DISCOVERED, OR NOT DISCOVERED?
“It is past ten o’clock, gospodin.”
The words came from Nadia, who, having tried for some time to arouse
Wilfrid by knocking at his bedroom door, had at last succeeded.
“Past ten o’clock!” echoed Wilfrid, realising what these words meant.
“Then the Prin—I mean the boyarine and her party have gone?”
“Half an hour ago.”
It was with considerable mortification that Wilfrid heard this news. It
had been his intention to secrete himself at some loophole of observation
in order to watch the departure of the Princess and her train. Prolonged
slumber, however, had debarred him from this pleasure.
On coming down to breakfast his mortification soon yielded to a new
feeling, namely, curiosity as to whether Nadia was aware of the blunder
she had made. Had she discovered her error shortly afterwards, but,
overcome with confusion and fear, had left him to extricate himself from
the difficulty as he best might?
If she were not aware of her mistake it would be better to let her
continue in ignorance of it—so much the safer would be the Princess’s
secret. But in what way was he to question Nadia without revealing what
he wanted to hide? A lawyer might be equal to the task, but Wilfrid
wasn’t a lawyer, for he was too impulsive in speech, which is a fault,
and too transparent in motive, which is a virtue.
As he sat down to breakfast he eyed Nadia keenly, who coloured on
observing his gaze as any maiden might, whose last parting from a man had
been marked by a kiss, so that her sudden blush told him nothing of what
he wished to know. She was the sole attendant at table, her father at
that moment being engaged in superintending the delivery of a wagon-load
of fagots.
“The gospodin slept well?” she asked.
“Excellently. Five minutes after leaving you,” said Wilfrid, fixing his
eyes intently upon her face, “five minutes after leaving you I was fast
asleep.”
If she had been among the little gathering outside the Princess’s bedroom
she must have known that he was not keeping to the truth. If she knew it
she did not betray her knowledge by any change in her manner.
“There is nothing like a long drive in the frosty air for making one
sleep,” was her quiet remark.
“By the way,” added Wilfrid with a careless air, “just as I was dropping
off I fancied I heard a disturbance on the floor beneath me—a talking, or
a moving of feet—muffled sounds of some sort. Was I dreaming?”
“The floor directly beneath yours would be the boyarine’s room,” said
Nadia, opening her eyes wide with surprise. “Do you say the noise came
from there?”
“There or near it, so at least it seemed to me. Did you hear the noise?”
“_I!_ I was down in the kitchen getting ready some nice things for the
boyarine’s breakfast.”
“Did any of the boyarine’s party complain of a noise during the night?”
“None.”
“Ah! Then I _must_ have been dreaming.”
During this brief dialogue Wilfrid had kept his eyes on Nadia’s face,
and became convinced by her natural and artless manner that she was
unconscious of her blunder of the previous night.
That she was looking somewhat pale was nothing to the point, seeing that
she had been up all night preparing with her own hand dainty dishes for
the boyarine and her party.
At this point, having finished with his timber, Boris entered to see
what services he could render. Naturally enough Wilfrid was desirous of
learning all he could about the Princess.
“You waited on the boyarine at breakfast, I presume?” he said,
addressing the pair. “How was she looking?”
“Rather pale and anxious,” replied Boris. “She scarcely spoke. In fact,
her lively manner of last night was altogether gone.”
“And Ouva—I mean him whom Nadia calls the Ugly One? He breakfasted too, I
suppose?”
“Sitting opposite to the boyarine,” replied Boris, who seemed to have
kept a keen eye on his visitors. “He, too, looked rather grave. I caught
him more than once watching her curiously. Her eyes would droop when she
became conscious of it.”
“In short,” said Wilfrid with a mirthless laugh, “she might have been
taken for a child that has done wrong, and he for a parent that had been
scolding her.”
The innkeeper with some surprise murmured that Wilfrid’s words exactly
hit off the situation.
For appearance’s sake Wilfrid went on eating, but his appetite had
gone. He was possessed by a horrible sinking of heart; he suspected,
nay, he felt sure, that his long stay in the Princess’s bed-chamber had
become known, and that Prince Ouvaroff was disposed to put the worst
construction upon the event.
The picture of the fair and innocent Princess, sitting mute and wretched
amid her escort, exposed to coldness and suspicion, and unable to
vindicate herself, filled Wilfrid with almost intolerable anguish.
Upon the woman whose love it was the one desire of his life to gain
he had brought cruel reproach. Already in imagination Wilfrid heard
the mocking laugh and ribald jest directed against the Princess by the
immoral circle at the Court of the Czar. “She is only like the rest of
us.”
Second thoughts, however, induced Wilfrid to believe that perhaps after
all he was disquieting himself without reason.
The apparent lack of cheerfulness on the part both of the Princess and of
Ouvaroff might be due to an entirely different cause. It came suddenly
upon Wilfrid that the Princess was none other than the lady to whom
Ouvaroff himself had once aspired, till a State warning had bidden him
put a check upon his presumption. Perhaps, regardless of the State’s
inderdict, Ouvaroff had once more ventured—it might even have been on
the previous night—to renew his suit with the same result as heretofore.
Hence the meeting between her and him this very morning would necessarily
be quiet and somewhat embarrassing.
There could be no doubt that the Englishman who had so roused the
deadly ire of Ouvaroff was none other than Wilfrid himself, though it
was somewhat difficult to see how the Prince could have learned that
his former friend had become his rival, since if the Princess really
cherished a secret affection for Wilfrid, she would be the last person in
the world to divulge it.
There was one circumstance which disposed Wilfrid to think that his
interview with the Princess had escaped observation, and that was the
peculiar forbearance of Ouvaroff. Surely, if the Prince had suspected
anything he would have sought Wilfrid out and have demanded an
explanation of the nocturnal incident. But the Prince had done nothing
of the kind; on the contrary, he had set off next morning apparently
ignorant that his old friend was beneath the roof of the Silver Birch.
But no sooner did this favourable view present itself than it vanished.
Ouvaroff, aware of Wilfrid’s destination, was perhaps leaving him to the
vengeance of the authorities at St. Petersburg.
The breakfast over, Boris, who took considerable pride in his hostelry,
made the suggestion that perhaps his Excellency would like to be shown
over the building; if so, Nadia would be pleased to take him round.
Wilfrid readily fell in with this offer, moved solely by the wish to
see again the chamber in which the Princess had passed the night. He
accordingly accompanied Nadia through the various rooms, listening, it
must be confessed, with very little interest to her remarks, till at last
they reached the Tapestried Chamber. And a daintily furnished little
chamber it was; but now, void of its fair occupant, how desolate it
seemed!
Wilfrid’s eyes roved reminiscently and mournfully around. Here was the
dressing-table upon which he had set his lamp, and there the chair over
which her fair attire had been cast; here, the seat in which he had sat
by her bedside, and there the pillow still retaining the hollow made by
the nestling of her golden head.
The faint perfume that Wilfrid had noticed on the previous night still
hovered around the pillow. Moved by a sudden impulse, he lifted it, and
with surprise and delight saw beneath a folded handkerchief.
On the principle of “Findings, keepings,” as children say, Wilfrid took
possession of the article, which was of the finest cambric, delicately
perfumed, and edged with beautiful lace.
Now, although the title of princess is sometimes borne—in Russia, at
least—by persons of doubtful station, Wilfrid had felt that this was
not the case with _his_ princess; and on unfolding the handkerchief he
received a startling proof of the correctness of his opinion, for the
centre of the cambric exhibited the figure of a double-headed eagle
wrought in gold thread.
“The Imperial Arms!” muttered Wilfrid.
His look of blank surprise was as nothing compared with that of Nadia’s.
She, indeed, seemed not only amazed, but quite frightened by the
discovery.
“The Czar’s Arms!” she gasped. “Is she a member of the Imperial house—A
Grand Duchess?”
It seemed so, if the handkerchief were to be taken as proof, but how near
to the throne there was no means of telling. She might be a very distant
relative of the Czar; on the other hand, she might be a niece, or even a
daughter! Wilfrid’s head swam at the thought. No wonder he ran the risk
of being slaughtered by her suite if found in her bedroom!
That eagle in gold thread was not only a startling sight, but an
unwelcome one to Wilfrid; it seemed to put a sudden stop to his
love-dream. For him to think of mating with a princess of the Imperial
house of Romanoff would indeed be the height of audacity; and yet, if
the lady herself were willing—and the tender glance of her dark-blue
eyes had given him a lover’s hope—he was quite ready to brave all risks
on her behalf. If she were a Romanoff, was he not a Courtenay, with
imperial blood in his veins, descended from the Byzantine emperors and
permitted by the Garter king-at-arms to bear the proud title of _Æquus
Cæsaribus_—equal to Cæsars?
But soon his thoughts took a lower flight.
“We have jumped to conclusions too hastily,” he said to Nadia. “The
possession of the handkerchief doesn’t necessarily prove that she is a
Grand Duchess. It may have been a gift of the Czar.”
This way of looking at the matter seemed to relieve Nadia’s mind
somewhat, though why she should look so troubled over the discovery was a
puzzle to Wilfrid.
“Besides,” he continued, “if she were an Imperial Duchess, her suite
would select, as her stopping-place for the night, the castle of some
grand boyar, rather than a wayside hostelry.”
But Nadia opined there was no force in this argument, seeing that the
great Catharine herself had on one occasion stopped at the Silver Birch,
and had slept in that very chamber. And Wilfrid was forced to admit to
himself that it was an argument in favour of the Imperial theory that the
chief of her escort was no less a personage than the Czarovitch’s own
aide-de-camp, namely, Prince Ouvaroff. If she were not a Grand Duchess
she must at least be some one of distinguished rank.
Folding the handkerchief, now the most precious of all his belongings,
he placed it carefully within his breast, and descended again to the
breakfast-room.
“And now,” said he, “send me my yamchik, and I’ll ask the scoundrel what
he means by taking twelve hours to drive twenty-four miles.”
Nadia departed, and presently returned, leading in the yamchik, who
stood, cap in hand, smiling and fawning.
Yes, shame to him, he _had_ taken a long time in coming from Viaznika to
Gora. Ah! why did he ever deviate from the post-road, thinking to take a
shorter cut? He didn’t like to tell the gospodin so at the time, but he
knew he had lost his way, and he had wandered, and wandered—oh! how he
had wandered!
“Just as you are doing now,” interrupted Wilfrid. “And yet you say you
have performed this same journey a hundred times?”
Yes, that was the most wonderful part of it—that he, who had travelled
this route one hundred times, should go wrong at the one hundred and
first. But there, man must make a certain number of mistakes in his
life-time; even the mighty Czar sometimes made mistakes, much more, then,
a poor yamchik.
But when it was pointed out by means of the map that he had similarly
lengthened the stages on other days, the yamchik, while venturing to deny
the impeachment, became less glib of tongue; professed that, being unable
to read, he could not understand the condemnatory map, and finally grew
so dense that Wilfrid, despairing of getting any clear ideas into the
fellow’s thick skull, bade him go and harness the horses for the next
stage.
Was the fellow a fool or a knave?
Wilfrid was disposed to rank him among the latter class, having a
suspicion that all these manœuvrings on the part of the yamchik had been
prompted by some interested motive, a motive, however, that Wilfrid was
utterly unable to fathom.
It was hardly worth while now to dismiss the fellow, when only three or
four days’ journey from St. Petersburg; but, while retaining him, Wilfrid
determined not to leave these final stages to his judgment. So, after a
brief study of the map, he selected both the route and the stages; and
since, from motives of prudence, he did not wish either to overtake the
Princess or to appear as if following immediately upon her track, he
chose a somewhat circuitous road to the capital in lieu of the direct one.
And now, from without, came a jingle of bells and neighing of steeds to
tell him that his car was in waiting.
Wilfrid rose, called for his bill, and paid it with a liberal overplus.
Boris and his daughter accompanied him to the inn door, where a little
crowd of servants had assembled to watch the departure of the rich
Englishman.
Wilfrid turned to say “Good-bye” to Nadia. Her manner plainly showed that
she was sorry to part with her guest, who, moved by a generous impulse,
drew the pretty serf-maiden to one side.
“Nadia,” he whispered, “take heart. How long I shall be in St.
Petersburg, I know not; but when I return again this way I will redeem
you and your father from serfdom—yes, if it cost me fifty thousand
roubles.”
He had thought to see her cheek colour with delight, her eyes to sparkle,
and her lips to quiver with thankfulness; it was all the reward he wanted.
But, to his surprise, her emotion took a very different shape. She shrank
back, staring at him, her cheek as white as the dead; in her eyes a look
of wild, haunting horror.
“Isn’t that promise worth a kiss?” smiled Wilfrid.
She did not give him one; instead, she presented her cheek, and on
touching it with his lips he found it as cold as marble.
Somewhat mortified by this strange reception of his offer, an offer made
in all good faith, Wilfrid waved his hand to Boris, sprang into the
sledge, and the next moment was speeding off along the frozen highway.
Nadia staggered, rather than walked, to her own little sitting room.
“What did the Anglisky say to you?” asked Boris, somewhat suspiciously.
“Say?” gasped Nadia, who seemed scarcely able to speak for emotion—“words
that he meant to be words of hope, but to me they are words of despair. I
would rather he had stabbed me. And he looked at me, oh! so pityingly. My
God! if he only knew the truth!”
A shudder shook her from head to foot.
Her wondering father repeated his question.
“He promised to buy us our freedom, yours and mine.”
“Glory to God!” cried Boris, clasping his hands fervently together.
“Glory to God who has put this thought into the heart of the Englishman!
My prayer for you, Nadia, my prayer day and night for years, is answered
at last. He’ll keep his word, this Englishman. An Englishman always
does. And he shall not lose by his goodness. I will work, work night and
day, till I have paid him our ransom twice, yea, three times over. But,
Nadia, Nadia, why do you grieve? Is this a thing to grieve about?”
“The offer comes a day too late, my father.”
“A day too late?”
“We are already free,” she replied, with a laugh dreadful in its want of
mirth. “Free by the grace of the nether fiend, who is now mocking me with
a deed that need not have been done.”