential clerk who answered it:-- "the door, john." a moment later she was gone, leaving only the subtle perfume of her presence in the room. stanley threw himself moodily into the nearest chair. it was too bad that this bewitching woman should be married to a brute. it was too bad that he couldn't do more to help her, and it was--yes, it really was too bad, that she should have come again into his life just at the present moment. she was so exactly like what he had fancied the ideal woman he was to marry ought to be. but she wasn't a bit like belle, and the reflection was decidedly disturbing. and now, he supposed, she would get a divorce, and--oh, pshaw! it wasn't his affair anyway, and he was late for his appointment with kent-lauriston. he rang his office bell sharply, picking up his hat and gloves as he did so, and saying to the messenger who answered his summons:-- "give this report to his excellency, john, and let me have some visiting cards, will you---- no, no, not any official ones. some with my private address on." "very sorry sir, but they're all out. i ordered some more day before yesterday, sir. they should have come by now." "just my luck, why didn't you attend to them earlier?" "isn't there one on your desk, sir. i'm sure i saw one lying there this morning." "why, yes, so there was." and he turned hastily back, only to exclaim after a moment's hopeless rummaging:-- "confound it! i must have given it to señora de costa!" chapter v a gentleman in distress kent-lauriston was prompt to his appointment, and it took but a few moments to establish the secretary and himself in a private room with a plentiful supply of cigarettes, and two whiskeys and sodas. stanley was nervous and showed it. kent-lauriston adjusted his monocle, tugged at his long sandy moustache, and surveyed his companion from head to foot. "not feeling fit?" he queried. "suffering from political ennui?" "oh, my health is all right, as far as that goes----" "yes, i see," this last remark meditatively. then he added. "some deuced little scrape?" stanley nodded. "woman?" "it concerns a lady--perhaps two." kent-lauriston frowned, and tugged his moustache a trifle harder, to imply that he now understood the affair to be of a more complex order, requiring the aid of skilful diplomacy, in place of the simple directness of five-pound notes. "want my advice, i suppose?" "yes," admitted stanley, "and so i'd better make a clean breast of the matter." "decidedly." "the fact is, i want to marry--or rather, don't want to marry--no, that's not it either-- i want to marry the girl bad enough, but i think i'd better not. it would be what the world--what you might call, a foolish match." "deucedly hard hit, i suppose?" "you see," continued the secretary, ignoring his friend's question, "i know i oughtn't to marry her, but left to myself, i'd do it, and i need a jolly good rowing--only you mustn't be disrespectful to the lady--i--i couldn't stand that." "i think i know her name." "miss fitzgerald. you dined with her at the hyde park club last evening." "daughter of old fitzgerald of the --th hussars----" "i--i believe that was her father's regiment, but now she lives----" "lives!" interjected kent-lauriston. "no, she doesn't live--visits round with her relatives--old irish ancestry--ruined castles and no rents--washy blue eyes and hair, at present, golden." "she is one of the most beautiful irish girls i've ever seen," cried stanley. "in repose her face is spirituelle. she is a cousin of lord westmoorland." "fourteenth cousin--twice removed." "i don't know her degree of relationship." "i do." "she's splendid vitality and courage," said the secretary, desirous of turning the conversation, which threatened to drift into dangerous channels. "she's dashing, thoroughly dashing." "gad, i'm with you there! i've seldom seen a better horse-woman. i've watched her more than once in the hunting field put her gee at hedges and ditches that many a master of hounds would have fought shy of,--and clear 'em, too." stanley smiled, delighted to hear a word of commendation from a quarter where he least expected it, but kent-lauriston's next remark was less gratifying. "little rapid, isn't she? trifle fond of fizz-water and cigarettes?" "she's the spirits of youth," said the secretary, a trifle coldly. "let me see," mused his adviser. "how about that hunt ball at leamington?" "i wasn't there, and i must ask you to remember that you're talking of a lady." "um, pity!" said his friend ambiguously, and added, "how far have you put your foot in it?" "well, i haven't asked her to marry me." "ah. order me another whiskey and soda, please," and kent-lauriston sat puffing a cigarette, and tugging at his moustache till the beverage came. then he drank it thoughtfully, not saying a word; a silence that was full of meaning to stanley, who flushed and began to fidget uneasily about the room. having finished the last drop, and disposed of his cigarette, his adviser looked up and said shortly:-- "how did this begin?" "i met her some months ago--but only got to know her intimately at the races." "derby?" "no, ascot." "royal enclosure, of course." "royal enclosure, of course. she was visiting her aunt." "i know. that type of girl has dozens of aunts." "her uncle brought her down and introduced us. he left her a moment to go to the paddock and never came back." "um, left you to do the honours." "exactly so, and i did them. saw the crowd, saw the gees, had lunch--you know the programme." "only too well. do any betting?" "a little." "thought it was against your principles. you told me so once." "i--i didn't bet--that is----" "oh, i see. she did." "rather--a good round sum." "you knew the amount?" "well, the fact is--she'd given her uncle her pocket-book, and he got lost." "clever uncle; so you paid the reckoning." "she said she knew the winning horse." "we always do know the winners." "this was an exception to prove the rule." "so you put down--and she never paid up." "youth is forgetful, and of course--you can't dun a lady." "no--you can't dun a _lady_!" "look here!" cried stanley. "i won't stand that sort of thing!" "beg your pardon, i was thinking aloud, beastly bad habit, purely reminiscent, i assure you. go on." "well, of course i saw something of her after that. aunt invited me to call, also to dine." "what about that trip down the thames?" "why, i'd arranged my party for that before i met belle--i mean miss fitzgerald." "oh, call her belle, i know you do." "and she happened to mention, quite accidentally, that one of her unaccomplished ideals was a trip down the thames. i fear she's shockingly cramped for money you know, so as i happened to have a vacant place----" "you naturally invited her-- i wonder how she found out there was a vacant place," mused kent-lauriston. "my dear fellow," reiterated stanley. "i tell you she didn't even know i was getting it up. of course if she had, she'd never have spoken of it. miss fitzgerald is far above touting for an invitation." "of course. well you must have advanced considerably in your acquaintance during the trip. had her quite to yourself, as it were, since i suppose she knew none of the party." "oh, but she did. she knew lieutenant kingsland." "to be sure. he was the man who wagered her a dozen dozen pairs of gloves that she wouldn't swim her horse across the serpentine in hyde park." "and she won, by jove! i can tell you she has pluck." "and they were both arrested in consequence. i think the lieutenant owed her some reparation, and i must say a trip down the thames was most _à propos_." "look here, kent-lauriston, if you're insinuating that kingsland put her up to----" "far from it, my boy, how could i insinuate anything so unlikely? well, what other unattainable luxuries did you bestow?" "nothing more to speak of--why, yes. do you know the poor little thing had never seen irving, or been inside the lyceum?" "so you gave the 'poor little thing' a box party, and a champagne supper at the savoy afterwards, i'll be bound, and yet surely it was at the lyceum that----" "what?" "oh, nothing, i was becoming reminiscent once more; it's a bad habit. let's have the rest of it." "there isn't much more to tell. i've ridden with her sometimes in the park. given her a dinner at the wellington, a few teas at the hyde park club. i think that's all--flowers perhaps, nothing in the least compromising." "compromising! why, it's enough to have married you to three english girls." "she's irish." "i beg her pardon," and kent-lauriston bowed in mock humility. "what do you think of my case, honestly?" "honestly, i think she means to have you, and if i was a betting man, i'd lay the odds on her chances of winning." "confound you!" broke in stanley. "you've such a beastly way of taking the words out of a man's mouth and twisting them round to mean something else. here i started in to tell you of my acquaintance with miss fitzgerald, and by the time i've finished you've made it appear as if her actions had been those of an adventuress, a keen, unprincipled, up-to-date becky sharp. why, you've hardly left her a shred of character. i swear you wrong her, she's not what you've made me make her out,--not at all like that." "what is she like then?" "she is a poor girl without resources or near relations, thrown on the world in that most anomalous of positions, shabby gentility; who has to endure no end of petty insults; insults, covert, if not open, from men like you, who ought to know better. i tell you she's good and straight, straight as a die; brave, fearless, plucky--isn't the word for it. a little headstrong, perhaps, and careless of what the world may say, but whom has she had to teach her better? there's no harm in her though. of that i'm sure. and underneath an exterior of what may seem flippancy, her heart rings true; but you're so prejudiced you'll never admit it." "on the contrary," replied his friend, lighting another cigarette, "i'm perfectly willing to agree to nearly all that you have just said in her favour--all that is of vital importance, at least. i know something of this young lady's career, and i'm prepared to say i don't believe there is anything bad in her. she has to live by her wits, and they must be sharp in consequence; and having to carve out her own destiny instead of having a mother to do so for her, she has become self-reliant, and to some extent careless of the impression she makes, which has given her a reputation for indiscretion which she really does not deserve. she's certainly charming, and undeniably dashing, though whether it arises from bravery or foolhardiness, i'm not prepared to say; but one thing i can state most emphatically--you're not the man to marry her." "and why not, pray?" "because you're too good for her." "that's a matter of opinion." "no--matter of fact." stanley flushed angrily--but kent-lauriston continued: "no need to fly into a passion; what i say is perfectly true. the only way for belle fitzgerald to marry, be happy, and develop the best that is in her, is to have a husband whose methods--forceful or otherwise--she can understand and appreciate. you are too good for her. her struggle with life has been a hard one, she has seen the seamy side of human nature, and it has taught her to estimate all men at their worst. she'd consider your virtue, weakness. you could never take her to south america and the ancestral plantation; it would bore her to extinction. she'd require to live in london or keep open house in the country, and she'd gather about her the set she goes with now. her companions, her manner of life, you think unworthy of her; already they grate on your finer sensibilities, blinded as you are; believe me, they'd grate much more when she bore your name. no, the only man who could marry her, be happy, make her happy, and keep his good name untarnished in the future, would be one who knows her world better than she does herself; who has a past that even she would shudder at; who has no ideals, no aspirations, just manly vigour and brute force; who could guide her with a hand of steel in a glove of velvet, and pull her up short at the danger line, because he knows what lies beyond, and she knows that he knows. she'd tire of you in six months; she would not dare to tire of the other man." "i think you wrong her," said stanley wearily. "indeed, your own criticism of her might be applied to yourself. your knowledge of the world has caused you unconsciously to misjudge a nature you cannot understand. yet i know that my friends would all voice your sentiments--that they'd all be disappointed in the match." "exactly so--and they'd be in the right--excuse me for being blunt, but with your wealth and social position you would be simply throwing yourself away." "i know all that--but--i'm so sorry for her." "you could serve her better as her friend than as her husband. she must live your life or you must live hers--in either case, one of you would be unhappy." "i half believe you're right. confound it! i know you're right, and yet--how am i to get out of it with honour?" "don't have any false sentimentality about that, my boy. believe me, she understands the situation much better than you do. so far you have been chums; if you stop there, she is too much a woman of the world to lay it up against you. you've given her much pleasure during the past season and she appreciates it; but she's quite enough of a philosopher to accept cheerfully the half-loaf." "but i can't be just a friend." "not now, perhaps, but you can a few months later, when other things have supervened." "if i see her again--it's all over." "don't see her then." "that is just the point. she's going to stay with an aunt in sussex." "another aunt?" "yes, mrs. roberts, and i am invited to go down to the house-party to-morrow, and have accepted, and shall come back engaged." "send your excuses, by all means, write to-day." "yes, i suppose it's for the best, but you know i hate to do it. somehow i can't think all you imply of her." "my dear boy," said kent-lauriston, "i may be doing the lady gross injustice and keeping you out of a very good thing, but even in that case you must not go to sussex. for heaven's sake, man, take time to consider! it's too important a matter to be decided in a hurry. if she cares for you and is worthy of you, she'll give you every fair opportunity of asking her the fateful question and a reasonable amount of time to think it over. take a fortnight for calm reflection; it's very little to allow for what may be a life's happiness or misery. meanwhile try and keep your mind off it. run over to paris with me. if at the end of our trip you still feel the same towards her, i won't stand in your way, i promise you. come, is that a fair offer?" "most kind," said stanley, "and to show you my appreciation of all the trouble you've taken, i'll send my regrets to mrs. roberts by the first post." "good boy!" said his mentor, sententiously. "i don't know about paris, as to whether i can get leave, i mean." "nonsense, you have already arranged your leave for the house-party, i'll be bound. dine with me here to-morrow night at eight, and we'll talk it over." "thanks, i will. i must be going now, i have to look in at a tea or two." "not to meet our charming enchantress?" "no, no, trust me, i'll play fair," and he was gone. kent-lauriston puffed meditatively at his cigarette, now that he was alone, and tugged hard at his moustache. "the little fitzgerald a pattern of all the virtues, eh?" he said, half to himself, and half to the departing secretary, and added, under his breath: "gad! how she would rook him! never been to the lyceum or down the thames! may she be forgiven!" chapter vi afternoon tea the secretary had stated that he had several calls to make, but they resolved themselves into one, the fact being that the day was disagreeable and the prospect of riding vast distances in hansom cabs, interspersed with short intervals of tea, not alluring. he therefore decided to confine his attentions to one hostess, and selected his missing chaperon, lady rainsford, whose indisposition had come so near wrecking his little dinner. her ladyship had much to commend her. her house was central and large, one knew one would meet friends there, and there were plenty of nooks and corners for tête-à-têtes, while, as her circle was most select, and she received frequently, there was a fair chance that her rooms would not be crowded. stanley found his hostess quite recovered, and standing by the side of a bright fire in a diminutive fireplace, for the rain had made the day a bit chilly. "good afternoon, mr. secretary," she cried, as he entered. "i was beginning to think you'd not forgiven me for leaving you in the lurch last night." "don't speak of it, i beg," he said, hastening to deprecate her apologies. "i should have called to enquire the first thing this morning." "you should most certainly, and i ought to tax you with base desertion," she went on. "that would be impossible, but i'm a victim of stern necessity. society demands all my spare time, and i'm forced, as one always is in london, to neglect my friends for my acquaintances." "you deserve a thorough rating, and if it were not for my duties as hostess, i'd give it to you here and now." "i claim the protection of your hearth," he rejoined, laughing. "oh! but it's such a tiny hearth," she remonstrated. "and i," he added, "am such an insignificant personage." "i won't have you run yourself down in that way. i believe you are a great social lion. come, confess, how many teas have you been to in the last seven days?" "fifty-six." "good gracious! how do you men stand it, and having something to eat and a cup of tea at every place?" "shall i enlighten you as to the professional secrets of the habitual tea-goer? we don't." "but surely you can't always refuse." "i never refuse. i always accept the cup--and put it down somewhere." "for another guest to knock over. you're a hardened reprobate, but this time you shall not escape. you know miss campbell, who is pouring tea for me this afternoon? no? then i'll introduce you. miss campbell, this is secretary stanley, a member of the diplomatic corps, who has just confessed to me that he habitually eludes the trustful hostess and the proffered tea. you'll give him a cup and see that he drinks it before he leaves the room," and the vivacious little woman departed, leaving him no alternative but to accept his fate meekly. "how do you like your tea?" inquired miss campbell, a young lady deft of hand, but with few ideas. "lemon and no sugar." "how nasty! but then, i forgot you never really drink it, lady rainsford says. but this time----" "this time," he replied, "i'm a lamb led to the slaughter." miss campbell said, "really?" then there followed an awkward silence. looking around for some means of escape, he saw a face in the crowd, that caused him to start, so utterly unexpected and out of place did it seem, considering what he had heard that afternoon. it was the face of colonel darcy. he did not think the man knew him, and for obvious reasons he did not care to be introduced; so he turned again to miss campbell, who, seeing no alternative, rose to the occasion and continued the conversation by remarking:-- "is it true that you go to such an enormous number of teas? what do you find to talk about?" "oh, i don't find much. i talk about the same thing at every tea. if you meet other people it makes no difference." "how clever of you!" "on the contrary it's simply dulness, and because i'm lazy--i----" but he left his sentence unfinished, for miss campbell's attention was palpably wavering, and her glance spoke of approaching deliverance. he looked over his shoulder to see darcy advancing with lieutenant kingsland. the two officers had met in the crush a few minutes before, and the colonel had lost no time in taking kingsland to task for his stupidity of the past night. "i'm no end sorry," the lieutenant said, in very apologetic tones. "that doesn't give me my letter," growled the colonel. "i know i'm an awful duffer," assented kingsland, "but when he came up behind me and asked questions about it, i was so staggered i let him take it right out of my hands. it wasn't addressed, you know, and i naturally couldn't say who gave it to me." "i should hope not indeed." "well, what shall i do--ask him for it?" "no, no, leave it alone; you've blundered enough. you all meet at a country house to-morrow." "yes." "well, trust its recovery to her; she'll get it, if he has it with him. if he leaves it behind in london so much the easier for me." "but i thought you were coming down----" "you think a great deal too much, and your actions are----" "sh!" whispered the lieutenant, laying his hand on darcy's arm. "he's looking our way, he'll hear us." stanley had not caught a word of the previous conversation, but a whisper sometimes carries much farther than the ordinary tones of the voice, and he heard the caution and saw the gesture which accompanied it, very distinctly. the colonel and the lieutenant were close upon him by this time, and stanley, who had no wish to be recognised, began to move off, and disappeared in the crowd, determined to make the best of his way to the door. he was terribly bored. he was not destined to escape quite so easily, however, for lady isabelle mclane sighted him in transit, and in a moment more had drawn him into a protecting corner with two seats, and settled down to a serious conversation. "i hear you're going down to the roberts'," she said; "i'm invited too." "then i'm all the more sorry that i'm not to be there," he replied. "you surprise me; i supposed your acceptance was of some standing. i hope there's nothing wrong, that your chief hasn't forgotten his position, and turned fractious?" "oh, no, my chief behaves very well," stanley hastened to assure her, "but the fact is--i, well, i don't find it convenient." "or, in other words, you've some reason for not wanting to go." he assented, having learned by long and bitter experience, that when a woman makes up her mind to exert her faculties of instinct, it is easier by far to acquiesce at once in any conclusion to which she may have jumped, however erroneous. "will you be shocked if i say i'm glad of it?" the secretary shrugged his shoulders; he thought he knew what was coming. "it certainly isn't complimentary to me," he replied; "but you've always exercised the prerogative of a friend to tell disagreeable truths." "now, that's very unkind, mr. stanley. i'm sure i only do it for your good." "my dear lady isabelle, if you'll allow a man who is older than your charming self, and who has seen more of the world than i hope you'll ever do----" "to tell a disagreeable truth?" she queried, filling out the sentence, as pique prompted her. "to make a suggestion." "it's the same thing. go on." "it's merely this. that you'll never achieve a great social success till you've realised that the well-being of your friends is your least important consideration." "dear me, mr. secretary, i had no idea you were so tender in regard to miss fitzgerald." "who said anything about miss fitzgerald?" "i did. i don't suppose you knew she was to be at roberts' hall." "certainly i know it. that is the very reason why i'm not going." "i'm unfeignedly rejoiced. i've watched your progress in london with much interest, and believe me, miss fitzgerald is a stumbling-block in your path." "all my friends, all the people who have my good at heart," he replied a trifle testily, "seem to think it their duty to warn me against miss fitzgerald." "i should hate to see you become entangled." "i'm sorry to disappoint you, but there's not even the shadow of a chance of such an event coming to pass. miss fitzgerald and i are both philosophers in our way. we attend to the serious business of society when we are apart, and indulge in a little mild and harmless flirtation when we occasionally meet, quite understanding that it means nothing, and is merely a means of relaxation, to keep our hands in, as it were." "you say that so glibly, that i'm sure you must have said it before. it's flippant, and, besides that, it's not strictly true." "really!" "oh, excuse me if i've said anything rude, but this is a very, very serious matter, according to my way of thinking! and i do wish you'd consent to be serious about it just for once, won't you, to please me?" "certainly, if you wish it, and i'm amazingly honoured that you should have spent so much of your valuable time over my poor affairs." "that isn't a promising beginning," she said reflectively, "for a man who has agreed to be serious; but really now, you must know that i'm distressed about you. your attentions to this lady are the talk of london." "i've told you," he replied, "that i've refused this invitation to the house-party. isn't that a sufficient answer, and won't it set your mind at rest?" "ye-es. would you object if i asked just one more question? if you think it horribly impertinent you're just to refuse to answer it." "ask away." "had you, before refusing, previously accepted this invitation of mrs. roberts?" "yes," he replied, a trifle sheepishly. "thanks, so much," she said, "i quite understand now." "then may we talk on some more congenial subject?" "no, you must take me back to mamma." "what, was i only taken aside to be lectured?" "oh, no," she hastened to assure him, naïvely--it was her first season--"but we have been chatting already fifteen minutes, and that's long enough." "oh, dear!" he said regretfully, "i thought i'd left mrs. grundy at the tea-table." "you are so careless yourself that you forget that others have to be careful. here comes lieutenant kingsland to my rescue. you would not believe it, lieutenant," she continued, as that officer approached them, "this gentleman considers himself abused because i will not talk to him all the afternoon." "i quite agree with him," said kingsland, "not that i have ever had that felicity; it's one of my most cherished ambitions." "you're as bad as he is; take me to mamma, at once." "i'll take you to have some tea. won't that do as well?" and they moved away. ten minutes later the secretary met the dowager marchioness of port arthur, who bore down on him at once. "mr. stanley, have you seen my daughter?" she demanded. "i'm waiting to go home, and i can't find her anywhere." "the last i saw of her she was with lieutenant kingsland." "oh, you _have_ seen her this afternoon, then." this last remark seemed tempered with a little disapproval. "i had the pleasure of fifteen minutes' chat with her," continued the secretary imperturbably. the marchioness raised her eyebrows. "at least she said it was fifteen minutes"--he hastened to explain--"it didn't seem as long to me; then lieutenant kingsland arrived." "i knew his mother," she said, "he comes of one of the best families in the land." most young men would have been crushed by the evident implication, but stanley rose buoyantly to the occasion. "he proposed----" he began. the marchioness started. "to get her a cup of tea," continued the secretary, placidly finishing his sentence. "you may escort me to the tea-table," she replied, frigidly, and added: "we leave town to-morrow." "yes, i know," said her companion, as they edged their way through the crowd. "i'm invited myself." "i should think you would find it difficult to attend to the duties of your office, if you make a practice of accepting so many invitations." "oh, i haven't accepted," he returned cheerfully. the marchioness was manifestly relieved. they had by this time reached the tea-table. lady isabelle was nowhere in sight. "i do not see my daughter," said her mother severely. "you told me she was here." "pardon me, i told you that lieutenant kingsland offered to get her a cup of tea." "well." "but they went in the opposite direction." "i won't detain you any longer, mr. stanley." the dowager's tone was frigid. "if my daughter is in lieutenant kingsland's charge, i feel quite safe about her. she could not be in better hands." the secretary bowed and went on his way rejoicing, and his way, in this instance, led him to his lodgings. "i wonder why she is so down on me and so chummy with kingsland," he thought. "if she'd seen him on my launch on the thames, she might think twice before entrusting her daughter to his charge. well, it's none of my business, any more than my affairs are the business of lady isabelle." he was just a little annoyed at the persistency with which his friends joined in crying down a woman, who, whatever her faults might be, possessed infinite fascination, and was, he honestly believed, not half so bad as she was painted. he told himself that he must seek the first opportunity that circumstances gave him at mrs. roberts' house-party, to have a serious talk with miss fitzgerald and warn her, as gently as he could, of what was being said about her. then he recollected with a start, that he had decided not to go, that he had promised to write a refusal and--no, that he had _not_ written. he would do so at once. his latch-key was in his hand. he opened the door. there was his valet, randell, standing in the hall, but with a look on his face which caused stanley to question him as to its meaning, before he did anything else. "puzzled? i am a bit puzzled. that's a fact, sir," randell replied to his question. "and it's about that lady," indicating the secretary's sitting-room with a jerk of his thumb. "what lady?" "why, the lady as come here half an hour ago, with her luggage, and said she was going to stay." "randell, are you drunk or dreaming? i know of no lady," cried stanley, amazed. "well, you can see for yourself, sir," replied the valet, throwing open the door. the secretary stepped in, and confronted--madame darcy. chapter vii an irate husband "madame darcy!" he exclaimed, too astonished not to betray in some measure his emotions. then following the direction of her eyes, and noting the interrogatory glance, which she threw at randell, he signed to his valet to leave them together. "to what have i the honour----" he began abruptly, his voice showing some trace of the irritation he was not quite able to suppress. surely, he thought, inez de costa, large as the liberty of her youth might have been, must know that in england, worse still in london, a lady cannot visit a bachelor's apartments alone, without running great danger of having her actions misconstrued. she, with true feminine intuition, was none the less keen to realise the awkwardness of the situation, and to suffer more acutely because of the inconvenience to which she was putting him. "a thousand pardons for this unwarrantable intrusion," she interrupted, "on one who has already loaded me with favours. it is the result of a stupid--a deplorable blunder--for which i shall never forgive myself. but once it had been committed, it seemed better that i should stay and explain. what letter could ever have made suitable apology--have made clear beyond all doubt, as i must make it clear, that until i had passed your threshold i had no suspicion that these were your lodgings, and not the legation." stanley bowed, he could not but believe her, every anguished glance of her eyes, every earnest tone of her impassioned voice, carried conviction. but how had this strange mischance come about. "you've seen sanks?" he asked, breaking the silence. "ah, that is it," she exclaimed, thankful for the outlet he had suggested. "that good señor sanks, he was so kind, he said i had a case, and could be protected from--him. he has written a letter, i forget what he called it, some legal name, requiring my husband to surrender my goods, my money, and i have written him also to send them to your care at the legation, as he told me. then i drive here with what i have-- i had nothing when i started, but he advanced me a sum," she flushed, "to buy what was needful till my trunks come. he advised me to stay at some private hotel, known only to you and to himself, till my husband has declared his attitude in the case. i make my purchases, i drive, as i suppose, to the legation, my luggage is unloaded and carried in. i ask if señor stanley, if you are here, they say you will be shortly, i dismiss my cab, i enter, then i find it is not the legation--it is your private apartments." she paused, awaiting his sentence of displeasure--but his tone was rather that of thoughtful wonder. "how could sanks have made the mistake in my address? he knew, must have known, them, both." "it was my fault, all mine," she broke in hastily. "it was undecided where i should have my things sent. i filled in the address myself, from your card." "ah, that's it," said stanley, beginning to see light. "i remember now, i gave you my private card by mistake for my official one. you've nothing to distress yourself about, inez, this is my blunder, and it is i who must beg your pardon." "ah, we will not beg each other's pardon then. it is a foolishness between friends," she returned, with just that little foreign touch which rendered her so irresistible. "i quite agree with you," he replied heartily. "we've other and more important things to consider." "but what to do?" she exclaimed. "well, you must take sanks' advice, and go to some quiet, private hotel,--say x----'s. i know them and will introduce you, send you over with randell: it's better than going with you myself. you'll find it most comfortable." she shivered and shrugged her shoulders. "but of course," he hastened to add, "you'll stay and dine with me first." "but jim!" she said, rising. "but why not?" he persisted. "it's a beastly night. you're here. it makes little difference whether you stay an hour or two, or the thirty minutes you have already remained. i'll send you over early in the evening." "but the household----" "they'd know in any event. the fact is the important thing to them, the details do not matter. your staying here for dinner in a prosaic manner, as if there was no reason why you shouldn't, would do more to stop tongues from wagging, than your sudden disappearance after a mysterious visit. believe me, i should not urge this if it were more or less than common sense." "but your engagements?" "i should have dined alone in any case." she stood uncertain whether to go or to remain, one hand upon the table. then she smiled at him, though there were tears in her eyes, saying;-- "i will stay-- i will trust to your judgment. whom have i to trust but you?" "good!" he cried, an air of quick decision taking possession of him, now her consent had been given; "my landlady will put a room at your disposal should you wish to remove the stains of travel before dinner. you'll find her kindly, if inexperienced. i'll go and explain the situation to her and to my valet." and he stepped towards the door. "explain?" "explain by all means, my dear. in this country it is the greatest of all mistakes to try to deceive your servants, especially where circumstances give the slightest scope for misconstruction." "i thought servants were our worst scandal-mongers." "true, they're only human. but put a well-trained servant on his honour by giving him your confidence, and he's far less likely to betray you, than if you try to blind him to an obvious truth." she laughed, and he left her to arrange for his impromptu dinner. when they sat down to table, half an hour later, she was more self-possessed than he had ever before seen her, and chatted away quite gaily on indifferent topics, each taking great care to avoid the one subject which neither could forget. with the fruit and wine, the valet, who performed the double office of body servant and butler, left them to themselves, having first received careful directions from stanley in regard to escorting madame to her hotel, half an hour hence. once they were alone the reserve, which the servant's presence had called into play, was no longer exerted, and she spoke freely of her own troubles. "you've no idea," she said, "what a misery my winter in england has been. i shall never look back on it without feeling that this is the most cruel place on earth." "you mustn't judge the whole country from your own unfortunate experience," the secretary hastened to interpose. "i've never found more true culture and refinement than i've met with here." "ah," she replied, "but when the englishman is a brute----! since i came to this country, i've never written a word to my father that has not been read and--approved!" there was a wealth of scorn in her tones. "not a word of my sorrows, of the indignities, the insults he had heaped upon me. any attempt to post a letter on my own account, or to send it by a servant, has resulted in failure, and in the ignominy of having it opened, and destroyed in my presence. my income lies there in the bank. his brother is the banker. i had the choice of drawing cheques to my husband's order, or not drawing them at all." "were you then deprived of money? surely, to keep up outside appearances, and i judge your husband would have desired that, you must have had an allowance?" "i had unlimited credit in the town," she replied. "i could buy what i pleased and charge it, but not a shilling did i have wherewith to pay. it was my maid, my good marie, who, when he threatened me with detention, gave me her little all, her savings, and told me to run away--ah, that was bitter! but i knew she meant no disrespect--i accepted it--she shall be repaid a hundred-fold." "i think you need have no fears of not being restored to all your rights and privileges," he said, "and then?" "then i will be free." "you mean you will procure a separation?" "a divorce." "but surely your husband----" "oh, he has not even constancy to commend him; he does not even conceal his preferences. he is always receiving letters from some woman--some old friend, he tells me--calling him to london for an hour, or a day, as the case may be, and no matter what plans i may have made, he goes." "you know her name?" "she signs her christian name only--no wonder--but i have her letters and i'll find her out." "and when you've found her, what then? will you plead with her?" "i?" she cried. "i, a de costa, degrade myself by pleading with a woman of that class!" the secretary shrugged his shoulders. "i think every woman," he said, "has some good in her, low as she may be, some spark of longing for better things, some element of self-respect that never quite dies out." "you're right," she admitted. "a man is by nature a brute. a woman, even at her worst, is not quite that. some extra spark of divinity seems to have been given her in compensation for her weakness." "i believe no woman is wholly bad," said the secretary. "the worst women of history have, at some moments in their lives, been very near redemption." "i believe that is so," she replied. "i am very glad to hear you say that. if you can still find charity in your heart for your own sex, surely i may believe, even in the face of my friends' hostile criticism." "and is there a woman, whom you--shall we say, 'respect' enough to believe in--no matter what is said of her?" "there is," he replied. "then be sure she has some virtues worthy of that respect. i can picture," she went on, "the woman whom you should marry. you must be, to her, an ideal, and she must live her life in terms of you. gentle and refined, and knowing more of your home than of the world." the secretary sighed. "these are the women," he said, "that we dream of, not that we marry." "there are many such in the world," she returned. "is not the woman you are defending one of them?" "no," he said, "not like that." "then she is not worthy of you, she will grate upon you. does she ever do so?" "i love her," he said simply. "then you will marry her. i'm so glad!" she returned, offering him her hand. "i don't know. i don't think so," he replied. "i can't tell how i should act." "then you do not love her. love is blind, it does not reason." "i love her," he repeated, seeking to justify himself. "certainly i love her, but one should, in this day and generation, love wisely." "one should love," she replied, "and that is all, neither wisely nor unwisely--love has no limits. you do not love her--you must not marry her--you will be unhappy if you do. i believe she grates on you, you'll never find the good that is in her. that power has been given to some other man." stanley raised his hand in protestation, but at that moment, randell appeared in the doorway, equipped to take madame de costa to her hotel, and their private conversation was at an end. she made her adieux very prettily, not saying too much in the valet's presence, but enough to show how truly deep was her appreciation of the secretary's kindness, and left him wishing, wondering. he found time before retiring to re-read all belle's letters for the first time critically, and seriously caught himself wondering if one could really love a woman who wrote slang and whose spelling was not always above suspicion. subsequently, he remembered, having dismissed randell for the night, that he had never written that letter to mrs. roberts. it was certainly an unfortunate oversight, but it was too late now; he would telegraph his regrets in the morning, and he fell asleep while making up his mind that he was very glad he had decided not to go. * * * * * he arose refreshed and altogether philosophic, relegated madame de costa to past diplomatic experiences, and in the light of that youthful folly which wears the guise of wisdom, told himself, as he walked across the green park to his office, that he was glad the incident was over. but nevertheless, while he thought of the fair señora many times during the morning, the existence of miss fitzgerald, or of her aunt, never occurred to him till force of circumstances brought it to his mind. force of circumstances, in this instance, found actual embodiment in the person of randell, who put in an appearance at the legation about noon. the valet had never been there before in his life, and his appearance in stanley's office was assurance in itself that something most unusual must have happened. the instant he set eyes on him, the secretary was prepared for a fire or the death of a relative--at least. "well?" he said. "what is it?" "a gentleman 'as called to see you, sir, at the house." "you didn't come all the way down here to tell me that!" he exclaimed, immensely relieved. "yes, sir. you see, sir, it was some particular gentleman." "who?" "colonel darcy, sir." "good heavens!" "and very excited, sir." "naturally; but how did he know that madame de costa--mrs. darcy, i mean. that is, why didn't he come to the legation?" "you see, sir, as he told me the story----" and randell paused uneasily. "well, out with it, man: what did he tell you?" "that the lady had written him--which he got this morning, that she had placed herself in your care, and all her belongings were to be sent to your address." "what, my private address?" "yes, sir. quite correct, sir. he showed it to me in her letter." "it's all because i gave her my private card by mistake," and mr. stanley cursed a number of people and things under his breath. "he asked plenty of questions, which i didn't answer, more than i was in duty bound. but when he learned as you was a bachelor, sir, and the lady had been at your rooms last evening, he was that upset----" the secretary tilted his office chair back on its hind legs and gave vent to a long, low, meditative whistle. "i explained to him that there was nothing to be displeased about; but he wouldn't have none of it and said----" "yes, yes, what did he say?" "he said a good many things, some of which i wouldn't repeat, sir, not being respectful; but he asked for your official address, which i wouldn't give him, and said as he'd call you out--and spoke of bringing suit--and called you--wel-l, most everything, sir." "you need not particularise, randell." "no, sir." "is that all?" "yes, sir. except to my mind, he didn't seem really very much displeased over the matter." stanley grunted significantly. he thought he understood. darcy could have wished for nothing better. "i took the liberty, sir," continued the valet, serenely, "to bring your bag, ready packed, and your travelling rug and umbrella, thinking as you might be leaving town to-day, sir." "confound you, randell, i believe you think me guilty after all." "i thought as you were going to mrs. roberts' to-day, sir. you spoke of it to me a week ago, and had forgotten to give directions about your things, sir." "yes," said stanley meditatively, and rang his bell. "john," he continued to the functionary who appeared, "did i send mrs. roberts of roberts' hall, sussex, a telegram this morning?" "no, sir." "well, please wire her at once that i'll arrive this afternoon. leave in an hour. is his excellency disengaged?" "yes, sir." "thanks, that will do," and as john departed he added to randell: "you might go ahead and reserve a corner seat in a first-class carriage for me. facing the engine. liverpool street--you know." "yes, sir." "where is colonel darcy?" "waiting at your rooms for an answer." "ah," said stanley, "that gives me time to explain things to the chief. if colonel darcy is there when you return after seeing me off, tell him i don't know anything about his wife, and if that isn't good enough he can call on his excellency. say i'm away in the country for an indefinite time." "yes, sir." "you don't know where." "quite right, sir," and randell departed for the station. "quite right!" groaned stanley as he sought the sanctum sanctorum of the legation. "i only wish it were!" chapter viii diplomatic instructions mr. stanley's chief was a grey, weazened little man, who had achieved distinction in diplomacy and in his country's councils, largely on account of his infinite capacity for holding his tongue. as a result he let fall little and learned much. his reticence, however, was not the reserve of impotence, but the reserve of power. on this occasion he was busy at his great desk, which occupied the centre of the room, and merely glancing up at his secretary's entrance, he resumed the piece of work on which he was engaged. ten minutes later he put down his pen and gave his waiting subordinate an encouraging smile. it was his official permission to speak. "i regret to say that i have got into a little scrape, sir, concerning which will you give me leave to clear myself?" "leave of absence or my approval, mr. stanley?" "both, your excellency." the minister leaned back in his chair, rested his elbows on the arms, and bringing the first fingers of each hand together, held them at the level of his face and gazed attentively at their point of contact. it was a favourite attitude which the secretary understood, and he at once gave a concise account of all the circumstances concerning madame darcy. the minister heard him out in perfect silence, and after taking a moment or two to ponder over his words, remarked quietly: "it's a small world, mr. stanley." "you mean the fact that señor de costa and my father were friends before they quarrelled, and that his daughter----" "no, i do not mean that." the secretary thought it better policy not to ask what he did mean, though he much wished to know; and silence again reigned. presently the minister sat up to his desk and ran his hand through the mass of papers upon it; finally unearthing one in particular, which he submitted to a careful scrutiny. "your report of your visit to the foreign office yesterday," he said--"a very important communication, mr. stanley." if his chief had a disagreeable trait, and he was on the whole an exceedingly amiable man, it was an assumed seriousness of speech and demeanour, which he intended for sarcasm, and which invariably misled his victims to their ultimate discomfiture. stanley, who was aware of this trait and not very proud of the report in question, hastened to disclaim any inherent excellence it might be supposed to contain. "there's nothing in it, your excellency, except that remark about 'parlous times.'" "which was just the thing i was most anxious to hear. it proves that the foreign office regards the accomplishment of the treaty as by no means certain." stanley, with difficulty, checked an exclamation of surprise, but he had learned to respect his chief's little fads, and succeeded. the minister cleared his throat, an indication that this was one of the rare occasions on which he was about to speak at length, and on which he desired absolute attention and immunity from comment--and proceeded: "for three hundred years a treaty has been pending between great britain and our own country, concerning the possession of an island lying at the mouth of the river x----. at first spanish distrust of english aggression and, at a later period, the frequent changes of government to which our unfortunate country has been subjected, have prevented the successful termination of the negotiations. "matters have never been more favourable for its settlement than at the present time, and the immediate cession of the island to great britain, in return for a most satisfactory indemnity. for the last few weeks, however, we have noted an increasing opposition on the part of certain members of our own ministry, to the acceptance of the english propositions, the cause of which has now been discovered. an influential manufacturing concern, officered and financed by certain unscrupulous persons in this country, owns large mills on the island in question, for the production of an article of which they would be assured a monopoly, did the territory still remain in our hands, but which would be open to competition did it come into the possession of great britain. the company, in order to obtain a continuance of the monopoly, have raised £ , for distribution among a majority of the committee, who are to pass upon the treaty, thus practically insuring the failure of the negotiations. "while there is no reasonable doubt that this unfortunate state of affairs exists, we have not been able to obtain actual proofs of the same, and it is very necessary to do so, in order that the executive should be able, when the treaty comes up for consideration, six weeks hence, to inform the intending offenders that their intrigue is known. it is not the intention of our government to create any scandal in this matter, it being quite sufficient to insure the passage of the treaty, that the executive should hold proof of the minister's guilt, and be in a position to back up the threat of exposure and punishment. "now it is known that the english agent intrusted with the financial part of this disgraceful scheme, the man who is to take the money to be used in bribery and corruption from this country to ours, is the worst type of an adventurer, a thorough-going scoundrel, and clever enough to make a fortune in some honest way. his name is colonel robert darcy." the secretary so far forgot himself as to draw in his breath sharply, and his chief looked at him with a disapproving frown, and then continued: "this is why i said that the world was small when you told me of your connection with this man. for the past few weeks i have had him carefully watched, and i have learned that he is to go down to sussex almost at once, to receive the money for this dishonourable purpose from one of the heads of the firm, a silent partner, whose identity we have not yet discovered. this money is to be paid in gold, and after receiving it, and his private instructions, darcy will return at once to london and sail for the scene of his mission. i cannot watch his course in sussex personally, and i do not think it wise to risk publicity by putting the affair in the hands of the police. before you told me of your association with this man and his wife, i had some thoughts of giving you the conduct of this important and delicate matter, now----" "now!" burst out the secretary, unable in his chagrin longer to contain himself, "i have by my stupid blundering rendered myself unfit for the place, and lost a splendid chance!" the minister was visibly annoyed. "i was about to say, sir, when you interrupted me (a very bad habit of yours, mr. stanley), that you had unconsciously so perfectly adapted yourself to fill the position, that you have made it impossible for me to give it to anybody else." stanley gasped; he could not help it. "a diplomat should never express anything," remarked his chief severely, and continued his statement. "the greatest triumph of art could never have placed you in the position you now occupy as a result of a fortuitous combination of events. you can go right to the ground where darcy must operate, and any one of a dozen people can tell him that you have perfectly natural and innocent reasons for being there. being only human and apparently very angry, he'll certainly seek you out, and you may depend on it that i'll see that he has definite information as to where you have gone and with whom you are staying. all you'll have to do is to associate yourself with him; he'll give you ample opportunity for doing so, and to keep your eyes open. "i need hardly point out that, should you, during the next fortnight, be able to obtain in any way the required evidence, you would not only merit my approval but would put yourself in the sure way of promotion, and that for the best of all reasons, as one who has done a signal service to your country. "now, just a word of warning. do not communicate with me unless it is absolutely necessary. do not try to find out anything about darcy; do not try to see him. do not so much as breathe the treaty to anyone. simply be yourself. he's bound to suspect you at first, and it will only be as time passes and he becomes convinced from your manner of life--that you are young, inexperienced and wholly unfit to be trusted with a diplomatic secret--that he'll put himself off his guard. then will be your opportunity. seize it if possible. that's all; now go. no thanks, please; i trust you will deserve mine when you return. i'll manage everything for you here, and the legation pays your expenses--your leave is for an indefinite period." stanley bowed silently, his heart was too full to speak, and he turned to leave the room. "stop!" came his chief's voice. "you ought to know that darcy has a confederate. one of the two is a masterhand, probably the colonel; but see if you can find out the other; i've not been able to do so." stanley started, a vivid remembrance flashing through his mind of kingsland's significant caution to darcy at the tea. "sh'. he's looking our way! he'll hear us." the ambassador noticed the involuntary movement of his subordinate, and a grim smile played about his lips. "deportment, mr. secretary, deportment," he said. "a diplomat should always appear at his ease. so; that is better. you can go." chapter ix a house-warming much has been written of the blessed state of them that go a house-partying in england, and certain it is that no pleasanter pastime has been devised by civilised man, and that in no other country in the world has it been brought to a like degree of perfection. two great canons govern these functions, which it would be exceedingly well did the hostesses of all lands "mark, learn and inwardly digest." the first is that all guests are on speaking terms of intimacy with each other from the time they arrive till they depart. my lady may not know you next time you meet her in bond street, and the countess perchance will have forgotten to put your name on her visiting list for the remainder of this or any other season, but during the blessed interval of your sojourn at that hospitable hall in berks, you knew them both, and they were very gracious and charming. the second rule is none the less framed for your comfort and convenience, and it reads: "thou shalt be in all things thine own master." most admirable of rules. the amusements of the place, and most english country places are framed for some particular amusement, are put unreservedly at your disposal. are you on the thames? boats and boatmen are at your beck and call. are you north in the shooting season? a keeper waits your orders. do you hunt? grooms and horses are yours to command. but none of these things are you ever compelled to do. should you fear the water, though you are on an island, no one will ever suggest to you the possibility of leaving it. while your ecclesiastical host, bishop though he be, would never take it for granted that you were predisposed to week-day services and charity bazaars. mrs. roberts was a perfect hostess, and there was no doubt that her house would shortly be a favourite on many lists. i say, "would be," advisedly, for she had quite recently come into the possession of her own, which had been another's; a distant cousin, in short, the last of his branch of the family, who had the good sense to drink himself to death, shortly before the opening of this narrative, and leave his fine old elizabethan manor house to his very charming relative, an action which did him no credit, because the estate was entailed, and he could not help it. roberts hall had more than one attraction: indeed, it was blessed with an unusual number of delightful adjuncts for a country place, which does not pretend to be a demesne. for one thing, a number of miles intervened between the lodge gates and the hall, and that, in england, is a great consideration. as long as one has plenty of land, the manner of one's habitation is of little account, while in america houses must be as large or larger than one can afford, and if when they are built they cover most of our land, we are none the worse off in our neighbour's estimation. the estate, moreover, could boast of many fallow fields, and more than one avenue of fine old oaks, while it had a deer park of which many a larger place might have been proud. there was also a private chapel, for the use of the family and tenantry, boasting a great square family pew, fenced round on two sides with queer little leaden-paned windows, giving a view of the enclosure which contained the family monuments. it was farther enriched by a pretentious piece of carving in high relief, vigorously coloured, representing the resurrection, wherein generations of defunct roberts were depicted popping up, with no clothes on, out of a pea-green field, much after the manner of the gopher of the prairie. the gardens were extensive, including two artificial ponds, which for age and solidity might have been constructed from the beginning, tenanted by a number of swans, all very proud and controversial, and surrounded by an eight-foot hedge of holly which was a crimson glory in winter. but if the place was fascinating without, it was still more so within. it had a long low entrance hall with a tesselated pavement, panelled to the ceiling with the blackest of oak, and boasting a rail screen of the same material dividing the apartment, which many a church might have envied. there was moreover a library filled with a priceless collection of old volumes, chiefly perused, for some fifty years past, by the rodents of the establishment. mrs. roberts was in the great hall when stanley arrived, and so received him in person. she was a most vivacious little woman, to whom a long sojourn on the continent, coupled with a diplomatic marriage, had given the touch of cosmopolitanism, which was all that had been needed to make her perfect. "i'm awfully glad to see you, though you are the last comer," she said cordially. "the marchioness and lady isabelle, under the escort of lieutenant kingsland, reached here in time for lunch, and miss fitzgerald came a few hours later, while mr. riddle has just driven over." "mr. riddle," asked the secretary, "who is he?" "oh, arthur riddle, don't you know him? he is one of our county magnates and a near neighbour. i hope you'll all like each other, but you must realise that you have come to the veriest sort of pot-luck. i haven't begun to get settled yet, or know where anything is." "you speak as if you were a visitor," he said, laughing. "indeed, i feel so. i'm constantly getting lost in this rambling old house, and having to be rescued by the butler." "have you really never been here before?" "it's my first appearance. it was quite impossible to visit here during the lifetime of the late owner. why, i don't even know the traditions of the place, and it positively teems with them. i shall organise you all into an exploring party, with free permission to rummage from garret to cellar." "i suppose there's plenty to discover?" "discover! my dear mr. secretary, this place is fairly alive with ghosts, and sliding panels, and revolving pictures; and there's a great tiled, underground passage leading off from the kitchens into the country somewhere, which everyone is afraid to explore, and which the last incumbent had nailed up because it made him nervous." "i hope you've reserved a nice cork-screwy staircase with a mouldering skeleton at the top, for my especial discovery and delectation." "first come, first served," she replied; "but there's something in this very hall that's worthy of your mettle, the greatest prize puzzle a hostess ever possessed, only i shan't forgive you if you solve it, for it's one of the standard attractions of the house, and has amused guests innumerable." "trot it out forthwith. i'm all impatience." "i shall do nothing of the kind unless you treat it with more respect. an oaken door, studded with silver nails, that has not condescended to open itself for at least two centuries, cannot be 'trotted out'!" "i beg its humble pardon," said the secretary, approaching the door and putting his shoulder against it. "it's as steady as a rock." "oh, yes. nothing but dynamite or the proper combination could ever move it the fraction of an inch." stanley regarded it as it stood framed in its low saxon portal, a magnificent piece of black oak, sprinkled from top to bottom with at least a hundred huge, silver-headed nails, driven in without any apparent design. another peculiarity was that neither lock, hinges, nor keyhole were visible. "does it lead anywhere?" he asked, greatly interested. "to an unexplored tower," she replied. "to which this appears to be the only entrance; at least it has no windows." "how interesting. i wonder how they ever got it open." "tradition says that this is the original of our modern combination lock. no human strength can move it; but once exert the slightest pressure on the proper combination of those silver nails, five i believe, one for every digit, and the portal swings open of itself." "and discloses, what?" "open it and see," she answered. "are you sure the house won't tumble down if i do, or that you'll never smile again--or that some unpleasant ancestral prognostication isn't only awaiting the opening of that door to fall due and take effect?" "i can't insure you," she replied, "and i wish you wouldn't talk such nonsense," and she shivered slightly. "you surely don't believe, in the nineteenth century----" he began; but she interrupted him, saying almost petulantly: "you'd grow to believe anything if you lived in a place like this. on the whole, i think you'd better leave the door alone," she added, as he began to finger the nails thoughtfully, "you're too clever, you might succeed." "if i do," he assured her, "i'll promise to keep my discoveries to myself." "you'd better confine your attentions to the library; it's much more worthy of your consideration," she replied, evidently wishing to change the subject. "with pleasure," acquiesced stanley, following her lead. "and what am i to discover there?" "nothing. now i come to think of it, it's already pre-empted." "who are our literary lights?" "lady isabelle mclane and lieutenant kingsland." "i should never have suspected it of either of them," he replied, manifestly surprised, for kingsland's literary tastes, as evidenced on the thames, had not been of an elevated nature; and lady isabelle was too conventional and well-ordered a person to care to read much or widely. "nor should i," agreed his hostess; "but they remain glued to the bookcases, and to see them going into raptures over an undecipherable black letter volume, adorned with illustrations that no self-respecting householder would admit to his family circle, is, considering the young lady's antecedents at least, rather amusing. they've the room entirely to themselves." "oh!" said stanley, and they both laughed. "but the marchioness is certain that it is literary enthusiasm," she assured him. "my dear mrs. roberts," said the secretary, "that is merely the wisdom of age." and they laughed again. "and now," he added, "if you'll permit, i'll begin my tour of exploration, by finding where my belongings are bestowed." as he spoke, a footman was at his side, and his hostess, nodding cheerfully to him, left him to his own devices. stanley's room was charming, and he was so busy examining its curiosities that the sound of the dressing-bell awoke him to the realities of the situation with a start of surprise that he could have unconsciously idled away so much time. but then there was a fireplace, almost as large as a modern bedroom, ornamented with blue tiles of scriptural design, blatantly dutch and orthodox; and the great logs resting on fire-dogs, that happened to be lions, which caused most of the guests to break the tenth commandment in thought, and neglect to break it in deed, only because they were unsuited both by weight and design for surreptitious packing in bags or boxes. also there was the wall paper, rejoicing in squares of camels, and groves of palm trees, amidst which surroundings fully a hundred solomons received a hundred blushing queens of sheba. moreover, there was a huge four-poster into which you ascended by a flight of steps, and from the depths of whose feather-beds you were only rescued the following morning by the muscular exertions of your valet, which, as kingsland aptly remarked at dinner, was a tremendous cinch for the family ghosts, as they could haunt you all night long if they liked, without your ever being able to retaliate. altogether, it is doubtful if stanley would ever have remembered to dress for dinner, had not his meditations been interrupted by a series of astonishing sounds in the hall, which seemed to betoken the movements of great weights with strenuous exertions. just at that moment the valet entered with his freshly brushed dress clothes, and a question as to the cause of the disturbance elicited the fact that: "they was mr. riddle's chests, sir," and though it wasn't his place to say it, "he's a mighty queer old gentleman, gives magic lantern shows and entertainments free for charity, sir." "from his luggage, i should imagine he was supporting an opera troupe." "they was labelled 'stereopticon,' sir, but they was that heavy----" "thanks," broke in the secretary. "that's quite sufficient." he never approved of encouraging gossip, and was not interested in the description of the benevolent county magnate--still less in the weight of his chests--yet he smiled quietly to himself as he dressed for dinner. chapter x before dinner the lieutenant and miss fitzgerald were in the billiard-room, and the former was putting in the half-hour which must elapse before dinner by teaching the latter the science of bank-shots. "i say," queried her instructor, in one of the pauses of the game, "do you know that little diplomatic affair of yours has turned up again? i saw it driving in from the station, half an hour ago. "jimsy stanley, i suppose you mean?" "the same,--and look here, you won't turn crusty, if i ask you a point-blank question?" "no, dottie." "don't call me that, you know i hate it." "isn't it your naval sobriquet?" "never mind if it is." "but i do mind, and i shall call you what i please, for it suits you perfectly. well, then, dottie, i don't mind your asking me anything, if it's for a purpose, and not for idle curiosity." "oh, it's for a purpose fast enough." "go ahead, then. i'll try and bank that ball into the side-pocket, while you are thinking it out." "it doesn't need thinking out. it's just this: do you mean business with little diplomacy?" "what affair is that of yours?" she asked, pausing in the act of chalking her cue. "none, thank goodness; but i'd like to do a pal a good turn, and so----" "well?" "if you'll accept a bit of advice." "out with it." "don't lose any time, if you do mean business. he's being warned against you." "aren't you clever enough to know the result of that?" "yes, if the advice comes from a woman--but supposing it's from a man?" "who?" "kent-lauriston." miss fitzgerald so far forgot herself as to whistle. "how do you know?" "gainsborough told me. he said he overheard an awful long confab between them at the st. james, two days ago, and diplomacy said he'd write a letter to our hostess, sending his regrets." "no such letter has been received." "probably he changed his mind,--but----" "then he'll make a clean breast of it to me, but i'm much obliged just the same, and i won't forget it." "i'll see he owns up to it." "you won't do anything of the sort, you'll bungle it, and there's an end of things." "have i generally bungled your affairs with little diplomacy?" "no. you were a trump about that launch party. now i mustn't keep you from her ladyship--run along, and remember if i can be of any help--just call on me." "you can be--and i want you to----" she broke in with a merry laugh. "i knew it." "why?" "because lieutenant kingsland doesn't generally put himself out to oblige his friends, unless he expects them to make return with interest." the gentleman in question looked sheepish and shrugged his shoulders. "come now," she continued briskly. "let me hear it, and don't go blundering about for an explanation; the facts are sufficient. i've been alone with you long enough. i don't wish to set myself up as a rival to lady isabelle." "it's about her i want your help." "of course, i know that. go on." "you don't ask if i mean business." "i don't need to. i know the amount in consols which she received from her grandmother." "don't be so damned mercenary!" "why not say a thing as well as mean it? let's be honest for once in a way. besides, you're not to swear at me, lieutenant kingsland--please remember i'm not married to you." "no. by gad! i wish you were." "oh, no, you don't. i haven't silver enough to cross the palm of my hand. but to come to business. doesn't your affair progress swimmingly?" "why, it has so far--as long as the dowager fancied there was danger from little diplomacy's quarter, i was used as a foil. now that she learned about your claims she breathes again, and gives me the cold shoulder in consequence." "i suppose you haven't been wasting your time?" "rather not." "it's all right then?" "yes, i think so; but the old lady'll never allow it." "marry without consulting her." "that's what i mean to do." "where?" "why, here. haven't we got the parson and the church attached? what could be more convenient?" "nothing, if the marchioness doesn't suspect?" "but i'm afraid that she does." "what--not that----" "only that my intentions are serious." "transfer them to me then--temporarily." "won't do. devotion to lady isabelle is the tack. why won't you lend me your little affair?" "what, jimsy?" "yes. i fancy the old lady has a mistaken idea that he's poverty-stricken. of course, i know that can't be the case if you----" "do not finish that sentence, lieutenant kingsland; i'm quite willing to oblige you--by mentioning to the dowager the amount of mr. stanley's income--if i know it." "she'll accept your word for it, even if you don't, and once her attention is turned to him, i'll have a clear field." "is that the help you wanted?" "no, i want you to square the parson." "oh, i see; that's a more difficult matter. when do you wish to command his services?" "if i need 'em at all it'll be in about three days. to-day's thursday--say sunday." "i'll do what i can." "you're a brick. oh, by the way, i spoke to darcy about that letter you gave me at the hyde park club." "and he told you to keep a still tongue in your head and leave it to me." "how did you know that?" "it's good advice," she continued, ignoring his question, "and i'll give you some more. if i make any suggestion after dinner, advocate it warmly--put it through." "you mean to get that letter to-night?" "i must get it to-night." "but suppose he's left it in london?" "then i must find it out this evening, and take steps to procure it there." "you wouldn't have his rooms searched?" "i must have that letter--that's all," she replied. "you don't know what it means to me?" "i don't know anything about it. but why not ask him for it?" "tell him it was mine, and that i sent it to darcy," she exclaimed, incredulously. "i say," he ventured to expostulate--"you know i am no milksop--but don't you think that you and the colonel are getting a trifle thick? he's a married man, you know, and----" she flushed angrily, and then controlling herself, said quietly: "oblige me by going to the drawing-room at once, lieutenant kingsland. we've been here too long already." he bit his lip, looked at her, laughed shamefacedly, and thrusting his hands into his trousers' pockets, went out. having given him time to make his escape, she slowly followed his footsteps. * * * * * stanley dreaded meeting his friends, as a man does who stands convicted of having done something foolish, and while he was wondering whom he had better encounter first, lady isabelle settled the question for him by meeting him in the great hall. "this is indeed unexpected," she said. "after what you told me at lady rainsford's tea, it's naturally the last place where i should have thought of seeing you." "i don't suppose our hostess considered it necessary to mention that i was coming, after all." "i believe that she did say something at luncheon about receiving a telegram from you; but as you had assured me that you were not to be here, and as i was much engaged----" "in literary pursuits with lieutenant kingsland," he said, finishing her sentence for her, at which termination her ladyship flushed, and the secretary felt that in the first round at least he had given as good as he had received. "but i want you to understand the reason of my coming," he said, leading her to a seat in a little alcove. "i feel that i owe you some explanation." "i don't see why you should," she replied coldly. "i'm sure you have a perfect right to do one thing and say another without consulting me." lady isabelle was nettled, for she felt he had trifled with the serious side of her nature. she had offered him good advice which he had pretended to accept, and straightway her back was turned, he had unblushingly belied his words. "i beg your pardon," he said humbly. "i shouldn't have presumed to suppose that you could have felt any real interest in my affairs." "oh, but i do," she replied, somewhat mollified. "a deep interest, the interest of a friend." she made it a point to qualify any statement that might be open to possible misconstruction. "i see i shall have to throw myself on your mercy, and tell you the whole truth," said stanley, which he proceeded not to do. "i intended to write a letter." "it isn't necessary. i would accept your word----" "but you'd still have a lingering suspicion of me in your heart. as i was saying--i intended to write to mrs. roberts, declining her invitation, and forgot to do so till this morning, and then i made a virtue of necessity, and as it was too late to refuse, telegraphed my hour of arrival." had the light been a little stronger, he would have noted the quiet smile which played about lady isabelle's face, though her silence was, in itself, suggestive of the fact that she did not believe him. "i probably shan't stay more than a few days, long enough to do the proper thing, you know." "have you seen your friend?" "miss fitzgerald? on my word, i haven't laid eyes on her. the fact is, i've quite decided to follow your advice. you must be my guardian angel." her ladyship looked dubious at this, though the rôle of guardian angel to an attractive young man has ever been dear to the feminine heart. however that may be, her ultimate decision was perforce relegated to another interview, by the appearance before them of the subject of their conversation--miss belle fitzgerald. this much discussed lady was dressed in the apparent simplicity which tells of art. her costume, the very finest of white muslins, suggested the lithe movements of the body it encased, with every motion she made, and her simple bodice was of the fashion of thirty years ago, a fashion which always inspired wonder that the clothes stayed on, and awe at the ingenuity with which that miracle must have been accomplished. a broad frill of the same material, caught with a knot of white ribbon at her breast, framed her dazzling throat and neck, and a yellow sash, whose end nearly touched the floor, encircled her waist; a sash whose colour just matched the tint of that glorious hair, which, astonishing to relate, hung loose down her back, and was surmounted by a very tiny white bow, which was evidently a concession to the demands of conventionality, as it could have been of no possible use in retaining her tresses. that miss fitzgerald was able not only to adopt this style, but to carry it off with unqualified success, and the approval of all unprejudiced observers, was its own justification. "i always wear my hair like this in the country," she had said at lunch. "it is so much easier, and i'm really not old enough to paste it over my forehead and go in for a bun behind"--this with a glance at lady isabelle, which caused the dowager marchioness to exclaim, quite audibly, that it was scandalous for that young person--she was sure she had forgotten her name--to wear her hair as if she wasn't yet eighteen. lady isabelle, it may be remarked, could lay no claim to anything under twenty. but certainly in this case, the end justified the deed, and miss fitzgerald, rejuvenated, was one of the most simple, blithesome and gay young maidens that the sun shone on. possibly this was the reason that she never saw or comprehended the meaning of lady isabelle's uplifted eyebrows and steely glare, as she drew up before the couple and violated the first rule of fair and open warfare by interrupting their tête-à-tête. "well, jimsy," she said, using a form of address that the rack would never have wrung from his companion, "how are you? feeling fit?" he smiled uneasily, and, for the sake of saying something, since her ladyship preserved an ominous silence, remarked: "there's no need of putting that question to you." "rather not. once i'm in the country, i'm as frisky as a young colt," she rattled on. "i'm going to have such fun with you and kingsland, and i expect to be, as usual, quite spoiled. now, how are you going to begin?" "really," he faltered, rising in an access of agitation, for lady isabelle's expression was fearful to behold. "you shall run along with me to mrs. roberts," she continued, not giving him an opportunity to flounder, "and tell her that she must send us down to dinner together. because you're a diplomat and will have a post of honour, and the butler has given me the tip that we're to have just one round of ' champagne before the dessert, and you know we really must have the first of the bottle, there is sure to be sediment farther down." "you must excuse me, but you see-- lady isabelle," and he indicated that stony personage. "oh, i beg lady isabelle's pardon--it was so dark i didn't see her!" she cried in a fit of demure shyness, and added--"if i have said anything indiscreet, do explain it, there's a dear, good jimsy." "it's not necessary," came the icy tones of his companion. "i shouldn't think of keeping you, mr. stanley, from such congenial society." "at least, let me escort you to the drawing-room." "don't trouble yourself, i beg. i dare say i shall find some people there who are contented to wait till their proper precedence has been allotted to them," and she turned away. "oh, yes," the irrepressible belle called after her. "i just sent kingsland up there. he's been showing me bank notes in the billiard-room. i thought i'd never get rid of him." if her ladyship heard this information she betrayed no sign of the fact, and miss fitzgerald returned to more congenial fields. "you behaved disgracefully," said stanley, as they went in search of mrs. roberts, "and i shall have to spend most of this evening in trying to make my peace with lady isabelle." "poor, proper jimsy! was he shocked? but i really couldn't help it, you know--she's such a funny old thing." the secretary wisely changed the subject. when they discovered mrs. roberts she assured them that their proposed arrangement at table suited her exactly, but could not forbear whispering in her niece's ear: "i shouldn't think you'd have thought it necessary to ask. of course, i'd arranged it that way." to which miss belle whispered in return: "don't be stupid!" chapter xi after dinner when the secretary entered the drawing-room he received a distinct shock of surprise. the one person in the party unknown to him was mr. riddle. yet those high cheek-bones, that prominent nose between the deep-set, restless eyes, peering out under their shaggy eyebrows, were strangely familiar. he had seen them once before when they and their owner occupied a cab together with his fair dinner partner. he was on the point of saying so to her, but restrained himself, he hardly knew why, in deference, perhaps, to his diplomatic training, which forbade him ever to say anything unnecessary. fate placed him next to the dowager marchioness, who was manifestly displeased at his presence, and lost no time in making him feel thoroughly uncomfortable. "i had always supposed," she began, before he was fairly seated at the table, "that at this season of the year there was a great deal of activity in the diplomatic world." "there is," answered stanley hastily, scenting danger, and anxious to turn the conversation from his own affairs. "most countries have a little leisure, and, like satan, expend the time in making and finding mischief." "that is, of course, a matter of which i am no judge, mr. stanley, but i should have supposed, under the circumstances, you would naturally be much occupied." "we are," he replied, a trifle flippantly. flippancy, he had noticed, was the one thing that drove the marchioness to the verge of desperation. "my minister and my colleagues are working like draught-horses." "while you----" began her ladyship. "i'm working also--hard," and he turned himself and the conversation to the fair miss fitzgerald, while the dowager said things in a loud tone of voice about youthful diplomacy to mr. lambert, the local incumbent, who had taken her down to dinner. the secretary was no more fortunate with his dinner partner. not that she rated him; far from it; but she was evidently making conversation, and he could not help feeling that the cordial good fellowship which had hitherto existed between them was now lacking, and that a restraint had taken its place, which, to say the least, did not promote their mutual ease. but there, he would have a talk with her when opportunity offered, and they would understand each other and be as good friends as ever; nothing more. he knew himself now. he was sure she had never been so foolish as to suppose for an instant that their intimacy could mean anything further. she would probably laugh at him if he proposed to her--which he would not do, of course--but all the same he must make some sort of an explanation, and--what was she saying?--he had not spoken for a whole course--what must she be thinking of him? he pulled himself together, and rattled on, till his hostess gave the signal for the ladies to leave the table. the interval for rest, refreshment, and tobacco promised to be somewhat wearisome, for kingsland seemed moody and abstracted, and riddle and the reverend reginald lambert offered, to stanley's mind, little hope of amusement. the good pastor was a bit of an archæologist, an enthusiast on the subject of early ecclesiastical architecture, and the nominal duties of his living left him much spare time for the exploitation of this harmless fad. he was possessed of considerable manual dexterity and a certain nicety in the manipulation of whatever he undertook, whether it were the restoration of parchments or the handling of leaden coffins, but apart from his hobby he was as prosy as the most typical member of his calling. as the secretary could not tell a nave from a chapter house, a very few minutes served to exhaust his interest in the good old gentleman, and he turned to mr. riddle in sheer desperation. stanley had conceived a dislike for the stranger from the first moment he had heard he was a fellow-guest, either from his reputation for beneficence or his mysterious acquaintance with miss fitzgerald. he had at once put him down as a hypocrite, and his attitude towards him was reserved in consequence. this sort of man, he told himself, takes a pride in his good deeds, and can be most easily approached on that subject. accordingly he drew up his chair and opened the conversation with some allusion to the chests of stereopticon fittings. "yes, they're bulky," replied mr. riddle, "and i was almost ashamed to bring them with me-- i trust they've not annoyed you." "on the contrary, i was hoping we might be favoured with a view of their contents." "oh, no," he said, his face lighting up with a frank smile, which appealed to the secretary in spite of his prejudices. "i never inflict my fads on my friends. i'd promised to send them on to a man in london, and, as i was coming in this direction, brought them part way myself. you see, the average porter cannot understand that a thing may be heavy and yet fragile--if a chest weighs a great deal--and you'd be surprised how heavy a case of slides can be--he bangs it about regardless of labels and warnings; so i generally try to keep an eye on them, or put them in the charge of some trusty friend." "you are much interested in these things?" "the slides? oh, yes,--collecting them becomes quite absorbing, and now these clever scientists of ours are able to photograph directly on them, it increases our field immensely." "of course the good you can do with them must be their chief charm to you----" began the secretary, sententiously. the answer surprised him. "not at all. on the contrary, my charities, if they _are_ charities, are of a very selfish sort. i suppose you've some kind of amusement which you turn to in your hours for relaxation? golf, tennis, hunting, what not. these little entertainments are--mine. i thoroughly enjoy them. the fact is, i'm passionately fond of children, and not having any of my own, i've adopted everybody else's for the time being. but it's selfish, purely selfish. some benighted idiots call me a philanthropist--i'd like to have them come pressing their claims for lazy heathen in my bank parlour, they'd find out what sort of business man i was." and this queer specimen doubled up his fists, and broke into a roar of laughter, which was too hearty to have been assumed. "i'll tell you what it is," he continued, "if it wasn't for our good dominie there, i'd admit to you that i hate a real professional philanthropist--ten to one he's a humbug." the parson held up his hands, and stanley laughed nervously--the man was actually voicing his own thoughts. "as for charity-- bah! charity begins at home. it doesn't go racing over the country with magic lantern shows--that's real downright, selfish egotism." then, evidently feeling that the conversation had proceeded far enough in this direction, he broke off suddenly, remarking: "they tell me that you're a diplomat." "yes," said the secretary. "perhaps you know my chief?" "i've not that honour. indeed i've never had any dealings with your countrymen but once, and then i'd reason to regret it." "really? i'm sorry to hear that." "it was with a large manufacturing company," he continued, and mentioned the name of the concern which had such a sinister reputation in regard to the treaty. "oh," said the secretary, at once alert for any information he might pick up. "you mustn't judge my countrymen by that concern--anyway i understand that it's really owned in england." "ah, is it so? i can't say how that may be, i'm sure; but i know they kept so closely to the letter of their contracts with my bank, that it almost crossed the border line from strict business to sharp dealing." "i'm sorry you should have been annoyed, but i know nothing about it. we--my father, is interested in sugar, and that, as you see, wouldn't bring us into any connection with their line of business." "no, of course not. do you happen to know who _are_ the heads of the firm in this country?" "i haven't any idea," the secretary answered, very tersely. "i fancy they're in the nature of silent partners. but i dare say they might be known in business circles." "oh, the matter doesn't interest me--except as i've mentioned. it was recalled to my mind by some notice of a treaty i saw the other day in the papers--which i should fancy would rather cripple their resources, if it went through." the secretary held his peace, and silence falling upon the room, the reverend reginald deposited the butt of his cigar tenderly in the ash-tray, and blew his nose lustily, as a preparatory signal for a retreat to the upper regions. the others obeyed the hint, and a moment later were on their way to the drawing-room. * * * * * miss fitzgerald's resentment towards the lieutenant had been short-lived, and she was quite ready to aid and abet him to the extent of her power, the more so as his success would upset the most cherished plans of the marchioness, who was, for the time being, the irish girl's pet detestation. accordingly she took up her station near that matron, who descended on her forthwith. "i suppose, my dear," said the dowager, with an assumption of friendly interest that was even more terrible to behold than the coldness of her wrath, "i _can_ only suppose, from what i could not help observing at table this evening, that you are soon to be a subject of congratulations." "really i don't understand." "of course, i shouldn't think of forcing your confidence, but when an engagement is unannounced there's a degree of uncertainty." "oh, but i think you're mistaken," said miss fitzgerald, lifting her liquid blue eyes to the dowager's face, with an expression of innocence, which was the perfection of art. "i'm much too young to think of such things--besides, who'd have me, with no dower except my beauty, such as it is, which, as your ladyship knows, is not lasting." the marchioness fairly snorted with rage. she had been a court belle in her time. "some country parson, perhaps," continued miss fitzgerald reflectively; "but then i fear i should not make a good parson's wife." "i should doubt it," assented the dowager with asperity. "no millionaires would think of me for a moment." "i did not know there were any such here." "what, not mr. stanley?" "mr. stanley?" "why, to be sure. he's worth millions they say. stanley & son, south american sugar. anyone in the city would confirm my statements, but you don't know the city of course-- lieutenant kingsland could tell you more about him if you cared to hear it," and she moved away as the gentlemen entered the room, and running up to stanley, exclaimed:-- "you've been an interminable length of time over your cigars. men are so selfish and i'm simply dying for a game of hearts." "you play it so much i should think you would tire of it," he said, smiling. "tut! tut! naughty man! this is serious business. sixpence a heart, and you mustn't win, for i'm quite impoverished. you'll be one of the party, jack," she continued, turning to kingsland, who had just come up. "nothing i should like better. i always approve of assisting the undeserving," replied the lieutenant, and added: "i'll get lady isabelle to join us." a very valuable piece of assistance, as her ladyship would hardly have done so on miss fitzgerald's unsupported invitation; and since it was manifestly an affair of the young people, this deflection might have ruined all. the lieutenant's request, however, had due weight, and she graciously consented to join the party, which was further augmented by mr. riddle, who declared that "young people" meant anyone who felt young, and so he did not intend to be excluded. the cards were accordingly shuffled, but during the deal, belle discovered that though she had a pencil, no paper for scoring was anywhere obtainable. "oh, any old scrap will do," she said. "surely some of you gentlemen have an old envelope on which we can keep tally. jack? mr. riddle?" both gentlemen professed to an utter absence of any available material. "you, jim--then?" she queried, turning to the secretary. "i don't generally carry my correspondence round in my evening clothes," he protested, laughing. "idiot!" she retorted, with an affected depth of scorn. "how can you tell unless you've looked?" "oh well," he replied, "to please you----" and thrust his hand into the pocket of his coat. "why," he exclaimed, "here is something! i declare, it's that mysterious letter which i intercepted at the hyde park club night before last. let me see, kingsland, i think it dropped from the ceiling into your hands." "the letter belongs to me," came the keen voice of mr. riddle. "to you!" said stanley, in genuine surprise. "yes. i gave it to lieutenant kingsland at the hyde park club." "but surely," contended the secretary, "lieutenant kingsland told me, only that morning, that he didn't know who you were." silence fell on the little company. the lieutenant flushed and moved uneasily in his seat, and miss fitzgerald leaned forward with a strained look in her face, while the keen, restless eye of mr. riddle swept round the table, taking in all present at a glance. then he spoke, with quick decision. "quite true. i did not till to-day have the pleasure of _knowing_ lieutenant kingsland. i saw him leaving the room at the club, however, and though he was a stranger, ventured, as i was unable to leave my party, to ask him to do me the favour to post a letter for me, handing him two-pence for the stamp. i had, it seems, very carelessly forgotten to address it." "yes," broke in the lieutenant, catching his breath. "you remember i told you i didn't know who had given it to me." "you will notice," continued mr. riddle, "that the envelope is sealed with the initials a. r. inclosed in scroll work. here"--detaching it from his watch chain--"is the seal with which the impression was made." a cursory glance assured stanley that it was the same. "if you doubt my statement," continued mr. riddle affably, "we can procure some wax and make a duplicate----" the secretary hastened to disclaim any such intention. why should he doubt this gentleman's word? kingsland corroborated his story, and the letter was no concern of his, anyway. indeed, as he said, in handing it over to its owner, he felt that he owed him an apology for his unwarrantable interference in the matter. at this point miss fitzgerald resumed the conversation. "there!" she cried. "you and your stupid letter have lost me the deal, for i don't know where i left off. take the cards and deal for me-- i'll run downstairs and get a clean sheet of paper, and come in on the next hand," and suiting the action to the word, she pushed the pack over to stanley, and ran from the room. a moment later the game was in progress. mr. riddle was the life and soul of the party, and his irresistible mirth and good humour put every one at his ease. the impoverished, it is perhaps needless to say, were duly remunerated; and the secretary, after a round of whiskies and sodas, retired to his room, feeling that the evening had been a triumphant success, and reflecting ruefully that he was yet very young, for a little brief authority had made him suspicious of everybody. had he not put down mr. riddle as a hypocrite, when that gentleman was one of the most open, whole-hearted and mirthful personages in existence? as for the letter it was an unfortunate incident, very successfully brought to a close. something was wrong with belle, however. she had left him with a shrug and laugh, saying: "oh, there is no real gambling in a mere game of cards. try life!" chapter xii a morning call the dowager was being created for the day. created seems the only term applicable to the process, for lily, marchioness of port arthur, as finished by her maker and her maid, were two entirely distinct and separate articles. stimson alone was initiated in these mysteries. even lady isabelle had never been allowed to see her mother as she really was, and no one exactly knew how she was put together, though several tradesmen in bond street might have been able to make shrewd guesses at her component parts. the dowager never appeared in public until lunch time. she had, she told her friends, earned the right to this little luxury now that the struggle of life was nearly over. doubtless her ladyship knew best what she had done to deserve such an indulgence. but, be that as it may, her daily retirement gave her a much coveted opportunity for attending to matters in the private life of other people, and one of these affairs claimed her attention after the secretary's arrival at roberts' hall. stimson had finished her morning's budget; that is, she had retailed to her ladyship all those things about which the dowager declared pathetically she had not the slightest desire to know, but which, had the maid omitted to mention them, would have cost her her place. "and so, as i was saying, my lady," stimson concluded her recital, "mr. stalbridge, the butler, he tells me as there was a strange lady come to coombe farm yesterday, a foreigner like." "i do not know, stimson, why you worry me with these trivialities," said the dowager, "in which i can have no possible interest. you say she was a foreigner?" "yes, my lady. a spaniard, mr. stalbridge thought, and her name----" "you needn't trouble me to tell me her name, stimson." "no, my lady. i shouldn't presume, my lady. but, of course, when i heard as it was madame darcy, i couldn't help thinking----" "i do not employ you to think, stimson. i understand you to say that the lady's name was madame darcy? surely my daughter met a madame darcy the other night, somewhere?" "yes, my lady, at mr. stanley's dinner." "it is quite immaterial to me where lady isabelle met this person. but, as you say, it _was_ at mr. stanley's dinner. so i infer she must be a friend of his." "she's not staying at the hall, my lady." "no," said the marchioness. "i shouldn't have supposed she would stay at the hall. stimson, you may get me my bonnet and a light shawl." "but i thought your ladyship said as how you was not well enough to go out this morning." "i said, stimson, that you could get me my bonnet and a light shawl. perhaps a little air will do me good." "if your ladyship was thinking of taking a little stroll, it's very pretty towards the coombe farm, not ten minutes' walk across the park to the left of the house." "as you very well know, stimson," her mistress remarked with asperity, "i am too nearly tottering on the brink of the grave to venture out of the garden. perhaps there is a side-door by which i can leave the house and be alone. i shouldn't have the strength to talk to anybody." "no, your ladyship. i'll show you the way, and if mrs. roberts should send to inquire for your ladyship's health----" "say i have been obliged to lie down by a headache, and shall not appear till lunch." "but if anyone saw your ladyship----" "in that case," snapped the marchioness, "i should be obliged to dismiss you as being untruthful." in a good cause the dowager was only too apt to overtax her strength, and this was probably the reason why, half an hour later, she was obliged to sink down on a wooden bench outside the door of coombe farm and request the privilege of resting herself for a few minutes. the farmer's wife, who, like most people of her class, took a vast interest in the guests at the hall, knew intuitively that she was a marchioness, and having ducked almost to the dust, rushed into the house to get her ladyship a glass of fresh milk and impart the astounding intelligence to her lodger. a moment later madame darcy appeared upon the scene. "i am going to take the liberty of introducing myself, as i have the pleasure of knowing your daughter," she said. her ladyship was affable in the extreme. "this is, indeed, a pleasure, madame darcy," she murmured. "dear isabelle was so impressed with you the other night that she has done nothing but talk of you since; but, of course, i could not have supposed my walk would have had such a charming termination. is not your coming into the country rather unexpected?" "yes," replied madame darcy. "it is what you in this country call a whim, is it not? i am not yet quite sure of your language." the marchioness smiled indulgently. "yes," she said, "that's quite right. it is very clever of you." "i do not like your london," pursued the stranger. "it suffocates me, and i wish to run away into the country." "and how did you know of this charming spot?" said her ladyship, still angling on general principles. "oh, i have heard it mentioned." "by mr. stanley, perhaps?" suggested the dowager. "you knew he was to be here." "oh, yes," rejoined madame darcy, judging it better to be frank. "but i came here to be quite alone. i need rest and quiet." "i see," said the marchioness, who was quite bewildered. "but you and mr. stanley are very old friends, are you not?" "our fathers were. we have not met often recently." "yes, yes, of course," said the marchioness. "mr. stanley told me. he's such a nice young fellow. we often see him at our house. i take quite an interest in him. and how pleasantly he is situated, too. diplomacy is such a delightful profession. but then"--and here she sighed gently--"like other delightful things in this world it must require a very long purse." if madame darcy had had any knowledge of english manners and customs, the dowager's method of attack would have put her on her guard at once. but being totally unversed in the ways of british matrimonial diplomacy, she took the marchioness' remarks to mean nothing more than an expression of kindly interest in the young man's welfare, and did not hesitate to inform her that the secretary was amply able to afford any position he chose to take. "oh, yes," said the dowager. "his father's greatly interested in sugar, i believe. or is it salt? i am very ignorant about these matters. which do you grow in your country?" madame darcy repressed a smile and informed her guest that mr. stanley's father grew sugar, and was one of the most wealthy planters in that section of the world. "well, i must be going now," said the marchioness. "i have had such a pleasant little chat, and i shall certainly ask mrs. roberts to call on you." "oh, pray don't," returned madame darcy. "that is--excuse me, i did not mean to be rude--but i have come down here for absolute rest, and do not feel in the mood for any gaiety." "i quite understand," said the dowager, "and will respect your feelings. indeed, i will not mention having met you at all, and then no one need be the wiser. no, thanks. i shall be quite able to go by myself. perhaps we may meet again in london. you must ask mr. stanley to bring you to call on me. such a nice young fellow! he ought to be married to keep him out of mischief." and the marchioness returned to her room to complete her headache. scarcely fifteen minutes had elapsed since the dowager's departure, when, just by accident, stanley strolled by, and lifting his eyes caught sight of madame darcy's face at the cottage window. "what!" he exclaimed. "you here!" and stood silent a moment as a wave of feeling rushed over him, the first pleasure of seeing her sad sweet face being swept away by consternation at the thought of how she had played into her husband's hands by following him to this place. she read what was in his mind, saying, with that charming accent which appealed to him so strongly: "you should not express your thoughts so clearly in your face. you are thinking--but it is not of me--it is of yourself--in this part of the world men think only of themselves--in my country they think of us." and she gave a sigh. "you are, what you english call 'put out' at my coming--you think it will compromise you--strange country where the men consider that they will be compromised. you do not think of me, not one little bit--eh? i am right?" "i'm afraid so," he said. "you see, nowadays, chivalry doesn't exist far north or south of the equator." she shrugged her shoulders. "i carry my own climate, my own atmosphere," she said. the secretary bowed. "no? you are not convinced? i had thought better of you." "you see," he said, feeling it wiser to be blunt, feeling that he must, if possible, bring this wayward, entrancing, fantastic creature within the limits of practical common sense. "you see, your precious husband has been making trumped-up charges against me, on your account, which are highly unpleasant." "he is a beast!" "quite so, but as far as circumstantial evidence goes, he has some cause on his side. your arrival at my private apartments in london was most unfortunate; but your following me here was simply the worst sort of foolishness." the secretary was aggrieved and showed it; but the result of his plaint was most unexpected. his fair companion sprang to her feet and gave him a flashing glance, that startled him out of the fancied security of his egotism. "i come here to follow you! how dare you?" "oh, i beg your pardon. i didn't mean to be rude, really; but i naturally inferred----" "no!" she cried. "why should i come for you?-- bah! i come for _her_!" "for whom?" "for _her_," she cried, pointing towards the hall. "for her?" inquired stanley, somewhat dazed by this unexpected change of base. "but who is she?" "i do not know. i do not care; but she writes to my husband--she makes appointments with him." "oh, the nameless friend." "now you understand why i have come?" "yes, i see. still i think it lays you open to misconstruction. you had better return to london. i suppose you know you were followed to my house?" she snapped her fingers airily. "i care just that for being followed. what of it?" "my dear inez, you forget that you're not in our native country. we can't fight duels galore in this part of the world, and cut the throats of inconvenient witnesses. people will talk; there are the newspapers; and--the dowagers; and the nonconformist conscience to be considered. you don't know what you are letting me--i mean yourself, in for." "i tell you, i must confirm my suspicions. i must see your--what you call it--your visitors' book--which they have in great houses-- i must compare the handwriting of the guests with the handwriting of these letters. when i have proved my case i will return to london--not one moment before. you are my friend, you will help me." "of course i will help you; but i assure you there is no one in the house who could be suspected for a moment." "at least, you will help me to prove myself wrong?" and she shot at him one of those unsettling glances. "of course--with all my heart--and then you'll go back to london and take mr. sanks' advice, won't you?" "you are very anxious to have me go," she said, piqued. "no, no!" he assured her hastily. "far from it; but can't you see--that it is for your sake that i urge it. supposing anyone saw us now; what would they think, what could they think--an early morning rendezvous." "they would say that you were making a report to me of your progress in discovering the plot against the treaty between england and our country." he looked at her dumbfounded and said nothing. indeed there was nothing he could say without risking some imprudent disclosure. "ah," she cried, laughing merrily at his discomfiture. "you see, you diplomats do not know everything. it is true i only write supervised letters home, but that does not prevent my receiving letters from my country first hand, and my father has written much about this treaty. it seems they are going to try and bribe the senators to defeat it, with money raised here, and some cowardly scoundrel has been engaged as go-between." stanley stood looking at her in horrified astonishment. was it possible that if she knew so much she did not know that she was condemning her own husband? but her next words proved to him that such must be the case. "my father writes me," she continued, "that on proving the identity of this go-between, the success or failure of the plot depends, and so far, the government have been at a loss to identify him." the secretary, who held the key to the situation, could see excellent reasons why the executive had kept señor de costa in the dark; what madame was saying was evidently what everybody knew. of the truth she had not the remotest inkling. "well," she cried gaily, "why don't you speak?" "i have nothing to say," he replied. "diplomatic to the end, i see," she retorted. "but you can't expect to share my confidences unless you give me yours. now tell me, have you discovered any of the conspirators yet?" "i can truthfully say," he replied, "that as far as i know, there is nobody at roberts' hall connected with the conspiracy to which you allude." "so you've come down here at the busiest season of your year on indefinite leave just to pay a country-house visit." "how did you know that?" he asked. "randell," she replied. "good heavens!" he cried, "you haven't been to my rooms again." "naturally not," she returned coldly. "your servant brought a pair of gloves to my hotel, which i left at your rooms." the secretary bit his lips and changed the conversation, and made a mental note of the fact that if randell was becoming talkative, he would have to go. "you asked me," he said, "if i had discovered one of the agents of this mysterious treaty of which you seem to know so much. perhaps you will tell me if you have?" "yes," she said, smiling. "who is it?" he asked. "ah!" she cried. "i thought i should break down your reserve." "well," he said sheepishly, "what have you to say?" "nothing," she replied. "i only exchange confidences for confidences. tell me whom you suspect, and i will tell you whom i know." "what you ask is impossible," he replied, feeling that he could never wound her by admitting his suspicions of her husband. "so be it," she said gaily, giving him her hand, and added, "come and see me again when you can spare a little time from your detective work." the secretary saw she was laughing at him, and took his leave discomfited. madame darcy watched him go, and sighed gently as she turned to re-enter the house. she also had felt that she would not have dared to wound him by mentioning her suspicions. chapter xiii the serious side of miss fitzgerald's nature it may have been contrition for her shortcomings which induced miss fitzgerald to offer her services to the reverend reginald lambert to assist in decorating the altar of the little church for the ensuing sunday, and it may not. at any rate, she did offer them, and they were gratefully accepted. she was dressed in a garb which would have befitted a postulant for a religious order, and her sweet seriousness, and altogether becoming demeanour, charmed the reverend reginald. the old parson was, it is needless to say, a thorough nonentity, and the skilful attentions of his fair assistant were the more appreciated, because the more rare. "it's very kind of you, my dear," he said, "to give so much of your time to helping an old man." "i'm afraid i don't give up half enough. i think we should give ourselves to the serious side of life at least for a little while every week, don't you? we are so apt to devote ourselves to frivolities." "i'm very glad to hear you say that. young people are none too serious nowadays; but i'm sure you're too strong a nature to be wholly frivolous." "i'm afraid not, but i often do things i don't care for, to keep myself from thinking. my life hasn't been all a bed of roses, mr. lambert." "you surprise me," he said, sitting down in the front pew to get a better view of their united arrangement of potted plants. "that's very pretty, my dear. now come and sit by me, and tell me all about it, and if an old man's advice----" "oh, i _do_ so want advice," she said. "you can't realise what the life i lead means to a girl--my parents are both dead, you know." "yes, poor child. i remember; mrs. roberts told me. how sad!" "i've no settled home-- i knock about. i try my best, i do indeed, mr. lambert; but with no one to advise me--no older woman than myself who really cares--it is at times very hard." "but you've relatives--mrs. roberts." "yes, of course, they're very kind, and all that; but a young girl needs far more than what she could ask of a remote relative. she needs watchful care, constant protection. you've had a daughter, mr. lambert." "yes, yes, i know. my dear mary was a model girl, miss fitzgerald; a good child is a great blessing. i see your position." "i'm sure you do. try as one may, a young girl has not that experience which comes with age, her best efforts are sometimes misinterpreted-- i've suffered keenly myself." "my poor child," said the old rector, patting her hand in a fatherly manner. "my poor child! you yourself see the need of a guiding hand." "i do, i do. having no one to fight life's battle for me, i've become of necessity self-reliant." "of course, of course." "it has been misinterpreted, misunderstood. i've been called--hard; worse-- i've been thought----" her voice broke. "my dear child," said the old man, "you'll forgive my speaking plainly, but you should be married. you need a husband. someone who will take the responsibility from you." miss fitzgerald breathed a contented little sigh, and her bowed head leaned, oh, so lightly, against his shoulder! "i hoped you would say that," she murmured. "is there someone--then--someone you love? you rejoice me exceedingly." resuming a more erect posture, she said earnestly: "tell me, mr. lambert, would you ever consent to perform a marriage--quietly--very quietly--say, with the knowledge of only the contracting parties and witnesses?" "if there were good and sufficient reasons. of course, if the young lady's parents were living, i should wish to be assured of their consent first." "oh!" murmured miss fitzgerald. "but, in your own case, if you really wished it, though it seems unnecessary, i could make some such arrangement as you suggest, because no one would be affected but yourself, though if a large estate or title was involved it would be a very different matter." his companion thought long and deeply; then, looking up at him, she said: "would you, would you, dear mr. lambert, accept my word for it that silence is necessary?" "i--yes. i suppose so. but, mrs. roberts?" "i can assure you that mrs. roberts approves of my marrying; but----" and she laid her finger on her lips. "well, as you please; but remember the responsibility rests with you; then there would have to be witnesses." "i could promise that lady isabelle mclane would be present, and the best man would be the other." "quite so--but--when would you wish the ceremony to take place?" "say sunday." "but, my dear young lady--there are the fifteen days required by law--unless, of course, you have a special licence." "perhaps there _is_ a special licence." "of course in that case everything is easy--but do nothing rash. marriage is a most solemn covenant, and i should strongly advise that you speak to mrs. roberts. indeed, i hardly know if i----" "i have your word, mr. lambert. i'll come to you to-morrow, may i? and you'll talk to me earnestly, very earnestly, about it all. it will be decided then--and if i should wish it before early service sunday morning, you would help me, i know. but remember, it's a secret, and oh, you're so kind!" and taking his hand, she kissed it. "but, my dear," stammered the old man, quite flustered by this unexpected mark of affection, "you haven't even told me the gentleman's name." bending over, she whispered softly, "lieutenant kingsland," and fled out of the church. * * * * * in the light of the events of the morning, miss fitzgerald was naturally desirous of becoming better acquainted with the appearance of a special licence, and in the seclusion of the billiard-room, lieutenant kingsland was able to gratify her curiosity. "quite an expensive luxury, i've been given to understand," she said reflectively, regarding the parchment. "yes," admitted kingsland regretfully, "it means a special messenger to the archbishop, wherever he may happen to be. he never's by any chance at 'lambeth' when you want him, and fees all along the line." "a matter of forty pounds, i've been told." "well, call it thirty. i know the crowd." "i shouldn't have suspected you of being ecclesiastical." "it's a long story, and not to the point. now, what have you done?" "considering that you were thoughtful enough to procure that licence, i've done everything." "bravo! when can the ceremony take place?" "before early service sunday morning, say a quarter to eight." "the sooner the better. i'm a thousand times obliged. you're a little brick, and i shall never forget it." "i shall ask for a return some day," she said. "and you shall have it, no matter what. is there nothing more?" "only this. you know mr. lambert is somewhat aged, very blind--don't forget that--and a trifle deaf; so, though i assure you i never said so, i'm quite sure he is under the impression that you're going to marry--me." "but i don't understand." "mr. lambert informed me that in the case of a person of importance, or one whose parents were living, he couldn't perform the ceremony privately--that is, as privately as you would wish; but as regarded myself, an orphan--you see?" "but the name?" "are we not both isabelles? besides, he is old, and deaf, and nearly blind, and the bride and i will both be closely veiled, under the circumstances. if we should appear to have signed our names in the wrong places in the registry--why, it's a stupid blunder that any one might make on such a trying occasion." "but how account for lady isabelle's presence?" "he asked me concerning the witnesses, and i promised that her ladyship would be there. as for the other?" "my best man will serve." "who is he?" kingsland laughed. "wait and see," he said. "he's an old friend of yours. anything else?" "yes, two things. keep a still tongue in your head, and have the bride there to the minute." "i promise. belle, you're the best friend a man ever had." "not at all. i'm only doing you a service--for a service in return." "what is that?" "i don't know, i'm sure; but any woman who lives the life i do is sure, some day, to want a friend who is sufficiently in her debt--to--well, do anything that may be needful. you understand?" "done!" he cried, and wrung her hand. "oh, by the way," she added, "i've given the marchioness her tip, and i don't imagine jimsy's life will be worth living in consequence." "couldn't you help to make it a little more bearable--for instance?" insinuated the lieutenant. "it takes two to make a bargain of that sort," she returned. "all right," he said, laughing. "i'll see that little diplomacy gets a steer in your direction," and he started to leave the room. "no; i forbid you to do anything of the sort," she called after him. chapter xiv the serious side of the secretary's nature in virtue of his good resolution to point out to miss fitzgerald the error of her ways, the secretary had been nerving himself to an interview with her on this delicate question, and as result, when he found himself alone with lieutenant kingsland in the smoking-room after dinner that evening, both were silent. each had something to think about, yet each was thinking about the same thing. the secretary abstractedly wondering how he was to commence the awkward interview which was staring him in the face; while the young officer, relying on the axiom that "a woman never says what she means," was pondering over the best way in which to go to work upon his companion, in order to induce him to open his heart to the lady in question. "i say, stanley," he remarked, "do you know bob darcy?" "darcy? no, i don't think so." "why, he's the chap whose wife chaperoned your little dinner that night at the hyde park club, when lady rainsford failed you." "no, i don't know him. do you?" "i--oh, very slightly--i assure you--never exchanged more than half a dozen words with him in my life." "i thought you seemed pretty well acquainted at lady rainsford's tea." "i"--faltered the young man--"i think you're mistaken." stanley smiled quietly, as the nature of the conversation he had overheard came back to his mind--he was getting on. "i'm afraid," he remarked, "that your friend doesn't attract me. what did you wish to say about him?" "only that he's awfully gone on belle fitzgerald, means business, and all that--lucky dog--i think he'll win hands down," and lieutenant kingsland heaved a sigh. "but he's married, surely?" "oh, yes, i believe he is--but it hasn't been an unqualified success. i understand there's a divorce in the air, and after that--of course----" "he's treated his wife like a brute!" spluttered stanley. "don't know, i'm sure. he's a jolly good fellow at the club. any way, he'd put a job with belle to do the platonic under mrs. roberts' protecting roof for a week or two, when what does our hostess do but cut up rusty about his marital infelicities, and refuse to invite him. rather a sell on the little fitzgerald, eh?" "i'll be obliged to you if you'll mention miss fitzgerald more respectfully in my presence. she's a lady for whom i have the highest consideration, and who would, i'm sure, if she knew what i know of colonel darcy, cut him off from her list of acquaintances immediately. i hope you'll not feel called upon to speak of this more than is necessary," and he rose stiffly and left the room. kingsland rolled over on the divan, on which he was sprawled out, and indulged in a fit of hearty laughter. "gad! how he rose to the bait!" he roared. "i supposed darcy was too old a story to tempt anyone with; but the world's after all a very small place." and this, curiously enough, was precisely the reflection which the secretary made ruefully to himself, as he sought the captivating belle. as can be understood in the light of that interview in the smoking-room, the two gentlemen were late in arriving upstairs, and when stanley did put in an appearance, miss fitzgerald required all her courage to dare to claim him as her exclusive property and carry him off to the comparative seclusion of the conservatory, for black care sat heavy on his brow, and her interview promised to be anything but agreeable. however, she was nothing if not courageous, and opened the attack at once, on the ground that the defensive is always the weakest position. "what an old bear you are to-night, jimsy. i couldn't get a word out of you at dinner, and now you look as glum as if you'd lost your last friend." "i've been talking to lieutenant kingsland," he said bluntly. "dear me, if it always has as bad an effect i must contrive to keep you two apart in the future." "he's been telling me about your relations with darcy. confound it, belle!--it's too bad of you! why, he's a beastly cad. i wouldn't have him in my house, and to think that the woman i--well, any woman i respect as much as i do you--should be on intimate terms with a man like that, makes my blood boil. great heavens, have some consideration for your friends, if you haven't for yourself! think of what will be said of you; think----" "don't do the heroic, jimsy, it doesn't become you," she interrupted. "give me a cigarette, and see if you can't talk this matter over without going all to tatters." "you smoke too much. i don't approve of ladies smoking. it seems so common." "nonsense. it's uncommon not to. i'm dying for a whiff, and one never gets a chance in that crowd of old fogies. thank you--now what's all this disturbance about colonel darcy? i declare, i almost believe you are becoming an old fogy yourself." "i didn't even know you knew him-- darcy, i mean-- i object to him strongly." "really, mr. stanley, i don't run my acquaintances on the lines of your choosing." "of course not; but i may claim the privilege of a friend." "to make yourself uncommonly disagreeable; i suppose you may--and i was feeling so amiable too--just in the mood for an old-time chat. but it can't be helped. colonel darcy's an old friend, and was very kind to me at a time when i needed friends and hadn't many. i don't know what he has done or not done, and i don't care. i learned that he was to be in this neighbourhood shortly on business, and, wishing to make some return for his past kindness, i proposed to my aunt to invite him here, and she, who's a woman after your own heart, refused--because, forsooth, he didn't get on well with his wife--as if his wife mattered to me-- i certainly didn't want to invite her." "i assure you," burst out the secretary, "that she's a most charming woman, and that her husband has treated her like the cad and brute he is." "i beg your pardon, mr. stanley. i didn't know you were posing as the knight-errant of hysterical wives." "i'm not; but i can't stand by and see a lovely and innocent woman injured." "i presume i'm not to defend my friend?" she asked, her small foot tapping the tiled floor in anger. "you would not wish to do so if you knew his true character." "i do not wish to prolong this interview, mr. stanley. i must remind you that there are limits even to the rights of friendship, and you have overstepped them." "i fear i've forgotten myself, that i've been too vehement. i humbly beg your pardon. i won't trespass again, believe me. i only spoke for your good--indeed, i wanted to have a serious talk with you about yourself; but the spirit in which you receive my suggestions makes it impossible." "you mustn't say that," she replied, more quietly than she had hitherto spoken. "but you can surely understand that my friendship would be of little use to any man if i stood quietly by and let him be denounced without a word of resentment on my part. are there other of my friends of whom you do not approve?" "it's partly that, but rather the--you'll pardon me--the things that are said about you, belle. people--my friends--men as well as women--have said things in my presence--that i did not like to hear. things that show how easy it is for a careless, easy-going nature like yours to be misinterpreted; in short----" "in short, they told you i was fast, i suppose, a sordid, scheming, money-making wretch. is that correct?" "really, belle!" "is that correct? answer me." "well, they certainly wouldn't have used such words in my presence." "but they meant that--or something like it?" "i'm afraid they did." her face, white enough before, flushed red, as she demanded: "and you! what did you say?" "i--i don't remember-- i refused to listen; but i made up my mind to speak to you-- i thought you ought to know." "you"--she cried, turning on him in a fury--"you, my friend, as you call yourself, had no answer to make, did nothing, except to decide to lecture me about what you should have known to be a lie! let me tell you, mr. stanley, you'd have done better to defend me--knowing, as you must know, the slights, the buffets, the insults i've had to endure, because i'm unprotected, and men can dare----" "i assure you i did. i didn't believe it of you for an instant." "you believed it enough to question me as to the truth of these accusations. it's easy to preach prudence when you've nothing to gain or lose; but were you a woman, thrown on the world and on her own resources, you'd find it a different, a very different, thing, and you'd expect help and encouragement from friends who are stronger and more fortunate than you--not this!" and she burst into tears. "miss fitzgerald!-- belle!" he cried, striving to take her hand, "i wouldn't have pained you in this way for worlds! believe me, i'm your friend, your true friend!" "i've friends enough of your sort," she sobbed, "too many." "but at least let me explain." "don't say any more, please--you've said enough. good night, you must excuse me. i--i'm not myself," and touching her handkerchief to her eyes, with a great effort she controlled herself and left the conservatory. chapter xv the secretary's intentions roberts' hall preserved the good old english custom concerning breakfast--which means that a rambling meal extended from eight to eleven in the morning--at which the butler served you with tea, or coffee and rolls, and you served yourself to the rest, from the cold cuts on the sideboard to the hot viands in copper vessels warmed by alcohol lamps. the cold cuts you had always with you, also the orange marmalade; as for the eggs and bacon, devilled kidneys, etc., their state was dependent on the taste of the guests who had preceded you, and your own ability as an early riser. you came down when you pleased, and ate your meal in solitary state or in any company that might happen to be present, which, if it proved to be congenial, made a very jolly, informal repast, and if it didn't,--well, that was fate, and you had to submit to it. fate may be kind or it may not, sometimes it sets out to play ponderous practical jokes, which may include something nearly akin to a grim reality in the future for the persons involved. this was probably the reason why stanley, on his advent into the breakfast-room, found it tenanted by only one person, and that one, lady isabelle. at the sight of her, the secretary felt decidedly sheepish, because miss fitzgerald's tears and some subsequent hours of sleepless meditation thereon had convinced him that he was morally, if not actually, capable of all the weakness for which her ladyship had upbraided him. he told himself that he owed a duty to the fair belle, that he must save her from herself at all costs, even if it involved the sacrifice of his own future, that he had misjudged her cruelly, and that he was very, very sorry for her, and that, because he was conscience-stricken, he was certainly in love. indeed he kept assuring himself with feverish insistence, that this must be the real article. to lady isabelle, on the contrary, stanley's deficiencies were almost lost sight of, in view of the disturbing suspicion that that young gentleman might be led to suppose that her well-meant interference in his affairs had proceeded from an undue regard for himself. a suspicion but a few hours old, and dating from an interview with the marchioness, who, for some unknown reason, had suddenly assumed a totally different attitude towards the secretary, and even tried to entrap her daughter into admitting that his attentions might mean something. this made lady isabelle most anxious to impress him with the fact that their friendship was purely platonic. accordingly, to his intense surprise, she was exceedingly gracious, and chatted away all through breakfast in a charmingly easy, if somewhat feverish, manner, even condescending so far as to say something pleasant about miss fitzgerald. under this treatment stanley simply glowed, and opened out as much as he dared in the presence of the butler and two expressionless footmen, upon that lady's charms. he was a very young diplomat, as the reader will have noticed ere this, or he would not have continued to praise one lady to another; least of all at breakfast time, an hour when the temper of mortals is by no means certain. but in the pleasure of his subject he did not notice the scorn that was suggested by the curl of his vis-à-vis' lip. "i do wish," he said in conclusion, "that you'd take a stroll with me this afternoon; the deer park is quite worth seeing, i understand, and besides there are lots of things i want to talk to you about." it was during this proposition that lieutenant kingsland, preceded by the dowager, entered the breakfast-room. "oh, i say," blurted out that officer, "i think we've got an appointment after lunch, haven't we?" "i think not, lieutenant kingsland," replied lady isabelle, foreseeing the crisis, and realising the necessity of immediate action. then turning to stanley, she added:-- "thanks, i should enjoy a good walk hugely, and i love deer. it was very kind of you to suggest it. what time shall we start?" "say three o'clock," said the secretary, immensely rejoiced at his restoration to favour. "three, let it be then, if mamma approves." it was only too evident that mamma did approve; she nodded and smiled, and said that exercise was a splendid thing for young people; till stanley became frightened at her excessive geniality, and kingsland looked black as a thunder-cloud. the lieutenant was not, however, so easily baffled, and jumped to the conclusion that half of lady isabelle was better than no lady isabelle at all. "three's not company, i know," he said, laughing with attempted gaiety, "but i'm no end fond of deer myself." "i was about to ask you, lieutenant kingsland," interrupted the dowager, coming promptly to the rescue, "to execute a few commissions for me this afternoon, at tunbridge wells. i'm sure our hostess will put a dog-cart at your service, and it's not above fifteen miles." "charmed, i'm sure," replied the lieutenant--but he did not look it. however, he had his reward, for lady isabelle had just finished her breakfast, and kingsland declared he had already had his, which was not true, so they disappeared together and left the dowager to enjoy her repast in the company of the secretary, to whom she was so extremely affable, that, had it not been for his instructions, he would have had serious thoughts of leaving for london, before he was appropriated body and soul. * * * * * "what have you been telling my mother about mr. stanley?" asked lady isabelle of the lieutenant, in the seclusion of the library. "i know you had a long conference with her last night--and something must have happened." "i'm sure i don't know, unless it was that he's a millionaire, and made his money, or had it made for him, in some beastly commercial way--sugar, i think." lady isabelle gave him one look, and remarked with a depth of scorn which even the unfortunate secretary had not evoked:-- "oh, you idiot!" kingsland was immersed in literature the entire morning in company with lady isabelle, who doubtless found the lieutenant's companionship a great comfort, under the circumstances, since now that she knew the reason of her mother's attitude towards the secretary, she was as anxious to avoid the walk with him, as she had previously been willing to take it. kingsland, however, bore up bravely, for his trip to the wells gave him an opportunity to settle several little matters of business, which the dowager, had she known of them, would hardly have approved. moreover, belle saw him off, saying as he mounted the dog-cart:-- "don't be upset by lady isabelle's defection this afternoon, jack; the most trustworthy little mare will sometimes jib, just before taking a desperate leap." * * * * * when two people start out on a long walk together, each with the firm intention of doing his duty by the other, the result is apt to be far from pleasant; but in this case both had so much to talk about that for the first hour of their walk they said nothing, and their arrival at the deer-park was a distinct relief, since it furnished a new and harmless subject for discussion. and, indeed, the pretty animals warranted more than a passing word. they were seen in numbers, peeping out of a fringe of woodland across the width of an uncultivated field, and they were in that delightful state of semi-tameness, when a longing for the bits of bread, with which stanley and lady isabelle were well supplied, battled equally with an impulse, born of natural training, to flee the proximity of the human race. but there was not much going in the line of food, and so gradually, step by step, the most daring of the herd ventured into the open, and slowly approached the visitors, who were wise enough to throw tempting bits about twelve feet away from them. watchful to note the slightest movement of a muscle, the bread was at length secured, and the herd scampered away in a panic of fear, only to return for more, thrown nearer the feet of their friends. so it was at last, with advances of six feet and retreats of as many yards, at the crackling of a bush or a change in the wind, that the most adventurous consented, standing as far aloof as possible, and stretching their necks to the last degree of tension, to take the bread from the visitors' hands. but finally even the charms of the deer were exhausted, and as they turned about and began slowly to stroll homeward across the park, lady isabelle abruptly broached the subject which both of them had nearest at heart. "i'm afraid," she began, "that i'm very prone to order the lives of my friends, from my own point of view." "my life, for instance?" he asked. "mr. stanley," she said, "i shan't be really happy till i have apologised for the way i spoke at lady rainsford's tea. i'd no right to do so, and i'm sure my judgment was hasty and ill-advised. i've been trusting to my eyes and ears rather than to the reports of other people, and i'm sure i've been mistaken. do you know how miss fitzgerald spent part of yesterday?" "i have not seen her to speak with to-day." "then i'll tell you. she was helping poor old mr. lambert trim the church for to-morrow. i think it was very nice of her." "i'm afraid your commendation has come a trifle late. the fact is, i took it upon myself to counsel the young lady in question against a friend of hers--a colonel darcy." "not colonel robert darcy?" "the same." "do you know him?" she asked. "no, but i know how he treats his wife, and his own character is none too good." "it's curious," she said, a trifle sadly, "but i'm in just your position in regard to a dear friend of mine, and concerning the same man." "concerning colonel darcy?" "yes." "and his intimacy with lieutenant kingsland?" "how did you know?" "'he that hath eyes to see----'" quoted the secretary. "they never even knew each other till a short time ago, but in the last few weeks they've been constantly together. i can't understand it." mr. stanley thought he could, but forbore to say so. "i don't know why i distrust colonel darcy, but i do," she continued, "and his sudden intimacy with jack--lieutenant kingsland--makes me apprehensive. do you think----" "i think your friend is of too pliable a nature to be in the hands of so unscrupulous a rascal." she sighed, and then feeling perhaps that she had said too much, hastened to revert to their original subject, saying: "don't tell me there's a misunderstanding between you and miss fitzgerald. i'm so sorry. i wouldn't for the world--that is, i almost feel as if i'd been to blame." "you're not the only one of my friends who has misjudged her-- i've done so myself--utterly." "but surely this little difference will not be lasting--i hoped----" "would you wish me to marry miss fitzgerald, lady isabelle?" "well, perhaps i won't say that--but i should certainly not wish anything i might have said to prevent you from so doing. of course, my only reason for interfering was prompted by a wish for your happiness." "do you think you understand what that comprises?" "that's just the point i wanted to make clear," she said hastily, determined that he must understand, even at the expense of a slight indiscretion on her part, which she felt would be far preferable to the slightest misunderstanding of their relative positions, in view of any future action of her mother's. "you see," she continued, "to put it frankly, what could i possibly know of the requirements which, in a woman, would go to make you happy. of course, you and i are friends, great friends; but just that state of affairs, as far as we're concerned, makes any judgment of mine useless concerning the kind of woman you could love." stanley, who could scarcely help drawing his own inferences, was piqued that she should have felt it necessary to batter a self-evident fact into his brain in such a bald manner. "i wish," he said, "that her ladyship, your mother, was possessed of the same lucid views on kindred subjects." "poor mamma," murmured his companion, "she's a trifle conventional; but, of course, if you're not in sympathy with her, you can easily avoid her." there, the cat was out of the bag at last, and both felt easier in consequence. stanley threw himself into the breach at once, and took the burden of the conversation. "i'm sure," he said, "i don't believe that half of the people in the world can tell for the life of them why they fall in love with a certain person and not with another. as we're talking confidentially, i don't mind telling you that i've decided that i'm in love with miss fitzgerald, and that the best thing i can do is to tell her so as soon as possible, though i'm afraid there is little chance of her having me." "i can honestly say," rejoined his companion, "that, if that is how the case stands, i do hope you'll be successful." having arrived at this amicable and highly satisfactory conclusion, they realised that in the earnestness of their discussion they had not noticed the lapse of time. "dear me, it must be getting late. i trust we're not far from the hall," said lady isabelle. "to tell you the truth, i don't know just where we are," he replied. they were standing in a thick plantation at the time, through which meandered the little path they were following. "there's rising ground ahead, however," he continued, "and, i think, a clearing." this proved to be the case, and when they had gained the little knoll they saw, nearly in front of them, across a slight valley, bordered on either side by wide stretches of fields and pasture-land, the hall. "it doesn't look to be half a mile distant, but i doubt the wisdom of trying a short cut," he said, "we'd much better keep to our path." their prudence had its own reward, for they had not been walking five minutes before they encountered a peasant, who, with more good nature than brevity, directed their steps in a way that was too plainly not a short cut. however, there was nothing for it now but to push on, and though they walked rapidly, it was a long time before they reached the hall. unkind fate prompted them on their arrival to venture into the drawing-room in search of a belated cup of tea, and, to their dismay, they found the apartment, which should have been deserted at this hour, tenanted solely by the dowager, who had evidently been awaiting their return. she was much too formally polite to make them feel at their ease, and with a word dismissed her daughter, on the plea of removing her wraps, thus leaving the secretary to his fate. once they were alone, her ladyship surveyed the young man deliberately through her lorgnettes, and when she had made him sufficiently nervous, remarked in a chilling tone that she trusted her daughter had caught no cold from walking so late in the park. the secretary acquiesced, and then the marchioness opened the attack in earnest. "we--my daughter--has had the pleasure of seeing a great deal of you lately, mr. stanley." "er, yes," he replied, scenting danger. "of course it's been a great pleasure to me." "still," she continued, "it is not usual for a young lady, unchaperoned, to walk in the park with a gentleman at this hour; a gentleman who is, shall we say, a mere acquaintance." "the matter was one of necessity," he replied shortly. "we lost our way." "mrs. roberts has driven me over her grounds repeatedly, and it appears to me to be quite impossible for anyone to really lose his way." "deference to your ladyship's opinion prevents me from saying more." "it is certainly not pleasant," resumed the dowager, ignoring his last remark, "to continue this conversation, and, were my late husband living, i should naturally have left the matter to him; as it is, my duty as a mother and my desire for dear isabelle's welfare bids me----" "really, your ladyship, am i to understand you to imply----" "i can only say that i have heard your name associated with my daughter's in a manner--that was not--quite as i could wish. dear lady wintern, a woman most interested in the good of her friends, spoke to me herself, and of course you, as a man of honour and a gentleman----" "as a man of honour and a gentleman, i deeply regret that anything in my conduct should have led to a misconception in regard to my relations with lady isabelle, and in the future----" "in the future, mr. stanley, you will of course see little or nothing of my daughter--unless----" she paused, and for a moment neither spoke. then the secretary, who, whatever else may be said of him, was not a coward, seeing what was impending, determined to face the situation and have it over as soon as possible. "am i to understand," he inquired, "that you're asking me my intentions?" her ladyship raised her eyebrows. if the french shoulder is expressive, the english eye-brow, feminine, speaks volumes. "you do not make the situation easy for me," she replied. "of course i speak only for myself. what my daughter may feel----" "you don't suppose," he exclaimed, "that lady isabelle really thinks----" "i _know_, mr. stanley, that my daughter thinks nothing and does nothing that would not be proper in a young lady of her position." "then i've only to apologise," he said, rising, "for what you force me to believe is my fault, however unintentional." and, bowing gravely to her, he quietly left the room. chapter xvi man proposes as he dressed for dinner that evening, stanley was still smarting with irritation at the undeserved attack which had just been made upon him by the marchioness, and which through no fault of his own placed him in an exceedingly unpleasant and awkward position towards her daughter. the sooner he proposed to miss fitzgerald, and their engagement was announced, the better for all parties concerned. so seeking to justify himself by force of circumstances, he threw prudence to the winds and determined to speak that very night. if, however, his private affairs had progressed rapidly to a crisis, the official interests which, he assured himself, were the real cause of his presence here, had not progressed at all, and he seemed no nearer the solution of the mystery, and the apprehension of the conspirators, than when he arrived. true, lady isabelle's confession concerning kingsland only served to strengthen his own conviction that the lieutenant was darcy's confederate; but darcy himself, the prime mover of the plot, had not as yet put in an appearance, and till he arrived there was nothing to be done but to watch and wait. five minutes later the secretary had joined the party in the drawing-room just as dinner was announced, and to his utter consternation his hostess whispered to him: "i am sending you down with lady isabelle. i hear you and she are great chums." "great chums!" stanley was tempted to plead sudden indisposition, and have his dinner in his room. then a remembrance of his recent interview caused a wave of adverse feeling to sweep over him. yes, he would take down lady isabelle. was he to be badgered out of his dinner because a designing old woman could not leave well enough alone? he could not indeed resist casting a look of amused triumph at the dowager as he passed her with her daughter on his arm, but his conscience pricked him nevertheless, for he felt that his presence must be distasteful to his fair companion. that she really cared for him at all he could not bring himself to believe in the light of their conversation on the walk. still, her frankness might have been assumed through pique at unreturned affection, and with a desire born of pride, to blind him to the true state of her feelings. the more he thought of this the more uneasy he became, and he could not help noticing that she was much more pale than he had as yet seen her, and seemed singularly abstracted. moreover, he was certain that she was incurring her mother's displeasure, which would be to her a grave matter. he tried to make such atonement as lay in his power to make her feel at ease and to divert her mind. he told her his best stories, gave her his most brilliant conversation, but in vain. his endeavours fell hopelessly flat, and at last, after a dreadful pause, they spoke that which was in their hearts. "do you think it was nice of you to take me in to dinner?" she asked in that quiet conversational tone with which so many secrets have been told at dinners without arresting the attention of others. "really," he said, "i'd no option. our hostess----" "you managed to avoid it last night." stanley flushed. "do you mind so much?" he asked. "oh, no; but mamma." "she didn't show me much consideration the last time we met." "i was very sorry for you," she replied, "but as it had to come i thought i was better out of the way." "do you mean to say that you deliberately left me to my fate?" "you mustn't be too hard on mamma. she wouldn't have thought she was doing right if she had not spoken." "but," he continued relentlessly, "you----" "oh! i----?" "yes, supposing i had--succumbed." she paused a minute, and then looked shyly up at him. "in that case," she began, when mrs. roberts rose, and gave the signal for the ladies to retire. stanley cursed the convention, yet perhaps it was fortunate, as the dowager had been growing dangerously red and puffy in the face, owing to the fact that the two young people had, unconsciously, drawn closer together in the excitement of those unfinished words. the cigars seemed interminable; but at last they were over, and the gentlemen were at liberty to seek the drawing-room. there is generally a moment of indecision when the men come up from dinner. the ladies have appropriated the most comfortable and naturally the most isolated chairs, and their lords and masters huddle like sheep in the doorway, uncertain where to flee for refuge and the most desirable companion. the secretary had studied this peculiarity of his sex, and had learned to choose his goal beforehand. one glance showed him that lady isabelle was absent; either she had retired, her mother was quite capable of ordering her off to bed to keep her out of harm's way, or else she was in the conservatory. he trusted that this last supposition was correct, and disappeared among the palms, when the marchioness' attention was directed elsewhere. "and in that case?" he said, as he stood beside her, recalling her last words at the table. "in that case?" "in that case," she replied, flushing slightly, "i should probably have said something i might have regretted, had not mrs. roberts come to my rescue." "and now?" "don't be stupid, mr. stanley. surely you know that any well-brought-up girl would always obey her mother--and--and you ought to see that this conversation is impossible." "it's certainly unique." "don't you think we had better change the subject?" "by all means, if you wish it, after i've asked you one more question. i trust you won't think me rude to persist, but--do you care for me, lady isabelle?" "as a friend, yes." "but in no other way?" "in no other way." "you're quite sure?" "quite, and i'm very sorry you asked me the question. i tried hard to prevent you." "you've succeeded admirably," he said, laughing. "i was afraid you did care." he held out his hand, and she took it, saying with a little constraint in her manner: "you're certainly frank." he was pleased to see that she was only piqued; the speech had been unfortunate; but lady isabelle had plenty of common sense, and she realised that his naïve confession had cleared the atmosphere, and made social intercourse possible. he made another attempt to interest her in general conversation, this time succeeding admirably. and so an hour slipped by unnoticed, until the stern voice of the dowager recalled them to the realities of life. "isabelle," she said coldly, "you are surely forgetting your duty to our hostess, and to me also, it seems." "i'm coming, mamma," she replied, and left him with a quiet "good-night." stanley felt immensely relieved. that was over; lady isabelle and he understood each other now, and his path was clear for--was it to be matrimony after all? he told himself he was a weak fool--that miss fitzgerald cared nothing for him; would not take him after last night; that he was under no real obligation and that he was a sentimental idiot--yet, he must see her--for his own sake--to justify himself--to---- he resolutely shut his eyes to the future, and went in search of the lady in question. ten minutes later, belle and he were alone in the most favourable place in the house for a tête-à-tête, a curious old corner, the two sides of which were converted into a capacious seat to which there was but one approach, screened by a heavy curtain on one side and a suit of armour on the other--safe from all observers. "what a quaint old house this is!" he said. "we might almost suppose we were back in the sixteenth century." "yes," she replied dreamily. "we're out of place in these surroundings." she was in a strange mood this evening, sad and thoughtful, yet lacking the repose which should have accompanied reverie. it was the only time that the secretary had ever seen her nervous or _distraite_. "what have you been doing all day?" he asked, hoping to lead the conversation to some more cheerful subject. "trying to forget myself," she replied. "surely it would be a pleasure to remember yourself, i should think." "should you? i fear not." "your ears must have burned this afternoon," he continued, unheeding her comment. "pleasant things were being said about you." "did you say them?" "of course i said them, i always do; but i was referring to someone else--to lady isabelle." "people only patronise me, when they think me unworthy of reproof." "how can you say that!" he exclaimed. "i----" but she silenced him with a gesture. "you've said it. that's why. i've never had one friend with whom there did not come a day, that he or she threw me over and cast my failings in my face. i'd believed it was different with you, i believed you trusted me; that you'd have trusted me through good and evil report--but no, you're like the rest. society points its finger at me, and you accept its verdict, and you're right. you, secure in your social position, powerful, influential, you shall determine what is right and what is wrong, and i,--i must accept it without a murmur--i'm only a woman without a friend." "no! no! no!" he cried vehemently. "you wrong me, you do not understand. no one can respect a woman more than i respect you. it's of some of your friends that i disapprove." "a man is known by the company he keeps--how much more a woman. i'm like my friends--and you--you"--and for the moment she forgot to be meek and suffering, and her eyes blazed with passion--"you are the pharisee of the nineteenth century, the hem of whose robe we outcasts are unworthy to touch!" "how can you!" he cried, springing to his feet. "how can you do me so much wrong? it's not that you're like your friends. it is the fear that you may become so that moves me to speak as i do. but since you've seen fit to suspect me, you must allow me to justify myself. i know the affairs of this colonel darcy; know them as few others could, by virtue of my diplomatic position, and i assure you he has wronged and brutally treated one of the most beautiful and sweet-natured women i have ever seen. treated her so badly that she was forced to flee to our legation for assistance and protection. imagine my feelings when you tell me that this man is your friend--when i hear your name coupled with his in the idle gossip of the smoking-room." "i only know that colonel darcy was kind to me once upon a time," she replied, interrupting the flow of his eloquence. "but what's that to do with this?" "a man who can be kind to a woman in distress cannot be wholly bad." "why do you defend him?" "never mind why. don't let us talk any more about it," she said wearily. "you cannot deny that you think worse of me for defending him; you can't take back your words of last night. i've been thinking it over carefully, and i've make up my mind. i'm of no use to anyone. i make my friends ashamed of me-- i'm misunderstood and misjudged. it's the way of the world, but it's hard. my spirit's broken. i no longer have the wish to continue the battle. i'm going away." "going away! when?" he cried, in amazement. "at once." "and where?' "i don't know; somewhere where i'm not known, where i've no friends to be annoyed at having to claim me as an acquaintance. somewhere where people will take me for what i am, not for what i have been, for whom i know, for what i have done or left undone. oh, i'm so tired, so sick of it all," and she bowed her head and wept. the effect of all this on stanley can hardly be over-stated. he supported her, he soothed her, he told her all that was in his heart, or all he thought was there. she should not go away alone; he would go with her; he had shockingly misjudged her; it should be his life task to make her forget that, to proclaim to all the world how great a heritage he had received in her love. they would triumph over all obstacles. he would show the world what a true, noble woman she really was; he would prove it in the best way possible by marrying her, if she would have him, if she would so far honour him. his heart was at her feet. she would be quite right in spurning it, but he besought her to be merciful, to give him his answer, and let that answer be consent. and the lady, who, under these ministrations and protestations, had gradually recovered her self-control, ceased her passionate sobbing, rested her head contentedly on his shoulder, and allowed him, with but feeble resistance, to encircle her waist with a protecting arm--in short, everything seemed prepared for her success, when the curtain was pushed aside and there stood before them the figure of a man, which caused them both to spring to their feet, in time, as they fondly hoped, to escape detection; the secretary with a smothered exclamation of rage; the lady, as she recognised the intruder, with a startled cry of: "colonel darcy!" chapter xvii her husband even an unobserving man--and colonel robert darcy was not that--could hardly have helped seeing that his presence was unwelcome, and that he had interrupted an important interview. "i beg your pardon," he said, "i fear i've intruded." the secretary said nothing, and miss fitzgerald came to the rescue by declaring that she was very glad to see him, and that she had no idea he would be in sussex so soon. "the fact is, i particularly wanted to see you," he replied bluntly. thereupon mr. stanley did that most unpardonable thing in good society--lost his temper and gave evidence of the fact; a piece of egotism often noticeable in young men during their first years of social life, before a severe course of snubbing has taught them of how little relative importance they really are. "three's an impossible number for a tête-à-tête," he said stiffly, "so if you'll excuse me," and he started to leave her side. up to this point belle had been in some doubt as to how she ought to act; but when the secretary took the initiative, it at once gave her her cue, and she was quick to save the situation. "there are no secrets between friends," she said hastily, "and you're both friends of mine, so i shall expect you to be friends of each other's." "this is colonel robert darcy, jimsy--we call him bob for short," she rattled on, laughing nervously. "and now, bob, why have you arrived so unexpectedly in sussex?" "i think you've forgotten to introduce me to colonel darcy, miss fitzgerald," suggested stanley. "dear me, i believe i have," replied that lady, calmly. "bob, this is jimsy; jimsy, this is bob--that'll do for the present. i'll tell you the rest of his names, titles and appurtenances when i've more time and less to talk about. so now we are friends and have no secrets from each other, therefore out with yours." darcy laughed. "you see, jimsy," continued miss fitzgerald, turning to the secretary, "though i'm young and ignorant, men have always come to me for advice, or, perhaps, for the use of my intuition." "i'm sure i trust colonel darcy will profit by it; but even our well-established friendship gives me no right to play third party to his confidences, and as i promised kingsland a game of pool----" "ah, but you mustn't go; really you mustn't," expostulated the colonel, "or you'll make me feel i've intruded." stanley felt that it was not his fault if that officer did not already possess those sentiments, and was about to stand to his decision, when miss fitzgerald pulled him down beside her, saying: "don't talk nonsense, jimsy. i'm dying to hear bob's secrets, and he's been here five minutes already, and we haven't allowed him to get a word in edgewise." thus admonished, the secretary had no choice but to be an unwilling listener. "i'm sure i don't know why i should dignify my affairs by the name of secrets," began darcy, with ill-attempted nonchalance, "or why i should be reticent about speaking of them, either. it's more than the press will be in the next few days," and he laughed harshly. "my dear bob!" exclaimed miss fitzgerald, with a horror that was meant to be assumed, but nevertheless had a touch of reality about it. "my dear bob! i knew you were bad, but don't tell me you're as bad as all that!" "i'm afraid so," he replied. then turning to stanley, continued, "i suppose you've not the misfortune to be married?" "i'm a single man," replied the secretary, who, under the circumstances, felt that a mere statement of fact was infinitely better than an expressed opinion. "then of course you can't conceive the pleasures of anticipation which the prospect of the divorce court arouses in the mind of a husband." "i can imagine that the point of view would largely depend on his own status in the case." "you don't mean to tell me, bob," cried miss fitzgerald, "that she's been foolish enough----!" "oh, i'm the accused in the present indictment. but, fortunately for me, women are by nature inconsistent." "why do you say that?" she asked. "why? because, having run away from my house and secured legal assistance in london to bring suit against me--well, on statutory grounds, she has, as a proof of her injuries, seen fit to take up her residence at the bachelor quarters of her secretary of legation." "what! is she there now?" cried miss fitzgerald, her eyes flashing, as she turned them full on stanley. that gentleman, who had foreseen this _dénouement_ from the first, half rose to his feet with a view of crushing his defamer, but the colonel's next statement so staggered him that he sunk back in his seat. "no," replied that officer, in answer to miss fitzgerald's question. "no. london life didn't seem to agree with them, so they've made a little expedition into sussex together; in fact, they're both here, or hereabouts." "what do you say?" cried belle, quite dazed by this astounding declaration. "oh, it's quite true. she actually had the effrontery to write me requesting that i send her belongings to his chambers. of course i got no satisfaction in london, for my young man, with a discretion far beyond his years, promptly left for parts unknown. i didn't search for him, i watched her. i knew i could trust her to put me on the scent, if not to lead me to the quarry. she's quite fulfilled my expectations. when she left town my detective was on hand, followed her to liverpool street, watched her while she took her ticket, secured a place in another part of the same train, located her in a farmhouse on this estate, and, as i suspected, found that among the guests at the hall was my co-respondent, mr. secretary aloysius stanley." the speaker paused, and absolute silence reigned between them; but he did not seem to notice the tense muscles of the man or the flushed anxiety of the woman. "well, that's the story," he said shortly. "not a pretty one, either, is it; but of course i shall have to see it through, and, as a first step, i must ask the assistance of you both in meeting this little cad of a diplomat. after i've settled with him, i shall leave her quite free to----" "stop!" cried the secretary. "don't say that, colonel darcy. don't you dare to say it!" "what the devil-- i----" began darcy, completely astonished at the turn affairs had taken. "miss fitzgerald," continued his companion, "neglected to introduce me formally, but i will rectify that error. my name is aloysius stanley, and i'm the secretary of legation to whom you've presumed to allude in language for which i shall demand an explanation." "we'll settle our difficulties at some more appropriate time, sir," replied the colonel, with repressed anger patent in every tone. "we'll settle them here and now-- i demand a retraction of what you've just said, or intimated, in regard to my relations with your wife." "i'll give you the only satisfaction you have a right to expect, and i to demand, when and where you please." "gentlemen! gentlemen!" exclaimed miss fitzgerald, fearful of what their anger might lead to. "pray remember that you're in the presence of a lady." "you need have no fear," said stanley, in reply to her request, "_i_ shall not forget _myself_." then turning to darcy, he continued: "did not my profession, which is essentially one of peace, prevent me from taking any notice of your absurd challenge, i should still refuse to involve myself in a matter with which i've no concern, merely because you've been enough of a cad to slander your wife in the presence of a third person." "if i ever meet you outside!" began the colonel, purple with rage--but the secretary continued his remarks, oblivious of the interruption. "there is one thing, however, that i shall do," he said. "unless you leave this house immediately, i shall inform my hostess, who has already refused to include your name in her party, of what i know of you, and then put you out." "do go, bob!" cried belle. "do, to please me." "oh, to please you," said darcy, sulkily, "i suppose i must. but where i'm to go for a night's lodging, in this god-forsaken place, is quite a problem." "oh, there's a good inn just outside the lodge gates. i know the proprietor of it," said miss fitzgerald. "perhaps you'll give me a line to him," he suggested, "as you're turning me out, and i've no luggage to insure my respectability." "certainly," she replied, "if you've a pencil, and will excuse the back of an old envelope." the colonel nodded, and she took an undirected envelope, which seemed to be carrying more than it could conveniently hold, from the pocket of her dress, and hastily scribbled a line on it with the pencil he gave her, handing them both to him nervously. "perhaps," suggested the secretary coldly, who had watched this transaction with growing irritation, "it would be as well to remove the contents of your letter, miss fitzgerald. you should be careful to whom you entrust your correspondence." she faced him, and looked at him steadily, with those great blue eyes of hers, while she said, with measured force and deliberation: "i should be quite willing to trust the contents of any of my letters to colonel darcy's care." the colonel had, meantime, been nervously twisting the envelope round his fingers, and stanley caught sight of a well-known monogram composed of the initials a. r. it was the letter he had taken from kingsland, and restored to mr. riddle. how came it in belle's hands--the seal still unbroken, and why was it given to darcy? his suspicions, so long lulled by careful artifice, were at once aroused, and he threw the colonel a glance, the meaning of which was not lost on the woman. suddenly, her whole manner changing, she became nervous and excitable, once more saying to darcy: "now, go, bob; go at once, for all our sakes." he growled a surly reply, and before the secretary was aware of his intentions, had left the room. stanley stood for a moment, dazed; uncertain whether to follow or remain, his breast full of conflicting emotions; bewilderment at the vast field of possibilities opened by the colonel's receipt of the letter; rage at his cowardly imputations, and dismay at the consequences of the strong circumstantial evidence which madame darcy had unwittingly manufactured against him; and at the effect which the colonel's charges might produce on miss fitzgerald. he was prepared for hysterics, recriminations, stern questions, scorn, anger, and endless tears; but totally unprepared for the ringing burst of laughter which greeted him as soon as the colonel had left the room; cold, cynical laughter, from the girl he had just asked to be his wife, who threw herself on the couch, her eyes flashing and her whole face twitching with anger or merriment, he was not certain which. "oh dear--oh dear!" she cried, when she could at last control her voice, "this is too funny! too dreadfully funny!" "i don't see anything amusing about it," he said bluntly. he was angry and sore, and this ill-timed merriment irritated him. "don't you? then you must have lost your sense of humour. this young man," she continued, pointing at him, as if she were exhibiting him to a crowd. "this good young man, who preaches me sermons on self-respect--who is concerned for my good name--who thinks i've been too careless of my reputation, who is cut to the heart because i do not live up to the ideal to which he considers a woman should attain, who has just done me the honour to ask my hand in marriage--not because he loves me--oh dear, no--but because he feels it his duty to save me from myself. this practical young man, who combines pleasure with duty, by conducting an _affaire du coeur_, in a neighbouring farmhouse, with my friend's wife, but whose morality is so outraged at the man who is courteous enough to permit that wife to get the divorce, that he can't bear to be in the same room with him. this superlatively excellent young man, who had almost persuaded me that i was wrong in my estimate of human nature, turns out to be the worst of the lot, a whitened sepulchre of lying and hypocrisy and deceit--or perhaps i should sum it all up and say--a model of diplomacy. isn't it funny--isn't it cruelly, wickedly humorous? do you wonder i laugh?" "if you can believe this of me, miss fitzgerald----" began the secretary, who had flushed, and then turned as white as a sheet. "one story's good till another is told, my dear jimsy; but i was wrong to have laughed. i quite understand, believe me, the painfulness of your position." "i tell you it's not true----" he began. "oh, don't try to improve the situation. you can't"--she continued, rising and towering before him in the majesty of her wrath. "i'd really come to believe that there was one among the hundreds of worthless, vicious, mercenary human beings i know, who called themselves men, who was what he claimed to be; who really believed in the old fallacies of right and duty, and moral cleanliness, and lived up to them; who really kept the ten commandments in thought as well as in act, a strong rock of defence to whom i might cling in time of trouble; but he's a fraud like all the rest, and the man i made a hero turns out to be of clay!" she paused, and the secretary, controlling himself, replied coldly: "after what you've said, it's of course worse than useless for me to repeat the question i asked you just before colonel darcy intruded his presence upon us. it had better remain unanswered." "no," she said. "i don't think so. it needs an answer, and you shall have it--but not yet. i've been a little fool, and have been punished for my folly; but i don't know any reason why i should make you suffer. you're only as you were made. you can't help it, i dare say." "you surely can't think of marrying me, believing what you do." "i don't know. while i thought you were an angel, i was afraid of you. i thought i should have to be constantly living up to you and listening to sermons;-- thank heavens you can never preach to me again. even you wouldn't have the face to do it now. but since i've found out that you're only very human, i really don't know but what i might grow to love you. i'll think it over. there," she continued, "don't look so sheepish. i may decide not to take you after all, but until then consider yourself on approval. don't say anything more, you'd only bore me. i want to be by myself and get my face straight, if i can," and crossing the room she broke out again into peals of ringing, unmusical laughter. "this is intolerable!" he cried, but he addressed thin air,--he was alone. chapter xviii the door with the silver nails "st. james' club, "piccadilly, w. "my dear stanley, "i am sending this letter to you at roberts' hall, because i am certain that you are there. "i can fancy you drawing a long face, and admitting to yourself that you are certainly in for a sermon from that old bore, kent-lauriston, but you are entirely mistaken. i shall neither expostulate with nor upbraid you, for you have done exactly what i expected you would do. nevertheless i mean to save you from yourself, to which end i trust you are not as yet entangled, as it is less easy gracefully to break than make an engagement. "the fact is, my dear mr. secretary, i do not consider you, under the present circumstances, a responsible creature. the fascinating miss fitzgerald has, i can well imagine, driven all other considerations into the background. "i should probably have let you go to your fate, unchecked by any letter of mine, did i not feel that i had been morally negligent. you came to put your case in my hands, and proved so sweetly rational that, for the last time i swear, i trusted in human nature, and left you to your own devices, instead of watching your every movement until the danger was past. "of course i have heard the little scandal about your escapade with colonel d----'s wife. all london is ringing with it, thanks to her husband. "what you most want is change of scene and occupation, to distract you from your present cares. there is only one way to drown care without drowning oneself--and that is by work. so unless i find you grinding away at the legation to-morrow noon, i shall invite myself to be one of mrs. roberts' house-party, and we shall see what may be effected even in the face of overwhelming odds. give me a fair field and no favour, and i pledge my word to win you to yourself. "in any event command my humble services. "yours as ever, "kent-lauriston. "friday evening." the secretary dropped back on the comfortable divan that occupied a recess in one corner of the smoking-room, and gazed vacantly at the letter as it lay in his lap; then he gave a great sigh, and reached for a fresh cigarette. in his own estimation, matters could not be worse, but unfortunately he was not in a position to heed his friend's advice and bolt for london the first thing in the morning--indeed his recognition of darcy's letter, the possible significance of which he was at last beginning to realise, imperatively demanded his presence and attention. besides, he was now accountable to others. to belle in the first place--and to colonel darcy in the second. for the latter he cared not a whit. it was true that circumstantial evidence had made rather a strong case against him--but the secretary was sure the colonel did not really believe the charge he had preferred against his wife to be true, and that he had merely seen, in the unfortunate combination of circumstances, a chance of strengthening his own position. but while stanley had little concern for the colonel's status, he felt a great deal for his own. fate had treated him badly, very badly, and he owed it to belle and to madame darcy, and to his own good name, to right himself as speedily as possible. the figure he would cut in madame darcy's eyes was bad enough in all conscience. he supposed she would never speak to him again, and, for some reason which he was at a loss to explain satisfactorily to himself, this prospect made him feel uncommonly blue. he even felt no resentment against her, though her innocent rashness had been the font of all his misfortunes. somehow it seemed an honour to be associated with her, even to his own undoing. and that by any efforts in her behalf, he should have unwittingly injured her, nearly drove him to despair, with chagrin and regret. but if his position in the eyes of madame darcy and of himself was most awkward, the position he held in miss fitzgerald's estimation was, he told himself again and again, simply unbearable. that it was possible for any good woman to believe--and she certainly did believe--the things that were said about him, and yet find it in her heart to even consider matrimony with such an unscrupulous cad as he must appear to her, revolted him. it was not nice; he was sure lady isabelle would never have done so. perhaps she did not care, that was worst of all; that she did not care for him, for his good name, his honour, his reputation, only for--the thought was intolerable--he started up and drank off a strong peg of whiskey; he felt that he needed a bracer. in the hopes of distracting his thoughts, he once more took up and re-read kent-lauriston's letter, which had arrived before dinner and lain forgotten during the excitement of the evening; and which he had found waiting to greet him, when, at the close of that dreadful interview, he had stolen away to his room without bidding anybody good-night. he remembered that he had hesitated to open it, knowing as he did that it contained a remonstrance against committing a folly, which he had already committed. he had determined to read it calmly, but it awakened within him a scathing self-examination most unsettling in its result. he recognised it as the dictum of an astute man of the world, a "_connoisseur des grandes passions_" one who knew the symptoms with unfailing accuracy. in short, the secretary did not for a moment doubt the truth of what his friend had written; but he was equally certain that it did not apply to his own case. miss fitzgerald had by no means driven all other thoughts from his mind. indeed, he realised that she had, during the last few days, held a relatively small place in his thoughts. he was not miserable when he was absent from her--he had enjoyed his talk with madame darcy and his walk with lady isabelle immensely. he had not even decided that he should ask belle to marry him till the eleventh hour, and was not that decision due, after all, to the pity which, we are told, is akin to love, but which by itself forms such an unsatisfactory substitute? would his friend have any trouble in winning him to himself, as he expressed it? was he supremely happy? was he not rather, in his heart of hearts, wishing himself well out of the whole affair? the words of madame darcy came back to him, doubly enforced by these contradictory data. "you do not love her. love is blind. love does not reason." had it come to this, then--was he such a weak fool that he did not know his own mind; that he had proposed to a woman who existed only in his imagination; who so little resembled the real one that he had no wish to assimilate the two; that he was already regretting the step before it was half taken? what hope did that hold out for a happy future? he was thoroughly disgusted with himself. in a fit of mortified rage, he crumpled up the letter in his hand, and threw himself down among the cushions of the divan. as he lay there kingsland entered the room. "why," he said, "i thought you had retired." this was, indeed, the truth, but the restlessness induced by kent-lauriston's note had made the confinement of his chamber seem intolerable, and a rapid survey of the rooms downstairs assured him that the dowager and miss fitzgerald were in full possession; a combination which, under the circumstances, he did not care to face. these facts, however, were hardly to be adduced to a third party, and the secretary, turning to the resources of diplomacy, reminded the lieutenant that they had had an appointment for a game of pool, which one of them, at least, had not seen fit to keep. "shall we have it now?" suggested kingsland. "no," answered stanley. "i'm not feeling fit." "try a drink, then." "i've just had one." "drinking alone? that's a bad sign. what are you so blue about?" "i'm wondering," said stanley, "how a man can ever be fool enough to fall in love, or get married." "oh," said the lieutenant, "so she's refused you, eh?" "who?" "belle fitzgerald." "yes," replied the secretary, shortly. the lieutenant thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets and paced the room in silence, whistling softly to himself. finally he remarked: "well, i'm sorry, old chap, but i've been more lucky." "oh," said the secretary. "lady isabelle, i suppose." kingland nodded. "does mamma approve?" inquired stanley. the young officer shrugged his shoulders. "i'm going to postpone entering into that matter," he said, "till after the ceremony." "oh," said the secretary shortly. "an elopement. well, i don't know that i can conscientiously offer my congratulations--to lady isabelle, at least, but i dare say you'll find it worth while." "you needn't be so nasty, just because you've been disappointed." "oh, it isn't that; but, as you say, i've no reason to express an opinion. it isn't the first time a young man's eloped with a lady of means." "well," snapped the lieutenant in reply, "it's a shade above eloping with somebody else's wife who happens to have a large bank account." stanley sprang to his feet. "if that cad of a darcy," he cried, "has been saying----" "oh, you needn't assume the high moral rôle," said kingsland. "i've just had the story first hand from him." "it isn't the first time he's told it to-night," snapped the secretary. "what! you don't mean to the fair belle?" stanley nodded, and kingsland threw himself on the sofa in a paroxysm of laughter. "but how did you come to see darcy?" demanded the young diplomat, ignoring his friend's ill-timed merriment. "i ordered him out of the house." "yes," replied the lieutenant, "so he told me. but he's lost a valuable letter in the hall." "the hall? why, there doesn't seem to be much chance of losing anything there. there are no draperies and very little furniture." "well, it's a queer business," admitted the officer. "but while the colonel was telling me about your little escapade, he dropped a letter which he had taken from its envelope, and just at that moment the butler came in. he started to pick up the letter for the colonel, but darcy jumped forward, and so between them it was pushed under the crack of that old oak door studded with silver nails." "a letter!" cried the secretary. "did you notice what it looked like?" "no," said kingsland incautiously, "except that it had an address scrawled across one side in pencil." stanley waited to hear no more. fate seemed playing into his hands at last, and springing to the door he threw it open, and saw to his intense astonishment the figure of colonel darcy grovelling on the floor of the hall. "i thought i told you to leave this house, colonel darcy," said stanley, striving to be calm, but his voice quivering with suppressed emotion. "so you did," replied his adversary, rising slowly to his feet, very red in the face and somewhat short of breath. "then why haven't you gone? do you wish me to speak to mrs. roberts?" "i intended to obey your request, out of respect to miss fitzgerald. but the fact is, i have lost an important letter." "so kingsland tells me, though it seems almost impossible." "truth, sir, is often stranger than fiction," replied the colonel angrily, "as our own relations with each other have already proved. but, as you have given me the lie once this evening, you can, if you see fit, prove the truth of my statement by referring it to the butler." "i gave you the lie, as you express it, colonel darcy," replied the secretary, "because my own knowledge assured me, that your charges were untrue. in this case, however, i am quite ready to fully accept your statement. but it's a pure waste of time to attempt to recover your letter. for two hundred years they've tried to open that portal, and to this day it remains closed." "the butler told me some such cock-and-bull story--but of course----" "it's quite true." "but i must have my letter. i must have it, i tell you--surely someone knows the secret." "there's a legend current to the effect that the pressure of five of these silver nails, one by each of the five fingers, will suffice to open the door. but to my way of thinking it's likely to remain closed for two centuries to come." "curse it!" cried the colonel, throwing himself against the portal in a frenzy. "it has neither handle nor keyhole, and it's as firm as iron! what am i to do?" "if it's absolutely necessary to recover this document, i'll tell mrs. roberts. though i should doubt if she'd consent to ruin an interesting heirloom for the sake of a gentleman against whom she already entertains a prejudice." "i couldn't think of it. impossible to put mrs. roberts to so much inconvenience; i shouldn't consider it for a moment! let the cursed letter remain where it is!" replied the colonel, evidently very much upset by this proposition. "as i'd supposed, colonel darcy, you would prefer that the document should remain where it is, rather than it should pass, even temporarily, into any other hands than yours. might i inquire if it's the one you received from miss fitzgerald." "it is, of course, quite useless to attempt to deceive a diplomat," replied his companion, with a touch of temper which was not lost on stanley, who answered composedly: "i think you may be reasonably assured that your letter will never be found till you and it have long been dust, and till not only its importance, but its very meaning, have become unintelligible. you may consider it irrevocably lost, and so, as there's no further excuse for your remaining, colonel darcy, i'll wish you--good-night," and the secretary threw open the great hall door. "good-night, mr. stanley," replied the unwelcome guest, with a frown of anger as he passed over the threshold. "good-night--but not good-bye--remember we've still a score to settle." chapter xix a midnight message stanley closed the great front door, turned the key, shot the bolts, and lighting his bedroom candle, slowly and thoughtfully betook himself to his chamber. kingsland's knowledge of the mysterious letter only served to increase the secretary's suspicions of that young officer's complicity with darcy, while the letter itself presented such a bewildering variety of contradictory possibilities, that his mind was dazed. a further consideration of his past experiences in this matter did not make him feel any the easier, and for the first time, under the spur of doubt and mistrust, he recalled kingsland's story of the reception of the missive, and subjected it to a critical analysis. mr. riddle had said, and the lieutenant had confirmed, that the letter had been handed by the former to the latter at the hyde park club, and that the lieutenant was then "leaving the room." yet the secretary, now he came to think of it, was sure mr. riddle had not been of the company at or after dinner, and that kingsland had not left the drawing-room or attempted to do so. moreover, if riddle had given him the money for the stamp, why had he not mentioned the fact at the time? the letter was evidently of importance, and intended for darcy, a man of whose every action, he had the greatest distrust. yet the important missive, after being lost for three days, was given by its owner to miss fitzgerald, who thought so little of it, that she used the envelope to scribble an address on, before giving it to the colonel, who now had lost it under the secret door. it was certainly a mystery to which he was unable to offer any solution, but which, nevertheless, caused him a vague uneasiness. he drew up an arm-chair beside the table, and lighting his lamp, prepared to seek distraction in a book. the secretary had scarcely settled to his reading, however, when he was startled by a sharp click against his window. at first he thought nothing of it, but at a repetition of the noise, plainly produced by a pebble thrown up against the glass, he opened the casement and looked out. the night was very dark, and he could see nothing; but out of the blackness below him came a voice, which he thought he recognised, calling his name softly. "why, john!" he cried, scarcely believing it could be the legation factotum. "what on earth are you doing here at this time of night?" "special message from 'is h'excellency, sir," came in the familiar cockney of the messenger, with the added caution, "don't speak so loud, please--it's that private--" stanley nodded, quite oblivious of the fact that he was invisible, and added in lowered tones: "go round to the front, and i'll come down and let you in." he cautiously made his way downstairs, pausing at every creaking board in fear that he had awakened the household, and traversing the long hall, opened the great front door, and admitted the shivering john; for the night was cool, and several hours of watching and waiting had chilled the messenger thoroughly. "how long have you been out there?" "since ten, sir." "good heavens! and it's past midnight! come up to my room, and i'll give you some whiskey." "thank ye, sir. i shan't mind a drop--it's that cold, but i'll take off me boots first." "take off your boots!" "'is h'excellency was most par-ti'cler, sir, as no one but you should know as i was 'ere." "oh, i see. very well. leave them at the foot of the stairs. you'll find these flags rather cold for stocking-feet." a few minutes later john was installed in the secretary's bedroom, and his inner man was being warmed and refreshed with a copious dram of whiskey--while stanley, seated at his table, was breaking the seals of the despatch which the messenger had brought him. "it's most secret, sir." "quite so. how did you know which was my room?" "the lady of the 'ouse, sir, employs the hinnkeeper's daughter to 'elp the 'ousekeeper day times--and so----" "i see; very clever, john. eh! what's this?" and bending forward to the light he read the now opened dispatch. it was short and to the point. "dear mr. stanley," wrote the minister. "this is to inform you that we have discovered the silent partner in the firm, who is the chief instrument in putting up the money to defeat the treaty. his name is arthur riddle. he is a guest of your hostess, and should be watched. darcy left for sussex this afternoon, presumably for your neighbourhood. kindly report progress, if any, sending letter by john, who should return at once. "yours, etc. "x----." as the full force of this communication became apparent to the unfortunate secretary, he sunk back in his chair, groaning in an agony of mortification. "dear, dear, sir!" cried john, who had been meditatively regarding the bottom of his empty glass. "you don't mean to tell me as they've got away." the messenger, it may be remarked, not being supposed, technically, to know any official secrets, knew more than most of his superiors. "oh, it isn't that, it's a thousand times worse than that! i'm such an infernal fool! john, i've had those instructions in my possession." "you have!" cried the messenger, much excited. "yes. had them for three days in the inside pocket of my dress-suit, and being the greatest idiot in the diplomatic service, i never even suspected what they were, and gave them back to the man who wrote them." "what, riddle?" stanley groaned, and bowed his head. "dear, dear," said john, gravely, "i'm afraid it's a bad business, sir." and noticing that the secretary was absorbed in his own woes, he judged it a favourable opportunity to replenish his glass, which he thoughtfully consumed, while the unfortunate diplomat poured out to the old messenger, who was distinctly the _deus ex machina_ of his legation, and who had helped him out of many a tight place in the past, the story of the letter. how he had received it, how he had been induced to give it up, and finally how it reached its present destination. "well," he said despairingly, in conclusion, "what do you think, john?" "hit's hall the woman, sir. take my word for hit, hit's hall the woman," replied that functionary, with dignity. "what, miss fitzgerald?" john nodded, with the solemnity befitting so weighty a dictum. "you old idiot!" cried stanley. "it's nothing of the sort. miss fitzgerald's share in this matter was merely a coincidence." "didn't you tell me has it was she suggested your taking han hold letter to keep score hon, knowing well you 'ad _the letter_ in your hinside pocket hall the time?" "nonsense!" exclaimed the secretary. "how could she have known anything about it? she had never laid eyes on the letter till i produced it." "mr. stanley," returned the messenger, with a dignity against which the two glasses he had consumed struggled unsuccessfully, "h'i've fostered young gentlemen, an' got h'em hout hof scrapes, an' taught h'em their ha, b, c's of diplomacy, afore you was weaned, han' i knows whereof h'i speaks, h'i tells yer, hit's the woman!" "i wish you'd get me out of this scrape. i'd be your friend for life." "that's heasy enough. you _must_ get the letter." "but how--i tell you----" "get it," reiterated the messenger, whose potations had made him optimistic. "blow this bally hold barn into the next county, hif need be, but open that door and get it." the secretary looked despairingly at the despatch, and tossing it to john, said: "and what am i to answer to this?" "h'i'll answer it, hif you'll let me come to the table." "you!" "yes--and you can copy and sign it. hit won't be the first private note h'i've hanswered, or the first despatch h'i've written, heither," and with this rebuke he composed the following: "to "his excellency, "the honourable, "------ "sir:-- "i have the honour to acknowledge your excellency's private despatch of the th inst., and to inform you in reply that the person mentioned in it is now a guest in this house, also that i have discovered the present location of the papers desired, and hope soon to be able to place them in your hands. "i am, sir, "your obedient servant, "------. "sunday, . a. m." the secretary read and approved, and in a few moments had produced a copy of the same, which was duly signed and sealed. "and now," he said, "you must be off. there's a train to london about six." "yes, sir. hit's a very cold night, sir." "no, you've had enough, and you need to keep your wits about you," and he led the way downstairs. "john," he said, as he let the faithful servitor out, "i believe you're right in what you said." "habout the woman, sir?" "of course not. i tell you the lady knows nothing whatever of the matter; pray disabuse your mind of that absurd idea, once and for all. i mean about the letter." "yes, sir." "i've got to get it again, john. send me the best book you can find on combination locks. i _will_ get it! impossibilities don't count!" "yes, sir. good-night, sir, and remember, hit's the woman!" chapter xx the wisdom of age the secretary passed one of the worst nights of his life. his pride, self-esteem, and youthful estimation of his abilities as a diplomat had received a crushing blow. he told himself that he was not fit to copy letters in an office, much less to undertake delicate negotiations in which the honour of his country was involved. the conspirators had known him for what he was, a conceited young ass, and had egregiously fooled him to the top of his bent. they had regained the document without half trying; even kingsland, whose intellect he had looked down on, had completely taken him in. it seemed as if he must die of shame when it became known. he would be disgraced and turned out of the service with ridicule. then of his despair was born that resolution to _do_, which sets all obstacles at naught, and succeeds because it declares the possibility of the impossible. he must retrieve himself, he must regain that letter, and hereafter his self-reproaches were mingled with every scheme leading to its recovery, that his brain could concoct. he was downstairs soon after seven. entering the great hall, he found lady isabelle in sole possession, but equipped to go out. "whither so early?" he said. "i'm going away--that is--out." "away?" he queried, as he saw her eyes fill with tears, and noted that she was closely veiled "can i serve you?" "no--yes," she replied, uncertain how to answer him. "could i ask you to do me a very great favour?" "most certainly." "but it's something you won't like to do." "lady isabelle," he said quietly, "we've been very good friends, and i may tell you that i've a suspicion of what you intend to do this morning. won't you trust me, and allow me to help you in any way in my power?" "yes," she said, after a moment's hesitation. "i will, because i'm sure you mean what you say, and i'm in desperate straits. you remember the answer i gave to a question of yours last evening?" "that you did not care for me--yes." "i might have added," she said shyly, casting down her eyes, "that i cared for someone else." "lieutenant kingsland?" "yes." "are you sure you're making a wise choice, lady isabelle?" he asked, feeling that he ought not to allow this state of affairs to continue when he was almost certain that the young officer was practically a criminal, whom it might be his duty to have arrested any day, yet prevented by his instructions from preferring any charges against him to lady isabelle. "don't, please," she said. "you misjudge him." "i hope i do." "you do not understand. how should you? have you ever seen him in his uniform? he is a picture, and you know," sinking her voice, "his family dates from the conquest." the secretary shrugged his shoulders. he'd had enough of warning people for their own good, so he contented himself with remarking that a disregard for the decalogue seemed compatible with an unbroken descent from the norman robber. "now you're cynical," she cried, "but i shan't argue with you, for i love him, and we're to be married this morning in the chapel. everything has been arranged, and in fifteen minutes i shall be his wife." "that's very interesting," said stanley. "but where do i come in?" "i need your help." "oh, i see. i suppose that if i'd any real interest in your welfare, i ought to refuse, but as you'd do as you please in any event, i'm quite at your service." "thanks. mamma will be here presently. she's announced her intention of attending early service, and if she does----" "she might interrupt another, and that would be awkward." "dreadfully. she does not wish me to marry lieutenant kingsland--i think she would rather i married you." "is she so bitter? well, make your own mind easy, i won't ask her." "but you must." "what!!!" "nothing short of a proposal would deter her from going to service." "but, i thought you----!" "oh, i'll promise to be unavailable by the time you've finished,-- sh! she's coming. remember your promise to help me, and wish me luck." "with all my heart," he cried, as she vanished through the door, and the dowager entered the hall. stanley wished the old lady good-morning which she received with chilling condescension, and neither of them spoke for some moments; a precious gain of time, during which her ladyship put on her gloves, rearranged her cloak, unrolled and re-rolled her sunshade, paced the long hall, alternated glimpses out of the windows by glances up the great stairway, and betrayed every sign of impatient waiting for a tardy companion. the secretary stood watching her and counting the minutes, which seemed to pass unusually slowly. finally the dowager's patience got the better of her reserve; she faced round and demanded if he had seen her daughter. "yes," he replied, very deliberately. "i believe she was in the hall when i came down." "believe. do you not know, mr. stanley?" "i certainly caught a glimpse of her," he admitted. "but she's not here now." the secretary made a careful inspection, from his point of vantage on the hearthstone, of every cobweb and corner of the great apartment, and in the end found himself forced to agree with the marchioness' statement. "where has she gone, then?" was her next question. "really," he replied, "it is not your daughter's custom to keep me posted as to her movements." "but you've eyes, haven't you?" she retorted, testily. "at least you know how she left this hall." the secretary sighed as he saw the end of his little manoeuvre. "she went out at the front door," he said. "why couldn't you have told me that to begin with?" "you didn't ask me." "don't be so distressingly literal. i'm late for the service as it is. my daughter has probably misunderstood our arrangements, and is waiting for me at the church." and the marchioness showed unmistakable signs of preparing to leave. even allowing a most liberal leeway to the maundering old parson, stanley knew he could not yet have reached that passage beginning, "all ye that are married," and ending in "amazement," for which there is a canonical time-allowance of at least five minutes; it therefore behoved him to play his last trump. the dowager, like a hen preening her feathers, had given the last touches to her garments, and was already half-way to the door, when the secretary, stepping forward, arrested her progress by remarking: "i feel that i owe you some explanation of what occurred last night, lady port-arthur." "perhaps it's as well that you should explain," she replied, pausing at the door, "though i should have supposed it would have been unnecessary after our last interview." "i've not forgotten it." "you appeared to have done so last evening." "really, you know," he said, piqued by her rudeness, "i couldn't refuse to escort your daughter down to dinner when my hostess requested me to do so." "if mrs. roberts so honoured you as to permit you to take in lady isabelle, naturally----" "yes, that is the way i should have put it." "i do not pretend to say how you should have expressed yourself, but i wish to point out that your place at dinner was no excuse for your place afterwards." "oh, in the conservatory. well, you see, the fact is, i was telling lady isabelle----" "yes, mr. stanley. what were you telling my daughter?" he glanced at the clock. seven minutes had elapsed since the dowager entered the hall. he hoped they would shorten the service. "i was asking her a question," he continued. "well?" the dowager was far below zero. "i asked her if she cared for me." "and she naturally referred you to her mother." "she told me a few minutes ago that you were coming here," he replied, noticing that his companion's mercury was rapidly rising. "i'm glad," continued the marchioness, "that you've taken so early an opportunity to explain what i could only consider as very singular conduct. for dear isabelle's sake i'll consent to overlook what has occurred in the past, and if you can make suitable provision----" five minutes only remained before the time of early service. he thought his income large enough to fill the interval, and interrupted with: "the woman i marry would have----," and then he told the dowager all about it, in sterling and decimal currency. "i think," said that lady, with a sigh of relief at the end of his narration, which, it may be remarked, took the best part of half an hour, "i think dear isabelle's happiness should outweigh any social disparity, and that we may consider her as good as married." "yes," he replied, remembering that the church bells had stopped ringing some fifteen minutes before. "yes, your ladyship, i think we may." * * * * * a few minutes later stanley found himself in one of the secluded stretches of the park, breathing in the fresh keen morning air with a new sense of delight, after the inherent stuffiness of the dowager. he trusted that lady isabelle would break the news to her mother at once, and get it over before he returned; but even then he had an unpleasant interview before him. as an accepted suitor the marchioness would owe him an apology, which he could not avoid accepting. he hoped he could do the heart-broken and disappointed lover, whose feelings were tempered by the calm repression of high gentility. it was the rôle he had figured for himself, and he thought it excellent. all his ideas, however, were centred on the problem of recovering the lost document; some means of entry to that secret tower there must be, and he must find it. he could not, of course, be certain that the paper contained darcy's instructions; but it was admittedly important, and its loss had done him an injury which could only be atoned for by its recovery. a light footfall interrupted his meditations, and looking up, he saw, standing before him, half screened by the bushes which she was holding back, to give her free access to the main path which he was pursuing, the graceful figure and sad, sweet face of madame darcy. a shade of annoyance passed over his brow as he remembered the scene of the night before, and his companion was quick to interpret his mood. "ah, mr. stanley," she said, "you've seen my husband." "yes," he admitted. "he came up to the hall last night." "i hope he didn't make himself a nuisance," she said. "well, i'm afraid he did rather," he returned, and added, "but it's nothing," for he felt that it would be impossible for him to tell her what had really occurred. "i'm so sorry," she cried. "i only bring you trouble." "no, indeed," he hastened to assure her, "far from it. these little talks with you are a positive rest and refreshment to me. i hate this playing the spy." "i suppose it won't do for me to ask how you're progressing, and what you've found out?" "i've found out that i've made an awful fool of myself," he said. "mr. riddle----" "i could have told you who mr. riddle was yesterday," she said. the secretary shrugged his shoulders. "i'm afraid that would have been of little use." "be very careful," she warned him. "there are others besides mr. riddle whom you have to look out for." could it be possible, he asked himself, that she suspected her husband? aloud, he said: "whom do you mean?" she shrugged her shoulders. "it's not for me to belie my own sex," she retorted, "but----" "you mean there is a woman in the case?" she nodded. the secretary drew himself up very stiffly. "it's an impossibility that we will not discuss," he said. "your prejudices mislead you." yet, in spite of his apparent calmness, he was greatly disturbed, for this was the second time that day that doubt had been cast upon miss fitzgerald. chapter xxi the resources of diplomacy determined to drive these unjust suspicions from his mind, the secretary turned the conversation into other channels, and spent a most delightful hour in the park with madame darcy, in which they came to understand each other marvellously well. prompted by that subtle instinct which invariably suggests to the feminine mind the proper course with a man she cares to impress, she relegated her own woes to the uncertain future, and led the conversation into reminiscences of their common country. so time fled by unnoticed, till stanley had arrived at the dangerous point of wondering why fate had not ordained his life differently before she had married that brute, or he had--no, no, he did not mean that! he was a very lucky dog, and belle was much too good for him--and, in short, he must go back to the hall. to this, however, his fair companion strongly objected. she was lonely, she wished to be diverted. his time was his own. considering that he was partially engaged to two ladies, the secretary felt this statement admitted of qualifications. besides, they were at the entrance of the farmhouse where she was staying--it was a most ideal spot--he must step in and see it. but his reasons were of a more solid nature, and he laughingly confided to her that his wish to depart arose not from a desire to avoid her society, but from the fact that he had, as yet, had no breakfast. "but it is my own case," she cried with a ringing laugh. "i'm starving, actually starving--it is a most droll coincidence." stanley assured her he would not detain her a moment longer, but this was equally repugnant to his hostess' views of hospitality. she declared that a breakfast for one was a breakfast for two; if not, more should be ordered. her appetite was that of a bird; the repast was humble, but it was a sin to go without sampling the housewife's eggs and cream--there were none so good at the hall, she was sure. the secretary told her that he could not dream of staying, and found himself within five minutes ensconced at madame darcy's table. no liquids, other than fresh milk and pure spring water were served at this repast, yet stanley arose fully assured that they were the most intoxicating beverages he had ever tasted, and betook himself hall-wards towards noon, through a maze of black eyes, and dazzling flashes of beauty, his brain vibrating with a voice, whose tones were the poetry of sound. a vision of the dowager marchioness of port arthur, placidly seated on the lawn, under a green umbrella, with a book in her lap, and evidently on the borderland of sleeping and waking, brought him to earth once more. it would be better to interrupt her matutinal slumbers, and get one of his two dreaded interviews over. she looked rather too composed, he thought, for a disappointed mother, and he was sure she would be that, did she know the truth. he coughed discreetly, and approached, slowly enough to permit her ladyship to quite recover her senses, before he arrived by her side. it would not do to appear too downcast before being informed of the hopelessness of his suit, so putting on his best society manner, and reflecting that an adversary disconcerted is an adversary at a disadvantage, he asked, as if it were quite the most ordinary of questions: "how beautiful are your feet--lady port arthur?" "dear me, young man!" exclaimed her ladyship, now thoroughly awake, "they've always been considered beautiful; but why should you ask?" "my reference was scriptural, purely scriptural, i assure you-- i was referring to the feet of the messengers upon the mountains, who bring good tidings. you'll find it in isaiah. are you one of them?" "there are no mountains in sussex, and the rising generation knows entirely too much," snapped out the dowager. "as for you-- i've conferred with my daughter----" she _has_ told her, thought the secretary, preparing to draw down his mouth to the requisite expression of woe. "--and it gives me great happiness to tell you----" she continued, beaming on stanley in spite of his flippancy, at which that gentleman drew down his mouth in good earnest, as he realised that she was still undeceived. "--it gives me great happiness to tell you, that i believe your suit will have a favourable termination. she has promised to consider it." "oh," said the secretary; and then, recollecting himself, added: "it's very good of her, i'm sure." if he had the opportunity, after lunch, he mentally determined to give lady isabelle a piece of his mind. "it's an honest soul," continued her ladyship, not noticing the interruption, "which refuses the promptings of her heart. her hesitancy is quite natural, i assure you, and most becoming. when his lordship asked the honour of my hand----" the dowager sighed at the sweetness of reminiscence, and again took up the thread of her discourse. "my daughter told me that she could not, without reflection, be certain of the state of her affections. make allowance for her, mr. stanley, she is very young. believe me, i should not speak as i do, were it not for the fact that i have known the world well--in my youthful days--though this you would scarcely believe, i dare say--i was one of the acknowledged leaders of the court." "your ladyship's wit and beauty are a bye-word in all good society, and one has only to see you, to realise that they have been enhanced by the added grace of years," murmured the secretary, doing his prettiest. "you're a deceitful diplomat, and i don't believe you," said the dowager, giggling and pretending to be very angry, but vastly pleased, none the less; and, giving him a flabby pat with one of her expansive hands, she continued: "you must not be downhearted, however; leave everything to me." the secretary assured her that he felt quite safe to trust his heart in the keeping of one who had held the custody of so many, and was rewarded for his flattery by a further proof of the dowager's confidence. "take my advice, dear james----" she began; but stanley felt this was a step too far, and hastened to put himself on the defensive. "that is not my name, lady port arthur," he said, quietly. "but surely," she continued, pressing her point, "your friends call you by a disrespectful contraction of it. "jim?" he asked, laughing. "oh, that's because my christian name is quite unfitted for ordinary usage--it's only brought out on state occasions." "may i inquire what it is?" "aloysius." "dear me, no, i don't think i could call you that; but as i was saying, if you take my advice you'll see as little as possible of isabelle to-day. leave her to herself; it's far wiser." the secretary felt decidedly relieved. "i quite agree with you," he replied. "you may depend on my following your advice to the letter," and he turned towards the house. "one point more," she said, detaining him with a gesture, "i strongly disapprove of secret engagements. i don't wish the insinuations made against my daughter that one hears about that impudent young minx, miss fitzgerald.-- why, they actually hinted that she was engaged to you!" "dear me! did they?" murmured stanley. "if there is the happy issue that we both wish, i should desire that our friends here, if not society in general, should know it immediately." "my dear lady," said the secretary impressively, "the moment that your daughter tells you definitely that she accepts my offer of marriage, you may announce it to the whole world; till that time, however, i must insist, that for her sake as well as mine, you be most discreet," and he bowed himself from her presence. the marchioness sank back in her chair with a sigh of placid contentment. her work in life was, she believed, on the eve of successful accomplishment, and that most agonising period to a mother--the time from her daughter's coming out to that young lady's engagement--was safely over. on the whole her child had behaved unusually well; but of late she had suffered some inquietude of spirit, owing to the attentions of kingsland, whom she, in common with all mothers of the social world, listed as belonging to the most dangerous and formidable class of youths that a girl, who has any pretensions to being a _partie_, can encounter. in the case of the lieutenant, however, lady port arthur flattered herself that she had nipped matters in the bud, by the best of all cures for a romantic, impossible lover, _i.e._ a prospective husband. true, mr. stanley was not of noble family, she feared his people might even be called commercial; but he was eminently safe, and possessed of a substantial income wherewith to support the glories of the noble name of port arthur. in short, he was an admirable solution of the difficulty. the marchioness felt she was justified in taking forty winks, and did so. luncheon rather amused the secretary than otherwise. he obeyed the dowager's instructions to the letter, sat as far from lady isabelle as possible, and by the caprice of fate, found himself next to miss fitzgerald, who, with admirable foresight, treated him exactly as if nothing had happened, and that being half engaged to a man was the normal state of her existence. this put stanley quite at his ease, and even belle's fictitious claim on his services for the afternoon, based on her unsupported declaration that he had asked her to drive with him in the pony cart at four, a proposition he would never have dreamed of making, was accepted by him as a matter of course. a proceeding which elicited an expansive smile from the dowager, who considered it a deep-laid diplomatic plot, in furtherance of her suggested plan of campaign. the secretary's attention was, however, mainly directed to kingsland and lady isabelle, who sat side by side at table, and who acted, in his opinion like a pair of fools, till it seemed as if everyone present must guess the true state of affairs. as a matter of fact, no one did, and stanley, seeing this, was once more reassured; for he did not wish to play his little part to more of an audience than was absolutely necessary. mr. riddle, towards whom the secretary, in view of the night's disclosures, felt even a stronger antipathy, was in high spirits, until he was silenced by mrs. roberts, who assured the company that she had caught him in the act of aiding and abetting the cottager's children to make mud pies in the public highway. "i really couldn't help it," he said, excusing himself shamefacedly, "the dear little things were pining for some one to play with, and we did have such fun--and got so grubby;" and there was such a genuine ring of honest pleasure in his tones, that stanley again found cause to wonder which was the true man. something like an hour later, the secretary emerged on the driveway, to find the pony cart and belle, got up in faultless style; and as he looked on the technical mistress of his heart, she seemed so exceedingly fair and gracious, that his morbid imaginings vanished away like smoke, under the spell of her presence. "i'm afraid you'll be very angry with me," she said, apologetically; "but when i proposed our drive this afternoon, i'd quite forgotten a promise i made to mr. lambert to go and see a poor, sick, old woman, a parishioner of his." "then i suppose the drive is off?" "not at all, if you'll be a dear, good, self-sacrificing jimsy, and do what you're told." "what's that?" "just jump into the cart and take it round to the north gate--it's a couple of miles i know--but i'll walk straight across the fields, make my visit, and be at our rendezvous almost as soon as you are. i'll promise not to keep you waiting over ten minutes at the longest. will you do it?" "certainly, if i may solace myself with a cigar while i wait." "two, if you like; but you won't have time to smoke them. now off you go," and waving her hand to him, she watched him disappear round the corner of the house. once he was out of sight, miss fitzgerald lost no time in producing, from the mysterious recesses of her pocket, a telegram, the delivery of which she had intercepted, which she surveyed long and critically. a telegram is generally regarded as best serving its purpose when most promptly delivered; but in the case of this message, miss fitzgerald evidently felt it would improve by keeping, for it had arrived during the morning, and was now some hours old. the time had come, however, when it should be delivered to its proper owner, and she accordingly went in search of lieutenant kingsland. chapter xxii a little commission lady isabelle and lieutenant kingsland sat on the lawn before the old manor house in the soft glow of an english afternoon, contemplating the inevitable. in this case the inevitable was represented by the dowager, who was enjoying a peaceful nap not fifty feet away. only fifty feet of faultlessly-kept turf separated them from the vials of a mother's wrath; and in spite of their supreme happiness of the morning, they felt the presence of this gathering storm which must now be faced--as soon as the marchioness awoke--for to wake her would put her in a bad temper, and her rage promised to be violent enough without any external irritants. but it happened that while the dowager slumbered, miss fitzgerald, slipping around the corner of the house, appeared in the background, and signalling to the lieutenant to come to her, where they could talk without awakening the marchioness, gave him his telegram. he read its contents once, twice, and a third time, word by word, gave a sigh of unutterable relief, and then laughed joyously. "good news, apparently," commented miss fitzgerald. "the best," he replied. "a crusty old relative, who is no good to anybody, lies dying in the north of england, and for some unknown reason has made me his heir-- i must leave at once to see him out of this world in proper style--but it means i'm a rich man." "i'm ever so glad. must you start to-day?" "i shall go up to london this afternoon, and on to-morrow." "you'll spend the night in town, then?" "yes. i must go to my bank and draw some funds for my journey." "then you can do me a favour." "a thousand, if you want them, after what you've done for me." "will you oblige me by taking charge of several chests of mr. riddle's stereopticon views; they're heavy, but fragile and very valuable, and i've promised him i'd find some one to take them up to town for him, and put them in safe keeping. where do you bank?" "bank of england, victoria street branch." "will you leave it in their charge subject to my order?" "certainly. how many cases?" "five, and they're rather heavy." "all right. have the chests put in the luggage cart, and i'll look out for them. now i must tell my--why, it's kent-lauriston!" and to their mutual astonishment, they beheld that gentleman standing close beside them. "good afternoon," he said. "you didn't expect to see me? i wired mrs. roberts." "i know my aunt will be delighted," said miss fitzgerald. "won't you come into the house?" and she led the way, calling back to the lieutenant: "i'll see they're ready. thank you so much." once in the hall, she wasted no time over the unexpected, and to her unwelcome, guest, but, consigning him to the butler, sped away to give directions as to the disposition of the chests, and was soon scurrying across the park to join the patient secretary, who had had ample opportunity to smoke his two cigars. the lieutenant had in the meantime shown his despatch to lady isabelle, whose face at once assumed an expression very much in contrast to that of her liege lord's; her brows contracted in a frown, and tears sprang to her eyes. "oh, jack!" she cried. "you won't leave me now-- i can't spare you. your poor uncle benjamin!" "but you don't understand!" he cried. "you don't see what it means! the steward writes that i'll inherit his property, and that i should come and protect my interests." "but he's not dead yet--only very ill," she argued, seeing the possibilities ahead--yet hoping against hope to win her husband from his better judgment. "it's the same thing--they wouldn't have telegraphed for me if it wasn't the end." "but it's so far off--nearly to the scottish border." "that's all the more reason for hurrying. i must take the first train for london." "and leave me!" "my darling, you must be brave, you must be sensible. if i inherit my uncle's property, i shall be a rich man, and your mother's scruples will be removed. it's vital that i should lose no chances--it means everything to us." "but is there any danger of your doing so--doesn't the telegram expressly state that he means to make you his heir?" "yes, yes, but there are other relatives as near as i. they'll all be there, and if they suspect i'm chosen, will try and get him, at the last, to turn against me." "but why should you be chosen?" "pure cussedness, i think, coupled with the fact that i've never troubled myself to be even civil to him. his other relatives have spent their time in fawning about him, and he has seen through it, and led them a lively dance in consequence. he lived in a beastly old hole of a place--dull as the water in his own moat. i was sent there as a boy, and when he tried to cane me for stealing his fruit, i pelted him with apples. since i've been old enough to consult my own inclinations, i have entirely ignored him. i never supposed he'd leave me a penny, and i wouldn't have let him lead me a dog's life for it, if i had. now that he has done so to spite the rest, i shall protect my own interests, never fear." "but you'll tell mamma before you go?" "most certainly not," replied the lieutenant, glad of any valid excuse for putting off what promised to be a rather trying interview. "i should have to go at once in any event, and i certainly couldn't leave you to face your mother's wrath alone; besides, now i come to think of it, your late father was one of uncle's pet detestations, politically, and if a rumour of my secret marriage were to reach him before the end, it would be all up with my prospects, and you can easily see what splendid capital it would be for his precious relatives." "but mamma might be trusted?" queried lady isabelle, feeling that she was venturing on untenable ground. "those who don't know won't tell; besides, my position will be much stronger as the heir in possession than the heir prospective. now i must be off to make my excuses to mrs. roberts, and to pack up my belongings, or some of them, for i don't expect to be gone more than two or three days at the most, and till then everything depends on keeping the secret." "but, mr. stanley," she expostulated. "oh, pshaw! i forgot him." "but we mustn't forget him. you know we promised him that we would tell at once." "circumstances alter cases. you must arrange it between you somehow. you can stave off the evil day with your mother. say you need time to think it over." "you don't know mamma as well as i do, jack." "then refuse absolutely." "she'd take me away at once, abroad perhaps. she's made up her mind to this match." "you must hold it off and on, that is all there is about it. let her think you are going to consent, but that you mustn't be hurried." "but think of mr. stanley's position. how would you feel in his place?" "now, what's the use of arguing suppositious cases when i'm pressed for time? stanley has accepted the position, and he must make the best of it." "but if he's afraid miss fitzgerald may learn of his proposal to me, and misunderstand." "not much danger of that, as she saw you married this morning." "but mr. stanley doesn't know that miss fitzgerald was present at our wedding. now, if i could tell him so----" "um!" murmured the lieutenant thoughtfully. "on the whole, i don't think i would. it wouldn't be quite fair to belle." "to miss fitzgerald?" "to miss fitzgerald. at least you must gain her consent first." "but why should she object?" "well, to speak quite frankly, her own position in the matter was open to question. you see, she had some difficulty in arranging the private marriage, and, out of friendship to me, she did and said certain things of which an over-conscientious person, like our friend the secretary, might disapprove." "jack!" she cried, frightened. "tell me the truth. swear to me that our marriage was a true marriage--was legal." "i swear it, my darling. hadn't you the special licence to prove it? my remarks only referred to the means she used to induce the parson to keep his mouth shut. not discreditable at all, you understand, and some day, when i'm at liberty to explain it, you'll see--but we owe it to her to keep quiet about the whole affair." "i don't like it, dear--it doesn't sound honest." "well, i can't help it. it is all fair and square as far as you are concerned, and if you like you may tell miss fitzgerald all about stanley's position, so that he can't injure himself in her eyes. but to him you must say nothing without her consent--absolutely nothing." "but this does not settle the matter of the engagement." "you must manage that as best you can. stanley can't really be engaged to you, because you are a married woman; and belle can't be jealous if she knows the truth." "but poor mr. stanley--consider his feelings--how needlessly you are making him suffer. he'll think that miss fitzgerald will never forgive him." "and a good thing, too, for he's treated her very badly; he deserves to be made uncomfortable." "what has he done?" "never mind. it's not a story for polite society. but he'll deserve all he gets, take my word for it. now run along to the library and see if you can find our place in that old black letter book of the 'lives of the saints.' it'll be positively necessary for me to look up a reference or two before starting, to fortify myself for my journey;" and so saying he entered the house, feeling that in giving belle the whip hand over the secretary, he had more than compensated her for all she had done for him. but lieutenant kingsland was destined to find out that a whip--especially one with so long a lash--is apt to be a dangerous instrument in unqualified hands, and may even include the giver in its whistling sting. something over an hour later, the lieutenant having been duly fortified, and dispatched on his journey, lady isabelle found herself closeted with her mother in the midst of a most trying scene. the dowager had placed before her the manifest advantages of a union with the young diplomat, and her daughter, incautiously following her husband's short-sighted advice, had not only seemed to acquiesce in favour of the suit, but had even overdone the part, in the hopes of thereby inducing such amiability in her mother, as would lead her to be lenient concerning the final decision. the result of this was that lady isabelle had not, figuratively speaking, left herself a leg to stand on, and having admitted all her mother's arguments with a complaisance which could only argue their ultimate acceptance, came to a standstill the moment a definite answer was demanded. she agreed to all her mother said, but could not of herself say yes--or no. lady port arthur could only attribute her daughter's hesitation to one of two reasons, either maidenly modesty which prevented her acceding to her requests--"a most becoming motive, my dear"--the dowager assured her--"and one that does you infinite credit, but which, in this instance, must give way to my superior wisdom, or else----." here the marchioness expressed herself with a heat and bitterness which it would be hardly fair to put on record for cool and sober reading; referring to an "inherited obstinacy," which she assured her daughter had come direct from the late lord port arthur, and had led to a certain amount of friction in her marital life, and concluding by remarking that--"this (obstinacy) i have determined to nip in the bud, and crush out with a stern hand." she therefore requested an immediate answer. lady isabelle, not being of a strong nature, nor daring to brave her mother's wrath by a direct refusal, and feeling the impossibility of assent, replied that she had nothing further to say. this equivocal position proved to be most disastrous--for it left her mother free to lay down the law, which she proceeded to do. "if," she said, "your refusal to answer is due to a foolish access of modesty, i shall reply in the affirmative for you, and mr. stanley will see the propriety of your attitude, and will, i am sure, excuse its apparent childishness. if, on the other hand, your motive is due to obstinacy, i consider myself privileged to interfere in order to save you from the results of your own foolishness, and i shall still accept for you. should you so far forget yourself as to oppose my wishes, i shall feel that seclusion and rigorous measures will be necessary--we will leave to-morrow for a six months' course of mud baths in northern bavaria, which will be highly beneficial to me, and will give you ample time for reflection on the sins of undutifulness and obstinate pride." the dowager paused to watch the effect of her threat. it was all she could have desired. lady isabelle knew snollenbad by reputation; knew that it was a stuffy, dull, german, provincial town; loathed mud baths; longed for the gaieties of the world as a girl longs who has only had one season; and, worst of all, realised that the settlement of estates and the limitations of leave would make it a six months' exile from her husband. she hesitated, and the dowager, relying on the proverb, felt that she had won. "give me half an hour to consider," she asked. "there is nothing to consider," replied her mother. "you know what my course of action will be; the future will depend on yours; but you had better retire to your room and think matters over;" and she dismissed her with a gesture. in spite of her words, however, the dowager did not feel perfectly secure, and determined to clinch matters in a manner which, had her daughter suspected it, would have moved even that vacillating nature to rebellion. as it was, lady isabelle contemplated a confession to stanley on his return from the drive, in direct disobedience to her husband's commands; which, at the eleventh hour, would have sealed her mother's lips by apprising her of the truth. but fate ordained otherwise, and the secretary and miss fitzgerald were disgracefully late; giving them barely time to rush to their rooms, hurry into evening clothes, and appear in the drawing-room, flushed and breathless as the butler announced dinner. chapter xxiii forty thousand pounds as the secretary sat in the governess' cart finishing his second cigar, he reflected that if he had any strength of character he would never have lent his aid in countenancing a secret marriage between one of his best friends, and a man, who, he believed, could be proved guilty of something very nearly approaching treason to the sovereign whose uniform he wore; nor, for that matter, would he be waiting for a girl who had insulted him by her suspicions of the evening before, and who had capped the climax by taking the refusal of him at her own valuation. however, his reflections were cut short by the appearance of miss fitzgerald herself, who had not hurried so much as to be flushed or out of breath, and who had arrived with the fixed intention of keeping the secretary away from the hall during the entire afternoon. "i'm awfully sorry to have kept you waiting so long," she said, mounting to the seat which faced him, he driving under her direction. "but you shall have your reward--for i've two bits of good news for you." "that's encouraging," he replied, praying inwardly that one of them was the announcement of lady isabelle's marriage. "in the first place, your friend mr. kent-lauriston has arrived." the secretary's face did not express any excess of joy. "won't you be glad to see him?" she asked. "of course," he replied. "he's an old friend of yours?" "my oldest in england." "how nice that he's here!" she said, a slight frown clouding her brows. "his coming will mean so much to you." "yes," said the secretary meditatively, "i don't know how much," and there was silence between them for a while. "and your second piece of news?" he asked suddenly, recollecting himself. "is, that your pet detestation is going away." "you refer to colonel darcy?" she nodded. "away from here?" "away from england." "really." "you know so much about him, i thought you might have heard of it." "where is he going?" "abroad somewhere." "does he take his wife with him?" she laughed light-heartedly, as though relieved from some oppression. "no, i fancy not--in fact i think it is rather to escape her." "oh!" he said, and relapsed into silence. then suddenly reverting to his original train of thought, which darcy's name suggested, he spoke abruptly:-- "why did you ask me to drive with you this afternoon?" "because i wanted to talk to you--no, i didn't-- i wanted you to talk to me." "about last night?" "yes." "but it's impossible--if you can believe----!" he cried hotly. "what bob said, about you and his wife?" she interjected. "i don't, but it made me very angry just the same. you see, up to last night, you had been an ideal to me. then suddenly you proposed to change all our relations; and just at that moment bob came in and made those charges, which, though untrue, showed me how very human you would have to be to me if i accepted you, and i was bitter and lost my head." "but if you didn't believe them, why did you refuse to give me a definite answer?" "because you'd brought me face to face with new conditions. i wanted to readjust myself to them." "but if you love me---- do you love me?" he said earnestly. "yes, jim," she replied, with a quiet seriousness that carried conviction to him, "i do love you." "really, love me?" "really, more than i have loved any man--ever." "but then, how can you doubt?" and he turned impulsively towards her. "you'd better keep both hands on the reins--the pony is only just broken. as i was saying--i love you--in my way--but that's not all, it's merely the beginning. if i only had to meet you for the rest of our lives at afternoon tea and dinner, and we had on our best clothes and our company manners, there would be no question--but you see there are breakfasts and luncheons to be considered. suppose after our honeymoon was over i was to discover that you wanted to live at west hempstead, or dined habitually at the national liberal club, or wore ready-made suits--it might wreck my life's happiness." her sincerity had disappeared, and her change in manner grated on him. he was certain she did not mean what she was saying, but he forced a laugh in replying:-- "diplomats are not allowed to belong to political clubs, in the first place," he said, "and i've been told that well-cut clothes may be met with even at the n. l. c. besides, if you loved me, it wouldn't really matter." "ah! but it might, and that's just the point. either i love _you_, the real, imperfect, human _you_--and nothing else counts--or else i love the secretary of the ---- legation, in a frock coat or a dress suit, and everything does count. i've got to determine which. my feminine intuition will tell me that in an instant some day, and then i can answer you." "let us hope that your feminine intuition will make up its mind to act quickly then, for i must be getting back to london in a few days." "why?" she cried. "what have you to do?" what indeed, when the canny old messenger the night before had told him that this beautiful girl was the main spring of the conspiracy he was here to crush? he did not believe that, but the whole conversation had revolted him--it was not decent somehow to discuss the most serious things of life flippantly. his face showed his feelings. she was quick to take the cue. "i doubt if you really know yourself," she continued. "suppose madame darcy were unmarried-- i have sometimes thought----" "suppose the impossible," he interrupted. "suppose you should decide to drop her husband----" "i wonder," she said, ignoring his petulant outburst, "if you would mind my asking you a very frank question?" "about the colonel?" "yes. you see i've been thinking a good deal of what you said the other night, but of course one can't throw over old friends without good cause--merely for marital infelicity--there are always two sides to those stories, you know. i was wondering if there was anything else--anything about him which you knew and i wouldn't be likely to-- i've sometimes thought--that perhaps----" she paused and looked inquiringly at him. the secretary longed to tell her the truth; but remembering his chief's instructions, and chastened by his late reverse, hardened his heart. "as for that," he replied guardedly, "he doesn't bear an altogether savoury reputation, i've understood, but as my personal knowledge of his affairs dated with his wife's visit to me two or three days ago--my information is comparatively recent." she smiled contentedly, and changed the subject, by suggesting that they should get out and walk. a long hill was before them, and since from the construction of governess carts the tendency of an up-grade is to put all the weight at the rear, it seemed advisable to descend. "to give the pony a fighting chance," as the secretary suggested. miss fitzgerald complained that it was hot, and, barring the fact of cruelty to animals, a nuisance to have to climb the hill; saying which, she took off her hat, giving an unobstructed view of her hair. if there is any excuse for the fact that the secretary forgot his good resolutions, it must lie in the heart of the reader, who perhaps has been young some time himself, and had the exquisite pleasure of driving during a long, perfect english afternoon, through glorious wooded lanes, and all the picturesque antiquity which england alone knows, with a winsome irish girl, with a peaches-and-cream complexion, a ravishing laugh, bewitching blue eyes, and golden hair loose upon her shoulders, which a madcap wind whipped in his face. "i think it's glorious," said stanley, reverting to the landscape, a little later, when the conversation had turned to less serious topics, "there's no country like england--but it's comparable to the little girl of the nursery rhyme-- "when it is good, it is very very good, and when it is bad, it is horrid." "i'm glad to see you appreciate it at its true worth. isn't this scene perfect--but think of it in a november fog," she said. "think of those people wasting their afternoon on the lawn at the hall, drinking bitter tea and eating heavy cake." "i dare say some of them are above those things," replied belle. "lady isabelle and the lieutenant?" queried the secretary. "lady isabelle and the lieutenant," she acquiesced. "i wonder if there is really anything serious in that affair?" she said this to probe stanley, and, as a result, she put him on his guard. "what do you think?" he asked cautiously. "i imagine the dowager could never be induced to approve of it." "the marchioness!" cried belle scornfully, as, having reached the summit of the hill with a long, downward slope before them, they remounted into the cart. "she doesn't count." "oh, doesn't she?" said the secretary. "she counts a great deal, as"--he added half to himself--"i ought to know." they had already turned homewards and were rattling down the hill, and at that moment they swung at top speed round a corner, to come upon a wrecked luggage cart, which blocked the whole road. without hesitation, stanley pulled the pony up on its haunches, bringing them to a stop with a tremendous jerk, within three feet of the obstacle; nearly throwing them out, and driving, for the time being, all thoughts of their interrupted conversation from the secretary's head. "why, tim!" he said, recognising the driver as one of mrs. roberts' servants. "you've had a spill!" "axle broke, sir. that's what it is, and if it hadn't been as the carrier"--indicating a second cart on the further side--"had happened to come up just now, i don't know as mister kingsland would have got his luggage." "lieutenant--kingsland--is he going away?" "why, didn't you know that, sir? called sudden on the death of his uncle--miss fitzgerald there--she----" "don't spend all the afternoon gossiping, tim," broke in that young lady, sharply--"but attend to your work. drive round somehow, can't you?"--she continued, addressing the secretary--"or we shall be late for dinner?" "don't you see it's impossible? besides i want to help tim." "nonsense, turn round and we'll drive back--some other way. tim and the carrier can help themselves," she cried petulantly. "i'm not so sure of that," drawled the driver. "them chests are powful heavy--for all the lieutenant said they contained glass picture slides--it's more like lead." "mr. riddle's slides, eh?" said stanley, jumping down, despite his fair companion's remonstrances. "then we mustn't let lieutenant kingsland go without them;" and he seized the handle of one of the boxes, and pulling it off the partially overturned cart, dragged it along the road, while miss fitzgerald sat holding the pony, and biting her lips in ill-disguised vexation. "gad! they are heavy!" admitted the secretary, as, with the carrier's help, he swung it into the cart, and returned for another. four were transported safely, but in lifting the fifth chest, whose cover seemed a trifle loose, stanley turned his foot on a round stone, and losing his grip on the handle, the chest fell to the ground bottom side up. "no great harm done, we'll hope," he said, righting it, and helping the carrier to lift it beside the others. "why, bless me," ejaculated that official, "if there ain't a bran new sovereign lying in the dust!" the secretary regarded it critically, and plunging his hands into his trousers pockets, fished out a lot of loose change, which he examined carefully, saying: "i must have dropped it in bending over; thank you for finding it. there's a shilling for your trouble." and straightening up, he realised that miss fitzgerald was regarding him intently. half an hour later the wreck was sufficiently cleared for them to resume their homeward way. the remainder of the afternoon was not a success, including, as it did, a drive home in the teeth of a wind which had suddenly sprung up; which, finding them hot and dusty, left them at their destination cold and cross, and utterly fagged out; stanley with a twinge of rheumatism, devoutly hoping that lady isabelle had got it over, and miss fitzgerald with a splitting headache, realising that she had lost a move in the game. they both looked forward to dinner as a salve for all evils, though when they entered the drawing-room just in time to go down, they were naturally surprised, miss fitzgerald at being committed to the charge of kent-lauriston, and the secretary to lady isabelle--for the latter of which arrangements the dowager was directly responsible--indeed, she had held an interview with her hostess a few minutes before, which had left that lady very much excited. as soon as they were seated at table, he noticed that he was separated from miss fitzgerald as far as might be, so he lost no time in putting lady isabelle at her ease by engaging her in conversation. knowing what he did, he felt that to give her a chance to talk about her husband would be most acceptable to her, and probably useful to him; so, noting his absence, he told her of accidentally hearing of his departure. "i suppose," he said, "that as he was carrying so much of value, he'll stop in london before going north?" "of value," she said. "i do not understand." "why, five cases of stereopticon slides for mr. riddle. i helped the carrier to reload them, and very heavy they were." "he said nothing to me of it," she replied; "but he certainly is going to stop in london one night." "i wish i'd known, i'd have asked him to cash a cheque for me. it's so hard to do that sort of thing in the country, and i imagine we bank at the same place." "he banks at the victoria street branch of the bank of england. i'm sure he would have been glad to have done it for you." "thanks, but it really doesn't matter," replied stanley, who, having thus learned the probable destination of mr. riddle's chests of sovereigns was contented to change the subject, saying: "i do hope that the lieutenant unburdened his soul to your mother before he left." she then told him all the events of the afternoon, even the interview with her mother, the whole in a conversational tone of voice. the secretary sat dazed as the magnitude of what he had let himself in for dawned upon him; and her ladyship's eager explanations and apologies, which presently died down to a whisper, as there came a lull in the conversation, fell unheeded on his ears. suddenly he became intuitively aware that everyone was looking at him--no, at them. his hostess was making a feeble attempt to smile at him from far down the table--he felt a horrible premonition of coming catastrophe; he looked at lady isabelle, she was white to the lips. "my friends," came mrs. roberts' voice, trembling a little, "lady port arthur has just told me some interesting news, with the request that i would transmit it to you all; so i am going to ask you to drink your first glass of champagne this evening in honour of the engagement of lady isabelle mclane and mr. aloysius stanley." chapter xxiv a very awkward predicament had mrs. roberts' interests not led her in another direction, she must have felt no small gratification at the effect which her speech produced. it was a great _coup_ for any hostess, and of tremendous force, because absolutely unexpected. a number of guests had been invited for this particular evening to swell the party, making a dinner of sixteen, and it was delightful to witness the manner in which they took the announcement. the men received it in silence, while the women broke instantly into a confused, joyous cackled exclamation, surprise and curiosity. the dowager was the person who probably derived the most satisfaction from the scene, for her work was over and she could survey it calmly; but stanley, though the table and the guests whirled before his eyes, caught some lightning glimpses of various expressions, which he was destined never to forget. he saw the marchioness' satisfied smile, which said as plainly as words could: "there, what did i tell you? you see how successfully i have brought about this affair." he caught the glance of sympathy which his hostess shot at miss fitzgerald, and he caught the glance of vindictive rage which that young lady bestowed upon him, though he did not see the smile which followed it. it needed no one to tell miss fitzgerald that she held the whip now, or to teach her how to use it. her lover should smart for this. one other glimpse the secretary caught in that moment--a disgusted shrug of the shoulders from kent-lauriston, and this latter hurt him the most keenly of all. he wondered how all these people could be so stupid as not to see the ghastly mistake they were making, the awful position in which they were placing them both; and then he understood that lady isabelle's pallor and his own flushed face might as easily be traced to natural embarrassment as to utter confusion. what a shocking complication--but if it was so bad for him, what must it be for her? thank heavens, he was not to blame for it--he had only done what she had asked him. what would people say when they learned the truth? what would inez think--what--good heavens! why were all the men rising from their seats? he must rise too--to drink his health. he felt fairly dazed from agitation. they drained their glasses, he drank with them. the champagne served to steady him; he was himself once more, ready to do battle for his honour and hers. what was that they were saying--some idiot at the far end of the table was crying "speech--speech!" stanley made a mental note that, despite laws against duelling, he'd run him through before breakfast to-morrow morning, or know the reason why. now all the others were taking it up, every one was crying: "speech! speech! speech!" good heavens, what could he say! would it not be better to stand up and tell the truth of this miserable matter? one look at the bent head of lady isabelle, and her nervous fingers clutching the tablecloth, determined his course of action--he could not expose her to the criticism of this table of scandal-mongers. she sat there, almost fainting, hanging on his every word; chivalry, honour, manliness, left but one course open--he must sacrifice himself to save her. the future would decide itself--his duty lay clear before him. he saw that he must speak--and that he must by his words deceive the company, and yet not compromise either her or himself. he raised his hand to command attention; the rest sat down--it gave him thirty seconds for reflection, an infinitesimal amount of time in which to take action, but ample space in which to take thought: then he spoke:-- "my friends:-- "you have just done us the honour to drink a toast to our united happiness. i thank you for your kind intention. those who are already married have, by drinking this toast, very gracefully assured me of my own future happiness, and those who are single have given me the opportunity to express a hearty wish that it may some day be my privilege to drink a similar toast to them." had mr. stanley never given other evidence of his fitness for a diplomatic career, this speech alone would have conclusively furnished it. he resumed his seat, and the look of gratitude which his companion gave him was sufficient reward. how that dinner passed off the secretary never knew. it was a horrible nightmare, and it seemed interminable; but it did come to an end at last, and he repaired to the smoking-room where even a worse purgatory awaited him. kent-lauriston distinctly avoided him, the rest evidently regarded him as their lawful prey. his over-taxed nerves were beginning to give way. he laughed hysterically, threw his cigar into the fireplace, and, begging to be excused, left the room. a burst of laughter followed him. he knew what it meant--every action of his must henceforth be misinterpreted. his appearance in the drawing-room was the signal for a preparatory giggle, and then an, only too apparent, ignoring of his presence, accompanied by meaning glances towards the conservatory. he took the hint, and went in that direction, to find lady isabelle weeping her eyes out on a divan. "there's no use crying over spilt milk," he said to her, cheerfully; "but you must admit it's a deuce of a mess." "how can i ever sufficiently thank you, mr. stanley?" she exclaimed, looking up at him in undisguised admiration. "you were splendid." "oh, not at all--but i'll admit your mother's announcement rather staggered me." "i tried to prepare you." "i'm afraid you didn't succeed," he replied coldly, for he felt that he had been ill-used. "i assure you," she said, "if i'd had the remotest idea of what mamma intended doing, i would have faced all possibilities and told her the truth, rather than have exposed you to what has occurred. i can never, never forgive myself for it." "it was really more my fault than yours. i gave your mother permission to announce our engagement whenever you gave your consent." "i never gave it!" she cried. "of course," he continued, "i never supposed that your mother would so far forget herself as to force you." "you mustn't be too hard on mamma." "under the circumstances you could hardly expect me to be lenient; i think we'd better agree to change the subject." she bowed silently. "there's one thing, however, that you can do to help me," he continued. lady isabelle shivered as she saw the approach of the dreaded request, and asked: "what is that?" "you can go to miss fitzgerald and tell her the truth. no statement of mine, unsupported by you, would have any credence in her ears after what has passed. you're the only person whose word can right me in her estimation." "mr. stanley," she replied slowly, and with evident exertion, "i cannot tell you the pain, the chagrin, which it gives me to refuse your request." "you won't do it!" he cried, utterly amazed. "i can't do it." "but do you realise the position in which you place me with miss fitzgerald?" he protested, unwilling to believe his ears. "perfectly--only too keenly," she replied. "the knowledge that i've wronged you in her estimation is the bitterest part of the whole matter. i feel it much more than my own position in the affair." "and knowing this you can still refuse to interfere in my behalf, when a word from you would set all right." "i deeply regret it, mr. stanley, but i must." he stood looking at her for a moment in the deepest scorn. had he sacrificed himself for a woman like this? "don't think too hardly of me," she pleaded; "believe me, i have reasons." "i've only this to say, lady isabelle," he replied coldly. "until you absolve me from the unfortunate position in which your foolishness and weakness have placed me, my good name, my honour, and my future prospects are in your hands. your conscience should tell you how far you have the right to trifle with them," and turning on his heel he left the conservatory. after the departure of the secretary, lady isabelle lost no time in seeking out miss fitzgerald, who had retired to her chamber. to pursue a woman who believes that you have cruelly wronged her was a bold undertaking, but if she could not assure the secretary that she would right him in his lady's eyes, her duty, under the circumstances, was all the more imperative to do so without delay; so summoning all her courage to her aid, she ascended to miss fitzgerald's chamber, and knocked timidly; so timidly, indeed, that at first she was not heard, and was compelled to knock again. "come in," called belle. her ladyship partially opened the door. "it's i," she said. "lady isabelle!" exclaimed miss fitzgerald, in unfeigned surprise, rising to receive her visitor. "you're the last person i expected to see!" "i must beg your pardon for intruding upon your privacy, but i felt i must come to you the first moment that i was able." "really?" "i owe you an explanation, miss fitzgerald." belle looked at her proudly and coldly, with the air of an insulted queen. it was not often she had the chance to triumph over a lady of title, and she enjoyed it thoroughly. "you owe me more than an explanation," she said, and indicating a chair for her guest, they both sat down. "of course, you're aware that mr. stanley cannot be engaged to me," lady isabelle began, after some hesitation, in which belle gave her no help, for she knew this interview was her real punishment. "i should hardly have supposed so," replied miss fitzgerald, and lapsed into silence. "i"--lady isabelle began, covered with confusion--"i--the fact is--i asked him to propose to me." "you asked him to propose to you?" "i don't wonder you are surprised; but the facts of the case are these. my mother asked mr. stanley his intentions last evening. being engaged to you, he naturally had none." "mr. stanley is not engaged to me." "i beg your pardon, i thought----" "he has proposed to me, i admit; but i must say his conduct doesn't prejudice me in his favour." "but you mustn't allow this to injure him, miss fitzgerald. really you must not." "a man who could accept a lady who had so far forgotten herself as to propose to him----" "pray let me state my case before judging me," pleaded her ladyship, ready to sink through the floor with mortification. "proceed, lady isabelle," said her tormentor. "mr. stanley told me of his interview with my mother, who, i knew, was very anxious to make a match between us. this morning i discovered that she intended to go to early service. you know what that would have involved." miss fitzgerald nodded. "i tried every means to deter her, but in vain. then, as a last resort--i admit it was very wrong to do so--i asked mr. stanley to intercept my mother on her way to the church, and make her a proposal for my hand, as i knew this was the only way to detain her, telling him that i was about to be married, and that i would tell her the truth to-day." miss fitzgerald drew a sharp breath. "then he knows that you're a married woman?" "he knew that i was to be, before the ceremony." the irish girl gave a contented little sigh, and murmured to herself--"so he did know after all." then waking up to the immediate present, she continued, with exaggerated courtesy:-- "your ladyship has not, i think, finished your story. you promised mr. stanley that you would tell your mother the truth--but you have not done so." "no, i have not, and for the following reasons. my husband, as you know, received a telegram apprising him of the fact that a relative, who was dying, intended leaving him a large fortune, and required his immediate presence. he forbade me to speak till he came back, and insisted that i must hold out the prospect of my engagement with mr. stanley as a bait to keep my mother here till he could return to me. she, however, pressed me for an answer, and on my refusing to commit myself either way, took matters into her own hands, as we have seen. i assure you entirely without the knowledge of mr. stanley or myself." "i see. you feel it necessary to continue this bogus engagement, for the present." "i'm between two fires, miss fitzgerald: obedience to my husband's commands, and the reparation i owe to you." "what does jimsy say?" "mr. stanley has, of course, behaved like a gentleman, and left the matter for me to decide. i'm in a most dreadful position, either way i must wrong some one." "i'll spare your conscience, lady isabelle. i shan't require you to break your engagement with the secretary." "but you'll forgive him, will you not? it was not his fault, really." "you seem to forget that i've not accepted him as yet." "but you'll not let this prejudice your ultimate decision. promise me that?" "yes, i'll promise--for i don't think there's anything proved against him in this matter, except that he's weak, and i did not need you to tell me that." "he's a very large heart, miss fitzgerald." "he has," assented that lady. "of which i've had ample evidence in the last few days." "you've been so gracious to me in this matter," continued lady isabelle, "that unsuitable as the occasion is, i'm going to venture to ask you a favour. "and what is that, your ladyship?" "mr. stanley doesn't know that you're aware of my marriage, and for some reason which i don't understand, my husband forbade me to tell him of the fact unless i had your permission; so he fancies that he's put himself in a worse position than is really the case. do allow me to tell him the truth. poor fellow, he's so unhappy." "no," replied miss fitzgerald, a gleam of triumph lighting up her face, as she realised the power which kingsland had placed in her hands. "your husband is quite right; there are excellent reasons why he should not be told; besides he deserves to be miserable, he's treated me very badly." "in that case," said lady isabelle, stiffly, rising to go, "i've nothing more to say." "quite right, lady isabelle, and may i give you a parting word of caution? when your husband, lieutenant kingsland, advises a course of action, follow it blindly." "really, miss fitzgerald!" exclaimed her ladyship, bridling up at the irish girl's remark. "good-night, lady isabelle," murmured belle in her silkiest tones, opening the door, and laughing softly to herself, as her visitor rustled away in the distance. then she leaned over the staircase and listened. no sound met her ears, but her eyes beheld the disconsolate figure of the secretary, standing alone in the hall below. she tripped noiselessly down, and, arriving within a few paces of him unnoticed, drew herself up haughtily, and said, in her most chilling tones:-- "will you kindly permit me to pass, mr. stanley?" "belle--miss fitzgerald," he cried. "i must have a few words with you-- i must explain." "it's not necessary, mr. stanley. i've already heard a detailed account of the affair from lady isabelle's mother." on the verity of the statement we will not attempt to pass judgment; suffice it to say, that it simply staggered the young diplomat. "good lord!" he exclaimed. "i--it's not true, believe me, it's not true." "do i understand you to insinuate that the marchioness has prevaricated?" "no, no, of course not; but it's all a mistake. i can explain--really." "mr. stanley, answer me one question. did you or did you not give the marchioness to understand, in your interview with her this morning, that you wished to marry her daughter?" "why, yes--i suppose i did--but, then, you see----" "that is quite sufficient. good-night." "if you'd only let me explain!" "good-night, mr. stanley," she repeated icily, and swept past him into the drawing-room. chapter xxv the rustle of a skirt "you graceless young dog!" cried kent-lauriston, falling upon stanley in a half-feigned, half-real burst of anger, as he entered the smoking-room after his encounter with belle. "do you know you've caused me to refuse invitations by the score, and dragged me down to this god-forsaken place, at the most impossible season of the year, on false pretences?" "false pretences! how so?" "why? you shameless lothario! why? because what's left of my conscience smote me for leaving a lamb amidst a pack of wolves, and wouldn't let me rest; nearly destroyed my digestion, i give you my word. i came down to pluck your innocence alive from the burning, and i've been a fool for my pains. why, confound you, i not only find you _épris_ with madame darcy, but engaged to both the fitzgerald and lady isabelle." "my dear kent-lauriston, pray soothe your ruffled feelings; your logic is excellent, but your premises are one and all false." "what!" "i say there's nothing between madame darcy and myself, and that i'm neither engaged to miss fitzgerald nor lady isabelle." "but, my dear stanley, i've heard----" "but, my dear kent-lauriston, you've heard wrongly." "what--isn't madame darcy here?" "yes." "and haven't you seen her?" "yes." "and walked with her early in the morning?" "yes." "and breakfasted with her, _tête-à-tête_ at a farmhouse?" "yes." "and hasn't her husband challenged you to a duel on her account?" "yes." "and didn't he, moreover, catch you in the act of proposing to miss fitzgerald?" "yes." "and haven't you asked the marchioness for lady isabelle's hand?" "yes." "and in the face of all this--you attempt to deny----" "in the face of all this--circumstantial evidence--i'm quite prepared to deny everything. would you like to hear the _facts_ of the case?" "rather!" as will have been inferred, the two men had the smoking-room entirely to themselves, and the best part of an hour passed before the secretary had finished his account of events with which the reader is familiar. kent-lauriston heard him out with great interest, and after drawing a long breath, at the close of his recital, remarked:-- "i think i shall be fully repaid for any inconvenience to which i've put myself on your account. this whole affair is most interesting, and, believe me, there's more in it than appears on the surface." "i feel the same way myself," replied the secretary; "but let us hear your views on the subject." "first," replied his friend, "you must assure me of how you yourself stand. are you still in your unregenerate state, or have you yet begun to see the fruits of your folly?" the young diplomat was silent for a long time, but finally he said, looking up into kent-lauriston's face with an almost appealing glance: "i'm afraid you would think me awfully caddish if i told you the truth about it." "about the state of your affections for miss fitzgerald, you mean?" "yes." "of course, i shouldn't think you justified in making a public declaration of a change of sentiment, because it might seem to reflect on the lady, but in my case it's very different. having spoken so frankly and freely on the subject already, i might almost say that you owe it to me to continue to do so. certainly i've given you no cause for reticence by anything i've done, and, as certainly, you must confide fully in me if you wish my help in the future." "well, then, the truth is," he blurted out, "that you were right and i was wrong, and i've found it out too late." "i thought as much." "but i'm not going back on my word. if i've made a mistake, i must suffer for it; and if miss fitzgerald accepts my proposal, which she now has under consideration, i shall live up to my part of the agreement; and if i can prevent it, she shall never suspect that i would have matters otherwise. if she should refuse me, however----" "you'd make a fool of yourself just the same," continued kent-lauriston, "by jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire, and marrying madame darcy the instant she obtained her divorce." "kent-lauriston," stanley exclaimed, "you know a d----d sight too much!" the englishman laughed softly, and then resumed the thread of his discourse. "now that i understand your position----" he began. "do you understand it?" "better than you do yourself, i fancy; let me see if i can state it. you've proposed to miss fitzgerald, and she has taken the question of marrying you into consideration; since which time you have come to the conclusion, for reasons which we will not specify out of consideration for your feelings, that, if she refuses, or could be induced to refuse you, you'd accept the decision without an appeal. am i correct?" the secretary nodded gloomily. "under the circumstances, do you give me permission to do what i can to effect your release?" "do what you please." "i'll do my best. now what induced you to propose to her against your better judgment? did she lead you on?" "no, certainly not--if you suppose----!" "well, something must have started you up." "charges were made against her. i thought it my duty to tell her what had been said----" "how did she receive it?" "she accused me of being a false friend, of not having defended her." "and you proposed--when--that day?" "no, the next night." "i see, the next night; because you thought it your duty to protect her." "confound you. you read me like a book." "an open page is easy reading. now who made the charges?" "kingsland." "i thought so. whom did they concern?" "darcy." "exactly. and at the very moment that you were asking her to give you the right to protect her from men of darcy's stamp--he turns up and proves you the worst of the lot." "and she-- i wonder she didn't refuse me out of hand." "i wonder she didn't accept you--but let that pass. all i wish to point out to you is this:--kingsland drove you by the charges he made against darcy to propose to miss fitzgerald. what was his motive for doing so?" "friendship for miss fitzgerald." "would that be likely to induce him to make serious charges against her?" "friendship for me." "nonsense! i know the man. he did it because it paid him to do it." "how was that possible?" "i can suggest one motive. the removal of the obstacles preventing lady isabelle's secret marriage. now who could have effected this? not lady isabelle, she never had the audacity to carry out such a scheme; not kingsland, he hasn't brains enough; our hostess is above suspicion; in fact there's only one person who could have conceived and carried out the plan to its successful conclusion--namely, miss fitzgerald." "what grounds have you for proving it?" "was she with the parson at all, before the ceremony?" "i knew you'd ask that question!" "then she was." "twice, on the days just preceding--to my knowledge." "that's sufficient." "not for me." "then i'll tell you where we can find the missing link of evidence." "where?" "in the marriage register of the church. find the names of the witnesses, and you'll find the people who have carried it through. if you'll kindly leave it in my hands, i'll verify my statements to-morrow morning. i'd prefer that you did not do it yourself." "as you please. but even admitting you're right, it doesn't give the cause for the motive." "oh, yes, it does--miss fitzgerald's intervention in this matter was the price of kingsland's egging you on to propose." "nonsense!" "i'll lay you a thousand to one on it." stanley shrugged his shoulders, saying:-- "but your own arguments defeat you, my dear fellow. if miss fitzgerald was such a calculating person, why should she put herself out, and run the risk of compromising herself, merely to induce the lieutenant to play upon my jealousy, when, as you've already shown, and i've admitted, i was so weak as to make such strategy unnecessary." "perhaps that was not the only favour miss fitzgerald looked for, and the lieutenant's hands----" "what do you mean?" "well, taking five chests for her to london." "oh," said the secretary, much relieved, "i know all about that. i quite assure you it has nothing to do with miss fitzgerald." "but i heard her asking kingsland to take them up for her this afternoon, and to put them in his bank." "look here, kent-lauriston, your dislike for poor belle must have got the better of your common sense. you certainly misinterpreted what she said. those chests belong to mr. riddle." kent-lauriston changed the subject. "what is colonel darcy here for?" "he says, to watch his wife." "what is she here for?" "she says she has letters written to her husband by some member of this household, which have aroused her suspicions." "that sounds more promising. who is this person?" "a woman of course--but she only knows her christian name." "and that is?" "she will not tell me." "ah!" said kent-lauriston drily. "i've sources of information about darcy, which i'm not at liberty to give you," resumed stanley, "but you're not on the right track, believe me." "time will prove the correctness of some of my theories, at least," replied his mentor, "and i shall be better able to talk when i've seen the marriage register. now let's have something to drink, and go to bed;" and he pressed the bell. an interval having elapsed without an answer, he rang again, but no servant appeared. "it must be later than i thought. we'll have to shift for ourselves. there'll be something going in the billiard-room." "hark!" said stanley. "there's somebody in the hall; it's probably the butler shutting up for the night." they both listened, and a peculiar, shuffling, scraping sound became audible. "that's a curious noise," said the secretary. "let's see what it means," and, suiting the action to the word, he threw open the smoking-room door. the light in the hall was turned out, and the sombre black oak panelling made the great apartment seem darker than it really was. absolute stillness reigned. it was, to all appearance, empty. "must have been rats," said the secretary. "everyone seems to have retired." "have they?" said kent-lauriston. "listen!" and both could have sworn that they heard, far up the hall, the dying rustle of a skirt. but there were some things that stanley had no wish to know, and he set his face and his steps towards the stairs, continuing:-- "as i was saying, we are the only people up. "then we'd better go to bed." "by all means." "shall i turn out the electric lights in the smoking-room?" "yes, we're evidently the last." a moment later they stood on the upper landing about to separate for the night. "the woman was behind that screen at the foot of the stairs," said kent-lauriston. "yes, i know," replied the secretary. "good-night, my dear stanley." "good-night, old man. you possess a rare talent." "yes?" "you know when not to ask questions." chapter xxvi face to face when kent-lauriston had disappeared in his bedroom, and closed the door, the secretary, extinguishing his own candle, turned on his heel, and walked slowly back to the head of the stairs. it was easy to preserve an unruffled demeanour before his friend, but he was far from being as calm as he appeared. all was not right in the house, he knew. some mischief was afoot, and he meant to find out what it was, even though he dared not admit to himself some of the possibilities which it suggested. he softly descended the stairs. everything was silent. he moved the screen; the space behind it was vacant. suddenly, his eye fell upon the smoking-room door, and he drew in his breath softly. there was a line of light showing under the crack. yet he could have sworn that kent-lauriston had turned off the switch, and while he stood hesitating as to what it was best to do, a soft breath of wind upon his cheek caused him to make another discovery. the great front door was open. he stepped softly down the hall, and going out under the porte-cochère, cast his eyes over the driveway. no one was in sight. he was about to return to the house when he heard light steps coming down the hall. drawing back into the shadow to escape observation, he waited. someone was evidently leaving the house. a moment later, a hand was lightly laid upon the door, and it was closed behind him, before he could realise what was happening. he was shut out into the night. his first impulse was to ring sharply for assistance. second thoughts showed him the foolishness of such an attempt. it would be merely apprising the intruders of his presence, and long before a servant could be aroused and the bell could be answered, they would have made their escape. the secretary judged that shutting him out was unintentional. the persons, whoever they were, had hidden somewhere, till he had gone upstairs, had then slipped into the smoking-room, probably to arrange their plans, and coming out while he was on the lawn, and seeing the door ajar, had closed it, quite unconscious that by so doing they were putting their pursuer in a very awkward predicament. however, the secretary told himself that there was nothing to prevent him from seeing what was going on in the hall, and he hastened to make his way round to the side of the house where there were several large windows opening into that apartment. he had picked his way across several flower-beds, and was just turning the corner to approach the house when he was startled by seeing a dark figure loom up beside him, and feeling a hand lightly laid on his shoulder, and a whispered word of caution to be silent. almost involuntarily, however, he exclaimed:-- "inez! you here, and at this hour." "sh!" she said, "there are listeners. i, like you, am watching." "who are you watching?" he asked, softly. "my husband." "your husband?" "yes," she replied. "why has he entered this house secretly every night since he has been here?" "you amaze me," said the secretary. "how has it been possible for him to get in?" "he has been aided by someone who opens the door for him." "a man?" "no, a woman." the secretary whistled softly. "well," he said, "we'll probe this mystery to the bottom. i, too, have heard suspicious noises in the passages to-night, and, coming down, after i had retired, to find out what they were, i was shut out from within, though i don't think they were aware of my presence. we must go round on the outside and see what we can through the windows." "you can't," she said. "the approaches are protected by an iron fence with spikes." "but surely there's a gate?" "yes, but it's always padlocked." "we'll have a look at it, any way," he replied; and they approached and examined it closely. the secretary rattled the lock cautiously and found it old and shaky. "i think i could smash this with a couple of bits of flint," he said, "and if i have a new lock put on at my own expense, my hostess will, under the circumstances, probably forgive me." and suiting the action to the word, he managed, by a few judicious blows, with two bits of stone, picked up from the driveway, to bend the hasp of the lock sufficiently to release it. there being no further impediment to their progress they hastened through the gardens, and a moment later were standing outside one of the great hall windows whose lower panes were on a level with their faces. they could distinctly see three people, but their glances were riveted on a circle of light farther up the hall, a circle that shifted and danced over the surface of the secret door, flashing on the heads of the silver nails; a circle that was made by the lens of a small bull's-eye lantern, held in the grasp of a crouching figure whose back was turned towards them. by his side were two others, apparently a man and a woman, who seemed to be directing him at his work. for several minutes the little group presented their backs to the spectators, but at an incautious step of the secretary's, which caused a dry twig to crackle, they all turned sharply round, the owner of the lantern throwing its rays full on the window outside which they were standing. the watchers drew back, in time evidently to escape detection, for the absence of footsteps and the recurrence, after a moment, of the curious sounds which stanley had noticed from the smoking-room, assured him that they had once more returned to their work. the lantern, however, though it had failed to discover them, had, for a brief second, illumined the faces of the intruders, and both the secretary and madame darcy recognised the trio. the man at work on the door was the colonel; his assistants were mr. riddle and miss fitzgerald. the secretary's worst suspicions were confirmed, and a smothered sob at his side told him that the discovery had inflicted no less keen a pang on his companion. she slipped down in a little heap on the ground, and he dropped on his knees beside her, whispering such consolation as he could without running the risk of being overheard. "i knew it must be so," she said, "and yet i hoped against hope that he was not guilty of this last infamy." suddenly another thought seemed to have occurred to her. "you knew," she said. "you must have known, and yet you did not tell me." "my dear inez," he said. "how could i, when my suspicions were directed against your own husband?" "but why do i think of myself?" she said. "i am nothing. but it is you--you, that my heart bleeds for. i, too, concealed my suspicions for your sake." "and you can think of me," he said, "at a time like this?" "of course," she replied. "yours is the greater sorrow. i knew that my husband was bad--worthless--capable of anything. my eyes are only proving what my reason told me must be so. but with you, it is so much harder. this is the woman you loved, and, whom loving, you must have made your ideal. and now to find that she is--this." and she pressed his hand silently. "don't talk about it," said the secretary. "you don't quite understand." "but what is to be done?" she said. "nothing, unless they show signs of success, and that i do not think likely. if the secret of the door has withstood the ingenuity of generations in the past, it is likely to do so in the future, unless they tried to force it, and that i think they'd hardly dare to do." "listen," she said. and the secretary heard a noise of creaking, straining wood. "they are trying to force it!" he cried, springing up and looking through the window. and she, following his lead, saw that darcy was working with might and main with some burglar's tool after the nature of a lever. but though the old oaken door groaned in protest at such treatment, it never gave an inch, and the colonel, removing his instrument, made a gesture of despair, and stood wiping the sweat from his brow. "what does this all mean?" said madame darcy, as they slipped down again into their place of concealment. "it means," said the secretary shortly, "that your husband's secret instructions are behind that door, and from his eagerness to get them i should say that they contain a cipher of something that cannot be duplicated in the time at his command." "i do not understand," she said. "well, if you must know the truth," he replied, "he's to take over the specie needed to defeat the treaty, and to get there in time he must sail from england in a few days." she nodded mournfully. "i supposed it was something like that," she said. "i knew mr. riddle had brought the gold. it is here." "no," he said, "it's in the victoria street branch of the bank of england, in london." "how was it sent up?" "lieutenant kingsland took it." "is he a member of the conspiracy?" "it appears so--but i am not certain. he may be an innocent dupe," replied the secretary. "and you let the specie go?" she asked. "yes," he said. "when i discovered where they were sending the chests i helped them. it's safer in the bank than knocking round here, and i can prevent its being drawn out any time i wish." "by the arrest of the conspirators?" she said. "i hope that it won't be necessary to arrest anybody," he replied. "then you have some plan?" "yes. but i'm afraid you mustn't ask me what that is. nor must you write a word of all this to your father. but i promise you that if it's possible i'll save your husband from open disgrace, and i think it will be." "thank you, thank you," she murmured. "you are indeed my friend," and her hand again sought his, and he quivered under her touch. "listen!" she said. "they're moving." he raised himself cautiously, and looked through the window. the attempt for that night had evidently been given up. the three conspirators shook hands, and miss fitzgerald and mr. riddle stole softly upstairs, leaving darcy to put his tools in a bag and let himself out. this he proceeded to do in a leisurely manner. once his companions were out of sight, he again took out the lever, and made one more attempt to open the secret door, bending all his force to the task. madame darcy and the secretary watched him breathlessly, but he was again unsuccessful, and with a disgusted shrug of his shoulders he relinquished the attempt. his attacks on the door had, however, evidently marred the wood, and he produced from his receptacle a bottle of varnish and a brush, with which he proceeded to repair the traces of the damage. the secretary's eyes, wandering from the colonel, suddenly lighted on the figure of his friend, kent-lauriston, who had evidently been awakened by the returning footsteps of darcy's companions as they sought their bedrooms, and who was now stealing downstairs to intercept the intruder. before stanley could restrain his friend, kent-lauriston had softly approached the recumbent figure, so softly, indeed, that the colonel, who was intent on trying to repair the door, did not hear him, and was aware of his presence only when a stout arm encircled his neck, throwing him backwards on the floor, where he lay, with his captor's knee upon his chest. stanley felt the need of being present also, and exerting his strength on the sash, found, to his great satisfaction, that the butler had neglected to bolt the window. with a quiet good-night to madame darcy, who slipped away in the darkness, he swung himself over the sill, and landing on his feet in the hall, joined the group, nodding to his friend as he did so. "ah, my fine fellow. burgling, were you?" said kent-lauriston to his captive. "you're mistaken," said the secretary, stepping quietly up. "this is not a thief; it's only colonel darcy, engaged, if i mistake not, in an attempt to recover his lost property." "i beg your pardon," returned kent-lauriston, releasing his prostrate foe; and turning to stanley, he continued: "lacking the fineness of perception bred of diplomatic training, i must confess i didn't see the subtle distinction." darcy rose deliberately, growling a surly something, which might have been equally well an apology or an oath, and snapped to the shutter of his dark lantern. "yes, we shan't need that light now, thank you," said stanley, turning on the central lamp. "well, what are you going to do about it?" asked the colonel, gruffly. the diplomat was on his best behaviour. "i'm so sorry," he said. "of course, we did not know you were a caller. the ladies have retired, and i'm sure you don't want to see us; we won't detain you." "i----" began darcy, clenching his fist. "oh, i'll make your excuses to mrs. roberts," pursued the secretary. "don't trouble about that." "i'll be damned if i'll tolerate this interference," burst out the colonel. "i'm sure you'll be the first, and will also endure the second, my dear sir," continued stanley in his most suave tones. "so we'll say no more about it. the _front_ door is easy to open, colonel darcy, as of course you know. good-night." chapter xxvii the marriage register on the morning which succeeded stanley's midnight vigil, the reverend reginald lambert was early at the little chapel, which was his great pride in life. the good old gentleman was never so happy as when he could induce any of the visitors at the hall to give him an hour of their time to listen to his dissertations on the ecclesiastical history of the building; to examine its fragments of "dog-tooth," and discuss the meaning of that one "foliated capital," in a structure otherwise severely saxon. he was even writing a little book on all these things; a volume which he fondly hoped might some day be given to the world. this morning, however, he must have been engaged on some work of special interest, in which he was so absorbed that time flew by unnoticed till his task was finished. he was just preparing to return to his rectory, when he received an unexpected visit from a lady, who requested permission to examine the marriage register. the lady was a stranger to him, and was evidently of foreign extraction. she asked to see an old volume of the records, and took the occasion, when his back was turned, to hastily glance at the last matrimonial entry, for the marriage register lay open on the table, comparing the same with a line of handwriting which she had with her, and evincing surprise as well as satisfaction at the knowledge she derived therefrom. a moment later, when the old man returned, she was, to all appearances, absorbed in the contemplation of an extremely repellent gargoyle. the entry she desired was not to be found, was probably in some neighbouring parish, she suggested--a fact which the narrator thinks unlikely. she nevertheless passed a profitable hour, allowing the good parson to show her every nook and corner of his precious possession, and displaying an intelligent interest, which was as rare as it was gratifying. but the morning had not yet revealed all its treasures to mr. lambert. scarcely had the strange lady's footsteps died away, when another visitor, a new arrival at the hall, put in an appearance; and avowed himself such an ardent enthusiast in all matters ancient and ecclesiastical, and, moreover, substantiated his pretensions to such a degree, that the old parson declared afterwards he had never had such a morning of perfect enjoyment in his life. kent-lauriston, for it was none other, exerted himself to interest his _cicerone_, and succeeded admirably. he possessed that rare gift of developing any topic that might be suggested by the person to whom he was talking, of making it his own, and at the same time causing his companion to believe that he was contributing, in no small part, to the brilliancy of the conversation. so, more than an hour slipped by, and kent-lauriston found ample opportunity to consult the marriage register unobserved, and to be much surprised at what he saw there--moreover he learned many things besides the subject of norman decoration and saxon construction--among the more important of which was the visit of the foreign lady, who wanted to look up old volumes of the records. "i have the honour to be invited to dine at the hall this evening," said mr. lambert, in parting with kent-lauriston. "i shall look forward to the pleasure of continuing our conversation." his visitor bowed, and left him. it cannot be said of most of the members of the house party that they passed the morning as usefully or happily as kent-lauriston. in the secretary's mind the problem was uppermost, of how to be alone from breakfast to lunch. he was aided in the accomplishment of his intent by the connivance of the three ladies whom he was most anxious to avoid. the dowager sent him a little note saying that she always spent the morning in her room, and that her dear isabelle would be quite free in consequence. the "dear isabelle" informed stanley publicly, that she should spend the morning in the library, and intimated privately, that it would be well if he was supposedly with her, and in reality any where else; while miss fitzgerald remarked, that she intended spending the morning in the park, as she wished to be alone. as a result of these obvious suggestions, the secretary followed lady isabella into the library, in full sight of the party at large, and crossing the room, stepped out of one of the long, low windows on to the lawn, and by means of a side staircase quietly gained his own apartment, where he spent the morning in reading and meditation. his reading was confined to a comprehensive volume on "locks, ancient and modern," by price, received that morning from john. his meditations, on the other hand, were on an entirely different subject. the events of the night before, aided by kent-lauriston's suggestive comments, had brought him face to face with a question to which he had hitherto avoided giving an answer. _was miss fitzgerald a party to the conspiracy to defeat the treaty?_ he put it to himself in so many words. repugnant as was the task, the secretary felt that he must, in the interests of his country, put sentiment aside and face the facts. it was not to be supposed because he had made the mistake of taking pity for love, in the case of the lady, that he was any the less indifferent to her fate. he still considered himself bound to her, should she ask the redemption of his promise; he had championed her purity and innocence in the face of all opposition; and it was inexpressibly shocking to him to find himself forced to consider even the possibility of her being connected with such a nefarious transaction. yet he felt it only just to face the evidence against her, and seek to the best of his ability to rebut it. what reasons were there for supposing her to be connected with the plot to defeat the treaty? he placed them in order of their occurrence. . he had seen her driving with mr. riddle on the day after his dinner. . she had denied her acquaintance with darcy, in his presence, to that gentleman's wife, though she had since been proven to be very intimate with him. . she had proposed a game of cards, and suggested stanley's using an old letter to score on, which proposal and suggestion had led to the restoration of the secret instructions to mr. riddle. . kent-lauriston said she had asked kingsland to take the chests containing the money to london. . she had been in the hall late the night before, assisting darcy to break open the door. this was all the evidence against her. did it prove that she was a partner to the plot? no, he told himself. it did not. did it prove that she was a dupe of these men? an innocent instrument in the furtherance of their vile conspiracy? he was forced to admit the possibility of this, though he told himself he knew her too well to believe for an instant that she had any knowledge of the plot itself, or the desperate game her friends were playing. it now became his duty to save the irish girl from the consequences of her own folly; to open her eyes to the true character of her friends. he could only do this by proving their complicity. the destruction of the plot, and her salvation alike, hung on the recovery of that lost letter, for in the light of the events of the past night, it seemed fair to assume that this paper had an important bearing on the conspiracy, and was necessary to its success. the money had been sent, the time was short, but darcy still remained. why did he do so, unless it was to attempt a recovery of the document? it must, then, be of vital importance. having arrived at these conclusions, stanley found himself committed to one of two courses of action: either to play the spy on the movements of his friends, or to effect the opening of the door with the silver nails. the first was repugnant to his spirit as a gentleman, and he instantly chose the second, believing that within the portal lay the only real clue he had so far obtained. this plan also had the added recommendation of placing in his hand evidence which would not involve the introduction of miss fitzgerald's name in the matter. having thus mapped out his course of action, and finding there was still an hour before lunch, he descended to the lawn, and made a preliminary inspection of the exterior walls of the old manor house. it might be possible to enter in some other way than by the oaken door which remained so obstinately closed. the building was of stone, and two stories in height, though most irregular in form, having been added to and altered during succeeding generations, as suited the taste of the owner of the period. the north-east end, however, instead of having a corner, was slightly rounded, and above the level of the roof assumed the shape of a circular tower, rising some forty feet higher than the rest of the structure, and surmounted by crumbling battlements. even an inexperienced eye might detect that the door with the silver nails gave entrance to this tower, which stanley was sure did not assume, in the lower storey at least, a space commensurate with its diameter above. probably the door communicated with a narrow winding stair for the first, and perhaps the second, floors, the real space of the structure being contained in the portion which arose detached. this conjecture could easily be verified by measuring. at the first convenient opportunity he determined to make these preliminary investigations. it was said that the tower possessed no windows, and certainly this was the case, unless they gave on the leads; for, from the ground, it presented everywhere a blank wall of solid masonry, to which here and there strands of ivy clung. "but they must have got their light from somewhere," he said to himself. "perhaps from the roof, in which case there is probably some antique form of scuttle by which entrance could be had. if one could only get up there to see--but it's not a likely place for climbing. there should be the remains of an old flag-staff or cresset, or something of that nature----" and he walked slowly backwards across the lawn, hoping to reduce the visual angle sufficiently to see any slight projection above the battlements, but in vain; and he was about to abandon his backward course and return to the house, when a soft voice murmured at his elbow:-- "star-gazing by daylight?" and he turned, to find himself close beside madame darcy. "oh, good-morning," he said, lifting his hat. "i beg your pardon, but i was trying to discover the remains of some superstructure on those battlements." "why not go up and see?" "that is what many people have wished to do for the last two hundred years, but the only door of entrance is shut, and no man knows the secret of the lock." "and do you mean to discover it?" "i'm afraid it would only be a waste of time, for probably the whole thing is so disgustingly simple that everyone has overlooked it. however, the present, as represented by you, is infinitely more interesting; let the old tower guard the secret it has kept so long; who wants to know it?" "my husband!" she replied. "quite so," said the secretary. "and that reminds me, i hope you reached home quite safely last night, and have felt no ill effects from it." "none in body," she returned sadly, "but, of course, what i saw could not but add to my distress of mind. tell me what happened after i left." "nothing particular," said stanley. "we all kept our tempers and were very polite." "then there was no disturbance?" "none whatever; the colonel was quite amenable to reason and went away quietly." "but mr. kent-lauriston?" "oh, he's too much a man of the world not to know when to hold his tongue." "you will not tell your hostess? promise me that. badly as he has treated me, i am still his wife, and his honour is yet mine." "i will keep your secret. if he is discovered in the house, someone else must do it." "oh, you're indeed my friend!" she cried impulsively. "i can never forget your goodness to me. there are, i'm sure, few men like you in the world." the secretary flushed under her praise, and disclaiming any inherent superiority to the other members of his race, hastened to change the subject by saying:-- "tell me, are you succeeding any better with your proofs against your husband on another charge?" "i've made a discovery this morning which has greatly disturbed me. i do not know how to act." "what have you found?" "i've compared the handwriting of the letters i hold, with the handwriting of the most recent entry in the marriage register of this church." "good heavens! it surely can't tally----!" "it does, and with the name of the bride." the secretary was simply staggered,--lady isabelle--it was impossible on the face of it. "you're mistaken," he said coldly. "such charges against the lady to whom you refer are impossible." "you know of this marriage then?" "yes--i'm even popularly supposed to be engaged to the bride!" "but you are not--tell me you are not." "of course i'm not--i've never had the slightest interest in her, except as a friend." "you relieve me immensely. to lay such charges at the door of one you loved--to break your heart-- i could not have done it." "you could not do it in any event--to a woman of her nature such things would be impossible. i assure you, it is some grievous mistake." she shook her head. "why should my husband be a witness to this secret marriage?" "was he----?" "sh!" she said, "he is coming," and disappeared so silently into the bushes that she seemed to fade away from his sight. a moment later, the dry leaves crackled under a man's foot, and colonel darcy stood before him. "we have not had our little meeting yet, mr. stanley," he said abruptly. "when do you leave this vicinity, colonel darcy?" asked the secretary, ignoring the other's remark. "when you do. till then i remain here to guard my honour." "you surely are not trying to live up to that absurd fable!" "why not, when my wife has this moment left you?" "you have sharp eyes, colonel," replied the secretary, turning on his heel, and walking towards the house. "i need to have, mr. stanley," remarked the other, as he watched him go. * * * * * "kent-lauriston," said the secretary, when they were alone after lunch, "affairs have taken a startling turn since i last saw you." "i think so myself." "have you been making discoveries?" "i don't know that they can be dignified by that name; but tell me of yours." "madame darcy assures me that the letters which she holds, and on which she bases her case against her husband, are in the same handwriting as the name of lady isabelle, in the parish register." "lady isabelle!" "yes. it's absurd, isn't it?" "perfectly so--you may take my word for it. but do you assure me that she said 'lady isabelle'?" "we mentioned no names, of course. she said that the bride's signature corresponded--it's the same thing." "ah, i see. i think you've made a little mistake about this affair, my boy. i've seen the register myself." "good heavens! you don't mean--you can't----!" exclaimed stanley, a sickening suspicion dominating his mind. "i mean," replied kent-lauriston, "that the maiden name of the bride, as written there, is not isabelle mclane, but isabelle fitzgerald." chapter xxviii two questions kent-lauriston fully realised that the strong hold which he possessed over the secretary rested, more than anything else, on the fact that his opinions were entirely reliable; and it was most important that stanley's confidence in his friend's _dicta_ should remain unimpaired, if that friend hoped to be able to guide him. therefore, much as the englishman would have liked to voice his suspicions for the secretary's benefit, he determined to keep silence till he had full verification of his conjectures, and for this purpose he sought out madame darcy. he found her at home, and she welcomed him courteously. "will you think me very presuming," he said, "to have called on you in the interests of a mutual friend of ours, mr. stanley?" "any friend of mr. stanley's can claim and receive friendship of me," she replied, a beautiful light coming over her expressive face, "for he has done me kindnesses that i can never forget or repay." "it is in virtue of that, that i've ventured to intrude myself upon you this afternoon. you have, like myself, a great interest in his welfare, i'm sure, and i am come to make common cause with you for his good." "you could have come to no one more willing--but will you do me the honour to accept a seat in the garden, where we can chat more at leisure." "i shall be charmed," he said, and she led the way to a rustic bench, under the spreading branches of a gnarled, old apple-tree. "our friend makes no secrets of his own affairs from me, you must understand," kent-lauriston began, after assuring himself that they were alone, "and i imagine, from what he's said, that he's given you some inkling of his heart troubles." "yes," she said, "he hinted to me in london that he had some affair under consideration; but i do not think he felt deeply--as he should have felt. i trust it's not turned out seriously." "not as yet, i'm glad to say--but he's in some danger; and, believe me, you could not be doing him a greater service, than in helping to ward off this peril, which would be the ruin of his life." "indeed, yes,--but what means have i?" "i believe you have it in your power to prove that the woman who has bewitched him, is unworthy of his love. let him realise this and he is saved." "but, surely, you're not alluding to the lady who formed our topic of conversation this morning?" "i fear i am." "but mr. stanley assured me that she was nothing to him." "you were talking at cross purposes, and unintentionally deceiving each other." "how so?" "why, there are two versions of the story of that marriage. the version mr. stanley had been told runs to this effect:--that lieutenant kingsland married lady isabelle mclane." "but the register----" "says she didn't. i know, i've seen it; but our young friend has not, or had not when he last saw you." "then he thought i was referring to lady isabelle?" "exactly. no names were mentioned, he told me." "true--but this is most unfortunate! do you see my position?" "believe me, i'm fully informed on the matter, so that i'll not put you to the pain of relating it." she bowed her silent thanks, and then continued:-- "the fact of this lady's marriage ties my hands. deeply as she has wronged me, have i any right to ruin her husband's life by her exposure? if she has reformed----" "my dear madame darcy, pray disabuse your mind of two misconceptions: the lady in question, miss fitzgerald, has not reformed, and i doubt if the marriage is legal. there's some trick about it." "what you've told me leaves me free to act where my own honour is concerned; but i naturally feel a delicacy about interfering in mr. stanley's private affairs." "believe me, i fully appreciate your hesitation; but that there may be no misunderstanding between us regarding this important matter, let me tell you something of my friend's present position. i ask you to accept my word for it, that he's not as yet bound himself to miss fitzgerald; but his high sense of honour may lead him to do so, if he knows nothing definite against her." "i see, and you want me to show him these letters?" and she took a little packet from her bosom. "no, i wouldn't subject you to such a trying ordeal. i ask you to let me show the letters to him. remember that you've told him that you have them." "yes," she said, after a moment's hesitation. "i think you're right. you assure me that he does not love her, and that there's positive danger that he may marry her from a sense of duty." "i assure you that such is the case." "then take them," she said, giving him the letters; "but promise me that no one besides yourselves shall see them, and that they shall be safely returned to me by to-morrow." "i promise," he replied, "and take my assurance that in doing this you've more than repaid him for any services he may have done you." "you cannot persuade me to believe that; but i'm thankful to help where i'm able, though it be only a little, and i am even more thankful that he has such a strong champion in you." kent-lauriston took her extended hand. "thank you," he said heartily. "stanley's a good fellow; too good and too unsophisticated for the people he's thrown with, and i'm going to save him from himself if i can, both now and in the future." she looked up at him with a wistful light in her eyes, saying: "perhaps you'll be wishing to save him from me--who've already one husband too many." "i don't know," replied kent-lauriston, with an english bluntness, of which he was not often culpable. she laughed merrily, answering: "i hope you'll do so, if ever i give you cause." "madame," he returned, "what can i do? you've disarmed me, even before the first skirmish." * * * * * the feelings of stanley on looking at the marriage register were difficult to describe. in the first shock of the discovery his brain whirled. the mystery had become a maze, and he felt the imperative need of a solution of the subject to steady his mind. accordingly, he had that evening a fixed purpose in view, which dominated all matters of the moment; and though at dinner he talked about something, he knew not what, during the greater part of the meal his eyes and thoughts were almost continually on the amiable blundering, little old pastor, whom he had marked out as his prey. when the ladies left the table, and the men adjourned to the smoking-room, he never lost sight of him; but the dominie, as if warned by some instinct, contrived to slip out of the secretary's grasp, to elude him in corners, and, smiling, vanquish him in every attempt at an interview. at last, however, the opportunity came--a move was made to the drawing-room. in a fatal moment, the parson lingered for one last whiff of his half-smoked and regretfully relinquished cigar, and the secretary saw, with a sigh of relief, the last coat-tail vanish through the door, which he softly closed. the click of the latch brought the reverend reginald back to the present with an uncomfortable start. "oh," he cried, tumbling out of his chair, "i didn't see the others had got away so quickly. very kind of you to wait for me, i'm sure--very--we must lose no time in joining the ladies, must we, eh?" "only a little, a very little time, mr. lambert," replied the secretary, leaning squarely against the closed door, which formed the sole exit from the room. "just long enough to ask you one question." "really, i'm sure," said the little man, becoming flustered. "another time perhaps-- i should have the greatest pleasure----" "you have, i know, performed the marriage ceremony in the last few days," began stanley calmly. "to be sure--yes, certainly--but this--permit me to suggest, is hardly the place to discuss my parochial duties." "of course anyone married from this house would have to be married by you." "i'm in charge of this living, mr. stanley, there is no one else." "i know that, and also that your nearest colleague--excuse me if i use a professional term--is some distance off." "fifteen miles. and now that i've answered all of your questions, let us waste no more time before joining the ladies." "excuse me, mr. lambert, but i've not as yet asked you a question. i've made a number of statements, and you've furnished me with a good deal of gratuitous information, for which i'm deeply obliged. we now come to the pith of the whole matter, which is simply this. did you, or did you not, marry lady isabelle mclane to lieutenant kingsland?" "what! the lady to whom you're engaged?" "could i be engaged to a married woman, mr. lambert?" "my dear sir, you may take my word for it, i did not. i shouldn't think of such a thing. let me assure you on the honour of my sacred office, that lady isabelle is not, and cannot be married to lieutenant kingsland." "ah, then kingsland _is_ married." the parson caught his breath in his relief at the escape from the dreaded question, which he had supposed was inevitable. he had been too confidential. "i did not say so, sir," he replied with dignity. "quite true, mr. lambert, you did not say so," persisted his tormentor, opening the door, "and so i suppose you'd prefer not to have me ask if you married miss fitzgerald to lieutenant kingsland?" "i would certainly prefer not to answer that question, and now i must really go upstairs;" and without waiting for further parley, the little man scuttled out of the room. stanley was preparing to follow him at his leisure, when the door opened, and kent-lauriston entered. "kent-lauriston!" he exclaimed. "you're the very man i want! i must speak with you!" "i know it," replied his friend, "but not before i've had my smoke." "but this matter admits of no delay." "oh yes, it does. that's one of the fallacies of modern civilisation. every important question _admits_ of delay, and most matters are all the better for it." "but i've seen the register!" "of course you have, but you haven't seen a deduction that is as plain as the nose on your face, or you wouldn't now be trying to ruin my digestion. i'll meet you here at ten o'clock this evening and then, and not an instant sooner, will i discuss your private affairs." "you english are so irritatingly slow!" "my dear fellow, we've made our history--you're making yours. you can't afford to miss a few days; we can easily spare a few centuries. now be a good boy, and leave me to peace and tobacco. join the ladies, and pay a little attention to one of your _fiancées_." so it was that stanley found himself relegated to the drawing-room, and feeling decidedly upset, he good-naturedly determined to see what he could do towards upsetting the equanimity of the rest of the party. in this, however, he was partially forestalled by the good parson, who had not been wasting the few minutes of grace, which the secretary's conversation with kent-lauriston had allotted to him. no sooner had mr. lambert entered the drawing-room, than he sought out miss fitzgerald, and confided to her an astonishing discovery he had made in the church register. "most careless of me, i assure you," he apologised. "i should have noticed of course--people often make nervous mistakes at times like those; but it was not till this morning that i discovered that lady isabelle had written her name in the space reserved for the bride, and you in the space reserved for the witness." "well?" asked miss fitzgerald, her voice ringing hard and cold as steel. "oh, it's all right, my dear," the old man quavered on. "quite all right, i corrected it myself. i can do a neat bit of work still, even if my hands do tremble a little. i cut out the names, reversed them, and put them back in their proper places, and i'd defy any but an expert to see that they'd been tampered with. i'm sure that none of the people who've seen the book since suspected the change." "who has seen the book?" she asked, frozen with horror. "after i corrected the register?" "yes! yes! who?" "dear me--let me see! that was this morning. now who was there? ah!--i remember. a strange lady in black, very beautiful, and mr. kent-lauriston." miss fitzgerald shuddered. "dear, dear!" cried the parson. "you're cold--the draught from the window--let me get you a wrap." "no, no, i'm quite warm, thank you. you're sure that no one else saw the register?" "no one--except mr. stanley." "you must excuse me, mr. lambert," she said. "i'm not feeling very well." "you are faint? is there nothing i can do for you?" "nothing more, thank you," and she swept past him across the room, to where lady isabelle was seated on a sofa. "nothing more," murmured the little man, after she had left him; "but i hadn't begun to do anything; and she seemed quite faint. dear, dear, she looks strong, but to be so easily upset, i fear something must be wrong--my daughter was never like that," and, shaking his head, he went to join the dowager, who had a _penchant_ for the clergy. "you've heard nothing from your husband?" asked miss fitzgerald of lady isabelle, as she seated herself beside her. "nothing beyond a telegram telling me of his safe arrival in london." "but surely his uncle was _in extremis_. he cannot live long." "i do not know," she replied, "but it's very awkward. oh, why won't you let me tell mr. stanley the truth?" "sh! he's coming," murmured miss fitzgerald, and, indeed, the secretary was advancing deliberately towards them; a thing suggestive in itself, considering how he had striven to avoid them all day long. "miss fitzgerald," he said very quietly, as he stood before them, "will you permit me to ask you a question?" "if it's a proper question to ask, mr. stanley." "it is eminently proper and fitting," he replied, coldly. "would you rather that i went?" suggested lady isabelle, half rising. "i would rather you stayed." "don't be so dreadfully mysterious, jimsy!" cried miss fitzgerald, with a forced laugh that grated on the ears of both her hearers. "out with your dreadful question. what is it?" "it is this," he replied. "are you jack kingsland's wife?" for a moment there was absolute silence. the secretary stood looking straight in the face of the irish girl, without moving a muscle. lady isabelle gave a smothered exclamation, and gripped her companion's wrist with all her force, flushing red as she did so. miss fitzgerald bit her lip, and stared hard at stanley for the fraction of a minute; then, breaking into her hard metallic laugh, she cried: "why, you foolish boy! what can you be thinking of?" "you've not answered my question," he replied. "why, what is there to answer?" "i ask you-- are you lieutenant kingsland's wife?" he repeated harshly--betraying the first sign of temper he had so far evinced, which miss fitzgerald saw and was quick to profit by. whatever was coming--there was, in lady isabelle's presence, but one course open to her--she looked her accuser boldly in the face and said: "no, i'm not lieutenant kingsland's wife." "you are quite sure of what you are saying?" "i repeat, i am not his wife. i have not married him, put it how you please. do you doubt my word? if you're so anxious to know whom lieutenant kingsland married, ask your _fiancée_, lady isabelle; perhaps she can tell you." "it's not necessary to ask lady isabelle if she is lieutenant kingsland's wife--because----" "because she has already told you so," broke in miss fitzgerald. "because," continued stanley, in the same colourless, dogged tone, "because mr. lambert, the one person who could have made kingsland and lady isabelle man and wife, has solemnly assured me that he did not perform the marriage ceremony between them----" and he turned on his heel and left the room. chapter xxix in which death is a relief after stanley had left them, isabelle kingsland and isabelle fitzgerald sat silent for a while, looking into each other's faces, the brain of each throbbing with a tumult of agitating thoughts. the englishwoman voicing to herself a subtle suggestion of coming evil, which had been omnipresent since her marriage day, an instinctive presentiment that all was not well: the irish girl feeling strongly irritated at this last of the many annoying _contretemps_ of the week; and smarting under a sense of injustice that, when she had merely practised a little harmless deception for a friend's sake, that friend should leave the field and the eminently disagreeable explanations to her. she vented her feelings by a shrug of the shoulders, which broke the tension of the silence. "tell me--on your honour, tell me," cried lady isabelle, "that he did not speak the truth; that i am married to lieutenant kingsland!" "of course you're married to lieutenant kingsland," replied miss fitzgerald, with a little sigh of resignation. "you read your licence, didn't you?" "yes. but----" "but that's quite sufficient--and there's no occasion for a scene." "it's not sufficient, not nearly sufficient--there's something that's being kept back from me, and i want to know the truth!" and lady isabelle rose, becoming quite queenly in her indignant agitation. "i've been uneasy from the first about my marriage," she continued, "because it was not open as i should have wished. i knew there was some mystery about it. my husband admitted as much to me from the first, and he did not need to tell me that you were the prime mover in the affair. it is my right to know the truth." "the assertion of people's rights is responsible for most of the wrong done in the world. did your husband counsel you to insult his best friend?" "he didn't wish me to speak to you on the subject, but i've determined to take matters into my own hands. in the face of mr. stanley's charges, i must know the truth." "you had better obey your husband." "i'm responsible to him for that matter, not to you, miss fitzgerald. now tell me, what did mr. stanley mean?" "he meant what he said." "but how could mr. lambert have told him an untruth?" "mr. lambert told him what he believed to be the truth; and that was, that he had not married you and jack--lieutenant kingsland, i mean." "was that all he told him?" "i should think it highly probable that he added that he had married your husband to me." "my husband to you!" "i told you we'd better let this matter alone." in a second lady isabelle's hands were on miss fitzgerald's shoulders, and her eyes blazed into the eyes of the irish girl. "the truth, woman, the truth! is he my husband?" "yes." "then why does mr. lambert----?" "because he believes that i was the bride." "did you tell him so?" "no, but when i went to make the arrangements he blundered into the mistake--and--well, i didn't take the trouble to correct him." "you dared!" "yes," she replied. "i'd do a good deal for jack--we used to care for each other once." her ladyship's eyes flashed dangerously, and miss fitzgerald hastened to add: "of course that was all over long ago--i know jack too well." "how dared you do it?" asked her accuser again. "it was risky, but our names were the same, and he's half blind and somewhat deaf, and in his dotage. the chances of escaping detection were good, as the event has proved." "how dared you do it?" "of course it wasn't my affair whether jack told you or not. it was legal and that's the main thing." "how dared you do it?" "you needn't be so nasty about it; it was merely to be obliging. if you think it amusing to be a dummy bride----" "be silent!" the two women stood facing each other, breathing hard, as though resting from physical combat; the face of one expressing infinite contempt, of the other infinite anger. at this juncture a servant brought a telegram to lady isabelle. thankful for the relief from an awkward pause, she tore it open, and her face lit up as she read its message. "still in london. uncle died this morning, leaving me his heir. as preliminaries take some time to arrange, am returning to you to-morrow. "jack." "there!" she said, showing it to her antagonist. "i suppose it's wicked to rejoice in any one's death; but it's a great relief, for it gives me back my husband--and he shall defend me from you!" "i don't think your husband will be down on me." "he'll proclaim the truth about our marriage. it should never have been concealed, least of all by dishonourable means." "you forget yourself, lady isabelle." "i remember what is due my position, and so will mr. lambert, when he hears how grossly you've deceived him." "you mustn't tell him." "it will not be necessary. i've only to ask him to look at the marriage register. that will bear witness to the truth, i know; for i signed in the proper place for the bride." miss fitzgerald drew a quick, sharp breath. she had trusted to be spared this last confession. "the register has been changed," she said. "who has done this?" "mr. lambert, supposing there had been a mistake." "then mr. lambert will change it back again, to-morrow morning!" "you mustn't speak to him of this." "i'll speak to him to-night." "no." "you've no right to interfere. you've no right to do anything, but apologise to me for the great wrong you've done me!" "i forbid you to apprise mr. lambert of the true state of affairs till your husband returns to-morrow!" "i've told you i shall see him to-night." "i forbid you, in your husband's interests." "you are insolent." "i'm in a position to be anything i choose." "why?" "because i have your husband in my power." "i do not believe it!" "if i choose to make public," she said, laughing insolently, "the manner in which your husband is spending his time in london, i could have him cashiered from the navy." lady isabelle drew herself up, and gave her adversary a look of unutterable scorn and contempt, saying:-- "you will probably circulate any falsehood about my husband that you please; it will simply prove to others, as it proves to me, that you still _do_ love him, and that when he knew your true character he left you," and turning from her astonished and indignant rival, she quietly crossed the length of the drawing-room, to where the dowager and the parson were seated. "mother," she said, "would you think me very rude if i asked for mr. lambert's company for a few moments? i want to have a serious talk with him." "not at all, my dear. just take my place. i promised to show mrs. roberts a new embroidery stitch," replied the dowager, acquiescing joyfully in the proposal. satisfactory on the whole as her child's training had been, on the point of her religious convictions, the marchioness had occasionally felt some disturbing suspicions. i do not mean that lady isabelle was not firmly grounded in her belief of the thirty-nine articles; indeed, she was, if anything, a trifle too orthodox for her day and generation; but the dowager knew to her cost that missions were a tabooed subject. her daughter had even refused to _slum_ with the viscountess thistledown, and worse than all, charity bazaars, though patronised by royalty, were her pet aversions. to the marchioness, who no longer "sold well," and whose ambition was to see lady isabelle tethered in the next stall to a princess, such heresies were naturally repugnant. mr. lambert was very strong on all these points, and had just been suggesting to her a scheme of his own, to raise money for a worthy object, conceived on principles that would have put the authorities of monte carlo to the blush. so she patted her daughter's hand, established her in her own place, and murmuring that she was glad isabelle felt the need of advice, and that she might safely rely on "dear mr. lambert's wisdom and--er--commonsense," betook herself to kensington stitch and a remote corner. but her daughter's confidences admitted of no publicity. "suppose we go to the conservatory, mr. lambert," she suggested, "we're quite sure of finding it unoccupied at this hour, and i've a confession to make." "certainly, my dear, certainly," he replied, following her in the direction she suggested. "though i'm sure," he added, "that lady isabelle would have done nothing which she would not be willing that anybody should know, if need were." "i hope not," she answered, and a moment later they were alone. "come now," he said, "what is this terrible confession; not so great a sin, i'm sure, that we cannot easily find a way for pardon or reformation." "there's no sin to discuss," she replied, "at least, none that i've committed, unless unconscious participation is a crime. i want to speak to you about my marriage." "ah, yes; with mr. stanley--a most desirable arrangement, i've been given to understand." "no--not with mr. stanley--i'm speaking of my marriage with lieutenant kingsland." "but, my dear young lady, that's impossible. lieutenant kingsland is already married." "yes, he's married to me." "to you? what? how can he be?" "because you married him to me two days ago. "nothing of the sort," cried the old man in irritated bewilderment. "i married him to miss fitzgerald." "you married him to me, mr. lambert." "but i ought to know best whom i married, and to whom, lady isabelle." "you ought certainly; but, in this case, it seems you do not." "but miss fitzgerald said----" "ah, that's just the point. what did miss fitzgerald say?" "really, i can't remember the conversation, word for word; she came to make the arrangements, and i inferred----" "did she say that she was going to marry lieutenant kingsland?" "she certainly gave me the impression that such was the case." "but did she actually _say_ so?" the old man was lost in thought for a moment, striving to recall some direct admission, but at length shook his head sadly, saying:-- "no. i can't remember that she did, in so many words; but she led me to suppose----" "you've _inferred_; you've been _given the impression_; you've been _led to suppose_, mr. lambert, what did not exist. i have, however, held in my hand and carefully examined the special licence under which you performed the ceremony, and which was drawn for a marriage between lieutenant kingsland and myself. i was the bride whom you married; it was i who repeated the vows which you gave _me_; my name is isabelle, also, remember, and it was i who signed that name as 'bride' in your register, where it should be now, if you had not changed it." "bless my soul! this is most bewildering! you say i married you to lieutenant kingsland?" "yes, mr. lambert, you did, and miss fitzgerald and colonel darcy were the witnesses." "but this is a serious matter, a very serious matter, lady isabelle. this wedding seems to have been performed under false pretences." "i imagine you would not find it difficult to prove that, mr. lambert; but before we discuss the matter farther, i want first to right myself in your eyes, to assure you earnestly and honestly that i was no party to this deception, that i did not know till this evening, till just now indeed, that you were not perfectly cognisant of all the facts. i was informed at the time that all arrangements had been made with you, and i believed of course that you knew everything. i was also told that i must be heavily veiled as, owing to the proximity of the early service, i might otherwise be seen; the signing in the vestry was hurried over as you know, and it was only when, in response to a statement of mr. stanley's, i made inquiries, that i discovered the truth. you believe me, do you not, mr. lambert?" "of course, my dear. i must believe you since you give me your word for it." "then set my mind at rest. tell me this marriage was not illegal." "i think you may be easy on that score. the licence and the signatures were regular; all the requirements were complied with; and the principals, or you at least, acted in good faith; but the affair is most unfortunate." "you will be glad to learn that any objection which my mother might have had to my husband has now been removed." "i do not know what lady port arthur will think of my part in this deplorable matter, certainly very little consideration or courtesy has been shown me," said the poor old man, to whom the dowager's wrath was a very terrible thing. "have no apprehensions, mr. lambert, my mother shall know the truth of this matter, and where the blame rests." "then you really think that miss fitzgerald----?" "i'm sure of it, mr. lambert. she has confessed to me, that if she did not actually say to you that she was going to marry lieutenant kingsland, she purposely allowed you to believe the same; and then assured my husband, whom i believe to be as innocent in the matter as i am, that your consent had been gained, and all arrangements made." the old parson sat down on a rustic seat beside an elaborately natural, sheet-iron water-fall, seemingly quite crushed by the blow. but the spirit of the church militant was strong within him, and he was filled with righteous anger at his unmerited treatment; so taking his companion's hand, he rose presently, saying:-- "come. let us go to your mother and tell her the truth; we owe it to her and to ourselves." "to-morrow, mr. lambert--pray wait till to-morrow." the preacher's face hardened; he was in no mood for leniency. "we have delayed too long already," he said, and took a step forward. "believe me," she replied, laying her hand on his arm, "i do not ask it from weakness, but my husband returns to-morrow, and thanks to an inheritance from an uncle who died to-day, comes back a rich man, able to support a wife. when my mother knows this, she will receive our news very differently. see," and she handed him the telegram. "i will wait till your husband returns to speak to your mother," he replied, "but as for that unhappy girl--if it is not too late to turn her steps to the right path--i will spare no pains to bring her to a realisation of what she has done. for this, no time is like the present--no time too soon." "i hope you may succeed," said lady isabelle, "but i fear you'll find her much worse than you imagine. however, i do not wish to discourage you." "i'm not easy to discourage in any good work, i trust, lady isabelle kingsland." she started, as her new name was pronounced, and laying a detaining hand upon him, as he would have left her, said, her voice breaking:-- "forgive me, mr. lambert. say you forgive me." "my poor child," he said sadly, placing one hand on her bowed head. "my poor child, you are too much in need of forgiveness from others for me to withhold mine. it is yours freely; but promise me that you'll show your appreciation of it by coming to me in all your troubles." she seized his other hand in both of hers, and kissing it, burst into tears. "and now," he said sternly, "i will seek out that miserable girl." but miss fitzgerald, dreading the tempest, had sought the haven of her own room. she was not a picture of contrite repentance as she stood by the open window, looking out into the night. "fools all!" she mused. "so i am to blame--it is all my fault!" an amused sneer played about her lips. "ah me! after all it is our faults that make life interesting to us--or us interesting to others," and she tossed away her half-smoked cigarette with a shrug. chapter xxx two letters precisely as the clock struck ten, kent-lauriston entered the smoking-room to find it in sole possession of stanley, who stood leaning against the mantelpiece, lost in thought--a cigar, long ago gone out, hanging listlessly between his fingers. "i'm afraid i'm late," said his genial adviser, glancing at the clock, "but i was just finishing a game of cribbage with mr. riddle." "i don't envy you his society," growled the secretary, whose temper was not improved by recent experiences. "you misjudge him," replied kent-lauriston. "he's a very good fellow, in more senses of the word than one--he's just given mr. lambert a thumping big cheque, for the restoration of his little church." "and made you the recipient of the fact of his generosity?" "far from it; our gossiping little parson did that, in direct violation of a pledge of secrecy; for riddle never wishes his good works to be known--he's not that kind." "i consider him a hypocrite," replied stanley shortly. "then you do him a great injustice, my dear boy; and allow me to say, you'll never make a good diplomat till you've arrived at a better knowledge of human nature; it's the keystone of the profession. but, to change the subject, how have you been spending the evening?" "oh, making a fool of myself, as usual." "so i suppose. what particular method did you adopt this time?" "first, i chivied our amiable parson from pillar to post, in this very room, till i'd forced the admission of an important fact from him, and the practical admission of another." "and then," continued kent-lauriston, "you went and tried the effect of your statements on the young ladies." "i believe you're equipped with x-rays instead of eyes, kent-lauriston, for you were smoking down here and couldn't have seen me!" "no, but i saw the ladies--afterwards." "to speak to?" "oh, no. one of them at least has a rooted aversion to me. i know too much." "what were they doing?" "pulling each other's hair out, i should judge, or its equivalent in polite society. what did you learn from the parson?" "that he had not married kingsland to lady isabelle; that kingsland had been married to somebody; and a refusal to say that that somebody was miss fitzgerald, which was tantamount to an admission of the fact." "exactly, and what did you say to the young ladies?" "i asked miss fitzgerald if she was lieutenant kingsland's wife?" "and she denied it?" "absolutely." "what else?" "i charged lady isabelle with not having married kingsland." "and what was her answer?" "i didn't wait to receive it." "had you done so, she would have denied it likewise." "you think so?" "i am certain of it, and, if it's any satisfaction to you, i can tell you that by your action you ensured miss fitzgerald one of the worst quarters of an hour at her ladyship's hands that she is likely to experience for a very long time." "but mr. lambert assured me solemnly, that he did not perform the ceremony between lady isabelle and the lieutenant." "he was quite right in doing so." "but they can't all be right!" "my dear fellow," said kent-lauriston, "it is very seldom, in this complex age, that anyone is wholly right or wholly wrong. all these people, except miss fitzgerald, know a part of the truth, and have spoken honestly according to their lights. she alone knows it all, and, believe me, she is much too clever to tell a lie on so important a point. if she told you she was not married to lieutenant kingsland, you may implicitly believe her." "do you know that it is the truth?" "yes, because i telegraphed to the man who has charge of the issue of special licences, and have received a line from him, to the effect that one has been issued in the last few days, for lieutenant kingsland and lady isabelle mclane." "then you convict mr. lambert of deception?" "not at all. if he told you he had not married lady isabelle to the lieutenant, he told you what he believed to be the truth." "but is it possible that he could have married them without knowing it?" "it seems that it was possible." "how could he make such a mistake?" "a man who never makes a mistake makes little or nothing in this world." "and miss fitzgerald signed in the place of the bride, to divert suspicion?" "it seems impossible to suppose that she would commit herself in that way," said kent-lauriston. "but the register proves that she did," reported stanley. "ye-es. it rather savours of the paradox. perhaps we'd better content ourselves with the facts that lady isabelle did marry kingsland, and miss fitzgerald did not. how it was accomplished does not immediately concern us, and, as i fear no very creditable means were used, we'd better not try to find out what they were, especially as we've more serious matters to consider." "you mean----" "i mean the charge unconsciously made by madame darcy." "i feared you were going to speak of that." "true, it is an unpleasant business; but you must remember that you owe it to miss fitzgerald to ask her for a definite answer, or to give her some explanation for declining to do so." "you think there's no escape from it?" "none that a gentleman can take." "what do you advise me to do?" "find out where you stand in the first place." "how i stand?" "yes. at least one serious charge has been made against the woman whom you propose to make your wife. if true--for your own sake, for your father's sake, you must surrender her. if false, you are equally bound, by honour and chivalry, to disprove it." "how can i do this?" "the charge to which i refer is based on the direct evidence of certain letters. see them, and judge for yourself." "that is easier said than done." "here they are," replied kent-lauriston, handing him a little packet. "you have seen madame darcy?" "yes." "and she has given you these letters, knowing they would be shown to me?" "yes, on my representation, that if they substantiated her charges, she would be doing you the greatest kindness in her power." stanley bowed, and opened the little packet. for a few moments there was silence in the room, broken only by the occasional crackle of paper, as he turned a page. most of the dozen or so documents he read through quickly, and laid upon the table at his side. a couple he re-read several times. finally he looked up, saying simply:-- "you've read these letters?" "yes. i was given permission to do so." "what do you think of them?" "two of them are suggestive." "the two most recent?" "yes, they bear dates, you will observe, within the last three days." "and the others----?" "the others merely show the existence of some relationship between colonel darcy and miss fitzgerald, which they wished kept secret. i don't remember the exact wording. there's a letter which she writes from london to him at his home, begging him to come to town and 'leave his tiresome wife,' as they have 'matters of more importance' to attend to; and again she writes that she cannot meet him at p. m., 'because she must account for her time to her "dragon,"'--alluding, i infer, to her aunt--but that he must manage to 'meet her accidentally and take her down to supper' at a party she is attending that night, 'so as not to arouse suspicion.'" "all this proves nothing." "perhaps not--but the extracts are significant. now take the two most recent." "they were written from here. how were they obtained?" "that doesn't concern us if they are genuine." "one is certainly in miss fitzgerald's hand." "the other was evidently torn from darcy's letter-book. read it." stanley did so, with evident effort. "dearest belle: "i did not know, till after i had seen you the other night----" "the night you proposed," interjected kent-lauriston. the secretary nodded, and resumed his reading. "--the other night, how cleverly you got my letter out of the secretary's clutches. it quite retrieves your losing it at the hyde park club, and now i have lost it under the secret door in the hall, as you will probably have heard. if a. r. cannot get a duplicate, which is doubtful, the door must be opened. "i have entrusted you with all i hold most dear. you know what that is. if my plans go well, it will mean a happy future for us both. "your affectionate old "bob." "now read the other," commanded kent-lauriston; and, sick at heart, the secretary complied: "you old stupid: "is the report really true that you have lost that letter under the secret door? there is no time to duplicate it, so it must be recovered. why didn't you write and tell me you had lost it?----" "but he did," commented the reader. "both letters were intercepted before delivery, i imagine," said kent-lauriston, "but finish the note." "--do not try to see me again," read stanley; "it might arouse suspicion, and you know how necessary it is for me to play the rôle of the innocent. i am more afraid of inez than anyone else. i am sure she suspects there is something between us. there is no danger in little diplomacy; he is young enough to believe he knows everything, and that is a great safeguard. i have found a trusty messenger for our affairs in jack kingsland. "as ever, "belle." the secretary stopped reading; his throat was very dry. he took a glass of apollinaris, and then said:-- "these letters are not incriminating--in the way _you_ mean." "no, perhaps not in so many words; but you must ask yourself two questions concerning them. are they letters that an honourable or refined woman would write to or receive from a married man, at any time, and particularly when she herself was practically engaged?" "may i ask to what you imagine darcy's expression, 'all i hold most dear,' refers?" "oh, his heart, or his love, or some such sentimental rubbish." "so i supposed; it hasn't occurred to you to take it in a more literal sense?" "what do you mean?" "well, say that all he holds most dear refers to the five chests of sovereigns." "you believe this?" "i know it to be so--and have known it all along--the fact that i tell you confidentially, that i'm acting under secret instructions in this matter, will, i'm sure, suffice not only to seal your lips, but to make you understand that, for the present, you must be contented not to know more." kent-lauriston nodded. "you'll see, then," continued the secretary, "that what you supposed was an intrigue turns out to be--shall we say--a commercial transaction." kent-lauriston shrugged his shoulders, remarking:-- "i'd better return the letters to madame darcy at once then?" "no, leave that to me, i shall ask her to let me keep them, if she will; they may be useful--as evidence." "but, surely, any woman who could connect herself with so dishonourable an affair, as i imagine this to be, is no fit wife for you. give me your word you'll break with her once and for all." "i've sources of information about darcy which, as i have said before, i'm not at liberty to reveal, but forty-eight hours may loose my tongue. if i could tell miss fitzgerald what i know, she might throw him over even now, for i still hope she's only his dupe. give me two days to prove her innocent; if i fail--i'll do what you please." kent-lauriston reluctantly acquiesced, and stanley, putting the incriminating letters carefully in an inside pocket, bade him good-night, and left the smoking-room. in the hall he met lady isabelle. "i don't know what you'll think of me for coming to you, mr. stanley," she said, "after what has passed this evening." "i think myself an infernal ass, for i've found out the truth of the matter since i left you, and i think you're very good to overlook it, and very condescending to speak to me at all." "do not let us talk of that," she said. "agreed," he replied. "only permit me to say, i'd the parson's solemn assurance that he'd not married you, and, however unadvisedly i may have spoken, i spoke in good faith." "i quite understand," she returned. "but now you know the truth." "i do, and i'm very much ashamed of myself." she smiled, a trifle sadly, and changed the subject abruptly, saying:-- "i've come to ask you a great favour. in the face of the past i almost hesitate to do so, but there's no one else to whom i can turn--and so----" "anything i can do----" he began. "i only want to ask you a question." "only a question!" "yet, i hesitate to ask even that--because it concerns a lady in whom you're interested." "miss fitzgerald?" "yes." "you need have no hesitation," he said coldly. "i'm sure you will not misunderstand me," she continued. he bowed silently. "after you left us, i questioned miss fitzgerald about the part she'd played in my marriage." stanley nodded. "you can understand that i was very angry. whose feelings would not have been outraged at discovering that they'd been so played upon? i'm sure that my husband was as innocent of the deception as i." she paused a second, but the secretary did not speak, and she continued, afraid, perhaps, that he might say something to overthrow her theory. "i dare say i forgot myself--in fact i'm sure i did--and said things that i now regret; but in the heat of the argument she taunted me with the fact that she had it in her power to have my husband cashiered from the navy, if she chose to tell what she knew. is this true?" "did she specify what he'd done?" asked stanley, the horrid suspicion that belle was not innocent once more reasserting itself with increased force. "no, but she said it was something he'd done in london, during his present absence." "my god!" murmured the secretary, as the full force and meaning of this avowal became apparent to him, and he saw that belle must be fully cognisant of the plot. "don't tell me it's true!" cried lady isabelle. "i'm afraid it is," he replied. "but that my husband could be guilty of----" "i didn't say that," he interjected. "he may be merely an innocent instrument; but he might have difficulty in proving it, if the charges were made." "but what are the charges?" "ah! that you must not ask me." "you know?" "perhaps, but you must be content to be sure that, had i the right to tell you, i would do so." "but what is to be done?" "nothing. the threat is an empty one. miss fitzgerald will make no charges against your husband; i will guarantee that, and it may transpire that the lieutenant has done nothing worse than deliver some cases, of the contents of which he was ignorant, to oblige a friend." "but if she could prove that he _did_ deliver them, he might be charged with complicity?" "exactly." "can i not warn him?" "no, lady isabelle, you owe it to me to keep silence, at least for the next few days. in telling you this, to relieve your anxiety, i have exceeded my instructions, and placed my honour in your hands." "it shall be held sacred; but who is to warn my husband?" "i'll do so, if you wish." "i can never be sufficiently grateful, if you will." "then we'll consider that settled," he said. "you've been a true friend to me," she replied, taking his hand, "and i've ill repaid you for your kindness." "don't think of that," he said, and turned away, heavy-hearted; for now he fancied he knew the worst. chapter xxxi miss fitzgerald burns her boats "my dear," said the secretary, as he shook hands with madame darcy over the little wicket gate entwined with roses, which gave admittance to her rustic abode, "i want to thank you for those letters." "to thank me?" "yes. why not?" "why not? why, i was almost ashamed to meet you face to face." "but why should you be?" "that i should have spoken of them at all, and to you." "but surely you cannot blame yourself for that. you thought they related to quite a different person." "now who would have supposed a man would have given me credit. but why do i stand talking at the gate--come in, you've not perhaps had your breakfast yet this morning?" "yes, thanks, and a hearty one. do you think i come to eat you out of house and home?" "i think you come only to the gate." "unfortunately, beggars must not be choosers--and i've just time for a word. it's my busy day, as they say in the city." she was piqued, and showed it. "do you not think i would willingly spend all day with you, if----" "i think," she replied, "that you're engaged to a certain young lady--and you've told me that you're busy." "it's about her i wished to speak," he said, abruptly changing the subject. "these letters have misled you." "you mean----" "i mean that they refer to the plot in which your husband and this young lady are engaged." she looked at him searchingly. "you are speaking the truth to me. you know this to be so?" "on my honour. i am not trying to deceive you. i only ask you to believe that your original suspicions were incorrect." "but you substitute something quite as bad." "well, no--hardly that. in fact it may benefit you greatly." "how so?" "that i'm not at liberty to tell you just now; i hope i can in a day or two. meantime, may i ask you to keep silence about what i've said, and trust your affairs to me--they shall not suffer in my hands." "have i not trusted you, my friend?" "you have indeed, and i've appreciated it; but that you'll understand better a little later--when i've been able to help you more." "you have done all for me; you have saved me, and i can never forget it." "nonsense, i've done nothing as yet." "you have given me your sympathy. is not that something? you have been a true friend to me." "for old friendship's sake--could i do less?" she flushed and said hurriedly. "my father will know how to thank you properly. when i see him----" and she unburdened her heart to the secretary, who gave her a willing ear. together they discussed her plans for the future, her return home, her welcome; in short, a thousand and one pleasant anticipations, till stanley declared, regretfully, that he must go. "but you have stood already an hour," she murmured, "surely you will come in and rest." "an hour!" he exclaimed, looking at his watch. "impossible!" "no," she said. "not impossible, i also have stood." he was overcome at his thoughtlessness, but she silenced his excuses by throwing open the gate and saying: "come." and he entered. * * * * * miss fitzgerald was seated at her ease in a west indian chair on the lawn. a white parasol shielded her from the sun, and a novel lay unopened in her lap. as she leaned back looking up into the earnest face of a man, with a supercilious smile and a veiled fire in her blue eyes, she seemed to be at peace with herself and with the world. in reality, she was enduring the last of three most disagreeable encounters. her first had been with her aunt, mrs. roberts, who, quite justly, ascribed the occurrences which had interrupted the harmony of her house-party to the machinations of her niece. "i invited you here at your own request," she had said, in a private interview before breakfast, in the course of which much righteous wrath was vented. "you assured me that mr. stanley was on the point of asking your hand in marriage, and only needed an opportunity of doing so; which i was the more willing to give, because i saw the extreme advisability of such a step. his actions have belied your words, and moreover, have made you the subject of unpleasant comment in my house, which has greatly annoyed me. i do not wish to be unkind, but you must understand that matters, for the rest of the time we are together, must run more smoothly, or i shall be obliged to suggest your returning to london." it is hard enough to endure the faulty criticism of an elderly and misguided person, when one is in the right; but when one is in the wrong, and has hanging over one the probability, if not the certainty, of coming disclosures, which will force threats to become realities, such a state of things is unbearable, and miss fitzgerald partook of her morning meal feeling that fate had been more than unkind. immediately after breakfast she had been treated to an interview with the outraged mr. lambert, of which a detailed account is unnecessary, but which resulted in the unpalatable presentation of those obnoxious criticisms known as "home truths." with all her faults, miss fitzgerald, like the parson, came of fighting stock, and, game to the last, she began the dangerous experiment of burning her boats behind her, by informing her hostess that she should leave to-morrow afternoon in any event, as it was not her wish to stay where she was unwelcome. then, possessed by the spirit that has always prompted heroic deeds, the determination to do or die, she sought and found an interview with mr. stanley. she boldly opened the attack, by calling that young gentleman to account for his neglect of the last twenty-four hours. "i've hardly seen so much as your shadow, jimsy, and i've been nearly bored to death in consequence. what have you been doing with yourself?" "trying to find out to whom you were married." "ah! have you succeeded?" "yes, the parson has confirmed your assertions this morning." "did you need his confirmation of my word?" stanley said nothing, and his companion, considering the silence dangerous, hastened to break it. "if i really were to marry you," she asked, "would you desert me as you did yesterday?" "if you treated me as you've treated me these last few days, i should probably desert you altogether." the situation was going from bad to worse, and something must be effected or the cause was lost. "what have i done, jim?" she asked piteously, taking the bull by the horns, and allowing her eyes to fill with tears. "what have you done?" he said nonchalantly, with a flippancy which, in the case of women, constituted his most dangerous weapon. "what have you done? oh, nothing out of the common, i suppose, only, you see, unfortunately, we men are cursed with a certain, though defective, standard of morals; and the amount of--well, prevarication you've practised over this affair has shattered a number of cherished illusions." "i wish you wouldn't wax so disgustingly moral, jimsy. it's so easy to be moral--and it bores me. of course, i don't like saying what's not so, any more than you do, but one must be consistent. i promised kingsland i'd arrange the match for him, and when that old fool of a parson put obstacles in the way, and then assumed i was the bride,--i'll give you my word i never told him so--why, it offered an easy solution of the difficulty. there was nothing illegal about the marriage. i'm sure i'm not responsible for every man who makes a fool of himself, and since i'd undertaken the affair, i was bound, in common decency, to see it through." "do you consider 'common decency' just the word to apply to the transaction?" "don't pick up details and phrases in that way, jimsy. they're unimportant--but very irritating." "do you think so? details and phrases go far to make up the sum of life. why does colonel darcy still remain here?" "why do you still persist in harping upon my friend's name?" "because i loathe him, belle. if you knew his true character, you'd cut him the next time you met." "ignorance is the only thing that makes life tolerable." "nonsense." "jim, answer me this question. if i were your wife, would you permit me to keep up my intimacy with colonel darcy?" "no." "then i must choose between you two?" "do you love me so little that there can be a question of choice?" "you don't understand. it's easy for you to say, 'throw him over'; the reality is a very different matter. he's my oldest friend." "and i'm the man who has asked you to share his name and his honour. if i could prove to you that darcy was unworthy--would you give him up, for my sake?" "can you prove this?" "i'm not at liberty to say." she smiled faintly, and thought hard. she had learned in that last speech what she most wanted to know--the measure of the secretary's knowledge. "well?" he said, interrogatively. "i don't know how to answer," she replied. "my intuition says no; my heart says--yes." the secretary turned cold, as a new phase of the situation presented itself to his view. "do you love this man?" he asked. "love darcy--love him!" she cried. "i hate him more than any man in the world, and yet----" "you're in his power?" "no!" "then accept me." "jim," she said earnestly, "you're asking me to decide my whole life. give me twenty-four hours to think it over." "haven't you had sufficient time?" "to-morrow you shall have your answer." "much may happen before to-morrow." "but you'll grant me this respite. i promise that to-morrow i'll say--yes or no." "to-morrow i too may be able to speak more clearly; till then, promise me you'll not see this man." "can't you trust me, jim? i trust you, and how little a woman can know of a man's life." "i don't know," he said, and left her discomfited--praying to heaven that some power might intervene to reconcile her heart and conscience; for this wild, wayward and desperate woman had a conscience, and so far it had withheld her from committing an unpardonable sin. after lunch, as fate willed it, the irish girl and the dowager were left a moment alone together. being both inflammable substances, sparks flew, and a conflagration ensued. the credit of starting the combustion must be accorded to the marchioness. she had observed the young lady's earnest conversation with stanley on the lawn in the morning, and coupling this with the undemonstrative behaviour of that gentleman towards her daughter, had jumped to the conclusion that miss fitzgerald was trying to rob her of her rightful prize. being possessed of this belief, and the circumstances being exaggerated from much thinking, her wrath found expression in the offender's presence, and she gratuitously insulted the irish girl; a dangerous thing to do, as she presently discovered. "how are you to-day?" asked the dowager with irritating condescension. "excessively trivial, thank you. an english sunday is so serious, one has to be trivial in self-defence." "it is different in your country, then?" "rather." "you seemed nervous and absorbed, at lunch." "no. simply absorbed with my luncheon. i find that eating is really important in england. it takes one's mind off the climate." "i'm leaving to-morrow," continued miss fitzgerald, for the purpose of breaking an awkward silence, which had already lasted several minutes. "i think it's the wisest thing you can do," replied the dowager. such provocation could not pass unnoticed. "why?" queried her companion, outwardly calm, but with a dangerous gleam in her eye. "because if you were not leaving the house at once, i should feel it my duty to take lady isabelle away--with young girls one must be careful." "explain yourself, lady port arthur." "i do not think it necessary, really; do you? of course i can quite understand that it's most advisable, perhaps necessary, for you to marry; but common decency would prevent you from thrusting your attentions on a man who----" "if you're alluding to mr. stanley, your ladyship, i don't mind telling you, if it'll make you feel easier, that i've about decided to refuse him." "what!" "he proposed to me some days ago, but, as you say, one has to be careful." "impossible!" "as for marrying," continued her adversary, relentlessly, determined, since lady isabelle's marriage must be known, to have the satisfaction of imparting the news herself--"as for marrying--you're hardly qualified to speak on that subject, if you will pardon my saying so, as you don't even know the name of your daughter's husband." the dowager gasped. she had no words to express her feelings. "you needn't get so agitated, for i shall probably leave you mr. stanley to fall back upon, if this present marriage proves _illegal_. lady isabelle would be provided with _some_ husband in any case." the dowager gripped the handle of her sunshade until it seemed as if it must snap, and turned purple in the face. "don't tell me i lie," pursued her tormentor, "it's not good form, and besides, if you want confirmation, look in mr. lambert's register at the chapel next door, where your daughter was married two days ago." "insolence!!!" gasped the dowager. "i ought to know," continued miss fitzgerald, calmly, "as i was one of the witnesses--you----" but she never finished her sentence, for the dowager had hoisted her sunshade and got under way for the church door. chapter xxxii the top of the tower after his disquieting interview with miss fitzgerald, stanley felt the imperative need of an entire change of subject to steady his mind. this want, the secret of the old tower supplied. no time could have been better suited for his investigations. lunch was well over, the members of the house party were in their various rooms for an hour at least. a few moments spent in measuring on the first floor in the great hall, and the library, which ran parallel to it, proved the correctness of his theory, that the space enclosed was smaller at the bottom than at the top, as only six feet was unaccounted for. evidently on this floor the tower contained merely a staircase. he now carried his investigations to the second storey. the room over the library had been assigned to kent-lauriston, and as the secretary's knock elicited no answer, he took the liberty of entering, finding, as he supposed, that his friend had gone out. the inside measurements of this room gave only ten feet, where they should have given twenty-five, and brought up at a large fireplace, which had no existence in the apartment below, and which was apparently much deeper than was really the case. around and behind this there was a secret chamber of considerable dimensions, but half an hour's experiments brought the secretary no nearer effecting an entrance. the old blue glazed tiles of the fireplace, and the bricks which composed its floor, were alike immovable. there was only the roof left; if he failed there, he must resign himself to the inevitable, and bend all his energies on trying to open the secret door. at the risk of being thought prying and meddlesome, stanley now proceeded to search for some mode of ascent to the leads, and after many mistakes and much wandering, he discovered at last a worm-eaten ladder. this he climbed, at great bodily risk, and forcing a rusty scuttle, emerged at last, safe and unperceived, on top of the house, amidst a wilderness of peaks and undulations, which attested more to the ingenuity of mediæval builders, than gave promise of comfort to him who attempted to traverse it. at last, however, by dint of much scrambling, and several hair-breadth escapes from an undignified descent to the lawn, he reached the point at which the tower sprang from the roof. it rose sheer above him for almost forty feet, unbroken by any window or excrescence, and thinly covered by ivy which, while it was too scattered to conceal any outlet, at the same time afforded no foothold for ascent. it was dreadfully tantalising. once on those crumbling battlements, he persuaded himself he should have no trouble in entering through the roof. the missing letter was then within reach, and the young man saw the road to rapid promotion stretch glitteringly before him; saw that darcy would be in his power, with all that it implied; but saw that forty feet of frowning masonry, which separated him from his hopes, and cursed his luck. a ladder would solve the problem--but for numerous reasons it was a solution not to be thought of. above all things, he wished his investigations to be absolutely unsuspected. if darcy for an instant imagined that the truth was known, he would be off like a flash. if the secretary was to conquer the secret of the tower, he must do it unaided, and he was about to turn back and descend, baffled by the hopelessly smooth surface of the structure, when his eye caught sight of a small iron ring in the side of the tower, about two feet above the roof of the house. examining closely, he saw a second ring two feet above the first, and others at like distances up, presumably to the top, though the ivy had in some cases concealed them. his first conjecture was that at some time there might have been a rope ladder arranged; but that would have called for pairs of rings at the same level, and the closest scrutiny failed to reveal more than one. perhaps, thought stanley, it might be possible to rig some sort of a contrivance of rope to these, by means of which he might ascend; but it was difficult to procure the necessary material, and still more difficult to attach it to the tower without attracting observation. he caught hold of the ring and gave it a good jerk towards him to be sure it was firmly enough embedded to be of some service, when, to his utter astonishment, not the staple, but the block of stone to which it was attached, pulled out about six inches. here was an unexpected _dénouement_. if the masonry was as rotten as all this, it was high time, for the safety of the house, that it was pulled down. a moment's examination, however, assured him that the tower was as solid as a rock. why then should this one stone be loose, and why could he pull it no farther? he pushed it in again and pulled once more with all his strength, but it came only the six inches, and then remained immovable. he bent down and examined it closely. then, as he perceived there was no trace of mortar on its edges, he gave a shout of exultation, and seizing the second ring, drew it towards him with a similar result. the stone to which it was attached pulled slightly out. unwittingly, he had stumbled on to one secret of the tower. these stones formed nothing more or less than a concealed staircase; perilous indeed, but quite possible of ascent. springing up on the first and second stones, he found they bore his weight, and he was thus enabled not only to steady himself by the rings above, but to pull them out in like manner. having tested three or four and pulled out six, he descended again to the roof, and returned to his room to provide himself with certain necessaries for the trip, among which were a small bicycle lamp and a match-box. he took off his coat and waistcoat, and also his shoes, and set about making the attempt in a more practical manner. for at least half the way up he would be screened from view by the roofs, and for the remainder he must take his chance of not being seen. drawing a long breath, and placing his foot firmly on the first stone, he commenced the ascent. for ten or fifteen feet it seemed an easy matter, but as he cleared the intercepting roof peaks, and the view opened out, he fully realised his perilous position, and a gust of wind which swayed him on his airy perch made him feel all the more insecure. sternly resisting the temptation to look down, and the no less dangerous desire to hasten his ascent, he kept his face resolutely turned to the wall, and testing carefully each ring before trusting himself to it, climbed slowly up and up. the way seemed endless, and when but six feet remained, two sparrows, with a whir and rush of wings, flew angrily round his head, at what they regarded as an invasion of their nest, and almost caused him to lose his hold in an attempt to drive them away. and now the battlements were just over him, projecting awkwardly from the face of the wall, and proving much higher than he had at first supposed. but he noticed, with relief, that directly in the line of his ascent were a pair of projecting iron stanchions not visible from below, but evidently intended to be used in pulling oneself up and over the battlements; a supposition borne out by the fact that they were placed each side of a break in the stonework, which was ornamented with a lip or step of smooth stone, evidently intended to afford an entrance to the roof of the tower. this lip had a slight slant upwards, and might perhaps have served a double purpose as a drain or broad spout. fortunately stanley's caution had not entirely deserted him, and he had the good sense to reach up and test one of the stanchions before trusting himself to it. it was well that he did so, for its fastenings proved to be rotten with age, and the bolt giving way, it tore out in his grasp, and flying from his hand fell with a loud clank on the roof, forty feet below. the secretary swayed out from the tower with the force of the shock, and had not the topmost iron, to which he clung, held firm, this narrative would have come to a sudden and a tragic ending. having recovered his equipoise, he found himself face to face with a serious if not an insurmountable obstacle. the natural entrance to the roof was denied him; for even if the other stanchion held firm, he had no mind to trust his entire weight to it, and without its mate it was of little use for lifting himself up. besides which, the lip or step, which, by its slant towards him, would, with the aid of the stanchions, have made access easy without them, rendered it, by reason of its angle, the more difficult. the only practical way seemed to lean far to one side, and seizing the rough stones of the battlement which projected over his head, swing himself up and through one of the embrasures. the last step would bring him breast high with them, but as they projected nearly a foot beyond the face of the tower, he must bend his body outward, and trust to them alone for support. if the stones of the battlements were strong, his athletic training gave him no reason to suppose that he would have any trouble in accomplishing the feat. youth, moreover, is apt to be venturous, and an aerial perch, eighty feet from the ground, is not just the place one would choose for lengthy consideration. therefore, after reaching up and testing the masonry, as thoroughly as he was able, he flung caution to the winds, a full assemblage of which were whistling around him, and, making a desperate effort, clutched the stones above him, and swung his body up and one leg over the battlements. he was secure after all. then, looking within, he received one of the worst shocks which the events of his life had ever afforded him. there was no roof in existence; at least, none where he had expected to find it. he discovered that he was seated astride the rim of a circular well, forty feet deep, whose bottom was the roof of the house. in other words, the whole tower above the second story was a shell--a sham. a few moments' observation was sufficient to assure him that there never had been a roof at a higher level. an iron bar corroded with rust, round which was wound a chain, stretched across the diameter of the well, and had evidently furnished at one time support for a flag-staff, to further keep up to the outside world the deception of a roof; but otherwise the inside was perfectly smooth, even the holes where the steps were pulled out not showing, which bore evidence to the fact that they worked in the thickness of the wall. down at the level of the roof two or three little beams of light marked the location of certain gargoyles or antique water-spouts, which stanley had noticed on the outside, and marvelled that they should have been placed in the middle instead of the top of the tower. these explained the absence of water in the well. looking down, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he was able to see something of the nature of the roof, which must enclose the secret chamber. it was covered with dust and debris, but he was positive he could distinguish certain little bumps or lumps, which he shrewdly guessed to be thick diamond panes of glass, set in lead, and which, as he conjectured, furnished light to the room beneath. entrance to this apartment seemed totally lacking from the roof, or else concealed by the dust of centuries. no staircase could he discover on the inside of the well, and he was about to relegate it to the limbo of unfathomable mystery, when a startling discovery gave him the key to the whole matter. it was, he saw, manifestly impossible to go down inside without falling, after which, if not killed by the shock, he would be left to starve at his leisure, while his friends searched the country-side for him. but if to descend within was impossible, to descend without presented almost as many difficulties. to go over the battlements as he had come, was well-nigh hopeless; but if he could walk along their inner rim for a foot or two, round the next embrasure, to the natural slanting entrance which was directly over the first step, the descent would be, comparatively speaking, easy. to rise from his present posture and assume a standing position on the twelve-inch rim of a structure eighty feet in the air requires a steady head, and though the secretary was possessed of this, he did not at all relish the undertaking. it had to be done, however; but after his previous experience he determined to take no more risks, and reaching out from his position of vantage, he tested carefully every step of the way. at last only the slanting step remained. reaching far over he touched it with his hand, when, to his horror, it practically revolved, now pointing down into the interior of the tower, its outward end pointing up. he shuddered when he saw the fate which the fortunate accident to the stanchion had caused him to escape. had he descended in the regular way and stepped upon the slanting plate, the instant his foot passed its centre of equilibrium, it would have revolved, and without a doubt flung him down into the interior of the well. it was a cursed, mediæval trick, a fitting accompaniment to the inquisitorial horrors of those ages--an english _oubliette_. if the fall did not finish the daring invader of the tower--the inhabitants of the secret chamber doubtless had means to insure his end, or perhaps he was merely left to starve. touching the plate once more he pushed it back to its original position, and found that it remained stationary. as long as he kept on the outward side he was safe, and if the secretary observed this rule he could easily avail himself of the plate to descend by, for the perpetrators of the villainous arrangement had evidently not thought it necessary to make it entirely revolve, as one who had once gone up the tower was never expected to come down the outside again. and now, with great caution, he wormed his way to the treacherous step, and with still greater care placed his foot on its outer edge; it held firm, and he ventured to plant both his feet upon it. but, alas! he has forgotten how slippery a flag of slate, polished by two hundred years' exposure to the elements, may become. his feet slipped from under him, and in striving to save himself he overbalanced the stone. instantly it revolved, and a second later he found himself suspended over the well, with only the strength of a despairing grasp on the edges of the slate between him and eternity. chapter xxxiii the secret of the door miss fitzgerald's disclosures to the marchioness, as it turned out, rather helped than hindered those principally concerned, for mr. lambert met her ladyship at the church, and his explanations took the keen edge off the wrath which she vented on her daughter a little later, and in the midst of which lieutenant kingsland arrived, with ample assurances of worldly prosperity, which overcame her strongest objections, and went far to reconcile her to the inevitable. her disappointment, however, was keen, and her temper suffered in consequence, so that dinner, at which the secretary's unaccountable absence formed the chief topic of conversation, was distinctly not a success, and the ladies retired early, leaving the gentlemen to their own devices. miss fitzgerald claimed to join in the general hegira, but her actions belied her words, for shortly after she was supposed to have gone to her room, her figure, its white dinner dress concealed by a long grey cloak, might have been seen gliding across the lawn in the direction of the inn. the night was pregnant with great events, though outwardly calm and beautiful, and the great hall in which mr. riddle, kent-lauriston, and the lieutenant stood smoking, after having been dismissed from the drawing-room, was flooded with moonlight. "i say," remarked kingsland irrelevantly, after a long interval broken only by the conscientious puffing of cigarettes, "how that mediæval prize puzzle shows up in the moonlight." "the secret door?" asked kent-lauriston. "yes, it does. i heard the butler making his plaint about it yesterday. it appears it's no joke to keep those nails polished." "i shouldn't think it would be, and i dare say the bulk of the servants wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole. i wonder what's behind it, anyway." nobody said anything. "i wonder if darcy'll ever get his letter?" asked kent-lauriston, glancing at mr. riddle. "anyway, it's as safe behind that portal as if it was in the bank of england. safer, in fact, for he can't get it out if he wants to." "i don't think there's much chance of anyone's opening it," said mr. riddle. "cleverer men than colonel darcy have tried to solve that problem in the last two centuries, and failed. i imagine, however, if it ever does come to be opened, that a certain theory will be proved correct." "what is it?" asked kingsland. "that the prophecy tells only half the story. to press the nails they must be flexible, but they're firm and immovable." "well?" "well, it's evident that there is some catch or spring to be worked first." "how do you make that out?" "these five nails we hear so much about are really the key to the lock, but until the movable impediments--or, to give them their technical name, the 'tumblers'--are so arranged as to release the key, the lock cannot be opened." "it's a rum sort of key, with no keyhole," said kingsland. "the key to open this lock is a mental one, rather than one of steel and iron. in other words, a puzzle lock like this always has certain movable parts, the movement of which constitutes the enigma." "ever heard of any locks like this one?" "not exactly, but the russians, hindoos and the chinese have their puzzle locks in the shape of birds or animals, and they're locked or unlocked by pressing certain parts of their bodies. you can depend on it, some spring must be worked first, which relieves the nails from their tension and permits one to work the combination." "but no such catch or spring is visible." "of course not. it would be the most carefully concealed of all the mechanism; but some lucky fellow will stumble on it eventually, and if he has presence of mind enough to press the nails also-- presto! your door will fly open." "and what will he find?" asked kent-lauriston. "from present appearances," replied mr. riddle, "a little pile of dust, which some centuries before was a letter----" "i shouldn't be satisfied with anything less than a mouldering skeleton in chains," said kingsland. "or a complicated astrological machine, such as one hears about in bulwer's grewsome ghost story," added kent-lauriston. "the inhabitants of this house are too unfeignedly easy-going and comfortable to admit of such a supposition," replied kingsland, and turning to kent-lauriston, added: "what do you think is inside the tower?" "i don't know, and if i did, i shouldn't tell anyone." "why not?" "because if its contents are so unpleasant, that they had to shut it up for ever, it certainly wouldn't prove a fit subject for conversation." "well, anyhow," said the lieutenant, "i trust the discoverer will be a short man, or he'll hit his head a nasty crack, when he tries to go in." "wrong again," said mr. riddle. "i think you'll admit that i'm medium height for a man; but if i stood with my back to the door, my head wouldn't hit the top of the arch." "nonsense. let's see." riddle took up the position indicated, facing them. "you're right!" ejaculated the young officer. "i'm amazed! i supposed it was much lower. what do you measure?" "five feet eight inches. but it is the extreme width of the portal which makes it deceptive; it lowers it. i think, if i stretched out my arms, straight from the shoulder, i should no more than touch the side--see----" and he made a great cross of himself, against the black oak. "what are you fumbling at?" asked kingsland sharply. "my fingers hardly touch--it's a stretch. ah! now they do." "you look ghastly in the moonlight; put your arms down and come away." "i'm very comfortable here, barring my back; those silver nails are rather sharp," and he put his hands behind him. "come away," said kingsland, nervously, seeing something in his face he did not like. "you look as if you'd been walled up a few months ago, by some inquisition, and we'd just unearthed you in your niche." "by heavens! some of these nails are loose!" cried riddle. "nonsense!" retorted kingsland. "you've thought so much about it, you'd imagine anything. they're as firm as--well, nails. i tried them myself. that door won't be opened in our lifetime, unless----" but the lieutenant never finished his sentence, for he had paused suddenly, in open-mouthed astonishment. without warning, and without a sound, the portal, closed for centuries, swung slowly inward, carrying riddle with it; who, catching in vain at the sides of the door in an attempt to save himself, fell heavily backwards down three steps into the secret chamber. seeing that he did not immediately rise, but turned over partially on his side, kingsland recollecting himself, sprang forward to his aid, crying: "have you hurt yourself?" "no, no," he replied, waving him off, and slowly rising from the floor, covered with dust. "by jove!" exclaimed the lieutenant. "how did you ever do it?" "don't know, i'm sure," replied riddle, emerging from the portal, and vigorously brushing himself. "as i told you, the nails, or some of them, felt loose--i pushed them, and the next thing i knew the door revolved and i was on the floor." "you're a genius!" exclaimed kingsland. "but," peering down into the darkness of the tower, "where's darcy's letter?" "we need a little light on the subject," said mr. riddle. stepping to the fireplace, he lighted an old wrought-iron sconce, full of candles, which stood on the broad mantelshelf, and approached the secret door. in the light of the candles, all could see that, except for the little space into which he had fallen, the whole interior of the tower was filled by a narrow stone staircase, which, in its ascent, half turned upon itself. of the missing document, however, there was not a trace. the stillness in the great hall was oppressive. even their own footsteps on the stones seemed, to the hearers, preternaturally loud. mr. riddle raised the sconce above his head, and there burst on a sudden a shimmering flash of a thousand prismatic colours from the head of the staircase. he fell back a step, as did the others, and kingsland murmured in awe-struck tones:-- "what's that?" riddle again raised the sconce, and again the burst of light from the head of the stairs overwhelmed him, but this time he stood his ground. "what is it?" asked kent-lauriston. "i don't know." "let us examine." "as far as i can make out, it's a flexible curtain of chain mail--hung across the staircase." "i swear it moved," said the lieutenant. "no, it was the light which moved," replied the discoverer. "you see," and he swayed the sconce from side to side, making the curtain appear to be moving silently. "if i take the light away," he continued, "there's nothing to be seen;" and he removed the sconce, leaving only the black mass of the steel curtain visible. "nothing to be seen--isn't there? look there!" whispered kingsland, and, following the direction of his eyes, the others saw a broad band of blood-red light steal out of the blackness, across the steps at the head of the staircase. "that room has been closed for centuries, and yet there is a light burning," he continued hoarsely. "shut the door, my dear fellow, and let's get away." "it merely confirms another theory of mine," said riddle, "which is, that, as there are no windows on the outside of the tower, they must have got their light and ventilation from the roof. i think it's fair to suppose that they used red glass, and that the full moon is shining through it." "then you can go and prove it if you like, but if you take my advice, you'd better leave it alone." "i don't like, my dear kingsland, though i'm going, just the same. i daresay i shall find something very nasty at the head of the stairs, but it won't be supernatural. if i want you, i'll call you. if not, wait till i come back." putting down the sconce, he slipped off his dress coat, and crossing the hall, picked up a stout hunting crop, the property of the lieutenant, while his two companions stood staring at the blood-red band of light which lay across the steps, and which seemed to their excited imagination to grow broader and deeper. "what do you think he'll find up there?" asked kingsland. kent-lauriston shrugged his shoulders. "i don't wish to think," he replied. "but i'm certain that, to this very day, there lie hidden away in some of our old country houses the ghastliest secrets of mediæval times, the fruit of crimes and passions, of which, happily, even the names have perished." "what's that?" said the young officer, laying his hand on his companion's arm, and in the silence both distinctly heard the click of a latch, and facing round at the same moment, confronted the white face of colonel darcy, framed in the hall door. in an instant he was at their side, drawing a quick hissing breath and exclaiming:-- "it's open. where's my letter?" "there is no letter," said kingsland gruffly. "but you gave us a jolly good start, creeping in. this ghost business sets one's nerves all on edge." "who opened the door?" "i did," said mr. riddle, coming up just at that moment. "ah! then you have my letter." "no, i haven't seen a trace of it. it may be up aloft." "i believe there's some living object up aloft," said kingsland. "if you take my advice, you'll shut the door, and leave it and the letter in perpetual seclusion." "i don't care whether it's a man or a devil!" cried darcy, who, whatever else may be said of him, did not know the meaning of fear. and as he spoke, he set one foot upon the lower step. "hold on!" cried kent-lauriston. "there's something up there, and, what's more, it's coming down." and as he spoke, a sound was heard in the long closed chamber, and as the listeners held their breath, something slowly approached the steel curtain, which swung out noiselessly as if waving in a ghostly wind. chapter xxxiv within the tower stanley's first thought as he hung suspended over the gulf, when the plate had so treacherously revolved, was of self-preservation. and, indeed, he had need to think, for it seemed highly probable that within the next few minutes he might be dashed to pieces on the floor of the secret chamber, forty feet below. to pull himself up over that slippery stone was, he found, a sheer impossibility. to let go of his precarious hold and drop to the bottom of the well was certain death. yet the sharp edges of the plate were already cutting into his hands, and it could only be a matter of a few moments when his arms would refuse to support any longer the weight of his body. evidently he must find some means of escape from these two alternatives, and that right speedily, or for him the end of all things would be at hand. below him the wall stretched smooth as glass. no vine grew upon it to which he might cling, no crevice in which he might put his foot. he cast his eye round in a wild search for some possible means of salvation, and, as he did so, he saw one infinitesimal chance of escape. so slight was it, that no one, in less desperate straits, would have dared to take the risk, but he had no choice. he had noticed, when taking his precarious walk along the edge of the battlements, that an old rusty iron chain was loosely twisted round the bar which stretched across the diameter of the well, about on a level with where he hung suspended. it might be possible, springing into the air, to catch the end of this chain, which terminated in a ring. he had done that sort of thing more than once in gymnasiums, though under very much more favourable conditions. even if he succeeded in catching the ring in his flight, he might only find himself in a worse position. the chain might refuse to unwind from the bar, or the whole contrivance, rusted by years of exposure, might snap under his weight. but even if this were so, he reflected, he could but drop to the bottom of the well, which he was bound to do in any event, if he stayed where he was, while every foot that the chain unrolled before breaking was twelve inches less for him to fall. evidently there was not an instant to lose, for his fingers were already getting stiff and numb with the tension they were undergoing. so, setting his teeth, he sprang into the air, on this last desperate venture. for one horrid second he felt the ring which his fingers touched, slipping through his grasp. then with one supreme effort, he crooked his hand through it, and swung suspended by one arm. a moment later, he had brought his other hand to his aid. but scarcely had he steadied himself, when the bar, round which the chain was wound, and which evidently worked in a socket, began to revolve. it was rusty and out of gear, and as it let him down, it gave him the most frightful series of jerks, which seemed to dislocate every bone in his body. it would let out three or four feet of chain at lightning speed, and then, catching in its rusty gearings, would stop with a racking jerk, remaining still perhaps a whole minute, before it moved on again, to repeat the operation. moreover, as he got farther and farther down the well, and there was a greater length of chain above him, it began to oscillate frightfully, twirling him round in one direction till his head swam, and then reversing the operation. all tortures must come to an end, however, and when he was ten feet from the bottom of the well, a corroded link snapped, and he dropped the remaining distance like a log, bringing down thirty feet of iron chain on top of him. the blow which he received rendered him instantly unconscious, and it was hours later before he came to himself. his first knowledge of the world and things in general was a realisation that in some mysterious way the entire firmament was divided in half by a black band, and it was only as his brain became a little clearer that he realised that he was lying on his back looking up at the rim of the well. he sat up, and examined himself critically. he had evidently cut his head slightly, for it was still bleeding. moreover, he was black and blue from head to foot, but he was rejoiced to find, after a careful examination, that no bones were broken, nor had he even suffered a sprain, and in a few moments he was able to stand upright. his position, however, was none the less precarious. the breaking of the chain had ended for ever any chance of his ascending the tower, and he must either effect an entrance through the roof or depend on the very uncertain chance of attracting notice from without, to escape starvation. lying face down on the floor of the roof, he tried to look out of the little holes in the mouths of the gargoyles, but could see nothing, and from the appearance of the sky over his head, he judged that it must be growing dark. this reminded him of his bicycle lamp, which a hasty examination proved to be intact, and feeling that he would at least have light for his investigations, was a great source of comfort to him. his next procedure was to examine the roof. here, fate once more befriended him, for he very quickly found a trap-door and, moreover, was able to lift it. looking down he could see nothing but utter darkness. however, this did not deter him, and he hastily made his arrangements for further investigation, first taking the precaution to light a match and drop it into the opening. it fell, about ten or twelve feet, evidently striking the floor and burning there a minute or two before it went out. it revealed nothing but surrounding darkness, but it apprised him of the fact he was most desirous to know, that the atmosphere was not mephitical. he determined, nevertheless, to take his time about descending, and left the trap-door wide open, so that as much fresh air might get in as possible. in the interval he amused himself by taking off one of his socks and unravelling it as best he could. weaving a cord with the thread thus obtained, he lowered his bicycle lantern, which he had lighted, into the room below, swinging it gently back and forwards. its glancing rays told him that the apartment was entirely bare and deserted, and showed him also a narrow wooden ladder, black with age, leading up to the trap-door above which he stood. drawing up the light, he took it in his hand, and being cautious after his recent experience, reached down and tested each round of the ladder most carefully. to his surprise it held his weight, and a moment later he was on the floor of the secret chamber. the apartment had no secrets to reveal. it was absolutely bare, and empty of anything except a broken old sconce lying in a corner. the whole room, however, was indescribably dusty and musty, and he was very thankful to push aside a curtain of chain mail and descend the staircase. at its foot he saw lying the coveted papers. forgetful of everything else, he sat down upon the lowest step, and by the light of his lantern proceeded to examine them. they more than fulfilled his utmost expectations. there was a complete cipher and its key, a full list of the members of the cabinet who were to pass upon the treaty, with comments on each, and a memorandum of the amounts to be given to certain of them, coupled with suggestions as to the attitude which darcy should take towards others, together with precise instructions as to the carrying out of the plot; the whole signed by riddle in the interests of the firm. the evidence was complete, and stanley gasped as he realised the advantage of this tremendous stroke of luck. one fact which his perusal had elicited caused him to draw a long sigh of relief. miss fitzgerald's name was not mentioned in the incriminating document, and so much did he wish to believe her innocent, that in spite of all accumulated evidence, he felt a sense of exultation that he could still, if worst came to worst, shield her from the effects of her own folly. he told himself that he might, after all, prove to the satisfaction of his own conscience that she was innocent of criminal intent. darcy he would have no mercy for. he must be punished for his crime, and the fact of his being the criminal would give inez her freedom, and then---- ah! but if belle fitzgerald was innocent--was he not in honour bound to _her_? and at that moment he realised that he had mistaken pity for love, that darcy possessed the woman in the world most worth having, and that he was unworthy of her. his meditations were interrupted by the sound of voices near him. somebody laid a hand on the other side of the door. they were tampering with it again, and, for more reasons than one, he wanted the fact of his having gained entrance to the tower to remain a secret. putting the letter in his inside pocket, he softly retraced his steps to the upper chamber. to his consternation, he had scarcely reached there when the door below was opened. how this had been effected, he did not know. he had been so interested in the documents, that he had had no time to examine the mechanism of the portal. at first he heard only the voices of riddle and kingsland. fearing that the conspirators only were present, and that, being three to one, he might be overpowered, and his precious evidence wrested from him, he endeavoured, by the agitation of the steel curtain and the red light of his lamp, to contrive such ghostly illusions, as should serve to deter them from investigating the upper portions of the tower. it can be imagined therefore what a welcome relief kent-lauriston's tones were to him, and the instant he knew that his friend was below, he felt perfectly safe from an attack by force. he therefore lost no time in descending, his footsteps producing, as we have seen, a most startling effect on those below. kent-lauriston was the first to recognise him, and seeing at a glance that his clothes were torn and spotted with blood, he sprang forward to assist his friend and helped him into the hall. "where's my letter, you thief?" cried darcy. "you've come too late," replied the secretary, recovering himself. "you've come too late. the treaty will go through." darcy growled an oath as the measure of the secretary's knowledge became known to him. "i know who's put you on to it," he cried. "it's that cursed irish----!" "go!" cried stanley, in a burst of wrath at this insult to a woman. "go, before i knock you down, and as you value your safety, meet me here at eleven to-morrow morning. you've held the whip hand long enough. it's my turn now." chapter xxxv the short way out "i suppose it's hardly necessary to ask if you found darcy's letter?" said kent-lauriston to the secretary, as they were returning to the house about an hour later from a trip to the telegraph office, whither stanley had gone to send a long message in cipher to his chief. "oh, yes," he said. "i have it in my possession." "does it give you all the information you required?" "as a bit of evidence it's overwhelmingly complete--but it gives me some additional information which is not so pleasant," replied the secretary, who had needed no second glance at the document to assure himself that it was mr. riddle's letter and had been once before in his possession. "i've no desire to pry into your affairs, either private or diplomatic, my dear fellow; but of course i'm able to infer a good deal, and if you felt inclined to assure me, that this made you master of the situation, and placed darcy completely in your power, it would make me feel very much easier." "then you may be quite easy," returned the secretary. "i hold all the trumps. i could have the colonel arrested to-night, if i chose, and my evidence is of such a nature that it will practically banish him from his country and from mine." "that's very satisfactory, but let me caution you to go slow. darcy is a man of many expedients. i should keep something in reserve, if i were able." "my instructions insist on practically that course of action." "i'm very glad to hear it--as you grow older, you'll discover that the shrewdest policy in the game of life, as in the game of whist, is always to keep in hand a card of re-entry. and you may take my word for it, that darcy is the pivot on which all these little conspiracies revolve. hold him, and you can dictate terms to both kingsland and miss fitzgerald. by the way, have you succeeded in receiving your _congé_ yet?" "i haven't yet received a definite answer." "answer!--haven't you made it clear to her what that answer is to be?" "i hope so. in fact, i'm sure she must understand." "then if she doesn't refuse you, you'll be quite justified in refusing her." "i can't be too hard on a woman, kent-lauriston." "but you cannot marry her." "not if my suspicions are true, and that my conference with the colonel to-morrow will prove. now, don't say any more about it, for i want to go to bed, and try not to think." stanley slept little that night, and the arrival of an early telegram from his minister was a welcome relief. it contained only a brief word of praise, and the information that john, the messenger, would arrive by the ten o'clock train with a letter of instructions, pending the receipt of which he was to take no action. this necessitated an early breakfast, as the station was some distance away. before leaving, however, he sealed up the precious document he had found in the secret chamber, and entrusted it to his friend's care; begging him, should he not return, through any foul play of the colonel's, to see it safely delivered to his chief in london. as he drove to the train he had plenty to occupy his thoughts. the letter had been more damaging to the cause of the plotters than he could have hoped. there was sufficient evidence to make out a complete case, and only the intended forbearance of the government could shield the colonel from well-merited disgrace and condign punishment. in this forbearance stanley saw, so to speak, his card of re-entry: but he did not see that fate was going to force him to play it in the first round of the game. it was true he was here to bring darcy to justice for crimes committed against the state, but he must not be judged too harshly for desiring to take advantage of his position to force the colonel to do justice in quarters not political. he had had great provocation, and the man could be relied on to keep his word only when the penalty for breaking it was actual rather than moral. filled with these thoughts and impulses, he drew up for a moment on his way to the station at madame darcy's cottage, but before he could get down from the high dog-cart she came running out to meet him. "you have good news," she cried, "i can see it in your face." "yes," he said. "i got down, or rather fell down, inside the old tower last night, and i have the precious packet in my possession." "ah," she said. "i do not know whether i should be glad or sorry. if it contains what i suspect, it must mean so much to me in many ways." "it is just for that reason that i stopped to see you," he replied. "i wanted to set your mind at rest." "then it does not contain incriminating evidence?" she asked. "on the contrary, it puts everyone connected with the plot completely in my power." "but then----" she began. "but then," he continued, taking up her words, "i hope to be able to save your husband from the fruits of his folly." "but is that possible?" "i hope so. i shall tell better after i have seen him. we are to have an interview this morning, and all i can say now is, that you must trust implicitly in me and believe that everything will come out all right in the end." "i am so selfish that your words make me very happy," said madame darcy, "when my heart should be filled with sorrow at the troubles of my friend. this discovery must be a sad blow to you." "how do you mean?" he said. "why, in regard to miss fitzgerald." the secretary bit his lip. "it seems impossible," he said tersely, "for us to have a conversation without introducing her name. surely by this time you must know----" "i only know what you have told me," she replied. the secretary started to say something and then thought better of it, and contented himself by remarking:-- "my eyes have been opened a good deal in the last few days, inez." she reached up and took his hand in hers. "my friend," she said, "i understand." for a moment there was silence between them, and then pulling himself together, he explained that he was on his way to an appointment. so he left her, smiling at him through her tears, for in these few moments inez de costa had found great sorrow and great joy. * * * * * the station, a small rustic affair, at which few trains stopped, seemed at first glance to be bare of passengers, and on accosting a porter, the secretary was informed that he had yet nearly fifteen minutes to wait. "she's in a siding in the next station now, sir, waiting for the london express to pass; it goes through here in about five minutes, and as soon as the line's clear she'll be along." stanley thanked him for his information, and, after spending a minute or two with the station-master, negotiating for a match, he lighted a cigarette and emerged on the little platform. to his surprise he found it tenanted by a solitary figure, and that none other than mr. arthur riddle. if he had any luggage it must have been in the luggage-room, for he was without sign of impedimenta, excepting a stout stick. he wore a long, black travelling cloak, and his white, drawn face and the dark circles under his eyes gave evidence of either a sleepless night or great mental anxiety, perhaps of both. he held in his mouth an unlighted cigar, which he was nervously chewing to pieces. both men became aware of each other's presence at the same instant; both unconsciously hesitated to advance, and then both came forward. stanley was the first to speak. "i wasn't aware that you were leaving, mr. riddle." the man looked at him, with the expression of a hunted animal driven to bay; a fear of something worse than death in his eyes. "how could you think i should do otherwise, after your discoveries of last night?" "i think you're making a mistake. but i shan't try to prevent you. i've no fear of losing you even in london. i could lay hands on you where i wished." "my journey is much farther afield than london." "there are extradition laws." "not where i'm going," he said. a shrill whistle smote the air, and the porter came hurrying out on the platform, crying:-- "the express, gentlemen, the express! stand back, please!" stanley noticed that unconsciously they had drawn rather near the edge. "look out!" he said to mr. riddle. "the express is coming!" "in a moment," replied that gentleman. "i've just dropped my cigar," and indeed it was lying at his feet. "hurry up, then, the train is on us! you've no time to lose!" "i've time enough," he replied, bending deliberately forward. some grim note in his voice awoke the secretary to his true intentions. there was only a second's leeway, the iron monster was even then bursting out of the railway arch at the further end of the platform, with the roar and rush of tremendous speed. mr. riddle was bending far forward, overreaching his cigar, making no attempt to get it--was---- stanley flung his arms about his adversary's waist, and made a superhuman effort to drag him back. "you meddling fool, let me alone!" shouted the other. "no!" panted the secretary. "then come too!" he cried, and rising up, he threw his arms about him, and gathered himself to spring on to the rails in front of the train. all seemed over, the cry of the porter rang in stanley's ears, the rattle of the train deafened him, the hot breath of the engine seemed blowing in his face. then somehow his foot caught his opponent's, and the next instant they were falling--to death or life--he could not tell. a second later they lay prone on the platform. the express had passed them, and vanished in a cloud of dust. in a moment the porter was assisting them to arise. "a narrow escape for mr. riddle," said the secretary to the porter, as he picked himself up and recovered his hat, which had rolled to one side. "a very narrow escape from what might have been a nasty accident." "_accident!_" exclaimed the porter, with a sarcasm which spoke louder than words. "i said accident," replied stanley, slipping a sovereign into the man's hand, and looking him straight in the eyes. "oh, quite right, sir. _accident_ it was. thank ye, sir," and the porter shuffled off, leaving them alone. "i suppose you think you've been very clever," said mr. riddle, when they were by themselves, "but i'll cheat you yet, never fear," and his hand unconsciously sought a hidden pocket. "you need be under no apprehensions," the secretary replied calmly. "i shan't interfere to save your life again, or to prevent you from taking it. i was moved to act as i did solely for the reason that i couldn't bear to see any man throw away so priceless a possession, owing to a misapprehension." "a misapprehension!" he said, startled. "yes. you were desperate enough to contemplate committing suicide, because you supposed you would inevitably be disgraced and punished." riddle nodded. "well, supposing that this were not the case?" "what do you mean?" he cried, his face lighting up with the return of hope. "i mean that it's in my power to let you go free." the man's face fell. "but there are conditions," he said. "there are no conditions." "how about the company?" "it will not be proceeded against, out of a desire to avoid publicity. both governments will be informed confidentially of the true state of affairs, and it will be carefully watched in the future. if the company is circumspect, it will be safe. we merely wish to ensure the passage of the treaty. that is done already. of course, considering the hands to which you have confided it, you will probably lose your £ , ." "i should refuse to receive it under the circumstances." "so i supposed. i'm expecting a messenger with important instructions from london, so must await the arrival of the down train. if you'll take a seat in the dog-cart, i'll join you presently." mr. riddle bowed, took a few steps in the direction desired, and then pausing, swung round and faced the secretary, saying:-- "what return can i make you for saving my life?" "i've only followed my instructions," he replied. "you owe me nothing. i admit, though, that my impulse to save you arose strongly from the fact that i believed you were fitted for better things." "i am, mr. stanley, i am. believe me, with this exception, i've lived a clean life. i was swept into this thing by the force of circumstances, and in the hope of saving a rotten concern, whose downfall might have ruined hundreds of innocent persons." "i believe you," said the secretary. "here comes the train. i shall expect to find you in the dog-cart." chapter xxxvi the day of reckoning stanley sat in his room. before him lay an open letter; below in the hall, john and the colonel sat waiting his call. the faithful legation messenger being well informed that once darcy was closeted with his master, he was to receive the precious letter of evidence from kent-lauriston, and return with all speed to london. but first the secretary wished to read and re-read his chief's instructions. it was a clear, concise document, occupying only two sheets of note-paper. not a word wasted, yet all necessary information given, it ran as follows:-- "your satisfactory message received and telegraphed to the executive in cipher, without delay. i may inform you that it is not the intention of the government to prosecute, if the case presented is sufficiently strong to warrant submission from the recalcitrant members of the cabinet. i leave it to your discretion to arrest darcy. do not do so if you can obtain his confession without it. we do not wish to proceed against the agents, but against the principals. we will do so, however, if you advise. the points we must prove are as follows:-- " st. evidence of the names of members of the cabinet who are to receive bribes. " d. evidence of the amounts to be received. " d. evidence relating to the company offering the bribes. "send proofs by john, at once, and report to me as soon as possible. "as ever, "x----" on a separate sheet of paper was the following:-- "_private and confidential._ "i have, in the foregoing, written you a letter which you might show, if necessary, to any of the principals in this affair, should such a course seem advisable. if you obtain possession of the money, in round numbers, £ , , use it as your discretion suggests. we do not care to handle it officially. you may find it useful in obtaining evidence. "i have also to inform you that your most satisfactory conduct in this affair will certainly gain you immediate promotion, though it seems desirable that you should return home first, and almost at once, in the capacity of witness, if you are needed. "_entre nous_, i have received a cable from señor de costa, requesting me to send his daughter, madame darcy, home, as soon as suitable escort can be provided. i have replied, nominating you for the post, an office which, i imagine, you will not find irksome. make this known to madame darcy, if she is still in sussex, and use your discretion in this matter as in all other things. do not act hastily in anything. you have a great responsibility for one so young, but i am confident you will discharge it to my satisfaction. "cordially, "x----" stanley sat idly for a few minutes, fingering the papers before him. he might seem to be wasting valuable time; as a matter of fact he was very hard at work. finally he arose, and, with an air of quick decision, as of one who had made up his mind, he stepped to the opposite wall, and touched the bell. a moment later there came a heavy step on the stairs, a knock, and without waiting for an answer, colonel darcy entered the room, threw himself into the most comfortable chair, and scrutinised keenly the little bundle of papers, which the secretary was in the act of putting into an inside pocket. stanley noticed the glance, and replied to the unspoken question, by saying abruptly:-- "it may facilitate matters between us, if i tell you that the evidence is no longer in my possession. it has been sent to the legation." the colonel nodded. "i should prefer this to be a purely business interview," continued the young diplomat, "and to that end i will state my case and my conditions, after which you can make any answers or comments you think best." another nod from his companion was the only answer he received, so he accordingly proceeded. "the executive of my government received, some time ago, information of a plot to defeat a treaty, now pending with great britain. the subject of this treaty was an island and sand-bar, lying at the mouth of the ---- river, on which the ---- company have erected large mills for the manufacture of a staple product of my country. as long as we held the island, they secured by government contracts a practical monopoly of the article in question; by the cession of it to great britain their business would be much impaired. do i state the case clearly?" "i've never heard it put better," replied the colonel, with a calmness that was admirable. "very well--we'll now proceed to the next point. the firm considered that my government's grants were worth to them, the round sum of two hundred thousand dollars, or forty thousand pounds." "in gold, sovereigns," acquiesced darcy. "yes, i've one of them in my possession." the colonel nodded as usual. he evidently felt it idle to waste words in the face of such incontrovertible evidence. "this amount was to be divided among a majority of the committee, who would pass on the treaty, thus insuring its defeat. the names of the members who would receive bribes, and the amount to be given to each, being arranged beforehand--by you." darcy's face was immovable. "i said by _you_." "i heard you." "you've nothing to say?" "the accused," said the colonel, "is never required to convict himself." "you're quite within your rights; we'll let it pass. i make the statement; you neither affirm or deny it." "go on," said darcy. "you then come to sussex to receive the funds from mr. riddle, the most important shareholder." "you're mistaken. miss fitzgerald received the money from mr. riddle," remarked the colonel. "you say nothing of your part in the transaction," commented the secretary, sternly. "i thought you wanted the truth of the matter." "i do--go on." "when the company found, thanks to your conversation with, and infatuation for, miss fitzgerald, that you had in all probability been set to spy upon us, it was deemed better that i should play a subordinate part," continued darcy. "accordingly she was selected to do all the dirty work in this country--collect the money and forward it to london." "what part did kingsland play?" "none whatever, except that of carrier. i sounded him some weeks ago, and found him too loose-tongued for our purposes. it was belle's scheme to let him take the treasure to town, and he actually believed the cock-and-bull story she told him about the stereopticon slides." "as soon as you recovered your lost letter of instructions, you intended to go to london, draw out the forty thousand pounds, embark for my country, and distribute the bribes," resumed stanley, "but, unfortunately for you, your plans are upset entirely. i have in my possession not only your letter of instructions, but also the name of the bank in which the money now lies, and where it can be detained at my orders." at this point the colonel's reserve entirely broke down. "you hold all the trumps, damn you!" he cried. "give me your terms and conditions." "it's not the intention of my government to prosecute the corrupt members of the cabinet for a variety of reasons, which, even with your views on the subject of honour, you'll undoubtedly approve." darcy flushed, but said nothing. "in the first place," continued the secretary, "the executive has no desire to wash the government's dirty linen in public, and the story is not so creditable that it should be spread abroad. all that is needed is to insure the passage of the treaty; and it is thought, and thought rightly, that a warning to the opposition, if the true facts are known, and can be proved if necessary, would be quite sufficient to remove their obstruction. of course, the more overwhelming the proof, the more potent the warning; and, while it's not necessary, understand that, i should prefer your signed confession to round out my case." "what do you offer in return?" "immunity from prosecution." "is that all?" "_all!_ colonel darcy, i'd have you to know that it's left entirely to my discretion how to proceed against you. i have it in my power to order your arrest, with a certain term of imprisonment at hard labour." "would my evidence be used publicly?" "i think i can assure against that in any case." "what assurance have i that your government will play me fair if i turn state's evidence?" stanley thought a moment, and then handed him the minister's open letter. the colonel perused it, nodded quietly, and said:-- "it will do. i accept the terms. damn it, i can't do otherwise! give me pen, ink, and paper. what do you want me to write?" "in substance what i've said to you." "very well." "kindly leave out all reference, by name, to lieutenant kingsland and miss fitzgerald." "ha! i suppose you still think she's an angel." "i know she is a woman, colonel darcy." for some time there was no sound in the room but the scratching of pen to paper. at length, however, the colonel raised his head from his work, and, pushing it towards the secretary, said laconically:-- "will it do?" "quite," replied stanley, after perusing it. "will you sign it, please? thanks, i'll witness." "there," said the colonel, rising. "that closes our interview." "not quite yet, colonel. i've still an advantageous offer to make to you, in reward for some further concessions of a different character. the case for the government is closed. our private affairs yet remain to be settled." "by gad! you're right there! they do!" "there is that little trifle of the forty thousand pounds. suppose i was to give you that amount." "what!!!" exclaimed his hearer, petrified with astonishment. "you mean to say that you will give it to me?" "never, colonel, never! i shall go to the victoria street branch of the bank of england in london, say the day after to-morrow, to warn them about the money. if you draw it out before that time, why, it's my misfortune. i'll be perfectly frank with you, colonel darcy. my government doesn't want the handling of this coin, its disposal is left to me. you see it's for everybody's interest to lose this large sum. when the cabinet knows that the truth has been discovered--they know it now, by the way--it was cabled in cipher--there's not one of them who would touch a penny of it. the company can't receive it without giving a receipt, which might prove damaging evidence; while neither government can take it without becoming a party to the transaction. i'm willing to give it to you, if you'll do two things in return. two disagreeable things, i admit, to a conscientious man; but they're each worth twenty thousand pounds." "i'd sell my soul for that!" said he with a laugh. "my dear colonel, are you sure you have it to sell?" "what are the conditions?" "first, that you consent to a divorce from madame darcy." "humph! that's a nice thing to ask a man. moreover, it's not worth anything. in fact it's a clear loss. my wife's property, of which i have the use, is worth far more than that." "but you don't have the use of it, colonel." "well, i should have to pay alimony--then." "i'll guarantee you against that. moreover, she'd get her divorce in any event, and then you'd have nothing." "you're quite right. a pretty woman, who knows how to have hysterics, can get anything in a court of law. my wife's an expert in the latter accomplishment, and she's good-looking enough to corrupt any jury that was ever empanelled. i give in, it's no use playing a losing game. now for the second." "the second is purely confidential." "go on." "i'd like to know exactly what you and miss fitzgerald expected to receive for this transaction, and whether these letters," producing the ones madame darcy had given him, "do not relate solely to it?" darcy laughed. "you're paying rather a high price for that young lady's character," he said. "a woman's character should be above any price, colonel darcy. we seem to have differing standards of value, which does not, however, alter the main question of whether you will accede to my conditions." "certainly i will, and permit me to tell you that you're paying more than either of them is worth." "that is for me to decide." "quite so. now how do you wish me to aid in my wife's divorce?" "a statement signed by you, to the effect that you would not contest a suit for divorce--say on the grounds of incompatibility of temper, coupled by your promise of non-interference, would be sufficient. as madame darcy is not a catholic, and her father is a power in his own country, she would have no trouble, legal or religious, in using such evidence." "oh, is that all?" said the colonel, manifestly relieved. "i supposed you wanted statutory grounds." "i wish to save your wife as much pain and annoyance as possible, and it would be well if you felt the same." "oh!" exclaimed darcy. "so that's the way the land lies, is it? a very interesting way for a young man who is in love with one of the women, and engaged to the other." "you'll please attend to business, and not discuss my affairs," broke in the secretary, sharply. "quite right, quite right; pardon me--there, it's only a few lines, but i think it will give my wife her freedom when she requires it," and he handed him a paper, adding:--"now let me go." "two things you've forgotten," said stanley. "your promise not to appear against your wife in her suit for divorce----" "that's understood!" "do you give it?" "yes. i promise not to appear against my wife in her suit for divorce, or in any way to impede its progress. does that satisfy you? you'll find i'm a man of my word, mr. stanley, when i'm as well paid for it, as in the present case." "now what did you expect to receive from this transaction?" "ten per cent. on the amount distributed--say four thousand pounds." "i see. and what did you propose to give to miss fitzgerald?" "i said i'd share it with her." "that is, you'd each have two thousand pounds." "exactly--but she's such a mercenary, avaricious little baggage, she struck for more; said she had the most dangerous part to perform, and by gad! they allotted her three-fourths." "three thousand pounds. quite a neat little sum." "rather! i was only to receive one thousand pounds." "now about those letters?" darcy looked them over hurriedly, and remarked:-- "purely commercial." "so i supposed. but how do you explain that sentence in your letter, in which you refer to there being a happy future for both of you?" the colonel thrust his hands in his pockets, and looked the secretary squarely in the face. "see here, stanley," he said. "i'm not altogether a cad, and i'll be damned if i explain any more." the secretary flushed, and there was an awkward silence, which he broke by speaking nervously. "that's all, i think," he continued, "except--i suppose you'll have no trouble in getting the money?" darcy laughed. "give me twenty-four hours," he said. the secretary nodded. "well, i must be going," remarked the colonel regretfully, as if he was just bringing to a close a protracted, but delightful, interview. "you've paid a high price for rather indifferent goods, young man, and to show you that i'm dealing fair, i'll throw in a bit of advice. drop our irish friend as soon as you know how. take my word for it, she's a thoroughly bad lot. i don't care what you're worth, she'd run through it in five years, and then----" "don't say it!" commanded the secretary. "as you like, it's the truth. the money will be in the victoria street branch of the bank of england till day after to-morrow? yes. thank you, mr. stanley. trust you're satisfied. i am. good day." the door closed. he was gone. chapter xxxvii the price of knowledge "i can never thank you sufficiently for all you've done, old man," said stanley to kent-lauriston, as the latter stood beside him, a few moments later. "which means," said his friend, "that you are going to ask me to do you another favour." "how well you understand human nature," replied the secretary, smiling sadly. "yes, it's quite true; i want you to go to--_her_--you understand, for me. i meant to go myself, but after what darcy has told me, it's impossible." "it's infinitely better to leave the affair in my hands. it will be easier for both of you." "i'm sure of it. you once said to me, you may remember, that it required more skill to break than to make an engagement, and i'm certain that you'd do this with great tact, and that i should blunder. you'll make it as easy for her as you can, i know--perhaps she'll save you any awkwardness by breaking it off herself. from what she said yesterday, i should think it possible." "i trust so." "here are her letters to me--you'll take them back." "i will. do you feel sure of yourself?" "you need have no fears on that account. i think madame darcy was right when she told me once that she was certain that i'd never loved." "what reason did she give for that statement?" "reason--that's just it, she said i'd reasoned about my love, therefore it couldn't be real." "madame darcy is a very clever woman." "and a very charming one." "i fully agree with you, but of course she has her drawbacks." "you think so?" "her present position is, to say the least, equivocal; and as a divorcée----" "oh, come, kent-lauriston, can't you let anyone alone? i never think of those things in connection with her. she's just madame darcy--that's all. she forms her own environment; one is so completely dominated by her presence, that other circumstances connected with her don't occur to one." "in other words, you do not reason." "kent-lauriston!" "there, i won't say it--only you admit that so far i've known you better than you've known yourself.-- yes?-- well, do not forget what i once told you before. you can never love a woman whom you cannot respect, and no woman who respects herself would permit even a hint of a man's affections until she was free to receive them. any such premature attempt would be fatal to his suit." "thank you," said stanley, "i won't forget;" and then, with a touch of his old humour, which the responsibilities of the last few days had nearly crushed out, he added: "you're not going to try to save me again?" "no, thank you, one experience of that sort has been quite enough," replied kent-lauriston, laughing. "now about this present matter," continued the secretary. "i don't want you to think me callous or shallow, because i don't appear all broken up; it has hit me very hard. i admit i was a fool, that i took for real passion a sort of sentimentalism born of pity; but, nevertheless, i was honest in my self-deception, and i assure you, even though you may laugh at me, that could i restore her to the innocent girl i believed her to be a few days ago; could i even be assured that she'd join this conspiracy to help a friend, and not as a cold-blooded speculation; i'd gladly marry her with all her faults, and give up my life to leading her into better paths." "i do not laugh at you, my boy," said kent-lauriston. "i respect you for it, i believe you, too; but, as i said in our first interview on this subject, you're too good for her; and she has underrated what she is not fitted to understand." "there, go now," said the secretary. "if i talk of this any more, i shall be unnerved, and i've need of all my self-control to-day. go and do the best you can. be gentle and tender for my sake. i suppose i ought to face the matter myself, but i can't bear to. i simply can't look her in the face--now i know----" and he bent his head, choking back a sob. his friend pressed his hand silently, and left the room. * * * * * "just one moment, if you please, colonel darcy," kent-lauriston had said, overtaking that officer as he was crossing the park, about an hour after his interview with stanley. "i can't stop just now, i'm in a hurry." "oh, yes, you can--you can spare me a minute--a minute for an old acquaintance, who knew you when you were only a lieutenant, like our friend kingsland; a lieutenant in derbyshire, who had aspirations for the hand of lord ----'s daughter." "which you frustrated, damn you! i haven't forgotten." "or the evidence which led to such an unfortunate result? affairs of that sort are not outlawed by the lapse of years; you understand?" "what do you want of me? speak! my time is of value." "yes, i know--about forty thousand pounds." "humph! go on, will you. i'll tell you what you want, only be quick about it." "i merely want to know the exact and real truth of miss fitzgerald's connection with this bribery and corruption business." "i told your friend, the secretary." "i know what you _told_ him, he's just retailed it to me; but you will pardon me, if i state that, as an observer, of human nature, i don't believe it." "i've said what i've said," replied the colonel, surlily. "let us see if we can't arrive at a mutual understanding," continued kent-lauriston, suavely. "you wish to injure the girl and make her marriage with my friend impossible, because you think she's betrayed you. i wish to render the marriage impossible, because i don't care to see this young man make a fool of himself by marrying a girl who's after his money, and who has nothing to offer in return. our ends are identical, our motives only are different. do you follow me?" the colonel nodded. "now," resumed kent-lauriston, "you've told a very clever circumstantial story, which has ruined her in stanley's eyes, and has stopped the match, as we both wished. its only flaw lies in the fact that it is not true. if he finds this out, he'll marry her in spite of us; but he is much less likely to find it out if i know the real state of the case, and, as a corollary, the weak points of your narrative, and so am able to prevent the discovery. do you believe me?" "i never knew you to tell a lie--it's not in your line." "quite so. therefore, will you tell _me_ the truth?" "the truth, then, is that belle didn't instigate the plot. i got her out of a scrape some years ago, and she was grateful, and lent me a hand with this, purely out of friendship. she doesn't expect to get a penny in reward. it was her idea, however, of using kingsland to forward the stuff." "kingsland knew nothing about it?" "nothing at all. he thought the chests contained stereopticon slides." "that's the real truth then?" "yes, but if you blow it to stanley, i'll tell him your share in this little arrangement." kent-lauriston looked at him, coldly. "you said you were in a hurry, colonel darcy," he remarked. "don't let me detain you." * * * * * "i consider it providential," said the marchioness. mrs. roberts said nothing. it was this trait that rendered her so admirable as a hostess and a friend. "of course," continued her ladyship, "i had long known that there was some sentiment between my dear isabelle and lieutenant kingsland, and if i had supposed there was anything serious, they would at once have had my blessing, and--er--a wedding in st. george's, and--everything that religion requires. their secret marriage was childish and ridiculous--because it was not opposed." mrs. roberts still held her peace. "i say," continued the dowager, "that it was not opposed; of course mr. stanley----" "ah," said her hostess, seeing that she was expected to intervene: "mr. stanley--what of him?" "well, you see, my dear mrs. roberts, he's a most excellent young man; but he comes from a catholic country--and--er--the influence is so insidious, that, on consideration, i didn't really feel--that my duty as a mother would permit me to countenance the match further." mrs. roberts said nothing, she had been ill-used in this particular, she felt, and withheld her sympathy accordingly. the dowager appreciated the position, and acted promptly. "your dear niece, miss fitzgerald, such a charming girl," she continued, "doubtless feels as i do. her throwing stanley over unreservedly was most commendable, and reflected much credit on your influence, dear mrs. roberts." her hostess was mollified, and showed it. the dowager's position promised to turn defeat into triumph. "you're most kind, i'm sure," she murmured. "belle was naturally guided by me," and then changing a dangerous subject, she continued, "it is so sad that lieutenant kingsland's honeymoon should be darkened by his uncle's death." her ladyship dried an imaginary tear, and added:-- "if one believes in providence, one must of course believe that these things are for the best." "here comes the secretary," said mrs. roberts. "does he know?" "i must tell him," replied the dowager. "it's my painful duty." mrs. roberts precipitately left the room. "dear mr. stanley," murmured the dowager, "i was just on the point of sending for you; you've come most opportunely. i feel i must speak to you about my dear daughter. she is a sadly wilful girl, and i fear----" "don't speak of it, your ladyship. i know, that is, i've heard; and permit me to offer my congratulations on your daughter's recent marriage to lieutenant kingsland," he said, throwing into his voice what he trusted might pass for a note of resignation. "dear mr. stanley," said the dowager, infinitely relieved, "you are so tactful, so generous----" "i hope she'll be happy." "oh yes--yes--we must hope so." and her ladyship sighed deeply. "_you_, of course, know what i wished from my heart." "i'm going away," he said abruptly, "this afternoon in fact. i'm assigned on a diplomatic service, which, for the present, may take me out of england, so you'll make my adieux to lady isabelle, will you not?" "i--er--trust you do not contemplate doing anything--foolish?" "you may set your mind at rest on that score." "you relieve me immensely--you'll excuse me if i'm too frank. i've come so near being a--er--mother to you, i feel a peculiar interest in your welfare. may i venture to express the hope, that you'll not commit yourself with that young irish person?" "your ladyship may feel quite easy-- miss fitzgerald and i have never been more than friends, and in the future----" "of course one must be kind; but a young man cannot be too careful. i assure you in regard to the young woman in question, that i was told in strict confidence--the most shocking----" "pardon me," he interrupted, "but i couldn't think of violating your strict confidence," and he passed by her out of the room. "that young man," said the dowager, in summing him up to a friend, "has tact, but lacks reserve." chapter xxxviii the price of love "have you come to insult me, mr. kent-lauriston?" isabelle fitzgerald stood in a wooded recess of the park, beside a young sapling; the one no more fair and tall and glorious with the joy of living than the other. kent-lauriston was beside her, hat in hand, with just the trace of a cynical smile about his parted lips; but serious enough with it all, well realising the gravity of the task he had undertaken, and pitying from his heart the fair girl who stood white and scornful before him, her garden hat hanging from its ribbon, unconsciously held in her hand. "have you come to insult me, mr. kent-lauriston?" she said it defiantly, as if it were a gage of battle. "i have come to apologise to you," he replied quietly. "you tell me that _he_ has sent you to me. well, i know what that means. i _knew_ why you came to the hall, i would have stopped you if i could. you were my enemy, i felt it the moment i saw you. i _knew_ you would have your way then. what chance had an unfortunate girl, whose only hope rested in the love of the man she loved, as against one who has made hundreds of matches, and broken hundreds of hearts? you owe me an apology you think--it is very good of you, i appreciate it deeply," and she made him an obeisance. "i've not come to apologise to you for any point that i've gained, but for the means i must employ to gain it." "really," she said, her eyes blazing. "this _is_ a condescension. are not any means good enough to cope with an adventuress like myself--a young woman who is deterred by no conventions, and no maidenly reserve; whose every art and wile is strained to lure on to their fate weak and unsuspecting young men. is it possible that such a person has any rights that need be respected?" "really, miss fitzgerald," said kent-lauriston, placidly, "you surprise me. in addition to the numerous virtues, which i'm confident you possess, i'd added in my own mind that paramount one, of cool clear-headedness. this lady, i had told myself, is at all events perfectly free from hysteria or nervous affections; she can discuss an unpleasant subject, if necessary, in its practical bearings, without flying into a fit of rage, and wandering hopelessly from the point. it appears that i was mistaken." "no," she replied brusquely, "you are not; you've summed up my character very well, but you must remember that you've nothing to gain or lose in this matter. you're merely playing the game--directing the moves of the pawns. the problem is interesting, amusing, if you like, but whether you win or lose, you've nothing wagered on the result. but the pawn! its very existence is at stake--a false move is made, and it disappears from the board." "quite true! but the pawn has a better chance of life, if the moves are considered calmly, than if played at random; it is then inevitably lost." "you're right," she said, seating herself on a grassy bank near by: "perfectly right. let us talk this matter over calmly. i shan't forget myself again." he seated himself beside her. "now frankly," she continued, "before you saw me, or spoke to me, you'd made up your mind to save your friend from my clutches, had you not? i beg your pardon--doubtless, you'd disapprove of such an expression--we'll say, you had determined to prevent him from marrying me." "frankly speaking, yes, i had." "but you knew nothing about me; you could know nothing about me, except on hearsay." "pardon me--i knew your late father, and i was at colonel belleston's, when you ran off with his heir-apparent, and were not found till half the country-side had been searched, and the dinner quite spoiled." "but georgie belleston was only eight, and i scarcely twelve. we had determined, i remember, to join a circus--no, he wanted to fight indians; but it was childish nonsense." "the spirit was there, nevertheless. but in the present case i was considering mr. stanley, i must confess, rather than yourself. the world, my dear young lady, is an open market, a prosaic, mercantile world." "don't you suppose i know that?" "i'm willing to believe it if you wish me to do so. it will help us to understand the commonsense proposition that marriageable young men, like cabbages, have a market value, and that a young man like our friend, who has a great deal to offer, should--shall i be perfectly plain, and say--should expect a pretty handsome return for himself." "and you didn't think that i'd much to offer," she said, laughing. "in other words, that you'd be selling your cabbages very cheap. eh?" kent-lauriston said nothing, but she saw the impression she had produced, and bit her lips in mortified rage. she wished at least to win this man's respect, and she was showing herself to him in her very worst light. "i had, as you say," she continued, "nothing to offer mr. stanley but my love; but i dare say you don't believe in love, mr. kent-lauriston." "not believe in love? my dear young lady, it forms the basis of every possible marriage." "does it never form the _whole_ of such a union?" "only too often, but these are the impossible marriages, and ninety-nine per cent. of them prove failures, or worse." "i can't believe you--if one loves, nothing else counts." "quite true for the time being, but god help the man or woman who mistakes the passion aroused by a pretty face or form for the real lasting article, and wagers his life on it." "you've never married; you can, therefore, talk as you please." "my dear miss fitzgerald, if i'd ever married, i should probably not talk at all." "you don't regard our affair as serious?" "not on mr. stanley's side?" "and on mine?" "that we shall see later on; but my young friend is in his salad days, and he's not responsible, but he is almost too honest." "i suppose you'll say i tempted him." "n-o--but you let him fall." "however, you were at hand to rescue him. i wonder you should have wasted your valuable time in going through the formality of consulting me over so trivial an affair." "but it's not trivial. i thought it was till this morning, now i've changed my mind. it's very serious. i've a right to save my friend from making a fool of himself, when he only is the real sufferer; but it's a very different question when the rights of another person are involved, especially when that person is a woman." "so you've come to me?" "to persuade you, if possible, to relinquish those rights." "for his sake?" "no, for your own." "really--that's a novel point of view to take of the matter." "you think so. i only want you to see the affair in its true light, to realise that the game isn't worth the candle." "i think you'll find it difficult to prove that." "we shall see. suppose i state the case. here are you, a charming young lady of good family, but no means, thrown on your own resources; in a word, with the opportunity of marrying a--shall we say, _pliable_--young man, of good official standing, and an undoubtedly large income and principal; who is infatuated--thinks he's fallen in love with you, and whom you really love. there, have i stated the case fairly?" "so fairly, that you'll find it difficult to prove your point." "let me continue. suppose you're married; grand ceremonial, great _éclat_, delighted friends and relatives, handsome presents, diamonds and all--he'd do the thing well--honeymoon, say, the riviera--limit, three months--what next? where are you going to live? london? it won't do. property--that property you're so interested in--can't take care of itself; the young heir of those broad plantations must go home and learn the business. your practical mind shows you the necessity of that. do you know the life of his native country? no? your nearest neighbours thirty miles away, and deadly dull at that; your climate a damp, sultry fog; your amusements, sleeping in a hammock two-thirds of the day, when the mosquitoes will let you, and your husband's society, as sole company, the rest of the time. after two or three years, or perhaps four or five--long enough to ruin your matchless complexion, and cause you both to be forgotten by all your friends, except those who can't afford to do so--you come back to london for a nice long visit--say three months. how you will enjoy it! let me see, what do you most like? horses, riding, hunting? ever heard the secretary's ideas on hunting?" she laughed nervously, and kent-lauriston pursued his subject. "then he's so indefatigable at balls and parties; i've known him to stay half an hour, when he's been feeling fit! his friends, too, such dear old fogies, like your esteemed aunt, not like _your_ friends--you know how fond he is of them. the kingslands and darcys of your acquaintance would simply revel in the house of a man who never plays cards for money, and can't tell an eighty from a ninety-eight champagne--and he'd be master in his own house, too--you received an ultimatum yesterday. a man who will do that to a woman to whom he isn't even quite engaged will command his wife and see that she obeys him. you would have before you the choice of living in an atmosphere and associating with people entirely uncongenial to you, or living wholly apart from your husband; either would be intolerable. have i proved my point?" "you've forgotten to include in your charming sketch that i should still have the comforts of life, and, what is more important, a house to cover me, enough to eat and drink, and clothes to wear--things which i have sometimes in the past found it pretty difficult to obtain." "true, but you'd be paying too high a price for them, much too high. take my word for it, again and again you'd long to be back in your present state; yes, and in harder straits than you are now." "what you say to me could be equally well applied to mr. stanley, in reverse." "quite so; it sums up in the mere fact, that you two have nothing in common except passion and sentimentality, very frail corner stones on which to build a life's happiness. you're not even companionable. what are you going to talk about for the rest of your lives? it's an appalling prospect. i want to save you both from making a very bad bargain." "i don't agree with you," she cried vehemently, springing to her feet, "not at all; but what difference does it make? i know well enough i'm not really to be consulted as to the issue; you'd never have had the effrontery to speak to me as you have done, if you were not already sure of the game. to use a commercial phrase, you've cornered the market, and can make what terms you please. i must accede to them." "you entirely mistake the situation, miss fitzgerald," he said, calmly rising, and facing her. "it is you who have cornered the market, and it is i who must buy at your price." "explain yourself! what do you mean?" she cried, a gleam of hope, almost of triumph, lighting up her face. kent-lauriston was now playing a bold game. "i mean," he replied, "that circumstances have rendered me powerless to prevent mr. stanley's marrying you, if you allow him to do so." "tell me!----" she exclaimed abruptly. "it's for that purpose that i've sought you out." she nodded. she was watching him guardedly. "i've admitted that our young friend was in love with you. i don't say you encouraged him, but you certainly excited his pity, a very dangerous proceeding with a person of his nature." "what's all this to do with my position?" "a great deal," resumed kent-lauriston. "you see, i want you to understand your hold over mr. stanley--it's really because he pities you." the girl flushed painfully. "excuse me if i speak things which are unpleasant, but you most understand your weakness, and your strength. you've nearly ruined yourself by being too clever, and now, by the wildest stroke of luck, you're in a very strong position." "would you mind speaking plainly?" "certainly. in a word, the situation is just this. within the last few days, mr. stanley has made three discoveries about you, which have gone far to destroy his sympathy for you, and make him believe that his pity or his love, as he chooses to call it, has been misplaced. two of these discoveries i believe to be true; one--the worst--i know to be false. if he discovers how shockingly you've been maligned, he'll probably forget the past, and, in a burst of contrition at having so misjudged you, will do what his common sense forbids--i mean, marry you." "you're really becoming interesting. i had underrated your abilities. pray be more explicit," she said, quite at her ease at these reassuring words, and putting kent-lauriston down, mentally, as a fool for giving the game away, when he need only have kept silent to have had it all in his own hands. he read her thoughts and smiled quietly, for, by her expression, he could gauge the depth of her subtlety. she was no match for him, if she were innocent enough to believe him capable of such folly. "you compliment me," he returned, "but to go on--in the first place, he learned of your connection with lady isabelle's marriage. it opened his eyes somewhat." "she told him?" "she did. you forced her to do so, by your threat against her husband." miss fitzgerald bit her lip, and said nothing. "lady isabelle," continued kent-lauriston, "in appealing to the secretary to save her husband, gave him the clue he was searching for; which resulted in his discovery of the friendly turn you had done the lieutenant, in making him unconsciously, shall we say, _particeps criminis_?" "ah!" "have you seen colonel darcy to-day?" she paused for a moment, considering, and then decided it was better to be straightforward, and replied: "not since yesterday morning. i went to see him last evening, but found him out." "i know you did." miss fitzgerald breathed a sigh of relief. it was well she had decided not to lie to this man. "you're probably not aware, then," continued kent-lauriston, "that stanley succeeded in opening the secret door last night, and obtained possession of darcy's letter of instructions." the irish girl turned very white, looking as if she were going to faint. "then he knows everything," she whispered. "everything," replied her tormentor. "the details of the plot he has known for some time, being stationed here by the legation to watch the colonel--but it was not till darcy was brought to book this morning, and in order to save himself, signed a written confession, that he really knew the extent to which _you_ were incriminated." she burst into tears. kent-lauriston proceeded unconcernedly with his story. "the colonel's chivalry is not of such a nature as would cause him to hesitate in shifting all the responsibility he could, on the shoulders of a woman." she dried her tears at that, and her eyes fairly snapped. "the fact," resumed kent-lauriston, "that stanley had on several occasions tried to help you to clear yourself, and the fact that you'd persistently--well--not done so--made matters all the worse. in short, on these two counts alone, you had given evidence of an amount of deceit and cold-blooded calculation that completely upset even such an optimist as he. still, i think he would have overlooked it, if properly managed--if that had been the worst." "can anything be worse?" "yes, for this last charge against you is not true." "go on." "you placed yourself in darcy's power. a clever woman, a really clever woman, my dear miss fitzgerald, would not have done that. it would be easy for him to manufacture circumstantial evidence, to back any lie he might choose to exploit, to your discredit. say, for instance, that you were the prime mover in this plot, and that you went into it for a financial consideration, for three thousand pounds." "but bob never would----" "wouldn't he, when he was thirsting for revenge, believing that your careless threat against lieutenant kingsland had ruined his hopes." "did he do this?" "he did, and that is why i'm here this morning in mr. stanley's place--commissioned to return to you your letters," and he handed her the packet. "it's not true!" she cried. "before heaven, mr. kent-lauriston, it is not true!" "i know it's not true, for darcy's confessed to me." "but mr. stanley does not know." "no." "then he must be told." "if you tell him he'll fling prudence to the winds in an agony of remorse, and you'll have won the game." "you mean he'll keep to his engagement?" "i mean he'll marry you." "and you dare to ask any woman to allow such a slander to live when she can deny it?" "i ask you, for your own sake, for the reasons i've stated, for your future happiness, and as an escape from certain misery--to let him go." "i tell you i love him." "then i ask you for _his_ sake. a brilliant diplomatic career is just opening before him, as the result of the discovery of this plot. is his government likely to repose confidence in him in the future, with you as his wife--a woman who has practised treason? his father would never receive you, and might disinherit him. do you love this man so little that you wish to ruin him?" "i tell you i love him--you do not understand." "i understand that you love him in one of two ways. if it's a great love it's capable of sacrifice to prove its greatness. show that it is so by giving him up. if it's any other sort of love it will not stand the strain to which you propose to subject it, and within six months after your marriage you'll realise that you've ruined two lives, and are yourself the chief sufferer. come, prove that what you say is true, and save him from himself." "but if i do, i do it at a fearful price. it means social ostracism." "not at all. who will know of this charge against you? four people at the most, and not one of them will ever speak of it. darcy, who originated the lie, will, for obvious reasons, keep silent. stanley's the soul of honour; he'd rather tear his tongue out than speak a word of it. i've proved my discretion through several generations, and kingsland must be held in check by you." "why do you include lieutenant kingsland?" "because, i believe, he holds the only piece of evidence which could appear to substantiate darcy's trumped-up lie." "and that is?" "the receipt for the forty thousand pounds _in your name_." "and you wish me to ask kingsland to proclaim my own shame!" "i wish you to ask him to give that receipt to the secretary." "now i see why you come to me, why you did not ruthlessly throw me over; your little plot had a weak point, and you needed my co-operation to complete my own degradation!" "miss fitzgerald is fast becoming a diplomatist!" "i'm a fool!" "pardon me, you are nearer wisdom than you've ever been in your life." "if--i--do--this," she said very slowly, "you must help me to reinstate myself in the eyes of the world." "i've told you it'll not be necessary." "bah! i know the world better than you do, with all your cleverness. mine is a practical, not a theoretical, knowledge." kent-lauriston bowed. "they'll talk, no matter if it be truth or not. it will be believed. i must have a few questions answered in any event." "ask them." "who is mr. stanley to marry?" "madame darcy." "but----" "her husband has consented to the divorce." "on what grounds?" "incompatibility of temper, i believe." "so you think the secretary will marry her?" "i'll take charge of that matter." "i know they love each other!" she exclaimed, passionately. "it was love at first sight. then there was a misunderstanding. now, one more question. this sum of forty thousand pounds?" "yes, what of it?" "who's to have it?" "darcy." "what!" "the secretary told him he might draw it from the bank to-morrow, as, well--as compensation for turning state's evidence." she laughed a harsh, unmusical laugh. "you've won," she said. "i will do what you wish--for his sake." "i believed that you would," he replied gravely, but one eyelid raised just a trifle. she saw it, and turned on him like a flash. "no!" she cried, "it isn't for that reason! i've some good in me yet, some pride! i tell you, it's not your cleverness that has done this! i wouldn't surrender my good name for the sake of any man in the world! i wouldn't allow the breath of suspicion to linger in the minds of my friends, for the love of your friend, or any other weak fool, whom i can turn round my fingers! no! the reason i surrender is because your last words have told me how i can right myself before all the world, save one man; and i'll consent to sacrifice my reputation in his eyes, because i love him. but for all that, robert darcy cannot divorce the woman who bears his name." "why not?" "because she's not his wife." "not his wife! who is his wife, then?" "i am." chapter xxxix the price of silence "you are robert darcy's wife," he said slowly, trying to adjust his ideas to this altered state of affairs. then, as some comprehension of the results which would follow this declaration dawned upon him, he continued:-- "why have you told me this?" "because i need your co-operation, and you're the only man i know whom i can trust to keep the secret." "i've given you no pledge to do so." "quite true, and i've asked for none; but i've misread you sadly, if you can't keep a still tongue in your head, when the advantage to all concerned by so doing can be made clear to you." "can you prove your point?" "yes, even to your satisfaction." "i'm all attention," he said. "in the first place," she began, "you must understand that colonel darcy and i were secretly married four years ago, in ireland. i'll show you my marriage certificate, to prove my words, when we return to the house. i always carry it with me in case of an emergency." kent-lauriston nodded, and she continued:-- "the colonel married me under the impression that i was an heiress. i married him because i thought i loved him. we both discovered our mistakes within the first few days. no one knew of the step we had taken, so we agreed to separate. this is a practical age. as miss fitzgerald i'd hosts of friends; as mrs. darcy, a girl who had made a worse than foolish marriage, i should have had none. the colonel had expected his wife to support him; he was in no condition to support her. his regiment was ordered to india; if he resigned, his income was gone. we decided to keep our secret. i remained miss fitzgerald. he went to india. three years later he was invalided home. travelling for his health, he returned by way of south america. there he met inez de costa, and won her love. she combined the two things he most craved, position and wealth. he had heard nothing from me for many months. he allowed his inclinations to guide his reason, and, trusting that i was dead, or had done something foolish, he married her and returned to england. we met. my natural impulse was to denounce him, but sober second thought showed the futility of such a course. i'd nothing to gain; everything to lose. he sent me money. i returned it. do you believe that?" "i believe you implicitly," replied kent-lauriston. "then he came to see me; for i think he still loved me. he came, i say, fearfully at first, lest i should betray him. then growing bolder, he threw off all reserve. believing, fool that he was, because i didn't denounce him, that i could ever forget or forgive the wrong he'd done me. he mistook compliance for forgetfulness, even had the audacity to suggest that i, too, should marry. "then this scheme for defeating the treaty was proposed to him. he was willing enough to undertake it, for his second matrimonial venture had been a pecuniary failure, thanks to the wisdom of señor de costa in tying up his daughter's property; but he lacked the brains to carry it out, and, like the fool that he is, came to me for assistance. i had lulled his suspicions, and he needed a confederate. he even held out vague promises of a future for us both, as if i'd believe his attested oath, after what had passed! i consented to help him, and would have brought the matter to a successful issue, if it hadn't been for his stupidity. what did i care about the success or failure of his plot? it had put the man in my power, put him where i wanted to have him. at any time within the last six weeks i could have forced him to publicly recognise me, if need were." "what prevented you from doing this?" "i'd fallen in love with your friend. yes, i admit it. it was weak, pitiably weak. at first i played with him, then too late i understood my own feelings." "but it could have come to nothing." "can you suppose i didn't realise that keenly? yet i hoped against hope that darcy would die; that he'd be apprehended and imprisoned, and perish of the rigours of hard labour; anything that would set me free. then i saw that stanley loved inez de costa. it was an added pang, but it caused me to hesitate; because in taking my revenge, i should wreck both their lives." "but you? had you pity for inez de costa?" "yes, incomprehensible as it may seem to you; for i'd learned to loathe darcy before he had committed bigamy. i never met her till that night at the hyde park club, and she asked me if i knew her husband. _her husband!_ i pitied her from that moment. she'd done me no wrong. why should i wreck her life, if it could be avoided?" "and now?" "now you've solved the problem. darcy won't dare to contest the suit for divorce. he'll be glad to get rid of her, because he can't control her money. having the purse-strings, i can force him to recognise me as his wife, after the divorce has been granted. i shall have an assured position, and i can begin to pay back some of my debts," and her eyes flashed. "and in all this, what is there to compel me to keep your secret?" "because the marriage between inez de costa and mr. stanley might never take place if they knew the truth. i'll keep the secret if you will. she's in no way to blame. at first i hated her; now that i've known her, my hate is turned to pity." "you're right," said kent-lauriston. "i'll keep your secret inviolate." "now about the receipt for the forty thousand pounds." "yes?" "i think mr. stanley had better see it, it'll save further awkwardness, but i must have it back. it's my one hold over darcy, my one chance of righting myself." "there's a receipt for the amount," said kent-lauriston, tearing out a leaf from his note-book, on which he wrote a few lines. "i'll be responsible for its return to you. i can't do less." "here comes lieutenant kingsland now," she said. "don't say anything. i'll manage this affair." "jack!" she called, "come here a moment." the young officer approached. "yes?" he said interrogatively. "you needn't hesitate to speak before mr. kent-lauriston," she assured him. "he's one of my _best_ friends. you've not forgotten the promise which you made me, when i helped you about arranging your wedding, to do anything i might request?" "no, and i'd do it if the occasion required," he replied heartily. "good," she said, "the occasion is here." "what must i do?" "you hold in your possession a receipt from the victoria street branch of the bank of england for the deposit in my name of five chests belonging to mr. riddle." "yes, i've been meaning to give it to you." "i wish you to give it to mr. stanley." "to mr. stanley?" "yes." "is that all?" "all, except that i charge you, on your honour, never to let him know i asked you to do this. tell him only that i gave you the chests, and how you disposed of them, and place the receipt in his hands, as coming from yourself. not a syllable about me, mind!" "i'll follow your instructions literally; but how am i to have the opportunity of doing this?" "mr. stanley will give you the opportunity, perhaps to-day. then see that you do it." "i promise." "swear." "well, i swear on my honour as an officer and a gentleman." "good. one more word. before to-night you may change your feelings towards me, may feel absolved from all obligations to me; but whatever events occur, do not forget that you have sworn to do this on your honour as an officer and as a gentleman, without any mental reservations whatsoever, and to do neither less nor more than this." "you can trust me, and if you think that anything my wife----" "no! no! i do trust you. go now, and give mr. stanley a chance to see you at once. you'll be serving me best so." he left them wondering, and, she, turning to kent-lauriston, said:-- "i tell you it is the greatest proof of my affection for him; for what he thinks of me is worth all the criticism of the world and more. oh, you may scoff! i know you think him too good for me!" "pardon me," interrupted kent-lauriston, taking off his hat, and bowing his head over her hand, which he held, "i have misunderstood you." * * * * * it was nearly two hours later that the secretary found time, amidst the distractions of a hurried departure, for he had made his peace with his hostess and was leaving for town that afternoon, to redeem his promise to lady isabelle. "is lieutenant kingsland in the house?" he asked of the servant, who answered his summons. "he's in the billiard-room, sir." "very well. will you present my compliments to him, and ask him to be so kind as to come to my room for a few minutes?" in less time than it takes to tell it, the young officer responded to the summons, saying as he entered:-- "here i am. can i do anything for you?" "perhaps. but i sent for you primarily for the purpose of doing you a favour." "that sounds encouraging. by the way, did you know that your especial admiration, darcy, was planning to vacate at the earliest opportunity?" "yes," replied the secretary, drily. "i gave him leave to go, but he's to all intents and purposes under arrest." "the devil!" "quite so, there's the devil to pay, and i'm afraid you may have to foot part of the bill, if you're not careful." "what do you mean?" cried the lieutenant, starting uneasily. "i'll explain. that's why i sent for you; but you mustn't resent a certain inquisitiveness on my part. it's only for your good." "go on, go on!" "you went to london a few days ago, and executed a commission for darcy." "no--for belle fitzgerald." "it's the same thing." "i think not. there were some chests containing stereopticon slides, and belle asked me to put them in a bank for her." "the victoria street branch of the bank of england." "exactly." "a good many slides, i imagine; rather heavy, weren't they?" "gad, i should think they were. it took two porters to lift each chest." "i suppose you told the bank authorities what was in the chests?" "no, i was told there was nothing to say. i was only to surrender them, and a sealed note, which would explain all." "did they give you a receipt for it?" "yes." "can anybody get the chests out?" "no, only the person mentioned in the receipt." "have you still got the receipt?" "yes." "very good," said the secretary. "i see your luck has not deserted you." "and now," said kingsland, "that i've answered all your questions, perhaps you'll tell me what you mean." "this is what i mean," replied stanley, handing him that first part of his minister's letter which he had shown to darcy. the lieutenant read it once, not understanding its purport; then again, his brow becoming wrinkled with anxiety; and yet again, with a very white face. "what is it?" he gasped. "it looks dangerously like treason, doesn't it?" returned the secretary. "but what is this bribe?" "you ought to know that, as you carried it up to london, in sovereigns." "what--how much was it?" "forty thousand pounds in gold." "good heavens!" said the lieutenant, and mopped his brow. "but i didn't know anything about it!" "that doesn't prevent you from having participated in one of the most rascally plots of your day and generation; from being a party in an attempt to overthrow, by the most open and shameless bribery, a treaty pending between the government you serve and mine." "but, if this gets out, i'll be cashiered from the navy." "oh, i don't think they'd stop there," said the secretary reassuringly. "not with the proof of that receipt." "good lord, i forgot that! here, take it, will you?" "certainly. suppose we open it and see if it proves my assertion," and, suiting the action to the word, he placed in the lieutenant's shaking hands a receipt of deposit in the victoria street branch of the bank of england, by miss isabelle fitzgerald, kindness of lieutenant j. kingsland, of forty thousand pounds. "can't you help me?" he asked. "it rests entirely with me." "then you will?" "tell me all you know. "but i don't know anything, except what i've told you. i give you my word as an officer and a gentleman, that i've been let into this affair in a most shameful manner, and that i'm entirely innocent, and ignorant of everything connected with it." "i believe you, lieutenant kingsland." "and you won't prosecute?" "not if you'll promise to drop this gang; they're a bad lot. promise me you'll cut loose from them as soon as possible, for your wife's sake." "i will," he said. "i will, old man. i can't thank you enough for what you've done." "you've nothing to thank me for; i'm sure you are innocent, and so i don't consider the circumstantial evidence; but you might not be as lucky another time. i hope this will be a lesson to you. i need hardly caution you to silence," and he appeared to peruse some papers to ease the young officer's exit from the room. that evening in the privacy of the library, the lieutenant confided the news of his lucky escape to his wife, ending up with the question: "do you think the fitzgerald really loves him?" "my dear jack," said lady isabelle, "a woman of that stamp does not know what love means, she's simply scheming to marry him for his money. how can people do such things?" "i'm sure i don't know, my dear," replied her spouse, yawning. the subject was inopportune, and it bored him. chapter xl the price of a lie stanley had made all his adieux, or at least all he wanted to make. he was tired with the exciting events of the day, and longed for a little peace and quiet before the exacting ordeal of a railway ride to london. he had given up the time-table as a chinese puzzle. "what with the trains that go somewhere and those that don't," he protested, "i'm all at sea!" he, therefore, sent kent-lauriston ahead in the trap, and walked across the park to the station. that gentleman had convinced him of the propriety of restoring the order for the forty thousand pounds to miss fitzgerald. he had pointed out that she was the rightful owner of the document, and that darcy was an infernal rascal. the secretary had acquiesced in his demand, and promised, should he not see belle before he left, an interview he much wished to avoid, that he would mail it to her from the station. he had first, however, a far more pleasant commission to perform, and a few minutes later was seated under the spreading branches of an old apple tree with inez darcy. "i felt i must come and see you," he said. "i'm going away to-day, to london, on important business." "yes," she murmured. "you've been very good to me." "some time ago," he continued, "you did me the honour to entrust your affairs to my keeping, or, perhaps, to the keeping of the legation." "to your keeping, i should prefer." "i fear that you may think i've been remiss, that other things have taken my mind off them, that i've, in short, forgotten them, but it is not so." "i never doubted you." "i hope to prove to you that you've not misplaced your confidence, in evidence of which i bring you this," and he handed her a paper. "what is it?" she said. "a line from your husband," she started, "which gives you your freedom." "you mean a divorce?" "yes." "but i do not understand." "he agreed to consent to your obtaining such a decree on any ground you choose. i've decided on 'incompatibility of temper,' as being the least embarrassing to you. he will not appear to contest the suit when it is brought forward. this paper, signed in my presence, promises as much." "my husband is a bad man, he would never have surrendered unless he was forced to do so; for he believes that by retaining the control of me, he may yet obtain control of my property." "perhaps he has seen the futility of these hopes." "no, no, his own self-conceit would have blinded him to the possibility of being outwitted. you've forced this from him. how have you done so?" "i had hoped you would not press me for these reasons. can't you accept my assurance that whatever i've done, has been done in your interests alone." "don't think me ungrateful if i say no, but i've had to endure so many mysteries, that, for once, my great desire is to be clear of them." "i hesitate to tell you, because it may give you pain." "i am used to that and can bear it." "well, if you will have it. colonel darcy, as a result of his own actions, was placed in my power." "you mean that it was your duty to have him arrested?" "that was left to my discretion." "and you forced his consent?" "no, i gave him a chance to purchase his freedom, and a substantial reward, by a confession, and this----" and he touched the paper. "but had you a right----?" "i had a right to make any terms i pleased. i was given unlimited power to impose my own conditions, and i'm sure, had my chief known, he would have wished you to derive any benefit possible from the transaction." "it's dearly bought with that man's disgrace. in the eyes of the world, he will still be my husband." "there will be no disgrace." "i do not understand." "the government doesn't wish to punish colonel darcy; it merely wishes for his evidence, to aid in the detection of others." "but his name will appear." "it is strictly stipulated that it shall not do so; be assured your secret is safe." "and he could have sunk so low as to sell himself and those who trusted him." "they were criminals." "it doesn't lessen his treachery." "don't waste a thought on him, least of all any sentimental emotion. he wasted little enough on you, and would have insulted you in my presence, had i permitted it; he sold your freedom with less compunction than he sold his honour or his friends." "enough!" she cried, her eyes sparkling. "he is forgotten. we will speak of something else. let me use my time to better purpose, by trying to thank you--to begin to thank you, for all you've done for me." "you can repay me if you like." "what is the payment, then, for which you ask?" "my chief has received a request from your father this morning, that you be put in charge of some responsible person, to come home to him." "ah!" she said, "that is no favour, it is good news." "you must hear me out. your father requested the minister to nominate your escort." "well?" "he has nominated me." "what, are you going home?" "almost at once. will you trust yourself in my hands?" "trust you! i will go with you anywhere! i will trust you always!" "perhaps," he said, looking down into her eyes, as he stood before her, "i shall ask you to fulfil those promises some day." "perhaps," she replied, rising and standing by his side, "i shall then be free to answer you," and a radiant smile lit up her face. they took each other's hands, and stood silent for a long time. then he bade her good-bye, and resumed his walk to the station. midway in his path, a figure lying prone in the tall grass roused itself into action at his coming, sprang up and stood facing him, flushed, defiant, and on the verge of tears. it was the last person in the world stanley wished to see--belle fitzgerald. he had felt it was impossible to meet her again; that she had put herself beyond the pale of his recognition; that it was not even decent that she should face him; that he should have been left to forget; and she, seeing all this in his face, and more--longed to throw her good resolutions to the winds, and cry out against this great injustice. but as they stood there, her subtle woman's instinct told her that, even were her innocence proclaimed with the trumpet, the thought that it had been otherwise would stand between them as an insurmountable barrier for ever, and she hardened her heart for his sake. "you are going away," she said. "yes," he replied, looking down at the road. she told herself passionately, that he would look anywhere rather than at her. "some of your property has come into my possession," he said. "i wish to return it to you," and he handed her the receipt for the forty thousand pounds. "i'll trust you'll see," he continued, in a strained voice, "that colonel darcy has his proper share." "he shall have what he deserves," she replied coldly; and then she burst out, her words tumbling one over the other, now that she had found speech: "you ought to know, you must know, that when colonel darcy is free, we shall be man and wife." "i'm very glad," he said, and he said it from his heart. there was an awkward pause, neither seemed able to speak. at length he remarked, more to break the silence than anything:-- "you know, i always thought, that, in your heart, you loved darcy, before anyone else." she laughed her hard, cold laugh, saying:-- "you diplomats know everything." the secretary bowed silently and passed on, well satisfied to close the interview; his thoughts full of the brilliant future which was opening before him, unconscious that behind him, face down in the grass, a woman was sobbing her heart out. the dollar library of american fiction * * * * * two guineas, post free, for a subscription of twelve volumes, or separately in special binding at d. per volume. * * * * * the american copyright act, during its nine years' life, has been of the greatest benefit to american fiction, if not to american literature in general. it is hardly an exaggeration to say that america drew her chief supplies of fiction from england up to the year ' , because the earlier school of american writers, however distinguished, had a comparatively limited circle of readers, and could not be considered to counterbalance the enormous vogue of english writers. the act changed little at first, and english books continued to have the greatest popularity, but this popularity was soon encroached upon by the rivalry of indigenous fiction. to-day there are in america, american authors whose books have circulations compared to which even those of the most popular modern english authors are as nothing. several books have recently attained to circulations of upwards of a quarter of a million copies, and new authors of merit are eagerly welcomed, not only from the east but also from the west, from big centres, and from quieter and remoter places; giving actual proofs of america's new and remarkable literary activity. more striking than the greatest of these successes--for popular successes are frequently scored by mediocre talents--is the fact that a school of young american writers is pressing for recognition, gifted with the sense of form, and not wanting either in pathos or in humour--real delineators of life and character. and what an inexhaustible field lies ready for them, to depict--if they will only depict justly--the actual life of america, of the most variedly composite and interesting people the modern world knows! inspired possibly at first by several exceptional men who stood on the threshold of this new literary development, there is now growing up a school of writers of talent to whom respect cannot be denied and whom we can no longer afford to ignore in england. =the dollar library= will give to english readers a representative selection of the best american fiction of the day, and also a few of the best works of two writers who are, perhaps, more than any others, responsible for this new development, for, although both harold frederic and stephen crane have in these brief nine years departed from among us, no series representative of american fiction of to-day would be thought complete without them. for the rest the dollar library will devote itself mainly to the introduction of hitherto unknown authors, and it appeals to readers particularly as a pioneer. it will afford an opportunity to english readers of gaining an impression of the mercurial genius picturesquely expressing itself on the other side of the atlantic, of appreciating a new graft on the tree of english literature, which, transplanted to another clime, bids fair to yield yet another rich and luxuriant growth. * * * * * london: william heinemann [illustration] _the following volumes will appear early in , and others are in preparation. they will appear, as far as practicable, at monthly intervals:--_ the girl at the halfway house. by e. hough. parlous times. by d. d. wells. lords of the north. by a. c. laut. the chronic loafer. by nelson lloyd. her mountain lover. by hamlin garland. the dollar library. _a monthly series of american fiction._ london: william heinemann. _and at all booksellers and bookstalls._ the frozen planet by keith laumer [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, september . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "it is rather unusual," magnan said, "to assign an officer of your rank to courier duty, but this is an unusual mission." retief sat relaxed and said nothing. just before the silence grew awkward, magnan went on. "there are four planets in the group," he said. "two double planets, all rather close to an unimportant star listed as dri-g . they're called jorgensen's worlds, and in themselves are of no importance whatever. however, they lie deep in the sector into which the soetti have been penetrating. "now--" magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice--"we have learned that the soetti plan a bold step forward. since they've met no opposition so far in their infiltration of terrestrial space, they intend to seize jorgensen's worlds by force." magnan leaned back, waiting for retief's reaction. retief drew carefully on his cigar and looked at magnan. magnan frowned. "this is open aggression, retief," he said, "in case i haven't made myself clear. aggression on terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien species. obviously, we can't allow it." magnan drew a large folder from his desk. "a show of resistance at this point is necessary. unfortunately, jorgensen's worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. they're farmers or traders. their industry is limited to a minor role in their economy--enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. the war potential, by conventional standards, is nil." magnan tapped the folder before him. "i have here," he said solemnly, "information which will change that picture completely." he leaned back and blinked at retief. * * * * * "all right, mr. councillor," retief said. "i'll play along; what's in the folder?" magnan spread his fingers, folded one down. "first," he said. "the soetti war plan--in detail. we were fortunate enough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegade terrestrials who've been advising the soetti." he folded another finger. "next, a battle plan for the jorgensen's people, worked out by the theory group." he wrestled a third finger down. "lastly; an utter top secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-acceleration field into a potent weapon--a development our systems people have been holding in reserve for just such a situation." "is that all?" retief said. "you've still got two fingers sticking up." magnan looked at the fingers and put them away. "this is no occasion for flippancy, retief. in the wrong hands, this information could be catastrophic. you'll memorize it before you leave this building." "i'll carry it, sealed," retief said. "that way nobody can sweat it out of me." magnan started to shake his head. "well," he said. "if it's trapped for destruction, i suppose--" "i've heard of these jorgensen's worlds," retief said. "i remember an agent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. a wizard with cards and dice. never played for money, though." "umm," magnan said. "don't make the error of personalizing this situation, retief. overall policy calls for a defense of these backwater worlds. otherwise the corps would allow history to follow its natural course, as always." "when does this attack happen?" "less than four weeks." "that doesn't leave me much time." "i have your itinerary here. your accommodations are clear as far as aldo cerise. you'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest of the way." "that's a pretty rough trip, mr. councillor. suppose i don't make it?" magnan looked sour. "someone at a policy-making level has chosen to put all our eggs in one basket, retief. i hope their confidence in you is not misplaced." "this antiac conversion; how long does it take?" "a skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. the jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic of some sort." retief opened the envelope magnan handed him and looked at the tickets inside. "less than four hours to departure time," he said. "i'd better not start any long books." "you'd better waste no time getting over to indoctrination," magnan said. retief stood up. "if i hurry, maybe i can catch the cartoon." "the allusion escapes me," magnan said coldly. "and one last word. the soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into jorgensen's worlds; don't get yourself interned." "i'll tell you what," retief said soberly. "in a pinch, i'll mention your name." "you'll be traveling with class x credentials," magnan snapped. "there must be nothing to connect you with the corps." "they'll never guess," retief said. "i'll pose as a gentleman." "you'd better be getting started," magnan said, shuffling papers. "you're right," retief said. "if i work at it, i might manage a snootful by takeoff." he went to the door. "no objection to my checking out a needler, is there?" magnan looked up. "i suppose not. what do you want with it?" "just a feeling i've got." "please yourself." "some day," retief said, "i may take you up on that." ii retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend "aldo cerise--interplanetary." a thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching retief from the corner of his eye. retief glanced at him. the clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and spat it on the floor. "was there something?" he said. "two twenty-eight, due out today for the jorgensen group," retief said. "is it on schedule?" the clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed retief. "filled up. try again in a couple of weeks." "what time does it leave?" "i don't think--" "let's stick to facts," retief said. "don't try to think. what time is it due out?" the clerk smiled pityingly. "it's my lunch hour," he said. "i'll be open in an hour." he held up a thumb nail, frowned at it. "if i have to come around this counter," retief said, "i'll feed that thumb to you the hard way." the clerk looked up and opened his mouth. then he caught retief's eye, closed his mouth and swallowed. "like it says there," he said, jerking a thumb at the board. "lifts in an hour. but you won't be on it," he added. retief looked at him. "some ... ah ... vip's required accommodation," he said. he hooked a finger inside the sequined collar. "all tourist reservations were canceled. you'll have to try to get space on the four-planet line ship next--" "which gate?" retief said. "for ... ah...?" "for the two twenty-eight for jorgensen's worlds," retief said. "well," the clerk said. "gate ," he added quickly. "but--" retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign reading _to gates - _. "another smart alec," the clerk said behind him. * * * * * retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a covered ramp with the number posted over it. a heavy-shouldered man with a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpled gray uniform. he put out a hand as retief started past him. "lessee your boarding pass," he muttered. retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over. the guard blinked at it. "whassat?" "a gram confirming my space," retief said. "your boy on the counter says he's out to lunch." the guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged back against the handrail. "on your way, bub," he said. retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove a right into the guard's midriff. he stepped aside as the man doubled and went to his knees. "you were wide open, ugly. i couldn't resist. tell your boss i sneaked past while you were resting your eyes." he picked up his bag, stepped over the man and went up the gangway into the ship. a cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor. "which way to cabin fifty-seven, son?" retief asked. "up there." the boy jerked his head and hurried on. retief made his way along the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven. the door was open. inside, baggage was piled in the center of the floor. it was expensive looking baggage. retief put his bag down. he turned at a sound behind him. a tall, florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood in the open door, looking at retief. retief looked back. the florid man clamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder. "somebody in the cabin. get 'em out." he rolled a cold eye at retief as he backed out of the room. a short, thick-necked man appeared. "what are you doing in mr. tony's room?" he barked. "never mind! clear out of here, fellow! you're keeping mr. tony waiting." "too bad," retief said. "finders keepers." "you nuts?" the thick-necked man stared at retief. "i said it's mr. tony's room." "i don't know mr. tony. he'll have to bull his way into other quarters." "we'll see about you, mister." the man turned and went out. retief sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. there was a sound of voices in the corridor. two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an oversized trunk. they maneuvered it through the door, lowered it, glanced at retief and went out. the thick-necked man returned. "all right, you. out," he growled. "or have i got to have you thrown out?" retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. he gripped a handle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heaved the trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. he turned to the door. "catch," he said between clenched teeth. the trunk slammed against the far wall of the corridor and burst. retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. the face of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb. "mister, you must be--" "if you'll excuse me," retief said, "i want to catch a nap." he flipped the door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed. * * * * * five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open. retief looked up. a gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a blue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eye stared at retief. "is this the joker?" he grated. the thick-necked man edged past him, looked at retief and snorted, "that's him, sure." "i'm captain of this vessel," the first man said. "you've got two minutes to haul your freight out of here, buster." "when you can spare the time from your other duties," retief said, "take a look at section three, paragraph one, of the uniform code. that spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in interplanetary commerce." "a space lawyer." the captain turned. "throw him out, boys." two big men edged into the cabin, looking at retief. "go on, pitch him out," the captain snapped. retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk. "don't try it," he said softly. one of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, and stepped forward, then hesitated. "hey," he said. "this the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?" "that's him," the thick-necked man called. "spilled mr. tony's possessions right on the deck." "deal me out," the bouncer said. "he can stay put as long as he wants to. i signed on to move cargo. let's go, moe." "you'd better be getting back to the bridge, captain," retief said. "we're due to lift in twenty minutes." the thick-necked man and the captain both shouted at once. the captain's voice prevailed. "--twenty minutes ... uniform code ... gonna do?" "close the door as you leave," retief said. the thick-necked man paused at the door. "we'll see you when you come out." iii four waiters passed retief's table without stopping. a fifth leaned against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm. at a table across the room, the captain, now wearing a dress uniform and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male passengers. he talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional glances retief's way. a panel opened in the wall behind retief's chair. bright blue eyes peered out from under a white chef's cap. "givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, mister?" "looks like it, old-timer," retief said. "maybe i'd better go join the skipper. his party seems to be having all the fun." "feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there." "i see your point." "you set right where you're at, mister. i'll rustle you up a plate." five minutes later, retief cut into a thirty-two ounce delmonico backed up with mushrooms and garlic butter. "i'm chip," the chef said. "i don't like the cap'n. you can tell him i said so. don't like his friends, either. don't like them dern sweaties, look at a man like he was a worm." "you've got the right idea on frying a steak, chip. and you've got the right idea on the soetti, too," retief said. he poured red wine into a glass. "here's to you." "dern right," chip said. "dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em. steaks, that is. i got a baked alaska coming up in here for dessert. you like brandy in yer coffee?" "chip, you're a genius." "like to see a feller eat," chip said. "i gotta go now. if you need anything, holler." retief ate slowly. time always dragged on shipboard. four days to jorgensen's worlds. then, if magnan's information was correct, there would be four days to prepare for the soetti attack. it was a temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. it would be good to know what jorgensen's worlds would be up against. retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked alaska and coffee. most of the other passengers had left the dining room. mr. tony and his retainers still sat at the captain's table. as retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across the room. the first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. he dipped the lighted end in retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth. the others came up, mr. tony trailing. "you must want to get to jorgensen's pretty bad," the thug said in a grating voice. "what's your game, hick?" retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up. "i don't think i want my coffee," he said. he looked at the thug. "you drink it." the thug squinted at retief. "a wise hick," he began. with a flick of the wrist, retief tossed the coffee into the thug's face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. the thug went down. retief looked at mr. tony, still standing open-mouthed. "you can take your playmates away now, tony," he said. "and don't bother to come around yourself. you're not funny enough." mr. tony found his voice. "take him, marbles!" he growled. the thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out a long-bladed knife. he licked his lips and moved in. retief heard the panel open beside him. "here you go, mister," chip said. retief darted a glance; a well-honed french knife lay on the sill. "thanks, chip," retief said. "i won't need it for these punks." thick-neck lunged and retief hit him square in the face, knocking him under the table. the other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistol from his shoulder holster. "aim that at me, and i'll kill you," retief said. "go on, burn him!" mr. tony shouted. behind him, the captain appeared, white-faced. "put that away, you!" he yelled. "what kind of--" "shut up," mr. tony said. "put it away, hoany. we'll fix this bum later." "not on this vessel, you won't," the captain said shakily. "i got my charter to consider." "ram your charter," hoany said harshly. "you won't be needing it long." "button your floppy mouth, damn you!" mr. tony snapped. he looked at the man on the floor. "get marbles out of here. i ought to dump the slob." he turned and walked away. the captain signaled and two waiters came up. retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room. the panel opened. "i usta be about your size, when i was your age," chip said. "you handled them pansies right. i wouldn't give 'em the time o' day." "how about a fresh cup of coffee, chip?" retief said. "sure, mister. anything else?" "i'll think of something," retief said. "this is shaping up into one of those long days." * * * * * "they don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin," chip said. "but the cap'n knows i'm the best cook in the merchant service. they won't mess with me." "what has mr. tony got on the captain, chip?" retief asked. "they're in some kind o' crooked business together. you want some more smoked turkey?" "sure. what have they got against my going to jorgensen's worlds?" "dunno. hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. i sure like a feller that can put it away. i was a big eater when i was yer age." "i'll bet you can still handle it, old timer. what are jorgensen's worlds like?" "one of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. most o' the jorgies live on svea; that's the least froze up. man don't enjoy eatin' his own cookin' like he does somebody else's." "that's where i'm lucky, chip. what kind of cargo's the captain got aboard for jorgensen's?" "derned if i know. in and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever few weeks. don't never pick up no cargo. no tourists any more, like i says. don't know what we even run in there for." "where are the passengers we have aboard headed?" "to alabaster. that's nine days' run in-sector from jorgensen's. you ain't got another one of them cigars, have you?" "have one, chip. i guess i was lucky to get space on this ship." "plenty o' space, mister. we got a dozen empty cabins." chip puffed the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and brandy. "them sweaties is what i don't like," he said. retief looked at him questioningly. "you never seen a sweaty? ugly lookin' devils. skinny legs, like a lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin' head. you can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled." "i've never had the pleasure," retief said. "you prob'ly have it perty soon. them devils board us nigh ever trip out. act like they was the customs patrol or somethin'." there was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor. "i ain't superstitious ner nothin'," chip said. "but i'll be triple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now." ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door, accompanied by a clicking patter. the doorknob rattled, then a heavy knock shook the door. "they got to look you over," chip whispered. "nosy damn sweaties." "unlock it, chip." the chef opened the door. "come in, damn you," he said. a tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-like feet tapping on the floor. a flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-set compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees. behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously. "yo' papiss," the alien rasped. "who's your friend, captain?" retief said. "never mind; just do like he tells you." "yo' papiss," the alien said again. "okay," retief said. "i've seen it. you can take it away now." "don't horse around," the captain said. "this fellow can get mean." the alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle, clicked toothed pincers under retief's nose. "quick, soft one." "captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. it looks brittle, and i'm tempted to test it." "don't start anything with skaw; he can clip through steel with those snappers." "last chance," retief said. skaw stood poised, open pincers an inch from retief's eyes. "show him your papers, you damned fool," the captain said hoarsely. "i got no control over skaw." * * * * * the alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the same instant retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alien and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous knee-joint. skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spattering from the burst joint. "i told you he was brittle," retief said. "next time you invite pirates aboard, don't bother to call." "jesus, what did you do! they'll kill us!" the captain gasped, staring at the figure flopping on the floor. "cart poor old skaw back to his boat," retief said. "tell him to pass the word. no more illegal entry and search of terrestrial vessels in terrestrial space." "hey," chip said. "he's quit kicking." the captain bent over skaw, gingerly rolled him over. he leaned close and sniffed. "he's dead." the captain stared at retief. "we're all dead men," he said. "these soetti got no mercy." "they won't need it. tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over." "they got no more emotions than a blue crab--" "you bluff easily, captain. show a few guns as you hand the body back. we know their secret now." "what secret? i--" "don't be no dumber than you got to, cap'n," chip said. "sweaties die easy; that's the secret." "maybe you got a point," the captain said, looking at retief. "all they got's a three-man scout. it could work." he went out, came back with two crewmen. they hauled the dead alien gingerly into the hall. "maybe i can run a bluff on the soetti," the captain said, looking back from the door. "but i'll be back to see you later." "you don't scare us, cap'n," chip said. "him and mr. tony and all his goons. you hit 'em where they live, that time. they're pals o' these sweaties. runnin' some kind o' crooked racket." "you'd better take the captain's advice, chip. there's no point in your getting involved in my problems." "they'd of killed you before now, mister, if they had any guts. that's where we got it over these monkeys. they got no guts." "they act scared, chip. scared men are killers." "they don't scare me none." chip picked up the tray. "i'll scout around a little and see what's goin' on. if the sweaties figure to do anything about that skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't try nothin' close to port." "don't worry, chip. i have reason to be pretty sure they won't do anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now." chip looked at retief. "you ain't no tourist, mister. i know that much. you didn't come out here for fun, did you?" "that," retief said, "would be a hard one to answer." iv retief awoke at a tap on his door. "it's me, mister. chip." "come on in." the chef entered the room, locking the door. "you shoulda had that door locked." he stood by the door, listening, then turned to retief. "you want to get to jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, mister?" "that's right, chip." "mr. tony give the captain a real hard time about old skaw. the sweaties didn't say nothin'. didn't even act surprised, just took the remains and pushed off. but mr. tony and that other crook they call marbles, they was fit to be tied. took the cap'n in his cabin and talked loud at him fer half a hour. then the cap'n come out and give some orders to the mate." retief sat up and reached for a cigar. "mr. tony and skaw were pals, eh?" "he hated skaw's guts. but with him it was business. mister, you got a gun?" "a mm needler. why?" "the orders cap'n give was to change course fer alabaster. we're by-passin' jorgensen's worlds. we'll feel the course change any minute." retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out a short-barreled pistol. he dropped it in his pocket, looked at chip. "maybe it was a good thought, at that. which way to the captain's cabin?" * * * * * "this is it," chip said softly. "you want me to keep an eye on who comes down the passage?" retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. the captain looked up from his desk, then jumped up. "what do you think you're doing, busting in here?" "i hear you're planning a course change, captain." "you've got damn big ears." "i think we'd better call in at jorgensen's." "you do, huh?" the captain sat down. "i'm in command of this vessel," he said. "i'm changing course for alabaster." "i wouldn't find it convenient to go to alabaster," retief said. "so just hold your course for jorgensen's." "not bloody likely." "your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, captain. don't try to change course." the captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key. "power section, this is the captain," he said. retief reached across the desk, gripped the captain's wrist. "tell the mate to hold his present course," he said softly. "let go my hand, buster," the captain snarled. eyes on retief's, he eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. retief kneed the drawer. the captain yelped and dropped the mike. "you busted it, you--" "and one to go," retief said. "tell him." "i'm an officer of the merchant service!" "you're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley hoods." "you can't put it over, hick." "tell him." the captain groaned and picked up the mike. "captain to power section," he said. "hold your present course until you hear from me." he dropped the mike and looked up at retief. "it's eighteen hours yet before we pick up jorgensen control. you going to sit here and bend my arm the whole time?" retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door. "chip, i'm locking the door. you circulate around, let me know what's going on. bring me a pot of coffee every so often. i'm sitting up with a sick friend." "right, mister. keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery." "what are you going to do?" the captain demanded. retief settled himself in a chair. "instead of strangling you, as you deserve," he said, "i'm going to stay here and help you hold your course for jorgensen's worlds." the captain looked at retief. he laughed, a short bark. "then i'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. if you feel like dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me." retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him. "if anything happens that i don't like," he said, "i'll wake you up. with this." * * * * * "why don't you let me spell you, mister?" chip said. "four hours to go yet. you're gonna hafta be on yer toes to handle the landing." "i'll be all right, chip. you get some sleep." "nope. many's the time i stood four, five watches runnin', back when i was yer age. i'll make another round." retief stood up, stretched his legs, paced the floor, stared at the repeater instruments on the wall. things had gone quietly so far, but the landing would be another matter. the captain's absence from the bridge during the highly complex maneuvering would be difficult to explain.... the desk speaker crackled. "captain, officer of the watch here. ain't it about time you was getting up here with the orbit figures?" retief nudged the captain. he awoke with a start, sat up. "whazzat?" he looked wild-eyed at retief. "watch officer wants orbit figures," retief said, nodding toward the speaker. the captain rubbed his eyes, shook his head, picked up the mike. retief released the safety on the needler with an audible click. "watch officer, i'll ... ah ... get some figures for you right away. i'm ... ah ... busy right now." "what the hell you talking about, busy?" the speaker blared. "you ain't got them figures ready, you'll have a hell of a hot time getting 'em up in the next three minutes. you forgot your approach pattern or something?" "i guess i overlooked it," the captain said, looking sideways at retief. "i've been busy." "one for your side," retief said. he reached for the captain. "i'll make a deal," the captain squalled. "your life for--" retief took aim and slammed a hard right to the captain's jaw. he slumped to the floor. retief glanced around the room, yanked wires loose from a motile lamp, trussed the man's hands and feet, stuffed his mouth with paper and taped it. chip tapped at the door. retief opened it and the chef stepped inside, looking at the man on the floor. "the jasper tried somethin', huh? figured he would. what we goin' to do now?" "the captain forgot to set up an approach, chip. he outfoxed me." "if we overrun our approach pattern," chip said, "we can't make orbit at jorgensen's on automatic. and a manual approach--" "that's out. but there's another possibility." chip blinked. "only one thing you could mean, mister. but cuttin' out in a lifeboat in deep space is no picnic." "they're on the port side, aft, right?" chip nodded. "hot damn," he said. "who's got the 'tater salad?" "we'd better tuck the skipper away out of sight." "in the locker." the two men carried the limp body to a deep storage chest, dumped it in, closed the lid. "he won't suffercate. lid's a lousy fit." retief opened the door went into the corridor, chip behind him. "shouldn't oughta be nobody around now," the chef said. "everybody's mannin' approach stations." * * * * * at the d deck companionway, retief stopped suddenly. "listen." chip cocked his head. "i don't hear nothin'," he whispered. "sounds like a sentry posted on the lifeboat deck," retief said softly. "let's take him, mister." "i'll go down. stand by, chip." retief started down the narrow steps, half stair, half ladder. halfway, he paused to listen. there was a sound of slow footsteps, then silence. retief palmed the needler, went down the last steps quickly, emerged in the dim light of a low ceilinged room. the stern of a five-man lifeboat bulked before him. "freeze, you!" a cold voice snapped. retief dropped, rolled behind the shelter of the lifeboat as the whine of a power pistol echoed off metal walls. a lunge, and he was under the boat, on his feet. he jumped, caught the quick-access handle, hauled it down. the outer port cycled open. feet scrambled at the bow of the boat. retief whirled and fired. the guard rounded into sight and fell headlong. above, an alarm bell jangled. retief stepped on a stanchion, hauled himself into the open port. a yell rang, then the clatter of feet on the stair. "don't shoot, mister!" chip shouted. "all clear, chip," retief called. "hang on. i'm comin' with ya!" retief reached down, lifted the chef bodily through the port, slammed the lever home. the outer door whooshed, clanged shut. "take number two, tie in! i'll blast her off," chip said. "been through a hundred 'bandon ship drills...." retief watched as the chef flipped levers, pressed a fat red button. the deck trembled under the lifeboat. "blew the bay doors," chip said, smiling happily. "that'll cool them jaspers down." he punched a green button. "look out, jorgensen's!" with an ear-splitting blast, the stern rockets fired, a sustained agony of pressure.... abruptly, there was silence. weightlessness. contracting metal pinged loudly. chip's breathing rasped in the stillness. "pulled nine g's there for ten seconds," he gasped. "i gave her full emergency kick-off." "any armament aboard our late host?" "a popgun. time they get their wind, we'll be clear. now all we got to do is set tight till we pick up a r and d from svea tower. maybe four, five hours." "chip, you're a wonder," retief said. "this looks like a good time to catch that nap." "me too," chip said. "mighty peaceful here, ain't it?" there was a moment's silence. "durn!" chip said softly. retief opened one eye. "sorry you came, chip?" "left my best carvin' knife jammed up 'tween marbles' ribs," the chef said. "comes o' doin' things in a hurry." v the blonde girl brushed her hair from her eyes and smiled at retief. "i'm the only one on duty," she said. "i'm anne-marie." "it's important that i talk to someone in your government, miss," retief said. the girl looked at retief. "the men you want to see are tove and bo bergman. they will be at the lodge by night-fall." "then it looks like we go to the lodge," retief said. "lead on, anne-marie." "what about the boat?" chip asked. "i'll send someone to see to it tomorrow," the girl said. "you're some gal," chip said admiringly. "dern near six feet, ain't ye? and built, too, what i mean." they stepped out of the door into a whipping wind. "let's go across to the equipment shed and get parkas for you," anne-marie said. "it will be cold on the slopes." "yeah," chip said, shivering. "i've heard you folks don't believe in ridin' ever time you want to go a few miles uphill in a blizzard." "it will make us hungry," anne-marie said. "then chip will cook a wonderful meal for us all." chip blinked. "been cookin' too long," he muttered. "didn't know it showed on me that way." behind the sheds across the wind-scoured ramp abrupt peaks rose, snow-blanketed. a faint trail led across white slopes, disappearing into low clouds. "the lodge is above the cloud layer," anne-marie said. "up there the sky is always clear." it was three hours later, and the sun was burning the peaks red, when anne-marie stopped, pulled off her woolen cap and waved at the vista below. "there you see it," she said. "our valley." "it's a mighty perty sight," chip gasped. "anything this tough to get a look at ought to be." anne-marie pointed. "there," she said. "the little red house by itself. do you see it, retief? it is my father's home-acre." retief looked across the valley. gaily painted houses nestled together, a puddle of color in the bowl of the valley. "i think you've led a good life there," he said. anne-marie smiled brilliantly. "and this day, too, is good." relief smiled back. "yes," he said. "this day is good." "it'll be a durn sight better when i got my feet up to that big fire you was talking about, annie," chip said. they climbed on, crossed a shoulder of broken rock, reached the final slope. above, the lodge sprawled, a long low structure of heavy logs, outlined against the deep-blue twilight sky. smoke billowed from stone chimneys at either end, and yellow light gleamed from the narrow windows, reflected on the snow. men and women stood in groups of three or four, skis over their shoulders. their voices and laughter rang in the icy air. anne-marie whistled shrilly. someone waved. "come," she said. "meet all my friends." a man separated himself from the group, walked down the slope to meet them. "anne-marie," he called. "welcome. it was a long day without you." he came up to them, hugged anne-marie, smiled at retief. "welcome," he said. "come inside and be warm." they crossed the trampled snow to the lodge and pushed through a heavy door into a vast low-beamed hall, crowded with people, talking, singing, some sitting at long plank tables, others ringed around an eight-foot fireplace at the far side of the room. anne-marie led the way to a bench near the fire. she made introductions and found a stool to prop chip's feet near the blaze. chip looked around. "i never seen so many perty gals before," he said delightedly. "poor chip," one girl said. "his feet are cold." she knelt to pull off his boots. "let me rub them," she said. a brunette with blue eyes raked a chestnut from the fire, cracked it and offered it to retief. a tall man with arms like oak roots passed heavy beer tankards to the two guests. "tell us about the places you've seen," someone called. chip emerged from a long pull at the mug, heaving a sigh. "well," he said. "i tell you i been in some places...." music started up, rising above the clamor. "come, retief," anne-marie said. "dance with me." retief looked at her. "my thought exactly," he said. * * * * * chip put down his mug and sighed. "derned if i ever felt right at home so quick before," he said. "just seems like these folks know all about me." he scratched behind his right ear. "annie must o' called 'em up and told 'em our names an' all." he lowered his voice. "they's some kind o' trouble in the air, though. some o' the remarks they passed sounds like they're lookin' to have some trouble with the sweaties. don't seem to worry 'em none, though." "chip," retief said, "how much do these people know about the soetti?" "dunno," chip said. "we useta touch down here, regler. but i always jist set in my galley and worked on ship models or somethin'. i hear the sweaties been nosin' around here some, though." two girls came up to chip. "hey, i gotta go now, mister," he said. "these gals got a idea i oughta take a hand in the kitchen." "smart girls," retief said. he turned as anne-marie came up. "bo bergman and tove are not back yet," she said. "they stayed to ski after moonrise." "that moon is something," retief said. "almost like day-light." "they will come soon, now. shall we go out to see the moonlight on the snow?" outside, long black shadows fell like ink on silver. the top of the cloud layer below glared white under the immense moon. "our sister world, gota," anne-marie said. "nearly as big as svea. i would like to visit it someday, although they say it's all stone and ice." "anne-marie," retief said, "how many people live on jorgensen's worlds?" "about fifteen million, most of us here on svea. there are mining camps and ice-fisheries on gota. no one lives on vasa and skone, but there are always a few hunters there." "have you ever fought a war?" anne-marie turned to look at retief. "you are afraid for us, retief," she said. "the soetti will attack our worlds, and we will fight them. we have fought before. these planets were not friendly ones." "i thought the soetti attack would be a surprise to you," retief said. "have you made any preparation for it?" "we have ten thousand merchant ships. when the enemy comes, we will meet them." retief frowned. "are there any guns on this planet? any missiles?" anne-marie shook her head. "bo bergman and tove have a plan of deployment--" "deployment, hell! against a modern assault force you need modern armament." "look!" anne-marie touched retief's arm. "they're coming now." two tall grizzled men came up the slope, skis over their shoulders. anne-marie went forward to meet them, retief at her side. the two came up, embraced the girl, shook hands with retief, put down their skis. "welcome to svea," tove said. "let's find a warm corner where we can talk." * * * * * retief shook his head, smiling, as a tall girl with coppery hair offered a vast slab of venison. "i've caught up," he said, "for every hungry day i ever lived." bo bergman poured retief's beer mug full. "our captains are the best in space," he said. "our population is concentrated in half a hundred small cities all across the planet. we know where the soetti must strike us. we will ram their major vessels with unmanned ships. on the ground, we will hunt them down with small-arms." "an assembly line turning out penetration missiles would have been more to the point." "yes," bo bergman said. "if we had known." "how long have you known the soetti were planning to hit you?" tove raised his eyebrows. "since this afternoon," he said. "how did you find out about it? that information is supposed in some quarters to be a well-guarded secret." "secret?" tove said. chip pulled at retief's arm. "mister," he said in retief's ear. "come here a minute." retief looked at anne-marie, across at tove and bo bergman. he rubbed the side of his face with his hand. "excuse me," he said. he followed chip to one side of the room. "listen!" chip said. "maybe i'm goin' bats, but i'll swear there's somethin' funny here. i'm back there mixin' a sauce knowed only to me and the devil and i be dog if them gals don't pass me ever dang spice i need, without me sayin' a word. come to put my souffle in the oven--she's already set, right on the button at . an' just now i'm settin' lookin' at one of 'em bendin' over a tub o' apples--snazzy little brunette name of leila--derned if she don't turn around and say--" chip gulped. "never mind. point is...." his voice nearly faltered. "it's almost like these folks was readin' my mind!" retief patted chip on the shoulder. "don't worry about your sanity, old timer," he said. "that's exactly what they're doing." vi "we've never tried to make a secret of it," tove said. "but we haven't advertised it, either." "it really isn't much," bo bergman said. "not a mutant ability, our scholars say. rather, it's a skill we've stumbled on, a closer empathy. we are few, and far from the old home world. we've had to learn to break down the walls we had built around our minds." "can you read the soetti?" retief asked. tove shook his head. "they're very different from us. it's painful to touch their minds. we can only sense the sub-vocalized thoughts of a human mind." "we've seen very few of the soetti," bo bergman said. "their ships have landed and taken on stores. they say little to us, but we've felt their contempt. they envy us our worlds. they come from a cold land." "anne-marie says you have a plan of defense," retief said. "a sort of suicide squadron idea, followed by guerrilla warfare." "it's the best we can devise, retief. if there aren't too many of them, it might work." retief shook his head. "it might delay matters--but not much." "perhaps. but our remote control equipment is excellent. and we have plenty of ships, albeit unarmed. and our people know how to live on the slopes--and how to shoot." "there are too many of them, tove," retief said. "they breed like flies and, according to some sources, they mature in a matter of months. they've been feeling their way into the sector for years now. set up outposts on a thousand or so minor planets--cold ones, the kind they like. they want your worlds because they need living space." "at least, your warning makes it possible for us to muster some show of force, retief," bo bergman said. "that is better than death by ambush." "retief must not be trapped here," anne-marie said. "his small boat is useless now. he must have a ship." "of course," tove said. "and--" "my mission here--" retief said. "retief," a voice called. "a message for you. the operator has phoned up a gram." retief unfolded the slip of paper. it was short, in verbal code, and signed by magnan. "you are recalled herewith," he read. "assignment canceled. agreement concluded with soetti relinquishing all claims so-called jorgensen system. utmost importance that under no repeat no circumstances classified intelligence regarding soetti be divulged to locals. advise you depart instanter. soetti occupation imminent." retief looked thoughtfully at the scrap of paper, then crumpled it and dropped it on the floor. he turned to bo bergman, took a tiny reel of tape from his pocket. "this contains information," he said. "the soetti attack plan, a defensive plan instructions for the conversion of a standard anti-acceleration unit into a potent weapon. if you have a screen handy, we'd better get started. we have about seventy-two hours." * * * * * in the briefing room at svea tower, tove snapped off the projector. "our plan would have been worthless against that," he said. "we assumed they'd make their strike from a standard in-line formation. this scheme of hitting all our settlements simultaneously, in a random order from all points--we'd have been helpless." "it's perfect for this defensive plan," bo bergman said. "assuming this antiac trick works." "it works," retief said. "i hope you've got plenty of heavy power lead available." "we export copper," tove said. "we'll assign about two hundred vessels to each settlement. linked up, they should throw up quite a field." "it ought to be effective up to about fifteen miles, i'd estimate," tove said. "if it works as it's supposed to." a red light flashed on the communications panel. tove went to it, flipped a key. "tower, tove here," he said. "i've got a ship on the scope, tove," a voice said. "there's nothing scheduled. aci by-passed at ...." "just one?" "a lone ship, coming in on a bearing of / / . on manual, i'd say." "how does this track key in with the idea of aci making a manual correction for a missed automatic approach?" retief asked. tove talked to the tower, got a reply. "that's it," he said. "how long before he touches down?" tove glanced at a lighted chart. "perhaps eight minutes." "any guns here?" tove shook his head. "if that's old , she ain't got but the one mm rifle," chip said. "she cain't figure on jumpin' the whole planet." "hard to say what she figures on," retief said. "mr. tony will be in a mood for drastic measures." "i wonder what kind o' deal the skunks got with the sweaties," chip said. "prob'ly he gits to scavenge, after the sweaties kill off the jorgensens." "he's upset about our leaving him without saying good-bye, chip," retief said. "and you left the door hanging open, too." chip cackled. "old mr. tony don't look so good to the sweaties now, hey, mister?" retief turned to bo bergman. "chip's right," he said. "a soetti died on the ship, and a tourist got through the cordon. tony's out to redeem himself." "he's on final now," the tower operator said. "still no contact." "we'll know soon enough what he has in mind," tove said. "let's take a look." outside, the four men watched the point of fire grow, evolve into a ship ponderously settling to rest. the drive faded and cut; silence fell. * * * * * inside the briefing room, the speaker called out. bo bergman went inside, talked to the tower, motioned to the others. "--over to you," the speaker was saying. there was a crackling moment of silence; then another voice. "--illegal entry. send the two of them out. i'll see to it they're dealt with." tove flipped a key. "switch me direct to the ship," he said. "right." "you on aci ," tove said. "who are you?" "what's that to you?" "you weren't cleared to berth here. do you have an emergency aboard?" "never mind that, you," the speaker rumbled. "i tracked the bird in. i got the lifeboat on the screen now. they haven't gone far in nine hours. let's have 'em." "you're wasting your time," tove said. there was a momentary silence. "you think so, hah?" the speaker blared. "i'll put it to you straight. i see two guys on their way out in one minute, or i open up." "he's bluffin'," chip said. "the popgun won't bear on us." "take a look out the window," retief said. in the white glare of the moonlight, a loading cover swung open at the stern of the ship, dropped down and formed a sloping ramp. a squat and massive shape appeared in the opening, trundled down onto the snow-swept tarmac. chip whistled. "i told you the captain was slippery," he muttered. "where the devil'd he git that at?" "what is it?" tove asked. "a tank," retief said. "a museum piece, by the look of it." "i'll say," chip said. "that's a bolo _resartus_, model m. built mebbe two hunderd years ago in concordiat times. packs a wallop, too, i'll tell ye." the tank wheeled, brought a gun muzzle to bear in the base of the tower. "send 'em out," the speaker growled. "or i blast 'em out." "one round in here, and i've had a wasted trip," retief said. "i'd better go out." "wait a minute, mister," chip said. "i got the glimmerin's of a idear." "i'll stall them," tove said. he keyed the mike. "aci , what's your authority for this demand?" "i know that machine," chip said. "my hobby, old-time fightin' machines. built a model of a _resartus_ once, inch to the foot. a beauty. now, lessee...." vii the icy wind blew snow crystals stingingly against retief's face. "keep your hands in your pockets, chip," he said. "numb hands won't hack the program." "yeah." chip looked across at the tank. "useta think that was a perty thing, that _resartus_," he said. "looks mean, now." "you're getting the target's-eye view," retief said. "sorry you had to get mixed up in this, old timer." "mixed myself in. durn good thing, too." chip sighed. "i like these folks," he said. "them boys didn't like lettin' us come out here, but i'll give 'em credit. they seen it had to be this way, and they didn't set to moanin' about it." "they're tough people, chip." "funny how it sneaks up on you, ain't it, mister? few minutes ago we was eatin' high on the hog. now we're right close to bein' dead men." "they want us alive, chip." "it'll be a hairy deal, mister," chip said. "but t'hell with it. if it works, it works." "that's the spirit." "i hope i got them fields o' fire right--" "don't worry. i'll bet a barrel of beer we make it." "we'll find out in about ten seconds," chip said. as they reached the tank, the two men broke stride and jumped. retief leaped for the gun barrel, swung up astride it, ripped off the fur-lined leather cap he wore and, leaning forward, jammed it into the bore of the cannon. the chef sprang for a perch above the fore scanner antenna. with an angry _whuff!_ anti-personnel charges slammed from apertures low on the sides of the vehicle. retief swung around, pulled himself up on the hull. "okay, mister," chip called. "i'm going under." he slipped down the front of the tank, disappeared between the treads. retief clambered up, took a position behind the turret, lay flat as it whirled angrily, sonar eyes searching for its tormentors. the vehicle shuddered, backed, stopped, moved forward, pivoted. chip reappeared at the front of the tank. "it's stuck," he called. he stopped to breathe hard, clung as the machine lurched forward, spun to the right, stopped, rocking slightly. "take over here," retief said. he crawled forward, watched as the chef pulled himself up, slipped down past him, feeling for the footholds between the treads. he reached the ground, dropped on his back, hitched himself under the dark belly of the tank. he groped, found the handholds, probed with a foot for the tread-jack lever. the tank rumbled, backed quickly, turned left and right in a dizzying sine curve. retief clung grimly, inches from the clashing treads. the machine ground to a halt. retief found the lever, braced his back, pushed. the lever seemed to give minutely. he set himself again, put both feet against the frozen bar and heaved. with a dry rasp, it slid back. immediately two heavy rods extended themselves, moved down to touch the pavement, grated. the left track creaked as the weight went off it. suddenly the tank's drive raced, and retief grabbed for a hold as the right tread clashed, heaved the fifty-ton machine forward. the jacks screeched as they scored the tarmac, then bit in. the tank pivoted, chips of pavement flying. the jacks extended, lifted the clattering left track clear of the surface as the tank spun like a hamstrung buffalo. the tank stopped, sat silent, canted now on the extended jacks. retief emerged from under the machine, jumped, pulled himself above the anti-personnel apertures as another charge rocked the tank. he clambered to the turret, crouched beside chip. they waited, watching the entry hatch. five minutes passed. "i'll bet old tony's givin' the chauffeur hell," chip said. the hatch cycled open. a head came cautiously into view in time to see the needler in retief's hand. "come on out," retief said. the head dropped. chip snaked forward to ram a short section of steel rod under the hatch near the hinge. the hatch began to cycle shut, groaned, stopped. there was a sound of metal failing, and the hatch popped open. retief half rose, aimed the needler. the walls of the tank rang as the metal splinters ricocheted inside. "that's one keg o' beer i owe you, mister," chip said. "now let's git outa here before the ship lifts and fries us." * * * * * "the biggest problem the jorgensen's people will have is decontaminating the wreckage," retief said. magnan leaned forward. "amazing," he said. "they just keep coming, did they? had they no inter-ship communication?" "they had their orders," retief said. "and their attack plan. they followed it." "what a spectacle," magnan said. "over a thousand ships, plunging out of control one by one as they entered the stress-field." "not much of a spectacle," retief said. "you couldn't see them. too far away. they all crashed back in the mountains." "oh." magnan's face fell. "but it's as well they did. the bacterial bombs--" "too cold for bacteria. they won't spread." "nor will the soetti," magnan said smugly, "thanks to the promptness with which i acted in dispatching you with the requisite data." he looked narrowly at retief. "by the way, you're sure no ... ah ... message reached you after your arrival?" "i got something," retief said, looking magnan in the eye. "it must have been a garbled transmission. it didn't make sense." magnan coughed, shuffled papers. "this information you've reported," he said hurriedly. "this rather fantastic story that the soetti originated in the cloud, that they're seeking a foothold in the main galaxy because they've literally eaten themselves out of subsistence--how did you get it? the one or two soetti we attempted to question, ah...." magnan coughed again. "there was an accident," he finished. "we got nothing from them." "the jorgensens have a rather special method of interrogating prisoners," retief said. "they took one from a wreck, still alive but unconscious. they managed to get the story from him. he died of it." "it's immaterial, actually," magnan said. "since the soetti violated their treaty with us the day after it was signed. had no intention of fair play. far from evacuating the agreed areas, they had actually occupied half a dozen additional minor bodies in the whate system." retief clucked sympathetically. "you don't know who to trust, these days," he said. magnan looked at him coldly. "spare me your sarcasm, mr. retief," he said. he picked up a folder from his desk, opened it. "by the way, i have another little task for you, retief. we haven't had a comprehensive wild-life census report from brimstone lately--" "sorry," retief said. "i'll be tied up. i'm taking a month off. maybe more." "what's that?" magnan's head came up. "you seem to forget--" "i'm trying, mr. councillor," retief said. "good-by now." he reached out and flipped the key. magnan's face faded from the screen. retief stood up. "chip," he said, "we'll crack that keg when i get back." he turned to anne-marie. "how long," he said, "do you think it will take you to teach me to ski by moonlight?" none the madman from earth by keith laumer you don't have to be crazy to be an earth diplomat--but on groac it sure helps! [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, march . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] i "the consul for the terrestrial states," retief said, "presents his compliments, et cetera, to the ministry of culture of the groacian autonomy, and with reference to the ministry's invitation to attend a recital of interpretive grimacing, has the honor to express regret that he will be unable--" "you can't turn this invitation down," administrative assistant meuhl said flatly. "i'll make that 'accepts with pleasure'." retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke. "miss meuhl," he said, "in the past couple of weeks i've sat through six light-concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and god knows how many assorted folk-art festivals. i've been tied up every off-duty hour since i got here--" "you can't offend the groaci," miss meuhl said sharply. "consul whaffle would never have been so rude." "whaffle left here three months ago," retief said, "leaving me in charge." "well," miss meuhl said, snapping off the dictyper. "i'm sure i don't know what excuse i can give the minister." "never mind the excuses," retief said. "just tell him i won't be there." he stood up. "are you leaving the office?" miss meuhl adjusted her glasses. "i have some important letters here for your signature." "i don't recall dictating any letters today, miss meuhl," retief said, pulling on a light cape. * * * * * "i wrote them for you. they're just as consul whaffle would have wanted them." "did you write all whaffle's letters for him, miss meuhl?" "consul whaffle was an extremely busy man," miss meuhl said stiffly. "he had complete confidence in me." "since i'm cutting out the culture from now on," retief said, "i won't be so busy." "well!" miss meuhl said. "may i ask where you'll be if something comes up?" "i'm going over to the foreign office archives." miss meuhl blinked behind thick lenses. "whatever for?" retief looked thoughtfully at miss meuhl. "you've been here on groac for four years, miss meuhl. what was behind the coup d'etat that put the present government in power?" "i'm sure i haven't pried into--" "what about that terrestrial cruiser? the one that disappeared out this way about ten years back?" "mr. retief, those are just the sort of questions we _avoid_ with the groaci. i certainly hope you're not thinking of openly intruding--" "why?" "the groaci are a very sensitive race. they don't welcome outworlders raking up things. they've been gracious enough to let us live down the fact that terrestrials subjected them to deep humiliation on one occasion." "you mean when they came looking for the cruiser?" "i, for one, am ashamed of the high-handed tactics that were employed, grilling these innocent people as though they were criminals. we try never to reopen that wound, mr. retief." "they never found the cruiser, did they?" "certainly not on groac." retief nodded. "thanks, miss meuhl," he said. "i'll be back before you close the office." miss meuhl's face was set in lines of grim disapproval as he closed the door. * * * * * the pale-featured groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressed bleat. "not to enter the archives," he said in his faint voice. "the denial of permission. the deep regret of the archivist." "the importance of my task here," retief said, enunciating the glottal dialect with difficulty. "my interest in local history." "the impossibility of access to outworlders. to depart quietly." "the necessity that i enter." "the specific instructions of the archivist." the groacian's voice rose to a whisper. "to insist no longer. to give up this idea!" "ok, skinny, i know when i'm licked," retief said in terran. "to keep your nose clean." outside, retief stood for a moment looking across at the deeply carved windowless stucco facades lining the street, then started off in the direction of the terrestrial consulate general. the few groacians on the street eyed him furtively, veered to avoid him as he passed. flimsy high-wheeled ground cars puffed silently along the resilient pavement. the air was clean and cool. at the office, miss meuhl would be waiting with another list of complaints. retief studied the carving over the open doorways along the street. an elaborate one picked out in pinkish paint seemed to indicate the groacian equivalent of a bar. retief went in. a groacian bartender was dispensing clay pots of alcoholic drink from the bar-pit at the center of the room. he looked at retief and froze in mid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot. "to enjoy a cooling drink," retief said in groacian, squatting down at the edge of the pit. "to sample a true groacian beverage." "to not enjoy my poor offerings," the groacian mumbled. "a pain in the digestive sacs; to express regret." "to not worry," retief said, irritated. "to pour it out and let me decide whether i like it." "to be grappled in by peace-keepers for poisoning of--foreigners." the barkeep looked around for support, found none. the groaci customers, eyes elsewhere, were drifting away. "to get the lead out," retief said, placing a thick gold-piece in the dish provided. "to shake a tentacle." "the procuring of a cage," a thin voice called from the sidelines. "the displaying of a freak." * * * * * retief turned. a tall groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gesture of contempt. from his bluish throat coloration, it was apparent the creature was drunk. "to choke in your upper sac," the bartender hissed, extending his eyes toward the drunk. "to keep silent, litter-mate of drones." "to swallow your own poison, dispenser of vileness," the drunk whispered. "to find a proper cage for this zoo-piece." he wavered toward retief. "to show this one in the streets, like all freaks." "seen a lot of freaks like me, have you?" retief asked, interestedly. "to speak intelligibly, malodorous outworlder," the drunk said. the barkeep whispered something, and two customers came up to the drunk, took his arms and helped him to the door. "to get a cage!" the drunk shrilled. "to keep the animals in their own stinking place." "i've changed my mind," retief said to the bartender. "to be grateful as hell, but to have to hurry off now." he followed the drunk out the door. the other groaci released him, hurried back inside. retief looked at the weaving alien. "to begone, freak," the groacian whispered. "to be pals," retief said. "to be kind to dumb animals." "to have you hauled away to a stockyard, ill-odored foreign livestock." "to not be angry, fragrant native," retief said. "to permit me to chum with you." "to flee before i take a cane to you!" "to have a drink together--" "to not endure such insolence!" the groacian advanced toward retief. retief backed away. "to hold hands," retief said. "to be palsy-walsy--" the groacian reached for him, missed. a passer-by stepped around him, head down, scuttled away. retief backed into the opening to a narrow crossway and offered further verbal familiarities to the drunken local, who followed, furious. retief backed, rounded a corner into a narrow alley-like passage, deserted, silent ... except for the following groacian. retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. the groacian fell on his back. retief stood over him. the downed native half-rose; retief put a foot against his chest and pushed. "to not be going anywhere for a few minutes," retief said. "to stay right here and have a nice long talk." ii "there you are!" miss meuhl said, eyeing retief over her lenses. "there are two gentlemen waiting to see you. groacian gentlemen." "government men, i imagine. word travels fast." retief pulled off his cape. "this saves me the trouble of paying another call at the foreign ministry." "what have you been doing? they seem very upset, i don't mind telling you." "i'm sure you don't. come along. and bring an official recorder." two groaci wearing heavy eye-shields and elaborate crest ornaments indicative of rank rose as retief entered the room. neither offered a courteous snap of the mandibles, retief noted. they were mad, all right. "i am fith, of the terrestrial desk, ministry of foreign affairs, mr. consul," the taller groacian said, in lisping terran. "may i present shluh, of the internal police?" "sit down, gentlemen," retief said. they resumed their seats. miss meuhl hovered nervously, then sat on the edge of a comfortless chair. "oh, it's such a pleasure--" she began. "never mind that," retief said. "these gentlemen didn't come here to sip tea today." "so true," fith said. "frankly, i have had a most disturbing report, mr. consul. i shall ask shluh to recount it." he nodded to the police chief. "one hour ago," the groacian said, "a groacian national was brought to hospital suffering from serious contusions. questioning of this individual revealed that he had been set upon and beaten by a foreigner. a terrestrial, to be precise. investigation by my department indicates that the description of the culprit closely matches that of the terrestrial consul." miss meuhl gasped audibly. "have you ever heard," retief said, looking steadily at fith, "of a terrestrial cruiser, the _isv terrific_, which dropped from sight in this sector nine years ago?" "really!" miss meuhl exclaimed, rising. "i wash my hands--" "just keep that recorder going," retief snapped. "i'll not be a party--" "you'll do as you're told, miss meuhl," retief said quietly. "i'm telling you to make an official sealed record of this conversation." miss meuhl sat down. fith puffed out his throat indignantly. "you reopen an old wound, mr. consul. it reminds us of certain illegal treatment at terrestrial hands--" "hogwash," retief said. "that tune went over with my predecessors, but it hits a sour note with me." "all our efforts," miss meuhl said, "to live down that terrible episode! and you--" "terrible? i understand that a terrestrial task force stood off groac and sent a delegation down to ask questions. they got some funny answers, and stayed on to dig around a little. after a week they left. somewhat annoying to the groaci, maybe--at the most. if they were innocent." "if!" miss meuhl burst out. "if, indeed!" fith said, his weak voice trembling. "i must protest your--" * * * * * "save the protests, fith. you have some explaining to do. and i don't think your story will be good enough." "it is for you to explain! this person who was beaten--" "not beaten. just rapped a few times to loosen his memory." "then you admit--" "it worked, too. he remembered lots of things, once he put his mind to it." fith rose; shluh followed suit. "i shall ask for your immediate recall, mr. consul. were it not for your diplomatic immunity, i should do more--" "why did the government fall, fith? it was just after the task force paid its visit, and before the arrival of the first terrestrial diplomatic mission." "this is an internal matter!" fith cried, in his faint groacian voice. "the new regime has shown itself most amiable to you terrestrials. it has outdone itself--" "--to keep the terrestrial consul and his staff in the dark," retief said. "and the same goes for the few terrestrial businessmen you've visaed. this continual round of culture; no social contacts outside the diplomatic circle; no travel permits to visit out-lying districts, or your satellite--" "enough!" fith's mandibles quivered in distress. "i can talk no more of this matter--" "you'll talk to me, or there'll be a task force here in five days to do the talking," retief said. "you can't!" miss meuhl gasped. retief turned a steady look on miss meuhl. she closed her mouth. the groaci sat down. "answer me this one," retief said, looking at shluh. "a few years back--about nine, i think--there was a little parade held here. some curious looking creatures were captured. after being securely caged, they were exhibited to the gentle groaci public. hauled through the streets. very educational, no doubt. a highly cultural show. "funny thing about these animals. they wore clothes. they seemed to communicate with each other. altogether it was a very amusing exhibit. "tell me, shluh, what happened to those six terrestrials after the parade was over?" * * * * * fith made a choked noise and spoke rapidly to shluh in groacian. shluh retracted his eyes, shrank down in his chair. miss meuhl opened her mouth, closed it and blinked rapidly. "how did they die?" retief snapped. "did you murder them, cut their throats, shoot them or bury them alive? what amusing end did you figure out for them? research, maybe? cut them open to see what made them yell...." "no!" fith gasped. "i must correct this terrible false impression at once." "false impression, hell," retief said. "they were terrans! a simple narco-interrogation would get that out of any groacian who saw the parade." "yes," fith said weakly. "it is true, they were terrestrials. but there was no killing." "they're alive?" "alas, no. they ... died." miss meuhl yelped faintly. "i see," retief said. "they died." "we tried to keep them alive, of course. but we did not know what foods--" "didn't take the trouble to find out, either, did you?" "they fell ill," fith said. "one by one...." "we'll deal with that question later," retief said. "right now, i want more information. where did you get them? where did you hide the ship? what happened to the rest of the crew? did they 'fall ill' before the big parade?" "there were no more! absolutely, i assure you!" "killed in the crash landing?" "no crash landing. the ship descended intact, east of the city. the ... terrestrials ... were unharmed. naturally, we feared them. they were strange to us. we had never before seen such beings." "stepped off the ship with guns blazing, did they?" "guns? no, no guns--" "they raised their hands, didn't they? asked for help. you helped them; helped them to death." "how could we know?" fith moaned. "how could you know a flotilla would show up in a few months looking for them, you mean? that was a shock, wasn't it? i'll bet you had a brisk time of it hiding the ship, and shutting everybody up. a close call, eh?" "we were afraid," shluh said. "we are a simple people. we feared the strange creatures from the alien craft. we did not kill them, but we felt it was as well they ... did not survive. then, when the warships came, we realized our error. but we feared to speak. we purged our guilty leaders, concealed what had happened, and ... offered our friendship. we invited the opening of diplomatic relations. we made a blunder, it is true, a great blunder. but we have tried to make amends...." "where is the ship?" "the ship?" "what did you do with it? it was too big to just walk off and forget. where is it?" the two groacians exchanged looks. "we wish to show our contrition," fith said. "we will show you the ship." "miss meuhl," retief said. "if i don't come back in a reasonable length of time, transmit that recording to regional headquarters, sealed." he stood, looked at the groaci. "let's go," he said. * * * * * retief stooped under the heavy timbers shoring the entry to the cavern. he peered into the gloom at the curving flank of the space-burned hull. "any lights in here?" he asked. a groacian threw a switch. a weak bluish glow sprang up. retief walked along the raised wooden catwalk, studying the ship. empty emplacements gaped below lensless scanner eyes. littered decking was visible within the half-open entry port. near the bow the words 'ivs terrific b new terra' were lettered in bright chrome duralloy. "how did you get it in here?" retief asked. "it was hauled here from the landing point, some nine miles distant," fith said, his voice thinner than ever. "this is a natural crevasse. the vessel was lowered into it and roofed over." "how did you shield it so the detectors didn't pick it up?" "all here is high-grade iron ore," fith said, waving a member. "great veins of almost pure metal." retief grunted. "let's go inside." shluh came forward with a hand-lamp. the party entered the ship. retief clambered up a narrow companionway, glanced around the interior of the control compartment. dust was thick on the deck, the stanchions where acceleration couches had been mounted, the empty instrument panels, the litter of sheared bolts, scraps of wire and paper. a thin frosting of rust dulled the exposed metal where cutting torches had sliced away heavy shielding. there was a faint odor of stale bedding. "the cargo compartment--" shluh began. "i've seen enough," retief said. silently, the groacians led the way back out through the tunnel and into the late afternoon sunshine. as they climbed the slope to the steam car, fith came to retief's side. "indeed, i hope that this will be the end of this unfortunate affair," he said. "now that all has been fully and honestly shown--" "you can skip all that," retief said. "you're nine years late. the crew was still alive when the task force called, i imagine. you killed them--or let them die--rather than take the chance of admitting what you'd done." "we were at fault," fith said abjectly. "now we wish only friendship." "the _terrific_ was a heavy cruiser, about twenty thousand tons." retief looked grimly at the slender foreign office official. "where is she, fith? i won't settle for a hundred-ton lifeboat." * * * * * fith erected his eye stalks so violently that one eye-shield fell off. "i know nothing of ... of...." he stopped. his throat vibrated rapidly as he struggled for calm. "my government can entertain no further accusations, mr. consul," he said at last. "i have been completely candid with you, i have overlooked your probing into matters not properly within your sphere of responsibility. my patience is at an end." "where is that ship?" retief rapped out. "you never learn, do you? you're still convinced you can hide the whole thing and forget it. i'm telling you you can't." "we return to the city now," fith said. "i can do no more." "you can and you will, fith," retief said. "i intend to get to the truth of this matter." fith spoke to shluh in rapid groacian. the police chief gestured to his four armed constables. they moved to ring retief in. retief eyed fith. "don't try it," he said. "you'll just get yourself in deeper." fith clacked his mandibles angrily, eye stalks canted aggressively toward the terrestrial. "out of deference to your diplomatic status, terrestrial, i shall ignore your insulting remarks," fith said in his reedy voice. "let us now return to the city." retief looked at the four policemen. "i see your point," he said. fith followed him into the car, sat rigidly at the far end of the seat. "i advise you to remain very close to your consulate," fith said. "i advise you to dismiss these fancies from your mind, and to enjoy the cultural aspects of life at groac. especially, i should not venture out of the city, or appear overly curious about matters of concern only to the groacian government." in the front seat, shluh looked straight ahead. the loosely-sprung vehicle bobbed and swayed along the narrow highway. retief listened to the rhythmic puffing of the motor and said nothing. iii "miss meuhl," retief said, "i want you to listen carefully to what i'm going to tell you. i have to move rapidly now, to catch the groaci off guard." "i'm sure i don't know what you're talking about," miss meuhl snapped, her eyes sharp behind the heavy lenses. "if you'll listen, you may find out," retief said. "i have no time to waste, miss meuhl. they won't be expecting an immediate move--i hope--and that may give me the latitude i need." "you're still determined to make an issue of that incident!" miss meuhl snorted. "i really can hardly blame the groaci. they are not a sophisticated race; they had never before met aliens." "you're ready to forgive a great deal, miss meuhl. but it's not what happened nine years ago i'm concerned with. it's what's happening now. i've told you that it was only a lifeboat the groaci have hidden out. don't you understand the implication? that vessel couldn't have come far. the cruiser itself must be somewhere near by. i want to know where!" "the groaci don't know. they're a very cultured, gentle people. you can do irreparable harm to the reputation of terrestrials if you insist--" "that's my decision," retief said. "i have a job to do and we're wasting time." he crossed the room to his desk, opened a drawer and took out a slim-barreled needler. "this office is being watched. not very efficiently, if i know the groaci. i think i can get past them all right." "where are you going with ... that?" miss meuhl stared at the needler. "what in the world--" "the groaci won't waste any time destroying every piece of paper in their files relating to this thing. i have to get what i need before it's too late. if i wait for an official inquiry commission, they'll find nothing but blank smiles." "you're out of your mind!" miss meuhl stood up, quivering with indignation. "you're like a ... a...." "you and i are in a tight spot, miss meuhl. the logical next move for the groaci is to dispose of both of us. we're the only ones who know what happened. fith almost did the job this afternoon, but i bluffed him out--for the moment." miss meuhl emitted a shrill laugh. "your fantasies are getting the better of you," she gasped. "in danger, indeed! disposing of me! i've never heard anything so ridiculous." "stay in this office. close and safe-lock the door. you've got food and water in the dispenser. i suggest you stock up, before they shut the supply down. don't let anyone in, on any pretext whatever. i'll keep in touch with you via hand-phone." "what are you planning to do?" "if i don't make it back here, transmit the sealed record of this afternoon's conversation, along with the information i've given you. beam it through on a mayday priority. then tell the groaci what you've done and sit tight. i think you'll be all right. it won't be easy to blast in here and anyway, they won't make things worse by killing you. a force can be here in a week." "i'll do nothing of the sort! the groaci are very fond of me! you ... johnny-come-lately! roughneck! setting out to destroy--" "blame it on me if it will make you feel any better," retief said, "but don't be fool enough to trust them." he pulled on a cape, opened the door. "i'll be back in a couple of hours," he said. miss meuhl stared after him silently as he closed the door. * * * * * it was an hour before dawn when retief keyed the combination to the safe-lock and stepped into the darkened consular office. he looked tired. miss meuhl, dozing in a chair, awoke with a start. she looked at retief, rose and snapped on a light, turned to stare. "what in the world--where have you been? what's happened to your clothing?" "i got a little dirty. don't worry about it." retief went to his desk, opened a drawer and replaced the needler. "where have you been?" miss meuhl demanded. "i stayed here--" "i'm glad you did," retief said. "i hope you piled up a supply of food and water from the dispenser, too. we'll be holed up here for a week, at least." he jotted figures on a pad. "warm up the official sender. i have a long transmission for regional headquarters." "are you going to tell me where you've been?" "i have a message to get off first, miss meuhl," retief said sharply. "i've been to the foreign ministry," he added. "i'll tell you all about it later." "at this hour? there's no one there...." "exactly." miss meuhl gasped. "you mean you broke in? you burgled the foreign office?" "that's right," retief said calmly. "now--" "this is absolutely the end!" miss meuhl said. "thank heaven i've already--" "get that sender going, woman!" retief snapped. "this is important." "i've already done so, mr. retief!" miss meuhl said harshly. "i've been waiting for you to come back here...." she turned to the communicator, flipped levers. the screen snapped aglow, and a wavering long-distance image appeared. "he's here now," miss meuhl said to the screen. she looked at retief triumphantly. "that's good," retief said. "i don't think the groaci can knock us off the air, but--" "i have done my duty, mr. retief," miss meuhl said. "i made a full report to regional headquarters last night, as soon as you left this office. any doubts i may have had as to the rightness of that decision have been completely dispelled by what you've just told me." retief looked at her levelly. "you've been a busy girl, miss meuhl. did you mention the six terrestrials who were killed here?" "that had no bearing on the matter of your wild behavior! i must say, in all my years in the corps, i've never encountered a personality less suited to diplomatic work." * * * * * the screen crackled, the ten-second transmission lag having elapsed. "mr. retief," the face on the screen said, "i am counsellor pardy, dso- , deputy under-secretary for the region. i have received a report on your conduct which makes it mandatory for me to relieve you administratively, vice miss yolanda meuhl, dao- . pending the findings of a board of inquiry, you will--" retief reached out and snapped off the communicator. the triumphant look faded from miss meuhl's face. "why, what is the meaning--" "if i'd listened any longer, i might have heard something i couldn't ignore. i can't afford that, at this moment. listen, miss meuhl," retief went on earnestly, "i've found the missing cruiser." "you heard him relieve you!" "i heard him say he was _going_ to, miss meuhl. but until i've heard and acknowledged a verbal order, it has no force. if i'm wrong, he'll get my resignation. if i'm right, that suspension would be embarrassing all around." "you're defying lawful authority! i'm in charge here now." miss meuhl stepped to the local communicator. "i'm going to report this terrible thing to the groaci at once, and offer my profound--" "don't touch that screen," retief said. "you go sit in that corner where i can keep an eye on you. i'm going to make a sealed tape for transmission to headquarters, along with a call for an armed task force. then we'll settle down to wait." retief ignored miss meuhl's fury as he spoke into the recorder. the local communicator chimed. miss meuhl jumped up, staring at it. "go ahead," retief said. "answer it." a groacian official appeared on the screen. "yolanda meuhl," he said without preamble, "for the foreign minister of the groacian autonomy, i herewith accredit you as terrestrial consul to groac, in accordance with the advices transmitted to my government direct from the terrestrial headquarters. as consul, you are requested to make available for questioning mr. j. retief, former consul, in connection with the assault on two peace keepers and illegal entry into the offices of the ministry for foreign affairs." "why, why," miss meuhl stammered. "yes, of course. and i do want to express my deepest regrets--" * * * * * retief rose, went to the communicator, assisted miss meuhl aside. "listen carefully, fith," he said. "your bluff has been called. you don't come in and we don't come out. your camouflage worked for nine years, but it's all over now. i suggest you keep your heads and resist the temptation to make matters worse than they are." "miss meuhl," fith said, "a peace squad waits outside your consulate. it is clear you are in the hands of a dangerous lunatic. as always, the groaci wish only friendship with the terrestrials, but--" "don't bother," retief said. "you know what was in those files i looked over this morning." retief turned at a sound behind him. miss meuhl was at the door, reaching for the safe-lock release.... "don't!" retief jumped--too late. the door burst inward. a crowd of crested groaci pressed into the room, pushed miss meuhl back, aimed scatter guns at retief. police chief shluh pushed forward. "attempt no violence, terrestrial," he said. "i cannot promise to restrain my men." "you're violating terrestrial territory, shluh," retief said steadily. "i suggest you move back out the same way you came in." "i invited them here," miss meuhl spoke up. "they are here at my express wish." "are they? are you sure you meant to go this far, miss meuhl? a squad of armed groaci in the consulate?" "you are the consul, miss yolanda meuhl," shluh said. "would it not be best if we removed this deranged person to a place of safety?" "you're making a serious mistake, shluh," retief said. "yes," miss meuhl said. "you're quite right, mr. shluh. please escort mr. retief to his quarters in this building--" "i don't advise you to violate my diplomatic immunity, fith," retief said. "as chief of mission," miss meuhl said quickly, "i hereby waive immunity in the case of mr. retief." shluh produced a hand recorder. "kindly repeat your statement, madam, officially," he said. "i wish no question to arise later." "don't be a fool, woman," retief said. "don't you see what you're letting yourself in for? this would be a hell of a good time for you to figure out whose side you're on." "i'm on the side of common decency!" "you've been taken in. these people are concealing--" "you think all women are fools, don't you, mr. retief?" she turned to the police chief and spoke into the microphone he held up. "that's an illegal waiver," retief said. "i'm consul here, whatever rumors you've heard. this thing's coming out into the open, whatever you do. don't add violation of the consulate to the list of groacian atrocities." "take the man," shluh said. * * * * * two tall groaci came to retief's side, guns aimed at his chest. "determined to hang yourselves, aren't you?" retief said. "i hope you have sense enough not to lay a hand on this poor fool here." he jerked a thumb at miss meuhl. "she doesn't know anything. i hadn't had time to tell her yet. she thinks you're a band of angels." the cop at retief's side swung the butt of his scatter-gun, connected solidly with retief's jaw. retief staggered against a groacian, was caught and thrust upright, blood running down onto his shirt. miss meuhl yelped. shluh barked at the guard in shrill groacian, then turned to stare at miss meuhl. "what has this man told you?" "i--nothing. i refused to listen to his ravings." "he said nothing to you of some ... alleged ... involvement?" "i've told you!" miss meuhl said sharply. she looked at the blood on retief's shirt. "he told me nothing," she whispered. "i swear it." "let it lie, boys," retief said. "before you spoil that good impression." shluh looked at miss meuhl for a long moment. then he turned. "let us go," he said. he turned back to miss meuhl. "do not leave this building until further advice," he said. "but ... i am the terrestrial consul!" "for your safety, madam. the people are aroused at the beating of groacian nationals by an ... alien." "so long, meuhlsie," retief said. "you played it real foxy." "you'll ... lock him in his quarters?" miss meuhl said. "what is done with him is now a groacian affair, miss meuhl. you yourself have withdrawn the protection of your government." "i didn't mean--" "don't start having second thoughts," retief said. "they can make you miserable." "i had no choice," miss meuhl said. "i had to consider the best interest of the service." "my mistake, i guess," retief said. "i was thinking of the best interests of a terrestrial cruiser with three hundred men aboard." "enough," shluh said. "remove this criminal." he gestured to the peace keepers. "move along," he said to retief. he turned to miss meuhl. "a pleasure to deal with you, madam." iv retief stood quietly in the lift, stepped out at the ground floor and followed docilely down the corridor and across the pavement to a waiting steam car. one of the peace keepers rounded the vehicle to enter on the other side. two stooped to climb into the front seat. shluh gestured retief into the back seat and got in behind him. the others moved off on foot. the car started up and pulled away. the cop in the front seat turned to look at retief. "to have some sport with it, and then to kill it," he said. "to have a fair trial first," shluh said. the car rocked and jounced, rounded a corner, puffed along between ornamented pastel facades. "to have a trial and then to have a bit of sport," the cop said. "to suck the eggs in your own hill," retief said. "to make another stupid mistake." shluh raised his short ceremonial club and cracked retief across the temple. retief shook his head, tensed-- the cop in the front seat beside the driver turned and rammed the barrel of his scatter-gun against retief's ribs. "to make no move, outworlder," he said. shluh raised his club and carefully struck retief again. he slumped. the car swayed, rounded another corner. retief slid over against the police chief. "to fend this animal--" shluh began. his weak voice was cut off short as retief's hand shot out, took him by the throat and snapped him down onto the floor. as the guard on retief's left lunged, retief uppercut him, slamming his head against the door post. he grabbed the scatter-gun as it fell, pushed into the mandibles of the groacian in the front seat. "to put your popgun over the seat--carefully--and drop it," he said. the driver slammed on his brakes, whirled to raise his gun. retief cracked the gun barrel against the head of the groacian before him, then swiveled to aim it at the driver. "to keep your eyestalks on the road," he said. the driver grabbed at the tiller and shrank against the window, watching retief with one eye, driving with the other. "to gun this thing," retief said. "to keep moving." shluh stirred on the floor. retief put a foot on him, pressed him back. the cop beside retief moved. retief pushed him off the seat onto the floor. he held the scatter-gun with one hand and mopped at the blood on his face with the other. the car bounded over the irregular surface of the road, puffing furiously. "your death will not be an easy one, terrestrial," shluh said in terran. "no easier than i can help," retief said. "shut up for now, i want to think." * * * * * the car passed the last of the relief-crusted mounds, sped along between tilled fields. "slow down," retief said. the driver obeyed. "turn down this side road." the car bumped off onto an unpaved surface, threaded its way back among tall stalks. "stop here." the car stopped. it blew off steam and sat trembling as the hot engine idled roughly. retief opened the door, took his foot off shluh. "sit up," he ordered. "you two in front listen carefully." shluh sat up, rubbing his throat. "three of you are getting out here," retief said. "good old shluh is going to stick around to drive for me. if i get that nervous feeling that the cops are after me, i'll toss him out to confuse them. that will be pretty messy, at high speed. shluh, tell them to sit tight until dark and forget about sounding any alarms. i'd hate to see your carapace split and spill loveable you all over the pavement." "to burst your throat sac, evil-smelling beast!" shluh hissed. "sorry, i haven't got one." retief put the gun under shluh's ear. "tell them, shluh. i can drive myself, in a pinch." "to do as the foreign one says; to stay hidden until dark," shluh said. "everybody out," retief said. "and take this with you." he nudged the unconscious groacian. "shluh, you get in the driver's seat. you others stay where i can see you." retief watched as the groaci silently followed instructions. "all right, shluh," retief said softly. "let's go. take me to groac spaceport by the shortest route that doesn't go through the city. and be very careful about making any sudden movements." * * * * * forty minutes later, shluh steered the car up to the sentry-guarded gate in the security fence surrounding the military enclosure at groac spaceport. "don't yield to any rash impulses," retief whispered as a crested groacian soldier came up. shluh grated his mandibles in helpless fury. "drone-master shluh, internal security," he croaked. the guard tilted his eyes toward retief. "the guest of the autonomy," shluh added. "to let me pass or to rot in this spot, fool?" "to pass, drone-master," the sentry mumbled. he was still staring at retief as the car moved jerkily away. "you are as good as pegged out on the hill in the pleasure pits now, terrestrial," shluh said in terran. "why do you venture here?" "pull over there in the shadow of the tower and stop," retief said. shluh complied. retief studied the row of four slender ships parked on the ramp, navigation lights picked out against the early dawn colors of the sky. "which of those boats are ready to lift?" retief demanded. shluh swiveled a choleric eye. "all of them are shuttles; they have no range. they will not help you." "to answer the question, shluh, or to get another crack on the head." "you are not like other terrestrials! you are a mad dog!" "we'll rough out a character sketch of me later. are they all fueled up? you know the procedures here. did those shuttles just get in, or is that the ready line?" "yes. all are fueled and ready for take-off." "i hope you're right, shluh. you and i are going to drive over and get in one; if it doesn't lift, i'll kill you and try the next. let's go." "you are mad! i have told you--these boats have not more than ten thousand ton-seconds capacity. they are useful only for satellite runs." "never mind the details. let's try the first in line." shluh let in the clutch and the steam car clanked and heaved, rolled off toward the line of boats. "not the first in line," shluh said suddenly. "the last is the more likely to be fueled. but--" "smart grasshopper," retief said. "pull up to the entry port, hop out and go right up. i'll be right behind you." "the gangway guard. the challenging of--" "more details. just give him a dirty look and say what's necessary. you know the technique." * * * * * the car passed under the stern of the first boat, then the second. there was no alarm. it rounded the third and shuddered to a stop by the open port of the last vessel. "out," retief said. "to make it snappy." shluh stepped from the car, hesitated as the guard came to attention, then hissed at him and mounted the steps. the guard looked wonderingly at retief, mandibles slack. "an outworlder!" he said. he unlimbered his scatter-gun. "to stop here, meat-faced one." shluh froze, turned. "to snap to attention, litter-mate of drones!" retief rasped in groacian. the guard jumped, waved his eye stalks and came to attention. "about face!" retief hissed. "hell out of here--to march!" the guard tramped off across the ramp. retief took the steps two at a time, slammed the port shut behind himself. "i'm glad your boys have a little discipline, shluh," retief said. "what did you say to him?" "i but--" "never mind. we're in. get up to the control compartment." "what do you know of groacian naval vessels?" "plenty. this is a straight copy from the lifeboat you lads hijacked. i can run it. get going." retief followed shluh up the companionway into the cramped control room. "tie in, shluh," retief ordered. "this is insane!" shluh said. "we have only fuel enough for a one-way transit to the satellite. we cannot enter orbit, nor can we land again! to lift this boat is death--unless your destination is our moon." "the moon is down, shluh," retief said. "and so are we. but not for long. tie in." "release me," shluh gasped. "i promise you immunity." "if i have to tie you in myself, i might bend your head in the process." shluh crawled onto the couch, strapped in. "give it up," he said. "i will see that you are reinstated--with honor! i will guarantee a safe conduct." "countdown," retief said. he threw in the autopilot. "it is death!" shluh screeched. the gyros hummed; timers ticked; relays closed. retief lay relaxed on the acceleration pad. shluh breathed noisily, his mandibles clicking rapidly. "that i had fled in time," shluh said in a hoarse whisper. "this is not a good death...." "no death is a good death," retief said. "not for a while yet." the red light flashed on in the center of the panel, and abruptly sound filled the universe. the ship trembled, lifted. retief could hear shluh's whimpering even through the roar of the drive. * * * * * "perihelion," shluh said dully. "to begin now the long fall back." "not quite," retief said. "i figure eighty-five seconds to go." he scanned the instruments, frowning. "we will not reach the surface, of course," shluh said in terran. "the pips on the screen are missiles. we have a rendezvous in space, retief. in your madness, may you be content." "they're fifteen minutes behind us, shluh. your defenses are sluggish." "nevermore to burrow in the gray sands of groac," shluh said. retief's eyes were fixed on a dial face. "any time now," he said softly. shluh counted his eye stalks. "what do you seek?" retief stiffened. "look at the screen," he said. shluh looked. a glowing point, off-center, moving rapidly across the grid.... "what--" "later!" shluh watched as retief's eyes darted from one needle to another. "how...." "for your own neck's sake, shluh," retief said, "you'd better hope this works." he flipped the sending key. " tr- g, this is the terrestrial consul at groac, aboard groac , vectoring on you at an mp fix of / / . can you read me? over." "what forlorn gesture is this?" shluh whispered. "you cry in the night to emptiness!" "button your mandibles," retief snapped, listening. there was a faint hum of stellar background noise. retief repeated his call, waited. "maybe they hear but can't answer," he muttered. he flipped the key. " , you've got twenty seconds to lock a tractor beam on me, or i'll be past you like a shot of rum past a sailor's bridgework...." "to call into the void!" shluh said. "to--" "look at the dv screen." * * * * * shluh twisted his head, looked. against the background mist of stars, a shape loomed, dark and inert. "it is ... a ship!" shluh said. "a monster ship!" "that's her," retief said. "nine years and a few months out of new terra on a routine mapping mission. the missing cruiser--the ivs _terrific_." "impossible!" shluh hissed. "the hulk swings in a deep cometary orbit." "right. and now it's making its close swing past groac." "you think to match orbits with the derelict? without power? our meeting will be a violent one, if that is your intent." "we won't hit; we'll make our pass at about five thousand yards." "to what end, terrestrial? you have found your lost ship. then what? is this glimpse worth the death we die?" "maybe they're not dead," retief said. "not dead?" shluh lapsed into groacian. "to have died in the burrow of one's youth. to have burst my throat sac ere i embarked with a mad alien to call up the dead." " , make it snappy," retief called. the speaker crackled heedlessly. the dark image on the screen drifted past, dwindling now. "nine years, and the mad one speaking as to friends," shluh raved. "nine years dead, and still to seek them." "another twenty seconds," retief said softly, "and we're out of range. look alive, boys." "was this your plan, retief?" shluh asked in terran. "did you flee groac and risk all on this slender thread?" "how long would i have lasted in one of your groaci prisons?" "long and long, my retief," shluh hissed, "under the blade of an artist." abruptly, the ship trembled, seemed to drag, rolling the two passengers in their couches. shluh hissed as the restraining harness cut into him. the shuttle boat was pivoting heavily, upending. crushing acceleration forces built. shluh gasped and cried out shrilly. "what ... is ... it?" "it looks," retief said, "like we've had a little bit of luck." v "on our second pass," the gaunt-faced officer said, "they let fly with something. i don't know how it got past our screens. it socked home in the stern and put the main pipe off the air. i threw full power to the emergency shields, and broadcast our identification on a scatter that should have hit every receiver within a parsec. nothing. then the transmitter blew. i was a fool to send the boat down but i couldn't believe, somehow...." "in a way it's lucky you did, captain. that was my only lead." "they tried to finish us after that. but with full power to the screens, nothing they had could get through. then they called on us to surrender." retief nodded. "i take it you weren't tempted?" "more than you know. it was a long swing out on our first circuit. then, coming back in, we figured we'd hit. as a last resort i would have pulled back power from the screens and tried to adjust the orbit with the steering jets. but the bombardment was pretty heavy; i don't think we'd have made it. then we swung past and headed out again. we've got a three year period. don't think i didn't consider giving up." "why didn't you?" "the information we have is important. we've got plenty of stores aboard. enough for another ten years, if necessary. sooner or later, i knew search command would find us." retief cleared his throat. "i'm glad you stuck with it, captain. even a backwater world like groac can kill a lot of people when it runs amok." "what i didn't know," the captain went on, "was that we're not in a stable orbit. we're going to graze atmosphere pretty deeply this pass, and in another sixty days we'd be back to stay. i guess the groaci would be ready for us." "no wonder they were sitting on this so tight," retief said. "they were almost in the clear." "and you're here now," the captain said. "nine years, and we weren't forgotten. i knew we could count on--" "it's over now, captain," retief said. "that's what counts." "home," the captain said. "after nine years...." * * * * * "i'd like to take a look at the films you mentioned," retief said. "the ones showing the installations on the satellite." the captain complied. retief watched as the scene unrolled, showing the bleak surface of the tiny moon as the _terrific_ had seen it nine years before. in harsh black and white, row on row of identical hulls cast long shadows across the pitted metallic surface of the satellite. retief whistled. "they had quite a little surprise in store. your visit must have panicked them." "they should be about ready to go, by now. nine years...." "hold the picture," retief said suddenly. "what's that ragged black line across the plain there?" "i think it's a fissure. the crystalline structure--" "i've got what may be an idea," retief said. "i had a look at some classified files last night, at the foreign office. one was a progress report on a fissionable stockpile. it didn't make much sense at the time. now i get the picture. which is the 'north' end of that crevasse?" "at the top of the picture." "unless i'm badly mistaken, that's the bomb dump. the groaci like to tuck things underground. i wonder what a direct hit with a fifty mega-ton missile would do to it?" "if that's an ordnance storage dump," the captain said, "it's an experiment i'd like to try." "can you hit it?" "i've got fifty heavy missiles aboard. if i fire them in direct sequence, it should saturate the defenses. yes, i can hit it." "the range isn't too great?" "these are the de luxe models," the captain smiled balefully. "video guidance. we could steer them into a bar and park 'em on a stool." "what do you say we try it?" "i've been wanting a solid target for a long time," the captain said. * * * * * retief waved a hand toward the screen. "that expanding dust cloud used to be the satellite of groac, shluh," he said. "looks like something happened to it." the police chief stared at the picture. "too bad," retief said. "but then it wasn't of any importance, was it, shluh?" shluh muttered incomprehensibly. "just a bare hunk of iron, shluh. that's what the foreign office told me when i asked for information." "i wish you'd keep your prisoner out of sight," the captain said. "i have a hard time keeping my hands off him." "shluh wants to help, captain. he's been a bad boy and i have a feeling he'd like to cooperate with us now. especially in view of the imminent arrival of a terrestrial ship, and the dust cloud out there." "what do you mean?" "captain, you can ride it out for another week, contact the ship when it arrives, get a tow in and your troubles are over. when your films are shown in the proper quarter, a task force will come out here. they'll reduce groac to a sub-technical cultural level, and set up a monitor system to insure she doesn't get any more expansionist ideas. not that she can do much now, with her handy iron mine in the sky gone." "that's right; and--" "on the other hand," retief said, "there's what i might call the diplomatic approach...." he explained at length. the captain looked at him thoughtfully. "i'll go along," he said. "what about this fellow?" retief turned to shluh. the groacian shuddered, eye stalks retracted. "i will do it," he said faintly. "right," retief said. "captain, if you'll have your men bring in the transmitter from the shuttle, i'll place a call to a fellow named fith at the foreign office." he turned to shluh. "and when i get him, shluh, you'll do everything exactly as i've told you--or have terrestrial monitors dictating in groac city." * * * * * "quite candidly, retief," counsellor pardy said, "i'm rather nonplussed. mr. fith of the foreign office seemed almost painfully lavish in your praise. he seems most eager to please you. in the light of some of the evidence i've turned up of highly irregular behavior on your part, it's difficult to understand." "fith and i have been through a lot together," retief said. "we understand each other." "you have no cause for complacency, retief," pardy said. "miss meuhl was quite justified in reporting your case. of course, had she known that you were assisting mr. fith in his marvelous work, she would have modified her report somewhat, no doubt. you should have confided in her." "fith wanted to keep it secret, in case it didn't work out," retief said. "you know how it is." "of course. and as soon as miss meuhl recovers from her nervous breakdown, there'll be a nice promotion awaiting her. the girl more than deserves it for her years of unswerving devotion to corps policy." "unswerving," retief said. "i'll sure go along with that." "as well you may, retief. you've not acquitted yourself well in this assignment. i'm arranging for a transfer. you've alienated too many of the local people...." "but as you said, fith speaks highly of me...." "oh, true. it's the cultural intelligentsia i'm referring to. miss meuhl's records show that you deliberately affronted a number of influential groups by boycotting--" "tone deaf," retief said. "to me a groacian blowing a nose-whistle sounds like a groacian blowing a nose-whistle." "you have to come to terms with local aesthetic values," pardy explained. "learn to know the people as they really are. it's apparent from some of the remarks miss meuhl quoted in her report that you held the groaci in rather low esteem. but how wrong you were! all the while, they were working unceasingly to rescue those brave lads marooned aboard our cruiser. they pressed on even after we ourselves had abandoned the search. and when they discovered that it had been a collision with their satellite which disabled the craft, they made that magnificent gesture--unprecedented. one hundred thousand credits in gold to each crew member, as a token of groacian sympathy." "a handsome gesture," retief murmured. * * * * * "i hope, retief, that you've learned from this incident. in view of the helpful part you played in advising mr. fith in matters of procedure to assist in his search, i'm not recommending a reduction in grade. we'll overlook the affair, give you a clean slate. but in future, i'll be watching you closely." "you can't win 'em all," retief said. "you'd better pack up. you'll be coming along with us in the morning." pardy shuffled his papers together. "i'm sorry," he said, "that i can't file a more flattering report on you. i would have liked to recommend your promotion, along with miss meuhl's." "that's okay," retief said. "i have my memories." retief of the red-tape mountain by keith laumer retief knew the importance of sealed orders--and the need to keep them that way! [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, may . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "it's true," consul passwyn said, "i requested assignment as principal officer at a small post. but i had in mind one of those charming resort worlds, with only an occasional visa problem, or perhaps a distressed spaceman or two a year. instead, i'm zoo-keeper to these confounded settlers. and not for one world, mind you, but eight!" he stared glumly at vice-consul retief. "still," retief said, "it gives an opportunity to travel--" "travel!" the consul barked. "i hate travel. here in this backwater system particularly--" he paused, blinked at retief and cleared his throat. "not that a bit of travel isn't an excellent thing for a junior officer. marvelous experience." he turned to the wall-screen and pressed a button. a system triagram appeared: eight luminous green dots arranged around a larger disk representing the primary. he picked up a pointer, indicating the innermost planet. "the situation on adobe is nearing crisis. the confounded settlers--a mere handful of them--have managed, as usual, to stir up trouble with an intelligent indigenous life form, the jaq. i can't think why they bother, merely for a few oases among the endless deserts. however i have, at last, received authorization from sector headquarters to take certain action." he swung back to face retief. "i'm sending you in to handle the situation, retief--under sealed orders." he picked up a fat buff envelope. "a pity they didn't see fit to order the terrestrial settlers out weeks ago, as i suggested. now it is too late. i'm expected to produce a miracle--a rapprochement between terrestrial and adoban and a division of territory. it's idiotic. however, failure would look very bad in my record, so i shall expect results." he passed the buff envelope across to retief. "i understood that adobe was uninhabited," retief said, "until the terrestrial settlers arrived." "apparently, that was an erroneous impression." passwyn fixed retief with a watery eye. "you'll follow your instructions to the letter. in a delicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptu element introduced. this approach has been worked out in detail at sector. you need merely implement it. is that entirely clear?" "has anyone at headquarters ever visited adobe?" "of course not. they all hate travel. if there are no other questions, you'd best be on your way. the mail run departs the dome in less than an hour." "what's this native life form like?" retief asked, getting to his feet. "when you get back," said passwyn, "you tell me." * * * * * the mail pilot, a leathery veteran with quarter-inch whiskers, spat toward a stained corner of the compartment, leaned close to the screen. "they's shootin' goin' on down there," he said. "see them white puffs over the edge of the desert?" "i'm supposed to be preventing the war," said retief. "it looks like i'm a little late." the pilot's head snapped around. "war?" he yelped. "nobody told me they was a war goin' on on 'dobe. if that's what that is, i'm gettin' out of here." "hold on," said retief. "i've got to get down. they won't shoot at you." "they shore won't, sonny. i ain't givin' 'em the chance." he started punching keys on the console. retief reached out, caught his wrist. "maybe you didn't hear me. i said i've got to get down." the pilot plunged against the restraint, swung a punch that retief blocked casually. "are you nuts?" the pilot screeched. "they's plenty shootin' goin' on fer me to see it fifty miles out." "the mail must go through, you know." "okay! you're so dead set on gettin' killed, you take the skiff. i'll tell 'em to pick up the remains next trip." "you're a pal. i'll take your offer." the pilot jumped to the lifeboat hatch and cycled it open. "get in. we're closin' fast. them birds might take it into their heads to lob one this way...." retief crawled into the narrow cockpit of the skiff, glanced over the controls. the pilot ducked out of sight, came back, handed retief a heavy old-fashioned power pistol. "long as you're goin' in, might as well take this." "thanks." retief shoved the pistol in his belt. "i hope you're wrong." "i'll see they pick you up when the shootin's over--one way or another." the hatch clanked shut. a moment later there was a jar as the skiff dropped away, followed by heavy buffeting in the backwash from the departing mail boat. retief watched the tiny screen, hands on the manual controls. he was dropping rapidly: forty miles, thirty-nine.... a crimson blip showed on the screen, moving out. retief felt sweat pop out on his forehead. the red blip meant heavy radiation from a warhead. somebody was playing around with an outlawed but by no means unheard of fission weapon. but maybe it was just on a high trajectory and had no connection with the skiff.... retief altered course to the south. the blip followed. he checked instrument readings, gripped the controls, watching. this was going to be tricky. the missile bored closer. at five miles retief threw the light skiff into maximum acceleration, straight toward the oncoming bomb. crushed back in the padded seat, he watched the screen, correcting course minutely. the proximity fuse should be set for no more than yards. at a combined speed of two miles per second, the skiff flashed past the missile, and retief was slammed violently against the restraining harness in the concussion of the explosion ... a mile astern, and harmless. then the planetary surface was rushing up with frightening speed. retief shook his head, kicked in the emergency retro-drive. points of light arced up from the planet face below. if they were ordinary chemical warheads the skiff's meteor screens should handle them. the screen flashed brilliant white, then went dark. the skiff flipped on its back. smoke filled the tiny compartment. there was a series of shocks, a final bone-shaking concussion, then stillness, broken by the ping of hot metal contracting. * * * * * coughing, retief disengaged himself from the shock-webbing. he beat out sparks in his lap, groped underfoot for the hatch and wrenched it open. a wave of hot jungle air struck him. he lowered himself to a bed of shattered foliage, got to his feet ... and dropped flat as a bullet whined past his ear. he lay listening. stealthy movements were audible from the left. he inched his way to the shelter of a broad-boled dwarf tree. somewhere a song lizard burbled. whining insects circled, scented alien life, buzzed off. there was another rustle of foliage from the underbrush five yards away. a bush quivered, then a low bough dipped. retief edged back around the trunk, eased down behind a fallen log. a stocky man in grimy leather shirt and shorts appeared, moving cautiously, a pistol in his hand. as he passed, retief rose, leaped the log and tackled him. they went down together. the stranger gave one short yell, then struggled in silence. retief flipped him onto his back, raised a fist-- "hey!" the settler yelled. "you're as human as i am!" "maybe i'll look better after a shave," said retief. "what's the idea of shooting at me?" "lemme up. my name's potter. sorry 'bout that. i figured it was a flap-jack boat; looks just like 'em. i took a shot when i saw something move. didn't know it was a terrestrial. who are you? what you doin' here? we're pretty close to the edge of the oases. that's flap-jack country over there." he waved a hand toward the north, where the desert lay. "i'm glad you're a poor shot. that missile was too close for comfort." "missile, eh? must be flap-jack artillery. we got nothing like that." "i heard there was a full-fledged war brewing," said retief. "i didn't expect--" "good!" potter said. "we figured a few of you boys from ivory would be joining up when you heard. you are from ivory?" "yes. i'm--" "hey, you must be lemuel's cousin. good night! i pretty near made a bad mistake. lemuel's a tough man to explain something to." "i'm--" "keep your head down. these damn flap-jacks have got some wicked hand weapons. come on...." he moved off silently on all fours. retief followed. they crossed two hundred yards of rough country before potter got to his feet, took out a soggy bandana and mopped his face. "you move good for a city man. i thought you folks on ivory just sat under those domes and read dials. but i guess bein' lemuel's cousin you was raised different." "as a matter of fact--" "have to get you some real clothes, though. those city duds don't stand up on 'dobe." retief looked down at the charred, torn and sweat-soaked powder-blue blazer and slacks. "this outfit seemed pretty rough-and-ready back home," he said. "but i guess leather has its points." "let's get on back to camp. we'll just about make it by sundown. and, look. don't say anything to lemuel about me thinking you were a flap-jack." "i won't, but--" potter was on his way, loping off up a gentle slope. retief pulled off the sodden blazer, dropped it over a bush, added his string tie and followed potter. ii "we're damn glad you're here, mister," said a fat man with two revolvers belted across his paunch. "we can use every hand. we're in bad shape. we ran into the flap-jacks three months ago and we haven't made a smart move since. first, we thought they were a native form we hadn't run into before. fact is, one of the boys shot one, thinkin' it was fair game. i guess that was the start of it." he stirred the fire, added a stick. "and then a bunch of 'em hit swazey's farm here," potter said. "killed two of his cattle, and pulled back." "i figure they thought the cows were people," said swazey. "they were out for revenge." "how could anybody think a cow was folks?" another man put in. "they don't look nothin' like--" "don't be so dumb, bert," said swazey. "they'd never seen terries before. they know better now." bert chuckled. "sure do. we showed 'em the next time, didn't we, potter? got four." "they walked right up to my place a couple days after the first time," swazey said. "we were ready for 'em. peppered 'em good. they cut and run." "flopped, you mean. ugliest lookin' critters you ever saw. look just like a old piece of dirty blanket humpin' around." "it's been goin' on this way ever since. they raid and then we raid. but lately they've been bringing some big stuff into it. they've got some kind of pint-sized airships and automatic rifles. we've lost four men now and a dozen more in the freezer, waiting for the med ship. we can't afford it. the colony's got less than three hundred able-bodied men." "but we're hanging onto our farms," said potter. "all these oases are old sea-beds--a mile deep, solid topsoil. and there's a couple of hundred others we haven't touched yet. the flap-jacks won't get 'em while there's a man alive." "the whole system needs the food we can raise," bert said. "these farms we're trying to start won't be enough but they'll help." "we been yellin' for help to the cdt, over on ivory," said potter. "but you know these embassy stooges." "we heard they were sending some kind of bureaucrat in here to tell us to get out and give the oases to the flap-jacks," said swazey. he tightened his mouth. "we're waitin' for him...." "meanwhile we got reinforcements comin' up, eh, boys?" bert winked at retief. "we put out the word back home. we all got relatives on ivory and verde." "shut up, you damn fool!" a deep voice grated. "lemuel!" potter said. "nobody else could sneak up on us like that." "if i'd a been a flap-jack; i'd of et you alive," the newcomer said, moving into the ring of fire, a tall, broad-faced man in grimy leather. he eyed retief. "who's that?" "what do ya mean?" potter spoke in the silence. "he's your cousin...." "he ain't no cousin of mine," lemuel said slowly. he stepped to retief. "who you spyin' for, stranger?" he rasped. * * * * * retief got to his feet. "i think i should explain--" a short-nosed automatic appeared in lemuel's hand, a clashing note against his fringed buckskins. "skip the talk. i know a fink when i see one." "just for a change, i'd like to finish a sentence," said retief. "and i suggest you put your courage back in your pocket before it bites you." "you talk too damned fancy to suit me." "maybe. but i'm talking to suit me. now, for the last time, put it away." lemuel stared at retief. "you givin' me orders...?" retief's left fist shot out, smacked lemuel's face dead center. he stumbled back, blood starting from his nose; the pistol fired into the dirt as he dropped it. he caught himself, jumped for retief ... and met a straight right that snapped him onto his back: out cold. "wow!" said potter. "the stranger took lem ... in two punches!" "one," said swazey. "that first one was just a love tap." bert froze. "hark, boys," he whispered. in the sudden silence a night lizard called. retief strained, heard nothing. he narrowed his eyes, peered past the fire-- with a swift lunge he seized up the bucket of drinking water, dashed it over the fire, threw himself flat. he heard the others hit the dirt a split second behind him. "you move fast for a city man," breathed swazey beside him. "you see pretty good too. we'll split and take 'em from two sides. you and bert from the left, me and potter from the right." "no," said retief. "you wait here. i'm going out alone." "what's the idea...?" "later. sit tight and keep your eyes open." retief took a bearing on a treetop faintly visible against the sky and started forward. * * * * * five minutes' stealthy progress brought him to a slight rise of ground. with infinite caution he raised himself, risking a glance over an out-cropping of rock. the stunted trees ended just ahead. beyond, he could make out the dim contour of rolling desert. flap-jack country. he got to his feet, clambered over the stone--still hot after a day of tropical heat--and moved forward twenty yards. around him he saw nothing but drifted sand, palely visible in the starlight, and the occasional shadow of jutting shale slabs. behind him the jungle was still. he sat down on the ground to wait. it was ten minutes before a movement caught his eye. something had separated itself from a dark mass of stone, glided across a few yards of open ground to another shelter. retief watched. minutes passed. the shape moved again, slipped into a shadow ten feet distant. retief felt the butt of the power pistol with his elbow. his guess had better be right this time.... there was a sudden rasp, like leather against concrete, and a flurry of sand as the flap-jack charged. retief rolled aside, then lunged, threw his weight on the flopping flap-jack--a yard square, three inches thick at the center and all muscle. the ray-like creature heaved up, curled backward, its edge rippling, to stand on the flattened rim of its encircling sphincter. it scrabbled with prehensile fringe-tentacles for a grip on retief's shoulders. he wrapped his arms around the alien and struggled to his feet. the thing was heavy. a hundred pounds at least. fighting as it was, it seemed more like five hundred. the flap-jack reversed its tactics, went limp. retief grabbed, felt a thumb slip into an orifice-- the alien went wild. retief hung on, dug the thumb in deeper. "sorry, fellow," he muttered between clenched teeth. "eye-gouging isn't gentlemanly, but it's effective...." the flap-jack fell still, only its fringes rippling slowly. retief relaxed the pressure of his thumb; the alien gave a tentative jerk; the thumb dug in. the alien went limp again, waiting. "now we understand each other," said retief. "take me to your leader." * * * * * twenty minutes' walk into the desert brought retief to a low rampart of thorn branches: the flap-jacks' outer defensive line against terry forays. it would be as good a place as any to wait for the move by the flap-jacks. he sat down and eased the weight of his captive off his back, but kept a firm thumb in place. if his analysis of the situation was correct, a flap-jack picket should be along before too long.... a penetrating beam of red light struck retief in the face, blinked off. he got to his feet. the captive flap-jack rippled its fringe in an agitated way. retief tensed his thumb in the eye-socket. "sit tight," he said. "don't try to do anything hasty...." his remarks were falling on deaf ears--or no ears at all--but the thumb spoke as loudly as words. there was a slither of sand. another. he became aware of a ring of presences drawing closer. retief tightened his grip on the alien. he could see a dark shape now, looming up almost to his own six-three. it looked like the flap-jacks came in all sizes. a low rumble sounded, like a deep-throated growl. it strummed on, faded out. retief cocked his head, frowning. "try it two octaves higher," he said. "awwrrp! sorry. is that better?" a clear voice came from the darkness. "that's fine," retief said. "i'm here to arrange a prisoner exchange." "prisoners? but we have no prisoners." "sure you have. me. is it a deal?" "ah, yes, of course. quite equitable. what guarantees do you require?" "the word of a gentleman is sufficient." retief released the alien. it flopped once, disappeared into the darkness. "if you'd care to accompany me to our headquarters," the voice said, "we can discuss our mutual concerns in comfort." "delighted." red lights blinked briefly. retief glimpsed a gap in the thorny barrier, stepped through it. he followed dim shapes across warm sand to a low cave-like entry, faintly lit with a reddish glow. "i must apologize for the awkward design of our comfort-dome," said the voice. "had we known we would be honored by a visit--" "think nothing of it," retief said. "we diplomats are trained to crawl." inside, with knees bent and head ducked under the five-foot ceiling, retief looked around at the walls of pink-toned nacre, a floor like burgundy-colored glass spread with silken rugs and a low table of polished red granite that stretched down the center of the spacious room, set out with silver dishes and rose-crystal drinking-tubes. iii "let me congratulate you," the voice said. retief turned. an immense flap-jack, hung with crimson trappings, rippled at his side. the voice issued from a disk strapped to its back. "you fight well. i think we will find in each other worthy adversaries." "thanks. i'm sure the test would be interesting, but i'm hoping we can avoid it." "avoid it?" retief heard a low humming coming from the speaker in the silence. "well, let us dine," the mighty flap-jack said at last. "we can resolve these matters later. i am called hoshick of the mosaic of the two dawns." "i'm retief." hoshick waited expectantly, "... of the mountain of red tape," retief added. "take place, retief," said hoshick. "i hope you won't find our rude couches uncomfortable." two other large flap-jacks came into the room, communed silently with hoshick. "pray forgive our lack of translating devices," he said to retief. "permit me to introduce my colleagues...." a small flap-jack rippled the chamber bearing on its back a silver tray laden with aromatic food. the waiter served the four diners, filled the drinking tubes with yellow wine. it smelled good. "i trust you'll find these dishes palatable," said hoshick. "our metabolisms are much alike, i believe." retief tried the food. it had a delicious nut-like flavor. the wine was indistinguishable from chateau d'yquem. "it was an unexpected pleasure to encounter your party here," said hoshick. "i confess at first we took you for an indigenous earth-grubbing form, but we were soon disabused of that notion." he raised a tube, manipulating it deftly with his fringe tentacles. retief returned the salute and drank. "of course," hoshick continued, "as soon as we realized that you were sportsmen like ourselves, we attempted to make amends by providing a bit of activity for you. we've ordered out our heavier equipment and a few trained skirmishers and soon we'll be able to give you an adequate show. or so i hope." "additional skirmishers?" said retief. "how many, if you don't mind my asking?" "for the moment, perhaps only a few hundred. there-after ... well, i'm sure we can arrange that between us. personally i would prefer a contest of limited scope. no nuclear or radiation-effect weapons. such a bore, screening the spawn for deviations. though i confess we've come upon some remarkably useful sports. the rangerform such as you made captive, for example. simple-minded, of course, but a fantastically keen tracker." "oh, by all means," retief said. "no atomics. as you pointed out, spawn-sorting is a nuisance, and then too, it's wasteful of troops." "ah, well, they are after all expendable. but we agree: no atomics. have you tried the ground-gwack eggs? rather a specialty of my mosaic...." "delicious," said retief. "i wonder. have you considered eliminating weapons altogether?" * * * * * a scratchy sound issued from the disk. "pardon my laughter," hoshick said, "but surely you jest?" "as a matter of fact," said retief, "we ourselves seldom use weapons." "i seem to recall that our first contact of skirmishforms involved the use of a weapon by one of your units." "my apologies," said retief. "the--ah--the skirmishform failed to recognize that he was dealing with a sportsman." "still, now that we have commenced so merrily with weapons...." hoshick signaled and the servant refilled tubes. "there is an aspect i haven't yet mentioned," retief went on. "i hope you won't take this personally, but the fact is, our skirmishforms think of weapons as something one employs only in dealing with certain specific life-forms." "oh? curious. what forms are those?" "vermin. or 'varmints' as some call them. deadly antagonists, but lacking in caste. i don't want our skirmishforms thinking of such worthy adversaries as yourself as varmints." "dear me! i hadn't realized, of course. most considerate of you to point it out." hoshick clucked in dismay. "i see that skirmishforms are much the same among you as with us: lacking in perception." he laughed scratchily. "imagine considering us as--what was the word?--varmints." "which brings us to the crux of the matter. you see, we're up against a serious problem with regard to skirmishforms. a low birth rate. therefore we've reluctantly taken to substitutes for the mass actions so dear to the heart of the sportsman. we've attempted to put an end to these contests altogether...." hoshick coughed explosively, sending a spray of wine into the air. "what are you saying?" he gasped. "are you proposing that hoshick of the mosaic of the two dawns abandon honor....?" "sir!" said retief sternly. "you forget yourself. i, retief of the red tape mountain, make an alternate proposal more in keeping with the newest sporting principles." "new?" cried hoshick. "my dear retief, what a pleasant surprise! i'm enthralled with novel modes. one gets so out of touch. do elaborate." "it's quite simple, really. each side selects a representative and the two individuals settle the issue between them." "i ... um ... fear i don't understand. what possible significance could one attach to the activities of a couple of random skirmishforms?" "i haven't made myself clear," said retief. he took a sip of wine. "we don't involve the skirmishforms at all. that's quite passe." "you don't mean...?" "that's right. you and me." * * * * * outside on the starlit sand retief tossed aside the power pistol, followed it with the leather shirt swazey had lent him. by the faint light he could just make out the towering figure of the flap-jack rearing up before him, his trappings gone. a silent rank of flap-jack retainers were grouped behind him. "i fear i must lay aside the translator now, retief," said hoshick. he sighed and rippled his fringe tentacles. "my spawn-fellows will never credit this. such a curious turn fashion has taken. how much more pleasant it is to observe the action of the skirmishforms from a distance." "i suggest we use tennessee rules," said retief. "they're very liberal. biting, gouging, stomping, kneeing and of course choking, as well as the usual punching, shoving and kicking." "hmmm. these gambits seem geared to forms employing rigid endo-skeletons; i fear i shall be at a disadvantage." "of course," retief said, "if you'd prefer a more plebeian type of contest...." "by no means. but perhaps we could rule out tentacle-twisting, just to even it." "very well. shall we begin?" with a rush hoshick threw himself at retief, who ducked, whirled, and leaped on the flap-jack's back ... and felt himself flipped clear by a mighty ripple of the alien's slab-like body. retief rolled aside as hoshick turned on him; he jumped to his feet and threw a right hay-maker to hoshick's mid-section. the alien whipped his left fringe around in an arc that connected with retief's jaw, sent him spinning onto his back ... and hoshick's weight struck him. retief twisted, tried to roll. the flat body of the alien blanketed him. he worked an arm free, drumming blows on the leathery back. hoshick nestled closer. retief's air was running out. he heaved up against the smothering weight. nothing budged. it was like burial under a dump-truck-load of concrete. he remembered the rangerform he had captured. the sensitive orifice had been placed ventrally, in what would be the thoracic area.... he groped, felt tough hide set with horny granules. he would be missing skin tomorrow ... if there was a tomorrow. his thumb found the orifice and probed. the flap-jack recoiled. retief held fast, probed deeper, groping with the other hand. if the alien were bilaterally symmetrical there would be a set of ready made hand-holds.... * * * * * there were. retief dug in and the flap-jack writhed, pulled away. retief held on, scrambled to his feet, threw his weight against the alien and fell on top of him, still gouging. hoshick rippled his fringe wildly, flopped in terror, then went limp. retief relaxed, released his hold and got to his feet, breathing hard. hoshick humped himself over onto his ventral side, lifted and moved gingerly over to the sidelines. his retainers came forward, assisted him into his trappings, strapped on the translator. he sighed heavily, adjusted the volume. "there is much to be said for the old system," he said. "what a burden one's sportsmanship places on one at times." "great sport, wasn't it?" said retief. "now, i know you'll be eager to continue. if you'll just wait while i run back and fetch some of our gougerforms--" "may hide-ticks devour the gougerforms!" hoshick bellowed. "you've given me such a sprong-ache as i'll remember each spawning-time for a year." "speaking of hide-ticks," said retief, "we've developed a biterform--" "enough!" hoshick roared, so loudly that the translator bounced on his hide. "suddenly i yearn for the crowded yellow sands of jaq. i had hoped...." he broke off, drew a rasping breath. "i had hoped, retief," he said, speaking sadly now, "to find a new land here where i might plan my own mosaic, till these alien sands and bring forth such a crop of paradise-lichen as should glut the markets of a hundred worlds. but my spirit is not equal to the prospect of biterforms and gougerforms without end. i am shamed before you...." "to tell you the truth, i'm old-fashioned myself. i'd rather watch the action from a distance too." "but surely your spawn-fellows would never condone such an attitude." "my spawn-fellows aren't here. and besides, didn't i mention it? no one who's really in the know would think of engaging in competition by mere combat if there were any other way. now, you mentioned tilling the sand, raising lichens--things like that--" "that on which we dined but now," said hoshick, "and from which the wine is made." "the big news in fashionable diplomacy today is farming competition. now, if you'd like to take these deserts and raise lichen, we'll promise to stick to the oases and vegetables." hoshick curled his back in attention. "retief, you're quite serious? you would leave all the fair sand hills to us?" "the whole works, hoshick. i'll take the oases." hoshick rippled his fringes ecstatically. "once again you have outdone me, retief," he cried. "this time, in generosity." "we'll talk over the details later. i'm sure we can establish a set of rules that will satisfy all parties. now i've got to get back. i think some of the gougerforms are waiting to see me." iv it was nearly dawn when retief gave the whistled signal he had agreed on with potter, then rose and walked into the camp circle. swazey stood up. "there you are," he said. "we been wonderin' whether to go out after you." lemuel came forward, one eye black to the cheekbone. he held out a raw-boned hand. "sorry i jumped you, stranger. tell you the truth, i thought you was some kind of stool-pigeon from the cdt." bert came up behind lemuel. "how do you know he ain't, lemuel?" he said. "maybe he--" lemuel floored bert with a backward sweep of his arm. "next cotton-picker says some embassy johnny can cool me gets worse'n that." "tell me," said retief. "how are you boys fixed for wine?" "wine? mister, we been livin' on stump water for a year now. 'dobe's fatal to the kind of bacteria it takes to ferment likker." "try this." retief handed over a sqat jug. swazey drew the cork, sniffed, drank and passed it to lemuel. "mister, where'd you get that?" "the flap-jacks make it. here's another question for you: would you concede a share in this planet to the flap-jacks in return for a peace guarantee?" at the end of a half hour of heated debate lemuel turned to retief. "we'll make any reasonable deal," he said. "i guess they got as much right here as we have. i think we'd agree to a fifty-fifty split. that'd give about a hundred and fifty oases to each side." "what would you say to keeping all the oases and giving them the desert?" lemuel reached for the wine jug, eyes on retief. "keep talkin', mister," he said. "i think you got yourself a deal." * * * * * consul passwyn glanced up at retief, went on perusing a paper. "sit down, retief," he said absently. "i thought you were over on pueblo, or mud-flat, or whatever they call that desert." "i'm back." passwyn eyed him sharply. "well, well, what is it you need, man? speak up. don't expect me to request any military assistance, no matter how things are...." retief passed a bundle of documents across the desk. "here's the treaty. and a mutual assistance pact declaration and a trade agreement." "eh?" passwyn picked up the papers, riffled through them. he leaned back in his chair, beamed. "well, retief. expeditiously handled." he stopped, blinked at retief. "you seem to have a bruise on your jaw. i hope you've been conducting yourself as befits a member of the embassy staff." "i attended a sporting event," retief said. "one of the players got a little excited." "well ... it's one of the hazards of the profession. one must pretend an interest in such matters." passwyn rose, extended a hand. "you've done well, my boy. let this teach you the value of following instructions to the letter." outside, by the hall incinerator drop, retief paused long enough to take from his briefcase a large buff envelope, still sealed, and drop it in the slot. cultural exchange by keith laumer it was a simple student exchange--but retief gave them more of an education than they expected! [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, september . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] i second secretary magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-feathered beret from the clothes tree. "i'm off now, retief," he said. "i hope you'll manage the administrative routine during my absence without any unfortunate incidents." "that seems a modest enough hope," retief said. "i'll try to live up to it." "i don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this division," magnan said testily. "when i first came here, the manpower utilization directorate, division of libraries and education was a shambles. i fancy i've made muddle what it is today. frankly, i question the wisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for two weeks. but remember. yours is purely a rubber-stamp function." "in that case, let's leave it to miss furkle. i'll take a couple of weeks off myself. with her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressure to bear." "i assume you jest, retief," magnan said sadly. "i should expect even you to appreciate that bogan participation in the exchange program may be the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into more cultivated channels." "i see they're sending two thousand students to d'land," retief said, glancing at the memo for record. "that's a sizable sublimation." magnan nodded. "the bogans have launched no less than four military campaigns in the last two decades. they're known as the hoodlums of the nicodemean cluster. now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking that precedent and entering into the cultural life of the galaxy." "breaking and entering," retief said. "you may have something there. but i'm wondering what they'll study on d'land. that's an industrial world of the poor but honest variety." "academic details are the affair of the students and their professors," magnan said. "our function is merely to bring them together. see that you don't antagonize the bogan representative. this will be an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomatic restraint--not your strong point, i'm sure you'll agree." a buzzer sounded. retief punched a button. "what is it, miss furkle?" "that--bucolic person from lovenbroy is here again." on the small desk screen, miss furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval. "this fellow's a confounded pest. i'll leave him to you, retief," magnan said. "tell him something. get rid of him. and remember: here at corps hq, all eyes are upon you." "if i'd thought of that, i'd have worn my other suit," retief said. magnan snorted and passed from view. retief punched miss furkle's button. "send the bucolic person in." * * * * * a tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousers of heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket, stepped into the room. he had a bundle under his arm. he paused at sight of retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and held out his hand. retief took it. for a moment the two big men stood, face to face. the newcomer's jaw muscles knotted. then he winced. retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair. "that's nice knuckle work, mister," the stranger said, massaging his hand. "first time anybody ever did that to me. my fault though. i started it, i guess." he grinned and sat down. "what can i do for you?" retief said. "you work for this culture bunch, do you? funny. i thought they were all ribbon-counter boys. never mind. i'm hank arapoulous. i'm a farmer. what i wanted to see you about was--" he shifted in his chair. "well, out on lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. the wine crop is just about ready. we start picking in another two, three months. now i don't know if you're familiar with the bacchus vines we grow...?" "no," retief said. "have a cigar?" he pushed a box across the desk. arapoulous took one. "bacchus vines are an unusual crop," he said, puffing the cigar alight. "only mature every twelve years. in between, the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own. we like to farm, though. spend a lot of time developing new forms. apples the size of a melon--and sweet--" "sounds very pleasant," retief said. "where does the libraries and education division come in?" arapoulous leaned forward. "we go in pretty heavy for the arts. folks can't spend all their time hybridizing plants. we've turned all the land area we've got into parks and farms. course, we left some sizable forest areas for hunting and such. lovenbroy's a nice place, mr. retief." "it sounds like it, mr. arapoulous. just what--" "call me hank. we've got long seasons back home. five of 'em. our year's about eighteen terry months. cold as hell in winter; eccentric orbit, you know. blue-black sky, stars visible all day. we do mostly painting and sculpture in the winter. then spring; still plenty cold. lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it's the season for woodworkers. our furniture--" "i've seen some of your furniture," retief said. "beautiful work." arapoulous nodded. "all local timbers too. lots of metals in our soil and those sulphates give the woods some color, i'll tell you. then comes the monsoon. rain--it comes down in sheets. but the sun's getting closer. shines all the time. ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine? that's the music-writing season. then summer. summer's hot. we stay inside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. lots of beach on lovenbroy; we're mostly islands. that's the drama and symphony time. the theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. you have the music and the surf and the bonfires and stars--we're close to the center of a globular cluster, you know...." "you say it's time now for the wine crop?" "that's right. autumn's our harvest season. most years we have just the ordinary crops. fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn't take long. we spend most of the time on architecture, getting new places ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. we spend a lot of time in our houses. we like to have them comfortable. but this year's different. this is wine year." * * * * * arapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at retief. "our wine crop is our big money crop," he said. "we make enough to keep us going. but this year...." "the crop isn't panning out?" "oh, the crop's fine. one of the best i can remember. course, i'm only twenty-eight; i can't remember but two other harvests. the problem's not the crop." "have you lost your markets? that sounds like a matter for the commercial--" "lost our markets? mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines ever settled for anything else!" "it sounds like i've been missing something," said retief. "i'll have to try them some time." arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. "no time like the present," he said. retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, both dusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire. "drinking on duty is frowned on in the corps, mr. arapoulous," he said. "this isn't _drinking_. it's just wine." arapoulous pulled the wire retainer loose, thumbed the cork. it rose slowly, then popped in the air. arapoulous caught it. aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle. "besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me." he winked. retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. "come to think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaint native customs." arapoulous filled the glasses. retief picked one up, sniffed the deep rust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. he looked at arapoulous thoughtfully. "hmmm. it tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crusted port." "don't try to describe it, mr. retief," arapoulous said. he took a mouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. "it's bacchus wine, that's all. nothing like it in the galaxy." he pushed the second bottle toward retief. "the custom back home is to alternate red wine and black." * * * * * retief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork, caught it as it popped up. "bad luck if you miss the cork," arapoulous said, nodding. "you probably never heard about the trouble we had on lovenbroy a few years back?" "can't say that i did, hank." retief poured the black wine into two fresh glasses. "here's to the harvest." "we've got plenty of minerals on lovenbroy," arapoulous said, swallowing wine. "but we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em. we like to farm. about ten years back some neighbors of ours landed a force. they figured they knew better what to do with our minerals than we did. wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. we convinced 'em otherwise. but it took a year, and we lost a lot of men." "that's too bad," retief said. "i'd say this one tastes more like roast beef and popcorn over a riesling base." "it put us in a bad spot," arapoulous went on. "we had to borrow money from a world called croanie. mortgaged our crops. had to start exporting art work too. plenty of buyers, but it's not the same when you're doing it for strangers." "say, this business of alternating drinks is the real mccoy," retief said. "what's the problem? croanie about to foreclose?" "well, the loan's due. the wine crop would put us in the clear. but we need harvest hands. picking bacchus grapes isn't a job you can turn over to machinery--and anyway we wouldn't if we could. vintage season is the high point of living on lovenbroy. everybody joins in. first, there's the picking in the fields. miles and miles of vineyards covering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardens here and there. big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deep grass growing between. the wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wine to the pickers. there's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets on who can fill the most baskets in an hour.... the sun's high and bright, and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. come nightfall, the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on: roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. big salads. plenty of fruit. fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. the cooking's done by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizes for the best crews. "then the wine-making. we still tramp out the vintage. that's mostly for the young folks but anybody's welcome. that's when things start to get loosened up. matter of fact, pretty near half our young-uns are born after a vintage. all bets are off then. it keeps a fellow on his toes though. ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layer of grape juice?" * * * * * "never did," retief said. "you say most of the children are born after a vintage. that would make them only twelve years old by the time--" "oh, that's lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, terry reckoning." "i was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight," retief said. "forty-two, terry years," arapoulous said. "but this year it looks bad. we've got a bumper crop--and we're short-handed. if we don't get a big vintage, croanie steps in. lord knows what they'll do to the land. then next vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage--" "you hocked the vineyards?" "yep. pretty dumb, huh? but we figured twelve years was a long time." "on the whole," retief said, "i think i prefer the black. but the red is hard to beat...." "what we figured was, maybe you culture boys could help us out. a loan to see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. then we'd repay it in sculpture, painting, furniture--" "sorry, hank. all we do here is work out itineraries for traveling side-shows, that kind of thing. now, if you needed a troop of groaci nose-flute players--" "can they pick grapes?" "nope. anyway, they can't stand the daylight. have you talked this over with the labor office?" "sure did. they said they'd fix us up with all the electronics specialists and computer programmers we wanted--but no field hands. said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thought i was trying to buy slaves." the buzzer sounded. miss furkle's features appeared on the desk screen. "you're due at the intergroup council in five minutes," she said. "then afterwards, there are the bogan students to meet." "thanks." retief finished his glass, stood. "i have to run, hank," he said. "let me think this over. maybe i can come up with something. check with me day after tomorrow. and you'd better leave the bottles here. cultural exhibits, you know." ii as the council meeting broke up, retief caught the eye of a colleague across the table. "mr. whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called croanie. what are they getting?" whaffle blinked. "you're the fellow who's filling in for magnan, over at muddle," he said. "properly speaking, equipment grants are the sole concern of the motorized equipment depot, division of loans and exchanges." he pursed his lips. "however, i suppose there's no harm in telling you. they'll be receiving heavy mining equipment." "drill rigs, that sort of thing?" "strip mining gear." whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket, blinked at it. "bolo model wv/ tractors, to be specific. why is muddle interested in meddle's activities?" "forgive my curiosity, mr. whaffle. it's just that croanie cropped up earlier today. it seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards over on--" "that's not meddle's affair, sir," whaffle cut in. "i have sufficient problems as chief of meddle without probing into muddle's business." "speaking of tractors," another man put in, "we over at the special committee for rehabilitation and overhaul of under-developed nations' general economies have been trying for months to get a request for mining equipment for d'land through meddle--" "scrounge was late on the scene," whaffle said. "first come, first served. that's our policy at meddle. good day, gentlemen." he strode off, briefcase under his arm. "that's the trouble with peaceful worlds," the scrounge committeeman said. "boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the corps is out to pacify her. while my chance to make a record--that is, assist peace-loving d'land--comes to naught." he shook his head. "what kind of university do they have on d'land?" asked retief. "we're sending them two thousand exchange students. it must be quite an institution." "university? d'land has one under-endowed technical college." "will all the exchange students be studying at the technical college?" "two thousand students? hah! two _hundred_ students would overtax the facilities of the college." "i wonder if the bogans know that?" "the bogans? why, most of d'land's difficulties are due to the unwise trade agreement she entered into with boge. two thousand students indeed!" he snorted and walked away. * * * * * retief stopped by the office to pick up a short cape, then rode the elevator to the roof of the -story corps hq building and hailed a cab to the port. the bogan students had arrived early. retief saw them lined up on the ramp waiting to go through customs. it would be half an hour before they were cleared through. he turned into the bar and ordered a beer. a tall young fellow on the next stool raised his glass. "happy days," he said. "and nights to match." "you said it." he gulped half his beer. "my name's karsh. mr. karsh. yep, mr. karsh. boy, this is a drag, sitting around this place waiting...." "you meeting somebody?" "yeah. bunch of babies. kids. how they expect--never mind. have one on me." "thanks. you a scoutmaster?" "i'll tell you what i am. i'm a cradle-robber. you know--" he turned to retief--"not one of those kids is over eighteen." he hiccupped. "students, you know. never saw a student with a beard, did you?" "lots of times. you're meeting the students, are you?" the young fellow blinked at retief. "oh, you know about it, huh?" "i represent muddle." karsh finished his beer, ordered another. "i came on ahead. sort of an advance guard for the kids. i trained 'em myself. treated it like a game, but they can handle a csu. don't know how they'll act under pressure. if i had my old platoon--" he looked at his beer glass, pushed it back. "had enough," he said. "so long, friend. or are you coming along?" retief nodded. "might as well." * * * * * at the exit to the customs enclosure, retief watched as the first of the bogan students came through, caught sight of karsh and snapped to attention, his chest out. "drop that, mister," karsh snapped. "is that any way for a student to act?" the youth, a round-faced lad with broad shoulders, grinned. "heck, no," he said. "say, uh, mr. karsh, are we gonna get to go to town? we fellas were thinking--" "you were, hah? you act like a bunch of school kids! i mean ... no! now line up!" "we have quarters ready for the students," retief said. "if you'd like to bring them around to the west side, i have a couple of copters laid on." "thanks," said karsh. "they'll stay here until take-off time. can't have the little dears wandering around loose. might get ideas about going over the hill." he hiccupped. "i mean they might play hookey." "we've scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. that's a long wait. muddle's arranged theater tickets and a dinner." "sorry," karsh said. "as soon as the baggage gets here, we're off." he hiccupped again. "can't travel without our baggage, y'know." "suit yourself," retief said. "where's the baggage now?" "coming in aboard a croanie lighter." "maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here." "sure," karsh said. "that's a good idea. why don't you join us?" karsh winked. "and bring a few beers." "not this time," retief said. he watched the students, still emerging from customs. "they seem to be all boys," he commented. "no female students?" "maybe later," karsh said. "you know, after we see how the first bunch is received." back at the muddle office, retief buzzed miss furkle. "do you know the name of the institution these bogan students are bound for?" "why, the university at d'land, of course." "would that be the technical college?" miss furkle's mouth puckered. "i'm sure i've never pried into these details." "where does doing your job stop and prying begin, miss furkle?" retief said. "personally, i'm curious as to just what it is these students are travelling so far to study--at corps expense." "mr. magnan never--" "for the present. miss furkle, mr. magnan is vacationing. that leaves me with the question of two thousand young male students headed for a world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors. but the tractors are on their way to croanie, a world under obligation to boge. and croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage on lovenbroy." "well!" miss furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows. "i hope you're not questioning mr. magnan's wisdom!" "about mr. magnan's wisdom there can be no question," retief said. "but never mind. i'd like you to look up an item for me. how many tractors will croanie be getting under the meddle program?" "why, that's entirely meddle business," miss furkle said. "mr. magnan always--" "i'm sure he did. let me know about the tractors as soon as you can." * * * * * miss furkle sniffed and disappeared from the screen. retief left the office, descended forty-one stories, followed a corridor to the corps library. in the stacks he thumbed through catalogues, pored over indices. "can i help you?" someone chirped. a tiny librarian stood at his elbow. "thank you, ma'am," retief said. "i'm looking for information on a mining rig. a bolo model wv tractor." "you won't find it in the industrial section," the librarian said. "come along." retief followed her along the stacks to a well-lit section lettered armaments. she took a tape from the shelf, plugged it into the viewer, flipped through and stopped at a squat armored vehicle. "that's the model wv," she said. "it's what is known as a continental siege unit. it carries four men, with a half-megaton/second firepower." "there must be an error somewhere," retief said. "the bolo model i want is a tractor. model wv m- --" "oh, the modification was the addition of a bulldozer blade for demolition work. that must be what confused you." "probably--among other things. thank you." miss furkle was waiting at the office. "i have the information you wanted," she said. "i've had it for over ten minutes. i was under the impression you needed it urgently, and i went to great lengths--" "sure," retief said. "shoot. how many tractors?" "five hundred." "are you sure?" miss furkle's chins quivered. "well! if you feel i'm incompetent--" "just questioning the possibility of a mistake, miss furkle. five hundred tractors is a lot of equipment." "was there anything further?" miss furkle inquired frigidly. "i sincerely hope not," retief said. iii leaning back in magnan's padded chair with power swivel and hip-u-matic concontour, retief leafed through a folder labelled "cerp - -ba; croanie (general)." he paused at a page headed industry. still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles of bacchus wine and two glasses. he poured an inch of wine into each and sipped the black wine meditatively. it would be a pity, he reflected, if anything should interfere with the production of such vintages.... half an hour later he laid the folder aside, keyed the phone and put through a call to the croanie legation. he asked for the commercial attache. "retief here, corps hq," he said airily. "about the meddle shipment, the tractors. i'm wondering if there's been a slip up. my records show we're shipping five hundred units...." "that's correct. five hundred." retief waited. "ah ... are you there, retief?" "i'm still here. and i'm still wondering about the five hundred tractors." "it's perfectly in order. i thought it was all settled. mr. whaffle--" "one unit would require a good-sized plant to handle its output," retief said. "now croanie subsists on her fisheries. she has perhaps half a dozen pint-sized processing plants. maybe, in a bind, they could handle the ore ten wv's could scrape up ... if croanie had any ore. it doesn't. by the way, isn't a wv a poor choice as a mining outfit? i should think--" "see here, retief! why all this interest in a few surplus tractors? and in any event, what business is it of yours how we plan to use the equipment? that's an internal affair of my government. mr. whaffle--" "i'm not mr. whaffle. what are you going to do with the other four hundred and ninety tractors?" "i understood the grant was to be with no strings attached!" "i know it's bad manners to ask questions. it's an old diplomatic tradition that any time you can get anybody to accept anything as a gift, you've scored points in the game. but if croanie has some scheme cooking--" * * * * * "nothing like that, retief. it's a mere business transaction." "what kind of business do you do with a bolo wv? with or without a blade attached, it's what's known as a continental siege unit." "great heavens, retief! don't jump to conclusions! would you have us branded as warmongers? frankly--is this a closed line?" "certainly. you may speak freely." "the tractors are for transshipment. we've gotten ourselves into a difficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise. this is an accommodation to a group with which we have rather strong business ties." "i understand you hold a mortgage on the best land on lovenbroy," retief said. "any connection?" "why ... ah ... no. of course not, ha ha." "who gets the tractors eventually?" "retief, this is unwarranted interference!" "who gets them?" "they happen to be going to lovenbroy. but i scarcely see--" "and who's the friend you're helping out with an unauthorized transshipment of grant material?" "why ... ah ... i've been working with a mr. gulver, a bogan representative." "and when will they be shipped?" "why, they went out a week ago. they'll be half way there by now. but look here, retief, this isn't what you're thinking!" "how do you know what i'm thinking? i don't know myself." retief rang off, buzzed the secretary. "miss furkle, i'd like to be notified immediately of any new applications that might come in from the bogan consulate for placement of students." "well, it happens, by coincidence, that i have an application here now. mr. gulver of the consulate brought it in." "is mr. gulver in the office? i'd like to see him." "i'll ask him if he has time." "great. thanks." it was half a minute before a thick-necked red-faced man in a tight hat walked in. he wore an old-fashioned suit, a drab shirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered expression. * * * * * "what is it you wish?" he barked. "i understood in my discussions with the other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for these irritating conferences." "i've just learned you're placing more students abroad, mr. gulver. how many this time?" "two thousand." "and where will they be going?" "croanie. it's all in the application form i've handed in. your job is to provide transportation." "will there be any other students embarking this season?" "why ... perhaps. that's boge's business." gulver looked at retief with pursed lips. "as a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching another two thousand to featherweight." "another under-populated world--and in the same cluster, i believe," retief said. "your people must be unusually interested in that region of space." "if that's all you wanted to know, i'll be on my way. i have matters of importance to see to." after gulver left, retief called miss furkle in. "i'd like to have a break-out of all the student movements that have been planned under the present program," he said. "and see if you can get a summary of what meddle has been shipping lately." miss furkle compressed her lips. "if mr. magnan were here, i'm sure he wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments. i ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the croanie legation--" "the lists, miss furkle." "i'm not accustomed," miss furkle said, "to intruding in matters outside our interest cluster." "that's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? but never mind. i need the information, miss furkle." "loyalty to my chief--" "loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the material i've asked for," retief said. "i'm taking full responsibility. now scat." the buzzer sounded. retief flipped a key. "muddle, retief speaking...." arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. "how-do, retief. okay if i come up?" "sure, hank. i want to talk to you." in the office, arapoulous took a chair. "sorry if i'm rushing you, retief," he said. "but have you got anything for me?" retief waved at the wine bottles. "what do you know about croanie?" "croanie? not much of a place. mostly ocean. all right if you like fish, i guess. we import our seafood from there. nice prawns in monsoon time. over a foot long." "you on good terms with them?" "sure, i guess so. course, they're pretty thick with boge." "so?" "didn't i tell you? boge was the bunch that tried to take us over here a dozen years back. they'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot of bad luck. their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easy game." miss furkle buzzed. "i have your lists," she said shortly. "bring them in, please." * * * * * the secretary placed the papers on the desk. arapoulous caught her eye and grinned. she sniffed and marched from the room. "what that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash," arapoulous observed. retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from time to time. he finished and looked at arapoulous. "how many men do you need for the harvest, hank?" retief inquired. arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful. "a hundred would help," he said. "a thousand would be better. cheers." "what would you say to two thousand?" "two thousand? retief, you're not fooling?" "i hope not." he picked up the phone, called the port authority, asked for the dispatch clerk. "hello, jim. say, i have a favor to ask of you. you know that contingent of bogan students. they're traveling aboard the two cdt transports. i'm interested in the baggage that goes with the students. has it arrived yet? okay, i'll wait." jim came back to the phone. "yeah, retief, it's here. just arrived. but there's a funny thing. it's not consigned to d'land. it's ticketed clear through to lovenbroy." "listen, jim," retief said. "i want you to go over to the warehouse and take a look at that baggage for me." retief waited while the dispatch clerk carried out the errand. the level in the two bottles had gone down an inch when jim returned to the phone. "hey, i took a look at that baggage, retief. something funny going on. guns. mm needlers, mark xii hand blasters, power pistols--" "it's okay, jim. nothing to worry about. just a mix-up. now, jim, i'm going to ask you to do something more for me. i'm covering for a friend. it seems he slipped up. i wouldn't want word to get out, you understand. i'll send along a written change order in the morning that will cover you officially. meanwhile, here's what i want you to do...." retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to arapoulous. "as soon as i get off a couple of twx's, i think we'd better get down to the port, hank. i think i'd like to see the students off personally." iv karsh met retief as he entered the departures enclosure at the port. "what's going on here?" he demanded. "there's some funny business with my baggage consignment. they won't let me see it! i've got a feeling it's not being loaded." "you'd better hurry, mr. karsh," retief said. "you're scheduled to blast off in less than an hour. are the students all loaded?" "yes, blast you! what about my baggage? those vessels aren't moving without it!" "no need to get so upset about a few toothbrushes, is there, mr. karsh?" retief said blandly. "still, if you're worried--" he turned to arapoulous. "hank, why don't you walk mr. karsh over to the warehouse and ... ah ... take care of him?" "i know just how to handle it," arapoulous said. the dispatch clerk came up to retief. "i caught the tractor equipment," he said. "funny kind of mistake, but it's okay now. they're being off-loaded at d'land. i talked to the traffic controller there. he said they weren't looking for any students." "the labels got switched, jim. the students go where the baggage was consigned. too bad about the mistake, but the armaments office will have a man along in a little while to dispose of the guns. keep an eye out for the luggage. no telling where it's gotten to." "here!" a hoarse voice yelled. retief turned. a disheveled figure in a tight hat was crossing the enclosure, arms waving. "hi there, mr. gulver," retief called. "how's boge's business coming along?" "piracy!" gulver blurted as he came up to retief, puffing hard. "you've got a hand in this, i don't doubt! where's that magnan fellow?" "what seems to be the problem?" retief said. "hold those transports! i've just been notified that the baggage shipment has been impounded. i'll remind you, that shipment enjoys diplomatic free entry!" "who told you it was impounded?" "never mind! i have my sources!" two tall men buttoned into gray tunics came up. "are you mr. retief of cdt?" one said. "that's right." "what about my baggage!" gulver cut in. "and i'm warning you, if those ships lift without--" "these gentlemen are from the armaments control commission," retief said. "would you like to come along and claim your baggage, mr. gulver?" "from where? i--" gulver turned two shades redder about the ears. "armaments?" "the only shipment i've held up seems to be somebody's arsenal," retief said. "now if you claim this is your baggage...." "why, impossible," gulver said in a strained voice. "armaments? ridiculous. there's been an error...." * * * * * at the baggage warehouse gulver looked glumly at the opened cases of guns. "no, of course not," he said dully. "not my baggage. not my baggage at all." arapoulous appeared, supporting the stumbling figure of mr. karsh. "what--what's this?" gulver spluttered. "karsh? what's happened?" "he had a little fall. he'll be okay," arapoulous said. "you'd better help him to the ship," retief said. "it's ready to lift. we wouldn't want him to miss it." "leave him to me!" gulver snapped, his eyes slashing at karsh. "i'll see he's dealt with." "i couldn't think of it," retief said. "he's a guest of the corps, you know. we'll see him safely aboard." gulver turned, signaled frantically. three heavy-set men in identical drab suits detached themselves from the wall, crossed to the group. "take this man," gulver snapped, indicating karsh, who looked at him dazedly, reached up to rub his head. "we take our hospitality seriously," retief said. "we'll see him aboard the vessel." gulver opened his mouth. "i know you feel bad about finding guns instead of school books in your luggage," retief said, looking gulver in the eye. "you'll be busy straightening out the details of the mix-up. you'll want to avoid further complications." "ah. ulp. yes," gulver said. he appeared unhappy. arapoulous went on to the passenger conveyor, turned to wave. "your man--he's going too?" gulver blurted. "he's not our man, properly speaking," retief said. "he lives on lovenbroy." "lovenbroy?" gulver choked. "but ... the ... i...." "i know you said the students were bound for d'land," retief said. "but i guess that was just another aspect of the general confusion. the course plugged into the navigators was to lovenbroy. you'll be glad to know they're still headed there--even without the baggage." "perhaps," gulver said grimly, "perhaps they'll manage without it." "by the way," retief said. "there was another funny mix-up. there were some tractors--for industrial use, you'll recall. i believe you co-operated with croanie in arranging the grant through meddle. they were erroneously consigned to lovenbroy, a purely agricultural world. i saved you some embarrassment, i trust, mr. gulver, by arranging to have them off-loaded at d'land." "d'land! you've put the csu's in the hands of boge's bitterest enemies!" "but they're only tractors, mr. gulver. peaceful devices. isn't that correct?" "that's ... correct." gulver sagged. then he snapped erect. "hold the ships!" he yelled. "i'm canceling the student exchange--" his voice was drowned by the rumble as the first of the monster transports rose from the launch pit, followed a moment later by the second, retief watched them out of sight, then turned to gulver. "they're off," he said. "let's hope they get a liberal education." v retief lay on his back in deep grass by a stream, eating grapes. a tall figure appeared on the knoll above him and waved. "retief!" hank arapoulous bounded down the slope and embraced retief, slapping him on the back. "i heard you were here--and i've got news for you. you won the final day's picking competition. over two hundred bushels! that's a record!" "let's get on over to the garden. sounds like the celebration's about to start." in the flower-crowded park among the stripped vines, retief and arapoulous made their way to a laden table under the lanterns. a tall girl dressed in loose white, and with long golden hair, came up to arapoulous. "delinda, this is retief--today's winner. and he's also the fellow that got those workers for us." delinda smiled at retief. "i've heard about you, mr. retief. we weren't sure about the boys at first. two thousand bogans, and all confused about their baggage that went astray. but they seemed to like the picking." she smiled again. "that's not all. our gals liked the boys," hank said. "even bogans aren't so bad, minus their irons. a lot of 'em will be staying on. but how come you didn't tell me you were coming, retief? i'd have laid on some kind of big welcome." "i liked the welcome i got. and i didn't have much notice. mr. magnan was a little upset when he got back. it seems i exceeded my authority." arapoulous laughed. "i had a feeling you were wheeling pretty free, retief. i hope you didn't get into any trouble over it." "no trouble," retief said. "a few people were a little unhappy with me. it seems i'm not ready for important assignments at departmental level. i was shipped off here to the boondocks to get a little more experience." "delinda, look after retief," said arapoulous. "i'll see you later. i've got to see to the wine judging." he disappeared in the crowd. "congratulations on winning the day," said delinda. "i noticed you at work. you were wonderful. i'm glad you're going to have the prize." "thanks. i noticed you too, flitting around in that white nightie of yours. but why weren't you picking grapes with the rest of us?" "i had a special assignment." "too bad. you should have had a chance at the prize." delinda took retief's hand. "i wouldn't have anyway," she said. "i'm the prize." none aide memoire by keith laumer the fustians looked like turtles--but they could move fast when they chose! [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, july . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] across the table from retief, ambassador magnan rustled a stiff sheet of parchment and looked grave. "this aide memoire," he said, "was just handed to me by the cultural attache. it's the third on the subject this week. it refers to the matter of sponsorship of youth groups--" "some youths," retief said. "average age, seventy-five." "the fustians are a long-lived people," magnan snapped. "these matters are relative. at seventy-five, a male fustian is at a trying age--" "that's right. he'll try anything--in the hope it will maim somebody." "precisely the problem," magnan said. "but the youth movement is the important news in today's political situation here on fust. and sponsorship of youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of the terrestrial embassy. at my suggestion, well nigh every member of the mission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p--that is, cement relations with this emergent power group--the leaders of the future. you, retief, as councillor, are the outstanding exception." "i'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing their rumbles," retief said. "now, if you have a proposal for a pest control group--" "to the fustians this is no jesting matter," magnan cut in. "this group--" he glanced at the paper--"known as the sexual, cultural, and athletic recreational society, or scars for short, has been awaiting sponsorship for a matter of weeks now." "meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipment and anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural and athletic development," retief said. "if we don't act promptly," magnan said, "the groaci embassy may well anticipate us. they're very active here." "that's an idea," said retief. "let 'em. after awhile they'll go broke instead of us." "nonsense. the group requires a sponsor. i can't actually order you to step forward. however...." magnan let the sentence hang in the air. retief raised one eyebrow. "for a minute there," he said, "i thought you were going to make a positive statement." * * * * * magnan leaned back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. "i don't think you'll find a diplomat of my experience doing anything so naive," he said. "i like the adult fustians," said retief. "too bad they have to lug half a ton of horn around on their backs. i wonder if surgery would help." "great heavens, retief," magnan sputtered. "i'm amazed that even you would bring up a matter of such delicacy. a race's unfortunate physical characteristics are hardly a fit matter for terrestrial curiosity." "well, of course your experience of the fustian mentality is greater than mine. i've only been here a month. but it's been my experience, mr. ambassador, that few races are above improving on nature. otherwise you, for example, would be tripping over your beard." magnan shuddered. "please--never mention the idea to a fustian." retief stood. "my own program for the day includes going over to the dockyards. there are some features of this new passenger liner the fustians are putting together that i want to look into. with your permission, mr. ambassador...?" magnan snorted. "your pre-occupation with the trivial disturbs me, retief. more interest in substantive matters--such as working with youth groups--would create a far better impression." "before getting too involved with these groups, it might be a good idea to find out a little more about them," said retief. "who organizes them? there are three strong political parties here on fust. what's the alignment of this scars organization?" "you forget, these are merely teenagers, so to speak," magnan said. "politics mean nothing to them ... yet." "then there are the groaci. why their passionate interest in a two-horse world like fust? normally they're concerned with nothing but business. but what has fust got that they could use?" "you may rule out the commercial aspect in this instance," said magnan. "fust possesses a vigorous steel-age manufacturing economy. the groaci are barely ahead of them." "barely," said retief. "just over the line into crude atomics ... like fission bombs." magnan shook his head, turned back to his papers. "what market exists for such devices on a world at peace? i suggest you address your attention to the less spectacular but more rewarding work of studying the social patterns of the local youth." "i've studied them," said retief. "and before i meet any of the local youth socially i want to get myself a good blackjack." ii retief left the sprawling bungalow-type building that housed the chancery of the terrestrial embassy, swung aboard a passing flat-car and leaned back against the wooden guard rail as the heavy vehicle trundled through the city toward the looming gantries of the shipyards. it was a cool morning. a light breeze carried the fishy odor of fusty dwellings across the broad cobbled avenue. a few mature fustians lumbered heavily along in the shade of the low buildings, audibly wheezing under the burden of their immense carapaces. among them, shell-less youths trotted briskly on scaly stub legs. the driver of the flat-car, a labor-caste fustian with his guild colors emblazoned on his back, heaved at the tiller, swung the unwieldy conveyance through the shipyard gates, creaked to a halt. "thus i come to the shipyard with frightful speed," he said in fustian. "well i know the way of the naked-backs, who move always in haste." retief climbed down, handed him a coin. "you should take up professional racing," he said. "daredevil." he crossed the littered yard and tapped at the door of a rambling shed. boards creaked inside. then the door swung back. a gnarled ancient with tarnished facial scales and a weathered carapace peered out at retief. "long-may-you-sleep," said retief. "i'd like to take a look around, if you don't mind. i understand you're laying the bedplate for your new liner today." "may-you-dream-of-the-deeps," the old fellow mumbled. he waved a stumpy arm toward a group of shell-less fustians standing by a massive hoist. "the youths know more of bedplates than do i, who but tend the place of papers." "i know how you feel, old-timer," said retief. "that sounds like the story of my life. among your papers do you have a set of plans for the vessel? i understand it's to be a passenger liner." the oldster nodded. he shuffled to a drawing file, rummaged, pulled out a sheaf of curled prints and spread them on the table. retief stood silently, running a finger over the uppermost drawing, tracing lines.... "what does the naked-back here?" barked a deep voice behind retief. he turned. a heavy-faced fustian youth, wrapped in a mantle, stood at the open door. beady yellow eyes set among fine scales bored into retief. "i came to take a look at your new liner," said retief. "we need no prying foreigners here," the youth snapped. his eye fell on the drawings. he hissed in sudden anger. "doddering hulk!" he snapped at the ancient. "may you toss in nightmares! put by the plans!" "my mistake," retief said. "i didn't know this was a secret project." * * * * * the youth hesitated. "it is not a secret project," he muttered. "why should it be secret?" "you tell me." the youth worked his jaws and rocked his head from side to side in the fusty gesture of uncertainty. "there is nothing to conceal," he said. "we merely construct a passenger liner." "then you don't mind if i look over the drawings," said retief. "who knows? maybe some day i'll want to reserve a suite for the trip out." the youth turned and disappeared. retief grinned at the oldster. "went for his big brother, i guess," he said. "i have a feeling i won't get to study these in peace here. mind if i copy them?" "willingly, light-footed one," said the old fustian. "and mine is the shame for the discourtesy of youth." retief took out a tiny camera, flipped a copying lens in place, leafed through the drawings, clicking the shutter. "a plague on these youths," said the oldster, "who grow more virulent day by day." "why don't you elders clamp down?" "agile are they and we are slow of foot. and this unrest is new. unknown in my youth was such insolence." "the police--" "bah!" the ancient rumbled. "none have we worthy of the name, nor have we needed ought ere now." "what's behind it?" "they have found leaders. the spiv, slock, is one. and i fear they plot mischief." he pointed to the window. "they come, and a soft one with them." retief pocketed the camera, glanced out the window. a pale-featured groaci with an ornately decorated crest stood with the youths, who eyed the hut, then started toward it. "that's the military attache of the groaci embassy," retief said. "i wonder what he and the boys are cooking up together?" "naught that augurs well for the dignity of fust," the oldster rumbled. "flee, agile one, while i engage their attentions." "i was just leaving," retief said. "which way out?" "the rear door," the fustian gestured with a stubby member. "rest well, stranger on these shores." he moved to the entrance. "same to you, pop," said retief. "and thanks." he eased through the narrow back entrance, waited until voices were raised at the front of the shed, then strolled off toward the gate. * * * * * the second dark of the third cycle was lightening when retief left the embassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. he flipped on a light. a note was tucked under a paperweight: "retief--i shall expect your attendance at the ias dinner at first dark of the fourth cycle. there will be a brief but, i hope, impressive sponsorship ceremony for the scars group, with full press coverage, arrangements for which i have managed to complete in spite of your intransigence." retief snorted and glanced at his watch. less than three hours. just time to creep home by flat-car, dress in ceremonial uniform and creep back. outside he flagged a lumbering bus. he stationed himself in a corner and watched the yellow sun, beta, rise rapidly above the low skyline. the nearby sea was at high tide now, under the pull of the major sun and the three moons, and the stiff breeze carried a mist of salt spray. retief turned up his collar against the dampness. in half an hour he would be perspiring under the vertical rays of a third-noon sun, but the thought failed to keep the chill off. two youths clambered up on the platform, moving purposefully toward retief. he moved off the rail, watching them, weight balanced. "that's close enough, kids," he said. "plenty of room on this scow. no need to crowd up." "there are certain films," the lead fustian muttered. his voice was unusually deep for a youth. he was wrapped in a heavy cloak and moved awkwardly. his adolescence was nearly at an end, retief guessed. "i told you once," said retief. "don't crowd me." the two stepped close, slit mouths snapping in anger. retief put out a foot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the overaged juvenile and threw his weight against the cloaked chest. the clumsy fustian tottered, fell heavily. retief was past him and off the flat-car before the other youth had completed his vain lunge toward the spot retief had occupied. the terrestrial waved cheerfully at the pair, hopped aboard another vehicle, watched his would-be assailants lumber down from their car, tiny heads twisted to follow his retreating figure. so they wanted the film? retief reflected, thumbing a cigar alight. they were a little late. he had already filed it in the embassy vault, after running a copy for the reference files. and a comparison of the drawings with those of the obsolete mark xxxv battle cruiser used two hundred years earlier by the concordiat naval arm showed them to be almost identical, gun emplacements and all. the term "obsolete" was a relative one. a ship which had been outmoded in the armories of the galactic powers could still be king of the walk in the eastern arm. but how had these two known of the film? there had been no one present but himself and the old-timer--and he was willing to bet the elderly fustian hadn't told them anything. at least not willingly.... retief frowned, dropped the cigar over the side, waited until the flat-car negotiated a mud-wallow, then swung down and headed for the shipyard. * * * * * the door, hinges torn loose, had been propped loosely back in position. retief looked around at the battered interior of the shed. the old fellow had put up a struggle. there were deep drag-marks in the dust behind the building. retief followed them across the yard. they disappeared under the steel door of a warehouse. retief glanced around. now, at the mid-hour of the fourth cycle, the workmen were heaped along the edge of the refreshment pond, deep in their siesta. he took a multi-bladed tool from a pocket, tried various fittings in the lock. it snicked open. he eased the door aside far enough to enter. heaped bales loomed before him. snapping on the tiny lamp in the handle of the combination tool, retief looked over the pile. one stack seemed out of alignment ... and the dust had been scraped from the floor before it. he pocketed the light, climbed up on the bales, looked over into a nest made by stacking the bundles around a clear spot. the aged fustian lay in it, on his back, a heavy sack tied over his head. retief dropped down inside the ring of bales, sawed at the tough twine and pulled the sack free. "it's me, old fellow," retief said. "the nosy stranger. sorry i got you into this." the oldster threshed his gnarled legs. he rocked slightly and fell back. "a curse on the cradle that rocked their infant slumbers," he rumbled. "but place me back on my feet and i hunt down the youth, slock, though he flee to the bottommost muck of the sea of torments." "how am i going to get you out of here? maybe i'd better get some help." "nay. the perfidious youths abound here," said the old fustian. "it would be your life." "i doubt if they'd go that far." "would they not?" the fustian stretched his neck. "cast your light here. but for the toughness of my hide...." retief put the beam of the light on the leathery neck. a great smear of thick purplish blood welled from a ragged cut. the oldster chuckled, a sound like a seal coughing. "traitor, they called me. for long they sawed at me--in vain. then they trussed me and dumped me here. they think to return with weapons to complete the task." "weapons? i thought it was illegal!" "their evil genius, the soft one," said the fustian. "he would provide fuel to the devil himself." "the groaci again," said retief. "i wonder what their angle is." "and i must confess, i told them of you, ere i knew their full intentions. much can i tell you of their doings. but first, i pray, the block and tackle." retief found the hoist where the fustian directed him, maneuvered it into position, hooked onto the edge of the carapace and hauled away. the immense fustian rose slowly, teetered ... then flopped on his chest. slowly he got to his feet. "my name is whonk, fleet one," he said. "my cows are yours." "thanks. i'm retief. i'd like to meet the girls some time. but right now, let's get out of here." whonk leaned his bulk against the ponderous stacks of baled kelp, bulldozed them aside. "slow am i to anger," he said, "but implacable in my wrath. slock, beware!" "hold it," said retief suddenly. he sniffed. "what's that odor?" he flashed the light around, played it over a dry stain on the floor. he knelt, sniffed at the spot. "what kind of cargo was stacked here, whonk? and where is it now?" whonk considered. "there were drums," he said. "four of them, quite small, painted an evil green, the property of the soft ones, the groaci. they lay here a day and a night. at full dark of the first period they came with stevedores and loaded them aboard the barge _moss rock_." "the vip boat. who's scheduled to use it?" "i know not. but what matters this? let us discuss cargo movements after i have settled a score with certain youths." "we'd better follow this up first, whonk. there's only one substance i know of that's transported in drums and smells like that blot on the floor. that's titanite: the hottest explosive this side of a uranium pile." iii beta was setting as retief, whonk puffing at his heels, came up to the sentry box beside the gangway leading to the plush interior of the official luxury space barge _moss rock_. "a sign of the times," said whonk, glancing inside the empty shelter. "a guard should stand here, but i see him not. doubtless he crept away to sleep." "let's go aboard and take a look around." they entered the ship. soft lights glowed in utter silence. a rough box stood on the floor, rollers and pry-bars beside it--a discordant note in the muted luxury of the setting. whonk rummaged in it. "curious," he said. "what means this?" he held up a stained cloak of orange and green, a metal bracelet, papers. "orange and green," mused relief. "whose colors are those?" "i know not." whonk glanced at the arm-band. "but this is lettered." he passed the metal band to retief. "scars," retief read. he looked at whonk. "it seems to me i've heard the name before," he murmured. "let's get back to the embassy--fast." back on the ramp retief heard a sound ... and turned in time to duck the charge of a hulking fustian youth who thundered past him and fetched up against the broad chest of whonk, who locked him in a warm embrace. "nice catch, whonk. where'd he sneak out of?" "the lout hid there by the storage bin," rumbled whonk. the captive youth thumped fists and toes fruitlessly against the oldster's carapace. "hang onto him," said retief. "he looks like the biting kind." "no fear. clumsy i am, yet not without strength." "ask him where the titanite is tucked away." "speak, witless grub," growled whonk, "lest i tweak you in twain." the youth gurgled. "better let up before you make a mess of him," said retief. whonk lifted the youth clear of the floor, then flung him down with a thump that made the ground quiver. the younger fustian glared up at the elder, mouth snapping. "this one was among those who trussed me and hid me away for the killing," said whonk. "in his repentance he will tell all to his elder." "that's the same young squirt that tried to strike up an acquaintance with me on the bus," retief said. "he gets around." the youth scrambled to hands and knees, scuttled for freedom. retief planted a foot on his dragging cloak; it ripped free. he stared at the bare back of the fustian-- "by the great egg!" whonk exclaimed, tripping the refugee as he tried to rise. "this is no youth! his carapace has been taken from him!" retief looked at the scarred back. "i thought he looked a little old. but i thought--" "this is not possible," whonk said wonderingly. "the great nerve trunks are deeply involved. not even the cleverest surgeon could excise the carapace and leave the patient living." "it looks like somebody did the trick. but let's take this boy with us and get out of here. his folks may come home." "too late," said whonk. retief turned. three youths came from behind the sheds. "well," retief said. "it looks like the scars are out in force tonight. where's your pal?" he said to the advancing trio. "the sticky little bird with the eye-stalks? back at his embassy, leaving you suckers holding the bag, i'll bet." "shelter behind me, retief," said whonk. "go get 'em, old-timer." retief stooped, picked up one of the pry-bars. "i'll jump around and distract them." whonk let out a whistling roar and charged for the immature fustians. they fanned out ... and one tripped, sprawled on his face. retief whirled the metal bar he had thrust between the fustian's legs, slammed it against the skull of another, who shook his head, turned on retief ... and bounced off the steel hull of the _moss rock_ as whonk took him in full charge. retief used the bar on another head. his third blow laid the fustian on the pavement, oozing purple. the other two club members departed hastily, seriously dented but still mobile. retief leaned on his club, breathing hard. "tough heads these kids have got. i'm tempted to chase those two lads down, but i've got another errand to run. i don't know who the groaci intended to blast, but i have a sneaking suspicion somebody of importance was scheduled for a boat ride in the next few hours. and three drums of titanite is enough to vaporize this tub and everyone aboard her." "the plot is foiled," said whonk. "but what reason did they have?" "the groaci are behind it. i have an idea the scars didn't know about this gambit." "which of these is the leader?" asked whonk. he prodded a fallen youth with a horny toe. "arise, dreaming one." "never mind him, whonk. we'll tie these two up and leave them here. i know where to find the boss." * * * * * a stolid crowd filled the low-ceilinged banquet hall. retief scanned the tables for the pale blobs of terrestrial faces, dwarfed by the giant armored bodies of the fustians. across the room magnan fluttered a hand. retief headed toward him. a low-pitched vibration filled the air: the rumble of subsonic fustian music. retief slid into his place beside magnan. "sorry to be late, mr. ambassador." "i'm honored that you chose to appear at all," said magnan coldly. he turned back to the fustian on his left. "ah, yes, mr. minister," he said. "charming, most charming. so joyous." the fustian looked at him, beady-eyed. "it is the _lament of hatching_," he said; "our national dirge." "oh," said magnan. "how interesting. such a pleasing balance of instruments--" "it is a droon solo," said the fustian, eyeing the terrestrial ambassador suspiciously. "why don't you just admit you can't hear it," retief whispered loudly. "and if i may interrupt a moment--" magnan cleared his throat. "now that our mr. retief has arrived, perhaps we could rush right along to the sponsorship ceremonies." "this group," said retief, leaning across magnan, "the scars. how much do you know about them, mr. minister?" "nothing at all," the huge fustian elder rumbled. "for my taste, all youths should be kept penned with the livestock until they grow a carapace to tame their irresponsibility." "we mustn't lose sight of the importance of channeling youthful energies," said magnan. "labor gangs," said the minister. "in my youth we were indentured to the dredge-masters. i myself drew a muck sledge." "but in these modern times," put in magnan, "surely it's incumbent on us to make happy these golden hours." the minister snorted. "last week i had a golden hour. they set upon me and pelted me with overripe stench-fruit." "but this was merely a manifestation of normal youthful frustrations," cried magnan. "their essential tenderness--" "you'd not find a tender spot on that lout yonder," the minister said, pointing with a fork at a newly arrived youth, "if you drilled boreholes and blasted." * * * * * "why, that's our guest of honor," said magnan, "a fine young fellow! slop i believe his name is." "slock," said retief. "eight feet of armor-plated orneriness. and--" magnan rose and tapped on his glass. the fustians winced at the, to them, supersonic vibrations. they looked at each other muttering. magnan tapped louder. the minister drew in his head, eyes closed. some of the fustians rose, tottered for the doors; the noise level rose. magnan redoubled his efforts. the glass broke with a clatter and green wine gushed on the tablecloth. "what in the name of the great egg!" the minister muttered. he blinked, breathing deeply. "oh, forgive me," blurted magnan, dabbing at the wine. "too bad the glass gave out," said retief. "in another minute you'd have cleared the hall. and then maybe i could have gotten a word in sideways. there's a matter you should know about--" "your attention, please," magnan said, rising. "i see that our fine young guest has arrived, and i hope that the remainder of his committee will be along in a moment. it is my pleasure to announce that our mr. retief has had the good fortune to win out in the keen bidding for the pleasure of sponsoring this lovely group." retief tugged at magnan's sleeve. "don't introduce me yet," he said. "i want to appear suddenly. more dramatic, you know." "well," murmured magnan, glancing down at retief, "i'm gratified to see you entering into the spirit of the event at last." he turned his attention back to the assembled guests. "if our honored guest will join me on the rostrum...?" he said. "the gentlemen of the press may want to catch a few shots of the presentation." magnan stepped up on the low platform at the center of the wide room, took his place beside the robed fustian youth and beamed at the cameras. "how gratifying it is to take this opportunity to express once more the great pleasure we have in sponsoring scars," he said, talking slowly for the benefit of the scribbling reporters. "we'd like to think that in our modest way we're to be a part of all that the scars achieve during the years ahead." magnan paused as a huge fustian elder heaved his bulk up the two low steps to the rostrum, approached the guest of honor. he watched as the newcomer paused behind slock, who did not see the new arrival. retief pushed through the crowd, stepped up to face the fustian youth. slock stared at him, drew back. "you know me, slock," said retief loudly. "an old fellow named whonk told you about me, just before you tried to saw his head off, remember? it was when i came out to take a look at that battle cruiser you're building." iv with a bellow slock reached for retief--and choked off in mid-cry as the fustian elder, whonk, pinioned him from behind, lifting him clear of the floor. "glad you reporters happened along," said retief to the gaping newsmen. "slock here had a deal with a sharp operator from the groaci embassy. the groaci were to supply the necessary hardware and slock, as foreman at the shipyards, was to see that everything was properly installed. the next step, i assume, would have been a local take-over, followed by a little interplanetary war on flamenco or one of the other nearby worlds ... for which the groaci would be glad to supply plenty of ammo." magnan found his tongue. "are you mad, retief?" he screeched. "this group was vouched for by the ministry of youth!" "the ministry's overdue for a purge," snapped retief. he turned back to slock. "i wonder if you were in on the little diversion that was planned for today. when the _moss rock_ blew, a variety of clues were to be planted where they'd be easy to find ... with scars written all over them. the groaci would thus have neatly laid the whole affair squarely at the door of the terrestrial embassy ... whose sponsorship of the scars had received plenty of publicity." "the _moss rock_?" said magnan. "but that was--retief! this is idiotic. slock himself was scheduled to go on a cruise tomorrow!" slock roared suddenly, twisting violently. whonk teetered, his grip loosened ... and slock pulled free and was off the platform, butting his way through the milling oldsters on the dining room floor. magnan watched, open-mouthed. "the groaci were playing a double game, as usual," retief said. "they intended to dispose of this fellow slock, once he'd served their purpose." "well, don't stand there," yelped magnan over the uproar. "if slock is the ring-leader of a delinquent gang...!" he moved to give chase. retief grabbed his arm. "don't jump down there! you'd have as much chance of getting through as a jack-rabbit through a threshing contest." ten minutes later the crowd had thinned slightly. "we can get through now," whonk called. "this way." he lowered himself to the floor, bulled through to the exit. flashbulbs popped. retief and magnan followed in whonk's wake. in the lounge retief grabbed the phone, waited for the operator, gave a code letter. no reply. he tried another. "no good," he said after a full minute had passed. "wonder what's loose?" he slammed the phone back in its niche. "let's grab a cab." * * * * * in the street the blue sun, alpha, peered like an arc light under a low cloud layer, casting flat shadows across the mud of the avenue. the three mounted a passing flat-car. whonk squatted, resting the weight of his immense shell on the heavy plank flooring. "would that i too could lose this burden, as has the false youth we bludgeoned aboard the _moss rock_," he sighed. "soon will i be forced into retirement. then a mere keeper of a place of papers such as i will rate no more than a slab on the public strand, with once-daily feedings. and even for a man of high position, retirement is no pleasure. a slab in the park of monuments is little better. a dismal outlook for one's next thousand years!" "you two carry on to the police station," said retief. "i want to play a hunch. but don't take too long. i may be painfully right." "what--?" magnan started. "as you wish, retief," said whonk. the flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and retief jumped down, headed at a run for the vip boat. the guard post still stood vacant. the two youths whom he and whonk had left trussed were gone. "that's the trouble with a peaceful world," retief muttered. "no police protection." he stepped down from the lighted entry and took up a position behind the sentry box. alpha rose higher, shedding a glaring blue-white light without heat. retief shivered. maybe he'd guessed wrong.... there was a sound in the near distance, like two elephants colliding. retief looked toward the gate. his giant acquaintance, whonk, had reappeared and was grappling with a hardly less massive opponent. a small figure became visible in the melee, scuttled for the gate. headed off by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite side of the shipyard. retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeing groaci. "well, yith," he said, "how's tricks? you should pardon the expression." "release me, retief!" the pale-featured alien lisped, his throat bladder pulsating in agitation. "the behemoths vie for the privilege of dismembering me out of hand!" "i know how they feel. i'll see what i can do ... for a price." "i appeal to you," yith whispered hoarsely. "as a fellow diplomat, a fellow alien, a fellow soft-back--" "why don't you appeal to slock, as a fellow skunk?" said retief. "now keep quiet ... and you may get out of this alive." the heavier of the two struggling fustians threw the other to the ground. there was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure was on its back, helpless. "that's whonk, still on his feet," said retief. "i wonder who he's caught--and why." whonk came toward the _moss rock_ dragging the supine fustian, who kicked vainly. retief thrust yith down well out of sight behind the sentry box. "better sit tight, yith. don't try to sneak off; i can outrun you. stay here and i'll see what i can do." he stepped out and hailed whonk. puffing like a steam engine whonk pulled up before him. "sleep, retief!" he panted. "you followed a hunch; i did the same. i saw something strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. i watched, followed him here. look! it is slock, strapped into a dead carapace! now many things become clear." * * * * * retief whistled. "so the youths aren't all as young as they look. somebody's been holding out on the rest of you fustians!" "the soft one," whonk said. "you laid him by the heels, retief. i saw. produce him now." "hold on a minute, whonk. it won't do you any good--" whonk winked broadly. "i must take my revenge!" he roared. "i shall test the texture of the soft one! his pulped remains will be scoured up by the ramp-washers and mailed home in bottles!" retief whirled at a sound, caught up with the scuttling yith fifty feet away, hauled him back to whonk. "it's up to you, whonk," he said. "i know how important ceremonial revenge is to you fustians. i will not interfere." "mercy!" yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. "i claim diplomatic immunity!" "no diplomat am i," rumbled whonk. "let me see; suppose i start with one of those obscenely active eyes--" he reached.... "i have an idea," said retief brightly. "do you suppose--just this once--you could forego the ceremonial revenge if yith promised to arrange for a groaci surgical mission to de-carapace you elders?" "but," whonk protested, "those eyes! what a pleasure to pluck them, one by one!" "yess," hissed yith, "i swear it! our most expert surgeons ... platoons of them, with the finest of equipment." "i have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel him squash beneath my bulk...." "light as a whissle feather shall you dance," yith whispered. "shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth--" "maybe just one eye," said whonk grudgingly. "that would leave him four." "be a sport," said retief. "well." "it's a deal then," said retief. "yith, on your word as a diplomat, an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you'll set up the mission. groaci surgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments. it will be a whissle feather in your cap--if you bring it off. and in return, whonk won't sit on you. and i won't prefer charges of interference in the internal affairs of a free world." behind whonk there was a movement. slock, wriggling free of the borrowed carapace, struggled to his feet ... in time for whonk to seize him, lift him high and head for the entry to the _moss rock_. "hey," retief called. "where are you going?" "i would not deny this one his reward," called whonk. "he hoped to cruise in luxury. so be it." "hold on," said retief. "that tub is loaded with titanite!" "stand not in my way, retief. for this one in truth owes me a vengeance." retief watched as the immense fustian bore his giant burden up the ramp and disappeared within the ship. "i guess whonk means business," he said to yith, who hung in his grasp, all five eyes goggling. "and he's a little too big for me to stop." whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down. "what did you do with him?" said retief. "tell him you were going to--" "we had best withdraw," said whonk. "the killing radius of the drive is fifty yards." "you mean--" "the controls are set for groaci. long-may-he-sleep." * * * * * "it was quite a bang," said retief. "but i guess you saw it, too." "no, confound it," magnan said. "when i remonstrated with hulk, or whelk--" "whonk." "--the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. i'll most certainly complain to the minister." "how about the surgical mission?" "a most generous offer," said magnan. "frankly, i was astonished. i think perhaps we've judged the groaci too harshly." "i hear the ministry of youth has had a rough morning of it," said retief. "and a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that youth groups are on the way out." magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. "i--ah--have explained to the press that last night's--ah--" "fiasco." "--affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenable position. of course, as to the destruction of the vip vessel and the presumed death of, uh, slop." "the fustians understand," said retief. "whonk wasn't kidding about ceremonial vengeance." "the groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege," said magnan. "i think that a note--or perhaps an aide memoire: less formal...." "the _moss rock_ was bound for groaci," said retief. "she was already in her transit orbit when she blew. the major fragments will arrive on schedule in a month or so. it should provide quite a meteorite display. i think that should be all the _aide_ the groaci's _memoires_ will need to keep their tentacles off fust." "but diplomatic usage--" "then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame you for, if anything goes wrong." "that's true," said magnan, lips pursed. "now you're thinking constructively, retief. we may make a diplomat of you yet." he smiled expansively. "maybe. but i refuse to let it depress me." retief stood up. "i'm taking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, mr. ambassador. my pal whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing is good." "but there are some extremely important matters coming up," said magnan. "we're planning to sponsor senior citizen groups--" "count me out. all groups give me an itch." "why, what an astonishing remark, retief! after all, we diplomats are ourselves a group." "uh-huh," retief said. magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as retief stepped into the hall and closed the door gently behind him. the desert and the stars by keith laumer the aga kaga wanted peace--a piece of everything in sight! [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, november . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "i'm not at all sure," under-secretary sternwheeler said, "that i fully understand the necessity for your ... ah ... absenting yourself from your post of duty, mr. retief. surely this matter could have been dealt with in the usual way--assuming any action is necessary." "i had a sharp attack of writer's cramp, mr. secretary," retief said. "so i thought i'd better come along in person--just to be sure i was positive of making my point." "eh?" "why, ah, there were a number of dispatches," deputy under-secretary magnan put in. "unfortunately, this being end-of-the-fiscal-year time, we found ourselves quite inundated with reports. reports, reports, reports--" "not criticizing the reporting system, are you, mr. magnan?" the under-secretary barked. "gracious, no," magnan said. "i love reports." "it seems nobody's told the aga kagans about fiscal years," retief said. "they're going right ahead with their program of land-grabbing on flamme. so far, i've persuaded the boyars that this is a matter for the corps, and not to take matters into their own hands." the under-secretary nodded. "quite right. carry on along the same lines. now, if there's nothing further--" "thank you, mr. secretary," magnan said, rising. "we certainly appreciate your guidance." "there is a little something further," said retief, sitting solidly in his chair. "what's the corps going to do about the aga kagans?" the under-secretary turned a liverish eye on retief. "as minister to flamme, you should know that the function of a diplomatic representative is merely to ... what shall i say...?" "string them along?" magnan suggested. "an unfortunate choice of phrase," the under-secretary said. "however, it embodies certain realities of galactic politics. the corps must concern itself with matters of broad policy." "sixty years ago the corps was encouraging the boyars to settle flamme," retief said. "they were assured of corps support." "i don't believe you'll find that in writing," said the under-secretary blandly. "in any event, that was sixty years ago. at that time a foothold against neo-concordiatist elements was deemed desirable. now the situation has changed." "the boyars have spent sixty years terraforming flamme," retief said. "they've cleared jungle, descummed the seas, irrigated deserts, set out forests. they've just about reached the point where they can begin to enjoy it. the aga kagans have picked this as a good time to move in. they've landed thirty detachments of 'fishermen'--complete with armored trawlers mounting mm infinite repeaters--and another two dozen parties of 'homesteaders'--all male and toting rocket launchers." "surely there's land enough on the world to afford space to both groups," the under-secretary said. "a spirit of co-operation--" * * * * * "the boyars needed some co-operation sixty years ago," retief said. "they tried to get the aga kagans to join in and help them beat back some of the saurian wild life that liked to graze on people. the corps didn't like the idea. they wanted to see an undisputed anti-concordiatist enclave. the aga kagans didn't want to play, either. but now that the world is tamed, they're moving in." "the exigencies of diplomacy require a flexible policy--" "i want a firm assurance of corps support to take back to flamme," retief said. "the boyars are a little naive. they don't understand diplomatic triple-speak. they just want to hold onto the homes they've made out of a wasteland." "i'm warning you, retief!" the under-secretary snapped, leaning forward, wattles quivering. "corps policy with regard to flamme includes no inflammatory actions based on outmoded concepts. the boyars will have to accommodate themselves to the situation!" "that's what i'm afraid of," retief said. "they're not going to sit still and watch it happen. if i don't take back concrete evidence of corps backing, we're going to have a nice hot little shooting war on our hands." the under-secretary pushed out his lips and drummed his fingers on the desk. "confounded hot-heads," he muttered. "very well, retief. i'll go along to the extent of a note; but positively no further." "a note? i was thinking of something more like a squadron of corps peace enforcers running through a few routine maneuvers off flamme." "out of the question. a stiffly worded protest note is the best i can do. that's final." back in the corridor, magnan turned to retief. "when will you learn not to argue with under-secretaries? one would think you actively disliked the idea of ever receiving a promotion. i was astonished at the under-secretary's restraint. frankly, i was stunned when he actually agreed to a note. i, of course, will have to draft it." magnan pulled at his lower lip thoughtfully. "now, i wonder, should i view with deep concern an act of open aggression, or merely point out an apparent violation of technicalities...." "don't bother," retief said. "i have a draft all ready to go." "but how--?" "i had a feeling i'd get paper instead of action," retief said. "i thought i'd save a little time all around." "at times, your cynicism borders on impudence." "at other times, it borders on disgust. now, if you'll run the note through for signature, i'll try to catch the six o'clock shuttle." "leaving so soon? there's an important reception tonight. some of our biggest names will be there. an excellent opportunity for you to join in the diplomatic give-and-take." "no, thanks. i want to get back to flamme and join in something mild, like a dinosaur hunt." "when you get there," said magnan, "i hope you'll make it quite clear that this matter is to be settled without violence." "don't worry. i'll keep the peace, if i have to start a war to do it." * * * * * on the broad verandah at government house, retief settled himself comfortably in a lounge chair. he accepted a tall glass from a white-jacketed waiter and regarded the flamboyant flamme sunset, a gorgeous blaze of vermillion and purple that reflected from a still lake, tinged the broad lawn with color, silhouetted tall poplars among flower beds. "you've done great things here in sixty years, georges," said retief. "not that natural geological processes wouldn't have produced the same results, given a couple of hundred million years." "don't belabor the point," the boyar chef d'regime said. "since we seem to be on the verge of losing it." "you're forgetting the note." "a note," georges said, waving his cigar. "what the purple polluted hell is a note supposed to do? i've got aga kagan claim-jumpers camped in the middle of what used to be a fine stand of barley, cooking sheep's brains over dung fires not ten miles from government house--and upwind at that." "say, if that's the same barley you distill your whiskey from, i'd call that a first-class atrocity." "retief, on your say-so, i've kept my boys on a short leash. they've put up with plenty. last week, while you were away, these barbarians sailed that flotilla of armor-plated junks right through the middle of one of our best oyster breeding beds. it was all i could do to keep a bunch of our men from going out in private helis and blasting 'em out of the water." "that wouldn't have been good for the oysters, either." "that's what i told 'em. i also said you'd be back here in a few days with something from corps hq. when i tell 'em all we've got is a piece of paper, that'll be the end. there's a strong vigilante organization here that's been outfitting for the last four weeks. if i hadn't held them back with assurances that the cdt would step in and take care of this invasion, they would have hit them before now." * * * * * "that would have been a mistake," said retief. "the aga kagans are tough customers. they're active on half a dozen worlds at the moment. they've been building up for this push for the last five years. a show of resistance by you boyars without corps backing would be an invitation to slaughter--with the excuse that you started it." "so what are we going to do? sit here and watch these goat-herders take over our farms and fisheries?" "those goat-herders aren't all they seem. they've got a first-class modern navy." "i've seen 'em. they camp in goat-skin tents, gallop around on animal-back, wear dresses down to their ankles--" "the 'goat-skin' tents are a high-polymer plastic, made in the same factory that turns out those long flowing bullet-proof robes you mention. the animals are just for show. back home they use helis and ground cars of the most modern design." the chef d'regime chewed his cigar. "why the masquerade?" "something to do with internal policies, i suppose." "so we sit tight and watch 'em take our world away from us. that's what i get for playing along with you, retief. we should have clobbered these monkeys as soon as they set foot on our world." "slow down, i haven't finished yet. there's still the note." "i've got plenty of paper already. rolls and rolls of it." "give diplomatic processes a chance," said retief. "the note hasn't even been delivered yet. who knows? we may get surprising results." "if you expect me to supply a runner for the purpose, you're out of luck. from what i hear, he's likely to come back with his ears stuffed in his hip pocket." "i'll deliver the note personally," retief said. "i could use a couple of escorts--preferably strong-arm lads." the chef d'regime frowned, blew out a cloud of smoke. "i wasn't kidding about these aga kagans," he said. "i hear they have some nasty habits. i don't want to see you operated on with the same knives they use to skin out the goats." "i'd be against that myself. still, the mail must go through." "strong-arm lads, eh? what have you got in mind, retief?" "a little muscle in the background is an old diplomatic custom," retief said. the chef d'regime stubbed out his cigar thoughtfully. "i used to be a pretty fair elbow-wrestler myself," he said. "suppose i go along...?" "that," said retief, "should lend just the right note of solidarity to our little delegation." he hitched his chair closer. "now, depending on what we run into, here's how we'll play it...." ii eight miles into the rolling granite hills west of the capital, a black-painted official air-car flying the twin flags of chief of state and terrestrial minister skimmed along a foot above a pot-holed road. slumped in the padded seat, the boyar chef d'regime waved his cigar glumly at the surrounding hills. "fifty years ago this was bare rock," he said. "we've bred special strains of bacteria here to break down the formations into soil, and we followed up with a program of broad-spectrum fertilization. we planned to put the whole area into crops by next year. now it looks like the goats will get it." "will that scrubland support a crop?" retief said, eyeing the lichen-covered knolls. "sure. we start with legumes and follow up with cereals. wait until you see this next section. it's an old flood plain, came into production thirty years ago. one of our finest--" the air-car topped a rise. the chef dropped his cigar and half rose, with a hoarse yell. a herd of scraggly goats tossed their heads among a stand of ripe grain. the car pulled to a stop. retief held the boyar's arm. "keep calm, georges," he said. "remember, we're on a diplomatic mission. it wouldn't do to come to the conference table smelling of goats." "let me at 'em!" georges roared. "i'll throttle 'em with my bare hands!" a bearded goat eyed the boyar chef sardonically, jaw working. "look at that long-nosed son!" the goat gave a derisive bleat and took another mouthful of ripe grain. "did you see that?" georges yelled. "they've trained the son of a--" "chin up, georges," retief said. "we'll take up the goat problem along with the rest." "i'll murder 'em!" "hold it, georges. look over there." a hundred yards away, a trio of brown-cloaked horsemen topped a rise, paused dramatically against the cloudless pale sky, then galloped down the slope toward the car, rifles bobbing at their backs, cloaks billowing out behind. side by side they rode, through the brown-golden grain, cutting three narrow swaths that ran in a straight sweep from the ridge to the air-car where retief and the chef d'regime hovered, waiting. georges scrambled for the side of the car. "just wait 'til i get my hands on him!" retief pulled him back. "sit tight and look pleased, georges. never give the opposition a hint of your true feelings. pretend you're a goat lover--and hand me one of your cigars." the three horsemen pulled up in a churn of chaff and a clatter of pebbles. georges coughed, batting a hand at the settling dust. retief peeled the cigar unhurriedly, sniffed, at it and thumbed it alight. he drew at it, puffed out a cloud of smoke and glanced casually at the trio of aga kagan cavaliers. "peace be with you," he intoned in accent-free kagan. "may your shadows never grow less." * * * * * the leader of the three, a hawk-faced man with a heavy beard, unlimbered his rifle. he fingered it, frowning ferociously. "have no fear," retief said, smiling graciously. "he who comes as a guest enjoys perfect safety." a smooth-faced member of the threesome barked an oath and leveled his rifle at retief. "youth is the steed of folly," retief said. "take care that the beardless one does not disgrace his house." the leader whirled on the youth and snarled an order. he lowered the rifle, muttering. blackbeard turned back to retief. "begone, interlopers," he said. "you disturb the goats." "provision is not taken to the houses of the generous," retief said. "may the creatures dine well ere they move on." "hah! the goats of the aga kaga graze on the lands of the aga kaga." the leader edged his horse close, eyed retief fiercely. "we welcome no intruders on our lands." "to praise a man for what he does not possess is to make him appear foolish," retief said. "these are the lands of the boyars. but enough of these pleasantries. we seek audience with your ruler." "you may address me as 'exalted one'," the leader said. "now dismount from that steed of shaitan." "it is written, if you need anything from a dog, call him 'sir'," retief said. "i must decline to impute canine ancestry to a guest. now you may conduct us to your headquarters." "enough of your insolence!" the bearded man cocked his rifle. "i could blow your heads off!" "the hen has feathers, but it does not fly," retief said. "we have asked for escort. a slave must be beaten with a stick; for a free man, a hint is enough." "you mock me, pale one. i warn you--" "only love makes me weep," retief said. "i laugh at hatred." "get out of the car!" retief puffed at his cigar, eyeing the aga kagan cheerfully. the youth in the rear moved forward, teeth bared. "never give in to the fool, lest he say, 'he fears me,'" retief said. "i cannot restrain my men in the face of your insults," the bearded aga kagan roared. "these hens of mine have feathers--and talons as well!" "when god would destroy an ant, he gives him wings," retief said. "distress in misfortune is another misfortune." the bearded man's face grew purple. retief dribbled the ash from his cigar over the side of the car. "now i think we'd better be getting on," he said briskly. "i've enjoyed our chat, but we do have business to attend to." the bearded leader laughed shortly. "does the condemned man beg for the axe?" he enquired rhetorically. "you shall visit the aga kaga, then. move on! and make no attempt to escape, else my gun will speak you a brief farewell." the horsemen glowered, then, at a word from the leader, took positions around the car. georges started the vehicle forward, following the leading rider. retief leaned back and let out a long sigh. "that was close," he said. "i was about out of proverbs." "you sound as though you'd brought off a coup," georges said. "from the expression on the whiskery one's face, we're in for trouble. what was he saying?" "just a routine exchange of bluffs," retief said. "now when we get there, remember to make your flattery sound like insults and your insults sound like flattery, and you'll be all right." "these birds are armed. and they don't like strangers," georges said. "maybe i should have boned up on their habits before i joined this expedition." "just stick to the plan," retief said. "and remember: a handful of luck is better than a camel-load of learning." * * * * * the air car followed the escort down a long slope to a dry river bed and across it, through a barren stretch of shifting sand to a green oasis set with canopies. the armed escort motioned the car to a halt before an immense tent of glistening black. before the tent armed men lounged under a pennant bearing a lion _couchant_ in crimson on a field verte. "get out," blackbeard ordered. the guards eyed the visitors, their drawn sabers catching sunlight. retief and georges stepped from the car onto rich rugs spread on the grass. they followed the ferocious gesture of the bearded man through the opening into a perfumed interior of luminous shadows. a heavy odor of incense hung in the air, and the strumming of stringed instruments laid a muted pattern of sound behind the decorations of gold and blue, silver and green. at the far end of the room, among a bevy of female slaves, a large and resplendently clad man with blue-black hair and a clean-shaven chin popped a grape into his mouth. he wiped his fingers negligently on a wisp of silk offered by a handmaiden, belched loudly and looked the callers over. blackbeard cleared his throat. "down on your faces in the presence of the exalted one, the aga kaga, ruler of east and west." "sorry," retief said firmly. "my hay-fever, you know." the reclining giant waved a hand languidly. "never mind the formalities," he said. "approach." retief and georges crossed the thick rugs. a cold draft blew toward them. the reclining man sneezed violently, wiped his nose on another silken scarf and held up a hand. "night and the horses and the desert know me," he said in resonant tones. "also the sword and the guest and paper and pen--" he paused, wrinkled his nose and sneezed again. "turn off that damned air-conditioner," he snapped. he settled himself and motioned the bearded man to him. the two exchanged muted remarks. then the bearded man stepped back, ducked his head and withdrew to the rear. "excellency," retief said, "i have the honor to present m. georges duror, chef d'regime of the planetary government." "planetary government?" the aga kaga spat grape seeds on the rug. "my men have observed a few squatters along the shore. if they're in distress, i'll see about a distribution of goat-meat." "it is the punishment of the envious to grieve at anothers' plenty," retief said. "no goat-meat will be required." "ralph told me you talk like a page out of mustapha ben abdallah katib jelebi," the aga kaga said. "i know a few old sayings myself. for example, 'a bedouin is only cheated once.'" "we have no such intentions, excellency," retief said. "is it not written, 'have no faith in the prince whose minister cheats you'?" "i've had some unhappy experiences with strangers," the aga kaga said. "it is written in the sands that all strangers are kin. still, he who visits rarely is a welcome guest. be seated." iii handmaidens brought cushions, giggled and fled. retief and georges settled themselves comfortably. the aga kaga eyed them in silence. "we have come to bear tidings from the corps diplomatique terrestrienne," retief said solemnly. a perfumed slave girl offered grapes. "modest ignorance is better than boastful knowledge," the aga kaga said. "what brings the cdt into the picture?" "the essay of the drunkard will be read in the tavern," retief said. "whereas the words of kings...." "very well, i concede the point." the aga kaga waved a hand at the serving maids. "depart, my dears. attend me later. you too, ralph. these are mere diplomats. they are men of words, not deeds." the bearded man glared and departed. the girls hurried after him. "now," the aga kaga said. "let's drop the wisdom of the ages and get down to the issues. not that i don't admire your repertoire of platitudes. how do you remember them all?" "diplomats and other liars require good memories," said retief. "but as you point out, small wisdom to small minds. i'm here to effect a settlement of certain differences between yourself and the planetary authorities. i have here a note, which i'm conveying on behalf of the sector under-secretary. with your permission, i'll read it." "go ahead." the aga kaga kicked a couple of cushions onto the floor, eased a bottle from under the couch and reached for glasses. "the under-secretary for sector affairs presents his compliments to his excellency, the aga kaga of the aga kaga, primary potentate, hereditary sheik, emir of the--" "yes, yes. skip the titles." retief flipped over two pages. "... and with reference to the recent relocation of persons under the jurisdiction of his excellency, has the honor to point out that the territories now under settlement comprise a portion of that area, hereinafter designated as sub-sector alpha, which, under terms of the agreement entered into by his excellency's predecessor, and as referenced in sector ministry's notes numbers g- -b and x- c- , with particular pertinence to that body designated in the revised galactic catalogue, tenth edition, as amended, volume nine, reel , as cygni alpha, otherwise referred to hereinafter as flamme--" "come to the point," the aga kaga cut in. "you're here to lodge a complaint that i'm invading territories to which someone else lays claim, is that it?" he smiled broadly, offered dope-sticks and lit one. "well, i've been expecting a call. after all, it's what you gentlemen are paid for. cheers." "your excellency has a lucid way of putting things," retief said. "call me stanley," the aga kaga said. "the other routine is just to please some of the old fools--i mean the more conservative members of my government. they're still gnawing their beards and kicking themselves because their ancestors dropped science in favor of alchemy and got themselves stranded in a cultural dead end. this charade is supposed to prove they were right all along. however, i've no time to waste in neurotic compensations. i have places to go and deeds to accomplish." "at first glance," retief said, "it looks as though the places are already occupied, and the deeds are illegal." * * * * * the aga kaga guffawed. "for a diplomat, you speak plainly, retief. have another drink." he poured, eyeing georges. "what of m. duror? how does he feel about it?" georges took a thoughtful swallow of whiskey. "not bad," he said. "but not quite good enough to cover the odor of goats." the aga kaga snorted. "i thought the goats were overdoing it a bit myself," he said. "still, the graybeards insisted. and i need their support." "also," georges said distinctly, "i think you're soft. you lie around letting women wait on you, while your betters are out doing an honest day's work." the aga kaga looked startled. "soft? i can tie a knot in an iron bar as big as your thumb." he popped a grape into his mouth. "as for the rest, your pious views about the virtues of hard labor are as childish as my advisors' faith in the advantages of primitive plumbing. as for myself, i am a realist. if two monkeys want the same banana, in the end one will have it, and the other will cry morality. the days of my years are numbered, praise be to god. while they last, i hope to eat well, hunt well, fight well and take my share of pleasure. i leave to others the arid satisfactions of self-denial and other perversions." "you admit you're here to grab our land, then," georges said. "that's the damnedest piece of bare-faced aggression--" "ah, ah!" the aga kaga held up a hand. "watch your vocabulary, my dear sir. i'm sure that 'justifiable yearnings for territorial self-realization' would be more appropriate to the situation. or possibly 'legitimate aspirations, for self-determination of formerly exploited peoples' might fit the case. aggression is, by definition, an activity carried on only by those who have inherited the mantle of colonial imperialism." "imperialism! why, you aga kagans have been the most notorious planet-grabbers in sector history, you--you--" "call me stanley." the aga kaga munched a grape. "i merely face the realities of popular folk-lore. let's be pragmatic; it's a matter of historical association. some people can grab land and pass it off lightly as a moral duty; others are dubbed imperialist merely for holding onto their own. unfair, you say. but that's life, my friends. and i shall continue to take every advantage of it." "we'll fight you!" georges bellowed. he took another gulp of whiskey and slammed the glass down. "you won't take this world without a struggle!" "another?" the aga kaga said, offering the bottle. georges glowered as his glass was filled. the aga kaga held the glass up to the light. "excellent color, don't you agree?" he turned his eyes on georges. "it's pointless to resist," he said. "we have you outgunned and outmanned. your small nation has no chance against us. but we're prepared to be generous. you may continue to occupy such areas as we do not immediately require until such time as you're able to make other arrangements." "and by the time we've got a crop growing out of what was bare rock, you'll be ready to move in," the boyar chef d'regime snapped. "but you'll find that we aren't alone!" * * * * * "quite alone," the aga said. he nodded sagely. "yes, one need but read the lesson of history. the corps diplomatique will make expostulatory noises, but it will accept the _fait accompli_. you, my dear sir, are but a very small nibble. we won't make the mistake of excessive greed. we shall inch our way to empire--and those who stand in our way shall be dubbed warmongers." "i see you're quite a student of history, stanley," retief said. "i wonder if you recall the eventual fate of most of the would-be empire nibblers of the past?" "ah, but they grew incautious. they went too far, too fast." "the confounded impudence," georges rasped. "tells us to our face what he has in mind!" "an ancient and honorable custom, from the time of _mein kampf_ and the _communist manifesto_ through the _porcelain wall_ of leung. such declarations have a legendary quality. it's traditional that they're never taken at face value." "but always," retief said, "there was a critical point at which the man on horseback could have been pulled from the saddle." "_could_ have been," the aga kaga chuckled. he finished the grapes and began peeling an orange. "but they never were. hitler could have been stopped by the czech air force in ; stalin was at the mercy of the primitive atomics of the west in ; leung was grossly over-extended at rangoon. but the onus of that historic role could not be overcome. it has been the fate of your spiritual forebears to carve civilization from the wilderness and then, amid tearing of garments and the heaping of ashes of self-accusation on your own confused heads, to withdraw, leaving the spoils for local political opportunists and mob leaders, clothed in the mystical virtue of native birth. have a banana." "you're stretching your analogy a little too far," retief said. "you're banking on the inaction of the corps. you could be wrong." "i shall know when to stop," the aga kaga said. "tell me, stanley," retief said, rising. "are we quite private here?" "yes, perfectly so," the aga kaga said. "none would dare to intrude in my council." he cocked an eyebrow at retief. "you have a proposal to make in confidence? but what of our dear friend georges? one would not like to see him disillusioned." "don't worry about georges. he's a realist, like you. he's prepared to deal in facts. hard facts, in this case." the aga kaga nodded thoughtfully. "what are you getting at?" "you're basing your plan of action on the certainty that the corps will sit by, wringing its hands, while you embark on a career of planetary piracy." "isn't it the custom?" the aga kaga smiled complacently. "i have news for you, stanley. in this instance, neck-wringing seems more in order than hand-wringing." the aga kaga frowned. "your manner--" "never mind our manners!" georges blurted, standing. "we don't need any lessons from goat-herding land-thieves!" the aga kaga's face darkened. "you dare to speak thus to me, pig of a muck-grubber!" * * * * * with a muffled curse georges launched himself at the potentate. the giant rolled aside. he grunted as the boyar's fist thumped in his short ribs; then he chopped down on georges' neck. the chef d'regime slid off onto the floor as the aga kaga bounded to his feet, sending fruit and silken cushions flying. "i see it now!" he hissed. "an assassination attempt!" he stretched his arms, thick as tree-roots--a grizzly in satin robes. "your heads will ring together like gongs before i have done with you!" he lunged for retief. retief came to his feet, feinted with his left and planted a short right against the aga kaga's jaw with a solid smack. the potentate stumbled, grabbed; retief slipped aside. the aga kaga whirled to face retief. "a slippery diplomat, by all the houris in paradise!" he grated, breathing hard. "but a fool. true to your medieval code of chivalry, you attacked singly, a blunder i would never have made. and you shall die for your idiocy!" he opened his mouth to bellow-- "you sure look foolish, with your fancy hair-do down in your eyes," retief said. "the servants will get a big laugh out of it." with a choked yell, the aga kaga dived for retief, missed as he leaped aside. the two went to the mat together and rolled, sending a stool skittering. grunts and curses echoed as the two big men strained, muscles popping. retief groped for a scissors hold; the aga kaga seized his foot, bit hard. retief bent nearly double, braced himself and slammed the potentate against the rug. dust flew. then the two were on their feet, circling. "many times have i longed to broil a diplomat over a slow fire," the aga kaga snarled. "tonight will see it come to pass!" "i've seen it done often at staff meetings," said retief. "it seems to have no permanent effect." the aga kaga reached for retief, who feinted left, hammered a right to the chin. the aga kaga tottered. retief measured him, brought up a haymaker. the potentate slammed to the rug--out cold. * * * * * georges rolled over, sat up. "let me at the son of a--" he muttered. "take over, georges," retief said, panting. "since he's in a mood to negotiate now, we may as well get something accomplished." georges eyed the fallen ruler, who stirred, groaned lugubriously. "i hope you know what you're doing," georges said. "but i'm with you in any case." he straddled the prone body, plucked a curved knife from the low table and prodded the aga kaga's adam's apple. the monarch opened his eyes. "make one little peep and your windbag will spring a leak," georges said. "very few historical figures have accomplished anything important after their throats were cut." "stanley won't yell," retief said. "we're not the only ones who're guilty of cultural idiocy. he'd lose face something awful if he let his followers see him like this." retief settled himself on a tufted ottoman. "right, stanley?" the aga kaga snarled. retief selected a grape and ate it thoughtfully. "these aren't bad, georges. you might consider taking on a few aga kagan vine-growers--purely on a yearly contract basis, of course." the aga kaga groaned, rolling his eyes. "well, i believe we're ready to get down to diplomatic proceedings now," retief said. "nothing like dealing in an atmosphere of realistic good fellowship. first, of course, there's the matter of the presence of aliens lacking visas." he opened his briefcase, withdrew a heavy sheet of parchment. "i have the document here, drawn up and ready for signature. it provides for the prompt deportation of such persons, by corps transport, all expenses to be borne by the aga kagan government. that's agreeable, i assume?" retief looked expectantly at the purple face of the prone potentate. the aga kaga grunted a strangled grunt. "speak up, stanley," retief said. "give him plenty of air, georges." "shall i let some in through the side?" "not yet. i'm sure stanley wants to be agreeable." the aga kaga snarled. "maybe just a little then, georges," retief said judiciously. georges jabbed the knife in far enough to draw a bead of blood. the aga kaga grunted. "agreed!" he snorted. "by the beard of the prophet, when i get my hands on you...." "second item: certain fields, fishing grounds, et cetera, have suffered damage due to the presence of the aforementioned illegal immigrants. full compensation will be made by the aga kagan government. agreed?" * * * * * the aga kaga drew a breath, tensed himself; georges jabbed with the knife point. his prisoner relaxed with a groan. "agreed!" he grated. "a vile tactic! you enter my tent under the guise of guests, protected by diplomatic immunity--" "i had the impression we were herded in here at sword point," said retief. "shall we go on? now there's the little matter of restitution for violation of sovereignty, reparations for mental anguish, payment for damaged fences, roads, drainage canals, communications, et cetera, et cetera. shall i read them all?" "wait until the news of this outrage is spread abroad!" "they'd never believe it," retief said. "history would prove it impossible. and on mature consideration, i'm sure you won't want it noised about that you entertained visiting dignitaries flat on your back." "what about the pollution of the atmosphere by goats?" georges put in. "and don't overlook the muddying of streams, the destruction of timber for camp fires and--" "i've covered all that sort of thing under a miscellaneous heading," retief said. "we can fill it in at leisure when we get back." "bandits!" the aga kaga hissed. "thieves! dogs of unreliable imperialists!" "it is disillusioning, i know," retief said. "still, of such little surprises is history made. sign here." he held the parchment out and offered a pen. "a nice clear signature, please. we wouldn't want any quibbling about the legality of the treaty, after conducting the negotiation with such scrupulous regard for the niceties." "niceties! never in history has such an abomination been perpetrated!" "oh, treaties are always worked out this way, when it comes right down to it. we've just accelerated the process a little. now, if you'll just sign like a good fellow, we'll be on our way. georges will have his work cut out for him, planning how to use all this reparations money." the aga kaga gnashed his teeth: georges prodded. the aga kaga seized the pen and scrawled his name. retief signed with a flourish. he tucked the treaty away in his briefcase, took out another. "this is just a safe-conduct, to get us out of the door and into the car," he said. "probably unnecessary, but it won't hurt to have it, in case you figure out some way to avoid your obligations as a host." the aga kaga signed the document after another prod from georges. "one more paper, and i'll be into the jugular," he said. * * * * * "we're all through now," said retief. "stanley, we're going to have to run now. i'm going to strap up your hands and feet a trifle; it shouldn't take you more than ten minutes or so to get loose, stick a band-aid on your neck and--" "my men will cut you down for the rascals you are!" "by that time, we'll be over the hill," retief continued. "at full throttle; we'll be at government house in an hour, and of course i won't waste any time transmitting the treaty to sector hq. and the same concern for face that keeps you from yelling for help will insure that the details of the negotiation remain our secret." "treaty! that scrap of paper!" "i confess the corps is a little sluggish about taking action at times," retief said, whipping a turn of silken cord around the aga kaga's ankles. "but once it's got signatures on a legal treaty, it's extremely stubborn about all parties adhering to the letter. it can't afford to be otherwise, as i'm sure you'll understand." he cinched up the cord, went to work on the hands. the aga kaga glared at him balefully. "to the pit with the corps! the ferocity of my revenge--" "don't talk nonsense, stanley. there are several squadrons of peace enforcers cruising in the sector just now. i'm sure you're not ready to make any historical errors by taking them on." retief finished and stood. "georges, just stuff a scarf in stanley's mouth. i think he'd prefer to work quietly until he recovers his dignity." retief buckled his briefcase, selected a large grape and looked down at the aga kaga. "actually, you'll be glad you saw things our way, stanley," he said. "you'll get all the credit for the generous settlement. of course, it will be a striking precedent for any other negotiations that may become necessary if you get grabby on other worlds in this region. and if your advisors want to know why the sudden change of heart, just tell them you've decided to start from scratch on an unoccupied world. mention the virtues of thrift and hard work. i'm confident you can find plenty of historical examples to support you." "thanks for the drink," said georges. "drop in on me at government house some time and we'll crack another bottle." "and don't feel bad about your project's going awry," retief said. "in the words of the prophet, 'stolen goods are never sold at a loss.'" * * * * * "a remarkable about-face, retief," magnan said. "let this be a lesson to you. a stern note of protest can work wonders." "a lot depends on the method of delivery," retief said. "nonsense. i knew all along the aga kagans were a reasonable and peace-loving people. one of the advantages of senior rank, of course, is the opportunity to see the big picture. why, i was saying only this morning--" the desk screen broke into life. the mottled jowls of under-secretary sternwheeler appeared. "magnan! i've just learned of the flamme affair. who's responsible?" "why, ah ... i suppose that i might be said--" "this is your work, is it?" "well ... mr. retief did play the role of messenger." "don't pass the buck, magnan!" the under-secretary barked. "what the devil went on out there?" "just a routine protest note. everything is quite in order." "bah! your over-zealousness has cost me dear. i was feeding flamme to the aga kagans to consolidate our position of moral superiority for use as a lever in a number of important negotiations. now they've backed out! aga kaga emerges from the affair wreathed in virtue. you've destroyed a very pretty finesse in power politics, mr. magnan! a year's work down the drain!" "but i thought--" "i doubt that, mr. magnan, i doubt that very much!" the under-secretary rang off. "this is a fine turn of events," magnan groaned. "retief, you know very well protest notes are merely intended for the historical record! no one ever takes them seriously." "you and the aga kaga ought to get together," said retief. "he's a great one for citing historical parallels. he's not a bad fellow, as a matter of fact. i have an invitation from him to visit kaga and go mud-pig hunting. he was so impressed by corps methods that he wants to be sure we're on his side next time. why don't you come along?" "hmmm. perhaps i should cultivate him. a few high-level contacts never do any harm. on the other hand, i understand he lives in a very loose way, feasting and merrymaking. frivolous in the extreme. no wife, you understand, but hordes of lightly clad women about. and in that connection, the aga kagans have some very curious notions as to what constitutes proper hospitality to a guest." retief rose, pulled on the powder blue cloak and black velvet gauntlets of a career minister. "don't let it worry you," he said. "you'll have a great time. and as the aga kaga would say, 'ugliness is the best safeguard of virginity.'" saline solution by keith laumer blast you, retief! your violent ways are the disgrace of earth's diplomatic corps--but your salty jokes are worse! [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, march . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] i consul-general magnan gingerly fingered the heavily rubber-banded sheaf of dog-eared documents. "i haven't rushed into precipitate action on this claim, retief," he said. "the consulate has grave responsibilities here in the belt. one must weigh all aspects of the situation, consider the ramifications. what consequences would arise from a grant of minerals rights on the planetoid to this claimant?" "the claim looked all right to me," retief said. "seventeen copies with attachments. why not process it? you've had it on your desk for a week." magnan's eyebrows went up. "you've a personal interest in this claim, retief?" "every day you wait is costing them money. that hulk they use for an ore-carrier is in a parking orbit piling up demurrage." "i see you've become emotionally involved in the affairs of a group of obscure miners. you haven't yet learned the true diplomat's happy faculty of non-identification with specifics--or should i say identification with non-specifics?" "they're not a wealthy outfit, you know. in fact, i understand this claim is their sole asset--unless you want to count the ore-carrier." "the consulate is not concerned with the internal financial problems of the sam's last chance number nine mining company." "careful," retief said. "you almost identified yourself with a specific that time." "hardly, my dear retief," magnan said blandly. "the implication is mightier than the affidavit. you should study the records of the giants of galactic diplomacy: crodfoller, passwyn, spradley, nitworth, sternwheeler, rumpwhistle. the roll-call of those names rings like the majestic tread of ... of...." "dinosaurs?" retief suggested. "an apt simile," magnan nodded. "those mighty figures, those armored hides--" "those tiny brains--" magnan smiled sadly. "i see you're indulging your penchant for distorted facetiae. perhaps one day you'll learn their true worth." "i already have my suspicions." the intercom chimed. miss gumble's features appeared on the desk screen. "mr. leatherwell to see you, mr. magnan. he has no appointment--" magnan's eyebrows went up. "send mr. leatherwell right in." he looked at retief. "i had no idea leatherwell was planning a call. i wonder what he's after?" magnan looked anxious. "he's an important figure in belt minerals circles. it's important to avoid arousing antagonism, while maintaining non-commitment. you may as well stay. you might pick up some valuable pointers technique-wise." * * * * * the door swung wide. leatherwell strode into the room, his massive paunch buckled into fashionable vests of turquoise velvet and hung with the latest in fluorescent watch charms. he extended a large palm and pumped magnan's flaccid arm vigorously. "ah, there, mr. consul-general. good of you to receive me." he wiped his hand absently on his thigh, eyeing retief questioningly. "mr. retief, my vice-consul and minerals officer," magnan said. "do take a chair, mr. leatherwell. in what capacity can i serve today?" "i am here, gentlemen," leatherwell said, putting an immense yellow briefcase on magnan's desk and settling himself in a power rocker, "on behalf of my company, general minerals. general minerals has long been aware, gentlemen, of the austere conditions obtaining here in the belt, to which public servants like yourselves are subjected." leatherwell bobbed with the pitch of the rocker, smiling complacently at magnan. "general minerals is more than a great industrial combine. it is an organization with a heart." leatherwell reached for his breast pocket, missed, tried again. "how do you turn this damned thing off?" he growled. magnan half-rose, peering over leatherwell's briefcase. "the switch just there--on the arm." the executive fumbled. there was a _click_, and the chair subsided with a sigh of compressed air. "that's better." leatherwell drew out a long slip of blue paper. "to alleviate the boredom and brighten the lives of that hardy group of terrestrials laboring here on ceres to bring free enterprise to the belt, general minerals is presenting to the consulate--on their behalf--one hundred thousand credits for the construction of a joy center, to be equipped with the latest and finest in recreational equipment, including a gourmet model c banquet synthesizer, a forty-foot sublimation chamber, a five thousand tape library--with a number of choice items unobtainable in boston--a twenty-foot tri-d tank and other amenities too numerous to mention." leatherwell leaned back, beaming expectantly. "why, mr. leatherwell. we're overwhelmed, of course." magnan smiled dazedly past the briefcase. "but i wonder if it's quite proper...." "the gift is to the people, mr. consul. you merely accept on their behalf." "i wonder if general minerals realizes that the hardy terrestrials laboring on ceres are limited to the consular staff?" retief said. "and the staff consists of mr. magnan, miss gumble and myself." "mr. leatherwell is hardly interested in these details, retief," magnan cut in. "a public-spirited offer indeed, sir. as terrestrial consul--and on behalf of all terrestrials here in the belt--i accept with a humble awareness of--" "now, there was one other little matter." leatherwell leaned forward to open the briefcase, glancing over magnan's littered desktop. he extracted a bundle of papers, dropped them on the desk, then drew out a heavy document and passed it across to magnan. "just a routine claim. i'd like to see it rushed through, as we have in mind some loading operations in the vicinity next week." "certainly mr. leatherwell." magnan glanced at the papers, paused to read. he looked up. "ah--" "something the matter, mr. consul?" leatherwell demanded. "it's just that--ah--i seem to recall--as a matter of fact...." magnan looked at retief. retief took the papers, looked over the top sheet. " -a. sorry, mr. leatherwell. general minerals has been anticipated. we're processing a prior claim." "prior claim?" leatherwell barked. "you've issued the grant?" "oh, no indeed, mr. leatherwell," magnan replied quickly. "the claim hasn't yet been processed." "then there's no difficulty," leatherwell boomed. he glanced at his finger watch. "if you don't mind, i'll wait and take the grant along with me. i assume it will only take a minute or two to sign it and affix seals and so on?" "the other claim was filed a full week ago--" retief started. "bah!" leatherwell waved a hand impatiently. "these details can be arranged." he fixed an eye on magnan. "i'm sure all of us here understand that it's in the public interest that minerals properties go to responsible firms, with adequate capital for proper development." "why, ah," magnan said. "the sam's last chance number nine mining company is a duly chartered firm. their claim is valid." "i know that hole-in-corner concern," leatherwell snapped. "mere irresponsible opportunists. general minerals has spent millions--millions, i say--of the stockholders' funds in minerals explorations. are they to be balked in realizing a fair return on their investment because these ... these ... adventures have stumbled on a deposit? not that the property is of any real value, of course," he added. "quite an ordinary bit of rock. but general minerals would find it convenient to consolidate its holdings." "there are plenty of other rocks floating around in the belt. why not--" "one moment, retief," magnan cut in. he looked across the desk at his junior with a severe expression. "as consul-general, i'm quite capable of determining the relative merits of claims. as mr. leatherwell has pointed out, it's in the public interest to consider the question in depth." leatherwell cleared his throat. "i might state at this time that general minerals is prepared to be generous in dealing with these interlopers. i believe we would be prepared to go so far as to offer them free title to certain gm holdings in exchange for their release of any alleged rights to the property in question--merely to simplify matters, of course." "that seems more than fair to me," magnan glowed. "the sam's people have a clear priority," retief said. "i logged the claim in last friday." "they have far from a clear title." leatherwell snapped. "and i can assure you gm will contest their claim, if need be, to the supreme court!" "just what holdings did you have in mind offering them, mr. leatherwell?" magnan asked nervously. leatherwell reached into his briefcase and drew out a paper. " -p," he read. "a quite massive body. crustal material, i imagine. it should satisfy these squatters' desire to own real estate in the belt." "i'll make a note of that," magnan said, reaching for a pad. "that's a bona fide offer, mr. leatherwell?" retief asked. "certainly!" "i'll record it as such," magnan said, scribbling. "and who knows?" leatherwell said. "it may turn out to contain some surprisingly rich finds." "and if they won't accept it?" retief asked. "then i daresay general minerals will find a remedy in the courts, sir!" "oh, i hardly think that will be necessary," magnan said. "then there's another routine matter," leatherwell said. he passed a second document across to magnan. "gm is requesting an injunction to restrain these same parties from aggravated trespass. i'd appreciate it if you'd push it through at once. there's a matter of a load of illegally obtained ore involved, as well." "certainly mr. leatherwell. i'll see to it myself." "no need for that. the papers are all drawn up. our legal department will vouch for their correctness. just sign here." leatherwell spread out the paper and handed magnan a pen. "wouldn't it be a good idea to read that over first?" retief said. * * * * * leatherwell frowned impatiently. "you'll have adequate time to familiarize yourself with the details later, retief," magnan snapped, taking the pen. "no need to waste mr. leatherwell's valuable time." he scratched a signature on the paper. leatherwell rose, gathered up his papers from magnan's desk, dumped them into the briefcase. "riff-raff, of course. their kind has no business in the belt." retief rose, crossed to the desk, and held out a hand. "i believe you gathered in an official document along with your own, mr. leatherwell. by error, of course." "what's that?" leatherwell bridled. retief smiled, waiting. magnan opened his mouth. "it was under your papers, mr. leatherwell," retief said. "it's the thick one, with the rubber bands." leatherwell dug in his briefcase, produced the document. "well, fancy finding this here," he growled. he shoved the papers into retief's hand. "you're a very observant young fellow." he closed the briefcase with a snap. "i trust you'll have a bright future with the cdt." "really, retief," magnan said reprovingly. "there was no need to trouble mr. leatherwell." leatherwell directed a sharp look at retief and a bland one at magnan. "i trust you'll communicate the proposal to the interested parties. inasmuch as time is of the essence of the gm position, our offer can only be held open until greenwich, tomorrow. i'll call again at that time to finalize matters. i trust there'll be no impediment to a satisfactory settlement at that time. i should dislike to embark on lengthy litigation." magnan hurried around his desk to open the door. he turned back to fix retief with an exasperated frown. "a crass display of boorishness, retief," he snapped. "you've embarrassed a most influential member of the business community--and for nothing more than a few miserable forms." "those forms represent somebody's stake in what might be a valuable property." "they're mere paper until they've been processed!" "still--" "my responsibility is to the public interest--not to a fly-by-night group of prospectors." "they found it first." "bah! a worthless rock. after mr. leatherwell's munificent gesture--" "better rush his check through before he thinks it over and changes his mind." "good heavens!" magnan clutched the check, buzzed for miss gumble. she swept in, took magnan's instructions and left. retief waited while magnan glanced over the injunction, then nodded. "quite in order. a person called sam mancziewicz appears to be the principal. the address given is the jolly barge hotel; that would be that converted derelict ship in orbit , i assume?" retief nodded. "that's what they call it." "as for the ore-carrier, i'd best impound it, pending the settlement of the matter." magnan drew a form from a drawer, filled in blanks, shoved the paper across the desk. he turned and consulted a wall chart. "the hotel is nearby at the moment, as it happens. take the consulate dinghy. if you get out there right away, you'll catch them before the evening binge has developed fully." "i take it that's your diplomatic way of telling me that i'm now a process server." retief took the papers and tucked them into an inside pocket. "one of the many functions a diplomat is called on to perform in a small consular post. excellent experience. i needn't warn you to be circumspect. these miners are an unruly lot--especially when receiving bad news." "aren't we all." retief rose. "i don't suppose there's any prospect of your signing off that claim so that i can take a little good news along, too?" "none whatever," magnan snapped. "they've been made a most generous offer. if that fails to satisfy them, they have recourse through the courts." "fighting a suit like that costs money. the sam's last chance mining company hasn't got any." "need i remind you--" "i know. that's none of our concern." "on your way out," magnan said as retief turned to the door, "ask miss gumble to bring in the gourmet catalog from the commercial library. i want to check on the specifications of the model c banquet synthesizer." an hour later, nine hundred miles from ceres and fast approaching the jolly barge hotel, retief keyed the skiff's transmitter. "cdt - calling navy fp-vo- ." "navy vo- here, cdt," a prompt voice came back. a flickering image appeared on the small screen. "oh, hi there, mr. retief. what brings you out in the cold night air?" "hello, henry. i'm estimating the jolly barge in ten minutes. it looks like a busy night ahead. i may be moving around a little. how about keeping an eye on me? i'll be carrying a personnel beacon. monitor it, and if i switch it into high, come in fast. i can't afford to be held up. i've got a big meeting in the morning." "sure thing, mr. retief. we'll keep an eye open." * * * * * retief dropped a ten-credit note on the bar, accepted a glass and a squat bottle of black marsberry brandy and turned to survey the low-ceilinged room, a former hydroponics deck now known as the jungle bar. under the low ceiling, unpruned _ipomoea batatas_ and _lathyrus odoratus_ vines sprawled in a tangle that filtered the light of the s-spectrum glare panels to a muted green. a six-foot trideo screen, salvaged from the wreck of a concordiat transport, blared taped music in the style of two centuries past. at the tables, heavy-shouldered men in bright-dyed suit liners played cards, clanked bottles and shouted. carrying the bottle and glass, retief moved across to an empty chair at one of the tables. "you gentlemen mind if i join you?" five unshaven faces turned to study retief's six foot three, his close cut black hair, his non-commital gray coverall, the scars on his knuckles. a redhead with a broken nose nodded. "pull up a chair, stranger." "you workin' a claim, pardner?" "just looking around." "try a shot of this rock juice." "don't do it, mister. he makes it himself." "best rock juice this side of luna." "say, feller--" "the name's retief." "retief, you ever play drift?" "can't say that i did." "don't gamble with sam, pardner. he's the local champ." "how do you play it?" the black-browed miner who had suggested the game rolled back his sleeve to reveal a sinewy forearm, put his elbow on the table. "you hook forefingers, and put a glass right up on top. the man that takes a swallow wins. if the drink spills, it's drinks for the house." "a man don't often win out-right," the redhead said cheerfully. "but it makes for plenty of drinkin'." retief put his elbow on the table. "i'll give it a try." the two men hooked forefingers. the redhead poured a tumbler half full of rock juice, placed it atop the two fists. "okay, boys. go!" the man named sam gritted his teeth; his biceps tensed, knuckles grew white. the glass trembled. then it moved--toward retief. sam hunched his shoulders, straining. "that's the stuff, mister!" "what's the matter, sam? you tired?" the glass moved steadily closer to retief's face. "a hundred the new man makes it!" "watch sam! any minute now...." the glass slowed, paused. retief's wrist twitched and the glass crashed to the table top. a shout went up. sam leaned back with a sigh, massaging his hand. "that's some arm you got, mister," he said. "if you hadn't jumped just then...." "i guess the drinks are on me," retief said. * * * * * two hours later retief's marsberry bottle stood empty on the table beside half a dozen others. "we were lucky," sam mancziewicz was saying. "you figure the original volume of the planet; say , , , cubic miles. the deberry theory calls for a collapsed-crystal core no more than a mile in diameter. there's your odds." "and you believe you've found a fragment of this core?" "damn right we have. couple of million tons if it's an ounce. and at three credits a ton delivered at port syrtis, we're set for life. about time, too. twenty years i've been in the belt. got two kids i haven't seen for five years. things are going to be different now." "hey, sam; tone it down. you don't have to broadcast to every claim jumper in the belt." "our claim's on file at the consulate," sam said. "as soon as we get the grant--" "when's that gonna be? we been waitin' a week now." "i've never seen any collapsed-crystal metal," retief said. "i'd like to take a look at it." "sure. come on, i'll run you over. it's about an hour's run. we'll take our skiff. you want to go along, willy?" "i got a bottle to go," willy said. "see you in the morning." the two men descended in the lift to the boat bay, suited up and strapped into the cramped boat. a bored attendant cycled the launch doors, levered the release that propelled the skiff out and clear of the jolly barge hotel. retief caught a glimpse of a tower of lights spinning majestically against the black of space as the drive hurled the tiny boat away. iii retief's feet sank ankle deep into the powdery surface that glinted like snow in the glare of the distant sun. "it's funny stuff," sam's voice sounded in his ear. "under a gee of gravity, you'd sink out of sight. the stuff cuts diamond like butter--but temperature changes break it down into a powder. a lot of it's used just like this, as an industrial abrasive. easy to load, too. just drop a suction line, put on ambient pressure and start pumping." "and this whole rock is made of the same material?" "sure is. we ran plenty of test bores and a full schedule of soundings. i've got the reports back aboard _gertie_--that's our lighter." "and you've already loaded a cargo here?" "yep. we're running out of capital fast. i need to get that cargo to port in a hurry--before the outfit goes into involuntary bankruptcy. with this, that'd be a crime." "what do you know about general minerals, sam?" "you thinking of hiring on with them? better read the fine print in your contract before you sign. sneakiest bunch this side of a burglar's convention." "they own a chunk of rock known as -p. do you suppose we could find it?" "oh, you're buying it, hey? sure, we can find it. you damn sure want to look it over good if general minerals is selling." back aboard the skiff, mancziewicz flipped the pages of the chart book, consulted a table. "yep, she's not too far off. let's go see what gm's trying to unload." * * * * * the skiff hovered two miles from the giant boulder known as -p. retief and mancziewicz looked it over at high magnification. "it don't look like much, retief," sam said. "let's go down and take a closer look." the boat dropped rapidly toward the scarred surface of the tiny world, a floating mountain, glaring black and white in the spotlight of the sun. sam frowned at his instrument panel. "that's funny. my ion counter is revving up. looks like a drive trail, not more than an hour or two old. somebody's been here." the boat grounded. retief and sam got out. the stony surface was littered with rock fragments varying in size from pebbles to great slabs twenty feet long, tumbled in a loose bed of dust and sand. retief pushed off gently, drifted up to a vantage point atop an upended wedge of rock. sam joined him. "this is all igneous stuff," he said. "not likely we'll find much here that would pay the freight to syrtis--unless maybe you lucked onto some bodean artifacts. they bring plenty." he flipped a binocular in place as he talked, scanned the riven landscape. "hey!" he said. "over there!" retief followed sam's pointing glove. he studied the dark patch against a smooth expanse of eroded rock. "a friend of mine came across a chunk of the old planetary surface two years ago," sam said thoughtfully. "had a tunnel in it that'd been used as a storage depot by the bodeans. took out over two ton of hardware. course, nobody's discovered how the stuff works yet, but it brings top prices." "looks like water erosion," retief said. "yep. this could be another piece of surface, all right. could be a cave over there. the bodeans liked caves, too. must have been some war--but then, if it hadn't been, they wouldn't have tucked so much stuff away underground where it could weather the planetary breakup." they descended, crossed the jumbled rocks with light, thirty-foot leaps. "it's a cave, all right," sam said, stooping to peer into the five-foot bore. retief followed him inside. "let's get some light in here." mancziewicz flipped on a beam. it glinted back from dull polished surfaces of bodean synthetic. sam's low whistle sounded in retief's headset. "that's funny," retief said. "funny, hell! it's hilarious. general minerals trying to sell off a worthless rock to a tenderfoot--and it's loaded with bodean artifacts. no telling how much is here; the tunnel seems to go quite a ways back." "that's not what i mean. do you notice your suit warming up?" "huh? yeah, now that you mention it." retief rapped with a gauntleted hand on the satiny black curve of the nearest bodean artifact. it clunked dully through the suit "that's not metal," he said. "it's plastic." "there's something fishy here," sam said. "this erosion; it looks more like a heat beam." "sam," retief said, turning, "it appears to me somebody has gone to a great deal of trouble to give a false impression here." * * * * * sam snorted. "i told you they were a crafty bunch." he started out of the cave, then paused, went to one knee to study the floor. "but maybe they outsmarted themselves. look here!" retief looked. sam's beam reflected from a fused surface of milky white, shot through with dirty yellow. he snapped a pointed instrument in place on his gauntlet, dug at one of the yellow streaks. it furrowed under the gouge, a particle adhering to the instrument. with his left hand, mancziewicz opened a pouch clipped to his belt, carefully deposited the sample in a small orifice on the device in the pouch. he flipped a key, squinted at a dial. "atomic weight . ," he said. retief turned down the audio volume on his headset as sam's laughter rang in his helmet. "those clowns were out to stick you, retief," he gasped, still chuckling. "they salted the rock with a cave full of bodean artifacts--" "fake bodean artifacts," retief put in. "they planed off the rock so it would look like an old beach, and then cut this cave with beamers. and they were boring through practically solid gold!" "as good as that?" mancziewicz flashed the light around. "this stuff will assay out at a thousand credits a ton, easy. if the vein doesn't run to five thousand tons, the beers are on me." he snapped off the light. "let's get moving, retief. you want to sew this deal up before they get around to taking another look at it." back in the boat, retief and mancziewicz opened their helmets. "this calls for a drink," sam said, extracting a pressure flask from the map case. "this rock's worth as much as mine, maybe more. you hit it lucky, retief. congratulations." he thrust out a hand. "i'm afraid you've jumped to a couple of conclusions, sam," retief said. "i'm not out here to buy mining properties." "you're not--then why--but man! even if you didn't figure on buying...." he trailed off as retief shook his head, unzipped his suit to reach to an inside pocket, take out a packet of folded papers. "in my capacity as terrestrial vice-consul, i'm serving you with an injunction restraining you from further exploitation of the body known as -a." he handed a paper across to sam. "i also have here an order impounding the vessel _gravel gertie ii_." sam took the papers silently, sat looking at them. he looked up at retief. "funny. when you beat me at drift and then threw the game so you wouldn't show me up in front of the boys, i figured you for a right guy. i've been spilling my heart out to you like you were my old grandma. an old-timer in the game like me." he dropped a hand, brought it up with a browning mm pointed at retief's chest. "i could shoot you and dump you here with a slab over you, toss these papers in the john and hightail it with the load...." "that wouldn't do you much good in the long run, sam. besides you're not a criminal or an idiot." * * * * * sam chewed his lip. "my claim is on file in the consulate, legal and proper. maybe by now the grant's gone through." "other people have their eye on your rock, sam. ever meet a fellow called leatherwell?" "general minerals, huh? they haven't got a leg to stand on." "the last time i saw your claim, it was still lying in the pending file. just a bundle of paper until it's validated by the consul. if leatherwell contests it ... well, his lawyers are on annual retainer. how long could you keep the suit going, sam?" mancziewicz closed his helmet with a decisive snap, motioned to retief to do the same. he opened the hatch, sat with the gun on retief. "get out, paper-pusher." his voice sounded thin in the headphones. "you'll get lonesome, maybe, but your suit will keep you alive a few days. i'll tip somebody off before you lose too much weight. i'm going back and see if i can't stir up a little action at the consulate." retief climbed out, walked off fifty yards. he watched as the skiff kicked off in a quickly dispersed cloud of dust, dwindled rapidly away to a bright speck that was lost against the stars. then he extracted the locator beacon from the pocket of his suit and thumbed the control. twenty minutes later, aboard navy fp-vo- , retief pulled off his helmet. "fast work, henry. i've got a couple of calls to make. put me through to your hq, will you? i want a word with commander hayle." the young naval officer raised the hq, handed the mike to retief. "vice-consul retief here, commander. i'd like you to intercept a skiff, bound from my present position toward ceres. there's a mr. mancziewicz aboard. he's armed, but not dangerous. collect him and see that he's delivered to the consulate at greenwich tomorrow. "next item: the consulate has impounded an ore-carrier, _gravel gertie ii_. it's in a parking orbit ten miles off ceres. i want it taken in tow." retief gave detailed instruction. then he asked for a connection through the navy switchboard to the consulate. magnan's voice answered. "retief speaking, mr. consul. i have some news that i think will interest you--" "where are you, retief? what's wrong with the screen? have you served the injunction?" "i'm aboard the navy patrol vessel. i've been out looking over the situation, and i've made a surprising discovery. i don't think we're going to have any trouble with the sam's people; they've looked over the body-- -p--and it seems general minerals has slipped up. there appears to be a highly valuable deposit there." "oh? what sort of deposit?" "mr. mancziewicz mentioned collapsed crystal metal," retief said. "well, most interesting." magnan's voice sounded thoughtful. "just thought you'd like to know. this should simplify the meeting in the morning. "yes," magnan said. "yes, indeed. i think this makes everything very simple...." * * * * * at greenwich, retief stepped into the outer office of the consular suite. "... fantastic configuration," leatherwell's bass voice rumbled, "covering literally acres. my xenogeologists are somewhat confused by the formations. they had only a few hours to examine the site; but it's clear from the extent of the surface indications that we have a very rich find here. very rich indeed. beside it, -a dwindles into insignificance. very fast thinking on your part, mr. consul, to bring the matter to my attention." "not at all, mr. leatherwell. after all--" "our tentative theory is that the basic crystal fragment encountered the core material at some time, and gathered it in. since we had been working on--that is, had landed to take samples on the other side of the body, this anomalous deposit escaped our attention completely." retief stepped into the room. "good morning, gentlemen. has mr. mancziewicz arrived?" "mr. mancziewicz is under restraint by the navy. i've had a call that he'd be escorted here." "arrested, eh?" leatherwell nodded. "i told you these people were an irresponsible group. in a way it seems a pity to waste a piece of property like -a on them." "i understood general minerals was claiming that rock," retief said, looking surprised. leatherwell and magnan exchanged glances. "ah, gm has decided to drop all claim to the body," leatherwell said. "as always, we wish to encourage enterprise on the part of the small operators. let them keep the property. after all gm has other deposits well worth exploiting." he smiled complacently. "what about -p? you've offered it to the sam's group." "that offer is naturally withdrawn!" leatherwell snapped. "i don't see how you can withdraw the offer," retief said. "it's been officially recorded. it's a bona fide contract, binding on general minerals, subject to--" "out of the goodness of our corporate heart," leatherwell roared, "we've offered to relinquish our legitimate, rightful claim to asteroid -p. and you have the infernal gall to spout legal technicalities! i have half a mind to withdraw my offer to withdraw!" "actually," magnan put in, eyeing a corner of the room, "i'm not at all sure i could turn up the record of the offer of -p. i noted it down on a bit of scratch paper--" "that's all right," retief said, "i had my pocket recorder going. i sealed the record and deposited it in the consular archives." there was a clatter of feet outside. miss gumble appeared on the desk screen. "there are a number of persons here--" she began. * * * * * the door banged open. sam mancziewicz stepped into the room, a sailor tugging at each arm. he shook them loose, stared around the room. his eyes lighted on retief. "how did you get here...?" "look here, monkeywits or whatever your name is," leatherwell began, popping out of his chair. mancziewicz whirled, seized the stout executive by the shirt front and lifted him onto his tiptoes. "you double-barrelled copper-bottomed oak-lined son-of-a--" "don't spoil him, sam," retief said casually. "he's here to sign off all rights--if any--to -a. it's all yours--if you want it." sam glared into leatherwell's eyes. "that right?" he grated. leatherwell bobbed his head, his chins compressed into bulging folds. "however," retief went on, "i wasn't at all sure you'd still be agreeable, since he's made your company a binding offer of -p in return for clear title to -a." mancziewicz looked across at retief with narrowed eyes. he released leatherwell, who slumped into his chair. magnan darted around his desk to minister to the magnate. behind them, retief closed one eye in a broad wink at mancziewicz. "... still, if mr. leatherwell will agree, in addition to guaranteeing your title to -a, to purchase your output at four credits a ton, fob his collection station--" mancziewicz looked at leatherwell. leatherwell hesitated, then nodded. "agreed," he croaked. "... and to open his commissary and postal facilities to all prospectors operating in the belt...." leatherwell swallowed, eyes bulging, glanced at mancziewicz's face. he nodded. "agreed." "... then i think i'd sign an agreement releasing him from his offer." mancziewicz looked at magnan. "you're the terrestrial consul-general," he said. "is that the straight goods?" magnan nodded. "if mr. leatherwell agrees--" "he's already agreed," retief said. "my pocket recorder, you know." "put it in writing," mancziewicz said. magnan called in miss gumble. the others waited silently while magnan dictated. he signed the paper with a flourish, passed it across to mancziewicz. he read it, re-read it, then picked up the pen and signed. magnan impressed the consular seal on the paper. "now the grant," retief said. magnan signed the claim, added a seal. mancziewicz tucked the papers away in an inner pocket. he rose. "well, gents, i guess maybe i had you figured wrong," he said. he looked at retief. "uh ... got time for a drink?" "i shouldn't drink during office hours," retief said. he rose. "so i'll take the rest of the day off." * * * * * "i don't get it," sam said signalling for refills. "what was the routine with the injunction--and impounding _gertie_? you could have got hurt." "i don't think so," retief said. "if you'd meant business with that browning, you'd have flipped the safety off. as for the injunction--orders are orders." "i've been thinking," sam said. "that gold deposit. it was a plant, too, wasn't it?" "i'm just a bureaucrat, sam. what would i know about gold?" "a double-salting job," sam said. "i was supposed to spot the phoney hardware--and then fall for the gold plant. when leatherwell put his proposition to me, i'd grab it. the gold was worth plenty, i'd figure, and i couldn't afford a legal tangle with general minerals. the lousy skunk! and you must have spotted it and put it up to him." the bar-tender leaned across to retief. "wanted on the phone." in the booth, magnan's agitated face stared a retief. "retief, mr. leatherwell's in a towering rage! the deposit on -p; it was merely a surface film, barely a few inches thick! the entire deposit wouldn't fill an ore-boat." a horrified expression dawned on magnan's face. "retief," he gasped, "what did you do with the impounded ore-carrier?" "well, let me see," retief said. "according to the space navigation code, a body in orbit within twenty miles of any inhabited airless body constitutes a navigational hazard. accordingly, i had it towed away." "and the cargo?" "well, accelerating all that mass was an expensive business, so to save the taxpayer's credits, i had it dumped." "where?" magnan croaked. "on some unimportant asteroid--as specified by regulations." he smiled blandly at magnan. magnan looked back numbly. "but you said--" "all i said was that there was what looked like a valuable deposit on -p. it turned out to be a bogus gold mine that somebody had rigged up in a hurry. curious, eh?" "but you told me--" "and you told mr. leatherwell. indiscreet of you, mr. consul. that was a privileged communication; classified information, official use only." "you led me to believe there was collapsed crystal!" "i said sam had mentioned it. he told me his asteroid was made of the stuff." magnan swallowed hard, twice. "by the way," he said dully. "you were right about the check. half an hour ago mr. leatherwell tried to stop payment. he was too late." "all in all, it's been a big day for leatherwell," retief said. "anything else?" "i hope not," magnan said. "i sincerely hope not." he leaned close to the screen. "you'll consider the entire affair as ... confidential? there's no point in unduly complicating relationships." "have no fear, mr. consul," retief said cheerfully. "you won't find me identifying with anything as specific as triple-salting an asteroid." back at the table, sam called for another bottle of rock juice. "that drift's a pretty good game," retief said. "but let me show you one i learned out on yill...." [transcriber's note: no section ii heading in original text.] the governor of glave by keith laumer the revolution was over and peace restored--naturally retief expected the worst! [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, november . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] i retief turned back the gold-encrusted scarlet cuff of the mess jacket of a first secretary and consul, gathered in the three eight-sided black dice, shook them by his right ear and sent them rattling across the floor to rebound from the bulk-head. "thirteen's the point," the power section chief called. "ten he makes it!" "oh ... mr. retief," a strained voice called. retief looked up. a tall thin youth in the black-trimmed gray of a third secretary flapped a sheet of paper from the edge of the circle surrounding the game. "the ambassador's compliments, sir, and will you join him and the staff in the conference room at once?" retief rose and dusted his knees. "that's all for now, boys," he said. "i'll take the rest of your money later." he followed the junior diplomat from the ward room, along the bare corridors of the crew level, past the glare panel reading notice--first class only beyond this point, through the chandeliered and draped ballroom and along a stretch of soundless carpet to a heavy door bearing a placard with the legend conference in session. "ambassador sternwheeler seemed quite upset, mr. retief," the messenger said. "he usually is, pete." retief took a cigar from his breast pocket. "got a light?" the third secretary produced a permatch. "i don't know why you smoke those things instead of dope sticks, mr. retief," he said. "the ambassador hates the smell." retief nodded. "i only smoke this kind at conferences. it makes for shorter sessions." he stepped into the room. ambassador sternwheeler eyed him down the length of the conference table. "ah, mr. retief honors us with his presence. do be seated, retief." he fingered a yellow departmental despatch. retief took a chair, puffing out a dense cloud of smoke. "as i have been explaining to the remainder of my staff for the past quarter-hour," sternwheeler rumbled, "i've been the recipient of important intelligence." he blinked at retief expectantly. retief raised his eyebrows in polite inquiry. "it seems," sternwheeler went on, "that there has been a change in regime on glave. a week ago, the government which invited the dispatch of this mission--and to which we're accredited--was overthrown. the former ruling class has fled into exile. a popular workers' and peasants' junta has taken over." "mr. ambassador," counsellor magnan broke in, rising. "i'd like to be the first--" he glanced around the table--"or one of the first, anyway, to welcome the new government of glave into the family of planetary ruling bodies--" * * * * * "sit down, magnan!" sternwheeler snapped. "of course the corps always recognizes _de facto_ sovereignty. the problem is merely one of acquainting ourselves with the policies of this new group--a sort of blue-collar coalition, it seems. in what position that leaves this embassy i don't yet know." "i suppose this means we'll spend the next month in a parking orbit," counsellor magnan sighed. "unfortunately," sternwheeler went on, "the entire affair has apparently been carried off without recourse to violence, leaving the corps no excuse to move in--that is, it appears our assistance in restoring order will not be required." "glave was one of the old contract worlds," retief said. "what's become of the planetary manager general and the technical staff? and how do the peasants and workers plan to operate the atmospheric purification system, the weather control station, the tide regulation complexes?" "i'm more concerned at present with the status of the mission! will we be welcomed by these peasants or peppered with buckshot?" "you say that this is a popular junta, and that the former leaders have fled into exile," retief said. "may i ask the source?" "the despatch cites a 'reliable glavian source'." "that's officialese for something cribbed from a broadcast news tape. presumably the glavian news services are in the hands of the revolution. in that case--" "yes, yes, there is the possibility that the issue is yet in doubt. of course we'll have to exercise caution in making our approach. it wouldn't do to make overtures to the wrong side." "oh, i think we need have no fear on that score," the chief of the political section spoke up. "i know these entrenched cliques. once challenged by an aroused populace, they scuttle for safety--with large balances safely tucked away in neutral banks." "i'd like to go on record," magnan piped, "as registering my deep gratification at this fulfillment of popular aspirations--" "the most popular aspiration i know of is to live high off someone else's effort," retief said. "i don't know of anyone outside the corps who's managed it." * * * * * "gentlemen!" sternwheeler bellowed. "i'm awaiting your constructive suggestions--not an exchange of political views. we'll arrive off glave in less than six hours. i should like before that time to have developed some notion regarding to whom i shall expect to offer my credentials!" there was a discreet tap at the door; it opened and the young third secretary poked his head in. "mr. ambassador, i have a reply to your message--just received from glave. it's signed by the steward of the gfe, and i thought you'd want to see it at once...." "yes, of course; let me have it." "what's the gfe?" someone asked. "it's the revolutionary group," the messenger said, passing the message over. "gfe? gfe? what do the letters signify?" "glorious fun eternally," retief suggested. "or possibly goodies for everybody." "i believe that's 'glavian free electorate'," the third secretary said. sternwheeler stared at the paper, lips pursed. his face grew pink. he slammed the paper on the table. "well, gentlemen! it appears our worst fears have been realized! this is nothing less than a warning! a threat! we're advised to divert course and bypass glave entirely. it seems the gfe wants no interference from meddling foreign exploiters, as they put it!" magnan rose. "if you'll excuse me mr. ambassador, i want to get off a message to sector hq to hold my old job for me--" "sit down, you idiot!" sternwheeler roared. "if you think i'm consenting to have my career blighted--my first ambassadorial post whisked out from under me--the corps made a fool of--" "i'd like to take a look at that message," retief said. it was passed along to him. he read it. "i don't believe this applies to us, mr. ambassador." * * * * * "what are you talking about? it's addressed to me by name!" "it merely states that 'meddling foreign exploiters' are unwelcome. meddling foreigners we are, but we don't qualify as exploiters unless we show a profit--and this appears to be shaping up as a particularly profitless venture." "what are you proposing, mr. retief?" "that we proceed to make planetfall as scheduled, greet our welcoming committee with wide diplomatic smiles, hint at largesse in the offing and settle down to observe the lie of the land." "just what i was about to suggest," magnan said. "that might be dangerous," sternwheeler said. "that's why i didn't suggest it," magnan said. "still it's essential that we learn more of the situation than can be gleaned from official broadcasts," sternwheeler mused. "now, while i can't justify risking the entire mission, it might be advisable to dispatch a delegation to sound out the new regime." "i'd like to volunteer," magnan said, rising. "of course, the delegates may be murdered--" "--but unfortunately, i'm under treatment at the moment." magnan sat down. "--which will place us in an excellent position, propaganda-wise. "what a pity i can't go," the military attache said. "but my place is with my troops." "the only troops you've got are the assistant attache and your secretary," magnan pointed out. "say, i'd like to be down there in the thick of things," the political officer said. he assumed a grave expression. "but of course i'll be needed here, to interpret results." "i appreciate your attitude, gentlemen," sternwheeler said, studying the ceiling. "but i'm afraid i must limit the privilege of volunteering for this hazardous duty to those officers of more robust physique, under forty years of age--" "tsk. i'm forty-one," magnan said. "--and with a reputation for adaptability." his glance moved along the table. "do you mind if i run along now, mr. ambassador?" retief said. "it's time for my insulin shot." sternwheeler's mouth dropped open. "just kidding," retief said. "i'll go. but i have one request, mr. ambassador: no further communication with the ground until i give the all-clear." ii retief grounded the lighter, in-cycled the lock and stepped out. the hot yellow glavian sun beat down on a broad expanse of concrete, an abandoned service cart and a row of tall ships casting black shadows toward the silent control tower. a wisp of smoke curled up from the shed area at the rim of the field. there was no other sign of life. retief walked over to the cart, tossed his valise aboard, climbed into the driver's seat and headed for the operations building. beyond the port, hills rose, white buildings gleaming against the deep green slopes. near the ridge, a vehicle moved ant-like along a winding road, a dust trail rising behind it. faintly a distant shot sounded. papers littered the ground before the operations building. retief pushed open the tall glass door, stood listening. slanting sunlight reflected from a wide polished floor, at the far side of which illuminated lettering over empty counters read immigration, health and customs. he crossed to the desk, put the valise down, then leaned across the counter. a worried face under an oversized white cap looked up at him. "you can come out now," retief said. "they've gone." the man rose, dusting himself off. he looked over retief's shoulder. "who's gone?" "whoever it was that scared you." "whatta ya mean? i was looking for my pencil." "here it is." retief plucked a worn stub from the pocket of the soiled shirt sagging under the weight of braided shoulderboards. "you can sign me in as a diplomatic representative. a break for you--no formalities necessary. where can i catch a cab for the city?" the man eyed retief's bag. "what's in that?" "personal belongings under duty-free entry." "guns?" "no, thanks, just a cab." "you got no gun?" the man raised his voice. "that's right, fellows," retief called out. "no gun; no knife, not even a small fission bomb. just a few pairs of socks and some reading matter." a brown-uniformed man ran from behind the customs counter, holding a long-barreled blast-rifle centered on the corps insignia stitched to the pocket of retief's powder-blue blazer. "don't try nothing," he said. "you're under arrest." "it can't be overtime parking. i've only been here five minutes." "hah!" the gun-handler moved out from the counter, came up to retief. "empty out your pockets!" he barked. "hands overhead!" "i'm just a diplomat, not a contortionist," retief said, not moving. "do you mind pointing that thing in some other direction?" "looky here, mister, i'll give the orders. we don't need anybody telling us how to run our business." "i'm telling you to shift that blaster before i take it away from you and wrap it around your neck," retief said conversationally. the cop stepped back uncertainly, lowering the gun. "jake! horny! pud! come on out!" three more brown uniforms emerged from concealment. "who are you fellows hiding from, the top sergeant?" retief glanced over the ill-fitting uniforms, the unshaved faces, the scuffed boots. "tell you what. when he shows up, i'll engage him in conversation. you beat it back to the barracks and grab a quick bath--" "that's enough smart talk." the biggest of the three newcomers moved up to retief. "you stuck your nose in at the wrong time. we just had a change of management around here." "i heard about it," retief said. "who do i complain to?" "complain? what about?" "the port's a mess," retief barked. "nobody on duty to receive official visitors! no passenger service facilities! why, do you know i had to carry my own bag--" "all right, all right, that's outside my department. you better see the boss." "the boss? i thought you got rid of the bosses." "we did, but now we got new ones." "they any better than the old ones?" "this guy asks too many questions," the man with the gun said. "let's let sozier answer 'em." "who's he?" "he's the military governor of the city." "now we're getting somewhere," retief said. "lead the way, jake--and don't forget my bag." * * * * * sozier was a small man with thin hair oiled across a shiny scalp, prominent ears and eyes like coal chips set in rolls of fat. he glowered at retief from behind a polished desk occupying the center of a spacious office. "i warned you off," he snapped. "you came anyway." he leaned forward and slammed a fist down on the desk. "you're used to throwing your weight around, but you won't throw it around here! there'll be no spies pussyfooting around glave!" "looking for what, mr. sozier?" "call me general!" "mind if i sit down?" retief pulled out a chair, seated himself and took out a cigar. "curiously enough," he said, lighting up, "the corps has no intention of making any embarrassing investigations. we deal with the existing government, no questions asked." his eyes held the other's. "unless, of course, there are evidences of atrocities or other illegal measures." the coal-chip eyes narrowed. "i don't have to make explanations to you or anybody else." "except, presumably, the glavian free electorate," retief said blandly. "but tell me, general--who's actually running the show?" a speaker on the desk buzzed. "hey, corporal sozier! wes's got them two hellions cornered. they're holed up in the birthday cake--" "general sozier, damn you! and plaster your big mouth shut!" he gestured to one of the uniformed men standing by. "you! get trundy and little moe up here--pronto!" he swiveled back to retief. "you're in luck. i'm too busy right now to bother with you. you get back over to the port and leave the same way you came--and tell your blood-sucking friends the easy pickings are over as far as glave's concerned. you won't lounge around here living high and throwing big parties and cooking up your dirty deals to get fat on at the expense of the working man." retief dribbled ash on sozier's desk and glanced at the green uniform front bulging between silver buttons. "who paid for your potbelly, sozier?" he inquired carelessly. sozier's eyes narrowed to slits. "i could have you shot!" "stop playing games with me, sozier," retief rapped. "there's a squadron of peace enforcers standing by just in case any apprentice statesmen forget the niceties of diplomatic usage. i suggest you start showing a little intelligence about now, or even horny and pud are likely to notice." * * * * * sozier's fingers squeaked on the arms of his chair. he swallowed. "you might start by assigning me an escort for a conducted tour of the capital," retief went on. "i want to be in a position to confirm that order has been re-established, and that normal services have been restored. otherwise it may be necessary to send in a monitor unit to straighten things out." "you know you can't meddle with the internal affairs of a sovereign world!" retief sighed. "the trouble with taking over your boss's job is discovering its drawbacks. it's disillusioning, i know, sozier, but--" "all right! take your tour! you'll find everything running as smooth as silk! utilities, police, transport, environmental control--" "what about space control? glave tower seems to be off the air." "i shut it down. we don't need anything and we don't want anything from the outside." "where's the new premier keeping himself? does he share your passion for privacy?" the general got to his feet. "i'm letting you take your look, mr. big nose. i'm giving you four hours. then out! and the next meddling bureaucrat that tries to cut atmosphere on glave without a clearance gets burned!" "i'll need a car." "jake! you stick close to this bird. take him to the main power plant, the water works and the dispatch center. ride him around town and show him we're doing okay without a bunch of leeches bossing us. then dump him at the port--and see that he leaves." "i'll plan my own itinerary, thanks. i can't promise i'll be finished in four hours--but i'll keep you advised." "i warned you--" "i heard you. five times. and i only warned you once. you're getting ahead of me." retief rose, motioned to the hulking guard. "come on, jake. we've got a lot of ground to cover before we come back for our dinner." iii at the curb, retief held out his hand. "give me the power cylinder out of your rifle, jake." "huh?" "come on, jake. you've got a nervous habit of playing with the firing stud. we don't want any accidents." "how do you get it out? they only give me this thing yesterday." retief pocketed the cylinder. "you sit in back. i'll drive." he wheeled the car off along a broad avenue crowded with vehicles and lined with flowering palms, behind which stately white buildings reared up into the pale sky. "nice looking city, jake," retief said conversationally. "what's the population?" "i dunno. i only been here a year." "what about horny and pud? are they natives?" "whatta ya mean, natives? they're just as civilized as me." "my boner, jake. known sozier long?" "sure. he useta come around to the club." "i take it he was in the army under the old regime?" "yeah--but he didn't like the way they run it. nothing but band playing and fancy marching. there wasn't nobody to fight." "just between us, jake--where did the former planetary manager general go?" retief watched jake's heavy face in the mirror. jake jumped, clamped his mouth shut. "i don't know nothing." half an hour later, after a tour of the commercial center, retief headed towards the city's outskirts. the avenue curved, leading up along the flank of a low hill. "i must admit i'm surprised, jake," retief said. "everything seems orderly. no signs of riots or panic. power, water, communications normal--just as the general said. remarkable, isn't it, considering that the entire managerial class has packed up and left?" "you wanta see the power plant?" retief could see perspiration beaded on the man's forehead under the uniform cap. "sure. which way?" with jake directing, retief ascended to the ridge top, cruised past the blank white facade of the station. "quiet, isn't it?" retief pulled the car in to the curb. "let's go inside." "huh? corporal sozier didn't say nothing--" "you're right, jake. that leaves it to our discretion." "he won't like it." "the corporal's a busy man, jake. we won't worry him by telling him about it." jake followed retief up the walk. the broad double doors were locked. "let's try the back." the narrow door set in the high blank wall opened as retief approached. a gun barrel poked out, followed by a small man with bushy red hair. he looked retief over. "who's this party, jake?" he barked. "sozier said show him the plant," jake said. "what we need is more guys to pull duty, not tourists. anyway, _i'm_ chief engineer here. nobody comes in here 'less i like their looks." retief moved forward, stood looking down at the redhead. the little man hesitated, then waved him past. "lucky for you i like your looks." inside, retief surveyed the long room, the giant converter units, the massive busbars. armed men--some in uniform, some in work clothes or loud sport shirts--stood here and there. other men read meters, adjusted controls or inspected dials. "you've got more guards than workers," retief said. "expecting trouble?" the redhead bit the corner from a plug of spearmint. he glanced around the plant. "things is quiet now; but you never know." "rather old-fashioned equipment isn't it? when was it installed?" "huh? i dunno. what's wrong with it?" "what's your basic power source, a core sink? lithospheric friction? sub-crustal hydraulics?" "beats me, mister. i'm the boss here, not a dern mechanic." * * * * * a gray-haired man carrying a clipboard walked past, studied a panel, made notes, glanced up to catch retief's eye, moved on. "everything seems to be running normally," retief remarked. "sure. why not?" "records being kept up properly?" "sure. some of these guys, all they do is walk around looking at dials and writing stuff on paper. if it was me, i'd put 'em to work." retief strolled over to the gray-haired man, now scribbling before a bank of meters. he glanced at the clipboard. _power off at sunset. tell corasol_ was scrawled in block letters across the record sheet. retief nodded, rejoined his guard. "all right, jake. let's have a look at the communications center." back in the car, headed west, retief studied the blank windows of office buildings, the milling throngs in beer bars, shooting galleries, tattoo parlors, billiard halls, pinball arcades, bordellos and half-credit casinos. "everybody seems to be having fun," he remarked. jake stared out the window. "yeah." "too bad you're on duty, jake. you could be out there joining in." "soon as the corporal gets things organized, i'm opening me up a place to show dirty tri-di's. i'll get my share." "meanwhile, let the rest of 'em have their fun, eh jake?" "look, mister, i been thinking. maybe you better gimme back that kick-stick you taken outa my gun...." "sorry, jake; no can do. tell me, what was the real cause of the revolution? not enough to eat? too much regimentation?" "naw, we always got plenty to eat. there wasn't none of that regimentation up till i joined up in the corporal's army." "rigid class structure, maybe? educational discrimination?" jake nodded. "yeah, it was them schools done it. all the time trying to make a feller do some kind of class. big shots. know it all. gonna make us sit around and view tapes. figgered they was better than us." "and sozier's idea was you'd take over, and you wouldn't have to be bothered." "aw, it wasn't sozier's idea. he ain't the big leader." "where does the big leader keep himself?" "i dunno. i guess he's pretty busy right now." jake snickered. "some of them guys call themselves colonels turned out not to know nothing about how to shoot off the guns." "shooting, eh? i thought it was a sort of peaceful revolution. the managerial class were booted out, and that was that." "i don't know nothing," jake snapped. "how come you keep trying to get me to say stuff i ain't supposed to talk about? you want to get me in trouble?" * * * * * "oh, you're already in trouble, jake. but if you stick with me, i'll try to get you out of it. where exactly did the refugees head for? how did they leave? must have been a lot of them; i'd say in a city of this size alone, they'd run into the thousands." "i don't know." "of course, it depends on your definition of a big shot. who's included in that category, jake?" "you know, the slick-talking ones; the fancy dressers; the guys that walk around and tell other guys what to do. we do all the work and they get all the big pay." "i suppose that would cover scientists, professional men, executives, technicians of all sorts, engineers, teachers--all that crowd." "yeah, them are the ones." "and once you got them out of the way, the regular fellows would have a chance. chaps that don't spend all their time taking baths and reading books and using big words; good joes that don't mind picking their noses in public." "we got as much right as anybody--" "jake, who's corasol?" "he's--i don't know." "i thought i overheard his name somewhere." "uh, here's the communication center," jake cut in. retief swung into a parking lot under a high blank facade. he set the brake and stepped out. "lead the way, jake." "look, mister, the corporal only wanted me to show you the outside." "anything to hide, jake?" jake shook his head angrily and stamped past retief. "when i joined up with sozier, i didn't figger i'd be getting in this kind of mess." "i know, jake. it's tough. sometimes it seems like a fellow works harder after he's thrown out the parasites than he did before." a cautious guard let retief and jake inside, followed them along bright-lit aisles among consoles, cables, batteries of instruments. armed men in careless uniforms lounged, watching. here and there a silent technician worked quietly. retief paused by one, an elderly man in a neat white coverall, with a purple spot under one eye. "quite a bruise you've got there," retief commented heartily. "power failure at sunset," he added softly. the technician hesitated, nodded and moved on. back in the car, retief gave jake directions. at the end of three hours, he had seen twelve smooth-running, heavily guarded installations. "so far, so good, jake," he said. "next stop, sub-station number nine." in the mirror, jake's face stiffened. "hey, you can't go down there--" "something going on there, jake?" "that's where--i mean, no. i don't know." "i don't want to miss anything, jake. which way?" "i ain't going down there," jake said sullenly. retief braked. "in that case, i'm afraid our association is at an end, jake." "you mean ... you're getting out here?" "no, you are." "huh? now wait a minute, mister! the corporal said i was to stay with you." retief accelerated. "that's settled, then. which way?" iv retief pulled the car to a halt two hundred yards from the periphery of a loose crowd of brown-uniformed men who stood in groups scattered across a broad plaza, overflowing into a stretch of manicured lawn before the bare, functional facade of sub-station number nine. in the midst of the besieging mob, sozier's red face and bald head bobbed as he harangued a cluster of green-uniformed men from his place in the rear of a long open car. "what's it all about, jake?" retief enquired. "since the parasites have all left peacefully, i'm having a hard time figuring out who'd be holed up in the pumping station--and why. maybe they haven't gotten the word that it's all going to be fun and games from now on." "if the corporal sees you over here--" "ah, the good corporal. glad you mentioned him, jake. he's the man to see." retief stepped out of the car and started through the crowd. a heavy lorry loaded with an immense tank with the letter h blazoned on its side trundled into the square from a side street, moved up to a position before the building. a smaller car pulled alongside sozier's limousine. the driver stepped down, handed something to sozier. a moment later, sozier's amplified voice boomed across the crowd. "you in there, corasol! this is general sozier, and i'm warning you to come out now or you and your smart friends are in for a big surprise. you think i won't blast you out because i don't want to wreck the planet. you see the tank aboard the lorry that just pulled up? it's full of gas--and i got plenty of hoses out here to pump it inside with. i'll put men on the roof and squirt it in the ventilators." sozier's voice echoed and died. the militiamen eyed the station. nothing happened. "i know you can hear me, damn you!" sozier squalled. "you'd better get the doors open and get out here fast!" retief stepped to sozier's side. "say, corporal, i didn't know you went in for practical jokes." sozier jerked around to gape at retief. "what are you doing here!" he burst out. "i told jake--where is that--" "jake didn't like the questions i was asking," retief said, "so he marched me up here to report to you." "jake, you damn fool!" sozier roared. "i got a good mind--" * * * * * "i disagree, sozier," retief cut in. "i think you're a complete imbecile. sitting out here in the open yelling at the top of your lungs, for example. corasol and his party might get annoyed and spray that fancy car you've swiped with something a lot more painful than words." "eh?" sozier's head whipped around to stare at the building. "isn't that a gun i see sticking out?" sozier dropped. "where?" "my mistake. just a foreign particle on my contact lenses." retief leaned on the car. "on the other hand, sozier, most murderers are sneaky about it. i think making a public announcement is a nice gesture on your part. the monitors won't have any trouble deciding who to hang when they come in to straighten out this mess." sozier scrambled back onto his seat. "monitors?" he snarled. "i don't think so. i don't think you'll be around to do any blabbering to anybody." he raised his voice. "jake! march this spy over to the sidelines. if he tries anything, shoot him!" he gave retief a baleful grin. "i'll lay the body out nice and ship it back to your cronies. accidents will happen, you know. it'll be a week or two before they get around to following up--and by then i'll have this little problem under control." jake looked at retief uncertainly, fingering his empty rifle. retief put his hands up. "i guess you got me, jake," he said. "careful of that gun, now." jake glanced at sozier, gulped, aimed the rifle at retief and nodded toward the car. as retief moved off, a murmur swept across the crowd. retief glanced back. a turret on the station roof was rotating slowly. a shout rose; men surged away from the building, scuffling for way; sozier yelled. his car started up, moved forward, horns blaring. as retief watched, a white stream arced up from the turret, catching the sun as it spanned the lawn, plunged down to strike the massed men in a splatter of spray. it searched across the mob, came to rest on sozier's car. uniformed men scrambled for safety as the terrified driver gunned the heavy vehicle. the hose followed the car, dropping a solid stream of water on sozier, kicking and flailing in the back seat. as the car passed from view, down a side street, water was overflowing the sides. "the corporal will feel all the better for an invigorating swim in his mobile pool," retief commented. "by the way, jake, i have to be going now. it wouldn't be fair to send you back to your boss without something to back up your story that you were outnumbered, so--" retief's left fist shot out to connect solidly with jake's jaw. jake dropped the gun and sat down hard. retief turned and headed for the pumping station. the hose had shut down now. a few men were standing, eyeing the building anxiously. others watched his progress across the square. as retief passed, he caught scattered comments: "--seen that bird before." "--where he's headed." "--feller sozier was talking to...." "hey, you!" retief was on the grass now. ahead, the blank wall loomed up. he walked on briskly. "stop that jasper!" a shout rang out. there was a sharp whine and a black spot appeared on the wall ahead. near it, a small personnel door abruptly swung inward. retief sprinted, plunged through the opening as a second shot seared the paint on the doorframe. the door clanged behind him. retief glanced over the half dozen men confronting him. "i'm retief, cdt, acting charge," he said. "which of you gentlemen is manager-general corasol?" * * * * * corasol was a tall, wide-shouldered man of fifty, with shrewd eyes, a ready smile, capable-looking hands and an urbane manner. he and retief sat at a table at one side of the large room, under a maze of piping, tanks and valves. corasol poured amber fluid into square glass tumblers. "we spotted you by the blazer," he said. "baby blue and gold braid stand out in a crowd." retief nodded. "the uniform has its uses," he agreed. he tried the drink. "say, what is this? it's not bad." "sugarweed rum. made from a marine plant. we have plenty of ocean here on glave; there's only the one continent, you know, and it's useless for agriculture." "weather?" "that's part of it. glave is moving into what would be a major glaciation if it weren't for a rather elaborate climatic control installation. then there are the tides. half the continent would be inundated twice a year when our satellite is at aphelion; there's a system of baffles, locks and deep-water pumps that maintain the shore-line more or less constant. we still keep our cities well inland. then there are the oxygen generators, the atmosphere filtration complex, vermin control and so on. glave in its natural state is a rather hostile world." "i'm surprised that your mines can support it all." "oh, they don't." corasol shook his head. "two hundred years ago, when the company first opened up glave, it was economical enough. quintite was a precious mineral in those days. synthetics have long since taken over. even fully automated, the mines barely support the public services and welfare system." "i seem to recall a reference in the post report to the effect that a company petition to vacate its charter had been denied...." corasol nodded, smiling wryly. "the cdt seemed to feel that as long as any of the world's residents desired to remain, the company was constrained to oblige them. the great majority departed long ago, of course. relocated to other operational areas. only the untrainables, living off welfare funds--and a skeleton staff of single men to operate the technical installations--have stayed on." "that explains the mechanics of the recent uprising," retief said. the bottle clinked against glasses for a second round. "what about the good corporal?" retief asked. "assuming he's a strong swimmer, you should be hearing from him soon." corasol glanced at his finger watch. "i imagine he'll be launching his gas attack any minute." "the prospect doesn't seem to bother you." "sozier is a clever enough chap in his own way," corasol said. "but he has a bad habit of leaping to conclusions. he's gotten hold of a tank of what someone has told him is gas--as indeed it is. hydrogen, for industrial use. it seems the poor fellow is under the impression that anything masquerading as gas will have a lethal effect." "he may be right--if he pumps it in fast enough." "oh, he won't be pumping it. not after approximately five minutes from now." "hmmm. i think i'm beginning to see the light. 'power off at sunset.'" corasol nodded. "i don't think he realizes somehow that all his vehicles are operating off broadcast power." "still, he has a good-sized crowd of hopefuls with him. how do you plan to get through them?" "we don't. we go under. there's an extensive system of service ways underlying the city; another detail which i believe has escaped the corporal's notice." "you'll be heading for the port?" "yes--eventually. first, we have a few small chores to see to. sozier has quite a number of our technical men working at gun point to keep various services going." retief nodded. "it won't be easy breaking them out. i made a fast tour of the city this afternoon. locked doors, armed guards--" "oh, the locks are power-operated, too. our fellows will know what to do when the power fails. i think the sudden darkness will eliminate any problem from the guards." the lights flickered and died. the whine of the turbines was suddenly noticeable, descending. faint cries sounded from outside. corasol switched on a small portable lantern. "all ready, gentlemen?" he called, rising. "let's move out. we want to complete this operation before dawn." * * * * * four hours later, retief stood with corasol in a low-ceilinged tunnel, white-tiled, brilliantly lit by a central glare strip, watching as the last of the column of men released from forced labor in the city's utilities installations filed past. a solidly-built man with pale blond hair came up, breathing hard. "how did it go, taine?" corasol asked. "they're beginning to catch on, mr. corasol. we had a brisk time of it at station four. everybody's clear now. no one killed, but we had a few injuries." corasol nodded. "the last few crews in have reported trouble. ah--what about--" taine shook his head. "sorry, sir. no trace. no one's seen them. but they're probably at the port ahead of us, hiding out. they'd know we'd arrive eventually." "i suppose so. you sent word to them well in advance...." "suppose i stand by here with a few men. we'll patrol the tunnels in case they show up. we have several hours before daylight." "yes. i'll go along and see to the preparations at exit ten. we'll make our sortie at oh-five-hundred. if you haven't seen anything of them by then...." "i'm sure they're all right." "they'd better be." corasol said grimly "let's be off, retief." "if it's all the same to you, mr. manager-general, i'll stay here with taine. i'll join you later." "as you wish. i don't imagine there'll be any trouble--but if there is, having a cdt observer along will lend a certain air to the operation." he smiled, shook retief's hand and moved off along the tunnel. the echo of feet and voices grew faint, faded to silence. taine turned to the three men detailed to him, conversed briefly, sent them off along branching corridors. he glanced at retief. "mr. retief, you're a diplomat. this errand is not a diplomatic one." "i've been on a few like that, too, mr. taine." taine studied retief's face. "i can believe that," he said. "however, i think you'd better rejoin the main party." "i might be of some use here, if your missing men arrive under fire." "missing men?" taine's mouth twisted in a sour smile. "you fail to grasp the picture, mr. retief. there'll be no missing men arriving." "oh? i understood you were waiting here to meet them." "not men, mr. retief. it happens that corasol has twin daughters, aged nineteen. they haven't been seen since the trouble began." v half an hour passed. retief leaned against the tunnel wall, arms folded, smoking a cigar in silence. taine paced, ten yards up the corridor, ten yards back.... "you seem nervous, mr. taine," retief said. taine stopped pacing, eyed retief coldly. "you'd better go along now," he said decisively. "just follow the main tunnel. it's about a mile." "plenty of time yet, mr. taine." retief smiled and drew on his cigar. "your three men are still out." "they won't be back here. we'll rendezvous at exit ten." "am i keeping you from something, taine?" "i can't be responsible for your safety if you stay here." "oh? you think i might fall victim to an accident?" taine narrowed his eyes. "it could happen," he said harshly. "where were the girls last seen?" retief asked suddenly. "how would i know?" "weren't you the one who got word to them?" "maybe you'd better keep out of this." "you sent your men off; now you're eager to see me retire to a safe position. why the desire for solitude, taine? you wouldn't by any chance have plans?" "that's enough," taine snapped. "on your way. that's an order!" "there are some aspects of this situation that puzzle me, mr. taine. mr. corasol has explained to me how he and his division chiefs--including you--were surprised in the executive suite at planetary central by a crowd of sozier's bully-boys. they came in past the entire security system without an alarm. corasol and the others put up a surprisingly good fight and made it to the service elevators--and from there to the sub-station. there was even time to order an emergency alert to the entire staff--but somehow, they were all caught at their stations and kept on the job at gun point. now, i should think that you, as chief of security as well as communications, should have some ideas as to how all this came about." "are you implying--" "let me guess, taine. you have a deal with sozier. he takes over, ousts the legal owners, and sets himself up to live off the fat of the land, with you as his technical chief. then, i imagine, you'd find it easy enough to dispose of sozier--and you'd be in charge." * * * * * without warning taine put his head down and charged. retief dropped his cigar, side-stepped and planted a solid right on taine's jaw. he staggered, went to his hands and knees. "i suppose you'd like to get word to sozier that his work force is arriving at the port at oh-five-hundred," retief said. "of course, he'll want to have a good-sized reception committee on hand as they come out." taine plunged to his feet, threw a vicious left that went past retief's ear, then abruptly dropped, clamped a lock on retief's leg, twisted-- the two men rolled, came to rest with taine on top, retief face-down, his arm bent back and doubled. taine, red-faced and puffing, grunted as he applied pressure. "you know a lot about me," he grated, "but you overlooked the fact that i've been glavian judo champion for the past nine years." "you're a clever man, taine," retief said between clenched teeth. "too clever to think it will work." "it will work. glave's never had a cdt mission here before. we're too small. corasol invited your embassy in because he had an idea there was something in the wind. that forced my hand. i've had to move hastily. but by the time i invite observers in to see for themselves, everything will be running smoothly. i can even afford to let corasol and the others go--i'll have hostages for his good behavior." "you've been wanting to boast about it to someone who could appreciate your cleverness, i see. sozier must be an unappreciative audience." "sozier's a filthy pig--but he had his uses." "what do you plan to do now?" "i've been wondering that myself--but i think the best solution is to simply break your arm for now. you should be easy to control then. it's quite simple. i merely apply pressure, thus...." "judo is a very useful technique," retief said. "but in order to make it work, you have to be a pretty good man...." he moved suddenly, shifting his position. taine grabbed, holding retief's arm by the wrist and elbow, his own arm levering retief's back, back.... retief twisted onto his side, then his back. taine grunted, following the movement, straining. slowly, retief sat up against taine's weight. then, with a surge, he straightened his arm. taine's grip broke. retief came to his feet. taine scrambled up in time to meet a clean uppercut that snapped him onto his back--out cold. * * * * * "ah, there you are," retief said as taine's eyes fluttered and opened. "you've had a nice nap--almost fifteen minutes. feeling better?" taine snarled, straining against the bonds on his wrists. "gold braid has its uses," retief commented. "now that you're back, perhaps you can answer a question for me. what's the birthday cake?" taine spat. retief went to stand over him. "time is growing short, mr. taine. it will be dawn in another two hours. i can't afford the luxury of coaxing you." "you won't get away with this." retief looked at the glowing end of his cigar. "this won't be subtle, i agree--but it will work." "you're bluffing." retief leaned closer. "in my place--would you hesitate?" he asked softly. taine cursed, struggled to break free, eyes on the cigar. "what kind of diplomat are you?" he snarled. "the modern variety. throat-cutting, thumb-screws, poison and stiletto work were popular in machiavelli's time; nowadays we go in more for the administrative approach--but the cigar-end still has its role." "look, we can come to an agreement--" "what's the birthday cake?" retief snapped. "i'm in a position to do a lot for you!" "last chance--" "it's the official residence of the manager-general!" taine screeched, writhing away from the cigar. "where is it? talk fast!" "you'll never get close! there's a seven-foot wall and by this time the grounds are swarming with sozier's men." "nevertheless, i want to know where it is--and the information had better be good. if i don't come back, you'll have a long wait." taine groaned. "all right. put that damned cigar away. i'll tell you what i can...." * * * * * retief stood in the shadow of a vine-grown wall, watching the relief of the five-man guard detail at the main gate to the residence grounds. the bluish light of the glavian satellite reflected from the rain-pocked street, glinted from the leaves of a massive tree ten yards from the gate. the chill in the air cut through retief's wet clothes. the men at the gate huddled, hands in pockets, coat collars turned up, backs to the wind--and to retief. he moved silently forward, caught a low branch of the tree, pulled himself up. the men at the gate exchanged muttered remarks. one lit a cigarette. retief waited, then moved higher. the guards talked in low voices, edged closer to the shelter of the gate-house. retief lowered himself onto the wall, dropped down onto the sodden lawn, crouched, waiting. there was no alarm. through the trees the dark shape of the house loomed up, its top storey defiantly ablaze with lights. retief moved off silently, from the shadow of one tree to the next, swinging in an arc that would bring him to the rear of the great round structure. he froze as the heavy footfalls of one of sozier's pickets slogged past five yards from him, then moved on. the glow of a campfire flickered near the front of the house. retief could make out the shapes of men around it--a dozen or two, at least. probably as many more warmed themselves at each of the other fires visible on the grounds--and most of the rest had doubtless found dryer shelter in the lee of the house itself. retief reached the conservatory at the rear of the house, studied the dark path leading to the broad terrace, picked out the squat shape of the utilities manifold behind a screen of shrubbery. so far, taine's information had been accurate. the next step was to-- there was a faint sound from high above, followed by a whoosh! then with a sharp crack! a flare appeared overhead, rocking gracefully, floating down gently under a small parachute. below it, inky shadows rocked in unison. in the raw white light, retief counted eighteen men clinging to handholds on the side of the house, immobile in the pitiless glare. above them, a face appeared, then a second, peering over the edge of the fourth-storey gallery. both figures rose, unlimbering four-foot bows, fitting arrows to strings-- _whok! whok!_ two men lost their holds and fell, yelling, to slam into the heavy shrubbery. a second flight of arrows found marks. retief watched from the shadows as man after man dropped to flounder in the wet foliage. several jumped before the deadly bows were turned on them. as the flare faded, the last of the men plunged down to crash among their fellows. retief stepped out, ran swiftly to the manifold, forcing his way among the close-growing screen, scrambled to its top. his hand fell on a spent arrow. he picked it up. it was a stout wooden shaft twenty inches long, terminating in a rubber suction cup. retief snorted, dropped the arrow and started up. vi twenty feet above ground level, the wide windows of the third floor sun terrace presented a precarious handhold as retief swung back a foot and kicked in a panel. inside, he dimly made out the shape of a broad carpeted room, curving out of sight in both directions. there were wide-leaved tropical plants in boxes, groups of padded chairs, low tables with bowls of fruit. retief made his way past them, found an inner door, went into a dark hall. at the far end, voices exchanged shouted questions. feet pounded. a flicker of light from a hand lantern splashed across the wall, disappeared. retief found a stair, went up it noiselessly. according to taine, the elevator to the top floor apartment should be to the left-- retief flattened himself to the wall. footsteps sounded near at hand. he moved quickly to a doorway. there was a murmur of voices, the wavering light of lanterns. a party of uniformed men tiptoed past a cross corridor, struggling under the weight of a massive log two feet in diameter and twelve feet long. "... on signal, hit it all together. then ..." someone was saying. retief waited, listening. there was the creak of a door, the fumbling of awkwardly laden feet on a stair, hoarse breathing, a muffled curse. "... got my fingers, you slob!" a voice snarled. "shaddup!" another voice hissed. there was a long moment of silence, then a muffled command--followed an instant later by a thunderous crash, a shout--cut off abruptly by a ponderous _blam!_ followed instantly by a roar like a burst dam, mingled with yells, thumps, crashes. a foamy wash of water surged along the cross corridor, followed a moment later by a man sliding on his back, then another, two more, the log, fragments of a door, more men. in the uproar, retief moved along to the elevator, felt over the control panel, located a small knurled button. he turned it. the panel came away. he fumbled cautiously, found a toggle switch, flipped it. a light sprang up in the car. instantly retief flipped the light switch; the glow faded. he waited. no alarm. men were picking themselves up, shouting. "... them broads dropped a hundred-gallon bag of water ..." someone complained. "... up there fast, men. we got the door okay!" feet thumped. yells sounded. "no good, wes! they got a safe or something in the way!" retief silently closed the lift door, pressed the button. with a sigh, the car slid upward, came to a gentle stop. he eased the door open, looked out into a dim-lit entrance hall. footsteps sounded beyond a door. he waited; the clack of high heels crossing a floor. retief stepped out of the car, went to the door, glanced into a spacious lounge with rich furniture, deep rugs, paintings, a sweep of glass, and in an alcove at the far side, a bar. retief crossed the room, poured a stiff drink into a paper-thin glass and drained it. the high-heeled steps were coming back now. a door opened. two leggy young women in shorts, with red-gold hair bound back by ribbons--one green, one blue--stepped into the room. one girl held a coil of insulated wire; the other, a heavy-looking gray-enameled box eight inches on a side. "now, see if you can tinker that generator to get a little more juice, lyn," the girl with the wire said. "i'll start stringing...." her voice died as she caught sight of retief. he raised his glass. "my compliments, ladies. i see you're keeping yourselves amused." * * * * * "who ... who are you?" lyn faltered. "my name's retief. your father sent me along to carry your bags. it's lucky i arrived when i did, before any of those defenseless chaps outside were seriously injured." "you're not ... one of them?" "of course he's not, lyn," the second girl said. "he's much too good-looking." "that's good," lyn said crisply. "i didn't want to have to use this thing." she tossed a bright-plated mm needler onto a chair and sat down. "dad's all right, isn't he?" "he's fine, and we've got to be going. tight schedule, you know. and you'd better get some clothes on. it's cold outside." lyn nodded. "environmental control went off the air six hours ago. you can already feel snow coming." "don't you suppose we have time to just rig up one little old circuit?" the other twin wheedled. "nothing serious; just enough to tickle." "we planned to wire all the window frames, the trunk we used to block the stair, the lift shaft--" "and then we thought we'd try to drop a loop down and pick up the gallery guard rail, and maybe some of that wrought-iron work around the front of the house--" "sorry, girls; no time." five minutes later, the twins were ready, wrapped in fur robes. retief had exchanged his soaked blazer for a down-lined weatherproof. "the lift will take us all the way down, won't it?" he asked. lyn nodded. "we can go out through the wine cellar." retief picked up the needler and handed it to lyn. "hang on to this," he said. "you may need it yet." * * * * * a cold wind whipped the ramp as dawn lightened the sky. "it's hard to believe," corasol said. "what made him do it?" "he saw a chance to own it all." "he can have it," corasol's communicator beeped. he put it to his ear. "everything's ship-shape and ready to lift," a tiny voice said. corasol turned to retief. "let's go aboard." "hold it," retief said. "there's someone coming." corasol spoke into the communicator. "keep him covered." the man slogging across the concrete was short, wrapped in heavy garments. over his head a white cloth fluttered from a stick. "from the set of those bat-ears, i'd say it was the good corporal." "i wonder what he wants." sozier stopped twenty feet from retief and corasol. "i want to ... ah ... talk to you, corasol," he said. "certainly, general. go right ahead." "look here, corasol. you can't do this. my men will freeze. we'll starve. i've been thinking it over, and i've decided that we can reach an understanding." corasol waited. "i mean, we can get together on this thing. compromise. maybe i acted a little hasty." sozier looked from corasol to retief. "you're from the cdt. you tell him. i'll guarantee his people full rights...." retief puffed at his cigar in silence. sozier started again. "look, i'll give you a full voice in running things. a fifty-fifty split. whatta you say?" "i'm afraid the proposal doesn't interest me, general," corasol said. "never mind the general stuff," sozier said desperately. "listen, you can run it. just give me and my boys a little say-so." "sorry." corasol shook his head. "not interested, general." "okay, okay! you win! just come on back and get things straightened out! i got a belly full of running things!" "i'm afraid i have other plans, general. for some time i've wanted to transfer operations to a world called las palmas on which we hold a charter. it has a naturally delightful climate, and i'm told the fishing is good. i leave glave to the free electorate with my blessing. good-by, general." he turned to the ship. "you got to stay here!" sozier howled. "we'll complain to the cdt! and don't call me general! i'm a corporal--" "you're a general now--whether you like it or not." corasol said bluntly. he shivered. there was a hint of ice in the air. "if you or any of your men ever decide to go to work, general, i daresay we can train you for employment on las palmas. in the meantime--long live the revolution!" "you can't do this! i'll sue!" "calm down, sozier," retief said. "go back to town and see if you can get your radio working. put in a call for mr. magnan aboard the cdt vessel. tell him your troubles. it will make his day. and a word of advice: mr. magnan hates a piker--so ask for plenty." * * * * * "my boy, i'm delighted," ambassador sternwheeler boomed. "a highly professional piece of work. a stirring testimonial to the value of the skilled negotiator!" "you're too kind, mr. ambassador." retief said, glancing at his watch. "and magnan tells me that not only will the mission be welcomed, and my job secure for another year--that is, i shall have an opportunity to serve--but a technical mission has been requested as well. i shall look forward to meeting general sozier. he sounds a most reasonable chap." "oh, you'll like him, mr. ambassador. a true democrat, willing to share all you have." counsellor of embassy magnan tapped and entered the office. "forgive the intrusion, mr. ambassador," he said breathlessly, "but i must--" "well, what is it, man? the deal hasn't gone sour?" "oh, far from it! i've been exploring general sozier's economic situation with him via scope, and it seems he'll require a loan." "yes, yes? how much?" magnan inhaled proudly. "twenty. million. credits." "no!" "yes!" "magnificent! good lord, magnan, you're a genius! this will mean promotions all around. why, the administrative load alone--" "i can't wait to make planetfall, mr. ambassador. i'm all a-bubble with plans. i hope they manage to get the docking facilities back in operation soon." "help is on the way, my dear magnan. i'm assured the environmental control installations will be coming back in operation again within a year or two." "my, didn't those ice-caps form quickly. and in the open sea." "mere scum ice. as my counsellor for technical affairs, you'll be in charge of the ice-breaking operation once we're settled in. i imagine you'll want to spend considerable time in the field. i'll be expecting a record of how every credit is spent." "i'm more the executive type," magnan said. "possibly retief--" a desk speaker hummed. "mr. corasol's lighter has arrived to ferry mr. retief across to the company ship...." "sorry you won't be with us, retief," sternwheeler said heartily. he turned to magnan. "manager-general corasol has extended retief an exequatur as consul general to las palmas." * * * * * retief nodded. "much as i'd like to be out in that open boat with you, breaking ice, i'm afraid duty calls elsewhere." "your own post? i'm not sure he's experienced enough, mr. ambassador. now, i--" "he was requested by name, magnan. it seems the manager-general's children took a fancy to him." "eh? how curious. i never thought you were particularly interested in infant care, retief." "perhaps i haven't been, mr. magnan." retief draped his short blue cape over his left arm and turned to the door. "but remember the diplomat's motto: be adaptable...." the vanished pomps of yesterday _by lord frederic hamilton_ the vanished pomps of yesterday the days before yesterday here, there and everywhere _george h. doran company new york_ the vanished pomps of yesterday being _some random reminiscences of a british diplomat_ by lord frederic hamilton author of "here, there and everywhere," "the days before yesterday," etc., etc. a new and revised edition new york george h. doran company copyright, by george h. doran company printed in the united states of america to emily lady ampthill my first chefesse with ever-grateful recollections of her kindness foreword to the second edition the account of the boating accident at potsdam on page , differs in several particulars from the story as given in the original edition. these alterations have been made at the special request of the lady concerned, who tells me that my recollections of her story were at fault as regards several important details. there are also a few verbal alterations in the present edition. contents chapter i special mission to rome--berlin in process of transformation--causes of prussian militarism--lord and lady ampthill--berlin society--music-lovers--evenings with wagner--aristocratic waitresses--rubinstein's rag-time--liszt's opinions--bismarck--bismarck's classification of nationalities--bismarck's sons--gustav richter--the austrian diplomat--the old emperor--his defective articulation--other royalties--beauty of berlin palace--description of interior--the luxembourg--"napoleon iii"--three court beauties--the pugnacious pages--"making the circle"--conversational difficulties--an ecclesiastical gourmet--the maharajah's mother chapter ii easy-going austria--vienna--charm of town--a little piece of history--international families--family pride--"schlüssel-geld"--excellence of vienna restaurants--the origin of "_croissants_"--good looks of viennese women--strauss's operettas--a ball in an old vienna house--court entertainments--the empress elisabeth--delightful environs of vienna--the berlin congress of --lord beaconsfield--m. de blowitz--treaty telegraphed to london--environs of berlin--potsdam and its lakes--the bow-oar of the embassy "four"--narrow escape of ex-kaiser--the potsdam palaces--transfer to petrograd--glamour of russia--an evening with the crown prince at potsdam chapter iii the russian frontier--frontier police--disappointment at aspect of petrograd--lord and lady dufferin--the british embassy--st. isaac's cathedral--beauty of russian church-music--the russian language--the delightful "blue-stockings" of petrograd--princess chateau--pleasant russian society--the secret police--the countess's hurried journey--the yacht club--russians really orientals--their limitations--the "intelligenzia"--my nihilist friends--their lack of constructive power--easter mass at st. isaac's--two comical incidents--the easter supper--the red-bearded young priest--an empire built on shifting sand chapter iv the winter palace--its interior--alexander ii--a russian court ball--the "bals des palmiers"--the empress--the blessing of the neva--some curiosities of the winter palace--the great orloff diamond--my friend the lady-in-waiting--sugared compensations--the attempt on the emperor's life of --some unexpected finds in the palace--a most hilarious funeral--sporting expeditions--night drives through the forest in mid-winter--wolves--a typical russian village--a peasant's house--"deaf and dumb people"--the inquisitive peasant youth--curiosity about strangers--an embarrassing situation--a still more awkward one--food difficulties--a bear hunt--my first bear--alcoholic consequences--my liking for the russian peasant--the beneficent india-rubber ikon--two curious sporting incidents--village habits--the great gulf between russian nobility and peasants chapter v the russian gipsies--midnight drives--gipsy singing--its fascination--the consequences of a late night--an unconventional luncheon--lord dufferin's methods--assassination of alexander ii--stürmer--pathetic incidents in connection with the murder of the emperor--the funeral procession and service--details concerning--the votive church--the order of the garter--unusual incidents at the investiture--precautions taken for emperor's safety--the imperial train--finland--exciting salmon-fishing there--harraka niska--koltesha--excellent shooting there--ski-running--"ringing the game in"--a wolf-shooting party--the obese general--some incidents--a novel form of sport--black game and capercailzie--at dawn in a finnish forest--immense charm of it--ice-hilling or "montagnes russes"--ice-boating on the gulf of finland chapter vi love of russians for children's games--peculiarities of petrograd balls--some famous beauties of petrograd society--the varying garb of hired waiters--moscow--its wonderful beauty--the forest of domes--the kremlin--the three famous "cathedrals"--the imperial treasury--the sacristy--the palace--its splendour--the terem--a gargantuan russian dinner--an unusual episode at the french ambassador's ball--bombs--tsarskoe selo--its interior--extraordinary collection of curiosities in tsarskoe park--origin of term "vauxhall" for railway station in russia--peterhof--charm of park there--two russian illusions--a young man of twenty-five delivers an ultimatum to russia--how it came about--m. de giers--other foreign ministers--paraguay--the polite japanese dentist--a visit to gatchina--description of the palace--delights of the children's playroom there chapter vii lisbon--the two kings of portugal, and of barataria--king fernando and the countess--a lisbon bull-fight--the "hat-trick"--courtship window-parade--the spurred youth of lisbon--portuguese politeness--the de reszke family--the opera--terrible personal experiences in a circus--the bounding bishop--ecclesiastical possibilities--portuguese coinage--beauty of lisbon--visits of the british fleet--misguided midshipman--the legation whale-boat--"good wine needs no bush"--a delightful orange-farm--cintra--contrast between the past and present of portugal chapter viii brazil--contrast between portuguese and spanish south america--moorish traditions--amazing beauty of rio de janeiro--yellow fever--the commercial court chamberlain--the emperor pedro--the botanical gardens of rio--the quaint diversions of petropolis--the liveried young entomologist--buenos ayres--the charm of the "camp"--water throwing--a british minister in carnival-time--some buenos ayres peculiarities--masked balls--climatic conditions--theatres--restaurants--wonderful bird-life of the "camp"--estancia negrete--duck-shooting--my one flamingo--an exploring expedition in the gran chaco--hardships--alligators and fish--currency difficulties chapter ix paraguay--journey up the river--a primitive capital--dick the australian--his polychrome garb--a paraguayan race meeting--beautiful figures of native women--the "falcon" adventurers--a quaint railway--patiño cué--an extraordinary household--the capable australian boy--wild life in the swamps--"bushed"--a literary evening--a railway record--the tigre midnight swims--canada--maddening flies--a grand salmon-river--the canadian backwoods--skunks and bears--different views as to industrial progress chapter x former colleagues who have risen to eminence--kiderlin-waechter--aehrenthal--colonel klepsch--the discomfiture of an inquisitive journalist--origin of certain russian scares--tokyo--dulness of geisha dinners--japanese culinary curiosities--"musical chairs"--lack of colour in japan--the tokugawa dynasty--japanese gardens--the transplanted suburban embassy house--cherry-blossom--japanese politeness--an unfortunate incident in rome--eastern courtesy--the country in japan--an imperial duck-catching party--an up-to-date tokyo house--a shinto temple--linguistic difficulties at a dinner-party--the economical colleague--japan defaced by advertisements chapter xi petrograd through middle-aged eyes--russians very constant friends--russia an empire of shams--over-centralisation in administration--the system hopeless--a complete change of scene--the west indies--trinidad--personal character of nicholas ii--the weak point in an autocracy--the empress--an opportunity missed--the great collapse--terrible stories--love of human beings for ceremonial--some personal apologies--conclusion index the vanished pomps of yesterday "lo, all our pomp of yesterday is one with ninevah and tyre!" --rudyard kipling { } the vanished pomps of yesterday chapter i special mission to rome--berlin in process of transformation--causes of prussian militarism--lord and lady ampthill--berlin society--music-lovers--evenings with wagner--aristocratic waitresses--rubinstein's rag-time--liszt's opinions--bismarck--bismarck's classification of nationalists--bismarck's sons--gustav richter--the austrian diplomat--the old emperor--his defective articulation--other royalties--beauty of berlin palace--description of interior--the luxembourg--"napoleon iii"--three court beauties--the pugnacious pages--"making the circle"--conversational difficulties--an ecclesiastical gourmet--the maharajah's mother. the tremendous series of events which has changed the face of europe since is so vast in its future possibilities, that certain minor consequences of the great upheaval have received but scant notice. amongst these minor consequences must be included the disappearance of the courts of the three empires of eastern europe, russia, germany, and austria, with all their glitter and pageantry, their pomp and brilliant _mise-en-scène_. i will hazard no opinion as to whether the world is the better for their loss or not; i cannot, though, help { } experiencing a feeling of regret that this prosaic, drab-coloured twentieth century should have definitely lost so strong an element of the picturesque, and should have permanently severed a link which bound it to the traditions of the mediæval days of chivalry and romance, with their glowing colour, their splendid spectacular displays, and the feeling of continuity with a vanished past which they inspired. a tweed suit and a bowler hat are doubtless more practical for everyday wear than a doublet and trunk-hose. they are, however, possibly less picturesque. since, owing to various circumstances, i happen from my very early days to have seen more of this brave show than has fallen to the lot of most people, some extracts from my diaries, and a few personal reminiscences of the three great courts of eastern europe, may prove of interest. up to my twentieth year i was familiar only with our own court. i was then sent to rome with a special mission. as king victor emmanuel had but recently died, there were naturally no court entertainments. the quirinal is a fine palace with great stately rooms, but it struck me then, no doubt erroneously, that the italian court did not yet seem quite at home in their new surroundings, and that there was a subtle feeling in the air of a lack of continuity somewhere. in the "'seventies" the house of savoy had only been established for a very few years in their new capital. the conditions in rome { } had changed radically, and somehow one felt conscious of this. some ten months later, the ordeal of a competitive examination being successfully surmounted, i was sent to berlin as attaché, at the age of twenty. the berlin of the "'seventies" was still in a state of transition. the well-built, prim, dull and somewhat provincial _residenz_ was endeavouring with feverish energy to transform itself into a world-city, a _welt-stadt_. the people were still flushed and intoxicated with victory after victory. in the seven years between and prussia had waged three successful campaigns. the first, in conjunction with austria, against unhappy little denmark in ; then followed, in , the "seven weeks' war," in which austria was speedily brought to her knees by the crushing defeat of königgrätz, or sadowa, as it is variously called, by which prussia not only wrested the hegemony of the german confederation from her hundred-year-old rival, but definitely excluded austria from the confederation itself. the hohenzollerns had at length supplanted the proud house of hapsburg. prussia had further virtually conquered france in the first six weeks of the campaign, and on the conclusion of peace found herself the richer by alsace, half of lorraine, and the gigantic war indemnity wrung from france. as a climax the king of prussia had, with the consent of the feudatory princes, been proclaimed german emperor at versailles on january , , for bismarck, with all { } his diplomacy, was unable to persuade the feudatory kings and princes to acquiesce in the title of emperor _of_ germany for the prussian king. the new emperor was nominally only _primus inter pares_; he was not to be over-lord. theoretically the crown of charlemagne was merely revived, but the result was that henceforth prussia would dominate germany. this was a sufficient rise for the little state which had started so modestly in the sandy mark of brandenburg (the "sand-box," as south germans contemptuously termed it) in the fifteenth century. to understand the mentality of prussians, one must realise that prussia is the only country _that always made war pay_. she had risen with marvellous rapidity from her humble beginnings entirely by the power of the sword. every campaign had increased her territory, her wealth, and her influence, and the entire energies of the hohenzollern dynasty had been centred on increasing the might of her army. the teutonic knights had wrested east prussia from the wends by the power of the sword only. they had converted the wends to christianity by annihilating them, and the prussians inherited the traditions of the teutonic knights. napoleon, it is true, had crushed prussia at jena, but the latter half of the nineteenth century was one uninterrupted triumphal progress for her. no wonder then that every prussian looked upon warfare as a business proposition, and an exceedingly paying one at that. everything about them had been carefully { } arranged to foster the same idea. all the monuments in the berlin streets were to military heroes. the marble groups on the schloss-brücke represented episodes in the life of a warrior. the very songs taught the children in the schools were all militarist in tone: "the good comrade," "the soldier," "the young recruit," "the prayer during battle," all familiar to every german child. when william ii, ex-emperor, found the stately "white hall" of the palace insufficiently gorgeous to accord with his megalomania, he called in the architect ihne, and gave directions for a new frieze round the hall representing "victorious warfare fostering art, science, trade and industry." i imagine that william in his dutch retreat at amerongen may occasionally reflect on the consequences of warfare when it is _not_ victorious. trained in such an atmosphere from their childhood, drinking in militarism with their earliest breath, can it be wondered at that prussians worshipped brute-force, and brute-force alone? such a nation of heroes must clearly have a capital worthy of them, a capital second to none, a capital eclipsing paris and vienna. berliners had always been jealous of vienna, the traditional "kaiser-stadt." now berlin was also a "kaiser-stadt," and by the magnificence of its buildings must throw its older rival completely into the shade. paris, too, was the acknowledged centre of european art, literature, and fashion. why? the french had proved themselves a nation of decadents, utterly { } unable to cope with german might. the sceptre of paris should be transferred to berlin. so building and renovation began at a feverish rate. the open drains which formerly ran down every street in berlin, screaming aloud to heaven during the summer months, were abolished, and an admirable system of main drainage inaugurated. the appalling rough cobble-stones, which made it painful even to cross a berlin street, were torn up and hastily replaced with asphalte. a french colleague of mine used to pretend that the cobble-stones had been designedly chosen as pavement. berliners were somewhat touchy about the very sparse traffic in their wide streets. now one solitary _droschke_, rumbling heavily over these cobble-stones, produced such a deafening din that the foreigner was deluded into thinking that the berlin traffic rivalled that of london or paris in its density. berlin is of too recent growth to have any elements of the picturesque about it. it stands on perfectly flat ground, and its long, straight streets are terribly wearisome to the eye. miles and miles of ornate stucco are apt to become monotonous, even if decorated with porcelain plaques, glass mosaics, and other incongruous details dear to the garish soul of the berliner. in their rage for modernity, the municipality destroyed the one architectural feature of the town. some remaining eighteenth century houses had a local peculiarity. the front doors were on the first floor, and were approached by two steeply inclined planes, locally known as _die { } rampe_. a carriage (with, i imagine, infinite discomfort to the horses) could just struggle up one of these _rampe_, deposit its load, and crawl down again to the street-level. these inclined planes were nearly all swept away. the _rampe_ may have been inconvenient, but they were individual, local and picturesque. i arrived at the age of twenty at this berlin in active process of ultra-modernising itself, and in one respect i was most fortunate. the then british ambassador, one of the very ablest men the english diplomatic service has ever possessed, and his wife, lady ampthill, occupied a quite exceptional position. lord ampthill was a really close and trusted friend of bismarck, who had great faith in his prescience and in his ability to gauge the probable trend of events, and he was also immensely liked by the old emperor william, who had implicit confidence in him. under a light and debonair manner the ambassador concealed a tremendous reserve of dignity. he was a man, too, of quick decisions and great strength of character. lady ampthill was a woman of exceptional charm and quick intelligence, with the social gift developed to its highest point in her. both the ambassador and his wife spoke french, german, and italian as easily and as correctly as they did english. the ambassador was the _doyen_, or senior member, of the diplomatic body, and lady ampthill was the most intimate friend of the crown princess, afterwards the empress frederick. { } from these varied circumstances, and also from sheer force of character, lady ampthill had become the unchallenged social arbitress of berlin, a position never before conceded to any foreigner. as the french phrase runs, "_elle faisait la pluie et le beau temps à berlin._" to a boy of twenty life is very pleasant, and the novel surroundings and new faces amused me. people were most kind to me, but i soon made the discovery that many others had made before me, that at the end of two years one knows prussians no better than one did at the end of the first fortnight; that there was some indefinable, intangible barrier between them and the foreigner that nothing could surmount. it was not long, too, before i became conscious of the under-current of intense hostility to my own country prevailing amongst the "court party," or what would now be termed the "junker" party. these people looked upon russia as their ideal of a monarchy. the emperor of russia was an acknowledged autocrat; the british sovereign a constitutional monarch, or, if the term be preferred, more or less a figure-head. tempering their admiration of russia was a barely-concealed dread of the potential resources of that mighty empire, whose military power was at that period absurdly overestimated. england did not claim to be a military state, and in the "'seventies" the vital importance of sea-power was not yet understood. british statesmen, too, had an unfortunate habit of indulging in sloppy sentimentalities { } in their speeches, and the convinced believers in "practical politics" (_real politik_) had a profound contempt (i guard myself from saying an unfounded one) for sloppiness as well as for sentimentality. the berliners of the "'seventies" had not acquired what the french term _l'art de vivre_. prussia, during her rapid evolution from an insignificant sandy little principality into the leading military state of europe, had to practise the most rigid economy. from the royal family downwards, everyone had perforce to live with the greatest frugality, and the traces of this remained. the "art of living" as practised in france, england, and even in austria during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was impossible in prussia under the straitened conditions prevailing there, and it is not an art to be learnt in a day. the small dinner-party, the gathering together of a few congenial friends, was unknown in berlin. local magnates gave occasionally great dinner-parties of thirty guests or so, at the grotesque hour of p.m. it seemed almost immoral to array oneself in a white tie and swallow-tail coat at four in the afternoon. the dinners on these occasions were all sent in from the big restaurants, and there was no display of plate, and never a single flower. as a german friend (probably a fervent believer in "practical politics") said to me, "the best ornament of a dinner-table is also good food"; nor did the conversation atone by its brilliancy for the lack of the dainty trimmings which { } the taste of western europe expects on these occasions. a never-failing topic of conversation was to guess the particular restaurant which had furnished the banquet. one connoisseur would pretend to detect "hiller" in the soup; another was convinced that the fish could only have been dressed by "poppenberg." as soon as we had swallowed our coffee, we were expected to make our bows and take our leave without any post-prandial conversation whatever, and at p.m. too! thirty people were gathered together to eat, _weiter nichts_, and, to do them justice, most of them fulfilled admirably the object with which they had been invited. the houses, too, were so ugly. no _objets d'art_, no personal belongings whatever, and no flowers. the rooms might have been in an hotel, and the occupant of the rooms might have arrived overnight with one small modest suit-case as his, or her, sole baggage. there was no individuality whatever about the ordinary berlin house, or _appartement_. i can never remember having heard literature discussed in any form whatever at berlin. for some reason the novelist has never taken root in germany. the number of good german novelists could be counted on the fingers of both hands, and no one seemed interested in literary topics. it was otherwise with music. every german is a genuine music-lover, and the greatest music-lover of them all was baroness von schleinitz, wife of the minister of the royal household. hers was { } a charming house, the stately eighteenth century _haus-ministerium_, with its ornate rococo _fest-saal_. in that somewhat over-decorated hall every great musician in europe must have played at some time or other. baron von schleinitz was, i think, the handsomest old man i have ever seen, with delightful old-world manners. it was a privilege to be asked to madame de schleinitz's musical evenings. she seldom asked more than forty people, and the most rigid silence was insisted upon; still every noted musician passing through berlin went to her house as a matter of course. at the time of my arrival from england, madame de schleinitz had struck up a great alliance with wagner, and gave two musical evenings a week as a sort of propaganda, in order to familiarise berlin amateurs with the music of the "ring." at that time the stupendous tetralogy had only been given at bayreuth and in munich; indeed i am not sure that it had then been performed in its entirety in the bavarian capital. in the _fest-saal_, with its involved and tortured rococo curves, two grand pianos were placed side by side, a point wagner insisted upon, and here the master played us his gigantic work. the way wagner managed to make the piano suggest brass, strings, or wood-wind at will was really wonderful. i think that we were all a little puzzled by the music of the "ring"; possibly our ears had not then been sufficiently trained to grasp the amazing beauty of such a subtle web of harmonies. his { } playing finished, a small, very plainly-appointed supper-table was placed in the middle of the _fest-saal_, at which wagner seated himself alone in state. then the long-wished-for moment began for his feminine adorers. the great ladies of berlin would allow no one to wait on the master but themselves, and the bearers of the oldest and proudest names in prussia bustled about with prodigious fussing, carrying plates of sauerkraut, liver sausage, black puddings, and herring-salad, colliding with each other, but in spite of that managing to heap the supper-table with more teutonic delicacies than even wagner's very ample appetite could assimilate. i fear that not one of these great ladies would have found it easy to obtain a permanent engagement as waitress in a restaurant, for their skill in handling dishes and plates was hardly commensurate with their zeal. in justice it must be added that the professional waitress would not be encumbered with the long and heavy train of evening dresses in the "'seventies." these great ladies, anxious to display their intimate knowledge of the master's tastes, bickered considerably amongst themselves. "surely, dear countess, you know by now that the master never touches white bread." "dearest princess, limburger cheese is the only sort the master cares for. you had better take that gruyère cheese away"; whilst an extremely attractive little countess, the bearer of a great german name, would trip vaguely about, announcing to the world that "the master thinks that he could { } eat two more black puddings. where do you imagine that i could find them?" meanwhile from another quarter one would hear an eager "dearest princess, could you manage to get some raw ham? the master thinks that he would like some, or else some raw smoked goose-breast." "_aber, allerliebste gräfin, wissen sie nicht dass der meister trinkt nur dunkles bier?_" would come as a pathetic protest from some slighted worshipper who had been herself reproved for ignorance of the master's gastronomic tastes. it must regretfully be confessed that these tastes were rather gross. meanwhile wagner, dressed in a frock-coat and trousers of shiny black cloth, his head covered with his invariable black velvet skull-cap, would munch steadily away, taking no notice whatever of those around him. the rest of us stood at a respectful distance, watching with a certain awe this marvellous weaver of harmonies assimilating copious nourishment. for us it was a sort of barmecide's feast, for beyond the sight of wagner at supper, we had no refreshments of any sort offered to us. soon afterwards rubinstein, on his way to st. petersburg, played at madame de schleinitz's house. having learnt that wagner always made a point of having two grand pianos side by side when he played, rubinstein also insisted on having two. to my mind, rubinstein absolutely ruined the effect of all his own compositions by the tremendous pace at which he played them. it was as { } though he were longing to be through with the whole thing. his "melody in f," familiar to every school-girl, he took at such a pace that i really believe the virulent germ which forty years afterwards was to develop into rag-time, and to conquer the whole world with its maddening syncopated strains, came into being that very night, and was evoked by rubinstein himself out of his own long-suffering "melody in f." our ambassador, himself an excellent musician, was an almost lifelong friend of liszt. wagner's wife, by the way, was lizst's daughter, and had been previously married to hans von bulow, the pianist. liszt, when passing through berlin, always dined at our embassy and played to us afterwards. i remember well lord ampthill asking liszt where he placed rubinstein as a pianist. "rubinstein is, without any question whatever, the first pianist in the world," answered liszt without hesitation. "but you are forgetting yourself, abbé," suggested the ambassador. "ich," said liszt, striking his chest, "ich bin der einzige pianist der welt" ("i; i am the only pianist in the world"). there was a superb arrogance about this perfectly justifiable assertion which pleased me enormously at the time, and pleases me still after the lapse of so many years. bismarck was a frequent visitor at our embassy, and was fond of dropping in informally in the evening. apart from his liking for our ambassador, he had a great belief in his judgment and { } discretion. lady ampthill, too, was one of the few women bismarck respected and really liked. i think he had a great admiration for her intellectual powers and quick sense of intuition. it is perhaps superfluous to state that no man living now occupies the position bismarck filled in the "'seventies." the maker of modern germany was the unchallenged dictator of europe. he was always very civil to the junior members of the embassy. i think it pleased him that we all spoke german fluently, for the acknowledged supremacy of the french language as a means of communication between educated persons of different nationalities was always a very sore point with him. it must be remembered that prussia herself had only comparatively recently been released from the thraldom of the french language. frederick the great always addressed his _entourage_ in french. after - , bismarck ordered the german foreign office to reply in the german language to all communications from the french embassy. he followed the same procedure with the russian embassy; whereupon the russian ambassador countered with a long despatch written in russian to the wilhelmstrasse. he received no reply to this, and mentioned that fact to bismarck about a fortnight later. "ah!" said bismarck reflectively, "now that your excellency mentions it, i think we did receive a despatch in some unknown tongue. i ordered it to be put carefully away until we could procure the services of an expert to decipher { } it. i hope to be able to find such an expert in the course of the next three or four months, and can only trust that the matter was not a very pressing one." the ambassador took the hint, and that was the last note in russian that reached the wilhelmstrasse. we ourselves always wrote in english, receiving replies in german, written in the third person, in the curiously cumbrous prussian official style. bismarck was very fond of enlarging on his favourite theory of the male and female european nations. the germans themselves, the three scandinavian peoples, the dutch, the english proper, the scotch, the hungarians and the turks, he declared to be essentially male races. the russians, the poles, the bohemians, and indeed every slavonic people, and all celts, he maintained, just as emphatically, to be female races. a female race he ungallantly defined as one given to immense verbosity, to fickleness, and to lack of tenacity. he conceded to these feminine races some of the advantages of their sex, and acknowledged that they had great powers of attraction and charm, when they chose to exert them, and also a fluency of speech denied to the more virile nations. he maintained stoutly that it was quite useless to expect efficiency in any form from one of the female races, and he was full of contempt for the celt and the slav. he contended that the most interesting nations were the epicene ones, partaking, that is, { } of the characteristics of both sexes, and he instanced france and italy, intensely virile in the north, absolutely female in the south; maintaining that the northern french had saved their country times out of number from the follies of the "méridionaux." he attributed the efficiency of the frenchmen of the north to the fact that they had so large a proportion of frankish and norman blood in their veins, the franks being a germanic tribe, and the normans, as their name implied, northmen of scandinavian, therefore also of teutonic, origin. he declared that the fair-haired piedmontese were the driving power of italy, and that they owed their initiative to their descent from the germanic hordes who invaded italy under alaric in the fifth century. bismarck stoutly maintained that efficiency, wherever it was found, was due to teutonic blood; a statement with which i will not quarrel. as the inventor of "practical politics" (_real-politik_), bismarck had a supreme contempt for fluent talkers and for words, saying that only fools could imagine that facts could be talked away. he cynically added that words were sometimes useful for "papering over structural cracks" when they had to be concealed for a time. with his intensely overbearing disposition, bismarck could not brook the smallest contradiction, or any criticism whatever. i have often watched him in the reichstag--then housed in a very modest building--whilst being attacked, especially by liebknecht the socialist. he made no effort to { } conceal his anger, and would stab the blotting-pad before him viciously with a metal paper-cutter, his face purple with rage. bismarck himself was a very clear and forcible speaker, with a happy knack of coining felicitous phrases. his eldest son, herbert bismarck, inherited all his father's arrogance and intensely overweening disposition, without one spark of his father's genius. he was not a popular man. the second son, william, universally known as "bill," was a genial, fair-headed giant of a man, as generally popular as his elder brother was the reverse. bill bismarck (the juxtaposition of these two names always struck me as being comically incongruous) drank so much beer that his hands were always wet and clammy. he told me himself that he always had three bottles of beer placed by his bedside lest he should be thirsty in the night. he did not live long. moltke, the silent, clean-shaved, spare old man with the sphinx-like face, who had himself worked out every detail of the franco-prussian war long before it materialised, was an occasional visitor at our embassy, as was gustav richter, the fashionable jewish artist. richter's paintings, though now sneered at as _chocolade-malerei_ (chocolate-box painting), had an enormous vogue in the "'seventies," and were reproduced by the hundred thousand. his picture of queen louise of prussia, engravings of which are scattered all over the world, { } is only a fancy portrait, as queen louise had died before richter was born. he had rauch's beautiful effigy of the queen in the mausoleum at charlottenburg to guide him, but the actual model was, i believe, a member of the _corps de ballet_ at the opera. madame richter was the daughter of mendelssohn the composer, and there was much speculation in berlin as to the wonderful artistic temperament the children of such a union would inherit. as a matter of fact, i fancy that none of the young richters showed any artistic gifts whatever. our embassy was a very fine building. the german railway magnate strousberg had erected it as his own residence, but as he most tactfully went bankrupt just as the house was completed, the british government was able to buy it at a very low figure indeed, and to convert it into an embassy. though a little ornate, it was admirably adapted for this purpose, having nine reception rooms, including a huge ball-room, all communicating with each other, on the ground floor. the "chancery," as the offices of an embassy are termed, was in another building on the pariser platz. this was done to avoid the constant stream of people on business, of applicants of various sorts, including "d.b.s.'s" (distressed british subjects), continually passing through the embassy. immediately opposite our "chancery," in the same building, and only separated from it by a _porte-cochère_, was the chancery of the austro-hungarian embassy. { } count w----, the councillor of the austrian embassy, was very deaf, and had entirely lost the power of regulating his voice. he habitually shouted in a quarter-deck voice, audible several hundred yards away. i was at work in the chancery one day when i heard a stupendous din arising from the austrian chancery. "the imperial chancellor told me," thundered this megaphone voice in stentorian german tones, every word of which must have been distinctly heard in the street, "that under no circumstances whatever would germany consent to this arrangement. if the proposal is pressed, germany will resist it to the utmost, if necessary by force of arms. the chancellor, in giving me this information," went on the strident voice, "impressed upon me how absolutely secret the matter must be kept. i need hardly inform your excellency that this telegram is confidential to the highest degree." "what is that appalling noise in the austrian chancery?" i asked our white-headed old chancery servant. "that is count w---- dictating a cypher telegram to vienna," answered the old man with a twinkle in his shrewd eyes. this little episode has always seemed to me curiously typical of austro-hungarian methods. the central figure of berlin was of course the old emperor william. this splendid-looking old man may not have been an intellectual giant, but he { } certainly looked an emperor, every inch of him. there was something, too, very taking in his kindly old face and genial manner. the crown princess, afterwards the empress frederick, being a british princess, we were what is known in diplomatic parlance as "une ambassade de famille." the entire staff of the embassy was asked to dine at the palace on the birthdays both of queen victoria and of the crown princess. these dinners took place at the unholy hour of p.m., in full uniform, at the emperor's ugly palace on the linden, the old schloss being only used for more formal entertainments. on these occasions the sole table decoration consisted, quaintly enough, of rows of gigantic silver dish-covers, each surmounted by the prussian eagle, with nothing under them, running down the middle of the table. the old emperor had been but indifferently handled by his dentist. it had become necessary to supplement nature's handiwork by art, but so unskilfully had these, what are euphemistically termed, additions to the emperor's mouth been contrived, that his articulation was very defective. it was almost impossible to hear what he said, or indeed to make out in what language he was addressing you. when the emperor "made the circle," one strained one's ears to the utmost to obtain a glimmering of what he was saying. if one detected an unmistakably teutonic guttural, one drew a bow at a venture, and murmured "_zu befehl majestät_," trusting that it might fit in. should one catch, on the other hand, a slight { } suspicion of a nasal "n," one imagined that the language must be french, and interpolated a tentative "_parfaitement, sire_," trusting blindly to a kind providence. still the impression remains of a kindly and very dignified old gentleman, filling his part admirably. the empress augusta, who had been beautiful in her youth, could not resign herself to growing old gracefully. she would have made a most charming old lady, but though well over seventy then, she was ill-advised enough to attempt to rejuvenate herself with a chestnut wig and an elaborate make-up, with deplorable results. the empress, in addition, was afflicted with a slight palsy of the head. the really magnificent figure was the crown prince, afterwards the emperor frederick. immensely tall, with a full golden beard, he looked in his white cuirassier uniform the living embodiment of a german legendary hero; a lohengrin in real life. princess frederick charles of prussia was a strikingly handsome woman too, though unfortunately nearly stone deaf. though the palace on the linden may have been commonplace and ugly, the old schloss has to my mind the finest interior in europe. it may lack the endless, bare, gigantic halls of the winter palace in petrograd, and it may contain fewer rooms than the great rambling hofburg in vienna, but i maintain that, with the possible exception of the palace in madrid, no building in europe { } can compare internally with the old schloss in berlin. i think the effect the berlin palace produces on the stranger is due to the series of rooms which must be traversed before the state apartments proper are reached. these rooms, of moderate dimensions, are very richly decorated. their painted ceilings, encased in richly-gilt "coffered" work in high relief, have a venetian effect, recalling some of the rooms in the doge's palace in the sea-girt city of the adriatic. their silk-hung walls, their pictures, and the splendid pieces of old furniture they contain, redeem these rooms from the soulless, impersonal look most palaces wear. they recall the rooms in some of the finer english or french country-houses, although no private house would have them in the same number. the rooms that dwell in my memory out of the dozen or so that formed the _enfilade_ are, first, the "drap d'or kammer," with its droll hybrid appellation, the walls of which were hung, as its name implies, with cloth of gold; then the "red eagle room," with its furniture and mirrors of carved wood, covered with thin plates of beaten silver, producing an indescribably rich effect, and the "red velvet" room. this latter had its walls hung with red velvet bordered by broad bands of silver lace, and contained some splendid old gilt furniture. the throne room was one of the most sumptuous in the world. it had an arched painted ceiling, from which depended some beautiful old chandeliers of cut rock crystal, and the walls, which framed { } great panels of gobelin tapestry of the best period, were highly decorated, in florid rococo style, with pilasters and carved groups representing the four quarters of the world. the whole of the wall surface was gilded; carvings, mouldings, and pilasters forming one unbroken sheet of gold. we were always told that the musicians' gallery was of solid silver, and that it formed part of frederick the great's war-chest. as a matter of fact, frederick had himself melted the original gallery down and converted it into cash for one of his campaigns. by his orders, a facsimile gallery was carved of wood heavily silvered over. the effect produced, however, was the same, as we were hardly in a position to scrutinise the hall-mark. the room contained four semi-circular buffets, rising in diminishing tiers, loaded with the finest specimens the prussian crown possessed of old german silver-gilt drinking-cups of nuremberg and augsburg workmanship of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. when the throne room was lighted up at night the glowing colours of the gobelin tapestry and the sheen of the great expanses of gold and silver produced an effect of immense splendour. with the possible exception of the salle des fêtes in the luxembourg palace in paris, it was certainly the finest throne room in europe. the first time i saw the luxembourg hall was as a child of seven, under the second empire, when i was absolutely awe-struck by its magnificence. it then contained napoleon the third's throne, and { } was known as the "salle du trône." a relation pointed out to me that the covering and curtains of the throne, instead of being of the stereotyped crimson velvet, were of purple velvet, all spangled with the golden bees of the bonapartes. the luxembourg hall had then in the four corners of the coved ceiling an ornament very dear to the meretricious but effective taste of the second empire. four immense globes of sky-blue enamel supported four huge gilt napoleonic eagles with outspread wings. to the crude taste of a child the purple velvet of the throne, powdered with golden bees, and the gilt eagles on their turquoise globes, appeared splendidly sumptuous. of course after all traces of throne and eagles were removed, as well as the countless "n. iii's" with which the walls were plentifully besprinkled. what an astute move of louis napoleon's it was to term himself the "third," counting the poor little "aiglon," the king of rome, as the second of the line, and thus giving a look of continuity and stability to a brand-new dynasty! some people say that the assumption of this title was due to an accident, arising out of a printer's error. after his _coup d'état_, louis napoleon issued a proclamation to the french people, ending "vive napoleon!!!" the printer, mistaking the three notes of exclamation for the numeral iii, set up "vive napoleon iii." the proclamation appeared in this form, and louis napoleon, at once recognising the advantages of it, adhered to the style. { } whether this is true or not i cannot say. i was then too young to be able to judge for myself, but older people have told me that the mushroom court of the tuileries eclipsed all others in europe in splendour. the _parvenu_ dynasty needed all the aid it could derive from gorgeous ceremonial pomp to maintain its position successfully. to return to berlin, beyond the throne room lay the fine picture gallery, nearly feet long. at court entertainments all the german officers gathered in this picture gallery and made a living hedge, between the ranks of which the guests passed on their way to the famous "white hall." these long ranks of men in their resplendent _hofballanzug_ were really a magnificent sight, and whoever first devised this most effective bit of stage-management deserves great credit. the white hall as i knew it was a splendidly dignified room. as its name implies, it was entirely white, the mouldings all being silvered instead of gilt. both germans and russians are fond of substituting silvering for gilding. personally i think it most effective, but as the french with their impeccable good taste never employ silvering, there must be some sound artistic reason against its use. it must be reluctantly confessed that the show of feminine beauty at berlin was hardly on a level with the perfect _mise-en-scène_. there were three or four very beautiful women. countess karolyi, the austrian ambassadress, herself a hungarian, was a tall, graceful blonde with beautiful hair; she { } was full of infinite attraction. princess william radziwill, a russian, was, i think, the loveliest human being i have ever seen; she was, however, much dreaded on account of her mordant tongue. princess carolath-beuthen, a prussian, had first seen the light some years earlier than these two ladies. she was still a very beautiful woman, and eventually married as her second husband count herbert bismarck, the iron chancellor's eldest son. there was, unfortunately, a very wide gap between the looks of these "stars" and those of the rest of the company. the interior of the berlin schloss put buckingham palace completely in the shade. the london palace was unfortunately decorated in the "fifties," during the _époque de mauvais goût_, as the french comprehensively term the whole period between and , and it bears the date written on every unfortunate detail of its decoration. it is beyond any question whatever the product of the "period of bad taste." i missed, though, in berlin the wealth of flowers which turns buckingham palace into a garden on court ball nights. civilians too in london have to appear at court in knee-breeches and stockings; in berlin trousers were worn, thus destroying the _habillé_ look. as regards the display of jewels and the beauty of the women at the two courts, berlin was simply nowhere. german uniforms were of every colour of the rainbow; with us there is an undue predominance of scarlet, so that the kaleidoscopic effect of berlin was never { } attained in london, added to which too much scarlet and gold tends to kill the effect of the ladies' dresses. at the prussian court on these state occasions an immense number of pages made their appearance. i myself had been a court page in my youth, but whereas in england little boys were always chosen for this part, in berlin the tallest and biggest lads were selected from the cadet school at lichterfelde. a great lanky gawk six feet high, with an incipient moustache, does not show up to advantage in lace ruffles, with his thin spindle-shanks encased in silk stockings; a page's trappings being only suitable for little boys. i remember well the day when i and my fellow-novice were summoned to try on our new page's uniforms. our white satin knee-breeches and gold-embroidered white satin waistcoats left us quite cold, but we were both enchanted with the little pages' swords, in their white-enamelled scabbards, which the tailor had brought with him. we had neither of us ever possessed a real sword of our own before, and the steel blades were of the most inviting sharpness. we agreed that the opportunity was too good a one to be lost, so we determined to slip out into the garden in our new finery and there engage in a deadly duel. it was further agreed to thrust really hard with the keen little blades, "just to see what would happen." fortunately for us, we had been overheard. we reached the garden, and, having found a conveniently secluded spot, had just { } commenced to make those vague flourishes with our unaccustomed weapons which our experience, derived from pictures, led us to believe formed the orthodox preliminaries to a duel, when the combat was sternly interrupted. otherwise there would probably have been vacancies for one if not two fresh pages of honour before nightfall. what a pity there were no "movies" in those days! what a splendid film could have been made of two small boys, arrayed in all the bravery of silk stockings, white satin breeches, and lace ruffles, their red tunics heavy with bullion embroidery, engaged in a furious duel in a big garden. when the news of our escapade reached the ears of the highest quarters, preemptory orders were issued to have the steel blades removed from our swords and replaced with innocuous pieces of shaped wood. it was very ignominious; still the little swords made a brave show, and no one by looking at them could guess that the white scabbards shielded nothing more deadly than an inoffensive piece of oak. a page's sword, by the way, is not worn at the left side in the ordinary manner, but is passed through two slits in the tunic, and is carried in the small of the back, so that the boy can keep his hands entirely free. the "white hall" has a splendid inlaid parquet floor, with a crowned prussian eagle in the centre of it. this eagle was a source of immense pride to the palace attendants, who kept it in a high state of polish. as a result the eagle was as slippery as ice, and woe betide the unfortunate dancer { } who set his foot on it. he was almost certain to fall; and to fall down at a berlin state ball was an unpardonable offence. if a german officer, the delinquent had his name struck off the list of those invited for a whole year. if a member of the corps diplomatique, he received strong hints to avoid dancing again. certainly the diplomats were sumptuously entertained at supper at the berlin palace; whether the general public fared as well i do not know. urbain, the old emperor william's french chef, who was responsible for these admirable suppers, had published several cookery books in french, on the title-page of which he described himself as "urbain, premier officier de bouche de s.m. l'empereur d'allemagne." this quaint-sounding title was historically quite correct, it being the official appellation of the head cooks of the old french kings. a feature of the berlin state balls was the stirrup-cup of hot punch given to departing guests. knowing people hurried to the grand staircase at the conclusion of the entertainment; here servants proffered trays of this delectable compound. it was concocted, i believe, of equal parts of arrack and rum, with various other unknown ingredients. in the same way, at buckingham palace in queen victoria's time, wise persons always asked for hock cup. this was compounded of very old hock and curious liqueurs, from a hundred-year-old recipe. a truly admirable beverage! now, alas! since queen victoria's day, only a memory. { } the princesses of the house of prussia had one ordeal to face should they become betrothed to a member of the royal family of any other country. they took leave formally of the diplomats at the palace, "making the circle" by themselves. i have always understood that prussian princesses were trained for this from their childhood by being placed in the centre of a circle of twenty chairs, and being made to address some non-committal remark to each chair in turn, in german, french, and english. i remember well princess louise margaret of prussia, afterwards our own duchess of connaught, who was to become so extraordinarily popular not only in england but in india and canada as well, making her farewell at berlin on her betrothal. she "made the circle" of some forty people, addressing a remark or two to each, entirely alone, save for two of the great long, gawky prussian pages in attendance on her, looking in their red tunics for all the world like london-grown geraniums--all stalk and no leaves. it is a terribly trying ordeal for a girl of eighteen, and the duchess once told me that she nearly fainted from sheer nervousness at the time, although she did not show it in the least. if i may be permitted a somewhat lengthy digression, i would say that it is at times extremely difficult to find topics of conversation. years afterwards, when i was stationed at our lisbon legation, the papal nuncio was very tenacious of his dignity. in catholic countries the nuncio is _ex officio_ head { } of the diplomatic body, and the nuncio at lisbon expected every diplomat to call on him at least six times a year. on his reception days the nuncio always arrayed himself in his purple robes and a lace cotta, with his great pectoral emerald cross over it. he then seated himself in state in a huge carved chair, with a young priest as aide-de-camp, standing motionless behind him. it was always my ill-fortune to find the nuncio alone. now what possible topic of conversation could i, a protestant, find with which to fill the necessary ten minutes with an italian archbishop _in partibus_. we could not well discuss the latest fashions in copes, or any impending changes in the college of cardinals. most providentally, i learnt that this admirable ecclesiastic, so far from despising the pleasures of the table, made them his principal interest in life. i know no more of the intricacies of the italian _cuisine_ than melchizedek knew about frying sausages, but i had a friend, the wife of an italian colleague, deeply versed in the mysteries of tuscan cooking. this kindly lady wrote me out in french some of the choicest recipes in her extensive _répertoire_, and i learnt them all off by heart. after that i was the nuncio's most welcome visitor. we argued hotly over the respective merits of _risotto alia milanese_ and _risotto al salto_. we discussed _gnocchi_, _pasta asciutta_, and novel methods of preparing _minestra_, i trust without undue partisan heat, until the excellent prelate's eyes gleamed and his mouth began to water. donna maria, my italian friend, proved an { } inexhaustible mine of recipes. she always produced new ones, which i memorised, and occasionally wrote out for the nuncio, sometimes, with all the valour of ignorance, adding a fancy ingredient or two on my own account. on one occasion, after i had detailed the constituent parts of an extraordinarily succulent composition of rice, cheese, oil, mushrooms, chestnuts, and tomatoes, the nuncio nearly burst into tears with emotion, and i feel convinced that, heretic though i might be, he was fully intending to give me his apostolic benediction, had not the watchful young priest checked him. i felt rewarded for my trouble when my chief, the british minister, informed me that the nuncio considered me the most intelligent young man he knew. he added further that he enjoyed my visits, as my conversation was so interesting. the other occasion on which i experienced great conversational difficulties was in northern india at the house of a most popular and sporting maharajah. his mother, the old maharani, having just completed her seventy-first year, had emerged from the seclusion of the zenana, where she had spent fifty-five years of her life, or, in eastern parlance, had "come from behind the curtain." we paid short ceremonial visits at intervals to the old lady, who sat amid piles of cushions, a little brown, shrivelled, mummy-like figure, so swathed in brocades and gold tissue as to be almost invisible. the maharajah was most anxious that i should talk to his mother, but what possible subject of conversation { } could i find with an old lady who had spent fifty-five years in the pillared (and somewhat uncleanly) seclusions of the zenana? added to which the maharani knew no urdu, but only spoke bengali, a language of which i am ignorant. this entailed the services of an interpreter, always an embarrassing appendage. on occasions of this sort morier's delightful book _hadji baba_ is invaluable, for the author gives literal english translations of all the most flowery persian compliments. had the maharani been a mohammedan, i could have addressed her as "oh moon-faced ravisher of hearts! i trust that you are reposing under the canopy of a sound brain!" being a hindoo, however, she would not be familiar with persian forms of politeness. a few remarks on lawn tennis, or the increasing price of polo ponies, would obviously fail to interest her. you could not well discuss fashions with an old lady who had found one single garment sufficient for her needs all her days, and any questions as to details of her life in the zenana, or that of the other inmates of that retreat, would have been indecorous in the highest degree. nothing then remained but to remark that the maharajah was looking remarkably well, but that he had unquestionably put on a great deal of weight since i had last seen him. i received the startling reply from the interpreter (delivered in the clipped, staccato tones most natives of india assume when they speak english), "her highness says that, thanks to god, and to his mother's cooking, her son's belly is increasing indeed to vast size." { } bearing in mind these later conversational difficulties, i cannot but admire the ease with which royal personages, from long practice, manage to address appropriate and varied remarks to perhaps forty people of different nationalities, whilst "making the circle." { } chapter ii easy-going austria--vienna--charm of town--a little piece of history---international families--family pride--"schlüssel-geld"--excellence of vienna restaurants--the origin of "_croissants_"--good looks of viennese women--strauss's operettas--a ball in an old vienna house--court entertainments--the empress elisabeth--delightful environs of vienna--the berlin congress of --lord beaconsfield--m. de blowitz--treaty telegraphed to london--environs of berlin--potsdam and its lakes--the bow-oar of the embassy "four"--narrow escape of ex-kaiser--the potsdam palaces--transfer to petrograd--glamour of russia--an evening with the crown prince at potsdam. our embassy at vienna was greatly overworked at this time, owing to the illness of two of the staff, and some fresh developments of the perennial "eastern question." i was accordingly "lent" to the vienna embassy for as long as was necessary, and left at once for the austrian capital. at the frontier station of tetschen the transition from cast-iron, dictatorial, overbearing prussian efficiency to the good-natured, easy-going, slipshod methods of the "ramshackle empire" was immediately apparent. the change from berlin to vienna was refreshing. the straight, monotonous, well-kept streets of the northern capital lacked life and animation. it was a very fine frame enclosing no picture. the vienna { } streets were as gay as those of paris, and one was conscious of being in a city with centuries of traditions. the inner town of vienna with its narrow winding streets is extraordinarily picturesque. the demolisher has not been given the free hand he has been allowed in paris, and the fine _baroque_ houses still remaining give an air of great distinction to this part of the town, with its many highly-decorative, if somewhat florid, fountains and columns. one was no longer in the "pushful" atmosphere of prussia. these cheery, easy-going viennese loved music and dancing, eating and drinking, laughter and fun. they were quite content to drift lazily down the stream of life, with as much enjoyment and as little trouble as possible. they might be a decadent race, but they were essentially _gemüthliche leute_. the untranslatable epithet _gemüthlich_ implies something at once "comfortable," "sociable," "cosy," and "pleasant." the austrian aristocracy were most charming people. they had all intermarried for centuries, and if they did not trouble their intellect much, there may have been physical difficulties connected with the process for which they were not responsible. the degree of warmth of their reception of foreigners was largely dependent upon whether he, or she, could show the indispensable _sechzehn ahnen_ (the "sixteen quarterings"). once satisfied (or the reverse) as to this point, to which they attach immense importance, the situation became easier. as the whole of these people were interrelated, they { } were all on christian names terms, and the various "mitzis," "kitzis," "fritzis," and other characteristically austrian abbreviations were a little difficult to place at times. it was impossible not to realise that the whole nation was living on the traditions of their splendid past. it must be remembered that in the sixteenth century the hapsburgs ruled the whole of europe with the exception of france, england, russia, and the scandinavian countries. for centuries after charlemagne assumed the imperial crown there had been only one emperor in europe, the "holy roman emperor," the "heiliger römischer kaiser," the fiction being, of course, that he was the descendant of the cæsars. the word "kaiser" is only the german variant of cæsar. france and england had always consistently refused to acknowledge the overlordship of the emperor, but the prestige of the title in german-speaking lands was immense, though the holy roman empire itself was a mere simulacrum of power. in theory the emperor was elected; in practice the title came to be a hereditary appanage of the proud hapsburgs. it was, i think, talleyrand who said "l'autrice a la fächeuse habitude d'être toujours battue," and this was absolutely true. austria was defeated with unfailing regularity in almost every campaign, and the hapsburgs saw their immense dominions gradually slipping from their grasp. it was on may , , that napoleon was crowned emperor of the french in paris, and francis ii, the last of { } the holy roman emperors, was fully aware that napoleon's next move would be to supplant him and get himself elected as "roman emperor." this napoleon would have been able to achieve, as he had bribed the electors of bavaria, württemberg, and saxony by creating them kings. for once a hapsburg acted with promptitude. on august , , francis proclaimed himself hereditary emperor of austria, and two years later he abolished the title of holy roman emperor. the empire, after a thousand years of existence, flickered out ingloriously in . the pride of the hapsburgs had received a hundred years previously a rude shock. peter the great, after consolidating russia, abolished the title of tsar of muscovy, and proclaimed himself emperor of all the russias; purposely using the same term "imperator" as that employed by the roman emperor, and thus putting himself on an equality with him. i know by experience that it is impossible to din into the heads of those unfamiliar with russia that since peter the great's time there has never been a tsar. the words "tsar," "tsarina," "cesarevitch," beloved of journalists, exist only in their imagination; they are never heard in russia. the russians termed their emperor "gosudar imperator," using either or both of the words. empress is "imperatritza"; heir apparent "nadslyédnik." if you mentioned the words "tsar" or "tsarina" to any ordinary russian peasant, i doubt if he would understand you, but i am well { } aware that it is no use repeating this, the other idea is too firmly ingrained. the hapsburgs had yet another bitter pill to swallow. down to the middle of the nineteenth century the ancient prestige of the title kaiser and the glamour attached to it were maintained throughout the germanic confederation, but in a second brand-new kaiser arose on the banks of the spree, and the hapsburgs were shorn of their long monopoly. franz josef of austria must have rued the day when sigismund sold the sandy mark of brandenburg to frederick count of hohenzollern in , and regretted the acquiescence in of his direct ancestor, the emperor leopold i, in the elector of brandenburg's request that he might assume the title of king of prussia. the hohenzollerns were ever a grasping race. i think that it was louis xiv of france who, whilst officially recognising the new king of prussia, refused to speak of him as such, and always alluded to him as "monsieur le marquis de brandenbourg." no wonder that the feeling of bitterness against prussia amongst the upper classes of austria was very acute in the "'seventies." the events of were still too recent to have been forgotten. in my time the great austrian ladies affected the broadest vienna popular dialect, probably to emphasise the fact that they were not prussians. thus the sentence "ein glas wasser, bitte," became, written in phonetic english, "a' glawss vawsser beet." i myself was much rallied on my pedantic { } north-german pronunciation, and had in self-defence to adopt unfamiliar austrian equivalents for many words. the curious international families which seemed to abound in vienna always puzzled me. thus the princes d'aremberg are belgians, but there was one prince d'aremberg in the austrian service, whilst his brother was in the prussian diplomatic service, the remainder of the family being belgians. there were, in the same way, many german-speaking pourtales in berlin in the german service, and more french-speaking ones in paris in the french service. the duc de croy was both a belgian and an austrian subject. the croys are one of the oldest families in europe, and are _ebenbürtig_ ("born on an equality") with all the german royalties. they therefore show no signs of respect to archdukes and archduchesses when they meet them. although i cannot vouch personally for them, never having myself seen them, i am told that there are two pictures in the croy palace at brussels which reach the apogee of family pride. the first depicts noah embarking on his ark. although presumably anxious about the comfort of the extensive live-stock he has on board, noah finds time to give a few parting instructions to his sons. on what is technically called a "bladder" issuing from his mouth are the words, "and whatever you do, don't forget to bring with you the family papers of the croys." ("et surtout ayez soin de ne pas oublier les papiers de la maison de croy!") the { } other picture represents the madonna and child, with the then duke of croy kneeling in adoration before them. out of the virgin mary's mouth comes a "bladder" with the words "but please put on your hat, dear cousin." ("mais couvrez vous donc, cher cousin.") the whole of viennese life is regulated by one exceedingly tiresome custom. after or . p.m. the hall porter (known in vienna as the "house-master") of every house in the city has the right of levying a small toll of threepence on each person entering or leaving the house. the whole life of the vienna bourgeois is spent in trying to escape this tax, known as "schlüssel-geld." the theatres commence accordingly at p.m. or . , which entails dining about p.m. a typical viennese middle-class family will hurry out in the middle of the last act and scurry home breathlessly, as the fatal hour approaches. arrived safely in their flat, in the last stages of exhaustion, they say triumphantly to each other. "we have missed the end of the play, and we are rather out of breath, but never mind, we have escaped the 'schlüssel-geld,' and as we are four, that makes a whole shilling saved!" an equally irritating custom is the one that ordains that in restaurants three waiters must be tipped in certain fixed proportions. the "piccolo," who brings the wine and bread, receives one quarter of the tip; the "speisetrager," who brings the actual food, gets one half; the "zahlkellner," { } who brings the bill, gets one quarter. all these must be given separately, so not only does it entail a hideous amount of mental arithmetic, but it also necessitates the perpetual carrying about of pocketfuls of small change. the vienna restaurants were quite excellent, with a local cuisine of extraordinary succulence, and more extraordinary names. a universal austrian custom, not only in restaurants but in private houses as well, is to serve a glass of the delicious light vienna beer with the soup. even at state dinners at the hof-burg, a glass of beer was always offered with the soup. the red wine, voslauer, grown in the immediate vicinity of the city, is so good, and has such a distinctive flavour, that i wonder it has never been exported. the restaurants naturally suggest the matchless viennese orchestras. they were a source of never-ending delight to me. the distinction they manage to give to quite commonplace little airs is extraordinary. the popular songs, "wiener-couplets," melodious, airy nothings, little light soap-bubbles of tunes, are one of the distinctive features of vienna. played by an austrian band as only an austrian band can play them, with astonishing vim and fire, and supremely dainty execution, these little fragile melodies are quite charming and irresistibly attractive. we live in a progressive age. in the place of these austrian bands with their finished execution and consummately musicianly feeling, the twentieth century { } has invented the jazz band with its ear-splitting, chaotic din. there is a place in vienna known as the heiden-schuss, or "shooting of the heathens." the origin of this is quite interesting. in the turks invaded hungary, and, completely overrunning the country, reached vienna, to which they laid siege, for the second time in its history. incidentally, they nearly succeeded in capturing it. during the siege bakers' apprentices were at work one night in underground bakehouses, preparing the bread for next day's consumption. the lads heard a rhythmic "thump, thump, thump," and were much puzzled by it. two of the apprentices, more intelligent than the rest, guessed that the turks were driving a mine, and ran off to the commandant of vienna with their news. they saw the principal engineer officer and told him of their discovery. he accompanied them back to the underground bakehouse, and at once determined that the boys were right. having got the direction from the sound, the austrians drove a second tunnel, and exploded a powerful counter-mine. great numbers of turks were killed, and the siege was temporarily raised. on september of the same year ( ) john sobieski, king of poland, utterly routed the turks, drove them back into their own country, and vienna was saved. as a reward for the intelligence shown by the baker-boys, they were granted the privilege of making and selling a rich kind of roll (into the { } composition of which butter entered largely) in the shape of the turkish emblem, the crescent. these rolls became enormously popular amongst the viennese, who called them _kipfeln_. when marie antoinette married louis xvi of france, she missed her kipfel, and sent to vienna for an austrian baker to teach his paris _confrères_ the art of making them. these rolls, which retained their original shape, became as popular in paris as they had been in vienna, and were known as _croissants_, and that is the reason why one of the rolls which are brought you with your morning coffee in paris will be baked in the form of a crescent. the extraordinary number of good-looking women, of all classes to be seen in the streets of vienna was most striking, especially after berlin, where a lower standard of feminine beauty prevailed. particularly noticeable were the admirable figures with which most austrian women are endowed. in the far-off "'seventies" ladies did not huddle themselves into a shapeless mass of abbreviated oddments of material--they dressed, and their clothes fitted them; and a woman on whom nature (or art) had bestowed a good figure was able to display her gifts to the world. in the same way, fashion did not compel a pretty girl to smother up her features in unbecoming tangles of tortured hair. the usual fault of austrian faces is their breadth across the cheek-bones; the viennese too have a decided tendency { } to _embonpoint_, but in youth these defects are not accentuated. amongst the austrian aristocracy the great beauty of the girls was very noticeable, as was their height, in marked contrast to the short stature of most of the men. i have always heard that one of the first outward signs of the decadence of a race is that the girls grow taller, whilst the men get shorter. the vienna theatres are justly celebrated. at the hof-burg theatre may be seen the most finished acting on the german stage. the burg varied its programme almost nightly, and it was an amusing sight to see the troops of liveried footmen inquiring at the box-office, on behalf of their mistresses, whether the play to be given that night was or was not a _comtessen-stück_, _i.e._, a play fit for young girls to see. the box-keeper always gave a plain "yes" or "no" in reply. after charles garnier's super-ornate pile in paris, the vienna opera-house is the finest in europe, and the musical standard reaches the highest possible level, completely eclipsing paris in that respect. in the "'seventies" johann strauss's delightful comic operas still retained their vogue. bubbling over with merriment, full of delicious ear-tickling melodies, and with a "go" and an irresistible intoxication about them that no french composer has ever succeeded in emulating, these operettas, "die fledermaus," "prinz methusalem," and "la reine indigo," would well stand revival. when the "fledermaus" { } was revived in london some ten years ago it ran, if my memory serves me right, for nearly a year. occasionally strauss himself conducted one of his own operettas; then the orchestra, responding to his magical baton, played like very demons. strauss had one peculiarity. should he be dissatisfied with the vim the orchestra put into one of his favourite numbers, he would snatch the instrument from the first violin and play it himself. then the orchestra answered like one man, and one left the theatre with the entrancing strains still tingling in one's ears. the family houses of most of the austrian nobility were in the inner town, the old walled city, where space was very limited. these fine old houses, built for the greater part in the italian baroque style, though splendid for entertaining, were almost pitch dark and very airless in the daytime. judging, too, from the awful smells in them, they must have been singularly insanitary dwellings. the lobkowitz palace, afterwards the french embassy, was so dark by day that artificial light had always to be used. in the great seventeenth century ball-room of the lobkowitz palace there was a railed off oak-panelled alcove containing a bust of beethoven, an oak table, and three chairs. it was in that alcove, and at that table, that beethoven, when librarian to prince lobkowitz, composed some of his greatest works. our own embassy in the metternichgasse, built { } by the british government, was rather cramped and could in no way compare with the berlin house. i remember well a ball given by prince s----, head of one of the greatest austrian families, in his fine but extremely dark house in the inner town. it was prince s----'s custom on these occasions to have three hundred young peasants sent up from his country estates, and to have them all thrust into the family livery. these bucolic youths, looking very sheepish in their unfamiliar plush breeches and stockings, with their unkempt heads powdered, and with swords at their sides, stood motionless on every step of the staircase. i counted one hundred of these rustic retainers on the staircase alone. they would have looked better had their liveries occasionally fitted them. the ball-room at prince s----'s was hung with splendid brussels seventeenth century tapestry framed in mahogany panels, heavily carved and gilt. i have never seen this combination of mahogany, gilding, and tapestry anywhere else. it was wonderfully decorative, and with the elaborate painted ceiling made a fine setting for an entertainment. it was a real pleasure to see how whole-heartedly the austrians threw themselves into the dancing. i think they all managed to retain a child's power of enjoyment, and they never detracted from this by any unnecessary brainwork. still they were delightfully friendly, easy-going people. a distinctive feature of every vienna ball { } was the "comtessen-zimmer," or room reserved for girls. at the end of every dance they all trooped in there, giggling and gossiping, and remained there till the music for the next dance struck up. no married woman dared intrude into the "comtessen-zimmer," and i shudder to think of what would have befallen the rash male who ventured to cross that jealously-guarded threshold. i imagine that the charming and beautifully-dressed austrian married women welcomed this custom, for between the dances at all events they could still hold the field, free from the competition of a younger and fresher generation. at prince s----'s, at midnight, armies of rustic retainers, in their temporary disguise, brought battalions of supper tables into the ball-room, and all the guests sat down to a hot supper at the same time. as an instance of how austrians blended simplicity with a great love of externals, i see from my diary that the supper consisted of bouillon, of plain-boiled carp with horse-radish, of thick slices of hot roast beef, and a lemon ice--and nothing else whatever. a sufficiently substantial repast, but hardly in accordance with modern ideas as to what a ball-supper should consist of. the young peasants, considering that it was their first attempt at waiting, did not break an undue number of plates; they tripped at times, though, over their unaccustomed swords, and gaped vacantly, or would get hitched up with each other, when more dishes crashed to their doom. { } in vienna there was a great distinction drawn between a "court ball" (hof-ball) and a "ball at the court" (ball bei hof). to the former everyone on the palace list was invited, to the latter only a few people; and the one was just as crowded and disagreeable as the other was the reverse. the great rambling pile of the hof-burg contains some very fine rooms and a marvellous collection of works of art, and the so-called "ceremonial apartments" are of quite imperial magnificence, but the general effect was far less striking than in berlin. in spite of the beauty of the women, the _coup d'oeil_ was spoilt by the ugly austrian uniforms. after the disastrous campaign of , the traditional white of the austrian army was abolished, and the uniforms were shorn of all unnecessary trappings. the military tailors had evolved hideous garments, ugly in colour, unbecoming in cut. one can only trust that they proved very economical, but the contrast with the splendid and admirably made uniforms of the prussian army was very marked. the hungarian magnates in their traditional family costumes (from which all hussar uniforms are derived) added a note of gorgeous colour, with their gold-laced tunics and their many-hued velvet slung-jackets. i remember, on the occasion of queen victoria's jubilee in , the astonishment caused by a youthful and exceedingly good-looking hungarian who appeared at buckingham palace in skin-tight blue breeches { } lavishly embroidered with gold over the thighs, entirely gilt hessian boots to the knee, and a tight-fitting tunic cut out of a real tiger-skin, fastened with some two dozen turquoise buttons the size of five-shilling pieces. when this resplendent youth reappeared in london ten years later at the diamond jubilee, it was with a tonsured head, and he was wearing the violet robes of a prelate of the roman church. as an instance of the inflexibility of the cast-iron rules of the hapsburg court: i may mention that the beautiful countess karolyi, austrian ambassadress in berlin, was never asked to court in vienna, as she lacked the necessary "sixteen quarterings." to a non-austrian mind it seems illogical that the lovely lady representing austria in berlin should have been thought unfitted for an invitation from her own sovereign. the immense deference paid to the austrian archdukes and archduchesses was very striking after the comparatively unceremonious fashion in which minor german royalties (always excepting the emperor and the crown prince) were treated in berlin. the archduchesses especially were very tenacious of their privileges. they never could forget that they were hapsburgs, and exacted all the traditional signs of respect. the unfortunate empress elisabeth, destined years after to fall under the dagger of an assassin at geneva, made but seldom a public appearance in her husband's dominions. she had an almost { } morbid horror of fulfilling any of the duties of her position. during my stay in the austrian capital i only caught one glimpse of her, driving through the streets. she was astonishingly handsome, with coiled masses of dark hair, and a very youthful and graceful figure, but the face was so impassive that it produced the effect of a beautiful, listless mask. the empress was a superb horse-woman, and every single time she rode she was literally sewn into her habit by a tailor, in order to ensure a perfect fit. the innumerable cafés of vienna were crowded from morning to night. seeing them crammed with men in the forenoon, one naturally wondered how the business of the city was transacted. probably, in typical austrian fashion, these worthy viennese left their businesses to take care of themselves whilst they enjoyed themselves in the cafés. the super-excellence of the vienna coffee would afford a more or less legitimate excuse for this. nowhere in the world is such coffee made, and a "capuziner," or a "melange," the latter with thick whipped cream on the top of it, were indeed things of joy. few capitals are more fortunate in their environs than vienna. the beautiful gardens and park of schönbrunn palace have a sort of intimate charm which is wholly lacking at versailles. they are stately, yet do not overwhelm you with a sense of vast spaces. they are crowned by a sort of temple, known as the gloriette, { } from which a splendid view is obtained. in less than three hours from the capital, the railway climbs , feet to the semmering, where the mountain scenery is really grand. during the summer months the whole of vienna empties itself on to the semmering and the innumerable other hill-resorts within easy distance from the city. when the time came for my departure, i felt genuinely sorry at leaving this merry, careless, music and laughter-loving town, and these genial, friendly, hospitable incompetents. i feel some compunction in using this word, as people had been very good to me. i cannot help feeling, though, that it is amply warranted. a bracing climate is doubtless wholesome; but a relaxing one can be very pleasant for a time. i went back to berlin feeling like a boy returning to school after his holidays. the viennese had but little love for their upstart rival on the spree. they had invented the name "parvenupopolis" for berlin, and a little popular song, which i may be forgiven for quoting in the original german, expressed their sentiments fairly accurately: es gibt nur eine kaiserstadt, es gibt nur ein wien; es gibt nur ein raubernest, und das heisst berlin. i had a bavarian friend in berlin. we talked over the amazing difference in temperament there { } was between the austrians and the prussians, and the curious charm there was about the former, lacking in intellect though they might be, a charm wholly lacking in the pushful, practical prussians. my friend agreed, but claimed the same attractive qualities for his own beloved bavarians; "but," he added impressively, "mark my words, in twenty years from now the whole of germany will be prussianised!" ("_ganz deutschland wird verpreussert werden_") events have shown how absolutely correct my bavarian friend was in his forecast. in june, , the great congress for the settlement of the terms of peace between russia and turkey assembled in berlin. it was an extraordinarily interesting occasion, for almost every single european notability was to be seen in the german capital. the russian plenipotentiaries were the veteran prince gortchakoff and count peter schouvaloff, that most genial _faux-bonhomme_; the turks were championed by ali pasha and by katheodory pasha. great britain was represented by lords beaconsfield and salisbury; austria by count andrassy, the prime minister; france by m. waddington. in spite of the very large staff brought out from london by the british plenipotentiaries, an enormous amount of work fell upon us at the embassy. to a youngster there is something very fascinating in being regarded as so worthy of confidence that the most secret details of the great game of diplomacy were all known to him from { } day to day. a boy of twenty-one feels very proud of the trust reposed in him, and at being the repository of such weighty and important secrets. that is the traditional method of the british diplomatic service. as all the embassies gave receptions in honour of their own plenipotentiaries, we met almost nightly all the great men of europe, and had occasional opportunities for a few words with them. prince gortchakoff, who fancied himself bismarck's only rival, was a little, short, tubby man in spectacles; wholly undistinguished in appearance, and looking for all the world like an average french provincial notaire. count andrassy, the hungarian, was a tall, strikingly handsome man, with an immense head of hair. to me, he always recalled the leader of a "tzigane" orchestra. m. waddington talked english like an englishman, and was so typically british in appearance that it was almost impossible to realise that he was a frenchman. our admiration for him was increased when we learnt that he had rowed in the cambridge eight. but without any question whatever, the personality which excited the greatest interest at the berlin congress was that of lord beaconsfield, the jew who by sheer force of intellect had raised himself from nothing into his present commanding position. his peculiar, colourless, inscrutable face, with its sphinx-like impassiveness; the air of mystery which somehow clung about him; the romantic story of his career; even the remnants of { } dandyism which he still retained in his old age--all these seemed to whet the insatiable public curiosity about him. some enterprising berlin tradesmen had brought out fans, with leaves composed of plain white vellum, designed expressly for the congress. armed with one of these fans, and with pen and ink, indefatigable feminine autograph-hunters moved about at these evening receptions, securing the signatures of the plenipotentiaries on the white vellum leaves. many of those fans must still be in existence, and should prove very interesting to-day. bismarck alone invariably refused his autograph. at all these gatherings, m. de blowitz, the then paris correspondent of the _times_, was much to the fore. in the "'seventies" the prestige of the _times_ on the continent of europe was enormous. in reality the influence of the _times_ was very much overrated, since all continentals persisted in regarding it as the inspired mouthpiece of the british government. great was the _times_, but greater still was de blowitz, its prophet. this most remarkable man was a veritable prince of newspaper correspondents. there was no move on the european chess-board of which he was not cognisant, and as to which he did not keep his paper well informed, and his information was always accurate. de blowitz knew no english, and his lengthy daily telegrams to the _times_ were always written in french and were translated in london. he was really a bohemian jew of the name of { } oppen, and he had bestowed the higher-sounding name of de blowitz on himself. he was a very short, fat little man, with immensely long grey side-whiskers, and a most consequential manner. he was a very great personage indeed in official circles. de blowitz has in his memoirs given a full account of the trick by which he learnt of the daily proceedings of the congress and so transmitted them to his paper. i need not, therefore, go into details about this; it is enough to say that a daily exchange of hats, in the lining of the second of which a summary of the day's deliberations was concealed, played a great part in it. when the treaty had been drawn up in french, lord salisbury rather startled us by saying that he wished it translated into english and cyphered to london that very evening _in extenso_. this was done to obviate the possibility of the news-paper correspondents getting a version of the treaty through to london before the british government had received the actual text. as the treaty was what i, in the light of later experiences, would now describe as of fifteen thousand words length, this was a sufficiently formidable undertaking. fifteen of us sat down to the task about p.m., and by working at high pressure we got the translation finished and the last cyphered sheet sent off to the telegraph office by a.m. the translation done at such breakneck speed was possibly a little crude in places. one clause in the treaty provided that ships in ballast were to have { } free passage through the dardanelles. now the french for "ships in ballast," is "_navires en lest_." the person translating this (who was not a member of the british diplomatic service) rendered "_navires en lest_" as "ships in the east," and in this form it was cyphered to london. as, owing to the geographical position of the dardanelles, any ship approaching them would be, in one sense of the term, a "ship in the east," there was considerable perturbation in downing street over this clause, until the mistake was discovered. berlin has wonderful natural advantages, considering that it is situated in a featureless, sandy plain. in my day it was quite possible to walk from the embassy into a real, wild pine-forest, the grünewald. the grünewald, being a royal forest, was unbuilt on, and quite unspoilt. it extended for miles, enclosing many pretty little lakelets. now i understand that it has been invaded by "villa colonies," so its old charm of wildness must have vanished. the tiergarten, too, the park of berlin, retains in places the look of a real country wood. it is inadvisable to venture into the tiergarten after nightfall, should you wish to retain possession of your watch, purse, and other portable property. the sandy nature of the soil makes it excellent for riding. within quite a short distance of the city you can find tracts of heathery moor, and can get a good gallop almost anywhere. there is quite fair partridge-shooting, too, within { } a few miles of berlin, in the immense potato fields, though the entire absence of cover in this hedgeless land makes it very difficult at times to approach the birds. it is pre-eminently a country for "driving" partridges, though most germans prefer the comparatively easy shots afforded by "walking the birds up." potsdam has had but scant justice done it by foreigners. the town is almost surrounded by the river havel, which here broadens out into a series of winding, wooded lakes, surrounded by tree-clad hills. the potsdam lakes are really charmingly pretty, and afford an admirable place for rowing or sailing. neither of these pursuits seems to make the least appeal to germans. the embassy kept a small yacht at potsdam, but she was practically the only craft then on the lakes. as on all narrow waters enclosed by wooded hills, the sailing was very tricky, owing to the constant shifting of the wind. should it be blowing fresh, it was advisable to sail under very light canvas; and it was always dangerous to haul up the centre-board, even when "running," as on rounding some wooded point you would get "taken aback" to a certainty. once in the fine open stretch of water between wansee and spandau, you could hoist every stitch of canvas available, and indulge with impunity in the most complicated nautical manoeuvres. possibly my extreme fondness for the potsdam lakes may be due to their extraordinary resemblance to the lakes at my own northern country home. { } the embassy also owned a light thames-built four-oar. at times a short, thick-set young man of nineteen pulled bow in our four. the short young man had a withered arm, and the doctors hoped that the exercise of rowing might put some strength into it. he seemed quite a commonplace young man, yet this short, thick-set youth was destined less than forty years after to plunge the world into the greatest calamity it has ever known; to sacrifice millions and millions of human lives to his own inordinate ambition; and to descend to posterity as one of the most sinister characters in the pages of history. moored in the "jungfernsee," one of the potsdam lakes, lay a miniature sailing frigate, a complete model of a larger craft down to the smallest details. this toy frigate had been a present from king william iv of england to the then king of prussia. the little frigate had been built in london, and though of only -tons burden, had been sailed down the thames, across the north sea, and up the elbe and havel to potsdam, by a british naval officer. a pretty bit of seamanship! i have always heard that it was the sight of this toy frigate, lying on the placid lake at potsdam, that first inspired william of hohenzollern with the idea of building a gigantic navy. the whole history of the world might have been changed by an incident which occurred on these same potsdam lakes in . i have already said that william of hohenzollern, then only prince { } william, pulled at times in our embassy four, in the hope that it might strengthen his withered arm. he was very anxious to see if he could learn to scull, in spite of his physical defect, and asked the ambassadress, lady ampthill, whether she would herself undertake to coach him. lady ampthill consented, and met prince william next day at the landing-stage with a light thames-built skiff, belonging to the embassy. lady ampthill, with the caution of one used to light boats, got in carefully, made her way aft, and grasped the yoke-lines. she then explained to prince william that this was not a heavy boat such as he had been accustomed to, that he must exercise extreme care, and in getting in must tread exactly in the centre of the boat. william of hohenzollern, who had never taken advice from anyone in his life, and was always convinced that he himself knew best, responded by jumping into the boat from the landing-stage, capsizing it immediately, and throwing himself and lady ampthill into the water. prince william, owing to his malformation, was unable to swim one stroke, but help was at hand. two of the secretaries of the british embassy had witnessed the accident, and rushed up to aid. the so-called "naval station" was close by, where the emperor's potsdam yacht lay, a most singularly shabby old paddle-boat. some german sailors from the "naval post" heard the shouting and ran up, and a moist, and we will trust a chastened william and a dripping ambassadress were { } eventually rescued from the lake. otherwise william of hohenzollern might have ended his life in the "jungfernsee" at potsdam that day, and millions of other men would have been permitted to live out their allotted span of existence. potsdam itself is quite a pleasing town, with a half-dutch, half-italian physiognomy. both were deliberately borrowed; the first by frederick william i, who constructed the tree-lined canals which give potsdam its half-batavian aspect; the second by frederick the great, who fronted teutonic dwellings with façades copied from italy to add dignity to the town. it must in justice be added that both are quite successful, though potsdam, like most other things connected with the hohenzollerns, has only a couple of hundred years' tradition behind it. the square opposite the railway really does recall italy. the collection of palaces at potsdam is bewildering. of these, three are of the first rank: the town palace, sans-souci, and the great pile of the "new palace." either frederick the great was very fortunate in his architects, or else he chose them with great discrimination. the town palace, even in my time but seldom inhabited, is very fine in the finished details of its decoration. sans-souci is an absolute gem; its rococo style may be a little over-elaborate, but it produces the effect of a finished, complete whole, in the most admirable taste; even though the exuberant imagination of the eighteenth century has been allowed to run riot in it. the gardens of sans-souci, too, { } are most attractive. the immense red-brick building of the new palace was erected by frederick the great during the seven years' war, out of sheer bravado. he was anxious to impress on his enemies the fact that his financial resources were not yet exhausted. considering that he already possessed two stately palaces within a mile of it, the new palace may be looked upon as distinctly a work of supererogation, also as an appalling waste of money. as a piece of architecture, it is distinctly a success. this list does not, however, nearly exhaust the palatial resources of potsdam. the eighteenth century had contributed its successes; it remained for the nineteenth to add its failures. babelsberg, the old emperor william's favourite residence, was an awful example of a ginger-bread pseudo-gothic castle. the marble palace on the so-called "holy lake" was a dull, unimaginative building; and the "red prince's" house at glienicke was frankly terrible. the main features of this place was an avenue of huge cast-iron gilded lions. these golden lions were such a blot on an otherwise charming landscape that one felt relieved by recalling that the apparently ineradicable tendency of the children of israel to erect golden calves at various places in olden days had always been severely discountenanced. in spite of the carpenter-gothic of babelsberg, and of the pinchbeck golden lions of glienicke, potsdam will remain in my mind, to the end of my life, associated with memories of fresh breezes { } and bellying sails; of placid lakes and swift-gliding keels responding to the straining muscles of back and legs; a place of verdant hills dipping into clear waters; of limbs joyously cleaving those clear waters with all the exultation of the swimmer; a place of rest and peace, with every fibre in one's being rejoicing in being away, for the time being, from crowded cities and stifling streets, in the free air amidst woods, waters, and gently-swelling, tree-clad heights. a year later, i was notified that i was transferred to petrograd, then of course still known as st. petersburg. this was in accordance with the dearest wish of my heart. ever since my childhood's days i had been filled with an intense desire to go to russia. like most people unacquainted with the country, i had formed the most grotesquely incorrect mental pictures of russia. i imagined it a vast empire of undreamed of magnificence, pleasantly tempered with relics of barbarism; and all these glittering splendours were enveloped in the snow and ice of a semi-arctic climate, which gave additional piquancy to their glories. i pictured huge tractless forests, their dark expanse only broken by the shimmering golden domes of the russian churches. i fancied this glamour-land peopled by a species of transported french, full of culture, and all of them polyglot, more brilliant and infinitely more intellectual than their west european prototypes. i imagined this hyperborean paradise served by a race of super-astute { } diplomatists and officials, with whom we poor westerners could not hope to contend, and by generals whom no one could withstand. the evident awe with which germans envisaged their eastern neighbours strengthened this idea, and both in england and in france i had heard quite responsible persons gloomily predict, after contemplating the map, that the northern colossus was fatally destined at some time to absorb the whole of the rest of europe. apart then from its own intrinsic attraction, i used to gaze at the map of russia with some such feelings as, i imagine, the early christians experienced when, on their sunday walks in rome, they went to look at the lions in their dens in the circus, and speculated as to their own sensations when, as seemed but too probable, they might have to meet these interesting quadrupeds on the floor of the arena, in a brief, exciting, but definitely final encounter. everything i had seen or heard about this mysterious land had enhanced its glamour. the hair-raising rumours which reached berlin as to revolutionary plots and counter-plots; the appalling stories one heard about the terrible secret police; the atmosphere of intrigue which seemed indigenous to the place--all added to its fascinations. even the externals were attractive. i had attended weddings and funeral services at the chapel of the russian embassy. here every detail was exotic, and utterly dissimilar to anything in one's previous { } experience. the absence of seats, organ, or pulpit in the chapel itself; the elaborate byzantine decorations of the building; the exquisitely beautiful but quite unfamiliar singing; the long-bearded priests in their archaic vestments of unaccustomed golden brocades--everything struck a novel note. it all came from a world apart, centuries removed from the prosaic routine of western europe. even quite minor details, such as the curiously sumptuous russian national dresses of the ladies of the embassy at court functions, the visits to berlin of the russian ballets and troupes of russian singing gipsies, had all the same stamp of strong racial individuality, of something temperamentally different from all we had been accustomed to. i was overjoyed at the prospect of seeing for myself at last this land of mingled splendour and barbarism, this country which had retained its traditional racial characteristics in spite of the influences of nineteenth century drab uniformity of type. as the petrograd embassy was short-handed at the time, it was settled that i should postpone my leave for some months and proceed to russia without delay. the crown prince and crown princess, who had been exceedingly kind to me during my stay in berlin, were good enough to ask me to the new palace at potsdam for one night, to take leave of them. { } i had never before had an opportunity of going all over the new palace. i thought it wonderfully fine, though quite french in feeling. the rather faded appearance of some of the rooms increased their look of dignity. it was not of yesterday. the great "shell hall," or "muschel-saal," much admired of prussians, is frankly horrible; one of the unfortunate aberrations of eighteenth century taste of which several examples occur in english country-houses of the same date. my own bedroom was charming; of the purest louis xv, with apple-green polished panelling and heavily silvered mouldings and mirrors. nothing could be more delightful than the crown prince's manner on occasions such as this. the short-lived emperor frederick had the knack of blending absolute simplicity with great dignity, as had the empress frederick. for the curious in such matters, and as an instance of the traditional frugality of the prussian court, i may add that supper that evening, at which only the crown prince and princess, the equerry and lady-in-waiting, and myself were present, consisted solely of curds and whey, veal cutlets, and a rice pudding. nothing else whatever. we sat afterwards in a very stately, lofty, thoroughly french room. the crown prince, the equerry, and myself drank beer, whilst the prince smoked his long pipe. it seemed incongruous to drink beer amid such absolutely french surroundings. i noticed that the crown princess always laid down her needlework to refill { } her husband's pipe and to bring him a fresh tankard of beer. the "kronprinzliches paar," as a german would have described them, were both perfectly charming in their conversation with a dull, uninteresting youth of twenty-one. they each had marvellous memories, and recalled many trivial half-forgotten details about my own family. that evening in the friendly atmosphere of the great, dimly-lit room in the new palace at potsdam will always live in my memory. two days afterwards i drove through the trim, prosaic, well-ordered, stuccoed streets of berlin to the eastern station; for me, the gateway to the land of my desires, vast, mysterious russia. { } chapter iii the russian frontier--frontier police--disappointment at aspect of petrograd--lord and lady dufferin--the british embassy--st. isaac's cathedral--beauty of russian church-music--the russian language--the delightful "blue-stockings" of petrograd--princess chateau--pleasant russian society--the secret police--the countess's hurried journey--the yacht club--russians really orientals--their limitations--the "intelligenzia"--my nihilist friends--their lack of constructive power--easter mass at st. isaac's--two comical incidents--the easter supper--the red-bearded young priest--an empire built on shifting sand. petrograd is , miles from berlin, and forty years ago the fastest trains took forty-five hours to cover the distance between the two capitals. in later years the "nord-express" accomplishing the journey in twenty-nine hours. rolling through the flat fertile plains of east prussia, with their neat, prosperous villages and picturesque black-and-white farms, the surroundings had such a commonplace air that it was difficult to realise that one was approaching the very threshold of the great, mysterious northern empire. eydkuhnen, the last prussian station, was as other prussian stations, built of trim red brick, neat, practical, and very ugly; with crowds of red-faced, amply-paunched officials, buttoned into the tightest of uniforms, perpetually saluting each other. { } wierjbolovo, or wirballen station as the germans call it, a huge white building, was plainly visible only a third of a mile away. at wirballen the german train would stop, for whereas the german railways are built to the standard european gauge of feet ½ inches, the russian lines were laid to a gauge of feet inch. this gauge had been deliberately chosen to prevent the invasion of russia by her western neighbour. this was to prove an absolutely illusory safeguard, for, as events have shown, nothing is easier than to _narrow_ a railway track. to broaden it is often quite impossible. the cunning little japs found this out during the russo-japanese war. they narrowed the broad russian lines to their own gauge of feet inches, _and then sawed off the ends of the sleepers_ with portable circular saws, thus making it impossible for the russians to relay the rails on the broad gauge. i believe that the germans adopted the same device more recently. i think at only one other spot in the world does a short quarter of a mile result in such amazing differences in externals as does that little piece of line between eydkuhnen and wirballen; and that is at linea, the first spanish village out of gibraltar. leaving the prim and starched orderliness of gibraltar, with its thick coating of british veneer, its tidy streets and buildings enlivened with the scarlet tunics of mr. thomas atkins and his brethren, { } you traverse the "neutral ground" to an iron railing, and literally pass into spain through an iron gate. the contrast is extraordinary. it would be unfair to select linea as a typical spanish village; it is ugly, and lacks the picturesque features of the ordinary andalusian village; it is also unquestionably very dirty, and very tumble-down. between eydkuhnen and wirballen the contrast is just as marked. as the german train stopped, hosts of bearded, shaggy-headed individuals in high boots and long white aprons (surely a curious article of equipment for a railway porter) swooped down upon the hand-baggage; i handed my passport to a gendarme (a term confined in russia to frontier and railway police) and passed through an iron gate into russia. russia in this case was represented by a gigantic whitewashed hall, ambitious originally in design and decoration, but, like most things in russia, showing traces of neglect and lack of cleanliness. the first exotic note was struck by a full-length, life-size ikon of the saviour, in a solid silver frame, at the end of the hall. all my russian fellow-travellers devoutly crossed themselves before this ikon, purchased candles at an adjoining stall, and fixed them in the silver holders before the ikon. behind the line of tables serving for the customs examinations was a railed-off space, containing many desks under green-shaded lamps. here some fifteen green-coated men whispered mysteriously to each other, referring continually to huge registers. { } i felt a thrill creep down my back; here i found myself at last face to face with the omnipotent russian police. the bespectacled green-coated men scrutinised passports intently, conferred amongst themselves in whispers under the green-shaded lamps, and hunted ominously through the big registers. for the first time i became unpleasantly conscious of the existence of such places as the fortress of st. peter and st. paul, and of a country called siberia. i speculated as to whether the drawbacks of the siberian climate had not been exaggerated, should one be compelled to make a possibly prolonged sojourn in that genial land. above all, i was immensely impressed with the lynx-eyed vigilance and feverish activity of these green-coated guardians of the russian frontier. from my subsequent knowledge of the ways of russian officials, i should gather that all this feverish activity began one minute after the whistle announced the approach of the berlin train, and ceased precisely one minute after the petrograd train had pulled out, and that never, by any chance, did the frontier police succeed in stopping the entry of any really dangerous conspirator. diplomats with official passports are exempt from customs formalities, so i passed on to the platform, thick with pungent wood-smoke, where the huge blue-painted russian carriages smoked like volcanoes from their heating apparatus, and the gigantic wood-burning engine (built in germany) vomited dense clouds from its funnel, crowned with { } a spark-arrester shaped like a mammoth tea urn, or a giant's soup tureen. everything in this country seemed on a large scale. in the gaunt, bare, whitewashed restaurant (these three epithets are applicable to almost every public room in russia) with its great porcelain stove, and red lamps burning before gilded ikons, i first made the acquaintance of fresh caviar and raw herrings, of the national cabbage soup, or "shtchee," of roast ryabehiks and salted cucumbers, all destined to become very familiar. railway restaurants in russia are almost invariably quite excellent. and so the train clanked out through the night, into the depths of this mysterious glamour-land. the railway from the frontier to petrograd runs for miles through an unbroken stretch of interminable dreary swamp and forest, such as would in canada be termed "muskag," with here and there a poor attempt at cultivation in some clearing, set about with wretched little wooden huts. after a twenty-four hours' run, without any preliminary warning whatever in the shape of suburbs, the train emerges from the forest into a huge city, with tramcars rolling in all directions, and the great golden dome of st. isaac's blazing like a sun against the murky sky. i had pictured petrograd to myself as a second paris; a city glittering with light and colour, but conceived on an infinitely more grandiose scale than the french capital. we emerged from the station into an immensely { } broad street bordered by shabbily-pretentious buildings all showing signs of neglect. the atrociously uneven pavements, the general untidiness, the broad thoroughfare empty except for a lumbering cart or two, the absence of foot-passengers, and the low cotton-wool sky, all gave an effect of unutterable dreariness. and this was the golden city of my dreams! this place of leprous-fronted houses, of vast open spaces full of drifting snowflakes, and of an immense emptiness. i never was so disappointed in my life. the gilt and coloured domes of the orthodox churches, the sheepskin-clad, red-shirted moujiks, the occasional swift-trotting russian carriages, with their bearded and padded coachmen, were the only local touches that redeemed the streets from the absolute commonplace. the russian lettering over the shops, which then conveyed nothing whatever to me, suggested that the alphabet, having followed the national custom and got drunk, had hastily re-affixed itself to the houses upside down. although as the years went on i grew quite attached to petrograd, i could never rid myself of this impression of its immense dreariness. this was due to several causes. there are hardly any stone buildings in the city, everything is of brick plastered over. owing to climatic reasons the houses are not painted, but are daubed with colour-wash. the successive coats of colour-wash clog all the architectural features, and give the buildings a shabby look, added to which the wash flakes off under the winter snows. there is a natural craving { } in human nature for colour, and in a country wrapped in snow for at least four months in the year this craving finds expression in painting the roofs red, and in besmearing the houses with crude shades of red, blue, green, and yellow. the result is not a happy one. again, owing to the intense cold, the shop-windows are all very small, and there is but little display in them. streets and shops were alike very dimly lighted in my day, and as there is an entire absence of cafés in petrograd, there is none of the usual glitter and glare of these places to brighten up the streets. the theatres make no display of lights, so it is not surprising that the general effect of the city is one of intense gloom. the very low, murky winter sky added to this effect of depression. peter the great had planned his new capital on such a gigantic scale that there were not enough inhabitants to fill its vast spaces. the conceptions were magnificent; the results disappointing. nothing grander could be imagined than the design of the immense _place_ opposite the winter palace, with alexander i's great granite monolith towering in the midst of it, and the imposing semicircular sweep of government offices of uniform design enclosing it, pierced in the centre by a monumental triumphal arch crowned with a bronze quadriga. the whole effect of this was spoilt by the hideous crude shade of red with which the buildings were daubed, by the general untidiness, and by the broken, uneven pavement; added to which this huge area was usually untenanted, except by a { } lumbering cart or two, by a solitary stray "istvoschik," and an occasional muffled-up pedestrian. the petrograd of reality was indeed very different from the sumptuous city of my dreams. for the second time i was extraordinarily lucky in my chief. our relations with russia had, during the "'seventies," been strained almost to the breaking point. war had on several occasions seemed almost inevitable between the two countries. russians, naturally enough, had shown their feelings of hostility to their potential enemies by practically boycotting the entire british embassy. the english government had then made a very wise choice, and had appointed to the petrograd embassy the one man capable of smoothing these troubled relations. the late lord dufferin was not then a diplomat by profession. he had just completed his term of office as governor-general of canada, where, as in every position he had previously occupied, he had been extraordinarily successful. lord dufferin had an inexhaustible fund of patience, blended with the most perfect tact; he had a charm of manner no human being could resist; but under it all lay an inflexible will. no man ever understood better the use of the iron hand under the velvet glove, and in a twelvemonth from the date of his arrival in petrograd he had succeeded not only in gaining the confidence of official russia, but also in re-establishing the most cordial relations with russian society. in this he was very ably seconded by lady dufferin, who combined a perfectly natural manner with { } quiet dignity and a curious individual charm. both lord and lady dufferin enjoyed dancing, skating, and tobagganing as wholeheartedly as though they were children. our petrograd embassy was a fine old house, with a pleasant intimate character about it lacking in the more ornate building at berlin. it contained a really beautiful snow-white ball-room, and all the windows fronted the broad, swift-flowing neva, with the exquisitely graceful slender gilded spire of the fortress church, towering three hundred feet aloft, opposite them. we had a very fine collection of silver plate at the embassy. this plate, valued at £ , , was the property of our government, and had been sent out sixty years previously by george iv, who understood the importance attached by russians to externals. we had also a small set, just sufficient for two persons, of real gold plates. these solid gold plates were only used by the emperor and empress on the very rare occasions when they honoured the embassy with their presence. i wonder what has happened to that gold service now! owing to the constant tension of the relations between great britain and russia, our work at the petrograd embassy was very heavy indeed at that time. we were frequently kept up till a.m. in the chancery, cyphering telegrams. all important written despatches between london and petrograd either way were sent by queen's messenger open to berlin, "under flying seal," as it is termed. the berlin embassy was thus kept constantly posted as { } to russian affairs. after reading our open despatches, both to and from london, the berlin embassy would seal them up in a special way. we also got duplicates, in cypher, of all telegrams received in london the previous day from the paris, vienna, berlin, and constantinople embassies which bore in any way on russia or the eastern question. this gave us two or three hours' work decyphering every day. both cyphering and decyphering require the closest concentration, as one single mistake may make nonsense of the whole thing; it is consequently exhausting work. we were perfectly well aware that the russian government had somehow obtained possession of one of our codes. this particular "compromised code" was only used by us for transmitting intelligence which the russians were intended to know. they could hardly blame us should they derive false impressions from a telegram of ours which they had decyphered with a stolen code, nor could they well admit that they had done this. as winter came on, i understood why russians are so fond of gilding the domes and spires of their churches. it must be remembered that petrograd lies on parallel ° n. in december it only gets four hours of very uncertain daylight, and the sun is so low on the horizon that its rays do not reach the streets of the city. it is then that the gilded domes flash and glitter, as they catch the beams of the unseen sun. when the long golden needle of the fortress church blazed like a flaming torch { } or a gleaming spear of fire against the murky sky, i thought it a splendid sight, as was the great golden dome of st. isaac's scintillating like a second sun over the snow-clad roofs of the houses. soon after my arrival i went to the vast church under the gilded dome to hear the singing of the far-famed choir of st. isaac's. here were none of the accessories to which i had been accustomed; no seats; no organ; no pulpit; no side-chapels. a blue haze of incense drifted through the twilight of the vague spaces of the great building; a haze glowing rosily where the red lamps burning before the jewelled ikons gave a faint-dawnlike effect in the semi-darkness. before me the great screen of the "ikonostas" towered to the roof, with its eight malachite columns forty feet high, and its two smaller columns of precious lapis lazuli flanking the "royal doors" into the sanctuary. surely montferrand, the frenchman, had designedly steeped the cathedral he had built in perpetual twilight. in broad daylight the juxtaposition of these costly materials, with their discordant colours, would have been garish, even vulgar. now, barely visible in the shadows, they, the rich mosaics, the masses of heavily-gilt bronze work in the ikonostas, gave an impression of barbaric magnificence and immense splendour. the jasper and polychrome siberian marbles with which the cathedral was lined, the gold and silver of the jewelled ikons, gleaming faintly in the candle-light, strengthened this impression of sumptuous opulence. then the choir, standing { } before the ikonostas, burst into song. the exquisitely beautiful singing of the russian church was a perfect revelation to me. i would not have believed it possible that unaccompanied human voices could have produced so entrancing an effect. as the "cherubic hymn" died away in softest _pianissimo_, its echoes floating into the misty vastness of the dome, a deacon thundered out prayers in a ringing bass, four tones deeper than those a western european could compass. the higher clergy, with their long flowing white beards, jewelled crowns, and stiffly-archaic vestments of cloth of gold and silver, seemed to have stepped bodily out of the frame of an ikon; and the stately ritual of the eastern church gave me an impression as of something of immemorial age, something separated by the gap of countless centuries from our own prosaic epoch; and through it all rose again and again the plaintive response of the choir, "gospodi pomiloi," "lord have mercy," exquisitely sung with all the tenderness and pathos of muted strings. this was at last the real russia of my dreams. it was all as i had vaguely pictured it to myself; the densely-packed congregation, with sheepskin-clad peasant and sable-coated noble standing side by side, all alike joining in the prescribed genuflections and prostrations of the ritual; the singing-boys, with their close-cropped heads and curious long blue dressing-gowns; the rolling consonants of the old slavonic chanted by the priests; all this was really russia, and not a bastard imitation of an exotic { } western civilisation like the pseudo-classic city outside. two years later, arthur sullivan, the composer, happened to be in petrograd, and i took him to the practice of the emperor's private church choir. sullivan was passionately devoted to unaccompanied part-singing, and those familiar with his delightful light operas will remember how he introduced into almost every one of them an unaccompanied madrigal, or a sextet. sullivan told me that he would not have believed it possible for human voices to obtain the string-like effect of these russian choirs. he added that although six english singing-boys would probably evolve a greater body of sound than twelve russian boys, no english choir-boy could achieve the silvery tone these musical little muscovites produced. people ignorant of the country have a foolish idea that all russians can speak french. that may be true of one person in two thousand of the whole population. the remainder only speak their native russ. not one cabman in petrograd could understand a syllable of any foreign language, and though in shops, very occasionally, someone with a slight knowledge of german might be found, it was rare. all the waiters in petrograd restaurants were yellow-faced little mohammedan tartars, speaking only russian and their own language. i determined therefore to learn russian at once, and was fortunate in finding a very clever teacher. all men should learn a foreign language from a lady, { } for natural courtesy makes one listen to what she is saying; whereas with a male teacher one's attention is apt to wander. the patient elderly lady who taught me knew neither english nor french, so we used german as a means of communication. thanks to madame kumin's intelligence, and a considerable amount of hard work on my own part, i was able to pass an examination in russian in eleven months, and to qualify as interpreter to the embassy. the difficulties of the russian language are enormously exaggerated. the pronunciation is hard, as are the terminations; and the appalling length of russian words is disconcerting. in russian, great emphasis is laid on one syllable of a word, and the rest is slurred over. it is therefore vitally important (should you wish to be understood) to get the emphasis on the right syllable, and for some mysterious reason no foreigner, even by accident, _ever succeeds in pronouncing a russian name right_. it is schouvaloff, not schòuvaloff; brusìl-off, not brùsiloff; demìd-off, not dèmidoff. the charming dancer's name is pàv-lova, not pavlòva; her equally fascinating rival is karsàv-ina, not karsavìna. i could continue the list indefinitely. be sure of one thing; however the name is pronounced by a foreigner, it is absolutely certain to be wrong. what a wise man he was who first said that for every fresh language you learn you acquire a new pair of eyes and a new pair of ears; i felt immensely elated when i found that i could read the cabalistic signs over the shops as easily as english lettering. { } a relation of mine had given me a letter of introduction to princess b----. now this old lady, though she but seldom left her own house, was a very great power indeed in petrograd, and was universally known as the "princesse château." for some reason or another, i was lucky enough to find favour in this dignified old lady's eyes. she asked me to call on her again, and at our second meeting invited me to her sunday evenings. the princesse château's sunday evenings were a thing quite apart. they were a survival in petrograd of the french eighteenth century literary "salons," but devoid of the faintest flavour of pedantry or priggism. never in my life, before or since, have i heard such wonderfully brilliant conversation, for, with the one exception of myself, the princesse château tolerated no dull people at her sundays. she belonged to a generation that always spoke french amongst themselves, and imported their entire culture from france. peter the great had designed st. petersburg as a window through which to look on europe, and the tradition of this amongst the educated classes was long in dying out. the princess assembled some thirty people every sunday, all russians, with the exception of myself. these people discussed any and every subject--literature, art, music, and philosophy--with sparkling wit, keen critical instinct, and extraordinary felicity of phrase, usually in french, sometimes in english, and occasionally in russian. their knowledge seemed encyclopædic, and they appeared equally at home in any of the three { } languages. they greatly appreciated a neatly-turned epigram, or a novel, crisply-coined definition. any topic, however, touching directly or indirectly on the external or internal policy of russia was always tacitly avoided. my _rôle_ was perforce reduced to that of a listener, but it was a perfectly delightful society. princesse château had a very fine suite of rooms on the first floor of her house, decorated "at the period" in louis xvi style by imported french artists; these rooms still retained their original furniture and fittings, and were a museum of works of art; but her sunday evenings were always held in the charming but plainly-furnished rooms which she herself inhabited on the ground floor. we had one distinct advantage over the old french _salons_, for princesse château entertained her guests every sunday to suppers which were justly celebrated in the gastronomic world of petrograd. during supper the conversation proceeded just as brilliantly as before. there were always two or three grand duchesses present, for to attend princesse château's sundays was a sort of certificate of culture. the grand duchesses were treated quite unceremoniously, beyond receiving a perfunctory "madame" in each sentence addressed to them. how curious that, both in english and french, the highest title of respect should be plain "madame"! as the russian equivalent is "vashoe imperatorskoe vuisochestvo," a considerable expenditure of time and breath was saved by using the terser french term. and through it all moved the mistress of the house, the stately { } little smiling old lady, in her plain black woollen dress and lace cap, dropping here a quaint criticism, there an apt _bon-mot_. perfectly charming people! the relatives and friends of princesse château whom i met at her house, when they discovered that i had a genuine liking for their country, and that i did not criticise details of russian administration, were good enough to open their houses to me in their turn. though most of these people owned large and very fine houses, they opened them but rarely to foreigners. they gave, very occasionally, large entertainments to which they invited half petrograd, including the diplomatic body, but there they stopped. they did not care, as a rule, to invite foreigners to share the intimacy of their family life. i was very fortunate therefore in having an opportunity of seeing a phase of russian life which few foreigners have enjoyed. russians seldom do things by halves. i do not believe that in any other country in the world could a stranger have been made to feel himself so thoroughly at home amongst people of a different nationality, and with such totally different racial ideals; or have been treated with such constant and uniform kindness. there was no ceremony whatever on either side, and on the russian side, at times, an outspokenness approaching bluntness. as i got to know these cultivated, delightful people well, i grew very fond of them. they formed a clique, possibly a narrow clique, amongst themselves, and had that complete disregard for outside criticism which is often found associated with { } persons of established position. they met almost nightly at each others' houses, and i could not but regret that such beautiful and vast houses should be seen by so few people. one house, in particular, contained a staircase an exact replica of a grecian temple in white statuary carrara marble, a thing of exquisite beauty. in their perpetual sets of intellectual lawn tennis, if i may coin the term, the superiority of the feminine over the male intellects was very marked. this is, i believe, a characteristic of all slavonic countries, and i recalled bismarck's dictum that the slav peoples were essentially feminine, and i wondered whether there could be any connection between the two points. living so much with russians, it was impossible not to fall into the russian custom of addressing them by their christian names and patronymics; such as "maria vladimirovna" (mary daughter of vladimir) or "olga andreèvna" (olga daughter of andrew) or "pavel alexandrovitch" (paul son of alexander). i myself became feòdor yàkovlevitch, (frederic son of james, those being the nearest russian equivalents). on arriving at a house, the proper form of inquiry to the hall porter was, "ask mary daughter of vladimir if she will receive frederic son of james." in due time the answer came, "mary daughter of vladimir begs frederic son of james to go upstairs." my own servants always addressed me punctiliously as feòdor yàkovlevitch. on giving them an order they would answer in moscovite fashion, "i hear you, frederic son of james," { } the equivalent to our prosaic, "very good, sir." amongst my new friends, as at the princesse château's, no allusions whatever, direct or indirect, were made to internal conditions in russia. apart from the fact that one of these new friends was himself minister of the interior at the time, it would not have been safe. in those days the secret police, or "third section," as they were called, were very active, and their ramifications extended everywhere. one night at a supper party a certain countess b---- criticised in very open and most unflattering terms a lady to whom the emperor alexander ii was known to be devotedly attached. next morning at a.m. the countess was awakened by her terrified maid, who told her that the "third section" were there and demanded instant admittance. two men came into the countess's bedroom and informed her that their orders were that she was to take the . train to europe that morning. they would remain with her till then, and would accompany her to the frontier. as she would not be allowed to return to russia for twelve months, they begged her to order her maid to pack what was necessary; and no one knew better than countess b---- how useless any attempted resistance would be. this episode made a great stir at the time. as the words complained of had been uttered about a.m., the police action had been remarkably prompt. the informant must have driven straight from the supper party to the "third section," and { } everyone in petrograd had a very distinct idea who the informant was. is it necessary to add that she was a lady? some of my new friends volunteered to propose and second me for the imperial yacht club. this was not the club that the diplomats usually joined; it was a purely russian club, and, in spite of its name, had no connection with yachting. it had also the reputation of being extremely exclusive, but thanks to my russian sponsors, i got duly elected to it. this was, i am sure, the most delightful club in europe. it was limited to members of whom only two, besides myself, were foreigners, and the most perfect _camaraderie_ existed between the members. the atmosphere of the place was excessively friendly and intimate, and the building looked more like a private house than a club, as deceased members had bequeathed to it pictures, a fine collection of old engravings, some splendid old beauvais tapestry, and a great deal of oriental porcelain. above all, we commanded the services of the great armand, prince of french chefs. associating so much with russians, it was possible to see things from their points of view. they all had an unshakable belief in the absolute invincibility of russia, and in her complete invulnerability, for it must not be forgotten that in russia had never yet been defeated in any campaign, except partially in the crimean war of - . my friends did not hide their convictions that it was russia's manifest destiny to absorb in { } time the whole of the asiatic continent, including india, china, and turkey. there were grounds for this article of faith, for in russia's bloodless absorption of vast territories in central asia had been astounding. it was not until the russo-japanese war of - that the friable clay feet of the northern colossus were revealed to the outside world, though those with a fairly intimate knowledge of the country quite realised how insecure were the foundations on which the stupendous structure of modern russia had been erected. i am deeply thankful that the great majority of my old friends had passed away in the ordinary course of nature before the great catastrophe overwhelmed the mighty empire in which they took such deep pride; and that they were spared the sight and knowledge of the awful orgy of blood, murder, and spoliation which followed the ruin of the land they loved so well. were they not now at rest, it would be difficult for me to write of those old days. to grasp the russian mentality, it must be remembered that they are essentially orientals. russia is not the most eastern outpost of western civilisation; it is the most western outpost of the east. russians have all the qualities of the oriental, his fatalism, his inertness, and, i fear, his innate pecuniary corruption. their fatalism makes them accept their destiny blindly. what has been ordained from the beginning of things is useless to fight against; it must be accepted. the same { } inertness characterises every eastern nation, and the habit of "baksheesh" is ingrained in the oriental blood. if the truth were known, we should probably find that the real reason why cain killed abel was that the latter had refused him a commission on some transaction or other. the fatalism and lack of initiative are not the only oriental traits in the russian character. in a hundred little ways they show their origin: in their love of uncut jewels; in their lack of sense of time (the russian for "at once" is "si chas," which means "this hour"; an instructive commentary); in the reluctance south russians show in introducing strangers to the ladies of their household, the oriental peeps out everywhere. peter the great could order his boyards to abandon their fur-trimmed velvet robes, to shave off their beards, powder their heads, and array themselves in the satins and brocades of versailles. he could not alter the men and women inside the french imported finery. he could abandon his old capital, matchless, many-pinnacled moscow, vibrant with every instinct of russian nationality; he could create a new pseudo-western, sham-classical city in the frozen marshes of the neva; but even the autocrat could not change the souls of his people. easterns they were, easterns they remained, and that is the secret of russia, they are not europeans. peter himself was so fully aware of the racial limitations of his countrymen that he imported numbers of foreigners to run the country; germans as civil and military administrators; { } dutchmen as builders and town-planners; and englishmen to foster its budding commerce. to the latter he granted special privileges, and even in my time there was a very large english commercial community in petrograd; a few of them descendants of peter the great's pioneers; the majority of them with hereditary business connections with russia. their special privileges had gradually been withdrawn, but the official name of the english church in petrograd was still "british factory in st. petersburg," surely a curious title for a place of worship. the various german-russian families from the baltic provinces, the adlerbergs, the benckendorffs, and the stackelbergs, had served russia well. under their strong guidance she became a mighty power, but when under alexander iii the reins of government were confided to purely russian hands, rapid deterioration set in. this dreamy nation lacks driving power. in my time, the very able minister for foreign affairs, m. de giers, was of german origin, and his real name was hirsch. his extremely wily and astute second in command, baron jomini, was a swiss. modern russia was largely the creation of the foreigner. i saw a great deal, too, of a totally different stratum of russian society. mr. x., the head of a large exporting house, was of british origin, the descendant of one of peter's commercial pioneers. he himself, like his father and grandfather, had been born in russia, and though he retained his english speech, he had adopted all the points of { } view of the country of his birth. madame x. came of a family of the so-called "intelligenzia." most of her relatives seemed to have undertaken compulsory journeys to siberia, not as prisoners, but for a given term of exile. madame x.'s brother-in-law owned and edited a paper of advanced views, which was being continually suppressed, and had been the cause of two long trips eastward for its editor and proprietor. neither mr. nor madame x. shared their relatives' extreme views. what struck me was that behind the floods of vehement invective of madame o---- (the editor's wife) there was never the smallest practical suggestion. "you say, madame o----," i would hazard, "that the existing state of things is intolerable. what remedy do you suggest?" "i am not the government," would retort madame o---- with great heat. "it is for the government to make suggestions. i only denounce an abominable injustice." "quite so, madame o----, but how can these conditions be improved. what is your programme of reform?" "we have nothing to do with reforms. our mission is to destroy utterly. out of the ruins a better state of things must necessarily arise; as nothing could possibly be worse than present conditions." and so we travelled round and round in a circle. mr. o----, when appealed to, would blink through his spectacles with his kindly old eyes, and emit a torrent of admirable moral aphorisms, which might serve as unimpeachable copy-book headings, but had no bearing whatever { } on the subject we were discussing. never once amidst these floods of bitter invective and cataracts of fierce denunciation did i hear one single practical suggestion made or any outline traced of a scheme to better existing conditions. "we must destroy," shouted madame o----, and there her ideas stopped. i think the slavonic bent of mind, like the celtic, is purely _des_tructive, and has little or no _con_structive power in it. this may be due to the ineradicable element of the child in both races. they are "peter pans," and a child loves destruction. poor dreamy, emotional, hopelessly unpractical russia! madame o----'s theories have been put into effect now, and we all know how appalling the result has been. these conversations were always carried on in french for greater safety in order that the servants might not overhear, but when mr. and madame o---- found difficulties in expressing themselves in that language, they both broke into torrents of rapid russian, to poor madame x.'s unconcealed terror. the danger was a real one, for the o----'s were well known in police circles as revolutionists, and it must have gone hard with the x.'s had their servants reported to the police the violent opinions that had been expressed in their house. many of the diplomatic body were in the habit of attending the midnight mass at st. isaac's on easter day, on account of the wonderfully impressive character of the service. we were always { } requested to come in full uniform, with decorations and we stood inside the rails of the ikonostas, behind the choir. the time to arrive was about . p.m., when the great church, packed to its doors by a vast throng, was wrapped in almost total darkness. under the dome stood a catafalque bearing a gilt coffin. this open coffin contained a strip of silk, on which was painted an effigy of the dead christ, for it will be remembered that no carved or graven image is allowed in a church of the eastern rite. there was an arrangement by which a species of blind could be drawn over the painted figure, thus concealing it. as the eye grew accustomed to the shadows, tens of thousands of unlighted candles, outlining the arches, cornices, and other architectural features of the cathedral, were just visible. these candles each had their wick touched with kerosine and then surrounded with a thread of guncotton, which ran continuously from candle to candle right round the building. when the hanging end of the thread of gun-cotton was lighted, the flame ran swiftly round the church, kindling each candle in turn; a very fascinating sight. at half-past eleven, the only light was from the candles surrounding the bier, where black-robed priests were chanting the mournful russian office for the dead. at about twenty minutes to twelve the blind was drawn over the dead christ, and the priests, feigning surprise, advanced to the rails of the ikonostas, and announced to an archimandrite that the coffin was empty. the archimandrite ordered them { } to search round the church, and the priests perambulated the church with gilt lanterns, during which time the catafalque, bier, and its accessories were all removed. the priests announced to the archimandrite that their search had been unsuccessful, whereupon he ordered them to make a further search outside the church. they went out, and so timed their return as to arrive before the ikonostas at three minutes before midnight. they again reported that they had been unsuccessful; when, as the first stroke of midnight pealed from the great clock, the metropolitan of petrograd announced in a loud voice, "christ is risen!" at an electric signal given from the cathedral, the great guns of the fortress boomed out in a salute of one hundred and one guns; the gun-cotton was touched off, and the swift flash kindled the tens of thousands of candles running round the building; the enormous congregation lit the tapers they carried; the "royal doors" of the ikonostas were thrown open, and the clergy appeared in their festival vestments of cloth of gold, as the choir burst into the beautiful russian easter anthem, and so the easter mass began. nothing more poignantly dramatic, more magnificently impressive, could possibly be imagined than this almost instantaneous change from intense gloom to blazing light; from the plaintive dirges of the funeral service to the jubilant strains of the easter mass. i never tired of witnessing this splendid piece of symbolism. it sounds almost irreverent to talk of comical { } incidents in connection with so solemn an occasion, but there are two little episodes i must mention. about the first tentative efforts were made by france to establish a franco-russian alliance. ideas on the subject were very nebulous at first, but slowly they began to crystallise into concrete shape. a new french ambassador was appointed to petrograd in the hope of fanning the faint spark into further life. he, wishing to show his sympathy for the _nation amie_, attended the easter mass at st. isaac's, but unfortunately he was quite unversed in the ritual of the orthodox church. in every ikonostas there are two ikons on either side of the "royal doors"; the saviour on one side, the madonna and child on the other. the new ambassador was standing in front of the ikon of the saviour, and in the course of the mass the metropolitan came out, and made the three prescribed low bows before the ikon, previous to censing it. the ambassador, taking this as a personal compliment to france, as represented in his own person, acknowledged the attention with three equally low bows, laying his hand on his heart and ejaculating with all the innate politeness of his nation, "monsieur! monsieur! monsieur!" this little incident caused much amusement, as did a newly-arrived german diplomat, who when greeted by a russian friend with the customary easter salutation of "christ is risen!" ("kristos voskress!") wished to respond, but, being ignorant of the traditional answer, "he is verily risen," merely made { } a low bow and said, "ich auch," which may be vulgarly englished into "the same here." the universal easter suppers at the conclusion of the mass play an important part in russian life, for they mean the breaking of the long and rigorous lenten fast of the eastern church, during which all meat, butter, milk, and eggs are prohibited. the peasants adhere rigidly to these rules, so the easter supper assumes great importance in their eyes. the ingredients of this supper are invariable for high and low, for rich and poor--cold ham, hard-boiled eggs dyed red, a sort of light cake akin to the french _brioche_, and a sour cream-cheese shaped into a pyramid and decorated with little crosses of dried currants. i think that this cake and cream cheese (known as "paskva") are prepared only at easter-time. even at the yacht club during holy week, meat, butter, milk, and eggs were prohibited, and still armand, our incomparable french chef, managed to produce _plats_ of the most succulent description. loud praises were lavished upon his skill in preparing such excellent dishes out of oil, fish, flour, and vegetables, the only materials allowed him. i met armand in the passage one day and asked him how he managed to do it. looking round to see that no russians could overhear, armand replied with a wink, "voyez-vous monsieur, le bon dieu ne regarde pas d'aussi près." of course he had gone on using cream, butter, and eggs, just as usual, but as the members of the club did not know this, and thought { } that they were strictly obeying the rules of their church, i imagine that no blame could attach to them. on easter eve the two-mile-long nevsky perspective was lined with humble folks standing by white napkins on which the materials for their easter supper were arranged. on every napkin glimmered a lighted taper, and the long line of these twinkling lights produced a very charming effect, as of myriads of glow-worms. priests would pass swiftly down the line, each attended by an acolyte carrying a pail of holy water. the priest would mutter a rapid blessing, sprinkle the food and its owner with holy water, pocket an infinitesimally small fee, and pass on again. a friend of mine was once down in the fruit-growing districts of the crimea. passing through one of the villages of that pleasing peninsula, he found it decorated in honour of a religious festival. the village priest was going to bless the first-fruits of the orchards. the peasants stood in a row down the village street, each one with the first crop of his orchard arranged on a clean napkin before him. the red-bearded priest, quite a young man, passed down the street, sprinkling fruit and grower alike with holy water, and repeating a blessing to each one. the young priest approached, and my friend could hear quite plainly the words of his blessing. no. ---- it was quite impossible! it was incredible! and yet he could not doubt the evidence of his own ears! the young priest was speaking in good scots, { } and the words of the blessing he bestowed on each parishioner were, "here, man! tak' it. if it does ye nae guid, it canna possibly dae ye any hairm." the men addressed, probably taking this for a quotation from scripture in some unknown tongue, bowed reverently as the words were pronounced over them. that a russian village priest in a remote district of the crimea should talk broad scots was a sufficiently unusual circumstance to cause my friend to make some further inquiries. it then appeared that when the government dockyard at sebastopol was reopened, several scottish foremen from the clyde shipbuilding yards were imported to supervise the russian workmen. amongst others came a glasgow foreman with his wife and a son who was destined for the ministry of the free church of scotland. once arrived in russia, they found that facilities for training a youth for the presbyterian ministry were somewhat lacking in sebastopol. sooner than sacrifice their dearest wish, the parents, with commendable broadmindedness, decided that their offspring should enter the russian church. he was accordingly sent to a seminary and in due course was ordained a priest and appointed to a parish, but he apparently still retained his scottish speech and his characteristically scottish independence of view. after a year in petrograd i used to attempt to analyse to myself the complex russian character. "we are a 'jelly-folk,'" had said one of my friends to me. the russian term was "kiselnui { } narod," and i think there is truth in that. they _are_ an invertebrate folk. i cannot help thinking that peter the great was one of the worst enemies of his own country. instead of allowing russia to develop naturally on lines suited to the racial instincts of her people, he attempted to run the whole country into a west european mould, and to superimpose upon it a veneer imported from the france of louis quatorze. with the very few this could perhaps succeed, with the many it was a foregone failure. he tried in one short lifetime to do what it had taken other countries centuries to accomplish. he built a vast and imposing edifice on shifting sand, without any foundations. it might stand for a time; its ultimate doom was certain. from the windows of our embassy we looked upon the broad neva. when fast bound in the grip of winter, sledge-roads were made across the ice, bordered with lamp-posts and marked out with sawn-off fir trees. little wooden taverns and tea-houses were built on the river, and as soon as the ice was of sufficient thickness the tramcar lines were laid across it. a colony of laps came yearly and encamped on the river with their reindeer, for the temperature of petrograd rarely falling more than ten degrees below zero, it was looked upon as a genial winter climate for invalids from lapland. a stranger from another planet might have imagined that these buildings were permanent, that the fir trees were really growing, and that all the life { } on the frozen river would last indefinitely. everyone knew, though, with absolute certainty that by the middle of april the ice would break up, and that these little houses, if not removed in time, would be carried away and engulfed in the liberated stream. by may the river would be running again as freely as though these temporary edifices had never been built on it. i think these houses built on the ice were very typical of russia. { } chapter iv the winter palace--its interior--alexander ii--a russian court ball--the "bals des palmiers"--the empress--the blessing of the neva--some curiosities of the winter palace--the great orloff diamond--my friend the lady-in-waiting--sugared compensations--the attempt on the emperor's life of --some unexpected finds in the palace--a most hilarious funeral--sporting expeditions--night drives through the forest in mid-winter--wolves--a typical russian village--a peasant's house--"deaf and dumb people"--the inquisitive peasant youth--curiosity about strangers--an embarrassing situation--a still more awkward one--food difficulties--a bear hunt--my first bear--alcoholic consequences--my liking for the russian peasant--the beneficent india-rubber ikon--two curious sporting incidents--village habits--the great gulf fixed between russian nobility and peasants. the winter palace drags its lengthy, uninteresting façade for some five hundred feet along the quays of the neva. it presents a mere wearisome iteration of the same architectural features repeated again and again, and any effect it might produce is marred by the hideous shade of that crude red, called by the russians "raspberry colour," with which it is daubed, and for which they have so misplaced an affection. { } the interior of the winter palace was burned out in , and only a few of the original state rooms survive. these surviving rooms are the only ones of any artistic interest, as the other innumerable and stupendous halls were all reconstructed during the "period of bad taste," and bear ample witness to that fact in every detail of their ornamentation. the ambassadors' staircase, part of the original building, is very dignified and imposing with its groups of statuary, painted ceiling, and lavish decoration, as is peter the great's throne room, with jasper columns, and walls hung with red velvet worked in gold with great russian two-headed eagles. all the tables, chairs, and chandeliers in this room were of solid silver. st. george's hall, another of the old rooms, i thought splendid, with its pure white marble walls and columns and rich adornments of gilt bronze, and there was also an agreeably barbaric hall with entirely gilt columns, many banners, and gigantic effigies of ancient russian warriors. all these rooms were full of collections of the gold and silver-gilt trays on which the symbolical "bread and salt" had been offered to different emperors in the various towns of their dominions. the fifty or so other modern rooms were only remarkable for their immense size, the nicholas hall, for instance, being feet long and feet wide, though the so-called "golden hall" positively dazzled one with its acre or so of gilding. it would have been a happy idea for the emperor to { } assemble all the leading financiers of europe to dine together in the "golden hall." the sight of so much of the metal which they had spent their whole lives in amassing would have gratified the financiers, and would probably have stimulated them to fresh exertions. the emperor alexander ii always received the diplomats in peter the great's throne room, seated on peter's throne. he was a wonderfully handsome man even in his old age, with a most commanding manner, and an air of freezing hauteur. when addressing junior members of the diplomatic body there was something in his voice and a look in his eye reminiscent of the great mogul addressing an earthworm. i have only seen three sovereigns who looked their parts quite unmistakably: alexander ii of russia, william i of germany, and queen victoria. in queen victoria's case it was the more remarkable, as she was very short. yet this little old lady in her plain dress, had the most inimitable dignity, and no one could have mistaken her for anything but a queen. i remember queen victoria attending a concert at the albert hall in , two months before the jubilee celebrations. the vast building was packed to the roof, and the queen received a tremendous ovation. no one who saw it can ever forget how the little old lady advanced to the front of her box and made two very low sweeping curtsies to the right and to the left of her with incomparable dignity and grace, as she smiled { } through her tears on the audience in acknowledgment of the thunders of applause that greeted her. queen victoria was always moved to tears when she received an unusually cordial ovation from her people, for they loved her, and she loved them. the scale of everything in the winter palace was so vast that it is difficult to compare the court entertainments there with those elsewhere. certainly the russian ladies looked well in their uniform costumes. the cut, shape, and style of these dresses never varied, be the fashions what they might. the dress, once made, lasted the owner for her lifetime, though with advancing years it might possibly require to be readjusted to an expanding figure. they were enormously expensive to start with--anything from £ to £ , . there was a complete under-dress of white satin, heavily embroidered. over this was worn a velvet dress lavishly trimmed with dark fur. this velvet dress might be of dull red, dark blue, green, or brown, according to the taste of the wearer. it had to have a long train embroidered with gold or silver flowers, or both mixed, as the owner's fancy dictated. on the head was worn the "kakoshnik," the traditional russian head-dress, in the form of a crescent. in the case of married women the "kakoshnik" might be of diamonds, or any gems they fancied, or could compass; for girls the "kakoshnik" must be of white silk. girls, too, had to wear white, without the velvet over-dress. the usual fault of russian faces is their undue breadth across the cheek-bones, { } and the white "kakoshnik" worn by the unmarried girls seemed to me to emphasize this defect, whereas a blazing semicircle of diamonds made a most becoming setting for an older face, although at times, as in other cases, the setting might be more ornamental than the object it enshrined. though the russian uniforms were mostly copied from german models, the national lack of attention to detail was probably to blame for the lack of effect they produced when compared with their prussian originals. there was always something a little slovenly in the way in which the russian uniforms were worn, though an exception must be made in the case of the resplendent "chevaliers gardes," and of the "gardes à cheval." the uniforms of these two crack cavalry regiments was closely copied from that of the prussian "gardes du corps" and was akin to that of our own life guards and royal horse guards; the same leather breeches and long jack-boots, and the same cuirasses; the tunics, though were white, instead of the scarlet or blue of their english prototypes. the "chevaliers gardes" had silvered cuirasses and helmets surmounted with the russian eagle, whereas those of the "gardes à cheval" were gilt. as we know, "all that glitters is not gold," and in spite of their gilding the "gardes à cheval" were considered very inferior socially to their rivals. the emperor's fiercely-moustached circassian bodyguard struck an agreeably exotic note with their grass-green trousers and long blue kaftans, covered with rows of persian { } cartridge-holders in _niello_ of black and silver. others of the circassians wore coats of chain mail over their kaftans, and these kaftans were always sleeveless, showing the bright green, red, or blue silk shirtsleeves of their wearers. another pleasant barbaric touch. to my mind, the smartest uniforms were those of the cossack officers; baggy green knickerbockers thrust into high boots, a hooked-and-eyed green tunic without a single button or a scrap of gold lace on it, and a plain white silk belt. no one could complain of a lack of colour at a petrograd palace ball. the russian civil and court uniforms were ingeniously hideous with their white trousers and long frock-coats covered with broad transverse bars of gold lace. the wearers of these ugly garments always looked to me like walking embodiments of what are known in commercial circles as "gilt-edged securities." as at berlin, there were hosts of pages at these entertainments. these lads were all attired like miniature "chevalier gardes," in leather breeches and jack-boots, and wore gold-laced green tunics; a singularly unpractical dress, i should have thought, for a growing boy. all russians of a certain social position were expected to send their sons to be educated at the "school for imperial pages," which was housed in an immense and ornate building and counted four hundred pupils. wise parents mistrusted the education "aux pages" for their sons, knowing that, however little else they might learn there, they would be certain to acquire { } habits of gross extravagance; the prominence, too, into which these boys were thrust at court functions tended to make them unduly precocious. the smaller court balls were known as "les bals des palmiers." on these occasions, a hundred large palm trees, specially grown for the purpose at tsarskoe selo, were brought by road from there in huge vans. round the palm in its tub supper tables were built, each one accommodating fifteen people. it was really an extraordinarily pretty sight seeing these rows of broad-fronted palms down the great nicholas hall, and the knowledge that a few feet away there was an outside temperature of ° below zero added piquancy to the sight of these exiles from the tropics waving their green plumes so far away in the frozen north. at the "bals des palmiers" it was alexander ii's custom to make the round of the tables as soon as his guests were seated. the emperor would go up to a table, the occupants of which of course all rose at his approach, say a few words to one or two of them, and then eat either a small piece of bread or a little fruit, and just put his lips to a glass of champagne, in order that his guests might say that he had eaten and drank with them. a delicate and graceful attention! as electric light had not then been introduced into the palace, the entire building was lighted with wax candles. i cannot remember the number i was told was required on these occasions, but i think it was over one hundred thousand. the candles were all lighted with a thread of gun-cotton, as in st. isaac's cathedral. { } the empress appeared but very rarely. it was a matter of common knowledge that she was suffering from an incurable disease. all the rooms in which she lived were artificially impregnated with oxygen, continuously released from cylinders in which the gas had been compressed. this, though it relieved the lungs of the sufferer, proved very trying to the empress's ladies-in-waiting, as this artificial atmosphere with its excess of oxygen after an hour or so gave them all violent headaches and attacks of giddiness. in spite of the characteristic russian carelessness about details, these petrograd palace entertainments provided a splendid glittering pageant to the eye, for the stage was so vast and the number of performers so great. there was not the same blaze of diamonds as in london, but i should say that the individual jewels were far finer. a stone must be very perfect to satisfy the critical russian eye, and, true to their oriental blood, the ladies preferred unfaceted rubies, sapphires, and emeralds. occasional emirs from central asia served, as do the indian princes at buckingham palace, as a reminder that russia's responsibilities, like those of great britain, did not cease with her european frontiers. once a year the diplomats had much the best of the situation. this was at the blessing of the waters of the neva--"the jordan," as russians called it--on january , old style, or january , according to our reckoning. we saw the ceremonies through the double windows of the great steam-heated nicholas { } hall, whereas the emperor and all the grand dukes had to stand bareheaded in the snow outside. a great hole was cut in the ice of the neva, with a temporary chapel erected over it. at the conclusion of the religious service, the metropolitan of petrograd solemnly blessed the waters of the river, and dipped a great golden cross into them. a cordon of soldiers had to guard the opening in the ice until it froze over again, in order to prevent fanatical peasants from bathing in the newly-consecrated waters. many had lost their lives in this way. a friend of mine, the director of the hermitage gallery, offered to take me all over the winter palace, and the visit occupied nearly an entire day. the maze of rooms was so endless that the mind got a little bewildered and surfeited with the sight of so many splendours. a detail that amused me was a small library on the second floor, opening on to an avenue of lime trees. one of the empresses had chosen for her private library this room on the second floor, looking into a courtyard. she had selected it on account of its quiet, but expressed a wish to have an avenue of trees, under which to walk in the intervals of her studies. the room being on the second floor, and looking into a yard, the wish appeared to be difficult to execute, but in those days the word "impossible" did not exist for an empress of russia. the entire courtyard was filled in with earth, and full-grown lime trees transplanted there. when i saw this aerial grove eighty years afterwards, { } there was quite a respectable avenue of limes on the second floor of the building, with a gravel walk bordered by grass-plots beneath them. another empress wished to have a place to walk in during the winter months, so a very ingenious hanging winter-garden was contrived for her, following all the exterior angles of the building. it was not in the least like an ordinary conservatory, but really did recall an outdoor garden. there were gravel walks, and lawns of lycopodium simulating grass; there were growing orange trees, and quite large palms. for some reason the creepers on the walls of this pseudo-garden were all artificial, being very cleverly made out of painted sheet-iron. i had an opportunity later of seeing the entire winter palace collection of silver plate, and all the crown jewels, when they were arranged for the inspection of the late duke of edinburgh, who was good enough to invite me to come. there were enormous quantities of plate, of russian, french, and english make, sufficient to stock every silversmith's shop in london. some of the english plate was of william and mary's and queen anne's date, and there were some fine early georgian pieces. they, would, i confess, have appeared to greater advantage had they conveyed the idea that they had been occasionally cleaned. as it was, they looked like dull pewter that had been neglected for twenty years. of the jewels, the only things i remember were a superb "corsage" of diamonds and aquamarines--not the pale green stones we { } associate with the name, but immense stones of that bright blue tint, so highly prized in russia--and especially the great orloff diamond. the "corsage" was big enough to make a very ample cuirass for the most stalwart of lifeguardsmen, and the orloff diamond formed the head of the russian imperial sceptre. the history of the orloff, or lazareff, diamond is quite interesting. though by no means the largest, it is considered the most perfect diamond in the world, albeit it has a slight flaw in it. originally stolen from india, it came into the hands of an armenian called lazareff in some unknown manner about a.d. . lazareff, so the story goes, devised a novel hiding-place for the great stone. making a deep incision into the calf of his leg, he placed the diamond in the cavity, and lay in bed for three months till the wound was completely healed over. he then started for amsterdam, and though stripped and searched several times during his journey, for he was strongly suspected of having the stone concealed about his person, its hiding-place was never discovered. at amsterdam lazareff had the wound reopened by a surgeon, and the diamond extracted. he then sold it to count orloff for , roubles, or roughly £ , , and orloff in his turn made a present of the great stone to catherine the great. the diamond is set under a jewelled russian eagle at the extremity of the sceptre, where it probably shows to greater advantage than it did when concealed for six months in the calf of an armenian's leg. { } the accommodation provided for the suites of the imperial family is hardly on a par with the magnificence of the rest of the palace. the duchess of edinburgh, daughter of alexander ii, made a yearly visit to petrograd, as long as her mother the empress was alive. as the duchess's lady-in-waiting happened to be one of my oldest friends, during her stay i was at the palace at least three days a week, and i retain vivid recollections of the dreary, bare, whitewashed vault assigned to her as a sitting-room. the only redeeming feature of this room was a five-storied glass tray packed with some fifty varieties of the most delicious _bon-bons_ the mind of man could conceive. these were all fresh-baked every day by the palace confectioner, and the tray was renewed every morning. there were some sixty of these trays prepared daily, and their arrangement was always absolutely identical, precisely the same number of caramels and _fondants_ being placed on each shelf of the tray. everyone knew that the palace confectioner owned a fashionable sweet shop on the nevsky, where he traded under a french name, and i imagine that his shop was entirely stocked from the remains of the palace trays. in the spring of an attempt was made on alexander's ii's life by a bomb which completely wrecked the white marble private dining-room. the emperor's dinner hour was , and the bomb was timed to explode at . p.m. the emperor happened at the time to be overwhelmed with work, and at the last moment he postponed dinner until . . { } the bomb exploded at the minute it had been timed for, killing many of the servants. my poor friend the lady-in-waiting was passing along the corridor as the explosion occurred. she fell unhurt amongst the wreckage, but the shock and the sight of the horribly mangled bodies of the servants were too much for her. she never recovered from their effects, and died in england within a year. after this crime, the winter palace was thoroughly searched from cellars to attics, and some curious discoveries were made. some of the countless moujiks employed in the palace had vast unauthorized colonies of their relatives living with them on the top floor of the building. in one bedroom a full-grown cow was found, placidly chewing the cud. one of the moujiks had smuggled it in as a new-born calf, had brought it up by hand, and afterwards fed it on hay purloined from the stables. though it may have kept his family well provided with milk, stabling a cow in a bedroom unprovided with proper drainage, on the top floor of a building, is not a proceeding to be unduly encouraged; nor does it tend to add to the sanitary amenities of a palace. russians are fond of calling the nevsky "the street of toleration," for within a third of a mile of its length a dutch calvinist, a german lutheran, a roman catholic, and an armenian church rise almost side by side. "nevsky" is, of course, only the adjective of "neva," and the street is termed "perspective" in french and "prospect" in russian. { } close to the armenian church lived m. delyanoff, who was the minister of education in those days. both m. and madame delyanoff were exceedingly hospitable and kind to the diplomatic body, so, when m. delyanoff died, most of the diplomats attended his funeral, appearing, according to russian custom, in full uniform. the delyanoffs being armenians, the funeral took place in the armenian church, and none of us had had any previous experience of the extraordinary noises which pass for singing amongst armenians. when six individuals appeared and began bleating like sheep, and followed this by an excellent imitation of hungry wolves howling, it was too much for us. we hastily composed our features into the decorum the occasion demanded, amid furtive little snorts of semi-suppressed laughter. after three grey-bearded priests had stepped from behind the ikonostas, and, putting their chins up in the air, proceeded to yelp together in unison, exactly like dogs baying the moon, the entire corps diplomatique broke down utterly. never have i seen men laugh so unrestrainedly. as we had each been given a large lighted candle, the movements of our swaying bodies were communicated to the tapers, and showers of melted wax began flying in all directions. with the prudence of the land of my birth, i placed myself against a pillar, so as to have no one behind me, but each time the three grey-beards recommenced their comical howling, i must have scattered perfect niagaras of wax on to the embroidered coat-tails { } and extensive back of the swedish minister in front of me. i should think that i must have expended the combined labours of several hives of bees on his garments, congratulating myself the while that that genial personage, not being a peacock, did not enjoy the advantage of having eyes in his tail. the swedish minister, m. dué, his massive frame quivering with laughter, was meanwhile engaged in performing a like kindly office on to the back of his roumanian colleague, prince ghika, who in his turn was anointing the uniform of m. van der hooven, the netherlands minister. providentially, the delyanoff family were all grouped together before the altar, and the farmyard imitations of the armenian choir so effectually drowned our unseemly merriment that any faint echoes which reached the family were ascribed by them to our very natural emotions in the circumstances. i heard, indeed, afterwards that the family were much touched by our attendance and by our sympathetic behaviour, but never, before or since, have i attended so hilarious a funeral. lord dufferin, in common with most of the members of the embassy, was filled with an intense desire to kill a bear. these animals, of course, hibernate, and certain peasants made a regular livelihood by discovering bears' lairs (the russian term, a corruption from the german, is "bear-loge") and then coming to petrograd and selling the beast at so much per "pood" of forty russian pounds. the finder undertook to provide sledges and beaters for the sum { } agreed upon, but nothing was to be paid unless a shot at the bear was obtained. these expeditions involved a considerable amount of discomfort. there was invariably a long drive of from forty to eighty miles to be made in rough country sledges from the nearest available railway station; the accommodation in a peasant's house would consist of the bare floor with some hay laid on it, and every scrap of food, including bread, butter, tea, and sugar, would have to be carried from petrograd, as european stomachs could not assimilate the sour, wet heavy black bread the peasants eat, and their brick-tea, which contained bullocks' blood, was undrinkable to those unaccustomed to it. it usually fell to my lot, as i spoke the language, to go on ahead to the particular village to which we were bound, and there to make the best arrangements possible for lord and lady dufferin's comfort. my instructions were always to endeavour to get a room in the latest house built, as this was likely to be less infested with vermin than the others. after a four or five hours' run from petrograd by train, one would find the vendor of the bear waiting at the station with a country sledge. these sledges were merely a few poles tied together, mounted on iron-shod wooden runners, and filled with hay. the sledges were so long that it was possible to lie at full length in them. the rifles, baggage, and food being packed under the hay, one lay down at full length, clad in long felt boots and heavy furs, an air-cushion under one's head, and a persian "bashilik," or hood of fine camel's hair, drawn over it to { } prevent ears or nose from being frostbitten. tucked into a thick fur rug, one composed oneself for an all-night drive through the endless forests. the two drivers sat on a plank in front, and one or other of them was continually dropping off to sleep, and tumbling backwards on to the occupants of the sledge. it was not a very comfortable experience, and sleep was very fickle to woo. in the first place, the sledge-tracks through the forest were very rough indeed, and the jolting was incessant; in the second place, should the actual driver go to sleep as well as his relieving colleague, the sledge would bump against the tree-trunks and overturn, and baggage, rifles and occupants would find themselves struggling in the deep snow. i always tied my baggage together with strings, so as to avoid losing anything in these upsets, but even then it took a considerable time retrieving the impedimenta from the deep snowdrifts. it always gave me pleasure watching the black conical points of the fir trees outlined against the pale burnished steel of the sky, and in the intense cold the stars blazed like diamonds out of the clear grey vault above. the biting cold burnt like a hot iron against the cheeks, until prudence, and a regard for the preservation of one's ears, dictated the pulling of the "bashilik" over one's face again. the intense stillness, and the absolute silence, for there are no sleigh-bells in northern russia, except in the imagination of novelists, had some subtle attraction for me. the silence was occasionally--very { } occasionally only--broken by an ominous, long-drawn howl; then a spectral swift-trotting outline would appear, keeping pace easily with the sledge, but half-hidden amongst the tree-trunks. in that case the smooth-bore gun and the buckshot cartridges were quickly disinterred from the hay, and the driver urged his horses into a furious gallop. there was no need to use the whip; the horses knew. everyone would give a sigh of relief as the silent grey swift-moving spectral figure, with its fox-like lope, vanished after a shot or two had been fired at it. the drivers would take off their caps and cross themselves, muttering "thanks be to god! oh! those cursed wolves!" and the horses slowed down of their own accord into an easy amble. there were compensations for a sleepless night in the beauty of the pictures in strong black and white, or in shadowy half-tones of grey which the endless forest displayed at every turn. when the earth is wrapped in its snow-mantle, it is never dark, and the gleams of light from the white carpet down the long-drawn aisles of the dark firs were like the pillared shadows of a great cathedral when the dusk is filling it with mystery and a vague sense of immense size. all villages that i have seen in northern russia are alike, and when you have seen one peasant's house you have seen all. the village consists of one long street, and in the winter the kindly snow covers much of its unspeakable untidiness. the "isbas," or wooden houses, are all of the same pattern; they are solidly built of { } rough logs, the projecting ends firmly morticed into each other. their gable ends all front the street, each with two windows, and every "isba" has its courtyard, where the door is situated. there are no gardens, or attempts at gardens, and the houses are one and all roofed with grey shingles. each house is raised some six feet from the ground, and they are all water-tight, and most of them air-tight as well. the houses are never painted, and their weathered logs stand out silver-grey against the white background. a good deal of imagination is shown in the fret-saw carving of the barg-boards, which are either ornamented in conventional patterns, or have roughly outlined grotesque animals clambering up their angles; very often too there are fretsaw ornaments round the window-frames as well. prominent on the gate of every "isba" is the painting, in black on a white ground, of the particular implement each occupant is bound to supply in case of a fire, that dire and relentless foe to russian wooden-built villages. on some houses a ladder will be depicted; on others an axe or a pail. the interior arrangement of every "isba" i have ever seen is also identical. they always consist of two fair-sized rooms; the "hot room," which the family inhabit in winter, facing the street; the "cold room," used only in summertime, looking into the courtyard. these houses are not uncomfortable, though, a russian peasant's wants being but few, they are not overburdened with furniture. the disposition of the "hot room" is unvarying. supposing it facing { } due south, the door will be in the north-west corner. the north-east corner is occupied by an immense brick stove, filling up one-eighth of the floor-space. these stoves are about five feet high, and their tops are covered with loose sheepskins. here the entire family sleep in the stifling heat, their resting-place being shared with thousands of voracious, crawling, uninvited guests. in the south-east corner is the ikon shelf, where the family ikons are ranged in line, with a red lamp burning before them. there will be a table and benches in another corner, and a rough dresser, with a samovar, and a collection of those wooden bowls and receptacles, lacquered in scarlet, black, and gold, which russian peasants make so beautifully; and that is all. the temperature of the "hot room" is overpowering, and the atmosphere fetid beyond the power of description. every male, on entering takes off his cap and makes a bow before the ikons. i always conformed to this custom, for there is no use in gratuitously wounding people's religious susceptibilities. i invariably slept in the "cold room," for its temperature being probably five or six degrees below freezing point, it was free from vermin, and the atmosphere was purer. the master of the house laid a few armfuls of hay on the floor, and his wife would produce one of those towels russian women embroider so skilfully in red and blue, and lay it down for the cheek to rest against. i slept in my clothes, with long felt boots on, and my furs thrown over me, and i could sleep there as well as in any bed. { } the russian peasant's idea as to the relation of holy russia to the rest of the world is curious. it is rather the point of view of the chinaman, who thinks that beyond the confines of the "middle kingdom" there is only outer barbarism. everything to the west of russia is known as "germania," an intelligible mistake enough when it is remembered that germany marks russia's western frontier. "slavs" (akin, i think, to "slova," "a word") are the only people who can talk; "germania" is inhabited by deaf and dumb people ("nyémski") who can only make inarticulate noises. on one of my shooting expeditions, i stopped for an hour at a tea-house to change horses and to get warmed up. the proprietor told me that his son was very much excited at hearing that there was a "deaf and dumb man" in the house, as he had never seen one. would i speak to the young man. who was then putting on his sunday clothes on the chance of the interview being granted? in due course the son appeared; a handsome youth in glorified peasant's costume. the first outward sign of a russian peasant's rise in the social scale is that he tucks his shirt _into_ his trousers, instead of wearing it outside; the second stage is marked by his wearing his trousers _over_ his boots, instead of thrusting the trousers into the boots. this young fellow had not reached this point of evolution, and wore his shirt outside, but it was a dark-blue silk shirt, secured by a girdle of rainbow-coloured persian silk. he still wore his long boots outside too, { } but they had scarlet morocco tops, and the legs of them were elaborately embroidered with gold wire. in modern parlance, this gay young spark was a terrific village "nut." never have i met a youth of such insatiable curiosity, or one so crassly and densely ignorant. he was one perpetual note of interrogation. "were there roads and villages in germania?" to the best of my belief there were. "there were no towns though as large as petrograd." i rather fancied the contrary, and instanced a flourishing little community of some five million souls, situated on an island, with which i was very well acquainted. the youth eyed me with deep suspicion. "were there railways in germania?" only about a hundred times the mileage of the russian railways. "there was no electric light though, because jablochkoff, a russian, had invented that." (i found this a fixed idea with all russian peasants.) i had a vague impression of having seen one or two arc lights feebly glimmering in the streets of the benighted cities of germania. "could people read and write there, and could they really talk? it was easy to see that i had learned to talk since i had been in russia." i showed him a copy of the london _times_. "these were not real letters. could anyone read these meaningless signs," and so on _ad infinitum_. i am persuaded that when i left that youth he was convinced that i was the nearest relative to ananias that he had ever met. no matter which hour of the twenty-four it might { } happen to be, ten minutes after my arrival in any of these remote villages the entire population assembled to gaze at the "nyemetz," the deaf and dumb man from remote "germania," who had arrived in their midst. they crowded into the "hot room," men, women, and children, and gaped on the mysterious stranger from another world, who sat there drinking tea, as we should gaze on a visitor from mars. i always carried with me on those occasions a small collapsible india-rubber bath and a rubber folding basin. on my first expedition, after my arrival in the village, i procured a bucket of hot water from the mistress of the house, carried it to the "cold room," and, having removed all my garments, proceeded to take a bath. like wildfire the news spread through the village that the "deaf and dumb" man was washing himself, and they all flocked in to look. i succeeded in "shooing" away the first arrivals, but they returned with reinforcements, until half the population, men, women, and children, were standing in serried rows in my room, following my every movement with breathless interest. i have never suffered from agoraphobia, so i proceeded cheerfully with my ablutions. "look at him! he is soaping himself!" would be murmured. "how dirty deaf and dumb people must be to want such a lot of washing!" "why does he rub his teeth with little brushes?" these and similar observations fell from the eager crowd, only broken occasionally by a piercing yell from a child, as she wailed plaintively the russian { } equivalent of "mummy! sonia not like ugly man!" it was distinctly an embarrassing situation, and only once in my life have i been placed in a more awkward position. that was at bahia, in brazil, when i was at the rio de janeiro legation. i went to call on the british consul's wife there, and had to walk half a mile from the tram, through the gorgeous tropical vegetation of the charming suburb of vittoria, amongst villas faced with cool-looking blue and white tiles; the pretty "azulejos" which the portuguese adopted from the moors. oddly enough, a tram and a tramcar are always called "a bond" in brazil. the first tram-lines were built out of bonds guaranteed by the state. the people took this to mean the tram itself; so "bond" it is, and "bond" it will remain. being the height of a sweltering brazilian summer, i was clad in white from head to foot. suddenly, as happens in the tropics, without any warning whatever, the heavens opened, and solid sheets of water fell on the earth. i reached the consul's house with my clean white linen soaked through, and most woefully bedraggled. the west indian butler (an old acquaintance) who opened the door informed me that the ladies were out. after a glance at my extraordinary disreputable garments, he added, "you gib me dem clothes, sar, i hab dem all cleaned and ironed in ten minutes, before de ladies come back." on the assurances of this swarthy servitor that he and i were the only souls in the house, i divested myself of every stitch { } of clothing, and going into the drawing-room, sat down to read a book in precisely the same attire as adam adopted in the earlier days of his married life. time went by, and my clothes did not reappear; i should have known that to a jamaican coloured man measures of time are very elastic. suddenly i heard voices, and, to my horror, i saw our consul's wife approaching through the garden with her two daughters and some other ladies. there was not a moment to lose! in that tropical drawing-room the only available scrap of drapery was a red plush table-cover. bundling everything on the table ruthlessly to the ground, i had just time to snatch up the table-cloth and drape myself in it (i trust gracefully) when the ladies entered the room. i explained my predicament and lamented my inability to rise, and so we had tea together. it is the only occasion in the course of a long life in which i ever remember taking tea with six ladies, clad only in a red plush table-cloth with bead fringes. returning to russia, the peasants fingered everything i possessed with the insatiable curiosity of children; socks, ties, and shirts. i am bound to say that i never had the smallest thing stolen. as our shooting expeditions were always during lent, i felt great compunction at shocking the peasants' religious scruples by eating beef, ham, and butter, all forbidden things at that season. i tried hard to persuade one woman that my cold sirloin of roast beef was part of a rare english fish, specially { } imported, but she was, i fear, of a naturally sceptical bent of mind. lady dufferin had one curious gift. she could spend the night in a rough country sledge, or sleep in her clothes on a truss of hay, and yet appear in the morning as fresh and neat, and spick and span, as though she had had the most elaborate toilet appliances at her disposal. on these occasions she usually wore a canadian blanket-suit of dark blue and scarlet, with a scarlet belt and hood, and a jaunty little sealskin cap. she always went out to the forest with us. the procedure on these occasions was invariably the same. an army of beaters was assembled, about two-thirds of them women. this made me uneasy at first, until i learnt that the beaters run no danger whatever from the bear. the beaters form five-sixths, or perhaps less, of a circle round the bear's sleeping place, and the guns are placed in the intervening open space. i may add that, personally, i always used for bear an ordinary smooth-bore sporting gun, with a leaden bullet. i passed every one of these bullets down the barrels of my gun myself to avoid the risk of the gun bursting, before they were loaded into cartridges, and i had them secured with melted tallow. the advantages of a smooth-bore is that at close quarters, as with bear, where you must kill your beast to avoid disagreeable consequences, you lose no time in getting your sights on a rapidly-moving object. you shoot as you would a rabbit; and you can make { } absolutely sure of your animal, _if you keep your head_. a leaden bullet at close quarters has tremendous stopping power. of course you want a rifle as well for longer shots. i found this method most successful with tiger, later in india, only you must remain quite cool. at a given signal, the beaters begin yelling, beating iron pans with sticks, blowing horns, shouting, and generally making enough pandemonium to awaken the seven sleepers. it effectually awakes the bear, who emerges from his bedroom in an exceedingly evil temper, to see what all this fearful din is about. as he is surrounded with noise on three sides, he naturally makes for the only quiet spot, where the guns are posted. by this time he is in a distinctly unamiable mood. i always took off my ski, and stood nearly waist-deep in the snow so as to get a firm footing. then you can make quite certain of your shot. ski or no ski, if it came to running away, the bear would always have the pull on you. the first time i was very lucky. the bear came straight to me. when he was within fifteen feet, and i felt absolutely certain of getting him, i fired. he reared himself on his hind legs to an unbelievable height, and fell stone dead at lady dufferin's very feet. that bear's skin is within three feet of me as i write these lines. we went back to the village in orthodox fashion, all with fir-branches in our hands, as a sign of rejoicing; i seated on the dead bear. as a small boy of nine i had been tossed in a { } blanket at school, up to the ceiling, caught again, then up a second time and third time. it was not, and was not intended to be, a pleasant experience, but in my day all little boys had to submit to it. the unhappy little brats stuck their teeth together, and tried hard to grin as they were being hurled skywards. these curious russians, though, appeared to consider it a delightful exercise. arrived at the village again, i was captured by some thirty buxom, stalwart women, and sent spinning up and up, again and again, till i was absolutely giddy. not only had one to thank them profusely for this honour, but also to disburse a considerable amount of roubles in acknowledgement of it. poor lady dufferin was then caught, in spite of her protests, and sent hurtling skywards through the air half a dozen times. needless to say that she alighted with not one hair of her head out of place or one fold of her garments disarranged. being young and inexperienced then, i was foolish enough to follow the russian custom, and to present the village with a small cask of vodka. i regretted it bitterly. two hours later not a male in the place was sober. old grey-beards and young men lay dead drunk in the snow; and quite little boys reeled about hopelessly intoxicated. i could have kicked myself for being so thoughtless. during all the years i was in russia, i never saw a peasant woman drink spirits, or under the influence of liquor. in my house at petrograd i had a young peasant as house-boy. he was quite a { } nice lad of sixteen; clean, willing, and capable, but, young as he was, he had already fallen a victim to the national failing, in which he indulged regularly once a month, when his wages were paid him, and nothing could break him of this habit. i could always tell when ephim, the boy, had gone out with the deliberate intention of getting drunk, by glancing into his bedroom. he always took the precaution of turning the ikons over his bed, with their faces to the wall, before leaving, and invariably blew out the little red lamp, in order that ikons might not see him reeling into the room upon his return, or deposited unconscious upon his bed. being a singularly neat boy in his habits, he always put on his very oldest clothes on these occasions, in order not to damage his better ones, should he fall down in the street after losing control of his limbs. this drunkenness spreads like a cancer from top to bottom of russian society. a friend of mine, who afterwards occupied one of the highest administrative posts, told me quite casually that, on the occasion of his youngest brother's seventeenth birthday, the boy had been allowed to invite six young friends of his own age to dinner; my friend thought it quite amusing that every one of these lads had been carried to bed dead drunk. i attribute the dry-rot which ate into the whole structure of the mighty empire, and brought it crashing to the ground, in a very large degree to the intemperate habits prevailing amongst all classes of russian men, which in justice one must add, may be due to climatic reasons. { } in the villages our imported food was a constant source of difficulty. we were all averse to shocking the peasants by eating meat openly during lent, but what were we to do? out of deference to their scruples, we refrained from buying eggs and milk, which could have been procured in abundance, and furtively devoured ham, cold beef, and pickles behind cunningly contrived ramparts of newspaper, in the hope that it might pass unnoticed. remembering how meagre at the best of times the diet of these peasants is, it is impossible to help admiring them for the conscientious manner in which they obey the rules of their church during lent. i once gave a pretty peasant child a piece of plum cake. her mother snatched it from her, and asked me whether the cake contained butter or eggs. on my acknowledgement that it contained both, she threw it into the stove, and asked me indignantly how i dared to imperil her child's immortal soul by giving her forbidden food in lent. even my sixteen-year-old house-boy in petrograd, the bibulous ephim, although he regularly succumbed to the charms of vodka, lived entirely on porridge and dry bread during lent, and would not touch meat, butter, or eggs on any consideration whatever. the more i saw of the peasants the more i liked them. the men all drank, and were not particularly truthful, but they were like great simple, bearded, unkempt children, with (drunkenness apart) all a child's faults, and all a nice child's power of attraction. i liked the { } great, stalwart, big-framed women too. they were seldom good-looking, but their broad faces glowed with health and good nature, and they had as a rule very good skins, nice teeth, and beautiful complexions. i found that i could get on with these villagers like a house on fire. however cold the weather, no village girl or woman wears anything on her head but a gaudy folded cotton handkerchief. i never shared the resentment of my russian friends at being addressed with the familiar "thou" by the peasants. they intended no discourtesy; it was their natural form of address, and they could not be expected to know that beyond the narrow confines of their village there was another world where the ceremonious "you" was habitually employed. i rather fancy that anyone bred in the country, and accustomed from his earliest childhood to mix with farmers, cottagers, and farm-labourers, can get on with other country-bred people, whether at home, or in russia, india, or canada--a town-bred man would not know what to talk about. in spite of the peasants' reputation for pilfering, not one of us ever had the smallest thing stolen. i did indeed lose a rubber air-cushion in the snow, but that was owing to the overturning of a sledge. a colleague of mine, whom i had hitherto always regarded as a truthful man, assured me a year afterwards that he had seen my air-cushion ranged on the ikon shelf in a peasant's house, with two red lamps burning before it. the owner of the house declared, according { } to my friend, that my air-cushion was an ikon of peculiar sanctity, though the painting had in some mysterious manner become obliterated from it. my colleague further assured me that my air-cushion was building up a very gratifying little local connection as a miracle-working ikon of quite unusual efficiency, and that, under its kindly tutelage, crops prospered and flocks and herds increased; of course within reasonable limits only, for the new ikon held essentially moderate views, and was temperamentally opposed to anything in the way of undue optimism. i wished that i could have credited this, for it would have been satisfactory to imagine oneself, through the agency of the air-cushion, a vicarious yet untiring benefactor of a whole countryside. on one of our shooting expeditions a curious incident occurred. lord dufferin had taken a long shot at a bear, and had wounded without killing him. for some reason, the animal stopped, and climbed to the top of a high fir tree. lord dufferin approached, fired again, and the bear dropped dead to the ground. it is but seldom that one sees a dead bear fall from the top of a tree. i witnessed an equally strange sporting incident once in india. it was just over the borders of assam, and we were returning to camp on elephants, after a day's big game shooting. as we approached a hollow clothed with thick jungle, the elephants all commenced trumpeting. knowing how wonderfully keen the elephant's sense of smell is, that told us that some beast lay concealed in the hollow. thinking it { } would prove to be a bear, i took up my favourite smooth-bore charged with leaden bullets, when with a great crashing and rending of boughs the jungle parted, and a galloping rhinoceros charged out, his head well down, making straight for the elephant that was carrying a nephew of mine. my nephew had just time to snatch up a heavy -bore elephant rifle. he fired, and by an extraordinary piece of luck succeeded in hitting the huge beast in his one vulnerable spot, just behind the shoulder. the rhinoceros rolled right over like a shot rabbit and lay stone dead. it was a thousand to one chance, and if i live to a hundred i shall never see anything of the sort again. it was also very fortunate, for had he missed his shot, nothing on earth could have saved my nephew's life. we found that the most acceptable presents in the villages were packets of sugar and tins of sardines. sugar is costly and difficult to procure in russian villages. the usual way of employing it, when friends are gathered round the table of some "isba" with the samovar in the middle and steaming glasses of tea before each guest, is for no. to take a piece of sugar, place it between his teeth, and then suck his tea through it. no. quickly passes the piece of sugar to his neighbor, who uses it in the same way, and transfers it to the next person, and so on, till the sugar is all dissolved. this method of using sugar, though doubtless economical, always struck me as being of dubious cleanliness. a gift of a pound of lump sugar was always welcomed with { } grateful thanks. sardines were even more acceptable, as they could be eaten in lent. the grown-ups devoured the fish, lifting them out of the tin with their fingers; and the children were given the oil to smear on their bread, in place of forbidden butter. after days in the keen fresh air, and in the limitless expanse of forest and snow, life in petrograd seemed terribly artificial. i used to marvel that my cultured, omniscient, polygot friends were fellow-countrymen of the bearded, red-shirted, illiterate peasants we had just left. the gulf seemed so unbridgable between them, and apart from a common language and a common religion (both, i acknowledge, very potent bonds of union) there seemed no link between them, or any possible community of ideas. now in england there is that community of ideas. all classes, from the highest to the lowest, share to some extent the same tastes and the same prejudices. there is too that most powerful of connecting links, a common love of sport. the cricket ground and the football field are witnesses to this, and it shows in a hundred little ways beside. the freemasonry of sport is very real. it was perfectly delightful to live with and to mix so much amongst charming people of such wide culture and education, but they seemed to me to bear the same relation to the world outside their own that a rare orchid in its glass shelter bears to a wild flower growing in the open air. the one is { } indigenous to the soil; the other was originally imported, and can only thrive in an artificial atmosphere, and under artificial conditions. if the glass gets broken, or the fire goes out, the orchid dies, but the wild flower is not affected. after all, man made the towns, but god made the country. { } chapter v the russian gipsies--midnight drives--gipsy singing--its fascination--the consequences of a late night--an unconventional luncheon--lord dufferin's methods--assassination of alexander ii--stürmer--pathetic incidents in connection with the murder of the emperor--the funeral procession and service--details concerning--the votive church--the order of the garter--unusual incidents at the investiture--precautions taken for emperor's safety--the imperial train--finland--exciting salmon-fishing there--harraka niska--koltesha--excellent shooting there--ski-running--"ringing the game in"--a wolf-shooting party--the obese general--some incidents--a novel form of sport--black game and capercailzie--at dawn in a finnish forest--immense charm of it--ice-hilling or "montagnes russes"--ice-boating on the gulf of finland. in my day there were two or three restaurants on the islands formed by the delta of the neva, with troupes of singing gipsies attached to them. these restaurants did a roaring trade in consequence, for the singing of the gipsy choirs seems to produce on russians the same maddening, almost intoxicating effect that the "skirl o' the pipes" does on those with scottish blood in their veins. personally, i thought that one soon tired of this { } gipsy singing; not so my russian friends--it appeared to have an irresistible attraction for them. i always dreaded the consequences when some foolish person, usually at or even a.m., proposed a visit to the gipsies, for all the ladies present would instantly jump at the suggestion, and i knew full well that it entailed a forcible separation from bed until six or possibly seven next morning. troikas would at once be sent for. a troika is a thing quite apart. its horses are harnessed as are no other horses in the world, since the centre horse trots in shafts, whilst the two outside horses, the "_pristashkui_" loose save for long traces, gallop. driving a troika is a special art. the driver stands; he has a special badge, peacock's feathers set in a round cap; he has a special name, "_yamshchik_," and he charges quite a special price. to my mind, the drive out to the islands was the one redeeming feature of these expeditions. within the confines of the city, the pace of the troikas was moderate enough, but as the last scattered houses of the suburbs merged into the forest, the driver would call to his horses, and the two loose horses broke into a furious gallop, the centre horse in shafts moving as swiftly as any american trotter. smoothly and silently under the burnished steel of the starlit sky, they tore over the snow, the vague outlines of the fir trees whizzing past. faster and faster, until the wild excitement of it made one's blood tingle within one, even as the bitter cold made one's cheeks tingle, as we raced through the { } keen pure air. that wild gallop through the forest was perfectly glorious. i believe that on us sons of the north real cold has the same exhilarating effect that warmth and sunshine have on the lotos-eating dwellers by the blue mediterranean. the troika would draw up at the door of a long, low, wooden building, hidden away amongst the fir trees of the forest. after repeated bangings at the door, a sleepy-eyed tartar appeared, who ushered one into a great gaunt, bare, whitewashed room, where other little yellow, flat-faced, tartar waiters were lighting countless wax candles, bringing in many slim-shouldered, gold foil-covered bottles of champagne, and a samovar or two, and arranging seats. then the gipsy troupe strolled in, some twenty-five strong; the younger members passably good-looking, with fine dark eyes, abundant eyelashes, and extremely indifferent complexions. the older members of the company made no attempt at coquetry. they came muffled in woollen shawls, probably to conceal toilet deficiencies, yawning openly and undisguisedly; not concealing their disgust at being robbed of their sleep in order to sing to a pack of uninteresting strangers, to whom, incidentally, they owed their entire means of livelihood. some ten swarthy, evil-faced, indeterminate males with guitars filled up the background. one of the younger members of the troupe would begin a song in waltz time, in a curious metallic voice, with a ring in it of something eastern, { } barbaric, and utterly strange to european ears, to the thrum of the guitars of the swarthy males in the background. the elderly females looked inexpressibly bored, and hugged their woollen shawls a little closer over their heads. then the chorus took up the refrain. a tempest of wild, nasal melody arose, in the most perfect harmony. it was metallic, and the din was incredible, but the effect it produced on the listeners was astounding. the old women, dropping their cherished shawls, awoke to life. their dull eyes sparkled again, they sang madly, frenetically; like people possessed. the un-european _timbre_ of the voices conduced doubtless to the effect, but the fact remains that this clamour of nasal, metallic voices, singing in exquisite harmony, had about it something so novel and fresh--or was it something so immemorially old?--that the listeners felt absolutely intoxicated. on the russians it acted like hypnotism. after the first song, they all joined in, and even i, the dour and unemotional son of a northern land, found myself, as words and music grew familiar, shouting the bass parts of the songs with all the strength of my lungs. the russian language lends itself admirably to song, and the excess of sibilants in it is not noticeable in singing. these russian gipsies, like the austrian bands, produced their effects by very simple means. they harmonised their songs themselves, and they always introduced a succession of "sixths" or "thirds"; emphasising the "sixth" in the tenor part. { } one can, however, have too much of a good thing. i used to think longingly of my far-off couch, but there was no tearing russians away from the gipsies. the clock ticked on; they refused to move. the absorption of much champagne has never afforded me the smallest amusement. the consumption of tea has also its limits, and my longed-for bed was so far away! the really staggering figure one had to disburse as one's share for these gipsy entertainments seemed to me to be a very long price to pay for a sleepless night. once a fortnight the "queen's messenger" left petrograd at noon, on his return journey to london. on "messenger mornings" we had all to be at the embassy at a.m. punctually. one morning, after a compulsory vigil with the gipsies, i was awakened by my servant with the news that it was close on nine, and that my sledge was already at the door. it was impossible to dress in the time, so after some rapid ablutions, i drew the long felt boots the russians call "valinki" over my pyjamas, put on some heavy furs, and jumped into my sledge. lord dufferin found me writing hard in the steam-heated chancery, clad only in silk pyjamas, and with my bare feet in slippers. he made no remark, but i knew that nothing ever escaped his notice. by noon we had the despatches finished, the bags sealed up, the "waybill" made out, various precautionary measures taken as to which it is unnecessary to enlarge, and the messenger left for london. i called to the { } hall porter to bring me my furs, and told him to order my sledge round. "his excellency has sent your sledge home," said the porter, with a smile lurking round the corners of his mouth. "then call me a hack sledge." "his excellency hopes that you will give him the pleasure of your company at luncheon." "but i must go home and dress first." "his excellency's orders were that you are to go as you are," answered the grinning porter. then i understood. nothing is ever gained by being shy or self-conscious, so after a hasty toilet, i sent for my heavy fur "shuba." furs in russia are intended for use, not ornament, and this "shuba" was an extremely weighty and voluminous garment, designed to withstand the rigours of the north pole itself. a glance at the mirror convinced me that i was most indelicately _décolleté_ about the neck, so i hooked the big collar of the "shuba" together, and strode upstairs. the heat of this fur garment was unendurable, but there was nothing else for it. certainly the legs of my pyjamas protruded below it, so i congratulated myself on the fact that they were a brand-new pair of very smart striped mauve silk. my bare feet too were encased in remarkably neat persian slippers of green morocco. lady dufferin received me exactly as though i had been dressed in the most immaculate of frock-coats. her children though, gazed at my huge fur coat, round-eyed with astonishment, for neither man nor woman ever comes into a russian house with furs on--an { } arrangement which would not at all suit some of my london friends, who seem to think that furs are designed for being shown off in hot rooms. the governess, an elderly lady, catching sight of my unfortunate pyjama legs below the fur coat, assumed a highly scandalised attitude, as though she could scarcely credit the evidence of her eyes. (i repeat that they were exceptionally smart pyjamas.) during luncheon lord dufferin made himself perfectly charming, and i did my best to act as though it were quite normal to sit down to one's repasts in an immense fur coat. the ambassador was very susceptible to cold, and liked the house heated to a great temperature. that day the furnace-man must have been quite unusually active, for the steam hissed and sizzled in the radiators, until the heat of that dining-room was suffocating. conscious of my extreme _décolletage_, i did not dare unhook the collar of my "shuba," being naturally of a modest disposition, and never, even in later years at colombo or singapore, have i suffered so terribly from heat as in that petrograd dining-room in the depths of a russian winter. the only cool thing in the room was the governess, who, when she caught sight of my bare feet, froze into an arctic iceberg of disdain, in spite of my really very ornamental persian slippers. the poor lady had obviously never even caught a glimpse of pajamas before. after that episode i always came to the embassy fully dressed. { } another instance of lord dufferin's methods occurs to me. we had a large evening party at the embassy, and a certain very pushing and pertinacious english newspaper correspondent did everything in his power to get asked to this reception. for very excellent reasons, his request was refused. in spite of this, on the night of the party the journalist appeared. i informed lord dufferin, and asked what he wished me to do about it. "let me deal with him myself," answered the ambassador, and going up to the unbidden guest, he made him a little bow, and said with a bland smile, "may i inquire, sir, to what i owe this most unexpected honour?" then as the unhappy newspaper-man stuttered out something, lord dufferin continued with an even blander smile, "do not allow me, my dear sir, i beg of you, to detain you from your other doubtless numerous engagements"; then calling me, he added, "will you kindly accompany this gentleman to the front door, and see that on a cold night like this he gets all his warm clothing." it was really impossible to turn a man out of your house in a more courteous fashion. there was another plan lord dufferin used at times. all despatches, and most of our private letters, were sent home by hand, in charge of the queen's messenger. we knew perfectly well that anything sent from the embassy through the ordinary mails would be opened at the censor's office, and copies taken. ministries of foreign affairs { } give at times "diplomatic" answers, and occasionally it was advisable to let the russian government know that the ambassador was quite aware that the assurances given him did not quite tally with the actual facts. he would then write a despatch to london to that effect, and send it by mail, being well aware that it would be opened and a copy sent to the russian ministry of foreign affairs. in this indirect fashion, he delicately conveyed to the russian government that he had not been hoodwinked by the rather fanciful statements made to him. i was sitting at luncheon with some friends at a colleague's house on sunday, the fateful st of march, (march , new style). suddenly our white-headed old chancery messenger burst unceremoniously into the room, and called out, "the emperor has been assassinated!" we all jumped up; the old man, a german-speaking russian from the baltic provinces, kept on wringing his hands, and moaning, "unser arme gute kaiser! unser arme gute kaiser!" ("our poor dear emperor!") we hurried to the embassy as fast as we could go, and found the ambassador just stepping into his carriage to get the latest news from the winter palace. lady dufferin had not seen the actual crime committed, but she had heard the explosion of the bomb, and had seen the wounded horses led past, and was terribly upset in consequence. she was walking along the catherine canal with her youngest daughter when the emperor's carriage { } passed and the first bomb was thrown. the carriage was one of napoleon iii's special armoured coaches, bought after the fall of the second french empire. the bomb shattered the wheels of the carriage, but the emperor was untouched. he stepped out into the snow, when the second bomb was thrown, which blew his legs to pieces, and the emperor was taken in a private sledge, in a dying condition, to the winter palace. the bombs had been painted white, to look like snowballs. ten minutes later one of the court chamberlains arrived. i met him in the hall, and he informed me, with the tears streaming down his face, that all was over. that chamberlain was a german-russian named stürmer, and he was the very same man who thirty-four years later was destined, by his gross incompetence, or worse, as prime minister, to bring the mighty russian empire crashing in ruins to the ground, and to drive the well-intentioned, irresolute nicholas ii, the grandson of the sovereign for whom he professed so great an affection, to his abdication, imprisonment, and ignominious death. there was a queen's messenger due in petrograd from london that same afternoon, and lord dufferin, thinking that the police might give trouble, desired me to meet him at the station. the messenger refused to believe my news. he persisted in treating the whole thing as a joke, so i ordered my coachman to drive through the great { } semi-circular place in front of the winter palace. that place presented a wonderful sight. there were tens of thousands of people, all kneeling bare-headed in the snow, in close-packed ranks. i thought the sight of those serried thousands kneeling bare-headed, praying for the soul of their dead emperor, a strangely moving and beautiful spectacle. when the messenger saw this, and noted the black and yellow imperial flag waving at half-mast over the palace, he no longer doubted. the grand duke vladimir had announced the emperor's death to the vast crowds in the traditional russian fashion. the words "death" or "die" being considered ill-omened by old-fashioned russians, the actual sentence used by the grand duke was, "the emperor has bidden you to live long." ("gosudar imperator vam prikazal dolga jit!") the words conveyed their message. the body of the emperor having been embalmed, the funeral did not take place for a fortnight. as the crow flies, the distance between the winter palace and the fortress church is only about half a mile; it was, however, still winter-time, the neva was frozen over, and the floating bridges had been removed. it being contrary to tradition to take the body of a dead emperor of russia across ice, the funeral procession had to pass over the permanent bridges to the fortress, a distance of about six miles. lady dufferin and i saw the procession from the corner windows of a house on the quays. on { } paper it sounded very grand, but like so many things in russia, it was spoilt by lack of attention to details. the distances were kept irregularly, and many of the officials wore ordinary civilian great-coats over their uniforms, which did not enhance the effect of the _cortège_. the most striking feature of the procession was the "black knight" on foot, followed immediately by the "golden knight" on horseback. these were, i believe, meant to typify "the angel of death" and "the angel of the resurrection." both knights were clad in armour from head to foot, with the vizors of their helmets down. the "black knight's" armour was dull sooty-black all over; he had a long black plume waving from his helmet. the "golden knight," mounted on a white horse, with a white plume in his helmet, wore gilded and burnished armour, which blazed like a torch in the sunlight. the weight of the black armour being very great, there had been considerable difficulty in finding a man sufficiently strong to walk six miles, carrying this tremendous burden. a gigantic young private of the preobrajensky guards undertook the task for a fee of one hundred roubles, but though he managed to accomplish the distance, he fainted from exhaustion on reaching the fortress church, and was, i heard, two months in hospital from the effects of his effort. we were able to get lady dufferin into her place in the fortress church, long before the procession arrived, by driving across the ice of the { } river. the absence of seats in a russian church, and the extreme length of the orthodox liturgy, rendered these services very trying for ladies. the fortress church had been built by a dutch architect, and was the most un-eastern-looking orthodox church i ever saw. it actually contained a pulpit! in the north aisle of the church all the emperors since peter the great's time lie in uniform plain white marble tombs, with gilt-bronze russian eagles at their four corners. the tsars mostly rest in the cathedral of the archangel, in the moscow kremlin. i have before explained that peter was the last of the tsars and the first of the emperors. the regulations for court mourning in petrograd were most stringent. all ladies had to appear in perfectly plain black, lustreless woollen dresses, made high to the throat. on their heads they wore a sort of mary queen of scots pointed cap of black crape, with a long black crape veil falling to their feet. the only detail of the funeral which struck me was the perfectly splendid pall of cloth of gold. this pall had been specially woven in moscow, of threads of real gold. when folded back during the ceremony it looked exactly like gleaming waves of liquid gold. a memorial church in old-russian style has been erected on the catherine canal on the spot where alexander ii was assassinated. the five onion-shaped domes of this church, of copper enamelled in stripes and spirals of crude blue and white, green and yellow, and scarlet and white, may possibly { } look less garish in two hundred years' time than they do at present. the severely plain byzantine interior, covered with archaic-looking frescoes on a gold ground, is effective. the ikonostas is entirely of that vivid pink and enormously costly siberian marble that russians term "heavy stone." personally i should consider the huge sum it cost as spent in vain. edward vii and queen alexandra, in those days, of course, prince and princess of wales, represented great britain at alexander ii's funeral, and remained in petrograd a month after it. a week after the funeral, the prince of wales, by queen victoria's command, invested alexander iii with the order of the garter. as the garter is the oldest order of chivalry in europe, the ceremonies at its investiture have years of tradition behind them. the insignia, the star, the ribbon, the collar, the sword, and the actual garter itself, are all carried on separate, long, narrow cushions of red velvet, heavily trimmed with gold bullion. owing to the deep court mourning, it was decided that the investiture should be private. no one was to be present except the new emperor and empress, queen alexandra, the grand master and grand mistress of the russian court, the members of the british embassy, and the prince of wales and his staff. this, as it turned out, was very fortunate. the ceremony was to take place at the anitchkoff palace on the nevsky, which alexander iii inhabited throughout his reign, as { } he preferred it to the huge rambling winter palace. on the appointed day, we all marched into the great throne room of the anitchkoff palace, the prince of wales leading the way, with five members of his staff carrying the insignia on the traditional long narrow velvet cushions. i carried nothing, but we made, i thought, a very dignified and effective entrance. as we entered the throne room, a perfectly audible feminine voice cried out in english, "oh, my dear! do look at them. they look exactly like a row of wet-nurses carrying babies!" nothing will induce me to say from whom the remark proceeded. the two sisters, empress and queen, looked at each other for a minute, and then exploded with laughter. the emperor fought manfully for a while to keep his face, until, catching sight of the member of the prince of wales's staff who was carrying his cushion in the peculiarly maternal fashion that had so excited the risibility of the royal sisters, he too succumbed, and his colossal frame quivered with mirth. never, i imagine, since its institution in , has the order of the garter been conferred amid such general hilarity, but as no spectators were present, this lapse from the ordinary decorum of the ceremonial did not much matter. the general public never heard of it, nor, i trust, did queen victoria. the emperor alexander iii was a man of great personal courage, but he gave way, under protest, to the wishes of those responsible for his personal safety. they insisted on his always using { } the armour-plated carriages bought from napoleon iii. these coaches were so immensely heavy that they soon killed the horses dragging them. again, on railway journeys, the actual time-table and route of the imperial train between two points was always different from the published time-table and route. napoleon iii's private train had been purchased at the same time as his steel-plated carriages. this train had been greatly enlarged and fitted to the russian gauge. i do not suppose that any more sumptuous palace on wheels has ever been built than this train of nine vestibuled cars. it was fitted with every imaginable convenience. alexander iii sent it to the frontier to meet his brother-in-law the prince of wales, which was the occasion on which i saw it. during the six months following alexander ii's assassination all social life in petrograd stopped. we of the embassy had many other resources, for in those days the british business colony in petrograd was still large, and flourished exceedingly. they had various sporting clubs, of some of which we were members. there was in particular the fishing club at harraka niska in finland, where the river vuoksi issues from the hundred-mile-long lake saima. it was a curious experience driving to the finnish railway station in petrograd. in the city outside, the date would be june , russian style. inside the station, the date became june , european style. in place of the baggy knickerbockers, { } high boots, and fur caps of the russian railwaymen, the employees of the finnish railway wore the ordinary uniforms customary on european railways. the tickets were printed in european, not russian characters, and the fares were given in marks and pennies, instead of in roubles and kopecks. the notices on the railway were all printed in six languages, finnish, swedish, russian, french, english, and german, and my patriotic feelings were gratified at noting that all the locomotives had been built in glasgow. i was astonished to find that although finland formed an integral part of the russian empire, there was a custom house and customs examination at the finnish frontier. finland is a country of endless little hills, and endless forests, all alike bestrewn with huge granite boulders; it is also a land of endless rivers and lakes. it is pretty in a monotonous fashion, and looks wonderfully tidy after russia proper. the wooden houses and villages are all neatly painted a chocolate brown, and in spite of its sparse population it seems very prosperous. the finns are all protestants; the educated classes are mostly swedish-speaking, the others talking their own impossible ural-altaic language. at the extremely comfortable club-house at harraka niska none of the fishermen or boatmen could talk anything but finnish. we all had little conversation books printed in russian and finnish, but we usually found the language of signs more { } convenient. in later years, in south america, it became my duty to interview daily the legation cook, an accomplished but extremely adipose female from old spain. i had not then learnt spanish, and she understood no other tongue, so we conversed by signs. it is extremely derogatory to one's personal dignity to be forced to imitate in succession a hen laying an egg, a sheep bleating, or a duck quacking, and yet this was the only way in which i could order dinner. no one who has not tried it can believe how difficult it is to indicate in pantomime certain comestibles, such, for instance, as kidneys, liver and bacon, or a welsh rarebit. the fish at harraka would not look at a fly, and could only be hooked on a phantom-minnow. the fishing there was very exciting. the big fish all lay where lake saima debouched into the turbulent vuoksi river. there was a terrific rapid there, and the boatmen, who knew every inch of the ground, would head the boat straight for that seething white caldron of raging waves, lashing and roaring down the rocky gorge, as they dashed up angry spurts of white spray. just as it seemed that nothing could save one from being hurled into that mad turmoil of leaping waters, where no human being could hope to live for a minute, a back-current shot the boat swiftly across to the other bank. that was the moment when the fish were hooked. they were splendid fighters, and played magnificently. these harraka fish were curiously { } uniform in size, always running from to lb. though everyone called them salmon, i think myself that they were really bull-trout, or _salmo ferox_. a salmon would have had to travel at least miles from salt water, and i do not believe that any fish living could have got up the tremendous imatra waterfall, some six miles lower down the vuoksi. these fish invariably had lice on them. in great britain sea-lice on a salmon are taken as a certain indication that the fish is fresh-run. these fish cannot possibly have been fresh-run, so i think it probable that in these great lakes there may be a fresh-water variety of the parasite. another peculiarity of the harraka fish was that, though they were excellent eating, they would not keep above two days. i have myself caught eleven of these big fellows in one day. during june there was capital grayling fishing in the lower vuoksi, the fish running large, and taking the fly readily, though in that heavy water they were apt to break off. there were plenty of small trout too in the vuoksi, but the densely-wooded banks made fishing difficult, and the water was always crystal-clear, and needed the finest of tackle. i spent some most enjoyable days at koltesha, a small english shooting-club of ten members, about twenty miles out of petrograd. during september, for one fortnight, the marshes round koltesha were alive with "double-snipe." this bird migrates in thousands from the arctic regions to { } the far south, at the approach of autumn. they alighted in the koltesha marshes to recruit themselves after their journey from the north pole, and owing to circumstances beyond their control, few of them continued their journey southward. this confiding fowl has never learnt to zig-zag like the other members of the snipe family, and they paid the penalty for this omission by usually proceeding to the kitchen. a "double-snipe" is most delicious eating. the winter shooting at koltesha was most delightful. the art of "ski-walking" had first to be learnt, and on commencing this unaccustomed method of locomotion, various muscles, which its use called into play for the first time, showed their resentment by aching furiously. the ground round koltesha being hilly was admirably adapted for coasting on ski. it was difficult at first to shoot from the insecure footing of ski, and the unusual amount of clothing between one's shoulder and the stock of one's gun did not facilitate matters. everything, however, can be learnt in time. i can claim to be the pioneer of ski on the american continent, for in january, , i brought over to canada the very first pair of ski ever seen in america. i used to coast down the toboggan slides at ottawa on them, amidst universal derision. i was told that, however useful ski might be in russia, they were quite unsuited to canadian conditions, and would never be popular there, as the old-fashioned "raquettes" were infinitely superior. humph! _qui vivra verra!_ { } koltesha abounded in black game, "ryabchiks," or hazel-grouse, and ptarmigan. russian hares turn snow-white in winter, and are very difficult to see against a snowy background in consequence. it is almost impossible to convey on paper any idea of the intense delight of those days in the sun and the cold, when the air had that delicious clean smell that always goes with intense frost, the dark fir woods, with their purple shadows, stood out in sharp contrast to the dazzling sheet of white snow, and the sunlight gilded the patches of oak and birch scrub that climbed down the hollows of the low hills. one returned home glowing from head to foot. we got larger game too by "ringing them." the process of "ringing" is as follows. no four-footed creature can travel over the snow without leaving his tracks behind him. let us suppose a small wood, one mile in circumference. if a man travels round this on ski, and if the track of any animal crosses his trail, going _into_ the wood, and this track does not again come _out_ of the wood, it is obvious that that particular animal is still taking cover there. measures to drive him out are taken accordingly. we got in this way at koltesha quite a number of elks, lynxes, and wolves. the best wolf-shooting i ever got was at the invitation of the russian minister of finance. great packs of these ravenous brutes were playing havoc on his estate, two hundred miles from petrograd, so he invited a large shooting party to his { } country house. we travelled down in a private sleeping-car, and had over twenty miles to drive in rough country sledges from the station. one of the guests was an enormously fat russian general, a perfect mammoth of a man. as i was very slim in those days, i was told off as this gigantic warrior's fellow-passenger. although he took up nine-tenths of the sledge, i just managed to creep in, but every time we jolted--and as the track was very rough, this was pretty frequently--i got lb. of russian general on the top of me, squeezing the life out of me. he was a good-natured colossus, and apologised profusely for his own obesity, and for his instability, but i was black and blue all over, and since that day i have felt profound sympathy for the little princes in the tower, for i know what being smothered with a feather-bed feels like. the minister's country house was, as are most other russian country houses, a modest wooden building with whitewashed rooms very scantily furnished. the minister had, however, thoughtfully brought down his famous petrograd chef, and i should judge about three-quarters of the contents of his wine-cellar. we had to proceed to our places in the forest in absolute silence, and the wolf being an exceedingly wary animal with a a very keen sense of smell, all smoking was rigorously prohibited. it was nice open scrubland, undulating gently. the beaters were skilful and we were very lucky, { } for after an interminable wait, the entire pack of wolves rushed down on us. a wolf is killed with slugs from a smooth-bore. i personally was fortunate, for i got shots at eight wolves, and six of them felt disinclined for further exertions. i still have a carriage-rug made of the skins of the wolves i killed that day. the banging all round meanwhile was terrific. in two days we accounted for fifty-two of these pests. it gave me the utmost pleasure killing these murderous, bloodthirsty brutes; far more than slaying an inoffensive bear. should a bear encounter a human being in the course of his daily walks, he is certainly apt to hug him to death, as a precautionary measure. he is also addicted to smashing to a jelly, with one blow of his powerful paws, the head of a chance stranger. these peculiarities apart, the bear may be regarded as practically harmless. it is otherwise with the wolf. some of the british colony were fond of going to finland for a peculiar form of sport. i use the last word dubiously, for to kill any game birds during the breeding season seems a curiously unsportsmanlike act. circumstances rather excused this. it is well known that black game do not pair, but that they are polygamous. during the breeding season the male birds meet every morning at dawn on regular fighting grounds, and there battle for the attentions of the fairer sex. these fighting grounds are well known to the keepers, who erect there in early autumn conical shelters of fir { } branches. the birds become familiar with these shelters (called in russian "shagashki") and pay no attention to them. the "gun" introduces himself into the shelter not later than midnight, and there waits patiently for the first gleam of dawn. he must on no account smoke. with the first grey streak of dawn in the sky there is a great rushing of wings in the air, and dozens of male birds appear from nowhere; strutting up and down, puffing out their feathers, and hissing furiously at each other in challenge. the grey hens meanwhile sit in the surrounding trees, watching, as did the ladies of old at a tournament, the prowess of their men-folk in the lists. the grey hens never show themselves, and make no sound; two things, one would imagine, contrary to every instinct of their sex. a challenge once accepted, two males begin fighting furiously with wings, claws, and beaks. so absorbed are the birds in their combat, that they neither see nor hear anything, and pay no attention to a gun-shot. should they be within reach of the "shagashka," that is the time to fire. it sounds horribly unsportsmanlike, but it must be remembered that the birds are only just visible in the uncertain dawn. as dawn matures into daylight, the birds suddenly stop fighting, and all fly away simultaneously, followed by the grey hens. i never would kill more than two as specimens, for this splendid bird is such a thing of joy in his breeding plumage, with his glossy dark blue satin coat, and white velvet waistcoat, that there { } is some excuse for wanting to examine him closer. ladies, too, loved a blackcock's tail or wings for their hats. it was also the only way in which this curious and little-known phase of bird life could be witnessed. the capercailzie is called in russian "the deaf one." why this name should be given to a bird of abnormally acute hearing seems at first sight puzzling. the explanation is that the male capercailzie in the breeding season concludes his love-song with a peculiar "tchuck, tchuck," impossible to reproduce on paper, moving his head rapidly to and fro the while. during this "tchuck, tchuck," the bird is deaf and blind to the world. the capercailzie hunter goes out into the forest at about a.m. and listens intently. as soon as he hears a capercailzie's song, he moves towards the sound very, very cautiously. when within half a mile of the bird, he must wait for the "tchuck, tchuck," which lasts about two minutes, before daring to advance. the "tchuck" over, he must remain absolutely motionless until it recommences. the snapping of a twig will be enough to silence the bird and to make it fly away. it will be seen then that to approach a capercailzie is a difficult task, and one requiring infinite patience. once within shot, there is no particular fun in shooting a sitting bird the size of a turkey, up at the top of a tree, even though it only appears as a dusky mass against the faint beginnings of dawn. the real charm of this blackcock and capercailzie shooting was that one would not otherwise have { } been out in the great forest at break of day. to me there was always an infinite fascination in seeing these great northern tracts of woodland awakening from their long winter sleep. the sweetness of the dawn, the delicious smell of growing things, the fresh young life springing up under one's feet, all these appealed to every fibre in my being. nature always restores the balance of things. in russia, as in canada, after the rigours of the winter, once the snow has disappeared, flowers carpet the ground with a rapidity of growth unknown in more temperate climates. these finland woods were covered with a low creeping plant with masses of small, white, waxy flowers. it was, i think, one of the smaller cranberries. there was an orange-flowering nettle, too, the leaves of which changed from green to vivid purple as they climbed the stalk, making gorgeous patches of colour, and great drifts of blue hepaticas on the higher ground. to appreciate nature properly, she must be seen at unaccustomed times, as she bestirs herself after her night's rest whilst the sky brightens. in petrograd itself the british colony found plenty of amusement. we had an english ice-hill club to which all the embassy belonged. the elevation of a russian ice-hill, some forty feet only, may seem tame after the imposing heights of canadian toboggan slides, but i fancy that the pace travelled is greater in russia. the ice-hills were always built in pairs, about three hundred yards apart, with two parallel runs. both hills { } and runs were built of solid blocks of ice, watered every day, and the pitch of the actual hill was very steep. in the place of a toboggan we used little sleds two feet long, mounted on skate-runners, which were kept constantly sharpened. these travelled over the ice at a tremendous pace, and at the end of the straight run, the corresponding hill had only to be mounted to bring you home again to the starting-point. the art of steering these sleds was soon learnt, once the elementary principle was grasped that after a turn to the left, a corresponding turn to the right must be made to straighten up the machine, exactly as is done instinctively on a bicycle. a wave of the hand or of the foot was enough to change the direction, the ice-hiller going down head foremost, with the sled under his chest. longer sleds were used for taking ladies down. the man sat cross-legged in front, whilst the lady knelt behind him with both her arms round his neck. possibly the enforced familiarity of this attitude was what made the amusement so popular. we gave at times evening parties at the ice-hills, when the woods were lit up with rows of chinese lanterns, making a charming effect against the snow, and electric arcs blazed from the summits of the slides. to those curious in such matters, i may say that as secondary batteries had not then been invented, and we had no dynamo, power was furnished direct by powerful grove two-cell batteries. one night our amateur electrician was { } nearly killed by the brown fumes of nitrous acid these batteries give off from their negative cells. we had an ice-boat on the gulf of finland as well. it is only in early spring, and very seldom then, that this amusement can be indulged in. the necessary conditions are ( ) a heavy thaw to melt all the snow from the surface of the ice, followed by a sharp frost; ( ) a strong breeze. nature is not often obliging enough to arrange matters in this sequence. we had some good sailing, though, and could get forty miles an hour out of our craft with a decent breeze. our boat was of the dutch, not the canadian type. i was astonished to find how close an ice-boat could lay to the wind, for obviously anything in the nature of leeway is impossible with a boat on runners. ice-sailing was bitterly cold work, and the navigation of the gulf of finland required great caution, for in early spring great cracks appeared in the ice. on one occasion, in avoiding a large crack, we ran into the omnibus plying on runners between kronstadt and the mainland. the driver of the coach was drunk, and lost his head, to the terror of his passengers, but very little damage was done. it may be worth while recording this, as it is but seldom that a boat collides with an omnibus. it will be seen that in one way and another there was no lack of amusement to be found round petrograd, even during the entire cessation of court and social entertainments. { } chapter vi love of russians for children's games--peculiarities of petrograd balls--some famous beauties of petrograd society--the varying garb of hired waiters--moscow--its wonderful beauty--the forest of domes--the kremlin--the three famous "cathedrals"--the imperial treasury--the sacristy--the palace--its splendour--the terem--a gargantuan russian dinner--an unusual episode at the french ambassador's ball--bombs--tsarskoe selo--its interior--extraordinary collection of curiosities in tsarskoe park--origin of term "vauxhall" for railway station in russia--peterhof--charm of park there--two russian illusions--a young man of delivers an ultimatum to russia--how it came about--m. de giers--other foreign ministers--paraguay--the polite japanese dentist--a visit to gatchina--description of the palace--delights of the children's play-room there. the lingering traces of the child which are found in most russian natures account probably for their curious love of indoor games. lady dufferin had weekly evening parties during lent, when dancing was rigidly prohibited. quite invariably, some lady would go up to her and beg that they might be allowed to play what she would term "english running games." so it came about that bald-headed generals, covered with orders, and quite elderly ladies, would with immense glee play "blind-man's buff," "musical chairs," "hunt the slipper," and "general post." i believe that they would have joined cheerfully in "ring a ring of roses," had we only thought of it. { } i think it is this remnant of the child in them which, coupled with their quick-working brains, wonderful receptivity, and absolute naturalness, makes russians of the upper class so curiously attractive. at balls in my time, oddly enough, quadrilles were the most popular dances. there was always a "leader" for these quadrilles, whose function it was to invent new and startling figures. the "leader" shouted out his directions from the centre of the room, and however involved the figures he devised, however complicated the manoeuvres he evolved, he could rely on being implicitly obeyed by the dancers, who were used to these intricate entanglements, and enjoyed them. woe betide the "leader" should he lose his head, or give a wrong direction! he would find two hundred people inextricably tangled up. i calculate that many years have been taken off my own life by the responsibilities thrust upon me by being frequently made to officiate in this capacity. balls in petrograd in the "'eighties" invariably concluded with the "danse anglaise," our own familiar "sir roger de coverley." i never saw an orchestra at a ball in petrograd, except at the winter palace. all russians preferred a pianist, but a pianist of a quite special brand. these men, locally known as "tappeurs," cultivated a peculiar style of playing, and could get wonderful effects out of an ordinary grand piano. there was in particular one absolute genius { } called altkein. under his superlatively skilled fingers the piano took on all the resonance and varied colour of a full orchestra. altkein told me that he always played what he called "four-handed," that is doubling the parts of each hand. by the end of the evening he was absolutely exhausted. the most beautiful woman in petrograd society was unquestionably countess zena beauharnais, afterwards duchess of leuchtenberg; a tall, queenly blonde with a superb figure. nature had been very generous to her, for in addition to her wonderful beauty, she had a glorious soprano voice. i could not but regret that she and her sister, princess bieloselskava, had not been forced by circumstances to earn their living on the operatic stage, for the two sisters, soprano and contralto, would certainly have achieved a european reputation with their magnificent voices. how they would have played amneris and the title-rôle in "aïda"! the famous general skobeleff was their brother. two other strikingly beautiful women were princess kitty dolgorouki, a piquant little brunette, and her sister-in-law, winning, golden-haired princess mary dolgorouki. after a lapse of nearly forty years, i may perhaps be permitted to express my gratitude to these two charming ladies for the consistent kindness they showered on a peculiarly uninteresting young man, and i should like to add to their names that of countess betsy schouvaloff. i may remark that the somewhat { } homely british forms of their baptismal names which these _grandes dames_ were fond of adopting always amused me. our two countries were in theory deadly enemies, yet they borrowed little details from us whenever they could. i think that the racial animosity was only skin-deep. this custom of employing english diminutives for russian names extended to the men too, for prince alexander dolgorouki, princess kitty's husband, was always known as "sandy," whilst countess betsy's husband was invariably spoken of as "bobby" schouvaloff. countess betsy, mistress of one of the stateliest houses in petrograd, was acknowledged to be the best-dressed woman in russia. i never noticed whether she were really good-looking or not, for such was the charm of her animation, and the sparkle of her vivacity and quick wit, that one remarked the outer envelope less than the nimble intellect and extraordinary attractiveness that underlay it. she was a daughter of that "princesse château" to whom i referred earlier in these reminiscences. in the great russian houses there were far fewer liveried servants than is customary in other european countries. this was due to the difficulty of finding sufficiently trained men. the actual work of the house was done by hordes of bearded, red-shirted shaggy-headed moujiks, who their household duties over, retired to their underground fastnesses. consequently when dinners or other entertainments were given recourse was had { } to hired waiters, mostly elderly germans. it was the curious custom to dress these waiters up in the liveries of the family giving the entertainment. the liveries seldom fitted, and the features of the old waiters were quite familiar to most of us, yet politeness dictated that we should pretend to consider them as servants of the house. though perfectly conscious of having seen the same individual who, arrayed in orange and white, was standing behind one's chair, dressed in sky-blue only two evenings before, and equally aware of the probability of meeting him the next evening in a different house, clad in crimson, it was considered polite to compliment the mistress of the house on the admirable manner in which her servants were turned out. there is in all russian houses a terrible place known as the "buffetnaya." this is a combination of pantry, larder, and serving-room. people at all particular about the cleanliness of their food, or the nicety with which it is served, should avoid this awful spot as they would the plague. a sensitive nose can easily locate the whereabouts of the "buffetnaya" from a considerable distance. from petrograd to moscow is only a twelve hours' run, but in those twelve hours the traveller is transported into a different world. after the soulless regularity of peter the great's sham classical creation on the banks of the neva, the beauty of the semi-oriental ancient capital comes as a perfect revelation. moscow, glowing with colour, { } is seated like rome on gentle hills, and numbers over three hundred churches. these churches have each the orthodox five domes, and this forest of domes, many of them gilt, others silvered, some blue and gold, or striped with bands and spirals of vivid colour, when seen amongst the tender greenery of may, forms a wonderful picture, unlike anything else in the world. the winding, irregular streets lined with buildings in every imaginable style of architecture, and of every possible shade of colour; the remains of the ancient city walls with their lofty watch-towers crowned with curious conical roofs of grass-green tiles; the great irregular bulk of the kremlin, towering over all; make a whole of incomparable beauty. there is in the world but one moscow, as there is but one venice, and one oxford. the great sea of gilded and silvered domes is best seen from the terrace of the kremlin overlooking the river, though the wealth of detail nearer at hand is apt to distract the eye. the soaring snow-white shaft of ivan veliki's tower with its golden pinnacles dominates everything, though the three "cathedrals," standing almost side by side, hallowed by centuries of tradition, are very sacred places to a russian, who would consider them the heart of moscow, and of the muscovite world. "mother moscow," they call her affectionately, and i understand it. the russian word "sobor" is wrongly translated as "cathedral." a "sobor" is merely a { } church of peculiar sanctity or of special dignity. the three gleaming white, gold-domed churches of the kremlin are of quite modest dimensions, yet their venerable walls are rich with the associations of centuries. in the church of the assumption the tsars, and later the emperors, were all crowned; in the church of the archangel the tsars were buried, though the emperors lie in petrograd. the dim byzantine interior of the assumption church, with its faded frescoes on a gold ground, and its walls shimmering with gold, silver, and jewels, is immensely impressive. here is the real russia, not the petrograd stuccoed veneered russia of yesterday, but ancient muscovy, sending its roots deep down into the past. surely peter prepared the way for the destruction of his country by uprooting this tree of ancient growth, and by trying to create in one short lifetime a new pseudo-european empire, with a new capital. the city should be seen from the kremlin terrace as the light is fading from the sky and the thousands of church-bells clash out their melodious evening hymn. the russians have always been master bell-founders, and their bells have a silvery tone unknown in western europe. in the gloaming, the eastern character of the city is much more apparent. the blaze of colour has vanished, and the dusky silhouettes of the church domes take on the onion-shaped forms of the orient. delhi, as seen in later years from the fort at { } sunset was curiously reminiscent of moscow. i do not suppose that more precious things have ever been gathered together under one roof than the imperial treasury at moscow contained in those days. the eye got surfeited with the sight of so many splendours, and i can only recall the great collection of crowns and thrones of the various tsars. one throne of persian workmanship was studded with two thousand diamonds and rubies; another, also from persia, contained over two thousand large turquoises. there must have been at least a dozen of these glittering thrones, but the most interesting of all was the original ivory throne of the emperors of byzantium, brought to moscow in by sophia palaeologus, wife of ivan iii. constantine the great may have sat on that identical throne. it seems curious that the finest collection in the world of english silver-ware of elizabeth's, james i's, and charles i's time should be found in the kremlin at moscow, till it is remembered that nearly all the plate of that date in england was melted down during the civil war of - . i wonder what has become of all these precious things now! the sacristy contains an equally wonderful collection of church plate. i was taken over this by an archimandrite, and i had been previously warned that he would expect a substantial tip for his services. the archimandrite's feelings were, however, to be spared by my representing this tip as my contribution to the poor of his parish. the archimandrite { } was so immensely imposing, with his violet robes, diamond cross, and long flowing beard, that i felt quite shy of offering him the modest five roubles which i was told would be sufficient. so i doubled it. the archimandrite pocketed it joyfully, and so moved was he by my unexpected _largesse_, that the excellent ecclesiastic at once motioned me to my knees, and gave me a most fervent blessing, which i am persuaded was well worth the extra five roubles. the great palace of the kremlin was rebuilt by nicholas i about . it consequently belongs to the "period of bad taste"; in spite of that it is extraordinarily sumptuous. the st. george's hall is feet long and feet high; the other great halls, named after the russian orders of chivalry, are nearly as large. each of these is hung with silk of the same colour as the ribbon of the order; st. george's hall, orange and black; st. andrew's hall, sky-blue; st. alexander nevsky's, pink; st. catherine's, red and white. i imagine that every silkworm in the world must have been kept busy for months in order to prepare sufficient material for these acres of silk-hung walls. the kremlin palace may not be in the best of taste, but these huge halls, with their jasper and malachite columns and profuse gilding, are wonderfully gorgeous, and exactly correspond with one's preconceived ideas of what an emperor of russia's palace ought to be like. there is a chapel in the kremlin palace with the quaint title of { } "the church of the redeemer behind the golden railing." the really interesting portion of the palace is the sixteenth century part, known as the "terem." these small, dim, vaulted halls with their half-effaced frescoes on walls and ceilings are most fascinating. it is all mediæval, but not with the mediævalism of western europe; neither is it oriental; it is pure russian; simple, dignified, and delightfully archaic. one could not imagine the old tsars in a more appropriate setting. compared with the strident splendours of the modern palace, the vaulted rooms of the old terem seem to typify the difference between petrograd and moscow. it so happened that later in life i was destined to become very familiar with the deserted palace at agra, in india, begun by akbar, finished by shah jehan. how different the oriental conception of a palace is from the western! the agra palace is a place of shady courts and gardens, dotted with exquisitely graceful pavilions of transparent white marble roofed with gilded copper. no two of these pavilions are similar, and in their varied decorations an inexhaustible invention is shown. the white marble is so placed that it is seen everywhere in strong contrast to akbar's massive buildings of red sandstone. during the coronation ceremonies, king-emperor george v seated himself, of right, on the emperor akbar's throne in the great hall of audience in agra palace. { } though moscow may appear a dream-city when viewed from the kremlin, it is an eminently practical city as well. it was, in my time, the chief manufacturing centre of russia, and moscow business-men had earned the reputation of being well able to look after themselves. another side of the life of the great city could be seen in the immense ermitage restaurant, where moscow people assured you with pride that the french cooking was only second to paris. the little tartar waiters at the ermitage were, drolly enough, dressed like hospital orderlies, in white linen from head to foot. there might possibly be money in an antiseptic restaurant, should some enterprising person start one. the idea would be novel, and this is an age when new ideas seem attractive. a russian merchant in moscow, a partner in an english firm, imagined himself to be under a great debt of gratitude to the british embassy in petrograd, on account of a heavy fine imposed upon him, which we had succeeded in getting remitted. this gentleman was good enough to invite a colleague and myself to dine at a certain "traktir," celebrated for its russian cooking. i was very slim in those days, but had i had any idea of the gargantuan repast we were supposed to assimilate, i should have borrowed a suit of clothes from the most adipose person of my acquaintance, in order to secure additional cargo-space. in the quaint little "traktir" decorated in { } old-russian style, after the usual fresh caviar, raw herrings, pickled mushrooms, and smoked sturgeon of the "zakuska," we commenced with cold sucking-pig eaten with horse-radish. then followed a plain little soup, composed of herrings and cucumbers stewed in sour beer. slices of boiled salmon and horse-radish were then added, and the soup was served iced. this soup is distinctly an acquired taste. this was succeeded by a simple dish of sterlets, boiled in wine, with truffles, crayfish, and mushrooms. after that came mutton stuffed with buckwheat porridge, pies of the flesh and isinglass of the sturgeon, and heaven only knows what else. all this accompanied by red and white crimean wines, kvass, and mead. i had always imagined that mead was an obsolete beverage, indulged in principally by ancient britons, and drunk for choice out of their enemies' skulls, but here it was, foaming in beautiful old silver tankards; and perfectly delicious it was! oddly enough, the russian name for it, "meod," is almost identical with ours. only once in my life have i suffered so terribly from repletion, and that was in the island of barbados, at the house of a hospitable planter. we sat down to luncheon at one, and rose at five. the sable serving-maids looked on the refusal of a dish as a terrible slur on the cookery of the house, and would take no denial. "no, you like dis, sar, it real west india dish. i gib you lilly piece." what with turtle, and flying-fish, and calipash and calipee, and pepper-pot, and devilled land-crabs, i { } felt like the boa-constrictor in the zoological gardens after his monthly meal. i was not fortunate enough to witness the coronation of either alexander iii or that of nicholas ii. in the perfect setting of "the red staircase," of the ancient stone-built hall known as the "granovitaya palata," and of the "gold court," the ceremonial must be deeply impressive. on no stage could more picturesque surroundings possibly be devised. during the coronation festivities, most of the ambassadors hired large houses in moscow, and transferred their embassies to the old capital for three weeks. at the coronation of nicholas ii, of unfortunate memory, the french ambassador, the comte de montebello, took a particularly fine house in moscow, the shérémaitieff palace, and it was arranged that he should give a great ball the night after the coronation, at which the newly-crowned emperor and empress would be present. the french government own a wonderful collection of splendid old french furniture, tapestries, and works of art, known as the "garde meubles." under the monarchy and empire, these all adorned the interiors of the various palaces. to do full honour to the occasion, the french government dispatched vanloads of the choicest treasures of the "garde meubles" to moscow, and the shérémaitieff palace became a thing of beauty, with louis quatorze gobelins, and furniture made for marie-antoinette. to enhance the effect, the comte and comtesse de montebello { } arranged the most elaborate floral decorations, and took immense pains over them. on the night of the ball, two hours before their guests were due, the ambassador was informed that the chief of police was outside and begged for permission to enter the temporary embassy. embassies enjoying what is known as "exterritoriality," none of the police can enter except on the invitation of the ambassador; much as vampires, according to the legend, could only secure entrance to a house at the personal invitation of the owner. it will be remembered that these unpleasing creatures displayed great ingenuity in securing this permission; indeed the really expert vampires prided themselves on the dexterity with which they could inveigle their selected victim into welcoming them joyfully into his domicile. the chief of police informed the french ambassador that he had absolutely certain information that a powerful bomb had been introduced into the embassy, concealed in a flower-pot. m. de montebello was in a difficult position. on the previous day the ambassador had discovered that every single electric wire in the house had been deliberately severed by some unknown hand. french electricians had repaired the damage, but it was a disquieting incident in the circumstances. the policeman was positive that his information was correct, and the consequences of a terrific bomb exploding in one's house are eminently disagreeable, so he gave his reluctant permission to have the embassy searched, though his earlier { } guests might be expected within an hour. armies of police myrmidons appeared, and at once proceeded to unpot between two and three thousand growing plants, and to pick all the floral decorations to pieces. nothing whatever was found, but it would be unreasonable to expect secret police, however zealous, to exhibit much skill as trained florists. they made a frightful hash of things, and not only ruined the elaborate decorations, but so managed to cover the polished floors with earth that the rooms looked like ploughed fields, dancing was rendered impossible, and poor madame de montebello was in tears. as the guests arrived, the police had to be smuggled out through back passages. this was one of the little amenities of life in a bomb-ridden land. during the summer months i was much at tsarskoe selo. tsarskoe is only fourteen miles from petrograd, and some of my russian friends had villas there. the gigantic old palace of tsarskoe is merely an enlarged winter palace, and though its garden façade is nearly a quarter of a mile long, it is uninteresting and unimpressive, being merely an endless repetition of the same details. i was taken over the interior several times, but such a vast quantity of rooms leaves only a confused impression of magnificence. i only recall the really splendid staircase and the famous lapis-lazuli and amber rooms. the lapis-lazuli room is a blaze of blue and gold, with walls, furniture, and chandeliers encrusted with that precious substance. { } the amber room is perfectly beautiful. all the walls, cabinets, and tables are made of amber of every possible shade, from straw-colour to deep orange. there are also great groups of figures carved entirely out of amber. both the lapis and the amber room have curious floors of black ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl, forming a very effective colour scheme. i have vague memories of the "gold" and "silver" rooms, but very distinct recollections of the bedroom of one of the empresses, who a hundred years before the late lord lister had discovered the benefits of antiseptic surgery had with some curious prophetic instinct had her sleeping-room constructed on the lines of a glorified modern operating theatre. the walls of this quaint apartment were of translucent opal glass, decorated with columns of bright purple glass, with a floor of inlaid mother-of-pearl. personally, i should always have fancied a faint smell of chloroform lingering about the room. catherine the great had her monogram placed everywhere at tsarskoe selo, on doors, walls, and ceilings. it was difficult to connect her with the interlaced "e's," until one remembered that the russian form of the name is "ekaterina." how wise the russians have been in retaining the so-called cyrillian alphabet in writing their tongue! in other slavonic languages, such as polish and czech, where the roman alphabet has been adopted, unholy combinations of "cz," "zh," and "sz" have to be resorted to to reproduce sounds which the { } cyrillian alphabet could express with a single letter; and the tragic thing is that, be the letters piled together never so thickly, they invariably fail to give the foreigner the faintest idea of how the word should really be pronounced. take the much-talked-of town of przemysl, for instance. the park of tsarskoe is eighteen miles in circumference, and every portion of it is thrown open freely to the public. in spite of being quite flat, it is very pretty with its lake and woods, and was most beautifully kept. to an english eye its trees seemed stunted, for in these far northern regions no forest trees attain great size. limes and oaks flourish moderately well, but the climate is too cold for beeches. at the latitude of petrograd neither apples, pears, nor any kind of fruit tree can be grown; raspberries and strawberries are the only things that can be produced, and they are both superlatively good. the park at tsarskoe was full of a jumble of the most extraordinarily incongruous buildings and monuments; it would have taken a fortnight to see them all properly. there was a chinese village, a chinese theatre, a dutch dairy, an english gothic castle, temples, hanging gardens, ruins, grottoes, fountains, and numbers of columns, triumphal arches, and statues. on the lake there was a collection of boats of all nations, varying from a chinese sampan to an english light four-oar; from a venetian gondola to a brazilian catamaran. there was also a fleet of miniature men-of-war, and three of catherine's great { } gilt state-barges on the lake. one arm of the lake was spanned by a bridge of an extremely rare blue siberian marble. anyone seeing the effect of this blue marble bridge must have congratulated himself on the fact that it was extremely improbable that any similar bridge would ever be erected elsewhere, so rare was the material of which it was constructed. i never succeeded in finding the spot in tsarskoe park where a sentry stands on guard over a violet which catherine the great once found there. catherine, finding the first violet of spring, ordered a sentry to be placed over it, to protect the flower from being plucked. she forgot to rescind the order, and the sentry continued to be posted there. it developed at last into a regular tradition of tsarskoe, and so, day and night, winter and summer, a sentry stood in tsarskoe park over a spot where, years before, a violet once grew. the russian name for a railway station is "vauxhall," and the origin of this is rather curious. the first railway in europe opened for passenger traffic was the liverpool and manchester, inaugurated in . five years later, nicholas i, eager to show that russia was well abreast of the times, determined to have a railway of his own, and ordered one to be built between petrograd and tsarskoe selo, a distance of fourteen miles. the railway was opened in , without any intermediate stations. unfortunately, with the exception of a few court officials, no one ever wanted to go to tsarskoe, so the line could hardly be called a commercial { } success. then someone had a brilliant idea! vauxhall gardens in south london were then at the height of their popularity. the tsarskoe line should be extended two miles to a place called pavlosk, where the railway company would be given fifty acres of ground on which to construct a "vauxhall gardens," outbidding its london prototype in attractions. no sooner said than done! the pavlosk "vauxhall" became enormously popular amongst petrogradians in summer-time; the trains were crowded and the railway became a paying proposition. as the tsarskoe station was the only one then in existence in petrograd, the worthy citizens got into the habit of directing their own coachmen or cabdrivers simply to go "to vauxhall." so the name got gradually applied to the actual station building in petrograd. when the nicholas railway to moscow was completed, the station got to be known as the "moscow vauxhall." and so it spread, until it came about that every railway station in the russian empire, from the baltic to the pacific, derived its name from a long-vanished and half-forgotten pleasure-garden in south london, the memory of which is only commemorated to-day by a bridge and a railway station on its site. the name "vauxhall" itself is, i believe, a corruption of "folks-hall," or of its dutch variant "volks-hall." even in my day the pavlosk vauxhall was a most attractive spot, with an excellent orchestra, myriads of coloured lamps, and a great semicircle of restaurants and refreshment booths. when i { } knew it, the tsarskoe railway still retained its original rolling-stock of ; little queer over-upholstered carriages, and quaint archaic-looking engines. it had, i think, been built to a different gauge to the standard russian one; anyhow it had no physical connection with the other railways. it was subsequently modernised. peterhof is far more attractive than tsarskoe as it stands on the gulf of finland, and the coast, rising a hundred feet from the sea, redeems the place from the uniform dead flat of the other environs of petrograd. as its name implies, peterhof is the creation of peter himself, who did his best to eclipse versailles. his fountains and waterworks certainly run versailles very close. the oriental in peter peeped out when he constructed staircases of gilt copper, and of coloured marbles for the water to flow over, precisely as shah jehan did in his palaces at delhi and agra. as the temperature both at delhi and agra often touches ° during the summer months, these decorative cascades would appear more appropriate there than at peterhof, where the summer temperature seldom rises to °. the palace stands on a lofty terrace facing the sea. a broad straight vista has been cut through the fir-woods opposite it, down to the waters of the gulf. down the middle of this avenue runs a canal flanked on either side by twelve fountains. when _les grandes eaux_ are playing, the effect of this perspective of fountains and of peter's gilded water-chutes is really very fine indeed. i think that the { } oriental in peter showed itself again here. there is a long single row of almost precisely similar fountains in front of the taj at agra. as at tsarskoe, the public have free access to every portion of the park, which stretches for four miles along the sea, with many gardens, countless fountains, temples and statues. there was in particular a beautiful ionic colonnade of pink marble, from the summit of which cataracts of water spouted when the fountains played. the effect of this pink marble temple seen through the film of falling water was remarkably pretty. what pleased me were the two small dutch châteaux in the grounds, "marly" and "monplaisir," where peter had lived during the building of his great palace. these two houses had been built by imported dutch craftsmen, and the sight of a severe seventeenth-century dutch interior with its tiles and sober oak-panelling was so unexpected in russia. it was almost as much of a surprise as is groote constantia, some sixteen miles south of cape town. to drive down a mile-long avenue of the finest oaks in the world, and to find at the end of it, amidst hedges of clipped pink oleander and blue plumbago, a most perfect dutch château, exactly as governor van der stell left it in , is so utterly unexpected at the southern extremity of the african continent! groote constantia, the property of the cape government, still contains all its original furniture and pictures of . it is the typical seventeenth-century continental château, the main building with its façade { } elaborately decorated in plaster, flanked by two wings at right angles to it, but the last place in the world where you would look for such a finished whole is south africa. to add to the unexpectedness, the vines for which constantia is famous are grown in fields enclosed with hedges, with huge oaks as hedgerow timber. this gives such a thoroughly english look to the landscape that i never could realise that the sea seen through the trees was the indian ocean, and that the cape of good hope was only ten miles away. macao, the ancient portuguese colony forty-five miles from hong-kong, is another "surprise-town." it is as though aladdin's slave of the lamp had dumped a seventeenth-century southern european town down in the middle of china, with churches, plazas, and fountains complete. there is really a plethora of palaces round peterhof. they grow as thick as quills on a porcupine's back. one of them, i cannot recall which, had a really beautiful dining-room, built entirely of pink marble. in niches in the four angles of the room were solid silver fountains six feet high, where naiads and tritons spouted water fed by a running stream. i should have thought this room more appropriate to india than to northern russia, but one of the fondest illusions russians cherish is that they dwell in a semi-tropical climate. in petrograd, as soon as the temperature reached °, old gentlemen would appear on the nevsky dressed in white linen, with panama hats, and white { } umbrellas, but still wearing the thickest of overcoats. should the sun's rays become just perceptible, iced kvass and lemonade were at once on sale in all the streets. on these occasions i made myself quite popular at the yacht club by observing, as i buttoned up my overcoat tightly before venturing into the open air, that this tropical heat was almost unendurable. this invariably provoked gratified smiles of assent. another point as to which russians were for some reason touchy was the fact that the water of the gulf of finland is perfectly fresh. ships can fill their tanks from the water alongside for ten miles below kronstadt, and the catches of the fishing-boats that came in to peterhof consisted entirely of pike, perch, eels, roach, and other fresh-water fish. still russians disliked intensely hearing their sea alluded to as fresh-water. i tactfully pretended to ignore the fringe of fresh-water reeds lining the shore at peterhof, and after bathing in the gulf would enlarge on the bracing effect a swim in real salt-water had on the human organism. this, and a few happy suggestions that after the intense brine of the gulf the waters of the dead sea would appear insipidly brackish, conduced towards making me amazingly popular. in my younger days i was never really happy without a daily swim during the summer months. the woods sloping down to the gulf are delightful in summer-time, and are absolutely carpeted with flowers. the flowers seem to realise how short the { } span of life allotted to them is, and endeavour to make the most of it. so do the mosquitoes. i have very vivid recollections of one especial visit to peterhof. in the summer of , the ambassador and two other members of the embassy were away in england on leave. the chargé d'affaires, who replaced the ambassador, was laid up with an epidemic that was working great havoc then in petrograd, as was the second secretary. this epidemic was probably due to the extremely unsatisfactory sanitary condition of the city. consequently no one was left to carry on the work of the embassy but myself and the new attaché, a mere lad. the relations of great britain and france in the "'eighties" were widely different from those cordial ones at present prevailing between the two countries. far from being trusted friends and allies, the tension between england and france was often strained almost to the breaking-point, especially with regard to egyptian affairs. this was due in a great measure to bismarck's traditional foreign policy of attempting to embroil her neighbours, to the greater advantage of germany. in old-fashioned surgery, doctors frequently introduced a foreign body into an open wound in order to irritate it, and prevent its healing unduly quickly. this was termed a seton. bismarck's whole policy was founded on the introduction of setons into open wounds, to prevent their healing. his successors in office endeavoured to continue this policy, but did { } not succeed, for though they might share bismarck's entire want of scruples, they lacked his commanding genius. ismail, khedive of egypt since , had brought his country to the verge of bankruptcy by his gross extravagance. great britain and france had established in a dual control of egyptian affairs in the interest of the foreign bondholders, but the two countries did not pull well together. in the incorrigible ismail was deposed in favour of tewfik, and two years later a military revolt was instigated by arabi pasha. very unwisely, attempts were made to propitiate arabi by making him a member of the egyptian cabinet, and matters went from bad to worse. in may, , the french and british fleets appeared before alexandria and threatened it, and on june , , the arab population massacred large numbers of the foreign residents of alexandria. still the french government refused to take any definite action, and systematically opposed every proposal made by the british government. we were perfectly well aware that the opposition of the french to the british policy was consistently backed up by russia, russia being in its turn prompted from berlin. all this we knew. after the massacre of june , the french fleet, instead of acting, sailed away from alexandria. amongst the usual daily sheaf of telegrams from london which the attaché and i decyphered on july , , was one announcing that the { } british mediterranean squadron had on the previous day bombarded and destroyed the forts of alexandria, and that in two days' time british marines would be landed and the city of alexandria occupied. there were also details of further steps that would be taken, should circumstances render them necessary. all these facts were to be communicated to the russian government at once. i went off with this weighty telegram to the house of the chargé d'affaires, whom i found very weak and feverish, and quite unable to rise from his bed. he directed me to go forthwith to peterhof, to see m. de giers, the russian minister for foreign affairs, who was there in attendance on the emperor, and to make my statement to him. i placed the attaché in charge of the chancery, and had time admitted of it, i should certainly have smeared that youth's cheeks and lips with some burnt cork, to add a few years to his apparent age, and to delude people into the belief that he had already begun to shave. the dignity of the british embassy had to be considered. i begged of him to refrain from puerile levity in any business interviews he might have, and i implored him to try to conceal the schoolboy under the mask of the zealous official. i then started for peterhof. it is not often that a young man of twenty-five is called upon to deliver what was virtually an ultimatum to the mighty russian empire, and i had no illusions whatever as to the manner in which my communication would be received. { } i saw m. de giers at peterhof, and read him my message. i have never in my life seen a man so astonished; he was absolutely flabbergasted. the gladstone government of - was then in power in england, and it was a fixed axiom with every continental statesman (and not, i am bound to admit, an altogether unfounded one) that under no circumstances whatever would the gladstone cabinet ever take definite action. they would talk eternally; they would never act. m. de giers at length said to me, "i have heard your communication with great regret. i have noted what you have said with even deeper regret." he paused for a while, and then added very gravely, "the emperor's regret will be even more profound than my own, and i will not conceal from you that his majesty will be highly displeased when he learns the news you have brought me." i inquired of m. de giers whether he wished me to see the emperor, and to make my communication in person to his imperial majesty, and felt relieved when he told me that it was unnecessary, as i was not feeling particularly anxious to face an angry autocrat alone. i left a transcript i had myself made of the telegram i had decyphered with m. de giers, and left. a moment's reflection will show that to leave a copy of decoded telegram with anyone would be to render the code useless. the original cypher telegram would be always accessible, and a decypher of it would be tantamount to giving away the code. it was our practice to make transcripts, giving the { } sense in totally different language, and with the position of every sentence altered. after that, as events in egypt developed, and until the chargé d'affaires was about again, i journeyed to peterhof almost daily to see m. de giers. we always seemed to get on very well together, in spite of racial animosities. the clouds in egypt rolled away, and with them the very serious menace to which i have alluded. events fortunately shaped themselves propitiously, on september , , sir garnet wolseley utterly routed arabi's forces at tel-el-kebir; arabi was deported to ceylon, and the revolt came to an end. a diplomat naturally meets ministers of foreign affairs of many types. there was a strong contrast between the polished and courtly m. de giers, who in spite of his urbanity could manage to infuse a very strong sub-acid flavour into his suavity when he chose, and some other ministers with whom i have come in contact. a few years later, when at buenos ayres, preliminary steps were taken for drawing up an extradition treaty between great britain and paraguay, and as there were details which required adjusting, i was sent , miles up the river to asuncion, the unsophisticated capital of the inland republic. dr. ----, at that time paraguayan foreign minister, was a guarani, of pure indian blood. he did not receive me at the ministry for foreign affairs, for the excellent reason that there was no such place in that primitive { } republic, but in his own extremely modest residence. when his excellency welcomed me in the whitewashed sala of that house, sumptuously furnished with four wooden chairs, and nothing else whatever, he had on neither shoes, stockings, nor shirt, and wore merely a pair of canvas trousers, and an unbuttoned coat of the same material, affording ample glimpses of his somewhat dusky skin. in the suffocating heat of asuncion such a costume has its obvious advantages; still i cannot imagine, let us say, the french minister for foreign affairs receiving the humblest member of a foreign legation at the quai d'orsay with bare feet, shirtless, and clad only in two garments. dr. ----, in spite of being indian by blood, spoke most correct and finished spanish, and had all the courtesy which those who use that beautiful language seem somehow to acquire instinctively. it is to be regretted that the same cannot be said of all those using the english language. not to be outdone by this polite paraguayan, i responded in the same vein, and we mutually smothered each other with the choicest flowers of castilian courtesy. these little amenities, though doubtless tending to smooth down the asperities of life, are apt to consume a good deal of time. once at kyoto in japan, i had occasion for the services of a dentist. as the dentist only spoke japanese, i took my interpreter with me. after removing my shoes at the door--an unusual preliminary to a visit to a dentist--we went upstairs, where { } we found a dapper little individual in kimono and white socks, surrounded by the most modern and up-to-date dental paraphernalia, sucking his breath, and rubbing his knees with true japanese politeness. eager to show that a foreigner could also have delightful manners, i sucked my breath, if anything, rather louder, and rubbed my knees a trifle harder. "dentist says," came from the interpreter, "will you honourably deign to explain where trouble lies in honourable tooth?" "if the dentist will honourably deign to examine my left-hand lower molar," i responded with charming courtesy, "he will find it requires stopping, but for heaven's sake, mr. nakimura, ask him to be careful how he uses his honourable drill, for i am terrified to death at that invention of the evil one." soon the satanic drill got well into its stride, and began boring into every nerve of my head. i jumped out of the chair. "tell the dentist, mr. nakimura, that he is honourably deigning to hurt me like the very devil with his honourable but wholly damnable drill." "dentist says if you honourably deign to reseat yourself in chair, he soon conquer difficulties in your honourable tooth." "certainly. but dentist must not give me honourable hell any more," and so on, and so on. i am bound to admit that the little jap's workmanship was so good that it has remained intact up to the present days. i wonder if japs, when annoyed, can ever relieve themselves by the use of really strong language, or whether the crust of conventional politeness is too thick to { } admit of it. in that case they must feel like a lobster afflicted with acute eczema, unable to obtain relief by scratching himself, owing to the impervious shell in which nature has encased him. i dined with the british consul at asuncion, after my interview with dr. ----. the consul lived three miles out of town, and the coffee we drank after dinner, the sugar we put into the coffee, and the cigars we smoked with it, had all been grown in his garden, within sight of the windows. i had ridden out to the quinta in company with a young australian, who will reappear later on in these pages in his proper place; one dick howard. it was the first but by no means the last time in my life that i ever got on a horse in evening clothes. dick howard, having no evening clothes with him, had arrayed himself in one of his favourite cricket blazers, a pleasantly vivid garment. on our way out, my horse shied violently at a snake in the road. the girths slipped on the grass-fed animal, and my saddle rolled gently round and deposited me, tail-coat, white tie and all, in some four feet of dust. the snake, however, probably panic-stricken at the sight of howard's blazer, had tactfully withdrawn; otherwise, as it happened to be a deadly jararaca, it is highly unlikely that i should have been writing these lines at the present moment. the ineradicable love of dick howard, the cheery, laughing young antipodean, for brilliant-hued blazers of various athletic clubs will be enlarged on later. in indian hill stations all men habitually ride out to dinner-parties, { } whilst ladies are carried in litters. during the rains, men put a suit of pyjamas over their evening clothes to protect them, before drawing on rubber boots and rubber coats and venturing into the pelting downpour. the syce trots behind, carrying his master's pumps in a rubber sponge-bag. all this, however, is far afield from russia. alexander iii preferred gatchina to any of his other palaces as a residence, as it was so much smaller, gatchina being a cosy little house of rooms only. i never saw it except once in mid-winter, when the emperor summoned the ambassador there, and i was also invited. as the far-famed beauties of gatchina park were covered with four feet of snow, it would be difficult to pronounce an opinion upon them. the rivers and lakes, the haunts of the celebrated gatchina trout, were, of course, also deep-buried. alexander iii was a man of very simple tastes, and nothing could be plainer than the large study in which he received us. alexander iii, a colossus of a man, had great dignity, combined with a geniality of manner very different from the glacial hauteur of his father, alexander ii. the emperor was in fact rather partial to a humorous anecdote, and some i recalled seemed to divert his majesty. outside his study-door stood two gigantic negroes on guard, in eastern dresses of green and scarlet. the empress marie, though she did not share her sister queen alexandra's wonderful beauty, had all of her subtle and indescribable charm of manner, { } and she was very gracious to a stupid young secretary-of-embassy. the bedroom given to me at gatchina could hardly be described by the standardised epithets for russian interiors "bare, gaunt, and whitewashed," as it had light blue silk walls embroidered with large silver wreaths. the mirrors were silvered, and the bed stood in a species of chancel, up four steps, and surrounded by a balustrade of silvered carved wood. both the ambassador and i agreed that the imperial cellar fully maintained its high reputation. we were given in particular some very wonderful old tokay, a present from the emperor of austria, a wine that was not on the market. we were taken all over the palace, which contained, amongst other things, a large riding-school and a full-sized theatre. the really enchanting room was a large hall on the ground floor where many generations of little grand-dukes and grand-duchesses had played. as, owing to the severe winter climate, it is difficult for russian children to amuse themselves much out-of-doors, these large play-rooms are almost a necessity in that frozen land. the gatchina play-room was a vast low hall, a place of many whitewashed arches. in this delightful room was every possible thing that could attract a child. at one end were two wooden montagnes busses, the descent of which could be negotiated in little wheeled trollies. in another corner was a fully-equipped gymnasium. there were "giants' strides," swings, swing-boats and a { } merry-go-round. there was a toy railway with switches and signal-posts complete, the locomotives of which were worked by treadles, like a tricycle. there were dolls' houses galore, and larger houses into which the children could get, with real cooking-stoves in the little kitchens, and little parlours in which to eat the results of their primitive culinary experiments. there were mechanical orchestras, self-playing pianos and barrel-organs, and masses and masses of toys. on seeing this delectable spot, i regretted for the first time that i had not been born a russian grand-duke, between the ages though of five and twelve only. i believe that there is a similar room at tsarskoe although i never saw it. { } chapter vii lisbon--the two kings of portugal, and of barataria--king fernando and the countess--a lisbon bull-fight--the "hat-trick"--courtship window-parade--the spurred youth of lisbon--portuguese politeness--the de reszke family--the opera--terrible personal experiences in a circus--the bounding bishop--ecclesiastical possibilities--portuguese coinage--beauty of lisbon--visits of the british fleet--misguided midshipmen--the legation whaleboat--"good wine needs no bush"--a delightful orange-farm--cintra--contrast between the past and present of portugal. a professional diplomat becomes used to rapid changes in his environment. he has also to learn to readjust his monetary standards, for after calculating everything in roubles for, let us say, four years, he may find himself in a country where the peseta or the dollar are the units. at every fresh post he has to start again from the beginning, as he endeavours to learn the customs and above all the mentality of the new country. he has to form a brand-new acquaintance, to get to know the points of view of those amongst whom he is living, and in general to shape himself to totally new surroundings. a diplomat in this way insensibly acquires adaptability. it would be difficult to imagine a greater contrast to petrograd than lisbon, which was my next post. { } after the rather hectic gaiety of petrograd, with its persistent flavour of an exotic and artificial civilisation, the placid, uneventful flow of life at lisbon was restful, possibly even dull. curiously enough, in those days there were two kings of portugal at the same time. this state of things (which always reminded me irresistibly of the two kings of barataria in gilbert and sullivan's "gondoliers") had come about quite naturally. queen maria ii (maria da gloria) had married in prince ferdinand of saxe-coburg, who was raised next year to the title of king consort. maria ii died in and was succeeded by pedro v. during his son's minority king ferdinand acted as regent, and pedro, dying unmarried eight years after, was succeeded in turn by his brother luiz, also a son of king ferdinand. when the corps diplomatique were received at the ajuda palace on new year's day, the scene always struck me as being intensely comical. the two kings (universally known as dom fernando and dom luiz) entered simultaneously by different doors. when they met dom luiz made a low bow to dom fernando, and then kissed his father's hand. dom fernando responded with an equally low bow, and kissed his son's hand. the two kings then ascended the throne together. had "the gondoliers" been already composed then, i should have expected the two monarchs to break into the duet from the second act, "rising early in the morning," in which the two kings of barataria { } explain their multitudinous duties. as king luiz had a fine tenor voice, his majesty could also in that case have brightened up the proceedings by singing us "take a pair of sparkling eyes." dom fernando was a perfectly delightful old gentleman, very highly cultured, full of humour, and with a charming natural courtesy of manner. the drolly-named necessidades palace which he inhabited was an unpretentious house full of beautiful old portuguese furniture. most of the rooms were wainscoted with the finest "azulejos" i ever saw; blue and white tiles which the portuguese adopted originally from the moors, but learnt later to make for themselves under the tuition of dutch craftsmen from delft. these "azulejos" form the most decorative background to a room that can be imagined. a bold pictorial design, a complete and elaborate picture in blue on white, runs along their whole length. it is thus very difficult to remove and re-erect "azulejos," for one broken tile will spoil the whole design. the portuguese use these everywhere, both for the exteriors and interiors of their houses, and also as garden ornaments, and they are wonderfully effective. dom fernando had married morganatically, as his second wife, a dancer of american origin. this lady had a remarkably strident voice, and was much to the fore on the fortnightly afternoons when dom fernando received the men of the corps diplomatique. for some reason or other, the ladies of the diplomatic body always found themselves { } unable to attend these gatherings. the courteous, genial old king would move about, smilingly dispensing his truly admirable cigars, and brimful of anecdotes and jokelets. the nasal raucaus tones of the ex-dancer, always known as "the countess," would summon him in english. "say, king! you just hurry up with those cigars. they are badly wanted here." i imagine that in the days of her successes on the stage the lady's outline must have been less voluminous than it was when i made her acquaintance. the only other occasion when i heard a monarch addressed as "king" _tout court_ was when a small relation of my own, aged five, at a children's garden-party at buckingham palace insisted on answering king edward vii's questions with a "yes, o king," or "no, o king"; a form of address which had a pleasant biblical flavour about it. the portuguese are a very humane race, and are extraordinarily kind to animals. they are also devoted to bull-fights. these two tendencies seem irreconcilable, till the fact is grasped that a portuguese bull-fight is absolutely bloodless. neither bulls nor horses are killed; the whole spectacle resolves itself into an exhibition of horsemanship and skill. the bulls' horns are padded and covered with leather thongs. the _picador_ rides a really good and highly-trained horse. should he allow the bull even to touch his horse with his padded horns, the unfortunate _picador_ will get mercilessly hissed. { } these _picadores_ do not wear the showy spanish dresses, but louis quinze costumes of purple velvet with large white wigs. the _espada_ is armed with a wooden sword only, which he plants innocuously on the neck of the bull, and woe betide him should those tens of thousands of eager eyes watching him detect a deviation of even one inch from the death-dealing spot. he will be hissed out of the ring. on the other hand, should he succeed in touching the fatal place with his harmless weapon, his skill would be rewarded with thunders of applause, and all the occupants of the upper galleries would shower small change and cigarettes into the ring, and would also hurl their hats into the arena, which always struck me as a peculiarly comical way of expressing their appreciation. the _espada_ would gaze at the hundreds of shabby battered bowler hats reposing on the sand of the arena with the same expression of simulated rapture that a _prima donna_ assumes as floral tributes are handed to her across the footlights. the _espada_, his hand on his heart, would bow again and again, as though saying, "are these lovely hats really for me?" but after a second glance at the dilapidated head-gear, covering the entire floor-space of the arena with little sub-fuse hummocks, he would apparently change his mind. "it is really amazingly good of you, and i do appreciate it, but i think on the whole that i will not deprive you of them," and then an exhibition of real skill occurred. the _espada_, taking up a hat, would { } glance at the galleries. up went a hand, and the hat hurtled aloft to its owner with unfailing accuracy; and this performance was repeated perhaps a hundred times. i always considered the _espada's_ hat-returning act far more extraordinary than his futile manipulation of the inoffensive wooden sword. during the aerial flights of the hats, two small acolytes of the _espada_, his miniature facsimiles in dress, picked up the small change and cigarettes, and, i trust, duly handed them over intact to their master. the bull meanwhile, after his imaginary slaughter, had trotted home contentedly to his underground quarters, surrounded by some twenty gaily-caparisoned tame bullocks. to my mind spanish bull-fighting is revolting and horrible to the last degree. i have seen it once, and nothing will induce me to assist a second time at so disgusting a spectacle; but the most squeamish person can view a portuguese bull-fight with impunity. even though the bull has his horns bandaged, considerable skill and great acrobatic agility come into play. few of us would care to stand in the path of a charging polled angus bull, hornless though he be. the _bandarilheros_ who plant paper-decorated darts in the neck of the charging bull are as nimble as trained acrobats, and vault lightly out of the ring when hard pressed. conspicuous at a lisbon bull-fight are a number of sturdy peasants, tricked out in showy clothes of scarlet and orange. these are "the men of strength." should a bull prove cowardly in the ring, and decline to fight, the public { } clamour for him to be caught and expelled ignomiously from the ring by "the men of strength." eight of the stalwart peasants will then hurl themselves on to the bull and literally hustle him out of the arena; no mean feat. take it all round, a portuguese bull-fight was picturesque and full of life and colour, though the neighbouring spaniards affected an immense contempt for them on account of their bloodlessness and make-belief. a curious portuguese custom is one which ordains that a youth before proposing formally for a maiden's hand must do "window parade" for two months (in portuguese "fazer a janella"). nature has not allotted good looks to the majority of the portuguese race, and she has been especially niggardly in this respect to the feminine element of the population. the taste for olives and for caviar is usually supposed to be an acquired one, and so may be the taste for lusitanian loveliness. somewhat to the surprise of the foreigner, portuguese maidens seemed to inspire the same sentiments in the breasts of the youthful male as do their more-favoured sisters in other lands, but in _bourgeois_ circles the "window-parade" was an indispensable preliminary to courtship. the youth had to pass backwards and forwards along the street where the dwelling of his _innamorata_ was situated, casting up glances of passionate appeal to a window, where, as he knew, the form of his enchantress would presently appear. the maiden, when she judged that she might at length reveal herself { } without unduly encouraging her suitor, moved to the open window and stood fanning herself, laboriously unconscious of her ardent swain in the street below. the youth would then express his consuming passion in pantomime, making frantic gestures in testimony of his mad adoration. the senhorita in return might favour him with a coy glance, and in token of dismissal would perhaps drop him a rose, which the young man would press to his lips and then place over his heart, and so the performance came to an end, to be renewed again the next evening. the lovesick swain would almost certainly be wearing spurs. at first i could not make out why the young men of lisbon, who had probably never been on a horse in their whole lives, should habitually walk about the town with spurs on their heels. it was, i think, a survival of the old peninsular tradition, and was intended to prove to the world that they were "cavalleiros." in spain an immense distinction was formerly made between the "caballero" and the "peon"; the mounted man, or gentleman, and the man on foot, or day-labourer. the little box-spurs were the only means these lisbon youths had of proving their quality to the world. they had no horses, but they _had_ spurs, which was obviously the next best thing. fortunes in portugal being small, and strict economy having to be observed amongst all classes, i have heard that these damsels of the window-sill only dressed down to the waist. they would assume a _corsage_ of scarlet or crimson plush, and, { } their nether garments being invisible from below, would study both economy and comfort by wearing a flannel petticoat below it. it is unnecessary for me to add that i never verified this detail from personal observation. some of the old portuguese families occupied very fine, if sparsely furnished, houses, with _enfilades_ of great, lofty bare rooms. after calling at one of these houses, the master of it would in continental fashion "reconduct" his visitor towards the front door. at every single doorway the portuguese code of politeness dictated that the visitor should protest energetically against his host accompanying him one step further. with equal insistence the host expressed his resolve to escort his visitor a little longer. the master of the house had previously settled in his own mind exactly how far he was going towards the entrance, the distance depending on the rank of the visitor, but the accepted code of manners insisted upon these protests and counter-protests at every single doorway. in germany "door-politeness" plays a great part. in one of kotzebue's comedies two provincial notabilities of equal rank are engaged in a duel of "door-politeness." "but i must really insist on your excellency passing first." "i could not dream of it, your excellency. i will follow you." "your excellency knows that i could never allow that," and so on. the curtain falls on these two ladies each declining to precede the other, and when it rises on the second act the doorway is still there, { } and the two ladies are still disputing. quite an effective stage-situation, and one which a modern dramatist might utilise. in paying visits in lisbon one was often pressed to remain to dinner, but the invitation was a mere form of politeness, and was not intended to be accepted. you invariably replied that you deeply regretted that you were already engaged. the more you were urged to throw over your engagement, the deeper became your regret that this particular engagement must be fulfilled. the engagement probably consisted in dining alone at the club, but under no circumstances must the invitation be accepted. in view of the straitened circumstances of most portuguese families, the evening meal would probably consist of one single dish of _bacalhao_ or salt cod, and you would have put your hosts to the greatest inconvenience. with the exception of the opera, the lisbon theatres were most indifferent. when i first arrived there the lisbon opera had been fortunate enough to secure the services of a very gifted polish family, a sister and two brothers, the latter of whom were destined later to become the idols of the london public. they were mlle. de reszke and jean and edouard de reszke, all three of them then comparatively unknown. mlle. de reszke had the most glorious voice. to hear her singing with her brother jean in "faust" was a perfect revelation. mlle. de reszke appeared to the best advantage when the stalwart jean sang with her, for she was { } immensely tall, and towered over the average portly, stumpy, little operatic tenor. the french say, cruelly enough, "bête comme un ténor." this may or may not be true, but the fact remains that the usual stage tenor is short, bull-necked, and conspicuously inclined to adipose tissue. when her brother jean was out of the cast, it required an immense effort of the imagination to picture this splendid creature as being really desperately enamoured of the little paunchy, swarthy individual who, reaching to her shoulder only, was hurling his high notes at the public over the footlights. at afternoon parties these three consummate artists occasionally sang unaccompanied trios. i have never heard anything so perfectly done. i am convinced that had mlle. de reszke lived, she would have established as great a european reputation as did her two brothers. the lisbon musical public were terribly critical. they had one most disconcerting habit. instead of hissing, should an artist have been unfortunate enough to incur their displeasure, the audience stood up and began banging the movable wooden seats of the stalls and dress circle up and down. this produced a deafening din, effectually drowning the orchestra and singers. the effect on the unhappy artist against whom all this pandemonium was directed may be imagined. on gala nights the lisbon opera was decorated in a very simple but effective manner. most portuguese families own a number of "colchas," or embroidered bed-quilts. these are of satin, silk, { } or linen, beautifully worked in colours. on a gala night, hundreds of these "colchas" were hung over the fronts of the boxes and galleries, with a wonderfully decorative effect. in the same way, on church festivals, when religious processions made their way through the streets, many-lined "colchas" were thrown over the balconies of the houses, giving an extraordinarily festive appearance to the town. as at berlin and petrograd, there was a really good circus at lisbon. i, for one, am sorry that this particular form of entertainment is now obsolete in england, for it has always appealed to me, in spite of some painful memories connected with a circus which, if i may be permitted a long digression, i will relate. nearly thirty years ago i left london on a visit to one of the historic châteaux of france, in company with a friend who is now a well-known member of parliament, and also churchwarden of a famous west-end church. we travelled over by night, and reached our destination about eleven next morning. we noticed a huge circular tent in the park of the château, but paid no particular attention to it. the first words with which our hostess, the bearer of a great french name, greeted us were, "i feel sure that i can rely upon you, _mes amis_. you have to help us out of a difficulty. my son and his friends have been practising for four months for their amateur circus. our first performance is to-day at two o'clock. we have sold eight hundred tickets for the benefit of the french red cross, { } and yesterday, only yesterday, our two clowns were telegraphed for. they have both been ordered to the autumn manoeuvres, and you two must take their places, or our performance is ruined. _je sais que vous n'allez pas me manquer_." in vain we both protested that we had had no experience whatever as clowns, that branch of our education having been culpably neglected. our hostess insisted, and would take no denial. "go and wash; go and eat; and then put on the dresses you will find in your rooms." i never felt so miserable in my life as i did whilst making up my face the orthodox dead white, with scarlet triangles on the cheeks, big mouth, and blackened nose. the clown's kit was complete in every detail, with wig, conical hat, patterned stockings and queer white felt shoes. as far as externals went, i was orthodoxy itself, but the "business," and the "wheezes"! the future church-warden had been taken in hand by some young frenchmen. as he was to play "chocolat," the black clown, they commenced by stripping him and blacking him from head to foot with boot-blacking. they then polished him. i entered the ring with a sinking heart. i was to remain there two hours, and endeavour to amuse a french audience for that period without any preparation whatever. "business," "gag," and "patter" had all to be improvised, and the "patter," of course, had to be in french. luckily, i could then throw "cart-wheels" and turn somersaults to an indefinite extent. so i made my entrance in { } that fashion. fortunately i got on good terms with my audience almost at once, and with confidence came inspiration; and with inspiration additional confidence, and a judicious recollection of the stock-tricks of clowns in various continental capitals. far greater liberties can be taken with a french audience than would be possible in england, but if anyone thinks it an easy task to go into a circus ring and to clown for two hours on end in a foreign language, without one minute's preparation, let him try it. the ring-master always pretends to flick the clown; it is part of the traditional "business"; but this amateur ring-master (most beautifully got up) handled his long whip so unskilfully that he not only really flicked my legs, but cut pieces out of them. when i jumped and yelled with genuine pain, the audience roared with laughter, so of course the ring-master plied his whip again. at the end of the performance my legs were absolutely raw. the clown came off badly too in some of the "roughs-and-tumbles," for the clown is always fair game. the french amateurs gave a really astonishingly good performance. they had borrowed trained horses from a real circus, and the same young hungarian to whom i have alluded at the beginning of these reminiscences as having created a mild sensation by appearing at buckingham palace in a tiger-skin tunic trimmed with large turquoises, rode round the ring on a pad in sky-blue tights, bounding through paper hoops and over garlands of artificial flowers as easily and { } gracefully as though he had done nothing else all his life. later on in the afternoon this versatile hungarian reappeared in flowing oriental robes and a false beard as "ali ben hassan, the bedouin chief." riding round the ring at full gallop, and firing from the saddle with a shot-gun, he broke glass balls with all the dexterity of a trained professional. that young hungarian is now a bishop of the roman catholic church. before i had occasion to meet him frequently. whenever i thought that on the strength of his purple robes he was assuming undue airs of ecclesiastical superiority (to use the word "swanking" would be an unpardonable vulgarism, especially in the case of a bishop), i invariably reminded his lordship of the afternoon, many years ago, when, arrayed in sky-blue silk tights, he had dashed through paper hoops in a french amateur circus. my remarks were usually met with the deprecatory smile and little gesture of protest of the hand so characteristic of the roman ecclesiastic, as the bishop murmured, "_cher ami, tout cela est oublié depuis longtemps,_" i assured the prelate that for my own part i should never forget it, if only for the unexpected skill he had displayed; though i recognise that bishops may dislike being reminded of their past, especially when they have performed in circuses in their youth. in addition to the hungarian's "act," there was another beautiful exhibition of horsemanship. a boy of sixteen, a member of an historic french family, by dint of long, patient, and painful { } practice, was able to give an admirable performance of the familiar circus "turn" known as "the courier of st. petersburg," in which the rider, standing a-straddle on two barebacked ponies, drives four other ponies in front of him; an extraordinary feat for an amateur to have mastered. my friend the agile ecclesiastic is portrayed, perhaps a little maliciously, in abel hermant's most amusing book "trains de luxe," under the name of "monseigneur granita de caffe nero." it may interest ladies to learn that this fastidious prelate always had his purple robes made by doucet, the famous paris dressmaking firm, to ensure that they should "sit" properly. on the whole, our circus was really a very creditable effort for amateurs. the entertainment was, i believe, pronounced a tremendous success, and at its conclusion the only person who was the worse for it was the poor clown. he had not only lost his voice entirely, from shouting for two hours on end, but he was black and blue from head to foot. added to which, his legs were raw and bleeding from the ring-master's pitiless whip. i am thankful to say that in the course of a long life that was my one and only appearance in the ring of a circus. my fellow-clown, "chocolat," the future member of parliament and churchwarden, had been so liberally coated with boot-blacking by his french friends that it refused to come off, and for days afterwards his face was artistically decorated with swarthy patches. before , i had frequently pointed out to my { } friend the bishop that should he wish to raise any funds in his hungarian diocese he could not do better than repeat his performance in the french circus. as a concession to his exalted rank, he might wear tights of episcopal purple. should he have retained any of the nimbleness of his youth, his flock could not fail to be enormously gratified at witnessing their chief pastor bounding through paper hoops and leaping over obstacles with incredible agility for his age. the knowledge that they had so gifted and supple a prelate would probably greatly increase his moral influence over them and could scarcely fail to render him amazingly popular. could his lordship have convinced his flock that he could demolish the arguments of any religious opponent with the same ease that he displayed in penetrating the paper obstacles to his equestrian progress, he would certainly be acclaimed as a theological controversialist of the first rank. in the same way, i have endeavoured to persuade my friend the member of parliament that he might brighten up the proceedings in the house of commons were he to appear there occasionally in the clown's dress he wore thirty years ago in france. failing that, his attendance at the easter vestry meeting of his west-end church with a blackened face might introduce that note of hilarity which is often so markedly lacking at these gatherings. all this has led me far away from lisbon in the "'eighties." mark twain has described, in "a tramp abroad," the terror with which a foreigner { } is overwhelmed on being presented with his first hotel bill on portuguese territory. the total will certainly run into thousands of reis, and the unhappy stranger sees bankruptcy staring him in the face. as a matter of fact, one thousand reis equal at par exactly four and twopence. it follows that a hundred reis are the equivalent of fivepence, and that one rei is the twentieth of a penny. a french colleague of mine insisted that the portuguese were actuated by national pride in selecting so small a monetary unit. an elementary calculation will show that the proud possessor of £ _s._ can claim to be a millionaire in portugal. according to my french friend, portugal was anxious to show the world that though a small country, a larger proportion of her subjects were millionaires than any other european country could boast of. in the same way the frenchman explained the curious lisbon habit of writing a number over every opening on the ground floor of a house, whether door or window. as a result the numbers of the houses crept up rapidly to the most imposing figures. it was not uncommon to find a house inscribed no. in a comparatively short street. accordingly, lisbon, though a small capital, was able to gain a spurious reputation for immense size. a peculiarity of lisbon was the double set of names of the principal streets and squares: the official name, and the popular one. i have never known this custom prevail anywhere else. thus the { } principal street was officially known as rua garrett, and that name was duly written up. everyone, though, spoke of it as the "chiada." in the same way the splendid square facing the tagus which english people call "black horse square" had its official designation written up as "praça do comercio." it was, however, invariably called "terreiro do paço." the list could be extended indefinitely. street names in lisbon did not err in the matter of shortness. "rua do sacramento a lapa de baixio" strikes me as quite a sufficiently lengthy name for a street of six houses. lisbon is certainly a handsome town. it has been so frequently wrecked by earthquakes that there is very little mediæval architecture remaining, in spite of its great age. two notable exceptions are the tower of belem and the exquisitely beautiful cloisters of the hieronymite convent, also at belem. the tower stands on a promontory jutting into the tagus, and the convent was built in the late fifteen-hundreds to commemorate the discovery of the sea route to india by vasco da gama. these two buildings are both in the "manoeline" style, a variety of highly ornate late gothic peculiar to portugal. it is the fashion to sneer at manoeline architecture, with its profuse decoration, as being a decadent style. to my mind the cloisters of belem (the portuguese variant of bethlehem) rank as one of the architectural masterpieces of europe. its arches are draped, as it were, with a lace-work of intricate and minute stone carving, as delicate { } almost as jewellers' work. the warm brown colour of the stone adds to the effect, and anyone but an architectural pedant must admit the amazing beauty of the place. the finest example of manoeline in portugal is the great abbey of batalha, in my day far away from any railway, and very difficult of access. at the time of the great earthquake of which laid lisbon in ruins, portugal was fortunate enough to have a man of real genius at the head of affairs, the marquis de pombal. pombal not only re-established the national finances on a sound basis, but rebuilt the capital from his own designs. the stately "black horse square" fronting the tagus and the streets surrounding it were all designed by pombal. i suppose that there is no hillier capital in the world than lisbon. many of the streets are too steep for the tramcars to climb. the portuguese fashion of coating the exteriors of the houses with bright-coloured tiles of blue and white, or orange and white, gives a cheerful air to the town,--the french word "riant" would be more appropriate--and the numerous public gardens, where the palm-trees apparently grow as contentedly as in their native tropics, add to this effect of sunlit brightness. as in brazil and other portuguese-speaking countries, the houses are all very tall, and sash-windows are universal, as in england, contrary to the custom of other continental countries. house rent could not be called excessive in portugal. in my day quite a large house, totally lacking { } in every description of modern convenience, but with a fine staircase and plenty of lofty rooms, could be hired for £ a year, a price which may make the londoner think seriously of transferring himself to the banks of the tagus. in the "'eighties" lisbon was the winter headquarters of our channel squadron. i once saw the late admiral dowdeswell bring his entire fleet up the tagus under sail; a most wonderful sight! the two five-masted flagships, the _minotaur_ and the _agincourt_, had very graceful lines, and with every stitch of their canvas set, they were things of exquisite beauty. the _northumberland_ had also been designed as a sister ship, but for some reason had had two of her masts removed. the old _minotaur,_ now alas! a shapeless hulk known as _ganges ii_, is still, i believe, doing useful work at harwich. as may be imagined, the arrival of the british fleet infused a certain element of liveliness into the sleepy city. gambling-rooms were opened all over lisbon, and as the bluejackets had a habit of wrecking any place where they suspected the proprietor of cheating them, the legation had its work cut out for it in endeavouring to placate the local authorities and smooth down their wounded susceptibilities. one gambling-house, known as "portuguese joe's," was frequented mainly by midshipmen. they were strictly forbidden to go there, but the place was crammed every night with them, in spite of official prohibition. the british midshipman being a creature of impulse, the { } moment these youths (every one of whom thought it incumbent on his dignity to have a huge cigar in his mouth, even though he might still be of very tender years) suspected any foul play, they would proceed very systematically and methodically to smash the whole place up to matchwood. there was consequently a good deal of trouble, and the legation quietly put strong pressure on the portuguese government to close these gambling-houses down permanently. this was accordingly done, much to the wrath of the midshipmen, who were, i believe, supplied with free drinks and cigars by the proprietors of these places. it is just possible that the admiral's wishes may have been consulted before this drastic action was taken. midshipmen in those days went to sea at fourteen and fifteen years of age, and consequently needed some shepherding. as our minister had constantly to pay official visits to the fleet, the british government kept a whale-boat at lisbon for the use of the legation. the coxswain, an ex-naval petty officer who spoke portuguese, acted as chancery servant when not afloat. when the boat was wanted, the coxswain went down to the quay with two bagfuls of bluejackets' uniforms, and engaged a dozen chance tagus boatmen. the lisbon boatman, though skilful, is extraordinarily unclean in his person and his attire. i wish the people who lavished praises on the smart appearance of the legation whaleboat and of its scratch crew could have seen, as i { } often did, the revoltingly filthy garments of these longshoremen before they drew the snowy naval white duck trousers and jumpers over them. their persons were even dirtier, and--for reasons into which i need not enter--it was advisable to smoke a strong cigar whilst they were pulling. the tides in the tagus run very strong; at spring-tides they will run seven or eight knots, so considerable skill is required in handling a boat. to do our odoriferous whited sepulchres of boatmen justice, they could pull, and the real workmanlike man-of-war fashion in which our coxswain always brought the boat alongside a ship, in spite of wind and tremendous tide, did credit to himself, and shed a mild reflected glory on the legation. the country round lisbon is very arid. it produces, however, most excellent wines, both red and white, and in my time really good wine could be bought for fourpence a bottle. at the time of the vintage, all the country taverns and wine shops displayed a bush tied to a pole at their doors, as a sign that they had new wine, "green wine," as the portuguese call it, for sale. let the stranger beware of that new wine! though pleasant to the palate and apparently innocuous, it is in reality hideously intoxicating, as a reference to the th verse of the second chapter of the acts will show. i think that the custom of tying a bush to the door of a tavern where new wine is on sale must be the origin of the expression "good wine needs no bush." { } the capabilities of this apparently intractable and arid soil when scientifically irrigated were convincingly shown on a farm some sixteen miles from lisbon, belonging to a colonel campbell, an englishman. colonel campbell, who had permanently settled in portugal, had bought from the government a derelict monastery and the lands attached to it at torres vedras, where wellington entrenched himself in his famous lines in - . a good stream of water ran through the property, and colonel campbell diverted it, and literally caused the desert to blossom like the rose. here were acres and acres of orange groves, and it was one of the few places in europe where bananas would ripen. colonel campbell supplied the whole of lisbon with butter, and the only mutton worth eating came also from his farm. it was a place flowing, if not with milk and honey, at all events with oil and wine. here were huge tanks brimful of amber-coloured olive oil; whilst in vast dim cellars hundreds of barrels of red and white wine were slowly maturing in the mysterious shadows. outside the sunlight fell on crates of ripe oranges and bananas, ready packed for the lisbon market, and in the gardens tropical and sub-tropical flowering trees had not only thoroughly acclimatised themselves, but had expanded to prima-donna-like dimensions. the great rambling tiled monastery made a delightful dwelling-house, and to me it will be always a place of pleasant memories--a place of sunshine and golden orange groves; of { } rustling palms and cool blue and white tiles; of splashing fountains and old stonework smothered in a tangle of wine-coloured bougainvillea. the environs of all portuguese towns are made dreary by the miles and miles of high walls which line the roads. these people must surely have some dark secrets in their lives to require these huge barriers between themselves and the rest of the world. behind the wall were pleasant old _quintas_, or villas, faced with my favourite "azulejos" of blue and white, and surrounded with attractive, ill-kept gardens, where roses and oleanders ran riot amidst groves of orange and lemon trees. cintra would be a beautiful spot anywhere, but in this sun-scorched land it comes as a surprising revelation; a green oasis in a desolate expanse of aridity. here are great shady oak woods and tinkling fern-fringed brooks, pleasant leafy valleys, and a grateful sense of moist coolness. on the very summit of the rocky hill of pena, king fernando had built a fantastic dream-castle, all domes and pinnacles. it was exactly like the "enchanted castle" of one of gustave doré's illustrations, and had, i believe, been partly designed by doré himself. some of the details may have been a little too flamboyant for sober british tastes, but, perched on its lofty rock, this castle was surprisingly effective from below with its gilded turrets and moorish tiles. as the castle occupied every inch of the summit of the pena hill, the only approach to it { } was by a broad winding roadway tunnelled through the solid rock. openings had been cut in the sides of the tunnel giving wonderful views over the valleys far down below. this approach was for all the world like the rocky ways up which parsifal is led to the temple of the grail in the first act of wagner's great mystery drama. the finest feature about pena, to my mind, was the wood of camellias on its southern face. these camellias had grown to a great size, and when in flower in march they were a most beautiful sight. there was a great deal of work at the lisbon legation, principally of a commercial character. there were never-ending disputes between british shippers and the custom house authorities, and the extremely dilatory methods of the portuguese government were most trying to the temper at times. i shall always cherish mildly agreeable recollections of lisbon. it was a placid, sunlit, soporific existence, very different from the turmoil of petrograd life. the people were friendly, and as hospitable as their very limited financial resources enabled them to be. they could mostly speak french in a fashion, still their limited vocabulary was quite sufficient for expressing their more limited ideas. i never could help contrasting the splendid past of this little nation with its somewhat inadequate present, for it must be remembered that portugal in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries was the leading maritime power of europe. portugal had { } planted her colonies and her language (surely the most hideous of all spoken idioms!) in asia, africa, and south america long before great britain or france had even dreamed of a colonial empire. they were a race of hardy and fearless seamen. prince henry the navigator, the son of john of portugal and of john of gaunt's daughter, discovered madeira, the azores, and the cape verde islands in the early fourteen-hundreds. in the same century diaz doubled the cape of good hope, and vasco da gama succeeded in reaching india by sea, whilst albuquerque founded portuguese colonies in brazil and at goa in india. this race of intrepid navigators and explorers held the command of the sea long before the dutch or british, and by the middle of the sixteenth century little portugal ranked as one of the most powerful monarchies in europe. portugal, too, is england's oldest ally, for the treaty of windsor establishing an alliance between the two countries was signed as far back as . this is not the place in which to enter into the causes which led to the gradual decadence of this wonderful little nation, sapped her energies and atrophied her enterprise. to the historian those causes are sufficiently familiar. let us only trust that lusitania's star may some day rise again. { } chapter viii brazil--contrast between portuguese and spanish south america--moorish traditions--amazing beauty of rio de janeiro--yellow fever--the commercial court chamberlain--the emperor pedro--the botanic gardens of rio--the quaint diversions of petropolis--the liveried young entomologist--buenos ayres--the charm of the "camp"--water-throwing--a british minister in carnival time--some buenos ayres peculiarities--masked balls--climatic conditions--theatres--restaurants--wonderful bird-life of the "camp"--estancis negrete--duck-shooting--my one flamingo--an exploring expedition in the gran chaco--hardships--alligators and fish--currency difficulties. my first impression of brazil was that it was a mere transplanted portugal, but a portugal set amidst the most glorious vegetation and some of the finest scenery on the face of the globe. it is also unquestionably suffocatingly hot. there is a great outward difference in the appearances of the towns of portuguese and spanish south america. in brazil the portuguese built their houses and towns precisely as they had done at home. there are the same winding irregular streets; the same tall houses faced with the decorative "azulejos"; the same shutterless sash-windows. a type of house less suited to the burning climate of brazil can hardly be imagined. there being no outside shutters, it is impossible to keep the heat { } out, and the small rooms become so many ovens. the sinuosities of the irregular streets give a curiously old-world look to a brazilian town, so much so that it is difficult for a european to realise that he is on the american continent, associated as the latter is in our minds with unending straight lines. in all spanish-american countries the towns are laid out on the chess-board principle, with long dreary perspectives stretching themselves endlessly. the spanish-american type of house too is mostly one-storied and flat-roofed, with two iron-barred windows only looking on to the street. the moorish conquerors left their impress on spain, and the spanish pioneers carried across the atlantic with them the moorish conception of a house. the "patio" or enclosed court in the centre of the house is a heritage from the moors, as is the flat roof or "azotea," and the decorated rainwater cistern in the centre of the "patio." the very name of this tank in spanish, "aljibe," is of arabic origin, and it becomes obvious that this type of house was evolved by mohammedans who kept their womenkind in jealous and strict seclusion. no indiscreet eyes from outside can penetrate into the "patio," and after nightfall the women could be allowed on to the flat roof to take the air. those familiar with the east know the great part the roof of a house plays in the life of an oriental. it is their parlour, particularly after dark. as the inhabitants of south america are not mohammedans, i cannot conceive why they { } obstinately adhere to this inconvenient type of dwelling. the "patio" renders the house very dark and airless, becomes a well of damp in winter, and an oven in summer. to my mind unquestionably the best form of house for a hot climate is the anglo-indian bungalow, with its broad verandahs, thatched roof, and lofty rooms. in a bungalow some of the heat can be shut out. on my first arrival in brazil, the tropics and tropical vegetation were an unopened book to me, and i was fairly intoxicated with their beauty. there is a short english-owned railway running from pernambuco to some unknown spot in the interior. the manager of this railway came out on the steamer with us, and he was good enough to take me for a run on an engine into the heart of the virgin forest. i shall never forget the impression this made on me. it was like a peep into a wholly unimagined fairyland. had the calls of the mail steamer been deliberately designed to give the stranger a cumulative impression of the beauties of brazil, they could not have been more happily arranged. first of pernambuco in flat country, redeemed by its splendid vegetation; then bahia with its fine bay and gentle hills, and lastly rio the incomparable. i have seen most of the surface of this globe, and i say deliberately, without any fear of contradiction, that nowhere is there anything approaching rio in beauty. the glorious bay, two hundred miles in circumference, dotted with islands, and { } surrounded by mountains of almost grotesquely fantastic outlines, the whole clothed with exuberantly luxurious tropical vegetation, makes the most lovely picture that can be conceived. the straggling town in my day had not yet blossomed into those vagaries of ultra-ornate architecture which at present characterise it. it was quaint and picturesque, and fitted its surroundings admirably, the narrow crowded ruado ouvidor being the centre of the fashionable life of the place. it will be remembered that when gonçalves discovered the great bay on january st, , he imagined that it must be the estuary of some mighty river, and christened it accordingly "the river of january," "rio de janeiro." oddly enough, only a few insignificant streams empty themselves into this vast landlocked harbour. during my first fortnight in rio, i thought the view over the bay more beautiful with every fresh standpoint i saw it from; whether from botofogo, or from nichteroy on the further shore, the view seemed more entrancingly lovely every time; and yet over this, the fairest spot on earth, the angel of death was perpetually hovering with outstretched wings; for yellow fever was endemic at rio then, and yellow fever slays swiftly and surely. one must have lived in countries where the disease is prevalent to realise the insane terror those two words "yellow fever" strike into most people. on my third visit to rio, i was destined to contract the disease myself, but it dealt mercifully with me, { } so henceforth i am immune to yellow fever for the remainder of my life. the ravages this fell disease wrought in the west indies a hundred years ago cannot be exaggerated. those familiar with michael scott's delightful "tom cringle's log" will remember the gruesome details he gives of a severe outbreak of the epidemic in jamaica. in those days "yellow jack" took toll of nearly fifty per cent. of the white civil and military inhabitants of the british west indies, as the countless memorial tablets in the older west indian churches silently testify. before my arrival in rio, a new german minister had, in spite of serious warnings, insisted on taking a beautiful little villa on a rocky promontory jutting into the bay. the house with its white marble colonnades, its lovely gardens, and the wonderful view over the mountains, was a thing of exquisite beauty, but it bore a very evil reputation. within eight months the german minister, his secretary, and his two white german servants were all dead of yellow fever. the brazilians declare that the fever is never contracted during the daytime, but that sunset is the dangerous hour. they also warn the foreigner to avoid fruit and acid drinks. conditions have changed since then. the cause of the unhealthiness of rio was a very simple one. all the sewage of the city was discharged into the landlocked, tideless bay, where it lay festering under the scorching sun. an english company tunnelled a way through the mountains direct to { } the atlantic, and all the sewage is now discharged there, with the result that rio is practically free from the dreaded disease. the customs of a monarchial country are like a deep-rooted oak, they do not stand transplanting. where they are the result of the slow growth of many centuries, they have adapted themselves, so to speak, to the soil of the country of their origin, have evolved national characteristics, and have fitted themselves into the national life. when transplanted into a new country, they cannot fail to appear anachronisms, and have always a certain element of the grotesque about them. in my time dom pedro, the emperor of brazil, had surrounded himself with a modified edition of the externals of a european court. a colleague of mine had recently been presented to the emperor at the palace of são christovão. as is customary on such occasions, my colleague called on the two court chamberlains who were on duty at são christovão, and they duly returned the visit. one of these chamberlains, whom we will call baron de feijão e farinha, seemed reluctant to take his departure. he finally produced a bundle of price lists from his pocket, and assured my colleague that he would get far better value for his money at his (the baron's) ready-made clothing store than at any other similar establishment in south america. from another pocket he then extracted a tape measure, and in spite of my colleague's protest passed the tape over his unwilling body to note the { } stock size, in the event of an order. the baron de feijão especially recommended one of his models, "the pall mall," a complete suit of which could be obtained for the nominal sum of , reis. this appalling sum looks less alarming when reduced to british currency, , brazilian reis being equal to about £ _s_. i am not sure that he did not promise my colleague a commission on any orders he could extract from other members of the legation. my colleague, a remarkably well-dressed man, did not recover his equanimity for some days, after picturing his neatly-garbed form arrayed in the appallingly flashy, ill-cut, ready-made garments in which the youth of rio de janeiro were wont to disport themselves. to european ideas, it was a little unusual to find a court chamberlain engaged in the ready-made clothing line. on state occasions dom pedro assumed the most splendid imperial mantle any sovereign has ever possessed. it was composed entirely of feathers, being made of the breasts of toucans, shaded from pale pink to deep rose-colour, and was the most gorgeous bit of colour imaginable. in the sweltering climate of brazil, the heat of this mantle must have been unendurable, and i always wondered how dom pedro managed to bear it with a smiling face, but it certainly looked magnificent. one of the industries of rio was the manufacture of artificial flowers from the feathers of humming-birds. these feather flowers were wonderfully faithful reproductions of nature, and were { } practically indestructible, besides being most artistically made. they were very expensive. the famous avenue of royal palms in the botanic gardens would almost repay anyone for the voyage from europe. these are, i believe, the tallest palms known, and the long avenue is strikingly impressive. the _oreodoxa regia_, one of the cabbage-palms, has a huge trunk, perfectly symmetrical, and growing absolutely straight. this perspective of giant boles recalls the columns of an immense gothic cathedral, whilst the fronds uniting in a green arch two hundred feet overhead complete the illusion. the botanic gardens have some most attractive ponds of pink and sky-blue water lilies, and the view of the bay from the gardens is usually considered the finest in rio. owing to the unhealthiness of rio, most of the foreign legations had established themselves permanently at petropolis, in the organ mountains, petropolis being well above the yellow fever zone. on my third visit to rio, such a terrible epidemic of yellow fever was raging in the capital that the british minister very kindly invited me to go up straight to the legation at petropolis. the latter is three hours' distance from rio by mountain railway. people with business in the city leave for rio by the a.m. train, and reach petropolis again at p.m. the old emperor, dom pedro, made a point of attending the departure and arrival of the train every single day, and a military band played regularly in the station, morning and { } evening. this struck me as a very unusual form of amusement. the emperor (who ten months later was quietly deposed) was a tall, handsome old gentleman, of very distinguished appearance, and with charming manners. he had also encyclopædic knowledge on most points. that a sovereign should take pleasure in seeing the daily train depart and arrive seemed to point to a certain lack of resources in petropolis, and to hint at moments of deadly dulness in the imperial villa there. dom pedro never appeared in public except in evening dress, and it was a novelty to see the head of a state in full evening dress and high hat at half-past six in the morning, listening to an extremely indifferent brass band braying in the waiting-room of a shabby railway station. nature seems to have lavished all the most brilliant hues of her palette on brazil; the plumage of the birds, the flowers, and foliage all glow with vivid colour. even a brazilian toad has bright emerald-green spots all over him. the gorgeous butterflies of this highly-coloured land are well known in europe, especially those lovely creatures of shimmering, iridescent blue. these butterflies were the cause of a considerable variation in the hours of meals at the british legation. the minister had recently brought out to brazil an english boy to act as young footman. henry was a most willing, obliging lad, but these great brazilian butterflies exercised a quite irresistible { } fascination over him, and small blame to him. he kept a butterfly-net in the pantry, and the instant one of the brilliant, glittering creatures appeared in the garden, henry forgot everything. clang the front-door bell so loudly, he paid no heed to it; the cook might be yelling for him to carry the luncheon into the dining-room, henry turned a deaf ear to her entreaties. snatching up his butterfly-net, he would dart through the window in hot pursuit. as these great butterflies fly like handley pages, he had his work cut out for him, and running is exhausting in a temperature of degrees. the usual hour for luncheon would be long past, and the table would still exhibit a virgin expanse of white cloth. somewhere in the dim distance we could descry a slim young figure bounding along hot-foot, with butterfly-net poised aloft, so we possessed our souls in patience. eventually henry would reappear, moist but triumphant, or dripping and despondent, according to his success or failure with his shimmering quarry. after such violent exercise, henry had to have a plunge in the swimming-bath and a complete change of clothing before he could resume his duties, all of which occasioned some little further delay. and this would happen every day, so our repasts may be legitimately described as "movable feasts." it was no use speaking to henry. he would promise to be less forgetful, but the next butterfly that came flitting along drove all good resolves out of this ardent young entomologist's head, and off he would { } go on flying feet in eager pursuit. i recommended henry when he returned to england to take up cross-country running seriously. he seemed to have unmistakable aptitudes for it. the streets of petropolis were planted with avenues of a flowering tree imported from the southern pacific. when in bloom, this tree was so covered with vivid pink blossoms that all its leaves were hidden. these rows of bright pink trees gave the dull little town a curious resemblance to a japanese fan. there are some lovely little nooks and corners in the organ mountains. one ravine in particular was most beautiful, with a cascade dashing down the cliff, and the clear brook below it fringed with eucharis lilies, and the tropical begonias which we laboriously cultivate in stove-houses. unfortunately, these beauty spots seemed as attractive to snakes as they were to human beings. this entailed keeping a watchful eye on the ground, for brazilian snakes are very venomous. no greater contrast can be imagined than that between the forests and mountains of steamy brazil and the endless, treeless, dead-flat levels of the argentine republic, twelve hundred miles south of them. when i first knew buenos ayres in the early "'eighties," it still retained an old-world air of distinction. the narrow streets were lined with sombre, dignified old buildings of a markedly spanish type, and the modern riot of over-ornate ginger-bread { } architecture had not yet transformed the city into a glittering, garish trans-atlantic pseudo-paris. in the same way newly-acquired wealth had not begun to assert itself as blatantly as it has since done. i confess that i was astonished to find two daily english newspapers in buenos ayres, for i had not realised the size and importance of the british commercial colony there. the "camp" (from the spanish _campo_, country) outside the city is undeniably ugly and featureless, as it stretches its unending khaki-coloured, treeless flatness to the horizon, but the sense of immense space has something exhilarating about it, and the air is perfectly glorious. in time these vast dun-coloured levels exercise a sort of a fascination over one; to me the "camp" will always be associated with the raucous cries of the thousands of spurred argentine plovers, as they wheel over the horsemen with their never-ending scream of "téro, téro." as in most countries of spanish origin, the carnival was kept at buenos ayres in the old-fashioned style. in my time, on the last day of the carnival, shrove tuesday, the traditional water-throwing was still allowed in the streets. everyone going into the streets must be prepared for being drenched with water from head to foot. my new chief, whom i will call sir edward (though he happened to have a totally different name), had just arrived in buenos ayres. he was quite { } unused to south american ways. on shrove tuesday i came down to breakfast in an old suit of flannels and a soft shirt and collar, for from my experiences of the previous year i knew what was to be expected in the streets. sir edward, a remarkably neat dresser, appeared beautifully arrayed in a new suit, the smartest of bow-ties, and a yellow jean waistcoat. i pointed out to my chief that it was water-throwing day, and suggested the advisability of his wearing his oldest clothes. sir edward gave me to understand that he imagined that few people would venture to throw water over her britannic majesty's representative. off we started on foot for the chancery of the legation, which was situated a good mile from our house. i knew what was coming. in the first five minutes we got a bucket of water from the top of a house, plumb all over us, soaking us both to the skin. sir edward was speechless with rage for a minute or so, after which i will not attempt to reproduce his language. men were selling everywhere in the streets the large squirts ("_pomitos_" in spanish) which are used on these occasions. i equipped myself with a perfect woolwich arsenal of _pomitos_, but sir edward waved them all disdainfully away. soon two girls darted out of an open doorway, armed with _pomitos_, and caught us each fairly in the face, after which they giggled and ran into their house, leaving the front door open. sir edward fairly danced with rage on the pavement, shouting out the most uncomplimentary opinions as to the { } argentine republic and its inhabitants. the front door having been left open, i was entitled by all the laws of carnival time to pursue our two fair assailants into their house, and i did so, in spite of sir edward's remonstrances. i chased the two girls into the drawing-room, where we experienced some little difficulty in clambering over sofas and tables, and i finally caught them in the dining-room, where a venerable lady, probably their grandmother, was reposing in an armchair. i gave the two girls a thorough good soaking from my _pomitos_, and bestowed the mildest sprinkling on their aged relative, who was immensely gratified by the attention. "oh! my dears," she cried in spanish to the girls, "you both consider me so old. you can see that i am not too old for this young man to enjoy paying me a little compliment." _autres pays, autres moeurs_! just conceive the feelings of an ordinary british middle-class householder, residing, let us say, at balham or wandsworth, at learning that the sanctity of "the laurels" or "ferndale" had been invaded by a total stranger; that his daughters had been pursued round the house, and then soaked with water in his own dining-room, and that even his aged mother's revered white hairs had not preserved her from a like indignity. i cannot imagine him accepting it as a humorous everyday incident. our progress to the chancery was punctuated by several more interludes of a similar character, and i was really pained on reaching the shelter of our official { } sanctuary to note how sir edward's spotless garments had suffered. personally, on a broiling february day (corresponding with august in the northern hemisphere) i thought the cool water most refreshing. our chancery looked on to the fashionable calle florida, and a highly respectable german widow who had lived for thirty years in south america acted as our housekeeper. sir edward, considerably ruffled in his temper, sat down to continue a very elaborate memorandum he was drawing up on the new argentine customs tariff. the subject was a complicated one, there were masses of figures to deal with, and the work required the closest concentration. presently our housekeeper, fran bauer, entered the room demurely, and made her way to sir edward's table, "wenn excellenz so gut sein werden um zu entschuldigen," began frau bauer with downcast eyes, and then suddenly with a discreet titter she produced a large _pomito_ from under her apron and, secure in the license of carnival time, she thrust it into sir edward's collar, and proceeded to squirt half a pint of cold water down his back, retiring swiftly with elderly coyness amid an explosion of giggles. i think that i have seldom seen a man in such a furious rage. i will not attempt to reproduce sir edward's language, for the printer would have exhausted his entire stock of "blanks" before i had got halfway through. the minister, when he had eased his mind sufficiently, snapped out, "it is obvious that with all { } this condemned (that was not quite the word he used) foolery going on, it is impossible to do any serious work to-day. where ... where ... can one buy the infernal squirts these condemned idiots vise?" "anywhere in the streets. shall i buy you some, sir edward?" "yes, get me a lot of them, and the biggest you can find." so we parted. returning home after a moist but enjoyable afternoon, i saw a great crowd gathered at the junction of two streets, engaged in a furious water-fight. the central figure was a most disreputable-looking individual with a sodden wisp of linen where his collar should have been; remnants of a tie trailed dankly down, his soaked garments were shapeless, and his head was crowned with a sort of dripping poultice. he was spouting water in all directions like the crystal palace fountains in their heyday, with shouts of "take that, you foolish female; and that, you fat feminine argentine!" with grief i recognised in this damp reveller her britannic majesty's minister plenipotentiary. upon returning home, we found that our two english servants had been having the time of their lives. they had stood all day on the roof of the house, dashing pails of water over passers-by until they had completely emptied the cistern. there was not one drop of water in the house, and we had to borrow three pailfuls from a complaisant neighbour. a few years later the police prohibited water-throwing altogether, so this feature of a buenos { } ayres carnival is now a thing of the past. as time went on i grew very fond of sir edward. his temper may have flared up quickly, but it died down just as rapidly. he was a man with an extraordinarily varied fund of information, and possessed a very original and subtle sense of humour. he was also a great stylist in writing english, and the drafts i wrote for despatches were but seldom fortunate enough to meet with his approval. a split infinitive brought him to the verge of tears. the argentine authorities were by no means easy to deal with, and sir edward handled them in a masterly fashion. his quiet persistence usually achieved its object. it was a real joy to see him dealing with anyone rash enough to attempt to bully or browbeat him. his tongue could sting like a lash on occasions, whilst he preserved an outward air of imperturbable calm. sir edward both spoke and wrote the most beautifully finished spanish. a ball in a private house at buenos ayres had its peculiar features in the "'eighties." in the first place, none of the furniture was removed from the rooms, and so far from taking up carpets, carpets were actually laid down, should the rooms be unprovided with them. this rendered dancing somewhat difficult; in fact a ball resolved itself into a leisurely arm-in-arm promenade to music through the rooms, steering an erratic course between the articles of furniture, "drawing the port," as a scottish curler would put it. occasionally a { } space behind a sofa could be found sufficiently large to attempt a few mild gyrations, but that was all. the golden youth of buenos ayres, in the place of the conventional white evening tie, all affected the most deplorable bows of pale pink or pale green satin. a wedding, too, differed from the european routine. the parents of the bride gave a ball. at twelve o'clock dancing, or promenading amidst the furniture, ceased. a portable altar was brought into the room; a priest made his unexpected entry, and the young couple were married at breakneck speed. at the conclusion of the ceremony, all the young men darted at the bride and tore her marriage-veil to shreds. priest, altar, and the newly-married couple then disappeared; the band struck up again, and dancing, or rather a leisurely progress round the sofas and ottomans, recommenced. a form of entertainment that appeals immensely to people of spanish blood is a masked ball. in buenos ayres the ladies only were masked, which gave them a distinct advantage over the men. to enjoy a masquerade a good knowledge of spanish is necessary. all masked women are addressed indiscriminately as "mascarita" and can be "tutoyée'd." convention permits, too, anything within reasonable limits to be said by a man to "mascaritas," who one and all assume a little high-pitched head-voice to conceal their identities. i fancy that the real attractions masquerades had for most women lay in the opportunity they afforded every { } "mascarita" of saying with impunity abominably rude things to some other woman whom she detested. i remember one "mascarita," an acquaintance of mine, whose identity i pierced at once, giving another veiled form accurate details not only as to the date when the pearly range of teeth she was exhibiting to the world had come into her possession, but also the exact price she had paid for them. it takes a stranger from the north some little time to accustom himself to the inversion of seasons and of the points of the compass in the southern hemisphere. for instance, "a lovely spring day in _october_," or "a chilly autumn evening in _may_," rings curiously to our ears; as it does to hear of a room with a cool _southern_ aspect, or to hear complaints about the hot _north_ wind. personally i did not dislike the north wind; it was certainly moist and warm, but it smelt deliciously fragrant with a faint spicy odour after its journey over the great brazilian forests on its way from the equator. all argentines seemed to feel the north wind terribly; it gave them headaches, and appeared to dislocate their entire nervous system. in the law courts it was held to be a mitigating circumstance should it be proved that a murder, or other crime of violence, had been committed after a long spell of north wind. many women went about during a north wind with split beans on their temples to soothe their headaches, a comical sight till one grew accustomed to it. the old german { } housekeeper of the chancery, frau bauer, invariably had split beans adhering to her temples when the north wind blew. the icy _pampero_, the south wind direct from the pole, was the great doctor of buenos ayres. darwin used to consider the river plate the electrical centre of the world. nowhere have i experienced such terrific thunderstorms as in the argentine. sometimes on a stifling summer night, with the thermometer standing at nearly a hundred degrees, one of these stupendous storms would break over the city with floods of rain. following on the storm would come the _pampero_, gently at first, but increasing in violence until a blustering, ice-cold gale went roaring through the sweltering city, bringing the temperature down in four hours with a run from degrees to degrees. extremely pleasant for those like myself with sound lungs; very dangerous to those with delicate chests. the old-fashioned argentine house had no protection over the _patio_. in bad weather the occupants had to make their way through the rain from one room to another. some of the newer houses were built in a style which i have seen nowhere else except on the stage. everyone is familiar with those airy dwellings composed principally of open colonnades one sees on stage back-cloths. these houses were very similar in design, with open halls of columns and arches, and open-air staircases. on the stage it rains but seldom, and the style may be suited to the climatic conditions prevailing there. { } in real life it must be horribly inconvenient. the italian minister at buenos ayres lived in a house of this description. in fine weather it looked extremely picturesque, but i imagine that his excellency's progress to bed must have been attended with some difficulties when, during a thunderstorm, the rain poured in cataracts down his open-air staircase, and the _pampero_ howled through his open arcades and galleries. the theatres at buenos ayres were quite excellent. at the opera all the celebrated singers of europe could be heard, although one could almost have purchased a nice little freehold property near london for the price asked for a seat. there were two french theatres, one devoted to light opera, the other to palais royal farces, both admirably given; and, astonishingly enough, during part of my stay, there was actually an english theatre with an english stock company. a peculiarly spanish form of entertainment is the "zarzuela," a sort of musical farce. it requires a fairly intimate knowledge of the language to follow these pieces with their many topical allusions. the spanish-american temperament seems to dislike instinctively any gloomy or morbid dramas, differing widely from the russians in this respect. at petrograd, on the russian stage, the plays, in addition to the usual marital difficulties, were brightened up by allusions to such cheerful topics as inherited tendencies to kleptomania or suicide, or an intense desire for self-mutilation. what { } appeals to the morbid frost-bound north apparently fails to attract the light-hearted sons of the southern hemisphere. buenos ayres was also a city of admirable restaurants. in the fashionable places, resplendent with mirrors, coloured marbles and gilding, the cooking rivals paris, and the bill, when tendered, makes one inclined to rush to the telegraph office to cable for further and largely increased remittances from europe. there were a number, however, of unpretending french restaurants of the most meritorious description. never shall i forget sir edward's face when, in answer to his questions as to a light supper, the waiter suggested a cold armadillo; a most excellent dish, by the way, though after seeing the creature in the zoological gardens one would hardly credit it with gastronomic possibilities. the soil of the argentine is marvellously fertile, and some day it will become a great wine-growing country. in the meantime vast quantities of inferior wine are imported from europe. after sampling a thin spanish red wine, and a heavy sweet black wine known as priorato, and having tested their effects on his digestion, sir edward christened them "the red wine of our lady of pain" and "the black wine of death." when the president of the republic appeared in public on great occasions, he was always preceded by a man carrying a large blue velvet bolster embroidered with the argentine arms. this was { } clearly an emblem of national sovereignty, but what this blue bolster was intended to typify i never could find out. did it indicate that it was the duty of the president to bolster up the republic, or did it signify that the republic was always ready to bolster up its president? none of my argentine friends could throw any light upon the subject further than by saying that this bolster was always carried in front of the president; a sufficiently self-evident fact. it will always remain an enigma to me. a bolster seems a curiously soporific emblem for a young, enterprising, and progressive republic to select as its symbol. it would be ungallant to pass over without remark the wonderful beauty of the argentine girls. this beauty is very shortlived indeed, and owing to their obstinate refusal to take any exercise whatever, feminine outlines increase in bulk at an absurdly early age, but between seventeen and twenty-one many of them are really lovely. lolling in hammocks and perpetual chocolate-eating bring about their own penalties, and sad to say, bring them about very quickly. i must add that the attractiveness of these girls is rather physical than intellectual. the house sir edward and i rented had been originally built for a stage favourite by one of her many warm-hearted admirers. it had been furnished according to the lady's own markedly florid tastes. i reposed nightly in a room entirely draped in sky-blue satin. the house had a charming garden, { } and sir edward and i expended a great deal of trouble and a considerable amount of money on it. that garden was the pride of our hearts, but we had reckoned without the leaf-cutting ant, the great foe of the horticulturist in south america. at rio, and in other places in brazil, they had a special apparatus for pumping the fumes of burning sulphur into the ant-holes, and so were enabled to keep these pests in check. in private gardens in brazil every single specially cherished plant had to have its stem surrounded with unsightly circular troughs of paraffin and water. in front of our windows we had a large bed of gardenias backed by a splendid border of many-hued cannas which were the apple of sir edward's eye, he gazed daily on them with an air not only of pride, but of quasi-paternity. the leaf-cutting ants found their way into our garden, and in four days nothing remained of our beautiful gardenias and cannas but some black, leafless stalks. these abominable insects swept our garden as bare of every green thing as a flight of locusts would have done; they even killed the grass where their serried processions had passed. for me, the great charm of the argentine lay in the endless expanses of the "camp," far away from the noisy city. the show _estancia_ of the argentine was in those days "negrete," the property of mr. david shennan, kindest and most hospitable of scotsmen. most english residents and visitors out in the plate cherish grateful { } recollections of that pleasant spot, encircled by peach orchards, where the genial proprietor, like a patriarch of old, welcomed his guests, surrounded by his vast herds and flocks. i happen to know the exact number of head of cattle mr. shennan had on his estancia on january , , for i was one of the counters at the stocktaking on the last day of the year. the number was , head. counting cattle is rather laborious work, and needs close concentration. six of us were in the saddle from daybreak to dusk, with short intervals for meals, and december is at the height of the summer in the southern hemisphere, so the heat was considerable. this is the method employed in a "count." the cattle are driven into "mobs" of some eight hundred ("rodeo" is the spanish term for mob) by the "peons." some twenty tame bullocks are driven a quarter of a mile from the "mob," and the counters line up on their horses between the two, with their pockets full of beans. the "peons" use their whips, and one or two of the cattle break away from the herd to the tame bullocks. they are followed by more and more at an ever-increasing pace. each one is counted, and when one hundred is reached, a bean is silently transferred from the left pocket to the right. so the process is continued until the entire herd has passed by. should the numbers given by the six counters tally within reason, the count is accepted. should it differ materially, there is a recount; then the { } counters pass on to another "mob" some two miles away. under a very hot sun, the strain of continual attention is exhausting, and those six counters found their beds unusually welcome that night. the dwelling-house of negrete, which was to become very familiar to me, was over a hundred years old, and stretched itself one-storied round a large _patio_, blue and white tiled, with an elaborate well-head in the centre decorated with good iron-work. the _patio_ was fragrant with orange and lemon trees, and great bushes of the lovely sky-blue paraguayan jasmine. i can never understand why this shrub, the "jasmin del paraguay," with its deliciously sweet perfume and showy blue flowers, has never been introduced into england. it would have to be grown under glass, but only requires sufficient heat to keep the frost out. i had never felt the _joie de vivre_--the sheer joy at being alive--thrill through one's veins so exultantly as when riding over the "camp" in early morning. i have had the same feeling on the high veldt in south africa, where there is the same marvellous air, and, in spite of the undulations of the ground, the same sense of vast space. the glorious air, the sunlight, the limitless, treeless expanse of neutral-tinted grass stretching endlessly to the horizon, and the vast hemisphere of blue sky above had something absolutely intoxicating in them. it may have been the delight of forgetting that there were such things as towns, and streets, { } and tramways. and then the teeming bird-life of the camp! ibis and egrets flashed bronze-green or snowy-white through the sunlight; the beautiful pink spoon-bills flapped noisily overhead in single file, a lengthy rosy trail of long legs and necks and brilliant colour; the quaint little ground owls blinked from the entrances of their burrows, and dozens of spurred plovers wheeled in incessant gyrations, keeping up their endless, wearying scream of "téro-téro." i always wanted to shout and sing from sheer delight at being part of it all. the tinamou, the south american partridge, surprisingly stupid birds, rose almost under the horses' feet, and dozens of cheery little sandpipers darted about in all directions. birds, birds everywhere! should one pass near one of the great shallow lagoons, which are such a feature of the country, its surface would be black with ducks, with perhaps a regiment of flamingoes in the centre of it, a dazzling patch of sunlit scarlet, against the turquoise blue the water reflected from the sky. in springtime the "camp" is covered with the trailing verbena which in my young days was such a favourite bedding-out plant in england, its flowers making a brilliant league-long carpet of scarlet or purple. there are endless opportunities for shooting on the "camp" in the province of buenos ayres, only limited by the difficulties in obtaining cartridges, and the fact that in places where it is impossible to dispose of the game the amount shot must depend { } on what can be eaten locally. otherwise it is not sport, but becomes wanton slaughter. the foolish tinamou are easily shot, but are exceedingly difficult to retrieve out of the knee-high grass, and if only winged, they can run like hares. there is also a large black and white migratory bird of the snipe family, the "batitou," which appears from the frozen regions of the far south, as winter comes on, and is immensely prized for the table. he is unquestionably a delicious bird to eat, but is very hard to approach owing to his wariness. the duck-shooting was absolutely unequalled. i had never before known that there were so many ducks in the world, nor were there the same complicated preliminaries, as with us; no keepers, no beaters, no dogs were required. one simply put twenty cartridges in a bandolier, took one's gun, jumped on a horse, and rode six miles or so to a selected lagoon. here the horse was tied up to the nearest fence, and one just walked into the lagoon. so warm was the water in these lagoons that i have stood waist-high in it for hours without feeling the least chilly, or suffering from any ill effects whatever. with the first step came a mighty and stupendous roar of wings, and a prodigious quacking, then the air became black with countless thousands of ducks. mallards, shovellers, and speckled ducks; black ducks with crimson feet and bills; the great black and white birds argentines call "royal" ducks, and we "muscovy" ducks, though with us they are uninteresting inhabitants of a { } farm-yard. ducks, ducks everywhere! as these confiding fowl never thought of flying away, but kept circling over the lagoon again and again, i am sure that anyone, given sufficient cartridges, and the inclination to do so, could easily have killed five hundred of them to his own gun in one day. we limited ourselves to ten apiece. splashing about in the lagoon, it was easy to pick up the dead birds without a dog, but no one who has not carried them can have any idea of the weight of eight ducks in a gamebag pressing on one's back, or can conceive how difficult it is to get into the saddle on a half-broken horse with this weight dragging you backwards. in any other country but the argentine, to canter home six miles dripping wet would have resulted in a severe chill. no one ever seemed the worse for it out there. at times i went into the lagoons without a gun, just to observe at close quarters the teeming water-life there. the raucous screams of the vigilant "téro-téros" warned the water-birds of a hostile approach, but it was easy to sit down in the shallow warm water amongst the reeds until the alarm had died down, and one was amply repaid for it, though the enforced lengthy abstention from tobacco was trying. the "camp" is a great educator. one learnt there to recap empty cartridge-cases with a machine, and to reload them. one learnt too to clean guns and saddlery. when a thing remains undone, unless you take it in hand yourself, you begin wondering { } why you should ever have left these things to be done for you by others. the novice finds out that a bridle and bit are surprisingly difficult objects to clean, even given unlimited oil and sandpaper. the "camp" certainly educates, and teaches the neophyte independence. i shot several pink spoonbills, one of which in a glass case is not far from me as i write, but i simply longed to get a scarlet flamingo. owing to the spoonbills' habit of flitting from lagoon to lagoon, they are not difficult to shoot, but a flamingo is a very wary bird. perched on one leg, they stand in the very middle of a lagoon, and allow no one within gunshot. the officious "téro-téros" effectually notify them of the approach of man, and possibly the flamingoes have learnt from "alice in wonderland" that the queen of hearts is in the habit of utilising them as croquet-mallets. the natural anxiety to escape so ignominious a fate would tend to make them additionally cautious. anyhow, i found it impossible to approach them. the idea occurred to me of trying to shoot one with a rifle. so i crawled prostrate on my anatomy up to the lagoon. i failed at least six times, but finally succeeded in killing a flamingo. wading into the lagoon, i triumphantly retrieved my scarlet victim, and took him by train to buenos ayres, intending to hand him over to a taxidermist next day. when i awoke next morning, the blue satin bower in which i slept (originally fitted up, as i have explained, as the bedroom of a minor light of { } the operatic stage) was filled with a pestilential smell of decayed fish. i inquired the reason of my english servant, who informed me that the cook was afraid that there was something wrong about "the queer duck" i had brought home last night, as its odour was not agreeable. (the real expression he used was "smelling something cruel.") full of horrible forebodings, i jumped out of bed and ran down to the kitchen, to find a little heap of brilliant scarlet feathers reposing on the table, and paquita, our fat andalusian cook, regarding with doubtful eyes a carcase slowly roasting before the fire, and filling the place with unbelievably poisonous effluvia. and that was the end of the only flamingo i ever succeeded in shooting. a london financial house had, by foreclosing a mortgage, come into possession of a great tract of land in the unsurveyed and uncharted indian reserve, the gran chaco. anxious to ascertain whether their newly-acquired property was suited for white settlers, the financial house sent out two representatives to buenos ayres with orders to fit out a little expedition to survey and explore it. i was invited to join this expedition, and as work was slack at the time, sir edward did not require my services and gave me leave to go. i had been warned that conditions would be very rough indeed, but the opportunity seemed one of those that only occur once in a lifetime, and too good to be lost. i do not think the invitation was quite a disinterested one. the leaders of the expedition probably { } thought that the presence of a member of the british legation might be useful in case of difficulties with the argentine authorities. i travelled by steamer six hundred miles up the mighty paraná, and joined the other members of the expedition at the alexandra colony, a little english settlement belonging to the london firm hundreds of miles from anywhere, and surrounded by vast swamps. the alexandra colony was a most prosperous little community, but was unfortunately infested with snakes and every imaginable noxious stinging insect. as we should have to cross deep swamps perpetually, we took no wagons with us, but our baggage was loaded on pack-horses. for provisions we took jerked sun-dried beef (very similar to the south african "biltong"), hard biscuit, flour, coffee, sugar, and salt, as well as several bottles of rum, guns, rifles, plenty of ammunition, and two blankets apiece. we had some thirty horses in all; the loose horses trotting obediently behind a bell-mare, according to their convenient argentine custom. in argentina mares are never ridden, and a bell-mare serves the same purpose in keeping the "tropilla" of horses together as does a bellwether in keeping sheep together with us. at night only the bell-mare need be securely picketed; the horses will not stray far from the sound of her tinkling bell. should the bell-mare break loose, there is the very devil to pay; all the others will follow her. it will thus be seen that the bell-mare plays a very important part. in french families the { } _belle-mère_ fills an equally important position. we were four englishmen in all; the two leaders, the doctor, and myself. the doctor was quite a youngster, taking a final outing before settling down to serious practice in bristol. a nice, cheery youth! the first night i discovered how very hard the ground is to sleep upon, but our troubles did not begin till the second day. we were close up to the tropics, and got into great swamps where millions and millions of mosquitoes attacked us day and night, giving us no rest. our hands got so swollen with bites that we could hardly hold our reins, and sleep outside our blankets was impossible with these humming, buzzing tormentors devouring us. if one attempted to baffle them by putting one's head under the blanket, the stifling heat made sleep equally difficult. in four days we reached a waterless land; that is to say, there were clear streams in abundance, but they were all of salt, bitter, alkaline water, undrinkable by man or beast. oddly enough, all the clear streams were of bitter water, whereas the few muddy ones were of excellent drinking water. i think these alkaline streams are peculiar to the interior of south america. our horses suffered terribly; so did we. we had three argentine gauchos with us, to look after the horses and baggage, besides two pure indians. one of these indians, known by the pretty name of chinche, or "the bug," could usually find water-holes by watching the flight of the birds. the water in these holes was often black and fetid, { } yet we drank it greedily. chinche could also get a little water out of some kinds of aloes by cutting the heart out of the plant. in the resulting cavity about half a glassful of water, very bitter to the taste, but acceptable all the same, collected in time. prolonged thirst under a hot sun is very difficult to bear. we nearly murdered the doctor, for he insisted on recalling the memories of great cool tankards of shandy-gaff in thames-side hostelries, and at our worst times of drought had a maddening trick of imitating (exceedingly well too) the tinkling of ice against the sides of a long tumbler. in spite of thirst and the accursed mosquitoes it was an interesting trip. we were where few, if any, white men had been before us; the scenery was pretty; and game was very plentiful. the open rolling, down-like country, with its little copses and single trees, was like a gigantic edition of some english park in the southern counties. in the early morning certain trees, belonging to the cactus family, i imagine, were covered with brilliant clusters of flowers, crimson, pink, and white. as the sun increased in heat all these flowers closed up like sea anemones, to reopen again after sunset. the place crawled with deer, and so tame and unsophisticated were they that it seemed cruel to take advantage of them and to shoot them. we had to do so for food, for we lived almost entirely on venison, and venison is a meat i absolutely detest. when food is unpalatable, one is surprised to find how very little is necessary to sustain life; an { } experience most of us have repeated during these last two years, not entirely voluntarily. chinche, the indian, could see the tracks of any beasts in the dew at dawn, where my eyes could detect nothing whatever. in this way i was enabled to shoot a fine jaguar, whose skin has reposed for thirty years in my dining-room. one night, too, an ant-eater blundered into our camp, and by some extraordinary fluke i shot him in the dark. his skin now keeps his compatriot company. an ant-eating bear is a very shy and wary animal, and as he is nocturnal in his habits, he is but rarely met with, so this was a wonderful bit of luck. we encountered large herds of peccaries, the south american wild boar. these little beasts are very fierce and extremely pugnacious, and the horses seemed frightened of them. the flesh of the peccary is excellent and formed a most welcome variation to the eternal venison. i never could learn to shoot from the saddle as argentines do, but had to slip off my horse to fire. i was told afterwards that it was very dangerous to do this with these savage little peccaries. there are always compensations to be found everywhere. had not the abominable mosquitoes prevented sleep, one would not have gazed up for hours at the glorious constellations of the southern sky, including that arch-impostor the southern cross, glittering in the dark-blue bowl of the clear tropical night sky. had we not suffered so from thirst, we should have appreciated less the unlimited { } foaming beer we found awaiting us on our return to the alexandra colony. by the way, all south americans believe firmly in moon-strokes, and will never let the moon's rays fall on their faces whilst sleeping. i judged the country we traversed quite unfitted for white settlers, owing to the lack of good water, and the evil-smelling swamps that cut the land up so. that exploring trip was doubtless pleasanter in retrospect than in actual experience. i would not have missed it, though, for anything, for it gave one an idea of stern realities. on returning to the alexandra colony, both i and the doctor, a remarkably fair-skinned young man, found, after copious ablutions, that our faces and hands had been burnt so black by the sun that we could easily have taken our places with the now defunct moore and burgess minstrels in the vanished st. james's hall in piccadilly without having to use any burnt-cork whatever. on the evening of our arrival at alexandra, i was reading in the sitting-room in an armchair against the wall. the doctor called out to me to keep perfectly still, and not to move on any account until he returned. he came back with a pickle-jar and a bottle. i smelt the unmistakable odour of chloroform, and next minute the doctor triumphantly exhibited an immense tarantula spider in the pickle-jar. he had cleverly chloroformed the venomous insect within half an inch of my head, otherwise i should certainly have been bitten. the { } bite of these great spiders, though not necessarily fatal, is intensely painful. the doctor had brought out with him a complete anti-snake-bite equipment, and was always longing for an occasion to use it. he was constantly imploring us to go and get bitten by some highly venomous snake, in order to give him an opportunity of testing the efficacy of his drugs, hypodermic syringes, and lancets. at alexandra a dog did get bitten by a dangerous snake, and was at once brought to the doctor, who injected his snake-bite antidote, with the result that the dog died on the spot. a river ran through alexandra which was simply alive with fish, also with alligators. in the upper reaches of the paraná and its tributaries, bathing is dangerous not only because of the alligators, but on account of an abominable little biting-fish. these biting-fish, which go about in shoals, are not unlike a flounder in appearance and size. they have very sharp teeth and attack voraciously everything that ventures into the water. in that climate their bites are very liable to bring on lockjaw. the doctor and i spent most of our time along this river with fishing lines and rifles, for alligators had still the charm of novelty to us both, and we both delighted in shooting these revolting saurians. i advise no one to try to skin a dead alligator. there are thousands of sinews to be cut through, and the pestilential smell of the brute would sicken a chinaman. we caught some extraordinary-looking { } fish on hand lines, including a great golden carp of over lb. ("dorado" in spanish). it took us nearly an hour to land this big fellow, who proved truly excellent when cooked. when i first reached the argentine, travel was complicated by the fact that each province issued its own notes, which were only current within the province itself except at a heavy discount. the value of the dollar fluctuated enormously in the different provinces. in buenos ayres the dollar was depreciated to four cents, or twopence, and was treated as such, the ordinary tram fare being one depreciated dollar. in other provinces the dollar stood as high as three shillings. in passing from one province to another all paper money had to be changed, and this entailed the most intricate calculations. it is unnecessary to add that the stranger was fleeced quite mercilessly. the currency has since been placed on a more rational basis. national notes, issued against a gold reserve, have superseded the provincial currency, and pass from one end of the republic to the other. upon returning to buenos ayres, my blue-satin bedroom looked strangely artificial and effeminate, after sleeping on the ground under the stars for so long. { } chapter ix paraguay--journey up the river--a primitive capital--dick the australian--his polychrome garb--a paraguayan race meeting--beautiful figures of native women--the "falcon" adventurers--a quaint railway--patiño cué--an extraordinary household--the capable australian boy--wild life in the swamps--"bushed"--a literary evening--a railway record--the tigre midnight swims--canada--maddening flies--a grand salmon river--the canadian backwoods--skunks and bears--different views as to industrial progress. as negotiations had commenced in the "'eighties" for a new treaty, including an extradition clause, between the british and paraguayan governments, several minor points connected with it required clearing up. i accordingly went up the river to asuncion, the paraguayan capital, five days distant from buenos ayres by steamer. a short account of that primitive little inland republic in the days before it was linked up with argentina by railway may prove of interest, for it was unlike anything else, with its stately two hundred-year-old relics of the old spanish civilisation mixed up with the roughest of modern makeshifts. the vast majority of the people were guaranis, of pure indian blood and speech. the little state was so isolated from the rest of the world that the nineteenth century { } had touched it very lightly. since its independence paraguay had suffered under the rule of a succession of dictator presidents, the worst of whom was francisco lopez, usually known as tyrant lopez. this ignorant savage aspired to be the napoleon of south america, and in declared war simultaneously on brazil, uruguay, and the argentine republic. the war continued till , when, fortunately, lopez was killed, but the population of paraguay had diminished from one and a quarter million to four hundred thousand people, nearly all the males being killed. in my time there were seven women to every male of the population. the journey up the mighty paraná is very uninteresting, for these huge rivers are too broad for the details on either shore to be seen clearly. after the steamer had turned up the paraguay river on the verge of the tropics, it became less monotonous. the last argentine town is formosa, a little place of thatched shanties clustered under groves of palms. we arrived there at night, and remained three hours. i shall never forget the eerie, uncanny effect of seeing for the first time paraguayan women, with a white petticoat, and a white sheet over their heads as their sole garments, flitting noiselessly along on bare feet under the palms in the brilliant moonlight. they looked like hooded silent ghosts, and reminded me irresistibly of the fourth act of "robert le diable," when the ghosts of the nuns arise out of their cloister graves at bertram's command. they did not though as { } in the opera, break into a glittering ballet. on board the steamer there was a young globe-trotting australian. he was a nice, cheery lad, and, like most australians, absolutely natural and unaffected. as he spoke no spanish, he was rather at a loose end, and we agreed to foregather. asuncion was really a curiosity in the way of capitals. lopez the tyrant suffered from megalomania, as others rulers have done since his day. he began to construct many imposing buildings, but finished none of them. he had built a huge palace on the model of the tuileries on a bluff over the river. it looked very imposing, but had no roof and no inside. he had also begun a great mausoleum for members of the lopez family, but that again had only a façade, and was already crumbling to ruin. the rest of the town consisted principally of mud and bamboo shanties, thatched with palm. the streets were unpaved, and in the main street a strong spring gushed up. everyone rode; there was but one wheeled vehicle in asuncion, and that was only used for weddings and funerals. the inhabitants spoke of their one carriage as we should speak of something absolutely unique of its kind, say the statue of the venus de milo, or of some rare curiosity, such as a great auk's egg, or a twopenny blue mauritius postage stamp, or a real live specimen of the dodo. nothing could be rougher than the accommodation howard, the young australian, and i found at the hotel. we were shown into a very dirty brick-paved { } room containing eight beds. we washed unabashed at the fountain in the _patio_, as there were no other facilities for ablutions at all, and the bare-footed, shirtless waiter addressed us each by our christian names _tout court_, at once, omitting the customary "don." the spanish forms of christian names are more melodious than ours, and howard failed to recognize his homely name of "dick" in "ricardo." as south american men become moustached and bearded very early in life, i think that our clean-shaved faces, to which they were not accustomed, led the people to imagine us both much younger than we really were, for i was then twenty-seven, and the long-legged dick was twenty-one. never have i known anyone laugh so much as that light-hearted australian boy. he was such a happy, merry, careless creature, brimful of sheer joy at being alive, and if he had never cultivated his brains much, he atoned for it by being able to do anything he liked with his hands and feet. he could mend and repair anything, from a gun to a fence; he could cook, and use a needle and thread as skilfully as he could a stock-whip. i took a great liking to this lean, sun-browned, pleasant-faced lad with the merry laugh and the perfectly natural manner; we got on together as though we had known each other all our lives, in fact we were addressing one another by our christian names on the third day of our acquaintance. dick was a most ardent cricketer, and his { } baggage seemed to consist principally of a large and varied assortment of blazers of various australian athletic clubs. he insisted on wearing one of these, a quiet little affair of mauve, blue, and pink stripes, and our first stroll through asuncion became a sort of triumphal progress. the inhabitants flocked out of their houses, loud in their admiration of the "gringo's" (all foreigners are "gringos" in south america) tasteful raiment. so much so that i began to grow jealous, and returning to the hotel, i borrowed another of howard's blazers (if my memory serves me right, that of the "wonga-wonga wallabies"), an artistic little garment of magenta, orange, and green stripes. we then sauntered about asuncion, arm-in-arm, to the delirious joy of the populace. we soon had half the town at our heels, enthusiastic over these walking rainbows from the mysterious lands outside paraguay. these people were as inquisitive as children, and plied us with perpetual questions. since howard could not speak spanish, all the burden of conversation fell on me. as i occupied an official position, albeit a modest one, i thought it best to sink my identity, and became temporarily a citizen of the united states, mr. dwight p. curtis, of hicksville, pa., and i gave my hearers the most glowing and rose-coloured accounts of the enterprise and nascent industries of this progressive but, i fear, wholly imaginary spot. i can only trust that no paraguayan left his native land to seek his fortune in hicksville, pa., for he might { } have had to search the state of pennsylvania for some time before finding it. i have already recounted, earlier in these reminiscences, how the paraguayan minister for foreign affairs received me, and that his excellency on that occasion dispensed not only with shoes and stockings, but with a shirt as well. he was, however, like most people in spanish-speaking lands, courtesy itself. dick howard having heard that there was some races in a country town six miles away, was, like a true australian, wild to go to them. encouraged by our phenomenal success of the previous day, we arrayed ourselves in two new australian blazers, and rode out to the races, howard imploring me all the way to use my influence to let him have a mount there. the races were very peculiar. the course was short, only about three furlongs, and perfectly straight. only two horses ran at once, so the races were virtually a succession of "heats," but the excitement and betting were tremendous. the jockeys were little indian boys, and their "colours" consisted of red, blue, or green bathing drawers. otherwise they were stark naked, and, of course, bare-legged. the jockey's principal preoccupation seemed to be either to kick the opposing jockey in the face, or to crack him over the head with the heavy butts of their raw-hide whips. howard still wanted to ride. i pointed out to him the impossibility of exhibiting to the public { } his six feet of lean young australian in nothing but a pair of green bathing drawers. he answered that if he could only get a mount he would be quite willing to dispense with the drawers even. howard also had a few remarks to offer about the melbourne cup, and flemington racecourse, and was not wholly complimentary to this paraguayan country meeting. the ladies present were nearly all bare-foot, and clad in the invariable white petticoat and sheet. it was not in the least like the royal enclosure at ascot, yet they had far more on, and appeared more becomingly dressed than many of the ladies parading in that sacrosanct spot in this year of grace . every single woman, and every child, even infants of the tenderest age, had a green paraguayan cigar in their mouths. these paraguayan women were as beautifully built as classical statues; with exquisitely moulded little hands and feet. their "attaches," as the french term the wrist and ankles, were equally delicately formed. they were "tea with plenty of milk in it" colour, and though their faces were not pretty, they moved with such graceful dignity that the general impression they left was a very pleasing one. our blazers aroused rapturous enthusiasm. i am sure that the members of the "st. kilda wanderers" would have forgiven me for masquerading in their colours, could they have witnessed the terrific success i achieved in my tasteful, if brilliant, borrowed plumage. { } asuncion pleased me. this quaint little capital, stranded in its backwater in the very heart of the south american continent, was so remote from all the interests and movements of the modern world. the big three-hundred-year cathedral bore the unmistakable dignified stamp of the old spanish "conquistadores." it contained an altar-piece of solid silver reaching from floor to roof. how lopez must have longed to melt that altar-piece down for his own use! round the cathedral were some old houses with verandahs supported on palm trunks, beautifully carved in native patterns by indians under the direction of the jesuits. the jesuits had also originally introduced the orange tree into paraguay, where it had run wild all over the country, producing delicious fruit, which for some reason was often green, instead of being of the familiar golden colour. everyone envies what they do not possess. on the continent cafés are sometimes decorated with pictures of palms and luxuriant tropical vegetation, in order to give people of the frozen north an illusion of warmth. in steaming asuncion, on the other hand, the fashionable café was named, "the north pole." here an imaginative italian artist with a deficient sense of perspective and curious ideas of colour had decorated the walls with pictures of icebergs, snow, and polar bears, thus affording the inhabitants of this stew-pan of a town a delicious sense of arctic coolness. the "north pole" was the { } only place in paraguay where ice and iced drinks were to be procured. being the height of the summer, the heat was almost unbearable, and bathing in the river was risky on account of those hateful biting-fish. there was a spot two miles away, however, where a stream had been brought to the edge of the cliff overhanging the river, down which it dropped in a feathery cascade, forming a large pool below it. howard and i rode out every morning there to bathe and luxuriate in the cool water. the river made a great bend here, forming a bay half a mile wide. this bay was literally choked with _victoria regia_, the giant water-lily, with leaves as big as tea-trays, and great pink flowers the size of cabbages. the lilies were in full bloom then, quite half a mile of them, and they were really a splendid sight. i seem somehow in this description of the _victoria regia_ to have been plagiarising the immortal mrs. o'dowd, of "vanity fair," in her account of the glories of the hot-houses at her "fawther's" seat of glenmalony. few people now remember a fascinating book of the "'eighties," "the cruise of the falcon," recounting how six amateurs sailed a twenty-ton yacht from southampton to asuncion in paraguay. three of her crew got so bitten with paraguay that they determined to remain there. we met one of these adventurers by chance in asuncion, captain jardine, late of the p. and o. service, an elderly man. he invited us to visit them at { } patiño cué, the place where they had settled down, some twenty-five miles from the capital, though he warned us that we should find things extremely rough there, and that there was not one single stick of furniture in the house. he asked us to bring out our own hammocks and blankets, as well as our guns and saddles, the saddle being in my time an invariable item of a traveller's baggage. dick and i accordingly bought grass-plaited hammocks and blankets, and started two days later, "humping our swags," as the australian picturesquely expressed the act of carrying our own possessions. that colour-loving youth had donned a different blazer, probably that of the "coolgardie cockatoos." it would have put joseph's coat of many colours completely in the shade any day of the week, and attracted a great deal of flattering attention. the ambitious lopez had insisted on having a railway in his state, to show how progressive he was, so a railway was built. it ran sixty miles from asuncion to nowhere in particular, and no one ever wanted to travel by it; still it was unquestionably a railway. to give a finishing touch to this, lopez had constructed a railway station big enough to accommodate the traffic of paddington. it was, of course, not finished, but was quite large enough for its one train a day. the completed portion was imposing with columns and statues, the rest tailed off to nothing. here, to our amazement, we found a train composed of { } english rolling-stock, with an ancient engine built in manchester, and, more wonderful to say, with an englishman as engine-driver. the engine not having been designed for burning wood, the fire-box was too small, and the driver found it difficult to keep up steam with wood, as we found out during our journey. we travelled in a real english first-class carriage of immense antiquity, blue cloth and all. so decrepit was it that when the speed of the train exceeded five miles an hour (which was but seldom) the roof and sides parted company, and gaped inches apart. we seldom got up the gradients at the first or second try, but of course allowances must be made for a paraguayan railway. lopez had built patiño cué, for which we were bound, as a country-house for himself. he had not, of course, finished it, but had insisted on his new railway running within a quarter of a mile of his house, which we found very convenient. i could never have imagined such a curious establishment as the one at patiño cué. the large stone house, for which jardine paid the huge rent of £ per annum, was tumbling to ruin. three rooms only were fairly water-tight, but these had gaping holes in their roofs and sides, and the window frames had long since been removed. the fittings consisted of a few enamelled iron plates and mugs, and of one tin basin. packing cases served as seats and tables, and hammocks were slung on hooks. captain jardine did all the cooking and ran the establishment; his two companions (howard { } and i, for convenience's sake, simply termed them "the wasters") lay smoking in their hammocks all day, and did nothing whatever. i may add that "the wasters" supplied the whole financial backing. jardine wore native dress, with bare legs and sandals, a poncho round his waist, and another over his shoulders. a poncho is merely a fringed brown blanket with hole cut in it for the head to pass through. with his long grey beard streaming over his flowing garments, jardine looked like a neutral-tinted saint in a stained-glass window. it must be a matter for congratulation that, owing to the very circumstances of the case, saints in stained-glass windows are seldom called on to take violent exercise, otherwise their voluminous draperies would infallibly all fall off at the second step. jardine was a highly educated and an interesting man, with a love for books on metaphysics and other abstruse subjects. he carried a large library about with him, all of which lay in untidy heaps on the floor. he was unquestionably more than a little eccentric. the "wasters" did not count in any way, unless cheques had to be written. the other members of the establishment were an old indian woman who smoked perpetual cigars, and her grandson, a boy known as lazarus, from a physical defect which he shared with a biblical personage, on the testimony of the latter's sisters--you could have run a drag with that boy. the settlers had started as ranchers; but the { } "wasters" had allowed the cattle to break loose and scatter all over the country. they had been too lazy to collect them, or to repair the broken fences, so just lay in their hammocks and smoked. there were some fifty acres of orange groves behind the house. the energetic jardine had fenced these in, and, having bought a number of pigs, turned pork butcher. there was an abundance of fallen fruit for these pigs to fatten on, and jardine had built a smoke-house, where he cured his orange-fed pork, and smoked it with lemon wood. his bacon and hams were super-excellent, and fetched good prices in asuncion, where they were establishing quite a reputation. meanwhile, the "wasters" lay in their hammocks in the verandah and smoked. jardine told me that one of them had not undressed or changed his clothes for six weeks, as it was far too much trouble. judging from his appearance, he had not made use of soap and water either during that period. dick howard proved a real "handy man." in two days this lengthy, lean, sunburnt youth had rounded up and driven home the scattered cattle, and then set to work to mend and repair all the broken fences. he caught the horses daily, and milked the cows, an art i was never able myself to acquire, and made tea for himself in a "billy." patiño cué was a wonderful site for a house. it stood high up on rolling open ground, surrounded by intensely green wooded knolls. the { } virgin tropical forest extended almost up to the dilapidated building on one side, whilst in front of it the ground fell away to a great lake, three miles away. a long range of green hills rose the other side of the water, and everywhere clear little brooks gurgled down to the lake. i liked the place, in spite of its intense heat, and stayed there over a fortnight, helping with the cattle, and making myself as useful as i could in repairing what the "wasters" had allowed to go to ruin. they reposed meanwhile in their hammocks. it was very pretty country, and had the immense advantage of being free from mosquitoes. as there are disadvantages everywhere, to make up for this it crawled with snakes. jardine's culinary operations were simplicity itself. he had some immense earthen jars four feet high, own brothers to those seen on the stage in "ali baba and the forty thieves" at pantomime time. these must have been the identical jars in which the forty thieves concealed themselves, to be smothered with boiling oil by the crafty morgiana. by the way, i never could understand until i had seen fields of growing sesame in india why ali baba's brother should have mistaken the talisman words "open sesame" for "open barley." the two grains are very similar in appearance whilst growing, which explains it. jardine placed a layer of beef at the bottom of his jar. on that he put a layer of mandioca (the { } root from which tapioca is prepared), another layer of his own bacon, and a stratum of green vegetables. then more beef, and so on till the jar was half full. in went a handful of salt, two handfuls of red peppers, and two gallons of water, and then a wood fire was built round the pot, which simmered away day and night till all its contents were eaten. the old indian woman baked delicious bread from the root of the mandioca mixed with milk and cheese, and that constituted our entire dietary. there were no fixed meals. should you require food, you took a hunch of mandioca bread and a tin dipper, and went to the big earthen jar simmering amongst its embers in the yard. should you wish for soup, you put the dipper in at the top; if you preferred stew, you pushed it to the bottom. nothing could be simpler. as a rough and ready way of feeding a household it had its advantages, though there was unquestionably a certain element of monotony about it. as a variation from the eternal beef and mandioca, jardine begged dick and myself to shoot him as many snipe as possible, in the swamps near the big lake. those swamps were most attractive, and were simply alive with snipe and every sort of living creature. dick was an excellent shot, and we got from five to fifteen couple of snipe daily. the tree-crowned hillocks in the swamp were the haunts of macaws, great gaudy, screaming, winged rainbows of green and scarlet, and orange and blue, like some of dick's blazers endowed with feathers { } and motion. we had neither of us ever seen wild macaws before, and i am afraid that we shot a good many for the sheer pleasure of examining these garish parrots at close quarters, though they are quite uneatable. i shall carry all my life marks on my left hand where a macaw bit me to the bone. there were great brilliant-plumaged toucans too, droll freaks of nature, with huge horny bills nearly as large as their bodies, given them to crack the nuts on which they feed. they flashed swiftly pink through the air, but we never succeeded in getting one. then there were coypus, the great web-footed south american water-rat, called "nutria" in spanish, and much prized for his fur. that marsh was one of the most interesting places i have ever been in. the old indian woman warned us that we should both infallibly die of fever were we to go into the swamps at nightfall, but though dick and i were there every evening for a fortnight, up to our middles in water, we neither of us took the smallest harm, probably owing to the temporary absence of mosquitoes. the teeming hidden wild-life of the place appealed to us both irresistibly. the water-hog, or capincho, is a quaint beast, peculiar to south america. they are just like gigantic varnished glossy-black guinea pigs, with the most idiotically stupid expression on their faces. they are quite defenceless, and are the constant prey of alligators and jaguars. consequently they are very timid. these creatures live in the water all day, but come out in the evenings { } to feed on the reeds and water-herbage. by concealing ourselves amongst the reeds, and keeping perfectly still, we were able to see these uncouth, shy things emerging from their day hiding-places and begin browsing on the marsh plants. to see a very wary animal at close quarters, knowing that he is unconscious of your presence, is perfectly fascinating. we never attempted to shoot or hurt these capinchos; the pleasure of seeing the clumsy gambols of one of the most timid animals living, in its fancied security, was quite enough. the capincho if caught very young makes a delightful pet, for he becomes quite tame, and, being an affectionate animal, trots everywhere after his master, with a sort of idiotic simper on his face. one evening, on our return from the marsh, we were ill-advised enough to attempt a short cut home through the forest. the swift tropical night fell as we entered the forest, and in half an hour we were hopelessly lost, "fairly bushed," as dick put it. there is a feeling of complete and utter helplessness in finding oneself on a pitch-dark night in a virgin tropical forest that is difficult to express in words. the impenetrable tangles of jungle; the great lianes hanging from the trees, which trip you up at every step; the masses of thorny and spiky things that hold you prisoner; and, as regards myself personally, the knowledge that the forest was full of snakes, all make one realise that electric-lighted piccadilly has its distinct advantages. dick had the true australian's indifference to snakes. he never { } could understand my openly-avowed terror of these evil, death-dealing creatures, nor could he explain to himself the physical repugnance i have to these loathsome reptiles. this instinctive horror of snakes is, i think, born in some people. it can hardly be due to atavism, for the episode of the garden of eden is too remote to account of an inherited antipathy to these gliding, crawling abominations. we settled that we should have to sleep in the forest till daylight came, though, dripping wet as we both were from the swamp, it was a fairly direct invitation to malarial fever. the resourceful dick got an inspiration, and dragging his interminable length (he was like euclid's definition of a straight line) up a high tree, he took a good look at the familiar stars of his own southern hemisphere. getting his bearings from these, he also got our direction, and after a little more tree-climbing we reached our dilapidated temporary home in safety. i fear that i shall never really conquer my dislike to snakes, sharks, and earthquakes. jardine was a great and an omnivorous reader. dick too was very fond of reading. like the hero of "mr. sponge's sporting tour" he carried his own library with him. as in mr. sponge's case, it consisted of one book only, but in the place of being "mogg's cab fares," it was a guide to the australian turf, a sort of southern cross "ruff's guide," with a number of pedigrees of australian horses thrown in. dick's great intellectual amusement was learning these pedigrees by heart. i used { } to hear them for him, and, having a naturally retentive memory, could in the "'eighties" have passed a very creditable examination in the pedigrees of the luminaries of the australian turf. our evenings at patiño cué would have amused a spectator, had there been one. in the tumble-down, untidy apology for a room, jardine, seated on a packing-case under the one wall light, was immersed in his favourite herbert spencer; looking, in his flowing ponchos, long grey beard, and bare legs, like a bespectacled apostle. he always seemed to me to require an eagle, or a lion or some other apostolic adjunct, in order to look complete. i, on another packing-case, was chuckling loudly over "monsieur et madame cardinal," though paris seemed remote from paraguay. dick, pulling at a green cigar, a far-off look in his young eyes, was improving his mind by learning some further pedigrees of australian horses, at full length on the floor, where he found more room for his thin, endless legs; whilst the two "wasters" dozed placidly in their hammocks on the verandah. the "wasters," i should imagine, attended church but seldom. otherwise they ought to have ejaculated "we have left undone those things which we ought to have done" with immense fervour, for they never did anything at all. "lotos-eaters" might be a more poetic name than "wasters," for if ever there was a land "in which it seemed always afternoon," that land is paraguay. could one conceive of the "wasters" displaying { } such unwonted energy, it is possible that-- "and all at once they sang 'our island home is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam'." they had eaten of the lotos-fruit abundantly, and in the golden sunshine of paraguay, and amidst its waving green palms, they only wished-- "in the hollow lotos-land to live and lie reclined." i should perhaps add that "cafia," or sugar-cane spirit, is distilled in large quantities in paraguay, and that one at least of the lotos-eaters took a marked interest in this national product. there were some beautiful nooks in the forest, more especially one deep blue rocky pool into which a foaming cascade pattered through a thick encircling fringe of wild orange trees. this little hollow was brimful of loveliness, with the golden balls of the fruit, and the brilliant purple tangles of some unknown creeper reflected in the blue pool. dick and i spent hours there swimming, and basking _puris naturalibus_ on the rocks, until the whole place was spoilt for me by a rustling in the grass, as a hateful ochre-coloured creature wriggled away in sinuous coils from my bare feet. i accompanied jardine once or twice to a little village some five miles away, where he got the few household stores he required. this tiny village was a piece of seventeenth-century spain, dumped bodily down amid the riotous greenery of paraguay. round { } a tall white church in the florid jesuit style, a few beautiful spanish stone houses clustered, each with its tangle of tropical garden. there was not one single modern erection to spoil the place. here foaming bowls of chocolate were to be had, and delicious mandioca bread. it was a picturesque, restful little spot, so utterly unexpected in the very heart of the south american continent. i should like to put on the stage that tall white church tower cutting into the intense blue of the sky above, with the vivid green of the feathery palms reaching to its belfry, and the time-worn houses round it peeping out from thickets of scarlet poinsettias and hibiscus flowers. it would make a lovely setting for "cavalleria rusticana," for instance. i never regretted my stay at patiño cué. it gave one a glimpse of life brought down to conditions of bed-rock simplicity, and of types of character i had never come across before. we travelled back to asuncion on the engine of the train; i seated in front on the cow-catcher, dick, his coat off and his shirt-sleeves rolled back, on the footplate, officiating as amateur fireman. this vigorous young antipodean hurled logs into the fire-box of the venerable "vesuvius" as fast as though he were pitching in balls when practising his bowling at the nets, with the result that the crazy old engine attained a speed that must have fairly amazed her. when we stopped at stations, "vesuvius" had developed such a head of steam that she nearly blew her safety-valve off, { } and steam hissed from twenty places in her leaky joints. one ought never to be astonished at misplaced affections. i have seen old ladies lavish a wealth of tenderness on fat, asthmatical, and wholly repellent pugs, so i ought not to have been surprised at the immense pride the english driver took in his antique engine. i am bound to say that he kept her beautifully cleaned and burnished. his face beamed at her present performance, and he assured me that with a little coaxing he could knock sixty miles an hour out of "vesuvius." i fear that this statement "werged on the poetical," as mr. weller senior remarked on another occasion. i should much like to have known this man's history, and to have learnt how he had drifted into driving an engine of this futile, forlorn little paraguayan railway. i suspect, from certain expressions he used, that he was a deserter from the royal navy, probably an ex-naval stoker. as dick had ridden ten miles that morning to say good-bye to a lady, to whom he imagined himself devotedly attached, he was still very smart in white polo-breeches, brown butcher-boots and spurs, an unusual garb for a railway fireman. for the first time in the memory of the oldest living inhabitant, the train reached asuncion an hour before her time. the river steamers' cargo in their downstream trip consisted of cigars, "yerba mate," and oranges. these last were shipped in bulk, and i should like a clever artist to have drawn our steamer, with tons and tons of fruit, golden, { } lemon-yellow, and green, piled on her decks. it made a glowing bit of colour. the oranges were the only things in that steamer that smelt pleasantly. i can never understand why "yerba mate," or paraguayan tea, has never become popular in england. it is prepared from the leaves of the ilex, and is strongly aromatic and very stimulating. i am myself exceedingly fond of it. its lack of popularity may be due to the fact that it cannot be drunk in a cup, but must be sucked from a gourd through a perforated tube. it can (like most other things) be bought in london, if you know where to go to. at buenos ayres i was quite sorry to part with the laughing, lanky australian lad who had been such a pleasant travelling companion, and who seemed able to do anything he liked with his arms and legs. i expect that he could have done most things with his brains too, had he ever given them a chance. howard's great merit was that he took things as they came, and never grumbled at the discomforts and minor hardships one must expect in a primitive country like paraguay. our tastes as regards wild things (with the possible exception of snakes) rather seemed to coincide, and, neither of us being town-bred, we did not object to rather elementary conditions. i will own that i was immensely gratified at receiving an overseas letter some eight years later from dick, telling me that he was married and had a little daughter, and asking { } me to stand godfather for his first child. my blue satin bedroom looked more ridiculously incongruous than ever after the conditions to which i had been used at patiño cué. the river plate is over twenty miles broad at buenos ayres, and it is not easy to realise that this great expansive is all fresh water. the "great silver river" is, however, very shallow, except in mid-channel. some twenty-five miles from the city it forms on its southern bank a great archipelago of wooded islands interspersed with hundreds of winding channels, some of them deep enough to carry ocean-going steamers. this is known as the tigre, and its shady tree-lined waterways are a great resort during the sweltering heat of an argentine summer. it is the most ideal place for boating, and boasts a very flourishing english rowing club, with a large fleet of light thames-built boats. here during the summer months i took the roughest of rough bungalows, with two english friends. the three-roomed shanty was raised on high piles, out of reach of floods, and looked exactly like the fishermen's houses one sees lining the rivers in native villages in the malay states. during the intense heat of january the great delight of life at the tigre was the midnight swim in the river before turning in. the tigre is too far south for the alligators, biting-fish, electric rays (i allude to fish; not to beams of light), or other water-pests which nature has lavished on the tropics in order to counteract their irresistible charm--and to prevent the whole world from { } settling down there. the water of the tigre was so warm that one could remain in it over an hour. one mental picture i am always able to conjure up, and i can at will imagine myself at midnight paddling lazily down-stream on my back through the milk-warm water, in the scented dusk, looking up at the pattern formed by the leaves of the overhanging trees against the night sky; a pattern of black lace-work against the polished silver of the southern moonlight, whilst the water lapped gently against the banks, and an immense joy at being alive filled one's heart. i went straight from buenos ayres to canada on a tramp steamer, and a month after leaving the plate found myself in the backwoods of the province of quebec, on a short but very famous river running into the bay of chaleurs, probably the finest salmon river in the world, and i was fortunate enough to hook and to land a lb. salmon before i had been there one hour. no greater contrast in surroundings can be imagined. in the place of the dead-flat, treeless levels of southern argentina, there were dense woods of spruce, cedar, and var, climbing the hills as far as the eye could see. instead of the superficially courteous argentine gaucho, with his air of half-concealed contempt for the "gringo," and the ever-ready knife, prepared to leap from his waist-belt at the slightest provocation, there were the blunt, outspoken, hearty canadian canoe-men, all of them lumbermen during the winter months. the fishing was ideal, and the { } fish ran uniformly large and fought like trojans in the heavy water, but, unfortunately, every single winged insect on the north american continent had arranged for a summer holiday on this same river at the same time. there they all were in their myriads; black-flies, sand-flies, and mosquitoes, all enjoying themselves tremendously. by day one was devoured by black-flies, who drew blood every time they bit. at nightfall the black-flies very considerately retired to rest, and the little sand-flies took their place. the mosquitoes took no rest whatever. these rollicking insects were always ready to turn night into day, or day into night, indiscriminately, provided there were some succulent humans to feed on. a net will baffle the mosquito, but for the sand-flies the only effective remedy was a "smudge" burning in an iron pail. a "smudge" is a fire of damp fir bark, which smoulders but does not blaze. it also emits huge volumes of smoke. we dined every night in an atmosphere denser than a thick london fog, and the coughing was such that a chance visitor would have imagined that he had strayed into a sanatorium for tuberculosis. things are done expeditiously in canada. the ground had been cleared, the wooden house in which we lived erected, and the rough track through the forest made, all in eight weeks. no one who has not tried it can have any idea of the intense cold of the water in these short canadian rivers. their course is so short, and they { } are so overhung with fir trees, that the fierce rays of a canadian summer sun hardly touch them, so the water remains about ten degrees above freezing point. it would have been impossible to swim our river. even a short dip of half a minute left one with gasping breath and chattering teeth. i was surprised to find, too, that a canadian forest is far more impenetrable than a tropical one. here, the fallen trees and decay of countless centuries have formed a thick crust some two or three feet above the real soil. this moss-grown crust yields to the weight of a man and lets him through, so walking becomes infinitely difficult, and practically impossible. to extricate yourself at every step from three feet of decaying rubbish is very exhausting. in the tropics, that great forcing-house, this decaying vegetable matter would have given life to new and exuberant growths; but not so in canada, frost-bound for four months of the twelve. two-foot-wide tracks had been cut through the forest along the river, and the trees there were "blazed" (_i.e._, notched, so as to show up white where the bark had been hacked off), to indicate the direction of the trails; otherwise it would have been impossible to make one's way through the _débris_ of a thousand years for more than a few yards. i never saw such a wealth of wild fruit as on the banks of this canadian stream. wild strawberries and raspberries grew in such profusion that a bucketful of each could be filled in half an hour. { } there was plenty of animal life too. a certain pretty little black and white striped beast was quite disagreeably common. this attractive cat-like little creature was armed with stupendous offensive powers, as all who have experienced a skunk's unspeakably disgusting odour will acknowledge. unless molested, they did not make use of the terrible possibilities they had at their command. there were also plenty of wandering black bears. these animals live for choice on grain and berries, and are not hostile to man without provocation, but they have enormous strength, and it is a good working rule to remember that it is unwise ever to vex a bear unnecessarily, even a mild-tempered black bear. our tumbling, roaring canadian river cutting its way through rounded, densely-wooded hills was wonderfully pretty, and one could not but marvel at the infinitely varied beauty with which providence has clothed this world of ours, wherever man has not defaced nature's perfect craftsmanship. the point of view of the country-bred differs widely from that of the town dweller in this respect. here is a splendid waterfall, churning itself into whirling cataracts of foam down the face of a jagged cliff. the townsman cries, "what tremendous power is running to waste here! let us harness it quickly. we will divert the falls into hideous water-pipes, and bring them to our turbines. we will build a power-house cheaply of corrugated iron, and in time we shall so develop { } this sleepy countryside that no one will recognise it." here is a great forest; a joy to the eyes. "the price of timber is rising; let us quickly raze it to the ground." "our expert tells us that under this lovely valley there runs a thick seam of coal. we will sink shafts, and build blatantly hideous towns and factories, pollute this clear air with smoke and mephitic vapours, and then fall down and worship the great god progress. we will also pocket fat dividends." the stupid, unprogressive son of woods and green fields shudders at such things; the son of asphalte, stuffy streets, tramways, and arc lights glories in them. like many other things, it all depends on the point of view. { } chapter x former colleagues who have risen to eminence--kiderlin-waechter--aehrenthal--colonel klepsch--the discomfiture of an inquisitive journalist--origin of certain russian scares--tokyo--dulness of geisha dinners--japanese culinary curiosities--"musical chairs"--lack of colour in japan--the tokugawa dynasty--japanese gardens--the transplanted suburban embassy house--cherry-blossom--japanese politeness--an unfortunate incident in rome--eastern courtesy--the country in japan--an imperial duck catching party--an up-to-date tokyo house--a shinto temple--linguistic difficulties at a dinner-party--the economical colleague--japan defaced by advertisements. petrograd was the only capital at which i was stationed in which there was a diplomatic _table d'hôte_. in one of the french restaurants there, a room was specially set apart for the diplomats, and here the "chers collègues" foregathered nightly, when they had no other engagements. when a spaniard and a dane, a roumanian and a dutchman, a hungarian and an englishman dine together frequently, it becomes a subject of thankfulness that the universal use of the french language as a means of international communication has mitigated the linguistic difficulties brought about by the ambitious tower-builders of babel. two men whom i met frequently at that diplomatic _table d'hôte_ rose afterwards to important { } positions in their own countries. they were baron von kiderlin-waechter, the german, and baron von aehrenthal, the austrian, both of whom became ministers for foreign affairs in their respective countries, and both of whom are now dead. kiderlin-waechter arrived in petrograd as quite a young man with the reputation of being bismarck's favourite and most promising pupil. though a south german by birth, kiderlin-waechter had acquired an overbearing and dictatorial manner of the most approved prussian type. when a number of young men, all of whom are on very friendly terms with each other, constantly meet, there is naturally a good deal of fun and chaff passed to and fro between them. diplomats are no exception to this rule, and the fact that the ten young men talking together may be of ten different nationalities is no bar to the interchange of humorous personalities, thanks to the convenient french language, which lends itself peculiarly to "persiflage." germans can never understand the form of friendly banter which we term chaff, and always resent it deeply. i have known german diplomats so offended at a harmless joke that they have threatened to challenge the author of it to a duel. i should like to pay a belated tribute to the memory of the late count lovendal, danish minister in petrograd; peace to his ashes! this kindly, tactful, middle-aged man must during my time in petrograd have stopped at least eight duels. people in trouble went straight to count lovendal, and this { } shrewd, kind-hearted, experienced man of the world heard them with infinite patience, and then always gave them sound advice. as years went on, count lovendal came to be a sort of recognised court of honour, to whom all knotty and delicate points were referred. he, if anyone, should have "blessed are the peacemakers" inscribed on his tomb. at least four of the duels he averted were due to the inability of germans to stand chaff. kiderlin-waechter, for instance, was for ever taking offence at harmless jokes, and threatening swords and pistols in answer to them. he was a very big, gross-looking, fair-haired man; with exactly the type of face that a caricaturist associates with the average prussian. his face was slashed with a generous allowance of the scars of which germans are so proud, as testifying to their prowess in their student-duelling days. i think that it was the late sir wilfrid lawson who, referring to the beer-drinking habits of german students and their passionate love of face-slashing, described them as living in a perpetual atmosphere of "scars and swipes." though from south germany, kiderlin snapped out his words with true "preussische grobheit" in speaking german. fortunately, it is impossible to obtain this bullying effect in the french language. it does not lend itself to it. i should be guilty of exaggeration were i to say that kiderlin-waechter was wildly adored by his foreign colleagues. he became minister for foreign affairs of the german { } empire, but made the same mistake as some of his predecessors, notably count herbert bismarck, had done. they attributed bismarck's phenomenal success to his habitual dictatorial, bullying manner. this was easily copied; they forgot the genius behind the bully, which could not be copied, and did not realise that bismarck's tremendous brain had not fallen to their portion. kiderlin-waechter's tenure of office was a short one; he died very suddenly in . he was a violent anglophobe. baron von aehrenthal was a very different stamp of man. he was of semitic origin, and in appearance was a good-looking, tall, slim, dark young fellow with very pleasing manners. some people indeed thought his manners too pleasant, and termed them subservient. i knew aehrenthal very well indeed, and liked him, but i never suspected that under that very quiet exterior there lay the most intense personal ambition. he became austro-hungarian minister for foreign affairs in , being raised to the rank of count next year. this quiet, sleepy-mannered man began embarking on a recklessly bold foreign policy, and, to the surprise of those who fancied that they knew him well, exhibited a most domineering spirit. the old emperor francis joseph's mental powers were failing, and it was aehrenthal who persuaded him to put an end to the understanding with russia under which the _status quo_ in the balkan states was guaranteed, and to astonish europe in by proclaiming the annexation of bosnia and herzegovina { } to the austrian empire. this step, owing to the seething discontent it aroused in bosnia, led directly to the catastrophe of sarajevo on june , , and plunged europe into the most terrible war of history. aehrenthal, whether intentionally or not, played directly into the hands of the pan-germanic party, and succeeded in tying his own country, a pliant vassal, to the chariot-wheels of berlin. it was aehrenthal who brought the immemorially old hapsburg monarchy crashing to the ground and by his foreign policy caused the proud austrian empire to collapse like a house of cards. he did not live to see the final results of his work, for he died in . colonel klepsch, the austro-hungarian military attaché at petrograd, another _habitué_ of the diplomatic _table d'hôte_, was a most remarkable man. he knew more of the real state of affairs in russia, and of the inner workings and intentions of the russian government, than any other foreigner in the country, _and his information was invariably correct_. nearly all the foreign ambassadors consulted colonel klepsch as to the probable trend of affairs in russia, and at times he called on them and volunteered pieces of information. it was well known that his source of intelligence was a feminine one, and experience had proved that it was always to be relied upon. to this day i do not know whether this mysterious, taciturn man was at times used as a convenient mouthpiece by the russian government, at the instigation of a { } certain person to whom he was devotedly attached; whether he acted on instructions from his own ambassador, or if he took the steps he did on his own initiative. this tall, red-haired, silent man, with his uncanny knowledge of every detail of what was happening in the country, will always remain an enigma to me. i mentioned earlier in these reminiscences that lord dufferin on one occasion accomplished the difficult feat of turning an english newspaper correspondent out of his house with the most charming courtesy. after an interval of nearly forty years, i can without indiscretion say how this came about. the person in question, whom we will call mr. q., was an exceedingly enterprising journalist, the correspondent of a big london daily. he was also pretty unscrupulous as to the methods he employed in gathering information. it is quite obviously the duty of a newspaper correspondent to collect information for his paper. it is equally clearly the duty of those to whom official secrets are entrusted to prevent their becoming public property; so here we have conflicting interests. at times it happens that an "incident" arises between two governments apparently trivial in itself, but capable of being fanned into such a fierce flame by popular opinion as to make it difficult for either government to recede from the position they had originally taken up. the press screams loudly on both sides, and every government shrinks from { } incurring the unpopularity which a charge of betraying the national interests would bring upon it. experience has shown that in these cases the difficulties can usually be smoothed down, provided the whole matter be kept secret, and that neither the public nor the press of either of the two countries concerned have an inkling of the awkward situation that has arisen. an indiscreet or hysterical press can blow a tiny spark into a roaring conflagration and work up popular feeling to fever-pitch. it may surprise people to learn that barely twenty years ago such a situation arose between our own country and another european power (_not_ germany). those in charge of the negotiations on both sides very wisely determined that the matter should be concealed absolutely from the public and the press of both countries, and not one word about it was allowed to leak out. otherwise the situation might have been one of extreme gravity, for it was again one of those cases where neither government could give way without being accused of pusillanimity. as it was, the matter was settled amicably in a week, and to this day very few people know that this very serious difficulty ever occurred. nearly forty years ago, just such a situation had arisen between us and the russian government; but the ambassador was convinced that he could smooth it away provided that the whole thing were kept secret. mr. q. was a first-rate journalist, and his _flair_ { } as a newspaperman told him that _something_ was wrong. from the russians he could learn nothing; they were as close as wax; so mr. q. turned his attention to the chancery of the british embassy. his methods were simple. he gained admission to the chancery on some pretext or another, and then walking about the room, and talking most volubly, he cast a roving eye over any papers that might be lying about on the tables. in all chanceries a book called the register is kept in which every document received or sent out is entered, with, of course, its date, and a short summary of its contents. it is a large book, and reposes on its own high desk. ours stood in a window overlooking the neva. mr. q. was not troubled with false delicacy. under pretence of admiring the view over the river, he attempted to throw a rapid eye over the register. a colleague of mine, as a gentle hint, removed the register from under mr. q.'s very nose, and locked it up in the archive press. mr. q., however, was not thin-skinned. he came back again and again, till the man became a positive nuisance. we always cleared away every paper before he was allowed admittance. i was only twenty-two or twenty-three then, and i devised a strictly private scheme of my own for mr. q.'s discomfiture. all despatches received from the foreign office in those days were kept folded in packets of ten, with a docket on each, giving a summary of its contents. i prepared two despatches for mr. q.'s private eye and, after much { } cogitation, settled that they should be about afghanistan, which did not happen to be the particular point in dispute between the two governments at that time. i also decided on a rhyming docket. it struck me as a pleasing novelty, and i thought the jingle would impress itself on mr. q.'s memory, for he was meant to see this bogus despatch. i took eight sheets of foolscap, virgin, spotless, unblackened, folded them in the orthodox fashion, and docketed them in a way i remember to this day. it ran: first the particular year, then "foreign office no. . secret and confidential. dated march . received march ." then came the rhyming docket, "general kaufman's rumoured plan to make abdurrahman khan ruler of afghanistan." under that i wrote in red ink in a different hand, with a fine pen, "_urgent_. instructions already acted on. see further instructions re afghanistan in no. ." i was only twenty-two then, and my sense of responsibility was not fully developed, or i should not have acted so flightily. it still strikes me though as an irresistibly attractive baited hook to offer to an inquisitive newspaperman. i grieve to say that i also wrote a "fake" decypher of a purely apocryphal code telegram purporting to have come from london. this was also on the subject of { } afghanistan. it struck me at the time as a perfectly legitimate thing to do, in order to throw this paul pry off the scent, for the ambassador had impressed on us all the vital importance of not disclosing the real matter in dispute. i put these flagrant forgeries in a drawer of my table and waited. i had not to wait long. my colleagues having all gone out to luncheon, i was alone in the chancery one day, when mr. q.'s card was brought in to me. i kept him waiting until i had cleared every single despatch from the tables and had locked them up. i also locked up the register, but put an eight-year-old one, exactly similar in appearance, in its place, opening it at a date two days earlier than the actual date, in order that mr. q. might not notice that the page (and "to-morrow's" page as well) was already filled up, and the bogus despatch and fake telegram from my drawer were duly laid on the centre table. at twenty-two i was a smooth-faced youth, in appearance, i believe, much younger than my real age. mr. q. came in. he had the "well, old man" style, accompanied by a thump on the back, which i peculiarly detest. he must have blessed his luck in finding such a simple youth in sole charge of the chancery. mr. q. pursued his usual tactics. he talked volubly in a loud voice, walking about the room meanwhile. the idiotic boy smoked cigarettes, and gaped inanely. mr. q. went as usual to the window where the register lay in order to admire the view, and the pudding-brained youth noticed nothing, but lit { } a fresh cigarette. that young fool never saw that mr. paul pry read unblushingly half a column of the eight-year-old register (how it must have puzzled him!) under his very eyes. mr. q. then went to the centre table, where he had, of course, noticed the two papers lying, and proceeded to light a cigar. that cigar must have drawn very badly, for mr. q. had occasion to light it again and again, bending well over the table as he did so. he kept the unsuspicious youth engaged in incessant conversation meanwhile. so careless and stupid a boy ought never to have been left in charge of important documents. finally mr. q., having gained all the information for which he had been thirsting so long, left in a jubilant frame of mind, perfectly unconscious that he had been subjected to the slightest crural tension. when the councillor of embassy returned, i made a clean breast of what i had done, and showed him the bogus despatch and telegram i had contrived. quite rightly, i received a very severe reprimand. i was warned against ever acting in such an irregular fashion again, under the direst penalties. in extenuation, i pointed out to the councillor that the inquisitive mr. q. was now convinced that our difficulty with russia was over afghanistan. i further added that should anyone be dishonourable enough to come into the chancery and deliberately read confidential documents which he knew were not intended for his eye, i clearly could not { } be held responsible for any false impressions he might derive from reading them. that, i was told sharply, was no excuse for my conduct. after this "official wigging," the councillor invited me to dine with him that night, when we laughed loudly over mr. q.'s discomfiture. that person became at length such a nuisance that "his name was put on the gate," and he was refused admission to the embassy. the great london daily which mr. q. represented at petrograd published some strong articles on the grave menace to the empire which a change of rulers in afghanistan might bring about; coupled with cassandra-like wails over the purblind british statesmen who were wilfully shutting their eyes to this impending danger, as well as to baneful russian machinations on our indian frontier. there were also some unflattering allusions to abdurrahman khan. i, knowing that the whole story had originated in my own brain, could not restrain a chuckle whilst perusing these jeremiads. after reading some particularly violent screed, the councillor of embassy would shake his head at me. "this is more of your work, you wretched boy!" after an interval of forty years this little episode can be recounted without harm. talking of newspaper enterprise, many years later, when the emperor alexander iii died, the editor of a well-known london evening paper, a great friend of mine, told me in confidence of a journalistic "scoop" he was meditating. alexander iii { } had died at livadia in the crimea, and his body was to make a sort of triumphal progress through russia. the editor (he is no longer with us, but when i term him "harry" i shall be revealing his identity to the few) was sending out a frenchman as special correspondent, armed with a goodly store of roubles, and instructions to get himself engaged as temporary assistant to the undertaker in charge of the emperor's funeral. this cost, i believe, a considerable sum, but the frenchman, having entered on his gruesome duties, was enabled to furnish the london evening paper with the fullest details of all the funeral ceremonies. the reason the younger diplomats foregathered so in petrograd was that, as i said before, petrograd was to all intents and purposes extra-european. apart from its charming society, the town, qua town, offered but few resources. the younger continental diplomats felt the entire absence of cafés, of music-halls, and of places of light entertainment very acutely; so they were thrown on each other's society. in far eastern posts such as pekin or tokyo, the diplomats live entirely amongst themselves. for a european, there are practically no resources whatever in tokyo. no one could possibly wish to frequent a japanese theatre, or a japanese restaurant, when once the novelty had worn off, and even geisha entertainments are deadly dull to one who cannot understand a word of the language. let us imagine a party of europeans arriving at some fashionable { } japanese restaurant for a geisha entertainment. they will, of course, remove their shoes before proceeding upstairs. i was always unfortunate enough to find on these occasions one or more holes in my socks gaping blatantly. in time one learns in japan to subject one's socks to a close scrutiny in order to make sure that they are intact, for everyone must be prepared to remove his shoes at all hours of the day. we will follow the europeans up to a room on the upper floor, tastefully arranged in japanese fashion, and spotlessly neat and clean. the temperature in this room in the winter months would be arctic, with three or four "fire-pots" containing a few specks of mildly-glowing charcoal waging a futile contest against the penetrating cold. the room is apparently empty, but from behind the sliding-panels giggles and titters begin, gradually increasing in volume until the panels slide back, and a number of self-conscious overdressed children step into the room, one taking her place beside each guest. these are "micos"; little girls being trained as professional geishas. the european conception of a geisha is a totally wrong one. they are simply entertainers; trained singers, dancers, and story-tellers. the guests seat themselves clumsily and uncomfortably on the floor and the dinner begins. japanese dishes are meant to please the eye, which is fortunate, for they certainly do not appeal to the palate. i invariably drew one of the big pots of flowers which always { } decorate these places close up to me, and consigned to its kindly keeping all the delicacies of the japanese _cuisine_ which were beyond my assimilative powers, such as slices of raw fish sprinkled with sugar, and seasoned with salted ginger. the tiresome little micos kept up an incessant chatter. their stories were doubtless extraordinarily humorous to anyone understanding japanese, but were apt to lose their point for those ignorant of the language. the abortive attempts of the europeans to eat with chopsticks afforded endless amusement to these bedizened children; they shook with laughter at seeing all the food slide away from these unaccustomed table implements. not till the dinner was over did the geishas proper make their appearance. in japan the amount of bright colour in a woman's dress varies in inverse ratio to her moral rectitude. as our geishas were all habited in sober mouse-colour, or dull neutral-blue, i can only infer that they were ladies of the very highest respectability. they were certainly wonderfully attractive little people. they were not pretty according to our standards, but there was a vivacity and a sort of air of dainty grace about them that were very captivating. their singing is frankly awful. i have heard four-footed musicians on the london tiles produce sweeter sounds, but their dancing is graceful to a degree. unfortunately, one of the favourite amusements of these charming and vivacious little people is to play "musical chairs"--without any chairs! they made all the { } european men follow them round and round the room whilst two geishas thrummed on a sort of guitar. as soon as the music stopped everyone was expected to sit down with a bang on the floor, to these little japs five feet high, the process was easy, and may have seemed good fun; to a middle-aged gentleman, "vir pietate gravis," these violent shocks were more than painful, and i failed to derive the smallest amusement from them. no japanese dinner would be complete without copious miniature cups of sake. this rice-spirit is always drunken hot; it is not disagreeable to the taste, being like warm sherry with a dash of methylated spirit thrown in, but the little sake bottles and cups are a joy to the eye. this innately artistic people delight to lavish loving care in fashioning minute objects; many english drawing-rooms contain sake bottles in enamel or porcelain ranged in cabinets as works of art. their form would be more familiar to most people than their use. japanese always seem to look on a love of colour as showing rather vulgar tastes. the more refined the individual, the more will he adhere to sober black and white and neutral tints in his house and personal belongings. the emperor's palace in kyoto is decorated entirely in black and white, with unpainted, unlacquered woodwork, and no colour anywhere. the kyoto palace of the great tokugawa family, on the other hand, a place of astounding beauty, blazes with gilding, enamels, and lacquer, as do all the tombs and temples erected by this dynasty. the tokugawas usurped power as { } shoguns in , reducing the mikado to a mere figure-head as spiritual ruler, and the shoguns ruled japan absolutely until , when they were overthrown, and shogun and mikado were merged into one under the title of emperor. i fancy that the japanese look upon the polychrome splendour of all the buildings erected by the tokugawas as proof that they were very inferior to the ancient dynasty, who contented themselves with plain buildings severely decorated in black and white. the lack of colour in japan is very noticeable on arriving from untidy, picturesque china. the beautiful neatness and cleanliness of japan are very refreshing after slovenly china, but the endless rows of little brown, unpainted, tidy houses, looking like so many rabbit hutches, are depressing to a degree. the perpetual earthquakes are responsible for the low elevation of these houses and also for their being invariably built of wood, as is indeed everything else in the country. i was immensely disappointed at the sight of the first temples i visited in japan. the forms were beautiful enough, but they were all of unpainted wood, without any colour whatever, and looked horribly neutral-tinted. all the famous temples of kyoto are of plain, unpainted, unvarnished wood. the splendid group of temples at nikko are the last word in japanese art. they glow with colour; with scarlet and black lacquer, gilding, enamels, and bronzes, every detail finished like jewellers' work with exquisite craftmanship, and they are amongst the most { } beautiful things in the world; but they were all erected by the tokugawa dynasty, as were the equally superb temples in the shiba park at tokyo. this family seemed determined to leave japan less colourless than they found it; in their great love for scarlet lacquer they must have been the first people who thought of painting a town red. the same lack of colour is found in the gardens. i had pictured a japanese garden as a dream of beauty, so when i was shewn a heap of stones interspersed with little green shrubs and dwarf trees, without one single flower, i was naturally disappointed, nor had i sufficient imagination to picture a streak of whitewash daubed down a rock as a quivering cascade of foaming water. "our gardens, sir," said my host, "are not intended to inspire hilarit .. ee, but rather to create a gentle melanchol .. ee." as regards myself, his certainly succeeded in its object. a friend of mine, whose gardens, not a hundred miles from london, are justly famous, takes immense pride in her japanese garden, as she fondly imagines it to be. at the time of king george's coronation she invited the special japanese envoys to luncheon, for the express purpose of showing them her gardens afterwards. she kept the japanese garden to the last as a _bonne-bouche_, half-expecting these children of the land of the rising sun to burst into happy tears at this reminder of their distant island home. the special envoys thanked her with true japanese politeness, and loudly { } expressed their delight at seeing a real english garden. they added that they had never even imagined anything like this in japan, and begged for a design of it, in order that they might create a real english garden in their native land on their return home. as i have said, no japanese woman can wear bright colours without sacrificing her moral reputation, but little girls may wear all the colours of the rainbow until they are eight years old or so. these little girls, with their hair cut straight across their forehead, are very attractive-looking creatures, whereas a japanese boy, with his cropped head, round face, and projecting teeth, is the most comically hideous little object imaginable. these children's appearance is spoilt by an objectionable superstition which decrees it unlucky to use a pocket-handkerchief on a child until he, or she, is nine years old. the result is unspeakably deplorable. the interior of our embassy at tokyo was rather a surprise. owing to the constant earthquakes in tokyo and yokohama, all the buildings have to be of wood. the british embassy was built in london (i believe by a very well-known firm in tottenham court road), and was shipped out to japan complete down to its last detail. the architect who designed it unhappily took a glorified suburban villa as his model. so the tokyo embassy house is an enlarged "belmont," or "the cedars," or "tokyo towers." every { } familiar detail is there; the tiled hall, the glazed door into the garden, and the heavy mahogany chimneypieces and overmantels. in the library with its mahogany book-cases, green morocco chairs, and green plush curtains, it was difficult to realise that one was not in hampstead or upper tooting. i always felt that i was quite out of the picture unless i sallied forth at a.m. with a little black bag in my hand, and returned at p.m. with some fish in a bass-basket. in spite of being common-place, the house was undeniably comfortable. everything japanese was rigidly excluded from it. that in far-off lands is very natural. people do not care to be reminded perpetually of the distance they are away from home. in calcutta the maidan, the local hyde park, has nothing eastern about it. except in the eden gardens in one corner of it, where there is a splendid tangle of tropical vegetation, there is not one single palm tree on the maidan. the broad sweeps of turf, clumps of trees, and winding roads make an excellent imitation of hyde park transferred to the banks of the hooghly, and this is intentional. there is one spot in particular, where the tall gothic spire of st. paul's cathedral rises out of a clump of trees beyond a great tank (it may be pointed out that "tank" in india does not refer to a clumsy, mobile engine of destruction, but is the word used for a pool or pond), which might be in kensington gardens but for the temperature. the average briton likes to be reminded of his home, and generally manages to carry { } it about with him somehow. the russian embassy at tokyo had been built in the same way in paris and sent out, and was a perfect reproduction of a french louis xv house. the garden of the british embassy had one striking feature which i have seen nowhere else; hedges of clipped camellias, four feet high. when these blossomed in the spring, they looked like solid walls of pink, crimson, or white flowers, a really beautiful sight! some former british minister had planted the public roads round the embassy with avenues of the pink-flowering cherry, as a present to the city of tokyo. the japanese affect to look down on the pink cherry, when compared to their adored white cherry-blossom, i suppose because there is colour in it. certainly the acres of white cherry-blossom in the uyeno park at tokyo are one of the sights of japan. in no other country in the world would the railways run special trains to enable the country-people to see the cherries in full bloom in this uyeno park. the blossom is only supposed to be at its best for three days. in no other country either would people flock by hundreds to a temple, as they did at kyoto, to look at a locally-famed contrast of red plum-blossom against dark-brown maple leaves. i liked these japanese country-people. the scrupulously neat old peasant women, with their grey hair combed carefully back, and their rosy faces, were quite attractive. their intense ceremonious politeness to each other always amused me. whole family parties would continue { } bowing to each other for ten minutes on end at railway stations, sucking their breath, and rubbing their knees. when they had finished, someone would recommence, and the whole process would have to be gone through again, the children sucking their breath louder even than their elders. anybody who has lived in a warm climate must be familiar with the curious sound of thousands of frogs croaking at once in a pond or marsh at night-time. the sound of hundreds of japanese wooden clogs clattering against the tiles of a railway platform is exactly like that. in the big shimbashi station at tokyo, as the clogs pattered over the tiles, by shutting my eyes i could imagine that i was listening to a frogs' orchestra in some large marsh. excessive politeness brings at times its own penalty. at the beginning of these reminiscences i have related how i went with a special embassy to rome in my extreme youth. the day before our departure from rome, king humbert gave a farewell luncheon party at the quirinal to the special british ambassador and his suite, including of course myself. at this luncheon a somewhat comical incident occurred. when we took our leave, queen margherita, then still radiantly beautiful, offered her hand first to the special british ambassador. he, a courtly and gallant gentleman of the old school, at once dropped on one knee, in spite of his age, and kissed the queen's hand "in the grand manner." the permanent british ambassador, the late sir augustus paget, { } most courteous and genial of men, followed his temporary colleague's example, and also dropped on one knee. the italian ministers present could not do less than follow the lead of the foreigners, or show themselves less courteous than the _forestieri_, so they too had perforce to drop on one knee whilst kissing the queen's hand. a hugely obese minister, buttoned into the tightest of frockcoats, approached the queen. with immense difficulty he lowered himself on to one knee, and kissed the royal hand; but no power on earth seemed equal to raising him to his feet again. the corpulent minister grew purple in the face; the most ominous sounds of the rending of cloth and linen re-echoed through the room; but still he could not manage to rise. the queen held out her hand to assist her husband's adipose adviser to regain his feet, but he was too dignified, or too polite, to accept it. the rending of the statesman's most intimate garments became more audible than ever; the portly minister seemed on the verge of an attack of apoplexy. it must be understood that the queen was standing alone before the throne, with this unfortunate dignitary kneeling before her; the remainder of the guests were standing in a semi-circle some twenty feet away. the queen's mouth began to twitch ominously, until, in spite of her self-control, after a few preliminary splutters of involuntary merriment, she broke down, and absolutely shook with laughter. sir augustus paget and a roman prince came up and saved the situation by raising, with infinite difficulty, the unfortunate { } italian statesman to his feet. as he resumed a standing position, a perfect niagara of oddments of apparel, of tags and scraps of his most private under-garments, rained upon the floor, and we all experienced a feeling of intense relief when this capable, if corpulent, cabinet minister was enabled to regain the background with all his clothing outwardly intact. and all this came about from an excess of politeness. the east has always been the land of flowery compliments, also the land of hyperbole. i once saw the answer the viceroy of india had received from a certain tributary prince, who had been reprimanded in the sharpest fashion by the government of india. the native prince had been warned in the bluntest of language that unless he mended his ways at once he would be forthwith deposed, and another ruler put in his place. a list of his recent enormities was added, in order to refresh his memory, and the warning as to the future was again emphasized. the prince's answer, addressed direct to the viceroy, began as follows: "your excellency's gracious message has reached me. it was more precious to the eyes than a casket of rubies; sweeter to the taste than a honeycomb; more delightful to the ears than the song of ten thousand nightingales. i spread it out before me, and read it repeatedly: each time with renewed pleasure." considering the nature of the communication, that native prince must have been of a touchingly grateful disposition. { } the late duke of edinburgh was once presented with an address at hong kong from the corporation of chinese merchants, in which he was told, amongst other things, that he "was more glorious than a phoenix sitting in a crimson nest with fourteen golden tails streaming behind him." surely a charming flight of fancy! true politeness in china demands that you should depreciate everything of your own and exalt everything belonging to your correspondent. thus, should you be asking a friend to dinner, you would entreat him "to leave for one evening the silver and alabaster palace in which you habitually dwell, and to condescend to honour the tumble-down vermin-ridden hovel in which i drag out a wretched existence. furthermore, could you forget for one evening the bird's-nest soup, the delicious sea-slugs, and the plump puppy-dogs on which you habitually feast, and deign to poke your head into my swill-trough, and there devour such loathsome garbage as a starving dog would reject, i shall feel unspeakably honoured." the answer will probably come in some such form as this: "with rapturous delight have i learnt that, thanks to your courtesy, i may escape from the pestilential shanty i inhabit, and pass one unworthy evening in a glorious palace of crystal and gold in your company. after starving for months on putrid offal, i shall at length banquet on unimagined delicacies, etc." should it be a large dinner-party, it must tax the host's ingenuity to vary the self-depreciatory epithets sufficiently. { } the mention of food reminds me that it is an acute difficulty to the stranger in japan, should he wander off the beaten track and away from european hotels. japanese use neither bread, butter, nor milk, and these things, as well as meat, are unprocurable in country districts. europeans miss bread terribly, and the japanese substitute of cold rice is frankly horrible. instead of the snowy piles of smoking-hot, beautifully cooked rice of india, rice in japan means a cold, clammy, gelatinous mass, hideously distasteful to a european interior. that, eggs, and tea like a decoction of hay constitute the standard menu of a japanese country inn. i never saw either a sheep or cow in japan, as there is no pasture. the universal bamboo-grass, with its sharp edges, pierces the intestines of any animal feeding on it, and so is worse than useless as fodder for cattle or sheep. all milk and butter are imported in a frozen state from australia, but do not, of course, penetrate beyond europe-fashion hotels, as the people of the country do not care for them. the exquisite neatness of japanese farm houses, with their black and white walls, thatched roofs, and trim little bamboo fences and gates, is a real joy to the eye of one who has grown accustomed to the slipshod untidy east, or even to the happy-go-lucky methods of the american continent. i never remember a japanese village unequipped with either electric light or telephones. i really think geographers must have placed the th degree in the wrong place, and that japs are really { } the most western of westerns, instead of being the most eastern of easterns. pretty and attractive as the japanese country is, its charm was spoilt for me by the almost total absence of bird and animal life. there are hardly any wild flowers either, except deliciously fragrant wild violets. being in japan, it is hardly necessary to say that these violets, instead of being of the orthodox colour, are bright yellow. they would be in japan. this quaint people who only like trees when they are contorted, who love flowerless gardens, whose grass kills cattle, who have evolved peach, plum and cherry trees which flower gloriously but never bear any fruit, would naturally have yellow violets. they are certainly a wonderfully hardy race. i was at beautiful nikko in the early spring when they were building a dam across the nikko river. the stream has a tremendous current, and is ice-cold. men were working at the dam up to their waists in the icy river, and little boys kept bringing them baskets of building stones, up to their necks in the swift current. both men and boys issued from the river as scarlet as lobsters from the intense cold, and yet they stood about quite unconcernedly in their dripping thin cotton clothes in the keen wind. had they been europeans, they would all have died of pneumonia in two days' time. a race must have great powers of endurance that live in houses with paper walls without any heating appliances during the sharp cold of a japanese winter, and that find thin cotton clothing sufficient for their wants. { } the outlines and pleasing details of those black and white country dwellings with the graceful curves of their roofs are a relief to the eye after the endless miles of ugly little brown rabbit hutches of the towns. at tokyo the enclosure and park of the emperor's palace lay just outside the gates of our embassy, surrounded by a moat so broad that it could be almost called a lake. it was curious in the heart of a town to see this moat covered with innumerable wild duck. although i have been in the imperial palace at kyoto, i was never inside the one at tokyo, so i cannot give any details about it. the glimpses one obtained from outside of its severe black and white outlines recalled a european mediæval castle, and had something strangely familiar about them. i was never fortunate enough either to be invited to an imperial duck-catching party, which i would have given anything to witness. the idea of catching wild duck in butterfly nets would never occur to anyone but the japanese. the place where this quaint amusement was indulged in was an extensive tract of flat ground intersected by countless reed-fringed little canals and waterways, much on the lines of a marsh in the norfolk broad district. i saw the ambassador on his return from a duck-catching party. with superhuman efforts, and a vast amount of exercise, he had managed to capture three ducks, and he told me that he had had to run like a hare to achieve even this modest success. all the guests were expected to appear in high hats and frock-coats { } on these occasions, and i should have dearly loved to see the ambassador arrayed in frock-coat and high hat bounding hot-foot over the marshes, his butterfly net poised aloft, in pursuit of his quacking quarry. the newspapers informed us the next day that the crown prince had headed the list as usual with a bag of twenty-seven ducks, and i always believe what i see in print. really europeans start heavily handicapped at this peculiar diversion. i have known many families in england where the sons of the house are instructed from a very early age in riding, and in the art of handling a gun and a trout rod, but even in the most sport-loving british families the science of catching wild duck in butterfly nets forms but seldom part of the sporting curriculum of the rising generation. though the imperial family are shintoists, i expect that the buddhist horror of taking animal life is at the bottom of this idea of duck-catching, for the ducks are, i believe, all set free again after their capture. we always heard that the emperor and his family lived entirely on rice and fish in the frugal japanese fashion, and that they never tasted meat. i had the opportunity of seeing a very fine house of sixty rooms, built in strict japanese style, and just completed. count mitsu is one of the few very wealthy men in japan; he can also trace his pedigree back for three thousand years. he had built this house in tokyo, and as it was supposed to be the last word in purity of style ("itchi-ban," or "number one," as the japanese express it), he very { } kindly invited the ambassador and myself to go all over it with him. we had, of course, to remove our shoes on entering, and my pleasure was somewhat marred by the discovery of a large hole in one sock, on which i fancied the gaze of the entire mitsu family was riveted. nothing can equal the high-bred courtesy and politeness of japanese of really ancient lineage. countess mitsu, of a family as old as her husband's, had a type of face which we do not usually associate with japan, and is only found in ladies of the imperial family and some others equally old. in place of the large head, full cheeks, and flat features of the ordinary japanese woman, countess mitsu and her daughters had thin faces with high aquiline features, giving them an extraordinarily high-bred and distinguished appearance. this great house consisted of a vast number of perfectly empty rooms, destitute of one single scrap of furniture. there was fine matting on the floor, a niche with one kakemono hanging in it, one bronze or other work of art, and a vase with one single flower, and nothing else whatever. the mitsus being a very high caste family, there was no colour anywhere. the decoration was confined to black and white and beautifully-finished, unpainted, unvarnished woodwork, except for the exquisitely chased bronze door-grips (door-handles would be an incorrect term for these grips to open and close the sliding panels). i must confess that i never saw a more supremely uncomfortable-looking dwelling in my life. the children's nurseries upstairs { } were a real joy. the panels had been painted by a japanese artist with everything calculated to amuse a child. there were pictures of pink and blue rabbits, purple frogs, scarlet porcupines, and grass-green guinea-pigs, all with the most comical expressions imaginable on their faces. the lamps were of fish-skin shaped over thin strips of bamboo into the form of the living fish, then highly coloured, and fitted with electric globes inside them; weird, luminous marine monsters! each child had a little chinese dressing-table of mother-of-pearl eighteen inches high, and a tub of real chinese "powder-blue" porcelain as a bath. the windows looked on to a fascinating dwarf garden ten feet square, with real waterfalls, tiny rivers of real water, miniature mountains and dwarf trees, all in perfect proportion. it was like looking at an extensive landscape through the wrong end of a telescope. the polite infants who inhabited this child's paradise received us with immense courtesy, lying at full length on the floor on their little tummies, and wagging their little heads in salutation, till i really thought they would come off. the most interesting thing in count mitsu's house was a beautiful little shinto temple of bronze-gold lacquer, where all the names of his many ancestors were inscribed on gilt tablets. here he and all his sons (women take no part in ancestor worship) came nightly, and made a full confession before the tablets of their ancestors of all they had done during the day; craving for pardon should { } they have acted in a fashion unworthy of their family and of japan. the count and his sons then lighted the little red lamps before the tablets of their forebears to show that they were not forgotten, and placed the exquisitely carved little ivory "ghost-ship" two inches long in its place, should any of their ancestors wish to return that night from the land of spirits to their old home. the underlying idea of undying family affection is rather a beautiful one. that same evening i went to a very interesting dinner-party at the house of prince arisugawa, a son-in-law of the emperor's. both the dinner and the house were on european lines, but the main point of interest was that it was a gathering of all the generals and admirals who had taken a prominent part in the russo-japanese war. i was placed between an admiral and a general, but found it difficult to communicate with them, japanese being conspicuously bad linguists. the general could speak a little fairly unintelligible german; the admiral could stutter a very little russian. it was a pity that the roads of communication were so blocked for us, for i shall probably never again sit between two men who had had such thrilling experiences. i cursed the builders of the tower of babel for erecting this linguistic barrier between us. i found that i was a full head taller than all the japanese in the room. princess arisugawa appeared later. this tiny, dainty, graceful little lady { } had the same strongly aquiline type of features as countess mitsu, and the same high-bred look of distinction. she was beautifully dressed in european style, and had rue de la paix written all over her clothes and her jewels. i have seldom seen anyone with such taking graceful dignity as this daughter of the imperial house, in spite of her diminutive stature. the old families in japan have a pretty custom of presenting every european guest with a little black-and-gold lacquer box, two inches high, full of sweetmeats, of the sort we called in my youth "hundreds and thousands." these little boxes bear on their tops in gold lacquer the badge or crest of the family, thus serving as permanent souvenirs. in a small community such as the european diplomats formed at tokyo, the peculiarities and foibles of the "chers collègues" formed naturally an unending topic of conversation. there was one foreign representative who was determined to avoid bankruptcy, could the most rigorously careful regulation of his expenditure avert such a catastrophe. his official position forced him to give occasional dinner-parties, much, i imagine, against his inclinations. he always, in the winter months, borrowed all the available oil-stoves from his colleagues and friends, when one of these festivities was contemplated, in order to warm his official residence without having to go to the expense of fires. he had in some mad fit of extravagance bought two dozen of { } a really fine claret some years before. the wine had long since been drunk; the bottles he still retained _with their labels_. it was his custom to buy the cheapest and roughest red wine he could find, and then enshrine it in these old bottles with their mendacious labels. at his dinner-parties these time-worn bottles were always ranged down the tables. the evidence of palate and eye was conflicting. the palate (as far as it could discriminate through the awful reek with which the oil-stoves filled the room), pronounced it sour, immature _vin ordinaire_. the label on the bottle proclaimed it château margaux of , actually bottled at the château itself. politeness dictated that we should compliment our host on this exquisite vintage, which had, perhaps, begun to feel (as we all do) the effects of extreme old age. a cynical dutch colleague might possibly hazard a few remarks, lamenting the effects of the japanese climate on "les premiers crus de bordeaux." life at any post would be dull were it not for the little failings of the "chers collègues," which always give one something to talk of. the japanese are ruining the beauty of their country by their insane mania for advertising. the railways are lined with advertisements; a beautiful hillside is desecrated by a giant advertisement, cut in the turf, and filled in with white concrete. even the ugly little streets of brown packing-cases are plastered with advertisements. the fact that these advertisements are all in chinese characters { } give them a rather pleasing exotic flavour at first; that soon wears off, and then one is only too thankful not to be able to read them. they remain a hideous disfigurement of a fair land. one large japanese-owned department store in tokyo had a brass band playing in front of it all day, producing an ear-splitting din. the bandsmen were little japanese boys dressed, of all things in the world, as highlanders. no one who has not seen it can imagine the intensely grotesque effect of a little stumpy, bandy-legged jap boy in a red tartan kilt, bare knees, and a glengarry bonnet. no one who has not heard them can conceive the appalling sounds they produced from their brass instruments, or can form any conception of the japanese idea of "rag-time." we have in this country some very competent amateurs who, to judge from the picture papers, have reduced the gentle art of self-advertisement to a science. i think these ladies would be repaid for the trouble of a voyage to japan by the new ideas in advertisement they would pick up from that enterprising people. they need not blow their own trumpets, like the little jap highlander bandsmen; they can get it done for them as they know, by the press. { } chapter xi petrograd through middle-aged eyes--russians very constant friends--russia an empire of shams--over-centralisation in administration--the system hopeless--a complete change of scene--the west indies--trinidad--personal character of nicholas ii--the weak point in an autocracy--the empress--an opportunity missed--the great collapse--terrible stories--love of human beings for ceremonial--some personal apologies--conclusion. i returned twice to petrograd in later years, the last occasion being in . a young man is generally content with the surface of things, and accepts them at their face value, without attempting to probe deeper. with advancing years comes the desire to test beneath the surface. to the eye, there is but little difference between electro-plate and solid silver, though one deep scratch on the burnished expanse of the former is sufficient to reveal the baser metal underlying it. things russian have for some reason always had a strange attraction for me, and their glamour had not departed even after so many years. it was pleasant, too, to hear the soft, sibilant russian tongue again. my first return visit was at mid-summer, and seeing peter's city wreathed in the tender vivid greenery of northern foliage, and bathed in sunshine, i wondered how i could ever { } have mentally labelled it with the epithet "dreary." rising from the clear swift-rushing waters of the many-channelled neva, its stately pillared classical buildings outlined through the soft golden haze in half-tones of faintest cobalt and rose-madder, this northern venice appeared a dream-city, almost unreal in its setting of blue waters and golden domes, lightly veiled in opal mist. russians are not as a rule long-lived, and the great majority of my old friends had passed away. i could not help being affected by the manner in which the survivors amongst them welcomed me back. "cher ami," said the bearer of a great russian name to me, "thirty-three years ago we adopted you as a russian. you were a mere boy then, you are now getting an old man, but as long as any of your friends of old days are alive, our houses are always open to you, and you will always find a place for you at our tables, without an invitation. we russians do not change, and we never forget our old friends. we know that you like us and our country, and my husband and i offer you all we have." no one could fail to be touched by such steadfast friendship, so characteristic of these warm-hearted people. the great charm of russians with three or four hundred years of tradition behind them is their entire lack of pretence and their hatred of shams. they are absolutely natural. they often gave me as their reason for disliking foreigners the artificiality of non-russians, though they expressly { } exempted our own nationality from this charge. that is, i think, the reason why most englishmen get on so well with educated russians. seeing petrograd with the wearied eyes of experienced middle age, i quite realised that the imposing palaces that front the line of the quays and seem almost to float on the neva, are every one of them built on piles, driven deep into the marshy subsoil. every single house in the city rests on the same artificial base. montferrand the frenchman's great cathedral of st. isaac has had its north front shored up by scaffolding for thirty years. otherwise it would have collapsed, as the unstable subsoil is unable to bear so great a burden. on the highest authority we know that only a house built on the rock can endure. this city of petrograd was built on a quagmire, and was typical, in that respect, of the vast empire of which it was the capital: an empire erected by peter on shifting sand. the whole fabric of this empire struck my maturer senses as being one gigantic piece of "camouflage." for instance, a building close to st. isaac's bears on its stately front the inscription "governing senate" (i may add that the terse, crisp russian for this is "pravitelsvouyuschui senat"). to an ordinary individual the term would seem to indicate what it says; he would be surprised to learn that, so far from "governing," the senate had neither legislative nor administrative powers of its own. it was merely a consultative body without { } any delegate initiative; only empowered to recommend steps for carrying into effect the orders it received. and so with many other things. there were imposing façades, with awe-inspiring inscriptions, but i had a curious feeling that everything stopped at the façade, and there was nothing behind it. students of history will remember how, on the occasion of catherine the great's visit to the crimea, her favourite, potemkin, had "camouflage" villages erected along the line of her progress, so that wherever she went she found merry peasants (specially selected from the imperial theatres) singing and dancing amidst flower-wreathed cottages. these villages were then taken down, and re-erected some fifty miles further along the empress's way, with the same inhabitants. it was really a triumph of "camouflage," and did great credit to potemkin's inventive faculty. catherine returned north with most agreeable recollections of the teeming population of the crimea; of its delightfully picturesque villages, and of the ideal conditions of life prevailing there. the whole russian empire appeared to my middle-aged eyes to be like potemkin's toy villages. my second later visit to petrograd was in , in midwinter, when i came to the unmistakable conclusion that the epithet "dreary" was not misplaced. the vast open spaces and broad streets with their scanty traffic were unutterably depressing during the short hours of uncertain daylight, { } whilst the whirling snowflakes fell incessantly, and the low, leaden sky pressed like a heavy pall over this lifeless city of perpetual twilight. the particular business on which i had gone to petrograd took me daily to the various ministries, and their gloomy interiors became very familiar to me. i then saw that in these ministries the impossible had been attempted in the way of centralisation. the principle of the autocracy had been carried into the administrative domain, and every trivial detail affecting the government of an empire stretching from the pacific to the baltic was in theory controlled by one man, the minister of the department concerned. russians are conspicuously lacking in initiative and in organising power. the lack of initiative is perhaps the necessary corollary of an autocracy, for under an autocracy it would be unsafe for any private individual to show much original driving power: and organisation surely means successful delegation. a born organiser chooses his subordinates with great care; having chosen them, he delegates certain duties to them, and as long as they perform these duties to his satisfaction he does not interfere with them. the russian system was just the reverse: everything was nominally concentrated in the hands of one man. a really able and zealous minister might possibly have settled a hundredth part of the questions daily submitted for his personal decision. it required no great political foresight to understand { } that, were this administrative machine subjected to any unusual strain, it would collapse into hopeless confusion. being no longer young, i found the penetrating damp cold of petrograd very trying. the airlessness too of the steam-heated and hermetically sealed houses affected me. i had, in any case, intended to proceed to the west indies as soon as my task in petrograd was concluded. as my business occupied a far longer time than i had anticipated, i determined to go direct to london from petrograd, stay two nights there, and then join the mail steamer for the west indies. thus it came about that i was drinking my morning coffee in a room of the british embassy at petrograd, looking through the double windows at the driving snowflakes falling on the troitsky square, at the frozen hummocks of the neva, and at the sheepskin-clothed peasants plodding through the fresh-fallen snowdrifts, whilst the grey cotton-wool sky seemed to press down almost on to the roofs of the houses, and the golden needle of the fortress church gleamed dully through the murky atmosphere. three weeks afterwards to a day, i was sitting in the early morning on a balcony on the upper floor of government house, trinidad, clad in the lightest of pyjamas, enjoying the only approach to coolness to be found in that sultry island. the balcony overlooked the famous botanic gardens which so enraptured charles kingsley. in front of me rose a gigantic saman tree, larger than { } any oak, one mass of tenderest green, and of tassels of silky pink blossoms. at dawn, the dew still lay on those blossoms, and swarms of hummingbirds, flashing living jewels of ruby, sapphire, and emerald, were darting to and fro taking their toll of the nectar. the nutmeg trees were in flower, perfuming the whole air, and the fragrance of a yellow tree-gardenia, an importation from west africa, was almost overpowering. the chatter of the west indian negroes, and of the east indian coolies employed in the botanic gardens, replaced the soft, hissing russian language, and over the gorgeous tropical tangle of the gardens the venezulean mountains of the mainland rose mistily blue across the waters of the gulf of paria. i do not believe that in three short weeks it would be possible to find a greater change in climatic, geographical, or social conditions. from a temperature of ° below zero to ° in the shade; from the gulf of finland to the spanish main; from snow and ice to the exuberant tropical vegetation of one of the hottest islands in the world! the change, too, from the lifeless, snow-swept streets of petrograd, monotonously grey in the sad-coloured northern winter daylight, to the gaily painted bungalows of the white inhabitants of the port-of-spain, standing in gardens blazing with impossibly brilliant flowers of scarlet, orange, and vivid blue, quivering under the fierce rays of the sun, was sufficiently startling. the only flowers i have ever seen to rival the garish rainbow brilliance of the gardens of port-of-spain { } were the painted ones in the "zauber-garten" in the second act of "parsifal," as given at bayreuth. it so happened that when nicholas ii visited india in as heir-apparent, i stayed in the same house with him for ten days, and consequently saw a great deal of him. he was, i am convinced, a most conscientious man, intensely anxious to fulfill his duty to the people he would one day rule; but he was inconstant of purpose, and his intellectual equipment was insufficient for his responsibilities. the fatal flaw in an autocracy is that everything obviously hinges on the personal character of the autocrat. it would be absurd to expect an unbroken series of rulers of first-class ability. it is, i suppose, for this reason that the succession to the russian throne was, in theory at all events, not hereditary. the tsars of old nominated their successors, and i think i am right in saying that the emperors still claimed the privilege. in fact, to set any limitations to the power of an autocrat would be a contradiction in terms. nicholas ii was always influenced by those surrounding him, and it cannot be said that he chose his associates with much discretion. there was, in particular, one fatal influence very near indeed to him. from those well qualified to judge, i hear that it is unjust to accuse the empress of being a germanophile, or of being in any way a traitor to the interests of her adopted country. she was obsessed with one idea: to hand on the autocracy intact to her idolised little son, and she had, in addition, a { } great love of power. when the love of power takes possession of a woman, it seems to change her whole character, and my own experience is that no woman will ever voluntarily surrender one scrap of that power, be the consequences what they may. when to a naturally imperious nature there is joined a neurotic, hysterical temperament, the consequences can be disastrous. the baneful influence of the obscene illiterate monk rasputin over the empress is a matter of common knowledge, and she, poor woman, paid dearly enough for her faults. i always think that nicholas ii missed the great opportunity of his life on that fateful sunday, january , , when thousands of workmen, headed by father gapon (who subsequently proved to be an agent provocateur in the pay of the police), marched to the winter palace and clamoured for an interview with their emperor. had nicholas ii gone out entirely alone to meet the deputations, as i feel sure his father and grandfather would have done, i firmly believe that it would have changed the whole course of events; but his courage failed him. a timid autocrat is self-condemned. instead of meeting their sovereign, the crowd were met by machine-guns. in , nicholas ii had only slept one night in petrograd since his accession, and the empress had only made day visits. not even the ambassadresses had seen the empress for six years, and there had been no court entertainments at all. { } the imperial couple remained in perpetual seclusion at tsarskoe selo. in my days, alexander ii was constantly to be seen driving in the streets of petrograd entirely alone and unattended, without any escort whatever. the only things that marked out his sledge were the two splendid horses (the one in shafts, the loose "pristashka" galloping alongside in long traces), and the kaftan of his coachman, which was green instead of the universal blue of public and private carriages alike. the low mutterings of the coming storm were very audible in . personally, i thought the change would take the form of a "palace revolution," so common in russian history; _i.e._, that the existing sovereign would be dethroned and another installed in his place. i cannot say how thankful i am that so few of my old friends lived to see the final collapse, and that they were spared the agonies of witnessing the subsequent orgies of murder, spoliation, and lust that overwhelmed the unhappy land and deluged it in blood. horrible stories have reached us of a kindly, white-headed old couple being imprisoned for months in a narrow cell of the fortress, and then being taken out at dawn, and butchered without trial; of a highly cultivated old lady of seventy-six being driven from her bed by the mob, and thrust into the bitter cold of a petrograd street in january, in her night-dress, and there clubbed to death in { } the snow. god grant that these stories may be untrue; the evidence, though, is terribly circumstantial, and from russia comes only an ominous silence. if i am asked what will be the eventual outcome in russia, i hazard no prophecies. the strong vein of fatalism in the russian character must be taken into consideration, also the curious lack of initiative. they are a people who revel in endless futile talk, and love to get drunk on words and phrases. eighty per cent. of the population are grossly ignorant peasants, living in isolated communities, and i fail to see how they can take any combined action. it must be remembered that, with the exception of lenin, the men who have grasped the reins of power are not russians, but jews, mainly of german or polish origin. they do not, therefore, share the fatal inertness of the russian temperament. i started with the idea of giving some description of a state of things which has, perhaps, vanished for all time from what were five years ago the three great empires of eastern europe. there is, i think, inherent in all human beings a love of ceremonial. the great influence the roman and eastern churches exercise over their adherents is due, i venture to say, in a great measure to their gorgeous ceremonial. in proof of this, i would instance lands where a severer form of religion prevails, and where this innate love of ceremonial finds its rest in the elaborate ritual of masonic and kindred bodies, since it is denied it in ecclesiastical matters. the reason that buddhism, { } imported from china into japan in the sixth century, succeeded so largely in ousting shintoism, the ancient national religion, was that there is neither ritual nor ceremonial in a shinto temple, and the complicated ceremonies of buddhism supplied this curious craving in human nature, until eventually buddhism and shintoism entered into a sort of ecclesiastical partnership together. i have far exceeded the limits which i started by assigning to myself and, in extenuation, can only plead that old age is proverbially garrulous. i am also fully conscious that i have at times strayed far from my subject, but in excuse i can urge that but few people have seen, in five different continents, as much of the surface of this globe and of its inhabitants as it has fallen to my lot to do. half-forgotten incidents, irrelevant it may be to the subject in hand, crowd back to the mind, and tempt one far afield. it is quite possible that these bypaths of reminiscence, though interesting to the writer, may prove wearisome to the reader, so for them i tender my apologies. i have endeavoured to transfer to others pictures which remain very clear-cut and vivid in my own mind. i cannot tell whether i have succeeded in doing this, and i hazard no opinion as to whether the world is a gainer or a loser by the disappearance of the pomp and circumstance, the glitter and glamour of the three great courts of eastern europe. the curtain has been rung down, perhaps { } definitely, on the brave show. the play is played; the scenery set for the great spectacle is either ruined or else wantonly destroyed; the puppets who took part in the brilliant pageant are many of them (god help them!) broken beyond power of repair.--_finita la commedia!_ { } index a abdurrahman khan, a deaf diplomat, aehrenthal, baron von, , , agra palace, india, a journalist outwitted, akbar, albuquerque, alexander ii, ; attempted assassination of, in , , assassination of, _sqq._; sorrow of the people for, ; funeral of, _sqq._; king edward and queen alexandra at, , , . alexander iii, order of the garter conferred on, _sqq._; precautions for safety of, , . alexandra colony, _sqq._ ali pasha and the congress of berlin, , . alsace, ampthill, lady, ; saves the life of william ii, ampthill, lord, andrassy, count, and the congress of berlin, , an embarrassing situation, an exclusive court, arabi pasha, , argentine girls, beauty of, aristocratic waitresses, - arisugawa, prince, arisugawa, princess, asuncion, _sqq._ augusta, empress, austria, disappearance of the court, austrian aristocracy, characteristics of, ; interrelationship of, austrian diplomat, a deaf, awkward predicament, an, - b bahia, barmecides' feast, a, bay of chaleurs, beaconsfield, lord, and the congress of berlin, , , bear hunt in russia, a, - beauharnais, countess zena, beethoven, bieloselskaya, princess, bismarck, _sqq._, , ; on male and female nations, bismarck, count herbert, , , biting-fish in south america, blessing of the neva, the, blowitz, m. de, , botanic gardens at rio de janeiro, the, brazil, british minister, a, in carnival time, _sqq._ broadminded scots parents, buckingham palace and berlin schloss compared, - buenos ayres, _sqq._; carnival at, ; masked balls in, ; sport in, _sqq._ bulow, hans von, c calcutta, the maidan at, "camp," the, buenos ayres, campbell, colonel, canada, _sqq._ carnival at buenos ayres, the, cathedrals, three famous moscow, carolath-beuthen, princess, catherine the great, ; and the violet in tsarskoe park, charlemagne, cintra, circus in lisbon, circus performer who became a bishop, - classification of nationalities, bismarck's, clown, the author's personal experience as a, commercial court chamberlain, a, congress of , the, in berlin, connaught, duchess of, conversational difficulties, - , court beauties, , courting in portugal, a curious custom, "croissants"--viennese roll, origin of, crown prince, culinary curiosities in japan, - curious sporting incidents, _sq._ d darwin, dawn in a finnish forest, _sq._ "deaf and dumb people," deference paid to austrian archdukes, delyanoff, m., minister of education, ; curious obsequies of, - delyanoff, mme., dentist, a polite, - depreciated currency in the argentine, de reszke, edouard, de reszke, jean, de reszke, mlle., diaz, dolgorouki, prince alexander, dolgorouki, princess kitty, dolgorouki, princess mary, , dom fernando, , , dom luiz, - dom pedro, emperor of brazil, - - - doré, gustave, - dowdeswell, admiral, drunkenness in russia, - duc de croy, the, a belgian and an austrian subject, dué, m., swedish minister to russia, dufferin, marchioness of, - , , , , , dufferin, marquis of, ambassador to petrograd, _sqq._, , , ; his diplomatic methods, - - e easter supper in russia, the, easy-going austria, edinburgh, duchess of, edinburgh, duke of, elector of brandenburg, emperor frederick, , emperor william i, - empress marie, empress elisabeth, - empress frederick, , england, "junker" party's hostility to, environs of berlin, _sqq._ european courts, disappearance of, exciting salmon fishing, - expensive entertainment, an, exquisite russian church music, extradition treaty between great britain and paraguay, f ferdinand of saxe-coburg, prince, finland, - _sqq._ footman as entomologist, the, - formosa, fortress church, petrograd, , francis ii, last of the holy roman emperors, - franz josef of austria, , frederick charles of prussia, princess, frederick count of hohenzollern, frederick the great, , , - frederick william i, french ambassador's ball at moscow, unusual incident at, - g gapon, father, gargantuan dinner, a, - gatchina palace, ; children's play-room at, - george v, german "door-politeness," germany, disappearance of the court, germany, music in, - ghika, prince, roumanian minister to russia, giers, m. de, russian minister for foreign affairs, , , , gigantic court pages, gonçalves, gortchakoff, prince, and the congress of berlin, , , gourmet, an ecclesiastical, - gran chaco, the, groote constantia, gulf between russian nobility and peasants, h harraka niska, _sqq._ henry the navigator, prince, hilarious funeral, a, - hohenzollerns ever a grasping race, "holy roman emperor," the, hooveny m. van der, netherlands minister to russia, howard, dick, , , humbert, king, hungary, invasion of, by the turks in , i ice-boating on the gulf of finland, india, indoor games, russians' love for, inelegant palaces, inquisitive peasant, an, "intelligenzia," the, irritating customs in vienna, - ismail, khedive of egypt, ivan iii, j japan, - , _sqq._ japanese advertising, japanese politeness, jardine, captain, _sqq._ jena, jomini, baron, "junker" party, hostility of, towards england, k karolyi, countess, austrian ambassadress in berlin, , katheodory pasha and the congress of berlin, , kiderlin-waechter, baron von, - king edward attends alexander ii's funeral, king of prussia proclaimed german emperor at versailles, kingsley, charles, klepsch, colonel, koltesha, - - koltesba, shooting at, _sqq._ königgrätz, kremlin, the, _sqq._; the great palace, kyoto, the emperor's palace, l ladies' unchangeable court fashions in russia, lapp encampment on the neva, - lawson, sir wilfrid, lazareff and the great orloff diamond, leopold i, "les bals des palmiers," leuchtenberg, duchess of, _see_ beauharnais liebknecht, herr, lisbon, lisbon, beauty of, lister, lord, liszt, lobkowitz palace, lobkowitz, prince, lopez, francisco, lorraine, louis xiv, louis xvi, louise margaret of prussia, princess, louise, queen, of prussia, - lovendal, count, danish minister in petrograd, - luncheon in pyjamas, luxembourg palace, the, m "making the circle," trying ordeal of prussian princesses, margherita, queen, maria ii, queen, marie antoinette, mendelssohn, midnight drive, an exciting, - militarism in germany, _sqq._ misguided midshipmen, - mitsu, count, mitsu, countess, , moltke, field-marshal von, montebello, comte de, french ambassador, - montebello, comtesse de, montferrand, m., architect of st. isaac's, petrograd, moscow, beauty of, - _sqq._ moscow cathedrals, three famous, moscow, imperial treasury at, splendour of, music, germans as lovers of, "musical chairs" in japan, n napoleon i, ; coronation of, - ; bribes electors of bavaria, württemberg, and saxony, "napoleon iii," - narrow escape from drowning of william ii, natural beauties of brazil, neva, blessing of the, newspaper enterprise, nicholas i, - nicholas ii, , , _sqq._ nihilist friends, _sqq._ nikko river, japan, nondescript waiters, novel form of sport, a, - _sq._ o old schloss, berlin, - ; comparison with buckingham palace, - opera in lisbon, organ mountains, the, , oriental traits in russian character, orloff diamond, the, p paget, sir augustus, palaeologus, sophia, wife of ivan iii, paraguay, _sqq._; extradition treaty between great britain and, paraguayan race meeting, a, paraguayan women, attractive, paraná river, the, patiño cué, _sqq._ peace congress between russia and turkey in berlin, , _sqq._ peasant's house in russia, a, - _sqq._ pernambuco, peter the great, , , - _sq._ peterhof, ; its charming park, ; a plethora of palaces round, petrograd, transference to, ; a disappointing capital, ; english embassy at, ; palace ball, ; balls at, peculiarities of, ; famous society beauties of, ; inclement climate of, ; revisited, _sqq._ petropolis, diversions at, - , pombal, marquis de, portugal, two kings of, portuguese bull-fights, bloodless, _sqq._; comparison of with spanish, portuguese coinage, portuguese politeness, potemkin, potsdam, - _sqq._ potsdam palaces, - prussian militarism, _sqq._ prussian princesses, a trying ordeal, "princesse château," _sqq._, pugnacious court pages, - q quebec, queen alexandra attends alexander ii's funeral, queen victoria, queenly dignity of, queen victoria confers order of the garter on alexander iii, _sqq._ quirinal at rome, the, r radziwill, princess william, "rag-time" and rubinstein, - rasputin, rauch, red-bearded priest, the, richter, gustav, richter, mme., river plate, the, "ring," the, in berlin, rio de janeiro, beauty of, rome, the quirinal, rubinstein and "rag-time," - russia, disappearance of the court, russia and turkey, peace congress in berlin, russian frontier police, russian gipsies, - ; their fascinating singing, - russian illusions, - russian imperial yacht club, the, russian ladies' unchangeable court fashions, russian language, difficulties exaggerated, russian limitations, russian police, russian village habits, russians really orientals, s sadowa, st. isaac's church, petrograd, ; midnight easter mass at, _sqq._ salisbury, lord, and the congress of berlin, , - scandalized governess, a, schleinitz, mme. de, "schlüssel-geld," an unpopular tax, schouvaloff, count peter, and the peace congress in berlin, , ; schouvaloff, countess betsy, - secret police in russia, the, seven weeks' war, the, shah jehan, - shennan, mr. david, - sigismund, ski-ing, _sq._ skobeleff, general, slovenly russian uniforms, sobieski, john, king of poland, routs the turks, spanish and portuguese bull-fights, difference between, sport in russia, - strauss, johann, ; an exacting conductor, "street of toleration," the, strousberg, herr, railway magnate, stürmer, m., destroyer of the russian empire, sullivan, sir arthur, in petrograd, t talleyrand, tel-el-kebir, tetschen, teutonic knights, the, tewfik, tigre, the, toboganning in finland, - _sq._ tokugawa dynasty, tokyo, tokyo, uyeno park at, ; trinidad, tsarskoe park, curiosities in, tsarskoe selo, _sqq._ turkey and russia, peace congress in berlin, turks, invasion of hungary, by, in , turks routed by john sobieski in , u ultimatum to russia, a young man's, unusual occupants of a palace, urbain, the cook, v van der stell, governor, vasco de gama, victoria, queen, victor emmanuel, vienna, _sqq._ vienna, delightful environs of, viennese court entertainments, viennese orchestras, _sq._ viennese restaurants and orchestras, excellence of, viennese women, comeliness of, villages in russia, similarity of, - vladimir, grand duke and death of alexander ii, w waddington, m., and the congress of berlin, , wagner, the "ring" in berlin, - , waitresses, aristocratic, - water-throwing at buenos ayres carnival, wends, the, william iv, winter palace, petrograd, the, - _sqq._ wolseley, sir garnet, wolves as fellow travelers, y yellow fever at rio de janeiro, - - mightiest qorn by keith laumer sly, brave and truculent, the qornt held all humans in contempt--except one! [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, july . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] i ambassador nitworth glowered across his mirror-polished, nine-foot platinum desk at his assembled staff. "gentlemen, are any of you familiar with a race known as the qornt?" there was a moment of profound silence. nitworth leaned forward, looking solemn. "they were a warlike race known in this sector back in concordiat times, perhaps two hundred years ago. they vanished as suddenly as they had appeared. there was no record of where they went." he paused for effect. "they have now reappeared--occupying the inner planet of this system!" "but, sir," second secretary magnan offered. "that's uninhabited terrestrial territory...." "indeed, mr. magnan?" nitworth smiled icily. "it appears the qornt do not share that opinion." he plucked a heavy parchment from a folder before him, harrumphed and read aloud: his supreme excellency the qorn, regent of qornt, over-lord of the galactic destiny, greets the terrestrials and, with reference to the presence in mandated territory of terrestrial squatters, has the honor to advise that he will require the use of his outer world on the thirtieth day. then will the qornt come with steel and fire. receive, terrestrials, renewed assurances of my awareness of your existence, and let those who dare gird for the contest. "frankly, i wouldn't call it conciliatory," magnan said. nitworth tapped the paper with a finger. "we have been served, gentlemen, with nothing less than an ultimatum!" "well, we'll soon straighten these fellows out--" the military attache began. "there happens to be more to this piece of truculence than appears on the surface," the ambassador cut in. he paused, waiting for interested frowns to settle into place. "note, gentlemen, that these invaders have appeared on terrestrial controlled soil--and without so much as a flicker from the instruments of the navigational monitor service!" the military attache blinked. "that's absurd," he said flatly. nitworth slapped the table. "we're up against something new, gentlemen! i've considered every hypothesis from cloaks of invisibility to time travel! the fact is--the qornt fleets are indetectible!" * * * * * the military attache pulled at his lower lip. "in that case, we can't try conclusions with these fellows until we have an indetectible drive of our own. i recommend a crash project. in the meantime--" "i'll have my boys start in to crack this thing," the chief of the confidential terrestrial source section spoke up. "i'll fit out a couple of volunteers with plastic beaks--" "no cloak and dagger work, gentlemen! long range policy will be worked out by deep-think teams back at the department. our role will be a holding action. now i want suggestions for a comprehensive, well rounded and decisive course for meeting this threat. any recommendation?" the political officer placed his fingertips together. "what about a stiff note demanding an extra week's time?" "no! no begging," the economic officer objected. "i'd say a calm, dignified, aggressive withdrawal--as soon as possible." "we don't want to give them the idea we spook easily," the military attache said. "let's delay the withdrawal--say, until tomorrow." "early tomorrow," magnan said. "or maybe later today." "well, i see you're of a mind with me," nitworth nodded. "our plan of action is clear, but it remains to be implemented. we have a population of over fifteen million individuals to relocate." he eyed the political officer. "i want five proposals for resettlement on my desk by oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow." nitworth rapped out instructions. harried-looking staff members arose and hurried from the room. magnan eased toward the door. "where are you going, magnan?" nitworth snapped. "since you're so busy, i thought i'd just slip back down to com inq. it was a most interesting orientation lecture, mr. ambassador. be sure to let us know how it works out." "kindly return to your chair," nitworth said coldly. "a number of chores remain to be assigned. i think you, magnan, need a little field experience. i want you to get over to roolit i and take a look at these qornt personally." magnan's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. "not afraid of a few qornt, are you, magnan?" "afraid? good lord, no, ha ha. it's just that i'm afraid i may lose my head and do something rash if i go." "nonsense! a diplomat is immune to heroic impulses. take retief along. no dawdling, now! i want you on the way in two hours. notify the transport pool at once. now get going!" magnan nodded unhappily and went into the hall. "oh, retief," nitworth said. retief turned. "try to restrain mr. magnan from any impulsive moves--in any direction." ii retief and magnan topped a ridge and looked down across a slope of towering tree-shrubs and glossy violet-stemmed palms set among flamboyant blossoms of yellow and red, reaching down to a strip of white beach with the blue sea beyond. "a delightful vista," magnan said, mopping at his face. "a pity we couldn't locate the qornt. we'll go back now and report--" "i'm pretty sure the settlement is off to the right," retief said. "why don't you head back for the boat, while i ease over and see what i can observe." "retief, we're engaged in a serious mission. this is not a time to think of sightseeing." "i'd like to take a good look at what we're giving away." "see here, retief! one might almost receive the impression that you're questioning corps policy!" "one might, at that. the qornt have made their play, but i think it might be valuable to take a look at their cards before we fold. if i'm not back at the boat in an hour, lift without me." "you expect me to make my way back alone?" "it's directly down-slope--" retief broke off, listening. magnan clutched at his arm. there was a sound of crackling foliage. twenty feet ahead, a leafy branch swung aside. an eight-foot biped stepped into view, long, thin, green-clad legs with back-bending knees moving in quick, bird-like steps. a pair of immense black-lensed goggles covered staring eyes set among bushy green hair above a great bone-white beak. the crest bobbed as the creature cocked its head, listening. magnan gulped audibly. the qornt froze, head tilted, beak aimed directly at the spot where the terrestrials stood in the deep shade of a giant trunk. "i'll go for help," magnan squeaked. he whirled and took three leaps into the brush. a second great green-clad figure rose up to block his way. he spun, darted to the left. the first qornt pounced, grappled magnan to its narrow chest. magnan yelled, threshing and kicking, broke free, turned--and collided with the eight-foot alien, coming in fast from the right. all three went down in a tangle of limbs. retief jumped forward, hauled magnan free, thrust him aside and stopped, right fist cocked. the two qornt lay groaning feebly. "nice piece of work, mr. magnan," retief said. "you nailed both of them." * * * * * "those undoubtedly are the most bloodthirsty, aggressive, merciless countenances it has ever been my misfortune to encounter," magnan said. "it hardly seems fair. eight feet tall _and_ faces like that!" the smaller of the two captive qornt ran long, slender fingers over a bony shin, from which he had turned back the tight-fitting green trousers. "it's not broken," he whistled nasally in passable terrestrial, eyeing magnan through the heavy goggles, now badly cracked. "small thanks to you." magnan smiled loftily. "i daresay you'll think twice before interfering with peaceable diplomats in future." "diplomats? surely you jest." "never mind us," retief said. "it's you fellows we'd like to talk about. how many of you are there?" "only zubb and myself." "i mean altogether. how many qornt?" the alien whistled shrilly. "here, no signalling!" magnan snapped, looking around. "that was merely an expression of amusement." "you find the situation amusing? i assure you, sir, you are in perilous straits at the moment. i _may_ fly into another rage, you know." "please, restrain yourself. i was merely somewhat astonished--" a small whistle escaped--"at being taken for a qornt." "aren't you a qornt?" "i? great snail trails, no!" more stifled whistles of amusement escaped the beaked face. "both zubb and i are verpp. naturalists, as it happens." "you certainly _look_ like qornt." "oh, not at all--except perhaps to a terrestrial. the qornt are sturdily built rascals, all over ten feet in height. and, of course, they do nothing but quarrel. a drone caste, actually." "a caste? you mean they're biologically the same as you?" "not at all! a verpp wouldn't think of fertilizing a qornt." "i mean to say, you are of the same basic stock--descended from a common ancestor, perhaps." "we are all pud's creatures." "what are the differences between you, then?" "why, the qornt are argumentive, boastful, lacking in appreciation for the finer things of life. one dreads to contemplate descending to _their_ level." "do you know anything about a note passed to the terrestrial ambassador at smorbrod?" retief asked. * * * * * the beak twitched. "smorbrod? i know of no place called smorbrod." "the outer planet of this system." "oh, yes. we call it guzzum. i had heard that some sort of creatures had established a settlement there, but i confess i pay little note to such matters." "we're wasting time, retief," magnan said. "we must truss these chaps up, hurry back to the boat and make our escape. you heard what they said." "are there any qornt down there at the harbor, where the boats are?" retief asked. "at tarroon, you mean? oh, yes. planning some adventure." "that would be the invasion of smorbrod," magnan said. "and unless we hurry, retief, we're likely to be caught there with the last of the evacuees!" "how many qornt would you say there are at tarroon?" "oh, a very large number. perhaps fifteen or twenty." "fifteen or twenty what?" magnan looked perplexed. "fifteen or twenty qornt." "you mean that there are only fifteen or twenty individual qornt in all?" another whistle. "not at all. i was referring to the local qornt only. there are more at the other centers, of course." "and the qornt are responsible for the ultimatum--unilaterally?" "i suppose so; it sounds like them. a truculent group, you know. and interplanetary relations _are_ rather a hobby of theirs." zubb moaned and stirred. he sat up slowly, rubbing his head. he spoke to his companion in a shrill alien clatter of consonants. "what did he say?" "poor zubb. he blames me for his bruises, since it was my idea to gather you as specimens." "you should have known better than to tackle that fierce-looking creature," zubb said, pointing his beak at magnan. "how does it happen that you speak terrestrial?" retief asked. "oh, one picks up all sorts of dialects." "it's quite charming, really," magnan said. "such a quaint, archaic accent." "suppose we went down to tarroon," retief asked. "what kind of reception would we get?" "that depends. i wouldn't recommend interfering with the gwil or the rheuk; it's their nest-mending time, you know. the boog will be busy mating--such a tedious business--and of course the qornt are tied up with their ceremonial feasting. i'm afraid no one will take any notice of you." "do you mean to say," magnan demanded, "that these ferocious qornt, who have issued an ultimatum to the corps diplomatique terrestrienne--who openly avow their occupied world--would ignore terrestrials in their midst?" "if at all possible." retief got to his feet. "i think our course is clear, mr. magnan. it's up to us to go down and attract a little attention." iii "i'm not at all sure we're going about this in the right way," magnan puffed, trotting at retief's side. "these fellows zubb and slun--oh, they seem affable enough, but how can we be sure we're not being led into a trap?" "we can't." magnan stopped short. "let's go back." "all right," retief said. "of course there may be an ambush--" magnan moved off. "let's keep going." the party emerged from the undergrowth at the edge of a great brush-grown mound. slun took the lead, rounded the flank of the hillock, halted at a rectangular opening cut into the slope. "you can find your way easily enough from here," he said. "you'll excuse us, i hope--" "nonsense, slun!" zubb pushed forward. "i'll escort our guests to qornt hall." he twittered briefly to his fellow verpp. slun twittered back. "i don't like it, retief," magnan whispered. "those fellows are plotting mischief." "threaten them with violence, mr magnan. they're scared of you." "that's true. and the drubbing they received was well-deserved. i'm a patient man, but there are occasions--" "come along, please," zubb called. "another ten minutes' walk--" "see here, we have no interest in investigating this barrow," magnan announced. "we wish you to take us direct to tarroon to interview your military leaders regarding the ultimatum!" "yes, yes, of course. qornt hall lies here inside the village." "this is tarroon?" "a modest civic center, sir, but there are those who love it." "no wonder we didn't observe their works from the air," magnan muttered. "camouflaged." he moved hesitantly through the opening. the party moved along a wide, deserted tunnel which sloped down steeply, then leveled off and branched. zubb took the center branch, ducking slightly under the nine-foot ceiling lit at intervals with what appeared to be primitive incandescent panels. "few signs of an advanced technology here," magnan whispered. "these creatures must devote all their talents to warlike enterprise." ahead, zubb slowed. a distant susurration was audible, a sustained high-pitched screeching. "softly, now. we approach qornt hall. they can be an irascible lot when disturbed at their feasting." "when will the feast be over?" magnan called hoarsely. "in another few weeks, i should imagine, if, as you say, they've scheduled an invasion for next month." "look here, zubb." magnan shook a finger at the tall alien. "how is it that these qornt are allowed to embark on piratical ventures of this sort without reference to the wishes of the majority?" "oh, the majority of the qornt favor the move, i imagine." "these few hotheads are permitted to embroil the planet in war?" "oh, they don't embroil the planet in war. they merely--" "retief, this is fantastic! i've heard of iron-fisted military cliques before, but this is madness!" "come softly, now." zubb beckoned, moving toward a bend in the yellow-lit corridor. retief and magnan moved forward. * * * * * the corridor debouched through a high double door into a vast oval chamber, high-domed, gloomy, paneled in dark wood and hung with tattered banners, scarred halberds, pikes, rusted longswords, crossed spears over patinaed hauberks, pitted radiation armor, corroded power rifles, the immense mummified heads of horned and fanged animals. great guttering torches in wall brackets and in stands along the length of the long table shed a smoky light that reflected from the mirror polish of the red granite floor, gleamed on polished silver bowls and paper-thin glass, shone jewel-red and gold through dark bottles--and cast long flickering shadows behind the fifteen trolls at the board. lesser trolls--beaked, bush-haired, great-eyed--trotted briskly, bird-kneed, bearing steaming platters, stood in groups of three strumming slender bottle-shaped lutes, or pranced an intricate-patterned dance, unnoticed in the shrill uproar as each of the magnificently draped, belted, feathered and jeweled qornt carried on a shouted conversation with an equally noisy fellow. "a most interesting display of barbaric splendor," magnan breathed. "now we'd better be getting back." "ah, a moment," zubb said. "observe the qornt--the tallest of the feasters--he with the head-dress of crimson, purple, silver and pink." "twelve feet if he's an inch," magnan estimated. "and now we really must hurry along--" "that one is chief among these rowdies. i'm sure you'll want a word with him. he controls not only the tarroonian vessels but those from the other centers as well." "what kind of vessels? warships?" "certainly. what other kind would the qornt bother with?" "i don't suppose," magnan said casually, "that you'd know the type, tonnage, armament and manning of these vessels? and how many units comprise the fleet? and where they're based at present?" "they're fully automated twenty-thousand-ton all-purpose dreadnaughts. they mount a variety of weapons. the qornt are fond of that sort of thing. each of the qornt has his own, of course. they're virtually identical, except for the personal touches each individual has given his ship." "great heavens, retief!" magnan exclaimed in a whisper. "it sounds as though these brutes employ a battle armada as simpler souls might a set of toy sailboats!" retief stepped past magnan and zubb to study the feasting hall. "i can see that their votes would carry all the necessary weight." "and now an interview with the qorn himself," zubb shrilled. "if you'll kindly step along, gentlemen...." "that won't be necessary," magnan said hastily, "i've decided to refer the matter to committee." "after having come so far," zubb said, "it would be a pity to miss having a cosy chat." there was a pause. "ah ... retief," magnan said. "zubb has just presented a most compelling argument...." * * * * * retief turned. zubb stood gripping an ornately decorated power pistol in one bony hand, a slim needler in the other. both were pointed at magnan's chest. "i suspected you had hidden qualities, zubb," retief commented. "see here, zubb! we're diplomats!" magnan started. "careful, mr. magnan; you may goad him to a frenzy." "by no means," zubb whistled. "i much prefer to observe the frenzy of the qornt when presented with the news that two peaceful verpp have been assaulted and kidnapped by bullying interlopers. if there's anything that annoys the qornt, it's qornt-like behavior in others. now step along, please." "rest assured, this will be reported!" "i doubt it." "you'll face the wrath of enlightened galactic opinion!" "oh? how big a navy does enlightened galactic opinion have?" "stop scaring him, mr. magnan. he may get nervous and shoot." retief stepped into the banquet hall, headed for the resplendent figure at the head of the table. a trio of flute-players broke off in mid-bleat, staring. an inverted pyramid of tumblers blinked as retief swung past, followed by magnan and the tall verpp. the shrill chatter at the table faded. qorn turned as retief came up, blinking three-inch eyes. zubb stepped forward, gibbered, waving his arms excitedly. qorn pushed back his chair--a low, heavily padded stool--and stared unwinking at retief, moving his head to bring first one great round eye, then the other, to bear. there were small blue veins in the immense fleshy beak. the bushy hair, springing out in a giant halo around the grayish, porous-skinned face, was wiry, stiff, moss-green, with tufts of chartreuse fuzz surrounding what appeared to be tympanic membranes. the tall head-dress of scarlet silk and purple feathers was slightly askew, and a loop of pink pearls had slipped down above one eye. zubb finished his speech and fell silent, breathing hard. qorn looked retief over in silence, then belched. "not bad," retief said admiringly. "maybe we could get up a match between you and ambassador sternwheeler. you've got the volume on him, but he's got timbre." "so," qorn hooted in a resonant tenor. "you come from guzzum, eh? or smorbrod, as i think you call it. what is it you're after? more time? a compromise? negotiations? peace?" he slammed a bony hand against the table. "the answer is _no_!" zubb twittered. qorn cocked an eye, motioned to a servant. "chain that one." he indicated magnan. his eyes went to retief. "this one's bigger; you'd best chain him, too." "why, your excellency--" magnan started, stepping forward. "stay back!" qorn hooted. "stand over there where i can keep an eye on you." "your excellency, i'm empowered--" "not here, you're not!" qorn trumpeted. "want peace, do you? well, i don't want peace! i've had a surfeit of peace these last two centuries! i want action! loot! adventure! glory!" he turned to look down the table. "how about it, fellows? it's war to the knife, eh?" * * * * * there was a momentary silence from all sides. "i guess so," grunted a giant qornt in iridescent blue with flame-colored plumes. qorn's eyes bulged. he half rose. "we've been all over this," he bassooned. he clamped bony fingers on the hilt of a light rapier. "i thought i'd made my point!" "oh, sure, qorn." "you bet." "i'm convinced." qorn rumbled and resumed his seat. "all for one and one for all, that's us." "and you're the one, eh, qorn?" retief commented. magnan cleared his throat. "i sense that some of you gentlemen are not convinced of the wisdom of this move," he piped, looking along the table at the silks, jewels, beaks, feather-decked crests and staring eyes. "silence!" qorn hooted. "no use your talking to my loyal lieutenants anyway," he added. "they do whatever i convince them they ought to do." "but i'm sure that on more mature consideration--" "i can lick any qornt in the house." qorn said. "that's why i'm qorn." he belched again. a servant came up staggering under a weight of chain, dropped it with a crash at magnan's feet. zubb aimed the guns while the servant wrapped three loops around magnan's wrists, snapped a lock in place. "you next!" the guns pointed at retief's chest. he held out his arms. four loops of silvery-gray chain in half-inch links dropped around them. the servant cinched them up tight, squeezed a lock through the ends and closed it. "now," qorn said, lolling back in his chair, glass in hand. "there's a bit of sport to be had here, lads. what shall we do with them?" "let them go," the blue and flame qornt said glumly. "you can do better than that," qorn hooted. "now here's a suggestion: we carve them up a little--lop off the external labiae and pinnae, say--and ship them back." "good lord! retief, he's talking about cutting off our ears and sending us home mutilated! what a barbaric proposal!" "it wouldn't be the first time a terrestrial diplomat got a trimming," retief commented. "it should have the effect of stimulating the terries to put up a reasonable scrap," qorn said judiciously. "i have a feeling that they're thinking of giving up without a struggle." "oh, i doubt that," the blue-and-flame qornt said. "why should they?" qorn rolled an eye at retief and another at magnan. "take these two," he hooted. "i'll wager they came here to negotiate a surrender!" "well," magnan started. "hold it, mr. magnan," retief said. "i'll tell him." "what's your proposal?" qorn whistled, taking a gulp from his goblet. "a fifty-fifty split? monetary reparations? alternate territory? i can assure you, it's useless. we qornt _like_ to fight." "i'm afraid you've gotten the wrong impression, your excellency," retief said blandly. "we didn't come to negotiate. we came to deliver an ultimatum." "what?" qorn trumpeted. behind retief, magnan spluttered. "we plan to use this planet for target practice," retief said. "a new type hell bomb we've worked out. have all your people off of it in seventy-two hours, or suffer the consequences." iv "you have the gall," qorn stormed, "to stand here in the center of qornt hall--uninvited, at that--and in chains--" "oh, these," retief said. he tensed his arms. the soft aluminum links stretched and broke. he shook the light metal free. "we diplomats like to go along with colorful local customs, but i wouldn't want to mislead you. now, as to the evacuation of roolit i--" zubb screeched, waved the guns. the qornt were jabbering. "i told you they were brutes," zubb shrilled. qorn slammed his fist down on the table. "i don't care what they are!" he honked. "evacuate, hell! i can field eighty-five combat-ready ships!" "and we can englobe every one of them with a thousand peace enforcers with a hundred megatons/second firepower each." "retief." magnan tugged at his sleeve. "don't forget their superdrive." "that's all right. they don't have one." "but--" "we'll take you on!" qorn french-horned. "we're the qorn! we glory in battle! we live in fame or go down in--" "hogwash," the flame-and-blue qorn cut in. "if it wasn't for you, qorn, we could sit around and feast and brag and enjoy life without having to prove anything." "qorn, you seem to be the fire-brand here," retief said. "i think the rest of the boys would listen to reason--" "over my dead body!" "my idea exactly," retief said. "you claim you can lick any man in the house. unwind yourself from your ribbons and step out here on the floor, and we'll see how good you are at backing up your conversation." * * * * * magnan hovered at retief's side. "twelve feet tall," he moaned. "and did you notice the size of those hands?" retief watched as qorn's aides helped him out of his formal trappings. "i wouldn't worry too much, mr. magnan. this is a light-gee world. i doubt if old qorn would weigh up at more than two-fifty standard pounds here." "but that phenomenal reach--" "i'll peck away at him at knee level. when he bends over to swat me, i'll get a crack at him." across the cleared floor, qorn shook off his helpers with a snort. "enough! let me at the upstart!" retief moved out to meet him, watching the upraised backward-jointed arms. qorn stalked forward, long lean legs bent, long horny feet clacking against the polished floor. the other aliens--both servitors and bejeweled qornt--formed a wide circle, all eyes unwaveringly on the combatants. qorn struck suddenly, a long arm flashing down in a vicious cut at retief, who leaned aside, caught one lean shank below the knee. qorn bent to haul retief from his leg--and staggered back as a haymaker took him just below the beak. a screech went up from the crowd as retief leaped clear. qorn hissed and charged. retief whirled aside, then struck the alien's off-leg in a flying tackle. qorn leaned, arms windmilling, crashed to the floor. retief whirled, dived for the left arm, whipped it behind the narrow back, seized qorn's neck in a stranglehold and threw his weight backward. qorn fell on his back, his legs squatted out at an awkward angle. he squawked and beat his free arm on the floor, reaching in vain for retief. zubb stepped forward, pistols ready. magnan stepped before him. "need i remind you, sir," he said icily, "that this is an official diplomatic function? i can brook no interference from disinterested parties." zubb hesitated. magnan held out a hand. "i must ask you to hand me your weapons, zubb." "look here," zubb began. "i _may_ lose my temper," magnan hinted. zubb lowered the guns, passed them to magnan. he thrust them into his belt with a sour smile, turned back to watch the encounter. retief had thrown a turn of violet silk around qorn's left wrist, bound it to the alien's neck. another wisp of stuff floated from qorn's shoulder. retief, still holding qorn in an awkward sprawl, wrapped it around one outflung leg, trussed ankle and thigh together. qorn flopped, hooting. at each movement, the constricting loop around his neck, jerked his head back, the green crest tossing wildly. "if i were you, i'd relax," retief said, rising and releasing his grip. qorn got a leg under him; retief kicked it. qorn's chin hit the floor with a hollow clack. he wilted, an ungainly tangle of over-long limbs and gay silks. retief turned to the watching crowd. "next?" he called. the blue and flame qornt stepped forward. "maybe this would be a good time to elect a new leader," he said. "now, my qualifications--" "sit down," retief said loudly. he stepped to the head of the table, seated himself in qorn's vacated chair. "a couple of you finish trussing qorn up for me." "but we must select a leader!" "that won't be necessary, boys. i'm your new leader." * * * * * "as i see it," retief said, dribbling cigar ashes into an empty wine glass, "you qornt like to be warriors, but you don't particularly like to fight." "we don't mind a little fighting--within reason. and, of course, as qornt, we're expected to die in battle. but what i say is, why rush things?" "i have a suggestion," magnan said. "why not turn the reins of government over to the verpp? they seem a level-headed group." "what good would that do? qornt are qornt. it seems there's always one among us who's a slave to instinct--and, naturally, we have to follow him." "why?" "because that's the way it's done." "why not do it another way?" magnan offered. "now, i'd like to suggest community singing--" "if we gave up fighting, we might live too long. then what would happen?" "live too long?" magnan looked puzzled. "when estivating time comes there'd be no burrows for us. anyway, with the new qornt stepping on our heels--" "i've lost the thread," magnan said. "who are the new qornt?" "after estivating, the verpp moult, and then they're qornt, of course. the gwil become boog, the boog become rheuk, the rheuk metamorphosize into verpp--" "you mean slun and zubb--the mild-natured naturalists--will become warmongers like qorn?" "very likely. 'the milder the verpp, the wilder the qorn,' as the old saying goes." "what do qornt turn into?" retief asked. "hmmmm. that's a good question. so far, none have survived qornthood." "have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways?" magnan asked. "what about taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance?" "don't mistake me. we qornt like a military life. it's great sport to sit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashing off to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. but we prefer a nice numerical advantage. not this business of tackling you terrestrials over on guzzum--that was a mad notion. we had no idea what your strength was." "but now that's all off, of course," magnan chirped. "now that we've had diplomatic relations and all--" "oh, by no means. the fleet lifts in thirty days. after all, we're qornt; we have to satisfy our drive to action." "but mr. retief is your leader now. he won't let you!" "only a dead qornt stays home when attack day comes. and even if he orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the other centers--all with their own leaders. no, gentlemen, the invasion is definitely on." "why don't you go invade somebody else?" magnan suggested. "i could name some very attractive prospects--outside my sector, of course." "hold everything," retief said. "i think we've got the basis of a deal here...." v at the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned qornt, retief and magnan strolled across the ramp toward the bright tower of the cdt sector hq. ahead, gates opened, and a black corps limousine emerged, flying an ambassadorial flag under a plain square of white. "curious," magnan commented. "i wonder what the significance of the white ensign might be?" retief raised a hand. the column halted with a clash of accoutrements and a rasp of qornt boots. retief looked back along the line. the high white sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes, butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather. "a brave show indeed," magnan commented approvingly. "i confess the idea has merit." the limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tired wheels, gyros humming softly. the hatch popped up. a portly diplomat stepped out. "why, ambassador nitworth," magnan glowed. "this is very kind of you." "keep cool, magnan," nitworth said in a strained voice. "we'll attempt to get you out of this." he stepped past magnan's out-stretched hand and looked hesitantly at the ramrod-straight line of qornt, eighty-five strong--and beyond, at the eighty-five tall qornt dreadnaughts. "good afternoon, sir ... ah, your excellency," nitworth said, blinking up at the leading qornt. "you are commander of the strike force, i assume?" "nope," the qornt said shortly. "i ... ah ... wish to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuate headquarters," nitworth plowed on. "mr. ambassador." retief said. "this--" "don't panic, retief. i'll attempt to secure your release," nitworth hissed over his shoulder. "now--" "you will address our leader with more respect!" the tall qornt hooted, eyeing nitworth ominously from eleven feet up. "oh, yes indeed, sir ... your excellency ... commander. now, about the invasion--" "mr. secretary," magnan tugged at nitworth's sleeve. "in heaven's name, permit me to negotiate in peace!" nitworth snapped. he rearranged his features. "now your excellency, we've arranged to evacuate smorbrod, of course, just as you requested--" "requested?" the qornt honked. "ah ... demanded, that is. quite rightly of course. ordered. instructed. and, of course, we'll be only too pleased to follow any other instructions you might have." "you don't quite get the big picture, mr. secretary," retief said. "this isn't--" "silence, confound you!" nitworth barked. the leading qornt looked at retief. he nodded. two bony hands shot out, seized nitworth and stuffed a length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around and held him facing retief. "if you don't mind my taking this opportunity to brief you, mr. ambassador," retief said blandly. "i think i should mention that this isn't an invasion fleet. these are the new recruits for the peace enforcement corps." magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in ambassador nitworth's mouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. "we felt," he said, "that the establishment of a foreign brigade within the p. e. corps structure would provide the element of novelty the department has requested in our recruiting, and at the same time would remove the stigma of terrestrial chauvinism from future punitive operations." nitworth stared, eyes bulging. he grunted, reaching for the gag, caught the qornt's eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides. "i suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun," retief said. magnan edged close. "what about the gag?" he whispered. "let's leave it where it is for a while," retief murmured. "it may save us a few concessions." * * * * * an hour later, nitworth, breathing freely again, glowered across his desk at retief and magnan. "this entire affair," he rumbled, "has made me appear to be a fool!" "but we who are privileged to serve on your staff already know just how clever you are," magnan burbled. nitworth purpled. "you're skirting insolence, magnan," he roared. "why was i not informed of the arrangements? what was i to assume at the sight of eighty-five war vessels over my headquarters, unannounced?" "we tried to get through, but our wavelengths--" "bah! sterner souls than i would have quailed at the spectacle!" "oh, you were perfectly justified in panicking--" "i did _not_ panic!" nitworth bellowed. "i merely adjusted to the apparent circumstances. now, i'm of two minds as to the advisability of this foreign legion idea of yours. still, it may have merit. i believe the wisest course would be to dispatch them on a long training cruise in an uninhabited sector of space--" the office windows rattled. "what the devil!" nitworth turned, stared out at the ramp where a qornt ship rose slowly on a column of pale blue light. the vibration increased as a second ship lifted, then a third. nitworth whirled on magnan. "what's this! who ordered these recruits to embark without my permission?" "i took the liberty of giving them an errand to run, mr. secretary," retief said. "there was that little matter of the groaci infiltrating the sirenian system. i sent the boys off to handle it." "call them back at once!" "i'm afraid that won't be possible. they're under orders to maintain total communications silence until completion of the mission." nitworth drummed his fingers on the desk top. slowly, a thoughtful expression dawned. he nodded. "this may work out," he said. "i _should_ call them back, but since the fleet is out of contact, i'm unable to do so, correct? thus i can hardly be held responsible for any over-enthusiasm in chastising the groaci." he closed one eye in a broad wink at magnan. "very well, gentlemen, i'll overlook the irregularity this time. magnan, see to it the smorbrodian public are notified they can remain where they are. and by the way, did you by any chance discover the technique of the indetectable drive the qornt use?" "no, sir. that is, yes, sir." "well? well?" "there isn't any. the qornt were there all the while. underground." "underground? doing what?" "hibernating--for two hundred years at a stretch." * * * * * outside in the corridor, magnan came up to retief, who stood talking to a tall man in a pilot's coverall. "i'll be tied up, sending through full details on my--our--your recruiting theme, retief," magnan said. "suppose you run into the city to assist the new verpp consul in settling in." "i'll do that, mr. magnan. anything else?" magnan raised his eyebrows. "you're remarkably compliant today, retief. i'll arrange transportation." "don't bother, mr. magnan. cy here will run me over. he was the pilot who ferried us over to roolit i, you recall." "i'll be with you as soon as i pack a few phone numbers, retief," the pilot said. he moved off. magnan followed him with a disapproving eye. "an uncouth sort, i fancied. i trust you're not consorting with his kind socially." "i wouldn't say that, exactly," retief said. "we just want to go over a few figures together."