CECIL'S VISITOR.
From the monotony of his moody and irritating reflections he was
roused one day by the entrance of a visitor, and he started on
finding himself face to face with Margarita Palenka, who had come to
the camp on horseback, escorted by old Theodore, the veteran of
Sadowa. Her eyes were full of unshed tears, as she gave Cecil her
hand, and it was impossible for him to behold this beautiful girl's
sympathy unmoved.
'How can I ever thank you,' said he, 'for all this deep and kindly
interest in me--almost a stranger?'
'I fear the worst, from what my brother says,' she replied in a low
and husky voice.
'The worst--death?'
'Better that than--Siberia!'
'So say I,' was Cecil's grim response; and then he added hotly: 'I am
a British subject; how dare they menace me with such a fate?'
'A British subject once--a Servian soldier now,' said she, gravely.
Cecil thought of the old Cameronians, and his heart seemed to swell
painfully, while he eyed with some contempt the brown sleeve of his
Servian tunic.
Margarita had come to Deligrad, we have said, on horseback; thus a
brown riding-habit--almost claret-coloured in tint, out of compliment
to the Servian uniform, and like it faced with scarlet and laced with
gold--set off her magnificent bust and figure generally. A smart hat
encircled by a white ostrich feather, with white riding gauntlets,
made up a costume that was altogether very effective, and became the
brilliant and striking character of her beauty.
At her left breast she wore the bright ribbon of St. Catherine of
Russia, procured for her by Tchernaieff, and given to ladies of rank
alone.
'Think not ill of me for this visit,' said she after a pause, and
when he led her to a seat on the divan; 'I have come to comfort you,
when none other dare attempt it--to save you if I can, and none other
dare attempt that either, or is perhaps inclined to do so.'
She felt the peculiarity, the delicacy of her position; and Cecil
felt it too, with a rush of gratitude in his heart--all the greater,
no doubt, that she was so beautiful in person, and winning in manner.
Intensely interested as she had found herself to be in the fortunes
and safety of a young stranger; knowing the wiles and the vengeance
of which he was assuredly the victim, and all that he had to
apprehend in the present and in the future, sleep had almost deserted
the eyes of Margarita for some nights past, and thus their lids were
inflamed and her face looked wan. For hours, without retiring to
bed, she had been wont to sit musing by the windows of her room,
watching the stars as they shone above the dark woods of Palenka, and
listening to the distant roar of the Morava, till inaction became
torture, and she made up her mind to ride to Deligrad, to discover
the truth of all the alarming stories that had reached her and the
old countess, and also what she could do to serve--if possible to
save him.
Hence her most unexpected visit to Cecil.
'When you warned me to beware of Mattei Guebhard,' said he, 'I could
little imagine, or anticipate, all he can be capable of.'
'And I little thought, when we parted at Palenka, to see you again,'
said she, with something pathetic in her voice; 'and less than all,
under such circumstances as the present.'
'But you do not believe--you cannot believe----'
'About the commission? No--of course not: the idea of your being
colonel of a regiment of such wretches as the Black Mountaineers is
too absurd! Savages whose tastes for strong waters, the property of
their neighbours, and the noses, ears, and even the skulls of their
enemies, are proverbial,' she added with a shudder. 'Besides, I
understand that you never even heard of Kara Georgevitch?'
'Never before. I knew not there was such a person in existence.'
'How singular! I have met him often at Vienna; danced with him at
the palace on the west side of Innerstadt, and know that he--admired
me very much,' she added, with a little smile.
'His commission had my name in it, my accusers assert.'
'I do not yet understand the mystery of that--though how it came into
your possession is plain enough to me.'
'And to be accused of killing a couple of Montenegrins----'
'Who would have killed you if they could! The concealed paper was a
_dernier ressort_, in case you escaped them. Oh, it is all so like
the subtle and elaborate villany of Mattei!'
'And how absurd is the accusation that I meant to carry away the
King's despatches for the service of Kara Georgevitch or the Turks,
when I risked life to defend them!'
'Time will unravel all this--meantime, I shall watch over you, if I
can,' said she, almost tenderly, holding out her hand to him
ungloved, with a pretty yet imperious air, as if to show its
whiteness and beauty, for she was a coquette to the tips of her
fingers.
He touched it very lightly, but instead of retaining it, as she
doubtless expected, drew back--as if to avoid temptation, she seemed
to think, for she said haughtily:
'You forget yourself, sir, or me!'
'Would that I could do so!' said Cecil.
The gentleness of his tone, the sadness and bewilderment of his air,
touched her; she took his hand deliberately in both hers, and kissing
him on the forehead with warm and throbbing lips, said:
'My brother's preserver and my brother's friend! I repeat that I
have come to serve you and save you, if I may--to see you and comfort
you at least, in a land where you are so utterly friendless.'
Her voice broke a little.
'By whose permission did you reach me?' asked Cecil hastily, and
apparently oblivious of her emotion.
'That of Tchernaieff--he could not refuse me.'
'Who that looked upon your face could refuse you anything!' he
exclaimed, more in a spirit of gallantry than anything else.
'I detest compliments; so seek not to flatter me.'
'Nay, flattery exists not in paying praise due to beauty or merit,
but in praise misplaced.'
After a pause, Cecil said with a smile:
'Surely you never, at any time, loved this man Mattei Guebhard?'
'I never did so,' said she, emphatically; 'but, I once said before, I
could not help him loving me. I have never loved anyone; and
moreover I shall never--marry!'
Now Cecil had known and seen enough of the world to be aware that
when a handsome young woman declares her intention of never marrying,
it becomes one of the broadest hints a man can receive; and, under
all the circumstances, he heard her now with a perplexity that
bordered on irritation.
At such a time cold reason might suggest that Mary Montgomerie, and
his country too, were lost to him for ever! In Servia was his new
home; Margarita was beautiful, anxious to serve him and to win his
gratitude--too evidently his love, if she could. Just rage at
Guebhard invited him to meet her half-way; but the image of Mary came
before Cecil, and he thought:
'Montrose was right in his song--"Love one, and love no more!"'
He was perfectly conscious that some time or other, at Palenka, he
_had_ spoken of love to Margarita; but was then referring to his love
of Mary Montgomerie; while she had believed that he was in some
curious way pleading his own cause with herself.
There was even now a struggle going on in the heart of Margarita,
between her mind and her affections; and though eventually it seemed
as if the latter would conquer, some sense of propriety, of what
society and training inculcated, and the moral force of her own
spirit, did battle against them; and then, moreover, she was not
without some dread of her brother the Count of Palenka.
Despite all this, and her recent coquettish announcement that she
could never love, and would never marry any man, Cecil found her
coming to the point with him and taking the initiative, piqued
perhaps that he was the only man she had never yet subdued; and so,
before he knew very well how it had all come to pass, or by what she
had prefaced it, he was startled by her saying in her most dulcet
Servian:
'So you think, dear Cecil, I could make your life a happy one?'
She asked this softly, yet a little imperiously, while flicking the
skirt of her riding-habit impatiently with her switch, and with
downcast looks, as Cecil paused in perplexity, thinking, 'What had he
said to draw this forth?'
'Surely I am not so uncivilised; I don't ever paint and powder, like
all the English girls I saw at Vienna!' she added.
'But,' said poor Cecil, who thought he had perils enough to
encounter, without thus being 'run to earth,' and having this
perplexity added to them, by an impulsive girl, who probably had
something Hungarian and Italian in her blood, inherited from the old
heyduc; 'but they don't all wear paint and powder--and one girl I
knew at home certainly did not do so.'
This was, to say the least of it, an unfortunate speech.
'One,' said Margarita, with a flash in her eyes; 'who was she?'
'One of whom you remind me--at times,' he replied, thinking to
compliment her by saying that which was simply untrue.
'_Who_ was she--who _is_ she--one you cared for?'
'Not as I care for you,' replied Cecil unwisely, yet truthfully
enough; 'but long ago--ah, how long ago it seems--she passed out of
my life, and I out of hers.'
'She is dead, then?'
'Yes--to me.'
'To the world, you mean--so she is in a convent, then?' said
Margarita, readily adopting the idea suggested by herself.
'You have no need to be jealous of her,' said Cecil.
'Nor am I,' replied Margarita proudly, and still switching her
riding-skirt.
'Was she like me, as you say?'
'Handsome, with perfect features--_mignonne_ face, and----'
'Enough--let us talk of ourselves now,' said Margarita softly, and
then Cecil found himself adopted and placed--he feared--on the
footing of an accepted lover, without having attempted to play the
character, in any way.
What might be the result, if this too evident regard for him turned
to hatred under his coolness? He remembered the well-known couplet
in Congreve's 'Mourning Bride,' and became filled with positive
apprehension, if it be true that there is 'no fury like a woman
scorned.'
Platonism was evidently a _rôle_ she did not understand; and when any
suspicion of his doubts or hesitation occurred to her, her full proud
lips curled, her dark eyes flashed, and a flush crossed her cheek.
But how was he to indulge in love-making--and still more in affecting
such, environed by perils as he was then.
It was but too evident that Margarita, like most coquettes, had
fallen a victim to herself at last, and was actually pining for a man
who had never spoken to her more than words of the merest friendship
and thanks; and but for the memory of Mary, and a sentiment of
chivalry that mingled with his love for her, Cecil, under all the
circumstances of his position, might have yielded to the temptation
that beset him, and at all hazards have become the lover of this
Servian girl, whose wild impulses came to her with the mixed blood of
more than one fiery race; and who, hence, could not be judged of by
the same standard as an English girl of the same position.
At last she rose to retire.
'I cannot conceal from you, that, from all I hear, your peril is very
great,' said she, nervously attempting to button her riding
gauntlets, a task which Cecil hastened to perform for her.
'I shall demand a court-martial!' he exclaimed.
'Palenka tells me that such will not be accorded to you.'
'What then?'
'By the fiat of the King, through the minister of police, you may
be--will be--I cannot speak it,' she continued in a broken voice, as
her tears fell fast, and her head drooped for a moment on his
shoulder; 'rather let me aid you to escape, and fly this place for
ever. Have you money?'
'None.'
'That shall be my care--and horses too, by which to reach the
frontier of Bulgaria, about fifty miles from this, where you will be
comparatively safe. But how to get you out of this place--and how to
elude these Russian sentinels at the door, are the difficulties that
appal and bewilder me!'
'Margarita, the idea of flight is most repugnant to me--it looks so
like timidity and confession of guilt.'
'They are determined to deem you guilty, I fear, under any
circumstances. You have but yourself to consider, and--me.'
'But without a guide----'
'Fear not for that--I shall provide you with a guide too,' she
replied with a bright and tender smile; and so ended this strange
interview, which, for a little time at least, had served to lure him
from his troubles, yet had added to his perplexity; for he felt that
if Margarita saved him from impending peril--and that she would do so
at all hazard he never doubted--that circumstance would load him with
a debt of gratitude which the devotion of his future life could--in
her estimation--alone repay!