WOOING A CZARINA
Wilfrid and his Princess occupied their favourite seat by the Fairies’
Mirror. Marie was musing upon her kinsfolk—she supposed she had such—and,
with a mind dominated by her love for Wilfrid, had come to the conclusion
that should they now appear with intent to restore her to her former life
she would be disposed to resist their action. Her life at Runö had been
so happy that she felt that any change must be for the worse.
“You saw me in my old life,” she remarked. “Tell me, did I seem very
happy in it?”
“Truth compels me to say you did not.”
“How did I appear?”
“You looked like—like—well, like the moonlight, beautiful, but sad.”
“And now——?”
“Now I may liken you to—to the sunshine.”
“Radiant and happy?” smiled she. “Yes, I feel so. The difference must
be due to changed conditions,” she continued, “and I am resolved not to
return to the old state. What I lose by this resolve, I do not know;
therefore, I do not grieve. I—heaven forgive me, if my act be a wrong
one!—but I am bent on separating myself entirely from the past.”
Prompted by a sudden thought, she rose to her feet.
“Which way does St. Petersburg lie?”
Wilfrid pointed to the east.
“St. Petersburg! city that was once my home, you are my home no more.”
And she flung out her arms as if casting something from her.
“Friends and relatives, if such there be to me, you are discarded.”
She repeated her action.
“My old life, farewell! I turn my back upon you.”
Suiting the action to the word, she turned upon her heel and stood facing
the west. Wilfrid being an artist could not help admiring the curves of
her graceful figure. Her hat had fallen off and some golden rays glancing
obliquely through her hair seemed to illumine it as with an aureole.
Wilfrid saw in this last attitude a happy augury for his hopes; she was
facing the west, and the west was the direction of his home.
Though her words and gestures were not in any way meant to influence
Wilfrid, being entirely spontaneous on her part, they none the less
appealed to his sense of chivalry. Her new state required that she should
have a protector; and who should that protector be, if not Wilfrid?
“If you are really bent on severing all connection with your former
life,” said Wilfrid, as Marie again sat beside him, “we must not leave
this spot without settling what your future course must be. For, to
remain at Runö is to run the risk of being drawn back again into those
old surroundings that you seem to dread. Now, I am going to suggest a
plan that I trust will be for your welfare.”
He certainly _had_ a plan, a delightful one; the difficulty was to find
courage enough to put it into words. A delicious sensation of expectancy
stole over Marie. Her eyes dared not meet his.
“Well, what _is_ this plan?” she murmured, after waiting for a while.
“I am beginning to think that you might not accept it.”
“How can I say till I hear it?”
“Cannot you guess its nature?”
“I might guess wrongly. _Please_ tell me,” she said, stealing a witching
glance at him from beneath her dark eyelashes, and encouraging him with a
smile that showed a dazzling set of teeth.
Wilfrid still fenced with the question, making it a matter of wonder to
Marie that he, who had never been lacking in courage, should show such
hesitation with her. How sweet to have such power over him! but how much
sweeter it would be if he would only say the words she was longing to
hear!
“You said just now,” he remarked, “that you have been happy here. What
has made you so?”
“Many things. The malicious joy of being alive, when my enemies think me
dead; the beautiful summer air; the waving woods of Runö; the quaint old
castle, with its books and antiquities; the sweet doing-nothing all day
long; the sense of freedom and irresponsibility; above all, Pauline’s
kindness.”
“Nothing more?”
“Your—your friendship.”
“You put that last, I see.”
“No, Lord Courtenay, I put that first,” she said softly.
And then——!
Who made the first movement towards the other neither ever knew. Certain
it is that Marie suddenly found herself returning Wilfrid’s passionate
kiss and clinging to his embrace as if she meant never to part from it.
In the stillness that followed, she could hear the wild beating of her
heart above the ripple of the forest leaves.
* * * * *
“And do you really love me?” asked Marie, breaking the long spell of
silence.
“Do you doubt it?”
“No, but you have not yet _said_ it. It will be sweet to hear it.”
So Wilfrid said it, not once, but many times.
“And is this,” she asked, with a significant pressure of her arms, “is
this the plan you were speaking of?”
“Yes; that you will entrust your future to my keeping: that you will come
with me to England and be the Countess Courtenay.”
The sound of this name gave her a sweeter sensation of pleasure than any
she had yet felt.
“And you will marry me, knowing so little of me?” “I see you to be
beautiful, and I know you to have a sweet, lovable nature—what more can I
desire?”
He turned her happy glowing face upward to his own, kissed it again, and
softly stroked her hair. She thrilled at his caresses, finding it the
most natural thing in the world to nestle in his arms.
“I never realised till now,” he said, gazing downwards upon her face,
“the full force of the poet’s words—
‘When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fettered to her eye.’
“What a pretty hand yours is!” he continued, taking it in his own. “Snow,
thou art not so white, after all. Will you hold it up for me?”
And Marie the next instant found her finger encircled with a ring.
For a moment she was dumb with a new pleasure, all her soul sparkling
from her eyes.
“Now I am linked to you,” she said, kissing the gift.
“For ever. The ring was my mother’s. The stones are amethysts. See how
they mock the violet lustre of your eyes!”
Marie laughed softly.
“Am I the first woman you have ever loved, Wilfrid?”
“The first and the last. Why do you ask?”
“Because you seem to speak so well for a novice.”
She accompanied her words with a smile, but the smile soon gave place to
a pensive expression.
“Dearest, why that sorrowful look?”
“You have made me so happy,” she said, “and yet, amid my happiness there
comes a thought that fills me with fear. I am not mistress of my true
mind. Supposing I should recover my memory and forget my present self,
I—I——”
Wilfrid finished the sentence for her.
“You might not regard me in the same light as now? Is not that what you
would say? Well, I am willing to take the risk. But ease your mind,
dearest, on that point. I do not think that in your former state you
viewed me with indifference. Is not your kiss at the masquerade a proof?”
Though Marie took courage from this last incident, she was still troubled
with doubts of another sort.
“I have cast aside all former ties. I want to be yours, and yours only.”
She clung to him as if he were her life itself. “But supposing a father
or a guardian should appear, forbidding our union?”
“They may forbid: they won’t prevent!”
“Or one saying that I had betrothed myself to him?”
“He must resign you.”
“You will not hand me over to any one who shall claim me?”
“Not even to the Czar himself if he should want you.”
“Remember this promise,” she said, raising her forefinger with a pretty
air. “You do not know how soon you may be put to the test.”
And so in happy talk they sat, drawing bright pictures of the future,
till the coming-on of twilight reminded them of the passing of time.
“Shall we return to the castle?” said Wilfrid. “I am eager to present
Countess Courtenay to Pauline.”
Marie rose and took Wilfrid’s arm. As she quitted the dell she cast a
backward lingering look at the spot, now rendered sacred in her eyes by
reason of Wilfrid’s love-vows there.
They emerged from the wood to the open space surrounding the castle, from
whose windows twinkled numerous lights, more numerous than usual, Wilfrid
thought.
Upon entering the castle they soon learned the cause. A very
distinguished visitor was beneath its roof. The Czar had paid the
Baroness Runö the high honour of an unpremeditated visit, and was now
holding converse with her in an apartment that, from the colour of its
upholstery, was known as the Blue Chamber, while in the entrance hall his
equerries Princes Ouvaroff and Volkonski were discussing some excellent
wines with Dr. Beauvais.
Wilfrid was one of the very few men who are not dazzled by titles, a
sentiment arising, perhaps, from a magnificent faith in his own lineage.
“The Czar!” he whispered to Marie. “The very gentleman I am wanting to
see, since he can explain who you are. You do not fear to face him?”
“Not if you are with me.”
As it would be contrary to Court etiquette to enter the Czar’s presence
unbidden, or to send a message into the Blue Chamber while he was
conversing with the Baroness, Wilfrid’s plan was to wait till that
interview was over, and then, when the Czar should return along the grand
corridor to the castle entrance, step forward and ask for the favour of a
few words.
“And then,” he remarked in philosophic vein, “we shall see what we shall
see.”
With a view to keeping an eye upon departing majesty Wilfrid chose as his
place of vigil a chamber whose door opened upon the corridor.
Among other ornaments decorating the walls of this chamber were several
sabres. Carefully inspecting these he selected one, and girded it at his
side, while Marie tremblingly asked his reason for this act.
“One may as well be prepared for emergencies,” he smiled.
Beneath the mask of his light and careless air Marie could see that he
apprehended there might be danger, and she began to realise more vividly
the nature of the coming ordeal.
What if the Czar, on seeing the man who had mocked him by not appearing
at the rendezvous, should order his attendants or Pauline’s to arrest
Wilfrid? Wilfrid, she well knew, would fight for his liberty against
any odds. Or supposing the Czar should be tempted to renew his duelling
proposal, what could Wilfrid do but respond to the challenge? Or what,
too, if the Czar, in the exercise of his legitimate authority, should
insist upon her returning with him to St. Petersburg?
Wilfrid, true to the promise she had exacted from him, would endeavour
to prevent this; but what could his single sword achieve against the
power of the Czar? Her lively imagination began to picture scenes of
altercation and fighting, of bloodshed and death.
Let the mystery of her origin remained unsolved for ever if its
attempted solution must bring danger upon the head of Wilfrid.
Her quick changing colour, the trembling of her hand within his, spoke
eloquently of her fears.
Folding her within his arms Wilfrid tried both by words and caresses to
infuse her with some of his own spirit.
“It is for you I fear,” she said, as she clung convulsively to him. “Let
us leave the castle till the Czar be gone. Nothing but harm will come
of this meeting.” All in a moment that frowning portrait in the Hall of
the Czars rose vividly before her. If a mere picture could fill her mind
with a nameless terror, what would be the effect of the living original?
“Oh, Wilfrid, don’t—_don’t_ make me face him!” she gasped. “I dare not—I
_don’t_ know why, but I dare not! If he sees me ... there is something
... something at my heart ... that tells me this embrace ... will be our
last! Let us.... My God! he is coming ... it is too late!”