THE DICTATOR

by

JUSTIN McCARTHY, M. P. 

Author of 'Dear Lady Disdain' 'Donna Quixote' Etc. 

A New Edition

LondonChatto & Windus, Piccadilly1895

Printed bySpottiswoode and Co. , New-Street SquareLondon

CONTENTS

 I. AN EXILE IN LONDON

 II. A GENTLEMAN-ADVENTURER

 III. AT THE GARDEN GATE

 IV. THE LANGLEYS

 V. 'MY GREAT DEED WAS TOO GREAT'

 VI. 'HERE IS MY THRONE--BID KINGS COME BOW TO IT'

 VII. THE PRINCE AND CLAUDIO

 VIII. 'I WONDER WHY?'

 IX. THE PRIVATE SECRETARY

 X. A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE

 XI. HELENA

 XII. DOLORES

 XIII. DOLORES ON THE LOOK-OUT

 XIV. A SICILIAN KNIFE

 XV. 'IF I WERE TO ASK YOU?'

 XVI. THE CHILDREN OF GRIEVANCE

 XVII. MISS PAULO'S OBSERVATION

 XVIII. HELENA KNOWS HERSELF, BUT NOT THE OTHER

 XIX. TYPICAL AMERICANS--NO DOUBT

 XX. THE DEAREST GIRL IN THE WORLD

 XXI. MORGIANA

 XXII. THE EXPEDITION

 XXIII. THE PANGS OF THE SUPPRESSED MESSAGE

 XXIV. THE EXPLOSION

 XXV. SOME VICTIMS

 XXVI. 'WHEN ROGUES----'

 XXVII. 'SINCE IT IS SO!'

THE DICTATOR

CHAPTER I

AN EXILE IN LONDON

The May sunlight streamed in through the window, making curious patternsof the curtains upon the carpet. Outside, the tide of life was flowingfast; the green leaves of the Park were already offering agreeable shadeto early strollers; the noise of cabs and omnibuses had set in steadilyfor the day. Outside, Knightsbridge was awake and active; inside, sleepreigned with quiet. The room was one of the best bedrooms in Paulo'sHotel; it was really tastefully furnished, soberly decorated, in thestyle of the fifteenth French Louis. A very good copy of Watteau wasover the mantel-piece, the only picture in the room. There had been afire in the hearth overnight, for a grey ash lay there. Outside on theample balcony stood a laurel in a big blue pot, an emblematic tribute onPaulo's part to honourable defeat which might yet turn to victory. 

There were books about the room: a volume of Napoleon's maxims, a Frenchnovel, a little volume of Sophocles in its original Greek. Auniform-case and a sword-case stood in a corner. A map of South Americalay partially unrolled upon a chair. The dainty gilt clock over themantel-piece, a genuine heritage from the age of Louis Quinze, struckeight briskly. The Dictator stirred in his sleep. 

Presently there was a tapping at the door to the left of the bed, a doorcommunicating with the Dictator's private sitting-room. Still theDictator slept, undisturbed by the slight sound. The sound was notrepeated, but the door was softly opened, and a young man put his headinto the room and looked at the slumbering Dictator. The young man wasdark, smooth-shaven, with a look of quiet alertness in his face. Heseemed to be about thirty years of age. His dark eyes watched thesleeping figure affectionately for a few seconds. 'It seems a pity towake him, ' he muttered; and he was about to draw his head back and closethe door, when the Dictator stirred again, and suddenly waking swunghimself round in the bed and faced his visitor. The visitor smiledpleasantly. 'Buenos dias, Escelencia, ' he said. 

The Dictator propped himself up on his left arm and looked at him. 

'Good morning, Hamilton, ' he answered. 'What's the good of talkingSpanish here? Better fall back upon simple Saxon until we can see thesun rise again in Gloria. And as for the Excellency, don't you think wehad better drop that too?'

'Until we see the sun rise in Gloria, ' said Hamilton. He had pushed thedoor open now, and entered the room, leaning carelessly against thedoor-post. 'Yes; that may not be so far off, please Heaven; and, in themeantime, I think we had better stick to the title and all forms, Excellency. '

The Dictator laughed again. 'Very well, as you please. The world isgoverned by form and title, and I suppose such dignities lend a decencyeven to exile in men's eyes. Is it late? I was tired, and slept like adog. '

'Oh no; it's not late, ' Hamilton answered. 'Only just struck eight. Youwished to be called, or I shouldn't have disturbed you. '

'Yes, yes; one must get into no bad habits in London. All right; I'llget up now, and be with you in twenty minutes. '

'Very well, Excellency. ' Hamilton bowed as he spoke in his most officialmanner, and withdrew. The Dictator looked after him, laughing softly tohimself. 

'L'excellence malgré lui, ' he thought. 'An excellency in spite ofmyself. Well, I dare say Hamilton is right; it may serve to fill mysails when I have any sails to fill. In the meantime let us get up andsalute London. Thank goodness it isn't raining, at all events. '

He did his dressing unaided. 'The best master is his own man' was anaxiom with him. In the most splendid days of Gloria he had alwaysvaleted himself; and in Gloria, where assassination was always apossibility, it was certainly safer. His body-servant filled his bathand brought him his brushed clothes; for the rest he waited uponhimself. 

He did not take long in dressing. All his movements were quick, clean, and decisive; the movements of a man to whom moments are precious, of aman who has learnt by long experience how to do everything as shortlyand as well as possible. As soon as he was finished he stood for aninstant before the long looking-glass and surveyed himself. A man ofrather more than medium height, strongly built, of soldierly carriage, wearing his dark frock-coat like a uniform. His left hand seemed to missits familiar sword-hilt. The face was bronzed by Southern suns; thebrown eyes were large, and bright, and keen; the hair was a fair brown, faintly touched here and there with grey. His full moustache and beardwere trimmed to a point, almost in the Elizabethan fashion. Any seriousstudent of humanity would at once have been attracted by the face. Habitually it wore an expression of gentle gravity, and it could smilevery sweetly, but it was the face of a strong man, nevertheless, of astubborn man, of a man ambitious, a man with clear resolve, personal orotherwise, and prompt to back his resolve with all he had in life, andwith life itself. 

He put into his buttonhole the green-and-yellow button which representedthe order of the Sword and Myrtle, the great Order of La Gloria, whichin Gloria was invested with all the splendour of the Golden Fleece; theorder which could only be worn by those who had actually ruled in therepublic. That, according to satirists, did not greatly limit the numberof persons who had the right to wear it. Then he formally salutedhimself in the looking-glass. 'Excellency, ' he said again, and laughedagain. Then he opened his double windows and stepped out upon thebalcony. 

London was looking at its best just then, and his spirits stirred ingrateful response to the sunlight. How dismal everything would haveseemed, he was thinking, if the streets had been soaking under a leadensky, if the trees had been dripping dismally, if his glance directed tothe street below had rested only upon distended umbrellas glisteninglike the backs of gigantic crabs! Now everything was bright, and Londonlooked as it can look sometimes, positively beautiful. Paulo's Hotelstands, as everybody knows, in the pleasantest part of Knightsbridge, facing Kensington Gardens. The sky was brilliantly blue, the trees weredeliciously green; Knightsbridge below him lay steeped in a pure gold ofsunlight. The animation of the scene cheered him sensibly. May is seldomsummery in England, but this might have been a royal day of June. 

Opposite to him he could see the green-grey roofs of Kensington Palace. At his left he could see a public-house which bore the name and stoodupon the site of the hostelry where the Pretender's friends gathered onthe morning when they expected to see Queen Anne succeeded by the heirto the House of Stuart. Looking from the one place to the other, hereflected upon the events of that morning when those gentlemen waited invain for the expected tidings, when Bolingbroke, seated in the councilchamber at yonder palace, was so harshly interrupted. It pleased thestranger for a moment to trace a resemblance between the fallen fortunesof the Stuart Prince and his own fallen fortunes, as dethroned Dictatorof the South American Republic of Gloria. 'London is my St. Germain's, 'he said to himself with a laugh, and he drummed the national hymn ofGloria upon the balcony-rail with his fingers. 

His gaze, wandering over the green bravery of the Park, lost itself inthe blue sky. He had forgotten London; his thoughts were with anotherplace under a sky of stronger blue, in the White House of a white squarein a white town. He seemed to hear the rattle of rifle shots, shrilltrumpet calls, angry party cries, the clatter of desperate chargesacross the open space, the angry despair of repulses, the piteouspageant of civil war. Knightsbridge knew nothing of all that. Danes mayhave fought there, the chivalry of the White Rose or the Red Rose riddenthere, gallant Cavaliers have spurred along it to fight for their king. All that was past; no troops moved there now in hostility to brethren oftheir blood. But to that one Englishman standing there, moody in spiteof the sunlight, the scene which his eyes saw was not the tranquilLondon street, but the Plaza Nacional of Gloria, red with blood, and'cut up, ' in the painter's sense, with corpses. 

'Shall I ever get back? Shall I ever get back?' that was the burden towhich his thoughts were dancing. His spirit began to rage within him tothink that he was here, in London, helpless, almost alone, when he oughtto be out there, sword in hand, dictating terms to rebels repentant orimpotent. He gave a groan at the contrast, and then he laughed a littlebitterly and called himself a fool. 'Things might be worse, ' he said. 'They might have shot me. Better for them if they had, and worse forGloria. Yes, I am sure of it--worse for Gloria!'

His mind was back in London now, back in the leafy Park, back inKnightsbridge. He looked down into the street, and noted that a man wasloitering on the opposite side. The man in the street saw that theDictator noted him. He looked up at the Dictator, looked up above theDictator, and, raising his hat, pointed as if towards the sky. TheDictator, following the direction of the gesture, turned slightly andlooked upwards, and received a sudden thrill of pleasure, for just abovehim, high in the air, he could see the flutter of a mass of green andyellow, the colours of the national flag of Gloria. Mr. Paulo, mindfulof what was due even to exiled sovereignty, had flown the Gloria flag inhonour of the illustrious guest beneath his roof. When that guest lookeddown again the man in the street had disappeared. 

'That is a good omen. I accept it, ' said the Dictator. 'I wonder who myfriend was?' He turned to go back into his room, and in doing so noticedthe laurel. 

'Another good omen, ' he said. 'My fortunes feel more summerlike already. The old flag still flying over me, an unknown friend to cheer me, and alaurel to prophesy victory--what more could an exile wish? Hisbreakfast, I think, ' and on this reflection he went back into hisbedroom, and, opening the door through which Hamilton had talked to him, entered the sitting-room. 

CHAPTER II

A GENTLEMAN ADVENTURER

The room which the Dictator entered was an attractive room, bright withflowers, which Miss Paulo had been pleased to arrange herself--brightwith the persevering sunshine. It was decorated, like his bedroom, withthe restrained richness of the mid-eighteenth century. With discretion, Paulo had slightly adapted the accessories of the room to please bysuggestion the susceptibilities of its occupant. A marble bust of Cæsarstood upon the dwarf bookcase. A copy of a famous portrait of Napoleonwas on one of the walls; on another an engraving of Dr. Francia stillmore delicately associated great leaders with South America. At a tablein one corner of the room--a table honeycombed with drawers andpigeon-holes, and covered with papers, letters, documents of allkinds--Hamilton sat writing rapidly. Another table nearer the window, set apart for the Dictator's own use, had everything ready forbusiness--had, moreover, in a graceful bowl of tinted glass, a largeyellow carnation, his favourite flower, the flower which had come to bethe badge of those of his inclining. This, again, was a touch of MissPaulo's sympathetic handiwork. 

The Dictator, whose mood had brightened, smiled again at this littleproof of personal interest in his welfare. As he entered, Hamiltondropped his pen, sprang to his feet, and advanced respectfully to greethim. The Dictator pointed to the yellow carnation. 

'The way of the exiled autocrat is made smooth for him here, at least, 'he said. 

Hamilton inclined his head gravely. 'Mr. Paulo knows what is due, ' heanswered, 'to John Ericson, to the victor of San Felipe and the Dictatorof Gloria. He knows how to entertain one who is by right, if not infact, a reigning sovereign. '

'He hangs out our banner on the outer wall, ' said Ericson, with anassumed gravity as great as Hamilton's own. Then he burst into a laughand said, 'My dear Hamilton, it's all very well to talk of the victor ofSan Felipe and the Dictator of Gloria. But the victor of San Felipe isthe victim of the Plaza Nacional, and the Dictator of Gloria is atpresent but one inconsiderable item added to the exile world of London, one more of the many refugees who hide their heads here, and are unnotedand unknown. '

His voice had fallen a little as his sentences succeeded each other, andthe mirth in his voice had a bitter ring in it when he ended. His eyeranged from the bust to the picture, and from the picture to theengraving contemplatively. 

Something in the contemplation appeared to cheer him, for his look wasbrighter, and his voice had the old joyous ring in it when he spokeagain. It was after a few minutes' silence deferentially observed byHamilton, who seemed to follow and to respect the course of his leader'sthoughts. 

'Well, ' he said, 'how is the old world getting on? Does she roll withunabated energy in her familiar orbit, indifferent to the fall of statesand the fate of rulers? Stands Gloria where she did?'

Hamilton laughed. 'The world has certainly not grown honest, but thereare honest men in her. Here is a telegram from Gloria which came thismorning. It was sent, of course, as usual, to our City friends, who sentit on here immediately. ' He handed the despatch to his chief, who seizedit and read it eagerly. It seemed a commonplace message enough--thecommunication of one commercial gentleman in Gloria with anothercommercial gentleman in Farringdon Street. But to the eyes of Hamiltonand of Ericson it meant a great deal. It was a secret communication fromone of the most influential of the Dictator's adherents in Gloria. Itwas full of hope, strenuously encouraging. The Dictator's facelightened. 

'Anything else?' he asked. 

'These letters, ' Hamilton answered, taking up a bundle from the desk atwhich he had been sitting. 'Five are from money-lenders offering tofinance your next attempt. There are thirty-three requests forautographs, twenty-two requests for interviews, one very pressing from"The Catapult, " another from "The Moon"--Society papers, I believe; teninvitations to dinner, six to luncheon; an offer from a well-knownlecturing agency to run you in the United States; an application from apublisher for a series of articles entitled "How I Governed Gloria, " onyour own terms; a letter from a certain Oisin Stewart Sarrasin, whocalls himself Captain, and signs himself a soldier of fortune. '

'What does _he_ want?' asked Ericson. 'His seems to be the mostinteresting thing in the lot. '

'He offers to lend you his well-worn sword for the re-establishment ofyour rule. He hints that he has an infallible plan of victory, that in aword he is your very man. '

The Dictator smiled a little grimly. 'I thought I could do my ownfighting, ' he said. 'But I suppose everybody will be wanting to help menow, every adventurer in Europe who thinks that I can no longer helpmyself. I don't think we need trouble Captain Stewart. Is that hisname?'

'Stewart Sarrasin. '

'Sarrasin--all right. Is that all?'

'Practically all, ' Hamilton answered. 'A few other letters of noimportance. Stay; no, I forgot. These cards were left this morning, alittle after nine o'clock, by a young lady who rode up attended by hergroom. '

'A young lady, ' said Ericson, in some surprise, as he extended his handfor the cards. 

'Yes, and a very pretty young lady too, ' Hamilton answered, 'for Ihappened to be in the hall at the time, and saw her. '

Ericson took the cards and looked at them. They were two in number; onewas a man's card, one a woman's. The man's card bore the legend 'SirRupert Langley, ' the woman's was merely inscribed 'Helena Langley. ' Theaddress was a house at Prince's Gate. 

The Dictator looked up surprised. 'Sir Rupert Langley, the ForeignSecretary?'

'I suppose it must be, ' Hamilton said, 'there can't be two men of thesame name. I have a dim idea of reading something about his daughter inthe papers some time ago, just before our revolution, but I can'tremember what it was. '

'Very good of them to honour fallen greatness, in any case, ' Ericsonsaid. 'I seem to have more friends than I dreamed of. In the meantimelet us have breakfast. '

Hamilton rang the bell, and a man brought in the coffee and rolls whichconstituted the Dictator's simple breakfast. While he was eating it heglanced over the letters that had come. 'Better refuse all theseinvitations, Hamilton. '

Hamilton expostulated. He was Ericson's intimate and adviser, as well assecretary. 

'Do you think that is the best thing to do?' he suggested. 'Isn't itbetter to show yourself as much as possible, to make as many friends asyou can? There's a good deal to be done in that way, and nothing muchelse to do for the present. Really I think it would be better to acceptsome of them. Several are from influential political men. '

'Do you think these influential political men would help me?' theDictator asked, good-humouredly cynical. 'Did they help Kossuth? Didthey help Garibaldi? What I want are war-ships, soldiers, a big loan, not the agreeable conversation of amiable politicians. '

'Nevertheless----' Hamilton began to protest. 

His chief cut him short. 'Do as you please in the matter, my dear boy, 'he said. 'It can't do any harm, anyhow. Accept all you think it best toaccept; decline the others. I leave myself confidently in your hands. '

'What are you going to do this morning?' Hamilton inquired. 'There areone or two people we ought to think of seeing at once. We mustn't letthe grass grow under our feet for one moment. '

'My dear boy, ' said Ericson good-humouredly, 'the grass shall grow undermy feet to-day, so far as all that is concerned. I haven't been inLondon for ten years, and I have something to do before I do anythingelse. To-morrow you may do as you please with me. But if you insist upondevoting this day to the cause----'

'Of course I do, ' said Hamilton. 

'Then I graciously permit you to work at it all day, while I go off andamuse myself in a way of my own. You might, if you can spare the time, make a call at the Foreign Office and say I should be glad to wait onSir Rupert Langley there, any day and hour that suit him--we must smoothdown the dignity of these Foreign Secretaries, I suppose?'

'Oh, of course, ' Hamilton said, peremptorily. Hamilton took most thingsgravely; the Dictator usually did not. Hamilton seemed a little put outbecause his chief should have even indirectly suggested the possibilityof his not waiting on Sir Rupert Langley at the Foreign Office. 

'All right, boy; it shall be done. And look here, Hamilton, as we aregoing to do the right thing, why should you not leave cards for me andfor yourself at Sir Rupert Langley's house? You might see the daughter. '

'Oh, she never heard of me, ' Hamilton said hastily. 

'The daughter of a Foreign Secretary?'

'Anyhow, of course I'll call if you wish it, Excellency. '

'Good boy! And do you know I have taken a fancy that I should like tosee this soldier of fortune, Captain----'

'Sarrasin?'

'Sarrasin--yes. Will you drop him a line and suggest aninterview--pretty soon? You know all about my times and engagements. '

'Certainly, your Excellency, ' Hamilton replied, with almost militaryformality and precision; and the Dictator departed. 

CHAPTER III

AT THE GARDEN GATE

Londoners are so habituated to hear London abused as an ugly city thatthey are disposed too often to accept the accusation humbly. Yet theaccusation is singularly unjust. If much of London is extremelyunlovely, much might fairly be called beautiful. The new Chelsea thathas arisen on the ashes of the old might well arouse the admiration evenof the most exasperated foreigner. There are recently created regions inthat great tract of the earth's surface known as South Kensington whichin their quaintness of architectural form and braveness of red brick candefy the gloom of a civic March or November. Old London is disappearingday by day, but bits of it remain, bits dear to those familiar withthem, bits worth the enterprise of the adventurous, which call for frankadmiration and frank praise even of people who hated London as fully asHeinrich Heine did. But of all parts of the great capital none perhapsdeserve so fully the title to be called beautiful as some portions ofHampstead Heath. 

Some such reflections floated lightly through the mind of a man whostood, on this May afternoon, on a high point of Hampstead Hill. He hadclimbed thither from a certain point just beyond the Regent's Park, towhich he had driven from Knightsbridge. From that point out the way wasa familiar way to him, and he enjoyed walking along it and noting oldspots and the changes that time had wrought. Now, having reached thehighest point of the ascent, he paused, standing on the grass of theheath, and turning round, with his back to the country, looked down uponthe town. 

There is no better place from which to survey London. To impress astranger with any sense of the charm of London as a whole, let him betaken to that vantage-ground and bidden to gaze. The great city seemedto lie below and around him as in a hollow, tinged and glorified by theluminous haze of the May day. The countless spires which pointed toheaven in all directions gave the vast agglomeration of buildingssomething of an Italian air; it reminded the beholder agreeably ofFlorence. To right and to left the gigantic city spread, its grey wreathof eternal smoke resting lightly upon its fretted head, the faint roarof its endless activity coming up distinctly there in the clear windlessair. The beholder surveyed it and sighed slightly, as he tracedmeaningless symbols on the turf with the point of his stick. 

'What did Cæsar say?' he murmured. 'Better be the first man in a villagethan the second man in Rome! Well, there never was any chance of mybeing the second man in Rome; but, at least, I have been the first manin my village, and that is something. I suppose I reckon as about thelast man there now. Well, we shall see. '

He shrugged his shoulders, nodded a farewell to the city below him, and, turning round, proceeded to walk leisurely across the Heath. The grasswas soft and springy, the earth seemed to answer with agreeableelasticity to his tread, the air was exquisitely clear, keen, andexhilarating. He began to move more briskly, feeling quite boyish again. The years seemed to roll away from him as rifts of sea fog roll awaybefore a wind. 

Even Gloria seemed as if it had never been--aye, and things beforeGloria was, events when he was still really quite a young man. 

He cut at the tufted grasses with his stick, swinging it in dexterouscircles as if it had been his sword. He found himself humming a tunealmost unconsciously, but when he paused to consider what the tune washe found it was the national march of Gloria. Then he stopped humming, and went on for a while silently and less joyously. But the gladness ofthe fine morning, of the clear air, of the familiar place, tookpossession of him again. His face once more unclouded and his spiritsmounted. 

'The place hasn't changed much, ' he said to himself, looking around himwhile he walked. Then he corrected himself, for it had changed a gooddeal. There were many more red brick houses dotting the landscape thanthere had been when he last looked upon it some seven years earlier. 

In all directions these red houses were springing up, quaintly gabled, much verandahed, pointed, fantastic, brilliant. They made the wholeneighbourhood of the Heath look like the Merrie England of a comicopera. Yet they were pretty in their way; many were designed by ablearchitects, and pleased with a balanced sense of proportion and animpression of beauty and fitness. Many, of course, lacked this, were butcheap and clumsy imitations of a prevailing mode, but, taken alltogether, the effect was agreeable, the effect of the varied reds, russet, and scarlet and warm crimson against the fresh green of thegrass and trees and the pale faint blue of the May sky. 

To the observer they seemed to suit very well the place, the climate, the conditions of life. They were infinitely better than suburban andrural cottages people used to build when he was a boy. His mind driftedaway to the kind of houses he had been more familiar with of late years, houses half Spanish, half tropical; with their wide courtyards and gailystriped awnings and white walls glaring under a glaring sun. 

'Yes, all this is very restful, ' he thought--'restful, peaceful, wholesome. ' He found himself repeating softly the lines of Browning, beginning, 'Oh to be in England now that April's here, ' and thetransitions of thought carried him to that other poem beginning, 'It wasroses, roses, all the way, ' with its satire on fallen ambition. Thinkingof it, he first frowned and then laughed. 

He walked a little way, cresting the rising ground, till he came to anopen space with an unbroken view over the level country to Barnet. Here, the last of the houses that could claim to belong to the great Londonarmy stood alone in its own considerable space of ground. It was a veryold-fashioned house; it had been half farmhouse, half hall, in thelatter days of the last century, and the dull red brick of its walls, and the dull red tiles of its roof showed warm and attractive throughthe green of the encircling trees. There was a small garden in front, planted with pine trees, through which a winding path led up to the lowporch of the dwelling. Behind the house a very large garden extended, agreat garden which he knew so well, with its lengths of undulatingrusset orchard wall, and its divisions into flower garden and fruitgarden and vegetable garden, and the field beyond, where successivegenerations of ponies fed, and where he had loved to play in boyhood. 

He rested his hand on the upper rim of the garden gate, and looked withcurious affection at the inscription in faded gold letters that ranalong it. The inscription read, 'Blarulfsgarth, ' and he remembered everso far back asking what that inscription meant, and being told that itwas Icelandic, and that it meant the Garth, or Farm, of the Blue Wolf. And he remembered, too, being told the tale from which the name came, atale that was related of an ancestor of his, real or imaginary, who hadlived and died centuries ago in a grey northern land. It was curiousthat, as he stood there, so many recollections of his childhood shouldcome back to him. He was a man, and not a very young man, when he lastlaid his hand upon that gate, and yet it seemed to him now as if he hadleft it when he was quite a little child, and was returning now for thefirst time with the feelings of a man to the place where he had passedhis infancy. 

His hand slipped down to the latch, but he did not yet lift it. He stilllingered while he turned for a moment and looked over the wide extent oflevel smiling country that stretched out and away before him. The lasttime he had looked on that sweep of earth he was going off to seekadventure in a far land, in a new world. He had thought himself a brokenman; he was sick of England; his thoughts in their desperation hadturned to the country which was only a name to him, the country where hewas born. Now the day came vividly back to him on which he had saidgood-bye to that place, and looked with a melancholy disdain upon thesoft English fields. It was an earlier season of the year, a day towardsthe end of March, when the skies were still but faintly blue, and therewas little green abroad. Ten years ago: how many things had passed inthose ten years, what struggles and successes, what struggles again, allending in that three days' fight and the last stand in the PlazaNacional of Valdorado! He turned away from the scene and pressed hishand upon the latch. 

As he touched the latch someone appeared in the porch. It was an oldlady dressed in black. She had soft grey hair, and on that grey hair shewore an old-fashioned cap that was almost coquettish by very reason ofits old fashion. She had a very sweet, kind face, all cockled withwrinkles like a sheet of crumpled tissue paper, but very beautiful inits age. It was a face that a modern French painter would have loved topaint--a face that a sculptor of the Renaissance would have delighted toreproduce in faithful, faultless bronze or marble. 

At sight of the sweet old lady the Dictator's heart gave a great leap, and he pressed down the latch hurriedly and swung the gate wide open. The sound of the clicking latch and the swinging gate slightly grindingon the path aroused the old lady's attention. She saw the Dictator, and, with a little cry of joy, running with an almost girlish activity tomeet the bearded man who was coming rapidly along the pathway, inanother moment she had caught him in her arms and was clasping him andkissing him enthusiastically. The Dictator returned her caresses warmly. He was smiling, but there were tears in his eyes. It was so odd beingwelcomed back like this in the old place after all that had passed. 

'I knew you would come to-day, my dear, ' the old lady said half sobbing, half laughing. 'You said you would, and I knew you would. You would cometo your old aunt first of all. '

'Why, of course, of course I would, my dear, ' the Dictator answered, softly touching the grey hair on the forehead below the frilled cap. 

'But I didn't expect you so early, ' the old lady went on. 'I didn'tthink you would get up so soon on your first morning. You must be sotired, my dear, so very tired. '

She was holding his left hand in her right now, and they were walkingslowly side by side up by the little path through the fir trees to thehouse. 

'Oh, I'm not so very tired as all that comes to, ' he said with a laugh. 'A long voyage is a restful thing, and I had time to get over thefatigue of the----' he seemed to pause an instant for a word; then hewent on, 'the trouble, while I was on board the "Almirante Cochrane. " Doyou know they were quite kind to me on board the "Almirante Cochrane"?'

The old lady's delicate face flushed angrily. 'The wretches, the wickedwretches!' she said quite fiercely, and the thin fingers closed tightlyupon his and shook, agitating the lace ruffles at her wrists. 

The Dictator laughed again. It seemed too strange to have all those wildadventures quietly discussed in a Hampstead garden with a silver-hairedelderly lady in a cap. 

'Oh, come, ' he said, 'they weren't so bad; they weren't half bad, really. Why, you know, they might have shot me out of hand. I think if Ihad been in their place I should have shot out of hand, do you know, aunt?'

'Oh, surely they would never have dared--you an Englishman?'

'I am a citizen of Gloria, aunt. '

'You who were so good to them. '

'Well, as to my being good to them, there are two to tell that tale. Thegentlemen of the Congress don't put a high price upon my goodness, Ifancy. ' He laughed a little bitterly. 'I certainly meant to do them somegood, and I even thought I had succeeded. My dear aunt, people don'talways like being done good to. I remember that myself when I was asmall boy. I used to fret and fume at the things which were done for mygood; that was because I was a child. The crowd is always a child. '

They had come to the porch by this time, and had stopped short at thethreshold. The little porch was draped in flowers and foliage, andlooked very pretty. 

'You were always a good child, ' said the old lady affectionately. 

Ericson looked down at her rather wistfully. 

'Do you think I was?' he asked, and there was a tender irony in hisvoice which made the playful question almost pathetic. 'If I had been agood child I should have been content and had no roving disposition, andhave found my home and my world at Hampstead, instead of straying offinto another hemisphere, only to be sent back at last like a bad penny. '

'So you would, ' said the old lady, very softly, more as if she werespeaking to herself than to him. 'So you would if----'

She did not finish her sentence. But her nephew, who knew andunderstood, repeated the last word. 

'If, ' he said, and he, too, sighed. 

The old lady caught the sound, and with a pretty little air ofdetermination she called up a smile to her face. 

'Shall we go into the house, or shall we sit awhile in the garden? It isalmost too fine a day to be indoors. '

'Oh, let us sit out, please, ' said Ericson. He had driven the sorrowfrom his voice, and its tones were almost joyous. 'Is the oldgarden-seat still there?'

'Why, of course it is. I sit there always in fine weather. '

They wandered round to the back by a path that skirted the house, a pathall broidered with rose-bushes. At the back, the garden was very large, beginning with a spacious stretch of lawn that ran right up to the wideFrench windows. There were several noble old trees which stood sentinelover this part of the garden, and beneath one of these trees, a veryancient elm, was the sturdy garden-seat which the Dictator remembered sowell. 

'How many pleasant fairy tales you have told me under this tree, aunt, 'said the Dictator, as soon as they had sat down. 'I should like to lieon the grass again and listen to your voice, and dream of Njal, andGrettir, and Sigurd, as I used to do. '

'It is your turn to tell me stories now, ' said the old lady. 'Not fairystories, but true ones. '

The Dictator laughed. 'You know all that there is to tell, ' he said. 'What my letters didn't say you must have found from the newspapers. '

'But I want to know more than you wrote, more than the newspapersgave--everything. '

'In fact, you want a full, true, and particular account of the lateremarkable revolution in Gloria, which ended in the deposition and exileof the alien tyrant. My dear aunt, it would take a couple of weeks atthe least computation to do the theme justice. '

'I am sure that I shouldn't tire of listening, ' said Miss Ericson, andthere were tears in her bright old eyes and a tremor in her brave oldvoice as she said so. 

The Dictator laughed, but he stooped and kissed the old lady again veryaffectionately. 

'Why, you would be as bad as I used to be, ' he said. 'I never was tiredof your _sagas_, and when one came to an end I wanted a new one at once, or at least the old one over again. '

He looked away from her and all around the garden as he spoke. The windsand rains and suns of all those years had altered it but little. 

'We talk of the shortness of life, ' he said; 'but sometimes life seemsquite long. Think of the years and years since I was a little fellow, and sat here where I sit now, then, as now, by your side, and cried atthe deeds of my forbears and sighed for the gods of the North. Do youremember?'

'Oh, yes; oh, yes. How could I forget? You, my dear, in your bustlinglife might forget; but I, day after day in this great old garden, may beforgiven for an old woman's fancy that time has stood still, and thatyou are still the little boy I love so well. '

She held out her hand to him, and he clasped it tenderly, full of anaffectionate emotion that did not call for speech. 

There were somewhat similar thoughts in both their minds. He was askinghimself if, after all, it would not have been just as well to remain inthat tranquil nook, so sheltered from the storms of life, so consecratedby tender affection. What had he done that was worth rising up to crossthe street for, after all? He had dreamed a dream, and had been harshlyawakened. What was the good of it all? A melancholy seemed to settleupon him in that place, so filled with the memories of his childhood. Asfor his companion, she was asking herself if it would not have beenbetter for him to stay at home and live a quiet English life, and be herhelp and solace. 

Both looked up from their reverie, met each other's melancholy glances, and smiled. 

'Why, ' said Miss Ericson, 'what nonsense this is! Here are we who havenot met for ages, and we can find nothing better to do than to sit andbrood! We ought to be ashamed of ourselves. '

'We ought, ' said the Dictator, 'and for my poor part I am. So you wantto hear my adventures?'

Miss Ericson nodded, but the narrative was interrupted. The wide Frenchwindows at the back of the house opened and a man entered the garden. His smooth voice was heard explaining to the maid that he would joinMiss Ericson in the garden. 

The new-comer made his way along the garden, with extended hand, andblinking amiably. The Dictator, turning at his approach, surveyed himwith some surprise. He was a large, loosely made man, with a large whiteface, and his somewhat ungainly body was clothed in loose light materialthat was almost white in hue. His large and slightly surprised eyes wereof a kindly blue; his hair was a vague yellow; his large mouth was weak;his pointed chin was undecided. He dimly suggested some association tothe Dictator; after a few seconds he found that the association was withthe Knave of Hearts in an ordinary pack of playing-cards. 

'This is a friend of mine, a neighbour who often pays me a visit, ' saidthe old lady hurriedly, as the white figure loomed along towards them. 'He is a most agreeable man, very companionable indeed, and learned, too--extremely learned. '

This was all that she had time to say before the white gentleman cametoo close to them to permit of further conversation concerning hismerits or defects. 

The new-comer raised his hat, a huge, white, loose, shapeless felt, inkeeping with his ill-defined attire, and made an awkward bow which atonce included the old lady and the Dictator, on whom the blue eyesbeamed for a moment in good-natured wonder. 

'Good morning, Miss Ericson, ' said the new-comer. He spoke to MissEricson; but it was evident that his thoughts were distracted. His vagueblue eyes were fixed in benign bewilderment upon the Dictator's face. 

Miss Ericson rose; so did her nephew. Miss Ericson spoke. 

'Good morning, Mr. Sarrasin. Let me present you to my nephew, of whomyou have heard so much. Nephew, this is Mr. Gilbert Sarrasin. '

The new-comer extended both hands; they were very large hands, and verysoft and very white. He enfolded the Dictator's extended right hand inone of his, and beamed upon him in unaffected joy. 

'Not your nephew, Miss Ericson--not the hero of the hour? Is itpossible; is it possible? My dear sir, my very dear and honoured sir, Icannot tell you how rejoiced I am, how proud I am, to have the privilegeof meeting you. '

The Dictator returned his friendly clasp with a warm pressure. He wassomewhat amused by this unexpected enthusiasm. 

'You are very good indeed, Mr. Sarrasin. ' Then, repeating the name tohimself, he added, 'Your name seems to be familiar to me. '

The white gentleman shook his head with something like playfulrepudiation. 

'Not my name, I think; no, not my name, I feel sure. ' He accentuated thepossessive pronoun strongly, and then proceeded to explain theaccentuation, smiling more and more amiably as he did so. 'No, not myname; my brother's--my brother's, I fancy. '

'Your brother's?' the Dictator said inquiringly. There was someassociation in his mind with the name of Sarrasin, but he could notreduce it to precise knowledge. 

'Yes, my brother, ' said the white gentleman. 'My brother, Oisin StewartSarrasin, whose name, I am proud to think, is familiar in many parts ofthe world. '

The recollection he was seeking came to the Dictator. It was the namethat Hamilton had given to him that morning, the name of the man who hadwritten to him, and who had signed himself 'a soldier of fortune. ' Hesmiled back at the white gentleman. 

'Yes, ' he said truthfully, 'I have heard your brother's name. It is astriking name. '

The white gentleman was delighted. He rubbed his large white handstogether, and almost seemed as if he might purr in the excess of hisgratification. He glanced enthusiastically at Miss Ericson. 

'Ah!' he went on. 'My brother is a remarkable man. I may even say so inyour illustrious presence; he is a remarkable man. There are degrees, ofcourse, ' and he bowed apologetically to the Dictator; 'but he isremarkable. '

'I have not the least doubt of that, ' said the Dictator politely. 

The white gentleman seemed much pleased. At a sign from Miss Ericson hesat down upon a garden-chair, still slowly and contentedly rubbing hiswhite hands together. Miss Ericson and her nephew resumed their seats. 

'Captain Sarrasin is a great traveller, ' Miss Ericson said explanatorilyto the Dictator. The Dictator bowed his head. He did not quite know whatto say, and so, for the moment, said nothing. The white gentleman tookadvantage of the pause. 

'Yes, ' he said, 'yes, my brother is a great traveller. A wonderful man, sir; all parts of the wide world are as familiar as home to him. Thedeserts of the nomad Arabs, the Prairies of the great West, the Steppesof the frozen North, the Pampas of South America; why, he knows them allbetter than most people know Piccadilly. '

'South America?' questioned the Dictator; 'your brother is acquaintedwith South America?'

'Intimately acquainted, ' replied Mr. Sarrasin. 'I hope you will meethim. You and he might have much to talk about. He knew Gloria in the olddays. '

The Dictator expressed courteously his desire to have the pleasure ofmeeting Captain Sarrasin. 'And you, are you a traveller as well?' heasked. 

Mr. Sarrasin shook his head, and when he spoke there was a certainaccent of plaintiveness in his reply. 

'No, ' he said, 'not at all, not at all. My brother and I resemble eachother very slightly. He has the wanderer's spirit; I am a confirmedstay-at-home. While he thinks nothing of starting off at any moment forthe other ends of the earth, I have never been outside our island, havenever been much away from London. '

'Isn't that curious?' asked Miss Ericson, who evidently took muchpleasure in the conversation of the white gentleman. The Dictatorassented. It was very curious. 

'Yet I am fond of travel, too, in my way, ' Mr. Sarrasin went on, delighted to have found an appreciative audience. 'I read about itlargely. I read all the old books of travel, and all the new ones, too, for the matter of that. I have quite a little library of voyages, travels, and explorations in my little home. I should like you to see itsome time if you should so far honour me. '

The Dictator declared that he should be delighted. Mr. Sarrasin, muchencouraged, went on again. 

'There is nothing I like better than to sit by my fire of a winter'sevening, or in my garden of a summer afternoon, and read of theadventures of great travellers. It makes me feel as if I had travelledmyself. '

'And Mr. Sarrasin tells me what he has read, and makes me, too, feeltravelled, ' said Miss Ericson. 

'Perhaps you get all the pleasure in that way with none of the fatigue, 'the Dictator suggested. 

Mr. Sarrasin nodded. 'Very likely we do. I think it was à Kempis whoprotested against the vanity of wandering. But I fear it was not àKempis's reasons that deterred me; but an invincible laziness andunconquerable desire to be doing nothing. '

'Travelling is generally uncomfortable, ' the Dictator admitted. He wasbeginning to feel an interest in his curious, whimsical interlocutor. 

'Yes, ' Mr. Sarrasin went on dreamily. 'But there are times when I regretthe absence of experience. I have tramped in fancy through tropicalforests with Stanley or Cameron, dwelt in the desert with Burton, battled in Nicaragua with Walker, but all only as it were in dreams. '

'We are such stuff as dreams are made of, ' the Dictator observedsententiously. 

'And our little lives are rounded by a sleep, ' Miss Ericson said softly, completing the quotation. 

'Yes, yes, ' said Mr. Sarrasin; 'but mine are dreams within a dream. ' Hewas beginning to grow quite communicative as he sat there with his bigstick between his knees, and his amorphous felt hat pushed back from hisbroad white forehead. 

'Sometimes my travels seem very real to me. If I have been reading Fordor Kinglake, or Warburton or Lane, I have but to lay the volume down andclose my eyes, and all that I have been reading about seems to takeshape and sound, and colour and life. I hear the tinkling of themule-bells and the guttural cries of the muleteers, and I see theSpanish market-place, with its arcades and its ancient cathedral; or thedelicate pillars of the Parthenon, yellow in the clear Athenian air; orStamboul, where the East and West join hands; or Egypt and the desert, and the Nile and the pyramids; or the Holy Land and the walls ofJerusalem--ah! it is all very wonderful, and then I open my eyes andblink at my dying fire, and look at my slippered feet, and remember thatI am a stout old gentleman who has never left his native land, and Iyawn and take my candle and go to my bed. '

There was something so curiously pathetic and yet comic about the whitegentleman's case, about his odd blend of bookish knowledge and personalinexperience, that the Dictator could scarcely forbear smiling. But hedid forbear, and he spoke with all gravity. 

'I am not sure that you haven't the better part after all, ' he said. 'Ifind that the chief pleasure of travel lies in recollection. _You_ seemto get the recollection without the trouble. '

'Perhaps so, ' said Mr. Sarrasin; 'perhaps so. But I think I would ratherhave had the trouble as well. Believe me, my dear sir, believe adreamer, that action is better than dreams. Ah! how much better it isfor you, sir, to sit here, a disappointed man for the moment it may be, but a man with a glowing past behind him, than, like me, to have nothingto look back upon! My adventures are but compounded out of the essencesof many books. I have never really lived a day; you have lived every dayof your life. Believe me, you are much to be envied. '

There was genuine conviction in the white gentleman's voice as he spokethese words, and the note of genuine conviction troubled the Dictator inhis uncertainty whether to laugh or cry. He chose a medium course andsmiled slightly. 

'I should think, Mr. Sarrasin, that you are the only one in Londonto-day who looks upon me as a man much to be envied. London, if itthinks of me at all, thinks of me only as a disastrous failure, as anunsuccessful exile--a man of no account, in a word. '

Mr. Sarrasin shook his head vehemently. 'It is not so, ' he protested, 'not so at all. Nobody really thinks like that, but if everybody elsedid, my brother Oisin Stewart Sarrasin certainly does not think likethat, and his opinion is better worth having than that of most othermen. You have no warmer admirer in the world than my brother, Mr. Ericson. '

The Dictator expressed much satisfaction at having earned the goodopinion of Mr. Sarrasin's brother. 

'You would like him, I am sure, ' said Mr. Sarrasin. 'You would find hima kindred spirit. '

The Dictator graciously expressed his confidence that he should find akindred spirit in Mr. Sarrasin's brother. Then Mr. Sarrasin, apparentlymuch delighted with his interview, rose to his feet and declared that itwas time for him to depart. He shook hands very warmly with MissEricson, but he held the Dictator's hands with a grasp that was devotedin its enthusiasm. Then, expressing repeatedly the hope that he mightsoon meet the Dictator again, and once more assuring him of the kinshipbetween the Dictator and Captain Oisin Stewart Sarrasin, the whitegentleman took himself off, a pale bulky figure looming heavily acrossthe grassy lawn and through the French window into the darkness of thesitting-room. 

When he was quite out of sight the Dictator, who had followed hisretreating figure with his eyes, turned to Miss Ericson with a look ofinquiry. Miss Ericson smiled. 

'Who is Mr. Sarrasin?' the Dictator asked. 'He has come up since mytime. '

'Oh, yes; he first came to live here about six years ago. He is one ofthe best souls in the world; simple, good-hearted, an eternal child. '

'What is he?' The Dictator asked. 

'Well, he is nothing in particular now. He was in the City, his fatherwas the head of a very wealthy firm of tea merchants, Sarrasin, Jermyn, & Co. When the father died a few years ago he left all his property toMr. Gilbert, and then Mr. Gilbert went out of business and came here. '

'He does not look as if he would make a very good business man, ' saidthe Dictator. 

'No; but he was very patient and devoted to it for his father's sake. Now, since he has been free to do as he likes, he has devoted himself tofolk-lore. '

'To folk-lore?'

'Yes, to the study of fairy tales, of comparative mythology. I am quitelearned in it now since I have had Mr. Sarrasin for a neighbour, andknow more about "Puss in Boots" and "Jack and the Beanstalk" than I everdid when I was a girl. '

'Really, ' said the Dictator, with a kind of sigh. 'Does he devotehimself to fairy tales?' It crossed his mind that a few moments beforehe had been thinking of himself as a small child in that garden, with ataste for fairy tales, and regretting that he had not stayed in thatgarden. Now, with the dust of battle and the ashes of defeat upon him, he came back to find a man much older than himself, who seemed still toremain a child, and to be entranced with fairy tales. 'I wish I werelike that, ' the Dictator said to himself, and then the veil seemed tolift, and he saw again the Plaza Nacional of Gloria, and the GovernmentPalace, where he had laboured at laws for a free people. 'No, ' hethought, 'no; action, action. '

'What are you thinking of?' asked Miss Ericson softly. 'You seem to bequite lost in thought. '

'I was thinking of Mr. Sarrasin, ' answered the Dictator. 'Forgive me forletting my thoughts drift. And the brother, what sort of man is thiswonderful brother?'

'I have only seen the brother a very few times, ' said Miss Ericsondubiously. 'I can hardly form an opinion. I do not think he is as niceas his brother, or, indeed, as nice as his brother believes him to be. '

'What is his record?'

'He didn't get on with his father. He was sent against his will to Chinato work in the firm's offices in Shanghai. But he hated the business, and broke away and entered the Chinese army, I believe, and his fatherwas furious and cut him off. Since then he has been all over the world, and served all sorts of causes. I believe he is a kind of soldier offortune. '

The Dictator smiled, remembering Captain Sarrasin's own words. 

'And has he made his fortune?'

'Oh, no; I believe not. But Gilbert behaved so well. When he came intothe property he wanted to share it all with his disinherited brother, for whom he has the greatest affection. '

'A good fellow, your Gilbert Sarrasin. '

'The best. But the brother wouldn't take it, and it was with difficultythat Gilbert induced him to accept so much as would allow him a smallcertainty of income. '

'So. A good fellow, too, your Oisin Stewart Sarrasin, it would seem; atleast in that particular. '

'Yes; of course. The brothers don't meet very often, for CaptainSarrasin----'

'Where does he take his title from?'

'He was captain in some Turkish irregular cavalry. '

'Turkish irregular cavalry? That must be a delightful corps, ' theDictator said with a smile. 

'At least he was captain in several services, ' Miss Ericson went on;'but I believe that is the one he prefers and still holds. As I wasgoing to say, Captain Sarrasin is almost always abroad. '

'Well, I feel curious to meet him. They are a strange pair of brothers. '

'They are, but we ought to talk of nothing but you to-day. Ah, my dear, it is so good to have you with me again. '

'Dear old aunt!'

'Let me see much of you now that you have come back. Would it be any useasking you to stop here?'

'Later, every use. Just at this moment I mustn't. Till I see how thingsare going to turn out I must live down there in London. But my heart ishere with you in this green old garden, and where my heart is I hope tobring my battered old body very often. I will stop to luncheon with youif you will let me. '

'Let you? My dear, I wish you were always stopping here. ' And the greyold lady put her arms round the neck of the Dictator and kissed himagain. 

CHAPTER IV

THE LANGLEYS

That same day there was a luncheon party at the new town house of theLangleys, Prince's Gate. The Langleys were two in number all told, father and daughter. 

Sir Rupert Langley was a remarkable man, but his daughter, HelenaLangley, was a much more remarkable woman. The few handfuls of peoplewho considered themselves to constitute the world in London had at onetime talked much about Sir Rupert, but now they talked a great deal moreabout his daughter. Sir Rupert was once grimly amused, at a great partyin a great house, to hear himself pointed out by a knowing youth asHelena Langley's father. 

There was a time when people thought, and Sir Rupert thought with them, that Rupert Langley was to do great deeds in the world. He had enteredpolitical life at an early age, as all the Langleys had done since thedays of Anne, and he made more than a figure there. He had travelled inCentral Asia in days when travel there or anywhere else was not so easyas it is now, and he had published a book of his travels before he wasthree-and-twenty, a book which was highly praised, and eagerly read. Hewas saluted as a sort of coming authority upon Eastern affairs in a daywhen the importance of Eastern affairs was beginning to dawn dimly uponthe insular mind, and he made several stirring speeches in the House ofCommons' which confirmed his reputation as a coming man. He was verydogmatic, very determined in his opinions, very confident of his ownsuperior knowledge, and possessed of a degree of knowledge whichjustified his confidence and annoyed his antagonists. He formed a littleparty of his own, a party of strenuous young Tories who recognised thefact that the world was out of joint, but who rejoiced in the convictionthat they were born for the express purpose of setting it right. In SirRupert they found a leader after their own heart, and they ralliedaround him and jibed at their elders on the Treasury Bench in a way thatwas quite distressing to the sensitive organs of the party. 

Sir Rupert and his adherents preached the new Toryism of that day--thenew Toryism which was to work wonders, which was to obliterateRadicalism by doing in a practical Tory way, and conformably to the besttraditions of the kingdom, all that Radicalism dreamed of. Toryism, heused to say in those hot-blooded, hot-headed days of his youth, Toryismis the triumph of Truth, and the phrase became a catchword and awatchword, and frivolous people called his little party the T. T. S--theTriumphers of Truth. People versed in the political history of that dayand hour will remember how the newspapers were full of the T. T. S, andwhat an amazing rejuvenescence of political force was supposed to bebehind them. 

Then came a general election which carried the Tory Party into power, and which proved the strength of Langley and his party. He was offered aplace in the new Government, and accepted it--the Under-Secretaryshipfor India. Through one brilliant year he remained the most conspicuousmember of the Administration, irritating his colleagues by daringspeeches, by innovating schemes; alarming timid party-men by a Toryismwhich in certain aspects was scarcely to be distinguished from thereddest Radicalism. One brilliant year there was in which he blazed thecomet of a season. Then, thwarted in some enterprise, faced by a refusalfor some daring reform of Indian administration, he acted, as he hadacted always, impetuously. 

One morning the 'Times' contained a long, fierce, witty, bitter letterfrom Rupert Langley assailing the Government, its adherents, and, aboveall, its leaders in the Lords. That same afternoon members coming to theChamber found Langley sitting, no longer on the Treasury Bench, but inthe corner seat of the second row below the gangway. It was soon knownall over the House, all over town, all over England, that Rupert Langleyhad resigned his office. The news created no little amazement, someconsternation in certain quarters of the Tory camp, some amusement amongthe Opposition sections. One or two of the extreme Radical papers madeovertures to Langley to cross the floor of the House, and enter intoalliance with men whose principles so largely resembled his own. Theseovertures even took the form of a definite appeal on the part of Mr. Wynter, M. P. , then a rising Radical, who actually spent half an hourwith Sir Rupert on the terrace, putting his case and the case ofyouthful Radicalism. 

Sir Rupert only smiled at the suggestion, and put it gracefully aside. 'I am a Tory of the Tories, ' he said; 'only my own people don'tunderstand me yet. But they have got to find me out. ' That wasundoubtedly Sir Rupert's conviction, that he was strong enough to forcethe Government, to coerce his party, to compel recognition of hisopinions and acceptance of his views. 'They cannot do without me, ' hesaid to himself in his secret heart. He was met by disappointment. Theparty chiefs made no overtures to him to reconsider his decision, towithdraw his resignation. Another man was immediately put in his place, a man of mediocre ability, of commonplace mind, a man of routine, methodical, absolutely lacking in brilliancy or originality, a man whowould do exactly what the Government wanted in the Government way. Therewas a more bitter blow still for Sir Rupert. There were in theGovernment certain members of his own little Adullamite party of theOpposition days, T. T. S who had been given office at his insistence, menwhom he had discovered, brought forward, educated for political success. 

It is certain that Sir Rupert confidently expected that these men, hiscomrades and followers, would endorse his resignation with their own, and that the Government would thus, by his action, find itself suddenlycrippled, deprived of its young blood, its ablest Ministers. Theconfident expectation was not realised. The T. T. S remained where theywere. The Government took advantage of the slight readjustment of placescaused by Sir Rupert's resignation to give two of the most prominent T. T. S more important offices, and to those offices the T. T. S stuck likelimpets. 

Sir Rupert was not a man to give way readily, or readily to acknowledgethat he was defeated. He bided his time, in his place below the gangway, till there came an Indian debate. Then, in a House which had been rousedto intense excitement by vague rumours of his intention, he moved aresolution which was practically a vote of censure upon the Governmentfor its Indian policy. Always a fluent, ready, ornate speaker, SirRupert was never better than on that desperate night. His attack uponthe Government was merciless; every word seemed to sting like a poisonedarrow; his exposure of the imbecilities and ineptitudes of the existingsystem of administration was complete and cruel; his scornful attackupon 'the Limpets' sent the Opposition into paroxysms of delightedlaughter, and roused a storm of angry protest from the crowded benchesbehind the Ministry. That night was the memorable event of the session. For long enough after those who witnessed it carried in their memoriesthe picture of that pale, handsome young man, standing up in that cornerseat below the gangway and assailing the Ministry of which he had beenthe most remarkable Minister with so much cold passion, so much fiercedisdain. 'By Jove! he's smashed them!' cried Wynter, M. P. , excitedly, when Rupert Langley sat down after his speech of an hour and a quarter, which had been listened to by a crowded House amidst a storm of cheeringand disapproval. Wynter was sitting on a lower gangway seat, for everyspace of sitting room in the chamber was occupied that night, and he hadmade this remark to one of the Opposition leaders on the front bench, craning over to call it into his ear. The leader of the Opposition heardWynter's remark, looked round at the excited Radical, and, smiling, shook his head. The excitement faded from Wynter's face. His chief wasnever wrong. 

The usual exodus after a long speech did not take place when Rupert satdown. It was expected that the leader of the House would reply to SirRupert, but the expectation was not realised. To the surprise of almosteveryone present the Government put up as their spokesman one of the menwho had been most allied with Sir Rupert in the old T. T. Party, SidneyBlenheim. Something like a frown passed over Sir Rupert's face asBlenheim rose; then he sat immovable, expressionless, while Blenheimmade his speech. It was a very clever speech, delicately ironical, sharply cutting, tinged all through with an intolerable condescension, with a gallingly gracious recognition of Langley's merits, an irritatingregret for his errors. There was a certain languidness in Blenheim'sdeportment, a certain air of sweetness in his face, which made hissatire the more severe, his attack the more telling. People were as muchsurprised as if what looked like a dandy's cane had proved to be a swordof tempered steel. Whatever else that night did, it made Blenheim'sreputation. 

Langley did not carry a hundred men with him into the lobby against theGovernment. The Opposition, as a body, supported the Administration; acertain proportion of Radicals, a much smaller number of men from hisown side, followed him to his fall. He returned to his seat after thenumbers had been read out, and sat there as composedly as if nothing hadhappened, or as if the ringing cheers which greeted the Governmenttriumph were so many tributes to his own success. But those who knew, orthought they knew, Rupert Langley well said that the hour in which hesat there must have been an hour of terrible suffering. After that greatdebate, the business of the rest of the evening fell rather flat, andwas conducted in a House which rapidly thinned down to little short ofemptiness. When it was at its emptiest, Rupert Langley rose, lifted hishat to the Speaker, and left the Chamber. 

It would not be strictly accurate to say that he never returned to itthat session; but practically the statement would be correct. He cameback occasionally during the short remainder of the session, and sat inhis new place below the gangway. Once or twice he put a question uponthe paper; once or twice he contributed a short speech to some debate. He still spoke to his friends, with cold confidence, of his inevitablereturn to influence, to power, to triumph; he did not say how this wouldbe brought about--he left it to be assumed. 

Then paragraphs began to appear in the papers announcing Sir RupertLangley's intention of spending the recess in a prolonged tour in India. Before the recess came Sir Rupert had started upon this tour, which wasextended far beyond a mere investigation of the Indian Empire. When theHouse met again, in the February of the following year, Sir Rupert wasnot among the returned members. Such few of his friends as were incommunication with him knew, and told their knowledge to others, thatSir Rupert was engaged in a voyage round the world. Not a voyage roundthe world in the hurried sense in which people occasionally made then, and frequently make now--a voyage round the world, scampering, like thehero of Jules Verne, across land and sea, fast as steam-engine can dragand steamship carry them. Sir Rupert intended to go round the world inthe most leisurely fashion, stopping everywhere, seeing everything, setting no limit to the time he might spend in any place that pleasedhim, fixing beforehand no limit to chain him to any place that did notplease him. He proposed, his friends said, to go carefully over his oldground in Central Asia, to make himself a complete master of theproblems of Australasian colonisation, and especially to make a veryprofound and exhaustive study of the strange civilisations of China andJapan. He intended further to give a very considerable time to aleisurely investigation of the South American Republics. 'Why, ' saidWynter, M. P. , when one of Sir Rupert's friends told him of these plans, 'why, such a scheme will take several years. ' 'Very likely, ' the friendanswered; and Wynter said, 'Oh, by Jove!' and whistled. 

The scheme did take several years. At various intervals Sir Rupert wroteto his constituents long letters spangled with stirring allusions to theEmpire, to England's meteor flag, to the inevitable triumph of the NewToryism, to the necessity a sincere British statesman was under ofbecoming a complete master of all the possible problems of adaily-increasing authority. He made some sharp thrusts at the weaknessof the Government, but accused the Opposition of a lack of patriotism intrading upon that weakness; he almost chaffed the leader in the LowerHouse and the leader in the Lords; he made no allusion to SidneyBlenheim, then rapidly advancing along the road of success. He concludedeach letter by offering to resign his seat if his constituents wishedit. 

His constituents did not wish it--at least, not at first. TheConservative committee returned him a florid address assuring him oftheir confidence in his statesmanship, but expressing the hope that hemight be able speedily to return to represent them at Westminster, andthe further hope that he might be able to see his way to reconcile hisdifficulties with the existing Government. To this address Sir Rupertsent a reply duly acknowledging its expression of confidence, but takingno notice of its suggestions. Time went on, and Sir Rupert did notreturn. He was heard of now and again; now in the court of some rajah inthe North-West Provinces; now in the khanate of some Central Asiandespot; now in South America, from which continent he sent a long letterto the 'Times, ' giving an interesting account of the latest revolutionin the Gloria Republic, of which he had happened to be an eye-witness;now in Java; now in Pekin; now at the Cape. He did not seem to pursuehis idea of going round the world on any settled consecutive plan. 

Of his large means there could be no doubt. He was probably one of therichest, as he was certainly one of the oldest, baronets in England, andhe could afford to travel as if he were an accredited representative ofthe Queen--almost as if he were an American Midas of the fourth or fifthclass. But as to his large leisure people began to say things. It beganto be hinted in leading articles that it was scarcely fair that SirRupert's constituents should be disfranchised because it pleased adisappointed politician to drift idly about the world. These hints hadtheir effect upon the disfranchised constituents, who began to grumble. The Conservative Committee was goaded almost to the point of addressinga remonstrance to Sir Rupert, then in the interior of Japan, urging himto return or resign, when the need for any such action was taken out oftheir hands by a somewhat unexpected General Election. Sir Ruperttelegraphed back to announce his intention of remaining abroad for thepresent, and of not, therefore, proposing to seek just then thesuffrages of the electors. Sidney Blenheim succeeded in getting a closepersonal friend of his own, who was also his private secretary, acceptedby the Conservative Committee, and he was returned at the head of thepoll by a slightly decreased majority. 

Sir Rupert remained away from England for several years longer. After hehad gone round the world in the most thorough sense, he revisited manyplaces where he had been before, and stayed there for longer periods. Itbegan to seem as if he did not really intend to return to England atall. His communications with his friends grew fewer and shorter, butwandering Parliamentarians in the recess occasionally came across him inthe course of an extended holiday, and always found him affable, interested to animation in home politics, and always suggesting by hismanner, though never in his speech, that he would some day return to hisold place and his old fame. Of Sidney Blenheim he spoke with an equable, impartial composure. 

At last one day he did come home. He had been in the United Statesduring the closing years of the American Civil War, and in Washington, when peace was concluded, he had met at the English Ministry a younggirl of great beauty, of a family that was old for America, that waswealthy, though not wealthy for America. He fell in love with her, wooedher, and was accepted. They were married in Washington, and soon afterthe marriage they returned to England. They settled down for a while atthe old home of the Langleys, the home whose site had been the home ofthe race ever since the Conquest. Part of an old Norman tower still helditself erect amidst the Tudor, Elizabethan, and Victorian additions tothe ancient place. It was called Queen's Langley now, had been so calledever since the days when, in the beginning of the Civil War, HenriettaMaria had been besieged there, during her visit to the then baronet, bya small party of Roundheads, and had successfully kept them off. Queen'sLangley had been held during the Commonwealth by a member of the family, who had declared for the Parliament, but had gone back to the head ofthe house when he returned with his king at the Restoration. 

At Queen's Langley Sir Rupert and his wife abode for a while, and atQueen's Langley a child was born to them, a girl child, who waschristened after her mother, Helena. Then the taste for wandering, whichhad become almost a passion with Sir Rupert, took possession of SirRupert again. If he had expected to re-enter London in any kind oftriumph he was disappointed. He had allowed himself to fall out of therace, and he found himself almost forgotten. Society, of course, received him almost rapturously, and his beautiful wife was the queen ofa resplendent season. But politics seemed to have passed him by. The NewToryism of those youthful years was not very new Toryism now. SidneyBlenheim was a settled reactionary and a recognised celebrity. There wasa New Toryism, with its new cave of strenuous, impetuous young men, andthey, if they thought of Sir Rupert Langley at all, thought of him asold-fashioned, the hero or victim of a piece of ancient history. 

Nevertheless, Sir Rupert had his thoughts of entering political lifeagain, but in the meantime he was very happy. He had a steam yacht ofhis own, and when his little girl was three years old he and his wifewent for a long cruise in the Mediterranean. And then his happiness wastaken away from him. His wife suddenly sickened, died, unconscious, inhis arms, and was buried at sea. Sir Rupert seemed like a broken man. From Alexandria he wrote to his sister, who was married to the Duke ofMagdiel's third son, Lord Edmond Herrington, asking her to look afterhis child for him--the child was then with her aunt at Herrington Hall, in Argyllshire--in his absence. He sold his yacht, paid off his crew, and disappeared for two years. 

During those two years he was believed to have wandered all over Egypt, and to have passed much of his time the hermit-like tenant of a tomb onthe lovely, lonely island of Phylæ, at the first cataract of the Nile. At the end of the two years he wrote to his sister that he was returningto Europe, to England, to his own home, and his own people. His littlegirl was then five years old. 

He reappeared in England changed and aged, but a strong man still, witha more settled air of strength of purpose than he had worn in his wildyouth. He found his little girl a pretty child, brilliantly healthy, brilliantly strong. The wind of the mountain, of the heather, of thewoods, had quickened her with an enduring vitality very different fromthat of the delicate fair mother for whom his heart still grieved. Ofcourse the little Helena did not remember her father, and was at firstrather alarmed when Lady Edmond Herrington told her that a new papa wascoming home for her from across the seas. But the feeling of fear passedaway after the first meeting between father and child. The fascinationwhich in his younger days Rupert Langley had exercised upon so many menand women, which had made him so much of a leader in his youth, affectedthe child powerfully. In a week she was as devoted to him as if she hadnever been parted from him. 

Helena's education was what some people would call a strange education. She was never sent to school; she was taught, and taught much, at home, first by a succession of clever governesses, then by carefully chosenmasters of many languages and many arts. In almost all things her fatherwas her chief instructor. He was a man of varied accomplishments; he wasa good linguist, and his years of wandering had made his attainments inlanguage really colloquial; he had a rich and various store ofinformation, gathered even more from personal experience than frombooks. His great purpose in life appeared to be to make his daughter asaccomplished as himself. People had said at first when he returned thathe would marry again, but the assumption proved to be wrong. Sir Ruperthad made up his mind that he would never marry again, and he kept to hisdetermination. There was an intense sentimentality in his strong nature;the sentimentality which led him to take his early defeat and thedefection of Sidney Blenheim so much to heart had made him vow, on theday when the body of his fair young wife was lowered into the sea, changeless fidelity to her memory. Undoubtedly it was somewhat of agrief to him that there was no son to carry on his name; but he borethat grief in silence. He resolved, however, that his daughter should bein every way worthy of the old line which culminated in her; she shouldbe a woman worthy to surrender the ancient name to some exceptionalmortal; she should be worthy to be the wife of some great statesman. 

In those years in which Helena Langley was growing up from childhood towomanhood, Sir Rupert returned to public life. The constituency in whichQueen's Langley was situated was a Tory constituency which had beenrepresented for nearly half a century by the same old Tory squire. TheTory squire had a grandson who was as uncompromisingly Radical as thesquire was Tory; naturally he could not succeed, and would not contestthe seat. Sir Rupert came forward, was eagerly accepted, andsuccessfully returned. His reappearance in the House of Commons after soconsiderable an interval made some small excitement in Westminster, roused some comment in the press. It was fifteen years since he had leftSt. Stephen's; he thought curiously of the past as he took his place, not in that corner seat below the gangway, but on the second benchbehind the Treasury Bench. His Toryism was now of a settled type; theGovernment, which had been a little apprehensive of his possibleantagonism, found him a loyal and valuable supporter. He did not remainlong behind the Treasury Bench. An important vacancy occurred in theMinistry; the post of Foreign Secretary was offered to and accepted bySir Rupert. Years ago such a place would have seemed the highest goal ofhis ambition. Now he--accepted it. Once again he found himself aprominent man in the House of Commons, although under very differentconditions from those of his old days. 

In the meantime Helena grew in years and health, in beauty, inknowledge. Sir Rupert, as an infinite believer in the virtues of travel, took her with him every recess for extended expeditions to Europe, and, as she grew older, to other continents than Europe. By the time that shewas twenty she knew much of the world from personal experience; she knewmore of politics and political life than many politicians. After she wasseventeen years old she began to make frequent appearances in theLadies' Gallery, and to take long walks on the Terrace with her father. Sir Rupert delighted in her companionship, she in his; they were alwayshappiest in each other's society. Sir Rupert had every reason to beproud of the graceful girl who united the beauty of her mother with thestrength, the physical and mental strength, of her father. 

It need surprise no one, it did not appear to surprise Sir Rupert, ifsuch an education made Helena Langley what ill-natured people called asomewhat eccentric young woman. Brought up on a manly system ofeducation, having a man for her closest companion, learning much of theworld at an early age, naturally tended to develop and sustain thestrongly marked individuality of her character. Now, atthree-and-twenty, she was one of the most remarkable girls in England, one of the best-known girls in London. Her independence, both of thoughtand of action, her extended knowledge, her frankness of speech, herslightly satirical wit, her frequent and vehement enthusiasms for themost varied pursuits and pleasures, were much commented on, much admiredby some, much disapproved of by others. She had many friends among womenand more friends among men, and these were real friendships, notflirtations, nor love affairs of any kind. Whatever things HelenaLangley did there was one thing she never did--she never flirted. Manymen had been in love with her and had told their love, and had beenlaughed at or pitied according to the degree of their deserts, but noone of them could honestly say that Helena had in any way encouraged hislove-making, or tempted him with false hopes, unless indeed themasculine frankness of her friendship was an encouragement and atreacherous temptation. One and all, she unhesitatingly refused heradorers. 'My father is the most interesting man I know, ' she once saidto a discomfited and slightly despairing lover. 'Till I find some otherman as interesting as he is, I shall never think of marriage. And reallyI am sure you will not take it in bad part if I say that I do not findyou as interesting a man as my father. ' The discomfited adorer did nottake it amiss; he smiled ruefully, and took his departure; but, to hiscredit be it spoken, he remained Helena's friend. 

CHAPTER V

'MY GREAT DEED WAS TOO GREAT'

The luncheon hour was an important epoch of the day in the Langley housein Prince's Gate. The Langley luncheons were an institution in Londonlife ever since Sir Rupert bought the big Queen Anne house and made hisdaughter its mistress. As he said himself good-humouredly, he was a mereRoi Fainéant in the place; his daughter was the Mayor of the Palace, thereal ruling power. 

Helena Langley ruled the great house with the most gracious autocracy. She had everything her own way and did everything in her own way. Shewas a little social Queen, with a Secretary of State for her PrimeMinister, and she enjoyed her sovereignty exceedingly. One of the greatevents of her reign was the institution of what came to be known as theLangley luncheons. 

These luncheons differed from ordinary luncheons in this, that those whowere bidden to them were in the first instance almost always interestingpeople--people who had done something more than merely exist, people whohad some other claim upon human recognition than the claim of ancientname or of immense wealth. In the second place, the people who werebidden to a Langley luncheon were of the most varied kind, people of themost different camps in social, in political life. At the Langley tablestatesmen who hated each other across the floor of the House sat side byside in perfect amity. The heir to the oldest dukedom in England metthere the latest champion of the latest phase of democratic socialism;the great tragedian from the Acropolis met the low comedian from theLevity on terms of as much equality as if they had met at the Macklin orthe Call-Boy clubs; the President of the Royal Academy was amused by, and afforded much amusement to, the newest child of genius fresh fromParis, with the slang of the Chat Noir upon his lips and the scorn of_les vieux_ in his heart. Whig and Tory, Catholic and Protestant, millionaire and bohemian, peer with a peerage old at Runnymede and thelatest working-man M. P. , all came together under the regal republicanismof Langley House. Someone said that a party at Langley House alwayssuggested to him the Day of Judgment. 

On the afternoon of the morning on which Sir Rupert's card was left atPaulo's Hotel, various guests assembled for luncheon in Miss Langley'sJapanese drawing-room. The guests were not numerous--the luncheons atLangley House were never large parties. Eight, including the host andhostess, was the number rarely exceeded; eight, including the host andhostess, made up the number in this instance. Mr. And Mrs. Selwyn, thedistinguished and thoroughly respectable actor and actress, justreturned from their tour in the United States; the Duke and Duchess ofDeptford--the Duchess was a young and pretty American woman; Mr. SoameRivers, Sir Rupert's private secretary; and Mr. Hiram Borringer, who hadjust returned from one expedition to the South Pole, and who was said tobe organising another. 

When the ringing of a chime of bells from a Buddhist's temple announcedluncheon, and everyone had settled down in the great oak room, wherecertain of the ancestral Langleys, gentlemen and ladies of the lastcentury, whom Reynolds and Gainsborough and Romney and Raeburn hadpainted, had been brought up from Queen's Langley at Helena's specialwish, the company seemed to be under special survey. There was onevice-admiral of the Red who was leaning on a Doric pillar, with aspy-glass in his hand, apparently wholly indifferent to a terrific navalbattle that was raging in the background; all his shadowy attentionseemed to be devoted to the mortals who moved and laughed below him. There was something in the vice-admiral which resembled Sir Rupert, butnone of the lovely ladies on the wall were as beautiful as Helena. 

Mrs. Selwyn spoke with that clear, bell-like voice which alwaysenraptured an audience. Every assemblage of human beings was to her anaudience, and she addressed them accordingly. Now, she practically tookthe stage, leaning forward between the Duke of Deptford and HiramBorringer, and addressing Helena Langley. 

'My dear Miss Langley, ' she said, 'do you know that something hassurprised me to-day?'

'What is it?' Helena asked, turning away from Mr. Selwyn, to whom shehad been talking. 

'Why, I felt sure, ' Mrs. Selwyn went on, 'to meet someone here to-day. Iam quite disappointed--quite. '

Everyone looked at Mrs. Selwyn with interest. She had the stage all toherself, and was enjoying the fact exceedingly. Helena gazed at her witha note of interrogation in each of her bright eyes, and another in eachcorner of her sensitive mouth. 

'I made perfectly sure that I should meet him here to-day. I said toHarry first thing this morning, when I saw the name in the paper, "Harry, " I said, "we shall be sure to meet him at Sir Rupert's thisafternoon. " Now did I not, Harry?'

Mr. Selwyn, thus appealed to, admitted that his wife had certainly madethe remark she now quoted. 

Mrs. Selwyn beamed gratitude and affection for his endorsement. Then sheturned to Miss Langley again. 

'Why isn't _he_ here, my dear Miss Langley, why?' Then she added, 'Youknow you always have everybody before anybody else, don't you?'

Helena shook her head. 

'I suppose it's very stupid of me, ' she said, 'but, really, I'm afraid Idon't know who your "he" is. Is your "he" a hero?'

Mrs. Selwyn laughed playfully. 'Oh, now your very words show that you doknow whom I mean. '

'Indeed I don't. '

'Why, that wonderful man whom you admire so much, the illustrious exile, the hero of the hour, the new Napoleon. '

'I know whom you mean, ' said Soame Rivers. 'You mean the Dictator ofGloria?'

'Of course. Whom else?' said Mrs. Selwyn, clapping her handsenthusiastically. The Duke gave a sigh of relief, and Hiram Borringer, who had been rather silent, seemed to shake himself into activity at themention of Gloria. Mr. Selwyn said nothing, but watched his wife withthe wondering admiration which some twenty years of married life haddone nothing to diminish. 

The least trace of increased colour came into Helena's cheeks, but shereturned Mrs. Selwyn's smiling glances composedly. 

'The Dictator, ' she said. 'Why did you expect to see him here to-day?'

'Why, because I saw his name in the "Morning Post" this very morning. Itsaid he had arrived in London last night from Paris. I felt morallycertain that I should meet him here to-day. '

'I am sorry you should be disappointed, ' Helena said, laughing, 'butperhaps we shall be able to make amends for the disappointment anotherday. Papa called upon him this morning. '

Sir Rupert, sitting opposite his daughter, smiled at this. 'Did Ireally?' he asked. 'I was not aware of it. '

'Oh, yes, you did, papa; or, at least, I did for you. '

Sir Rupert's face wore a comic expression of despair. 'Helena, Helena, why?'

'Because he is one of the most interesting men existing. '

'And because he is down on his luck, too, ' said the Duchess. 'I guessthat always appeals to you. ' The beautiful American girl had not shakenoff all the expressions of her fatherland. 

'But, I say, ' said Selwyn, who seemed to think that the subject calledfor statesmanlike comment, 'how will it do for a pillar of theGovernment to be extending the hand of fellowship----'

'To a defeated man, ' interrupted Helena. 'Oh, that won't matter one bit. The affairs of Gloria are hardly likely to be a grave internationalquestion for us, and in the meantime it is only showing a courtesy to aman who is at once an Englishman and a stranger. '

A slightly ironical 'Hear, Hear, ' came from Soame Rivers, who did notlove enthusiasm. 

Sir Rupert followed suit good-humouredly. 

'Where is he stopping?' asked Sir Rupert. 

'At Paulo's Hotel, papa. '

'Paulo's Hotel, ' said Mrs. Selwyn; 'that seems to be quite the place forexiled potentates to put up at. The ex-King of Capri stopped thereduring his recent visit, and the chiefs from Mashonaland. '

'And Don Herrera de la Mancha, who claims the throne of Spain, ' said theDuke. 

'And the Rajah of Khandur, ' added Mrs. Selwyn, 'and the Herzog ofHesse-Steinberg, and ever so many more illustrious personages. Why dothey all go to Paulo's?'

'I can tell you, ' said Soame Rivers. 'Because Paulo's is one of the besthotels in London, and Paulo is a wonderful man. He knows how to makecoffee in a way that wins a foreigner's heart, and he understands thecooking of all sorts of eccentric foreign dishes; and, though he is asrich as a Chicago pig-dealer, he looks after everything himself, andisn't in the least ashamed of having been a servant himself. I think hewas a Portuguese originally. '

'And our Dictator went there?' Mrs. Selwyn questioned. 

Soame Rivers answered her, 'Oh, it is the right thing to do; it poses adistinguished exile immediately. Quite the right thing. He was welladvised. '

'If only he had been as well advised in other matters, ' said Mr. Selwyn. 

Then Hiram Borringer, who had hitherto kept silent, after his wont, spoke. 

'I knew him, ' he said, 'some years ago, when I was in Gloria. '

Everybody looked at once and with interest at the speaker. Hiram seemedslightly embarrassed at the attention he aroused; but he was not allowedto escape from explanation. 

'Did you really?' said Sir Rupert. 'How very interesting! What sort ofman did you find him?'

Helena said nothing, but she fixed her dark eyes eagerly on Hiram's faceand listened, with slightly parted lips, all expectation. 

'I found him a big man, ' Hiram answered. 'I don't mean big in bulk, forhe's not that; but big in nature, the man to make an empire and bossit. '

'A splendid type of man, ' said Mrs. Selwyn, clasping her handsenthusiastically. 'A man to stand at Cæsar's side and give directions. '

'Quite so, ' Hiram responded gravely; 'quite so, madam. I met him firstjust before he was elected President, and that's five years ago. '

'Rather a curious thing making an Englishman President, wasn't it?' Mr. Selwyn inquired. At Sir Rupert's Mr. Selwyn always displayed a profoundinterest in all political questions. 

'Oh, he is a naturalised citizen of Gloria, of course, ' said SoameRivers, deftly insinuating his knowledge before Hiram could reply. 

'But I thought, ' said the Duke, 'that in those South American Republics, as in the United States, a man has to be born in the country to attainto its highest office. '

'That is so, ' said Hiram. 'Though I fancy his friends in Gloria wouldn'thave stuck at a trifle like that just then. But as a matter of fact hewas actually born in Gloria. '

'Was he really?' said Sir Rupert. 'How curious!' To which Mr. Selwynadded, 'And how convenient;' while Mrs. Selwyn inquired how it happened. 

'Why, you see, ' said Hiram, 'his father was English Consul at Valdoradolong ago, and he married a Spanish woman there, and the woman died, andthe father seems to have taken it to heart, for he came home, bringinghis baby boy with him. I believe the father died soon after he gothome. '

Sir Rupert's face had grown slightly graver. Soame Rivers guessed thathe was thinking of his own old loss. Helena felt a new thrill ofinterest in the man whose personality already so much attracted her. Like her, he had hardly known a mother. 

'Then was that considered enough?' the Duke asked. 'Was the fact of hishaving been born there, although the son of an English father, enough, with subsequent naturalisation, to qualify him for the office ofPresident?'

'It was a peculiar case, ' said Hiram. 'The point had not been raisedbefore. But, as he happened to have the army at his back, it wasconcluded then that it would be most convenient for all parties to yieldthe point. But a good deal has been made of it since by his enemies. '

'I should imagine so, ' said Sir Rupert. 'But it really is a very curiousposition, and I should not like to say myself off-hand how it ought tobe decided. '

'The big battalions decided it in his case, ' said Mrs. Selwyn. 

'Are they big battalions in Gloria?' inquired the Duke. 

'Relatively, yes, ' Hiram answered. 'It wasn't very much of an army atthat time, even for Gloria; but it went solid for him. Now, of course, it's different. '

'How is it different?' This question came from Mr. Selwyn, who put itwith an air of profound curiosity. 

Hiram explained. 'Why, you see, he introduced the conscription system. He told me he was going to do so, on the plan of some Prussianstatesman. '

'Stein, ' suggested Soame Rivers. 

'Very likely. Every man to take service for a certain time. Well, thatmade pretty well all Gloria soldiers; it also made him a heap ofenemies, and showed them how to make themselves unpleasant. I thought itwasn't a good plan for him or them at the time. '

'Did you tell him so?' asked Sir Rupert. 

'Well, I did drop him a hint or two of my ideas, but he wasn't the sortof man to take ideas from anybody. Not that I mean at all that my ideaswere of any importance, but he wasn't that sort of man. '

'What sort of man was he, Mr. Borringer?' said Helena impetuously. 'Whatwas he like, mentally, physically, every way? That's what we want toknow. '

Hiram knitted his eyebrows, as he always did when he was slightlypuzzled. He did not greatly enjoy haranguing the whole company in thisway, and he partly regretted having confessed to any knowledge of theDictator. But he was very fond of Helena, and he saw that she wassincerely interested in the subject, so he went on:

'Well, I seem to be spinning quite a yarn, and I'm not much of a hand atpainting a portrait, but I'll do my best. '

'Shall we make it a game of twenty questions?' Mrs. Selwyn suggested. 'We all ask you leading questions, and you answer them categorically. '

Everyone laughed, and Soame Rivers suggested that they should begin byascertaining his age, height, and fighting weight. 

'Well, ' said Hiram, 'I guess I can get out my facts withoutcross-examination. ' He had lived a great deal in America, and his speechwas full of American colloquialisms. For which reason the beautifulDuchess liked him much. 

'He's not very tall, but you couldn't call him short; rather more thanmiddling high; perhaps looks a bit taller than he is, he carries himselfso straight. He would have made a good soldier. '

'He did make a good soldier, ' the Duke suggested. 

'That's true, ' said Hiram thoughtfully. 'I was thinking of a man to whomsoldiering was his trade, his only trade. '

'But you haven't half satisfied our curiosity, ' said Mrs. Selwyn. 'Youhave only told us that he is a little over the medium height, and thathe bears him stiffly up. What of his eyes, what of his hair--his beard?Does he discharge in either your straw-colour beard, your orange tawnybeard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your French crown-coloured beard, your perfect yellow?'

Hiram looked a little bewildered. 'I beg your pardon, ma'am, ' he said. The Duke came to the rescue. 

'Mrs. Selwyn's Shakespearean quotation expresses all our sentiments, Mr. Borringer. Give us a faithful picture of the hero of the hour. '

'As for his hair and beard, ' Hiram resumed, 'why, they are pretty muchlike most people's hair and beard--a fairish brown--and his eyes matchthem. He has very much the sort of favour you might expect from the sonof a very fair-haired man and a dark woman. His father was as fair as aScandinavian, he told me once. He was descended from some old DanishViking, he said. '

'That helps to explain his belligerent Berserker disposition, ' said SirRupert. 

'A fine type, ' said the Duke pensively, and Mr. Selwyn caught him upwith 'The finest type in the world. The sort of men who have made ourempire what it is;' and he added somewhat confusedly, for his wife'seyes were fixed upon him, and he felt afraid that he was overdoing hispart, 'Hawkins, Frobisher, Drake, Rodney, you know. '

'But, ' said Helena, who had been very silent, for her, during theinterrogation of Hiram, 'I do not feel as if I quite know all I want toknow yet. '

'The noble thirst for knowledge does you credit, Miss Langley, ' saidSoame Rivers pertly. 

Miss Langley laughed at him. 

'Yes, I want to know all about him. He interests me. He has donesomething; he casts a shadow, as somebody has said somewhere. I like menwho do something, who cast shadows instead of sitting in other people'sshadows. '

Soame Rivers smiled a little sourly, and there was a suggestion ofacerbity in his voice as he said in a low tone, as if more to himselfthan as a contribution to the general conversation, 'He has cast adecided shadow over Gloria. ' He did not quite like Helena's interest inthe dethroned Dictator. 

'He made Gloria worth talking about!' Helena retorted. 'Tell me, Mr. Borringer, how did he happen to get to Gloria at all? How did it come inhis way to be President and Dictator and all that?'

'Rebellion lay in his way and he found it, ' Mrs. Selwyn suggested, whereupon Soame Rivers tapped her playfully upon the wrist, carrying onthe quotation with the words of Prince Hal, 'Peace, chewit, peace. ' Mr. Soame Rivers was a very free-and-easy young gentleman, occasionally, andas he was a son of Lord Riverstown, much might be forgiven to him. 

Hiram, always slightly bewildered by the quotations of Mrs. Selwyn andthe badinage of Soame Rivers, decided to ignore them both, and toaddress himself entirely to Miss Langley. 

'Sorry to say I can't help you much, Miss Langley. When I was in Gloriafive years ago I found him there, as I said, running for President. Hehad been a naturalised citizen there for some time, I reckon, but how hegot so much to the front I don't know. '

'Doesn't a strong man always get to the front?' the Duchess asked. 

'Yes, ' said Hiram, 'I guess that's so. Well, I happened to get to knowhim, and we became a bit friendly, and we had many a pleasant chattogether. He was as frank as frank, told me all his plans. "I mean tomake this little old place move, " he said to me. '

'Well, he has made it move, ' said Helena. She was immensely interested, and her eyes dilated with excitement. 

'A little too fast, perhaps, ' said Hiram meditatively. 'I don't know. Anyhow, he had things all his own way for a goodish spell. '

'What did he do when he had things his own way?' Helena askedimpatiently. 

'Well, he tried to introduce reforms----'

'Yes, I knew he would do that, ' the girl said, with the proud air of asort of ownership. 

'You seem to have known all about him, ' Mrs. Selwyn said, smilingloftily, sweetly, as at the romantic enthusiasm of youth. 

'Well, so I do somehow, ' Helena answered almost sharply; certainly withimpatience. She was not thinking of Mrs. Selwyn. 

'Now, Mr. Borringer, go on--about his reforms. '

'He seemed to have gotten a kind of notion about making things Englishor American. He abolished flogging of criminals and all sorts ofold-fashioned ways; and he tried to reduce taxation; and he put down asort of remnant of slavery that was still hanging round; and he wantedto give free land to all the emancipated folks; and he wanted to have anequal suffrage to all men, and to do away with corruption in the publicoffices and the civil service; and to compel the judges not to takebribes; and all sorts of things. I am afraid he wanted to do a good dealtoo much reform for what you folks would call the governing classes outthere. I thought so at the time. He was right, you know, ' Hiram saidmeditatively, 'but, then, I am mightily afraid he was right in a wrongsort of way. '

'He was right, anyhow, ' Helena said, triumphantly. 

'S'pose he was, ' said Hiram; 'but things have to go slow, don't yousee?'

'Well, what happened?'

'I don't rightly know how it all came about exactly; but I guess all theprivileged classes, as you call them here, got their backs up, and allthe officials went dead against him----'

'My great deed was too great, ' Helena said. 

'What is that, Helena?' her father asked. 

'It's from a poem by Mrs. Browning, about another dictator; but moretrue of my Dictator than of hers, ' Helena answered. 

'Well, ' Hiram went on, 'the opposition soon began to grumble----'

'Some people are always grumbling, ' said Soame Rivers. 'What should wedo without them? Where should we get our independent opposition?'

'Where, indeed, ' said Sir Rupert, with a sigh of humorous pathos. 

'Well, ' said Helena, 'what did the opposition do?'

'Made themselves nasty, ' answered Hiram. 'Stirred up discontent againstthe foreigner, as they called him. He found his congress hard to handle. There were votes of censure and talks of impeachment, and I don't knowwhat else. He went right ahead, his own way, without paying them theleast attention. Then they took to refusing to vote his necessarysupplies for the army and navy. He managed to get the money in spite ofthem; but whether he lost his temper, or not, I can't say, but he tookit into his head to declare that the constitution was endangered by themachinations of unscrupulous enemies, and to declare himself Dictator. '

'That was brave, ' said Helena, enthusiastically. 

'Rather rash, wasn't it?' sneered Soame Rivers. 

'It may have been rash, and it may not, ' Hiram answered meditatively. 'Ibelieve he was within the strict letter of the constitution, which doesempower a President to take such a step under certain conditions. Butthe opposition meant fighting. So they rebelled against the Dictator, and that's how the bother began. How it ended you all know. '

'Where were the people all this time?' Helena asked eagerly. 

'I guess the people didn't understand much about it then, ' Hiramanswered. 

'My great deed was too great, ' Helena murmured once again. 

'The usual thing, ' said Soame Rivers. 'Victory to begin with, and theconfidence born of victory; then defeat and disaster. '

'The story of those three days' fighting in Valdorado is one of the mostrattling things in recent times, ' said the Duke. 

'Was it not?' said Helena. 'I read every word of it every day, and I didwant him to win so much. '

'Nobody could be more sorry that you were disappointed than he, I shouldimagine, ' said Mrs. Selwyn. 

'What puzzles me, ' said Mr. Selwyn, 'is why when they had got him intheir power they didn't shoot him. '

'Ah, you see he was an Englishman by family, ' Sir Rupert explained; 'andthough, of course, he had changed his nationality, I think theCongressionalists were a little afraid of arousing any kind of feelingin England. '

'As a matter of fact, of course, ' said Soame Rivers, 'we shouldn't havedreamed of making any row if they had shot him or hanged him, for thematter of that. '

'You can never tell, ' said the Duke. 'Somebody might have raised theCivis Romanus cry----'

'Yes, but he wasn't any longer Civis Romanus, ' Soame Rivers objected. 

'Do you think that would matter much if a cry was wanted against theGovernment?' the Duke asked, with a smile. 

'Not much, I'm afraid, ' said Sir Rupert. 'But whatever their reasons, Ithink the victors did the wisest thing possible in putting their man onboard their big ironclad, the "Almirante Cochrane, " and setting himashore at Cherbourg. 

'With a polite intimation, I presume, that if he again returned to theterritory of Gloria he would be shot without form of trial, ' added SoameRivers. 

'But he will return, ' Helena said. 'He will, I am sure of it, andperhaps they may not find it so easy to shoot him then as they thinknow. A man like that is not so easily got rid of. '

Helena spoke with great animation, and her earnestness made Sir Rupertsmile. 

'If that is so, ' said Soame Rivers, 'they would have done better if theyhad shot him out of hand. '

Helena looked slightly annoyed as she replied quickly, 'He is a strongman. I wish there were more men like him in the world. '

'Well, ' said Sir Rupert, 'I suppose we shall all see him soon and judgefor ourselves. Helena seems to have made up her mind already. Shall wego upstairs?'

'My great deed was too great' held possession that day of the mind andheart of Helena Langley. 

CHAPTER VI

'HERE IS MY THRONE--BID KINGS COME BOW TO IT'

London, eager for a lion, lionised Ericson. That royal sport oflion-hunting, practised in old times by kings in Babylon and Nineveh, asthose strange monuments in the British Museum bear witness, is thefavourite sport of fashionable London to-day. And just at that momentLondon lacked its regal quarry. The latest traveller from DarkestAfrica, the latest fugitive pretender to authority in France, hadslipped out of the popular note and the favours of the Press. Ericsoncame in good time. There was a gap, and he filled it. 

He found himself, to his amazement and his amusement, the hero of thehour. Invitations of all kinds showered upon him; the gates of greathouses yawned wide to welcome him; had he been gifted like Kehama withthe power of multiplying his personality, he could scarcely have beenable to accept every invitation that was thrust upon him. But he didaccept a great many; indeed, it might be said that he had to accept agreat many. Had he had his own way, he might, perhaps, have buriedhimself in Hampstead, and enjoyed the company of his aunt and the mildsociety of Mr. Gilbert Sarrasin. But the impetuous, indomitable Hamiltonwould hear of no inaction. He insisted copying a famous phrase of LordBeaconsfield's, that the key of Gloria was in London. 'We must makefriends, ' he said; 'we must keep ourselves in evidence; we must neverfor a moment allow our claim to be forgotten, or our interests to beignored. If we are ever to get back to Gloria we must make the most ofour inevitable exile. '

The Dictator smiled at the enthusiasm of his young henchman. Hamiltonwas tremendously enthusiastic. A young Englishman of high family, ofeducation, of some means, he had attached himself to Ericson yearsbefore at a time when Hamilton, fresh from the University, was takingthat complement to a University career--a trip round the world, at atime when Ericson was just beginning that course of reform which hadended for the present in London and Paulo's Hotel. Hamilton's enthusiasmoften proved to be practical. Like Ericson, he was full of great ideasfor the advancement of mankind; he had swallowed all Socialisms, and hadalmost believed, before he fell in with Ericson, that he had elaboratedthe secret of social government. But his wide knowledge was of service;and his devotion to the Dictator showed itself of sterling stuff on thatday in the Plaza Nacional when he saved his life from the insurgents. Ifthe Dictator sometimes smiled at Hamilton's enthusiasm, he often allowedhimself to yield to it. Just for the moment he was a little sick of thewhole business; the inevitable bitterness that tinges a man's heart whohas striven to be of service, and who has been misunderstood, had laidhold of him; there were times when he felt that he would let the wholething go and make no further effort. Then it was that Hamilton'senthusiasm proved so useful; that Hamilton's restless energy in keepingin touch with the friends of the fallen man roused him and stimulatedhim. 

He had made many friends now in London. Both the great political partieswere civil to him, especially, perhaps, the Conservatives. Being inpower, they could not make an overt declaration of their interest inhim, but just then the Tory Party was experiencing one of thoseemotional waves which at times sweep over its consciousness, when itfeels called upon to exalt the banner of progress; to play the old Romanpart of lifting up the humble and casting down the proud; of showing apaternal interest in all manner of schemes for the redress of wrong andsuffering everywhere. Somehow or other it had got it into its head thatEricson was a man after its own heart; that he was a kind of new Gordon;that his gallant determination to make the people of Gloria happy inspite of themselves was a proof of the application of Tory methods. SirRupert encouraged this idea. As a rule, his party were a little afraidof his advanced ideas; but on this occasion they were willing to acceptthem, and they manifested the friendliest interest in the Dictator'sdefeated schemes. Indeed, so friendly were they that many of theRadicals began to take alarm, and think that something must be wrongwith a man who met with so cordial a reception from the ruling party. 

Ericson himself met these overtures contentedly enough. If it was forthe good of Gloria that he should return some day to carry out hisdreams, then anything that helped him to return was for the good ofGloria too, and undoubtedly the friendliness of the Ministerialists wasa very important factor in the problem he was engaged upon. He did notknow at first how much Tory feeling was influenced by Sir Rupert; he didnot know until later how much Sir Rupert was influenced by his daughter. 

Helena had aroused in her father something of her own enthusiasm for theexiled Dictator. Sir Rupert had looked into the whole business morecarefully, had recognised that it certainly would be very much betterfor the interests of British subjects under the green and yellow bannerthat Gloria should be ruled by an Englishman like Ericson than by thewild and reckless Junta, who at present upheld uncertain authority bymartial law. England had recognised the Junta, of course; it was the _defacto_ Government, and there was nothing else to be done. But it was notmanaging its affairs well; the credit of the country was shaken; itstrade was gravely impaired; the very considerable English colony wasloud in its protests against the defects of the new _régime_. Underthese conditions Sir Rupert saw no reason for not extending the hand offriendship to the Dictator. 

He did extend the hand of friendship. He met the Dictator at adinner-party given in his honour by Mr. Wynter, M. P. : Mr. Wynter, whohad always made it a point to know everybody, and who was as friendlywith Sir Rupert as with the chieftains of his own party. Sir Rupert hadexpressed to Wynter a wish to meet Ericson; so when the dinner came offhe found himself placed at the right-hand side of Ericson, who was athis host's right-hand side. The two men got on well from the first. SirRupert was attracted by the fresh unselfishness of Ericson, by somethingstill youthful, still simple, in a man who had done and endured so much, and he made himself agreeable, as he only knew how, to his neighbour. Ericson, for his part, was frankly pleased with Sir Rupert. He was alittle surprised, perhaps, at first to find that Sir Rupert's opinionscoincided so largely with his own; that their views of government agreedon so many important particulars. He did not at first discover that itwas Ericson's unconstitutional act in enforcing his reforms, rather thanthe actual reforms themselves, that aroused Sir Rupert's admiration. SirRupert was a good talker, a master of the manipulation of words, knowingexactly how much to say in order to convey to the mind of his listener avery decided impression without actually committing himself to anypledged opinion. Ericson was a shrewd man, but in such delicatedialectic he was not a match for a man like Sir Rupert. 

Sir Rupert asked the Dictator to dinner, and the Dictator went to thegreat house in Queen's Gate and was presented to Helena, and was placednext to her at dinner, and thought her very pretty and original andattractive, and enjoyed himself very much. He found himself, to hishalf-unconscious surprise, still young enough and human enough to bepleased with the attention people were paying him--above all, that hewas still young enough and human enough to be pleased with the veryobvious homage of a charming young woman. For Helena's homage was veryobvious indeed. Accustomed always to do what she pleased, and say whatshe pleased, Helena, at three-and-twenty, had a frankness of manner, astraightforwardness of speech, which her friends called original and herdetractors called audacious. She would argue, unabashed, with the greatleader of the party on some high point of foreign policy; she would talkto the great chieftain of Opposition as if he were her elder brother. People who did not understand her said that she was forward, that shehad no reserve; even people who understood her, or thought they did, were sometimes a little startled by her careless directness. SoameRivers once, when he was irritated by her, which occasionally happened, though he generally kept his irritation to himself, said that she had a'slap on the back' way of treating her friends. The remark was not kind, but it happened to be fairly accurate, as unkind remarks sometimes are. 

But from the first Helena did not treat the Dictator with the samebrusque spirit of _camaraderie_ which she showed to most of her friends. Her admiration for the public man, if it had been very enthusiastic, wasvery sincere. She had, from the first time that Ericson's name began toappear in the daily papers, felt a keen interest in the adventurousEnglishman who was trying to introduce free institutions and advancedcivilisation into one of the worm-eaten republics of the New World. Astime went on, and Ericson's doings became more and more conspicuous, thegirl's admiration for the lonely pioneer waxed higher and higher, tillat last she conjured up for herself an image of heroic chivalry asromantic in its way as anything that could be evolved from the dreams ofa sentimental schoolgirl. To reform the world--was not that alwaysEngland's mission, if not especially the mission of her own party?--andhere was an Englishman fighting for reform in that feverish place, andendeavouring to make his people happy and prosperous and civilised, bymethods which certainly seemed to have more in common with thebenevolent despotism of the Tory Party than with the theories of theOpposition. Bit by bit it came to pass that Helena Langley grew to lookupon Ericson over there in that queer, ebullient corner of new Spain, asher ideal hero; and so it happened that when at last she met her hero inthe flesh for the first time her frank audacity seemed to desert her. 

Not that she showed in the slightest degree embarrassment when SirRupert first presented to her the grave man with the earnest eyes, whosepointed beard and brown hair were both slightly touched with grey. Onlythose who knew Helena well could possibly have told that she was notabsolutely at her ease in the presence of the Dictator. Ericson himselfthought her the most self-possessed young lady he had ever met, and tohim, familiar as he was with the exquisite effrontery belonging to theNew Castilian dames of Gloria, self-possession in young women was arecognised fact. Even Sir Rupert himself scarcely noticed anything thathe would have called shyness in his daughter's demeanour as she stoodtalking to the Dictator, with her large fine eyes fixed in composed gazeupon his face. But Soame Rivers noticed a difference in her bearing; hewas not her father, and he was accustomed to watch every tone of herspeech and every movement of her eyes, and he saw that she was notentirely herself in the company of the 'new man, ' as he called Ericson;and seeing it he felt a pang, or at least a prick, at the heart, andsneered at himself immediately in consequence. But he edged up to Helenajust before the pairing took place for dinner, and said softly to her, so that no one else could hear, 'You are shy to-night. Why?'--and movedaway smiling at the angry flash of her eyes and the compression of hermouth. 

Possibly the words of Rivers may have affected her more than she waswilling to admit; but she certainly was not as self-composed as usualduring that first dinner. Her wit flashed vivaciously; the Dictatorthought her brilliant, and even rather bewildering. If anyone had saidto him that Helena Langley was not absolutely at her ease with him, hewould have stared in amazement. For himself, he was not at all dismayedby the brilliant, beautiful girl who sat next to him. The long habit ofintercourse with all kinds of people, under all kinds of conditions, hadgiven him the experience which enabled him to be at his ease under anycircumstances, even the most unfamiliar, and certainly talking to HelenaLangley was an experience that had no precedent in the Dictator's life. But he talked to her readily, with great pleasure; he felt a littlesurprise at her obvious willingness to talk to him and accept hisjudgment upon many things; but he set this down as one of the fewagreeable conditions attendant upon being lionised, and accepted itgratefully. 'I am the newest thing, ' he thought to himself, 'and so thischild is interested in me and consequently civil to me. Probably shewill have forgotten all about me the next time we meet; in the meanwhileshe is very charming. ' The Dictator had even been about to suggest tohimself that he might possibly forget all about her; but somehow thisdid not seem very likely, and he dismissed it. 

He did not see very much of Helena that night after the dinner. Manypeople came in, and Helena was surrounded by a little court of adorers, men of all ages and occupations, statesmen, soldiers, men of letters, all eagerly talking a kind of talk which was almost unintelligible tothe Dictator. In that bright Babel of voices, in that conversation whichwas full of allusions to things of which he knew nothing, and for which, if he had known, he would have cared less, the Dictator felt his senseof exile suddenly come strongly upon him like a great chill wave. It wasnot that he could feel neglected. A great statesman was talking to him, talking at much length confidentially, paying him the compliment ofrepeatedly inviting his opinion, and of deferring to his judgment. Therewas not a man or woman in the room who was not anxious to be introducedto Ericson, who was not delighted when the introduction was accorded, and when he or she had taken his hand and exchanged a few words withhim. But somehow it was Helena's voice that seemed to thrill in theDictator's ears; it was Helena's face that his eyes wandered to throughall that brilliant crowd, and it was with something like a sense ofserious regret that he found himself at last taking her hand and wishingher good-night. Her bright eyes grew brighter as she expressed the hopethat they should meet soon again. The Dictator bowed and withdrew. Hefelt in his heart that he shared the hope very strongly. 

The hope was certainly realised. So notable a lion as the Dictator wasasked everywhere, and everywhere that he went he met the Langleys. Inthe high political and social life in which the Dictator, to hisentertainment, found himself, the hostilities of warring parties hadlittle or no effect. In that rarefied air it was hard to draw the breathof party passion, and the Dictator came across the Langleys as often inthe houses of the Opposition as in Ministerial mansions. So it came topass that something almost approaching to an intimacy sprang up betweenJohn Ericson on the one part and Sir Rupert and Helena Langley on theother. Sir Rupert felt a real interest in the adventurous man with theeccentric ideas; perhaps his presence recalled something of Sir Rupert'sown hot youth when he had had eccentric ideas and was looked upon withalarm by the steady-going. Helena made no concealment of her interest inthe exile. She was always so frank in her friendships, so off-hand andboyish in her air of comradeship with many people, that her attitudetowards the Dictator did not strike any one, except Soame Rivers, asbeing in the least marked--for her. Indeed, most of her admirers wouldhave held that she was more reserved with the Dictator than with othersof her friends. Soame Rivers saw that there was a difference in herbearing towards the Dictator and towards the courtiers of her littlecourt, and he smiled cynically and pretended to be amused. 

Ericson's acquaintance with the Langleys ripened into that rapidintimacy which is sometimes possible in London. At the end of a week hehad met them many times and had been twice to their house. Helena hadalways insisted that a friendship which was worth anything shoulddeclare itself at once, should blossom quickly into being, and not growby slow stages. She offered the Dictator her friendship very frankly andvery graciously, and Ericson accepted very frankly the gracious gift. For it delighted him, tired as he was of all the strife and struggle ofthe last few years, to find rest and sympathy in the friendship of socharming a girl; the cordial sympathy she showed him came like a balm tothe humiliation of his overthrow. He liked Helena, he liked her father;though he had known them but for a handful of days, it always delightedhim to meet them; he always felt in their society that he was in thesociety of friends. 

One evening, when Ericson had been little more than a month in London, he found himself at an evening party given by Lady Seagraves. LadySeagraves was a wonderful woman--'the fine flower of our moderncivilisation, ' Soame Rivers called her. Everybody came to her house; shedelighted in contrasts; life was to her one prolonged antithesis. SoameRivers said of her parties that they resembled certain early Italianpictures, which gave you the mythological gods in one place, a battle inanother, a scene of pastoral peace in a third. It was an astonishingamalgam. 

Ericson arrived at Lady Seagraves' house rather late; the rooms werevery full--he found it difficult to get up the great staircase. Therehad been some great Ministerial function, and the dresses of many of themen in the crowd were as bright as the women's. Court suits, ribands, and orders lent additional colour to a richly coloured scene. But evenin a crowd where everybody bore some claim to distinction the arrival ofthe Dictator aroused general attention. Ericson was not yet sufficientlyhardened to the experience to be altogether indifferent to the fact thateveryone was looking at him; that people were whispering his name toeach other as he slowly made his way from stair to stair; that prettywomen paused in their upward or downward progress to look at him, andinvariably with a look of admiration for his grave, handsome face. 

When he got to the top of the stairs Ericson found his hostess, andshook hands with her. Lady Seagraves was an effusive woman, who wasalways delighted to see any of her friends; but she felt a specialdelight at seeing the Dictator, and she greeted him with a specialeffusiveness. Her party was choking with celebrities of all kinds, social, political, artistic, legal, clerical, dramatic; but it would nothave been entirely triumphant if it had not included the Dictator. LadySeagraves was very glad to see him indeed, and said so in her warm, enthusiastic way. 

'I'm so glad to see you, ' Lady Seagraves murmured. 'It was so nice ofyou to come. I was beginning to be desperately afraid that you hadforgotten all about me and my poor little party. '

It was one of Lady Seagraves' graceful little affectations to pretendthat all her parties were small parties, almost partaking of the natureof impromptu festivities. Ericson glanced around over the great roomcrammed to overflowing with a crowd of men and women who could hardlymove, men and women most of whose faces were famous or beautiful, menand women all of whom, as Soame Rivers said, had their names in theplay-bill; there was a smile on his face as he turned his eyes from thebrilliant mass to Lady Seagraves' face. 

'How could I forget a promise which it gives me so much pleasure tofulfil?' he asked. Lady Seagraves gave a little cry of delight. 

'Now that's perfectly sweet of you! How did you ever learn to say suchpretty things in that dreadful place? Oh, but of course; I forgotSpaniards pay compliments to perfection, and you have learnt the artfrom them, you frozen Northerner. '

Ericson laughed. 'I am afraid I should never rival a Spaniard incompliment, ' he said. He never knew quite what to talk to Lady Seagravesabout, but, indeed, there was no need for him to trouble himself, asLady Seagraves could at all times talk enough for two more. 

So he just listened while Lady Seagraves rattled on, sending his glancehither and thither in that glittering assembly, seeking almostunconsciously for one face. He saw it almost immediately; it was theface of Helena Langley, and her eyes were fixed on him. She was standingin the throng at some little distance from him, talking to Soame Rivers, but she nodded and smiled to the Dictator. 

At that moment the arrival of the Duke and Duchess of Deptford setEricson free from the ripple of Lady Seagraves' conversation. She turnedto greet the new arrivals, and the Dictator began to edge his waythrough the press to where Helena was standing. Though she was only alittle distance off, his progress was but slow progress. The rooms weretightly packed, and almost every person he met knew him and spoke tohim, or shook hands with him, but he made his way steadily forward. 

'Here comes the illustrious exile!' said Soame Rivers, in a low tone. 'Isuppose nobody will have a chance of saying a word to you for the restof the evening?'

Miss Langley glanced at him with a little frown. 'I am afraid I canscarcely hope that Mr. Ericson will consent to be monopolised by me forthe whole of the evening, ' she said; 'but I wish he would, for he iscertainly the most interesting person here. '

Soame Rivers shrugged his shoulders slightly. 'You always know someonewho is the most interesting man in the world--for the time being, ' hesaid. 

Miss Langley frowned again, but she did not reply, for by this timeEricson had reached her, and was holding out his hand. She took it witha bright smile of welcome. Soame Rivers slipped away in the crowd, afternodding to Ericson. 

'I am so glad that you have come, ' Helena said. 'I was beginning to fearthat you were not coming. '

'It is very kind of you, ' the Dictator began, but Miss Langleyinterrupted him. 

'No, no; it isn't kind of me at all; it is just natural selfishness. Iwant to talk to you about several things; and if you hadn't come Ishould have been disappointed in my purpose, and I hate beingdisappointed. '

The Dictator still persisted that any mark of interest from Miss Langleywas kindness. 'What do you want to talk to me about particularly?' heasked. 

'Oh, many things! But we can't talk in this awful crush. It's liketrying to stand up against big billows on a stormy day. Come with me. There is a quieter place at the back, where we shall have a chance ofpeace. '

She turned and led the way slowly through the crowd, the Dictatorfollowing her obediently. Once again the progress was a slow one, forevery man had a word for Miss Langley, and he himself was eagerly caughtat as they drifted along. But at last they got through the greater crushof the centre rooms and found themselves in a kind of lull in a furthersaloon where a piano was, and where there were fewer people. Out of thisroom there was a still smaller one with several palms in it, and out ofthe palms arising a great bronze reproduction of the Hermes ofPraxiteles. Lady Seagraves playfully called this little room her Paganparlour. Here people who knew the house well found their way when theywanted quiet conversation. There was nobody in it when Miss Langley andthe Dictator arrived. Helena sat down on a sofa with a sigh of relief, and Ericson sat down beside her. 

'What a delightful change from all that awful noise and glare!' saidHelena. 'I am very fond of this little corner, and I think LadySeagraves regards it as especially sacred to me. '

'I am grateful for being permitted to cross the hallowed threshold, 'said the Dictator. 'Is this the tutelary divinity?' And he glanced up atthe bronze image. 

'Yes, ' said Miss Langley; 'that is a copy of the Hermes of Praxiteleswhich was discovered at Olympia some years ago. It is the right thing toworship. '

'One so seldom worships the right thing--at least, at the right time, 'he said. 

'I worship the right thing, I know, ' she rejoined, 'but I don't quiteknow about the right time. '

'Your instincts would be sure to guide you right, ' he answered, notindeed quite knowing what he was talking about. 

'Why?' she asked, point blank. 

'Well, I suppose I meant to say that you have nobler instincts than mostother people. '

'Come, you are not trying to pay me a compliment? I don't wantcompliments; I hate and detest them. Leave them to stupid anduninteresting men. '

'And to stupid and uninteresting women?'

'Another try at a compliment!'

'No; I felt that. '

'Well, anyhow, I did not entice you in here to hear anything aboutmyself; I know all about myself. '

'Indeed, ' he said straightforwardly, 'I do not care to pay compliments, and I should never think of wearying you with them. I believe I hardlyquite knew what I was talking about just now. '

'Very well; it does not matter. I want to hear about you. I want to knowall about you. I want you to trust in me and treat me as your friend. '

'But what do you want me to tell you?'

'About yourself and your projects and everything. Will you?'

The Dictator was a little bewildered by the girl's earnestness, herenergy, and the perfect simplicity of her evident belief that she wassaying nothing unreasonable. She saw reluctance and hesitation in hiseyes. 

'You are very young, ' he began. 

'Too young to be trusted?'

'No, I did not say _that_. '

'But your look said it. '

'My look then mistranslated my feeling. '

'What did you feel?'

'Surprise, and interest, and gratitude. '

She tossed her head impatiently. 

'Do you think I can't understand?' she asked, in her impetuous way--herimperial way with most others, but only an impetuous way with him. Formost others with whom she was familiar she was able to control and befamiliar with, but she could only be impetuous with the Dictator. Indeed, it was the high tide of her emotion which carried her away sofar as to fling her in mere impetuousness against him. 

The Dictator was silent for a moment, and then he said: 'You don't seemmuch more than a child to me. '

'Oh! Why? Do you not know?--I am twenty-three!'

'I am twenty-three, ' the Dictator murmured, looking at her with a kindlyand half-melancholy interest. 'You are twenty-three! Well, there itis--do you not see, Miss Langley?'

'There what is?'

'There is all the difference. To be twenty-three seems to you to makeyou quite a grown-up person. '

'What else should it make me? I have been of age for two years. What amI but a grown-up person?'

'Not in my sense, ' he said placidly. 'You see, I have gone through somuch, and lived so many lives, that I begin to feel quite like an oldman already. Why, I might have had a daughter as old as you. '

'Oh, stuff!' the audacious young woman interposed. 

'Stuff? How do you know?'

'As if I hadn't read lives of you in all the papers and magazines and Idon't know what. I can tell you your birthday if you wish, and the yearof your birth. You are quite young--in my eyes. '

'You are kind to me, ' he said, gravely, 'and I am quite sure that I lookat my very best in your eyes. '

'You do indeed, ' she said fervently, gratefully. 

'Still, that does not prevent me from being twenty years older thanyou. '

'All right; but would you refuse to talk frankly and sensibly aboutyourself?--sensibly, I mean, as one talks to a friend and not as onetalks to a child. Would you refuse to talk in that way to a young manmerely because you were twenty years older than he?'

'I am not much of a talker, ' he said, 'and I very much doubt if I shouldtalk to a young man at all about my projects, unless, of course, to myfriend Hamilton. '

Helena turned half away disappointed. It was of no use, then--she wasnot his friend. He did not care to reveal himself to her; and yet shethought she could do so much to help him. She felt that tears werebeginning to gather in her eyes, and she would not for all the worldthat he should see them. 

'I thought we were friends, ' she said, giving out the words very much asa child might give them out--and, indeed, her heart was much more asthat of a little child than she herself knew or than he knew then; forshe had not the least idea that she was in love or likely to be in lovewith the Dictator. Her free, energetic, wild-falcon spirit had never asyet troubled itself with thoughts of such kind. She had made a hero forherself out of the Dictator--she almost adored him; but it was with themost genuine hero-worship--or fetish-worship, if that be the better andharsher way of putting it--and she had never thought of being in lovewith him. Her highest ambition up to this hour was to be his friend andto be admitted to his confidence, and--oh, happy recognition!--to beconsulted by him. When she said 'I thought we were friends, ' she jumpedup and went towards the window to hide the emotion which she knew wasonly too likely to make itself felt. 

The Dictator got up and followed her. 'We are friends, ' he said. 

She looked brightly round at him, but perhaps he saw in her eyes thatshe had been feeling a keen disappointment. 

'You think my professed friendship mere girlish inquisitiveness--youknow you do, ' she said, for she was still angry. 

'Indeed I do not, ' he said earnestly. 'I have had no friendship since Icame back an outcast to England--no friendship like that given to me byyou----'

She turned round delightedly towards him. 

'And by your father. '

And again, she could not tell why, she turned partly away. 

'But the truth is, ' he went on to say, 'I have no clearly defined plansas yet. '

'You don't mean to give in?' she asked eagerly. 

He smiled at her impetuosity. She blushed slightly as she saw his smile. 

'Oh I know, ' she exclaimed, 'you think me an impertinent schoolgirl, andyou only laugh at me. '

'I do nothing of the kind. It is only too much of a pleasure to me totalk to you on terms of friendship. Look here, I wish we could do aspeople used to do in the old melodramas, and swear an eternalfriendship. '

'I swear an eternal friendship to you, ' she exclaimed, 'whether you likeit or not, ' and, obeying the wild impulse of the hour, she held out bothher hands. 

He took them both in his, held them for just one instant, and then letthem go. 

'I accept the friendship, ' he said, with a quiet smile, 'and Ireciprocate it with all my heart. '

Helena was already growing a little alarmed at her own impulsiveness andeffusiveness. But there was something in the Dictator's quiet, grave, and protecting way which always seemed to reassure her. 'He will be sureto understand me, ' was the vague thought in her mind. 

Assuredly the Dictator now thought he did understand her. He feltsatisfied that her enthusiasm was the enthusiasm of a generous girl'sfriendship, and that she thought about him in no other way. He hadlearned to like her companionship, and to think much of her fresh, courageous intellect, and even of her practical good sense. He had nodoubt that he should find her advice on many things worth having. Hisbattlefield just now and for some time to come must be in London--in theLondon of finance and diplomacy. 

'Come and sit down again, ' the Dictator said; 'I will tell you all Iknow--and I don't know much. I do not mean to give up, Miss Langley. Iam not a man who gives up--I am not built that way. '

'Of course I knew, ' Helena exclaimed triumphantly; 'I knew you wouldnever give up. You couldn't. '

'I couldn't--and I do not believe I ought to give up. I am sure I knowbetter how to provide for the future of Gloria than--than--well, thanGloria knows herself--just now. I believe Gloria will want me back. '

'Of course she will want you back when she comes to her senses, ' Helenasaid with sparkling eyes. 

'I don't blame her for having a little lost her senses under theconditions--it was all too new, and I was too hasty. I was too muchinspired by the ungoverned energy of the new broom. I should do betternow if I had the chance. '

'You will have the chance--you must have it!'

'Do you promise it to me?' he asked with a kindly smile. 

'I do--I can--I know it will come to you!'

'Well, I can wait, ' he said quietly. 'When Gloria calls me to go back toher I will go. '

'But what do you mean by Gloria? Do you want a _plébiscite_ of the wholepopulation in your favour?'

'Oh no! I only mean this, that if the large majority of the people whomI strove to serve are of opinion they can do without me--well, then, Ishall do without them. But if they call me I shall go to them, althoughI went to my death and knew it beforehand. '

'One may do worse things, ' the girl said proudly, 'than go knowingly toone's death. '

'You are so young, ' he said. 'Death seems nothing to you. The young andthe generous are brave like that. '

'Oh, ' she exclaimed, 'let my youth alone!'

She would have liked to say, 'Oh, confound my youth!' but she did notgive way to any such unseemly impulse. She felt very happy again, herhigh spirits all rallying round her. 

'Let your youth alone!' the Dictator said, with a half-melancholy smile. 'So long as time lets it alone--and even time will do that for someyears yet. '

Then he stopped and felt a little as if he had been preaching a sermonto the girl. 

'Come, ' she broke in upon his moralisings, 'if I am so dreadfully young, at least I'll have the benefit of my immaturity. If I am to be treatedas a child, I must have a child's freedom from conventionality. ' Shedragged forward a heavy armchair lined with the soft, mellowed, dull redleather which one sees made into cushions and sofa-pillows in the shopsof Nuremberg's more artistic upholsterers, and then at its side on thecarpet she planted a footstool of the same material and colour. 'There, 'she said, 'you sit in that chair. '

'And you, what are you going to do?'

'Sit first, and I will show you. '

He obeyed her and sat in the great chair. 'Well, now?' he asked. 

'I shall sit here at your feet. ' She flung herself down and sat on thefootstool. 

'Here is my throne, ' she said composedly; 'bid kings come bow to it. '

'Kings come bowing to a banished Republican?'

'You are my King, ' she answered, 'and so I sit at your feet and am proudand happy. Now talk to me and tell me some more. '

But the talk was not destined to go any farther that night. Rivers andone or two others came lounging in. Helena did not stir from her lowlyposition. The Dictator remained as he was just long enough to show thathe did not regard himself as having been disturbed. Helena flung a saucylittle glance of defiance at the principal intruder. 

'I know you were sent for me, ' she said. 'Papa wants me?'

'Yes, ' the intruder replied; 'if I had not been sent I should never haveventured to follow you into this room. '

'Of course not--this is my special sanctuary. Lady Seagraves hasdedicated it to me, and now I dedicate it to Mr. Ericson. I have justbeen telling him that, for all he is a Republican, he is _my_ King. '

The Dictator had risen by this time. 

'You are sent for?' he said. 

'Yes--I am sorry. '

'So am I--but we must not keep Sir Rupert waiting. '

'I shall see you again--when?' she asked eagerly. 

'Whenever you wish, ' he answered. Then they shook hands, and SoameRivers took her away. 

Several ladies remarked that night that really Helena Langley was goingquite beyond all bounds, and was overdoing her unconventionality quitetoo shockingly. She was actually throwing herself right at Mr. Ericson'shead. Of course Mr. Ericson would not think of marrying a chit likethat. He was quite old enough to be her father. 

One or two stout dowagers shook their heads sagaciously, and remarkedthat Sir Rupert had a great deal of money, and that a large fortune gotwith a wife might come in very handy for the projects of a dethronedDictator. 'And men are all so vain, my dear, ' remarked one to another. 'Mr. Ericson doesn't look vain, ' the other said meditatively. 'They areall alike, my dear, ' rejoined the one. And so the matter was settled--orleft unsettled. 

Meanwhile the Dictator went home, and began to look over maps and chartsof Gloria. He buried himself in some plans of street improvement, including a new and splendid opera house, of which he had actually laidthe foundation before the crash came. 

CHAPTER VII

THE PRINCE AND CLAUDIO

Why did the Dictator bury himself in his maps and his plans and hisimprovements in the street architecture of a city which in allprobability he was never to see more?

For one reason. Because his mind was on something else to-night, and hedid not feel as if he were acting with full fidelity to the cause ofGloria if he allowed any subject to come even for an hour too directlybetween him and that. Little as he permitted himself to put on the airsof a patriot and philanthropist--much as he would have hated to exhibithimself or be regarded as a professional patriot--yet the devotion tothat cause which he had himself created--the cause of a regeneratedGloria--was deep down in his very heart. Gloria and her future were hisday-dream--his idol, his hobby, or his craze, if you like; he had longbeen possessed by the thought of a redeemed and regenerated Gloria. To-night his mind had been thrown for a moment off the track--and it wastherefore that he pulled out his maps and was endeavouring to get on tothe track again. 

But he could not help thinking of Helena Langley. The girl embarrassedhim--bewildered him. Her upturned eyes came between him and his maps. Her frank homage was just like that of a child. Yet she was not a child, but a remarkably clever and brilliant young woman, and he did not knowwhether he ought to accept her homage. He was, for all his strangecareer, somewhat conservative in his notions about women. He thoughtthat there ought to be a sweet reserve about them always. He ratherliked the pedestal theory about woman. The approaches and the devotion, he thought, ought to come from the man always. In the case of HelenaLangley, it never occurred to him to think that her devotion wasanything different from the devotion of Hamilton; but then a young manwho is one's secretary is quite free to show his devotion, while a youngwoman who is not one's secretary is not free to show her devotion. Ericson kept asking himself whether Sir Rupert would not feel vexed whenhe heard of the way in which his dear spoiled child had been goingon--as he probably would from herself--for she evidently had not thefaintest notion of concealment. On the other hand, what could Ericsondo? Give Helena Langley an exposition of his theories concerning properbehaviour in unmarried womanhood? Why, how absurd and priggish andoffensive such a course of action would be? The girl would either breakinto laughter at him or feel herself offended by his attempt to lectureher. And who or what had given him any right to lecture her? What, afterall, had she done? Sat on a footstool beside the chair of a public manwhose cause she sympathised with, and who was quite old enough--ornearly so, at all events--to be her father. Up to this time Ericson wasrather inclined to press the 'old enough to be her father, ' and to leaveout the 'nearly so. ' Then, again, he reminded himself that social waysand manners had very much changed in London during his absence, and thatgirls were allowed, and even encouraged, to do all manner of things nowwhich would have been thought tomboyish, or even improper, in hisyounger days. Why, he had glanced at scores of leading articles andessays written to prove that the London girl of the close of the centurywas free to do things which would have brought the deepest and mostcomprehensive blush to the cheeks of the meek and modest maidens of aformer generation. 

Yes--but for all this change of manners it was certain that he hadhimself heard comments made on the impulsive unconventionality of MissLangley. The comments were sometimes generous, sympathetic, and perhapsa little pitying--and of course they were sometimes ill-natured andspiteful. But, whatever their tone, they were all tuned to the onekey--that Miss Langley was impulsively unconventional. 

The Dictator was inclined to resent the intrusion of a woman into histhoughts. For years he had been in the habit of regarding women as treeswalking. He had had a love disappointment early in life. His true lovehad proved a false true love, and he had taken it very seriously--takenit quite to heart. He was not enough of a modern London man to recognisethe fact that something of the kind happens to a good many people, andthat there are still a great many girls left to choose from. He ought tohave made nothing of it, and consoled himself easily, but he did not. Sohe had lost his ideal of womanhood, and went through the world like onedeprived of a sense. The man is, on the whole, happiest whose true lovedies early, and leaves him with an ideal of womanhood which never canchange. He is, if he be at all a true man, thenceforth as one who walksunder the guidance of an angel. But Ericson's mind was put out by thefailure of his ideal. Happily he was a strong man by nature, with deepimpassioned longings and profound convictions; and going on through lifein his lonely, overcrowded way, he soon became absorbed in theentrancing egotism of devotion to a great cause. He began to see allthings in life first as they bore on the regeneration of Gloria--now asthey bore on his restoration to Gloria. So he had been forgetting allabout women, except as ornaments of society, and occasionally as usefulmechanisms in politics. 

The memory of his false true love had long faded. He did not nowparticularly regret that she had been false. He did not regret it evenfor her own sake--for he knew that she had got on very well in life--hadmarried a rich man--held a good position in society, and apparently hadall her desires gratified. It was probable--it was almost certain--thathe should meet her in London this season--and he felt no interest orcuriosity about the meeting--did not even trouble himself by wonderingwhether she had been following his career with eyes in which oldmemories gleamed. But after her he had done no love-making and feltinclined for no romance. His ideal, as has been said, was gone--and hedid not care for women without an ideal to pursue. 

Every night, however late, when the Dictator had got back to his rooms, Hamilton came to see him, and they read over letters and talked over thedoings of the next day. Hamilton came this night in the usual course ofthings, and Ericson was delighted to see him. He was sick of trying tostudy the street improvements of the metropolis of Gloria, and he wasvexed at the intrusion of Helena Langley into his mind--for he did notsuspect in the least that she had yet made any intrusion into his heart. 

'Well, Hamilton, I hope you have been enjoying yourself?'

'Yes, Excellency--fairly enough. Do you know I had a long talk with SirRupert Langley about you?'

'Aye, aye. What does Sir Rupert say about me?'

'Well, he says, ' Hamilton began distressedly, 'that you had better giveup all notions of Gloria and go in for English politics. '

The Dictator laughed; and at the same time felt a little touched. Hecould not help remembering the declaration of his life's policy he hadjust been making to Sir Rupert Langley's daughter. 

'What on earth do I know about English politics?'

'Oh, well; of course you could get it all up easily enough, so far asthat goes. '

'But doesn't Sir Rupert see that, so far as I understand things at all, I should be in the party opposed to him?'

'Yes, he sees that; but he doesn't seem to mind. He thinks you wouldfind a field in English politics; and he says the life of the House ofCommons is the life to which the ambition of every true Englishman oughtto turn--and, you know--all that sort of thing. '

'And does he think that I have forgotten Gloria?'

'No; but he has a theory about all South American States. He thinks theyare all rotten, and that sort of thing. He insists that you are thrownaway on Gloria. '

'Fancy a man being thrown away upon a country, ' the Dictator said, witha smile. 'I have often heard and read of a country being thrown awayupon a man, but never yet of a man being thrown away upon a country. Ishould not have wondered at such an opinion from an ordinary Englishman, who has no idea of a place the size of Gloria, where we could stow awayEngland, France, and Germany in a little unnoticed corner. But SirRupert--who has been there! Give us out the cigars, Hamilton--and ringfor some drinks. '

Hamilton brought out the cigars, and rang the bell. 

'Well--anyhow--I have told you, ' he said hesitatingly. 

'So you have, boy, with your usual indomitable honesty. For I know whatyou think about all this. '

'Of course you do. '

'You don't want to give up Gloria?'

'Give up Gloria? Never--while grass grows and water runs!'

'Well, then, we need not say any more about that. Tell me, though, wherewas all this? At Lady Seagraves'?'

'No; it was at Sir Rupert's own house. '

'Oh, yes, I forgot; you were dining there?'

'Yes; I was dining there. '

'This was after dinner?'

'Yes; there were very few men there, and he talked all this to me in aconfidential sort of way. Tell me, Excellency, what do you think of hisdaughter?'

The Dictator almost started. If the question had come out of his owninner consciousness it could not have illustrated more clearly theproblem which was perplexing his heart. 

'Why, Hamilton, I have not seen very much of her, and I don't profess tobe much of a judge of young ladies. Why on earth do you want my opinion?What is your own opinion of her?'

'I think she is very beautiful. '

'So do I. '

'And awfully clever. '

'Right again--so do I. '

'And singularly attractive, don't you think?'

'Yes; very attractive indeed. But you know, my boy, that the attractionsof young women have now little more than a purely historical interestfor me. Still, I am quite prepared to go as far with you as to admitthat Miss Langley is a most attractive young woman. '

'She thinks ever so much of _you_, ' Hamilton said dogmatically. 

'She has great sympathy with our cause, ' the Dictator said. 

'She would do anything _you_ asked her to do. '

'My boy, I don't want to ask her to do anything. '

'Excellency, I want you to advise her to do something--for _me_. '

'For you, Hamilton? Is that the way?' The Dictator asked the questionwith a tone of infinite sympathy, and he stood up as if he were about togive some important order. Hamilton, on the other hand, collapsed into achair. 

'That is the way, Excellency. '

'You are in love with this child?'

'I am madly in love with this child, if you call her so. '

Ericson made some strides up and down the room with his hands behindhim. Then he suddenly stopped. 

'Is this quite a serious business?' he asked, in a low, soft voice. 

'Terribly serious for me, Excellency, if things don't turn out right. Ihave been hit very hard. '

The Dictator smiled. 

'We get over such things, ' he said. 

'But I don't want to get over this; I don't mean to get over it. '

'Well, ' Ericson said good-humouredly, and with quite recoveredcomposure, 'it may not be necessary for you to get over it. Does theyoung lady want you to get over it?'

'I haven't ventured to ask her yet. '

'What do you mean to ask her?'

'Well, of course--if she will--have me. '

'Yes, naturally. But I mean when----'

'When do I mean to ask her?'

'No; when do you propose to marry her?'

'Well, of course, when we have settled ourselves again in Gloria, andall is right there. You don't fancy I would do anything before we havemade that all right?'

'But all that is a little vague, ' the Dictator said; 'the time issomewhat indefinite. One does not quite know what the young lady mightsay. '

'She is just as enthusiastic about Gloria as I am, or as you are. '

'Yes, but her father. Have you said anything to him about this?'

'Not a word. I waited until I could talk of it to you, and get yourpromise to help me. '

'Of course I'll help you, if I can. But tell me, how can I? What do youwant me to do? Shall I speak to Sir Rupert?'

'If you would speak to him after, I should be awfully glad. But I don'tso much mind about him just yet; I want you to speak to her!'

'To Miss Langley? To ask her to marry you?'

'That's about what it comes to, ' Hamilton said courageously. 

'But, my dear love-sick youth, would you not much rather woo and win thegirl for yourself?'

'What I am afraid of, ' Hamilton said gravely, 'is that she would pretendnot to take me seriously. She would laugh and turn me into ridicule, andtry to make fun of the whole thing. But if you tell her that it ispositively serious and a business of life and death with me, then shewill believe you, and she _must_ take it seriously and give you aserious answer, or at least promise to give me a serious answer. '

'This is the oddest way of love-making, Hamilton. '

'I don't know, ' Hamilton said; 'we have Shakespeare's authority for it, haven't we? Didn't Don Pedro arrange for Claudio and Hero?'

'Well, a very good precedent, ' Ericson said with a smile. 'Tell me aboutthis to-morrow. Think over it and sleep over it in the meantime, and ifyou still think that you are willing to make your proposals through themedium of an envoy, then trust me, Hamilton, your envoy will do all hecan to win for you your heart's desire. '

'I don't know how to thank you, ' Hamilton exclaimed fervently. 

'Don't try. I hate thanks. If they are sincere they tell their talewithout words. I know you--everything about you is sincere. '

Hamilton's eyes glistened with joy and gratitude. He would have liked toseize his chief's hand and press it to his lips; but he forbore. TheDictator was not an effusive man, and effusiveness did not flourish inhis presence. Hamilton confined his gratitude to looks and thoughts andto the dropping of the subject for the present. 

'I have been pottering over these maps and plans, ' the Dictator said. 

'I am so glad, ' Hamilton exclaimed, 'to find that your heart is stillwholly absorbed in the improvement of Gloria. '

The Dictator remained for a few moments silent and apparently buried inthought. He was not thinking, perhaps, altogether of the projectedimprovements in the capital of Gloria. Hamilton had often seen him inthose sudden and silent, but not sullen, moods, and was always carefulnot to disturb him by asking any question or making any remark. TheDictator had been sitting in a chair and pulling the ends of hismoustache. At once he got up and went to where Hamilton was seated. 

'Look here, Hamilton, ' he said, in a tone of positive sternness, 'I wantto be clear about all this. I want to help you--of course I want to helpyou--if you can really be helped. But, first of all, I must becertain--as far as human certainty can go--that you really know what youdo want. The great curse of life is that men--and I suppose women too--Ican't say--do not really know or trouble to know what they do positivelywant with all their strength and with all their soul. The man whopositively knows what he does want and sticks to it has got it already. Tell me, do you really want to marry this young woman?'

'I do--with all my soul and with all my strength!'

'But have you thought about it--have you turned it over in yourmind--have you come down from your high horse and looked at yourself, asthe old joke puts it?'

'It's no joke for me, ' Hamilton said dolefully. 

'No, no, boy; I didn't mean that it was. But I mean, have you reallylooked at yourself and her? Have you thought whether she could make youhappy?--have you thought whether you could make her happy? What do youknow about her? What do you know about the kind of life which she lives?How do you know whether she could do without that kind of life--whethershe could live any other kind of life? She is a London Society girl, sherides in the Row at a certain hour, she goes out to dinner parties andto balls, she dances until all hours in the morning, she goes abroad tothe regular place at the regular time, she spends a certain part of thewinter visiting at the regulation country houses. Are you prepared tolive that sort of life--or are you prepared to bear the responsibilityof taking her out of it? Are you prepared to take the butterfly to livein the camp?'

'She isn't a butterfly----'

'No, no; never mind my bad metaphor. But she has been brought up in akind of life which is second nature to her. Are you prepared to livethat life with her? Are you sure--are you quite, quite sure--that shewould be willing, after the first romantic outburst, to put up with atotally different life for the sake of you?'

'Excellency, ' Hamilton said, smiling somewhat sadly, 'you certainly doyour best to take the conceit out of a young man. '

'My boy, I don't think you have any self-conceit, but you may have agood deal of self-forgetfulness. Now I want you to call a halt andremember yourself. In this business of yours--supposing it comes to whatyou would consider at the moment a success----'

'At the moment?' Hamilton pleaded, in pained remonstrance. 

'At the moment--yes. Supposing the thing ends successfully for you, oneplan of life or other must necessarily be sacrificed--yours or hers. Which is it going to be? Don't make too much of her present enthusiasm. Which is it going to be?'

'I don't believe there will be any sacrifice needed, ' Hamilton said, inan impassioned tone. 'I told you she loves Gloria as well as you or Icould do. '

The Dictator shook his head and smiled pityingly. 

'But if there is to be any sacrifice of any life, ' Hamilton said, drivenon perhaps by his chief's pitying smile, 'it shan't be hers. No, if shewill have me after we have got back to Gloria, I'll live with her inLondon every season and ride with her in the Row every morning andafternoon, and take her, by Jove! to all the dinners and balls she caresabout, and she shall have her heart's desire, whatever it be. '

The Dictator's face was crossed by some shadows. Pity was there, andsympathy was there--and a certain melancholy pleasure, and, it may be, acertain disappointment. He pulled himself together very quickly, and wascool, genial, and composed, according to his usual way. 

'All right, my boy, ' he said, 'this is genuine love at all events, however it may turn out. You have answered my question fairly and fully. I see now that you do know what you want. That is one great point, anyhow. I will do my very best to get for you what you want. If it onlyrested with me, Hamilton!' There was a positive note of tenderness inhis voice as he spoke these words; and yet there was a kind of forlornfeeling in his heart, as if the friend of his heart was leaving him. Hefelt a little as the brother Vult in Richter's exquisite and forgottennovel might have felt when he was sounding on his flute that finalmorning, and going out on his cold way never to see his brother again. The brother Walt heard the soft, sweet notes, and smiled tranquilly, believing that his brother was merely going on a kindly errand to helphim, Walt, to happiness. But the flute-player felt that, come whatmight, they were, in fact, to be parted for ever. 

CHAPTER VIII

'I WONDER WHY?'

The Dictator had had a good deal to do with marrying and giving inmarriage in the Republic of Gloria. One of the social and moral reformshe had endeavoured to bring about was that which should secure to youngpeople the right of being consulted as to their own inclinations beforethey were formally and finally consigned to wedlock. The ordinarypractice in Gloria was very much like that which prevails in certainIndian tribes--the family on either side arranged for the young man andthe maiden, made it a matter of market bargain, settled it by compromiseof price or otherwise, and then brought the pair together and marriedthem. Ericson set his face against such a system, and tried to get achance for the young people. He carried his influence so far that theparents on both sides among the official classes in the capitalconsulted him generally before taking any step, and then he franklyundertook the mediator's part, and found out whether the young womanliked the young man or not--whether she liked someone better or not. Hehad a sweet and kindly way with him which usually made both the youthsand the maidens confidential--and he learned many a quiet heart-secret;and where he found that a suggested marriage would really not do, hetold the parents as much, and they generally yielded to his influenceand his authority. He had made happy many a pair of young lovers who, without his beneficent intervention, would have been doomed to 'spoiltwo houses, ' as the old saying puts it. 

Therefore, he did not feel much put out at the mere idea of interveningin another man's love affairs, or even the idea of carrying a proposalof marriage from another man. 

Yet the Dictator was in somewhat thoughtful mood as he drove to SirRupert Langley's. He had taken much interest in Helena Langley. She hadan influence over him which he told himself was only the influence of aclever child--told himself of this again and again. Yet there was acurious feeling of unfitness or dissatisfaction with the part he wasgoing to play. Of course, he would do his very best for Hamilton. Therewas no man in the world for whom he cared half so much as he did forHamilton. No--that is not putting it strongly enough--there was now noman in the world for whom he really cared but Hamilton. The Dictator'saffections were curiously narrowed. He had almost no friends whom hereally loved but Hamilton--and acquaintances were to him just all thesame, one as good as another, and no better. He was a philanthropist bytemperament, or nature, or nerve, or something; but while he would haverisked his life for almost any man, and for any woman or child, he didnot care in the least for social intercourse with men, women, andchildren in general. He could not talk to a child--children were atrouble to him, because he did not know what to say to them. Perhapsthis was one reason why he was attracted by Helena Langley; she seemedso like the ideal child to whom one can talk. Then came up the thoughtin his mind--must he lose Hamilton if Miss Langley should consent totake him as her husband? Of course, Hamilton had declared that he wouldnever marry until the Dictator and he had won back Gloria; but how longwould that resolve last if Helena were to answer, Yes--and Now? TheDictator felt lonely as his cab stopped at Sir Rupert Langley's door. 

'Is Miss Langley at home?'

Yes, Miss Langley was at home. Of course, the Dictator knew that shewould be, and yet in his heart he could almost have wished to hear thatshe was out. There is a mood of mind in which one likes anypostponement. But the duty of friendship had to be done--and theDictator was sorry for everybody. 

The Dictator was met in the hall by the footman, and also by To-to. To-to was Helena's black poodle. The black poodle took to all Helena'sfriends very readily. Whom she liked, he liked. He had his ways, likehis mistress--and he at once allowed Ericson to understand not only thatHelena was at home, but that Helena was sitting just then in her ownroom, where she habitually received her friends. The footman told theDictator that Miss Langley was at home--To-to told him what the footmancould not have ventured to do, that she was waiting for him in her owndrawing-room, and ready to receive him. 

Now, how did To-to contrive to tell him that? Very easily, in truth. To-to had a keen, healthy curiosity. He was always anxious to know whatwas going on. The moment he heard the bell ring at the great door hewanted to know who was coming in, and he ran down the stairs and stoodin the hall to find out. When the door was opened, and the visitorappeared, To-to instantly made up his mind. If it was an unfamiliarfigure, To-to considered it an introduction in which he had no manner ofinterest, and, without waiting one second, he scampered back to rejoinhis mistress, and try to explain to her that there was some veryuninteresting man or woman coming to call on her. But if it was somebodyhe knew, and whom he knew that his mistress knew, then there were twocourses open to him. If Helena was not in her sitting room, To-towelcomed the visitor in the most friendly and hospitable way, and thenfell into the background, and took no further notice, but ranged thepremises carelessly and on his own account. If, however, his mistresswere in her drawing room, then To-to invariably preceded the visitor upthe stairs, going in front even of the footman, and ushered thenew-comer into my lady's chamber. The process of reasoning on To-to'spart must have been somewhat after this fashion. 'My business is toannounce my lady's friends, the people whom I, with my exquisiteintelligence, know to be people whom she wants to see. If I know thatshe is in her drawing-room ready to see them, then, of course, it is myduty and my pleasure to go before, and announce them. But if I know, having just been there, that she is not yet there, then I have nofunction to perform. It is the business of some other creature--her maidvery likely--to receive the news from the footman that someone iswaiting to see her. That is a complex process with which I have nothingto do. ' The favoured visitor, therefore--the visitor, that is to say, whom To-to favoured, believing him or her to be favoured by To-to'smistress--had to pass through what may be called two portals, orordeals. First, he had to ask of the servant whether Miss Langley was athome. Being informed that she was at home, then it depended on To-to tolet the visitor know whether Miss Langley was actually in herdrawing-room waiting to receive him, or whether he was to be shown intothe drawing-room and told that Miss Langley would be duly informed ofhis presence, and asked if he would be good enough to take a chair andwait for a moment. Never was To-to known to make the slightest mistakeabout the actual condition of things. Never had he run up in advance ofthe Dictator when his mistress was not seated in her drawing-room readyto receive her visitor. Never had he remained lingering in the hall andthe passages when Miss Langley was in her room, and prepared for thereception. Evidently, To-to regarded himself as Helena's specialfunctionary. The other attendants and followers--footmen, maids, andsuch like--might be allowed the privilege of saying whether Miss Langleywas or was not at home to receive visitors; but the special and quitepeculiar function of To-to was to make it clear whether Miss Langley wasor was not at that very moment waiting in her own particulardrawing-room to welcome them. 

So the Dictator, who had not much time to spare, being pressed withvarious affairs to attend to, was much pleased to find that To-to notmerely welcomed him when the door was opened--a welcome which theDictator would have expected from To-to's undisguised regard and evenpatronage--but that To-to briskly ran up the stairs in advance of thefootman, and ran before him in through the drawing-room door when thefootman had opened it. The Dictator loved the dog because of thecreature's friendship for him and love for its mistress. The Dictatordid not know how much he loved the dog because the dog was devoted toHelena Langley. On the stairs, as he went up, a sudden pang passedthrough the Dictator's heart. It might, perhaps, have brought him evenclearer warning than it did. 'If I succeed in my mission'--it might havetold him--'what is to become of _me_?' But, although the shot of paindid pass through him, he did not give it time to explain itself. 

Helena was seated on a sofa. The moment she heard his name announced shejumped up and ran to meet him. 

'I ought to have gone beyond the threshold, ' she said, blushing, 'tomeet my king. '

'So kind of you, ' he said, rather stiffly, 'to stay in for me. You haveso many engagements. '

'As if I would not give up any engagement to please you! And the veryfirst time you expressed any wish to see me!'

'Well, I have come talk to you about something very serious. '

She looked up amazed, her bright eyes broadening with wonder. 

'Something that concerns the happiness of yourself, perhaps--of anotherperson certainly. '

She drooped her eyes now, and her colour deepened and her breath camequickly. 

The Dictator went to the point at once. 

'I am bad at prefaces, ' he said, 'I come to speak to you on behalf of mydear young friend and comrade, Ernest Hamilton. '

'Oh!' She drew herself up and looked almost defiantly at him. 

'Yes; he asked me to come and see you. '

'What have I to do with Mr. Hamilton?'

'That you must teach me, ' said Ericson, smiling rather sadly, andquoting from 'Hamlet. '

'I can teach you that very quickly--Nothing. '

'But you have not heard what I was going to say. '

'No. Well, you were quoting from Shakespeare--let me quote too. "Had Ithree ears I'd hear thee. "' She drew herself back into her sofa. Theywere seated on the sofa side by side. He was leaning forward--she haddrawn back. She was waiting in a sort of dogged silence. 

'Hamilton is one of the noblest creatures I ever knew. He is my verydearest friend. '

A shade came over her face, and she shrugged her shoulders. 

'I mean amongst men. I was not thinking of you. '

'No, ' she answered, 'I am quite sure you were not thinking of me. '

She perversely pretended to misunderstand his meaning. He hardly noticedher words. 'Please go on, ' she said, 'and tell me about Mr. Hamilton. '

'He is in love with you, ' the Dictator said in a soft low-voice, and asif he envied the man about whom that tale could be told. 

'Oh!' she exclaimed impatiently, turning on the sofa as if in pain, 'Iam sick of all this love making! Why can't a young man like one withoutmaking an idiot of himself and falling in love with one? Why can't welet each other be happy all in our own way? It is all so horriblymechanical! You meet a man two or three times, and you dance with him, and you talk with him, and perhaps you like him--perhaps you like himever so much--and then in a moment he spoils the whole thing by throwinghis ridiculous offer of marriage right in your face! Why on earth shouldI marry Mr. Hamilton?'

'Don't take it too lightly, dear young lady--I know Hamilton to the verydepth of his nature. This is a serious thing with him--he is not likethe commonplace young masher of London society; when he feels, he feelsdeeply--I know what has been his personal devotion to myself. '

'Then why does he not keep to that devotion? Why does he desert hispost? What does he want of me? What do I want of him? I liked himchiefly because he was devoted to you--and now he turns right round andwants to be devoted to me! Tell him from me that he was much betteremployed with his former devotion--tell him my advice was that he shouldstick to it. '

'You must give a more serious answer, ' the Dictator said gravely. 

'Why didn't he come himself?' she asked somewhat inconsequently, andgoing off on another tack at once. 'I can't understand how a man of anyspirit can make love by deputy. '

'Kings do sometimes, ' the Dictator said. 

Helena blushed again. Some thought was passing through her mind whichwas not in his. She had called him her king. 

'Mr. Hamilton is not a king, ' she said almost angrily. She was on thepoint of blurting out, 'Mr. Hamilton is not _my_ king, ' but sherecovered herself in good time. 'Even if he were, ' she went on, 'Ishould rather be proposed to in person as Katherine was by Henry theFifth. '

'You take this all too lightly, ' Ericson pleaded. 'Remember that thisyoung man's heart and his future life are wrapped up in your answer, andin _you_. '

'Tell him to come himself and get his answer, ' she said with a scornfultoss of her head. Something had risen up in her heart which made herunkind. 

'Miss Langley, ' Ericson said gravely, 'I think it would have been muchbetter if Hamilton had come himself and made his proposal, and argued itout with you for himself. I told him so, but he would not be advised. Heis too modest and fearful, although, I tell you, I have seen more thanonce what pluck he has in danger. Yes, I have seen how cool, how elatehe can be with the bullets and the bayonets of the enemy all at workabout him. But he is timid with _you_--because he loves you. '

'"He either fears his fate too much----"' she began. 

'You can't settle this thing by a quotation. I see that you are in amood for quotations, and that shows that you are not very serious. Ishall tell you why he asked me, and prevailed upon me, to come to youand speak for him. There is no reason why I should not tell you. '

'Tell me, ' she said. 

'I am old enough to have no hesitation in telling a girl of your ageanything. '

'Again!' Helena said. 'I do wish you would let my age alone? I thoughtwe had come to an honourable understanding to leave my age out of thequestion. '

'I fear it can't well be left out of this question. You see, what I wasgoing to tell you was that Hamilton asked me to break this to youbecause he believes that I have great influence with you. '

'Of course, you know you have. '

'Yes--but there was more. '

'What more?' She turned her head away. 

'He is under the impression that you would do anything I asked you todo. '

'So I would, and so I will!' she exclaimed impetuously. 'If you ask meto marry Mr. Hamilton I will marry him! Yes--I _will_. If you, knowingwhat you do know, can wish your friend to marry me, and me to become hiswife, I will accept his condescending offer! You know I do not lovehim--you know I never felt one moment's feeling of that kind forhim--you know that I like him as I like twenty other young men--and nota bit more. You know this--at all events, you know it now when I tellyou--and will you ask me to marry Mr. Hamilton now?'

'But is this all true? Is this really how you feel to him?'

'Zwischen uns sei Wahrheit, ' Helena said scornfully. 'Why should Ideceive you? If I loved Mr. Hamilton I could marry him, couldn'tI?--seeing that he has sent you to ask me? I do not love him--I nevercould love him in that way. Now what do you ask me to do?'

'I am sorry for my poor young friend and comrade, ' the Dictator answeredsadly. 'I thought, perhaps, he might have had some reason tobelieve----'

'Did he tell you anything of the kind?'

'Oh, no, no; he is the last man in the world to say such a thing, oreven to think it. One reason why he wished me to open the matter to youwas that he feared, if he spoke to you about it himself, you would onlylaugh at him and refuse to give him a serious answer. He thought youwould give me a serious answer. '

'What a very extraordinary and eccentric young man!'

'Indeed, he is nothing of the kind--although, of course, like myself, hehas lived a good deal outside the currents of English feeling. '

'I should have thought, ' she said gravely, 'that that was rather aquestion of the currents of common human feeling. Do the young women inGloria like to be made love to by delegation?'

'Would it have made any difference if he had come himself?'

'No difference in the world--now or at any other time. But remember, Iam a very loyal subject, and I admit the right of my king to hand meover in marriage. If you tell me to marry Mr. Hamilton, I will. '

'You are only jesting, Miss Langley, and this is not a jest. '

'I don't feel much in the mood for jesting, ' she answered. 'It wouldrather seem as if I had been made the subject of a jest----'

'Oh, you must not say that, ' he interposed in an almost angry tone. 'Youcan't, and don't, think that either of him or of me. '

'No, I don't; I could not think it of _you_--and no, I could not thinkit of him either. But you must admit that he has acted rather oddly. '

'And I too, I suppose?'

'Oh, you--well, of course, you were naturally thinking of the interest, or, at least, the momentary wishes, of your friend. '

'Of my two friends--you are my friend. Did we not swear an eternalfriendship the other night?'

'Now you _are_ jesting. '

'I am not; I am profoundly serious. I thought perhaps this might be forthe happiness of both. '

'Did you ever see anything in me which seemed to make such an idealikely?'

'You see, I have known you but for so short a time. '

'People who are worth knowing at all are known at once or never known, 'she said promptly and very dogmatically. 

'Young ladies do not wear their hearts upon their sleeves. '

'I am afraid I do sometimes--too much, ' she said. 

'I thought it at least possible. '

'Now you _know_. Well, are you going to ask me to marry your friend Mr. Hamilton?'

'No, indeed, Miss Langley. That would be a cruel injustice and wrong tohim and to you. He must marry someone who loves him; you must marrysomeone whom you love. I am sorry for my poor friend--this will hurthim. But he cannot blame you, and I cannot blame you. He has somecomfort--he has Gloria to fight for some day. '

'Put it nicely--_very_ nicely to him, ' Helena said, softening now thatall was over. 'Tell him--won't you?--that I am ever so fond of him; andtell him that this must not make the least difference in our friendship. No one shall ever know from me. '

'I will put it all as well as I can, ' said the Dictator; 'but I amafraid it must make a difference to him. It made a difference tome--when I was a young man of about his age. '

'You were disappointed?' Helena asked, in rather tremulous tone. 

'More than that; I think I was deceived. I was ever so much worse offthan Hamilton, for there was bitterness in my story, and there can benone in his. But I have survived--as you see. '

'Is--she--still living?'

'Oh, yes; she married for money and rank, and has got both, and Ibelieve she is perfectly happy. '

'And have you recovered--quite?'

'Quite; I fancy it must have been an unreal sort of thing altogether. Mywound is quite healed--does not give me even a passing moment of pain, as very old wounds sometimes do. But I am not going to lapse into thesentimental. It was only the thought of Hamilton that brought all thisup. '

'You are not sentimental?' Helena asked. 

'I have not had time to be. Anyhow, no woman ever cared about me--inthat way, I mean--no, not one. '

'Ah, you never can tell, ' Helena said gently. He seemed to her somehow, to have led a very lonely life; it came into her thoughts just then; shecould not tell why. She was relieved when he rose to go, for she felther sympathy for him beginning to be a little too strong, and she wasafraid of betraying it. The interview had been a curious and a tryingone for her. The Dictator left the room wondering how he could ever havebeen drawn into talking to a girl about the story of his lost love. 'That girl has a strange influence over me, ' he thought. 'I wonder why?'

CHAPTER IX

THE PRIVATE SECRETARY

Soame Rivers was in some ways, and not a few, a model private secretaryfor a busy statesman. He was a gentleman by birth, bringing-up, appearance, and manners; he was very quick, adroit and clever; he had awonderful memory, a remarkable faculty for keeping documents and ideasin order; he could speak French, German, Italian, and Spanish, andconduct a correspondence in these languages. He knew the political andother gossip of most or all of the European capitals, and of Washingtonand Cairo just as well. He could be interviewed on behalf of his chief, and could be trusted not to utter one single word of which his chiefcould not approve. He would see any undesirable visitor, and in fiveminutes talk him over into the belief that it was a perfect grief to theMinister to have to forego the pleasure of seeing him in person. He wasto be trusted with any secret which concerned his position, and no poweron earth could surprise him into any look or gesture from which anybodycould conjecture that he knew more than he professed to know. He was ayounger son of very good family, and although his allowance was notlarge, it enabled him, as a bachelor, to live an easy and gentlemanlylife. He belonged to some good clubs, and he always dined out in theseason. He had nice little chambers in the St. James's Street region, and, of course, he spent the greater part of every day in Sir Rupert'shouse, or in the lobby of the House of Commons. It was understood thathe was to be provided with a seat in Parliament at the earliest possibleopportunity, not, indeed, so much for the good of the State as for theconvenience of his chief, who, naturally, found it unsatisfactory tohave to go out into the lobby in order to get hold of his privatesecretary. Rivers was devoted to his chief in his own sort of way. Thatway was not like the devotion of Hamilton to the Dictator; for it isvery likely that, in his own secret soul, Rivers occasionally made funof Sir Rupert, with his Quixotic ideas and his sentimentalisms, and hisviews of life. Rivers had no views on the subject of life or of anythingelse. But Hamilton himself could not be more careful of his chief'sinterests than was Rivers. Rivers had no beliefs and no prejudices. Hewas not an immoral man, but he had no prejudice in favour of morality;he was not cruel, but he had no objection to other people being as cruelas they liked, as cruel as the law would allow them to be, provided thattheir cruelty was not exercised on himself, or any one he particularlycared about. He never in his life professed or felt one single impulseof what is called philanthropy. It was to him a matter of perfectindifference whether ten thousand people in some remote place did or didnot perish by war, or fever, or cyclone, or inundation. Nor did he carein the least, except for occasional political purposes, about thecondition of the poor in our rural villages or in the East End ofLondon. He regarded the poor as he regarded the flies--that is, withentire indifference so long as they did not come near enough to annoyhim. He did not care how they lived, or whether they lived at all. For along time he could not bring himself to believe that Helena Langleyreally felt any strong interest in the poor. He could not believe thather professed zeal for their welfare was anything other than thegraceful affectation of a pretty and clever girl. 

But we all have our weaknesses, even the strongest of us, and SoameRivers found, when he began to be much in companionship with HelenaLangley, where the weak point was to be hit in his panoply of pride. Tohim love and affection and all that sort of thing were mere sentimentalnonsense, encumbering a rising man, and as likely as not, if indulgedin, to spoil his whole career. He had always made up his mind to thefact that, if he ever did marry, he must marry a woman with money. Hewould not marry at all unless he could have a house and entertain asother people in society were in the habit of doing. As a bachelor he wasall right. He could keep nice chambers; he could ride in the Row; hecould have a valet; he could wear good clothes--and he was a man whomNature had meant, and tailor recognised, for one to show off goodclothes. But if he should ever marry it was clear to him that he musthave a house like other people, and that he must give dinner parties. Hedid not reason this out in his mind--he never reasoned anything out inhis mind--it was all clear and self-evident to him. Therefore, after awhile, the question began to arise--why should he not marry HelenaLangley? He knew perfectly well that if she wished to be married to himSir Rupert would not offer the slightest objection. Any man whom hisdaughter really loved Sir Rupert would certainly accept as a son-in-law. Rivers even fancied, not, perhaps, altogether without reason, that SirRupert personally would regard it as a convenient arrangement if hisdaughter were to fall in love with his secretary and get married to him. But above and beyond all this, Rivers, as a practical philosopher, hadbroken down, and he found himself in love with Helena Langley. Forherself, Helena never suspected it. She had grown to be very fond ofSoame Rivers. He seemed to fill for her exactly the part that agood-tempered brother might have done. Indeed, not any brother, howevergood-natured, would have been as attentive to a sister as Rivers was toher. He had a quiet, unobtrusive way of putting his personal attentionsas part of his official duty which absolutely relieved Helena's mind ofany idea of lover-like consideration. At many a dinner party or eveningparty her father had to leave her prematurely, and go down to the Houseof Commons. It became to her a matter of course that in such a caseRivers was always sure to be there to put her into her carriage and seethat she got safely home. There was nothing in it. He was her father'ssecretary--a gentleman, to be sure; a man of social position, as good asthe best; but still, her father's secretary looking after her because ofhis devotion to her father. She began to like him every day more andmore for his devotion to her father. She did not at first like hiscynical ways--his trick of making out that every great deed was reallybut a small one, that every seemingly generous and self-sacrificingaction was actually inspired by the very principle of selfishness; thatlove of the poor, sympathy with the oppressed, were only with the betterclasses another mode of amusing a weary social life. But she soon madeout a generous theory to satisfy herself on that point. Soame Rivers, she felt sure, put on that panoply of cynicism only to guard himselfagainst the weakness of yielding to a futile sensibility. He was verypoor, she thought. She had lordly views about money, and she thought aman without a country house of his own must needs be wretchedly poor, and she knew that Soame Rivers passed all his holiday seasons in thecountry houses of other people. Therefore, she made out that SoameRivers was very poor; and, of course, if he was very poor, he could notlend much practical aid to those who, in the East End or otherwise, werestill poorer than he. So she assumed that he put on the mask of cynicismto hide the flushings of sensibility. She told him as much; she said sheknew that his affected indifference to the interests of humanity wasonly a disguise put on to conceal his real feelings. At first he used tolaugh at her odd, pretty conceits. After a while he came to encourageher in the idea, even while formally assuring her that there was nothingin it, and that he did not care a straw whether the poor were miserableor happy. 

Chance favoured him. There were some poor people whom Helena and herfather were shipping off to New Zealand. Sir Rupert, without Helena'sknowledge, asked his secretary to look after them the night of theirgoing aboard, as he could not be there himself. Helena, withoutconsulting her father, drove down to the docks to look after her poorfriends, and there she found Rivers installed in the business ofprotector. He did the work well--as he did every work that came to hishand. The emigrants thought him the nicest gentleman they had everknown. Helena said to him, 'Come now! I have found you out at last. ' Andhe only said, 'Oh, nonsense! this is nothing. ' But he did not moredirectly contradict her theory, and he did not say her father had senthim--for he knew Sir Rupert would never say that of himself. 

Rivers found himself every day watching over Helena with a deepeninginterest and anxiety. Her talk, her companionship, were growing to beindispensable to him. He did not pay her compliments--indeed, sometimesthey rather sparred at one another in a pleasant schoolboy andschoolgirl sort of way. But she liked his society, and felt herselfthoroughly companionable and comrade-like with him, and she neverthought of concealing her liking. The result was that Soame Rivers beganto think it quite on the cards that, if nothing should interpose, hemight marry Helena Langley--and that, too, before very long. Then heshould have in every way his heart's desire. 

If nothing should interpose? Yes, but there was where the danger camein! If nothing should interpose? But was it likely that nothing andnobody would interpose? The girl was well known to be a rich heiress;she was the only child of a most distinguished statesman; she would bevery likely to have Dukes and Marquises competing for her hand, andwhere might Soame Rivers be then? The young man sometimes thought that, if through her unconventional and somewhat romantic nature he couldentangle her in a love affair, he might be able to induce her to getsecretly married to him--before any of the possible Dukes and Marquiseshad time to put in a claim. But, of course, there would be always thedanger of his turning Sir Rupert hopelessly against him by any trick ofthat kind, and he saw no use in having the daughter on his side if hecould not also have the father. Besides, he had a sore conviction thatthe girl would not do anything to displease her father. So he gave upthe idea of the romantic elopement, or the secret marriage, and hereminded himself that, after all, Helena Langley, with all herunconventional ways, was not exactly another Lydia Languish. 

Then the Dictator and Hamilton came on the scene, and Rivers had many anunhappy hour of it. At first he was more alarmed about Hamilton thanabout the Dictator. He could easily understand an impulsive girl'shero-worship for the Dictator, and he did not think much about it. TheDictator, he assured himself, must seem quite an elderly sort of personto a girl of Helena's age; but Hamilton was young and handsome, of goodfamily, and undoubtedly rich. Hamilton and Helena fraternised veryfreely and openly in their adoration for Ericson, and Rivers thoughtmoodily that that partnership of admiration for a third person mightvery well end in a partnership of still closer admiration for eachother. So, although from the very first he disliked the Dictator, yet hesoon began to detest Hamilton a great deal more. 

His dislike of Ericson was not exclusively and altogether because ofHelena's hero-worship. According to his way of thinking, all foreignadventure had something more or less vulgar in it, but that wasespecially objectionable in the case of an Englishman. What business hadan Englishman--one who claims apparently to be an Englishgentleman--what business had he with a lot of South AmericanRepublicans? What did he want among such people? Why should he careabout them? Why should he want to govern them? And if he did want togovern them, why did he not stay there and govern? The thing was in anycase mere bravado, and melodramatic enterprise. 

It was the morning after the day when the Dictator had proposed toHelena for poor Hamilton. Soame Rivers met Helena on the staircase. 

'Of course, ' he said, with an emphasis, '_you_ will be at luncheonto-day?'

'Why, of course?' she asked, carelessly. 

'Well--your hero is coming--didn't you know?'

'I didn't know; and who is my hero?'

'Oh, come now!--the Dictator, of course. '

'_Is_ he coming?' she asked, with a sudden gleam of genuine emotionflashing over her face. 

'Yes; your father particularly wants him to meet Sir Lionel Rainey. '

'Oh, I didn't know. Well, yes--I shall be there, I suppose, if I feelwell enough. '

'Are you not well?' Rivers asked, with a tone of somewhat artificialtenderness in his voice. 

'Oh, yes, I am all right; but I might not feel quite up to the level ofSir Lionel Rainey. Only men, of course?'

'Only men. '

'Well, I shall think it over. '

'But you can't want to miss your Dictator?'

'My Dictator will probably not miss me, ' the girl said in scornful toneswhich brought no comfort to the heart of Soame Rivers. 

'You would be very sorry if he did not miss you, ' Soame Rivers saidblunderingly. Your cynical man of the world has his feelings and hisangers. 

'Very sorry!' Helena defiantly declared. 

The Dictator came punctually at two--he was always punctual. To-to wasfriendly, but did not conduct him. He was shown at once into thedining-room, where luncheon was laid out. The room looked lonely to theDictator. Helena was not there. 

'My daughter is not coming down to luncheon, ' Sir Rupert said. 

'I am so sorry, ' the Dictator said. 'Nothing serious, I hope?'

'Oh, no!--a cold, or something like that--she didn't tell me. She willbe quite well, I hope, to-morrow. You see how To-to keeps her place. '

Ericson then saw that To-to was seated resolutely on the chair whichHelena usually occupied at luncheon. 

'But what is the use if she is not coming?' the Dictator suggested--notto disparage the intelligence of To-to, but only to find out, if hecould, the motive of that undoubtedly sagacious animal's taking such adefinite attitude. 

'Well, To-to does not like the idea of anyone taking Helena's placeexcept himself. Now, you will see; when we all settle down, and no onepresumes to try for that chair, To-to will quietly drop out of it andallow the remainder of the performance to go undisturbed. He doesn'twant to set up any claim to sit on the chair himself; all he wants is toassert and to protect the right of Helena to have that chair at anymoment when she may choose to join us at luncheon. '

The rest of the party soon came in from various rooms and consultations. Soame Rivers was the first. 

'Miss Langley not coming?' he said, with a glance at To-to. 

'No, ' Sir Rupert answered. 'She is a little out of sorts to-day--nothingmuch--but she won't come down just yet. '

'So To-to keeps her seat reserved, I see. '

The Dictator felt in his heart as if he and To-to were born to befriends. 

The other guests were Lord Courtreeve and Sir Lionel Rainey, the famousEnglishman, who had settled himself down at the Court of the King ofSiam, and taken in hand the railway and general engineering and militaryand financial arrangements of that monarch; and, having been somewhathurt in an expedition against the Black Flags, was now at home, partlyfor rest and recovery, and partly in order to have an opportunity ofenlightening his Majesty of Siam, who had a very inquiring mind, on theimmediate condition of politics and house-building in England. SirLionel said that, above all things, the King of Siam would be interestedin learning something about Ericson and the condition of Gloria, for theKing of Siam read everything he could get hold of about politicseverywhere. Therefore, Sir Rupert had undertaken to invite the Dictatorto this luncheon, and the Dictator had willingly undertaken to come. Soame Rivers had been showing Sir Lionel over the house, and explainingall its arrangements to him--for the King of Siam had thoughts ofbuilding a palace after the fashion of some first-class and up-to-datehouse in London. Sir Lionel was a stout man, rather above the middleheight, but looking rather below it, because of his stoutness. He had asharply turned-up dark moustache, and purpling cheeks and eyes thatseemed too tightly fitted into the face for their own personal comfort. 

Lord Courtreeve was a pale young man, with a very refined and delicateface. He was a member of the London County Council, and was a chairmanof a County Council in his own part of the country. He was a strongadvocate of Local Option, and wore at his courageous buttonhole the blueribbon which proclaimed his devotion to the cause of temperance. He wasan honoured and a sincere member of the League of Social Purity. He wasmuch interested in the increase of open spaces and recreation groundsfor the London poor. He was an unaffectedly good young man, and ifpeople sometimes smiled quietly at him, they respected him all the same. Soame Rivers had said of him that Providence had invented him to be thechief living argument in favour of the principle of hereditarylegislation. 

Sir Lionel Rainey and Lord Courtreeve did not get on at all. Sir Lionelhad too many odd and high-flavoured anecdotes about life in Siam to be acongenial neighbour for the champion of social purity. He had a way, too, of referring everything to the lower instincts of man, and roughlydeclining to reckon in the least idea of any of man's, or woman's, higher qualities. Therefore, the Dictator did not take to him any morethan Lord Courtreeve did; and Sir Rupert began to think that hisluncheon party was not well mixed. Soame Rivers saw it too, and wasdetermined to get the company out of Siam. 

'Do you find London society much changed since you were here last, SirLionel?' he asked. 

'Didn't come to London to study society, ' Sir Lionel answered, somewhatgruffly, for he thought there was much more to be said about Siam. 'Imean in that sort of way. I want to get some notions to take back to theKing of Siam. '

'But might it not interest his Majesty to know of any change, if therewere any, in London society during that time?' Rivers blandly asked. 

'No, sir. His Majesty never was in England, and he could not be expectedto take any interest in the small and superficial changes made in thetone or the talk of society during a few years. You might as well expecthim to be interested in the fact that whereas when I was here last theladies wore eel-skin dresses, now they wear full skirts, and some ofthem, I am told, wear a divided skirt. '

'But I thought such changes of fashion might interest the King, ' Riversremarked with an elaborate meekness. 

'The King, sir, does not care about divided skirts, ' Sir Lionelanswered, with scorn and resentment in his voice. 

'I must confess, ' the Dictator said, glad to be free of Siam, 'that Ihave been much interested in observing the changes that have been madein the life of England--I mean in the life of London--since I was livinghere. '

'We have all got so Republican, ' Sir Rupert said sadly. 

'And we all profess to be Socialists, ' Soame Rivers added. 

'There is much more done for the poor than ever there was before, ' LordCourtreeve pleaded. 

'Because so many of the poor have got votes, ' Rivers observed. 

'Yes, ' Sir Lionel struck in with a laugh, 'and you fellows all want toget into the House of Commons or the County Council, or some such place. By Jove! in my time a gentleman would not want to become a CountyCouncillor. '

'I am not troubling myself about English politics, ' the Dictator said. 'I do not care to vex myself about them. I should probably only end byforming opinions quite different from some of my friends here, and, as Ihave no mission for English political life, what would be the good ofthat? But I am much interested in English social life, and even in whatis called Society. Now, what I want to know is how far does society inLondon represent social London, and still more, social England?'

'Not the least in the world, ' Sir Rupert promptly replied. 

'I am not quite so sure of that, ' Soame Rivers interposed, 'I fancy mostof the fellows try to take their tone from us. '

'I hope not, ' the Dictator said. 

'So do I, ' added Sir Rupert emphatically; 'and I am quite certain theydo not. What on earth do you know about it, Rivers?' he asked almostsharply. 

'Why shouldn't I know all about it, if I took the trouble to find out?'Rivers answered languidly. 

'Yes, yes. Of course you could, ' Sir Rupert said benignly, correctinghis awkward touch of anger as a painter corrects some sudden mistake indrawing. 'I didn't mean in the least to disparage your faculty ofacquiring correct information on any subject. Nobody appreciates morethan I do what you are capable of in that way--nobody has had so muchpractical experience of it. But what I mean is this--that I don't thinkyou know a great deal of English social life outside the West End ofLondon. '

'Is there anything of social life worth knowing to be known outside theWest End of London?' Soame Rivers asked. 

'Well, you see, the mere fact that you put the question shows that youcan't do much to enlighten Mr. Ericson on the one point about which heasks for some enlightenment. He has been out of England for a great manyyears, and he finds some fault with our ways--or, at least, he asks forsome explanation about them. '

'Yes, quite so. I am afraid I have forgotten the point on which Mr. Ericson desired to get information. ' And Rivers smiled a bland smilewithout looking at Ericson. 'May I trouble you, Lord Courtreeve, for thecigarettes?'

'It was not merely a point, but a whole cresset of points--a cluster ofpoints, ' Ericson said, 'on every one of which I wished to have a tip oflight. Is English social life to be judged of by the conversation andthe canons of opinion which we find received in London society?'

'Certainly not, ' Sir Rupert explained. 

'Heaven forbid!' Lord Courtreeve added fervently. 

'I don't quite understand, ' said Soame Rivers. 

'Well, ' the Dictator explained, 'what I mean is this. I find little ornothing prevailing in London society but cheap cynicism--the verycheapest cynicism--cynicism at a farthing a yard or thereabouts. We alladmire healthy cynicism--cynicism with a great reforming and purifyingpurpose--the cynicism that is like a corrosive acid to an evil system;but this West End London sham cynicism--what does that mean?'

'I don't quite know what you mean, ' Soame Rivers said. 

'I mean this, wherever you go in London society--at all events, whereverI go--I notice a peculiarity that I think did not exist, at all eventsto such an extent, in my younger days. Everything is taken with easyridicule. A divorce case is a joke. Marriage is a joke. Love is a joke. Patriotism is a joke. Everybody is assumed, as a matter of course, tohave a selfish motive in everything. Is this the real feeling of Londonsociety, or is it only a fashion, a sham, a grimace?'

'I think it is a very natural feeling, ' Soame Rivers replied, with thegreatest promptitude. 

'And represents the true feeling of what are called the better classesof London?'

'Why, certainly. '

'I think the thing is detestable, anyhow, ' Lord Courtreeve interposed, 'and I am quite sure it does not represent the tone of English society. '

'So am I, ' Sir Rupert added. 

'But you must admit that it is the tone which does prevail, ' theDictator said pressingly, for he wanted very much to study this questiondown to its roots. 

'I am afraid it is the prevailing social tone of London--I mean the WestEnd, ' Sir Rupert admitted reluctantly. 'But you know what a fashionthere is in these things, as well as in others. The fashion in a woman'sgown or a man's hat does not always represent the shape of a woman'sbody or the size of a man's head. '

'It sometimes represents the shape of the man's mind, and the size ofthe woman's heart, ' said Rivers. 

'Well, anyhow, ' Sir Rupert persevered, 'we all know that a great deal ofthis sort of talk is talked for want of anything else to say, andbecause it amuses most people, and because anybody can talk cheapcynicism; I believe that London society is healthy at the core. '

'But come now--let us understand?' Ericson asked; 'how can the societybe healthy at the core for which you yourself make the apology by sayingthat it parrots the jargon of a false and loathsome creed because it hasnothing better to say, or because it hopes to be thought witty byparroting it? Come, Sir Rupert, you won't maintain that?'

'I will maintain, ' Sir Rupert said, 'that London society is not as badas it seems. '

'Oh, well, I have no doubt you are right in that, ' the Dictator hastilyreplied. 'But what I think so melancholy to see is that degeneracy ofsocial life in England--I mean in London--which apes a cynicism itdoesn't feel. '

'But I think it does feel it, ' Rivers struck in; 'and very naturally andjustly. '

'Then you think London society is really demoralised?' the Dictatorspoke, turning on him rather suddenly. 

'I think London society is just what is has always been, ' Riverspromptly answered. 

'Corrupt and cynical?'

'Well, no. I should rather say corrupt and candid. '

'If that is London society, that certainly is not English social life, 'Lord Courtreeve declared emphatically, patting the table with his hand. 'It isn't even London social life. Come down to the East End, sir----'

'Oh, indeed, by Jove! I shall do nothing of the kind!' Rivers replied, as with a shudder. 'I think, of all the humbugs of London society, slumming is about the worst. '

'I was not speaking of that, ' Lord Courtreeve said, with a slight flushon his mild face. 'Perhaps I do not think very differently from youabout some of it--some of it--although, Heaven be praised, not aboutall; but what I mean and was going to say when I was interrupted'--andhe looked with a certain modified air of reproach at Rivers--'what I wasgoing to say when I was interrupted, ' he repeated, as if to make surethat he was not going to be interrupted this time--'was, that if youwould go down to the East End with me, I could show you in one dayplenty of proofs that the heart of the English people is as sound andtrue as ever it was----'

'Very likely, ' Rivers interposed saucily. 'I never said it wasn't. '

Lord Courtreevo gaped with astonishment. 

'I don't quite grasp your meaning, ' he stammered. 

'I never said, ' Soame Rivers replied deliberately, 'that the heart ofthe English people was not just as sound and true now as ever it was--Idare say it is just about the same--_même jeu_, don't you know?' and hetook a languid puff at his cigarette. 

'Am I to be glad or sorry of your answer?' Lord Courtreeve asked, with astare. 

'How can I tell? It depends on what you want me to say. '

'Well, if you mean to praise the great heart of the English people now, and at other times----'

'Oh dear, no; I mean nothing of the kind. '

'I say, Rivers, this is all bosh, you know, ' Sir Rupert struck in. 

'I think we are all shams and frauds in our set--in our class, ' Riverssaid, composedly; 'and we are well brought up and educated and all that, don't you know? I really can't see why some cads who clean windows, ordrive omnibuses, or sell vegetables in a donkey-cart, or carry bricks upa ladder, should be any better than we. Not a bit of it--if we are bad, they are worse, you may put your money on that. '

'Well I think I have had my answer, ' the Dictator said, with a smile. 

'And what is your interpretation of the Oracle's answer?' Rivers asked. 

'I should have to interpret the Oracle itself before I could be clear asto the meaning of its answer, ' Ericson said composedly. 

Soame Rivers knew pretty well by the words and by the tone that if hedid not like the Dictator, neither did the Dictator very much like him. 

'You must not mind Rivers and his cynicism, ' Sir Rupert said, intervening somewhat hurriedly; 'he doesn't mean half he says. '

'Or say half he means, ' Rivers added. 

'But, as I was telling you, about the police organisation of Siam, ' SirLionel broke out anew. And this time the others went back withoutresistance to a few moments more of Siam. 

CHAPTER X

A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE

Captain Oisin Sarrasin came one morning to see the Dictator byappointment. 

Captain Oisin Sarrasin had described himself in his letter to theDictator as a soldier of fortune. So he was indeed, but there aresoldiers and soldiers of fortune. Ho was not the least in the world likethe Orlando the Fearless, who is described in Lord Lytton's 'Rienzi, 'and who cared only for his steed and his sword and his lady thepeerless. Or, rather, he was like him in one respect--he did care forhis lady the peerless. But otherwise Captain Oisin Sarrasin resembled inno wise the traditional soldier of fortune, the Dugald Dalgetty, theCondottiere, the 'Heaven's Swiss' even. Captain Sarrasin was terribly inearnest, and would not lend the aid of his bright sword to any causewhich he did not believe to be the righteous cause, and, owing to thenervous peculiarities of his organisation, it was generally the way ofCaptain Sarrasin to regard the weaker cause as the righteous cause. Thatwas his ruling inclination. When he entered as a volunteer the Federalranks in the great American war, he knew very well that he was enteringon the side of the stronger. He was not blinded in the least, as so manyEnglishmen were, by the fact that in the first instance the Southernerswon some battles. He knew the country from end to end, and he knewperfectly well what must be the outcome of such a struggle. But then hewent in to fight for the emancipation of the negroes, and he knew thatthey were the weakest of all the parties engaged in the controversy, andso he struck in for them. 

He was a man of about forty-eight years of age, and some six feet inheight. He was handsome, strong, and sinewy--all muscles and flesh, andno fat. He had a deep olive complexion and dark-brown hair andeyes--eyes that in certain lights looked almost black. 

He was a silent man habitually, but given anything to talk about inwhich he felt any interest and he could talk on for ever. 

Unlike the ordinary soldier of fortune, he was not in the leastthrasonical. He hardly ever talked of himself--he hardly ever toldpeople of where he had been and what campaigns he had fought in. Helooked soldierly; but the soldier in him did not really very muchoverbear the demeanour of the quiet, ordinary gentleman. At the momenthe is a leader-writer on foreign subjects for a daily newspaper inLondon, and is also retained on the staff in order that he may giveadvice as to the meaning of names and places and allusions in lateforeign telegrams. There is a revolution, say, in Burmah or Patagonia, and a late telegram comes in and announces in some broken-kneed wordsthe bare fact of the crisis. Then the editor summons Captain Sarrasin, and Sarrasin quietly explains:--'Oh, yes, of course; I knew that wascoming this long time. The man at the head of affairs was totallyincompetent. I gave him my advice many a time. Yes, it's all right. I'llwrite a few sentences of explanation, and we shall have fuller newsto-morrow. ' And he would write his few sentences of explanation, and thepaper he wrote for would come out next morning with the onlyintelligible account of what had happened in the far-off country. 

The Dictator did not know it at the time, but it was certain thatCaptain Sarrasin's description of the rising in Gloria and the expulsionof Gloria's former chief had done much to secure a favourable receptionof Ericson in London. The night when the news of the struggle and thedefeat came to town no newspaper man knew anything in the world about itbut Oisin Sarrasin. The tendency of the English Press is always to go infor foreign revolutions. It saves trouble, for one thing. Therefore, allthe London Press except the one paper to which Oisin Sarrasincontributed assumed, as a matter of course, that the revolution inGloria was a revolution against tyranny, or priestcraft, or corruption, or what not--and Oisin Sarrasin alone explained that it was a revolutionagainst reforms too enlightened and too advanced--a revolution ofcorruption against healthy civilisation and purity--of stagnationagainst progress--of the system comfortable to corrupt judges and towealthy suitors, and against judicial integrity. It was pointed out inCaptain Sarrasin's paper that this was the sort of revolution which hadsucceeded for the moment in turning out the Englishman Ericson--and theother papers, when they came to look into the matter, found that CaptainSarrasin's version of the story was about right--and in a few days allthe papers when they came out were glorifying the heroic Englishman whohad endeavoured so nobly to reorganise the Republic of Gloria on theexalted principles of the British Constitution, and had for the timelost his place and his power in the generous effort. Then the wholePress of London rallied round the Dictator, and the Dictator became asplendid social success. 

Oisin Sarrasin had been called to the English bar and to the Americanbar. He seemed to have done almost everything that a man could do, andto have been almost everywhere that a man could be. Yet, as we havesaid, he seldom talked of where he had been or what he had done. He didnot parade himself--he was found out. He never paraded his intimateknowledge of Russia, but he happened at Constantinople one day to sitnext to Sir Mackenzie Wallace at a dinner party, and to get into talkwith him, and Sir Mackenzie went about everywhere the next day tellingeverybody that Captain Sarrasin knew more about the inner life of Russiathan any other Englishman he had ever met. It was the same with Stanleyand Africa--the same with Lesseps and Egypt--the same with South Americaand the late Emperor of Brazil, to whom Captain Sarrasin was presentedat Cannes. There was a story to the effect that he had lived for sometime among the Indian tribes of the Wild West--and Sarrasin had beenquestioned on the subject, and only smiled, and said he had lived agreat many lives in his time--and people did not believe the story. Butit was certain that at the time when the Wild West Show first opened inLondon, Oisin Sarrasin went to see it, and that Red Shirt, the fightingchief of the Sioux nations, galloping round the barrier, happened to seeSarrasin, suddenly wheeled his horse, and drew up and greeted Sarrasinin the Sioux dialect, and hailed him as his dear old comrade, and talkedof past adventures, and that Sarrasin responded, and that they had for afew minutes an eager conversation. It was certain, too, that ColonelCody (Buffalo Bill), noticing the conversation, brought his horse up tothe barrier, and, greeting Sarrasin with the friendly way of an oldcomrade, said in a tone heard by all who were near, 'Why, Captain, youdon't come out our way in the West as often as you used to do. ' Sarrasincould talk various languages, and his incredulous friends sometimes laidtraps for him. They brought him into contact with Richard Burton, orProfessor Palmer, hoping in their merry moods to enjoy some disastrousresults. But Burton only said in the end, 'By Jupiter, what a knowledgeof Asiatic languages that fellow has!' And Palmer declared that Sarrasinought to be paid by the State to teach our British officers all thedialects of some of the East Indian provinces. In a chance mood oftalkativeness, Sarrasin had mentioned the fact that he spoke modernGreek. A good-natured friend invited him to a dinner party with M. Gennadius, the Greek Minister in London, and presented him as one whowas understood to be acquainted with modern Greek. The two had muchconversation together after dinner was over, and great curiosity wasfelt by the sceptical friends as to the result. M. Gennadius beingquestioned, said, 'Oh, well, of course he speaks Greek perfectly, but Ishould have known by his accent here and there that he was not a bornGreek. '

The truth was that Oisin Sarrasin had seen too much in life--seen toomuch of life--of places, and peoples, and situations, and so had got hismind's picture painted out. He had started in life too soon, andoverclouded himself with impressions. His nature had grown languorousunder their too rich variety. His own extraordinary experiences seemedcommonplace to him; he seemed to assume that all men had gone throughjust the like. He had seen too much, read too much, been too much. Lifecould hardly present him with anything which had not already been afamiliar object or thought to him. Yet he was always on the quietlook-out for some new principle, some new cause, to stir him intoactivity. He had nothing in him of the used-up man--he was curiously thereverse of the type of the used-up man. He was quietly delighted withall he had seen and done, and he still longed to add new sights anddoings to his experiences, but he could not easily discover where tofind them. He did not crave merely for new sensations. He was on thewhole a very self-sufficing man--devoted to his wife as she was devotedto him. He could perfectly well have done without new sensations. But hehad a kind of general idea that he ought to be always doing somethingfor some cause or somebody, and for a certain time he had not seen anyfield on which to develop his Don Quixote instincts. The coming ofEricson to London reminded him of the Republic of Gloria, and of thegreat reforms that were only too great, and, as we have said, he wroteEricson up in his newspaper. 

Captain Sarrasin had a home in the far southern suburbs, but he hadlately taken a bedroom in Paulo's Hotel. The moment Captain Sarrasinentered the room the Dictator remembered that he had seen him before. The Dictator never forgot faces, but he could not always put names tothem, and he was a little surprised to find that he and the soldier offortune had met already. 

He advanced to meet his visitor with the smile of singular sweetnesswhich was so attractive to all those on whom it beamed. The Dictator'ssweet smile was as much a part of his success in life--and of hisfailure, too, perhaps--as any other quality about him--as his nerve, orhis courage, or his good temper, or his commander-in-chief sort ofgenius. 

'We have met before, Captain Sarrasin, ' he said. 'I remember seeing youin Gloria--I am not mistaken, surely?'

'I was in Gloria, ' Captain Sarrasin answered, 'but I left long beforethe outbreak of the revolution. I remained there a little time. I thinkI saw even then what was coming. I am on your side altogether. '

'Yes, so you were good enough to tell me. Well, have you heard any latenews? You know how my heart is bound up with the fortunes of Gloria?'

'I know very well, and I think I do bring you some news. It is all goingto pieces in Gloria without you. '

'Going to pieces--how can that be?'

'The Republic is torn asunder by faction, and she is going to be annexedby her big neighbour. '

'The new Republic of Orizaba?'

This was a vast South American state which had started into politicalexistence as an empire and had shaken off its emperor--sent him home toEurope--and had set up as a republic of a somewhat aggressive order. 

'Yes, Orizaba, of course. '

'But do you really believe, Captain Sarrasin, that Orizaba has anyactual intentions of that kind?'

'I happen to know it for certain, ' Captain Sarrasin grimly replied. 

'How do you know it, may I ask?'

'Because I have had letters offering me a command in the expedition tocross the frontier of Gloria. '

The Dictator looked straight into the eyes of Captain Sarrasin. Theywere mild, blue, fearless eyes. Ericson read nothing there that he mightnot have read in the eyes of Sarrasin's quiet, scholarly, untravelledbrother. 

'Captain Sarrasin, ' he said, 'I am an odd sort of person, and alwayshave been--can't help myself in fact. Do you mind my feeling yourpulse?'

'Not in the least, ' Sarrasin gravely answered, with as little expressionof surprise about him as if Ericson had asked him whether he did notthink the weather was very fine. He held out a strong sinewy and whitewrist. Ericson laid his finger on the pulse. 

'Your pulse as mine, ' he said, 'doth temperately keep time, and makes ashealthful music. '

Captain Sarrasin's face lighted. 

'You are a Shakespearian?' he said eagerly. 'I am so glad. I am anold-fashioned person, and I love Shakespeare; that is only anotherreason why----'

'Go on, Captain Sarrasin. '

'Why I want to go along with you. '

'But do you want to go along with me, and where?'

'To Gloria, of course. You have not asked me why I refused to give myservices to Orizaba. '

'No; I assumed that you did not care to be the mercenary of aninvasion. '

'Mercenary? No, it wasn't quite that. I have been a mercenary in manyparts of the world, although I never in my life fought on what I did notbelieve to be the right side. That's how it comes in here--in your case. I told the Orizaba people who wrote to me that I firmly believed youwere certain to come back to Gloria, and that if the sword of OisinSarrasin could help you that sword was at your disposal. '

'Captain Sarrasin, ' the Dictator said, 'give me your hand. '

Captain Sarrasin was a pretty strong man, but the grip of the Dictatoralmost made him wince. 

'When you make up your mind to go back, ' Captain Sarrasin said, 'let meknow. I'll go with you. '

'If this is really going on, ' the Dictator said meditatively--'ifOrizaba is actually going to make war on Gloria--well, I _must_ go back. I think Gloria would welcome me under such conditions--at such a crisis. I do not see that there is any other man----'

'There is no other man, ' Sarrasin said. 'Of course one doesn't know whatthe scoundrels who are in office now might do. They might arrest you andshoot you the moment you landed--they are quite capable of it. '

'They are, I dare say, ' the Dictator said carelessly. 'But I shouldn'tmind that--I should take my chance, ' And then the sudden thought went tohis heart that he should dislike death now much more than he would havedone a few weeks ago. But he hastened to repeat, 'I should take mychance. '

'Of course, of course, ' said Sarrasin, quite accepting the Dictator'sremark as a commonplace and self-evident matter of fact. 'I'll take _my_chance too. I'll go along with you, and so will my wife. '

'Your wife?'

'Oh, yes, my wife. She goes everywhere with me. '

The face of the Dictator looked rather blank. He did not quite see theappropriateness of petticoats in actual warfare--unless, perhaps, theshort petticoats of a _vivandière_; and he hoped that Captain Sarrasin'swife was not a _vivandière_. 

'You see, ' Sarrasin said cheerily, 'my wife and I are very fond of eachother, and our one little child is long since dead, and we have nobodyelse to care much about. And she is a tall woman, nearly as tall as Iam, and she dresses up as my _aide-de-camp_; and she has gone with meinto all my fights. And we find it so convenient that if ever I shouldget killed, then, of course, she would manage to get killed too, and_vice versâ--vice versâ_, of course. And that would be so convenient, don't you see? We are so used to each other, one of us couldn't get onalone. '

The Dictator felt his eyes growing a little moist at this curiousrevelation of conjugal affection. 

'May I have the honour soon, ' he asked, 'of being presented to Mrs. Sarrasin?'

'Mrs. Sarrasin, sir, ' said her husband, 'will come whenever she is askedor sent for. Mrs. Sarrasin will regard it as the highest honour of herlife to be allowed to serve upon your staff with me. '

'Has she been with you in all your campaigns?' Ericson asked. 

'In all what I may call my irregular warfare, certainly, ' CaptainSarrasin answered. 'When first we married I was in the British service, sir; and of course they wouldn't allow anything of the kind there. Butafter that I gave up the English army--there wasn't much chance of anyreal fighting going on--and I served in all sorts of odd irregularcampaignings, and Mrs. Sarrasin found out that she preferred to be withme--and so from that time we fought, as I may say, side by side. She hasbeen wounded more than once--but she doesn't mind. She is not the womanto care about that sort of thing. She is a very remarkable woman. '

'She must be, ' the Dictator said earnestly. 'When shall I have thechance of seeing her? When may I call on her?'

'I hardly venture to ask it, ' Captain Sarrasin said; 'but would youhonour us by dining with us--any day you have to spare?'

'I shall be delighted, ' the Dictator replied. 'Let us find a day. May Isend for my secretary?'

Mr. Hamilton was sent for and entered, bland and graceful as usual, butwith a deep sore at his heart. 

'Hamilton, how soon have I a free day for dining with Captain Sarrasin, who is kind enough to ask me?'

Hamilton referred to his engagement-book. 

'Saturday week is free. That is, it is not filled up. You have seveninvitations, but none of them has yet been accepted. '

'Refuse them all, please; I shall dine with Captain Sarrasin. '

'If Mr. Hamilton will also do me the pleasure----' the kindly captainbegan. 

'No, I am afraid I cannot allow him, ' the Dictator answered. 'He is sureto have been included in some of these invitations, and we must diffuseourselves as much as we can. He must represent me somewhere. You see, Captain Sarrasin, it is only in obedience to Hamilton's policy that Ihave consented to go to any of these smart dinner parties at all, and hemust really bear his share of the burden which he insists on imposingupon me. '

'All right; I'm game, ' Hamilton said. 

'He likes it, I dare say, ' Ericson said. 'He is young and fresh andenergetic, and he is fond of mashing on to young and pretty women--andso the dinner parties give him pleasure. It will give me sincerepleasure to dine with Mrs. Sarrasin and you, and we'll leave Hamilton tohis countesses and marchionesses. But don't think too badly of him, Captain Sarrasin, for all that: he is so young. If there is a fight togo on in Gloria he'll be there with you and me--you may depend on that. '

'But is there any chance of a fight going on?' Hamilton asked, lookingup from his papers with flushing face and sparkling eyes. 

'Captain Sarrasin thinks that there is a good chance of something of thekind, and he offers to be with us. He has certain information that thereis a scheme on foot in Orizaba for the invasion and annexation ofGloria. '

Hamilton leaped up in delight. 

'By Jove!' he exclaimed, 'that would be the one chance to rally all thatis left of the national and the patriotic in Gloria! Hip, hip, hurrah!--one cheer more--hurrah!' And the usually demure Hamiltonactually danced then and there, in his exultation, some steps of amusic-hall breakdown. His face was aflame with delight. The Dictator andSarrasin both looked at him with an expression of sympathy andadmiration. But there were different feelings in the breasts of the twosympathising men. Sarrasin was admiring the manly courage and spirit ofthe young man, and in his admiration there was that admixture ofmelancholy, of something like compassion, with which middle-age regardsthe enthusiasm of youth. 

With the Dictator's admiration was blended the full knowledge that, amidall Hamilton's sincere delight in the prospect of again striking a blowfor Gloria, there was a suffused delight in the sense of suddenlightening of pain--the sense that while fighting for Gloria he would beable, in some degree, to shake off the burden of his unsuccessful love. In the wild excitement of the coming struggle he might have a chance ofnow and then forgetting how much he loved Helena Langley and how she didnot love him. 

CHAPTER XI

HELENA

Love, according to the Greek proverb quoted by Plutarch, is theoffspring of the rainbow and the west wind, that delicious west wind, sofull of hope and youth in all its breathings--that rainbow that we may, if we will, pursue for ever, and which we shall never overtake. HelenaLangley, although she was a fairly well-read girl, had probably neverheard of the proverb, but there was something in her mood of mind atpresent that might seem to have sprung from the conjunction of therainbow and the west wind. She was exalted out of herself by herfeelings--the west wind breathed lovingly on her--and yet she saw thatthe rainbow was very far off. She was beginning to admit to herself thatshe was in love with the Dictator--at all events, that she was growingmore and more into love with him; but she could not see that he was atall likely to be in love with her. She was a spoilt child; she had allthe virtues and no doubt some of the defects of the spoilt child. Shehad always been given to understand that she would be a greatmatch--that anybody would be delighted to marry her--that she mightmarry anyone she pleased provided she did not take a fancy to a royalprince, and that she must be very careful not to let herself be marriedfor her money alone. She knew that she was a handsome girl, and sheknew, too, that she had got credit for being clever and a littleeccentric--for being a girl who was privileged to be unconventional, andto say what she pleased and whatever came into her head. She enjoyed theknowledge of the fact that she was allowed to speak out her mind, andthat people would put up with things from her which they would not putup with from other girls. The knowledge did not make her feelcynical--it only made her feel secure. She was not a reasoning girl; sheloved to follow her own impulses, and had the pleased conviction thatthey generally led her right. 

Now, however, it seemed to her that things had not been going right withher, and that she had her own impulses all to blame. She had taken agreat liking to Mr. Hamilton, and she had petted him and made much ofhim, and probably got talked of with him, and all the time she never hadthe faintest idea that he was likely to misunderstand her feelingstowards him. She thought he would know well enough that she admired himand was friendly and free with him because he was the devoted followerof the Dictator. And at first she regarded the Dictator himself only asthe chief of a cause which she had persuaded herself to recognise andtalked herself into regarding as _her_ cause. Therefore it had notoccurred to her to think that Hamilton would not be quite satisfied withthe friendliness which she showed to him as the devoted follower oftheir common leader. She went on the assumption that they were sworn andnatural comrades, Hamilton and herself, bound together by the commonbond of servitude to the Dictator. All this dream had been suddenlyshattered by the visit of Ericson, and the curious mission on which hehad come. Helena felt her cheeks flushing up again and again as shethought of it. It had told her everything. It had shown her what amistake she had made when she lavished so much of her friendlyattentions on Hamilton--and what a mistake she had made when she failedto understand her own feelings about the Dictator. The moment he spoketo her of Hamilton's offer she knew at a flash how it was with her. Theburst of disappointment and anger with which she found that he had comethere to recommend to her the love of another man was a revelation thatalmost dazzled her by its light. What had she said, what had she done?she now kept asking herself. Had she betrayed her secret to him, just atthe very moment when it had first betrayed itself to her? Had sheallowed him to guess that she loved him? Her cheeks kept reddening againand again at the terrible suspicion. What must he think of her? Would hepity her? Would he wonder at her--would he feel shocked and sorry, oronly gently mirthful? Did he regard her only as a more or lessprecocious child? What had she said--how had she looked--had her eyesrevealed her, or her trembling lips, or her anger, or the tone of hervoice? A young man accustomed to ways of abstinence is tempted onesudden night into drinking more champagne than is good for him, and in aplace where there are girls, where there is one girl in whose eyes aboveall others he wishes to seem an admirable and heroic figure. He getshome all right--he is apparently in possession of all his senses; but hehas an agonised doubt as to what he may have said or done while thefirst flush of the too much champagne was still in his spirits and hisbrain. He remembers talking with her. He tries to remember whether shelooked at all amazed or shocked. He does not think she did; he cannotrecall any of her words, or his words; but he may have said something toconvince her that he had taken too much champagne, and for her even tothink anything of the kind about him would have seemed to him eternaland utter degradation in her eyes. Very much like this were the feelingsof Helena Langley about the words which she might have spoken, the lookswhich she might have given, to the Dictator. All she knew was that shewas not quite herself at the time: the rest was mere doubt and misery. And Helena Langley passed in society for being a girl who never cared inthe least what she said or what she did, so long as she was notconventional. 

To add to her concern, the Duchess of Deptford was announced. Now Helenawas very fond of the beautiful and bright little Duchess, with herkindly heart, her utter absence of affectation, and her penetratingeyes. She gathered herself up and went to meet her friend. 

'My! but you are looking bad, child!' the genial Duchess said. She mayhave been a year and a half or so older than Helena. 'What's the matterwith you, anyway? Why have you got those blue semicircles round youreyes? Ain't you well?'

'Oh, yes, quite well, ' Helena hastened to explain. 'Nothing is ever thematter with _me_, Duchess. My father says Nature meant to make me a boyand made a mistake at the last moment. I am the only girl he knows--sohe tells me--that never is out of sorts. '

'Well, then, my dear, that only proves the more certainly that Naturedistinctly meant you for a girl when she made you a girl. '

'Dear Duchess, how _do_ you explain that?'

'Because you have got the art of concealing your feelings, which menhave not got, anyhow, ' the Duchess said, composedly. 'If you ain't outof sorts about something--and with these blue semicircles under yourlovely eyes--well, then, a semicircle is not a semicircle, nor a girl agirl. That's so. '

'Dear Duchess, never mind me. I am really in the rudest health----'

'And no troubles--brain, or heart, or anything?'

'Oh, no; none but those common to all human creatures. '

'Well, well, have it your own way, ' the Duchess said, good-humouredly. 'You have got a kind father to look after you, anyway. How is dear SirRupert?'

Helena explained that her father was very well, thank you, and theconversation drifted away from those present to some of those absent. 

'Seen Mr. Ericson lately?' the Duchess asked. 

'Oh, yes, quite lately. ' Helena did not explain how very lately it wasthat she had seen him. 

'I like him very much, ' said the Duchess. 'He is real sweet, I think. '

'He is very charming, ' Helena said. 

'And his secretary, young--what is his name?'

'Mr. Hamilton?'

'Yes, yes, Mr. Hamilton. Don't you think he is just a lovely young man?'

'I like him immensely. '

'But so handsome, don't you think? Handsomer than Mr. Ericson, I think. '

'One doesn't think much about Mr. Ericson's personal appearance, ' Helenasaid, in a tone which distinctly implied that, according to her view ofthings, Mr. Ericson was quite above personal appearance. 

'Well, of course, he is a great man, and he did wonderful things; and hewas a Dictator----'

'And will be again, ' said Helena. 

'What troubles me is this, ' said the Duchess, 'I don't see much of theDictator in him. Do you?'

'How do you mean, Duchess?' Helena asked evasively. 

'Well, he don't seem to me to have much of a ruler of men about him. Heis a charming man, and a brainy man, I dare say; but the sort of manthat takes hold at once and manages things and puts things straight allof his own strength--well, he don't seem to be quite that sort ofman--now, does he?'

'We haven't seen him tried, ' Helena said. 

'No, of course; we haven't had a chance that way, but it seems to me asif you could get some kind of notion about a man's being a greatcommander-in-chief without actually seeing him directing a field ofbattle. Now I don't appear to get that impression from Mr. Ericson. '

'Mr. Ericson wouldn't care to show off probably. He likes to keephimself in the background, ' Helena said warmly. 

'Dear child, I am not finding any fault with your hero, or saying thathe isn't a hero; I am only saying that, so far, I have not discoveredany of the magnetic force of the hero--isn't magnetic force the word? Heis ever so nice and quiet and intellectual, and I dare say, as anall-round man, he's first-class, but I have not yet struck theDictatorship quality in him. '

The Duchess rose to go away. 

'You see, there's nothing in particular for him to do in this country, 'Helena said, still lingering on the subject which the Duchess seemedquite willing to put away. 

'Is he going back to his own country?' the Duchess asked, languidly. 

'His own country, Duchess? Why, _this_ is his own country. ' Wrapped asshe was in the fortunes of Gloria, Helena, like a genuine English girl, could not help resenting the idea of any Englishman acknowledging anycountry but England. Especially she would not admit that her particularhero could be any sort of foreigner. 

'Well--his adopted country I mean--the country where he was Dictator. Ishe going back there?'

'When the people call him, he will go, ' Helena answered proudly. 

'Oh, my dear, if he wants to get back he had better go before the peoplecall him. People forget so soon nowadays. We have all sorts of exilesover in the States, and it don't seem to me as if anybody ever calledthem back. Some of them have gone without being called, and then I thinkthey mostly got shot. But I hope your hero won't do that. Good-bye, dear; come and see me soon, or I shall think you as mean as ever you canbe. ' And the beautiful Duchess, bending her graceful head, departed, andleft Helena to her own reflections. 

Somehow these were not altogether pleasant reflections. Helena did notlike the manner in which the Dictator had been discussed by the Duchess. The Duchess talked of him as if he were just some ordinary adventurer, who would be forgotten in his old domain if he did not keep knocking atthe door and demanding readmittance even at the risk of being shot forhis pains. This grated harshly on her ears. In truth, it is very hard totalk of the loved one to loving ears without producing a sound thatgrates on them. Too much praise may grate--criticism of any kindgrates--cool indifferent comment, even though perfectly free fromill-nature, is sure to grate. The loved one, in fact, is not to bespoken of as other beings of earth may lawfully and properly be spokenof. On the whole, the loving one is probably happiest when the name ofthe loved one is not mentioned at all by profane or commonplace lips. But there was something more than this in Helena's case. The verythought which the Duchess had given out so freely and so carelessly hadlong been a lurking thought in Helena's own mind. Whenever it made itsappearance too boldly she tried to shut it down and clap the hatchesover it, and keep it there, suppressed and shut below. But it would comeup again and again. The thought was, Where is the Dictator? She couldrecognise the bright talker, the intellectual thinker, the clever man ofthe world, the polished, grave, and graceful gentleman, but where werethe elements of Dictatorship? It was quite true, as she herself hadsaid, had pleaded even, that some men never carry their great publicqualities into civil life; and Helena raked together in her mind allmanner of famous historical examples of men who had led great armies tovictory, or had discovered new worlds for civilisation to conquer, andwho appeared to be nothing in a drawing- or a dining-room but ordinary, well-behaved, undemonstrative gentlemen. Why should not the Dictator beone of these? Why, indeed? She was sure he must be one of these, but wasit not to be her lot to see him in his true light--in his true self?Then the meeting of that other day gave her a keen pang. She did notlike the idea of the Dictator coming to her to make love by deputy foranother man. It was not like him, she thought, to undertake a task suchas that. It was done, of course, out of kindness and affection for Mr. Hamilton--and that was, in its way, a noble and a generous act--butstill, it jarred upon her feelings. The truth was that it jarred uponher feelings because it showed her, as she thought, how little seriousconsideration of her was in the Dictator's mind, and how sincere andgenuine had been his words when he told her again and again that to himshe seemed little more than a child. It was not that feeling which hadbrought up the wish that she could see the Dictator prove himselfa man born to dictate. But that wish, or that doubt, or thatquestioning--whatever it might be--which was already in her mind wasstirred to painful activity now by the consciousness which she strove toexclude, and could not help admitting, that she, after all, was nothingto the Dictator. 

That night, like most nights when she did not herself entertain, Helenawent with her father to a dinner party. She showed herself to be inradiant spirits the moment she entered the room. She was dressedbewitchingly, and everyone said she was looking more charming than ever. The fashion of lighting drawing-rooms and dining-rooms gives ampleopportunity for a harmless deception in these days, and the bluehalf-circles were not seen round Helena's eyes, nor would any of thecompany in the drawing-room have guessed that the heart under thatsilken bodice was bleeding. 

CHAPTER XII

DOLORES

Mr. Paulo was perplexed. And as Mr. Paulo was a cool-headed, clear-sighted man, perplexity was an unusual thing with him, and itannoyed him. The cause of his perplexity was connected almost entirelywith the ex-Dictator of Gloria. Ericson had still kept his rooms in thehotel; he had said, and Hamilton agreed with him, that in remainingthere they seemed more like birds of passage, more determined to regardreturn to Gloria as not merely a possible but a probable event, and anevent in the near future. To take a house in London, the Dictatorthought, and, of course, Hamilton thought with him, would be to admitthe possibility of a lengthy sojourn in London, and that was apossibility which neither of the two men wished to entertain. 'Itwouldn't look well in the papers, ' Hamilton said, shaking his headsolemnly. So they remained on at Paulo's, and Paulo kept the green andyellow flag of Gloria flying as if the guest beneath his roof were stilla ruling potentate. 

But it was not the stay of the Dictator that in any way perplexed Mr. Paulo. Paulo was honestly proud of the presence of Ericson in his house. Paulo's father was a Spaniard who had gone out to Gloria as a waiter ina _café_, and who had entered the service of a young Englishman in theLegation, and had followed him to England and married an English wife. Mr. Paulo--George Paulo--was the son of this international union. Hisfather had been a 'gentleman's gentleman, ' and Paulo followed hisfather's business and became a gentleman's gentleman too. George Paulowas almost entirely English in his nature, thanks to a strong-mindedmother, who ruled the late Manuel Paulo with a kindly severity. The onlything Spanish about him was his face--smooth-shaven with small, blackside whiskers--a face which might have seemed more appropriately placedin the bull rings of Madrid or Seville. George Paulo, in his turn, married an Englishwoman, a lady's-maid, with some economies and moreideas. They had determined, soon after their marriage, to make a startin life for themselves. They had kept a lodging-house in Sloane Street, which soon became popular with well-to-do young gentlemen, smartsoldiers, and budding diplomatists, for both Paulo and his wifeunderstood perfectly the art of making these young gentlemencomfortable. 

Things went well with Paulo and his wife; their small economies weremade into small investments; the investments, being judicious, prospered. A daring purchase of house property proved one stroke ofsuccess, and led to another. When he was fifty years of age Paulo was arich man, and then he built Paulo's Hotel, and his fortune swelledyearly. He was a very happy man, for he adored his wife and he idolisedhis daughter, the handsome, stately, dark-eyed girl whom, for somesentimental reason, her mother had insisted upon calling Dolores. Dolores was, or at least seemed to be, that rarest creature amongwomen--an unconscious beauty. She could pass a mirror without even aglance at it. 

Dolores Paulo had everything she wanted. She was well taught; she knewseveral languages, including, first of all, that Spanish of which herfather, for all his bull-fighter face, knew not a single syllable; shecould play, and sing, and dance; and, above all things, she could ride. No one in the Park rode better than Miss Paulo; no one in the Park hadbetter animals to ride. George Paulo was a judge of horseflesh, and hebought the best horses in London for Dolores; and when Dolores rode inthe Row, as she did every morning, with a smart groom behind her, everyone looked in admiration at the handsome girl who was so perfectlymounted. The Paulos were a curious family. They had not the least desireto be above what George Paulo called their station in life. He and hiswife were people of humble origin, who had honestly become rich; butthey had not the least desire to force themselves upon a society whichmight have accepted them for their money, and laughed at them for theirambition. They lived in a suite of rooms in their own hotel, and theymanaged the hotel themselves. They gave all their time to it, and ittook all their time, and they were proud of it. It was their businessand their pleasure, and they worked for it with an artisticconscientiousness which was highly admirable. Dolores had inherited thesense and the business-like qualities of her parents, and she insistedon taking her part in the great work of keeping the hotel going. Paulo, proud of his hotel, was still prouder of the interest taken in it by hisdaughter. 

Dolores came in from her ride one afternoon, and was hurrying to herroom to change her dress, when she was met by her father in the publiccorridor. 

'Dolores, my little girl'--he always called the splendidly? proportionedyoung woman 'my little girl'--'I'm puzzled. I don't mind telling you, inconfidence, that I am extremely puzzled. '

'Have you told mother?'

'Oh, yes, of course I've told mother, but she don't seem to think thereis anything in it. '

'Then you may be sure there is nothing in it. ' Mrs. , or Madame, Paulowas the recognised sense-carrier of the household. 

'Yes, I know. Nobody knows better than I what a woman _your_ mother is. 'He laid a kindly emphasis on the word 'your' as if to carry to thecredit of Dolores some considerable part of the compliment that he waspaying to her parent. 'But still, I thought I should like to talk toyou, too, little girl. If two heads are better than one, three heads, Itake it, are better than two. '

'All right, dear; go ahead. '

'Well, its about this Captain Sarrasin--in number forty-seven--youknow. '

'Of course I know, dear; but what can puzzle you about him? He seems tome the most simple and charming old gentleman I have seen in this housefor a long time. '

'Old gentleman, ' Paulo said, with a smile. 'I fancy how much he wouldlike to be described in that sort of way, and by a handsome girl, too!He don't think he is an old gentleman, you may be sure. '

'Why, father, he is almost as old as you; he must be fifty years old atleast--more than that. '

'So you consider me quite an old party?' Paulo said, with a smile. 

'I consider you an old darling, ' his daughter answered, giving him afervent embrace--they were alone in the corridor--and Paulo seemed quitecontented. 

'But now, ' he said, releasing himself from the prolonged osculation, 'about this Captain Sarrasin?'

'Yes, dear, about him. Only what about him?'

'Well, that's exactly what I want to know. I don't quite see what he'sup to. What does he have a room in this hotel for?'

'I suppose because he thinks it is a very nice hotel--and so it is, dear, thanks to you. '

'Yes, that's all right enough, ' Paulo said, a little dissatisfied; thepersonal compliment did not charm away his discomfort in this instance, as the embrace had done in the other. 

'I don't see where your trouble comes in, dear. '

'Well, you see, I have ascertained that this Captain Sarrasin is amarried man, and that he has a house where he and his wife live downClapham way, ' and Paulo made a jerk with his hand as if to designate tohis daughter the precise geographical situation of Captain Sarrasin'sabode. 'But he sleeps here many nights, and he is here most of the day, and he gets his letters here, and all sorts of people come to see himhere. '

'I suppose, dear, he has business to do, and it wouldn't be quiteconvenient for people to go out and see him in Clapham. '

'Why, my little girl, if it comes to that, it would be almost asconvenient for people--City people for instance--to go to Clapham as tocome here. '

'Dear, that depends on what part of Clapham he lives in. You see we arejust next to a station here, and in parts of Clapham they are two milesoff anything of the kind. Besides, all people don't come from the City, do they?'

'Business people do, ' Mr. Paulo replied sententiously. 

'But the people I see coming after Captain Sarrasin are not one littlebit like City people. '

'Precisely, ' her father caught her up; 'there you have got it, littlegirl. That's what has set me thinking. What are your ideas about thepeople who come to see him? You know the looks of people pretty well bythis time. You have a good eye for them. How do you figure them up?'

The girl reflected. 

'Well, I should say foreign refugees generally, and explorers, and allthat kind; Mr. Hiram Borringer comes with his South Pole expeditions, and I see men who were in Africa with Stanley--and all that kind ofthing. '

'Yes, but some of that may be a blind, don't you know. Have you ever, tell me, in all your recollection, seen a downright, unmistakable, solidCity man go into Captain Sarrasin's room?'

'No, no, ' said the girl, after a moment's thought; 'I can't quite saythat I have. But I don't see what that matters to us. There are goodpeople, I suppose, who don't come from the City?'

'I don't like it, somehow, ' Paulo said. 'I have been thinking itover--and I tell you I don't like it!'

'What I can't make out, ' the girl said, not impatiently but very gently, 'is what you don't like in the matter. Is there anything wrong with thisCaptain Sarrasin? He seems an old dear. '

'This is how it strikes me. He never came to this house until after hisExcellency the Dictator made up his mind to settle here. '

'Oh!' Dolores started and turned pale. 'Tell me what you mean, dear--youfrighten one. '

Paulo smiled. 

'You are not over-easily frightened, ' he said, 'and so I'll tell you allmy suspicions. '

'Suspicions?' she said, with a drawing in of the breath that seemed asemphatic as a shudder. 'What is there to suspect?'

'Well, there is nothing more than suspicion at present. But here it is. I have it on the best authority that this Captain Sarrasin was out inGloria. Now, he never told _me_ that. '

'No? Well, go on. '

'He came back here to England long before his Excellency came, but henever took a room in this house until his Excellency had made up hismind to settle down here for all his time with Mr. Hamilton. Now, whatdo you think his settling down here, and not taking a house, likeGeneral Boulanger--what do you think his staying on here means?'

'I suppose, ' the girl said, slowly, 'it means that he has not given upthe idea of recovering his position in Gloria. ' She spoke in a low tone, and with eyes that sparkled. 

'Right you are, girl. Of course, that's what it does mean. Mr. Hamiltonas good as told me himself; but I didn't want him to tell me. Now, again, if this Captain Sarrasin has been out in Gloria, and if he is onthe right side, why didn't he call on his Excellency and prove himself afriend?'

'Dear, he has called on him. '

'Yesterday, yes; but not before. '

'Yes, but don't you see, dear, ' Dolores said eagerly, 'that would cutboth ways. You think that he is not a friend, but an enemy?'

'I begin to fear so, Dolores. '

'But, don't you see, an enemy might be for that very reason all the moreanxious to pass himself off as a friend?'

'Yes, there's something in that, little girl; there's something in that, to be sure. But now you just hear me out before you let your mind cometo any conclusion one way or the other. '

'I'll hear you out, ' said Dolores; 'you need not be afraid about that. '

Dolores knew her father to be a cool-headed and sensible man; but still, even that fact would hardly in itself account for the interest she tookin suspicions which appeared to have only the slightest possiblefoundation. She was evidently listening with breathless anxiety. 

'Now, of course, I never allow revolutionary plotting in this house, 'Paulo went on to say. 'I may have _my_ sympathies and you may have_your_ sympathies, and so on; but business is business, and we can'thave any plans of campaign carried on in Paulo's Hotel. Kings are asgood customers to me when they're on a throne as when they're offit--better maybe. '

'Yes, dear, I know all about that. '

'Still, one must assume that a man like his Excellency will see hisfriends in private, in his own rooms, and talk over things. I don'tsuppose he and Mr. Hamilton are talking about nothing but the play andthe opera and Hurlingham, and all that. '

'No, no, of course not. Well?'

'It would get out that they were planning a return to Gloria. Now Iknow--and I dare say you know--that a return to Gloria by his Excellencywould mean the stopping of the supplies to hundreds of rascals there, who are living on public plunder, and who are always living on it aslong as he is not there, and who never will be allowed to live upon itas long as he is there--don't you see?'

'Oh yes, dear; I see very plainly. '

'It's all true what I say, isn't it?'

'Quite true--quite--quite true. '

'Well, now, I dare say you begin to take my idea. You know how littlethat gang of scoundrels care about the life of any man. '

'Oh, father, please don't!' She had her riding-whip in her hand, and shemade a quick movement with it, expressively suggesting how she shouldlike to deal with such scoundrels. 

'My child, my child, it has to be talked about. You don't seem quite inyour usual form to-day----'

'Oh, yes; I'm all right. But it sounds so dreadful. You don't reallythink people are plotting to kill--him?'

'I don't say that they are; but from what I know of the scoundrels outthere who are opposed to him, it wouldn't one bit surprise me. '

'Oh!' The girl shuddered, and again the riding-whip flashed. 

'But it may not be quite that, you know, little girl; there are shabbytricks to be done short of that--there's spying and eavesdropping, tofind out, in advance, all he is going to do, and to thwart it----'

'Yes, yes, there might be that, ' Dolores said, in a tone of relief--thetone of one who, still fearing for the worst, is glad to be remindedthat there may, after all, be something not so bad as the very worst. 

'I don't want his Excellency spied on in Paulo's Hotel, ' Mr. Pauloproudly said. 'It has not been the way of this hotel, and I do not meanthat it ever should be the way. '

'Not likely, ' Dolores said, with a scornful toss of her head. 'The idea, indeed, of Paulo's Hotel being a resort of _mouchards_ and spies, tofind out the secrets of illustrious exiles who were sheltered asguests!'

'Well, that's what I say. Now I have my suspicions of this CaptainSarrasin. I don't know what he wants here, and why, if he is on the sideof his Excellency, he don't boldly attend him every day. '

'I think you are wrong about him, dear, ' Dolores quietly said. 'You maybe right enough in your general suspicions and alarms and all that, andI dare say you _are_ quite right; but I am sure you are wrong about him. Anyhow, you keep a sharp look-out everywhere else, and leave me to findout all about _him_. '

'Little girl, how can you find out all about him?'

'Leave that to me. I'll talk to him, and I'll make him talk to me. Inever saw a man yet whose character I couldn't read like a printed bookafter I have had a little direct and confidential talk with him. ' MissDolores tossed her head with the air of one who would say, 'Ask me noquestions about the secret of my art; enough for you to know that theart is there. '

'Well, some of you women have wonderful gifts, I know, ' her father said, half admiringly, half reflectively, proud of his daughter, and wonderinghow women came to have such gifts. 

While they were speaking, Hamilton and Sir Rupert Langley came out ofthe Dictator's rooms together. Dolores knew that the Dictator had beenout of the hotel for some hours. Mr. Paulo disappeared. Dolores knew SirRupert perfectly well by sight, and knew who he was, and all about him. She had spoken now and again to Hamilton. He took off his hat inpassing, and she, acting on a sudden impulse, asked if he could speak toher for a moment. 

Hamilton, of course, cheerfully assented, and asked Sir Rupert to wait afew seconds for him. Sir Rupert passed along the corridor and stood atthe head of the stairs. 

'Only a word, Mr. Hamilton. Excuse me for having stopped you sounceremoniously. '

'Oh, Miss Paulo, please don't talk of excuses. '

'Well, it's only this. Do you know anything about a Captain Sarrasin, who stays here a good deal of late?'

'Captain Sarrasin? Yes, I know a little about him; not very much, certainly; why do you ask?'

'Do you think he is a man to be trusted?'

She spoke in a low tone; her manner was very grave, and she fixed herdeep, dark eyes on Hamilton. Hamilton read earnestness in them. He wasalmost startled. 

'From all I know, ' he answered slowly, 'I believe him to be a bravesoldier and a man of honour. '

'So do I!' the girl said emphatically, and with relief sparkling in hereyes. 

'But why do you ask?'

'I have heard something, ' she said; 'I don't believe it; but I'll soonfind out about his being here as a spy. '

'A spy on whom?'

'On his Excellency, of course. '

'I don't believe it, but I thank you for telling me. '

'I'll find out and tell you more, ' she said hurriedly. 'Thank you verymuch for speaking to me; don't keep Sir Rupert waiting any longer. Good-morning, Mr. Hamilton, ' and with quite a princess-like air shedismissed him. 

Hamilton hastily rejoined Sir Rupert, and was thinking whether he oughtto mention what Dolores had been saying or not. The subject, however, atonce came up without him giving it a start. 

'See here, Hamilton, ' Sir Rupert said as he was standing on the hotelsteps, about to take his leave, 'I don't think that, if I were you, Iwould have Ericson going about the streets at nights all alone in hiscareless sort of fashion. It isn't common sense, you know. There are allsorts of rowdies--and spies, I fancy--and very likely hiredassassins--here from all manner of South American places; and it can'tbe safe for a marked man like him to go about alone in that free andeasy way. '

'Do you know of any danger?' Hamilton asked eagerly. 

'How do you mean?'

'Well, I mean have you had any information of any definite danger--atthe Foreign Office?'

'No; we shouldn't be likely to get any information of that kind at theForeign Office. It would go, if there were any, to the Home Office?'

'Have you had any information from the Home Office?'

'Well, I may have had a hint--I don't know what ground there was forit--but I believe there was a hint given at the Home Office to be on thelook-out for some fellows of a suspicious order from Gloria. '

Hamilton started. The words concurred exactly with the kind of warninghe had just received from Dolores Paulo. 

'I wonder who gave the hint, ' he said meditatively. 'It would immenselyadd to the value of the information if I were to know who gave thehint. '

'Oh! So, then, you have had some information of your own?'

'Yes, I may tell you that I have; and I should be glad to know if bothhints came from the same man. '

'Would it make the information more serious if they did?'

'To my mind, much more serious. '

'Well, I may tell you in confidence--I mean, not to get into theconfounded papers, that's all--the Home Secretary in fact, made noparticular mystery about it. He said the hint was given at the office byan odd sort of person who called himself Captain Oisin Sarrasin. '

'That's the man, ' Hamilton exclaimed. 

'Well, what do you make of that and of him?'

'I believe he is an honest fellow and a brave soldier, ' Hamilton said. 'But I have heard that some others have thought differently, and wereinclined to suspect that he himself was over here in the interests ofhis Excellency's enemies. I don't believe a word of it myself. '

'Well, he will be looked after, of course, ' Sir Rupert said decisively. 'But in the meantime I wouldn't let Ericson go about in that sort ofway--at night especially. He never ought to be alone. Will you see toit?'

'If I can; but he's very hard to manage. '

'Have you tried to manage him on that point?' 'I have--yes--quitelately. '

'What did he say?'

'Wouldn't listen to anything of the kind. Said he proposed to go aboutwhere he liked. Said it was all nonsense. Said if people want to kill aman they can do it, in spite of any precautions he takes. Said that ifanyone attacks him in front he can take pretty good care of himself, andthat if fellows come behind no man can take care of himself. '

'But if someone walks behind him--to take care of him----'

'Oh, police protection?' Hamilton asked. 

'Yes; certainly. Why not?'

'Out of the question. His Excellency never would stand it. He would say, "I don't choose to run life on that principle, " and he would smile abenign smile on you, and you couldn't get him to say another word on thesubject. '

'But we can put it on him, whether he likes it or not. Good heavens!Hamilton, you must see that it isn't only a question of him; it is aquestion of the credit and the honour of England, and of the Londonpolice system. '

'That's a little different from a question of the honour of England, isit not?' Hamilton asked with a smile. 

'I don't see it, ' Sir Rupert answered, almost angrily. 'I take it thatone test of the civilisation of a society is the efficiency of itspolice system. I take it that if a metropolis like London cannot securethe personal safety of an honoured and distinguished guest likeEricson--himself an Englishman, too--by Jove! it forfeits in so far itsclaim to be considered a capital of civilisation. I really think youmight put this to Ericson. '

'I think you had better put it to him yourself, Sir Rupert. He will takeit better from you than he would from me. You know I have some of hisown feeling about it, and if I were he I fancy I should feel as hefeels. I wouldn't accept police protection against those fellows. '

'Why don't you go about with him yourself? You two would be quiteenough, I dare say. _He_ wouldn't be on his guard, but _you_ would, for_him_. '

'Oh, if he would let _me_, that would be all right enough. I am alwayspretty well armed, and I have learned, from his very self, the way touse weapons. I think I could take pretty good care of him. But then, hewon't always let me go with him, and he will persist in walking homefrom dinner parties and studying, as he says, the effect of London bynight. '

'As if he were a painter or a poet, ' Sir Rupert said in a tone which didnot seem to imply that he considered painting and poetry among thegrandest occupations of humanity. 

'Why, only the other night, ' Hamilton said, 'I was dining with somefellows from the United States at the Buckingham Palace Hotel, and Iwalked across St. James's Park on my way to look in at the Voyagers'Club, and as I was crossing the bridge I saw a man leaning on it andlooking at the pond, and the sky, and the moon--and when I came nearer Isaw it was his Excellency--and not a policeman or any other human beingbut myself within a quarter of a mile of him. It was before I had hadany warning about him; but, by Jove! it made my blood run cold. '

'Did you make any remonstrance with him?'

'Of course I did. But he only smiled and turned it off with a joke--saidhe didn't believe in all that subterranean conspiracy, and asked whetherI thought that on a bright moonlight night like that he shouldn't noticea band of masked and cloaked conspirators closing in upon him withdaggers in their hands. No, it's no use, ' Hamilton wound updespondingly. 

'Perhaps I might try, ' Sir Rupert said. 

'Yes, I think you had better. At all events, he will take it from you. Idon't think he would take it from me. I have worried him too much aboutit, and you know he can shut one up if he wants to. '

'I tell you what, ' Sir Rupert suddenly said, as if a new idea had dawnedupon him. 'I think I'll get my daughter to try what she can do withhim. '

'Oh--yes--how is that?' Hamilton asked, with a throb at his heart and atrembling of his lips. 

'Well, somehow I think my daughter has a certain influence over him--Ithink he likes her--of course, it's only the influence of a clever childand all that sort of thing--but still I fancy that something might bemade to come of it. You know she professes such open homage for him, andshe is all devoted to his cause--and he is so kind to her and puts up sonicely with all her homage, which, of course, although she _is_ mydaughter and I adore her, must, I should say, bore a man of his time oflife a good deal when he is occupied with quite different ideas--don'tyou think so, Hamilton?'

'I can't imagine a man at any time of life or with any ideas being boredby Miss Langley, ' poor Hamilton sadly replied. 

'That's very nice of you, Hamilton, and I am sure you mean it, and don'tsay it merely to please me--and she likes you ever so much, that I know, for she has often told me--but I think I could make some use of herinfluence over him. Don't you think so? If she were to ask him as apersonal favour--to her and to me, of course--leaving the Governmentaltogether out of the question--as a personal favour to her and to me totake some care of himself--don't you think he could be induced? He is sochivalric in his nature that I don't think he would refuse anything to ayoung woman like her. '

'What is there that I could refuse to her;' poor Hamilton thought sadlywithin himself. 'But she will not care to plead to me that I should takecare of my life. She thinks my poor, worthless life is safe enough--asindeed it is--who cares to attack me?--and even if it were not safe, what would that be to her?' He thought at the moment that it would besweetness and happiness to him to have his life threatened by all theassassins and dynamiters in the world if only the danger could onceinduce Helena Langley to ask him to take a little better care of hisexistence. 

'What do you think of my idea?' Sir Rupert asked. He seemed to findHamilton's silence discouraging. Perhaps Hamilton knew that the Dictatorwould not like being interfered with by any young woman. For the fondestof fathers can never quite understand why the daughter, whom he himselfadores, might not, nevertheless, seem sometimes a little of a bore to aman who is not her father. 

Hamilton pulled himself together. 

'I think it is an excellent idea, Sir Rupert--in fact, I don't know ofany other idea that is worth thinking about. '

'Glad to hear you say so, Hamilton, ' Sir Rupert said, greatly cheered. 'I'll put it in operation at once. Good-bye. '

CHAPTER XIII

DOLORES ON THE LOOK-OUT

Captain Sarrasin when he was in the hotel always had breakfast in hislittle sitting-room. A very modest breakfast it was, consistinginvariably of a cup of coffee and some dry toast with a radish. Of late, when he emerged from his bedroom he always found a little china jar onhis breakfast-table with some fresh flowers in it. He thought this adelightful attention at first, and assumed that it would drop after aday or two, like other formal civilities of a hotel-keeper. But the dayswent on and the flowers came, and Captain Sarrasin thought that at leasthe ought to make it known that he received and appreciated them, and wasgrateful. 

So he took care to be in the breakfast-room one day while the waiter waslaying out the breakfast things, and crowning the edifice metaphoricallywith the little china jar and its fresh flowers--roses this time. Sarrasin knew enough to know that the deftest-handed waiter in the worldhad never arranged that cluster of roses and moss and leaves. 

'Now, look here, dear boy, ' he asked of the waiter in his beamingway--Sarrasin hardly ever addressed any personage of humbler rankwithout some friendly and encouraging epithet, 'to whom am I indebtedfor these delightful morning gifts of flowers?'

'To Miss Dolores--Miss Paulo, ' the man said. He was a Swiss, and spokewith a thick, Swiss accent. 

'Miss Paulo--the daughter of the house?'

'Yes, sir; she arranges them herself every day. '

'Is that the tall and handsome young lady I sometimes see with Mr. Pauloin his room?'

'Yes; that is she. '

'But I want to thank her for her great kindness. Will you take a cardfrom me, my dear fellow, and ask her if she will be good enough to seeme?'

'Willingly, sir; Miss Dolores has her own room on this floor--No. 25. She is there every morning after she comes back from her early ride anduntil luncheon time. '

'After she comes back from her ride?'

'Yes, sir; Miss Dolores rides in the Park every morning and afternoon. '

This news somewhat dashed the enthusiasm of Captain Sarrasin. He liked agirl who rode, that was certain. Mrs. Sarrasin rode like that rarest ofcreatures, except the mermaid, a female Centaur, and if he had had adozen daughters, they would all have been trained to ride, one betterthan the other. The riding, therefore, was clearly in the favour ofDolores, so far as Captain Sarrasin's estimate was concerned. But thenthe idea of a hotel-keeper's daughter riding in the Row and givingherself airs! He did not like that. 'When I was young, ' he said, 'a girlwasn't ashamed of her father's business, and did not try to put on theways of a class she did not belong to. ' Still, he reminded himself thathe was growing old, and that the world was becoming affected--and thatgirls now, of any order, were not like the girls in the dear old dayswhen Mrs. Sarrasin was young. And in any case the morning flowers were acharming gift and a most delightful attention, and a gentleman mustoffer his thanks for them to the most affected young woman in the world. So he told the waiter that after breakfast he would send his card toMiss Paulo's room, and ask her to allow him to call on her. 

'Miss Paulo will see you, of course, ' the man replied. 'Mr. Paulo isgenerally very busy, and sees very few people, but Miss Paulo--she willsee everybody for him. '

'Everybody? What about, my good young man?'

'But, monsieur, about everything--about paying bills--and complaints ofgentlemen, and ladies who think they have not had value for their money, and all that sort of thing--monsieur knows. '

'Then the young lady looks after the business of the hotel?'

'Oh, yes, monsieur--always. '

That piece of news was a relief to Captain Sarrasin. Miss Dolores wentup again high in his estimation, and he felt abashed at having wrongedher even by the misconception of a moment. He consumed his coffee andhis radish and dry toast, and he selected from the china jar a verypretty moss rose, and put it in his gallant old buttonhole, and then herang for his friend the waiter, and sent his card to Miss Paulo. In amoment the waiter brought back the intimation that Miss Paulo would bedelighted to see Captain Sarrasin at once. 

Miss Paulo's door stood open, as if to convey the idea that it was anoffice rather than a young lady's boudoir--a place of business and not adrawing-room. It was a very pretty room, as Sarrasin saw at a glancewhen he entered it with a grand and old-fashioned bow, such as men makeno more in these degenerate days. It was very quietly decorated withdelicate colours, and a few etchings and many flowers; and Doloresherself came from behind her writing desk, smiling and blushing, to meether tall visitor. The old soldier scanned her as he would have scanned anew recruit, and the result of his impressionist study was to his mindhighly satisfactory. He already liked the girl. 

'My dear young lady, ' he began, 'I have to introduce myself--CaptainSarrasin. I have come to thank you. '

'No need to introduce yourself or to thank me, ' the girl said, verysimply. 'I have wanted to know you this long time, Captain Sarrasin, andI sent you flowers every morning, because I knew that sooner or lateryou would come to see me. Now won't you sit down, please?'

'But may I not thank you for your flowers?'

'No, no, it is not worth while. And besides, I had an interested object. I wanted to make your acquaintance and to talk to you. '

'I am so glad, ' he said gravely. 'But I am afraid I am not the sort ofman young ladies generally care to talk to. I am a battered old soldierwho has been in many wars, as Burns says----'

'That is one reason. I believe you have been in South America?'

'Yes, I have been a great deal in South America. '

'In the Republic of Gloria?'

'Yes, I have been in the Republic of Gloria. '

'Do you know that the Dictator of Gloria is staying in this house?'

'My dear young lady, everyone knows _that_. '

'Are you on his side or against him?' Dolores asked bluntly. 

'Dear young lady, you challenge me like a sentry. ' And Captain Sarrasinsmiled benignly, feeling, however, a good deal puzzled. 

'I have been told that you are against him, ' the girl said; 'and nowthat I see you I must say that I don't believe it. '

'Who told you that I was against him?' the stout old Paladin asked; 'andwhy shouldn't I be against him if my conscience directed me that way?'

'Well, it was supposed that you might be against him. You are bothstaying in this hotel, and, until the other day, you have never calledupon him or gone to see him, or even sent your card to him. That seemedto my father a little strange. He talked of asking you frankly all aboutit. I said I would ask you. And I am glad to have got you here, CaptainSarrasin, to challenge you like a sentry. '

'Well, but now look here, my dear young lady--why should your fathercare whether I was for the Dictator or against him?'

'Because if you were against him it might not be well that you were inthe same house, ' Dolores answered with business-like promptitude andstraightforwardness, 'getting to know what people called on him, and howlong they stayed, and all that. '

'Playing the spy, in fact?'

'Such things have been done, Captain Sarrasin. '

'By gentlemen and soldiers, Miss Paulo?' and he looked sternly at her. The unabashed damsel did not quail in the least. 

'By persons calling themselves gentlemen and soldiers, ' she answeredfearlessly. The old warrior smiled. He liked her courage and herfrankness. It was clear that she and her father were devoted friends ofthe Dictator. It was clear that somebody had suspected him of being oneof the Dictator's political enemies. He took to Dolores. 

'My good young lady, ' he said, 'you seem to me a very true-hearted girl. I don't know why, but that is the way in which I take your measure andadd you up. '

Dolores was a little amazed at first; but she saw that his eyesexpressed nothing save honest purpose, and she did not dream of beingoffended by his kindly patronising words. 

'You may add me up in any way you like, ' she said. 'I am pretty good ataddition myself, and I think I shall come out that way in the end. '

'I know it, ' he said, with a quite satisfied air, as if her own accountof herself had settled any lingering doubt he might possibly have hadupon his mind. 'Very well; now you say you can add up figures prettywell--and, in fact, I know you do, because you help your father to keephis books, now don't you?'

'Of course I do, ' she answered promptly, 'and very proud of it I am thatI can assist him. '

'Quite right, my dear. Well, now, as you are so good in figuring upthings, I wonder could you figure _me_ up?'

There was something so comical in the question, and in the manner andlook of the man who propounded it, that Dolores could not keep from asmile, and indeed could hardly prevent the smile from rippling into alaugh. For Captain Sarrasin threw back his head, stiffened up his frame, opened widely his grey eyes, compressed his lips, and in short puthimself on parade for examination. 

'Figure me up, ' he said, 'and be candid with it, dear girl. Say what Icome up to in your estimation. '

Dolores tried to take the whole situation seriously. 

'Look into my eyes, ' he said imperatively. 'Tell me if you see anythingdishonest or disloyal, or traitorous there?'

With her never-failing shrewd common sense, the girl thought it best toplay the play out. After all, a good deal depended on it, to herthinking. She looked into his eyes. She saw there an almost childlikesincerity of purpose. If truth did not lie in the well of those eyes, then truth is not to be found in mortal orbs at all. But the quick andclever Dolores did fancy that she saw flashing now and then beneath thesurface of those eyes some gleams of fitfulness, restlessness--somelight that the world calls eccentric, some light which your sound andpractical man would think of as only meant to lead astray--to leadastray, that is, from substantial dividends and real property, and luckystrokes on the Stock Exchange, and peerages and baronetcies and othergood things. There was a strong dash of the poetic about Dolores, forall her shrewd nature and her practical bringing-up, and her conflictsover hotel bills; and somehow, she could not tell why, she found that asshe looked into the eyes of Captain Sarrasin her own suddenly began toget dimmed with tears. 

'Well, dear girl, ' he asked, 'have you figured me up, and can you trustme?'

'I have figured you up, ' she said warmly, 'and I can trust you;' andwith an impulse she put her hand into his. 

'Trust me anywhere--everywhere?'

'Anywhere--everywhere!' she murmured passionately. 

'All right, ' he said, cheerfully. 'I have the fullest faith in you, andnow that you have full faith in me we can come straight at things. Iwant you to know my wife. She would be very fond of you, I am quitesure. But, now, for the moment: You were wondering why I am staying inthis hotel?'

'I was, ' she said, with some hesitancy, 'because I didn't know you----'

'And because you were interested in the Dictator of Gloria?'

She felt herself blushing slightly; but his face was perfectly seriousand serene. He was evidently regarding her only in the light of apolitical partisan. She felt ashamed of her reddening cheeks. 

'Yes; I am greatly interested in him, ' she answered quite proudly; 'sois my father. '

'Of course he is, and of course you are--and, of course, so is everyEnglishman and Englishwoman who has the slightest care for the futurefortunes of Gloria--which may be one of the best homes in the world forsome of our poor people from this stifling country, if only a man likeEricson can be left to manage it. Well, well, I am wandering off intomatters which you young women can't be expected to understand, or tocare anything about. '

'But I do understand them--and I do care a great deal about them, 'Dolores said indignantly. 'My father understands all about Gloria--andhe has told me. '

'I am glad to hear it, ' Sarrasin said gravely. 'Well, now, to comeback----' and he paused. 

'Yes, yes, ' she said eagerly, 'to come back?'

'I am staying in this hotel for a particular purpose. I want to lookafter the Dictator. That's the whole story. My wife and I have arrangedit all. '

'You want to look after him? Is he in danger?' The girl was turningquite pale. 

'Danger? Well, it is hard to say where real danger is. I find, as arule, that threatened men live long, and that there isn't much realdanger where danger is talked about beforehand, but I never act uponthat principle in life. I am never governed in my policy by the factthat the cry of wolf has been often raised--I look out for the wolf allthe same. '

'Has he enemies?'

'Has he enemies? Why, I wonder at a girl of your knowledge and talentasking a question like that! Is there a scoundrel in Gloria who is nothis enemy? Is there a man who has succeeded in getting any sinecureoffice from the State who doesn't know that the moment Ericson comesback to Gloria out he goes, neck and crop? Is there a corrupt judge inGloria who wouldn't, if he could, sentence Ericson to be shot the momenthe landed on the coast of Gloria? Is there a perjured professionalinformer who doesn't hate the very name of Ericson? Is there a cowardlyblackguard in the army, who has got promotion because the general likedhis pretty wife--oh, well, I mean because the general happened to besome relative of his wife--is there any fellow of this kind who doesn'thate Ericson and dread his coming back to Gloria?'

'No, I suppose not, ' Dolores sadly answered. Paulo's Hotel was likeother hotels, a gossiping place, and it is to be feared that Doloresunderstood better than Captain Sarrasin supposed, the hasty andspeedily-qualified allusion to the General and the pretty wife. 

'Well, you see, ' Sarrasin summed up, 'I happen to have been in Gloria, and know something of what is going on there. I studied the place alittle bit before Ericson had left, and I got to know some people. I amwhat would have been called in other days a soldier of fortune, deargirl, although, Heaven knows! I never made much fortune by mysoldiering--you should just ask my wife! But anyhow, you know, when Ihave been in a foreign country where things are disturbed people send tome and offer me jobs, don't you see? So in that way I found that thepowers that be in Gloria at present'--Sarrasin was fond of good oldphrases like 'the powers that be'--'the powers that be in Gloria have aterrible dread of Ericson's coming back. I know a lot about it. I cantell you they follow everything that is going on here. They knowperfectly well how thick he is with Sir Rupert Langley, the ForeignSecretary, and they fancy that means the support of the EnglishGovernment in any attempt to return to Gloria. Of course, we know itmeans nothing of the kind, you and I. '

'Of course, of course, ' Dolores said. She did not know in the leastwhether it did or did not mean the support of the English Government;for her own part, she would have been rather inclined to believe that itdid. But Captain Sarrasin evidently wanted an answer, and she hastenedto give him the answer which he evidently wanted. 

'But _they_ never can understand that, ' he added. 'The moment a mandines with a Secretary of State in London they get it into their absurdheads that that means the pledging of the whole Army, Navy, and ReserveForces of England to any particular cause which the man invited todinner may be supposed to represent. Here, in nine cases out of ten, theman invited to dinner does not exchange one confidential word with theSecretary of State, and the day but one after the dinner the Secretaryof State has forgotten his very existence. '

'Oh, but is that really so?' Dolores asked, in a somewhat aggrieved toneof voice. She was disposed to resent the idea of any Secretary of Stateso soon forgetting the existence of the Dictator. 

'Not in this case, dear girl--not in this case certainly. Sir Rupert andEricson are great friends; and they say Ericson is going to marry SirRupert's daughter. '

'Oh, do they?' Dolores asked earnestly. 

'Yes, they do; and the Gloria folk have heard of it already, I can tellyou; and in their stupid outsider sort of way they go on as if theirlittle twopenny-halfpenny Republic were being made an occasion for greatstate alliances on the part of England. '

'What is she like?' Dolores murmured faintly. 'Is she very pretty? Isshe young?'

'I am told so, ' Sarrasin answered vaguely. To him the youth or beauty ofSir Rupert's daughter was matter of the slightest consideration. 

'Told what?' Dolores asked somewhat sharply. 'That she is young andpretty, or that she isn't?'

'Oh, that she is young and very pretty, quite a beauty they tell me; butyou know, my dear, that with Royal Princesses and very rich girls alittle beauty goes a long way. '

'It wouldn't with him, ' Dolores answered emphatically. 

'With whom?' Captain Sarrasin asked blankly, and Dolores saw that shehad all unwittingly put herself in an awkward position. 'I meant, ' shetried to explain, 'that I don't think his Excellency would be governedmuch by a young woman's money. '

'But, my dear girl, where are we now? Did I ever say he would be?'

'Oh, no, ' she replied meekly, and anxious to get back to the point ofthe conversation. 'Then you think, Captain Sarrasin, that his Excellencyhas enemies here in London--enemies from Gloria, I mean. '

'I shouldn't wonder in the least if he had, ' Sarrasin repliedcautiously. 'I know there are some queer chaps from Gloria about inLondon now. So we come to the point, dear girl, and now I answer thequestion we started with. That's why I am staying in this hotel. '

Dolores drew a deep breath. 

'I knew it from the first, ' Dolores said. 'I was sure you had come towatch over him. '

'That's exactly why I am here. Some of them, perhaps, will only know meby name as a soldier of fortune, and may think that they could manage tohumbug me and get me over to their side. So they'll probably come to meand try to talk me over, don't you see? They'll try to make me believethat Ericson was a tyrant and a despot, don't you know; and that I oughtto go back to Gloria and help the Republic to resist the oppressor, andso get me out of the way and leave the coast clear to them--see? Othersof them will know pretty well that where I am on watch and ward, I amthe right man in the right place, and that it isn't of much use theirtrying on any of their little assassination dodges here--don't you see?'

Dolores was profoundly touched by the simple vanity and the sterlingheroism of this Christian soldier--for she could not account him anyless. She believed in him with the fullest faith. 

'Does his Excellency know of this?' she asked. 

'Know of what, my dear girl?'

'About these plots?' she asked impatiently. 

'I don't suppose he thinks about them. '

'All the more reason why we should, ' Dolores said emphatically. 

'Of course. There are lots of foreign fellows always staying here, 'Sarrasin said, more in the tone of one who asks a question than in thatof one who makes an assertion. 

'Yes--yes--of course, ' Dolores answered. 

'I wonder, now, if you would be able to pick out a South Americanforeigner from the ordinary Spanish or Italian foreigner?'

'Oh, yes--I _think_ so, ' Dolores answered after a second or two ofconsideration. 'Moustache more curled--nose more thick--general air ofswagger. '

'Yes--you haven't hit it off badly at all. Well, keep a look-out for anysuch, and give me the straight tip as soon as you can--and keep youreyes and your senses well about you. '

'You may trust me to do _that_, ' the girl said cheerily. 

'Yes, I know we can. Now, how about your father?'

'I think it will be better not to bring father into this at all, 'Dolores answered very promptly. 

'No, dear girl? Now, why not?'

'Well, perhaps it would seem to him wrong not to let out the whole thingat once to the authorities, or not to refuse to receive any suspiciouspersons into the house at all, and that isn't, by any means, what youand I are wanting just now, Captain Sarrasin!'

'Why, certainly not, ' the old soldier said, with a beaming smile. 'Whata clever girl you are! Of course, it isn't what we want; we want thevery reverse; we want to get them in here and find out all about them!Oh, I can see that we shall be right good pals, you and I, dear girl, and you must come and see my wife. She will appreciate you, and she isthe most wonderful woman in the world. '

CHAPTER XIV

A SICILIAN KNIFE

The day had come when the Dictator was to dine with that 'happywarrior, ' the Soldier of Fortune. 

Captain Sarrasin and his wife lived in an old-fashioned house on thefarther fringe of Clapham Common. The house was surrounded by trees, andhad a pretty lawn, not as well kept as it might be, for Captain Sarrasinand his wife were wanderers, and did not often make any long stay attheir home in the southern suburbs of London. There were many Scotchfirs among the trees on the lawn, and there was a tiny pool within thegrounds which had a tinier islet on its surface, and on the tiny islet aScotch fir stood all alone. The place had been left to Mrs. Sarrasinyears and years ago, and it suited her and her husband very well. Itkept them completely out of the way of callers and of a society forwhich they had neither of them any manner of inclination. Mrs. Sarrasinnever remained actually in town while she was in London--indeed, sheseldom went into London, and when she did she always, however late thehour, returned to her Clapham house. Sarrasin often had occasion to stayin town all night, but whenever he could get away in time he was fond oftramping the whole distance--say, from Paulo's Hotel to the farther sideof Clapham Common. He loved a night walk, he said. 

Business and work apart, he and his wife were company for each other. They had no children. One little girl had just been shown to the lightof day--it could not have seen the daylight with its little closed-upeyes doomed never to open--and then it was withdrawn into darkness. Theynever had another child. When a pair are thus permanently childless, theeffect is usually shown in one of two ways. They both repine and eachsecretly grumbles at the other--or if one only repines, that comes tomuch the same thing in the end--or else they are both drawn togetherwith greater love and tenderness than ever. All the love which the wifewould have given to the child is now concentrated on the husband, andall the love the husband would have given to the infant is stored up forthe wife. A first cause of difference, or of coldness, or of growingindifference between a married pair is often on the birth of the firstchild. If the woman is endowed with intense maternal instinct shebecomes all but absorbed in the child, and the husband, kept at a littledistance, feels, rightly or wrongly, that he is not as much to her as hewas before. Before, she was his companion; now she has got someone elseto look after and to care about. It is a crisis which sensible andloving people soon get over--but all people cannot be loving andsensible at once and always--and there does sometimes form itself thebeginning of a certain estrangement. This probably would not havehappened in the case of the Sarrasins, but certainly if they had hadchildren Mrs. Sarrasin would no longer have been able to pad about theround world wherever her husband was pleased to ask her to accompanyhim. If in her heart there were now and again some yearnings for achild, some pangs of regret that a child had not been given to her orleft with her, she always found ready consolation in the thought thatshe could not have been so much to her husband had the Fates imposed onher the sweet and loving care of children. 

The means of the Sarrasins were limited; but still more limited weretheir wants. She had a small income--he had a small income--the twoincomes put together did not come to very much. But it was enough forthe Sarrasins; and few married couples of middle age ever gavethemselves less trouble about money. They were able to go abroad andjoin some foreign enterprise whenever they felt called that way, and, poor as he was, Sarrasin was understood to have helped with his pursemore than one embarrassed cause or needy patriot. The chief ornamentsand curios of their house were weapons of all kinds, each with somestory labelled on to it. Captain Sarrasin displayed quite a collectionof the uniforms he had worn in many a foreign army and insurgent band, and of the decorations he had received and doubtless well earned. Mrs. Sarrasin, for her part, could show anyone with whom she cared to beconfidential a variety of costumes in which she had disguised herself, and in which she had managed either to escape from some danger, or, morelikely yet, to bring succour of some sort to others who were in danger. 

Mrs. Sarrasin was a woman of good family--a family in the veins of whichflowed much wild blood. Some of the men had squandered everything early, and then gone away and made adventurers of themselves here and there. Certain of these had never returned to civilisation again. With thewomen the wild strain took a different line. One became an explorer, onefounded a Protestant sisterhood for woman's missionary labour, anddiffused itself over India, and Thibet, and Burmah, and other places. Athird lived with her husband in perpetual yachting--no one on board butthemselves and the crew. A steady devotion to some one object which hadnothing to do with the conventional purposes or ambitions or comforts ofsociety, was the general characteristic of the women of that family. None of them took to mere art or literature or woman's suffrage. Mrs. Sarrasin fell in love with her husband, and devoted herself to his wild, wandering, highly eccentric career. 

Mrs. Sarrasin was a tall and stately woman, with an appearance decidedlyaristocratic. She had rather square shoulders, and that sort ofrepression or suppression of the bust which conies of a woman'soccupying herself much in the more vigorous pursuits and occupationswhich habitually belong to a man. Mrs. Sarrasin could ride like a man aswell as like a woman, and in many a foreign enterprise she had adoptedman's clothing regularly. Yet there was nothing actually masculine abouther appearance or her manners, and she had a very sweet and musicalvoice, which much pleased the ears of the Dictator. 

Oisin mentioned the fact of his wife's frequent appearance in man'sdress with an air of pride in her versatility. 

'Oh, but I haven't done that for a long time, ' she said, with a lightblush rising to her pale cheek. 'I haven't been out of my petticoats forever so long. But I confess I did sometimes enjoy a regular good gallopon a bare-backed horse, and riding-habits won't do for that. '

'Few men can handle a rifle as that woman can, ' Sarrasin remarked, withanother gleam of pride in his face. 

The Dictator expressed his compliments on the lady's skill in so manymanly exercises, but he had himself a good deal of the old-fashionedprejudice against ladies who could manage a rifle and ride astride. 

'All I have done, ' Mrs. Sarrasin said, 'was to take the commands of myhusband and be as useful as I could in the way he thought best. I am notfor Woman's Rights, Mr. Ericson--I am for wives obeying their husbands, and as much as possible effacing themselves. '

The Dictator did not quite see that following one's husband to the warsin man's clothes was exactly an act of complete self-effacement on thepart of a woman. But he could see at a glance that Mrs. Sarrasin wasabsolutely serious and sincere in her description of her own conditionand conduct. There was not the slightest hint of the jocular about her. 

'You must have had many most interesting and extraordinary experiences, 'the Dictator said. 'I hope you will give an account of them to the worldsome day. '

'I am already working hard, ' Mrs. Sarrasin said, 'putting togethermaterials for the story of my husband's life--not mine; mine would bepoor work indeed. I am in my proper place when I am acting as hissecretary and his biographer. '

'And such a memory as she has, ' Sarrasin exclaimed. 'I assure yourExcellency'--Ericson made a gesture as if to wave away the title, whichseemed to him ridiculous under present circumstances, but Sarrasin, witha movement of polite deprecation, repeated the formality--'I assure yourExcellency that she remembers lots of things happening to me----'

'Or done by you, ' the lady interposed. 

'Well, or done by me; things that had wholly passed out of my memory. '

'Quite natural, ' Mrs. Sarrasin observed, blandly, 'that you shouldforget them, and that I should remember them. ' There was somethingpositively youthful about the smile that lighted up her face as she saidthe words, and Ericson noticed that she had a peculiarly sweet andwinning smile, and that her teeth could well bear the brightest light ofday. Ericson began to grow greatly interested in her, and to think thatif she was a little of an oddity it was a pity we had not a good manyother oddity women going round. 

'I should like to see what you are doing with your husband's career, Mrs. Sarrasin, ' he said, 'if you would be kind enough to let me see. Ihave been something of a literary man myself--was at one time--and Idelight in seeing a book in some of its early stages. Besides, I havebeen a wanderer and even a fighter myself, and perhaps I might be ableto make a suggestion or two. '

'I shall be only too delighted. Now, Oisin, my love, you must _not_object. His Excellency knows well that you are a modest man by nature, and do not want to have anything made of what you have done; but as hewishes to see what I am doing----'

'Whatever his Excellency pleases, ' Captain Sarrasin said, with a gravebow. 

'Dinner is served, ' the man-servant announced at this critical moment. 

'You shall see it after dinner, ' Mrs. Sarrasin said, as she took theDictator's arm, and led him rather than accompanied him out of thedrawing-room and down the stairs. 

'What charming water-colours!' the Dictator said, as he noticed somepictures hung on the wall of the stairs. 

'Oh, these? I am so pleased that you like them. I am very fond ofdrawing; it often amuses me and helps to pass away the time. You see, Ihave no children to look after, and Oisin is a good deal away. '

'Not willingly, I am sure. '

'No, no, not willingly. Dear Oisin, he has always my approval ineverything he does. He is my child--my one child--my big child--so Itell him often. '

'But these water-colours. I really must have a good look at themby-and-by. And they are so prettily and tastefully framed--so unlike thesort of frame one commonly sees in London houses. '

'The frames--yes--well, I make them to please myself and Oisin. '

'You make them yourself. '

'Oh, yes; I am fond of frame-making, and doing all sorts of jobs of thatkind. '

By this time they had reached the dining-room. It was a very prettylittle room, its walls not papered, but painted a soft amber colour. Nopictures were on the walls. 

'I like the idea of your walls, ' Ericson said. 'The walls are themselvesthe decoration. '

'Yes, ' she said, 'that was exactly our idea--let the colour be thedecoration; but I don't know that I ever heard anyone discover the ideabefore. People generally ask me why I don't have pictures on thedining-room walls, and then I have to explain as well as I can that thecolour is decoration enough. '

'And then, I suppose, some of them look amazed, and can't understand howyou----'

'Oh, indeed, yes, ' she answered. 

The dinner was simple and unpretentious, but excellent, almost perfectin its way. A clear soup, a sole, an entrée or two, a bit of venison, asweet--with good wines, but not too many of them. 

'You have a good cook, Mrs. Sarrasin, ' the Dictator said. 

'I am made proud by your saying so. We don't keep a cook--I do it allmyself--am very fond of cooking. '

The Dictator looked round at her in surprise. Was this a jest? Oh, no;there was no jesting expression on Mrs. Sarrasin's face. She was merelymaking a statement of fact. Ericson began to suspect that the one thingwhich the lady had least capacity for making, or, perhaps, forunderstanding, was a jest. But he was certainly amazed at theversatility of her accomplishments, and he frankly told her so. 

'You see, we have but a small income, ' she explained quietly, 'and Ilike to do all I can; and Oisin likes my cookery--he is used to it. Weonly keep two maids and this man'--alluding to the momentarily absentattendant--'and he was an old soldier of Oisin's. I will tell you hisstory some time--it is interesting in its way. '

'I think everything in this house is interesting, ' the Dictator declaredin all sincerity. 

Captain Sarrasin talked but little. He was quite content to hear hiswife talk with the Dictator and to know that she was pleased, and tobelieve that the Dictator was pleased with her. That, however, heassumed as a matter of course--everybody must be pleased with thatwoman. 

After dinner the Dictator studied the so-called autobiography. It was amarvellously well-ordered piece of composition as far as it went. It waswritten in the neatest of manuscript, and had evidently been carefullycopied and re-copied so that the volume now in his hands was about asgood as any print. It was all chaptered and paged most carefully. It wasrich with capital pencil sketches and even with etchings. There was notrace of any other hand but the one that he could find out in the wholevolume. He greatly admired the drawings and etchings. 

'These are yours, of course?' he said, turning his eyes on Mrs. Sarrasin. 

'Oh, yes; I like to draw for this book. I hope it will have a success. Do you think it will?' she asked wistfully. 

'A success in what way, Mrs. Sarrasin? Do you mean a success in money?'

'Oh, no; we don't care about that. I suppose it will cost us somemoney. '

'I fancy it will if you have all these illustrations, and of course youwill?'

'Yes, I want them to be in, because I think I can show what danger myhusband has been in better with my pencil than with my pen--I am a poorwriter. '

'Then the work is really all your own?'

'Oh, yes; _he_ has no time; I could not have him worried. It is my wishaltogether, and he yields to it--only to please me. He does not care inthe least for publicity--I do, for _him_. '

The Dictator began to be impressed, for the first time, by a recognitionof the fact that an absence of the sacred gift of humour is often agreat advantage to mortal happiness, and even to mortal success. Therewas clearly and obviously a droll and humorous side to the career andthe companionship of Captain Sarrasin and his wife. How easy it would beto make fun of them both! perhaps of her more especially. Cheap cynicismcould hardly find in the civilised world a more ready and defencelessspoil. Suppose, then, that Sarrasin or his wife had either of them anyof the gift--if it be a gift and not a curse--which turns at once to theridiculous side of things, where would this devoted pair have been? Why, of course they would have fallen out long ago. Mrs. Sarrasin would soonhave seen that her husband was a ridiculous old Don Quixote sort ofperson, whom she was puffing and booming to an unconscionable degree, and whom people were laughing at. Captain Sarrasin would have seen thathis wife was unconsciously 'bossing the show, ' and while professing toact entirely under his command was really doing everything for him--waswriting his life while declaring to everybody that he was writing ithimself. Now they were like two children--like brother andsister--wrapped up in each other, hardly conscious of any outer world, or, perhaps, still more like two child-lovers--like Paul and Virginiagrown old in years, but not in feelings. The Dictator loved humour, buthe began to feel just now rather glad that there were some mortals whodid not see the ridiculous side of life. He felt curiously touched andsoftened. 

Suddenly the military butler came in and touched his forehead with asort of military salute. 

'Telegram for his Excellency, ' he said gravely. 

Ericson took the telegram. 'May I?' he asked of Mrs. Sarrasin, who madequite a circuitous bow of utter assent. 

Ericson read. 

'Will you meet me to-night at eleven, on bridge, St. James's Park. Havespecial reason. --Hamilton. '

Ericson was puzzled. 

'This is curious, ' he said, looking up at his two friends. 'This is atelegram from my friend and secretary and aide-de-camp, and I don't knowwhat else--Hamilton--asking me to meet him in St. James's Park, on thebridge, at eleven o'clock. Now, that is a place I am fond of goingto--and Hamilton has gone there with me--but why he should want to meetme there and not at home rather puzzles me. '

'Perhaps, ' Captain Sarrasin suggested, 'there is someone coming to seeyou at your hotel later on, for whose coming Mr. Hamilton wishes toprepare you. '

'Yes, I have thought of that, ' Ericson said meditatively; 'but then hesigns himself in an odd sort of way. '

'Eh, how is that?' Sarrasin asked. 'It _is_ his name, surely, is itnot--Hamilton?'

'Yes, but I had got into a way years ago of always calling him "theBoy, " and he got into a way of signing himself "Boy" in all ourconfidential communications, and I haven't for years got a telegram fromhim that wasn't signed "Boy. "'

Mrs. Sarrasin sent a flash of her eyes that was like a danger signal toher husband. He at once understood, and sent another signal to her. 

'Of course I must go, ' Ericson said. 'Whatever Hamilton does, he hasgood reason for doing. One can always trust him in that. '

Captain Sarrasin was about to interpose something in the way of caution, but his wife flashed another signal at him, and he shut up. 

'And so I must go, ' the Dictator said, 'and I am sorry. I have had avery happy evening; but you will ask me again, and I shall come, and weshall be good friends. Shall we not, Mrs. Sarrasin?'

'I hope so, ' said the lady gravely. 'We are devoted to your Excellency, and may perhaps have a chance of proving it one day. '

The Dictator had a little brougham from Paulo's waiting for him. He tooka kindly leave of his host and hostess. He lifted Mrs. Sarrasin's long, strong, slender hand in his, and bent over it, and put it to his lips. He felt drawn towards the pair in a curious way, and he felt as if theybelonged to a different age from ours--as if Sarrasin ought to have beenanother Götz of Berlichingen, about whom it would have been right tosay, 'So much the worse for the age that misprizes thee'; as if she werethe mail-clad wife of Count Robert of Paris. 

When he had gone, up rose Mrs. Sarrasin and spake:--

'Now, then, Oisin, let _us_ go. '

'Where shall we go?' Oisin asked rather blankly. 

'After him, of course. '

'Yes, of course, you are quite right, ' Sarrasin said, suddenly waking upat the tone of her voice to what he felt instinctively must be her viewof the seriousness of the situation. 'You don't believe, my love, thatthat telegram came from Hamilton?'

'Why, dearest, of course I don't believe it--it is some plot, and a veryclumsy plot too; but we must take measures to counterplot it. '

'We must follow him to the ground. '

'Of course we must. '

'Shall I bring a revolver?'

'Oh, no; this will be only a case of one man. We shall simply appear atthe right time. '

'You always know what to do, ' Sarrasin exclaimed. 

'Because I have a husband who has always taught me what to do, ' shereplied fervently. 

Then the military butler was sent for a hansom cab, and Sarrasin and hiswife were soon spinning on their way to St. James's Park. They had ampletime to get there before the appointed moment, and nothing would be doneuntil the appointed moment came. They drove to St. James's Park, andthey dismissed their cab and made quickly for the bridge over the pond. It was not a moonlight night, but it was not clouded or hazy. It waswhat sailors would call a clear dark night. There was only one figure onthe bridge, and that they felt sure was the figure of the Dictator. Mrs. Sarrasin had eyes like a lynx, and she could even make out his features. 

'Is it he?' Sarrasin asked in a whisper. He had keen sight himself, buthe preferred after long experience to trust to the eyes of his wife. 

'It is he, ' she answered; 'now we shall see. '

They sat quietly side by side on a bench under the dark trees a littleaway from the bridge. Nobody could easily see them--no one passingthrough the park or bound on any ordinary business would be likely topay any attention to them even if he did see them. It was no part ofMrs. Sarrasin's purpose that they should be so placed as to beabsolutely unnoticeable. If Mr. Hamilton should appear on the bridge shewould then simply touch Sarrasin's arm, and they would quietly get upand go home together. But suppose--what she fully expected--that someoneshould appear who was not Hamilton, and should make for the bridge, andin passing should see her husband and her, and thereupon should slinkoff in another direction, then she should have seen the man, and couldidentify him among a thousand for ever after. In that event Sarrasin andshe could then consider what was next to be done--whether to go at onceto Ericson and tell him of what they had seen, or to wait there and keepwatch until he had gone away, and then follow quietly in his track untilthey had seen him safely home. One thing Mrs. Sarrasin had made up hermind to: if there was any assassin plot at all, and she believed therewas, it would be a safe and certain assassination tried when no watchingeyes were near. 

The Dictator meanwhile was leaning over the bridge and looking into thewater. He was not thinking much about the water, or the sky, or thescene. He was not as yet thinking even of whether Hamilton was coming ornot. He was, of course, a little puzzled by the terms of Hamilton'stelegram, but there might be twenty reasons why Hamilton should wish tomeet him before he reached home, and as Hamilton knew well his fancy fornight lounges on that bridge, and as the park lay fairly well betweenCaptain Sarrasin's house and the region of Paulo's Hotel, it seemedlikely enough that Hamilton might select it as a convenient place ofmeeting. In any case, the Dictator was not by nature a suspicious man, and he was not scared by any thoughts of plots, and mystifications, andpersonal danger. He was a fatalist in a certain sense--not in thereligious, but rather in the physical sense. He had a sort ofwild-grown, general thought that man is sent into the world to do acertain work, and that while he is useful for that work he is not likelyto be sent away from it. This was, perhaps, only an effect oftemperament, although he found himself often trying to palm it off onhimself as philosophy. 

So he was not troubling himself much about the doubtful nature of thetelegram. Hamilton would come and explain it, and if Hamilton did notcome there would be some other explanation. He began to think aboutquite other things--he found himself thinking of the bright eyes and thefriendly, frank, caressing ways of Helena Langley. 

The Dictator began somehow to realise the fact that he had hitherto beenleading a very lonely life. He was seldom alone--had seldom been alonefor many years; but he began to understand the difference between notbeing alone and being lonely. During all his working career his life hadwanted that companionship which alone is companionship to a man ofsensitive nature. He had been too busy in his time in Gloria to thinkabout all this. The days had gone by him with a rush. Each day broughtits own sudden and vivid interest. Each day had its own decisions to beformed, its own plans to be made, its own difficulties to beencountered, its own struggles to be fought out. Ericson had delightedin it all, as a splendid exhilarating game. But now, in his enforcedretirement and comparative restlessness, he looked back upon it andthought how lonely it all was. When each day closed he had no one towhom he could tell all his thoughts about what the day had done or whatthe next day was likely to bring forth. Someone has written about the'passion of solitude'--not meaning the passion _for_ solitude, thepassion of the saint and the philosopher and the anchorite to be aloneand to commune with outer nature or one's inner thought--no, no, but thepassion _of_ solitude--the raging passion born of solitude which cravesand cries out in agony for the remedy of companionship--of some sweetand loved and trusted companionship--like the fond and futile longing ofthe childless mother for a child. 

Eleven! The strokes of the hour rang out from Big Ben in the Clock Towerof Westminster Palace--the Parliament House of which Ericson, in hiscollegiate days, had once made it his ambition to be a member. The soundof the strokes recalled his mind for the moment to those early days, when the ambition for a seat in Parliament had been the very seamark ofhis utmost sail. How different his life had been from what his earlyideas would have constructed it! And now--was it all over? Had hisactive career closed? Was he never again to have his chance inGloria--in Gloria which he had almost begun to love as a bride? Or washe failing in his devotion to his South American Dulcinea del Toboso?Was the love of a mortal woman coming in to distract him from his loveto that land with an immortal future?

It pleased him and tantalised him thus to question himself and findhimself unable to give the answers. But he bore in mind the fact thatHamilton, the most punctual of living men, was not quite punctual thistime. He turned his keen eyes upon the Clock Tower, and could see thatduring his purposeless reflections quite five minutes had passed. 'Something has happened, ' he thought. 'Hamilton is certainly not coming. If he meant to keep the appointment he would have been here waiting forme five minutes before the time. Well, I'll give him five minutes more, and then I'll go. '

Several persons had passed him in the meanwhile. They were the ordinarypassengers of the night time. The milliner's apprentice took leave ofher lover and made for her home in one of the smaller streets aboutBroad Sanctuary. The artisan, who had been enjoying a drink in one ofthe public-houses near the Park, was starting for his home on the southside of the river. Occasionally some smart man came from St. James'sStreet to bury himself in his flat in Queen Anne's Mansions. A belatedTommy Atkins crossed the bridge to make for the St. James's Barracks. One or two of the daughters of folly went loungingly by--wandering, notaltogether purposeless, among the open roads of the Park. None of allthese had taken any notice of the Dictator. 

Suddenly a step was heard near, just as the Dictator was turning to go, and even at that moment he noticed that several persons had quite latelypassed, and that this was the first moment when the place was solitary, and a thought flashed through his mind that this might be Hamilton, whohad waited for an opportunity. He turned round, and saw that a short anddapper-looking man had come up close beside him. The man leaned over thebridge. 

'A fine night, governor, ' he said. 

'A very fine night, ' Ericson said cheerily, and he was turning to goaway. 

'No offence in talking to you, I hope, governor?'

'Not the least in the world, ' Ericson said. 'Why should there be? Whyshouldn't you talk to me?'

'Some gents are so stuck-up, don't you know. '

'Well, I am not very much stuck-up, ' Ericson said, much amused; 'but Iam not quite certain whether I exactly know what stuck-up means. '

'Why, where do you come from?' the stranger asked in amazement. 

'I have been out of England for many years. I have come from SouthAmerica. '

'No--you don't mean that! Why, that beats all! Look here--I have abrother in South America. 

'South America is a large place. Where is your brother?'

'Well, I've got a letter from him here. I wonder if you could tell methe name of the place. I can't make it out myself. '

'I dare say I can, ' said Ericson carelessly. 'Come under this gas-lampand let me see your letter. ' The man fumbled in his pocket and drew outa folded letter. He had something else in his hand, as the keen eyes ofthe watching Mrs. Sarrasin could very well see. 

'Another second, ' she whispered to her husband. 

The Dictator took the letter good-naturedly, and began to open it underthe light of the lamp which hung over the bridge. The stranger wasstanding just behind him. The place was otherwise deserted. 

'Now, ' Mrs. Sarrasin whispered. 

Then Captain Sarrasin strode forward and seized the stranger by theshoulder with one hand, and by his right arm with another. 

'What are you a-doin' of?' the stranger asked angrily. 

'Well, I want to know who you are in the first place. I beg yourExcellency's pardon for intruding on you, but my wife and I happened tobe here, and we just came up as this person was talking to you, and wewant to know who he is. '

'Captain Sarrasin! Mrs. Sarrasin! Where have you turned up from? Tellme--have you really been benignly shadowing me all this way?' Ericsonasked with a smile. 'There isn't the slightest danger, I can assure you. This man merely asked me a civil question. '

The civil man, meanwhile, was wrestling and wriggling under Sarrasin'sgrip. He was wrestling and wriggling all in vain. 

'You let me go, ' the man exclaimed, in a tone of righteous indignation. 'You hain't nothin' to do with me. '

'I must first see what you have got there in your hand, ' Sarrasin said. 'See--there it is! Look here, your Excellency--look at that knife!'

Sarrasin took from the man's hand a short, one-bladed, delicately-shaped, and terrible knife. It might be trusted to pierce itsway at a single touch, not to say stroke, into the heart of any victim. 

'That's the knife I use at my trade, ' the man exclaimed indignantly. 'Iam a ladies' slipper-maker, and that's the knife I use for cutting intothe leathers, because it cuts clean, don't you see, and makes no waste. Lord bless you, governor, what a notion you have got into your 'ead! Ishall amuse my old woman when I tell her. '

'Why did you have the knife in your hand?' Sarrasin sternly asked. 

'Took it out, governor, jest by chance when I was taking put theletter. '

'You don't carry a knife like that open in your pocket, ' Sarrasin saidsternly. 'It closes up, I suppose, or else you have a sheath for it. Oh, yes, I see the spring--it closes this way and I think I have seen thispretty sort of weapon before. Well, look here, you don't carry that sortof toy open in your pocket, you know. How did it come open?'

'Blest if I know, governor--you are all a-puzzlin' of me. '

'Show me the knife, ' the Dictator said, taking for the first time somegenuine interest in the discussion. 

'Look at it, ' Sarrasin said. 'Don't give it back to him. '

The Dictator took the knife in his hand, and, touching the spring withthe manner of one who understood it, closed and opened the weaponseveral times. 

'I know the knife very well, ' he said; 'it has been brought into SouthAmerica a good deal, but I believe it is Sicilian to begin with. Lookhere, my man, you say you are a ladies' slipper-maker?'

'Of course I am. Ain't I told you so?'

'Whom do you work for?'

'Works for myself, governor. '

'Where is your shop?'

'Down in the East End, don't you know?'

'I want to talk to you about the East End, ' Mrs. Sarrasin struck in withher musical, emphatic voice. 'Tell me exactly where you live. '

'Out Whitechapel way. '

'But please tell me the exact place. I happen to know Whitechapel prettywell. '

'Off Whitechapel Road there. '

'Where?'

He made a sulky effort to evade. Mrs. Sarrasin was not to be so easilyevaded. 

'Tell me, ' she said, 'the name of the street you live in, and the nameof any streets near to it, and how they lie with regard to each other. Come, don't think about it, but tell me; you must know where you liveand work. '

'I don't want to have you puzzlin' and worritin' me. '

'Can you tell me where this street is'--she named a street--'or thiscourt, or that hospital, or the nearest omnibus stand to the hospital?'

No, he didn't remember any of these places; he had enough to do mindin'of his work. 

'This man doesn't live in Whitechapel, ' Mrs. Sarrasin said composedly. She put on no air of triumph--she never put on any airs of triumph orindeed airs of any kind. 

'Well, there ain't no crime in giving a wrong address, ' the man said. 'What business have you with where I live? You don't pay for my lodging, anyhow. '

'Where were you born?' Mrs. Sarrasin asked. 

'Why, in London, to be sure. '

'In the East End?'

'So I'm told--I don't myself remember. '

'Well, look here, will you just say a few words after me?'

'I ain't got no pertickler objection. '

The cross-examination now had passed wholly into the hands of Mrs. Sarrasin. Captain Sarrasin looked on with wonder and delight--Ericsonwas really interested and amused. 

'Say these words. ' She repeated slowly, and giving him plenty of time toget the words into his ears and his mind, a number of phrases in whichthe peculiar accent and pronunciation of the born Whitechapel man werecertain to come out. Ericson, of course, comprehended the meaning of thewhole performance. The East End man hesitated. 

'I ain't here for playing tricks, ' he mumbled. 'I want to be gettinghome to my old woman. '

'Look here, ' Sarrasin said, angrily interfering. 'You just do as you aretold, or I'll whistle for a policeman and give you into custody, andthen everything about you will come out--or, by Jove, I'll take you upand drop you into that pond as if you were a blind kitten! Answer thelady at once, you confounded scoundrel!'

The small eyes of the Whitechapel man flashed fire for an instant--afire that certainly is not common to Cockney eyes--and he made a suddengrasp at his pocket. 

'See there!' Sarrasin exclaimed. 'The ladies' slipper-maker is graspingfor his knife, and forgets that we have got it in our possession. '

'This is certainly becoming interesting, ' Ericson said. 'It is much moreinteresting than most plays that I have lately seen. Now, then, reciteafter the lady, or confess thyself. '

It had not escaped the notice of the Dictator that when once or twicesome wayfarer passed along the bridge or on one of the near-lying pathsthe maker of ladies' slippers did not seem in the least anxious toattract attention. He appeared, in fact, to be the one of the wholeparty who was most eager to withdraw himself from the importunate noticeof the casual passer-by. A man conscious of no wrong done or planned byhim, and unjustly bullied and badgered by three total strangers, wouldmost assuredly have leaped at the chance of appealing to theconsideration and the help of the passing citizen. 

Mrs. Sarrasin remorselessly repeated her test words, and the manrepeated them after her. 

'That will do, ' she said contemptuously; 'the man was never born inWhitechapel--his East End accent is mere gotten up stage-play. ' Then shespoke some rapid words to her husband in a _patois_ which Ericson didnot understand. The Whitechapel man's eyes flashed fire again. 

'You see, ' she said to the Dictator, 'he understands me! I have beensaying in Sicilian _patois_ that he is a hired assassin born in Englandof Sicilian parents, and brought up, probably, near Snow Hill--and thisWhitechapel gentleman understood every word I said! If you give him thealternative of going to the nearest police-station and being charged, orof talking Sicilian _patois_ with me, you will see that he prefers thealternative of a conversation in Sicilian _patois_ with me. 

'I propose that we let him go, ' the Dictator said decisively. 'We haveno evidence against him, except that he carries a peculiar knife, andthat he is, as you say, of Sicilian parents. '

'Your Excellency yourself gave me the hint I acted on, ' Mrs. Sarrasinsaid deferentially, 'when you made the remark that the knife wasSicilian. I spoke on mere guess-work, acting on that hint. '

'And you were right, as you always are, ' Captain Sarrasin struck in withadmiring eyes fixed on his wife. 

'Well, he is a poor creature, anyhow, ' the Dictator said--and he spokenow to his friends in Spanish--'and not much up to his work. If he wereworth anything in his own line of business he might have finished thejob with that knife instead of stopping to open a conversation with me. '

'But he has been set on by someone to do this job, ' Sarrasin said, 'andwe might get to know who is the someone that set him on. '

'We shall not know from him, ' the Dictator replied; 'he probably does notknow who are the real movers. No; if there is anything serious to comeit will come from better hands than his. No, my dear and kind friends, we can't get any further with _him_. Let the creature go. Let him tellhis employers, whoever they are, that I don't scare, as the Americanssay, worth a cent. If they have any real assassins to send on, let themcome; this fellow won't do; and I can't have paragraphs in the papers tosay that I took any serious alarm from a creature who, with such a knifein his hand, could not, without a moment's parley, make it do his work. '

'The man is a hired assassin, ' Sarrasin declared. 

'Very likely, ' the Dictator replied calmly; 'but we can't convict him ofit, and we had better let him go his blundering way. ' The Dictator hadmeanwhile been riveting his eyes on the face of the captive--if we maycall him so--anxious to find out from his expression whether heunderstood Spanish. If he seemed to understand Spanish then the affairwould be a little more serious. It might lead to the impression that hewas really mixed up in South American affairs, and that he fancied hehad partisan wrongs to avenge. But the man's face remainedimperturbable. He evidently understood nothing. It was not even, theDictator felt certain, that he had been put on his guard by his formerlapse into unlucky consciousness when Mrs. Sarrasin tried him andtrapped him with the Sicilian _patois_. No, there was a look of dullcuriosity on his face, and that was all. 

'We'll keep the knife?' Sarrasin asked. 

'Yes; I think you had better keep the knife. It may possibly come in asa _pièce de justification_ one of these days. What's the value of yourknife?' he asked in English, suddenly turning on the captive with astern voice and manner that awed the creature. 

'It's well worth a quid, governor. '

'Yes; I should think it was. There's a quid and a half for you, and goyour ways. We have agreed--my friends and I--to let you off this time, although we have every reason to believe that you meant murder. '

'Oh, governor!'

'If you try it again, ' the Dictator said, 'you will forfeit your lifewhether you succeed or fail. Now get away--and set us free from yourpresence. '

The man ran along the road leading eastward--ran with the speed of somehunted animal, the path re-echoing to the sound of his flying feet. Ericson broke into a laugh. 

'You have in all probability saved my life, ' the Dictator said. 'Youtwo----'

'All _her_ doing, ' Sarrasin interposed. 

'I think I understand it all, ' Ericson went on. 'I have no doubt thiswas meant as an attempt. But it was a very bungling first attempt. Theplanners, whoever they were, were anxious first of all to keepthemselves as far as possible out of responsibility and suspicion, andinstead of hiring a South American bravo, and so in a manner bringing ithome to themselves, they merely picked up and paid an ordinary Sicilianstabber who had no heart in the matter, who probably never heard of mebefore in all his life, and had no partisan hatred to drive him on. Sohe dallied, and bungled; and then you two intervened, and his game washopeless. He'll not try it again, you may be sure. '

'No, he probably has had enough of it, ' Captain Sarrasin said; 'and ofcourse he has got his pay beforehand. But someone else will. '

'Very likely, ' the Dictator said carelessly. 'They will manage it on abetter plan next time. '

'We must have better plans, too, ' Sarrasin said warmly. 

'How can we? The only wise thing in such affairs is to take the ordinaryand reasonable precautions that any sane man takes who has seriousbusiness to do in life, and then not to trouble oneself any further. Anyhow, I owe to you both, dear friends, ' and the Dictator took a handof each in one of his, 'a deep debt of gratitude. And now I propose thatwe consider the whole incident as _vidé_, and that we go forthwith toPaulo's and have a pleasant supper there and summon up the boy Hamilton, even should he be in bed, and ask him how he came to send out telegramsfor belated meetings in St. James's Park, and have a good time to repayus for our loss of an hour and the absurdity of our adventure. Come, Mrs. Sarrasin, you will not refuse my invitation?'

'Excellency, certainly not. '

'You can stay in the hotel, dear, ' Sarrasin suggested. 

'Yes, I should like that best, ' she said. 

'They won't expect you at home?' the Dictator asked. 

'They never expect us, ' Mrs. Sarrasin answered with her usual sweetgravity. 'When we are coming we let them know--if we do not we are neverto be expected. My husband could not manage his affairs at all if wewere to have to look out for being expected. '

'You know how to live your life, Mrs. Sarrasin, ' the Dictator said, muchinterested. 

'I have tried to learn the art, ' she said modestly. 

'It is a useful branch of knowledge, ' Ericson answered, 'and one of theleast cultivated by men or women, I think. '

They were moving along at this time. They crossed the bridge and passedby Marlborough House, and so got into Pall Mall. 

'How shall we go?' the Dictator asked, glancing at the passing cabs, some flying, some crawling. 

'Four-wheeler?' Sarrasin suggested tentatively. 

'No; I don't seem to be in humour for anything slow and creeping, ' theDictator said gaily. 'I feel full of animal spirits, somehow. Perhaps itis the getting out of danger, although really I don't think there wasmuch'--and then he stopped, for he suddenly reflected that it must seemrather ungracious to suggest that there was not much danger to a pair ofpeople who had come all the way from Clapham Common to look after hislife. 'There was not much craft, ' he went on to say, 'displayed in thatfirst attempt. You will have to look after me pretty closely in thefuture. No; I must spin in a hansom--it is the one thing I speciallylove in London, its hansom. Here, we'll have two hansoms, and I'll takecharge of Mrs. Sarrasin, and you'll follow us, or, at least, you'll findyour way the best you can, Captain Sarrasin--and let us see who getsthere first. '

CHAPTER XV

'IF I WERE TO ASK YOU?'

It is needless to say that Hamilton had never sent any telegram askingthe Dictator to meet him on the bridge in St. James's Park or anywhereelse at eleven o'clock at night. Hamilton at first was disposed to findfault with the letting loose of the supposed assassin, and was at allevents much in favour of giving information at Scotland Yard and puttingthe police authorities on the look-out for some plot. But the opinion ofthe Dictator was clear and fixed, and Hamilton naturally yielded to it. Ericson was quite prepared to believe that some plot was expanding, buthe was convinced that it would be better to allow it to expand. The onegreat thing was to find out who were the movers in the plot. If theLondon Sicilian really were a hired assassin, it was clear that he wasthrown out merely as a skirmisher in the hope that he might succeed indoing the work at once, and the secure conviction that if he failed hecould be abandoned to his fate. It was the crude form of an attempt atpolitical assassination. A wild outcry on the part of the Dictator'sfriends would, he felt convinced, have no better effect than to put hisenemies prematurely on their guard, and inspire them to plan somethingvery subtle and dangerous. Or if, then, their hate did not take soserious a form, the Dictator reasoned that they were not particularlydangerous. So he insisted on lying low, and quietly seeing what wouldcome of it. He was not now disposed to underrate the danger, but he feltconvinced that the worst possible course for him would be to proclaimthe danger too soon. 

Therefore, Ericson insisted that the story of the bridge and theSicilian knife must be kept an absolute secret for the present at least, and the help of Scotland Yard must not be invoked. Of course, it wasclear even to Hamilton that there was no evidence against the supposedSicilian which would warrant any magistrate in committing him for trialon a charge of attempted assassination. There was conjecturalprobability enough; but men are not sent for trial in this country oncharges of conjectural probability. The fact of the false telegramhaving been sent was the only thing which made it clear that behind theSicilian there were conspirators of a more educated and formidablecharacter. The Sicilian never could have sent that telegram; would notbe likely to know anything about Hamilton. Hamilton in the end becamesatisfied that the Dictator was right, and that it would be better tokeep a keen look-out and let the plot develop itself. The most absolutereliance could be put on the silence of the Sarrasins; and betterlook-out could hardly be kept than the look-out of that brave andquick-witted pair of watchers. Therefore Ericson told Hamilton he meantto sleep in spite of thunder. 

The very day after the scene on the bridge the Dictator got an imperiouslittle note from Helena asking him to come to see her at once, as shehad something to say to him. He had been thinking of her--he had beenoccupying himself in an odd sort of way with the conviction, the memory, that if the supposed assassin had only been equal to his work, the lastthought on earth of the Dictator would have been given to HelenaLangley. It did not occur to the Dictator, in his quiet, unegotisticnature, to think of what Helena Langley would have given to know thather name in such a crisis would have been on his dying lips. 

Ericson himself did not think of the matter in that sentimental andimpassioned way. He was only studying in his mind the curious fact thathe certainly was thinking about Helena Langley as he stood on the bridgeand looked on the water; and that, if the knife of the ladies'slipper-maker had done its business promptly, the last thought in hismind, the last feeling in his heart, would have been given not to Gloriabut to Helena Langley. 

He was welcomed and ushered by To-to. When the footman had announcedhim, Helena sprang up from her sofa and ran to meet him. 

'I sent for you, ' she said, almost breathlessly, 'because I have afavour to ask of you! Will you promise me, as all gallants did in theold days--will you promise me before I ask it, that you will grant it?'

'The knights in the old days had wonderful auxiliaries. They had magicalspells, and sorceresses, and wizards--and we have only our poor selves. Suppose I were not able to grant the favour you ask of me?'

'Oh, but, if that were so, I never should ask it. It is entirely andabsolutely in your power to say yes or no. '

'To say--and then to do. '

'Yes, of course--to say and then to do. '

'Well, then, of course, ' he said, with a smile, 'I shall say yes. '

'Thank you, ' she replied fervently; 'it's only this--that you will takesome care of yourself--take, ' and she hesitated, and almost shuddered, 'some care of your--life. '

For a moment he thought that she had heard of the adventure in St. James's Park, and he was displeased. 

'Is my life threatened?' he asked. 

'My father thinks it is. He has had some information. There are peoplein Gloria who hate you--bad and corrupt and wicked people. My fatherthinks you ought to take some care of yourself, for the sake of thecause that is so dear to you, and for the sake of some friends who carefor you, and who, I hope, are dear to you too. ' Her voice trembled, butshe bore up splendidly. 

'I love my friends, ' the Dictator said quietly, 'and I would do much fortheir sake--or merely to please them. But tell me, what can I do?'

'Be on the look-out for enemies, don't go about alone--at all events atnight--don't go about unarmed. My father is sure attempts will be made. '

These words were a relief to Ericson. They showed at least that she didnot suppose any attempt had yet been, made. This was satisfactory. Thesecret to which he attached so much importance had been kept. 

'It is of no use, ' the Dictator said. 'In this sort of business a manhas got to take his life in his hand. Precautions are pretty welluseless. In nine cases out of ten the assassin--I mean the fellow whowants to be an assassin and tries to be an assassin--is a meremountebank, who might be safely allowed to shoot at you or stab at youas long as he likes and no harm done. Why? Because the creature isnervous, and afraid to risk his own life. Get the man who wants to killyou, and does not care about his own life--is willing and ready to diethe instant after he has killed you--and from a man like that you can'tpreserve your life. '

Helena shuddered. 'It is terrible, ' she said. 

'Dear Miss Langley, it is not more terrible than a score of chances inlife which young ladies run without the slightest sense of alarm. Whyyou, in your working among the poor, run the danger of scarlet fever andsmall-pox every other day in your life, and you never think about it. How many public men have died by the assassin's hand in my days? AbrahamLincoln, Marshal Prim, President Garfield, Lord Frederick Cavendish--twoor three more; and how many young ladies have died of scarlet fever?'

'But one can't take any precautions against scarlet fever--except tokeep away from where it may be, and not to do what one must feel to be aduty. '

'Exactly, ' he said eagerly; 'there is where it is. '

'You can't, ' she urged, 'have police protection against typhus orsmall-pox. '

'Nor against assassination, ' he said gravely. 'At least, not against theonly sort of assassins who are in the least degree dangerous. I want youto understand this quite clearly, ' he said, turning to her suddenly withan earnestness which had something tender in it. 'I want you to knowthat I am not rash or foolhardy or careless about my own life. I haveonly too much reason for wanting to live--aye, even for clinging tolife! But, as a matter of calculation, there is no precaution to betaken in such a case which can be of the slightest value as a genuineprotection. An enemy determined enough will get at you in your bedroomas you sleep some night--you can't have a cordon of police around yourdoor. Even if you did have a police cordon round you when you took yourwalks abroad, it wouldn't be of the slightest use against the bullet ofthe assassin firing from the garret window. '

'This is appalling, ' Helena said, turning pale. 'I now understand whysome women have such a horror of anything like political strife. Iwonder if I should lose courage if someone in whom I was interested werein serious danger?'

'You would never lose your courage, ' the Dictator said firmly. 'Youwould fear nothing so much as that those you cared for should not provethemselves equal to the duty imposed upon them. '

'I used to think so once, ' she said. 'I begin to be afraid about myselfnow. '

'Well, in this case, ' he interposed quickly, 'there does not seem to beany real apprehension of danger. I am afraid, ' he added, with a certainbitterness, 'my enemies in Gloria do not regard me as so very formidablea personage as to make it worth their while to pay for the cost of myassassination. I don't fancy they are looking out for my speedy returnto Gloria. '

'My father's news is different. He hears that your party is growing inGloria every day, and that the people in power are making themselvesevery day more and more odious to the country. '

'That they are likely enough to do, ' he said, with a bright look cominginto his eyes, 'and that is one reason why I am quite determined not toprecipitate matters. We can't afford to have revolution afterrevolution in a poor and struggling place like Gloria, and so I wantthese people to give the full measure of their incapacity and theirbaseness so that when they fall they may fall like Lucifer! Hamiltonwould be rather for rushing things--I am not. '

'Do you keep in touch with Gloria?' Helena asked almost timidly. She hadlately grown rather shy of asking him questions on political matters, orof seeming to assume any right to be in his confidence. All theimpulsive courage which she used to have in the days when theiracquaintanceship was but new and slight seemed to have deserted her nowthat they were such close and recognised friends, and that random reportoccasionally gave them out as engaged lovers. 

'Oh, yes, ' he answered; 'I thought you knew--I fancied I had told you. Ihave constant information from friends on whom I can absolutely rely--inGloria. '

'Do they know what your enemies are doing?'

'Yes, I should think they would get to know, ' he said with a smile, 'asfar as anything can be known. '

'Would they be likely to know, ' she asked again in a timid tone, 'if anyplot were being got up against you?'

'Any plot for my murder?'

'Yes!' Her voice sank to a whisper--she hardly dared to put thepossibility into words. The fear which we allow to occupy our thoughtsseems sometimes too fearful to be put into words. It appears as if byspoken utterance we conjure up the danger. 

'Some hint of the kind might be got, ' he said hesitatingly. 'Our enemiesare very crafty, but these things often leak out. Someone loses courageand asks for advice--or confides to his wife, and she takes fright andgoes for counsel to somebody else. Then two words of a telegram acrossthe ocean would put me on my guard. '

'If you should get such a message, will you--tell _me_?'

'Oh, yes, certainly, ' he said carelessly, 'I can promise you that. '

'And will you promise me one thing more--will you promise to becareful?'

'What _is_ being careful? How can one take care, not knowing where orwhence the danger threatens?'

'But you need not go out alone, at night. '

'You have no idea how great a delight it is for me to go about London atnight. Then I am quite free--of politicians, interviewers, gossipingpeople, society ladies, and all the rest. I am master of myself, and Iam myself again. '

'Still, if your friends ask you----'

'Some of my friends have asked me. '

'And you did not comply?'

'No; I did not think there was any necessity for complying. '

'But if _I_ were to ask you?' She laid her hand gently, lightly, timidly, on his. 

'Ah, well, if _you_ were to ask me, that would be quite a differentthing. '

'Then I do ask you, ' she exclaimed, almost joyously. 

He smiled a bright, half-sad smile upon the kindly, eager girl. 

'Well, I promise not to go out alone at night in London until yourelease me from my vow. It is not much to do this to please you, MissLangley--you have been so kind to me. I am really glad to have it in mypower to do anything to please you. '

'You have pleased me much, yet I feel penitent too. '

'Penitent for what?'

'For having deprived you of these lonely midnight walks which you seemto love so much. '

'I shall love still more the thought of giving anything up to pleaseyou. '

'Thank you, ' she said gravely--and that was all she said. She began tobe afraid that she had shown her hand too much. She began to wonder whathe was thinking of her--whether he thought her too free spoken--tooforward--whether he had any suspicion of her feelings towards him. Hismanner, too, had always been friendly, gentle, tender even; but it wasthe manner of a man who apparently considered all suspicion oflove-making to be wholly out of the question. This very fact had madeher incautious, she thought. If any serious personal danger ever shouldthreaten him, how should she be able to keep her real feelings a secretfrom him? Were they, she asked herself in pain and with flushing face, asecret even now? After to-day could he fail to know--could he at allevents fail to guess?

Did the Dictator know--did he guess--that the girl was in love with him?

The Dictator did not know and did not guess. The frankness of hermanners had completely led him astray. The way in which she rendered himopen homage deceived him wholly as to her feelings. He knew that sheliked his companionship--of that he could have no doubt--he knew thatshe was by nature a hero-worshipper and that he was just now her hero. But he never for a moment imagined that the girl was in love with him. After a little while he would go away--to Gloria, most likely--and shewould soon find some other hero, and one day he would read in the papersthat the daughter of Sir Rupert Langley was married. Then he would writeher a letter of congratulation, and in due course he would receive fromher a friendly answer--and there an end. 

Perhaps just now he was more concerned about his own feelings than abouthers--much more, indeed, because he had not the remotest suspicion thather feelings were in any wise disturbed. But his own? He began to thinkit time that he should grow acquainted with his heart, and search whatstirred it so. He could not conceal from himself the fact that he wasgrowing more and more attached to the companionship of this beautiful, clever, and romantic girl. He found that she disputed Gloria in hismind. He found that, mingling imperceptibly with his hope of atriumphant return to Gloria, was the thought that _she_ would feel thetriumph too, or the painful thought that if it came she would not benear him to hear the story. He found that one of the delights of hislonely midnight walks was the quiet thought of her. It used to be agladness to him to recall, in those moments of solitude, some word thatshe had spoken--some kindly touch of her hand. 

He began to grow afraid of his position and his feelings. What had he todo with falling in love? That was no part of the work of his life. Whatcould it be to him but a misfortune if he were to fall in love with thisgirl who was so much younger than he? Supposing it possible that a girlof that age could love him, what had he to offer her? A share in acareer that might well prove desperate--a career to be brought to asudden and swift close, very probably by his own death at the hands ofhis successful enemies in Gloria! Think of the bright home in which hefound that girl--of the tender, almost passionate, love she bore to herfather, and which her father returned with such love for her--think ofthe brilliant future that seemed to await her, and then think of thepossibility of her ever being prevailed upon to share his dark anddoubtful fortunes. The Dictator was not a rich man. Much of what he oncehad was flung away--or at all events given away--in his efforts to setup reform and constitutionalism in Gloria. The plain truth of theposition was that even if Helena Langley were at all likely to fall inlove with him it would be his clear duty, as a man of honour and one whowished her well, to discourage any such feeling and to keep away fromher. But the Dictator honestly believed that he was entitled to put anysuch thought as that out of his mind. The very frankness--the childlikefrankness--with which she had approached him made it clear that she hadno thought of any love-making being possible between them. 'She thinksof me as a man almost old enough to be her father, ' he said to himself. So the Dictator reconciled his conscience, and still kept on seeing her. 

CHAPTER XVI

THE CHILDREN OF GRIEVANCE

The Dictator and Hamilton stood in Ericson's study, waiting to receive adeputation. The Dictator had agreed to receive this deputation from anorganisation of working men. The deputation desired to complain of thelong hours of work and the small rate of pay from which English artisansin many branches of labour had to suffer. Why they had sought to see himhe could not very well tell--and certainly if it had been left toHamilton, whose mind was set on sparing the Dictator all avoidabletrouble, and who, moreover, had in his heart of hearts no great beliefin remedy by working-men's deputation, the poor men would probably nothave been accorded the favour of an interview. But the Dictator insistedon receiving them, and they came; trooped into the room awkwardly; atfirst seemed slow of speech, and soon talked a great deal. He listenedto all they had to say, and put questions and received answers, andcertainly impressed the deputation with the conviction that if hisExcellency the ex-Dictator of Gloria could not do anything very much forthem, his heart at least was in their cause. He had an idea in his mindof something he could do to help the over-oppressed English workingman--and that was the reason why he had consented to receive thedeputation. 

The spokesman of the deputation was a gaunt and haggard-looking man. Thedirt seemed ingrained in him--in his hands, his eyebrows, his temples, under his hair, up to his very eyes. He told a pitiful story of longwork and short pay--of hungry children and an over-tasked wife. He told, in fact, the story familiar to all of us--the 'chestnut' of thenewspapers--the story which the busy man of ordinary society is notexpected to trouble himself by reading any more--supposing he ever hadread it at all. 

The Dictator, however, was not an ordinary society man, and he had beena long time away from England, and had not had his attention turned tothese social problems of Great Britain. He was therefore deeplyinterested in the whole business, and he asked a number of questions, and got shrewd, keen answers sometimes, and very rambling answers onother occasions. The deputation was like all other deputations with agrievance. There was the fanatic burning to a white heat, with theinward conviction of wrong done, not accidentally, but deliberately, tohim and to his class. There was the prosaic, didactic, reasoning man, who wanted to talk the whole matter out himself, and to put everybody'sarguments to the test, and to prove that all were wrong and weak andfallible and unpractical save himself alone. There was the fervid man, who always wanted to dash into the middle of every other man's speech. There was the practical man, who came with papers of figures and desiredto make it all a question of statistics. There was the 'crank, ' whodisagreed with everything that everybody else said or suggested or couldpossibly have said or suggested on that or any other subject. The firsttrouble of the Dictator was to get at any commonly admitted appreciationof facts. More than once--many times indeed--he had to interpose andexplain that he personally knew nothing of the subjects they werediscussing; that he only sought for information; and that he begged themif they could to agree among themselves as to the actual realities whichthey wished to bring under his notice. Even when he had thus adjuredthem it was not easy for him to get them to be all in a story. Poorfellows! each one of them had his own peculiar views and his ownpeculiar troubles too closely pressing on his brain. The Dictator wasnever impatient--but he kept asking himself the question: 'Suppose I hadthe power to legislate, and were now called upon by these men and intheir own interests to legislate, what on their own showing should I beable to do?'

More than once, too, he put to them that question. 'Admitting yourgrievances--admitting the justice, the reason, the practical good senseof your demands, what can _I_ do? Why do you appeal to me? I am nolegislator. I am a proscribed and banished man from a country whichuntil lately most of you had never heard of. What would you have of me?'

The spokesman of the deputation could only answer that they had heard ofhim as of one who had risen to supreme position in a great far-offcountry, and who had always concerned himself deeply with the interestof the working classes. 

'Will that, ' he asked, 'get me one moment's audience from an Englishofficial department?'

No, they did not suppose it would; they shook their heads. They couldnot help him to learn how he was to help them. 

The day was cold and dreary. No matter though the season was stillsupposed to be far remote from winter, yet the look of the skies wascruelly depressing, and the atmosphere was loaded with a misty chill. Ericson's heart was profoundly touched. He saw in his mind's eye acountry glowing with soft sunshine--a country where even winter camecaressingly on the people living there; a country with vast and almostboundless spaces for cultivation; a country watered with noble riversand streams; a country to be renowned in history as the breeder ofhorses and cattle and the grower of grain; a country well qualified torear and feed and bring up in sunny comfort more than the whole mass ofthe hopeless toilers on the chill English fields and in the sootyEnglish cities. His mind was with the country with which he hadidentified his career--which only wanted good strong hands to converther into a country of practical prosperity--which only needed brains toopen for her a history that should be remembered in all far-stretchingtime. He now excused himself for what had at one moment seemed hisweakness in consenting to receive a deputation for which he could donothing. He found that he had something to say to them after all. 

The Dictator had a sweet, strong, melodious voice. When he had heardthem all most patiently out, he used his voice and said what he had tosay. He told them that he had directly no right to receive them at all, for, as far as regards this country, there was absolutely nothing hecould do for them. He was not an official, not a member of Parliament, not a person claiming the slightest influence in English public life. Nor even in the country of his adoption did he reckon for much just now. He was, as they all knew, an exile; if he were to return to that countrynow, his life would, in all probability, be forfeit. Yet, in God's goodpleasure, he might, after all, get back some time, and, if that shouldbe, then he would think of his poor countrymen, in England. Gloria was agreat country, and could find homes for hundreds and hundreds ofthousands of Englishmen. There--he had no scheme, had never thought ofthe matter until quite lately--until they had asked him to receive theirdeputation. He had nothing more to say and nothing more to ask. He wasashamed to have brought them to listen to a reply of so little worth inany sense; but that was all that he could tell them, and if ever againhe was in a position to do anything, then he could only say that hehoped to be reminded of his promise. 

The deputation went away not only contented but enthusiastic. They quiteunderstood that their immediate cause was not advanced and could not beadvanced by anything the Dictator could possibly have to say. But theyhad been impressed by his sincerity and by his sympathy. They had beendeputed to wait on many a public official, many a head of a department, many a Secretary of State, many an Under-Secretary. They were familiarwith the stereotyped official answers, the answers that assured themthat the case should have consideration, and that if anything could bedone--well, then, perhaps, something would be done. Possibly no otheranswer could have been given. The answer of the unofficial andirresponsible Dictator promised absolutely nothing; but it had themusical ring of sincerity and of sympathy about it, and the men graspedstrongly his strong hand, and went away glad that they had seen him. 

The Dictator did not usually receive deputations. But he had a greatmany requests from deputations that they might be allowed to wait on himand express their views to him. He was amazed sometimes to find what animportant man he was in the estimation of various great organisations. Ho was assured by the committee of the Universal Arbitration Societythat, if he would only appear on their platform and deliver a speech, the cause of universal arbitration would be secured, and public warwould go out of fashion in the world as completely as the private duelhas gone out of fashion in England. Of course, he was politely pressedto receive a deputation on behalf of several societies interested on oneside or the other of the great question of Woman's Suffrage. Theteetotallers and Local Optionists of various forms solicited the favourof a talk with him. The trade associations and the licensed victuallerseagerly desired to get at his views. The letters he received on thesubject of the hours of labour interested him a great deal, and he triedto grapple with their difficulties, but soon found he could make littleof them. By the strenuous advice of Hamilton he was induced to keep outof these complex English questions altogether. Ericson yielded, knowingthat Hamilton was advising him for the best; but he had a good deal ofthe Don Quixote in his nature; and having now a sort of enforcedidleness put upon him, he felt a secret yearning for some enterprise toset the world right in other directions than that of Gloria. 

There was a certain indolence in Ericson's nature. It was the indolencewhich is perfectly consistent with a course of tremendous and sustainedenergy. It was the nature which says to itself at one moment, 'Up and dothe work, ' and goes for the work with unconquerable earnestness untilthe work is done, and then says, 'Very good; now the work is done, letus rest and smoke and talk over other things. ' Nature is one thing;character is another. We start with a certain kind of nature; we beat itand mould it, or it is beaten and moulded for us, into character. EvenHamilton was never quite certain whether Nature had meant Ericson for adreamer, and Ericson and Fortune co-operating had hammered him into aworker, or whether Nature had moulded him for a worker, and his owntastes for contemplation and for reading and for rest had softened himdown into a dreamer. 

'The condition of this country horrifies me, Hamilton, ' he said, whenleft alone with his devoted follower. 'I don't see any way out of it. Ifind no one who even professes to see any way out of it. I don't see anypeople getting on well but the trading class. '

'_But_ the trading class?' Hamilton asked, with a quiet smile. 

'You mean that if the trading class are getting on well the country inthe end will get on well?'

'It would look like that, ' Hamilton answered; 'wouldn't it? This is acountry of trade. If our trade is sound, our heart is sound. '

'But what is becoming of the land, what is becoming of the peasant? Whatis becoming of the East End population? I don't see how trade helps anyof these. Read the accounts from Liverpool, from Manchester, fromSheffield, from anywhere: nothing but competition and strikes andgeneral misery. And, look here, I can't bear the idea of everything inlife being swallowed up in the great cities, and the peasantry ofEngland totally disappearing, and being succeeded by a gaunt, raggedclass of half-starved labourers in big towns. Take my word for it, Hamilton, a cursed day has come when we see _that_ day. '

'What can be done?' Hamilton asked, in a kind of compassionatetone--compassion rather for the trouble of his chief than for thesupposed national tribulation. Hamilton was as generous-hearted a youngfellow as could be, but his affections were more evidenced in theconcrete than in the abstract. He had grown up accustomed to all thesedistracting social questions, and he did not suppose that anything verymuch was likely to come of them--at any rate, he supposed that ifanything were to come of them it would come of itself, and that we couldnot do much to help or hinder it. So he was not disposed to distresshimself much about these social complications, although, if he felt surethat his purse or his labour could avail in any way to make thingsbetter, his help most assuredly would not be wanting. But he did notlike the Dictator to be worried about such things. The Dictator's work, he thought, was to be kept for other fields. 

'Nothing can be done, I suppose, ' the Dictator said gloomily. 'But, mydear Hamilton, that is the trouble of the whole business. That does nothelp us to put it out of our minds--it only racks our minds all themore. To think that it should be so! To think that in this greatcountry, so rich in money, so splendid in intellect, we should have toface that horrible problem of misery and poverty and vice, and, havingstared at it long enough, simply close our eyes, or turn away anddeliver it as our final utterance that there is nothing to be done!'

'Anyhow, ' Hamilton said, 'there is nothing to be done by you and me. It's of no use our wearing out our energies about it. '

'No, ' the Dictator assented, not without drawing a deep breath; 'but ifI had time and energy I should like to try. We have no such problems tosolve in Gloria, Hamilton. '

'No, by Jupiter!' Hamilton exclaimed, 'and therefore the very sooner weget back there the better. '

The Dictator sent a compassionate and even tender glance at his youngcompanion. He had the best reason to know how sincere andself-sacrificing was Hamilton's devotion to the cause of Gloria; but hecould not doubt that just at present there was mingled in the youngman's heart, along with the wish to be serving actively the cause ofGloria, the wish also to be free of London, to be away from the scene ofa bitter disappointment. The Dictator's heart was deeply touched. He hadadmired with the most cordial admiration the courage, the nobleself-repression, which Hamilton had displayed since the hour of hisgreat disappointment. Never a word of repining, never the exhibition inpublic of a clouded brow, never any apparent longing to creep intolonely brakes like the wounded deer--only the man-like resolve to put upwith the inevitable, and go on with one's work in life just as ifnothing had happened. All the time the Dictator knew what a passionatelyloving nature Hamilton had, and he knew how he must have suffered. 'I amold enough almost to be the lad's father, ' he thought to himself, 'and Icould not have borne it like that. ' All this passed through his mind ina time so short that Hamilton was not able to notice any delay in thereply to his observation. 

'You are right, boy, ' the Dictator cheerily said. 'I don't believe thatyou and I were meant for any mission but the redemption of Gloria. '

'I am glad, to hear you say so, ' Hamilton interposed quickly. 

'Had you ever any doubt of my feelings on that subject?' Ericson askedwith a smile. 

'Oh, no, of course not; but I don't always like to hear you talkingabout the troubles of these old worn-out countries, as if you hadanything to do with them or were born to set them right. It seems as ifyou were being decoyed away from your real business. '

'No fear of that, boy, ' the Dictator said. 'What I was thinking of wasthat we might very well arrange to do something for the country of ourbirth and the country of our adoption at once, Hamilton--by some greatscheme of English colonisation in Gloria. If we get back again I shouldlike to see clusters of English villages springing up all over thesurface of that lovely country. '

'Our people are so wanting in adaptability, ' Hamilton began. 

'My dear fellow, how can you say that? Who made the United States? Whatabout Australia? What about South Africa?'

'These were weedy poor chaps, these fellows who were here just now, 'Hamilton suggested. 

'Good brain-power among some of them, all the same, ' the Dictatorasserted. 'Do you know, Hamilton, say what you will, the idea catchesfire in my mind?'

'I am very glad, Excellency; I am very glad of any idea that makes youwarm to the hope of returning to Gloria. '

'Dear old boy, what _is_ the matter with you? You seem to think that Ineed some spurring to drive me back to Gloria. Do you really thinkanything of the kind?'

'Oh, no, Excellency, I don't--if it comes to that. But I don't like yourgetting mixed up in any manner of English local affairs. '

'I see, you are afraid I might be induced to become a candidate for theHouse of Commons--or, perhaps, for the London County Council, or theSchool Board. I tell you what, Hamilton: I do seriously wish I had anopportunity of going into training on the School Board. It would give mesome information and some ideas which might be very useful if we everget again to be at the head of affairs in Gloria. '

Hamilton was a young man who took life seriously. If it were possible toimagine that he could criticise unfavourably anything said or done byhis chief, it would be perhaps when the chief condescended to trifleabout himself and his position. So Hamilton did not like the mild jestabout the School Board. Indeed, his mind was not at the moment much in acondition for jests of any kind, mild or otherwise. 

'I don't fancy we should learn anything in the London School Board thatwould be of any particular service to us out in Gloria, ' he saidprotestingly. 

'Right you are, ' the Dictator answered, with a half-pathetic smile. 'Ineed you, boy, to recall me to myself, as the people say in the novels. No, I do not for a moment feel myself vain enough to suppose that theordinary member of the London School Board could at a stroke put hisfinger within a thousand miles of Gloria on the map of theworld--Mercator's Projection, or any other. And yet, do you know, I haveodd dreams in my head of a day when Gloria may become the home and theshelter of a sturdy English population, whom their own country couldendow with no land but the narrow slip of earth that makes a pauper'sgrave. '

CHAPTER XVII

MISS PAULO'S OBSERVATION

Miss Paulo sat for a while thoughtfully biting the top of her quill penand looking out dreamily into the street. Her little sitting-room facedKnightsbridge and the trees and grass of the Park. Often when someproblem of the domestic economy of the hotel caused her a passingperplexity, she would derive new vigour for grappling with complicatedsums from a leisurely study of those green spaces and the animatedpanorama of the passing crowd. But to-day there was nothing particularlycomplicated about the family accounts, and Dolores Paulo sought for noarithmetical inspiration from the pleasant out-look. Her mind was whollyoccupied with the thought of what Captain Sarrasin had been saying toher--of the possible peril that threatened the Dictator. 

She drew the feather from between her lips and tapped the blotting-padwith it impatiently. 

'Why should I trouble my head or my heart about him?' she asked herselfbitterly. 'He doesn't trouble his head or his heart about me. '

But she felt ashamed of her petulant speech immediately. She seemed tosee the grave, sweet face of the Dictator looking down at her insurprise; she seemed to see the strong soldierly face of CaptainSarrasin frown upon her sternly. 

'Ah, ' she meditated with a sigh, 'it is only natural that he should fallin love with a girl like that. She can be of use to him--of use to hiscause. What use can I be to him or to his cause? There is nothing I cando except to look out for a possible South American with an especiallydark skin and especially curly moustache. '

As she reflected thus, her eye, wandering over the populous thoroughfareand the verdure beyond, populous also, noted, or rather accepted, thepresence of one particular man out of the many. The one particular manwas walking slowly up and down on the roadside opposite to the hotel bythe Park railings. That he was walking up and down Dolores becameconscious of through the fact that, having half unconsciously seen himonce float into her ken, she noted him again, with some slight surprise, and was aware of him yet a third time with still greater surprise. Theman paced slowly up and down on what appeared to be a lengthy beat, forDolores mentally calculated that something like a minute must haveelapsed between each glimpse of his face as he moved in the direction inwhich she most readily beheld him. He was a man a little above themiddle height, with a keen, aquiline face, smooth-shaven, andred-haired. There was nothing in his dress to render him in the leastremarkable; he was dressed like everybody else, Dolores said to herself, and it must therefore have been his face that somehow or other attractedher vagrant fancy. Yet it was not a particularly attractive face in anysense. It was not a comely face which would compel the admiringattention of a girl, nor was it a face so strongly marked, so out of theordinary lines, as to command attention by its ugliness or its strengthof character. It was the smooth-shaven face of an average man of afair-haired race; there was something Scotch about it--Lowland Scotch, the kind of face of which one might see half a hundred in an hour'sstroll along the main street of Glasgow or Prince's Street in Edinburgh. Dolores had been in both these cities and knew the type, and as it wasnot a specially interesting type she soon diverted her gaze from theunknown and resumed attentively her table of figures. But she had notgiven many seconds to their consideration when her attention was againdiverted. A four-wheeled cab had driven up to the door with aconsiderable pile of luggage on it. There was nothing very remarkable inthat. The arrival of a cab loaded with luggage was an event of hourlyoccurrence at Paulo's Hotel, and quite unlikely to arouse any especialinterest in the mind of Miss Dolores. What, however, did languidlyarouse her interest, did slightly stir her surprise, was that thesmooth-shaven patroller of the opposite side of the way immediatelycrossed the road as the cab drew up, and standing by the side of the cabdoor proceeded to greet the occupant of the cab. Even that was not verymuch out of the way, and yet Dolores was sufficiently interested to laydown her pen and to see who should emerge from the vehicle, around whichnow the usual little guard of hotel porters had gathered. 

A big man got out of the cab, a big man with a blonde beard and amiablespectacles. He carried under his arm a large portfolio, and in each handhe carried a collection of books belted together in a hand-strap. He wasenveloped in a long coat, and his appearance and the appearance of hisluggage suggested that he had travelled, and even from some considerabledistance. 

Curiosity is often an inexplicable thing, even to the curious, andcertainly Dolores would have been hard put to it to explain why she feltany curiosity about the new arrival and the man who had so patientlyawaited him. But she did feel curious, and mingled with her curiositywas a vague sense of something like compassion, if not exactly of pity, for she knew very well that at that moment the hotel was very full, andthat the new-comer would have to put up with rather uncomfortablequarters if he were lucky enough to get any at all. The sense ofcuriosity was, however, stronger than her sense of compassion, and sheran rapidly down stairs by her own private stair and slipped into thelittle room at the back of the hotel office, where either her father orher mother was generally to be found. At this particular moment, as ithappened, neither her father nor mother was in the little room. The doorcommunicating with the office stood slightly ajar, and Dolores, standingby it, could see into the office and hear all that passed without beingseen. 

The blonde-bearded stranger came up to the office smiling confidently. He had still his portfolio under his arm, but his smooth-shaven friendhad relieved him of the two bundles of books, and stood slightly apartwhile the rest of the new-comer's belongings were being piled into ahuge mound of impedimenta in the hall. Dolores expected the confidentsmile of the blonde man to disappear rapidly from his face. But it didnot disappear. He said something to the office clerk which Dolores couldnot catch; the clerk immediately nodded, rang for a page-boy, collectedsundry keys from their hooks, and handed them to the page-boy, whoimmediately made off in the direction of the lift, heralding theblonde-bearded stranger, with his smooth-shaven friend still inattendance, while a squad of porters descended upon the luggage andwafted it away with the rapidity of Afrite magicians. 

Dolores could not restrain her curiosity. She opened the door wider andcalled to the clerk, 'Mr. Wilkins. '

Mr. Wilkins looked round. He was a tall, alert, sharp-looking young man, whose only weakness in life was a hopeless attachment to Miss Paulo. 

'Yes, Miss Paulo. '

'Who was the gentleman who just arrived, Mr. Wilkins?'

Mr. Wilkins seemed a little surprised at the interest Miss Paulodisplayed in the arrival of a stranger. But he made the most of theoccasion. He was glad to have anything to tell which could possiblyinterest _her_. 

'That, ' said Mr. Wilkins with a certain pride, 'is quite a distinguishedperson in his way. He is Professor Wilberforce P. Flick, President ofthe Denver and Sacramento Folk-Lore Societies. He has been travelling onthe Continent for some time past for the benefit of the societies, andhas now arrived in London for the purpose of making acquaintance withthe members of the leading lights of folk-lore in this country. '

Dolores laughed. 'Did he tell you all that just now?' she asked. 

'Oh, no, ' the young man replied, 'Oh, no, Miss Paulo. All that valuableinformation I gained largely from a letter from the distinguishedgentleman himself from Paris last week, and partially also from thespontaneous statements of his friend Mr. Andrew J. Copping, of Omaha, who is now in London, and who came here to see if his friend's roomswere duly reserved. '

'Was that Mr. Copping who was with the Professor just now?'

'Yes, the clean-shaven man was Mr. Andrew J. Copping, of Omaha. '

'Is he also stopping at the hotel?' Miss Paulo asked. 

'No. ' Mr. Wilkins explained. Mr. Copping was apparently for the time aresident of London, and lived, he believed, somewhere in the Camden Townregion. But he was very anxious that his friend and compatriot should becomfortable, and that his rooms should be commodious. 

'How many rooms does Professor Flick occupy?' asked Miss Paulo. 

It seemed that the Professor occupied a little suite of rooms whichcomprised a bedroom and sitting-room, with a bath-room. It seemed thatthe Professor was a very studious person and that he would take all hismeals by himself, as he pursued the study of folk-lore even at hismeals, and wished not to have his attention in the least disturbedduring the process. 

'What an impassioned scholar!' said Miss Paulo. 'I had no idea thatplaces like Denver and Sacramento were leisurely enough to produce suchardent students of folk-lore. '

'Not to mention Omaha, ' added Mr. Wilkins. 

'Is Mr. Copping also a folk-lorist then?' inquired Miss Paulo; and Mr. Wilkins replied that he believed so, that he had gathered as much fromthe remarks of Mr. Copping on the various occasions when he had calledat the hotel. 

'The various occasions?'

Yes, Mr. Copping had called several times, to make quite sure ofeverything concerning his friend's comfort. He was very particular aboutthe linen being aired one morning. Another morning ho looked in toascertain whether the chimneys smoked, as the learned Professor oftenliked a fire in his rooms even in summer. A third time he called toenquire if the water in the bath-room was warm enough at an early hourin the morning, as the learned Professor often rose early to devotehimself to his great work!

'What a thoughtful friend, to be sure!' said Miss Paulo. 'It is pleasantto find that great scholarship can secure such devoted disciples. For Isuppose Professor Flick is a great scholar. '

'One of the greatest in the world, as I understand from Mr. Copping, 'replied Mr. Wilkins. 'I understand from Mr. Copping that when ProfessorFlick's great work appears it will revolutionise folk-lore all over theworld. '

'Dear me!' said Miss Paulo; 'how little one does know, to be sure. I hadno idea that folk-lore required revolutionising. '

'Neither had I, ' said Mr. Wilkins; 'but apparently it does. '

'And Professor Flick is the man to do it, apparently, ' said Miss Paulo. 

'If Mr. Copping is correct about the great work, ' said Mr. Wilkins. 

'Ay, yes, the great work. And what is the great work? Did Mr. Coppingcommunicate that as well?'

Oh, yes, Mr. Copping had communicated that as well. The great work was astudy in American folk-lore, and it went to establish, as far as Mr. Wilkins could gather from Mr. Copping's glowing but somewhatdisconnected phrases, that all the legends of the world were originallythe property of the Ute Indians, who, with the Apaches, constituted, according to the Professor, the highest intellectual types on thesurface of the earth. 

'Well, ' said Dolores, 'all that, I dare say, is very interesting andexciting, and even exhilarating to the studious inhabitants of Denverand of Sacramento. I wonder if it will greatly interest London? Wherehave you put Professor Flick?'

Professor Flick was located, it appeared, upon the first floor. Itseemed, according to the representations of the devoted Copping, thatProfessor Flick was a very nervous man about the possibility of fires;that he never willingly went higher than the first floor in consequence, and that he always carried with him in his baggage a patent rope-ladderfor fear of accidents. 

'On the first floor, ' said Miss Paulo. 'Which rooms?'

'The end suite at the right. On the same side as the rooms of hisExcellency, but further off. Mr. Copping seems to like their situationthe best of all the rooms I showed him. '

'On the same side as his Excellency's rooms? Well, I should thinkProfessor Flick would be a quiet neighbour. '

'Probably, for he was very anxious to be quiet himself. But I am afraidthe fame of our illustrious guest does not extend so far as Denver, forMr. Copping asked what the flag was flying for, and when I told him hedid not seem to be a bit the wiser. '

'The stupid man!' said Miss Paulo scornfully. 

'And Professor Flick is just as bad. When I mentioned to him that hisrooms were near those of Mr. Ericson, the Dictator of Gloria, he saidthat he had never heard of him, but that he hoped he was a quiet man, and did not sit up late. '

'Really, ' said Miss Paulo, frowning, 'this Mr. Flick would seem to thinkthat the world was made for folk-lore, and that he was folk-lore'sCæsar. '

'Ah, Miss Paulo, ' said the practical Wilkins, with a smile, 'thesescholars have queer ways. '

'Evidently, ' answered Miss Paulo, 'evidently. Well, I suppose we musthumour them sometimes, for the sake of the Utes and Apaches at least;'and, with the sunniest of smiles, Miss Paulo withdrew from the office, leaving, as it seemed to Mr. Wilkins, who was something of a poet in hisspare moments, the impression as of departed divinity. The atmosphere ofthe hotel hall seemed to take a rosy tinge, and to be impregnated withenchanting odours as from the visit of an Olympian. Mr. Wilkins had beengoing through a course of Homer of late, in Bohn's translation, andpermitted himself occasionally to allow his fancy free play in classicalallusion. Never, though, to his credit be it recorded, did his poeticstudies or his love-dreamings operate in the least to the detriment ofhis serious duties as head of the office in Paulo's Hotel, a post which, to do him justice, he looked upon as scarcely less important than thatof a Cabinet Minister. 

Since the day when Dolores first spoke to Hamilton about the dangerwhich was supposed to threaten the Dictator, she had had many talks withthe young man. It became his habit now to stop and talk with herwhenever he had a chance of meeting her. It was pleasant to him to lookinto her soft, bright, deep-dark eyes. Her voice sounded musical in hisears. The touch of her hand soothed him. His devotion to the Dictatortouched her; her devotion to the Dictator touched him. For a while theyhad only one topic of conversation--the Dictator, and the fortunes ofGloria. 

Soon the clever and sympathetic girl began to think that Hamilton hadsome trouble in his mind or in his heart which did not strictly belongto the fortunes of the Dictator. There was an occasional melancholyglance in his eye, and then there came a sudden recovery, an almostobvious pulling of himself together, which Dolores endeavoured to reasonout. She soon reasoned it out to her own entire conviction, if not toher entire satisfaction. For she felt deeply sorry for the young man. Hehad been crossed in love, she felt convinced. Oh, yes, he had beencrossed in love! Some girl had deceived him, and had thrown him over!And he was so handsome, and so gentle, and so brave, and what bettercould the girl have asked for? And Dolores became quite angry with theunnamed, unknown girl. Her manner grew all the more genial and kindly toHamilton. All unconsciously, or perhaps feeling herself quite safe inher conviction that Hamilton's heart was wholly occupied with his love, she allowed herself a certain tone of tender friendship, whollyunobtrusive, almost wholly impersonal--a tender sympathy with thesuffering, perhaps, rather than with the sufferer, but bringing muchsweetness of voice to the sufferer's ear. 

The two became quite confidential about the Dictator and the danger thatwas supposed to be threatening him. They had long talks over it--andthere was an element of secrecy and mystery about the talks which gavethem a certain piquancy and almost a certain sweetness. Of course thesetalks had to be all confidential. It was not to be supposed that theDictator would allow, if he knew, that any work should be made about anypersonal danger to him. Therefore Hamilton and Dolores had to talk in anunderhand kind of way, and to turn on to quite indifferent subjects whenanyone not in the mystery happened to come in. The talks took placesometimes in the public corridor--often in Dolores' own little room. Sometimes the Dictator himself looked in by chance and exchanged a fewwords with Miss Dolores, and then, of course, the confidential talkcollapsed. The Dictator liked Dolores very much. He thought her aremarkably clever and true-hearted girl, and quite a princess and abeauty in her way, and he had more than once said so to Hamilton. 

One day Dolores ventured to ask Hamilton, 'Is it true what they sayabout his Excellency?' and she blushed a little at her own boldness inasking the question. 

'Is what true?' Hamilton asked in return, and all unconscious of hermeaning. 

'Well, is it true that he is going to marry--Sir Rupert Langley'sdaughter?'

Then Hamilton's face, usually so pale, flushed a sudden red, and for amoment he could hardly speak. He opened his mouth once or twice, but thewords did not come. 

'Who said that?' he asked at last. 

'I don't know, ' Dolores answered, much alarmed and distressed, with alight breaking on her that made her flush too. 'I heard it saidsomewhere--I dare say it's not true. Oh, I am quite sure it is _not_true--but people always _are_ saying such things. '

'It can't be true, ' Hamilton said. 'If he had any thought of it he wouldhave told me. He knows that there is nothing I could desire more thanthat he should be made happy. '

Again he almost broke down. 

'Yes, if it would make him happy, ' Dolores intervened once again, plucking up her courage. 

'She is a very noble girl, ' Hamilton said, 'but I don't believe there isanything in it. She admires him as we all do. '

'Why, yes, of course, ' said Dolores. 

'I don't think the Dictator is a marrying man. He has got the cause ofGloria for a wife. Good morning, Miss Paulo. I have to get to theForeign Office. '

'I hope I haven't vexed you, ' Dolores asked eagerly, and yet timidly, 'by asking a foolish question and taking notice of silly gossip?'

She knew Hamilton's secret now, and in her sympathy and her kindlinessand her assurance of being safe from misconstruction she laid her handgently on the young man's arm, and he looked at her, and thought he sawa moisture in her eyes. And he knew that his secret was his no longer. He knew that Dolores had in a moment seen the depths of his trouble. Their eyes looked at each other, and then, only too quickly, away fromeach other. 

'Vexed me?' he said. 'No, indeed, Miss Paulo. You are one of the kindestfriends I have in the world. '

Now, what had this speech to do with the question of whether theDictator was likely or was not likely to ask Helena Langley to marryhim? Nothing at all, so far as an outer observer might see. But it had agood deal to do with the realities of the situation for Hamilton andDolores. It meant, if its meaning could then have been put into plainwords on the part of Hamilton--'I know that you have found out mysecret--and I know, too, that you will be kind and tender with it--and Ilike you all the better for having found it out, and for being so tenderwith it, and it will be another bond of friendship between us--that, andour common devotion to the Dictator. But this we cannot have in commonwith the Dictator. Of this, however devoted to him we are, he must nowknow nothing. This is for ourselves alone--for you and me. ' It is aserious business with young men and women when any story and any secretis to be confined to 'you and me. '

For Dolores it meant that now she had a perfect right to be sympatheticand kindly and friendly with Hamilton. She felt as if she were in hisabsolute heart-confidence--although he had told her nothing whatever, and she did not want him to tell her anything whatever. She knew enough. He was in love, and he was disappointed. She? Well, she really had notbeen in love, but she had been all unconsciously looking out for love, and she had fancied that she was falling in love with the Dictator. Shewas an enthusiast for his cause; and for his cause because of himself. With her it was the desire of the moth for the star--of the night forthe morrow. She knew this quite well. She knew that that was the soleand the full measure of her feeling towards the Dictator. But all thesame, up to this time she had never felt any stirring of emotion towardsany other man. She must have known--sharp-sighted girl that shewas--that poor Mr. Wilkins adored her. She _did_ know it--and she wasvery much interested in the knowledge, and thought it was such a pity, and was sorry for him--honestly and sincerely sorry--and was ever sokind and friendly to him. But her mind was not greatly troubled abouthis love. She took it for granted that Mr. Wilkins would get over histrouble, and would marry some girl who would be fond of him. It alwayshappens like that. So her mind was at rest about Wilkins. 

Thus, her mind being at rest about Wilkins, because she knew that, asfar as she was concerned, it never could come to anything, and her mindbeing equally at rest about the Dictator, because she felt sure that onhis part it could never come to anything, she had leisure to give someof her sympathies to Hamilton, now that she knew his secret. Then aboutHamilton--how about him?

There are moments in life--not moments in actual clock-time, buteventful moments in feelings when one seems to be conscious of a specialinfluence of sympathy and kindness breathing over him like a healingair. A great misfortune has come down upon one's life, and theconviction is for the time that nothing in life can ever be well withhim again. The sun shines no more for him; the birds sing no more forhim; or, if their notes do make their way into his dulled and saddenedears, it is only to break his heart as the notes of the birds did forthe sufferer on the banks of bonnie Doon. The afflicted one seems to lieas in a darkened room, and to have no wish ever to come out into thebroad, free, animating air again--no wish to know any more what is goingon in the world outside. Friends of all kinds, and in all kindness, comeand bring their futile, barren consolations, and make offers ofunneeded, unacceptable service, as unpalatable as the offer of the GrandDuchess in 'Alice in Wonderland, ' who, declaring that she knows what thethirsty, gasping little girl wants, tenders her a dry biscuit. The drybiscuit of conventional service is put to the lips of the chokingsufferer, and cannot be swallowed. Suddenly some voice, perhaps allunknown before, is heard in the darkened chamber, and it is as if a handwere laid on the sufferer's shoulder, tenderly touching him and arousinghim to life once more. The voice seems to whisper, 'Come, arise! Awakefrom mere self-annihilation in grief; there is something yet to livefor; the world has still some work to do--_for you_. There are paths tobe found for you; there are even, it may be, loves to be loved by youand for you. Arise and come out into the light of the sun and the lightof the stars again. ' The voice does not really say all this or any ofthis. If it were to do so, it would be only going over the old sort ofconsolation which proved hopeless and only a source of renewed anguishwhen it was offered by the ordinary well-meaning friends. But thepeculiar, the timely, the heaven-sent influence breathes all this andmuch more than this into a man--and the hand that seems at first to belaid so gently on his shoulder now takes him, still so gently--oh, everso gently, but very firmly by the arm, and leads him out of the roomdarkened by despair and into the open air, where the sun shines not withmocking and gaudy glare, but with tender, soft, and sympathising light, and the new life has begun, and the healing of the sufferer is aquestion of time. It may be that he never quite knows from whom thesudden peculiarity of influence streamed in so beneficently upon him. Perhaps the source of inspiration is there just by his side, but heknows nothing of it. Happy the man who, under such conditions, does knowwhere to find the holy well from which came forth the waters that curedhis pain, and sent him out into life to be a man among men again. 

Poor Hamilton was, as he put it himself, hit very hard when he learnedthat Helena Langley absolutely refused him. It was not the slightestconsolation to him to know that she was quite willing that theirfriendship should go on unbroken. He was rather glad, on the whole, notto hear that she had declared herself willing to regard him as abrother. Those dreadful old phrases only make the refusal ten timesworse. Probably the most wholesome way in which a refusal could be putto a sensitive young man is the blunt, point-blank declaration thatnever, under any circumstances, could there be a thought of the girl'sloving him and having him for her husband. Then a young man who is worthhis salt is thrown back upon his own mettle, and recognises theconditions under which he has to battle his life out, and if he isreally good for anything he soon adapts himself to them. For the timethe struggle is terrible. No cheapness of cynicism will persuade a youngman that he does not suffer genuine anguish when under this pang ofmisprized love. But the sooner he knows the worst the more soon is helikely to be able to fight his way out of the deeps of his misery. 

Hamilton did not quite realise the fact as yet--perhaps did not realiseit at all--but the friendly voice in his ear, the friendly touch on hisarm, that bade him come out into the light and live once again a life ofhope, was the voice and the touch of Dolores Paulo. And for her part sheknew it just as little as he did. 

CHAPTER XVIII

HELENA KNOWS HERSELF, BUT NOT THE OTHER

Decidedly Gloria was coming to the front again--in the newspapers, atall events. The South American question was written about, telegraphedabout, and talked about, every day. The South American question was forthe time the dispute between Gloria and her powerful neighbour, who wassupposed to cherish designs of annexation with regard to her. It is acurious fact that in places like South America, where every State mightbe supposed to have, or indeed might be shown to have, ten times moreterritory than she well knows what to do with, the one great idea ofincreasing the national dignity seems to be that of taking in some vastadditional area of land. The hungry neighbour of Gloria had been anEmpire, but had got rid of its Emperor, and was now believed to beanxious to make a fresh start in dignity by acquiring Gloria, as if toshow that a Republic could be just as good as an Empire in the matter ofaggression and annexation. Therefore a dispute had been easy to get up. A frontier line is always a line that carries an electric current ofdisputes. There were some questions of refugees, followers of Ericson, who had crossed the frontier, and whose surrender the new Government ofGloria had absurdly demanded. There were questions of tariff, of duties, of smuggling, all sorts of questions, which, after flickering aboutseparately for some time, ran together at last like drops ofquicksilver, and so formed for the diplomatists and for the newspapersthe South American question. 

What did it all mean? There were threats of war. Diplomacy had for sometime believed that the great neighbour of Gloria wanted either war orannexation. The new Republic desired to vindicate its title torespectability in the eyes of a somewhat doubtful and irreverentpopulation, and if it could only boast of the annexation of Gloria thething would be done. The new government of Gloria flourished splendidlyin despatches, in which they declared their ardent desire to live onterms of friendship with all their neighbours, but proclaimed thatGloria had traditions which must be maintained. If Gloria did not meanresistance, then her Government ought certainly not to have kept such astiff upper lip; and if Gloria did mean resistance was she strong enoughto face her huge rival?

This was the particular question which puzzled and embarrassed theDictator. He could methodically balance the forces on either side. Thebig Republic had measureless tracts of territory, but she had only acomparatively meagre population. Gloria was much smaller in extent--notmuch larger, say, than France and Germany combined--but she had a denserpopulation. Given something vital to fight about, Ericson felt some hopethat Gloria could hold her own. But the whole quarrel seemed to him sotrivial and so factitious that he could not believe the reality of thestory was before the world. He knew the men who were at the head ofaffairs in Gloria, and he had not the slightest faith in their nationalspirit. He sometimes doubted whether he had not made a mistake, when, having their lives in his hand, and dependent on his mercy, he hadallowed them to live. He had only to watch the course of eventsdaily--to follow with keen and agonising interest the telegrams in thepapers--telegrams often so torturingly inaccurate in names and facts andplaces--and to wait for the private advices of his friends, which nowcame so few and so far between that he felt certain he was cut off fromnews by the purposed intervention of the authorities at Gloria. 

One question especially tormented him. Was the whole quarrel a sham sofar as Gloria and her interests were concerned? Was Gloria about to besold to her great rival by the gang of adventurers, political, financial, and social, who had been for the moment entrusted with thecharge of her affairs? Day after day, hour after hour, Ericson turnedover this question in his mind. He was in constant communication withSir Rupert, and his advice guided Sir Rupert a great deal in the framingof the despatches, which, of course, we were bound to send out to ouraccredited representatives in Orizaba and in Gloria. But he did notventure to give even Sir Rupert any hint of his suspicions that thewhole thing was only a put-up job. He was too jealous of the honour ofGloria. To him Gloria was as his wife, his child; he could not allowhimself to suggest the idea that Gloria had surrendered herself body andsoul to the government of a gang of swindlers. 

Sir Rupert prepared many despatches during these days of tension. Undoubtedly he derived much advantage from such schooling as he got fromthe Dictator. He perfectly astonished our representatives in Orizaba andin Gloria by the fulness and the accuracy of his local knowledge. Hisanswers in the House of Commons were models of condensed and clearinformation. He might, for aught that anyone could tell to the contrary, have lived half his life in Gloria and the other half in Orizaba. Forhimself he began to admire more and more the clear impartiality of theDictator. Ericson seemed to give him the benefit of his mere localknowledge, strained perfectly clear of any prejudice or partisanship. But Ericson certainly kept back his worst suspicions. He justifiedhimself in doing so. As yet they were only suspicions. 

Sir Rupert dictated to Soame Rivers the points of various despatches. Sir Rupert liked to have a distinct savour of literature and of culturein his despatches, and he put in a certain amount of that kind of thinghimself, and was very much pleased when Soame Rivers could contribute alittle more. He was becoming very proud of his despatches on this SouthAmerican question. Nobody could be better coached, he thought. Ericsonmust certainly know all about it--and he was pretty well able to givethe despatches a good form himself--and then Soame Rivers was awonderful man for a happy allusion or quotation or illustration. So SirRupert felt well contented with the way things were going; and it may bethat now and again there came into his mind the secret, half-suppressedthought that if the South American question should end, despite all hisdespatches, in the larger Republic absorbing the lesser, and that thusEricson was cut off from any further career in the New World, it wouldbe very satisfactory if he would settle down in England; and then ifHelena and he took to each other, Helena's father would put nodifficulties in their way. 

Soame Rivers copied, amended, added to, the despatches with, metaphorically, his tongue in his cheek. The general attitude of SoameRivers towards the world's politics was very much that of tongue incheek. The attitude was especially marked in this way when he had to dowith the affairs of Gloria. He copied out and improved and enriched thegraceful sentences in which his chief urged the representatives ofEngland to be at once firm and cautious, at once friendly and reserved, and so on, with a very keen and deliberate sense of a joke. He couldsee, of course, with half an eye, where the influence of Ericson camein, and he should have dearly liked, but did not venture, to spoil allby some subtle phrase of insinuation which perhaps his chief might failto notice, and so allow to go off for the instruction of ourrepresentative in Gloria or Orizaba. Soame Rivers had begun to have apretty strong feeling of hatred for the Dictator. It angered him even tohear Ericson called 'the Dictator. ' 'Dictator of what?' he asked himselfscornfully. Because a man has been kicked out of a place and dare notset his foot there again, does that constitute him its dictator! Therehappened to be about that time a story going the round of London societyconcerning a vain and pretentious young fellow who had been kicked outof a country house for thrusting too much of his fatuous attentions onthe daughter of the host and hostess. Soame Rivers at once nicknamed him'The Dictator' 'Why "The Dictator"?' people asked. 'Because he has beenkicked out--don't you see?' was the answer. But Soame Rivers did notgive forth that witticism in the presence of Sir Rupert or of SirRupert's daughter. 

Meanwhile, the Dictator was undoubtedly becoming a more important manthan ever with the London public. The fact that he was staying in Londongave the South American question something like a personal interest formost people. A foreign question which otherwise would seem vague, unmeaning, and unintelligible comes to be at least interesting andworthy of consideration, if not indeed of study, if you have under youreyes some living man who has been in any important way mixed up in it. The general sympathy of the public began to go with the young Republicof Gloria and against her bigger rival. A Republic for which anEnglishman had thought of risking his life--which he had actually ruledover--he being still visible and so the front just now in London, mustsurely be better worthy the sympathy of Englishmen than some great, big, bullying State, which, even when it had a highly respectable Emperor, had not the good sense to hold possession of him. 

So the Dictator found himself coming in for a new season of popularity. One evening he accompanied the Langleys to a theatre where some new andsuccessful piece was in its early run, and when he was seen in the boxand recognised, there was an outbreak of cheers from the galleries andin somewhat slow sequence from the pit. The Dictator shrank back intothe box; Helena's eyes flashed up to the galleries and down to the pitin delight and pride. She would have liked the orchestra to strike upthe National Anthem of Gloria, and would have thought such a performanceonly a natural and reasonable demonstration in favour of her friend andhero. She leaned back to him and said:

'You see they appreciate you here. '

'They don't understand a bit about our Gloria troubles, ' he said. 'Whyshould they? What is it to them?'

'How ungracious!' Helena exclaimed. 'They admire you, and that is theway in which you repay them. '

'I know how little it all means, ' Ericson murmured, 'and I don't knowthat I represent just now the cause of Gloria in her quarrel. I want tosee into it a little deeper. '

'But it is generous of these people here. They think that Gloria isgoing to be annexed--and they know that you have been Gloria's patriotand Dictator, and therefore they applaud you. Oh, come now, you must begrateful--? you really must--and you must own that our English peoplecan be sympathetic. '

'I will admit all you wish, ' he said. 

Helena drew back in the box, and instinctively leaned towards herfather, who was standing behind, and who seldom remained long in a boxat a theatre, because he generally had so many people to see in otherboxes between the acts. She was vexed because Ericson would persist intreating her as a child. She did not want him to admit anything merelybecause she wished him to admit it. She wanted to be argued with, like arational human being--like a man. 

'What a handsome dark woman that is in the box just opposite to us, ' shesaid, addressing her words rather to Sir Rupert than to the Dictator. 'She _is_ very handsome. I don't know her--I wonder who she is?'

'I seem to know her face, ' Sir Rupert said, 'but I can't just at themoment put a name to it. '

'I know her face well and I _can_ put a name to it, ' the Dictator said. 'It is Miss Paulo--Dolores Paulo--daughter of the owner of Paulo'sHotel, where I am staying. '

'Oh, yes, of course, ' Sir Rupert struck in; 'I have seen her and spokenwith her. She is quite lady-like, and I am told well educated and clevertoo. '

'She is very well educated and very clever, ' Ericson said 'and aswell-bred a woman as you could find anywhere. '

'Does she go into society at all? I suppose not, ' Helena said coldly. She felt a little spiteful--not against Dolores; at least, not againstDolores on Dolores' own account--but against her as having been praisedby Ericson. She thought it hard that Ericson should first have treatedher, Helena, as a child with whom one would agree, no matter what shesaid, and immediately after launch out into praise of the culture andcleverness of Miss Paulo. 

'I don't fancy she cares much about getting into society, ' Ericsonreplied. 'One of the things I admire most about Paulo and his daughteris that they seem to make their own life and their own work enough forthem, and don't appear to care to get to be anything they are not. '

'Is that her father with her?' Sir Rupert asked. 

'Yes, that is her father, ' Ericson answered. 'I must go round and paythem a visit when this act is over. '

'I'll go, too, ' Sir Rupert said. 

'Oh, and may not I go?' Helena eagerly asked. She had in a moment gotover her little spleen, and felt in her generous, impulsive way that sheowed instant reparation to Miss Paulo. 

'No, I think you had better not go rushing round the theatre, ' SirRupert said. 'Mr. Ericson will go first, and when he comes back to takecharge of you, I will pay my visit. '

'Well, ' Helena said composedly, and settling herself down in her chair, 'I'll go and call on her to-morrow. '

'Certainly, by all means, ' her father said. 

Ericson gave Helena a pleased and grateful look. Her eyes drooped underit--she hardly knew why. She had a penitent feeling somehow. Then thecurtain fell, and Ericson went round to visit Miss Paulo. 

'Who has just come into the back of that girl's box?' Sir Rupertasked--who was rather short-sighted and hated the trouble of anopera-glass. 

'Oh, it's Mr. Hamilton, ' his daughter, who had the eyes of an eagle, wasable to tell him. 

'Hamilton? Oh, yes, to be sure; I've seen him talking to her. '

'He seems to be talking to her now pretty much, ' said Helena. 

'Oh, the curtain is going up, ' Sir Rupert said, 'and Ericson is rushingaway. Hamilton stays, I see. I'll go and see her after this act. '

'And I'll go and see her to-morrow, ' were the words of his daughter. 

In a moment Ericson came in. The piece was in movement again. Helenakept her eyes fixed on Miss Paulo's box. She was puzzled about Hamilton. She had very little prejudice of caste or class, and yet she could notreadily admit into her mind the possibility of a man of her own socialrank who had actually wanted to marry _her_, making love soon after tothe daughter of an hotel-keeper. But why should she fancy that Hamiltonwas making love to Miss Paulo? He was very attentive to her, certainly, and did not seem willing to leave her box; but was not that probablypart of the chivalry of his nature--and the chivalry of his trainingunder the Dictator--to pay especial attention to a girl of low degree?The Dictator, she thought to herself with a certain pride in him and forhim, had not left his box to go to see anyone but Miss Paulo. 

When the curtain fell for the next time, Sir Rupert went round in hisstately way to the box where Dolores and her father and Hamilton weresitting. Then Helena seized her opportunity, and suddenly said toEricson:

'I want you to tell me all about Miss Paulo. Dolores--what a prettyname!'

'She is a very clever girl, ' he began. 

'But not, I hope, a superior person? Not a woman to be afraid of?'

'No, no; not in the least. '

'Does Mr. Hamilton see much of her?' Helena had now grown saucy again, and looked the Dictator full in the face, with the look of one who meansto say: 'You and I know something of what happened before _that_. '

Ericson smiled, a grave smile. 

'He has to see her now and again, ' he said. 

'Has to see her? Perhaps he likes to see her. '

'I am sure I hope he does. He must be rather lonely. '

'Are men ever lonely?'

'Very lonely sometimes. '

'But not as women are lonely. Men can always find companionship. Do lookat Mr. Hamilton--how happy _he_ seems!'

'Hamilton's love for _you_ was deep and sincere, ' the Dictator said, with an almost frowning earnestness. 

'And now behold, ' she replied, with sparkling and defiant eyes. 'See!Look there!'

Then Sir Rupert came back to the box and the discussion was brought toan end. 

Hamilton came into the box and paid a formal visit, and said a fewformal words. The curtain fell upon the last act, and Sir Rupert'scarriage whirled his daughter away. Helena sat up late in her bedroomthat night. She was finding out more and more with every day, everyincident, that the conditions of life were becoming revolutionised forher. She was no longer like the girl she always had been before. Shefelt herself growing profoundly self-conscious, self-inquiring. She whohad hitherto been the merest creature of impulse--generous impulse, surely, almost always--now found herself studying beforehand every wordshe ought to speak and every act she ought to do. She lay awake ofnights cross-examining herself as to what precise words she had spokenthat day, as to what things she had done, what gestures even she hadmade, in the vain and torturing effort to find out whether she had doneanything which might betray her secret. It seemed to her, with thetouching, delightful, pitiful egotism of which the love of the purestheart is capable, that there was not a breathing of the common wind thatmight not betray to the world the secret of her love. She had in formerdays carried her disregard for the conventional so far that maligncritics, judging purely by the narrowest laws, had described her asunwomanly. Nor were all these harsh and ill-judging critics women--whichwould have been an intelligible thing enough. It is gratifying todiscourage vanity in woman, to set down as unwomanly the girl who hasgathered all the men around her. It is soothing to mortified feeling tosay that the successful girl simply 'went for' the men, and compelledthem to pay attention to her. But there were men not unfriendly to heror to Sir Rupert who shook their heads and said that Helena Langley wasrather unwomanly. If they could have seen into her heart now, they wouldhave known that she was womanly enough in all conscience. She succumbedin a moment to all the tenderest weaknesses and timidities of woman. Never before had she cared one straw whether people said she wasflirting with this, that, or the other man--and the curious thing isthat, while she was thus utterly careless, people never did accuse herof flirting. But now she felt in her own heart that she was conscious ofsome emotion far more deep and serious than a wish for a flirtation; shefound that she was in love--in love--in love, and with a man who did notseem to have the faintest thought of being in love with her. She felt, therefore, as if she had to go through this part of her life masked, andalso armoured. Every eye that turned on her she regarded as a suspiciouseye. Every chance question addressed suddenly to her seemed like aquestion driven at her, to get at the heart of her mystery. A man slowlyrecovering from some wound or other injury which has shattered for thetime his nervous power, will, when he begins to walk slowly about thestreets, start and shudder if he sees someone moving rapidly in hisdirection, because he is seized with an instinctive and horrible dreadthat the rapid walker is sure to come into collision with him. HelenaLangley felt somewhat like that. Her nerves were shaken; her frameworkof joyous self-forgetfulness was wholly shattered; she was conscious andnervous all over--in every sudden word or movement she feared an attackupon her nerves. What would it matter to the world--the world ofLondon--even if the world had known all? Two ladies would meet and say, 'Oh, my dear, do you know, that pretty and odd girl Helena Langley--SirRupert's daughter--has fallen over head and ears in love with theDictator, as they call him--that man who has come back from some SouthAmerican place! Isn't it ridiculous?--and they say he doesn't care onelittle bit about her. ' 'Well, I don't know--he might do a great dealworse--she's a very clever girl, _I_ think, and she will have lots ofmoney. ' 'Yes, if her father chooses to give it to her; but I'm told shehasn't a single sixpence of her own, and Sir Rupert mightn't quite likethe idea of her taking up with a beggarly foreign exile from SouthAmerica, or South Africa, or wherever it is. ' 'But, my dear, the manisn't a foreigner--he is an Englishman, and a very attractive man too. Ithink _I_ should be very much taken by him if I were a girl. ' 'Well, yousurprise me. I am told he is old enough to be her father. ' 'Oh, goodgracious, no; a man of about forty, I should think; just the right ageof man for a girl to marry; and really there are so _few_ marrying menin these days that even girls with rich fathers can't always bechoosers, don't you know?'

Now, the way in which these two ladies might have talked about Helena'ssecret, if they could have discovered it, is a fair illustration of thevapid kind of interest which society in general would have taken in thewhole story. But it did not seem thus to Helena. To her it appeared asif the whole world would have cried scorn upon her if it had found outthat she fell in love with a man who had given her no reason to believethat he had fallen in love with her. Outside her own closest friends, society would not have cared twopence either way. Society is interestedin the marriages of girls who belong to its set--or in their subsequentdivorces, if such events should come about. But society cares nothingwhatever about maiden heart-throbbings. It is vaguely and generallyassumed that all girls begin by falling in love with the wrong person, and then soberise down for matrimony and by matrimony, and that it doesnot matter in the least what their silly first fancies were. Even thefather and mother of some particular girl will not take her earlylove-fancies very seriously. She will get over it, they saycontentedly--perhaps with self-cherished, half-suppressed recollectionof the fact that he and she have themselves got over such a feeling andbeen very happy, or at least fairly happy, after, in their marriedlives. 

But to Helena Langley things looked differently. She was filled with theconviction that it would be a shame to her if the world--her world--wereto discover that she had fallen in love with a man who had not fallen inlove with her. The world would have taken the news with exactly the sameamount of interest, alarm, horror, that it would have felt ifauthoritatively informed that Helena Langley had had the toothache. Inthe illustration just given of a morbid, nervous condition, the suffererdreads that anyone moving rapidly in his direction is going to rush inupon him and collide with him. But the rapid mover is thinking not atall of the nervous sufferer, and would be only languidly interested ifhe were told of the suffering, and would think it an ordinary andcommonplace sort of suffering after all--just what everybody has at onetime or another, don't you know?

Was Helena unhappy? On the whole, no--decidedly not. She had found herhero. She had found out her passion. A new inspiration was breathed intoher life. This Undine of the West End, of the later end of the outworncentury had discovered the soul that was in her formerly undevelopedsystem. She had come in for a possession like the possession of athrone, which brings heavy responsibility and much peril and pain withit, but yet which those who have once possessed it will not endure to beparted from. She could follow _his_ fortunes--she could openly be hisfriend--she felt a kind of claim on him and proprietorial right overhim. She had never felt any particular use in her existence before, except, indeed, in amusing herself, and, let it be added in fairness tothe child, in giving pleasure to others, and trying to do good forothers. 

But now she had found a new existence. She had come in for herinheritance--for her kingdom--the kingdom of human love which is theinheritance of all of us, and which, when we come in for it, we wouldnever willingly renounce, no matter what tears it brings with it. HelenaLangley had found that she was no longer a thoughtless, impulsive girl, but a real woman, with a heart and a hero and a love secret. She feltproud of her discovery. Columbus found out that he had a heart before hefound out a new world; one wonders which discovery was the sweeter atthe time. 

CHAPTER XIX

TYPICAL AMERICANS--NO DOUBT

Up in Hampstead the world seemed to wheel in its orbit more tranquillythan in the feverish city which lay at the foot of its slopes. There wassomething in its clear, its balsamic air, so cleanly free from theeternal smoke-clouds of London, that seemed to invite to a repose, to aleisurely movement in the procession of life. Captain Sarrasin once saidthat it reminded him of the pure air of the prairie, almost of the keenair of the cañons. Captain Sarrasin always professed that he found theillimitable spaces of the West too tranquillising for him. The sight ofthose great, endless fields, the isolation of those majestic mountains, suggested to him a recluse-like calm which never suited his quick-movingtemper. So he did not very often visit his brother in Hampstead, and thebrother in Hampstead, deeply engrossed in the grave cares of comparativefolk-lore, seldom dropped from his Hampstead eyrie into the troubledcity to seek out his restless brother. Hampstead was just the place forthe folk-lore-loving Sarrasin. No doubt that, actually, human life isjust the same in Hampstead as anywhere else, from Pekin to Peru, tossedby the same passions, driven onward by the same racking winds of desire, ambition, and despair. People love and hate and envy, feel mean ormurderous, according to their temper, as much on the slopes of Hampsteadas in the streets of London that lie at its foot. But such is not thesuggestion of Hampstead itself upon a tranquil summer day to the pensiveobserver. It seems a peaceful, a sleepy hollow, an amiable elevatedlubber-land, affording to London the example of a kind of suburbanNirvana. 

So while London was fretting in all its eddies, and frettingparticularly for us in the eddy that swirled and circled around thefortunes of the Dictator, up in Hampstead, at Blarulf's Garth, and inthe adjacent cottage which Mr. Sarrasin had named Camelot, life flowedon in a tranquil current. The Dictator often came up; whatever theclaims, the demands upon him, he managed to dine one day in every weekwith Miss Ericson. Not the same day in every week indeed; the Dictator'slife was inevitably too irregular for that; but always one day, whichever day he could snatch from the imperious pressure of the growingplans for his restoration, from the society which still regarded him asthe most royal of royal lions, and, above all, from the society of theLangleys. However, it did not matter. One day was so like another up inHampstead, that it really made no difference whether any particularevent took place upon a Monday, a Tuesday, or a Wednesday; and MissEricson was so happy in seeing so much of her nephew after so long andblank an absence, that it would never have occurred to her to complain, if indeed complaining ever found much of a place in her gentle nature. 

Whenever the Dictator came now, Mr. Sarrasin was always on hand, andalways eager to converse with the wonderful nephew who had come back toLondon like an exiled king. To Mr. Sarrasin the event had a threefoldinterest. In the first place, the Dictator was the nephew of MissEricson. Had he been the most commonplace fellow that had ever set onefoot before the other, there would have been something attractive abouthim to Sarrasin because of his kinship with his gentle neighbour. In thesecond place, he knew now that his brother, the brother whom he adored, had declared himself on the Dictator's side, and had joined theDictator's party. In the third place, if no associations of friendshipor kinship had linked him in any way with the fortunes of the Dictator, the mere fact of his eventful rule, of his stormy fortunes, of the riseand fall of such a stranger in such a strange land, would have fired allthat was romantic, all that was adventurous, in the nature of the quiet, stay-at-home gentleman, and made him as eager a follower of theDictator's career as if Ericson had been Jack with the Eleven Brothers, or the Boy who Could not Shiver. So Mr. Sarrasin spent the better partof six days in the week conversing with Miss Ericson about the Dictator;and on the day when Ericson came to Hampstead, Sarrasin was sure, sooneror later, to put in an appearance at Blarulf's Garth, and to beam indelighted approbation upon the exile of Gloria. 

One day Mr. Sarrasin came into Miss Ericson's garden with a countenancethat beamed with more than usual benignity. But the benignity was, as itwere, blended with an air of unwonted wonder and exhilaration whichconsorted somewhat strangely with the wonted calm of the excellentgentleman's demeanour. He had a large letter in his hand, which he keptflourishing almost as wildly as if he were an enthusiastic spectator ata racecourse, or a passenger outward bound waving a last good-night tohis native land. 

It happened to be one of the days when the Dictator had come up from thestrenuous London, and from playing his own strenuous part therein. Hewas sitting with Miss Ericson in the garden, as he had sat there on thefirst day of his return--that day which now seemed so long ago and sofar away--almost as long ago and as far away as the old days in Gloriathemselves. He was telling her all that had happened during the daysthat had elapsed since their last meeting. He spoke, as he always didnow, much of the Langleys, and as he spoke of them Miss Ericson's grave, kind eyes watched his face closely, but seemed to read nothing in itsunchanged composure. As they were in the middle of their confidentialtalk, the French windows of the little drawing-room opened, and Mr. Sarrasin made his appearance--a light-garmented vision of pleasurablyexcited good-humour. 

'What _has_ happened to our dear old friend?' Ericson asked the old ladyas Sarrasin came beaming across the grass towards them, fluttering hisletter. 'He seems to be quite excited. '

Miss Ericson laughed as she rose to greet her friend. 'You may be surewe shall not long be left in doubt, ' she said, as she advanced withhands extended. 

Mr. Sarrasin caught both her hands and pressed them warmly. 'I have suchnews, ' he murmured, 'such wonderful news!' Then he turned his smilingface in the direction of the Dictator. 'Good-day, Mr. Ericson; wonderfulnews! And it concerns _you_ too, in a measure; only in a measure, indeed, but still in a measure. '

The Dictator's face expressed a smiling interest. He had really grownquite fond of this sweet-tempered, cheery, childlike old gentleman. MissEricson drew Sarrasin to a seat opposite to her own, and sat down againwith an air of curiosity which suggested that she and her nephew werewaiting for the wonderful news. As she had predicted, they had not longto wait. Mr. Sarrasin having plunged into the subject on the moment ofhis arrival, could think of nothing else. 

'I have a letter here, ' he said; '_such_ a letter! Whom do you think itis from? Why, from no less a person than Professor Flick, who is, as ofcourse _you_ know, the most famous authority on folk-lore in the wholeof the West of America. '

Sarrasin paused and looked at them with an air of triumph. He evidentlyexpected them to say something. So Ericson spoke. 

'I am ashamed to say, ' he confessed, 'that I have never heard thehonoured name of Professor Flick before. '

Mr. Sarrasin looked a trifle dashed. 'I was in hopes you might haveknown, ' he said, 'for his name and his books are of course well known tome. But no doubt you have had little time for such study. Anyhow, weshall soon know him personally, both you and I; you probably even soonerthan I. '

'Indeed!' said Ericson. 'How am I to come to know him? I am not verystrong on folk-lore. '

'Why?' answered Mr. Sarrasin. 'Because he is stopping in your hotel. This letter which I have received from him this morning is dated fromPaulo's Hotel, the chosen home apparently of all illustrious persons. '

The Dictator smiled. 'I dare not claim equality with Professor Flick, and I fear I might not recognise him if I met him in the corridors, oron the stairs. I must inquire about him from Miss Paulo. '

'Do, do, ' said Mr. Sarrasin. 'But he will come here. Of course he willcome here. He writes to me a most flattering letter, in which he does methe honour to say that he has read with pleasure my poor tractates on"The Survival of Solar Myths in Kitchen Customs, " and on "The ProbablePatagonian Origin of 'A Frog he would a-wooing go. '" He is pleased toexpress a great desire to make my acquaintance. I wonder if he has heardof my brother? Oisin must have been in Sacramento and Omaha and all theother places. '

'I should think he was sure to have met your brother, ' said theDictator, feeling he was expected to say something. 

'If not, I must introduce my brother, ' Mr. Sarrasin said joyously. 'Fancy anyone being introduced to anybody through me!'

Miss Ericson had listened quietly, with an air of smiling interest, while Mr. Sarrasin was giving forth his joyful news. Now she leanedforward and spoke. 

'What do you propose to do in honour of this international episode?'she asked. There was a slender vein of humour in Miss Ericson'scharacter, and she occasionally exercised it gently at the expense ofher friend's hobby. Mr. Sarrasin always enjoyed her mild banter hugely. Now, as ever, he paid it the tribute of the cheeriest laughter. 

'That is excellent, ' he said; 'International Episode is excellent. But, you see, ' he went on, growing suddenly grave, 'it really _is_ somethingof an international affair after all. Here we have an eminent Americanscholar----'

'Who is naturally anxious to make the acquaintance of an eminent Englishscholar, ' the Dictator suggested. 

Mr. Sarrasin's large fair face flushed pink with pleasure. 

'You are too good, Mr. Ericson, too good. But I feel that I must dosomething for our distinguished friend, especially as he has done me thehonour to single me out for so gratifying a mark of his approval. Ithink that I shall ask him to dinner. ' And Mr. Sarrasin lookedthoughtfully at his audience to solicit their opinion. 

'A very good idea, ' said the Dictator. 'Nothing cements literary orpolitical friendship like judicious dining. Dining has a folk-lore ofits own. '

'But don't you think, ' suggested Miss Ericson, 'that as this gentleman, Professor----'

'Flick, ' prompted Mr. Sarrasin. 

'Thank you; Professor Flick. That, as Professor Flick is a stranger, anda distinguished stranger, it is your duty, my dear Mr. Sarrasin, to callupon him at his hotel?'

Mr. Sarrasin bowed again. 'Thank you, Miss Ericson, _thank_ you. Youalways think of the right thing. Of course it is obviously my duty topay my respects to Professor Flick at his hotel, which happens also tobe our dear friend's hotel. And the sooner the better, I suppose. '

'The sooner the visit the stronger the compliment, of course, ' said MissEricson. 

'That decides me, ' said Mr. Sarrasin. 'I will go this very day. '

'Then let us go into town together, ' the Dictator suggested. 'I must begetting back again. ' For this was one of those days on which Ericsoncame out early to Blarulf's Garth and left after luncheon. Thesuggestion made Mr. Sarrasin beam more than ever. 

'That will be delightful, ' he said, with all the conviction of aschoolboy to whom an unexpected holiday has been promised. 

'I have my cab outside, ' the Dictator said. Ericson liked tearing roundin hansom cabs, and could hardly ever be induced to make use of one ofthe hotel broughams. 

So the two men took affectionate leave of Miss Ericson and passedtogether out of the gate. There were two cabs in sight--one waiting forEricson, the other in front of Sarrasin's Camelot Cottage. Two men hadgot out of the cab, and were asking some questions of the servant at thedoor. 

'These must be your friends of the Folk-Lore, ' Ericson said. 

'Why--God bless me--I suppose so! Never heard of such promptness. Willyou excuse me a moment? Can you wait? Are you pressed for time? It maynot be they, you know, after all. '

'Oh, yes, I'll wait; I am in no breathless hurry. '

Then Sarrasin went over and accosted the two men. Evidently they werethe men he had guessed them to be, for there was much bowing and shakingof hands and apparently cordial and effusive talk. Then the whole trioadvanced towards Ericson. He saw that one of the men was big, fair-haired, and large-bearded, and that he wore moony spectacles, whichgave him something of the look of Mr. Pickwick grown tall. The other manwas slim and closely shaven, except for a yellowish moustache. There wasnothing very striking about either of them. 

'Excellency, ' the good Sarrasin said, in his courtliest and yet simplesttones, 'I ask permission to present to you two distinguished Americanscholars--Professor Flick of Denver and Sacramento, and Mr. Andrew J. Copping of Omaha. These gentlemen will be proud to have the honour ofmeeting the patriot Dictator of Gloria, whose fame is world-renowned. '

'Excellency, ' said Professor Flick, 'I am proud to meet you. '

'Excellency, ' said Mr. Andrew J. Copping, 'I am proud to meet you. '

'Gentlemen, ' Ericson said, 'I am very glad to meet you both. I have beenin your country--indeed, I have been all over it. '

'And yet it is a pretty big country, sir, ' the Professor observed, witha good-natured smile, as that of a man who kindly calls attention to thefact that one has made himself responsible for rather a large order. 

'It is, indeed, ' Ericson assented, without thought of disputation; 'butI have been in most of its regions. My own interests, of course, are inSouth America, as you would know. '

'As we know now, sir, ' the Professor replied, 'as we know now, Excellency. I am ashamed to say that we specialists have a way ofgetting absorbed right up in our own topics, and my friend and I knowhardly anything of politics or foreign affairs. Why, Mr. Sarrasin, ' andhere the Professor suddenly turned to Sarrasin, as if he had somethingto say that would specially interest him above all other men, 'do youknow, sir, that I sometimes fail to remember who is the existingPresident of the United States?'

'Well, I am sure, ' said Sarrasin, 'I don't know at this moment the nameof the present Lord Mayor of London. '

'And that is how I had known nothing about the career of your Excellencyuntil quite lately, ' the Professor blandly explained. 'I think it wrong, sir--a breach of truth, sir--that a man should pretend to any knowledgeon any subject which he has not got. Of course, since I have been inPaulo's Hotel I have heard all about your record, and it is a pride anda privilege to me to make your acquaintance. And we need hardly say, sir, my friend and I, what a surprise it is to have the honour of makingyour acquaintanceship on the occasion of the first visit we haveventured to pay to the house of our distinguished friend ProfessorSarrasin. '

'Not a professor, ' said Sarrasin, with a mild disclaiming smile. 'I haveno claim to any title of any kind. '

'Fame like yours, sir, ' the Professor gravely said, 'requires no title. In our far-off West, among all true votaries of folk-lore, the name ofSarrasin is, sir--well, is a household word. '

'I am pleased to hear you say so, ' the blushing Sarrasin murmured; 'Iwill frankly confess that I am delighted. But I own that I am greatlysurprised. '

'Our folks when they take up a subject study it right through, ' theProfessor affirmed. 'Sir, we should not have sought you if we had notknown of you. We knew of you, and we have sought you. '

There was no gainsaying this. Sarrasin could not ignore his fame. 

'But you were going to the City, sir, with your illustrious friend. ' AnAmerican hardly ever understands the Londoner's localisation of 'theCity, ' and when he speaks of a visit to Berkeley Square would call itgoing to the City. 'Please do not let us interrupt your doubtless highlyimportant mission. '

'It was only a mission to call on you at Paulo's Hotel, ' Sarrasin said;'and his Excellency was kind enough to offer to drive me there. Now thatyou are here you have completed my mission for the moment. Shall we notgo in?'

'I am afraid I must get back to town, ' Ericson said. 

'Surely--surely--our friends will quite understand how much your timeis taken up. '

'Much of it taken up to very little profit of any kind, ' Ericson saidwith a smile. 'But to-day I have some rather important things to lookafter. I am glad, however, that I did not set about looking after themtoo soon to see your American visitors, Mr. Sarrasin. '

'Just a moment, ' Sarrasin eagerly said, stammering in the audacity ofhis venture. 'One part of my purpose in seeking out Professor Flick, and--Mr. --Mr. Andrew J. Copping--of Omaha--yes--I think I am right--ofOmaha--was to ask these gentlemen if they would do me the favour ofdining with me on the earliest day we can fix--not here, of course--oh, no--I could not think of bringing them out here again; but at theFolk-Lore Club, the only club, gentlemen, with which I have the honourto be connected----'

'Sir, you do us too much honour, ' the Professor gravely said, 'and anyday that suits you shall be made suitable to us. '

'Suitable to us, ' Mr. Copping solemnly chimed in. 

'And I was thinking, ' Sarrasin said, turning to Ericson, who was nowbecoming rather eager to get away, 'that if we could prevail upon hisExcellency to join us he might be interested in our quaint little club, to say nothing of an evening with two such distinguished Americanscholars, who, I am sure----'

'I shall be positively delighted, ' Ericson said, 'if you can onlypersuade Hamilton to agree to the night and to let me off. Hamilton ismy friend who acts as private secretary to me, Professor Flick; and, asI am informed you sometimes say in America, he bosses the show. '

'I believe, sir, that is a phrase common among the less educated of ourgreat population, ' Professor Flick conceded. 

'Quite so, ' said Ericson, beginning to think the Professor of Folk-Lorerather a prig. 

'Then that is all but arranged, ' Sarrasin said, flushing with joy andonly at the moment having one regret--that the Folk-Lore Club did nottake in ladies as guests, and that, therefore, there was no use in histhinking of asking Miss Ericson to join the company at his dinner party. 

'Well, the basis of negotiation seems to have been very readily acceptedon both sides, ' Ericson said, with a feeling of genuine pleasure in hisheart that he was in a position to do anything that could give Sarrasina pleasure, and resolving within himself that on that point at least hewould stand no nonsense from Hamilton. 

So they all parted very good friends. Sarrasin and the two Americansdisappeared into Camelot, and Ericson drove home alone. As he drove hewas thinking over the Americans. What a perfect type they both were ofthe regulation American of English fiction and the English stage! Ifthey could only go on to the London stage and speak exactly as theyspoke in ordinary life they must make a splendid success as Americancomic actors. But, no doubt, as soon as either began to act, thenaturalness of the accent and the manner and the mode of speech wouldall vanish and something purely artificial would come up instead. Still, he wondered how it came about that distinguished scholars, learned aboveall things in folk-lore--a knowledge that surely ought to bringsomething cosmopolitan with it--should be thus absolutely local, formal, and typical of the least interesting and least appreciative form ofprovincial character in America. 'It is really very curious, ' he said tohimself. 'They seem to me more like men acting a stiff and conventionalAmerican part than like real Americans. But, of course, I have never metmuch of that type of American. ' He soon put the question away, andthought of other people than Professor Flick and Mr. Andrew J. Copping. He was interested in them, however--he could not tell why--and he wasglad to have the chance of meeting them at dinner with dear old Sarrasinat the Folk-Lore Club; and he was wondering whether they would relax atall under the genial influence, and become a little less like typeAmericans cut out of wood and moved by clockwork, and speaking bymechanical contrivance. Ericson had a good deal of boyish interest inlife, and even in small things, left in him, for all his Dictatorshipand his projects, and his Gloria, and the growing sentiment thatsometimes made him feel with a start and a pang that it was beginning torival Gloria itself in its power of absorption. 

CHAPTER XX

THE DEAREST GIRL IN THE WORLD

Sir Rupert Langley and his daughter had a small party staying with themat their seaside place on the South-Western coast. Seagate Hall theplace was called. It was not much of a hall, in the grandiose sense ofthe word. It had come to Sir Rupert through his mother, and was not abig property in any sense--a little park and a fine old mansion, halfconvent, half castle, made up the whole of it. But Helena was very fondof it, and, indeed, much preferred it to the more vast and statelyinland country place. To please her, Sir Rupert consented to spend someparts of every year there. It was a retreat to go to when the summerheats or the autumnal heats of London were unendurable--at least to theordinary Briton, who is under the fond impression that London is reallyhot sometimes, and who claps a puggaree on his chimney-pot hat themoment there comes in late May a faint glimpse of sunshine. The Dictatorwas one of the party. So was Hamilton. So was Soame Rivers. So was MissPaulo, on whose coming Helena had insisted with friendly pressure. Lateron were to come Professor Flick, and his friend Mr. Andrew J. Copping ofOmaha, in whom Helena, at Ericson's suggestion, had been pleased to takesome interest. So were Captain Sarrasin and his wife. Mr. Sarrasin, ofHampstead, had been cordially invited, but he found himself unable toventure on so much of a journey. He loved to travel far and wide whileseated at his chimney corner or on a garden seat in the lawn in front ofMiss Ericson's cottage, or of Camelot, his own. 

The mind of the Dictator was disturbed--distressed--even distracted. Hewas expecting every day, almost every hour, some decisive news withregard to the state of Gloria. His feelings were kept on tenter-hooksabout it. He had made every preparation for a speedy descent on theshores of his Republic. But he did not feel that the time was yet quiteripe. The crisis between Gloria and Orizaba seemed for the moment to behanging fire, and he did not believe that any event in life could arousethe patriotic spirit of Gloria so thrillingly as the aggression of thegreater Republic. But the controversy dragged on, a mere diplomaticcorrespondence as yet, and Ericson could not make out how much of it wassham and how much real. He knew, and Hamilton knew, that his great partmust be a _coup de théâtre_, and although he despised political _coupsde théâtre_ in themselves, he knew as a practical man that by means ofsuch a process he could best get at the hearts of the population ofGloria. The moment he could see clearly that something serious wasimpending, that moment he and his companions would up steam and make forthe shores of Gloria. But just now the dispute seemed somehow to beflickering out, and becoming a mere matter of formally interchangeddespatches. Was that itself a stratagem, he thought--were the presentrulers of Gloria waiting for a chance of quietly selling their Republic?Or had they found that such a base transaction was hopeless? and werethey from whatever reason--even for their own personal safety--trying toget out of the dispute in some honourable way, and to maintain forwhatever motive the political integrity and independence of Gloria? Ifsuch were the case, Ericson felt that he must give them their chance. Whatever might be his private and personal doubts and fears, he must notincrease the complications and difficulties by actively intervening inthe work. Therefore his mind was disturbed and distressed; and hewatched with a sometimes sickening eagerness for every new edition ofthe papers, and was always on the look-out for telegrams eitheraddressed to himself personally or fired at Sir Rupert in the ForeignOffice. 

He had other troubles too. He was beginning to be seriously alarmedabout his own feelings to Helena Langley. He was beginning to feel, whenever he was away from her, that 'inseparable sigh for her, ' whichByron in one of the most human of all his very human moods, has sotouchingly described. He felt that she was far too young for him, andthat the boat of his shaky fortunes was not meant to carry a bright andbeautiful young woman in it--a boat that might go to pieces on a rock atany moment after it had tried to put to sea; and which must, nevertheless, try to put to sea. Then again he had been irritated byparagraphs in the society papers coupling his name more or lessconjecturally with that of Helena Langley. 'All this must come to anend, ' he thought. 'I have got my work to do, and I must go and do it. '

One evening Ericson wandered along outside the gates of the Park, andalong the chalky roads that led by the sea-wall towards the little town. The place was lonely even at that season. The rush of Londoners had notyet found a way there. To 'Arry and 'Arriet it offered no manner ofattraction. The sunset was already over, but there was still a light andglow in the sky. The Dictator looked at his watch. It wanted a quarterto seven--there was yet time enough, before returning to dress for theeight o'clock dinner. 'I must make up my mind, ' he said to himself; 'Imust go. '

He heard the rattle of wheels, and towards him came a light ponycarriage with two horses, a footman sitting behind, and a young womandriving. It was Helena. She pulled up the moment she saw him. 

'I have been down into the town, ' she said. 

'Seeing after your poor?'

'Oh--well--yes--I like seeing after them. It's no sacrifice on mypart--I dare say I shouldn't do it if I didn't like it. Shall I driveyou home?'

'It is early, ' he said, hesitatingly; 'I thought of enjoying the eveninga little yet. '

This was not well said, but Helena thought nothing of it. 

'May I walk with you?' she asked, 'and I'll send the carriage home. '

'I shall only be too happy to be with you, ' the Dictator said, and hefelt what he said. So the carriage was sent on, and Ericson and Helenawalked slowly, and for a while silently, on in the direction of thetown. 

'I have not been only seeing after my poor, ' she said, 'I have beendoing a little shopping. '

'Shopping here! What on earth can _you_ want to buy in this littleplace?'

'Well, I persuaded papa into occupying this house here every year, and Ivery soon found out that you get terribly unpopular if you don't buysomething in the town. So I buy all I can in the town. '

'But what do you buy?'

'Oh, well, wine, and tongues, and hams, and gloves. '

'But the wine?'

'I believe some of it is not so awfully bad. Anyhow, one need not drinkit. Only the trouble is that I was in the other day at the one only winemerchant's, and while I was ordering something I heard a lady ask fortwo bottles of some particular claret, and the proprietor called out:"Very sorry, madam, but Sir Rupert Langley carried away all I had leftof that very claret, didn't he, William?" And William responded stoutly, and I dare say quite truly, "Oh yes, madam; Sir Rupert, 'e 'as carriedall that off. " Now _I_ was Sir Rupert. '

'Yes, I dare say you were. He never knew?'

'Oh, no; my dodges to make him popular would not interest him one littlebit. He goes in for charity and all that, and doing real good todeserving poor; but he doesn't care a straw about popularity. Now _I_do. '

'I don't believe you do in the least, ' Ericson said, looking fixedly ather. Very handsome she showed, with the west wind blowing back her hair, and a certain gleam of excitement in her eyes, as if she were boldlytalking of something to drive away all thought or possibility of talkabout something else. 

'Oh, not about myself, of course! But I want papa to be popular here andeverywhere else. Do you know--it is very funny--the first day I camedown here--this time--I went into one of the shops to give some orders, and the man, when he had written them down--he hadn't asked my namebefore--he said, "You _are_ Sir Rupert Langley, ain't you, miss?" and Isaid, without ever thinking over the question, "Oh, yes, of course Iam. " It was all right. We each meant what we said, and we conveyed ourideas quite satisfactorily. He didn't fancy that "Miss" was passing offfor her father, and I didn't suppose that he thought anything of thekind. So it was all right, but it was very amusing, I thought. '

She was talking against time, it would seem. At least she was probablynot talking of what deeply interested her just then. In truth, she hadstopped her carriage on a sudden impulse when she saw Ericson, and nowshe was beginning to think that she had acted too impulsively. Untillately she had allowed her impulses to carry her unquestioned whitherthey were pleased to go. 

'I suppose we had better turn back, ' she said. 

'I suppose so, ' the Dictator answered. They stood still before turning, and looked along the way from home. 

The sky was all of a faint lemon-colour along the horizon, deepening insome places to the very tenderest tone of pink--a pink that suggested ina dim way that the soft lemon sky was about to see at once another dawn. Low down on the horizon one bright white spark struck itself out againstthe sky. 

'What is that little light--that spark?' she asked. 'Is it a star?'

'Oh, no, ' the Dictator said gravely, 'it is only an ordinarygas-lamp--nothing more. '

'A gas-lamp? Oh, come, that is quite impossible. I mean that star, therein the sky. '

'It is only a gas-lamp all the same, ' he said. 'You will see in amoment. It is on the brow of the road--probably the first gas-lamp onthe way into the town. Against that clear sky, with its tender tones, the light in the street-lamp shows not orange or red, but a sparklingwhite. '

'Come nearer and let us see, ' she said, impatiently. 'Come, by allmeans. '

So they went nearer, and the illusion was gone. It was, as he had said, a common street-lamp. 

'I am quite disappointed, ' Helena said, after a moment of silence. 

'But why?' he asked. 'Might not one extract a moral out of that?'

'Oh, I don't see how you could. '

'Well, let us try. The common street-lamp got its opportunity, and itshone like a star. Isn't there a good deal of human life very likethat?'

'But what is the good of showing for once like a star when it is not astar?'

'Ah, well, I am afraid a good deal of life's ambition would be baffledif everyone were to take that view of things. '

'But isn't it the right view?'

'To the higher sense, yes--but the ambition of most men is to be takenfor the star, at all events. '

'That is, mistaken for the star, ' she said. 

'Yes, if you will--mistaken for the star. '

'I am sure that is not your ambition, ' she said warmly. 'I am sure youwould rather be the star mistaken at a distance by some stupid creaturefor a gas-lamp, than the gas-lamp mistaken even by me'--she spoke thissmilingly--'for a star. '

'I should not like to be mistaken by you for anything, ' he said. 

'You know I could not mistake you. '

'I think you are mistaking me now--I am afraid so. 

'Oh, no; please do not think anything like that. I never could mistakeyou--I always understand you. Tell me what you mean. '

'Well; you think me a man of courage, I dare say. '

'Of course I do. Everyone does. '

'Yet I feel rather cowardly at this moment. '

'Cowardly! About what?'

'About you, ' he answered blankly. 

'About me? Am I in any danger?'

'No, not in that sense. ' He did not say in what sense. 

She promptly asked him: 'In what sense then?'

'Well, then, ' said the Dictator, 'there is something I ought to tellyou, something disagreeable--I am sure it will be disagreeable, and Idon't know how to tell it. I seem to want the courage. '

'Talk to me as if I were a man, ' she said hotly. 

'That would not mend matters, I am afraid. '

They were now walking back towards the Park. 

'Call me Dick Langley, ' she said, 'and talk to me as if I were a boy, and then perhaps you can tell me all you mean and all you want to do. Iam tired of this perpetual difficulty. '

'It wouldn't help in the least, ' the Dictator said, 'if I were to callyou Dick Langley. You would still be Helena Langley. '

The girl, usually so fearless and unconstrained--so unconventional, those said who liked her--so reckless, they said who did not likeher--this girl felt for the first time in her life the meaning of theconventional--the all-pervading meaning of the difference of sex. Forthe mere sound of her own name, 'Helena, ' pronounced by Ericson, sentsuch a thrill of delight through her that it made her cheek flush. Itdid a great deal more than that--it made her feel that she could notlong conceal her emotion towards the Dictator, could not long pretendthat it was nothing more than that which the most enthusiastic devoteefeels for a political leader. A shock of fear came over her, somethingcompounded of exquisite pleasure and bewildering pain. That one word'Helena, ' spoken perhaps carelessly by the man who walked beside her, broke in upon her soul and sense with the awakening touch of arevelation. She awoke, and she knew that she must soon betray herself. She knew that never again could she have the careless freedom of heartwhich she owned but yesterday. She was afraid. She felt tears cominginto her eyes. She stopped suddenly, and put her hand to her side andgasped as if for breath. 

'What is the matter?' Ericson asked. 'Are you unwell?'

'No, no!' she said hastily. 'I felt just a little faintish for amoment--but it's nothing. I am not a bit of a fainting girl, Mr. Ericson, I can assure you--never fainted in all my life. I have thenerves of a bull-dog and the digestion of an ostrich. '

'You don't quite look like that now, ' he said, in an almostcompassionate tone. He was puzzled. Something had undoubtedly happenedto make her start and pause like that. But he could only think ofsomething physical; it never occurred to him to suppose that anything hehad said could have caused it. 

'Shall we go back to what we were talking about?' he asked. 

'What we were talking about?' Already her new discovery had taken awaysome of her sincerity, and inspired her with the sense of a necessityfor self-defence. Already, and for the first time in her life, she washaving recourse to one of the commonest, and, surely, one of the leastculpable, of the crafts and tricks of womanhood, she was trying not tobetray her love to the man who, so far as she knew, had not thought oflove for her. 

'Well, you were accusing me of a want of frankness with you, and wereurging me to be more open?'

'Was I? Yes, of course I was; but I don't suppose I meant anything inparticular--and, then, I have no right. '

The Dictator grew more puzzled than ever. 

'No right?' he asked. 'Yes--but I gave you the right when I told you Iwas proud of your friendship, and I asked you to tell me of anything youwanted to know. But _I_ wanted to speak to _you_ very frankly too. '

She looked at him in surprise and a sort of alarm. 

'Yes, I did. I want to tell you why I can't treat you as if you wereDick Langley. I want to tell you why I can't forget that you are HelenaLangley. '

This time the sound of the name was absolutely sweet in her ears. Themere terror had gone already, and she would gladly have had him call her'Helena, ' 'Helena, ' ever so many times over without the intermission ofa moment. 'Only perhaps I should get used to it then, and I shouldn'tfeel it so much, ' she thought, with a sudden correcting influence on afirst passionate desire. She steadied her nerves and asked him:

'Why can you not speak to me as if I were Dick Langley, and why can younever forget that I am--Helena Langley?'

'Because you are Helena Langley for one thing, and not Dick, ' he saidwith a smile. 'Because you are not a young man, but a very charming andbeautiful young woman. '

'Oh!' she exclaimed, with an almost angry movement of her hand. 

'I am not paying compliments, ' he said gently. 'Between us let there betruth, as you said yourself in your quotation from Goethe the other day. I am setting out the facts before you. Even if I could forget that youare Helena Langley, there are others who could not forget it either foryou or for me. '

'I don't understand what you mean, ' she said wonderingly. 

'You would not understand, of course. I am afraid I must explain to you. You will forgive me?'

'I have not the least idea, ' she said impetuously, 'what I am tounderstand, or what I am to forgive. Mr. Ericson, do for pity's sake beplain with me. '

'I have resolved to be, ' he said gloomily. 

'What on earth has been happening? Why have you changed in this way tome?'

'I have not changed. '

'Well, tell me the whole story, ' she said impatiently, 'if there is astory. '

'There is a story, ' he said, with a melancholy smile, 'a very sillystory--but still a story. Look here, Miss Langley: even if you do notknow that you are beautiful and charming and noble-hearted and good--asI well know that you are all this and ever so much more--you must knowthat you are very rich. '

'Yes, I do know that, and I am glad of it sometimes, and I hate itsometimes. I don't know yet whether I am going to be glad of it or tohate it now. Go on, Mr. Ericson, please, and tell me what is to followthis prologue about my disputed charms and virtues--for I assure youthere are many people, some women among the rest, who think me neithergood-looking nor even good--and my undisputed riches. ' She was pluckingup a spirit now, and was much more like her usual self. She felt herselftied to the stake, and was determined to fight the course. 

'Do you know, ' he asked, 'that people say I am coming here after you?'

She blushed crimson, but quickly pulled herself together. She was equalto anything now. 

'Is that all?' she asked carelessly. 'I should have thought they said agreat deal more and a great deal worse than that. '

He looked at her in some surprise. 

'What else do you suppose they could have said?'

'I fancied, ' she answered with a laugh, 'that they were saying I wenteverywhere after you. '

'Come, come, ' he said, after a moment's pause, during which the Dictatorseemed almost as much bewildered as if she had thrown her fan in hisface. 'You mustn't talk nonsense. I am speaking quite seriously. '

'So am I, I can assure you. '

'Well, well, to come to the point of what I had to say. People aretalking, and they tell each other that I am coming after you, to marryyou, for the sake of your money. '

'Oh!' She recoiled under the pain of these words. 'Oh, for shame, ' sheexclaimed, 'they cannot say that--of you--of you?'

'Yes, they do. They say that I am a mere broken-down and pennilesspolitical adventurer--that I am trying to recover my lost position inGloria--which I am, and by God's good help I shall recover it too. '

'Yes, with God's good help you shall recover it, ' the girl exclaimedfervently, and she put out her hand in a sudden impulse for him to takeit in his. The Dictator smiled sadly and did not touch the profferedhand, and she let it fall, and felt chilled. 

'Well, they say that I propose to make use of your money to start me onmy political enterprise. They talked of this in private, the societypapers talk of it now. '

'Well?' she asked, with a curious contracting of the eyebrows. 

'Well, but that is painful--it is hurtful. '

'To you?'

'Oh, no, ' he replied almost angrily, 'not to me. How could it be painfuland hurtful to me? At least, what do you suppose I should care about it?What harm could it do me?'

'None whatever, ' she calmly replied. She was now entirely mistress ofherself and her feelings again. 'No one who knows you would believeanything of the kind--and for those who do not know you, you would say, "Let them believe what they will. "'

'Yes, they might believe anything they liked so far as I am concerned, 'he said scornfully. 'But then we must think of _you_. Good heaven!' hesuddenly broke off, 'how the journalism of England--at all events ofLondon--has changed since I used to be a Londoner! Fancy apparentlyrespectable journals, edited, I suppose, by men who call themselvesgentlemen--and who no doubt want to be received and regarded asgentlemen--publishing paragraphs to give to all the world conjecturesabout a young woman's fortune--a young woman whom they name, and aboutthe adventurers who are pursuing her in the hope of getting herfortune. '

'You have been a long time out of London, ' Helena said composedly. Shewas quite happy now. If this was all, she need not care. She was afraidat first that the Dictator meant to tell her that he was leaving Englandfor ever. Of course, if he were going to rescue and recover Gloria, shewould have felt proud and glad. At least she would certainly have feltproud, and she would have tried to make herself think that she feltglad, but it would have been a terrible shock to her to hear that he wasgoing away; and, this shock being averted, she seemed to think no othertrouble an affair of much account. Therefore, she was quite equal to anyembarrassment coming out of what the society papers, or any otherpapers, or any persons whatever, might say about her. If she could havespoken out the full truth she would have said: 'Mr. Ericson, so long asmy father and you are content with what I do, I don't care three rows ofpins what all the rest of the world is saying or thinking of me. ' Butshe could not quite venture to say this, and so she merely offered thequalifying remark about his having been a long time out of London. 

'Yes, I have, ' he said with some bitterness. 'I don't understand the newways. In my time--you know I once wrote for newspapers myself, and veryproud I was of it, too, and very proud I am of it--a man would have beenkicked who dragged the name of a young woman into a paper coupled withconjectures as to the scoundrels who were running after her for hermoney. '

'You take it too seriously, ' said Helena sweetly. She adored him for hisgenerous anger, but she only wanted to bring him back to calmness. 'InLondon we are used to all that. Why, Mr. Ericson, I have been married inthe newspapers over and over again--I mean I have been engaged to bemarried. I don't believe the wedding ceremonial has ever been described, but I have been engaged times out of mind. Why, I don't believe papa andI ever have gone abroad, since I came out, without some paragraphappearing in the society papers announcing my engagement to some foreignDuke or Count or Marquis. I have been engaged to men I never saw. '

'How does your father like that sort of thing?' the Dictator askedfiercely. 

'My father? Oh, well, of course he doesn't quite like it. '

'I should think not, ' Ericson growled--and he made a flourish of hiscane as if he meant to illustrate the sort of action he should like totake with the publishers of these paragraphs, if he only knew them andhad an opportunity of arguing out the case with them. 

'But, then, I think he has got used to it; and of course as a public manhe is helpless, and he can't resent it. ' She said this with obviousreference to the flourish of the Dictator's cane; and it must be ownedthat a very pretty flash of light came into her eyes which signifiedthat if she had quite her own way the offence might be resented afterall. 

'No, of course he can't resent it, ' the Dictator said, in a tone whichunmistakably conveyed the idea, 'and more's the pity. '

'Then what is the good of thinking about it?' Helena pleaded. 'Please, Mr. Ericson, don't trouble yourself in the least about it. These thingswill appear in those papers. If it were not you it would be somebodyelse. After all we must remember that there are two sides to thisquestion as well as to others. I do not owe my publicity in the societypapers to any merits or even to any demerits of my own. I am known to bethe heiress to a large fortune, and the daughter of a Secretary ofState. '

'That is no reason why you should be insulted. '

'No, certainly. But do you not think that in this over-worked andover-miserable England of ours there are thousands and thousands of poorgirls ever so much better than I, who would be only too delighted toexchange with me--to put up with the paragraphs in the society papersfor the sake of the riches and the father--and to abandon to me withouta sigh the thimble and the sewing machine, and the daily slavery in thefactory or behind the counter? Why, Mr. Ericson, only think of it. I cansit down whenever I like, and there are thousands and thousands of poorgirls in England who dare not sit down during all their working hours. '

She spoke with increasing animation. 

The Dictator looked at her with a genuine admiration. He knew that allshe said was the true outcome of her nature and her feelings. Hersparkling eyes proclaimed the truth. 

'You look at it rightly, ' the Dictator said at last, 'and I feel almostashamed of my scruples. Almost--but not quite--for they were scruples onyour account and not upon my own. '

'Of course I know that, ' she interrupted hastily. 'But please, Mr. Ericson, don't mind me. I don't care, and I know my father won't care. Do not--please do not--let this interfere in the least with yourfriendship; I cannot lose your friendship for this sort of thing. Afterall, you see, they can't force you to marry me if you don't want to;'and then she stopped, and was afraid, perhaps, that she had spoken toolightly and saucily, and that he might think her wanting in feeling. Hedid not think her wanting in feeling. He thought her nobly considerate, generous and kind. He thought she wanted to save him from embarrassmenton her account, and to let him know that they were to continue goodfriends, true friends, in spite of what anybody might choose to sayabout them; and that there was to be no thought of anything butfriendship. This was Helena's meaning in one sense, but not in anothersense. She took it for granted that he was not in love with her, and shewished to make it clear to him that there was not the slightest reasonfor him to cease to be her friend because he could not be her lover. That was her meaning. Up to a certain point it was the meaning that heascribed to her, but in her secret heart there was still a feeling whichshe did not express and which he could not divine. 

'Then we are still to be friends?' he said. 'I am not to feel bound tocut myself off from seeing you because of all this talk?'

'Not unless you wish it. '

'Oh, wish it!' and he made an energetic gesture. 

'I have talked very boldly to you, ' Helena said--'cheekily, I fancy somepeople would call it; but I do so hate misunderstandings, and havingothers and myself made uncomfortable, and I do so prefer my happiness tomy dignity! You see, I hadn't much of a mother's care, and I am a sortof wild-growth, and you must make allowance for me and forgive me, andtake me for what I am. '

'Yes, I take you cordially for what you are, ' the Dictator exclaimed, 'the noblest and the dearest girl in the world--to me. '

Helena flushed a little. But she was determined that the meaning of theflush was not to be known. 

'Come, ' she said, with a wholly affected coquetry of manner, 'I wonderif you have said that to any other girls--and if so, how many?'

The Dictator was not skilled in the wiles of coquetry. He fellinnocently into the snare. 

'The truth is, ' he said simply, 'I hardly know any girl but you. '

Surely the Dictator had spoken out one of the things we ought to wishnot to have said. It amused Helena, however, and greatly relievedher--in her present mood. 

'Come, ' she exclaimed, with a little spurt of laughter which was arelief to the tension of her feelings; 'the compliment, thank heaven, isall gone! I _must_ be the dearest girl in the world to you--I can't helpit, whatever my faults--if you do not happen to know any other girl!'

'Oh, I didn't meant _that_. '

'Didn't mean even that? Didn't even mean that I had attained, for lackof any rival, to that lonely and that inevitable eminence?'

'Come, you are only laughing at me. I know what I meant myself. '

'Oh, but please don't explain. It is quite delightful as it is. '

They were now under the lights of the windows in Seagate Hall, and onlyjust in time to dress for dinner. 

CHAPTER XXI

MORGIANA

Sir Rupert took the Duchess of Deptford in to dinner. The Duke wasexpected in a day or two, but just at present was looking after racingschooners at Ryde and Cowes. Ericson had the great satisfaction ofhaving Helena Langley, as the hostess, assigned to him. An exiledDictator takes almost the rank of an exiled king, and Ericson wasdelighted with his rank and its one particular privilege just now. Hewas not in a mood to talk to anybody else, or to be happy with anybodybut Helena. To him now all was dross that was not Helena, as to Faust inMarlowe's play. Soame Rivers had charge of Mrs. Sarrasin. ProfessorFlick was permitted to escort Miss Paulo. Hamilton and Mr. Andrew J. Copping went in without companionship of woman. The dinner was but asmall one, and without much of ceremonial. 

'One thing I miss here, ' the Dictator said to Helena as they sat down, 'I miss To-to. '

'I generally bring him down with me, ' Helena said. 'But this time Ihaven't done so. Be comforted, however; he comes down to-morrow. '

'I never quite know how he understands his position in this household. He conducts himself as if he were your personal property. But he isactually Sir Rupert's dog, is he not?'

'Yes, ' Helena answered; 'but it is all quite clear. To-to knows that hebelongs to Sir Rupert, but he is satisfied in his own mind that _I_belong to _him_. '

'I see, ' the Dictator said with a smile. 'I quite understand thesituation now. There is no divided duty. '

'Oh, no, not in the least. All our positions are marked out. '

'Is it true, Sir Rupert, ' asked the Duchess, 'that our friend, ' and shenodded towards Ericson, 'is going to make an attempt to recover hisRepublic?'

'I should rather be inclined to put it, ' Sir Rupert said, 'that if thereis any truth in the rumours one reads about, he is going to try to savehis Republic. But why not ask him, Duchess?'

'He might think it so rude and presuming, ' the pretty Duchess objected. 

'No, no; he is much too gallant a gentleman to think anything you docould be rude and presuming. '

'Then I'll ask him right away, ' the Duchess said encouraged. 'Only Ican't catch his eye--he is absorbed in your daughter, and a very oddsort of man he would be if he were not absorbed in her. '

'You look at him long enough and keenly enough, and he will be sure verysoon to feel that your eyes are on him. '

'You believe in that theory of eyes commanding eyes?'

'Well, I have noticed that it generally works out correctly. '

'But Miss Langley has such divine eyes, and she is commanding him now. Ifear I may as well give up. Oh!' For at that moment Ericson, at a wordfrom Helena, who saw that the Duchess was gazing at them, suddenlylooked up and caught the beaming eyes of the pretty and sprightly youngAmerican woman who had become the wife of a great English Duke. 

'The Duchess wants to ask you a question, ' Sir Rupert said to Ericson, 'and she hopes you won't think her rude or presuming. I have ventured tosay that I am sure you will not think her anything of the kind. '

'You can always speak for me, Sir Rupert, and never with more certaintythan just now, and to the Duchess. '

'Well, ' the Duchess said with a pretty little blush, as she found allthe eyes at the table fixed on her, including those that were covered byProfessor Flick's moony spectacles, 'I have been reading all sorts ofrumours about you, Mr. Ericson. '

Ericson quailed for a moment. 'She can't mean _that_, ' he thought. 'Shecan't mean to bring up the marriage question here at Sir Rupert's owntable, and in the ears of Sir Rupert's daughter! No, ' he suddenlyconsoled himself, 'she is too kind and sweet--she would never do_that_'--and he did the Duchess only justice. She had no such thought inher mind. 

'Are you really going to risk your life by trying to recover yourRepublic? Are you going to be so rash?'

Ericson was not embarrassed in the least. 

'I am not ambitious to recover the Republic, Duchess, ' he answeredcalmly--'if the Republic can get on without me. But if the Republicshould be in danger--then, of course, I know where my place ought tobe. '

'Just what I told you, Duchess, ' Sir Rupert said, rather triumphant withhimself. 

Helena sent a devoted glance at her hero, and then let her eyes droop. 

'Well, I must not ask any indiscreet questions, ' the Duchess said; 'andbesides, I know that if I did ask them you would not answer them. Butare you prepared for events? Is that indiscreet!'

'Oh, no; not in the least. I am perfectly prepared. '

'I wish he would not talk out so openly as that, ' Hamilton said tohimself. 'How do we know who some of these people are?'

'Rather an indiscreet person, your friend the Dictator, ' Soame Riverssaid to Mrs. Sarrasin. 'How can he know that some of these people heremay not be in sympathy with Orizaba, and may not send out a telegram tolet people know there that he has arranged for a descent upon the shoresof Gloria? Gad! I don't wonder that the Gloria people kicked him out, ifthat is his notion of statesmanship. 

'The Gloria people, as a people, adore him, sir, ' Mrs. Sarrasin sternlyobserved. 

'Odd way they have of showing it, ' Rivers replied. 

'We, in this country, have driven out kings, ' Mrs. Sarrasin said, 'andhave taken them back and set them on their thrones again. '

'Some of them we have not taken back, Mrs. Sarrasin. '

'We may yet--or some of their descendants. '

Mrs. Sarrasin became, for the moment, and out of a pure spirit ofcontradiction, a devoted adherent of the Stuarts and a wearer of theRebel Rose. 

'Oh, I say, this is becoming treasonable, Mrs. Sarrasin. Do have someconsideration for me--the private secretary of a Minister of State. '

'I have great consideration for you, Mr. Rivers; I bear in mind that youdo not mean half what you say. '

'But don't you really think, ' he asked in a low tone, 'that yourDictator was just a little indiscreet when he talked so openly about hisplans?'

'He is very well able to judge of his own affairs, I should think, andprobably he feels sure'--and she made this a sort of direct stab atRivers--'that in the house of Sir Rupert Langley he is among friends. '

Rivers was only amused, not in the least disconcerted. 

'But these Americans, now--who knows anything about them? Don't allAmericans write for newspapers? and why might not these fellowstelegraph the news to the _New York Herald_ or the _New York Tribune_, or some such paper, and so spread it all over the world, and send anOrizaba ironclad or two to look out for the returning Dictator?'

'I don't know them, ' Mrs. Sarrasin answered, 'but my brother-in-lawdoes, and I believe they are merely scientific men, and don't know orcare anything about politics--even in their own country. '

Miss Paulo talked a good deal with Professor Flick. Mr. Copping sat onher other side, and she had tried to exchange a word or two now and thenwith him, but she failed in drawing out any ready response, and so shedevoted all her energies to Professor Flick. She asked him all thequestions she could think of concerning folk-lore. The Professor wasbenignant in his explanations. He was, she assumed, quite compassionateover her ignorance on the subject. She was greatly interested in hisAmerican accent. How strong it was, and yet what curiously soft andSouthern tones one sometimes caught in it! Dolores had never been in theUnited States, but she had met a great many Americans. 

'Do you come from the Southern States, Professor?' she asked, innocentlyseeking for an explanation of her wonder. 

'Southern States, Miss Paulo? No, madam. I am from the Wild West--I havenothing to do with the South. Why did you ask?'

'Because I thought there was a tone of the Spanish in your accent, and Ifancied you might have come from New Orleans. I am a sort of Spaniard, you know. '

'I have nothing to do with New Orleans, ' he said--'I have never evenbeen there. '

'But, of course, you speak Spanish?' Miss Paulo said suddenly _in_Spanish. 'A man with your studies must know ever so many languages. '

As it so happened, she glanced quite casually and innocently up into theeyes of Professor Flick. She caught his eye, in fact, right under themoony spectacles; and if those eyes under the moony spectacles did notunderstand Spanish, then Dolores had lost faith in her own bright eyesand her own very keen and lively perceptions. 

But the moony spectacles were soon let down over the eyes of theProfessor of Folk-Lore, and hung there like shutters or blinkers. 

'No, madam, ' spoke the Professor; 'I am sorry to say that I do notunderstand Spanish, for I presume you have been addressing me inSpanish, ' he added hastily. 'It is a noble tongue, of course, but I havenot had time to make myself acquainted with it. '

'I thought there was a great amount of folk-lore in Spanish, ' thepertinacious Dolores went on. 

'So there is, dear young lady, so there is. But one cannot know everylanguage--one must have recourse to translations sometimes. '

'Could I help you, ' she asked sweetly, 'with any work of translatingfrom the Spanish? I should be delighted if I could--and I really do knowSpanish pretty well. '

'Dear young lady, how kind that would be of you! And what a pleasure tome!'

'It would be both a pride and a pleasure to _me_ to lend any helpinghand towards the development of the study of folk-lore. '

The Professor looked at her in somewhat puzzled fashion, not through butfrom beneath the moony spectacles. Dolores felt perfectly satisfied thathe was studying her. All the better reason, she thought, for herstudying him. 

What had Dolores got upon her mind? She did not know. She had not theleast glimmering of a clear idea. It was not a very surprising thingthat an American Professor addicted mainly to the study of folk-loreshould not know Spanish. Dolores had a vague impression of having heardthat, as a rule, Americans were not good linguists. But that was notwhat troubled and perplexed her. She felt convinced, in this case, thatthe professed American did understand Spanish, and that his ordinaryaccent had something Spanish in it, although he had declared that he hadnever been even in New Orleans. 

We all remember the story of Morgiana in 'The Forty Thieves. ' Thefaculties of the handsome and clever Morgiana were strained to theirfullest tension with one particular object. She looked at everything, studied everything--with regard to that object. If she saw a chalk-markon a door she instantly went and made a like chalk-mark on various doorsin the neighbourhood. Dolores found her present business in life to besomewhat like that of Morgiana. A chalk-mark was enough to fill her withsuspicion; an unexpected accent was enough to fill her with suspicion;an American Professor who knew Spanish, but had no confidence in hisSpanish, might possibly be the Captain of the Forty Immortals--thieves, of course, and not Academicians. Dolores had as vague an idea about theSpanish question as Morgiana had about the chalk-mark on the door, butshe was quite clear that some account ought to be taken of it. 

At this moment, much to the relief of the perplexed Dolores, Helenacaught the eye of the pretty Duchess, and the Duchess arose, and Mrs. Sarrasin arose, and Hamilton held the door open, and the ladies floatedthrough and went upstairs. Now came the critical moment for Dolores. Hadshe discovered anything? Even if she had discovered anything, was itanything that concerned her or anyone she cared for? Should she keep herdiscovery--or her fancied discovery--to herself?

The Duchess settled down beside Helena, and appeared to be made up for agood talk with her. Mrs. Sarrasin was beginning to turn over the leavesof a photographic album. 'Now is my time, ' Dolores thought, 'and this isthe woman to talk to and to trust myself to. If she laughs at me, then Ishall feel pretty sure that mine was all a false alarm. ' So she satbeside Mrs. Sarrasin, who looked up at once with a beaming smile. 

'Mrs. Sarrasin, ' Dolores said in a low, quiet voice, 'should you thinkit odd if a man who knows Spanish were to pretend that he did notunderstand a word of it?'

'That would depend a good deal on who the man was, my dear, and where hewas, and what he was doing. I should not be surprised if a Carlist spy, for instance, captured some years ago by the Royalists, were to pretendthat he did not speak Spanish, and try to pass off for a commercialtraveller from Bordeaux. '

'Yes. But where there was no war--and no capture--and no need ofconcealing one's acquirements----'

Mrs. Sarrasin saw that something was really disturbing the girl. Shebecame wonderfully composed and gentle. She thought a moment, and thensaid:

'I heard Mr. Soame Rivers say to-night that he didn't understandSpanish. Was that only his modesty--and does he understand it?'

'Oh, Mrs. Sarrasin, I wasn't thinking about him. What does it matterwhether he understands it or not?'

'Nothing whatever, I should say. So it was not he?'

'Oh, no, indeed. '

'Then whom were you thinking about?'

Dolores dropped her voice to its lowest tone and whispered:

'Professor Flick!' Then she glanced in some alarm towards Helena, fearing lest Miss Langley might have heard. The good girl's heart wasset on sparing Miss Langley any distress of mind which could possibly beavoided. Dolores saw in a moment how her words had impressed Mrs. Sarrasin. Mrs. Sarrasin turned on Dolores a face of the deepestinterest. But she had all the composure of her many campaigns. 

'This is a very different business, ' she said, 'from Mr. Rivers and hisprofession of ignorance. Do you really mean to say, Miss Paulo--you area clever girl, I know, with sound nerve and good judgment--do you meanto say that Professor Flick really does know Spanish, although he sayshe does not understand it?'

'I spoke to him a few words of Spanish, and, as it so happened, I lookedup at him, and quite accidentally caught his eye under his bigspectacles, and I saw that he understood me. Mrs. Sarrasin, I _could_not be mistaken--I _know_ he understood me. And then he recoveredhimself, and said that he knew nothing of Spanish. Why, there was somuch of the Spanish in his accent--it isn't _very_ much, of course--thatI assumed at first that he must have come from New Orleans or fromTexas. '

'I have had very little talk with him, ' Mrs. Sarrasin said; 'but I nevernoticed any Spanish peculiarity in his accent. '

'But you wouldn't; you are not Spanish; and, anyhow, it's only a merelittle shade--just barely suggests. Do you think there is anything inall this? I may be mistaken, but--no--no--I am not mistaken. That manknows Spanish as surely as I know English. '

'Then it is a matter of the very highest importance, ' said Mrs. Sarrasindecidedly. 'If a man comes here professing not to speak Spanish, and yetdoes speak Spanish, it is as clear as light that he has some motive forconcealing the fact that he is a Spaniard--or a South American. Ofcourse he is not a Spaniard--Spain does not come into this business. Heis a South American, and he is either a spy----'

'Yes--either a spy----. ' Dolores waited anxiously. 

'Or an assassin. '

'Yes--I thought so;' and Dolores shuddered. 'But a spy, ' she whispered, 'has nothing to find out. Everything about--about his Excellency--isknown to all the world here. '

'You are quite right, dear young lady, ' Mrs. Sarrasin said. 'We aredriven to the other conclusion. If you are right--and I am sure you areright--that that man knows Spanish and professes not to know it, we areface to face with a plot for an assassination. Hush!--the gentlemen arecoming. Don't lose your head, my dear--whatever may happen. You may besure I shall not lose mine. Go and talk to Mr. Hamilton--you might finda chance of giving him a word, or a great many words, of warning. I musthave a talk with Sarrasin as soon as I can. But no outward show ofcommotion, mind!'

'It may be a question of a day, ' Dolores whispered. 

'If the man thinks he is half-discovered, it may be a question of anhour, ' Mrs. Sarrasin replied, as composedly as if she were thinking ofthe possible spoiling of a dinner. Dolores shuddered. Mrs. Sarrasin feltnone the less, but she had been in so many a crisis that danger forthose she loved came to her as a matter of course. 

Then the door was thrown open, and the gentlemen came in. Sir Rupertmade for Dolores. He was anxious to pay her all the attention in hispower, because he feared, in his chivalrous way, that if she were notfollowed with even a marked attention, she might think that as thedaughter of Paulo's Hotel she was not regarded as quite the equal of allthe other guests. The Dictator thought he was bound to address himselfto the Duchess of Deptford, and fancied that it might look a little toomarked if he were at once to take possession of Helena. The good-naturedDuchess saw through his embarrassment in a moment. The light ofkindliness and sympathy guided her; and just as Ericson was approachingher she feigned to be wholly unconscious of his propinquity, and leaningforward in her chair she called out in her clear voice:

'Now, look here, Professor Flick, I want you to sit right down here andtalk to me. You are a countryman of mine, and I haven't yet had a chanceof saying anything much to you, so you come and talk to me. '

The Professor declared himself delighted, honoured, all the rest, andcame and seated himself, according to the familiar modern phrase, in thepretty Duchess's pocket. 

'We haven't met in America, Professor, I think?' the Duchess said. 

'No, Duchess; I have never had that high honour. '

'But your name is quite familiar to me. You have a great observatory, haven't you--out West somewhere--the Flick Observatory, is it not?'

'No, Duchess. Pardon me. You are thinking of the Lick Observatory. '

'Oh, am I? Yes, I dare say. Lick and Flick are so much alike. And Idon't know one little bit about sciences. I don't know one of them fromanother. They are all the same to me. I only define science as somethingthat I can't understand. I had a notion that you were mixed up withastronomy. That's why I got thinking of the Lick Observatory. '

'No, your Grace, my department is very modest--folk-lore. '

'Oh, yes, nursery rhymes of all nations, and making out that everycountry has got just the same old stories--that's the sort of thing, asfar as I can make out--ain't it?'

'Well, ' the Professor said, somewhat constrainedly, 'that is a more orless humorous condensed description of a very important study. '

'I think I should like folk-lore, ' the lively Duchess went on. 'I dohope, Professor, that you will come to me some afternoon, and talkfolk-lore to me. I could understand it so much better than astronomy, orchemistry, or these things; and I don't care about history, and I _do_hate recitations. '

Just then Soame Rivers entered the room, and saw that Ericson wastalking with Helena. His eyebrows contracted. Rivers was the last man togo upstairs to the drawing-room. He had a pretty clear idea thatsomething was going on. During the time while the men were having theircigars and cigarettes, telegrams came in for almost everyone at thetable; the Dictator opened his and glanced at it and handed it over toHamilton, who, for his part, had had a telegram all to himself. Riversstudied Ericson's face, and felt convinced that the veryimperturbability of its expression was put on in order that no one mightsuppose he had learned anything of importance. It was quite differentwith Hamilton--a light of excitement flashed across him for a moment andwas then suddenly extinguished. 'News from Gloria, no doubt, ' Riversthought to himself. 'Bad news, I hope. '

'Does anyone want to reply to his telegrams?' Sir Rupert courteouslyasked. 'They are kind enough to keep the telegraph office open for mybenefit until midnight. '

No one seemed to think there was any necessity for troubling thetelegraph office just then. 

'Shall we go upstairs?' Sir Rupert asked. So the gentlemen wentupstairs, and on their appearance the conversation between Dolores andMrs. Sarrasin came to an end, as we know. 

Soame Rivers went into his own little study, which was kept always forhim, and there he opened his despatch. It was from a man in the ForeignOffice who was in the innermost councils of Sir Rupert and himself. 

'Tell Hamilton look quietly after Ericson. Certain information ofdangerous plot against Ericson's life. Danger where least expected. Donot know any more. No need as yet alarm Sir Rupert. '

Soame Rivers read the despatch over and over again. It was in cypher--acypher with which he was perfectly familiar. He grumbled and growledover it. It vexed him. For various reasons he had come to the conclusionthat a great deal too much work was made over the ex-Dictator, and hisprojects, and his personal safety. 

'All stuff and nonsense!' he said to himself. 'It's absurd to make sucha fuss about this fellow. Nobody can think him important enough to getup any plot for killing him; as far as I am concerned I don't see whythey shouldn't kill him if they feel at all like it--personally, I amsure I wish they _would_ kill him. '

Soame Rivers thought to himself, although he hardly put the thought intowords even to himself and for his own benefit, that he might have had agood chance of winning Helena Langley to be his wife--of having her andher fortune--only for this so-called Dictator, whom, as a Briton, heheartily despised. 

'I'll think it over, ' he said to himself; 'I need not show thisdanger-signal to Hamilton just yet. Hamilton is a hero-worshipper and analarmist--and a fool. '

So, looking very green of complexion and grim of countenance, SoameRivers crushed the despatch and thrust it into his pocket, and then wentupstairs to the ladies. 

CHAPTER XXII

THE EXPEDITION

Every room in every house has its mystery by day and by night. But atnight the mystery becomes more involved and a darker veil gathers roundthe secret. Each inmate goes off to bed with a smiling good-night toeach other, and what could be more unlike than the hopes and plans andschemes for the morrow which each in silence is forming? All this ofcourse is obvious and commonplace. But there would be a certain noveltyof illustration if we were to take the fall of night upon Seagate Halland try to make out what secrets it covered. 

Ericson had found a means of letting Helena know by a few whisperedwords that he had heard news which would probably cut short his visit toSeagate Hall and hurry his departure from London. The girl had listenedwith breath kept resolutely in and bosom throbbing, and she dared notquestion further at such a moment. Only she said, 'You will tell meall?' and he said, 'Yes, to-morrow'; and she subsided and was content towait and to take her secret to sleep with her, or rather take her secretwith her to keep her from sleeping. Mrs. Sarrasin had found means totell her husband what Dolores had told her--and Sarrasin agreed with hiswife in thinking that, although the discovery might appear trivial initself, it had possibilities in it the stretch of which it would bemadness to underrate. Ericson and Hamilton had common thoughtsconcerning the expedition to Gloria; but Hamilton had not confided tothe Dictator any hint of what Mrs. Sarrasin had told him, and whatDolores had told Mrs. Sarrasin. On the other hand, Ericson did not thinkit at all necessary to communicate to Hamilton the feelings with whichthe prospect of a speedy leaving of Seagate Hall had inspired him. SoameRivers, we may be sure, took no one into the secret of the cyphereddespatch which he had received, and which as yet he had kept in his ownexclusive possession. If the gifted Professor Flick and his devotedfriend Mr. Copping had secrets--as no doubt they had--they could hardlybe expected to proclaim them on the house-tops of Seagate Hall--a placeon the shores of a foreign country. The common feeling cannot bedescribed better than by saying that everybody wanted everybody else toget to bed. 

The ladies soon dispersed. But no sooner had Mrs. Sarrasin got into herroom than she hastily mounted a dressing-gown and sought out Dolores, and the two settled down to low-toned earnest talk as though they were apair of conspirators--which for a noble purpose they were. 

The gentlemen, as usual, went to the billiard-room for cigars andwhisky-and-soda. The two Americans soon professed themselves rathertired, and took their candles and went off to bed. But even they wouldseem not to be quite so sleepy and tired as they may have fancied; forthey both entered the room of Professor Flick and began to talk. It wasa very charming 'apartment' in the French sense. The Professor had asitting-room very tastefully furnished and strewn around with variousbooks on folk-lore; and he had a capacious bedroom. Copping flunghimself impatiently on the sofa. 

'Look here, ' Copping whispered, 'this business must be done to-night. Doyou hear?--this very night. '

'I know it, ' the Professor said almost meekly. 

'What have _you_ heard?' Copping asked fiercely. 'Do you know anythingmore about Gloria than I know--than I got to know to-night?'

'Nothing more about Gloria, but I know that I am on the straight way tobeing found out. ' And the Professor drooped. 

'Found out? What do you mean? Found out for what?'

'Well, found out for a South American professing to be a Yankee. '

'But who has found you out?'

'That Spanish-London girl--that she-devil--Miss Paulo. She suddenlytalked to me in Spanish--and I was thrown off my guard. '

'You fool!--and you answered her in Spanish?'

'No I didn't--I didn't say a word--but I saw by her look that she knew Iunderstood her--and you'll see if they don't suspect something. '

'Of course they will suspect something. South Americans passing off asNorth Americans! here, here--with _him_ in the house! Why, the lightshines through it! Good heavens, what a fool you are! I never heard ofanything like it!'

'I am always a failure, ' the downcast Professor admitted, 'where womencome into the work--or the play. '

The places of the two men appeared to have completely changed. TheProfessor was no longer the leader but the led. The silent and devotedMr. Andrew J. Copping was now taking the place of leader. 

'Well, ' Copping said contemptuously, 'you have got your chance just as Ihave. If you manage this successfully we shall get our pardon--and if wedon't we shan't. '

'If we fail, ' the learned Professor said, 'I shan't return to Gloria. '

'No, I dare say not. The English police will take good care of that, especially if Ericson should marry Sir Rupert's daughter. No--and do youfancy that even if the police failed to find us, those that sent us outwould fail to find us? Do you think they would let us carry theirsecrets about with us? Why, what a fool you are!'

'I suppose I am, ' the distressed student of folk-lore murmured. 

'Many days would not pass before there was a dagger in both our hearts. It is of no use trying to avoid the danger now. Rally all yournerves--get together all your courage and coolness. This thing must bedone to-night--we have no time to lose--and according to what you tellme we are being already found out. Mind--if you show the least flinchingwhen I give you the word--I'll put a dagger into you! Hush--put yourlight out--I'll come at the right time. '

'You are too impetuous, ' the Professor murmured with a sort of groan, and he took off his moony spectacles in a petulant way and put them onthe table. Behold what a change! Instead of a moon-like beneficence ofthe spectacles, there was seen the quick shifting light of two dark, fierce, cruel, treacherous, cowardly eyes. They were eyes that mighthave looked out of the head of some ferocious and withal cowardly wildbeast in a jungle or a forest. One who saw the change would haveunderstood the axiom of a famous detective, 'No disguise for some menhalf so effective as a pair of large spectacles. '

'Put on your spectacles, ' Copping said sternly. 

'What's the matter? We are here among friends. '

'But it is so stupid a trick! How can you tell the moment when someonemay come in?'

'Very good, ' the Professor said, veiling his identity once again in themoony spectacles; 'only I can tell you I am getting sick of the dulnessof all this, and I shall be glad of anything for a change. '

'You'll have a change soon enough, ' Copping said contemptuously. 'I hopeyou will be equal to it when it comes. '

'How long shall I have to wait?'

'Until I come for you. '

'With the dagger, perhaps?' Professor Flick said sarcastically. 

'With the dagger certainly, but I hope with no occasion for using it. '

'I hope so too; you might cut your fingers with it. '

'Are you threatening me?' Copping asked fiercely, standing up. He spoke, however, in the lowest of tones. 

'I almost think I am. You see you have been threatening _me_--and Idon't like it. I never professed to have as much courage as you have--Imean as you say you have; but I'm like a woman, when I'm driven into acorner I don't much care what I do--ah! then I _am_ dangerous! It's notcourage, I know, it's fear; but a man afraid and driven to bay is anugly creature to deal with. And then it strikes me that I get all thedullest and also the most dangerous part of the work put on me, and Idon't like _that_. '

Copping glanced for a moment at his colleague with eyes from which, according to Carlyle's phrase, 'hell-fire flashed for an instant. 'Probably he would have very much liked to employ the dagger there andthen. But he knew that that was not exactly the time or place for aquarrel, and he knew too that he had been talking too long with hisfriend already, and that he might on coming out of Professor Flick'sroom encounter some guest in the corridor. So by an effort he took offfrom his face the fierce expression, as one might take off a mask. 

'We can't quarrel now, we two, ' he said. 'When we come safe out of thisbusiness----'

'_If_ we come safe out of this business, ' the Professor interposed, witha punctuating emphasis on the 'if. '

Copping answered all unconsciously in the words of Lady Macbeth. 

'Keep your courage up, and we shall do what we want to do. '

Then he left the room, and cautiously closed the door behind him, andcrept stealthily away. 

Ericson, Hamilton, and Sarrasin remained with Sir Rupert after thedistinguished Americans had gone. There was an evident sense of reliefrunning through the company when these had gone. Sir Rupert could seewith half an eye that some news of importance had come. 

'Well?' he asked; and that was all he asked. 

'Well, ' the Dictator replied, 'we have had some telegrams. At leastHamilton and I have. Have you heard anything, Sarrasin?'

'Something merely personal, merely personal, ' Sarrasin answered with asomewhat constrained manner--the manner of one who means to convey theidea that the tortures of the Inquisition should not wrench that secretfrom him. Sarrasin was good at most things, but he was not happy atconcealing secrets from his friends. Even as it was he blinked his eyesat Hamilton in a way that, if the others were observing him just then, must have made it apparent that he was in possession of some portentouscommunication which could be divulged to Hamilton alone. Sir Rupert, however, was not thinking much of Sarrasin. 

'I mustn't ask about your projects, ' Sir Rupert said; 'in fact, Isuppose I had better know nothing about them. But, as a host, I may askwhether you have to leave England soon. As a mere matter of social dutyI am entitled to ask that much. My daughter will be so sorry----'

'We shall have to leave for South America very soon, Sir Rupert, ' theDictator said--'within a very few days. We must leave for Londonto-morrow by the afternoon train at the latest. '

'How do you propose to enter Gloria?' Sir Rupert asked hesitatingly. What he really would have liked to ask was--'What men, what armament, have you got to back you when you land in your port?'

The Dictator divined the meaning. 

'I go alone, ' he said quietly. 

'Alone!'

'Yes, except for the two or three personal friends who wish to accompanyme--as friends, and not as a body-guard. I dare say the boy there, ' andhe nodded at Hamilton, 'will be wanting to step ashore with me. '

'Oh, yes, I shall step ashore at the same moment, or perhaps half asecond later, ' Hamilton said joyously. 'I'm a great steppist. '

'Bear in mind that _I_ am going too, ' Sarrasin interposed. 

'We shall not go without you, Captain Sarrasin, ' Ericson answered with asmile. For he felt well assured that when Captain Sarrasin steppedashore, Mrs. Sarrasin would be in step with him. 

'Do you go unarmed?' Sir Rupert asked. 

'Absolutely unarmed. I am not a despot coming to recapture a rebelkingdom--I am going to offer my people what help I can to save theirRepublic for them. If they will have me, I believe I can save theRepublic; if they will not----' He threw out his hands with the air ofone who would say, 'Then, come what will, it is no fault of mine. '

'Suppose they actually turn against you?'

'I don't believe they will. But if they do, it will no less have been anexperiment well worth the trying, and it will only be a life lost. '

'Two lives lost, ' Hamilton pleaded mildly. 

'Excuse me, three lives lost, if you please, ' Sarrasin interposed, 'orperhaps four. ' For he was thinking of his heroic wife, and of thegeneral understanding between them that it would be much moresatisfactory that they should die together than that one should remainbehind. 

Sir Rupert smiled and sighed also. He was thinking of his romantic andadventurous youth. 

'By Jove!' he said, 'I almost envy you fellows your expedition and yourenthusiasm. There was a time--and not so very long ago--when I shouldhave loved nothing better than to go with you and take your risks. Butoffice-holding takes the enthusiasm out of us. One can never do anythingafter he has been a Secretary of State. '

'But, look here, ' Hamilton said, 'here is a man who has been aDictator----'

'Quite a different thing, my dear Hamilton, ' Sir Rupert replied. 'ADictator is a heroic, informal, unconventional sort of creature. Thereare no rules and precedents to bind him. He has no permanent officials. No one knows what he might or might not turn out. But a Secretary ofState is pledged to respectability and conventionality. St. George mighthave gone forth to slay the dragon even though he had several times beena Dictator; never, never, if he had even once been Secretary of State. '

Captain Sarrasin took all this quite seriously, and promised himself inhis own mind that nothing on earth should ever induce him to accept theoffice of Secretary of State. The Dictator quite understood Sir Rupert. He had learned long since to recognise the fact that Sir Rupert had setout in life full of glorious romantic dreams and with much good outfitto carry him on his way--but not quite outfit enough for all he meant todo. So, after much struggle to be a hero of romance, he had quietlysettled down in time to be a Secretary of State. But the Dictatorgreatly admired him. He knew that Sir Rupert had just barely missed agreat career. There is a genuine truth contained in the Spanish proverbquoted by Dr. Johnson, that if a man would bring home the wealth of theIndies he must take out the wealth of the Indies with him. If you willbring home a great career, you must take out with you the capacity tofind a great career. 

'You see, I had better not ask you too much about your plans, ' SirRupert said hastily; 'although, of course it relieves me from allresponsibility to know that you are only making a peaceful landing. '

'Like any ordinary travellers, ' Hamilton said. 

'Ah, well, no--I don't quite see that, and I rather fancy Ericson wouldnot quite see it either. Of course you are going with a certainpolitical purpose--very natural and very noble and patriotic; but stillyou are not like ordinary travellers--not like Cook's tourists, forexample. '

'No-o-o, ' Captain Sarrasin almost roared. The idea of his being like aCook's tourist!

'Well, that's what I say. But what I was coming to is this. Yourpurposes are absolutely peaceful, as you assure me--peaceful, I mean, asregards the country on whose shores you are landing. '

'We shall land in Gloria, ' the Dictator said, 'for the sake of Gloria, for the love of Gloria. '

'Yes, I know that well. But men might do that in the sincerest beliefthat for the sake of Gloria and for the love of Gloria they were boundto overthrow by force of arms some bad Government. Now that I understanddistinctly is not your purpose. '

'That, ' the Dictator said, 'is certainly not our primary purpose. We aregoing out unarmed and unaccompanied. If the existing Government areapproved of by the people--well, then our lives are in their hands. Butif the people are with us----'

'Yes--and if the existing Government should refuse to recognise thefact?'

'Then, of course, the people will put them aside. 

'Ah! and so there may be civil war?'

'If I understand the situation rightly, the people will by the time weland see through the whole thing, and will thrust aside anyone whoendeavours to prevent them from resisting the invader on the frontier. Ionly hope that we may be there in time to prevent any act of violence. What Gloria has to do now is to defend and to maintain her nationalexistence; we have no time for the trial or the punishment of worthlessor traitorous ministers and officials. '

'Well, well, ' Sir Rupert said, 'I suppose I had better ask no questionsnor know too much of your plans. They are honourable and patriotic, I amsure; and indeed it does not much become a part of our business here, for we have never been in very cordial relations with the new Governmentof Gloria, and I suppose now we shall never have any occasion to troubleourselves much about it. So I wish you from my heart all good-fortune;but of course I wish it as the personal friend, and not as the Secretaryof State. That officer has no wish but that satisfactory relations maybe obtained with everybody under the sun. '

Ericson smiled, half sadly. He was thinking that there was even more ofan official fossilisation of Sir Rupert's earlier nature than Sir Ruperthimself had suspected or described. Hamilton assumed that it was all thenatural sort of thing--that everybody in office became like that intime. Sarrasin again told himself that at no appeal less strong thanthat of a personal and imploring request from her gracious Majestyherself would he ever consent to become a Secretary of State for ForeignAffairs. 

Sir Rupert had come to have a very strong feeling of friendship and evenof affection for the Dictator. He thought him far too good a man to bethrown away on a pitiful South American Republic. But of late heaccepted the situation. He understood--at all events, he recognised--thealmost fanatical Quixotism that was at the base of Ericson's character, and he admired it and was also provoked by it, for it made him see thatremonstrance was in vain. 

Sir Rupert felt himself disappointed, although only in a vague sort ofway. Half-unconsciously he had lately been forming a wish for the futureof his daughter, and now he was dimly conscious that that wish was notto be realised. He had been thinking that Helena was much drawn towardsthe Dictator, and he did not see where he could have found a moresuitable husband. Ericson did not come of a great family, to be sure, but Sir Rupert saw more and more every day that the old-fashioned socialdistinctions were not merely crumbling but positively breaking down, andhe knew that any of the duchesses with whom he was acquainted wouldgladly encourage her daughter to marry a millionaire from Oil City, Pennsylvania. He had seen and he saw that Ericson was made welcome intothe best society of London, and, what with his fame and Helena's money, he thought they might have a pleasant way in life together. Now thatdream had come to an end. Ericson, of course, would naturally desire torecover his position in South America; but even if he were to succeed hecould hardly expect Helena to settle down to a life in an obscure andfoetid South American town. Sir Rupert took this for granted. He didnot argue it out. It came to his eyes as a certain, unarguable fact. Heknew that his daughter was unconventional, but he construed that only asbeing unconventional within conventional limits. Some of her ways mightbe unconventional; he did not believe it possible that her life couldbe. It did not even occur to him to ask himself whether, if Helenareally wished to go to South America and settle there, he could beexpected to give his consent to such a project. 

CHAPTER XXIII

THE PANGS OF THE SUPPRESSED MESSAGE

'By Jove, I thought they would never go!' Hamilton said to CaptainSarrasin as they moved towards their bedrooms. 

'So did I, ' Sarrasin declared with a sigh of relief. 'They' whoseabsence was so much desired were Sir Rupert Langley and the Dictator. 

'Come into my room, ' Hamilton said in a low tone. They enteredHamilton's room, speaking quietly, as if they were burglars. Sarrasinwas lodged on the same corridor a little farther off. The soft electriclight was sending out its pale amber radiance on the corridor and in thebedroom. Hamilton closed his door. 

'Please take a seat, Sarrasin, ' he said with elaborate politeness; andSarrasin obeyed him and sat down in a luxurious armchair, and thenHamilton sat down too. This apparently was pure ceremonial, and theceremonial was over, for in a moment they both rose to their feet. Theyhad something to talk about that passed ceremonial. 

'What do you think of all this?' Hamilton asked. 'Do you think there isanything in it?'

'Yes, I'm sure there is. That's a very clever girl, Miss Paulo----'

'Yes, she's very clever, ' Hamilton said in an embarrassed sort ofway--'a very clever girl, a splendid girl. But we haven't much to go on, have we? She can only suspect that this fellow knows Spanish--she can'tbe quite sure of it. '

'Many a pretty plot has been found out with no better evidence to startthe discovery. The end of a clue is often the almost invisible tail of apiece of string. But we have other evidence too. '

'Out with it!' Hamilton said impatiently. In all his various anxietieshe was conscious of one strong anxiety--that Dolores might be justifiedin her conjecture and proved not to have made a wild mistake. 

'I got a telegram from across the Atlantic to-night, ' Sarrasin said, 'that time in the dining-room. '

'Yes--well--I saw you had got something. '

'It came from Denver City. '

'Oh!'

'The home of Professor Flick. See?'

'Yes, yes, to be sure. Well?'

'Well, it tells me that Professor Flick is now in China, and that hewill return home by way of London. '

'By Jove!' Hamilton exclaimed, and he turned pale with excitement. Thiswas indeed a confirmation of the very worst suspicion that the discoveryof Dolores could possibly have suggested. The man passing himself off asProfessor Flick was not Professor Flick, but undoubtedly a SouthAmerican. And he and his accomplice had been for days and nightsdomiciled with the Dictator!

'Is your telegram trustworthy?' he asked. 

'Perfectly; my message was addressed yesterday to my old friendProfessor Clinton, who is now settled in Denver City, but who used to beat the University of New Padua, Michigan. '

'What put it into your head to send the message? Had you any suspicion?'

'No, not the least in the world; but somehow my wife began to have akind of idea of her own that all was not right. Do you know, Hamilton, the intuitions of that woman are something marvellous--marvellous, sir!Her perceptions are something outside herself, something transcendental, sir. So I telegraphed to my friend Clinton, and here we are, don't yousee?'

'Yes, I see, ' Hamilton said, his attention wandering a little from thetranscendental perceptions of Mrs. Sarrasin. 'Why, I wonder, did thisfellow, whoever he is, take the name of a real man?'

'Oh, don't you see? Why, that's plain enough. How else could he everhave got introductions--introductions that would satisfy anybody? Yousee the folk-lore dodge commended itself to my poor simple brother, whoknew the name and reputation of the real Professor Flick, and naturallythought it was all right. Then there seemed no immediate connectionbetween my brother and the Dictator; and finally, the real ProfessorFlick was in China, and would not be likely to hear about what was goingon until these chaps had done the trick; whereas, if anyone in theStates not in constant communication with the real Flick heard of hisbeing in London it would seem all right enough--they would assume thathe had taken London first, and not last. I must say, Hamilton, it was avery pretty plot, and it was devilish near being made a success. '

'We'll foil it now, ' Hamilton said, with his teeth clenched. 

'Oh, of course we'll foil it now, ' Sarrasin said carelessly. 'We shouldbe pretty simpletons if we couldn't foil the plot now that we have thethreads in our hands. '

'What do you make of it--murder?' Hamilton lowered his voice and almostshuddered at his own suggestion. 

'Murder, of course--the murder of the Dictator, and of everyone whocomes in the way of _that_ murder. If the Dictator gets to Gloria thegame of the ruffians is up--that we know by our advices--and if he ismurdered in England he certainly can't get to Gloria. There you are!'

Nobody, however jealous for the Dictator, could doubt the sympathy anddevotion of Captain Sarrasin to the Dictator and his cause. Yet his cooland business-like way of discussing the question grated on Hamilton'sears. Hamilton, perhaps, did not make quite enough of allowance for aman who had been in so many enterprises as Captain Sarrasin, and who hadgot into the way of thinking that his own life and the life of everyother such man is something for which a game is played by the Fatesevery day, and which he must be ready to forfeit at any moment. 

'The question is, what are we to do?' Hamilton asked sharply. 

'Well, these fellows are sure to know that his Excellency leavesto-morrow, and so the attempt will be made to-night. '

'Suppose we rouse up Sir Rupert--indeed, he is probably not in bedyet--and send for the local police, and have these ruffians arrested? Wecould arrest them ourselves without waiting for the police. '

Sarrasin thought for a little. 'Wouldn't do, ' he said. 'We have noevidence at all against them, except a telegram from an American unknownto anyone here, and who might be mistaken. Besides, I fancy that if theyare very desperate they have got accomplices who will take good carethat the work is carried out somehow. You see, what they have set theirhearts on is to prevent the Dictator from getting back to Gloria, andthat so simplifies their business for them. I have no doubt that thereis someone hanging about who would manage to do the trick if these twofellows were put under arrest--all the easier because of the uproarcaused by their arrest. No, we must give the fellows rope enough. Wemust let them show what their little game is, and then come down uponthem. After all, _we_ are all right, don't you see?'

Hamilton did not quite see, but he was beginning already to be taken agood deal with the cool and calculating ways of the stout old Paladin, for whom life could not possibly devise a new form of danger. 

'I fancy you are right, ' Hamilton said after a moment of silence. 

'Yes, I think I am right, ' Sarrasin answered confidently. 'You see, wehave the pull on them, for if their game is simple, ours is simple too. They want Ericson to die--we mean to keep him alive. You and I don'tcare two straws what becomes of our own lives in the row. '

'Not I, by Jove!' Hamilton exclaimed fervently. 

'All right; then you see how easy it all is. Well, do you think we oughtto wake up the Dictator? It seems unfair to rattle him up on merespeculation, but the business _is_ serious. '

'Serious?--yes, I should think it was! Life or death--more than that, the ruin or the failure of a real cause!'

Hamilton knew that the Dictator had by nature a splendid gift of sleep, which had stood him in good stead during many an adventure and many acrisis. But it was qualified by a peculiarity which had to be recognisedand taken into account. If his sleep were once broken in upon, it couldnot be put together again for that night. Therefore, his trusty henchmanand valet took good care that his Excellency's slumbers should not ifpossible be disturbed. It should be said that mere noise never disturbedhim. He would waken if actually called, but otherwise could sleep inspite of thunder. Now that he was in quiet civic life, it was easyenough for him to get as much unbroken sleep as he needed. Thedirections which his valet always gave at Paulo's Hotel were, that hisExcellency was to be roused from his sleep if the house were onfire--not otherwise. Of course all this was perfectly understood byeverybody in Seagate Hall. 

'Must we waken him?' Sarrasin asked doubtfully. 

'Oh, yes, ' Hamilton answered decisively. 'I'll take that responsibilityupon myself. '

'What I was thinking of, ' Sarrasin whispered, 'was that if you and Iwere to keep close watch he might have his sleep out and no harm couldhappen to him. '

'But then we shouldn't get to know, for to-night at least, what the harmwas meant to be, or whose the hand it was to come from. If there reallyis any attempt to be made, it will not be made while there is anysuspicion that somebody is on the watch. '

'True, ' said Sarrasin, quite convinced and prepared for anything. 

'My idea is, ' Hamilton said, 'a very simple old chestnut sort of idea, but it may serve a good turn yet--get his Excellency out of his room, and one of us get into it. Nothing will be done, of course, until allthe lights are out, and then we shall soon find out whether all this isa false alarm or not. '

'A capital idea! I'll take his Excellency's place, ' Sarrasin saideagerly. 

Hamilton shook his head. 'I have the better claim, ' he said. 

'Tisn't a question of claim, my dear Hamilton. Of course, if it were, Ishould have no claim at all. It is a question of effect--of result--of athing to be done, don't you see?'

'Well, what has that to do with the question? I fancy I could see itthrough as well as most people, ' Hamilton said, flushing a little andbeginning to feel angry. The idea of thinking that there was anybodyalive who could watch over the safety of the Dictator better than hecould! Sarrasin was really carrying things rather too far. 

'My dear boy, ' the kind old warrior said soothingly, 'I never meantthat. But you know I am an old and trained adventurer, and I have beenin all sorts of dangers and tight places, and I have a notion, my dearchap, that I am physically a good deal stronger than you, or than mostmen, for that matter, and this may come to be a question of strength, and of disarming and holding on to a fellow when once you have caughthim. '

'You are right, ' Hamilton said submissively but disappointed. 'Ofcourse, I ought to have thought of _that_. I have plenty of nerve, but Iknow I am not half as strong as you. All right, Sarrasin, you shall dothe trick this time. '

'It will very likely turn out to be nothing at all, ' Sarrasin said, byway of soothing the young man's sensibilities; 'but even if we have tolook a little foolish in Ericson's eyes to-morrow we shan't much mind. '

'I'll go and rouse him up. I'll bring him along here. He won't enjoybeing disturbed, but we can't help that. '

'Better be disturbed by you than by--some other, ' Sarrasin said grimly. 

The tone in which he answered, and the words and the grimness of hisface, impressed Hamilton somehow with a new and keener sense of theseriousness of the occasion. 

'Tread lightly, ' Sarrasin said, 'speak in low tones, but for your lifenot in a whisper--a whisper travels far. Keep your eyes about you, andfind out, if you can, who are stirring. I am going to look in on Mrs. Sarrasin's room for a moment, and I shall keep my eyes about me, I cantell you. The more people we have awake and on the alert, thebetter--always provided that they are people whose nerves we can trust. As I tell you, Hamilton, I can trust the nerves of Mrs. Sarrasin. I havetold her to be on the watch--and she will be. '

'I am sure--I am sure, ' said Hamilton; and he cut short the encomium byhurrying on his way to the Dictator's room. 

Sarrasin left Hamilton's room and went for a moment or two to let Mrs. Sarrasin know how things were going. He had left Hamilton's room doorhalf open. When he was coming out of his wife's room he heard the slow, cautious step of a man in the corridor on which Hamilton's room opened, and which was at right angles with that on which Mrs. Sarrasin waslodged. Could it be Hamilton coming back without having roused theDictator? Just as he turned into that corridor he saw someone look intoHamilton's doorway, push the door farther apart, and then enter theroom. Sarrasin quickly glided into the room after him; the man turnedround--and Sarrasin found himself confronted by Soame Rivers. 

'Hello!' Rivers said, with his usual artificiality of careless ease, 'Ithought Hamilton was here. This is his room, ain't it?'

'Yes, certainly, this is his room; he has just gone to look up theDictator. '

'Has he gone to waken him up?' Rivers asked, with a shade of alarmpassing over him. For Rivers had been meditating during the last twohours over his suppressed, telegram, and thinking what a fix he shouldhave got himself into if any danger really were to threaten the Dictatorand it became known that he, the private secretary of Sir RupertLangley, had in Sir Rupert's own house deliberately suppressed thewarning sent to him from the Foreign Office--a warning sent for theprotection of the man who was then Sir Rupert's guest. If anything wereto happen, diplomacy would certainly never further avail itself of theservices of Soame Rivers. Nor would Helena Langley be likely to turn afavourable eye on Soame Rivers. So, after much consideration, Riversthought his best course was to get at Hamilton and let him know of thewarning. Of course he need not exactly say when he had received it, andHamilton was such a fool that he could easily be put off, and in anycase the whole thing was probably some absurd scare; but still Riverswanted to be out of all responsibility, and was already cursing thesudden impulse that made him crumple up the telegram and keep it back. Now, he could not tell why, his mind misgave him when he found Sarrasincoming into Hamilton's room and heard that Hamilton had gone to arousethe Dictator. 

'We have thought it necessary to waken his Excellency' Sarrasin saidemphatically; and he did not fail to notice the look of alarm that cameover Rivers's face. 'Something wrong here, ' Sarrasin thought. 

'You don't really suppose there is any danger; isn't it all alarmistnonsense, don't you think?'

'I hadn't said anything about danger, Mr. Rivers. '

'No. But the truth is, I wanted to see Hamilton about a private messageI got from the Foreign Office, telling me to advise him to look afterthe--the--the ex-Dictator--that there was some plot against him; and I'msure it's all rubbish--people don't _do_ these things in England, don'tyou know?--but I thought I would come round and tell Hamilton all thesame. '

'Hamilton will be here in a moment or two with his Excellency. Hadn'tyou better wait and see them?'

'Oh--thanks--no--it will do as well if you will kindly give my message. '

'May I ask what time you got your message?'

'Oh--a little time ago. I feel sure it's all nonsense; but still Ithought I had better tell Hamilton about it all the same. '

'I hope it's all nonsense, ' Sarrasin said gravely. 'But we have thoughtit right to arouse his Excellency. '

'Oh!' Rivers said anxiously, and slackened in his departure, 'you havegot some news of your own?'

'We have got some news of our own, Mr. Rivers, and we have got somesuspicions of our own. Some of us have our eyes, others of us have ourears. Others of us get telegrams--and act on them at once. ' This was athrash deeper even than its author intended. 

'You don't really expect that anything is going to happen to-night?'

'I am too old a soldier to expect anything. I keep awake and wait untilit comes. '

'But, Mr. Sarrasin--I beg pardon, Colonel Sarrasin----'

'Captain Sarrasin, if you please. '

'I beg your pardon, Captain Sarrasin. Do you really think there is anyplot against--against--his Excellency?' Rivers had hesitated for amoment. He hated to call Ericson either 'his Excellency' or 'theDictator. ' But just now he wanted above all other things to conciliateSarrasin, and if possible get him on his side, in case there should cometo be a question concerning the time of the delayed warning. 

'I believe it is pretty likely, sir. '

'In this house?'

'In this very house. '

'But, good God! that can't be. Why don't we tell Sir Rupert?'

'Why didn't you tell Sir Rupert?'

'Because I was told not to alarm him for nothing. '

'Exactly; we don't want to alarm him for nothing. We think that wethree--the Dictator, Hamilton, and I--we can manage this little businessfor ourselves. Not one of the three of us that hasn't been in many aworse corner alone before, and now there _are_ three of us--don't yousee?'

'Can't I help?'

'Well, I think if I were you I'd just keep awake, ' Sarrasin said. 'Oddsorts of things may happen. One never knows. Hush! I think I hear ourfriends. Will you stay and talk with them?'

'No, ' said Rivers emphatically; and he left the room straightway, goingin the opposite direction from the Dictator's room, and turning into theother corridor before he could have been seen by anyone coming into thecorridor where the Dictator and Hamilton and Sarrasin were lodged. 

Soame Rivers went back to his room, and sat there and waited andwatched. His thoughts were far from enviable. He was in the mood of aman who, from being an utter sceptic, or at least Agnostic, is suddenlyshaken up into a recognition of something supernatural, and does not asyet know how to make the other fashions of his life fit in with this newrevelation. Selfish as he was, he would not have put off taking actionon the warning he had received from the Foreign Office if he had at thetime believed in the least that there was any possibility of a plot forpolitical assassination being carried on in an English country-house. Soame Rivers reasoned, like a realistic novelist, from his ownexperiences only. He regarded the notion of such things taking place inan English country-house as no less an anachronism than the movinghelmet in the 'Castle of Otranto' or the robber-castle in the 'Mysteriesof Udolpho. ' Not that we mean to convey the idea that Rivers had readeither of these elaborate masterpieces of old-fashioned fiction--for hemost certainly had not read either of them, and very likely had not evenheard of either. But if he had studied them he would probably haveconsidered them as quite as much an appurtenance of real life as anystory of a plot for political assassination carried on in an Englishcountry-house. Now, however, it was plain that a warning had been givenwhich did not come from the fossilised officials of the Foreign Office, and which impressed so cool an old soldier as Captain Sarrasin with asense of serious danger. As far as regarded all the ordinary affairs oflife, Rivers looked down on Sarrasin with a quite unutterable contempt. Sarrasin was not a man to get in the ordinary way into Soame Rivers'sset; and Rivers despised alike anyone who was not in his set, and anyonewho was pushed, or who pushed himself, into it. He detestedeccentricities of all sorts. He would have instinctively disliked anddreaded any man whose wife occasionally wore man's clothes and rodeastride. He considered all that sort of thing bad form. He chafed andgroaned and found his pain sometimes almost more than he could bearunder the audacious unconventionalities of Helena Langley. But he knewthat he had to put up with Helena Langley; he knew that she wouldconsider herself in no way responsible to him for anything she said ordid; and he only dreaded the chance of some hinted, hardly repressibleremonstrance from him provoking her to tell him bluntly that she carednothing about his opinion of her conduct. Now, however, as he thought ofSarrasin, he found that he could not deny Sarrasin's coolness andcourage and judgment, and it comforted him to think that Sarrasin mustalways say he had a warning from him, Soame Rivers, before anything hadoccurred--if anything was to occur. If anything should occur, the actualhour of the warning given would hardly be recalled amid so manycircumstances more important. Soame sat in his room and watched withheavy heart. He felt that he had been playing the part of a traitor, and, more than that, that he was likely to be found out. Could heretrieve himself even yet? He knew he was not a coward. 

CHAPTER XXIV

THE EXPLOSION

Meanwhile Hamilton came back to his room with the Dictator. The Dictatorlooked fresh, bright, wide-awake, and ready for anything. He hadgrumbled a little on being roused, and was at first inclined ratherpeevishly to 'pooh-pooh' all suggestion of conspiracies and personaldanger. 

He even went so far as to say that, on the whole, he would rather preferto be allowed to have his sleep out, even though it were to be conciselyrounded off by his death. But he soon pulled himself together and gotout of that perverse and sleepy mood, and by the time he and Hamiltonhad found Sarrasin, the Dictator was well up to all the duties of acommander-in-chief. He had a rapid review of the situation withSarrasin. 

'What I don't see, ' he quietly said--he knew too well to trywhispering--'is why I should not keep to my own room. If anything isgoing to happen I am well forewarned, and shall be well fore-armed, andI shall be pretty well able to take care of myself; and why shouldanyone else run any risk on my account?'

'It isn't on your account, ' Sarrasin answered, a little bluntly. 

'No? Well, I am glad to hear that. On whose account, then, may I ask?'

'On account of Gloria, ' Sarrasin answered decisively. 'If Hamilton hereis killed, or _I_ am killed, it does not matter a straw so far as Gloriais concerned. But if you got killed, who, I want to know, is to go outto Gloria? Gloria would not rise for Hamilton or me. '

The Dictator could say nothing. He could only clasp in silence the handof either man. 

'They are putting out the lights downstairs, ' Sarrasin said in a lowtone. 'I had better get to my lair. '

'Have you got a revolver?' Hamilton asked. 

'Never go without one, dear boy. ' Then Sarrasin stole away with thenoiseless tread of the Red Indian, whose comrade and whose enemy he hadbeen so often. 

Hamilton closed his door, but did not fasten it. The electric lightstill burned softly there. 

'Will you smoke?' Hamilton asked. 'I smoke here every night, andSarrasin too, mostly. It won't arouse any suspicion if the smoke getsabout the corridor. I am often up much later than this. You need notanswer, and then your voice can't be heard. Just take a cigar. '

The Dictator quietly nodded, and took two cigars, which he selected verycarefully, and began to smoke. 

'Do you know, ' Ericson said, 'that to-morrow is my birthday? No--I meanit is already my birthday. '

'As if I didn't know, ' Hamilton replied. 

'Odd, if anything should happen. '

Then there was absolute silence in the room. Each man kept his thoughtsto himself, and yet each knew well enough what the other was thinkingof. Ericson was thinking, among other things, how, if there shouldreally be some assassin-plot, what a trouble and a scandal and even aserious danger he should have brought upon the Langleys, who were sokind and sweet to him. He was thinking of Sarrasin, and of the dangerthe gallant veteran was running for a cause which, after all, was nocause of his. He could hardly as yet believe in the existence of themurder-plot; and still, with his own knowledge of the practices offormer Governments in Gloria, he could not look upon the positiveevidence of Sarrasin's telegram from across the Atlantic and the suddensuspicions of Dolores as insignificant. He knew well that one of thepractices of former Governments in Gloria had been, when they wanted adangerous enemy removed, to employ some educated and clever criminalalready under conviction and sentence of death, and release him for thetime with the promise that, if he should succeed in doing their work, means should be found to relieve him from his penalty altogether. Whenhe became Dictator he had himself ordered the re-arrest of two such menwho had had the audacity to return to the capital to claim their reward, under the impression that they should find their old friends still inpower. He commuted the death punishment in their case, bad as they were, on the principle that they were the victims of a loathsome system, andthat they were tempted into the new crime. But he left them toimprisonment for life. Ericson had a strong general objection to theinfliction of capital punishment--to the punishment that is irreparable, that cannot be recalled. He was not actually an uncompromising opponenton moral grounds of the principle of capital punishment, but he wouldthink long before sanctioning its infliction. 

He was wondering, in an idle sort of way, whether he could remember theappearance or the name of either of these two men. He might perhapsremember the names; he did not believe he could recall the faces. Clearly the Dictator wanted that great gift which, according to populartradition or belief, always belonged to the true leaders of men--thegift of remembering every face one ever has seen, and every name one hasever heard. Alexander had it, we are told, and Julius Cæsar, and OliverCromwell, and Claverhouse, and Napoleon Bonaparte, and Brigham Young. Napoleon, to be sure, worked it up, as we have lately come to know, bycollusion with some of his officers; and it may be that Brigham Youngwas occasionally coached by devoted Elders at Salt Lake City. At allevents, it would not appear that the Dictator either had the gift, or atpresent the means of being provided with any substitute for it. He couldnot remember the appearance of the men he had saved from execution. Itis curious, however, how much of his time and his thoughts they hadoccupied or wasted while he was waiting for the first sound that mightbe expected to give the alarm. 

Hamilton looked at his watch. The Dictator motioned to him, and Hamiltonturned the face of the watch towards him. Half-past one o'clock Ericsonsaw. He looked tired. Hamilton made a motion towards his own bed whichclearly signified, 'would you like to lie down for a little?' Ericsonreplied by a sign of assent, and presently he stretched himself half onthe bed and half off--on the coverlet of the bed as to his head andshoulders, with his legs hanging over the side and his feet on thefloor--and he thought again, about his birthday, and so he fell asleep. 

Hamilton had often seen him fall asleep like this in the immediatepresence of danger, but only when there was nothing that couldimmediately, and in the expected course of things, exact or even callfor his personal attention or his immediate command. Now, however, Hamilton somewhat marvelled at the power of concentration which couldenable his chief to give himself at once up to sleep with the knowledgethat some sort of danger--purely personal danger--hung over him, thenature, the form, and the time of which were absolutely hidden indarkness. Very brave men, familiar with the perils and horrors of war, experienced duellists, intrepid explorers, seamen whose nerves are nevershaken by the white squall of the Levant, or the storm in the Bay ofBiscay, or the tempest round some of the most rugged coasts ofAustralia--such men are often turned white-livered by the threat ofassassination--that terrible pestilence which walks abroad at night orin the dusk, and dogs remorselessly the footsteps of the victim. ButEricson slept composedly, and his deep, steady breathing seemed to tellpale-hearted fear it lied. 

And other thoughts, too, came up into Hamilton's mind. He had long putaway all wild hopes and dreams of Helena. He had utterly given her up;he had seen only too clearly which way her love was stretching itstentacula, and he had long since submitted himself to the knowledge thatthey did not stretch themselves out to grapple with the strings of hisheart. He knew that Helena loved the Dictator. He bent to the knowledge;he was not sorry _now_ any more. But he wondered if the Dictator in hisiron course was sleeping quietly in the front of danger for him whichmust mean misery for _her_, and was thinking nothing about her. Surelyhe must know, by this time, that she loved him! Surely he must loveher--that bright, gifted, generous, devoted girl? Was she, then, misprized by Ericson? Was the Dictator's heart so full of his ownpolitical and patriotic schemes and enterprises that he could not sparea thought, even in his dreams, for the girl who so adored him, and whomHamilton had at one time so much adored? Did this stately tree nevergive a thought to the beautiful and fresh flower that drank the dew atits feet?

Suddenly Ericson turned on the bed, and from his sleeping lips came amurmuring cry--a low-voiced plaint, instinct with infinite love andyearning and pathos--and the only words then spoken were the words'Helena, Helena!' And then the question of Hamilton's mind was answered, and Ericson shook himself free of sleep, and turned on the bed, and satup and looked at Hamilton, and was clearly master of the situation. 

'I have been sleeping, ' he said, in the craftily-qualified tone of theexperienced one who thoroughly understands the difference in a time ofdanger between the carefully subdued tone and the penetrating, sibilantwhisper. 'Nothing has happened?'

Hamilton made a gesture of negation. 

'It must come soon--if it is to come at all, ' Ericson said. 'And it willcome--I know it--I have had a dream. '

'You don't believe in dreams?' Hamilton murmured gently. 

'I don't believe in all dreams, boy; I do believe in that dream. '

'Hush!' said Hamilton, holding up his hand. 

Some faint, vague sounds were heard in the corridor. The Dictator andHamilton remained absolutely motionless and silent. 

The Duchess had disappeared into her room for a while, and calledtogether her maids and passed them in review. It was a whim of thegood-hearted young Duchess to go round to country-houses carrying threemaids along with her. She had one maid as her personal and bodilyattendant, a second to dress her hair, and a third maid to look afterher packing and her dresses. She had honestly got under the impressionof late years that a woman could not be well looked after who had notthree maids to go about with her and see to her wants. When first shesettled down at Seagate Hall with her three attendant Graces, Helena wasalmost inclined to resent such an invasion as an insult. It would nothave mattered, the girl said to her father, if it were at King'sLangley, where were rooms enough for a squadron of maids; but here, atSeagate Hall, the accommodation of which was limited, what anextraordinary thing to do! Who ever heard of a woman going about withthree maids? Sir Rupert, however, would not have a breath of murmuragainst the three maids, and the Duchess made herself so thoroughlyagreeable and sympathetic in every other way that Helena soon forgot theinfliction of the three maids. 'I only hope they are made quitecomfortable, ' she said to the dignified housekeeper. 

'A good deal more comfortable, Miss, than they had any right to expect, 'was the reply, and so all was settled. 

This night, then, the Duchess summoned her maids around her and had herhair 'fixed, ' as she would herself have expressed it, and then made upher mind to pay a visit to Helena. She had become really quite fond ofHelena--all the more because she felt sure that the girl had alove-secret--and wished very much that Helena would take her intoconfidence. 

The Duchess appeared in Helena's room draped in a lovely dressing-gownand wearing slippers with be-diamonded buckles. The Duchess evidentlywas ready for a long dressing-gown talk. She liked to contemplateherself in one of her new Parisian dressing-gowns, and she was quitewilling to give Helena her share in the gratification of the sight. ButHelena's thoughts were hopelessly away from dressing-gowns, even fromher own. She became aware after a while that the Duchess was giving hera history of some marvellous new dresses she had brought from Paris, andwhich were to be displayed lavishly during the short time left of theLondon season, and at Goodwood, and afterwards at variouscountry-houses. 

'You're sleepy, child, ' the Duchess suddenly said, 'and I am keeping youup with my talk. '

'No, indeed, Duchess, I am not in the least sleepy, and it's very kindof you to come and talk to me. '

'Well, if you ain't sleepy you are sorrowful, or something like it. Soyour Dictator _is_ going to try his luck again! Well, clear, I just wishyou and I could help some. By the way, don't you take my countrymen hereas just our very best specimens of Americans. '

'I hadn't much noticed, ' Helena said listlessly. 'They seemed very quietmen. '

'Meaning that American men in general are rather noisy andself-assertive?' the Duchess said with a smile. 

'Oh, no, Duchess, I never meant anything of the kind. But they _do_ seemvery quiet, don't they?'

'Stupid, _I_ should say, ' was the comment of the Duchess. 'I didn't talkmuch with Mr. Copping, but I had a little talk with Professor Flick. Iam afraid, by the way, _he_ thinks me very stupid, for I appear to havegot him mixed up in my mind with somebody quite different, and you knowit vexes anybody to be mistaken for anybody else. I meant to ask himwhat State he hailed from, but I quite forgot. His accent didn't seemquite familiar to me somehow. I wish I had thought of asking him. ' TheDuchess seemed so much in earnest about the matter that Helena feltinspired to say, by way of consoling her:

'Dear Duchess, you can ask him the important question to-morrow. I daresay he will not be offended. '

'Well, now that's just what I have been thinking about, dear child. Yousee, I have already put my foot in it. '

'Won't do much harm, ' Helena said smiling--'foot is too small. '

'Come now, that's very prettily said;' and the gratified Duchessstretched out half-unconsciously a very small and pretty foot, cased inan exquisite shoe and stocking, and then drew it in again, as ifthinking that she must not seem to be personally vindicating Helena'scompliment. 'But he might be offended, perhaps, if I were to convey theidea that I knew nothing at all of him or his place of birth. Well--goodnight, child; we shall meet him anyhow to-morrow. ' She kissed Helena andleft the room. 

When the Duchess had gone, Helena sat in her bedroom, broad awake. Shehad got her hair arranged and put on a dressing-gown, and sent her maidto bed long before, and now she took up a book and tried to read it, andnow and then put it wearily down upon her lap, and then took it up againand read a page or two more, and then put it away again, and went backto think over things. What was she thinking about? Mostly, if notaltogether, of the few words the Dictator had spoken to her--the wordsthat told her he must cut short his visit to Seagate Hall. She knewquite well what that meant. It meant, of course, that he was going outto fling himself upon the shore of Gloria, and that he might never comeback. He might have miscalculated the strength of his following inGloria--and then it was all but certain that he must die for hismistake. Or he might have calculated wisely--and then he would bewelcomed back to the Dictatorship of Gloria, and then he would--oh! shewas sure he would--drive back the invaders from the frontier, and shewould be proud, oh! so proud, of that! But then he would remain inGloria, and devote himself to Gloria, and come back to England no more. How women have to suffer for a political cause! Not merely the mothersand wives and sisters who have to see their loved ones go to the prisonor the scaffold for some political question which they regard, fromtheir domestic point of view, as a pure nuisance and curse because ittakes the loved one from them. Oh! but there is more than that, worsethan that, when a woman is willing to be devoted to the cause, but findsher heart torn with agony by the thought that her lover cares more forthe cause than he cares for _her_--that for the sake of the cause hecould live without her, and even could forget her!

This was what Helena was thinking of this night, as she outwatched thestars, and knew by his tale half-told that the Dictator would soon beleaving her, in all probability for ever. He was not her lover in anysense. He had never made love to her. He had never even taken seriouslyher innocently bold advances towards him. He had taken them as the sweetand kindly advances of a girl who out of her generosity of heart wasstriving to make the course of life pleasant for a banished man with aruined career. Helena saw all this with brave impartial eyes. She hadjudged rightly up to a certain point; but she did not see, she could notsee, she could not be expected to see, how a time came about when theDictator had begun to be afraid of the part he was playing--of the timewhen the Dictator grew acquainted with his heart, and searched whatstirred it so--according to the tender and lovely words of Beaumont andFletcher--and, alas! had found it love. Strange that these two hearts sothoroughly affined should be so misjudging each of the other! It waslike the story told in Uhland's touching poem, which probably no onereads now, even in Uhland's own Germany, about the youth who is leavinghis native town for ever, accompanied by the _geleit_--the escort, the'send-off'--of his companion-students, and who looks back to the windowwhich the maiden has just opened and thinks, 'If she had but loved me!'and a tear comes into the girl's deep blue eye, and she closes herwindow, hopeless, and thinks, 'If he had but loved me!'

'And now he is going!' thought Helena. And at that hour Ericson waswaking up, aroused from sleep by the sound of his own softly-breathedword 'Helena!'

'It is now his birthday, ' she thought. 

Soame Rivers was not in his character very like Hamlet. But of coursethere is that one touch of nature that makes the whole world kin, andthe touch of nature that made Hamlet and Soame Rivers kin to-night wasfound in the fact that on this night, as on a memorable night ofHamlet's career, in his heart there was 'a kind of fighting' that wouldnot let him sleep. He sat up fully dressed. The one thing present to hismind was the thought that, if anything whatever should happen to theDictator--and the more the night grew later, the more the possibilityseemed to enlarge upon him--the ruin of all Soame Rivers's career seemedcertain. Inquiry would assuredly be made into the exact hour when thetelegram was sent from the Foreign Office and when it was received atSir Rupert Langley's, and it would be known that Rivers had thattelegram for hours in his hands without telling anyone about it. It waseasy in the light and the talk of the dining-room and the billiard-roomto tell one's self that there could be no possible danger threateninganyone in an English gentleman's country-house. But now, in the deep ofthe night, in the loneliness, with the knowledge of what Sarrasin hadsaid, all looked so different. It was easy at that earlier and brighterand more self-confident hour to crumple up a telegram and make nothingof it; but now Soame Rivers could only curse himself for his levity andhis folly. What would Helena Langley say to him?

Was there anything he could do to retrieve his position? Only one thingoccurred to him. He could go and hide himself somewhere in shade or indarkness near the Dictator's door. If any attempt at assassinationshould be made, he might be in advance of Sarrasin and Hamilton. Ifnothing should happen, he at least would be found at his self-ordainedpost of watchfulness by Hamilton and Sarrasin, and they would report ofhim to Sir Rupert--and to Helena. 

This seemed the best stroke of policy for him. He threw off hissmoking-coat and put on a small, tight, closely-buttoned jacket, whichin any kind of struggle, if such there were to be, would leave noflapping folds for an antagonist to cling to. Rivers was well-skilled inboxing and in all manner of manly exercises; he took care to be a masterin his way of every art a smart young Englishman ought to possess, andhe began to think with a sickening revulsion of horror that in keepingback the telegram he had been doing just the thing which would shut himout from the society of English gentlemen for ever. A powerful impulsewas on him that he must redeem himself, not merely in the eyes ofothers--others, perhaps, might never know of his momentary lapse--but inhis own eyes. At that moment he would have braved any danger, not merelyto save the Dictator, but simply to show that he had striven to save theDictator. It flashed across his mind that he might even still makehimself a sort of second-best hero--in the eyes of Helena Langley. 

He thought he heard a stirring somewhere in one of the corridors. He puton a pair of tight-fitting noiseless velvet slippers, and he glided outof his room and turned into the corridor where the Dictator slept. Yes, there surely was a sound in that direction. Rivers crept swiftly andstealthily on. 

Soame Rivers belonged to his age and his society. He was born ofCynicism and of Introspection. It would have interested him quite asmuch to find out himself as to find out any other person. While he wasmoving along in the darkness it occurred to him to remember that he didnot know in the least whither, to what rescue, to what danger, he wassteering. He might, for aught he knew, have to grapple with assassins. The whole thing might prove to be a false alarm, an absurd scare, andthen he, who based his whole life and his whole reputation on the theorythat nothing ever could induce him to make himself ridiculous or tobecome bad form, might turn out to be the ludicrous hero of acountry-house 'booby-trap. ' To do him justice, he feared this resultmuch more than the other. But he wanted to test himself--to find himselfout. All this thinking had not as yet delayed his movements by a singlestep, but now he paused for one short second, and he felt his pulse. Itbeat steadily, regularly as the notes of Big Ben at Westminster. 'Come, 'he breathed to himself, 'I am all right. Come what will, I know I am nota coward!'

For there had come into Rivers's somewhat emasculated mind now and againthe doubt whether his father, Cynicism, and his mother, Introspection, might not, between them, have entailed some cowardice on him. He feltrelieved, encouraged, satisfied, by the test of his pulse. 'Come, ' hethought to himself, 'if there is anything really to be done, Helenashall praise me to-morrow. ' So he stole his quiet way. 

Sarrasin had made himself acquainted with the Dictator's habits--and heat once installed himself in bed. He took off his outer clothing, hiscoat and waistcoat, kicked off his dress-shoes, and keeping on histrousers he settled himself down among the bed-clothes. He left his coatand waistcoat and shoes ostentatiously lying about. If there was to be amurderous attack, his idea was to invite, not to discourage, thatmurderous attack, and certainly not by any means to scare it away. Anyindication of preparedness or wakefulness or activity could only havethe effect of giving warning to the assassin, and so putting off theattempt at the crime. The old soldier felt sure that the attempt couldnever be made under conditions so favourable to his side of thecontroversy as at the present moment. 'We have got it here, ' he said tohimself, 'we can't tell where it may break out next. '

He turned off the electric light. The button was so near his hand thatit would not take him a second to turn the light on again whenever heshould have need of it. His purpose was to get the assassin or assassinsas far as possible into the room and close to the bed. He was determinednot to admit that he had thrown off sleep until the very last moment, and then to flash the electric light at once. He would leave no chancewhatever for any explanation or apology about a mistake in the room oranything of that kind. Before he would consent to open his eyes fully hemust have indisputable evidence of the murderous plot. Once for all!

Sarrasin kept his watch under his pillow, safe within reach. He wantedto be sure of the exact minute when everything was to occur. He fanciedhe heard some faint moving in the corridor, and he turned on theelectric light and gave one glance at his watch, and then summoneddarkness again. He found that it was exactly two o'clock. Now, hethought, if anything is going to be done, it must be done very soon; wecan't have long to wait. He was glad. The most practised andcase-hardened soldier is not fond of having to wait for his enemy. 

Sarrasin had left his door--Ericson's door--unlocked and unbarred. Everybody who knew the Dictator intimately knew that he had a sort of_tic_ for leaving his doors open. Sarrasin knew this; but, besides, hewas anxious, as has been already said, to draw the assassin-plot, ifsuch plot there were, into him, not to bar it out and keep it on theother side. Now the way was clear for the enemy. Sarrasin lay low andlistened. Yes, there was undoubtedly the sound of feet in the corridor. It was the sound of one pair of feet, Sarrasin felt certain. He had notcampaigned with Red Shirt and his Sioux for nothing; he coulddistinguish between two sounds and four sounds. 'Come, this is going tobe an easy job, ' he thought to himself. 'I am not much afraid of any oneman who is likely to turn up. Bring along your bears. ' The old soldierchuckled to himself; he was getting to be rather amused with the wholeproceeding. He lay down, and even in the lightness of his plucky heartindulged in simulation of deep breathings intended to convey to thepossibly coming assassin that the victim was fast asleep, and merelywaiting to be killed off conveniently without trouble to anybody, evento himself. He was a little, just a little, sorry that Mrs. Sarrasincould not be present to see how well he could manage the job. But herpresence would not be practicable, and she would be sure to believe thathe had borne himself well under whatever difficulty and danger. Soperhaps he breathed the name of his lady-love, as good knights did inthe days to which he and his lady-love ought to have belonged; and thenhe committed his soul to his Creator. 

The subtle sound came near the door. The door was gently tried--openedwith a soft dexterity and suppleness of touch which much impressed thesham sleeper in the bed. 'No heavy British hand there, ' Sarrasinthought, recalling his many memories of many lands and races. He laywith his right arm thrown carelessly over the coverlets, and his leftarm hidden. Given any assassin who is not of superlative quality, hewill be on his guard as to the disclosed right arm, and will not troublehimself about the hidden left. The door opened. Somebody came glidingin. The somebody was breathing too heavily. 'A poor show of anassassin, ' Sarrasin could not help thinking. His nerves were now allabrace like the finest steel, and he could observe a dozen things in asecond of time. 'If I couldn't do without puffing like that, I'd neverjoin the assassin trade!' Then a crouching figure came to the bedsideand looked over him, and took note, as he had expected, of theoutstretched right arm, and stooped over it, and ranged beyond it andkept out of its reach, and then lifted a knife; and then Sarrasin letout a terrible left-hander just under the assassin's chin, and theassassin tumbled over like a heavy lump on the carpet of the floor, andSarrasin quietly leaped out of bed and took the knife out of his palsiedhand and gently turned on the light. 

'Let's have a look at you, ' he said, and he turned the fallen man over. In the meanwhile he had thrust the knife under the pillow, and he heldthe revolver comfortably ready at the forehead of the reviving murderer. He studied his face. 'Hello, ' he quietly said, 'so it is _you_!'

Yes, it was the wretched Saffron Hill Sicilian of St. James's Park. 

The Sicilian was opening his eyes and beginning vaguely to form a faintidea of how things had been going. 

'Why, you poor pitiful trash!' Sarrasin murmured under his breath, 'isthis the whole business? Are you and your ladies' slipper knife going torun this whole machine? I don't believe a bit of it. Look here; tell usyour whole infernal plot, or I'll blow your brains out--at least as manyas you have, which don't amount to much. Do you feel that?'

He pressed the barrel of his revolver hard on to the Sicilian'sforehead. Under other conditions it might have felt cool and refreshing. The touch _was_ cool and refreshing certainly. But the Sicilian, even inhis bewildered condition, readily recognised the fact that the cooltouch of the iron was evidently to be followed by a distressingexplosion, and he could only whine feebly for mercy. 

For a second or two Sarrasin was fairly puzzled what to do. It would beno trouble to him to drive or drag this wretched Sicilian into the roomwhere Ericson and Hamilton were waiting. Perhaps if they had heard anynoise they would be round in a moment. But was this the plot? Was thisthe whole of the plot? This poor pitiful trumpery attempt atassassination--was this all that the reactionaries of Gloria and ofOrizaba could do? 'Out of the question, ' Sarrasin thought. 

'I think I had better finish you off, ' he said to the Sicilian, speakingin a low, bland tone, subdued as that of a gentle evening breeze. 'Nobody really wants you any more. I don't care to rouse the house byusing my revolver for a creature like you. Just come this way, ' and hedragged him with remorseless hand towards the bed. 'I want to get atyour own knife. That will do the business nicely. '

Honest Sarrasin had not the faintest idea of becoming executioner incold blood of the hired Sicilian stabber. It was important to him to seehow far the Sicilian stabber's stabbing courage would hold out--whetherthere were stronger men behind him who could be grappled with in theirturn. He still held to his conviction, 'We haven't got the whole plotout yet. Anybody could do this sort of thing. '

'Don't kill me!' faintly murmured the wretched assassin. 

'Why not? Just tell me all, or I'll kill you in two seconds, ' Sarrasinanswered, in the same calm low voice, and, gripping the Sicilian solidlyround the waist, he trailed him towards the bed, where the knife was. 

Then there came a flare and splash and blaze of yellowish red lightacross the eyes of Sarrasin and his captive, and in a moment a noise asfierce as if all the artillery of Heaven--or the lower deep--were letloose at once. No words could describe the devastating influence of thatexplosion on the ears and the nerves and the hearts of those for whom itfirst broke. Utter silence--that is, the suspension of all faculty ofhearing or feeling or thinking--succeeded for the moment. Sight andsound were blown out, as the flame of a candle is blown out by anordinary gunpowder explosion. Then the sudden and complete silence wassucceeded by a crashing of bells in the ears, by a flashing of furnacesin the eyes, by a limpness of every limb, a relaxation of every fibre, by a longing to die and be quiet, by a craving to live and get out ofthe noise, by an all unutterable struggle between present blindness andlonged-for sight, present deafness and an impatient, insane thirst tohear what was going on, between the faculties momentarily disordered andthe faculties wildly striving to grasp again at order. And Sarrasinbegan to recover his reason and his senses, and, brave as he was, hisnerves relaxed when he saw in the instreaming light of the morning--theelectric light had been driven out--that he was still gripping on to thebody of the Sicilian, and that half the wretched Sicilian's head hadbeen blown away. Then everything was once more extinguished for him. 

But in that one moment of reviving consciousness he contrived to keephis wits well about him. 'It was not the Sicilian who did _that_, ' hesaid to himself doggedly. 

CHAPTER XXV

SOME VICTIMS

The crash came on the ears of the Dictator and Hamilton. For a moment ortwo the senses of both were paralysed. It is not easy for most of us, who have not been through the cruel suffocation of a dynamite explosion, to realise completely how the crushed collapse of the nervous systemleaves mind, thought, and feeling absolutely prostrate before the mereshrillness of sound. We are not speaking now of the cases in whichserious harm is done--of course anyone can understand _that_--but onlyof the cases, after all, and in even the best carried out and mostbrutally contrived dynamite attempt--the vast majority of cases in whichthe intended, or at least the probable, victims suffer no permanent harmwhatever. The Dictator suddenly found his senses deserting him with thecrash of the explosion. He knew in a moment what it was, and he knewalso that for a certain moment or two his senses would utterly fail totake account of it. For one fearful second he knew he was going to beinsensible, just as a passenger at sea knows he is going to be sick. Then it was all over with him and quiet, and he felt nothing. 

How much time had passed when he was roused by the voice of Hamilton hedid not know. Hamilton had had much the same experience, but Hamilton'smain work in life was looking after the Dictator, and the Dictator'smain work in life was not in looking after himself. Hamilton, too, wasthe younger man. Anyhow, he rallied the sooner. 

'Are you hurt?' he cried. And he trembled lest he should hear theimmortal words of Sir Henry Lawrence at Lucknow, 'I'm killed!'

'Eh--what? I say, is it you, Hamilton? I'm all right, boy; how aboutyou?'

'Nothing the matter with _me_, ' Hamilton said. 'Quite sure you are nothurt?'

'Not the least little bit--only dazzled and dazed a good deal, Hamilton. '

'Let's see what's going on outside, ' Hamilton said. He sprang to openthe door. 

'Wait a moment, ' Ericson said quietly. 'Let us see if that is all. Theremay be another. Don't rush, Hamilton, please. Take your time. ' TheDictator was cool and composed. 

'Gunpowder?' Hamilton asked. 

'No, no--dynamite. You go and look after Sarrasin, Hamilton; I'll takecharge of the house and see what this really comes to. '

And so, with the composure of a man to whom nothing in the way of actionis quite new or disturbing, he opened the door and went out into thecorridor. All the lights that were anywhere burning had been blown out. Servants, men and women, were rushing distractedly downstairs, those whoslept above; those who slept below were rushing distractedly upstairs. It was a confused scene of night-shirts and night-dresses. 

Ericson seized one stout footman, whom he knew well by sight and byname: 'Look here, Frederick, ' he said quietly, 'don't spread anyalarm--the worst is over. Turn on all the lights you can, and getsomeone to saddle a horse at once--no, to put a bridle on thehorse--never mind the saddle--and in the meanwhile guard the house-doorsand see that no one goes out, except me. I want to get the horse. Do youunderstand all this? Have you your senses about you?'

The man was plucky enough, and took his tone readily from Ericson'scalm, subdued way. He recognised a leader. He had all the courage ofTommy Atkins, and all Tommy Atkins's daring, and only wanted leadership:only lead him and he was all right. He could follow. 

'Yes, your Excellency, I think I do. Lights on; horse bridled; no oneallowed out but you. '

'Right, ' Ericson answered; 'you are a brave fellow. '

In a moment Helena came from her room, fully dressed--that is to say, fully robed, in the dressing-gown wherein the Duchess had seen her, withwhite cheeks but resolute face. 

'Oh! thank God _you_ are safe, ' she exclaimed. 'What is it? Where is myfather?'

Just at the moment Sir Rupert came out of his room, plunging, staggering, but undismayed, and even then not forgetful of his positionas a Secretary of State. 

'Here is your father, Heaven be praised!' Ericson exclaimed. 'SirRupert, I am an unlucky guest! I have brought all this on you!'

Helena threw herself on her father's neck. He clasped her tenderly, looking over her shoulder to Ericson as if he were putting her carefullyfor the moment out of the way. 'It _is_ dynamite, Ericson?'

'Oh, yes, I think so. The sound seems to me beyond all mistake. I haveheard it before. '

'Not an accident?'

'No--no accident. I don't think we need trouble about _that_. Look here, Sir Rupert; you look after the house and the Duchess, and Sarrasin andeverybody; Hamilton will help you--I say, Hamilton! Hamilton! where areyou? I am going to have a ride round the grounds and see if anyone islurking. I have ordered a horse to be bridled. '

'You take command, Ericson, ' Sir Rupert said. 

'Outside, yes, ' Ericson assented. 'You look after things inside. '

'You must order a horse for me too, ' Helena exclaimed, stiffeningherself up from her father's protecting embrace. 'I can help you, I havethe eyes of a lynx--I must do something. I must! Let me go, papa!' Sheturned appealingly to Sir Rupert. 

'Go, child, if you won't be in the way. '

Ericson hesitated, just for a second; then he spoke. 

'Come with me if you will, Miss Langley. You can pilot me over thegrounds as nobody else can. '

'Oh!' she exclaimed, and they both rushed downstairs together. Theservants were already lighting up such of the electric lamps as had beenleft uninjured after the explosion. The electric engineer was on thespot and at work, with his assistants, as fresh and active as if none ofthem had ever wanted a rest in his life. Ericson cast a glance over thewhole scene, and had to acknowledge that the household had turned outwith almost the promptitude of a fire-drill on the ocean. Thewomen-servants, who were to be seen in their night-dresses scuttlingwildly about when the crash of the explosion first shook them up had nowaltogether disappeared, and were in all probability steadily engaged inputting things to rights wherever they could, and no one yet knew thenumber of the dead. 

Ericson and Helena got down to the hall. The girl was happy. Her fatherwas safe; and she was with the man she loved. More than that, she had asense of sharing a danger with the man she loved. That was a delight tobe expressed by no words. She had not the remotest idea of what hadhappened. She had been sitting up late--unable to sleep. She had beenthinking about the news the Dictator had told her--that he was going toleave her. Then came the tremendous crash of the explosion, and for amoment her senses and her thought were gone. Then she staggered to herfeet, half blinded, half deafened, but alive, and she rushed to her doorand dragged it open; and but for a blue foam of dawn all was darkness, and in another moment she knew that Ericson was alive, and she was ableto welcome her father. What on earth did she want more? It might be thatthere was danger to Hamilton--to Sarrasin--to Mrs. Sarrasin--to theDuchess--to Miss Paulo--to some of the servants--to her own maid, agreat friend and favourite of hers--to all sorts of persons. She had toacknowledge to her own heart that in such a moment she did not muchcare. She was conscious of a sense of joy in the knowledge of the factthat To-to had not yet got down from London. There all calculationceased. 

The hall-door was opened. The breath of the fresh morning came intotheir lungs. Helena drank it in, as if it were a draught of wine--inmore correct words, as if it were _not_ a draught of wine, for she wasnot much of a wine-drinker. The freshness of the air was a shudderingand a delight to her. 

'Let nobody leave the house until we come back, ' Ericson said to the manwho opened the doors for Helena and him. 

'Nobody, sir?' the man asked in astonishment. 

'Nobody whatever. '

'Not Sir Rupert, sir?'

'Certainly not. Sir Rupert above all men! We can't have your fathergetting into danger, Miss Langley--can we?'

'Oh no, ' she answered quickly. 

'Which way to the stables?' Ericson asked the man. 

'Come with me, ' Helena said; 'I can show you. '

They hurried round to the stables, and found a wide-awake groom or twowho had a lady's horse properly saddled, and a man's horse with nosaddle, but only a bridle on. They had evidently taken the Dictator'scommand to the letter, and assumed that he had some particular motivefor riding without a saddle. 

Ericson lifted Helena into her seat. It has to be confessed that she wasriding in her already-mentioned dressing-gown, and that she had nothingon her head, and that her bare feet were thrust into slippers. Mrs. Grundy was not on the premises, and, even if she were, Helena would nothave cared two straws about Mrs. Grundy's reflections and criticisms. 

'Oh, look here, you haven't a saddle!' she cried to Ericson. 

'Saddle!--no matter--never mind the saddle, ' he called. The horse was alittle shy, and backed and edged, and went sideways, and plunged. One ofthe grooms rushed at him to hold his head. 

The Dictator laid one hand upon his mane. 'Let him go!' he said, and heswung himself easily on to the unsaddled back and gripped the bridle. 'Now for it, Helena!' he exclaimed. 

Now for it, Helena! She just caught the words in the wild flash of theirflight. Never before had he used her name in that way. He rode hisunsaddled horse with all the ease of another Mephistopheles; and whatdelighted the girl was that he seemed to count on her riding her coursejust as well. 

'Look out everywhere you can, ' he called to her; 'tell me if you see asquirrel stirring, or the eyes of an owl looking out of the ivy-bushes. '

Helena had marvellous sight--but she could descry no human figure, nohuman eyes, but _his_ anywhere amid the myriad eyes of the dark night. They rode on and round. 

'We shall soon find out the whole story, ' he said to her after a while, and he brought his horse so near to hers that it touched her saddle. 'There is no one in the grounds, and we shall soon know all, if we haveonly to deal with the people who were indoors. I think we have settledthat already. '

'But what _is_ it all?' she breathlessly asked, as they galloped roundthe young plantation. The hour, the companionship, the gallop, the freshbreath of the morning air among the trees, seemed to make her feel as ifshe never had been young before. 

'"Miching mallecho; it means mischief, " as Hamlet says, ' the Dictatorreplied, 'and very much mischief too, ' and he checked himself, pullingup his horse so suddenly that the creature fell back upon his haunches, and then flinging himself off the horse as lightly as if he wereperforming some equestrian exercise to win a prize in a competition. Then he let his own horse run loose, and he stopped Helena's, and tookher foot in his hand. 

'Jump off!' he said, in a voice of quiet authority. They were now infront of the hall-door. 

'What more is the matter?' she asked nervously, though she did not delayher descent. She was firm on the gravel already, picking up the draggingskirts of her dressing-gown. The dawn was lighting on her. 

'The house is on fire at this side, ' he said composedly. 'I must go andshow them how to put it out. '

'The house on fire!' she exclaimed. 

'Yes--for the moment. I shall put that all right. '

She was prepared for anything now. 'We have a fire-escape in thevillage, ' she said, panting for breath. She had full faith in theDictator's power to conquer any conflagration, but she did not want togive utterly away the resources of Seagate Hall. 

'Yes, I am afraid of that sort of thing, ' the Dictator replied. 'I haveno time to lose. Tell your father to look after things indoors and tolet nobody out. '

Then the hall-door was flung open, and both Ericson and Helena saw bythe scared faces of the two men who stood in the hall that something hadhappened since the Dictator and she had gone out on their short wildnight-ride. 

'What has gone wrong, Frederick?' Helena asked eagerly. 

'Oh please, Miss, Mr. Rivers--Miss----'

'Yes, Frederick, Mr. Rivers----'

'Please, Miss, poor Mr. Rivers--he is killed!'

Then for the first time the terrible reality of the situation wasbrought straight home to Helena--to her mind and to her heart. Up tothis moment it was melodramatic, startling, shocking, bewildering; butthere was no cold, grim, cruel, practical detail about it. It was likethe fierce blinding flash of the lightning and the crash of the thunder, followed, when senses coldly recover, by the knowledge of the abidingblindness. It was like the raw conscript's first sight of the comradeshot down by his side. Helena was a brave girl, but she would havefallen in a faint were it not that a burst of stormy tears came to herrelief. 

'Poor Soame Rivers!' she sobbed. 'I wish I could have liked him morethan I did. ' And she sobbed again, and Ericson understood her andsympathised with her. 

'Poor Soame Rivers!' he said after her. 'I wish I too had liked him, andknown him better!'

'What was he killed for?' Helena passionately asked. 

'He was killed for _me_!' the Dictator answered calmly. 'All thistrouble and tragedy have been brought on your house by _me_. '

'Let it come!' the girl sobbed, in a wild fresh outburst of new emotion. 

'Come, ' Ericson said gently and sympathetically, 'let us go in and learnwhat has happened. Let us have the full story of the whole tragedy. Nothing is now left but to punish the guilty. '

'Who _are_ they?' Helena asked in passion. 

'We shall find them, ' he answered. 'Come with me, Helena. You are abrave girl, and you are not going to give way now. I may have to ask youto lend a helping hand yet. '

The Dictator said these words with a purpose. He knew that the best wayto get a courageous woman to brace herself together for new effort andnew endurance was to make her believe that her personal help would stillbe wanted. 

'Oh, I--I am ready for anything, ' she said fervently. 'Only tell me whatI am to do, and you will see that I can do it. '

'I trust you, ' he answered quietly. Meanwhile his keen eyes werewandering over the side of the house, where a light smoke told him offire. Time enough yet, he thought. 

Ericson and Helena hurried into the house and up to the corridor, whichseemed to be the stage of the tragedy. Sir Rupert was there, and Mrs. Sarrasin, and Miss Paulo, and the Duchess and her three maids, who, withthe instinct of discipline, had rallied round her when, like the threehares in the old German folk-song, they found that they were not killed. 

'Who are killed?' the Dictator asked anxiously but withal composedly. Hehad seen men killed before. 

'Poor Soame Rivers is killed, ' Sir Rupert said sadly. 'The man who brokeinto Sarrasin's room--your room, Ericson--_he_ is killed. '

'And Sarrasin himself?' Ericson asked, glancing away from Mrs. Sarrasin. 

'Sarrasin is cut about on the shoulder--and of course he was stunned anddeafened. But nothing dangerous we all hope. '

'I have seen my husband, ' Mrs. Sarrasin stoutly said; 'he will be aswell as ever before many days. '

'And one of the menservants is killed, I am sorry to say. '

'What about the American gentlemen?'

'I have sent to ask after them, ' Sir Rupert innocently said. 'They areboth uninjured. '

'My countrymen, ' said the Duchess, 'are bound to get through, likemyself. But they might come out and comfort us. '

'Well, I can do nothing here for the moment, ' Ericson said; 'one end ofthe house is on fire. '

'Oh, no!' Sir Rupert exclaimed. 

'Yes; the east wing is on fire. I shall easily get it under. Send me alot of the grooms; they will be the readiest fellows. Let no one leavethe place, Sir Rupert, except these grooms. You give the order, please, and let someone here see to it. '

'I'll see to it, ' Mrs. Sarrasin promptly said. 'I will stand in thedoorway. '

'Shall I go with you?' Helena asked pathetically of Ericson. 

'No, no. It would be only danger, and no use. '

Poor Soame Rivers! No use to him certainly. If Helena could only haveknown! The one best and noblest impulse of his life had brought his lifeto a premature end. He had deeply repented his suppression of thewarning telegram, although he had not for a moment believed that therewas the slightest foundation for real alarm. But it was borne in uponhim that, seeing what his hidden and ulterior views were, it was notacting quite like an English gentleman to run the slightest risk in sucha case. His only conscience was to do as an English gentlemen ought todo. If he had not loved--as far as he was capable of loving--HelenaLangley; if he had not hated--so far as he was capable of hating--theman whom it hurt him to hear called the Dictator, then he might not havejudged his own conduct so harshly. But he had thought it over, and heknew that he had crushed and suppressed the telegram out of a feeling ofspite, because he loved Helena, and for her sake hated the Dictator. Hecould not accuse himself of having consciously given over the Dictatorto danger, for he did not believe at the time that there was any realdanger; but he condemned himself for having done a thing which was notstraightforward--which was not gentlemanly, and which was done out ofpersonal spite. So he made himself a watch-dog in the corridor. He wentto Hamilton's room, but he heard there the tones of Sarrasin's voice, and he did not choose to take Sarrasin into his confidence. He went backinto his own room, and waited. Later on he crept out, having heard whatseemed to him suspicious footfalls at Ericson's door, and he stolealong, and just as he got to the door he became aware that a strugglewas going on inside, and he flung the door open, and then came theexplosion. He lived a few minutes, but Sarrasin saw him and knew him, and could bear ready witness to his pluck and to the tragedy of hisfate. 

'Come, Miss Paulo, ' Helena said, 'we will go over the rooms and see whatis to be done. Papa, where is poor--Mr. Rivers?'

'I have had him taken to his room, Helena, although I know that was_not_ what was right. He ought to have been allowed to remain where hewas found; but I couldn't leave him there--my poor dear friend! I hadknown him since he was a child. I could not leave his bodythere--disfigured and maimed, to lie in the open passage! Good heavens!'

'What brought him there, anyhow?' the Duchess asked sharply. 

'He must have heard some noise, and was running to the rescue, ' Helenasoftly said. She was remorseful in her heart because she had not thoughtmore deeply about poor Soame Rivers. She had been too much charged withgladness over the safety of her hero and the safety of her father. 

'Like the brave comrade that he was, ' Sir Rupert said mournfully. Thatwas Soame Rivers's epitaph. 

Mrs. Sarrasin and Dolores had thoughts of their own. They knew thatthere was something further to come, of which Sir Rupert and Helena hadno knowledge or even suspicion. They were content to wait until Ericsoncame back. Curiously enough, no one seemed to be alarmed about the factthat the house had caught fire in a wing quite near to them. The commonfeeling was that the Dictator had taken that business in hand and thathe would put it through; and that in any case, if there were danger tothem, he would be sure to come in good time and tell them. 

'I wonder our American friends have not come to look after us, ' Helenasaid. 

'They are used to all sorts of accidents in their country, ' Sir Rupertexplained. 'They don't mind such things there. '

'Excuse me, Sir Rupert, ' the Duchess said, 'it's _my_ country--andgentlemen _do_ look after ladies there, when there's any danger round. '

'Beg your pardon, Sir Rupert, ' one of the footmen said, comingrespectfully but rather flushed towards the group, 'but this gentlemanwished to go out into the grounds, and his Excellency was veryparticular in his orders that nobody was to go out until he came back. '

Mr. Copping of Omaha, fully dressed, tall hat in hand, presented himselfand joined the group. 

'Pray excuse me, Sir Rupert--and you ladies, ' Mr. Copping said; 'I justthought I should like to have a look round to see what was happening;but your hired men said it was against orders, and, as I suppose yougive the orders here, I thought I should just like to come and talk toyou. '

'I beg your pardon, Mr. Copping; I do in a general way give the ordershere, but Mr. Ericson just now is in command; he understands this sortof thing much better than I do, and we have put it all into his handsfor the moment. The police will soon be here, but then our villagepolice----'

'Don't amount to much, I dare say. '

'You see there has been a terrible attempt made----'

'Oh, you allow it really was an attempt, then, and not an accident--gasexplosion or anything of the kind?'

'There is no gas in Seagate Hall, ' Sir Rupert replied. 

'Then you really think it was an explosion? Now, my friend and I, wedidn't quite figure it up that way. '

'Well, even a gas explosion, if there were any gas to explode, wouldn'tquite explain the presence of a strange man in Captain Sarrasin's room. '

'Then you think that it was an attempt on the life of Captain Sarrasin?'

Mrs. Sarrasin contracted her eyebrows. Was Mr. Copping indulging in asneer? Possibly some vague idea of the same kind grated on the nerves ofSir Rupert. 

'I haven't had time to make any conjectures that are worth talking aboutas yet, ' Sir Rupert said. 'Captain Sarrasin is not well enough yet to beable to give us any clear account of himself. '

'He will very soon be able to give a very clear account, ' Mrs. Sarrasinsaid with emphasis. 

'I have sent for doctors and police, ' Sir Rupert observed. 

'Before the house was put into a state of siege?'

'Before I had requested my friend Mr. Ericson to take command and do thebest he could, ' Sir Rupert said, displeased, he hardly knew why, at Mr. Copping's persistent questioning. 

'The stranger who invaded Captain Sarrasin's room will have to explainhimself, won't he--when your police come along?'

'The stranger will not explain himself, ' Sir Rupert said emphatically;'he is dead. '

Mr. Copping had much power of self-control, but he did seem to start atthis news. 

'Great Scott!' he exclaimed. 'Then I don't see how you are ever to getat the truth of this story, Sir Rupert. '

'We shall get at the whole truth--every word--never fear, ' Mrs. Sarrasinsaid defiantly. 

'We shall send for the local magistrates, ' Sir Rupert said, 'of course. 'He was anxious, for the moment, to allow no bickerings. 'I am amagistrate myself, but in such a case I should naturally rather leave itto others. I have lost a dear friend by this abominable crime, Mr. Copping. '

'So I hear, Sir Rupert--sorry to hear it, sir--so is my friend ProfessorFlick. '

'Thank you--thank you both--you can understand then how I feel about thematter, and how little I am likely to leave any stone unturned to bringthe murderers of my friend to justice. After the death of my friendhimself, I most deeply deplore the death of the man who made his wayinto Sarrasin's room----'

'Yes, quite right, Sir Rupert; spoils the track, don't it?'

'But when Captain Sarrasin comes to he will tell us something. '

'He will, ' Mrs. Sarrasin added earnestly. 

'Well, I say, ' Mr. Copping exclaimed, 'Professor Flick, and where haveyou been all this time?'

The moony spectacles beamed not quite benevolently on the corridor. 

'I don't quite understand, Sir Rupert Langley, sir, ' the learnedProfessor declared, 'why one is to be treated as a prisoner in a houselike this--a house like this, sir, in the truly hospitable home of anEnglish gentleman, and a statesman, and a Minister of her Majesty'sCrown of Great Britain----'

'If my esteemed and most learned friend, ' Mr. Copping intervened, 'wouldallow me to direct his really gigantic intellect to the fact that veryextraordinary events have occurred in this household, and that it is SirRupert Langley's duty as a Minister of the Crown to take care that everypossible assistance is to be given to the proper authorities--and thatat such a time some regulations may be necessary which would not beneeded or imposed under other circumstances----'

'Precisely, ' Sir Rupert said. 'Mr. Copping quite appreciates the extremegravity of the situation. '

'Come, let us go round, let us do something, ' Helena said impatiently, and she and the Duchess and Mrs. Sarrasin and Miss Paulo left thecorridor. 

Meanwhile Mr. Copping had been sending furtive glances at his learnedfriend, which, if they had only possessed the fabled power of thebasilisk, would assuredly have made things uncomfortable for ProfessorFlick. 

'Please, Sir Rupert, ' a servant said, 'Mrs. Sarrasin wishes to ask couldyou speak to her one moment?'

'Certainly, certainly, ' Sir Rupert said, and he hastened away, leavingthe two distinguished friends together. 

'Look here, ' Copping exclaimed, with blazing eyes, 'if you are going toget into one of your damnation cowardly fits I shall just have to sticka knife into you. '

The learned Professor began with characteristic ineptitude to reply inSouth American Spanish. 

'Confound you, ' Copping said in a fierce low tone and between his teeth, 'why do you talk Spanish? Haven't you given us trouble enough alreadywithout that? Talk English--you don't know who may be listening to us. Now look here, we shall come out of this all right if you can only keepup your confounded courage. There's nothing against us if you don't giveus away. But just understand this, I am not going to be taken alone. IfI am to die, you are to die too--by my hand if it can't be done in anyother way. '

'I am not going to stop here, ' the shivering Professor murmured, 'to dielike a poisoned rat in a hole. I'll get away--I must get away--out ofthis accursed place, where you brought me. '

'Where I brought you? Could I have done anything better for you? Wereyou or were you not under sentence of death? Was this or was it not yourlast chance to escape the garrotte?'

'Well, I don't care about all that. I tell you if I have no betterchance left I shall appeal to the Dictator himself, and tell him thewhole story, and ask him to show me some mercy. '

'That you never, never shall!' Copping whispered ferociously into hisear. 'You shall die by my hand before I leave this place if you don'tact with me and leave the place with me. Keep that in your mind as fastas you can. You shall never leave this place alive unless you and Ileave it free men together. Remember that!'

'You are always bullying me, ' the big man whimpered. 

'Hold your tongue!' Copping said savagely. 'Here is Sir Rupert comingback. '

Sir Rupert came back, and in a moment was followed by the Dictator. 

CHAPTER XXVI

'WHEN ROGUES----'

'I have put out the fire, Sir Rupert, ' Ericson said composedly, 'or, rather, I have shown your men how to do it. It was not a very difficultjob after all, and they managed very well. They obeyed orders--that isthe good point about all Englishmen. '

'Well, what's to be done now?' Sir Rupert asked. 

'Now? I don't know that there is much to be done now by us. We shall besoon in the hands of the coroner, and the magistrates, and the police;is not that the regular sort of thing?'

'Yes, I suppose we must put up with the ordinary conventionalities ofcriminal administration. Our American friends, these two gentlemen here, Professor Flick and Mr. Copping, they are rather anxious to be allowedto go on their way. We have taken up some of their valuable time alreadyby bringing them down to this out-of-the-way sort of place. '

'Oh, but, Sir Rupert, 'twas so great an honour to us, ' Mr. Copping said, and a very keen observer might have fancied that he gave a glance toProfessor Flick which admonished him to join in protest against thetheory that any inconvenience could have come from the kindly acceptanceof an invitation to Seagate Hall. 

'Of course, of course, ' Professor Flick murmured perfunctorily. 

'I don't see how we can release our friends just yet, ' Ericson repliedquietly. 'There will be questions of evidence. These gentlemen may haveseen something you and I did not see, they may have heard something wedid not hear. But the delay will not be long in any case, I shouldthink, and meanwhile this is not a very disagreeable place to stay in, now that we have succeeded in putting out the fire, and we don't expectany more dynamite explosions. '

'Then the fire _is_ all out?' Sir Rupert asked, not hurriedly, butcertainly somewhat anxiously, as anxiously as a somewhat self-consciousMinister of State could own up to. 

'Yes, we have got it under completely, ' the Dictator replied, as calmlyas if the putting out of fires were the natural business of his dailylife. 

'Then perhaps we can let these gentlemen go, ' Sir Rupert suggested, forhe felt a sort of unwillingness, being the host, to keep anyone underhis roof longer than the guest desired to tarry. 

'No--no--I am afraid we can't do that just yet, ' Ericson replied; 'weshall all have to give our evidence--to tell what each of us knows. OurAmerican friends will not grudge remaining a little time longer with usin order to help us to explain to our police authorities what this wholething is, and how it came about. '

'Delighted--delighted--I am sure--to stay here under any conditions, 'Mr. Copping hastened to say. 

'But still, if one has other work to do, ' Professor Flick was beginningto articulate. 

'My friend is very much occupied with his own special culture, ' Mr. Copping said in gentle explanation, 'and he does not quite live in theordinary world of men; but still, I think he will see how necessary itis that we should stay here just for the present and add our testimony, as impartial outsiders, to what the regular residents of the house mayhave to tell. '

'I can tell nothing, ' Professor Flick said bluntly, and yet withcuriously trembling lip. 

'Oh, yes--you _can_, ' his colleague added blandly; and again he flasheda danger signal on the eyes that were alert enough when not actuallyobserved under the moony spectacles. 

The signalled eyes under the moony spectacles received the danger signalwith something of impatience. The learned Professor seemed to bebeginning to think that the time had come in this particular businessfor every man to drag his own corpse out of the fight. The influence ofMr. Copping of Omaha had kept him in due control for awhile, but thetime was clearly coming when the Professor would kick over the tracesand give his friend from Omaha the good-bye. It was curious--it mighthave been evident to anyone who was there and took notice--that theparts of the two friends had changed of late. When the pair set out ontheir London social expedition the Professor with his folk-lore was theman deliberately put in front and the leader of the whole enterprise. Now it seemed somehow as if the sceptre of the leadership had suddenlyand altogether passed into the hands of the quiet Mr. Andrew Copping ofOmaha. Ericson began to see something of this, and to be impressed byit. But he said nothing to Sir Rupert; his own suspicions were onlysuspicions as yet. He was trying to get two names back to his memory, and he felt sure he had much better let events discover and displaythemselves. 

'Still, I don't quite know that _I_ can stay, ' Professor Flick began toargue. Mr. Copping struck impatiently in:

'Why, of course, Professor Flick, you have just got to stay. We arebound to stay, don't you see? We must throw all the light we can on thisdistressing business. '

'But I can't throw any light, ' the hapless Professor said, 'uponanything. And I came to England about folk-lore, and not about cases ofdynamite and fire and explosions. '

The dawn was now beginning to throw light on various things. It wasflooding the corridor--there were splashes of red sunlight on thefloors, which to the excited imagination of Helena seemed like littlepools of blood. There was a stained window in the corridor whichcertainly caught the softest stream of the entering sunlight, andtransfigured it there and then into a stream of blood. Helena and theDuchess had stolen back into the corridor; Mrs. Sarrasin and Miss Paulowere in attendance on Captain Sarrasin; the Duchess and Helena both feltin a vague manner that sense of being rather in the way which most womenfeel when some serious business concerning men is going on, and theyhave no particular mission to stanch a wound or smooth a pillow. 

'I think, dear child, ' the Duchess whispered, 'we had better go andleave these men to themselves. '

But Helena's eyes were fixed on the Dictator's face. She had heard aboutthe easy way in which he had got the fire under, but just now she feltsure that he was thinking of something quite different and somethingvery serious. 

'Stay a moment, Duchess, ' she entreated; 'they won't mind us--or myfather will tell us to go if they want us away. '

Then there was a little commotion caused by the arrival of the coronerfor that part of the county, two local doctors, and the local inspectorof police. The coroner, Mr. St. John Raven, was very proud of beingsummoned to the house of so great a man as Sir Rupert Langley. Mysterious deaths and mysterious crimes in the home of a Minister ofState are events that cannot happen in the lives of many coroners. Thedoctors and the police inspector were less swelled up with pride. Thesore throat of a lady's maid would at any time bring a doctor to SeagateHall; the most commonplace burglary, without any question of jewels, would summon the police inspector thither. After formal salutations, Mr. St. John Raven looked doubtfully adown the corridor. 

'I think, ' he suggested, 'we had better, Sir Rupert, request theseladies to withdraw--unless, of course, either is in a position tocontribute by personal evidence to the elucidation of the case. Ofcourse, if either can, or both----'

'I can't tell anything, ' Helena said; 'I heard a crash, and that wasall--I felt as if I were in an earthquake; I know nothing more aboutit. '

'I hardly know even so much, ' the Duchess said, 'for I had not witsenough left in me even to think about the earthquake. Come, dear child, let us go. '

She made a sweeping bow to all the company. The coroner afterwardslearned that she was a Duchess, and was glad to have caught her eyes. 

'I have summoned a jury, ' the coroner said blandly. Sir Rupert winced. The idea of having a coroner's jury in his home seemed a sort ofdegradation to him. But so, too, did the idea of a dynamite explosion. Even his genuine grief for poor Soame Rivers left room enough in hisbreast for a very considerable stowage of vexation that the wholeconfounded thing should have happened in his house. Grief is seldom soarbitrary as to exclude vexation. The giant comes attended by his dwarf. 

'Well, we shall have a look at everything, ' the coroner said cheerily. 'I suppose we need not think of the possibility of a mere accident?'

And now Ericson found himself involuntarily, and voluntarily too, working out that marvellous, never-to-be-explained problem about therevival of a vanished memory. It is like the effort to bring back tolife a three-parts drowned creature. Or it is like the effort to getsome servant far down beneath you who has gone to sleep to rouse up andobey your call and attend to his duty. You ring and ring and no answercomes, until at last, when you have all but given up hope, the summonstells upon the sleeper's ear and he wakes up and gives you his answer. 

So it was with Ericson. Just as he thought the quest was hopeless, justas he thought the last opportunity was slipping by, his sluggishservant, Memory, woke up with a start, and fulfilled its duty. 

And Ericson quietly put himself forward and said:

'I beg your pardon, Sir Rupert and Mr. Coroner, but I have to saysomething in this matter. I have to charge these two men, who say theyare American citizens, with being escaped or released convicts from theState prison of the capital of Gloria, in South America. I charge themwith being guilty of the plot for assassination and for dynamite in thishouse. I say that their names are José Cano and Manoel Silva. I say itwas I who commuted the death sentence of these men to perpetualimprisonment, and I say that in my firm conviction they have been letloose to do these crimes. '

Sir Rupert seemed thunderstruck. 

'My dear Ericson, ' he pleaded. 'These gentleman are my guests. '

'I never remembered their names until this moment, ' Ericson said. 'Butthey are the men--and they are the murderers. '

The face of Professor Flick was livid with fear. Great pearls ofperspiration stood out on his forehead. Mr. Copping of Omaha stoodcomposed and firm, like a man with his back to the wall who just turnsup his sleeves and gets his sword and dagger ready and is prepared totry the last chance--the very last. 

'We are American citizens, ' he said stoutly; 'the flag of the Stars andStripes defends us wherever we go. '

'God bless the flag of the Stars and Stripes, ' Ericson exclaimed, 'andif it shelters you I shall have nothing more to say. But only just tryif it will either claim you or shelter you. I remember now that you bothof you did take refuge for a long time in Southern California, but ifyou prove yourselves American citizens, then you can be made to answerto American reading of international law, and the flag of the GreatRepublic will not shelter convicts from a prison in Gloria when they areaccused of dynamite outrage in England. Sir Rupert, Mr. Coroner, I haveonly to ask you to do your duty. '

'This will be an international question, ' Mr. Andrew Copping quietlysaid. 'There will be a row over this. '

'No there won't, ' Professor Flick declared abruptly. 'Look here, we havemade a muddle of this. My comrade in this business has been managingthings pretty badly; he always wanted to boss the show too much. Now Iam getting sick of all that, don't you see? I have had the dangerouspart always, and he has had the pleasure of bullying me. Now I am tiredof all that, and I have made up my mind, and I am just going to have thebulge on him by turning--what do you call it?--Queen's evidence. '

Then Mr. Andrew Copping suddenly thrust himself into the front. 

'No you don't--you bet you don't!' he exclaimed. 'You are a coward and atraitor, and you shall never give Queen's evidence or any other evidenceagainst me. '

Those who stood around thought he was going to strike Professor Flick. Some ran between, but they were not quick enough. Copping made oneclutch at his breast, and then, with a touch that seemed as light as ifhe were merely throwing his hand into the air unpurposing, he made apush at the breast of Professor Flick, and Professor Flick went down asthe bull goes down in the amphitheatre of Madrid or Seville when thehand of the practised swordsman has touched him with the point in justthe place where he lived. Professor Flick, as he called himself, wasdead, and the whole plot was revealed and was over. 

By a curious stroke of fate it was Ericson who caught the dyingProfessor Flick as he fainted and died, and it was Hamilton who grippedthe murderer, the so-called Copping. Copping made no struggle; thepolice took quiet charge of him--and of his weapon. 

'Well, I think, ' said Sir Rupert with a shudder, 'we have case enoughfor a committal now. '

'We have occasion, ' said the Coroner with functional gravity, 'for threeinquests; three?--no, pardon me, for four inquests, and for at least onecharge of deliberate murder. '

'Good Heaven, how coolly one takes it, ' Sir Rupert murmured, 'when itreally does happen! Well, Mr. Coroner, Mr. Inspector, we must have awarrant signed for Mr. Andrew J. Copping's detention--if he stillprefers to be called by that name. '

'Call me by any name you like, ' Copping said sullenly, but pluckily. 'Idon't care what you call me or what you do to me, so long as I have hadthe best of the traitor who deserted me in the fight. He'll not give anyQueen's evidence--that's all I care about--now. I'd have done the workbut for that coward; I'd have done the work if I had been alone!'

 * * * * *

Yet a little, and the silence and quietude of a perfectly serene andordered household had returned to Seagate Hall. The Coroner's jury hadviewed the dead, and then had gone off to the best public-house in thevillage to hold their inquest. The dead themselves had been laid inseemly beds. The Sicilian and the victimised serving-man were notallowed to be seen by anyone but the Coroner and his jury, and thepolice officials, and of course the doctors. Almost any wound may beseen by courageous and kindly eyes that is not on the head and face. Buta destruction to the head and face is a sight that the bravest and mostkindly eyes had better not look upon unless they are trained againstshock and horror by long prosaic experience. The wounds of Soame Rivershappened to be almost altogether in his chest and ribs--his chest waswell-nigh torn away--and when the doctors and the nurses made him upseemly in his death-bed he might be looked upon without horror. He waslooked upon by Helena Langley without horror. She sat beside him, andmourned over him, and cried over him, and wished that she could havebetter appreciated him while he lived--and never did know, and neverwill know, what was the act of treachery which had stirred him up toremorse and to manhood, and which in fact had redeemed him, and hadcaused his death. 

Silence and order fell with subdued voice upon the house which had solately crashed with dynamite and rung with hurrying, scurrying feet. TheCoroner's jury had found a verdict of wilful murder against the mandescribing himself as Andrew J. Copping of Omaha, for the killing of theman describing himself as Professor Flick, and had found that thecalamities at Seagate Hall were the work of certain conspirators atpresent not fully known, but of whom Andrew J. Copping, otherwise knownas Manoel Silva, was charged with being one. Then the whole question wasremitted into the hands of the magistrates and the police; and theso-called Andrew J. Copping was sent to the County Gaol to await histrial. The Dictator had little evidence to give except the fact of hisdistinct recollection that two men, whose names he perfectly wellremembered now, but whose faces he could not identify, had been relievedby him from the death penalty in Gloria, but had been sent to penalservitude for life; and that he believed the men who called themselvesFlick and Copping were the two professional murderers. The fact couldeasily be established by telegraph--had, as we know, been alreadyestablished--that the real Professor Flick, the authority on folk-lore, had not yet reached England, but would soon be here on his way home. Notmany hours of investigation were needed to foreshadow the whole plan andpurpose of the conspiracy. In any case, it did not seem likely that theman who called himself Andrew J. Copping would give himself any greattrouble to interfere with the regular course of justice. No matter howoften he was warned by the police officials that any words he chose toutter would be taken down and used in evidence against him, he continuedto say with a kind of delight that he had done his work faithfully, andthat he could have done it quite successfully if he had not been matedwith a coward and a skunk, and that he didn't much care now what came ofhim, since he didn't suppose they would let him loose and give him onehour's chance again, and see if he couldn't work the thing somewhatbetter than he had had a chance of doing before. If he had not trustedtoo long to the courage and nerve of his comrade it would have been allright, he said. His only remorse seemed to be in that self-accusation. 

Sarrasin recovered consciousness in a few hours. As his plucky wifesaid, it took a good deal to kill him. His story was clear. TheSicilian--the Saffron Hill Sicilian--came into his room and tried tokill him. Of course the Sicilian believed that he was trying to killEricson. Sarrasin easily disarmed this pitiful assassin, and then camethe explosion. Sarrasin was perfectly clear in his mind that theSicilian had nothing to do with the explosion--that it was made fromwithout, and not from within the door. His own theory was clear from thebeginning, and was in perfect harmony with the theory which the Dictatorhad formed at the time of the abortive attempt at assassination in St. James's Park. Then a miserable stabber of the class familiar to everySouth Italian or South American town was hired at a good price to do avulgar job which, if it only succeeded, would satisfy easily and cheaplythe business of those who hired the murderer. The scheme failed, andsomething more subtle had to be sought. The something more subtle, according to Sarrasin, was found in the rehiring of the same creature todo a deed which he was told would be made quite easy for him--thesmuggling him into the house to do the deed; and then the surrounding ofthe deed with conditions which would at the same moment make him seemthe sole actor in the deed, and destroy at once his life and hisevidence. The real assassins, Sarrasin felt assured, had no doubt thattheir hireling would get a fair way on the road to his business ofassassination, and then a well-timed dynamite cartridge would make surehis work, and would make sure also that he never could appear inevidence against the men who had set him on. 

Thus it was that Sarrasin reasoned out the case from the first moment ofhis returning senses, and to this theory he held. But one of the firstpainful sensations in Sarrasin's mind--when he realised, appreciated, and enjoyed the fact that he was still alive--that his wife was stillalive--that they were still left to live for one another--one of thefirst painful sensations in his mind was that he could not go out withthe Dictator to his landing in Gloria. It was clear to the stout oldsoldier that it must take some time before he could be of any personaluse to any cause; and, despite of himself, he knew that he must regardhimself as an invalid. It was a hard stroke of ill-luck. Still, he hadknown such strokes of ill-luck before. It had happened to him many atime to be stricken down in the first hour of a battle, and to be sentforthwith to the rear, and to lose the whole story of the struggle, andyet to pull through and fight another day--many other days. So Sarrasintook his wife's hand in his and whispered, 'We may have a chance yet; itmay not all be settled so soon as some of them think. '

Mrs. Sarrasin comforted him. 

'If it can be all settled without us, darling, so much the better! If ittakes time and trouble, well, we shall be there. '

Consoled and encouraged by her sympathetic and resolute words, Sarrasinfell into a sound and wholesome sleep. 

CHAPTER XXVII

'SINCE IT IS SO!'

Helena had often before divined the Dictator. Now at last she realisedhim. She had divined him in spite of her own doubts at one time--orperhaps because of her own doubts, or the doubts put into her mind byother minds and other tongues. She had always felt assured that theDictator was there--had felt certain that he must be there--and now atlast she knew that he was there. She had faith in him as one may havefaith in some sculptor whose masterpiece one has not yet seen. Webelieve in the work because we know the man, although we have not yetseen him in his work. We know that he has won fame, and we know that heis not a man likely to put up with a fame undeserved. So we waitcomposedly for the unveiling of his statue, and when it is unveiled wefind in it simply the justification of our faith. It was so with HelenaLangley. She felt sure that whenever her hero got the chance he wouldprove himself a hero--show himself endowed with the qualities of acommander-in-chief. Now she knew it. She had seen the living proof ofit. She had seen him tried by the test of a thoroughly new situation, and she had seen that he had not wasted one moment on mere surprise. Shehad seen how quickly he had surveyed the whole scene of danger, and howin the flash of one moment's observation he had known what was to bedone--and what alone was to be done. She had seen how he had takencommand by virtue of his knowledge that at such a moment of confusion, bewilderment, and danger, the command came to him by right of thefittest. 

The heart of the girl swelled with pride; and she felt a pride even inherself, because she had so instinctively recognised and appreciatedhim. She told herself that she must really be worth something when shehad from the very beginning so thoroughly appreciated him. Of course, aromantic girl's wild enthusiasm might also have been a romantic girl'swild mistake. The Dictator had, after all, only shown the qualities ofcourage and coolness with which his enemies as well as his friends hadalways credited him. The elaborate and craftily got-up attack upon himwould never have been concerted--would never have had occasion to beconcerted--but that his enemies regarded him as a most dangerous andformidable opponent. Even in her hurried thoughts of the moment Helenatook in all this. But the knowledge made her none the less proud. 

'Of course, ' she thought, 'they knew what a danger and a terror he wasto them, and now I know it as well as they do; but I knew it all along, and now they--they themselves--have justified my appreciation of him. 'All the time she had a shrinking, sickening terror in her heart aboutfurther plots and future dangers. Some of Ericson's own words lingeredin her memory--words about the impossibility of finding any realprotection against the attempt of the fanatic assassin who takes his ownlife in his hand, and is content to die the moment he has taken the lifeof his victim. 

This was the all but absorbing thought in Helena's mind just then. _His_life was in danger; he had escaped this late attempt, and it had been aserious one, and had deluged a house in blood, and what chance was therethat he might escape another? He would go out to Gloria, and even on thevery voyage he might be assassinated, and she would not be there, perhaps to protect him--at all events, to be with him--and she did notknow, even know whether he cared about her--whether he would missher--whether she counted for anything in his thoughts and his plans andhis life--whether he would remember or whether he would forget her. Shewas in a highly strung, and, if the expression may be used, an exaltedframe of mind. She had not slept much. After all the wildness of thedisturbance was over Sir Rupert had insisted on her going to bed and notgetting up until luncheon-time, and she had quietly submitted, and hadbeen undressed, and had slept a little in a fitful, upstarting sort ofway; and at last noon came, and she soon got up again, and bathed, andprepared to be very heroic and enduring and self-composed. She was muchin the habit of going into the conservatory before luncheon, and Ericsonhad often found her there; and perhaps she had in her own mind alingering expectation that if he got back from the village, and thecoroner, and the magistrates, and all the rest of it, in time, he wouldcome to the conservatory and look for her. She wanted him to go toGloria--oh, yes--of course, she wanted him to go--he was going perhapsthat very day; but she did not want him to go before he had spoken toher--alone--alone. We have said that she did not know whether he caredabout her or not. So she told herself. But did not an instinct the otherway drive her into that conservatory where they had met before about thesame hour of the day--on less fateful days?

The house looked quiet and peaceful enough now under the clear, poeticmelancholy of an autumn sunlight. The musical Oriental bells--a set thesame as those that Helena had established in the London house--rang outtheir announcement or warning that luncheon-time was coming as blithelyas though the house were not a mournful hospital for the sick and forthe dead. Helena was moving slowly, sadly, in the conservatory. She didnot care to affront the glare of the open, and outer day. SuddenlyEricson came dreamily in, and he flushed at seeing her, and her cheekhung out involuntarily, unwillingly, its red flag in reply. There was amoment of embarrassment and silence. 

'All these terrible things will not alter your plans?' she asked, in avoice curiously timid for her. 

'My plans about Gloria?'

'Yes; I mean your plans about Gloria. '

'Oh, no; I have not much evidence to offer. You see, I can only give thepolice a clue--I can't do more than that. I have been to the inquest andhave told that I remember the crimes of these men and their names, but Icannot identify either of the men personally. As soon as I get out toGloria I shall make it all clear. But until then I can only put thepolice here on the track. '

'Then you _are_ going?' she asked in pathetic tone. The truth is, thatshe was not much thinking about the chances of justice being done to themurderers--even to the murderers of poor Soame Rivers. She was thinkingof Ericson's going away. 

'Yes, I am going, ' he said. 'My duty and my destiny--if I may speak inthat grandiose sort of style--call me that way. '

'I know it, ' Helena said; 'I would not have it otherwise. '

'And I know _that_, ' he replied tenderly, 'because I know you, Helena--and I know what a mind and what a heart you have. Do you thinkit costs me no pang to leave you?' She looked up at him amazed, and thenlet her eyes droop. Her courage had all gone. If the women whoconstantly kept saying that she was forward with men could only haveseen her now!

'Are you really sorry to leave me?' she asked at last. 'Shall you missme when you go?'

'Am I sorry to leave you? Shall I miss you when I go? Do you really notguess how dear you are to me, how I love your companionship--andyou--you--you!'

'Oh, I did _not_ know it, ' she said. 'But I do know----'. She could notget on. 

'You do know--what?' he asked tenderly, and he took one hand of hers inhis, and she did not draw it away. The moment had come. Each knew it. 

'I know that I love you, ' she said in a passionate whisper. 'I know thatyou are my hero and my idol! There!'

He only kissed her hand. 

'Then you will wait for me?' he asked. 

'Wait for you--wait here--_without_ you?'

'Until I have won my fight, and can claim you. '

'Oh!' she exclaimed in passion of love and grief and fear, 'how could Ilive here without you, and know that you were in danger? No, Icouldn't--couldn't--couldn't! That wouldn't be love--not mylove--no--not _my_ love!'

For a moment even the thought of a rescued Gloria was pushed back in theDictator's mind. 

'Since it is so, ' said the Dictator, not without a gasp in his throat ashe said it, 'come with me, Helena. '

'Oh, thank God, and thank _you_!' the girl cried. 'See here--this isyour birthday, and I had no birthday-gift ready to give you. Ah, I havebeen thinking so much about you--about _you_, you _yourself_--that Iforgot your birthday. But now I remember; and here is a birthday-giftfor you--the best I can give!' And she seized his hand and kissed itfervently. 

'Helena, ' the Dictator said, with an emotion that he tried in vain torepress, 'let me thank you for your birthday-gift. ' And he lifted herhead towards him and kissed her lips. 

'I am to go with you?' she asked fervently, gazing up into his eyes withher own tear-stained, anxious, wistful eyes. 

'You are to go with me, ' he answered quietly, 'wherever I go, to mydeath, or to yours. '

'Oh, ' she exclaimed, 'how happy I am! At last at last, I _am_ happy!'

She was clinging around his neck. He gently, tenderly, lifted her armsfrom him, and held her a little apart, and looked at her with a proudaffection and a love before which her eyes drooped. She was overborne bythe rush of her own too great happiness. What did she care whether theysucceeded or failed in their enterprise on Gloria? What did she careabout being the Dictatress, if there be any such word, of Gloria? Alas!what did she care in that proud, selfish moment for the future and theprosperity of Gloria? She was only thinking that _he_ loved her, andthat she was to be allowed to go with him to the very last, that she wasto be allowed to die with him. For she had not at that moment thefaintest hope or thought of being allowed to live with him. Her horizonwas much more limited. She could only think that they would go out toGloria and get killed there, together. But was not that enough? Theywould be killed together. What better could she ask or hope? Youth iscuriously generous with its life-blood. It delights to think of throwinglife away, not merely for some beloved being, but even with some belovedbeing. As time goes on and the span of life shrinks, the seeming valueof life swells, and the old man is content to outlive his old wife, theold wife to outlive the husband of her youth. 

'You are fit to be an empress!' the Dictator exclaimed, and he pressedher again to his heart. He did not overrate her courage and herdevotion, but, being a man, he a little--just a little--misunderstoodher. She was not thinking of empire, she was thinking of _him_. She wasnot thinking of sharing power with him. Her heart was swollen with joyat the thought that she was to be allowed to share danger and death withhim. It is not easy for a daring, ambitious man to enter into suchthoughts. They are the property, and the copyright, and the birthrightof woman. 

But Helena was pleased and proud indeed that he had called her fit to bean empress. Fit to be _his_ empress: what praise beyond that could humanvoice give to her? Her face flushed crimson with delight and pride, andshe stood on tiptoe up to him and kissed him. 

Then she started away, for the door of the conservatory opened. But shereturned to him again. 

'See!' Helena exclaimed triumphantly, 'here is my father!' And shecaught the Dictator's hand in hers and drew it to her breast. 

This was the sight that showed itself to a father's eyes. Sir Rupert hadnot thought of anything like this. He was utterly thrown out of hismental orbit for the moment. He had never thought of his daughter asthus demonstrative and thus unashamed. 

'Was this well done, Helena?' he asked, more sadly than sternly. 

'Bravely done--by Helena, ' the Dictator exclaimed; 'well done as all is, as everything is, that _is_ done by Helena!'

'At least you might have told me of this, Ericson, ' Sir Rupert said, turning on the Dictator, and glad to have a man to dispute with. 'Youmight have forewarned me of all this. '

'I could not forewarn you, Sir Rupert, of what I did not know myself. '

'Did not know yourself?'

'Not until a very few minutes ago. '

'Did you not know that you were making love to my daughter?'

'Until just now--just before you came in--I did not make love to yourdaughter. '

'Oh, it was the girl who made love to you, I suppose!'

The Dictator's eyes flashed fire for a second and then were calm again. Even in that moment he could feel for Helena's father. 

'I never knew until now, ' he said quietly, 'that your daughter caredabout me in any way but the beaten way of friendship. I have been inlove with Helena this long time--these months and months. '

'Oh!'

This interrupting exclamation came from Helena. It was simply aninarticulate cry of joy and triumph. Ericson looked tenderly down uponher. She was standing close to him--clinging to him--pressing his handagainst her heart. 

'Yes, Sir Rupert, I have been in love with your daughter this long time, but I never gave her the least reason to suspect that I was in love withher. '

'No, indeed, he never did, ' Helena interrupted again. 'Don't you thinkit was very unfair of him, papa? He might have made me happy so muchsooner!'

Sir Rupert looked half-angrily, half-tenderly, at this incorrigiblegirl. In his heart he knew that he was conquered already. 

'I never told her, Sir Rupert, ' the Dictator went on, 'because I did notbelieve it possible that she could care about me, and because, even ifshe did, I did not think that her bright young life could be made toshare the desperate fortunes of a life like mine. Just now, on the eveof parting--at the thought of parting--we both broke down, I suppose, and we knew each other--and then--and then--you came in. '

'And I am very glad you did, papa!' Helena exclaimed enthusiastically;'it saved such a lot of explanation. '

Helena was quite happy. It had not entered into her thoughts to supposethat her father would seriously put himself against any course of actionconcerning herself which she had set her heart upon. The pain of partingwith her father--of knowing that she was leaving him to a lonely lifewithout her--had not yet come up and made itself real in her mind. Shecould only think that her hero loved her, and that he knew she lovedhim. It was the sacred, sanctified selfishness of love. 

Helena's raptures fell coldly on her father's ears. Sir Rupert saw lifelooking somewhat blankly before him. 

'Ericson, ' he said, 'I am sorry if I have said anything to hurt you. Ofcourse, I might have known that you would act in everything like a manof honour--and a gentleman; but the question now is, What do you proposeto do?'

'Oh, papa, what nonsense!' Helena said. 

'What do I propose to do, Sir Rupert?' the Dictator asked, quitecomposedly now. 'I propose to accept the sacrifice that Helena iswilling to make. I have never importuned her to make it, I never askedher or even wished her to make it. She does it of her own accord, and Itake her love and herself as a gift from Heaven. I do not stop anylonger to think of my own unworthiness; I do not stop any longer even tothink of the life of danger into which I may be bringing her; shedesires to cast in her lot with mine, and may God do as much and more tome if I refuse to accept the life that is given to me!'

'Well, well, well!' Sir Rupert said, perplexed by these exalted peopleand sentiments, and at the same time a good deal in sympathy with thepeople and the sentiments. 'But in the meantime what do you propose todo? I presume that you, Ericson, will go out to Gloria at once?'

'At once, ' Ericson assented. 

'And then, if you can establish yourself there--I mean when you haveestablished yourself there, and are quite secure and all that--you willcome back here and marry Helena?'

'Oh, no, papa dear, ' Helena said, 'that is not the programme at all. '

'Why not? What _is_ the programme?'

'Well, if my intended husband waited for all that before coming to marryme, he might wait for ever, so far as I am concerned. '

'I don't understand you, ' Sir Rupert said almost angrily. His patiencewas beginning to be worn out. 

'Dear, I shall make it very plain. I am not going to let my husband putthrough all the danger and get through all the trouble, and then comehome for me that I may enjoy all the triumph and all the comfort. Ifthat is his idea of a woman's place, all right, but he must get someother girl to marry him. "Some girls will, "' Helena went on, breakingirreverently into a line of a song from a burlesque, '"but this girlwon't!"'

'But you see, Helena, ' Sir Rupert said almost peevishly, 'you don't seemto have thought of things. I don't want to be a wet blanket, or aprophet of evil omen, or any of that sort of thing; but there may beaccidents, you know, and miscalculations, and failures even, and thingsmay go wrong with this enterprise, no matter how well planned. '

'Yes, I have thought of all that. That is exactly where it is, dear. '

'Where what is, Helena?'

'Dear, where my purpose comes in. If there is going to be a failure, ifthere is going to be a danger to the man I love--well, I mean to be init too. If he fails, it will cost his life; if it costs his life, I wantit to cost my life too. '

'You might have thought a little of _me_, Helena, ' her father saidreproachfully. 'You might have remembered that I have no one but you. '

Helena burst into tears. 

'Oh, my father, I did think of you--I do think of you always; but thiscrisis is beyond me and above us both. I have thought it out, and Icannot do anything else than what I am prepared to do. I have thought itover night after night, again and again--I have prayed for guidance--andI see no other way! You know, ' and a smile began to show itself throughher tears, 'long before I knew that he loved me I was always thinkingwhat I ought to do, supposing he _did_ love me! And then, papa dear, ifI were to remain at home, and to marry a marquis, or an alderman, or aman from Chicago, I might get diphtheria and die, and who would be thebetter for _that_--except, perhaps, the marquis, or the alderman, or theman from Chicago?'

'Look here, Sir Rupert, ' the Dictator said, 'let me tell you that atfirst I was not inclined to listen to this pleading of your daughter. Ithought she did not understand the sacrifice she was making. But she hasconquered me--she has shown me that she is in earnest--and I have caughtthe inspiration of her spirit and her generous self-sacrifice, and Ihave not the heart to resist her--I dare not refuse her. She shall come, in God's name!'

 * * * * *

Before many weeks there came to the London morning papers a telegramfrom the principal seaport of Gloria. 

'His Excellency President Ericson, ex-Dictator of Gloria, has justlanded with his young wife and his secretary, Mr. Hamilton, and has beenreceived with acclamation by the populace everywhere. The ReactionaryGovernment by whom he was exiled have been overthrown by a great risingof the military and the people. Some of the leaders have escaped acrossthe frontier into Orizaba, the State to which they had been trying tohand over the Republic. The Dictator will go on at once to the capital, and will there reorganise his army, and will promptly move on to thefrontier to drive back the invading force. '

There came, too, a private telegram from Helena to her father, concoctedwith a reckless disregard of the cost per word of a submarine messagefrom South America to London. 

'My darling Papa, --It is so glorious to be the wife of a patriot and ahero, and I am so happy, and I only wish you could be here. '

When Captain Sarrasin gets well enough, he and his wife will go out toGloria, and it is understood that at the special request of Hamilton, and of some one else too, they will take Dolores Paulo out with them. 

For which other reason, as for many more, we wish success and freedom, and stability and progress to the Republic of Gloria, and happiness tothe Dictator, and to all whom he has in charge. 

 * * * * *

 _OPINIONS OF THE PRESS_ ON THE DICTATOR. 

'In Mr. McCarthy's novels we are always certain of finding humour, delicate characterisation, and an interesting story; but they arechiefly attractive, we think, by the evidence they bear upon every pageof being written by a man who knows the world well, who has received alarge and liberal education in the university of life. In "The Dictator"Mr. McCarthy is in his happiest vein. The life of London--political, social, artistic--eddies round us. We assist at its most brilliantpageants, we hear its superficial, witty, and often empty chatter, wecatch whiffs of some of its finer emotions.... The brilliantly sketchedpersonalities stand out delicately and incisively individualised. Mr. McCarthy's light handling of his theme, the alertness and freshness ofhis touch, are admirably suited to the picture he paints of contemporaryLondon life. '--Daily News. 

'"The Dictator" is bright, sparkling, and entertaining.... Few novelistsare better able to describe the political and social eddies ofcontemporary society in the greatest city in the world than Mr. McCarthy; and this novel abounds in vivid and picturesque sidelights, drawn with a strong and simple touch. '--Leeds Mercury. 

'This is a pleasant and entertaining story.... A book to be read by anopen window on a sunny afternoon between luncheon and tea. '--DailyChronicle. 

'Mr. McCarthy's story is pleasant reading. '--Scotsman. 

'As a work of literary art the book is excellent. '--GlasgowHerald. 

'"The Dictator" is bright, sparkling, and entertaining. The book mightalmost be described as a picture of modern London. It abounds in vividand picturesque sidelights, drawn with a strong touch. '--LeedsMercury. 

'In "The Dictator" the genial leader of the Irish party writes ascharmingly as ever. His characters are as full of life, as exquisitelyportrayed, and as true to nature as anything that is to be found infiction, and there is the same subtle fascination of plot and incidentthat has already procured for the author of "Dear Lady Disdain" hisselect circle of admirers.... The nicety of style, the dainty wholesomewit, and the ever-present freshness of idea that pervade it render thereading of it a positive feast of pleasure. It is the work of a man ofthe world and a gentleman, of a man of letters, and of a keen observerof character and manners. '--Colonies and India.