For two days Lorry lived through intermittent stages of delight and
despondency. His recovery from the effects of the blow administered by
Dannox was naturally rapid, his strong young constitution coming to
the rescue bravely. He saw much of the Princess, more of the Countess
Dagmar, and made the acquaintance of many lords and ladies for whom he
cared but little except when they chose to talk of their girlish ruler.
The atmosphere of the castle was laden with a depression that could not
be overcome by an assimilated gaiety. There was the presence of a shadow
that grew darker and nearer as the days went by, and there were anxious
hearts under the brave, proud spirits of those who held the destiny of
Graustark in their hands.
The princess could not bide the trouble that had sprung up in her eyes.
Her laugh, her gay conversation, her rare composure and gentle hauteur
were powerless to drive away the haunted, worried gleam in those
expressive eyes of blue. Lorry had it on his tongue's end a dozen times
during the next day or so after the count's narrative to question her
about the condition of affairs as they appeared to her. He wondered
whether she, little more than a girl, could see and understand the
enormity of the situation that confronted her and her people. A strange,
tender fear prevented him from speaking to her of the thing which was
oppressing her life. Not that he expected a rebuff from her, but that he
could not endure the thought of hearing her brave, calm recital of
the merciless story. He knew that she could narrate it all to him more
plainly than had her uncle. Something told him that she was fully aware
of the real and underlying conditions. He could see, in his imagination,
the proud, resigned face and manner of this perplexed Princess, as she
would have talked to him of her woes, and he could also picture the
telltale eyes and the troubled expression that would not be disguised.
The Countess Dagmar, when not monopolized by the very progressive, or
aggressive Anguish, unfolded to Lorry certain pages in the personal
history of the Princess, and he, of course, encouraged her confidential
humor, although there was nothing encouraging in it for him.
Down by the great fountain, while the soldiers were on parade, the fair
but volatile Countess unfolded to Lorry a story that wrenched his heart
so savagely that anger, resentment, helplessness and love oozed forth
and enveloped him in a multitude of emotions that would not disperse. To
have gone to the Princess and laid down his life to save her would have
given him pleasure, but he had promised something to her that could not
be forgotten in a day. In his swelling heart he prayed for the time to
come when he could take her in his arms, cancel his promise and defy the
troubles that opposed her.
“She will not mind my telling you, because she considers you the very
best of men, Mr. Lorry,” said the Countess, who had learned her English
under the Princess Yetive's tutor. The demure, sympathetic little
Countess, her face glowing with excitement and indignation, could not
resist the desire to pour into the ears of this strong and resourceful
man the secrets of the Princess, as if trusting to him, the child of
a powerful race, to provide relief. It was the old story of the weak
appealing to the strong.
It seems, according to the very truthful account given by the lady, that
the Princess had it in her power to save Graustark from disgrace and
practical destruction. The Prince of Axphain's son, Lorenz, was
deeply enamoured of her, infatuated by her marvelous beauty and
accomplishments. He had persuaded his father to consider a matrimonial
alliance with her to be one of great value to Axphain. The old prince,
therefore, some months before the arrival of the Americans in Graustark,
sent to the Princess a substitute ultimatum, couched in terms so polite
and conciliatory that there could be no mistaking his sincerity. He
agreed to give Graustark a new lease of life, as it were, by extending
the fifteen years, or, in other words, to grant the conquered an
additional ten years in which to pay off the obligations imposed by the
treaty. He furthermore offered a considerable reduction in the rate of
interest for the next ten years. But he had a condition attached to this
good and gracious proposition; the marriage of Graustark's sovereign.
His ambassador set forth the advantages of such an alliance, and
departed with a message that the matter should have most serious
consideration.
The old Prince's proposition was a blow to the Princess, who was placed
in a trying position. By sacrificing herself she could save her country,
but in so doing her life was to be plunged into interminable darkness.
She did not love, nor did she respect Lorenz, who was not favorably
supplied with civilized intelligence. The proposition was laid before
the cabinet and the nobility by the Princess herself, who said that she
would be guided by any decision they might reach. The counsellors, to
a man, refused to sacrifice their girlish ruler, and the people
vociferously ratified the resolution. But the Princess would not allow
them to send an answer to Axphain until she could see a way clear to
save her people in some other manner. An embassy was sent to the Prince
of Dawsbergen. His domain touched Graustark on the south, and he ruled a
wild, turbulent class of mountaineers and herdsmen. This embassy sought
to secure an endorsement of the loan from Prince Gabriel sufficient to
meet the coming crisis. Gabriel, himself smitten by the charms of the
Princess, at once offered himself in marriage, agreeing to advance, in
case she accepted him, twenty million gavvos, at a rather high rate of
interest, for fifteen years. His love for her was so great that he
would pawn the entire principality for an answer that would make him the
happiest man on earth. Now, the troubled Princess abhorred Gabriel. Of
the two, Lorenz was much to be preferred. Gabriel flew into a rage upon
the receipt of this rebuff, and openly avowed his intention to make her
suffer. His infatuation became a mania, and, up to the very day on
which the Countess told the story, he persisted in his appeals to the
Princess. In person he had gone to her to plead his suit, on his knees,
grovelling at her feet. He went so far as to exclaim madly in the
presence of the alarmed but relentless object of his love that he would
win her or turn the whole earth into everything unpleasant.
So it was that the Princess of Graustark, erstwhile Miss Guggenslocker,
was being dragged through the most unhappy affairs that ever beset a
sovereign. Within a month she was to sign away two-thirds of her domain,
transforming multitudes of her beloved and loving people into subjects
of the hated Axphain, or to sell herself, body and soul, to a loathsome
bidder in the guise of a suitor. And, with all this confronting her, she
had come to the realization of a truth so sad and distracting; that
it was breaking her tortured heart. She was in love--but with no royal
prince! Of this, however, the Countess knew nothing, so Lorry had one
great secret to cherish alone.
“Has she chosen the course she will pursue?” asked Lorry, as the
Countess concluded her story. Isis face was turned away.
“She cannot decide. We have wept together over this dreadful, this
horrible thing. You do not know what it means to all of us, Mr. Lorry.
We love her, and there is not one in our land who would sacrifice her to
save this territory. As for Gabriel, Graustark would kill her before she
should go to him. Still she cannot let herself sacrifice those northern
subjects when by a single act she can save them. You see, the Princess
has not forgotten that her father brought this war upon the people,
and she feels it her duty to pay the penalty of his error, whatever the
cost.”
“Is there no other to whom she can turn no other course?” asked Lorry.
“There is none who would assist us, bankrupt as we are. There is a
question I want to ask, Mr. Lorry. Please look at me--do not stare at
the fountain all the time. Why have you come to Edelweiss?” She asked
the question so boldly that his startled embarrassment was an unspoken
confession. He calmed himself and hesitated long before answering,
weighing his reply. She sat close beside him, her clear gray eyes
reading him like a book.
“I came to see a Miss Guggenslocker,” he answered at last.
“For what purpose? There must have been an urgent cause to bring you so
far. You are not an American banker?”
“I had intended to ask her to be my wife,” he said, knowing that secrecy
was useless and seeing a faint hope.
“You did not find Miss Guggenslocker.”
“No. I have not found her.”
“And are you going home disappointed, Mr. Lorry, because she is not
here?”
“I leave the answer to your tender imagination.”
There was a long pause.
“May I ask when you expect to leave Graustark?” she asked, somewhat
timidly.
“Why do you wish to know?” he asked in turn.
“Because I know how hopeless your quest has been. You have found Miss
Guggenslocker, but she is held behind a wall so strong and impregnable
that you cannot reach her with the question you came to ask. You have
come to that wall, and now you must turn back. I have asked, how soon?”
“Not until your Princess bids me take up my load and go. You see, my
lady, I love to sit beneath the shadow of the wall you describe. It will
require a royal edict to compel me to abandon my position.”
“You cannot expect the Princess to drive you from her country,--you who
have done so much for her. You must go, Mr. Lorry, without her bidding.”
“I must?”
“Yes, for your presence outside that wall may make the imprisonment
all the more unendurable for the one your love cannot reach. Do you
understand me?”
“Has the one behind the wall instructed you to say this to me?” he asked
miserably.
“She has not. I do not know her heart, but I am a woman and have a
woman's foresight. If you wish to be kind and good to her, go!”
“I cannot!” he exclaimed, his pent feelings bursting forth. “I cannot
go!”
“You will not be so selfish and so cruel as to increase the horror of
the wreck that is sure to come,” she said, drawing back.
“You know, Countess, of the life-saving crews who draw from the wrecks
of ships lives that were hopelessly lost? There is to be a wreck here;
is there to be a life-saver? When the night is darkest, the sea wildest,
when hope is gone, is not that the time when rescue is most precious?
Tell me, you who know all there is of this approaching disaster?”
“I cannot command you to leave Edelweiss; I can only tell you that you
will have something to answer for if you stay,” said the Countess.
“Will you help me if I show to you that I can reach the wreck and save
the one who clings to it despairingly?” he asked, smiling, suddenly calm
and confident.
“Willingly, for I love the one who is going down in the sea. I have
spoken to you seriously, though, and I trust you will not misunderstand
me. I like you and I like Mr. Anguish. You could stay here forever so
far as I am concerned.”
He thought long and intently over what she had said as he smoked his
cigar on the great balcony that night. In his heart he knew he was
adding horror, but that persistent hope of the life-saver came up fresh
and strong to combat the argument. He saw, in one moment, the vast chasm
between the man and the princess; in the next, he laughed at the puny
space.
Down on the promenade he could see the figures of men and women
strolling in the moonlight. To his ears came the occasional laugh of a
man, the silvery gurgle of a woman. The royal military band was playing
in the stand near the edge of the great circle. There was gaiety,
comfort, charm and security about everything that came to his eyes and
ears. Was it possible that this peace, unruffled, was so near its end?
He smiled as he heard Harry Anguish laugh gaily in his good old way,
his ringing tones mingling with a woman's. There was no trouble in the
hearts of the Countess and his blithe comrade. Behind him rose the grim
castle walls, from the windows of which, here and there, gleamed the
lights of the night. Where was she? He had seen her in the afternoon and
had talked with her, had walked with her. Their conversation had been
bright, but of the commonplace kind. She had said nothing to indicate
that she remembered the hour spent beside his couch a day or so before;
he had uttered none of the words that struggled to rush from his lips,
the questions, the pleadings, the vows. Where was she now? Not in that
gay crowd below, for he had scanned every figure with the hawk's eye.
Closeted again, no doubt, with her ministers, wearying her tired brain,
her brave heart into fatigue without rest.
Her court still trembled with the excitement of the daring attempt
of the abductors and their swift punishment. Functionaries flocked to
Edelweiss to inquire after the welfare of the Princess, and indignation
was at the highest pitch. There were theories innumerable as to the
identity of the arch-conspirator. Baron Dangloss was at sea completely.
He cursed himself and everybody else for the hasty and ill-timed
execution of the hirelings. It was quite evident that the buzzing wonder
and intense feeling of the people had for the moment driven out all
thought of the coming day of judgment and its bitter atonement for all
Graustark. To-day the castle was full of the nobility, drawn to its
walls by the news that had startled them beyond all expression. The
police were at work, the military trembled with rage, the people
clamored for the apprehension of the man who had been the instigator of
this audacity. The general belief was that some brigand chief from the
south had planned the great theft for the purpose of securing a fabulous
ransom. Grenfall Lorry had an astonishing theory in his mind, and the
more he thought it over the more firmly it was imbedded.
The warm, blue coils from the cigar wafted away into the night, carrying
with them a myriad of tangled thoughts,--of her, of Axphain, of the
abductor, of himself, of everything. A light step on the stone floor of
the shadowy balcony attracted his attention. He turned his head and saw
the Princess Yetive. She was walking slowly toward the balustrade, not
aware of his presence. There was no covering for the dark hair, no
wrap about the white shoulders. She wore an exquisite gown of white,
shimmering with the reflections from the moon that scaled the mountain
top. She stood at the balustrade, her hands clasping a bouquet of red
roses, her chin lifted, her eyes gazing toward the mountain's crest,
the prettiest picture he had ever seen. The strange dizziness of love
overpowered him. His hungry eyes glanced upward towards the sky which
she was blessing with her gaze, and beheld another picture, gloomy,
grim, cheerless.
Against the moonlit screen of the universe clung the black tower of
that faraway monastery in the clouds, the home of the monks of Saint
Valentine. Out of the world, above the world, a part of the sky itself,
it stood like the spectre of a sentinel whose ghostly guardian ship
appalled and yet soothed.
He could not, would not move. To have done so meant the desecration of
a picture so delicate that a breath upon its surface would have swept
it forever from the vision. How long he revelled in the glory of the
picture he knew not, for it was as if he looked from a dream. At last
he saw her look down upon the roses, lift them slowly and drop them over
the rail. They fell to the ground below. He thought he understood; the
gift of a prince despised.
They were not twenty feet apart. He advanced to her side, his hat in
one hand, his stick--the one that felled the Viennese--trembling in the
other.
“I did not know you were here,” she exclaimed, in half frightened
amazement. “I left my ladies inside.”
He was standing beside her, looking down into the eyes.
“And I am richer because of your ignorance,” he said, softly. “I have
seen a picture that shall never leave my memory--never! Its beauty
enthralled, enraptured. Then I saw the drama of the roses. Ah, your
Highness, the crown is not always a mask.”
“The roses were--were of no consequence,” she faltered.
“I have heard how you stand between two suitors and that wretched
treaty. My heart has ached to tell you how I pity you.”
“It is not pity I need, but courage. Pity will not aid me in my duty,
Mr. Lorry. It stands plainly before me, this duty, but I have not the
courage to take it up and place it about my neck forever.”
“You do not, cannot love this Lorenz?” he asked.
“Love him!” she cried. “Ach, I forget! You do not know him. Yet I shall
doubtless be his wife.” There was an eternity of despair in that low,
steady voice.
“You shall not! I swear you shall not!”
“Oh, he is a prince! I must accept the offer that means salvation to
Graustark. Why do you make it harder with torture which you think is
kindness? Listen to me. Next week I am to give my answer. He will be
here, in this castle. My father brought this calamity upon Graustark; I
must lift it from the people. What has my happiness to do with it?”
Her sudden strength silenced him, crushed him with the real awakening
of helplessness. He stood beside her, looking up at the cold monastery,
strangely conscious that she was gazing toward the same dizzy height.
“It looks so peaceful up there,” she said at last.
“But so cold and cheerless,” he added, drearily. There was another long
silence in which two hearts communed through the medium of that faraway
sentinel. “They have not discovered a clue to the chief abductor, have
they?” he asked, in an effort to return to his proper sphere.
“Baron Dangloss believes he has a clue--a meager and unsatisfactory
one, he admits--and to-day sent officers to Ganlook to investigate
the actions of a strange man who was there last week, a man who styled
himself the Count of Arabazon, and who claimed to be of Vienna. Some
Austrians had been hunting stags and bears in the north, however, and it
is possible he is one of them.” She spoke slowly, her eyes still bent on
the home of the monks.
“Your highness, I have a theory, a bold and perhaps a criminal theory,
but you will allow me to tell you why I am possessed of it. I am aware
that there is a Prince Gabriel. It is my opinion that no Viennese is
guilty, nor are the brigands to be accused of this masterpiece in crime.
Have you thought how far a man may go to obtain his heart's desire?”
She looked at him instantly, her eyes wide with growing comprehension,
the solution to the mystery darting into her mind like a flash.
“You mean--” she began, stopping as if afraid to voice the suspicion.
“That Prince Gabriel is the man who bought your guards and hired Geddos
and Ostrom to carry you to the place where he could own you, whether you
would or no,” said Lorry.
“But he could never have forced me to marry him, and I should, sooner or
later, have exposed him,” she whispered, argumentatively. “He could
not expect me to be silent and submit to a marriage under such
circumstances. He knows that I would denounce him, even at the altar.”
“You do not appreciate my estimate of that gentleman.”
“What is to become of me!” she almost sobbed, in an anguish of fear. “I
see now--I see plainly! It was Gabriel, and he would have done as you
say.” A shudder ran through her figure and he tenderly whispered in her
ear:
“The danger is past. He can do no more, your Highness. Were I positive
that he is the man--and I believe he is--I would hunt him down this
night.”
Her eyes closed happily under his gaze, her hand dropped timidly from
his arm and a sweet sense of security filled her soul.
“I am not afraid,” she murmured.
“Because I am here?” he asked, bending nearer.
“Because God can bless with the same hand that punishes,” she answered,
enigmatically, lifting her lashes again and looking into his eyes with
a love at last unmasked. “He gives me a man to love and denies me
happiness. He makes of me a woman, but He does not unmake me a princess.
Through you, He thwarts a villain; through you, He crushes the innocent.
More than ever, I thank you for coming into my life. You and you alone,
guided by the God who loves and despises me, saved me from Gabriel.”
“I only ask--” he began, eagerly, but she interrupted.
“You should not ask anything, for I have said I cannot pay. I owe to you
all I have, but cannot pay the debt.”
“I shall not again forget,” he murmured.
“To-morrow, if you like, I will take you over the castle and let you
see the squalor in which I exist,--my throne room, my chapel, my banquet
hall, my ball room, my conservatory, my sepulchre. You may say it is
wealth, but I shall call it poverty,” she said, after they had watched
the black monastery cut a square corner from the moon's circle.
“To-morrow, if you will be so kind.”
“Perhaps I may be poorer after I have saved Graustark,” she said.
“I would to God I could save you from that!” he said.
“I would to God you could,” she said. Her manner changed suddenly. She
laughed gaily, turning a light face to his. “I hear your friend's laugh
out there in the darkness. It is delightfully infectious.”