Long Live the King by Guy Boothby (reading strategies book .TXT) 📕

at everything in its proper light. And
now one other matter, and the last. I know what you have thought of
me these last few weeks, and the suspicions you have
entertained--well, I might also say, concerning my sanity. But you
are in error, my dear brother. No man was ever saner than I am at
this moment. The result of it all is, as I said at the commencement
of my letter, that I have arrived at a decision. I have come to an
understanding with myself. By the time you open this letter I shall
have left London, never, I hope, to return to it. As far as I am
concerned, the farce of kingship is played out. I, for one, have
been wearied to death by the performance. With this letter I cast
it off. To-night I enter upon a new life, in which, please God, I
shall comport myself more like a man than I have done hitherto. I
have chosen a name which will not furnish any clue as to my
identity, so that it will be impossible for you to trace me. Under
it, as under a new banner, I shall fight and endeavour to win that
self-respect which up to now I have never been able to attain. Look
upon me as one who is dead, and try, if you can, to forgive me for
the pain I have caused you these few weeks past. Remember always
that, even though I gave way, I did not fall altogether. Try also
to understand that my victory over myself was, in a great measure,
a proof of my love for you. God bless you always. Think sometimes
of

Your ever affectionate brother,

MAX.

In a postscript there were a few directions as to what should be done with his valet, Theodore, and the manner in which his horses and other belongings should be disposed of.

For some moments after I had read it, I stood holding the letter in my hand, staring at it in blank amazement. I read it again and again, trying, in vain, to arrive at a proper understanding of it. Of one thing there could be no doubt. He had proposed to the Princess, and she had told him that she did not love him. He had accordingly determined to relinquish his position in society and to go abroad, rather than allow her to be forced into a marriage with a man she did not love. Was ever a man more noble? At the same time it occurred to me that he had often stated that nothing would give him greater pleasure than to endeavour to win a position for himself in a new country, where nobody knew him, and his rank could be of no assistance to his efforts. This was what he was going to do now. But it was impossible we could permit it. At any hazard I felt that I must find him, and argue it out with him, before he could leave England. For my father's and mother's, for his own, for mine, and for Pannonia's sakes, he must be prevented from committing this rash act. At that moment Felix entered the room once more.

"I have made inquiries," he began, "but Theodore declares he knows nothing of his master's movements. He was told to wait here until he received his instructions from your Highness."

"Tell him that I will see him later," I answered. "In the meantime give me my hat and call a hansom. I am going out."

A cab having been obtained, I bade the man drive me to the nearest telegraph office. Once there I wired to my father to know if he had seen anything of Max, and implored him, should he put in an appearance, to keep him until I arrived. Then I drove to Scotland Yard, where I sent in my card to the Chief Officer of the Detective Department. To him, in confidence, I imparted my fears, and told him that, if possible, I wanted my brother's whereabouts ascertained before it would be possible for him to leave England, convincing him, at the same time, of the necessity that existed for secrecy. This precaution he promised most religiously to observe. After that, I returned to my own abode to await the telegram from my father. At last it came. It was worded as follows: "Max left here more than an hour ago, having said good-bye to us prior to leaving for the Continent." I immediately sat down and scribbled a note to Scotland Yard, informing them of the discovery I had made. Then, when I had written another to my hostess of that evening, asking her to excuse me not being present at her dinner, on account of urgent private trouble, I took a hansom and drove to Waterloo. Instantly on my arrival at home I gave my father and mother a full account of all that had occurred. They, like myself, were overwhelmed by the suddenness of the catastrophe, and could give me no further information than that Max, after bidding them good-bye, had driven to Eastleigh, in order to catch, so they supposed, a train either for London or Southampton. I inquired at the station, but in vain. The station-master had not seen him, nor could he tell by what train he would have been likely to have travelled.

"There was the 6.50 up to town, your Royal Highness," he said, "and the 6.45 down to Southampton. He might have taken either."

Feeling sure that he would have not returned to London, I took the next train to Southampton and made inquiries there. But my efforts were in vain. No one seemed to have seen a person answering to his description. When next morning I called at the various shipping offices I was equally unsuccessful. Almost despairing, I applied for leave and remained at Southampton, day by day, for a week, watching the various boats that left for America and South Africa. So far as I could discover, however, Max was not on board any one of them. At last, wearied with waiting, and hopeless of hearing anything of him, I returned to town, calling _en route_ at Rendlehurst to inform my father and mother of my ill-success.

From that moment, for many years, nothing was heard of poor ill-fated Max of Pannonia.


CHAPTER VII.


And now a word to preface the story of Max's adventures as set forth by himself--from the time he wrote the famous letter to me.

Headstrong and wilful as he undoubtedly was, Max was the possessor of a habit which would not be supposed to agree in any way with his other characteristics. In our school days, prompted by a tutor who was method and preciseness in itself, we had been induced to cultivate the habit of keeping a diary. My own fits of application had their limits, and in consequence the record of my own daily life died a natural death within a week of its commencement. Max, however, must either have looked at it in another light, or have been composed of entirely different material. Having set his hand to it, his dogged determination insisted upon his carrying it through; in consequence, the habit grew upon him, and, fortunately for the story I have to tell, it lasted until the day of his death. It is from the last two volumes of this concise, and I might even add remarkable, history that I take the record as it is set down in the following pages. It will be observed that I have put it in the form of a narrative, told by myself, adding explanations where necessary, but in the main preserving the whole in as complete a form as it was originally written. How Max left the Princess Ottilie in the park after his ill-starred interview with her and rode away has already been told. A few other details, however, may prove of interest. As soon as he arrived, it would appear that Felix offered him refreshment, but he declined it, saying that he was in a hurry to catch a train to Hampshire. Seating himself at my writing-table he took a sheet of notepaper and composed the letter which was destined, a few hours afterwards, to cause me so much unhappiness. "Thank heaven, that's done," he said to himself, as he rose to his feet and placed the envelope, which he secured with his private seal, in a conspicuous position upon the table. "Paul will be certain to see it directly he returns." Then having rung the bell for Felix, he bade him send some one to call a cab. Telling him to inform Theodore, his valet, that he would receive his orders from myself, he went down to it, sprang in, and bade the man drive him with all speed to Waterloo. He had barely time to take his ticket, to see that the luggage he himself had packed and sent on ahead earlier in the day had started for Bristol, and then to catch the train. Indeed, the starting bell had already sounded as he crossed the platform.

"This won't do at all," Max said to himself, when they had rolled out of the station, and he had time to look round the luxurious compartment in which he was seated. "If I am going out into the world to win my way I should not be riding first class. I must travel third and save my money as much as possible. On the other side, wherever that may be, it will have to be corduroys instead of tweeds, and (here he took his cigar-case from his pocket and selected a weed) a clay pipe, I suppose, in place of the mess' extra special Laranagas." The train was an express, stopping only at Basingstoke and Eastleigh. At the latter place he alighted, and taking a cab in the station yard bade the man drive him as quickly as possible to Rendlehurst. It was nearly half-past six by the time he reached the house, where Anton, the head of my father's household, received him at the door.

"Anton," he said, "I must see my father and mother at once. Where are they?"

"Her Majesty is in the boudoir," the old man replied, in measured tones that contrasted forcibly with the other's excited state. "His Majesty has but lately returned from a walk, and is now in his study. I will acquaint him with your Royal Highness's arrival."

What transpired at that meeting is not set forth in the diary. It is sufficient, however, that in something less than half an hour he had said good-bye to them, though he did not know it, for ever, and was back in his cab _en route_, so it was popularly supposed, for Eastleigh. At the Foresham cross-roads he stopped the driver. "Pull up," he said. "It is a beautiful evening, and as I have plenty of time, I think I will walk the remainder of the distance." He paid his fare and, in order to avert suspicion, strolled slowly along the road the cab was following. When the man had turned the corner and was out of sight, he retraced his steps and set off at a brisk pace in the opposite direction. The evening was close and sultry, and signs of thunder were in the air. The roads and hedges were white with dust, and by the time he had reached the small station for which he was making, he was coated