Part 3

The old laird died in 1861; but in the meantime his son had grown up and married a pretty but penniless governess; and in 1857 a son, who was named Charles Edward, had been born to him. Mr Charles Augustus Stuart, who, I regret to say, had more respect for whisky than for his magnificent ancestry, was seized with apoplexy in 1878, shortly afterwards departing this life; and in 1880, when the events which I am about to narrate began, the only living representatives of the old laird were his daughter Henrietta Maria, an eccentric lady of sixty-two; and his grandson Charles Edward, a lively and, I may add, rather unscrupulous fellow of three-and-twenty.

Miss Stuart was a tall and very dignified person. Twenty years ago, the thirsty cravings of Charles Augustus had dragged him into pecuniary difficulties, from which he only extricated himself by selling Balquhalloch and all its contents to his sister; and from that time, Miss Stuart was mistress of the fine old house, and maintained herself there in a style almost worthy of the descendant of a hundred kings. She was rich, her mother’s relations having at different times bequeathed to her sums amounting in the aggregate to nearly three-quarters of a million; and she was generous, as all the poor of her neighbourhood would gladly testify; but, as I have already said, she was eccentric. She regarded herself as a British princess; she insisted upon her servants treating her as such; she lived in considerable state, and had a large household; and whenever she had occasion to sign her name, she signed it magnificently, ‘Henrietta Maria, P.’

Young Charles Edward, on the other hand, inherited no fortune worth speaking of. His father had squandered his means in dissipation; and dying, left a paltry five thousand pounds, upon the interest of which the son, until 1880, lived in chambers in the Inner Temple. Up to that time he had no direct communication with his magnificent aunt, who, after purchasing Balquhalloch, had quarrelled with his father. In the spring of the year, however, Charles Edward happened to be breakfasting with his friend Tom Checkstone, who called his attention to the following advertisement in the _Morning Post_:

‘A Personage of rank requires the services of a private secretary. Applicant must be energetic, well educated, of good address, and willing to spend the greater part of his time in the country.—Send full particulars to the Steward of the Household, Balquhalloch, N.B.’

‘Balquhalloch is your aunt’s place; is it not? I wonder who has taken it?’ asked Tom.

‘No one has taken it. My aunt always lives there; and, what is more, she is the Personage of rank.’

‘Your aunt! Have they been making her a peeress, then?’ demanded Tom incredulously.

‘She’s a little weak in her head, you know, on the subject of our supposed royal descent,’ returned Charles Edward; ‘and she insists upon regarding herself as a princess.’

‘And if she is a princess, what are you, Charlie?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t troubled myself to go deeply into the matter; but I suppose that in her estimation I am the legitimate king of England, or rather, of Great Britain. My grandfather claimed to be the representative of the House of Stuart; so, of course, as the only son of his only son, I inherit that great but somewhat barren honour.’

‘Well, I have made up my mind to write to your eccentric aunt’s Steward of the Household,’ said Tom. ‘I have little to do, and, what is far more serious, little to live upon; and if the Princess will give me five hundred a year, Her Royal Highness shall have my services.—Is she rich?’

‘O yes. I believe that she has a good twenty thousand a year, if not more.’

‘And yet she lets you live here on two hundred and fifty! I can’t say much for her princely liberality.—Do you know any one who will recommend me? And who is this Steward of hers?’

‘He is a Scotchman, named M‘Dum—Donald M‘Dum. He used to be merely a kind of farm-bailiff; but he falls in with all my aunt’s whims, and I rather fancy he is making a good thing out of his place.’

‘Not what you would call a very upright man?’ hazarded Tom.

‘By no means. From what I have heard, I should take him to be a regular money-grubber. George Fegan, of Figblossom Buildings, who was in Scotland last autumn, met him several times, and told me all about him.’

‘Ah, I shall go and see Fegan. Don’t you mention the matter. But remember one thing: if I get the appointment, I’ll guarantee that the old lady shall take you into immediate favour. I have an idea, a grand one. At present, never mind what it is. If this M‘Dum is as mercenary as you make out, we must raise money to bribe him to use his influence on my behalf; and the question is, how can we raise it? All my modest expectations are centred upon the death of my uncle Blighter, who, as you know, is already bedridden. When he dies, I shall come into a few thousands.—Will you lend me a thousand, if I want it?’

Checkstone and Stuart were old school-chums, and although not altogether prompt in satisfying the demands of their tailors, trusted one another completely.

‘I could realise my small investments,’ said Charlie; ‘but by doing so I should reduce my income by fifty pounds a year; so I hope that the favours from my aunt won’t be long in coming.’

‘Then you shall realise; and I’ll give you my promissory-note for the amount. But first I must see Fegan and make inquiries. I won’t do anything risky; trust me for that. While I benefit myself, I shall doubly benefit you. When I have called on Fegan, I shall at once, if necessary, go down to Balquhalloch and see the great M‘Dum. When I wire to you, you can realise; and I can draw upon you for any sum up to a thousand, eh?’

‘So be it,’ assented Charlie. ‘And I hope you will get the appointment and help me out of my difficulties. Why, if only my aunt would do the proper thing, I could marry. She might easily spare, say, a thousand a year; and with that addition to my income, Kate and I could do very well.’

‘That marrying craze of yours is like a millstone tied to your neck. You ought to look out for a girl with money. Kate Smith is an orphan, and has no expectations; and in any case, you might—if you will forgive my saying so—do better than marry a governess.’

‘My father married a governess!’ exclaimed Charlie warmly.

‘So much the worse. The race will be ruined! However, we won’t talk about that now. While you are a bachelor, there is still hope; and you shall have your thousand a year very soon, unless I am vastly mistaken.—Now I am off to see Fegan; so good-bye. If I go to Scotland to-night, you shall hear from me to-morrow. All depends upon Fegan’s report of the great M‘Dum.’

II.—THE ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY.

Fegan’s report must have been at least to some extent favourable, if not actually encouraging, for that evening Tom Checkstone left town by the limited mail for Scotland. For reasons that will presently appear, he took with him half-a-dozen boxes of very fine cigars and a considerable quantity of personal luggage; and, contrary to his usual habit, he travelled first-class.

Early on the morning of the next day but one, after having spent a portion of the previous night at the _Bagpipes Inn_, Aberdumble, he hired the best conveyance in the town, and was driven over to Balquhalloch.

Balquhalloch Castle, as all Scotchmen and most Englishmen are no doubt aware, is a straggling building that dates back to the beginning of the fifteenth century. It occupies an isolated position, and consists of a grim gray keep, surrounded by a circle of stables, store-rooms, and servants’ quarters.

It was to this ancient abode that Mr Tom Checkstone was driven. The carriage passed through the frowning gateway of the castle into a large courtyard, in which several servants in livery stood ready to receive it. Tom alighted, and, acting upon instructions which he had obtained from George Fegan, asked to see Mr M‘Dum. His card was carried to that functionary, who at once professed his readiness to see his visitor in his private room. Thither, therefore, Tom was conducted; and scarcely had he taken a seat ere the Steward of the Household entered.

Mr M‘Dum was a short, stout, red-faced man of about fifty years of age. He was negligently dressed in a brown velvet shooting-suit, and he was smoking a very large cigar.

‘What can I do for you?’ he asked bluntly.

‘I have come down,’ said Tom, ‘with an introduction from Mr George Fegan of Figblossom Buildings, London.’

‘Yes; I know him,’ ejaculated M‘Dum abruptly.

‘And I wish,’ continued Tom, ‘to apply for a secretaryship which, as I see by an advertisement in the _Morning Post_, is vacant.’

‘Well, sit down,’ said M‘Dum, as he threw himself into the most comfortable chair in the room; ‘and we will talk the matter over.’ And he proceeded to help himself to a stiff glass of whisky from a decanter that stood upon a table at his side.

‘I think that I possess all the necessary qualifications,’ began Tom; ‘but of that you must be the judge. Perhaps this letter from Mr Fegan will give you as much information as I can,’ and he handed a sealed missive to the Steward.

M‘Dum took it, and having opened it, read aloud:

‘MY DEAR MR M‘DUM—My friend Mr Checkstone has seen in the paper that a secretary is wanted at Balquhalloch. He is a young man of means, family, good education, and address; he is, moreover, a sociable companion; and you may in all matters rely upon his discretion. I therefore highly recommend him to you. I take advantage of his journey to Scotland to send to you half-a-dozen boxes of very prime cigars; and remain yours very faithfully,

GEORGE FEGAN.’

‘And here are the cigars,’ added Tom, pointing to a package which he had brought in with him.

Cigars were Mr M‘Dum’s second weakness. His first was good whisky. In a moment his demeanour, which up to that point had been by no means friendly, altered.

‘Good!’ he exclaimed. ‘The letter, so far as it goes, is perfectly satisfactory, Mr Checkstone.—Now, let us look at the matter as men of business. The fact is that Miss Stuart—the Princess Henrietta Maria as we call her here—wants a well-educated amanuensis. I manage her estates and her household, but—and I needn’t attempt to disguise it—my education has been neglected. I am not good at letter-writing. Still, I have worked my way gradually up into my present position, and I am not disposed to imperil it. The man who comes here must be my ally. He will be paid four hundred a year, and will keep his place as long as he likes, provided that he gets on well with me. The Princess is not exacting, although she is eccentric. I do not suppose, indeed, that the work will be hard; and as there is plenty of good shooting and fishing down here, the life is very pleasant. I may tell you that Mr Fegan has already telegraphed to me announcing your visit, and that I am upon the whole prepared to engage you.’

‘You are very good,’ returned Tom, who, however, did not add that he knew the telegram in question had been sent, and that he was perfectly aware of its contents. The words were: ‘I send down Checkstone for secretary. Easy to manage. Perfectly innocent and harmless.’ Nor did Tom explain that he, and not Fegan, was the real donor of the cigars.

‘Oh, it is merely a matter of business,’ rejoined M‘Dum. ‘I fancy that we should get on together. But, since if you obtain the post you will obtain it through my good offices, and since I naturally desire to have some guarantee that the Princess’s confidence in you will not be misplaced, you must excuse my asking whether you are prepared to—well—to make some small—what shall we say—some small deposit, some trifling payment as a security, you know?’

‘Nothing could be more reasonable, Mr M‘Dum,’ said Tom.

‘I imagine,’ continued the Steward, who was much encouraged by Tom’s words, ‘that a premium, say, of two years’ salary would not, under the circumstances, be excessive; for the post would practically be a permanency. Two years’ salary would be eight hundred pounds.’

‘Yes; I think that eight hundred pounds would not be excessive,’ said Tom. ‘I am ready to agree to pay that sum.’

‘That’s good! Then I will introduce you to the Princess.’ And placing his unfinished cigar in an ash-tray upon the table, Mr M‘Dum arose, and led the way through some long and cheerless stone passages into a more pretentious and better furnished part of the huge building. Leaving Tom in a panelled anteroom, he went forward to announce him; and returning, conducted the new secretary into the presence.

In a large armchair in a long low drawing-room sat the Princess Henrietta Maria. Tom bowed low as soon as he saw her, and then—acting upon directions which had been supplied to him by Mr Fegan—advanced and respectfully kissed the tips of her outstretched fingers.

‘Mr M‘Dum tells me,’ said the Princess, ‘that you are in all respects competent to act as our private secretary. We particularly need the services of an amanuensis just now, because we are drawing up some memoirs of our family. The documents are here in the castle; but our health does not permit of sufficient progress with the work. Are you prepared to undertake the duties?’

‘I am, your Royal Highness,’ assented Tom meekly, as he stood before the majestic old lady.

‘That is well. And when can you begin those duties, Mr Checkstone?’

‘I am at any moment at your Royal Highness’s disposal,’ said Tom. ‘I can even take up my residence here to-day, should your Royal Highness wish it.’

‘Let it be so, then, Mr Checkstone. Mr M‘Dum shall conduct you to your apartments; and I myself will take an early opportunity of visiting them and of satisfying myself that you will be comfortable.’

The Princess signified that the audience was over; and Tom and the Steward backed out of the room, bowing low as they went.

‘You should not have said that you would come in to-day,’ said M‘Dum, as soon as the door was shut. ‘And besides, how can you do so? Where is your luggage?’

‘It is at the inn at Aberdumble,’ answered Tom. ‘I thought, under any circumstances, of staying in Scotland for a few weeks; and so I came prepared.’

‘Humph!’ ejaculated M‘Dum, who was somewhat annoyed at his protégé’s precipitancy.—‘Now, if you don’t mind, we will go back to my little office and complete our business arrangements.’

Ten minutes later, Mr M‘Dum was the richer by a promissory-note for eight hundred pounds, and Tom was formally installed as private secretary to the Princess Henrietta Maria. At the earliest possible moment he sent back the conveyance to Aberdumble, instructing the coachman to forward his luggage to the castle, and intrusting the man with two telegrams, worded in French, one being addressed to George Fegan, and the other to Charles Edward Stuart.

Later in the day, the Princess requested him to attend her in the library; and there, without many preliminaries, he began, under her supervision, to transcribe the contents of numerous musty documents in English, and to translate those of others that were written in French and Latin. He worked for only a couple of hours; and then the Princess, bidding him lay aside his pen, sat and talked to him about London, about politics, and about books. In the evening he played chess and smoked with Mr M‘Dum; and after the toddy had been done full justice to, he retired, well satisfied, to his own snug rooms on the second floor of the ancient keep.

Thus did he spend his time for a week and more, until one afternoon the Princess fell to talking about the sad fate of her family.

‘The principle of divine right,’ she said, ‘cannot be altered by popular clamour. It is a reality. She who at present sits upon the throne of these kingdoms is no more the Queen than you are. Excellent woman though she is, she is but the representative of usurpers. True kings cannot be made by vulgar acclamation, neither can wrong become right by lapse of time. But the blood of our race has been tainted. Our royal brother of sacred memory—though, to be sure, he never recognised his exalted position—married a commoner; and how can I expect that the child of that union should be worthy of his splendid ancestry? Ah, that child! What possibilities are his, if only he had the energy to seize them! But he cares nothing. He is content to live obscure. He will not accept his destiny.’

‘Nay!’ suggested Tom; ‘perhaps he lives obscure because he is poor. Perhaps he is too proud to let it be known that he who exists upon a miserable two hundred and fifty pounds a year is the king of Great Britain. Your Royal Highness must not be unjust.’

‘Would that what you say were true!’ ejaculated the Princess. ‘But if he only made some sign of his desire to win his own, heaven knows that I would aid him with my fortune, and even, if need were, with my life.’

‘Your Royal Highness’s sentiments are worthy of her great lineage,’ said Tom courteously. ‘I happen to know that the facts are as I have hinted; for, although I have not yet mentioned it, I have the honour of your Royal Highness’s august nephew’s acquaintance. Indeed, I may say the king deigns to honour me with his friendship.’

‘The king!’ exclaimed the Princess, with beaming eyes—‘the king! You have heard His Majesty speak, have seen His Majesty walk, and you have not told me! Oh, Mr Checkstone, I cannot tell you how it rejoices me to have one of the king’s friends in my service!—What is His Majesty’s will? What are His Majesty’s plans? You may trust me. I am devoted wholly and entirely to his interests. How I have longed to learn of his intention to take his rightful position!’

Thus encouraged, Tom Checkstone related to the Princess a very plausible and interesting story, the main points of which he did not forget to communicate by letter to his friend in London. He assured the Princess that poverty alone prevented the king from taking action; that His Majesty chafed grievously in his enforced seclusion; and that the legitimate sovereign of Great Britain, in spite of the plebeian origin of his mother, was in all respects a worthy descendant of the Jameses.

‘Then His Majesty must come hither,’ said the Princess. ‘But I am greatly in doubt whether I can place implicit confidence in Mr M‘Dum. He is an excellent servant, but I fear he is not too loyal; and we must risk nothing.’

‘Mr M‘Dum,’ said Tom, ‘has very well taken care of himself hitherto. Your Royal Highness is perhaps not aware that he accepted a bribe from me when I applied for my present position in your Royal Highness’s household. I have his receipt for eight hundred pounds.’

‘Then, we shall certainly dismiss him,’ remarked the Princess with signs of rising anger. ‘But, as I say, he is withal an excellent servant, and it would not become us to act towards him in anger. I will pension him; and when he has left the castle, we may receive the king without any risk; for all my other servants have from their childhood been devoted to the royal cause.’

The result of this conversation—all the details of which were faithfully reported to Charlie Stuart—was that Mr M‘Dum, after a somewhat stormy scene with the Princess, quitted Balquhalloch, with an eye to an eligible public-house in Glasgow; and on the day of his departure, the Princess wrote a loyal and affectionate letter to her nephew, and despatched it to him by the hands of her chaplain, the Rev. Octavius M‘Fillan, a priest who, although he possessed no remarkable degree of intelligence, was of unimpeachable devotion to the Princess, and of great simplicity and kindness of heart. ‘Our castle,’ the letter concluded, ‘is held at your Majesty’s disposal; and all within it is at your Royal service.’

Father M‘Fillan, with much ceremony, delivered the missive to Charlie at his chambers in the Inner Temple; and ‘the king’ was pleased to say in reply that he would at his earliest convenience visit his well-beloved aunt in the north.

Two or three days afterwards, the second column of the _Times_ contained an announcement to the effect that Catharine Smith, daughter of the late John Smith of Manchester, intended thenceforth to assume the surname of Plantagenet, and upon all future occasions to style herself, and be known as, Catharine Plantagenet. Fortunately, the _Times_ was not studied at Balquhalloch, the Princess reading only the _Edinburgh Courant_, because it was a thorough-going Tory journal, and the London _Morning Post_, because it was of eminently aristocratic tone.

A week later, Charlie, who had meantime received some long letters from Tom, went down to Scotland.

INDIAN JUGGLERS.

BY AN ANGLO-INDIAN.

The exhibition of feats of legerdemain is at all times entertaining; and those who have had the pleasure of witnessing the performances of such accomplished professors of the art of magic as the late Wizard of the North, or Messrs Maskelyne and Cooke of the Egyptian Hall, London, are not likely soon to forget the same. In Britain, however, it is only now and again that a magician of the first class, who is likewise a native of the British Isles, appears. Eminent British jugglers are few and far between. But in the ancient East, magic is, and has from time immemorial been, much more generally cultivated. India, as every one who has resided in our great tropical dependency knows, counts its jugglers by thousands. Indeed, magic is there a recognised calling or business; it descends from father to son; and an Indian juggler, be he Mussulman or Hindu, would not dream of teaching his son any other business than his own—that of magic. And so it comes about that the supply of Indian jugglers is both large and continuous. The Indian juggler is a very humble individual; he does not appear before his audience in the glory of evening dress; his only costume is a cloth bound round his loins. And thus, if coat-sleeves or pockets at all assist in magic, the Indian juggler is at a decided disadvantage, for both his arms and legs are bare. He is a thin, an unnaturally thin, wiry-looking individual—the Indian juggler. I do not know why he should be thin, but I do not recollect ever having seen a fat Indian juggler. Fat natives of India there are in plenty, as those who have travelled on Indian railways know to the detriment of their olfactory nerves; but I cannot recall a single fat Indian magician. Again, the Indian juggler does not appear before his audience with the swagger of the man who knows his power to command the applause of crowded houses. On the contrary, he appears meekly before you at the foot of your veranda steps, obsequiously salaaming, quite prepared to be turned away with rough words, but hoping to be invited up the steps to perform; for he knows that if he once reaches the top of the veranda steps, he will, an hour thereafter, be one rupee, perhaps two rupees, richer, and he will thus have earned his living for a week. Not a very liberal remuneration this, you may think; and yet it is a fact that a juggler whose receipts amounted to ten rupees—say eighteen shillings in one month—would consider himself a fortunate man.