Kitabı oku: «Trusia: A Princess of Krovitch», sayfa 11

"She's a lydey – you understand – but would it be too great a shock – to 'er – for me to speak to 'er – before – before – I croak?" he stammered wistfully.

"I'll get her, old man." Gently he lifted the wounded Carrick, carried him to where, aside from the road, a bed of moss made a more comfortable pillow for the stricken red head, then, with a sigh, he set out to bring Trusia. Roweling deep, he raced with Death to bring a woman's solace to a dying man.

XXII
CARRICK IS KING

"Where is Carrick?" Her question came from the thick copse in which she was concealed. "You have had news, I know," she said, stepping into view and glancing searchingly into his troubled countenance. "Is he wounded?" He could have gathered her into his arms and kissed her as she stood before him, but that the very air seemed charged with impending disaster. As gently as brevity would permit, he told her of Carrick's fate. Together they rode swiftly back to where Carrick lay, fighting his last triumphant adversary, Death himself.

"No Lunnon sights to see," he muttered in his delirium; "no concert songs to'ear… Ah, Meg, you was cruel 'ard on poor Tod, but damn you, I loves you still."

"A woman betrayed him," she said. Carter nodded a grim assent. Her lips quivered. Her eyes brimmed to the brink with priceless womanly sympathy. "Perhaps," she said rising and turning away, "perhaps he wouldn't care for us to know."

Carter drew her back gently. "I don't think he would mind – if you knew. Poor chap, his has certainly been a hard fate."

Responding to the appeal in their hearts, which penetrated the numbing faculties, Carrick, in one final effort, threw off the shackles of Death and stood free for a season. His eyes opened at first without recognition for the pair bending over him. Then a gradual joy warmed the cooling embers of his life.

"'Ighness," he cried; the neighborhood of Death stripped his speech to its native crudeness. "'Ighness, a man carries to 'is grave the face of one woman in 'is 'eart. Hi knows that much to me sorrow. Captain, 'ere, beggin' your pardon, loves you, but daren't sye so for fear of 'Is Majesty. You don't love the King, you love Captain Carter. God bless 'im, 'e's the best man ever breathed. For Gawd's sake, 'Ighness, don't let 'im carry your sweet face to the grave with 'im unless your love goes with hit. You two was made for each other."

As a blade loses its sharpness from continuous wear, so dulled the eyes of Carrick in his combat with Death. In the bitterness of his strife he struggled to his elbow. Who can tell of the range of one's soul or the might thereof? On the brink of Eternity, Life wrestled with Death. The body was to be bared of the soul. Was the soul to be stripped of the associations it had formed in this existence? Might it not also strive for a continuance of its entity even as the man struggled for further living? Does the soul return to a nebulous state without further initiate perceptions after a life – a span – of activity? Was it merely recollections, or did his desperate spirit revisit the route of its life in a fruitless flight from Death? His voice came from far away, and what he said showed that he was at least living over the older days.

"Yes, Meg, Hi loves you. There hisn't a king, girl, has Hi would change plyces with for you… Posies for yer winder. Let 'em grow, till we've other posies in our 'ome. Yer blushin', Meg. Ha! Ha!.. Oh, Gawd, me 'eart's broke… Forget?.. Hit's you, Doc Judson, as will look arter Captain Carter now. Good-bye, Doc… Why, there's 'er face again. Damn you, Meg. Hi hates you, but Hi loves you… Captain Carter… Ah-h-h."

His struggle with Love, with Life, and with Death was over. With a long-drawn sigh of relief his spirit had passed. His head was turned to the man who had befriended him.

Hand in hand, Trusia and Carter arose and stood over the pulseless form. Trusia was the first to speak.

"We cannot leave him here, dear. Poor, poor Carrick," and she threatened to sob. Carter slipped his arm about her comfortingly. As though returning, birdlike, to its nest, her head cradled itself against his shoulder, her arm timidly sought his neck and for one brief second she was content.

"Come," he said almost brutally to dissipate the apathy which death had thrown upon them both. "I'll carry him." He assisted her to mount, then, Carrick in his arms, he scrambled into the saddle. As they swung at a gallop out of the woods, a shot whistled past his head.

"Are you hurt, dear?" she cried.

"No; these woods seem Russianized, though. Pray heaven the road is not," and with strained eyes to the front, with word and spur, they raced for the lane to the castle.

"Something is amiss, dear; I know; I feel it. Still no matter what it is," she said, turning and laying her hand with a trustful little movement upon his arm, "I have your love, my King." With one foot on the flat step of the castle entrance, as she said this Trusia turned to Carter, a world of capitulated love in her eyes. The wicket opened with a more ominous creak than was its wont, it seemed. The Sergeant thrust his shaggy pate through the narrow opening in answer to their knock. On seeing who it was he stepped out to where he would have ample space for the full salute he always gave Her Grace. Some perplexity on the simple face aroused her forebodings anew.

"What is it, Sergeant?" she inquired anxiously. "Who is here?"

"Can't make heads or tails of it, Your Grace; not that I have any right to, but one gets figuring on what is going on around him when he is idle. It must be very important, since Colonel Sutphen has been summoned from the frontier. Count Zulka has not arrived yet, but a courier was sent for him, too. His Majesty is also here, but it seems that Count Sobieska sent out all the orders. The courier from Paris arrived about an hour before the Privy Council was summoned. Then Josef was sent for. Then, though kept in the office, he was put under arrest. Search has been made everywhere for Your Grace. My commands were to invite you to enter as soon as you could be found. I will announce you."

"You must come, also," the girl insisted, turning to Carter.

"But Carrick?" he objected, as he looked down at the lifeless figure in his arms.

"Bring him in," she replied. "Though too late to do him further service, Krovitch shall not forget his devotion and his sacrifice."

They opened and entered the door of Sobieska's office. A faint commotion heralded the sight of Carrick which Carter attributed to natural surprise; he had no idea that it held a deeper significance. He placed the blood-stained form upon a leather lounge, folding the hands across the breast. The pallid features seemed to have taken on a strange nobility in death.

It needed but a scant glance to prove that something was wrong, an odd repression filled the air with a myriad silent surmises. Trusia's eyes were blazing. Then Carter, following their direction, noted that the Minister of Private Intelligence, against all etiquette, was seated calmly at his desk, while His Majesty was standing. Josef, at one corner of the room, was guarded by the pair of soldiers who had been placed to watch Carter and Carrick the day of their arrival. A strapping young fellow, pale and mud-splashed, a bandage about his head, his left arm in a sling, leaned heavily against the wainscoting.

As Trusia courtesied low to Stovik, Sobieska arose, a slight frown marking a thin line between his brows, to bow sadly in the direction of the body on the lounge. His back was deliberately turned upon the Parisian with such studied insolence of action that the Duchess could not permit it to pass unrebuked.

"The King!" she said.

There followed – silence. Stovik and the courier dropped to their knees with bowed heads. Sobieska, gloom encircled, stood with bent head and quivering lips. His sombre eyes were fixed upon the inanimate Cockney as though to this modern he would recall the miracle of Lazarus. Then out of the well of his woe, came his voice, deep, and grief-laden. In the simplicity of life's greatest emotion, he pointed toward the couch.

"The King?" he questioned, looking straight into Trusia's eyes now. "The King? Does not your blood – your common heritage – tell you that the King is dead? God rest His Majesty."

She turned from one to the other in total bewilderment; finally, as though trusting none other, she came to Carter for enlightenment. He had comprehended in a glance.

"What do they mean?" she begged plaintively. "My poor head is awhirl in all this gloom."

"Carrick is King," he answered. A single tear, a perfect pearl of pity, hung abashed upon her cheek.

"It is so," assented the Minister, as she awaited his confirmation. Gradually her grief dried in the realization of the awful deception which had been practiced by some one on her country. The flame of her burning rage shot suddenly into sight.

"What treason brought him here, then?" she asked haughtily, pointing indignantly at Stovik.

The latter smiled deprecatingly, as Sobieska answered, "Part of a Russian plot, Highness, of which, so far as we can ascertain, this gentleman has been the innocent victim. It was by such a plan they sought to lure all the patriots within the boundaries of our land, then to draw their net about us. I pray God that we still have time."

"Who was it?" she inquired with lips white and drawn, and brow contracted.

"Josef."

All eyes were turned upon the accused, whose inscrutable countenance underwent no shadow of a change, no fear of death was there, no regret for infamy. If the expression had altered at all, it was to display a shade more of triumphant insolence. The Duchess turned sternly to him.

"Is this true?" she asked, loathing the necessity of speaking to him. Yet there was no passion in her voice; the situation was too grave for that.

He smiled his hateful, unchanging smile, as he bowed a taunting assent.

"You shall die," she said, in the same level tones. She was not cruel, had not lost an iota of her womanliness. The crushing magnitude of his falsity to her country made her forget that she was aught else than the regent for these people and that here was a matter of primitive, vindictive justice which must be settled by her hand.

"When?" Josef's tone ridiculed the sentence imposed.

"At dawn," she answered, her scornful glance sweeping his colorless face.

For the first time, his aspect was nearly that of a man. He held his head erect, the cringe disappeared from his back, the obsequiousness from his manner. Then while an eye might wink, he took on the appearance of a snake with high-held head – about to strike.

"In about one hour," he boldly asserted, "the troops of His Imperial Majesty will have surrounded, yes, and entered this place. If harm comes to me, you all shall swing. Schallberg, Lore, Bagos are already ours. What," he continued with a comprehensive sneer, including all present, "did you think that you had conquered the Bear so handily?"

They felt it was the unwelcome truth he was speaking. All day the distant booming of guns had sounded in their ears as the "death bells" ring for the superstitious gude-wife.

"All last night as you laughed and danced," Josef continued, "a Russian army, unchallenged, passed your gates, and could have taken you all. Knowing that it had you safe when needed, it pushed on to the bigger game, the capture of your capital. At daybreak it began battering down those walls you thought you held so firmly."

The wrath, gathering in a purple cloud on Sutphen's brow, now broke into a storm. "He must have known," he said pointing at the pseudo-king. "He appointed you officer of the day," and the outraged Colonel wheeled about on Josef, who scarcely deigned a smile of commiseration for such ignorance.

"He knew nothing," he finally volunteered. "I brought him here so that if Russia won, I could save my dupe. If Krovitch won, a true revelation of his real status would make him my debtor for life."

"Why?" Sobieska asked amid a stillness freighted with the prophecy of a startling revelation. All held their breath as Josef, turning slowly from countenance to countenance, read the disdain which he inspired.

"He has kissed you," he said pointing a bony finger at Trusia, "and would have married you." Her face crimsoned at the memory of that betrothal salute, formal and public as it had been. Waiting until the scene had time to rise before her eyes, he continued that by no chance should the import of his words be missed, "He is my son." The pride of the parent snake was in the eyes that he turned upon the Parisian, who turned his head away, ashamed of such regard.

"May God forgive us both," he whispered, "but I disown you."

For the first time a hint of color appeared in the parchment hue of Josef's cheek and for the first time a human note sounded in his voice. "My son," he began with a slight outstretching of his hands, "my son, I wanted you to be wealthy, great, not the spawn of a hereditary servitor, not a struggling artist." Slowly, as he realized that the artist would have none of him, the wonted bitter look crept back into his face, leaving it wan as ever, while additional defiance increased the grim lines about his mouth.

There followed a breathless silence. Somewhere, to the actual pain of all but one present, a bird was singing in the outside world. The sound came faintly to their ears as from another existence – the shadow sound of dreams. In the room itself reigned the cold stillness of death. Then gradually a sigh of sounds crept in. Increasing in volume, it shaped itself into an approaching medley of shouts, hoof-beats, scattering rifle shots, a fierce sentry challenge, a reply, – then a steed halted on the stone flags of the courtyard. They waited breathlessly for the added disaster all felt was coming. Their senses, cloyed by grief, knew that whatever it was of ill-omen, it could not touch them now. Still they listened. The wicket in the entrance door was heard to open. An irregular, halting, desperate step came up the hall.

With a lunge, the door flung open. Zulka, bleeding, grimy, and gasping, tottered into the room.

"Schallberg! Schallberg!" he whispered faintly, "Lore! Bagos! all are taken!" And he fell heavily to the floor.

They pressed forward, excepting Josef, who, in the prevailing excitement slipped from the room. His escape was unnoticed for the time being, as Zulka, struggling to his feet, told them the story of the attack upon the capital and the death blow to their hopes.

"You left your post alive, Paul," said Her Highness reproachfully.

"Don't say that," he begged, raising his hopeless face to read her condemnation. "With the five survivors of the last assault, I escaped, Highness, to bring the news, so that you might be saved. My companions mark the road to Schallberg. The enemy followed me to your very gates. I wish," he said, with a gulping sob, "that I, too, lay dead with those brave fellows in the ruins of our ancient capital." He raised his face, all powder-stained, as he searched the room with eyes that glowed with a desire for righteous vengeance. No countenance present wore the insignia of guilt. "Where is the traitor?" he asked. For the first time Josef's absence was noted.

Sobieska ran to the door. "Stop Josef before he gets to the road," he cried to the sergeant, who seemed utterly amazed at such a command.

"Excellency," he replied, "Josef never passed me through this door." Trusia approached the excited Minister.

"It is no use to attempt to stop him," she said with a shake of the head. "He knows of the secret passage to the inn. Doubtless he has already joined his comrades."

Sobieska groaned. "He'll give the alarm. We will be cut off."

"If we want to save Her Grace," said Carter, "we will have no time to lose. We do not wish to be mewed up here. We'd better make a dash for the forest and trust to God to reach the frontier. Take this, Paul," he said, thrusting a flask into the hands of the nobleman, who was swaying upon uncertain legs. "Brace up." He caught his friend as the latter was about to topple over.

"It must be Trusia first," said the Krovitzer, grasping the American's hand with a pressure which was fervently returned.

"It will always be Trusia," he replied firmly.

Not yet enlightened, Zulka now approached Delmotte, before whom he knelt. "Your Majesty absolves me for leaving my post?" he besought.

"I am not your king, Count," said the Parisian, honestly chagrined at his false position. "He lies dead over there," and he indicated the temporary bier. "I have unhappily been the victim of an imposture." Then hurriedly Sobieska recited to Zulka the outline of the conspiracy and Delmotte's connection with it.

"If you will let me help," said the artist appealing to them all, "I'll show you that though a bourgeois Frenchman, I know how to die."

Trusia held out her hand impulsively. "I thank you, monsieur," she said simply. "Forgive me if I have been late in discovering that you are a brave man."

Divested of his fancied power, Delmotte was again the amiable boulevardier, as could be seen by the manner in which he received the plaudits of the men, with whom he now was rated as a comrade-in-arms.

Zulka, meanwhile, having learned how Sobieska had unearthed Carrick's claims to the crown, had approached and lifted the lifeless hand to his lips.

"May God rest Your Majesty," he murmured reverently. He arose and spoke quietly to his companions. "He must be interred before we leave. In a few days, no doubt, the castle will be razed to the ground. It is not fitting that a King of Krovitch should be the feast of wolves and ravens."

So Carrick, with a scanty following, was carried to the little chapel, behind the throne-room, where the sarcophagi of the ancient kings could be seen lining the walls.

Upon his head they placed the crown. His hands were crossed upon the sceptre he had never dreamed of wielding, while, dearer than all to him in life, upon his breast they placed the heirloom he had prized, – the grand medal of the Lion.

His body was placed in the mausoleum of the first Stovik, his ancestor. No royal name was cut, but the place of his burial was deeply graved in the hearts of all present. Had he lived he had been a farcical king, but dead he was as imposing as the grandest monarch of them all.

Sorrowfully they turned and left the mortuary. Returning to Sobieska's office, impelled by the necessities of the moment, they plunged into the plans for an immediate flight from the castle.

"The highways are already swarming with Cossacks," said Zulka. "Once gain the shelter of the woods, however, and we can hide by day and travel at night until we reach the frontier."

"How many have we in the garrison?" inquired Trusia, who had instinctively placed herself at Carter's side.

"Half a platoon of cavalry," replied Sobieska gravely, thinking of the meagreness of their force for the occasion.

"One more," said Muhlen-Sarkey entering the room. He bent above Trusia's extended hand as serenely as though they were both figuring in a court function and not a congress of death.

"Living nearer Schallberg," he explained, "I saw how matters stood, and immediately packed off the women folk to the boundaries. I then came here to offer my services, my sword, if necessary."

"Courageous heart," applauded Trusia, touched by the old fellow's loyalty. At her commendation his face, as round as a schoolboy's, lighted up with happiness.

"The roads?" Carter questioned eagerly.

The old nobleman shook his head, regretting that he could furnish no information concerning their state. "I do not know. Anticipating that they would be crowded, though," he coughed suggestively, and his eyes twinkled, "I came through the woods. Met one inquisitive young Russian. Convinced him it would be impossible for him to tell all he knew." The Treasurer touched his sword with a gesture which the men understood. "He contracted an impediment to his speech."

While the horses were being hastily saddled, Trusia had the garrison assembled in the courtyard and explained to the heart-broken soldiers that Krovitch's dream of independence was over, giving them free permission to leave their colors at once if any so desired. When she called for volunteers to aid in her escape every man sprang forward, loudly cheering Trusia, then Krovitch.