XIX
THE SILVER RING
IT was late at night, and quiet reigned in Volseni—the quiet not of security, but of ordered vigilance. A light burned in every house; men lined the time-worn walls and camped in the market-place; there were scouts out on the road as far as Praslok. No news came from outside, and no news yet from the room in the guard-house where the wounded King lay. The street on which the room looked was empty, save for one man, who walked patiently up and down, smoking a cigar. Dunstanbury waited for Basil Williamson, who was in attendance on the King and was to pronounce to Volseni whether he could live or must die.
Dunstanbury had been glad that Basil could be of use, but for the rest he had listened to the story which Zerkovitch told him with an amused, rather contemptuous indifference—with an Englishman's wonder why other countries cannot manage their affairs better, and something of a traveller's pleasure at coming in for a bit of such vivid, almost blazing "local color" in the course of his journey. But whether Alexis reigned, or Sergius, mattered nothing to him, and, in his opinion, very little to anybody else.
Nor had he given much thought to the lady whose name figured so prominently in Zerkovitch's , the Baroness Dobrava. Such a personage seemed no less appropriate to the surroundings than the rest of the story—no less appropriate and certainly not a whit more important. Of course he hoped Basil would make a good report, but his mind was not disturbed; his chief hope was that the claims of humanity would not prolong his stay in Volseni beyond a few days. It was a picturesque little place, but not one for a long visit; and in any case he was homeward bound now, rather eager for the pleasures of the London season after his winter journey—the third he had made in the interests of a book on Russia which he had in contemplation, a book designed to recommend him as an expert student of foreign affairs. He could hardly consider that these goings-on in Kravonia came within the purview of a serious study of his subject. But it was a pleasant, moonlit night, the old street was very quaint, the crisis he had happened on bizarre and amusing. He smoked his cigar and waited for Basil without impatience.
He had strolled a hundred yards away and just turned to loiter back, when he saw a figure come out of the guard-house, pause for a moment, and then advance slowly towards him. The sheepskin cap and tunic made him think at first that the stranger was one of the Volsenian levy; the next moment he saw the skirt. At once he guessed that he was in the presence of Baroness Dobrava, the heroine of the piece, as he had called her in his own mind and with a smile.
Evidently she meant to speak to him; he threw away his cigar and walked to meet her. As they drew near to each other he raised his hat. Sophy bowed gravely. Thus they met for the first time since Sophy washed her lettuces in the scullery at Morpingham, and, at the young lord's bidding, fetched Lorenzo the Magnificent a bone. This meeting was, however remotely, the result of that. Dunstanbury had started her career on the road which had led her to where she was.
"I've seen Mr. Williamson," she said, "and he knows me now. But you don't yet, do you, Lord Dunstanbury? And anyhow, perhaps, you wouldn't remember."
She had been a slip of a girl when he saw her last, in a print frock, washing lettuces. With a smile and a deprecatory gesture he confessed his ignorance and his surprise. "Really, I'm afraid I—I don't. I've been such a traveller, and meet so many—" An acquaintance with Baroness Dobrava was among the last with which he would have credited himself or perhaps (to speak his true thoughts), charged his reputation.
"Mr. Williamson knew me almost directly—the moment I reminded him of my mark." She touched her cheek. Dunstanbury looked more closely at her, a vague recollection stirring in him. Sophy's face was very sad, yet she smiled just a little as she added: "I remember you so well—and your dog Lorenzo. I'm Sophy Grouch of Morpingham, and I became Lady Meg's companion. Now do you remember?"
He stepped quickly up to her, peered into her eyes, and saw the Red Star.
"Good Heavens!" he said, smiling at her in an almost helpless way. "Well, that is curious!" he added. "Sophy Grouch! And you are—Baroness Dobrava?"
"There's nothing much in that," said Sophy. "I'll tell you all about that soon, if we have time. To-night I can think of nothing but Monseigneur. Mr. Williamson has extracted the bullet, but I'm afraid he's very bad. You won't take Mr. Williamson away until—until it's settled—one way or the other, will you?"
"Neither Basil nor I will leave so long as we can be of the least service to you," he told her.
With a sudden impulse she put her hands in his.
"It's strangely good to find you here to-night—so strange and so good! It gives me strength, and I want strength. Oh, my friends are brave men, but you—well, there's something in home and the same blood, I suppose."
Dunstanbury thought that there was certainly something in having two Englishmen about, instead of Kravonians only, but such a blunt sentiment might not be acceptable. He pressed her hands as he released them.
"I rejoice at the chance that brings us here. You can have every confidence in Basil. He's a first-rate man. But tell me about yourself. We have time now, haven't we?"
"Really, I suppose we have! Monseigneur has been put to sleep. But I couldn't sleep. Come, we'll go up on the wall."
They mounted on to the city wall, just by the gate, and leaned against the mouldering parapets. Below lay Lake Talti in the moonlight, and beyond it the masses of the mountains. Yet while Sophy talked, Dunstanbury's eyes seldom left her face; nay, once or twice he caught himself not listening, but only looking, tracing how she had grown from Sophy Grouch in her scullery to this. He had never forgotten the strange girl: once or twice he and Basil had talked of her; he had resented Lady Meg's brusque and unceremonious dismissal of her protégeé; in his memory, half -overgrown, had lain the mark on Sophy's cheek. Now here she was, in Kravonia, of all places—Baroness Dobrava, of all people! And what else, who knew? The train of events which had brought this about was strange; yet his greater wonder was for the woman herself.
"And here we are!" she ended with a woful smile.
"If Monseigneur lives, I think we shall win. For the moment we can do no more than hold Volseni; I think we can do that. But presently, when he's better and can lead us, we shall attack. Down in Slavna they won't like being ruled by the Countess and Stenovics as much as they expect. Little by little we shall grow stronger." Her voice rose a little. "At last Monseigneur will sit firm on his throne," she said. "Then we'll see what we can do for Kravonia. It's a fine country, and rich, Lord Dunst anbury, and outside Slavna the people are good material. We shall be able to make it very different—if Monseigneur lives."
"And if not?" he asked, in a low voice.
"What is it to me except for Monseigneur? If he dies—!" Her hands thrown wide in a gesture of despair ended her sentence.
If she lived and worked for Kravonia, it was for Monseigneur's sake. Without him, what was Kravonia to her? Such was her mood; plainly she took no pains to conceal it from Dunstanbury. The next moment she turned to him with a smile. "You think I talk strangely, saying: 'We'll do this and that'? Yes, you must, and it's suddenly become strange to me to say it to say it to you, because you've brought back the old things to my mind, and all this is so out of keeping with the old things— with Sophy Grouch, and Julia Robins, and Morpingham! But until you came it didn't seem strange. Everything that has happened since I came to this country seemed to lead up to it to bring it about naturally and irresistibly. I forgot till just now how funny it must sound to you—and how—how bad, I suppose. Well, you must accustom yourself to Kravonia. It's not Essex, you know."
"If the King lives?" he asked.
"I shall be with Monseigneur if he lives," she answered.
Yes, it was very strange; yet already, even now— when he had known her again for half an hour, had seen her and talked to her—gradually and insidiously it began to seem less strange, less fantastic, more natural. Dunstanbury had to give himself a mental shake to get back to Essex and to Sophy Grouch. Volseni set old and gray amid the hills, the King whose breath struggled with his blood for life, the beautiful woman who would be with the King if and so long as he lived—these were the present realities he saw in vivid immediate vision; they made the shadows of the past seem not indeed dim—they kept all their distinctness of outline in memory but in their turn fantastic, and in no relation to the actual. Was that the air of Kravonia working on him? Or was it a woman's voice, the pallid pride of a woman's face?
"In Slavna they call me a witch," she said, "and tell terrible tales about this little mark—my Red Star. But here in Volseni they like me—yes, and I can win over Slavna, too, if I get the opportunity. No, I sha'n't be a weakness to Monseigneur if he lives."
"You'll be—?"
"His wife?" she interrupted. "Yes." She smiled again—nay, almost laughed. "That seems worst of all—worse than anything else?"
Dunst anbury allowed himself to smile too. "Well, yes, of course that's true," he said. "Out of Kravonia, anyhow. What's true in Kravonia I really don't know yet."
"I suppose it's true in Kravonia too. But what I tell you is Monseigneur's will about me."
He looked hard at her. "You love him?" he asked.
"As my life, and more," said Sophy, simply.
At last Dunstanbury ceased to look at her; he laid his elbows on the battlements and stood there, his eyes roaming over the lake in the valley to the mountains beyond. Sophy left his side, and began to walk slowly up and down the rugged, uneven, overgrown surface of the walls.
The moon was sinking in the sky; there would be three or four dark hours before the dawn. A man galloped up to the gate and gave a countersign in return to a challenge; the heavy gates rolled open; he rode in; another rode out and cantered off along the road towards Praslok. There was watch and ward —Volseni was not to be caught napping as Praslok had been. Whether the King lived or died, his Volsenians were on guard. Dunstanbury turned his back on the hills and came up to Sophy.
"We Essex folk ought to stand by one another," he said. "It's the merest chance that has brought me here, but I'm glad of the chance now. And it's beginning to feel not the least strange. So long as you've need of help, count me among your soldiers."
"But you oughtn't to mix yourself up—"
"Did you act on that principle when you came to Kravonia?"
With a smile Sophy gave him her hand. "So be it. I accept your service—for Monseigneur."
"I give it to you," he persisted.
"Yes—and all that is mine I give to Monsiegneur," said Sophy.
Any man who meets, or after an interval of time meets again, an attractive woman, only to find that her thoughts are pre-empted and totally preoccupied, suffers an annoyance not the less real because he sees the absurdity of it; it is to find shut a gate which with better luck might have been open. The unusual circumstances of his new encounter with Sophy did not save Dunstanbury from this common form of chagrin; the tragic element in her situation gave it a rather uncommon flavor. He would fain have appeared as the knight-errant to rescue such beauty in such distress; but the nature of the distress did not seem favorable to the proper romantic sequel.
He made his offer of service to her; she assigned him to the service of Monseigneur! He laughed at his own annoyance—and determined to serve Monseigneur as well as he could. At the same time, while conceding most amply—nay, even feeling— Monseigneur's excuse, he could not admire his policy in the choice of a bride. That was doubtless a sample of how things were done in Kravonia! He lived to feel the excuse more strongly—and to pronounce the judgment with greater hesitation.
Sophy had given him her hand again as she accepted his offer in Monseigneur's name.—He had not yet released it when she was called from the street below in a woman's voice—a voice full of haste and alarm.
"Marie Zerkovitch calls me! I must go at once," she said. "I expect Monseigneur is awake." She hurried off with a nod of farewell.
Dunstanbury stayed a little while on the wall, smoking a cigarette, and then went down into the street. The door of the guard -house was shut; all was very quiet as he passed along to the marketplace where the inn was situated. He went up to his room overlooking the street, and, taking off his coat only, flung himself on the bed. He was minded thus to await Basil Williamson's return with news of the King. But the excitement of the day had wearied him; in ten minutes he was sound asleep.
He was aroused by Basil Williamson's hand on his shoulder. The young doctor, a slim-built, dark, wiry fellow, looked very weary and sad.
"How has it gone?" asked Dunstanbury, sitting up.
"It's been a terrible night. I'm glad you've had some sleep. He awoke after an hour; the hemorrhage had set in again. I had to tell him it was a thousand to one against him. He sent for her, and made me leave them alone together. There was only one other room, and I waited there with a little woman—a Madame Zerkovitch—who cried terribly. Then he sent for Lukovitch, who seems to be the chief man in the place. Presently Lukovitch went away, and I went back to the King. I found him terribly exhausted; she was there, sitting by him and whispering to him now and then; she seemed calm. Presently Lukovitch came back; the Zerkovitches and the German man came too. They all came in—the King would not hear my objections—and with them came a priest. And then and there the King married her! She spoke to nobody except to me before the service began, and then she only said: 'Monseigneur wishes it.' I waited till the service was done, but I could bear no more. I went outside while they shrived him. But I was called back hurriedly. Then the end came very soon—in less than half an hour. He sent everybody away except her and me, and when I had done all that was possible, I went as far off as I could—into the corner of the room. I came back at a call from her just before he died. The man was looking extraordinarily happy, Dunstanbury."
"They were married?"
"Oh yes. It's all right, I suppose—not that it seems to matter much now, does it? Put on your coat and come to the window. You'll see a sight you'll remember, I think."
Together they went to the window. The sun had risen from behind the mountains and flooded the city with light; the morning air was crisp and fragrant. The market-place was thronged with people —men in line in front, women, girls, and boys in a mass behind. They were all absolutely quiet and silent. Opposite where they were was a raised platform of wood, reached by steps from the ground; it was a rostrum for the use of those who sold goods by auction in the market. A board on trestles had been laid on this, and on the board was stretched the body of the King. At his feet stood Lukovitch; behind were Max von Hollbrandt, Zerkovitch, and Marie. At the King's head stood Sophy, and Peter Vassip knelt on the ground beside her. She stood like a statue, white and still; but Dunstanbury could see the Red Star glowing.
Lukovitch seemed to have been speaking, although the sound of his voice had not reached them through the closed window of the topmost room in the inn. He spoke again now—not loudly, but in a very clear voice.
"The King lies dead through treachery," he said.
"In Slavna the German woman rules, and her son, and the men who killed the King. Will you have them to rule over you, men of Volseni?"
A shout of "No!" rang out, followed again by absolute silence. Lukovitch drew the curved sword that he wore and raised it in the air. All the armed men followed his example; the rest, with the women and young people, raised their right hands. It was their custom in calling Heaven to witness.
"God hears us!" said Lukovitch, and all the people repeated the words after him.
Dunstanbury whispered to Basil: "Do they mean to fight?" An eagerness stirred in his voice.
"Listen! He's speaking again."
"Whom then will you have for your King, men of Volseni?" asked Lukovitch. "There is one on whose finger the King has put the silver ring of the Bailiffs of Volseni. With his own hand he set it there before he died—he set it there when he made her his Queen, as you have heard. Will you have the Bailiff of Volseni for your King?"
A great shout of "Yes!" answered him.
"You will have Sophia for your King?"
"Sophia for our King!" they cried.
Lukovitch raised his sword again; all raised swords or hands. The solemn words "God hears us!" were spoken from every mouth. Lukovitch turned to Sophy and handed his drawn sword to her. She took it. Then she knelt down and kissed the King's lips. Rising to her feet again, she stood for a moment silent, looking over the thronged market-square; yet she seemed hardly to see; her eyes were vacant. At last she raised the sword to her lips, kissed it, and then held it high in the air.
"It was Monseigneur's wish. Let us avenge him! God hears me!"
"God hears you!" came all the voices.
The ceremony was finished. Six men took up the board on which the King lay, carried it down from the rostrum, and along the street to the guardhouse. Sophy followed, and her friends walked after her. Still she seemed as though in a dream; her voice had sounded absent, almost unconscious. She was pale as death, save for the Red Star.
Following her dead, she passed out of sight. Immediately the crowd began to disperse, though most of the men with arms gathered round Lukovitch and seemed to await his orders.
Basil Williamson moved away from the window with a heavy sigh and a gesture of dejection.
"I wish we could get her safe out of it," he said.
"Isn't it wonderful, her being here?"
"Yes—but I'd forgotten that." Dunstanbury was still by the window; he had been thinking that his service now would not be to Monseigneur. Yet no doubt Basil had mentioned the wisest form of service. Sophy's own few words—the words for which she cited Heaven's witness—hinted at another.
But Basil had recalled his mind to the marvel. Moved as he had been by his talk with Sophy, and even more by the scene which had just been enacted before his eyes, his face lit up with a smile as he looked across to Basil.
"Yes, old fellow, wonderful! Sophy Grouch! Queen of Kravonia! It beats Macbeth hollow!"
"It's pretty nearly as dreary!" said Basil, with a discontented grunt.
"I find it pretty nearly as exciting," Dunstanbury said. "And I hope for a happier ending. Meanwhile"—he buckled the leather belt which held his revolver round his waist—"I'm for some breakfast, and then I shall go and ask that tall fellow who did all the talking if there's anything I can do for King Sophia. By Jove! wouldn't Cousin Meg open her eyes?"
"You'll end by getting yourself stuck up against the wall and shot," Basil grumbled.
"If I do, I'm quite sure of one thing, old fellow— and that is that your wooden old mug will be next in the line, or thereabouts."
"I say, Dunst anbury, I wish I could have saved him!"
"So do I. Did you notice her face?"
Williamson gave a scornful toss of his head.
"Well, yes, I was an ass to ask that!" Dunstanbury admitted, candidly. It would certainly not have been easy to avoid noticing Sophy's face.
At six o'clock that morning Max von Hollbrandt took horse for Slavna. His diplomatic character at once made it proper for him to rejoin his Legation and enabled him to act as a messenger with safety to himself. He carried the tidings of the death of the King and of the proclamation—of Sophy. There was no concealment. Volseni's defiance to Slavna was open and avowed. Volseni held that there was no true Stefanovitch left, and cited the will of the last of the Royal House as warrant for its choice. The gauntlet was thrown down with a royal air.
It was well for Max to get back to his post. The diplomatists in Slavna, and their chiefs at home, were soon to be busy with the affairs of Kravonia. Mistitch had struck at the life of even more than his King—that was to become evident before many days had passed.