THE END
It was with a heavy heart that I mounted my horse and, accompanied by a
guide whom the priest found for me, set out that night for the railway
station to take the train to Nish. Even the thought that the morrow
would see me with Christina could not at first relieve the gloom of my
sorrow or take from my eyes the picture of the cold still form of my
dead friend, lying in the sombre bare room in the priest’s house. I had
left him full instructions for sending on the body to Nish, and had
given him a sum of money which made him glad with the thought of all
the charities he could dispense among the poor of the village.
But youth is youth and love is love, and as the miles passed which
brought me nearer to Christina the drear mournfulness of my grief for
the dead began to lose its blackness beneath the glamour of my love
for the living. It was a sad tale I had to carry her after all, and
though in obedience to my comrade’s dying wish I could tell her nothing
of his love for her, I knew how she would mourn his loss. But love is
selfish; and when at length I reached Nish my heart was beating fast
with the throbbing of the delicious, delirious knowledge that we were
close together again, with no obstacle to bar the mutual avowal of our
passion, and no need to dread another parting.
It was far too late when I arrived for me to seek her that night, and
I myself was so spent with my experiences of the last thirty hours that
I was glad to throw myself on a bed. Excited though I was, I slept
soundly for some hours, and did not awake until the sun had long been
streaming into my room.
I hurried, of course, to the British Consul for tidings of Christina.
He told me she was staying in his house, and, at my request, sent at
once to tell her I had arrived.
“There is great news this morning, Mr. Winthrop,” he said; “news that
will interest you as much as it has me. The Russian plot has failed.
Thanks largely to my colleague, the English Consul at Philippopoli,
General Mountkoroff has declared for the Prince, and he is even at this
minute marching on Sofia with the flower of the Bulgarian army against
the traitors who sold themselves to this Kolfort and Russia.”
“Will the Prince return then?”
“Assuredly he will. The Powers will stand behind Mountkoroff, and
Russia will not venture to resist.”
“Then my friend Lieutenant Spernow will be safe,” I said, describing
briefly the plight in which I had left him.
“You need not have a moment’s uneasiness. Russian influence for
the moment will decline to zero, and the Prince’s friends will be
paramount.”
“Will you telegraph at once for news of him?”
“Willingly;” and he went at once to give his instructions. The result
was all I could have wished, and later in the day telegrams arrived
from Spernow himself, saying that both he and Mademoiselle Broumoff
were safe.
“The Princess Christina is ready to receive you,” he said when he came
back. “Will you come with me?”
I followed him with heart beating high, and, as if he understood how
matters were, he opened the door of a room and stood back for me to
enter alone.
She had been eagerly watching for my coming, but, thinking that
perhaps the Consul would be with me, she had put a strong restraint
upon herself, and stood waiting in an attitude of reserve. But the
colour mantling her cheeks, and the bright glow in her eyes, told me
her feelings, and as soon as she saw me enter by myself she ran to
meet me, and with a glad cry threw herself into my arms with the utter
self-abandonment of love.
It was no moment for speech, and many minutes passed with nothing more
than an exclamation or two of delight or a few softly breathed words
of passion. All thoughts of the dangers passed, the anxieties still
present, even of my poor dead friend, were lost, and merged in the
ecstasy of holding in my arms the woman I loved beyond all else on
earth, looking into her eyes glowing with love for me, hearing my name
whispered in her moving voice, and feeling her lips pressed to mine.
It was a moment of love rapture, and so untellable in any language but
that which love itself speaks.
When at length we drew apart, the first wild rush of excitement past,
and sat hand-locked to talk, I saw how anxiety and suspense had paled
her, and how deeply she had suffered.
She listened intently to the story of my experiences since we had
parted; and the ebbing and flowing colour, the passing light and
shadow in her eyes, and the quick catches in her breath told of varied
feelings which the recital roused. When I came to the sad story of
poor gallant Zoiloff’s wound and death, she was moved to tears of deep
and tender regret. But we were lovers and but just reunited, and the
interchange of sympathies and mutual comfort in this our first sorrow
in common served to awake a fresh chord in the rhythmic harmony of our
love.
For her friend, Mademoiselle Broumoff, she was still full of tender
concern, and it was a cause of rare happiness that, while we were still
together--for the interview lasted some hours--the news came over the
wires telling us that she and Spernow were safe, and coming post haste
to join us at Nish.
There was but one shadow, besides Zoiloff’s death, that hovered in the
background. The question whether she would feel it her duty to return
to Sofia. I asked her with some dread.
“I have been thinking of it while we talked, and since you told me
of the turn which matters have taken,” she said, her voice low and
anxious, as if she were undecided.
I remembered my despatch to the Foreign Office urging that support
should be given to her. But it was not in my power to wish that she
should go; for I knew that it might still mean the breaking asunder of
our paths in life.
“What do you think, Gerald?”
“I cannot think on such a subject, I can only fear,” I replied in a
tone as low and tense as her own. “I might lose you then.”
“Shall the woman or the Princess answer it?” she asked, her face all
womanly with the light of love.
“The lover, Christina,” I whispered.
“Then it is answered: my place is here,” she said softly. “The woman
is stronger than the Princess where you are concerned, Gerald; or
should I say weaker?” she added, smiling up to me.
“We will leave it soon for the wife to decide the term,” said I, and
the answer brought a vivid blush to her face. But it pleased her, for
she sighed happily as she let her head sink contentedly on my shoulder.
* * * * *
It is six years since the stirring events happened of which I have just
written, sitting at my study table in my lovely English home. As I lay
the pen down and close my eyes in reverie two memory pictures come
before me. The one black-edged with the gloom of sorrow and death, the
other radiant with the glowing promise of since realised happiness.
In that far away Servian town the bearers have just set down a coffin
by the side of a freshly-dug grave. The priest is reading the funeral
service; the white-robed choristers cluster near him; Spernow and I
stand side by side at the foot of the grave listening to the words
as they fall in rhythmic chant from the priest’s lips, and thinking
of the gallant comrade whose bones are being lowered to their last
resting-place, and I of the strange secret of his hopeless, noble,
self-denying love that is being buried with him. The final moment
comes. The sturdy bearers lift the coffin and lower it, and pull up
the ropes with a rasp that sounds like the severing of all hope; the
earth is cast down by the priest and falls clattering on the lid, and
the service goes on to its melancholy finish. The priest pronounces the
last words of prayer and blessing; stands a moment with covered face
in silent prayer, and then turns away, followed by the little choir.
Spernow and I move forward to take the last look at the coffin--a
long, lingering, memory-fraught look--and when we in our turn move
sadly away and our eyes meet, I see that my companion’s are wet with
tears. Poor, brave, noble Zoiloff, lying in that far away lonely grave!
In the other picture Spernow and I are again among the chief figures,
but not alone now. Nathalie is by his side, Christina by mine. Again
there is the same priest and the same choir, but we stand in the lofty
chancel of a stately church, and the words are not of death but of
marriage. Around us a small group is gathered, well-wishers, relatives,
and friends, with faces bright with gladness and tongues eager to burst
out with noisy congratulations and fervent wishes for our happiness.
And when the blessing has been given, and we lead our brides down the
aisle, the mighty building resounds with the pealing notes of the
organ, and we leave the church through groups of curiously garbed men
and women.
And at that point my reverie is broken by sounds of children’s prattle.
I look out on to the sunlit lawn to where Christina is kneeling and
listening with a smile to the cheery chatter of our two children. All
is warmth, peace, love, and rest in my English life now; and, as I
glance at my dear ones, I thank Heaven with fervent gratitude that they
are not destined to aspire to the dangerous splendour and evanescent
glory of a minor Throne. I get up quietly, and stepping through the
window into the sunlight, am hailed with a cry and rush of delight from
my little darlings and a welcome of love light from the eyes of my
beautiful wife.
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.