TERMS OF ACCOMMODATION.
The two months which had been fraught with events of so much moment
to Caerleon had not been devoid of incident for Nadia, although her
circumstances afforded at first sight far less promise of excitement
than did his. Since their hasty departure from Bellaviste, the
O’Malachy and his wife had been sojourning at the frontier village of
Witska, where they seemed inclined to remain as a thorn in the side of
M. Drakovics, and this the more that he could not discover any motive,
even that of devising plots, for their doing so. His agents visited
the village perpetually, both in disguise and in their proper persons,
and after dogging the footsteps of the Herr Oberst and his wife for a
longer or shorter time, and even making incursions into their rooms at
the inn when they were out, returned to their employer baffled. In
fact, there seemed nothing for them to observe. The “Kur” arrangements
at Witska were more primitive even than those at Janoszwar; but the
O’Malachy drank the regulation number of tumblers of medicated water
with unfaltering bravery, and took the prescribed stroll afterwards,
accompanied by his wife, on the only level piece of road in the
village, duly increasing the distance a little every day. The
afternoon was invariably spent in the open air, in a sheltered spot at
the foot of a blank wall belonging to the oldest part of the inn,
Madame O’Malachy reading aloud occasional extracts from one of the
French novels which were her constant companions, and her husband
responding lazily with good-humoured criticisms. No life could have
appeared more simple and innocent, none more entirely above-board. And
yet, as Nadia could have told, although she based her opinion rather
upon various small indications than upon actual evidence, the worthy
couple were the whole time carrying on an extensive and complicated
secret correspondence, and acting as intermediaries between the
Thracian patriots who disliked the present _régime_ and their
Scythian sympathisers. An unexpected meeting with her mother early one
morning showed Nadia that she was pale and heavy-eyed, as though she
had worked late the evening before; and the mystery was explained a
few nights after, when, hearing sounds in the house after midnight,
and fearing she knew not what, she equipped herself with great bravery
for a search, and discovered both her father and mother still in their
sitting-room, the one engaged in writing letters and the other in
destroying a number of papers which appeared to contain reports of
some kind.
After this revelation, Nadia kept her eyes open, and arrived before
long at the conclusion that very few people came to the village, with
the exception, of course, of the emissaries of M. Drakovics, who were
not charged with messages of one kind or another for her parents. It
seldom happened that a letter arrived by post, or was openly
delivered; but pedlars and travelling showmen, artisans wandering in
search of work, and roaming gipsies, each and all seemed to have a
secret understanding with the O’Malachy and his wife. Sometimes a
sign, scarcely perceptible save to the initiated, would convey the
needed information--sometimes, Nadia felt sure, letters were brought;
but she never saw one change hands, nor came upon any trace of it
afterwards. It was evident that any documents which might prove
compromising were immediately and punctiliously burnt, and this
precaution it was that baffled the men employed by M. Drakovics, who
had no means of distinguishing the remains of burnt paper among the
ashes raked out from the great stove.
Another curious fact which Nadia discovered about this time was the
secret of the means by which her parents held their necessary
consultations without attracting the attention of the spies by
prolonged conferences, or wasting a portion of their working hours at
night. Coming upon them one day in the sunny spot where they usually
sat, she found her mother, as she thought, reading aloud in French;
but the first words that reached her ear scarcely sounded as though
they were drawn from the novel on Madame O’Malachy’s knee.
“You see what Louis says: ‘Our friend X. has come over at last. His
Majesty’s promises were too attractive. He engages to bring all his
employés with him when the word is given.’ This despatch must be sent
on immediately. It will show that there are others upon whom we can
depend beside the city guard. ‘“_Adorable Erminie_!” _s’écria
Léonide, en se précipitant_----’ What do you want, my daughter?”
Nadia delivered the message with which she was charged from the
landlord, and retired, and it was some time before she lighted on the
meaning of this curiously disjointed sentence. It occurred to her at
last, in one of those flashes of insight which sometimes present to
the mind in a moment the solution of a mystery long pondered over in
vain, that the adventures of Léonide and Erminie were merely a blind,
and that when Madame O’Malachy was supposed by those who were set to
watch her to be reading to her husband in French, she was in reality
discussing with him the progress of their schemes. No thought of
profiting by this discovery to penetrate into her parents’ plans
occurred to Nadia, and in any case the idea of acting as a spy would
have been abhorrent to her; but even had she been anxious to probe
more deeply the mystery of M. X. and his employés, her father and
mother kept their secrets as carefully concealed from her as from the
Thracian police-agents themselves. If the subject of Thracia was
mentioned when she was in their company, it was merely as the text of
a bantering discourse, conducted with more or less of good-humour on
the O’Malachy’s part, but punctuated with bitter reproaches on that of
his wife. Neither of them could forgive Nadia for her folly in
refusing Caerleon, when the acceptance of his proposal would have
raised the whole family to affluence and distinction, although Madame
O’Malachy resented much more strongly than her husband the loss of the
material benefits promised by the match. His easy-going nature
accepted serenely enough the change in the position of affairs, and
the necessity of plotting against the man he had hoped to welcome as a
son-in-law; but both he and his wife were careful to guard against
giving Nadia any inkling of the consequences which might ensue to
Thracia and its king from her refusal. Although they never engaged in
their mysterious work until she was out of the way, they would not run
the risk of stimulating her curiosity by showing any eagerness to get
rid of her, and allowed her to join them or not just as she pleased.
But the certainty of finding herself either reproached or laughed at
for the foolish way in which she had mismanaged what Madame O’Malachy
called “_l’affaire Carlino_” made her only anxious to shun their
society; and during the first few days of their stay at Witska she
roamed about the garden alone, finding nothing to do but to recall the
past, and feeling that she had nothing in the whole world to which to
look forward. This being the case, it is not surprising that she
caught herself one day wishing that she had not forbidden Caerleon so
absolutely ever to renew his suit, but the discovery shocked and
horrified her extremely.
“All my life I have been preparing to make a stand at some great
crisis,” she said to herself; “and now that it has come, I am giving
way already. I must find something to do. Of what use is it to train
myself to be a martyr, if I cannot bear a week’s loneliness?”
She summoned all her resolution to enable her to meet this unexpected
demand, and reviewed the state of affairs. With mingled shame and
disgust she realised that she had been cherishing the vague thought
that it was scarcely worth while to take up any settled work at
present, and that this was owing to a half-hope that something might
still happen to set things right and render her sacrifice unnecessary.
It was a bitter disappointment to her to find that she could be so
false to her dearest principles, and her first impulse was to place
her determination beyond the possibility of change. As a step in the
desired direction, she tore up the letter she had been about to
despatch to her godmother, Princess Soudaroff, and wrote another. She
knew that of late her letters had been somewhat short and superficial,
telling all the trivial pieces of news she could find, but never
touching on the all-important subject which had engrossed the minds of
her parents, from the moment of their first sight of Caerleon, to that
of her parting from him at Bellaviste. It is true that both Caerleon
and Cyril had found a casual mention in the earlier letters written
from Janoszwar; but as time went on both names, and especially that of
the elder brother, had dropped out of sight in a way that would have
caused some idea of the truth to enter the mind of most women, but the
Princess was not inclined to be suspicious by nature. Nadia’s heart
smote her now for her reticence, and she told her story to the
Princess, suppressing only two material facts,--the name of her
lover--this was due to her anxiety to behave fairly towards
Caerleon,--and, as a natural corollary, her reason for refusing him.
It must be confessed that she was not altogether sorry to be unable to
lay the whole of the facts before her godmother; for although the
Princess was very sympathetic in cases of conscience, she had a habit
of looking at things differently from any one else, and Nadia had a
lurking suspicion that in this case she might tell her that she had
acted hastily, and ought to have asked advice. And this was merely
what her own conscience hinted to her many times a-day. Before giving
Caerleon her final answer she had been upheld by the expectation that
the consciousness of having done right would bring her peace, if not
happiness; but she now knew little indeed of either feeling. This made
her begin to doubt whether she might not have been led astray by her
own conviction of the goodness of the deed; and the doubt returned
again and again to make her wretched.
Her duty to her godmother performed, and her resolution placed beyond
recall, Nadia told herself that her lack of occupation had undoubtedly
made it easier for her to fail in steadfastness, and that she must
find something to do. She would no longer remain all day in the inn
garden, but would go out into the village and try to make friends with
the people, and this not only by way of a moral medicine for herself,
but as a duty which she had neglected hitherto. She could not at first
speak the language of the villagers nor they hers; but the interest
she showed in the children won her a way into the hearts of the women,
and she discovered, much to her surprise, that when a child was sick
or hurt she could do more for it than any one else in Witska. In times
of health the little ones found her somewhat solemn and
unapproachable, for although she longed to make friends with them, she
was not one of those who can throw themselves heart and soul into the
small interests which seem so momentous to children; but when they
were ill the experience she had gained in Princess Soudaroff’s
cottage-hospital stood her in good stead. The nurses there had been
wont to laugh at her as slow and clumsy; but at Witska, where there
was no one to watch her with critical eyes, she succeeded in putting
into practice the lessons she had learned. One or two cases of
recovery from severe illness, which seemed miraculous to the
villagers, but which were really due to patient nursing and modern
methods of treatment, gained her a wide reputation, and appeals began
to reach her from outlying hamlets and solitary huts, entreating her
to pay a visit to some sick child. When these requests were translated
to her by the cosmopolitan waiter, she welcomed them eagerly, for they
promised fresh work, and work was what she wanted. A wild desire would
seize her now and again to see Caerleon’s face once more, to hear his
pleasant voice, to meet the glance, half puzzled, half amused, which
he would cast at her when she had said anything that startled him. The
vehemence of this longing for his presence alarmed her. She felt that
she could almost volunteer to go to Bellaviste as a spy, if such a
course would enable her to catch a glimpse of him; that she would be
willing to meet the doom which Thracia kept for Scythian spies, if
only she had seen him first. In this state of mind she welcomed the
calls which came to her to take long mountain-walks and seek out
distant families where a child lay ill, for the exertion of the day
brought her back at night so tired that she was glad to go to bed and
sleep the sleep of utter exhaustion. At first her long excursions drew
upon her some opposition from her father.
“Sure it’s not the thing,” he said, “for a young lady to be roaming
about alone like this. I won’t allow ut.”
“What would you have, O’Malachy?” asked his wife, scornfully. “Can we
afford to engage a retinue to attend upon a girl who might be Queen of
Thracia if she liked, and will not? Nothing will happen to her. She is
a failure.”
Left to her own devices in this unflattering way, Nadia gladly
accepted the implied permission to pursue her lonely walks, attended
only by one of the great dogs which were kept to protect the flocks
from the wolves, and which had attached himself to her. She saw no
trace of the smugglers and outlaws of whom vague tales were current in
the village; but one very real alarm beset her at times, of which she
said nothing at home. It became evident to her by degrees that her
proceedings were being watched. She would find herself tracked by
pursuers of whom she could only obtain a glimpse by stratagem; and
when she had learned to speak the language a little, she would hear at
the cottages to which she was bound that a stranger had been there
since her last visit, making inquiries as to the gracious lady and her
doings. At first she was at a loss to imagine who could think her of
sufficient importance to dog her steps in this way; but presently it
dawned upon her that M. Drakovics, who still declined to be persuaded
that she was not engaged in a conspiracy against Caerleon, had
instructed his emissaries to keep an eye on her. This solution of the
mystery satisfied herself; and as no one else appeared to notice
anything unusual, she was not obliged to parry the remarks of others.
The shepherds warned her to be careful, and not to stray from the
beaten track, lest she should run into danger; but she knew that the
wolves were not likely to venture from their fastnesses as yet, and,
moreover, her mother’s words echoed bitterly in her ears. Nothing
would happen to her, or, if it did, it would not signify. She was a
failure. And yet, while her heart sank lower, she refused to allow
herself to contemplate the possibility of reversing her decision. If
she could bring Caerleon back to her with a word, she would not utter
it, to ruin him and his kingdom. What he had called her mania for
martyrdom was still strong upon her, and the more fervently she longed
to reverse her decision the more sternly she crushed down the pain.
But there was a harder battle in store for her than the fight she
fought daily with herself, and she was obliged to face it when she was
weakest. The news had just reached her through a German newspaper of
Caerleon’s initiation of the temperance legislation which she had
pressed upon him, and it recalled to her mind his forecast of the
difficulties of the work, and the appeal he had made to her to help
him in it. Then she had received a letter from her godmother,
overflowing with kindness, but containing a little gentle chiding.
“Why should you not be more frank with me, my child?” the Princess
wrote. “Surely you know that if in any way I could help you, it would
be my delight to do so, and yet you leave me to receive through a
stranger an appeal on your behalf. I had a visitor this morning in the
shape of Madame Bourenine, whom you know by name as the confidante of
the Empress. She said that she had come to talk to me about the
love-affair of Nadia Mikhailovna, but she mentioned no other names.
Nor did I, for I knew none. After some conversation leading to nothing
in particular, she inquired at last whether, if the obstacles to your
marriage could be removed, I should be willing to give it my sanction.
Knowing only that you had felt it your duty to refuse your lover for
some reason with which I was not acquainted, what could I say but that
if you thought it right to marry him I should be delighted to help you
in any way I could? After receiving this answer, she left me,
apparently satisfied. But, my child, have I deserved to be treated in
such a way? Why should Madame Bourenine know more of your affairs than
I? I do not ask for your confidence if you feel it right to withhold
it, but I pray you to understand that no one on earth can desire your
happiness and your best good more than I. I commit you to God’s
keeping, dear child.”
After receiving this letter Nadia started on one of her mountain
expeditions with her mind in a whirl. Who could the persons be that
were interesting themselves in the state of affairs between her and
Caerleon, and what was their motive for doing so? She puzzled herself
with these questions in vain as she walked; but when she returned to
the inn at a somewhat earlier hour than usual, she found that they
were destined to a speedy solution. Entering the sitting-room, she was
surprised to see a stranger talking to her parents,--a smooth and
polished gentleman, with a highly waxed moustache. A conviction that
she had seen him somewhere before came over her as she paused just
inside the door; but she could not at the moment identify him with any
one she knew.
“And this is mademoiselle!” said the stranger, an almost imperceptible
smile curling the ends of his moustache as he saw her standing erect
and astonished in the doorway, with her plain tweed dress damp and
muddy, and her hair blown about by the wind.
“Yes, M. le Prince, it is my daughter,” said Madame O’Malachy, and
Nadia noticed a repressed excitement in her manner. “Nadia, Vladimir
Alexandrovitch has been so good as to pay us a visit here on his
return journey from Czarigrad to Pavelsburg, entirely on your
account.”
“Mademoiselle and I are not wholly unknown to each other,” said the
visitor. “At one time I had the felicity of meeting her tolerably
often at my sister-in-law’s house. If she does me the honour to
recollect me, she may remember that even in those days I ventured to
prophesy that she would be a beautiful woman; but I was not happy
enough to discern that her _beaux yeux_ would exercise an influence on
the history of Europe.”
Nadia’s brow grew stormy. She had now a very clear recollection of the
elegant young man who had been wont to torment with compliments and
caresses the shy, passionate little girl who followed his
sister-in-law wherever she went, and also of her relief when
circumstances had removed him from her neighbourhood. There was no
very close intercourse nowadays between Princess Soudaroff and her
brother-in-law, although the relations between them were perfectly
friendly. The present Prince was not a member of the Cercle
Evangélique.
“I fear I am an unfortunate messenger,” he went on, with a covert
smile as he noticed the change in Nadia’s expression. “I have
prejudiced mademoiselle against me already. But I would ask her to
believe that I am here purely in the hope of being able to render some
service to her and to the gentleman who is so happy as to possess her
heart.”
“How dare you say that?” cried Nadia, angrily.
“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle. I remember that in the old days you
used to prefer plain speaking to polite circumlocutions, and as only
your own family are present, I have ventured to come to the point at
once. It cannot, surely, be a secret to your respected parents that,
with a generosity which does you infinite credit, you have declined
the addresses of the person who is at present in possession of the
throne of Thracia, for fear lest a marriage with you should endanger
his future career?”
“I have never told you anything of the kind,” said Nadia, sharply,
“and I am sure the King of Thracia has not. I cannot tell how you have
found it out.”
“Ah, these wicked newspapers!” murmured the Prince, smiling gently at
Nadia’s unintentional admission, “they publish everything. But if you
assure me that they have been misinformed, mademoiselle, I can only
resign the hope of serving you which has brought me here, and depart,
entreating your forgiveness for having troubled you.”
“They were not misinformed. It is quite true that the King asked me to
marry him, and that I refused,” said Nadia, bluntly.
“So I imagined, mademoiselle. I felt convinced that such a magnificent
self-renunciation could not be merely a creation of fancy. But there
is no reason,” he went on quickly, as she rejected his praise with a
gesture of impatience, “why your delicacy should be alarmed by the
thought that your admirable conduct has become known. It has won you
friends all over Europe, and I may mention that in Scythia persons in
a very exalted position have been much pleased with the spirit which
you displayed under extremely trying circumstances, and have even been
led to wonder whether it might not be possible to avert the
difficulties which you feared might result from the marriage proposed
to you. Pray sit down, mademoiselle,”--he rose and handed her his
chair, and she accepted it mechanically, for her limbs were trembling
so violently that she could scarcely stand,--“and let us consider the
matter. The sympathies of my sister-in-law, Pauline Vassilievna, have
been engaged, and she testifies the greatest eagerness to assist in
bringing the affair to a happy conclusion. May I take it for granted
that the only obstacle to a marriage between Lord Caerleon and
yourself lay in these honourable scruples of yours?”
Nadia nodded silently, and he went on, watching her as a cat might
watch a mouse.
“The first difficulty was caused, no doubt, by the difference of
position? Well, I do not deny that between Nadia Mikhailovna and the
King of Thracia there is a serious gap; but it is not so wide that it
cannot be bridged. We can scarcely aspire to restore the ancient regal
glories of your father’s house,” he smiled indulgently, “but his
Majesty the Emperor has for some time entertained the desire of
conferring on my good friend Colonel O’Malachy a patent of nobility,
in recognition of his long and meritorious services; and between Lord
Caerleon and the Countess Nadia, daughter of Count O’Malachy de
Lisnacoola, there is no very great disparity of rank.”
“But Carlino is King of Thracia,” Nadia managed to say.
“Pardon me. I am aware that he calls himself king, but he has simply
usurped the throne. He cannot be king without the consent of the
Powers, and of Roum, the suzerain State. His so-called election is
merely the work of an ignorant peasantry, led on by irresponsible
agitators. The present condition of Thracia is a standing menace to
European peace, and it cannot be suffered to continue. If this errand
with which I am charged to you fails to bring about a settlement, Lord
Caerleon must fall. He is nothing but an adventurer, a land-pirate.”
“But,” urged Nadia, more for the sake of gaining time than for any
other reason, “if this patent of nobility is intended as a reward for
my father’s services, why should it not be granted to him in any
case?”
“Sure that’s the most sensuble thing I’ve ever heard you say, Nadia,”
exclaimed the O’Malachy, with hearty approval, while his wife frowned
angrily, and Prince Soudaroff looked a little nonplussed.
“You forget, mademoiselle, that the conferring of the patent would
involve in this instance a grant of estates sufficient for the
maintenance of the title, such as it would be invidious to bestow upon
an officer of Colonel O’Malachy’s standing in an isolated case, unless
for very special reasons of State. But not only are those whom I
represent willing to aid you in this way,--I am further authorised to
promise that the Scythian ambassador at Czarigrad shall be instructed,
if the marriage takes place, to support the Thracian claim for the
confirmation by the Grand Signior of Lord Caerleon’s election as king.
The bride will thus have the satisfaction of bringing not only
happiness to her husband, but peace and security to Thracia.”
“But only the confirmation of King Carlino’s election? Not the
recognition of the right of the Thracians to elect their own king?”
“Certainly not, mademoiselle. Roum would be unable to accord such a
recognition without the consent of the Powers, which would not be
given under any circumstances.”
“I can quite believe it. And now, M. le Prince, I know that in the
political world nothing goes for nothing. What is the price to be paid
for this kindness on the part of the Emperor?”
“Nadia!” cried her mother. “I am grieved--astonished----”
“Madame,” said the Prince, with a deprecating wave of his hand, “when
I undertook this errand I expected to be misunderstood. There are no
conditions attached to his Majesty’s favours, mademoiselle. He gives
without any desire of receiving in return. I do not say that he does
not look for gratitude. His heart is so tender that even years of
ruling and much bitter experience have not hardened it. He may well
anticipate that some little attention would be paid to his wishes,
some slight concessions made on the part of those who will owe so much
to him; but that is all.”
“Ah!” said Nadia, sharply. “And what are these concessions?”
“They are so slight, mademoiselle, that his Majesty is quite content
to leave them in the background until matters are as happily arranged
as you can desire--in other words, until your marriage with Lord
Caerleon has taken place. On so joyful an occasion the sole anxiety of
a man of generous impulses, such as I understand this unfortunately
misguided nobleman to be, would be to take counsel with his bride as
to the means by which he might testify some portion of his gratitude
to the potentate to whom he owed his happiness.”
“I see,” said Nadia, crimson but persistent. “And it would be my part
to suggest that these concessions should be made, as signs of our
joint gratitude to the Emperor. But I must know something more about
them. It would be impossible for me to recommend them to the King
unless I had been told what they were.”
“They are so slight, mademoiselle, as scarcely to be called
concessions,--they would merely take the form of a graceful
acknowledgment of the Emperor’s kindness. Until this unhappy
revolution occurred, the connection was so close between Scythia and
Thracia that there will appear nothing strange in returning to the
custom by which in all matters of foreign policy the advice tendered
by Scythia was followed by the Thracian Government. Again, Scythia has
borne such a prominent part in organising the Thracian kingdom and in
training the army that to appoint a Scythian officer as Minister of
War would cause no surprise, and seem only natural.”
“Ah!” said Nadia again, “and that is not all?”
“It is evident, mademoiselle, that while the present Ministry is in
power in Thracia, the Emperor cannot feel towards that country the
cordiality he would wish to entertain. It is to the interest of the
Cabinet at present in office to oppose any tendency towards a
reconciliation with Scythia, simply because their own position depends
upon their maintaining a hostile attitude. But the matter will right
itself. When the King shows his gratitude and friendliness towards
Scythia in the two ways I have indicated, the Drakovics Ministry
cannot remain in office. The Assembly will be dissolved, M. Drakovics
will disappear as suddenly as he rose to power, and the King,
assisted, if necessary, by Scythia, will obtain by means of a general
election a more serviceable Government.”
“By means of compulsion and forged voting-papers, I suppose,” said
Nadia. She had no reason to feel any special love for M. Drakovics;
but he was an honest man and a patriot, and really anxious to do what
seemed to him to be best both for Caerleon and Thracia. She rose from
her chair, and spoke wearily: “I am sorry that I shall not have the
opportunity of advising the King to accept your conditions, M. le
Prince.”
“There are no conditions, mademoiselle. What is desired is merely an
honourable understanding that you will employ your influence over Lord
Caerleon to induce him to comply with the Emperor’s wishes in this
direction.”
“And into that understanding I cannot enter. I will not help to thrust
the Thracians back into the bondage from which the revolution freed
them. I will never advise the King to take the steps you propose, and
I hope and believe that he would decline to listen to me if I did.”
“Nadia, you are mad!” cried Madame O’Malachy, shrilly. “If you have no
regard for your lover, will not the thought of your family move you?
The old age of your parents and your brother’s future would be secured
by your accepting the gracious kindness you scorn.”
“It is still possible that on mature consideration mademoiselle may
change her mind,” said Prince Soudaroff, looking calmly through a
handful of papers which he took from his pocket. “His Majesty’s offer
will remain open for a week. But I cannot honestly advise any delay.
We have merely to seek a _rapprochement_ with Pannonia, and secure her
opposition, instead of her neutrality, to the negotiations at
Czarigrad, and the fate of Lord Caerleon and his ‘kingdom’ is sealed.
Thracia is honeycombed with disaffection, and such a failure in
foreign policy will precipitate matters. One more thought,
mademoiselle. I told you just now that Lord Caerleon was a
land-pirate. Have you recollected what is the fate of a captured
pirate?”
“I had rather know that he was dead than saved by betraying the nation
that trusted him,” said Nadia, stoutly. No harassing doubts assailed
her now. Such an offer as this could not but be refused.
“And again,” the Prince went on, not heeding her words. “Lord Caerleon
is only a man; and we men are not angels in constancy. Your refusal
has made him miserable, it is true; but he will not remain long in
this state of mind. You have wounded his self-esteem; you have shown
him that there are certain things which you love better than you love
him. It does not signify that these things are the highest and most
creditable sentiments--he must be a very exceptional man who could
endure to see them preferred to himself. And Lord Caerleon is not an
exceptional man; he is simply a young Englishman, half child and half
barbarian, whose idea is that when he wants anything he must have it.
You have denied him that on which he had set his heart, and very soon
his one anxiety will be to punish you. I happen to know that M.
Drakovics, his Minister, is doing his utmost to obtain for him the
hand of some princess of a royal house. There is still time to win him
back, for he loves you at present, in spite of the way in which you
have treated him. But if you delay only a very few days you may be too
late. Owing to your own cruelty, you may see your lover urged into a
marriage with another woman, whom he does not love, but whom he is
willing to accept in order to punish you. Or perhaps,” with a smile,
“you may see him marrying joyfully--who shall say?--some royal lady
who has succeeded in captivating his inconstant heart, which was at
your disposal if you would have received it, but cannot support your
coldness.”
“I can’t help it!” cried Nadia, trembling from head to foot. “If I
could withstand him, do you think I will listen to you? He is quite
right to marry some one else; I told him to do it. Ah! if you wanted
me to give way, you should have brought him here; but you would never
dare to utter to his face the horrible lies you tell of him behind his
back. I can only thank you for not putting me to the test.”
“Would ut be quite impossuble?” asked the O’Malachy, as she closed the
door sharply behind her.
“Quite,” returned his wife. “Drakovics and Milord Cyril watch over him
night and day. No one is allowed to hold communication with him except
through them.”
“Yes,” rejoined Prince Soudaroff, meditatively. “I fear King Carlino
has had his last chance.”
“I observe,” said Madame O’Malachy, “that in your conversation with my
daughter you made no allusion to the religious difficulty, M. le
Prince.”
“If so, madame, it is for the excellent reason that no religious
difficulty exists. On the contrary, the fact that mademoiselle is a
member of the Orthodox Church has contributed largely to induce the
Emperor to suggest the terms I was authorised to offer.”
“But sure the girl’s a schismatic--an Evangelical, or whatever the
fools call themselves?” cried the O’Malachy, while his wife nodded
quickly.
“Pardon me, my dear colonel, but Scythian law makes no provision for
schismatics. Mademoiselle was baptised in the Orthodox Church, and it
is impossible for her to quit it. Her marriage, to be valid, must be
celebrated according to the orthodox rite, and the Emperor and the
clergy may be trusted not to lose the hold they would thus gain upon
Thracia.”
“That such a scheme should be wrecked by a girl’s obstinacy!” cried
Madame O’Malachy. “It is maddening!”