MINE AND COUNTERMINE.
It was broad daylight when the tinkling of a little bell aroused
Nadia. Rising stiff and cramped from the uncomfortable position in
which she had fallen asleep, kneeling beside her bed, she went to the
window, which looked into the courtyard of the inn. A priest, followed
by a youthful acolyte, was picking his way across the square towards
the gate--not the Greek pope of the village, but a Roman Catholic
priest from Boloszjen, the town from which the doctor came--and it was
the boy who was ringing the bell she had heard. Divining at once that
the priest had been summoned to administer the last sacraments to her
mother, she hastened down-stairs, to find the O’Malachy and the
travelled waiter talking in low voices in the passage.
“And the gracious young lady was not even awakened?” she heard the
waiter ask.
“_À quoi cela servirait-il? Mademoiselle est Protestante_,” replied
the O’Malachy, and the words fell on Nadia’s ear without conveying any
impression to her mind. She advanced towards her mother’s door, and
the waiter made a hasty movement as though to prevent her from
entering the room, but she passed him and went in. Then she realised
what had happened.
Stepping noiselessly, she drew back the sheet from the quiet form upon
the bed, and wondered at the expression of the face. Was it the hand
of death alone that had stamped upon the beautiful features the
serenity which had never characterised them in the stormy days of
life? Or had God spoken to the soul in the silent hours of the night,
when no human watcher was at hand, and the friendly and engrossing
sounds of earth were hushed for the time, and was the priest’s
anointing only a feeble emblem of the peace of God which passeth all
understanding? Nadia felt no inclination to weep as she gazed upon the
dead face. “Two hands upon the breast, and labour is past”--the
Scythian proverb recurred to her mind, and she felt a sudden
lightening of the load that had weighed her down since the first
intimation of her mother’s danger had reached her. The issue was not
hers, it belonged to God--God, who knew all the circumstances of
Barbara O’Malachy’s life, the bad training, the evil influences, and
in later years, the dead weight of an ill-spent past, and the constant
companionship of one who owed it to her efforts that he had preferred
the rewards of dishonour to a hero’s death.
What must have been the full effect of such a companionship Nadia did
not wholly realise until the O’Malachy entered the room, and found her
still standing and gazing entranced. She dropped the sheet as he came
up to the bed.
“She looks so peaceful,” she said, with a break in her voice, “but I
wish I had been here. You might have sent for me when you saw that she
was worse.”
“Sure there was not time,” replied the O’Malachy, lamely enough. “It
was not until daylight that I saw how nearly she was gone, and then I
could think of nothing but sending for Father John immediately.”
Nadia looked at him in silence, reading in his stumbling excuses the
fear which had influenced him that even at the last her mother might
find means to warn her of the plot against Caerleon’s life, and
understanding that this had been his reason for keeping her away. She
wished now that she had braved his anger, and insisted on remaining in
the room all night, and yet a quarrel in the very presence of the
dying could have done no possible good to any one. She looked at him
again as he stood shifting his position uneasily at the foot of the
bed, and she read in his face not only the grief which she had
expected to find there, but also something else, something that was
more like annoyance.
“I want to speak to you, Nadia, if you’ll come into the parlour,” he
said. “There are some arrangements we ought to get settled.”
“Can’t we leave them for a little while--just to-day?” asked Nadia.
“Time is a luckshury that we don’t possess,” answered her father,
opening the door for her, and motioning her out. “I may likely be
called away any moment.”
“Not before the--the funeral?” asked Nadia, in horror.
“I hope not; but if a letter comes to summon me on important businuss,
it stands to reason that I must go. I have arranged for the funeral to
take place to-morrow afternoon.”
“To-morrow? so soon?” cried Nadia.
“Sure is it not better that I would be here for ut than not? Your
blessud mother knew all about the work I’m on, and she would not have
had me leave ut. I am thinking of sending you back to Princess
Soudaroff, Nadia. When you came to us she said she would be glad to
have you again any time.”
Nadia’s heart leapt, but she reproached herself immediately for her
gladness. “If you would only let me stay with you, I should like it
better.”
“Stay with me?” echoed the O’Malachy. “Is it taking on your mother’s
part of the work you mean? I’d not have thought you had the gifts for
ut.”
“Oh no, not that!” said Nadia, earnestly. “Father, won’t you give it
up? You have your pay, and you could go back to your regiment, and I
could keep house for you.”
“Is it settling down to parades and courts-martial she means?” asked
the O’Malachy in astonishment. “She might have been Queen of Thracia,
and she talks of beginning life again on a linesman’s pay for the two
of us, in some dirty hole of a Scythian garruson town! Sure it’s
little you know of ut, mademoiselle.”
“I don’t mind how dull it is, or how poor we are,” urged Nadia,
thrilled with the hope of detaching her father from his present mode
of life.
“But sure I do,” was his instant response. “How do you think I could
enjure ut at all after the life your blessud mother and I have led?
You are just five-and-thirty years too late in your praise of
poverty.”
“But my mother----” began Nadia. He cut her short.
“I’d have you remember, Nadia, that what I am your mother made me, and
if she did show the white feather just at the end, sure ’twas the
first time in her life--or maybe the second,” he added, meditatively;
“and ’tis not likely I will change me ways before I’m on me deathbed,
as she was. No, I have me work, and I’ll keep to ut. I will write to
the Princess about you, and you’ll be better to telegraph to let her
know you are coming.”
“Not just yet,” pleaded Nadia; “I am very anxious to stay here as long
as I can.”
The O’Malachy looked pleased. “Sure we’ll not be partud altogether at
all,” he said. “If all goes well in Thracia, I’ll come and see you,
and we’ll maybe find ut possuble to set up housekeeping together in
some place.”
Nadia shuddered. “If all went well in Thracia,” meant to her father
that when they next met, Caerleon’s blood would be between them. She
changed the subject hastily.
“Will you telegraph to Louis, father, or shall I?”
“Ah, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to have um here,” responded the
O’Malachy thoughtfully. “But no. Louie is a soldier, and he must not
leave his duty. I’ll not have ut said that Michael O’Malachy called
his son away from the work he had to do. I’ll write to um meself.”
The day dragged slowly by, and the next followed like it. The
O’Malachy was restless and uneasy, dividing his time between making up
arrears of correspondence and watching the road which led up the
mountain. To Nadia, who knew what he must be expecting, and what
arrangements his letters were intended to make, this period of
inaction was almost unbearable, but it was not until shortly before
the funeral that she found how deeply the suspense had tried her.
Feverishly anxious to go out, to do anything that might relieve the
tension of the long hours, it cost her a flood of tears and a sharp
wordy battle when she found that she was not intended to follow her
mother to the grave. The O’Malachy was inflexible. In Ireland, he
said, ladies never attended funerals, and he would not have things
done otherwise than decently here because they were out on a
God-forsaken hill in a desolate (he pronounced it daysolut) country.
Too much exhausted to contend longer, Nadia yielded at last to the
imperious dictates of propriety, and declining the landlady’s offer of
her company, betook herself to solitude and a quiet corner of the inn
garden.
She had been sitting there for some time, in a spot quite concealed
from any one in the house by bushes and an intervening angle of wall,
and the sad procession had wound its way out of sight and hearing,
when she was startled by a persistent rustling in the boughs of a
large tree which overhung the parapet near her. At this season of the
year it was bare of leaves, but its branches were still so thickly
covered with ivy that they concealed the cause of the disturbance as
completely as if they had been laden with their native foliage, and
the effect was sufficiently alarming. In the strained state of her
nerves, Nadia’s first impulse was to take to flight and seek refuge in
the house; but she summoned up all her courage, and walked boldly
towards the tree, asking, in the best Thracian she could muster--
“Is there any one here?”
There was no answer, but she heard a further rustling immediately over
her head, and looking up quickly, caught sight of a man peering at her
through the screen of ivy. For a moment they remained staring at one
another, and then the intruder, feeling apparently that there was no
possibility of concealing himself further, bent down towards her, and
asked in a low voice in German--
“The gracious lady is related to the Herr Oberst O’Malachy?”
“Yes,” said Nadia, astonished by the contrast between the speaker’s
dress and his words. His appearance was that of a wandering artisan
seeking for work, but his voice was gentlemanly and his accent
refined.
“Then may I trouble her to hand to the Herr Oberst in private a small
packet? I was charged to deliver it only to himself or to the gracious
lady, and I have waited here for hours, hoping to see one or other of
them in the garden, for there is one of Drakovics’s spies hanging
about in front of the inn. Happily I found my way up the mountain by a
shepherd’s path, and he did not see me, but I was beginning to wonder
whether I must stay here until it was dark, and then manage to climb
up to the balcony and tap at the Herr Oberst’s window. The attempt
would have been both unpleasant and dangerous, and I cannot be too
thankful that fate directed the gracious lady’s steps to this part of
the garden.”
A flood of thoughts rushed across Nadia’s mind as she stood on tiptoe
and held out her hand for the letter, listening to what the messenger
said without hearing it. This man was one of the Thracian
conspirators. Even now he was acting as an emissary of Louis’s, and
carrying despatches to the various persons who were engaged in the
plot. Despatches!--had not her mother warned her that the O’Malachy
was expecting a message from Louis, a message which was to inform him
of the route by which Caerleon would enter Tatarjé, a message which
would enable him to carry out the dreadful deed he was contemplating?
This man had brought it. It was for him that the O’Malachy had been
watching since his return from Pavelsburg, but he had counted upon
intercepting him either in going to or returning from the grave if he
arrived to-day, for it was evident that he had not discovered the
presence of the secret agent in the village street. And his refusal to
let Nadia attend the funeral--the prohibition which had cost her so
many tears--had been the means of placing in her power the precious
scrap of paper on which, humanly speaking, hung Caerleon’s life! It
did not at the moment occur to her, what was indeed the case, that the
messenger had mistaken her for her mother, and had thus given her the
note without any misgiving; but as soon as the envelope was in her
hand, a cold chill ran through her. How was she to find out what it
contained? To suppress the letter would mean the ruin of her only
chance of helping Caerleon if the action were discovered, while to
open it, read it, and close it again, would be dishonourable. And
yet--and yet--surely if such an action could ever be justifiable, it
was so in this case. Her fingers closed upon the flap of the envelope;
it would be easy, when once the messenger had departed, to soften the
gum with a little hot water and examine the letter, but the teaching
of a lifetime was too strong for her, and she repulsed the temptation
in horror. The next moment another thought occurred to her, which
differed from the first, although she did not see this at the time, in
degree rather than in kind.
“Was there any verbal message,” she asked, “to be delivered in case
you were taken prisoner, and obliged to destroy the letter?”
“It is scarcely necessary to give it now,” said the messenger with a
smile, looking down at Nadia as she stood with the letter in her hand,
and her face upturned to his, “but if the gracious lady wishes to
assure herself of my good faith, it was this: _Friday, in the Wolf’s
Glen_.”
Nadia breathed freely. The words told her what she wanted to know, the
date, now three days hence, on which Caerleon was to inspect the
garrison of Tatarjé, and the route by which he would travel. In the
Wolf’s Glen the O’Malachy would lie in wait, on murder bent, unless
she could succeed in thwarting his purpose.
“Thank you,” she said to the messenger. “I will give the letter to the
Herr Oberst,” and she watched him make his way along the branches of
the tree until he was safely beyond the wall, and could drop to the
ground. Then she went quietly indoors, intent on possessing herself,
before the O’Malachy’s return, of something she had noticed among her
mother’s belongings. It was a dagger about ten inches long, very
bright and sharp, concealed ingeniously in a case shaped like a furled
fan, and she had a vague idea that it might serve her as a means of
defence on her way to Bellaviste, and perhaps stand her in good stead
when there, if she found it necessary to frighten any one. It was
alarming enough to her, at any rate, and she hoped earnestly that she
might not be obliged to produce it at all, while the thought of using
it against a living creature made her shudder; but she hid it
carefully in her dress, and returned to the garden. Meeting her father
when he entered, she gave him the letter.
“How did you get this?” he asked, looking at her suspiciously.
“A stranger gave it to me in the garden. He looked like a Thracian,”
she answered.
“You don’t know um? Did he say anything?”
“He asked me to give it to you, and said that he was charged to
deliver it only to you or me.”
“Poor Louie!” said the O’Malachy, with apparent irrelevance. “Boys
will get into scrapes now and then, and if he tries to find some way
of writing to his old father without his colonel’s finding ut out, why
in the wide world wouldn’t he?”
Understanding that she was intended to accept this transparent fiction
as an explanation of the way in which the letter had been delivered,
Nadia was silent, and her father retired to read it. When he returned,
his manner was hurried and eager.
“This letter brings me marching orders,” he said, and she noticed that
he avoided meeting her eye. “Poor Louie’s greatly troubled. He has got
umself into a very bad scrape, and to settle his businuss I must start
for Tatarjé by the morning train to-morrow.”
“Oh, what has he been doing?” cried Nadia, in genuine terror. For the
moment she really thought that, besides the expected intimation as to
Caerleon’s movements, the letter must have contained bad news of the
kind indicated by her father.
The O’Malachy frowned. “It’s not the kind of businuss we generally
talk over with ladies,” he said severely; and if Nadia’s heart had not
been so heavy, she could have laughed at the dignity of his manner as
he administered this rebuke to her curiosity. All fear for Louis left
her mind instantly, and she was ready to listen to her father when he
resumed, after a moment’s interval to allow the reproof to take
effect, “I’ll likely have to leave here by six in the morning to get
to the station in time for me train. What to do about you I don’t
know. You must telegraph to Princess Soudaroff at once, but your train
will not start from Boloszjen until mid-day to-morrow, and ’t is not a
right thing to leave you alone here.”
“Oh, please don’t trouble about me,” said Nadia. “Why, there is not
even a connection between Boloszjen and the Thracian railway, is
there? No, if you will settle the hotel bill, and arrange for a
carriage to take me to Boloszjen, I can start by myself quite
comfortably.” It would not have been human nature not to add, “You
must think about Louis first, you know.”
The O’Malachy lent a ready ear to the suggestion, which fitted in with
his own wishes. It was evident that his preparations at Tatarjé were
by no means complete as yet, probably owing to the uncertainty which
had prevailed hitherto as to the exact date of the inspection, and his
anxiety to be gone was great. Nadia packed for him the portion of his
possessions which he would allow her to touch, and in the morning
watched him drive away from the inn, bound for the starting-point of
the Thracian railway, which had at last been completed as far as the
capital. Now that he could no longer interfere with her, she must
mature and carry out her own plans. In accordance with her father’s
injunction, she had telegraphed the evening before to Princess
Soudaroff, asking whether she might come to her at Pavelsburg, but
adding on her own account that she must pay a hurried visit to
Bellaviste before starting for Scythia. Shortly after the O’Malachy’s
departure the answer arrived, assuring her of a warm welcome, and
promising that the Princess would send a lady belonging to her
household to meet her on the Scythian frontier if she would let her
know when she expected to reach it. Nadia had been watching anxiously
for this telegram--not that she was doubtful as to the welcome she
would receive from the Princess, but because she could not well start
on her journey until the missive had arrived. As soon as she had read
it she sought for the travelled waiter.
“I am obliged to change the Herr Oberst’s plans for me,” she said when
she found him. “I shall not go to Boloszjen in the carriage, but I
want you to have the luggage taken there and booked for Pavelsburg in
my name. Then even if I am late for the train the boxes will not be
lost. I am going to see little Ilona, the shepherd’s daughter, and to
take her some clothes. I shall not come back to Witska, but I believe
it is possible to cross the mountains from the shepherd’s hut and walk
to the station beyond Boloszjen and catch the train there, is it not?
Ilona’s father will show me the way, so you need not be alarmed if you
do not see me at Boloszjen.”
The waiter and the landlord both showed great concern on hearing of
the gracious young lady’s determination to fatigue herself so much
before starting on her journey, but she refused to yield to any of
their suggestions, accepting only the offer of a boy to carry the
parcel of clothes. Even this she would have declined if she had not
feared that such persistent ungraciousness would excite suspicion, and
she paid and dismissed her attendant as soon as the cottage came in
sight. Her plans were already laid, and she walked on boldly, carrying
in her arms the bundle, which contained the Thracian peasant-dress
that Madame O’Malachy had worn on the fateful night of her accident.
On entering the hut she was welcomed with a cry of delight by the sick
child, whom she had nursed through a bad attack of bronchitis, and her
mother; the father was away with his sheep. Nadia had no time to lose.
She had picked up a sufficient knowledge of Thracian to make herself
understood, and she plunged into her subject at once.
“I want you to let me change my dress here, Yerma,” she said. “I have
a friend in great danger at Bellaviste, and I must go to warn him.”
Glancing at the sympathetic faces of the mother and child, she knew
that she was safe with them, and went on, “I thought I would wear
clothes like yours, because I should attract less attention on the
road. My own dress I will leave with you. You will be able to make a
winter frock out of it for Ilona.”
The delicacy of the shepherd’s wife and daughter touched and surprised
her, for they asked no questions and simply did their best to give her
what help they could. Under Yerma’s directions she put on the coarse
linen gown and heavy sheepskin-lined pelisse which, in conjunction
with high boots reaching to the knee, form the winter dress of the
Thracian women. Then she knelt down by Ilona’s bed, that the child
might arrange on her head the coloured handkerchief which serves as
bonnet and also as veil, and is pulled so far over the face that it is
sometimes difficult to see from under it. Ilona called out in delight
that no one would recognise the gracious lady now that she was dressed
like this, and Yerma, after conjuring her to hide her hands in the
long sleeves, agreed with the child. Gloves are never worn in Thracia
by the poorer classes, the wide cuffs of the sleeves serving as a
protection from the cold of winter. When her toilet was complete,
Nadia stooped and kissed the child, and left the cottage with Yerma,
who had volunteered to show her the path which led down to the
lowlands on this side of the mountain. They spoke little as they
ventured cautiously on the slippery descent; but when they had reached
the road which led to the distant station, Yerma fell on her knees and
kissed Nadia’s hand.
“God and the saints bless you for all your kindness to my little
Ilona!” she said. “We shall all pray for you, gracious lady, and for
the gracious gentleman at Bellaviste, that you may be in time to warn
him, and that you may both be happy.”
“And only yesterday Carlino betrothed himself to the Princess
Ottilie!” was the thought in Nadia’s mind, as she turned away with
tears in her eyes from the grateful woman, and set out on her long
lonely journey. It was fortunate for her that winter had as yet
scarcely set in, and that the weather was unusually dry, for in an
ordinary season it would have been impossible for a solitary woman to
make her way along the road she was following. The cavernous ruts,
into a few of which good-sized boulders had been pitched at haphazard,
apparently with a view of filling up the holes, showed what the depth
of the mud must be in wet weather; and Nadia fancied that perhaps the
boulders had not been allowed to take up their present positions
entirely by chance, as she had imagined at first, for pedestrians
might find them extremely useful, and even necessary, as
stepping-stones. She plodded on bravely over the uneven track, knowing
that it must eventually lead her to the station, if she only followed
it far enough; but it was so long that at times she was ready to sit
down in despair, imagining that she had lost her way, for the narrow
strip of rough stones and dry mud appeared unending. But she had not
cultivated fortitude and endurance all her life for nothing. The
temperament which had led her to practise martyrdom as a child was a
potent aid to her now, and she toiled on, the remembrance of the
mother and child in the shepherd’s hut praying for the success of her
mission giving her fresh courage. The few wayfarers she met looked at
her curiously as a stranger to the neighbourhood, but the fact that
she had no luggage with her, and that she was able to answer their
rough but kindly greetings in Thracian, seemed to forbid any shadow of
suspicion, and they passed her as a woman making her way from one
village to another. Still she pressed on, for the day was advancing,
and the train which would reach Bellaviste at noon on the morrow
started at four o’clock. An anxious fear seized upon her that after
all she might not be in time, and goaded her to fresh efforts. With
panting breath and stumbling feet she hurried along, and at last saw
far in front of her the collection of wooden sheds which marked the
starting-point of the Thracian railway system. Cheered by the sight,
she almost lost her feeling of weariness during the last half-mile of
the way, although, when the station was once reached and her ticket
taken, she was glad to sink upon a bench and do nothing, think of
nothing, but rest. When the train came in, she noticed its arrival
mechanically, but it did not occur to her to take any active steps
with regard to entering it, and had it not been for a warning from her
neighbour on the bench, a pleasant-looking elderly woman laden with
bundles, she would have been left behind.
Awakened by this friend in need to the fact that the train was just
about to start, Nadia insisted on helping her to carry her bundles,
and was glad to establish herself on the seat next to her in the
carriage, which was constructed on the American pattern. They were the
only women present, but the men gathered together at the other end and
talked among themselves, and Nadia’s friend arranged her parcels on
the bench in front of her, and producing a covered brazier filled with
hot charcoal, invited Nadia to put her feet upon it and make herself
comfortable. She was a cheerful, talkative person, and beguiled the
way with quaint legends relating to the hills and valleys they were
passing--legends which would have been full of interest for her hearer
if she had not been so tired. Her long walk, the close atmosphere of
the train, and the monotonous voice of her companion, all combined to
make Nadia overpoweringly sleepy, but she succeeded in dissembling the
fact until an irresistible nod brought her head into sudden and
violent contact with the good woman’s shoulder.
“Have you heard the story of the young prince and his witch-mother?”
the narrator was saying. “There was a learned gentleman from
Bellaviste travelling in our parts this summer, who heard me telling
it to the children, and he was so pleased with it that he wrote it all
down, every word. But you are tired, poor thing! Lie down here, and
take this bundle of mine for a pillow, and I will cover you with my
cloak. No, don’t thank me. I have a daughter just your age. She is
married, and lives at Bellaviste, and I am going to see her now for
the first time since the wedding.”
All the time she was talking she was busy arranging a comfortable
place on the bench for Nadia, and then tucked her up in the most
motherly way. The girl was deeply thankful to be allowed to rest, for
mind and body were alike worn out. But the strain upon her was too
great to permit of peaceful sleep, and she awoke at last with a start,
shivering and trembling, to find her face wet with tears, and her
friend laying a warning hand upon her shoulder. “I woke you because
you began to scream,” she said. “You have been crying all the time you
were asleep, and talking in a language I don’t understand, but I
thought some of the men there might hear you if you spoke loud, and
know what you were saying.”
“Thank you,” said Nadia, sitting up and pushing back the hair from her
face. “It was very kind of you to wake me, for I am in great trouble,
and it might have done terrible harm if any one had understood what I
said. I will tell you what I am doing here,” she went on, moved to
confidence as she looked into the motherly eyes opposite her. “There
is a friend of mine in great danger at Bellaviste, and I have
information which may save his life if I can only get there in time.”
“But you are not a Thracian?”
“No, I come from the frontier, but my friend is in the Carlino
regiment.”
“Ah, he has been getting into trouble with his sergeant, I suppose? I
know how it is: they always think the sergeant is hard upon them,
until they become sergeants themselves, and then they can see no good
in the men. My Elisaveta’s husband is a sergeant in the city guard
himself, and he has told me some fine tales! But your sweetheart--ah,
we all know what ‘friend’ means--must have done something very foolish
indeed to get himself into such trouble.”
“If they kill him, it will be a shameful, horrible murder!” cried
Nadia, hotly.
“Well, I suppose you have information to prove what you say. Are you
going to appeal to the Minister for War?”
“Oh no, no! To the King.”
“The King? Ah, that is wise, no doubt. He is young, and every one says
he is kind-hearted, and he is going to be married, so that your
sweetheart’s case ought to touch his feelings.”
“Yes,” murmured Nadia, seeing at a glance the full irony of the
situation.
“Yes, I think that on the whole you have come at a very favourable
time. Have you written out your petition?”
“No, I never thought of that,” said Nadia. “I meant to try and speak
to him.”
“But he might not catch sight of you, or he might have no time to
listen. If he had a paper which would remind him of you, he might tell
his brother, Prince Kyrillo,”--Nadia did not at first recognise Cyril
under this designation,--“to inquire into the case afterwards. We must
certainly get one drawn up. To-morrow morning the train stops for half
an hour at a place where a cousin of mine lives. She is the
station-master’s wife, and she will be able to write for us. Or
perhaps you can write? But it ought to be in French. Our King is
learning Thracian, they say, but he certainly cannot know it well yet,
and it would be a great advantage if he was able to read the petition
at once.”
“I can write French,” said Nadia.
“Really? Ah, I thought you were better off than you seemed to be. I
shouldn’t wonder if you were a lady’s-maid, now, in some noble
family?”
“I belong to the household of a lady of high rank,” said Nadia. Her
friend looked at her doubtfully.
“I hope your sweetheart is good enough for you. I should say you might
do better than a private soldier--even in the Carlinos. Don’t you let
yourself be led away by a handsome face and a fine uniform, my girl.
An honest farmer with plenty of sheep and pigs, and a little money
hidden behind a brick in the wall, would be likely to make you a far
better husband, and you wouldn’t have all the trouble of moving about
after the regiment, which is bad enough when you are a sergeant’s
wife, but is terrible when you have only a private’s pay to depend
upon. But there! young folks will choose as they like, and it’s no use
speaking to them.”
“He is good enough to marry a princess,” said Nadia, with tears in her
eyes. “Please tell me about the petition. What shall I say in it?”
“Well, you oughtn’t to tell everything, or he won’t need to see you,
and you want to be able to throw yourself at his feet, and melt his
heart by your pleading. We must make up something slow and sad--like
the stories.” And to Nadia’s astonishment, the practical business-like
woman threw back her head, half-closed her eyes, and recited her
improvised plaint in a kind of chant.
“Most Illustrious Majesty,--Deign to permit a mourner to approach
your royal throne.
“She comes not to cast a shadow upon your marriage joy, but to plead
with you for the one she loves more than life.
“The beloved of her soul is doomed to death--death undeserved, death
most cruel--and you alone can avert this fearful sorrow.
“Great is the power of the law, but greater is the word of the King.
“For you heaven has ordained happiness; do not, then, refuse to look
upon those to whom bitterness and sorrow are appointed.
“Give to the suppliant who now appeals to you the joy of beholding the
light of your countenance, that you may be assured that not only your
mercy, but your justice, will be satisfied if you grant her petition.
“That God may grant you a long and happy life with the royal lady to
whom your troth is plighted, is the wish of all your subjects.
“But especially, whether you grant her entreaty or refuse it, will it
be the prayer of her who is now kneeling before you.”
“It is splendid!” said Nadia. “I should never have thought of such a
way of putting it. It could not be better--except that I shall say
‘this shameful murder,’ instead of ‘this fearful sorrow.’ They say the
King loves justice, and that will show him that a crime will be
committed if he refuses to interfere.”
“You are bold,” said her friend. “But after all, no doubt the King
will stand more from a girl than he would from an old woman, and he is
an Englishman, and boldness may please him.”