THE HOUR OF INDECISION
My anticipations of the interview with Christina were a mingling of
pleasure and apprehension. I was longing to see her. I had not set
eyes on her for four days, and, busily as the time had been filled, my
thoughts had been constantly with her. I recalled, too, with a feeling
of mixed tenderness and pain, how she had then said we must not meet
again alone, and at the recollection my pulses thrilled again with the
sad sweetness of our acknowledged but never to be avowed love.
The knowledge of her present danger moved me deeply. I had to tell
her the ill news myself, and, in telling it, to urge her to take the
course which I knew must put an impassable gulf between us. It had been
easy enough for me, in consultation with Zoiloff, when we were both
staggered by this new development, to decide for the counsel of energy
and to choose the course which, while loyal to Christina, my Princess,
was traitor to Christina, my love. But if she would fly the country,
there would be no longer the barrier of a throne between us.
And in the minutes I was alone waiting for her coming, the thought
of all I was to lose in losing her, and of all I was to gain if she
would consent to flight, threatened to make a coward of me and urged
me to plead with all a lover’s strength that she should choose the
course which would make her my wife. Away from her I could be the
impassionate adviser, but in her presence, with the light of her eyes
upon my face, with my heart glowing and throbbing with the knowledge
of my love for her and hers for me, it would be hard to be more than a
lover, and, being that, not to set the hopes and desires of our love
beyond all other consideration.
I had to wait some minutes for her; and, as they passed, the struggle
grew fiercer, the temptation strengthened, and the fear of losing
her waxed until I was almost impelled to call in Zoiloff to prop my
stumbling resolve. There were so many arguments to favour flight. The
road was still open; the means were instantly available; safety could
be won in a few hours--long before this Russian tyrant could strike;
the Prince had counselled, even urged it; the Russian captain had done
the same; all were convinced that safety could lie in no other course.
And if we struck and failed, what outlook was there but humiliation,
ill-usage, a prison, and possibly death? Love was calling to us both
on that frontier road, and smiling with the promise of a life of rare
delight; and here in the city stood the gaunt shadow of menacing
defeat, with all its grim terrors and gloomy threats of ruthless
indignity, and quenchless, loveless sorrow and separation. Is it to
be wondered at that I hearkened for the moment to the whispering
invitation of love, and closed my ears to aught beside?
But before she came I had fought it back, thrusting the temptation
away from me as a thing dishonourable and unclean, and I rose to greet
her with a heart as full of loyalty as of love. She was looking sad
and troubled, and she bowed to me merely, not giving me her hand as on
former visits.
“I had not thought that we should be alone again, Count Benderoff,” she
said, a little formally; and I hoped I could detect in this reception
and in the light of her eyes when they fell upon me the sight of a
personal feeling of pleasure that needed to be held firmly in check. I
adopted a tone of formality that equalled her own.
“I had not forgotten your wish, Princess, but I have been compelled by
grave circumstances to come to you thus. Have you heard any news? Your
anxious looks suggest that you may know what I have to tell.”
“I have heard nothing. Is there bad news?”
“I grieve to say it is of the worst.”
“This time, at least, you are the bearer of it,” she replied, smiling
faintly. “And I can trust you to tell me frankly. What is it?”
I told her plainly everything. First, the warning which the Russian
officer, Captain Wolasky, had given me on the previous evening; and
his strong advice that she should fly before it was too late. Then, in
great detail, all that had passed between the Prince and myself that
morning.
She was very pale and much agitated as my narrative proceeded; but she
interrupted me scarcely once, and at the close sank back in her seat,
and with her hands across her eyes remained buried in thought.
“It is hard news to hear,” she said despondently. “You say it spells
the ruin of everything.”
“It is to the full as hard for me to tell as for you to hear,” I
answered gently. “But it is no moment to flinch from the facts, however
ugly. I fear it means the ruin of everything.” At my gloomy words she
shuddered, and sat for some minutes silent in dismay. When she turned
her face to me, it was so full of anguish and pain that it made my
heart ache.
“How can I save those whom I have involved in this?”
“We are thinking of you, Princess,” I answered.
“Oh no, no, not of me!” she exclaimed vehemently. “For myself I care
nothing. Heaven knows, my motives have not been inspired by mere
personal ambition. I do not crave a throne, but I have longed with
a passion I cannot perhaps make you feel, to spread the blessing of
freedom among the people. For this end I have striven; and now it seems
I have failed. Do not think of me. I will not think of myself. But to
bring others to ruin is more than I can endure. Tell me--what do you
advise? What can I do?”
“There seem but two courses open,” I said, and told her what Zoiloff
and I had agreed together.
“You did not think that I would fly and leave those who have rallied to
my cause to bear the brunt while I was seeking the coward’s refuge of
safety?” she asked, half indignant that I should even have suggested it.
“No, I did not,” I answered quietly; “I knew you;” and her eyes thanked
me for the words. “I should remind you, too, that this check has come
so suddenly and prematurely for our plans that there are very few who
are really involved in any danger. We have barely had time to throw
off the veil of Russia’s sanction of our efforts, so that there are
scarcely more than a handful of us who know the real object of the
scheme; and General Kolfort would be unable to bring home even to them
any acts against Russia. It is he who has encouraged the plans laid ‘In
the Name of a Woman,’ and his own writing was in evidence to prove it.
You will remember my early insistence upon the necessity for obtaining
his written sanction. In the face of that I do not see that he could
produce proofs to convict anyone except our trusty Zoiloff and Spernow,
and say two or three others.”
“But yourself?” she cried, in a tone of quick alarm.
“I do not regard the consequences to myself as very serious, Princess,”
I said calmly.
“I shall not run away,” she said, taking what I said as an argument in
favour of her seeking her own safety, and she paused again to think.
“Could I go myself to General Kolfort; give up everything on condition
of his visiting it all on me? I am responsible.”
It was a true woman’s offer, and a noble one; but I shook my head.
“I fear it would be hopeless. He would but drag from you all that you
could tell him, and then use the information remorselessly and without
a scruple against those implicated. You would do the very thing you
seek to avoid.” Her face fell as she saw the truth of this, and she
sighed heavily.
“But this alternative--what is it but a wild forlorn hope? A desperate
step with scarce a chance of success? May not the consequences be a
thousandfold worse than the worst that can come of doing nothing? Have
you thought of what would happen if we failed? You said just now that
so far only a few are openly embroiled; but should we not be forcing
each man to declare himself, and would not each be marked out plainly
as a target for Russian malice?”
“There is the hope of success, even if it be forlorn. There are many of
us who think it better to fight and fail than not to fight at all.”
“I do not like it; I am afraid of it. The chances are so few; the
risks so enormous to others. I dare not sanction it.”
“We are men; the cause is a noble one; enthusiasm has spread
everywhere, and a lesser spirit has ere now led a feebler movement to
success. There is not one of us, I believe, who would stand back in
fear.”
“There may be bloodshed,” she cried.
“Much blood has already been shed in the cause of oppression. We must
think of the ends, not the means. A bold stroke here will bring the
army in the south to your standard--and that may do everything.”
“It is a momentous decision to have to make. I cannot make it. I must
have time to think.”
“Every hour that delays the decision may turn the balance between
success and failure.”
“If I thought we could triumph!” she cried, her eyes flashing and her
cheeks glowing for a moment. But she paused, the light died out as
quickly as it had come, and she shook her head mournfully. “I must have
time.”
“Let me send for Captain Zoiloff. Hear him.”
“Do you think he can persuade me where you fail, Count?” she asked, her
eyes burning again, but with a different emotion.
“At least I would have you hear him, Princess,” I said, dropping my
eyes and speaking as evenly as I could command my voice.
While he was sent for I stood in silence, and when he came I told him
briefly what had passed. He spoke strongly and bluntly like the sturdy
fellow he was; but he could not prevail any more than I, and he left
the room rather abruptly.
The Princess looked after him with an expression of the deepest pain,
and when she turned again to me I saw the tears standing in her eyes,
and her voice was all unsteady as she cried from her heart:
“Does he think I would not do this if I dared?” And throwing herself
back in her seat, she pressed her hands to her face, quite overcome
with the strain of her emotions.
I waited in much embarrassment, uncertain whether to go or stay. Some
moments passed in this tense silence, and then, to my surprise, she
turned upon me with some indignation.
“Why did you bring him here to humiliate me like this? Does it give you
pleasure to stay and witness my weakness--or what you deem weakness?
Cannot you understand what I feel? Is everything to yield place to
ambition, and are the dictates of humanity nothing to you? Cannot you
see what I am suffering, torn in this way by the distracting doubts
of such a crisis? Do you think these tears are not as hard for me to
shed as the blood of others as innocent of wrong as God knows I am?
Why do you plague me until I---- Oh, forgive me my wild words! I don’t
know what I am saying.” And she passed in a breath from indignation to
lament.
“Permit me to leave you now, Princess,” I murmured.
“Would you also leave me in anger? Have I no friend staunch enough
to bear with my moods, or true enough to understand me? Yes, Count
Benderoff, if you wish to go the way is open to you.” And, rising, she
stood erect and proud, and made me a stately bow as of dismissal. “I
can decide and act alone, if need be.” Yet in the very moment of her
passing indignation her lip quivered and her breath was tremulous.
“As God is my judge, I have no thought but for you!” I cried, with
a rush of passion at the sight of her trouble, and I threw myself on
my knee before her. “Tell me how you wish me to act, and when I have
failed reproach me with want of staunchness, but not till then.”
My voice was hoarse and broken.
As I knelt I could hear the quick catches in her breath as she stood
over me, and the very rustling of the trembling laces of her dress
seemed to speak to me of her sufferings.
“I have wronged you, or worse--I have insulted you, Count. Ah me! I who
know so well how you are indeed my friend! Do not kneel to me. It is I
who should kneel to you.” And at that her hand, fevered and trembling,
was laid gently in mine, as if to raise me to my feet.
I kissed the fingers, the tender grace of her words of contrition
almost unmanning me, and driving out all thought but of my love and my
desire to comfort her. I rose, and, still holding her hand, gazed into
her eyes, which shone on me through the dew of her tears in a smile of
loving confidence.
“I trust you wholly,” she whispered. “Help me to do right.”
“If I were thinking of myself, I would urge you with every means in my
power to fly,” I said in low, rapid accents of passion.
“No, no, you must not counsel that,” she cried vehemently. “We must
not, dare not, think of ourselves. Spare me that temptation.”
“You cannot stay here and be safe unless we make this desperate
venture.”
“And the world would say I ran away because I feared for my safety,
betraying all who have sought to help my cause; or else that I fled
to----” She paused, her face aflame with sudden blushes. “You would not
have me do that?”
“You are my world,” I answered recklessly. “Listen one moment. In our
hearts we all know, Zoiloff as well as any, that the cause is lost.
Till I fired him again--knowing how you would shrink from flight--he
was saturated with hopelessness. When he heard the ill news, his one
thought was how you could be saved. That is the thought of us all. The
way to the frontier is still open. I have ready at instant command the
means of securing your safety. If you will go, I will stay to check the
slanderous tongues whose malice you dread. If you bid me I will never
see you again. But for God’s sake, I implore you, leave me at least the
solace that you are safe.”
The words moved her so that for a while she could not speak, but the
clasp of her hand tightened on mine. Then she asked tenderly:
“Do you think the woman in me would know a moment’s happiness if you
were in danger?”
“Then let it be a woman’s decision,” I urged passionately, carried away
by the love in her voice. “Life is all before us.”
“No. It cannot be. Cannot. Must not,” and she shook her head and
shuddered. “You know what this temptation must be to me. Do not urge
it. I cannot listen. I dare not yield. I beg you be merciful,” she
pleaded.
“Then fly and let me remain,” I said.
“The Princess cannot and must not go.” The words came all reluctantly,
but were firmly spoken. I saw my pleading of love was to fail, and my
heart sank. “But you must fly!”
“Christina!” The name slipped in protest from my lips before I thought,
and I feared she would resent it; and I felt her hand start.
“That is the hardest plea of all you have used,” she said softly, with
a smile of rare sweetness. “Christina is powerless to resist you, but
the Princess must decide this. Do not use that plea again.”
“I must--I cannot lose you,” I cried desperately, “I love you so.”
“Don’t, please, please don’t. If I dared to think of myself there would
be no gladlier fugitive under Heaven’s bright sky than Christina.
There, I have bared my heart to you, as I never thought to open it. And
by the love I know you have for me, and by the love that answers it in
my heart, I entreat you help me to be strong enough to resist you. Let
us never have to think that we placed our love before our duty--however
hard and stern. Lend me your man’s strength; I need it so sorely.” And
with a little piteous action of entreaty she placed her other hand on
mine, and gazed full into my eyes.
I stood fighting down my wildly roused passion, trembling under its
stress like a child, till I conquered it.
“It shall be as you wish,” I said at length. “We will stay and face
this together. But you must not ask me again to desert you.”
“There is a higher happiness than is bounded by our own wishes only,”
she whispered.
“I can know no sorrow deeper than my loss of you. But it shall be as my
Princess desires;” and I bent and kissed her hands again.
“The sorrow should be the lighter if divided,” she whispered, with a
tender reproach for the selfishness of my words.
“The thought made me a coward for the moment. And no man should be a
coward whose ears have been blessed by the words which you have spoken,
and the knowledge I have gained. Forgive the cowardice.”
“I would I could as easily spare you the sorrow,” she murmured.
“To do that now would be to rob my life of its one great happiness.
Come what may for me, I shall never love again;” and with that
assurance, which brought all the love in her heart in a rush of
eloquent, speaking tenderness to her eyes, I left her, caring little
indeed what might happen to me if our union were impossible.