CHAPTER V

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.”