WORDS FROM DYING LIPS.
Prince Soudaroff left Witska that afternoon, and the week allowed to
Nadia for deliberation slipped away, but no message was sent to
request him to return or to accept the offer with which he was
charged. If he was mortified by this lack of success, he must have
felt himself avenged a little later, when both his auguries of evil in
turn proved true. The first hint of the fulfilment of his prophecy
reached Nadia one morning when her mother threw a newspaper to her as
she came into the sitting-room.
“Now I hope you are happy!” she said. “You have succeeded in bringing
about the ruin of Thracia and your Carlino.”
Nadia took up the paper, a German one, and read the piece of news
which figured most prominently in its columns. The _rapprochement_
which had taken place between the Emperors of Scythia and Pannonia was
announced, and also the subsequent refusal by the Roumi Government to
confirm Caerleon’s election as king--the two events which had plunged
Cyril and M. Drakovics into their complicated intrigues with Mœsia.
Mr Hicks had not yet given to the world the information which he was
to amass with so much astuteness, and therefore nothing was at present
known of these negotiations, so that the paper only reflected the
general opinion when it remarked that the cause of Thracia was already
lost. Cyril was still an unknown quantity in Balkan politics; and
although most people were acquainted to a certain extent with the
resourcefulness and strength of will of M. Drakovics, they could not
conceive it possible that even he could devise any means of tiding
over such a crisis as this. Nadia did not venture to dissent from the
universal opinion; but there was no sign of trembling in the hand
which held the paper as she read through the announcement and the
editorial comments upon it, and she looked round unfalteringly at her
mother.
“I had rather that he should fall honourably than reign as a pensioner
of Scythia,” she said.
“You are a fool!” was Madame O’Malachy’s angry answer. “Go and look
after your sick brats. It is all you are fit for.”
But three or four days later she came into Nadia’s room early in the
morning wearing an expression in which rage and triumph were mingled.
“You have indeed done well for yourself, mademoiselle!” she said,
putting her hand on her daughter’s shoulder as she slept and shaking
her. “Your Carlino is to marry the Princess Ottilie of Mœsia. The
betrothal is to take place next week.”
“It is not true!” cried Nadia, starting up in bed.
“It is most true. That touches you, does it not? This, then, is your
faithful, your constant lover! He assures you of his undying
affection, and six weeks after saying the words he betroths himself to
another.”
“He is quite right,” said Nadia, recollecting herself. “I told him to
do it.”
“I can quite believe it! But you never thought he would obey you,”
said Madame O’Malachy, putting down her candle and gazing with cruel
certainty into her daughter’s pale face. “Don’t tell me that you did,
mademoiselle. You might try to impose upon Prince Soudaroff with your
exalted generosity, but you felt confident that Carlino would remain
faithful to you. However, I may tell you this for your comfort. Your
father has always believed hitherto that Carlino would refuse to
accept his dismissal as final, and would try his fate again before
long. But now, if he meets him he will kill him.”
“Why?” asked Nadia, as calmly as she could. “He is only doing this in
obedience to me.”
“Why!” cried her mother. “Because he has insulted us, played with us,
made us the laughing-stock of Europe. Although you may be a fool, your
father knows how to avenge the honour of his house, and he will not
fail to do it. You refused to share the Thracian throne; but it is
Carlino who has put it out of his own power to offer you the crown a
second time, and for this he must be rewarded as he deserves. In every
way we are undone. Not only have we lost the position we might have
held in Thracia, but this marriage will endanger the result of all our
labours in Europe.”
“Ah!” cried Nadia, assuming a sudden interest in politics in the vain
hope of diverting from herself the gaze of her mother’s glittering
eyes, “it was this marriage that Vladimir Alexandrovitch was anxious
to prevent. He foresaw the possibility of its taking place, and he
knew that it would bring Pannonia to the help of King Carlino. Thracia
is saved, then!”
“Yes; and you----?” asked Madame O’Malachy, with her most merciless
smile, as she retired from the room, half baffled by her daughter’s
resolution, but certain that she left a sting behind her. And this was
indeed the case. Although Nadia had succeeded in making herself
believe that she wished Caerleon to follow the advice she had given
him, she discovered now that she had never expected him to do so. She
had found an unspeakable comfort in remembering the indignant rebuke
with which he had answered her when she told him that although he
loved her, it was his duty to marry some other woman; and even now she
sorrowed less for the fact that she was herself forsaken than that her
lover had proved unstable. He had failed in faith; he was fearless and
stainless no more. Well, no doubt it was better so. He was no longer
hers, he had not been hers since they parted at Bellaviste; and if he
was proved not to be the blameless knight she had imagined him, at
least he was a wise king, and was preparing to take the only step by
which it seemed possible to save his kingdom in the present crisis.
Undoubtedly it was better so. But Nadia’s heart and soul rose up in
rebellion against this view of the case, and all day, as she followed
the mountain-paths, or moved about inside the hut in which lay the
sick child she was visiting, she was mourning in silence a trust
betrayed, a high ideal shattered. It was her own fault, she knew; she
had told him to forget her, but she had illogically expected him to
disobey, and required him to be stronger morally than she was.
But after a day or two other things happened to trouble her. It was
generally known throughout Europe by this time that there was a
difference of opinion between Scythia and Pannonia on the subject of
Thracia, and that in all probability the interposition of Pannonia and
her allies at Czarigrad would obtain a settlement of affairs in
Caerleon’s favour. This prospect served to stimulate the activity of
the Thracian conspirators both at home and in exile, who had been
lying low for a week or two, and watching the course of events, but
now realised that they could not look to the Powers to do their
business for them. The O’Malachy and his wife became increasingly
busy, much to the alarm of Nadia, who felt certain that they
contemplated delivering some blow, the nature of which she could not
divine, against the Thracian kingdom. At last the O’Malachy left
Witska on urgent business, and she gathered that his destination was
Pavelsburg, although she could only guess at his probable errand
there. Nor were her anxieties allayed one day when she found her
mother reading with much irritation a newspaper which had just arrived
by the post.
“There seems to be no end to the annoyance you bring upon us, Nadia,”
said Madame O’Malachy. “As if your foolishness was not enough, your
father must needs improve upon it for the benefit of the newspapers.
It must have been after dinner, I suppose, as usual. No doubt they
gathered round him and drank wine with him, and flattered and
sympathised with him, until he was ready to tell them anything. I
cannot trust him alone for a day, and yet I cannot leave Witska. Pig!
ass! why does he not see that in recounting this pitiful story he
forgets that Louis is in Bellaviste, in the Palace itself, and must
stay there?”
“What has my father been saying?” asked Nadia, her colour changing.
“Merely parading you before the eyes of Europe as a forsaken heroine,”
replied Madame O’Malachy, tearing the offending newspaper briskly
across, and throwing the fragments into the stove; “but I will put a
stop to that. Give me those telegraph-forms.”
Surprised by her mother’s unaccustomed confidence in her, Nadia
obeyed, and was further astonished to find herself consulted as to the
wording of the telegram which was to warn the O’Malachy not to repeat
his indiscretion, but to maintain a strict silence on the subject of
his daughter in future. Several forms were wasted before the message
satisfied Madame O’Malachy, but she did not breathe freely until Nadia
had taken it to the post-office. As soon as she had time to think, she
made a mental resolution to seize any papers other than merely local
ones which might enter the house, and destroy them before Nadia could
see them. This measure was imperatively necessary, if there was to be
any peace in the family; for even her intrepid spirit quailed when she
pictured to herself the scene which would ensue if Nadia discovered
the construction which the O’Malachy, or the reporters of his words,
had placed upon Caerleon’s treatment of her. To Madame O’Malachy,
whose common-sense was one of her strongest points, the state of mind
in which her husband could choose to boast of the long-past glories of
his race, while he did his best at the same moment to proclaim that
his daughter had been most cruelly jilted, was incomparably absurd,
and the telegram she sent him was short and sharp. The injury
inflicted upon Nadia’s future by the publication of a report such as
he had set on foot touched her keenly, for all her hopes for old age
were based upon the possibility of her daughter’s making a brilliant
marriage; and to have her name bandied about in such a connection
could not but militate against her prospects. Trouble caused by an
incident of this kind she could understand and sympathise with, while
Nadia’s refusal of Caerleon and the reasons for it were a sealed book
to her, and she was unusually kind to the girl during that day and the
next. But on the second evening her sympathy seemed to have exhausted
itself, for her manner once more became brusque and her tone
sarcastic, and Nadia, whose spirits had risen under the influence of
the change in her mother, realised that her presence was no longer
desired in the sitting-room. As she opened the door a sudden impulse
made her return to the table at which Madame O’Malachy was busied with
her writing materials.
“If you are planning anything against _him_, spare him for my sake,”
she said in a low voice, and stopped suddenly, amazed at her own
temerity.
“Go to bed; you are a little fool,” returned her mother, scathingly.
Nadia’s sleep was much disturbed that night. Two or three times she
thought she heard stealthy steps in the passage, and once the
unmistakable sound of the shutting of a door. She could not rid
herself of the idea that some deadly blow was being prepared against
Caerleon; there were evil possibilities in the slightest noise that
reached her ears as she lay awake trembling and listening. She cried
herself to sleep at last, and was only awakened in the morning by a
voice at her door.
“Fräulein! Fräulein!”--the agitated accents were those of the
many-tongued waiter,--“pray come down at once. The gracious Frau
Oberstin has met with an accident. Boris the cowherd found her lying
on the hillside just now, and they are bringing her in.”
Startled and horrified, Nadia threw on a dressing-gown, and rushed
down-stairs. The passage was filled with the hangers-on of the inn,
who made way for her to pass into one of the smaller rooms on the
ground-floor, into which a figure wearing the dress of the
country-people had just been carried on a stretcher. Nadia looked
round in amazement. This was a peasant woman, not her mother. But from
the motionless form came a well-known voice.
“You need not look so terrified, my daughter. I am not injured, merely
too stiff to move. Absolutely I cannot stir a foot. It is evident that
I have been walking in my sleep again. You remember that it is an old
trick of mine? I suppose you must send for a doctor, for form’s sake,
but pray do not let any one be alarmed.”
It appeared that there was a doctor to be found at a little town some
miles distant, and a messenger was despatched at once to bring him to
Witska, while Nadia did her best to make her mother comfortable.
Assisted by an excited maid-servant, who insisted on relating in bad
German how it had happened to her, some weeks before, to meet the Frau
Oberstin coming along the balcony at night with a candle in her hand
and a fixed look in her eyes, she brought down a bedstead from one of
the upper rooms, and succeeded in lifting Madame O’Malachy and placing
her upon it, the sufferer still protesting that she felt no pain
whatever, merely an inability to move. Nadia’s mind was occupied with
the problem presented by the accident. If her mother had only been
walking in her sleep, how had it happened that she had laid aside her
own dress and put on the peasant costume? The place where she had been
found was at the foot of a precipitous incline on which there abutted
one of the walls of the garden belonging to the inn. Between the wall
and the margin of the steep was a narrow ledge, affording just room
for a sure-footed person to pass along it. It was unlikely that a
sleep-walker would light upon this track without having seen it
before; but any one who was bound on secret or important business
would find it an excellent means of reaching the road which led down
the mountain without being seen from the village. Was it possible that
Madame O’Malachy had been carrying treasonable letters in disguise
when a chance slip had made her lose her footing?
This was the question which, try as she would, Nadia could not succeed
in banishing from her mind during the earlier part of the day, but
when the doctor arrived he gave a new direction to her thoughts. He
was a taciturn man, and asked so few questions that Madame O’Malachy
set him down as a fool; but when his examination was over he made a
sign to Nadia to accompany him out of the room.
“Where is the Herr Oberst?” he asked. “I understand from the landlord
that he is away.”
“I think he must be in Scythia,” answered Nadia. “He went to
Pavelsburg on important business, but I do not know whether he is
there still.”
“He should be summoned at once,” said the doctor.
“But he will return in a few days,” said Nadia, astonished. “You don’t
wish me to telegraph to him? That would make him think that my mother
was dangerously ill----”
“Yes?” said the doctor, with an intonation that made her start and
shiver.
“But she is not even severely hurt! She has absolutely no pain!” she
cried, frantically.
“That is the worst symptom in the case,” he replied, in his most
repressive and business-like tone. “She is suffering from paralysis,
caused by----” And he entered into a learned disquisition on the exact
nature of the injury sustained, culminating in the fact that the
paralysis, which was now confined to the lower limbs, must necessarily
creep upwards by degrees until it reached a certain point, after
which---- He paused, and Nadia, who had been listening like one in a
dream, forced herself to ask the question--
“And how long--how long will it be before this point is reached?”
“It may be to-night, it may be to-morrow,” he answered. “Therefore, if
I may advise you, send your telegram immediately.”
In a stunned condition she returned into the room to ask her mother
the O’Malachy’s address, only to be met by the question why she wanted
it.
“The doctor thought he ought to know that you were ill,” she murmured.
“But why?” asked Madame O’Malachy. “He must not be sent for unless it
is absolutely necessary. Did the doctor say it was necessary?” she
added, quickly.
Nadia bowed her head, unable to speak. For a moment her mother’s eager
eyes searched her face keenly, then closed, as though in utter
weariness.
“You will find your father’s address on an envelope in my desk. Go and
send your telegram, then bring the desk here to me. I will rest a
little.”
But when Nadia returned to the room, her mother did not seem inclined
to rest. She made her tear up a number of papers and burn them, then
sent her up-stairs for others, which were treated in the same way.
Nadia had no opportunity of saying a word. At last, when the papers
were all disposed of, she screwed her courage to the point of asking
whether she should read aloud a little.
“If you like,” returned Madame O’Malachy, indifferently. “You will
find on my toilet-table the novel I was reading. I may as well finish
it.”
“Oh, not that, to-day!” entreated Nadia.
“And why not?” asked her mother. “If not that, nothing, thank you.”
No more could be said, and Nadia remained silent, feeling that she had
wasted an opportunity. All that could be done during the day for her
mother’s comfort she did, feeling all the time humbly and unhappily
conscious that she was not a good nurse. Her movements were too
deliberate, no one could call her deft, and she felt sure that
mistakes which passed unnoticed by her sick children and their parents
were setting her mother’s teeth on edge at this moment. There was no
one to give her any real help, although the people of the inn did what
they could. The doctor had departed immediately after giving his
verdict, and would not return until late at night, for he was an
over-worked general practitioner, and was gone to visit several cases
in a different direction, in which his ministrations might possibly
prove effective, while for this patient nothing could be done. Even if
the O’Malachy were still to be found at the address to which the
telegram had been sent, he could not be expected at Witska for three
days at least, and it was by no means certain that he had not left
before it could reach him. Nadia felt utterly lonely. Wearied and
inexpressibly miserable, she sat down by the stove in the dusk,
longing to say something, she knew not what, to her mother, to break
down, even at this eleventh hour, the barrier of silence which their
lives had raised between them. But she was tongue-tied, and it was
Madame O’Malachy who spoke first.
“Turn your face this way a little, my daughter, that I may see you.
No; I cannot understand it. Tell me, what was it about you that
attracted the notice of King Carlino?”
“I don’t know,” said Nadia, humbly. “I think it was only that he loved
me.”
“Yes; but why did he love you?” resumed Madame O’Malachy. “You do not
make the most of yourself, you have no conversation, you make no
effort to be agreeable. Is it that he admired your plainness of
speech, which I, for one, call brutal?”
“Perhaps, a little,” said Nadia. “Not altogether, certainly.”
“You seem very doubtful,” said her mother. “Have you never asked
yourself these interesting questions? How are you to retain your
influence over men if you have no idea of the means by which you first
attracted their attention--their admiration?”
“I don’t want to obtain influence over men,” said Nadia, in a choking
voice. “My own life has not been so successful that I need make any
more efforts to direct others.”
“That exactly proves the truth of what I was saying,” said Madame
O’Malachy. “Tell me,” she added suddenly--“do you still love this
young man?”
Nadia dropped on her knees by the bedside, and hid her face in the
coverlet. “It is cruel to ask me,” she sobbed, “when he is going to
marry the Princess of Mœsia; but I do.”
“I hear that he looks most unhappy, and appears to loathe the
engagement into which he has undoubtedly been forced,” said her
mother. Nadia raised her clasped hands in wild appeal.
“Oh, don’t tell me that!” she cried. “Let me feel at least that he is
happy, whatever becomes of me. I pray every day that they may love
each other, and that their marriage may be a blessing to Thracia and
to themselves.”
“You bear no malice against him, then?”
“How could I? He is doing what I felt must be right.”
“You would not wish him to be punished? If you knew of any danger----”
“Oh, mother!” she looked up with a cry. “I would walk barefoot to
Bellaviste to warn him, even if he was to be married to-morrow. You
have not joined in any plot to injure him?”
“Hush! I cannot tell you now. I must speak to your father, if he
returns in time. Leave me alone with him when he comes, and I will
tell you afterwards. If he does not return, I will tell you before the
end.”
Nadia returned to her place, and they talked no more until the sounds
of bustle outside announced an arrival.
“It is your father,” said Madame O’Malachy; “I hear his voice.
Besides,” as Nadia’s face showed signs of incredulity, “no one else
would arrive so late. His business must have taken a shorter time than
we anticipated, and no doubt he started on his return journey two days
ago, and so missed the telegram.”
Nadia went out, and found the O’Malachy in the passage, engaged in
hearing from the waiter what had occurred. He looked anxious and
worried.
“This is a bad businuss, Nadia,” he said. “Where is your mother?”
Nadia took him into the room, and, mindful of her mother’s injunction,
left them alone together. From her post in the passage she could hear
their voices, her mother’s anxious and pleading, the O’Malachy’s gruff
and obdurate. After a time he opened the door and called to her to
come in, telling her to get him something to eat, but refusing to
yield to her suggestion that he should take his meal in another room.
Presently he sent her away to unpack his portmanteau and get out what
he needed, and then he himself saw the doctor, and received his
assurance that there would be no marked change in the patient’s
condition before morning. Nadia had made preparations for sitting up
with her mother; but he ordered her peremptorily to bed, and declared
his intention of taking the night-watch himself. It was evident that
he did not mean to leave her alone with Madame O’Malachy for a moment,
and her anxiety became keen. A look from her mother warned her to
obey, and she left the room, but lingered in the passage. Presently
she heard Madame O’Malachy urging her husband to make himself
comfortable in the cushioned chair which had been brought down for
him, and rest a little after his journey, and before very long there
was perfect silence in the room. Nadia opened the door softly, and
peeped in. A low “Hush!” from her mother brought her noiselessly to
the side of the bed, where Madame O’Malachy lay wide awake, while the
O’Malachy was beginning to give audible evidence of having fallen
asleep in his chair.
“Kneel down here,” whispered Madame O’Malachy, “where your father
cannot see you if he wakes. Nadia, I have been trying to induce him to
abandon the plot we had arranged--so much of it, at least, as
threatens Carlino’s life--but he will not consent. He has got hold of
the idea that the King and Lord Cyril were playing with him all the
time we were at Bellaviste, and he says he will not allow himself to
be made a fool in the eyes of Europe. He will not consent to
relinquish his revenge.”
“And you have arranged to murder the King?” gasped Nadia. “Oh,
mother!”
“What did you say, Barbara?” asked the O’Malachy, sitting up and
looking round sharply. “If you want anything, don’t be afraid of
asking me for ut. Sure I wasn’t asleep, but I can’t get the noise of
the train out of me ears.”
“Thanks, O’Malachy, I want nothing,” returned his wife, and he settled
himself once more in his chair; but it was some time before the two
women ventured to begin their conversation afresh.
“If you wish to save the King,” Madame O’Malachy whispered, “listen to
me now. The betrothal is to take place the day after to-morrow, and
two days later Carlino will return to Bellaviste. On a certain day
soon after his return he is to inspect the garrison of Tatarjé--that
is, if he escapes your father. There are two routes to the town, and
it is at present doubtful which he will choose. Louis is to discover
this, and to let your father know. When a letter comes from him, and
your father leaves this place on any pretext, you will know what is
intended, and it is for you to warn the King, if you are still in the
same mind.”
“But why not write at once and caution Lord Cyril?” asked Nadia.
“Because we have confederates in the post-office, and your letter
would be stopped. We are not alone, Nadia. The conspiracy is an
extensive one, with ramifications throughout the whole of Thracia, and
supporters in Scythia. It will take its course, but I will help you to
save your Carlino’s life if I can.”
“But must I denounce my father to save him?” asked Nadia, horrified.
“Never! You will merely tell the King not to visit Tatarjé on that
day, or if he must go, to alter his route. The change of plan will at
once become known to Louis, and he will warn your father that the plot
has been discovered, and that he must escape. Or if, through any
mischance, he should be away, do you telegraph at once to Mr F. X.
O’Reilly, at Tatarjé, ‘Go to Pavelsburg immediately, and await
further orders there.’ Your father will understand. He is to pass at
Tatarjé as an English newspaper correspondent, come to see the
inspection, and he will leave at once.”
“But is the rest of the plot to take its course?”
“Certainly. I tell you nothing, and you know nothing. I am not
betraying anything that is indispensable to it. It was Louis who
suggested to your father that it would ensure the success of the
revolt if Carlino were got rid of first of all, and your father caught
at the idea at once. It is entirely the fulfilment of his private
revenge, and all the arrangements have been our work alone, though
there is no doubt that the removal would be welcomed by the other
parties to the conspiracy, however eagerly they might appear to
reprobate it in deference to public opinion. It is with reference to
this alone that I will aid you; but once the alarm is given, the
King’s friends will look after his life carefully enough. In the
revolution, when it arrives, he must take his chance; but if he falls,
it will be in fair fight, not by a shot fired from an ambush. Only be
sure that when you warn him, you give your message either to Lord
Cyril or to himself. They would believe you, but M. Drakovics would
put you in prison in the hope of obtaining further information. And
you must go to Bellaviste in disguise, for fear Louis should recognise
you. In any case, keep out of his way; he would not allow you to spoil
his plans.”
“But why do you all hate the King in this way?” asked Nadia,
tearfully.
“Your father hates him because he thinks he over-reached him in the
matter of his proposing to you. If it had not been for this engagement
to Princess Ottilie, he would have been most anxious that his life
should be spared, hoping that he might yet return and marry you. But
Louis does not hate him--it is merely a matter of business. He is at
Bellaviste to bring about a revolution, and he will do so more easily
if Carlino is out of the way. He finds your father incensed against
him, and immediately proposes to himself to take advantage of his
desire for revenge to kill Carlino. No; he is not sacrificing his
father----” as Nadia raised a horrified face. “Do you think that I
would have permitted such a thing? The arrangements for escaping from
the spot and leaving the country in safety are so complete that it
would be almost impossible for your father to be captured, or even for
his share in the--execution--to be known,--unless,” and Madame
O’Malachy smiled with a trace of her old sarcastic spirit, “he told
the story himself. But neither do I hate Carlino. I have almost a
liking for him; but he is weak--he lets slip his chances. If he had
married you, I would have done anything for him; but he allowed you,
with your absurd scruples, to send him away. If he had been a _man_,
he would have laughed at you. He should have made you marry him, and
then you would have liked him all the better for his roughness.”
“I should not!” cried Nadia, with flashing eyes. “I should have hated
him, despised him. How could I like him if he made me do what I felt
to be wrong?”
“Gently!” said her mother, as the O’Malachy stirred and muttered in
his sleep. “Now you are beyond me. I speak only from experience, you
from imagination, which is naturally far more trustworthy. But your
father is uneasy. If he finds you here he will be ready to kill us
both. Creep out quietly.”
“Let me stay with you here,” entreated Nadia. “I will be very
quiet,--I will not speak. I--I should like to know you better. You
have been so good to me to-day.”
“It is too late,” returned her mother. “I also--there are many things
which one could wish to change, looking at them to-night. But one
cannot do it now.”
“But--let me ask you just this--are you----”
“No; I know what you would say, but I cannot listen. You are
Protestant, I Catholic. But you may pray for me if you like. Now go.”
Nadia rose and kissed her silently, and went out. The longing which
both she and her mother had just put into words was strong upon her.
If only they could have changed so many things! But it was too late.
Old counsels of her godmother’s, Caerleon’s little-heeded
remonstrances, came thronging back into her mind as she gained her own
room and sank down upon a chair. She bowed her head upon the table,
and sobbed.
“It is all my fault!” she said. “I never know how much reason I have
to love any one before it is too late. Oh, if it may not be too late
for her!”