A CHANCE WORD.
The result of Queen Ernestine’s journey to Kaufenhafen was in one
respect satisfactory, although it threw no light upon the mystery of
her husband’s fate. The Emperor of Scythia received her kindly, and
pledged his imperial word that neither he nor his ministers had had
any hand in Count Mortimer’s disappearance, nor had they the slightest
idea where he was at present. No reference was made to the Zionist
plot, and the Emperor did not express any disapprobation of Cyril’s
late political activity, which, said Prince Soudaroff when he heard of
the interview, was a clear waste of a heaven-sent opportunity. Even if
the Emperor did know nothing about Cyril, he might surely have
dissembled his ignorance, and obtained some useful pledges from the
Queen by means of vague promises and hinted hopes. But the whole
subject of the interview amused Prince Soudaroff extremely, and he
confided his _bon mot_ respecting the “Prince of the Captivity” so
freely to the two or three kindred souls he contrived to gather round
him even at Geneva, that it was repeated all over Europe before the
end of the week. It was generally added, and the addition may also
have been due to the kindred souls, that the Emperor had been wise in
asserting his Chancellor’s non-participation in the _affaire Mortimer_
before, and not after, questioning the Chancellor himself on the
subject.
Heart-sick from her failure, the Queen was driven almost mad by the
accounts which reached her from Illyria of the discovery of Paschics’s
body and the abortive search at Bagnanera. Fresh confusion had been
imported into the matter by a surgeon of high reputation for whom Usk
had telegraphed to the capital of the province, for he certified that
the bruises on the body had been caused before death, and could not,
therefore, be the result of a buffeting in the subterranean river.
Anxious to examine into the mystery herself, and also pay the last
tribute of gratitude to her husband’s faithful servant by attending
his funeral, Queen Ernestine hurried away from Kaufenhafen, only to
fall ill on her journey to Illyria. A nervous fever, brought on by
grief and overstrain, kept her a prisoner at Vindobona, tended by her
aunt Princess Amalie, who was almost as much at home in the sick-room
as at a wedding, and watched over by Lord Caerleon, who had not the
heart to leave her and go on to Novigrad.
Then, before Prince Soudaroff’s witticism had time to grow stale by
repetition, and when the papers, having made the most of the sensation
afforded by the medical evidence as to the cause of the secretary’s
death, were beginning to hunt for a fresh topic of interest, there
came a rush of events which swept the “Balkan mystery” clean out of
men’s minds. Just at first it was remembered sufficiently for Prince
Soudaroff’s friends to say among themselves, with exquisite glee, that
if he had his secrets from the Emperor, the Emperor clearly kept one
or two things secret from him. But as Prince Soudaroff only looked
wise and said nothing in public, the world in general thought he had
known of the matter all along, little guessing the gnashing of teeth
and tearing of hair which had taken place in certain chancelleries,
that of Scythia not excepted, when the news came. There was a
revolution--the fifth, if minor outbreaks are left out of the
calculation--in Neustria.
This new revolution was the crowning glory of its kind. Other
revolutions had been bungled at their inception, or had dragged on for
several years before they could fairly be considered successful, but
this one seemed to have been born full-grown. One night Prince
Timoleon Malasorte was a casual sojourner in a Lutetian hotel, so
little thought of as a political personage that the police either were
not aware of his arrival in the forbidden capital, or winked at it.
The next night he was master of the army, and by its means of every
fortress in the country, master of the ecclesiastical system, and
through it of the women of Neustria, master also of the national
purse-strings. The whole thing came about with almost the suddenness
of a transformation scene. It was never known publicly when and how
the idea of the revolution had taken shape, or how long the astutest
minds in Europe had toiled by devious and underground paths to prepare
its way; all that was certain was that one morning the city was white
and purple with unauthorised proclamations, posted in all sorts of
forbidden places. The police tore them down, only to find that
whatever way they turned, fresh bills were posted behind their backs,
and while they did their confused best to keep pace with the
bill-stickers, a drastic “Pride’s Purge” was being administered at the
centre of parliamentary life. The Senate and the Chamber of Deputies
were found to be surrounded by troops, and the alarmed legislators saw
their sacred precincts invaded by armed men, headed by--as it seemed
to their startled eyes--the counterfeit presentment of Timoleon I.
Without giving them time to recover from their surprise, the new
Timoleon informed them that he had assumed the office of Dictator in
order to save the country from the evils menacing it, and announced a
dissolution. Before even the most violent deputy could raise his voice
in protest, soldiers were filing down the alleys between the rows of
seats, and arresting one man here and another there. Those arrested
were taken at once into safe keeping, where they met many of their
friends in other walks of life, who had been apprehended at their
homes or places of business. The city Municipality, indeed, found its
numbers almost complete in this new place of meeting. The whole scheme
could not, naturally, be carried out with the same celerity and
certainty as these preliminary steps, and in the streets of Lutetia
there were a number of spasmodic attempts to erect barricades. But
Prince Timoleon and his supporters were not men to be trifled with;
troops had been posted at strategic points throughout the whole city,
and there were cannon ready wherever they were likely to be needed. In
these circumstances the barricade-builders found it well to carry back
into the houses the bedding and furniture they had requisitioned, to
restore the overturned cabs to their normal position, and even to lay
down again the torn-up paving-stones. In the more respectable portions
of the city no opposition was offered to the new rule. The better
class of people were so sick of their late government, so weary of a
long succession of mediocrities diversified by knaves, that they were
ready to welcome any change that promised stability and some measure
of relief from corruption, and above all, they hailed the advent of a
man--a commanding personality who would not only command but be
obeyed. The priests headed processions of their flocks to take the
oath of allegiance to the new government, and--surest sign of the
strength that lay behind the movement--the credit of the country rose
higher than before, and the Dictator had no difficulty in obtaining
money. In all the larger provincial towns a similar change of affairs
had taken place, and each town saw that the district round it followed
its example. The rural inhabitants submitted to the altered conditions
quite philosophically. They had always been of the opinion that they
lived in the worst possible world for honest people, so that it was
clear they could not become worse off. There was some fear lest the
sacred names which had been handed down from the days of the first
revolution should be lost to sight, and an absolutist empire,
supported, as it was now currently believed this new enterprise had
been throughout, on one side by the Jews and on the other by the
Jesuits, be set up. But the Dictator was too wise for this. The
proclamation which he issued on the night of his triumph, dated from
the Presidential palace (which the former occupant had quitted in
haste and without much reluctance), was a model in its way. After a
short sketch of Roman history, appropriate to the occasion, Prince
Timoleon called the nation to witness that he had been welcomed as the
saviour of society by the whole people, and established at the head of
the government with scarcely the shedding of a drop of blood. There
was the inevitable reference to the deeds, sacrifices, and triumphs of
his ancestors; but with touching modesty and fairness Timoleon
Lucanor, Prince-Dictator, concluded by saying that he proposed
immediately to take a _plébiscite_ of the whole nation on the
question of reviving the imperial form of government in Neustria. This
clinched matters. Timoleon Lucanor trusted the people.
When the great news was flashed over the wires from Neustria to
Illyria, and the flock of newspaper correspondents which had settled
upon the country round Novigrad, like rooks upon a ploughed field,
pocketed their notebooks and their fountain-pens, and took the
quickest way back to Europe, they were followed also by all the
detectives who had been engaged in the search for Cyril. Curiously
enough, as it seemed to Usk and Helene, these men all saw in the
Neustrian revolution a chance of exercise for their peculiar talents,
and no bribe would induce them to remain. Consequently, to continue
the investigation of the mystery there were only Mr Hicks, still
pursuing his inquiries in the Bagnanera district, the Chevalier
Goldberg, who was called away every few days to Vindobona on business
of European importance, but returned doggedly to Novigrad when it was
settled, and the two young people at Drinitza, who were now absolutely
at a loss, and could not even think of anything more that might be
done. They made long driving excursions, during which Helene was duly
tutored in the use of the reins, and which were always made the
occasion of questioning any country-people who might be met on the
road, and they wandered through the beech-forests on the Pelenko
estate, and invented wonderful series of events which might happen, to
crown all their work and anxiety with success, if only some clue would
opportunely show itself. But in the minds of both there was surely
growing up the conviction, hateful and long resisted, that the black
pool in the cave at Bagnanera held the clue to the secret.
Riding back to the inn one day from Novigrad, tired and dusty, and
perhaps a little cross, Usk caught sight of Helene talking to a lady
on the terrace. The lady’s face was not familiar to him, and there was
something about her look and dress which made him think she was not
likely to be an acquaintance of the Schwarzwald-Molzau family, but
Helene was so deeply engrossed in listening to her that she had not
even heard him ride up.
“Who is the lady talking to Lady Usk?” he asked of the landlord, who
came out to take his horse.
The old man looked embarrassed. “It is a Scythian lady, honourable
sir, who has driven out to see the glen. Her name is--at least she
calls herself--Mlle. Garanine.”
“Tania Garanine--the actress?” cried Usk.
“I know, honourable sir. She is not suitable company for the gracious
lady, but what could I do? It was not for me to----”
Usk had left him, and was hastening round the corner of the house. As
he reached the terrace, however, he saw the stranger already
descending the steps to her carriage. She glanced over her shoulder at
him--he noticed that her eyelids were artificially darkened--and
laughed gaily when she saw his angry face. In a moment she was driving
away, kissing her finger-tips lightly to Helene. The action raised
Usk’s wrath to white heat.
“How dare you take up that woman?” he demanded fiercely of Helene.
“Surely your own self-respect ought to have kept you from speaking to
her.”
“I thought she wasn’t very nice,” murmured Helene, gazing at him with
dilated eyes. “Her hair was such a strange colour--I think it must be
false--and her skin looked--oh, so _dead_ when she came close. But she
sat down here by me, and talked.”
“She’s one of the most notorious women in Europe,” fumed Usk, “and now
she’ll spread it abroad that you have noticed her and received her,
and what will your people think of me for letting you do it?”
“But you couldn’t help it, nor could I,” pleaded Helene.
“Why didn’t you get rid of her, when you saw the kind of woman she
was? I thought exalted persons like you always knew how to dispose of
people who tried to force themselves upon your notice?”
“I don’t know how to be rude,” said Helene, with heightened colour.
“No one who was unfit to speak to me has ever been allowed to come
near me before.”
“That’s a nasty one for me!” said Usk, whose wrath was beginning to
evaporate.
“Oh, Nym, I am so sorry; I didn’t mean it. And see, I will tell you
how it was that I felt obliged to listen to her. I didn’t dare even to
try to cut her short, lest I should lose something important. She
talked about the dear Count.”
“I might have known it! More lies, I suppose?”
“I don’t know; I suppose so, I hope so. She said, just as Cousin
Ottilie did, that he had gone away of his own accord, but--I couldn’t
quite understand--I think she wanted to make me believe that she was
the lady Prince Pelenko said he saw in the carriage with him. At
least, she talked as if she knew him quite well, and could tell us
where he was now, and she said such horrible things. I don’t know
whether she only suggested them, or really said they had happened, but
I know she hinted that the Count had--had got rid of poor M. Paschics
because he knew too much, and he had no more money with which to keep
his mouth shut. And she talked about a gay life among the islands
somewhere, and then she spoke just as if the dear Count was mad, and
told me a dreadful story about some one she knew once who had spent
all his money, and was found by his relations, quite by chance, in a
refuge for lunatics somewhere near Trieste. She said they had
advertised for him everywhere, but he had forgotten his own name, and
it was only because his nephew happened to catch sight of him that he
was recognised. Do you think--she could mean--that the dear Count is
in one of those terrible places?”
Usk pondered a moment. “No; I don’t!” he cried suddenly. “They want to
get us out of the neighbourhood, Nell, that’s it! Now that Malasorte
has made his _coup d’état_, they see through the bogus plot, and they
want to undo their work, if they can. I’m certain they have him hidden
somewhere near--in a cave or something of that kind--and find they
can’t get him out of the country without our knowing. We’ll stick on
here and tire them out. To-morrow I’ll go over and bring Hicks back
with me, if I have to drag him by main force. If the whole crew know
he’s on our side I don’t care. He’s the man to smell them out.”
“How clever you are, Nym! I never thought that it might be a trick. I
do wish I was older, and--and----”
“Wiser?” suggested Usk.
“Yes, wiser, and able to give you good advice.”
“Thanks; I’d just as soon not. I probably shouldn’t take it, you
know.”
“Oh, Nym, I wish you wouldn’t laugh. I want to be a better wife to
you.”
“You’re tons too good as it is, so don’t get any better. Was I awfully
down on you just now about that Garanine woman, Nell? I didn’t mean
it, but you must learn to protect yourself, you know. Just say, ‘I was
a silly little idiot, and I’ll never do it again.’”
Helene repeated the words with admirable docility. “But I do wish I
could think of clever and useful things like you,” she added with a
sigh.
When Usk betook himself to Bagnanera the next day, he left Helene
listless and unhappy. The actress’s words had affected her more than
she knew, and the vision of Cyril, nameless and robbed of everything,
in a pauper lunatic asylum, was constantly before her eyes. The
prospect of spending the whole day alone, since ten hours at least
must elapse before Usk could return, if he was to bring Mr Hicks with
him, was terrible, for she could think of nothing but that vision. At
last she took herself resolutely in hand, determining to set to work
at something that would occupy her thoughts. She would spend the day
in the beech-woods, and make a sketch for her mother, setting herself
the task of finishing it at a sitting. Telling Jakob that she would
need his attendance, she went to her room to get out her colour-box.
Hannele, who was mending a torn gown, was pleased to approve of her
intention. Sketching was a lady-like and elegant accomplishment
(provided the sketcher took care not to sit on the grass), and far
more suited to the daughter of a princely house than tearing about
over the country with a husband as thoughtless as herself. Helene felt
that the rebuke was not undeserved, for she had torn the gown
disgracefully in scrambling through a thicket with Usk, and she did
not venture to suggest that it might be discarded, although Hannele,
in her huge spectacles, had the half-resentful, half-triumphant aspect
of an unwilling martyr. Hannele was grumbling monotonously on,
therefore, when Helene silenced her suddenly by an imperative gesture.
Standing near the window, she had been half-unconsciously aware that
two Englishmen who had spent the night at the inn were discussing the
views as they breakfasted on the terrace, but now her full attention
was aroused by hearing the name of Shishman Pelenko mentioned.
“Queer thing that we should have come straight from Shishman Pelenko
to his ancestral halls,” one man had said.
“Would it be well to call? The place looks inhabited.”
“I think not. We know that Shishman isn’t there, and though he’s a
good sort, his elder brother is a queer lot, I believe.”
Helene dropped her paint-box, and running down the stairs, presented
herself suddenly before the astonished tourists.
“I must ask you to excuse me for disturbing you,” she said, with the
little air of dignity which sat so oddly and yet so well on her, “but
I think I heard you mention the name of Prince Shishman Pelenko? He is
a kind of relation of ours--at least, he is the cousin of a
cousin--and his movements have--have puzzled us a little of late.” Was
this untrue? she wondered uncomfortably.
“He is an erratic fellow,” said the elder of the two Englishmen--they
had both risen politely when she addressed them, “but I am glad to be
able to assure you that he was all right ten days ago, Fräulein. We
have been mountaineering with him in the Caucasus for more than two
months, and though he has had several hairbreadth escapes, he’s as fit
as he can be.”
“We heard a rumour--about a duel,” hazarded Helene.
“He has had no opportunity of fighting a duel for three months at
least, madame”--the speaker had caught sight of the wedding-ring on
Helene’s finger. “Indeed, I know, for he told me himself, that his
last duel happened quite three years ago.”
“Thank you. You have relieved my mind very much,” said Helene simply,
but she returned into the house with slow, dragging steps. Was her
mind relieved, or was it oppressed with a new and vague anxiety?
Prince Shishman Pelenko had never been in the neighbourhood at all;
his duel, his remorse, his flight from society, were all alike
inventions of the Scythian Chancellor’s fertile brain. But if he had
not been occupying the Pelenko mansion, then who was the recluse
there, who never walked beyond the garden, whom no one in Drinitza had
seen? Conviction forced itself upon Helene. The Princess of Dardania’s
apparently purposeless display of Prince Valerian’s letter, the visit
and the glib falsehoods of Prince Soudaroff, the strange hints of
Tania Garanine--all pointed to one fact and one alone. Cyril was
imprisoned down there in the Pelenko mansion, and Helene could take no
steps to rescue him for a whole day. The idea was intolerable. She
must at any rate try to find out whether she was right--and in a
moment she saw how this might be done. Only once had she and Usk
approached the great house closely in their walks, and then they had
noticed a corner of the garden wall where a tree, growing against the
masonry, had forced the lower courses out of position, and dislodged
the upper stones. Usk had remarked that it was a standing invitation
to burglars, and now she would play burglar.
Her face was flushed with excitement when she entered her room again,
and she gathered her paint-brushes together with shaking hands. She
could think of nothing but her scheme, and did not at first perceive
that Hannele was grumbling still.
“Going out alone on the public terrace and speaking to two
strangers--Englishmen, too, who have no reverence or good manners!
That was not the way your august parents taught you to behave,
Highness. And asking after a young rip of a Scythian captain as if
life and death hung upon it! What’s Prince Shishman Pelenko to your
Highness, I should like to know? I wonder what your noble husband will
think when he hears?”
This it was which reached Helene’s ears at last. She turned angrily
upon the woman. “Silence, Hannele!” she said, with a decision Hannele
had never seen in her before. “I justify myself to my husband, not to
you.”
Leaving the maid crushed but indignant, she quitted the room with her
painting materials. Jakob was in waiting, with her camp-stool and
umbrella, and they climbed to the top of the hill, and plunged into
the beech-woods on the other side. When Helene was as near the Pelenko
mansion as seemed prudent, she chose a spot in a long grassy glade,
bordered on either side by huge trees which were beginning to show the
first touch of autumn, and set to work with uncertain fingers,
wondering how long it would be before Jakob went to sleep. She had
decided not to make him a partner in her enterprise. For one thing,
there might be danger for him where a girl would pass unscathed; and
again, he would be very likely to presume upon his long service with
her family to prevent her doing anything. It seemed to her that her
henchman was provokingly wakeful to-day. Generally it needed but a few
minutes to set him propped against the trunk of a tree, slumbering
peacefully, with his mouth as wide open as if he wished the squirrels
to drop beech-nuts into it. But on this occasion it almost seemed that
he must have been making resolutions against his drowsiness, so
unwinkingly watchful did he remain. Helene thought hours must be
passing before his rigid frame relaxed, and his grey head dropped
gently back against the tree. When at last he was undoubtedly asleep,
she tore out a leaf of her sketch-book, wrote on it in pencil, “I am
going to seek another view. I will return here,” and laid it near him
with a stone upon it to keep it from blowing away. Then she stole
noiselessly past him, and made sure that the tree was between him and
herself before she ventured to turn in the direction of the house. She
was not long in reaching the corner of the wall, and although it was
harder to climb than she had expected, she succeeded in getting over.
Inside the wall was a thick belt of shrubbery, so wild and unkempt
that it might almost be called a wood, and with beating heart she
forced her way through this. There was a clear space in front, she
saw, and presently she reached its edge. Crouching down and peering
through the bushes, she found that she was close to the house, which
looked much less imposing near at hand than from a distance.
Originally a pretentious building of the sham classical style dear to
the heart of the Europeanised Illyrian, with a good deal of ornamental
work in plaster about it, it was now little better than a ruin. Great
masses of the balustrading had fallen from the edge of the roof, the
walls were cracked in many places, and there were only a few remnants
of glass left in the windows. The garden was utterly neglected. Grass
was springing up between the stones of the paved pathways, and the
water in the large square tank was foul and choked with weed, above
which the melancholy fragments of a broken fountain reared themselves.
It was evident that whatever debts Prince Valerian Pelenko had
contracted in Europe, he had not spent the money on his family seat.
As Helene peeped through the bushes, a slight movement attracted her
attention to two persons whom she had not at first noticed--an old
man, sitting on a stone seat beside the tank, in the shade of a clump
of overgrown myrtles, and a servant, like his master in European
dress, lounging against the wall of the house a little behind him. The
picture was so pathetic that Helene felt the tears rise to her
eyes--the old man sitting there among the ruined glories of his house,
his gaze fixed on the dull stagnant waters of the tank. But there was
a rustling in the bushes behind her; and turning her head, she saw
that a huge fellow in the gorgeous Dardanian dress, his sash bristling
with knives and pistols, had tracked her through the wood, and was now
within a few feet of her, his cruel eyes gleaming in his fierce face.
With a shrill scream she threw herself wildly forward, hoping to find
safety in the company of the musing old man, but her foot caught in a
briar, and she felt her pursuer’s great hand upon her throat. Her
scream had aroused the two occupants of the garden, however, and she
saw the old man look round.
“What is it that Danilo has found in the shrubbery--a child?” he asked
the servant in French, and bewildered and shaken as Helene was, it
seemed to her that the voice was familiar. The servant’s reply was
inaudible, but she heard the old man say sharply, “Bring her to me,
and I will reprove her. I will not have children mauled by these rough
fellows.”
Helene’s captor released her reluctantly as the servant approached,
but it appeared to her that the new-comer helped her up with equal
reluctance, and cursed her under his breath. He gave the Dardanian
some direction in his own language as he led Helene to his master, but
she had no time to think what the words might mean, for it was Cyril
who sat on the stone bench--Cyril whose clear blue eyes met hers
without a trace of recognition. For a moment she was staggered--it
could not be Cyril--but even before he spoke again she had no doubt.
Old and white-haired and broken, this was the man to whom her childish
devotion had been given.
“Do you know, young lady, that you are a trespasser?” he asked her in
French. “Doubtless you found your way in by the little door in the
wall?” Helene opened her lips to deny this, but he went on without
giving her time to speak. “I know one of the servants was going into
the town, and they are careless about the door. But you would hardly
have gratified your curiosity by entering if you had known that my
seclusion here is a matter of life and death.”
Helene gazed at him, unable to speak, and he went on.
“Probably you are unaware that my life is perpetually in danger? You
know my name--Shishman Pelenko? But you will not have heard that my
steps are continually dogged by hired ruffians. I can’t quite remember
why it is--it happened a long time ago--but I am not safe except
within these walls and under the protection of my faithful servants.
This is Dr Gregorescu, my medical attendant”--he indicated a lithe
dark-bearded man who had come up with a cat-like swiftness and
softness of tread--“who is good enough to live here with me and watch
over my health. My life may not be of much value to the world, but it
has still some little charm for myself, and some value for my few
friends, I think?” He looked round waggishly at Dr Gregorescu, and
laughed--a foolish crackling laugh.
“Your life is most valuable to your friends, Highness,” replied the
doctor, not smiling in return, but piercing Helene with his black
eyes, “and I fear this young lady’s entrance here may endanger it.”
“Oh, nonsense! she is only a child, and what can she tell the ruffians
outside but that I am well guarded? Desire the ruffians on our side to
show themselves, if you please.”
“The young lady will be frightened,” objected the doctor.
“All the better for her--teach her a lesson,” was the testy answer.
“What, am I to command twice?” he rattled his stick on the stones. “I
wish my guard to be visible for an instant.”
For the moment Helene felt like Fitz-James at the instant of his
introduction to Roderick Dhu, for at the word of command, reluctantly
uttered by Dr Gregorescu, the belt of shrubbery seemed to be suddenly
alive with stalwart Dardanians. They sprang up from their lairs in the
underwood or started out from behind trees, and stood in full view for
a moment, then, at a wave of the doctor’s hand, disappeared again,
while the self-styled Prince Shishman improved the occasion.
“You have seen how thoroughly I am protected, young lady,” he said
impressively. “Now I do not think, from your face, that you are in the
pay of my cruel enemies outside, but if you should be questioned, you
may say that these faithful fellows, all trained fighters from their
cradles, keep guard over me day and night, and would rejoice at the
chance of a fight. You may say also that Dr Gregorescu and the indoor
servants are well armed, and that there are underground----”
“Is not your Highness afraid of giving publicity to the exact details
of our defences?” asked the doctor smoothly, and Cyril nodded.
“You do well to remind me of prudence, Gregorescu. But I think the
young lady, at any rate, will not penetrate within our walls again,
for she will remember that to do so would cause great anxiety and pain
of mind to a cruelly persecuted man. If you will be good enough to
send for the key of the small gate, we will let her out, and see that
the door is properly fastened.”
“Pray don’t trouble yourself, Highness,” said Dr Gregorescu hastily.
“I will conduct the young lady to the gate.”
“No, Gregorescu. It is not that I distrust your vigilance, but I must
satisfy myself that the gate is properly locked. It is a perfect
nightmare to me. I am thinking of having it bricked up.”
The doctor offered no further objection, and Helene was conducted to
the gate in solemn procession. Cyril bade her a lofty farewell, the
bolts grated home, and, dazed and bewildered, she found herself
outside.