An Uncrowned King Chapter 2 Part 2

In this way the matter was settled, and a few days later the two brothers left Llandiarmid for London, where Caerleon did his best to make a satisfactory disposition of his rather complicated affairs, and Cyril went round to say good-bye to his lady friends. Cyril was a very popular young man in London society, where he had found a footing as soon as he left Eton. He had slipped out of sight for a short time as unpaid attaché in the British Embassy at Pavelsburg, but the Scythian winter proved too severe for him, and he was invalided home, to take up a pleasant existence about town, while assuring every one that he was only waiting until a suitable post should offer itself for his acceptance in some more genial clime. As a poverty-stricken younger son, he was free from the pursuit of the match-making mothers and daughters who had made Caerleon’s life such a burden to him. No one wanted to marry him, and, fortunately for himself, he felt no particular desire to marry any one. The part he had chosen in the Human Comedy was that of the Laughing Philosopher, and he played it with complete satisfaction to himself and to his world. He was a universal favourite among the ladies, helping the elder ones to arrange their cotillons and organise their charity bazaars, while for the younger he designed costumes for fancy balls, and was always ready to suggest new ideas for any scheme of pleasure. With men he was not quite so popular. Those who did not know him well regarded him as entirely a ladies’ man, while some few who had penetrated more deeply into his character were a little afraid of him, and half suspected him of hiding deep designs under a mask of frivolity. This was not the case, however. Cyril was fully conscious of his own powers of mind, but he had no scruple as to using them to smooth his path in society until some more important object should come in his way.

Among the many houses at which he felt compelled to declare his plans was Mrs Sadleir’s, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he found himself approaching it at the end of an afternoon of polite lamentation and playful scolding on the subject of his madness in burying his social talents among unappreciative foreigners. Mrs Sadleir was too much at home with him to waste time in unnecessary badinage. If she had anything to say, she was wont to come to the point at once, and this particular occasion proved to be no exception to the rule.

“And so you are going to Hungary, Cyril?” she said, as he came into the room, without offering him any conventional greeting. “Oh, don’t accuse me of witchcraft. I have had Caerleon here already. He dropped in between visits to his lawyer and his tailor, I believe, and he struck me as not looking at all well, poor fellow! Now, I have only one remark to make. Has it occurred to you that Hungary and Thracia are not at all far apart?”

“No, indeed,” said Cyril, with a start. “I never thought of it. And I’m certain it hasn’t struck Caerleon either—that is, unless you have put it into his head.”

“My dear Cyril,” said Mrs Sadleir, severely, “I was not born yesterday. Your poor dear father called and gave me such a scolding last year for tempting Caerleon to throw his life away in Thracia that I vowed I would never speak to either of you on the subject again, and I haven’t mentioned it to Caerleon. I merely wish to know whether you think there is any possibility that M. Drakovics’s scheme may be carried out after all?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Cyril, reflectively. “Caerleon is in rather an ugly temper just now, for him, and I shouldn’t much wonder if he did anything foolish. The Governor is gone, you see, and it was only his expressed wish that kept him at home before.”

“Yes, I see,” returned Mrs Sadleir. “And what do you think of the matter, Cyril? On which side would your influence be thrown?”

“Well,” said Cyril, “it seems to me that it wouldn’t be bad fun to try the thing. I’m not up to larks much generally, but there’s a good deal that’s new in this one. I wouldn’t go in for it myself on any account, but I shouldn’t so much mind seeing Caerleon through. It would certainly be a new sensation, one of the few still possible for most ordinary mortals in this worn-out old world, to find oneself a king’s brother—a royalty, in fact. One hears of a few fellows who have been made kings in the Cannibal Islands, or Central Africa; but it’s not often that one gets the chance of a properly organised European kingdom. It’s not half a bad idea.”

“Then I am to understand,” said Mrs Sadleir, “that in case M. Drakovics should under any circumstances renew his offer of the crown (mind, I don’t in the least say he will, for his patriotic feelings were very much wounded by Caerleon’s refusal), your valuable advice and assistance would be cast on the side of the angels—that is, of the luckless Thracians?”

“Well,” said Cyril again, “I think the angels would get it that time. I should never think of letting Caerleon go into a job of the kind by himself; but really and truly I don’t believe he would come to such awful smash if I was there to back him up. I should make it my business to play him off against Drakovics. It isn’t healthy for that old man to get his own way to the extent he does. I am morally certain that he would very soon begin to presume if he had only Caerleon to deal with.”

“M. Drakovics ought to be very much obliged to you. I almost think it is my duty to warn him of your intentions. You know that I correspond with him occasionally? But really, Cyril, I scarcely think that it would be possible for you and Caerleon to reign together in the affectionate way you suggest, like the two kings of Barataria.”

“Or the Heavenly Twins,” said Cyril. “No, of course I mean the Siamese Twins. I’m afraid the kingdom would hardly support the double honour. No, Mrs Sadleir, my ambition is a much higher one. I mean to be the power behind the throne.”

“But that is M. Drakovics’s destined place,” objected Mrs Sadleir.

“Then I shall be the man behind Drakovics,” said Cyril, calmly.

“I don’t know that I am justified in letting a firebrand like you loose upon Thracia,” said Mrs Sadleir; “but M. Drakovics knows something about your family, and if he chooses to take Caerleon with such an encumbrance, it will be his own doing. You don’t know M. Drakovics, do you, Cyril? Well, I will give you a letter of introduction to him if you like—only to be delivered if you visit Thracia, of course. When you have had a little time in Hungary, you will be able to judge better of Caerleon’s state of mind, and to see whether he is inclined to give the kingdom a trial. If so, extend your travels into Thracia, and deliver the letter. Here it is. I have been writing it this afternoon.”

“Rather previous, surely?” asked Cyril, with uplifted eyebrows; but he took the letter readily enough, putting it into his safest pocket, and it was packed carefully among his most treasured possessions when he and his brother started on their journey, an event which was announced to the world in the stereotyped terms by the ‘Morning Post’:—

“The Marquis of Caerleon and Lord Cyril Mortimer left England yesterday afternoon for the Continent, with the intention of undertaking an extended tour in Eastern Europe.”