It was past five o’clock when Wilfrid sprang from the coach on the Viborg Road and disappeared down the narrow path that wound through a forest of pines, while the vehicle continued on its way northwards.
After a few hundred paces the path opened out into a little clearing, in the middle of which stood a rough log cabin, such as the Russian peasant raises with his own hand. Ornamental carving marked the eaves and doorposts, and on the straw thatch rested heavy stones, placed there to prevent the cottage from being unroofed by tempest.
The tenant was already at work preparing a pile of timber for charcoal burning. Wilfrid liked the look of the man, and felt that any trust placed in him would not be betrayed.
First hailing the fellow with a cheery “Good-morning,” Wilfrid went on to speak of the Baroness Runö, at the mention of whose name the peasant’s eyes glistened with a grateful light. It was clear that if he could do anything to serve her or her friends he would do it. So Wilfrid in a few words explained the object of his visit, without, however, mentioning the name of his august opponent.
“Now, good Ruric, you understand my position. The Baroness’s father, who is my second, advised me to leave the city before him lest the authorities should stop the duel by arresting me.”
“Surely, surely,” nodded the man. “’Twas wise.”
“To keep a clear head and eye I must have two hours’ sleep. But while I sleep what is to prevent my enemies from coming upon me?”
“Little father, they shall not do that. I will keep watch for you.”
“Good! Well, then, while I rest in your hut, do you from the shelter of the trees keep an eye upon the road near the eighth verst-post, and should anything suspicious occur come at once and rouse me. You shall have roubles for your trouble.”
“It is enough reward for me,” returned Ruric, “to know that I am serving a friend of the Lady Pauline.”
He led the way into his hut, which consisted of one room only, with furniture of a primitive type. Ruric lived all alone, it seemed, having neither wife nor child.
Left to himself Wilfrid sat down upon a wooden bench and soon dropped off into unconsciousness.
He was roused from sleep by the touch of a hand upon his shoulder. Lifting his head he was startled to see, standing around him, nine men. Their flat features and peculiar dress seemed to bespeak a Finnish origin, a remark not applicable to the one who acted as chief, for he was a man of handsome and aristocratic appearance, middle-aged, and wearing a costume that might have belonged to a French gentleman of the old régime.
“You are Lord Courtenay, I presume?” said this gentleman, bowing politely and speaking in French.
“That is a name I never deny.”
“I am Dr. Beauvais, physician at one time to his late majesty Louis XVI.”
“And why this visit? ‘They that be whole need not a physician—’ You know the rest.”
“Pardon me, monsieur, it is my humble wish that you accompany me to a carriage that stands hard by.”
“And how if I decline to come?”
Dr. Beauvais shrugged his shoulders.
“Monsieur will surely not oblige us to use force?”
Force? Oh, why had De Vaucluse refused him a sword? With that in his hand he would have faced the nine. But without a weapon he was entirely in their power. Good-bye now to his hopes of a duel with the Czar! He saw that some one, friendly to Alexander, had got to know of the coming fight, and, with a view of preventing it, had sent these men to carry him off.
“Use force,” he said, repeating the other’s words. “That may bring trouble upon you. I am here to meet the Czar by his special desire. Remove me, and you make a mock of his majesty.”
“It is because we know the nature of this intended meeting that we are here to prevent it.”
“You are prepared to face the Czar’s displeasure?”
“We are prepared to do the bidding of the person that sent us. Time presses; I must ask you to accompany me.”
Vain would it be for Wilfrid to threaten Beauvais with the name of his uncle, Lord St. Helens. If the doctor cared little for an emperor, he was likely to care still less for an ambassador. Physical resistance was certain to end in his humiliation, at least in the hut; but outside in the free air it might be possible to break through the ring of his captors and escape by fleetness of foot.
But the doctor had read his thoughts.
“You must pledge your word of honour as an English gentleman that you will not seek to escape; that when in the coach you will raise no cry for help, make no sign to passers-by; nay, that you will not venture even to peer through the blinds. Of course, if monsieur, instead of travelling pleasantly and comfortably, prefers to be corded and gagged——”
Wilfrid gave the required pledge, adding, with a hard smile:—
“Lead on. At present you are master of the situation; ere long I may be; in which case, Dr. Beauvais, a mere apology will not content me.”
The little procession moved out of the hut into the open sunshine, traversed the winding path, and came to the high road, where stood a covered carriage with drawn blinds. Wilfrid stepped into the vehicle, followed by the doctor only, who closed the door after him. It seemed that the eight men were not accompanying them, a fact that showed Beauvais’ faith in Wilfrid’s word of honour. The horses’ heads were set in the direction of St. Petersburg, and since the carriage moved off without turning round, Wilfrid concluded that he was being taken back to the city. After half an hour’s riding the sound of other vehicles blending with the hum of human voices convinced him that he had now reached the outskirts of the capital. Noting the slant of the sun’s rays as they came through the carriage windows he was of the opinion that the vehicle was going due west. If it continued in this direction long he would soon be out of the city again and in the district known as “The Islands,” or delta of the Neva, a region of groves and waters, adorned here and there with bungalows. These islands, left in winter to snow and wolves, become, in summer, flowering and leafy paradises, the favourite resort of the fashionable world of St. Petersburg.
The coach stopped at last without having deviated much from its westerly course. Beauvais alighted, and Wilfrid following suit, found himself in a quiet spot upon the northern shore of the Neva, close to the water’s edge.
Westwards, as far as the horizon, stretched an expanse of blue sea, the bay conducting to the island-fortress of Cronstadt, distant about eighteen miles. Southwards, and separated from them by a channel not more than a furlong wide, was a small isle consisting of green lawns and pine woods; and, rising prettily above them, a castle, built in true Gothic style.
Wilfrid recognised the edifice in a moment as being the original of the needlework picture that hung in Pauline’s boudoir. He was casting eyes for the first time upon her island and Castle of Runö, the insular demesne that furnished her with the title of baroness.
A real old feudal castle, with Pauline for its queen, would have been welcomed at any other time; but, as matters were then, Wilfrid was possessed by a feeling of bitterness towards its fair owner, for it scarcely admitted a doubt that he had been carried off by her orders. On her return from the masquerade she had learned from her father of the intended duel, and had planned this abduction for the purpose of preventing it.
On the river bank, waiting for Beauvais and his companion, were two sturdy Finlanders in charge of a small rowing-boat. It would have been easy for Wilfrid to take to his heels; but, honouring his plighted word, he stepped with the doctor into the boat, was rowed across the channel, and was soon treading the green turf of Runö.
Entering the castle, Wilfrid was led through several corridors and apartments, till his conductor stopped at last before a certain door, at which he tapped thrice.
“Come in,” said a sweet and familiar voice.
Beauvais drew aside, and Wilfrid entered the room alone.
Of the size, character, and furnishings of this apartment, he took no note; his eye rested on one object alone, the figure of Pauline, the sole occupant of the room. She had risen to receive him, and stood looking somewhat paler than usual. Her half-smile of greeting died away as she beheld his stern glance.
“So it is to you, then, that I owe this abduction?”
“Am I not acting for the best?” she said, in a faint voice.
“I compliment you upon your new greatness,” he continued sarcastically.
“My new greatness?” she faltered.
“Yes. If the Czar may not fight a duel when he is so disposed, then it is not the Czar that rules, but the Baroness Runö.”
She looked at him with a sort of fear in her eyes, as if detecting some hidden meaning in his words.
“Do you know that you have made me lose my honour?” he continued.
“In what way?”
“You have caused me to break my word to be at a certain spot by eight this morning. My absence will be attributed to fear.”
At this point Pauline’s pent up excitement bubbled over in a quick agitated flow of words.
“You have no right,” she cried, “to undertake this duel. A chance slip of your blade, and all might be over with Alexander. And how would you save yourself from death? Whither would you flee? To the British Embassy? Do you think that the people of St. Petersburg, roused to fury by the death of the Czar, would care anything for the law of nations? You, and the uncle that gave you protection, and all the English within the building, would be dragged forth into the streets and massacred. Think of others, if you will not think of yourself. The Czar, in condescending to waive his rank and to meet you in duel, is acting like a gentleman, but you are not acting as such in taking advantage of his condescension. Indifferent as to whether you kill Alexander, indifferent as to whether the Peace Treaty be signed, indifferent as to whether you plunge an empire into mourning, or cover European politics with inextricable confusion, you wish for the duel merely to boast of being the only man in history to cross swords with a Czar, merely to be talked about. Not honour, or truth, or justice, calls you to this duel, but sheer vanity, and vanity alone.”
She paused, completely out of breath, with her rapid speaking. Never had Wilfrid seen her looking so angry; and he was fain to confess that her lifted hand, the unstudied grace of her figure, the sparkling of her eye, and the colour that burned on her cheek, gave a new aspect to her beauty.
“I want to be talked about?” said he, taking up her words with a feeling that he had been somewhat hard hit by them. “Well, and what if I do? Call it vanity, if you like. The poet will style it fame; the soldier glory; the statesman ambition. As to this idol of yours, this unclean thing called a Czar, the craven who shrank from punishing his father’s assassins, who let a printed lie go forth to the world, who continued his father’s war, and then made peace as soon as he heard the British fleet was coming—whether he be worthy of your fiery defence is a question I shall leave to the judgment of history.”
At the word “unclean,” the scarlet glow of anger on Pauline’s face gave way to a deathly white. Wilfrid could see that her teeth were set, and that she breathed hard. Her look of anguish was so keen that he almost regretted his use of the word. And yet, was it not applicable?
She was silent for a few moments, and when she spoke it was in a humbler key.
“The one desire of my life, as you know, is to see the Bourbons restored to the throne of France. Alexander has advanced a step in this direction by breaking with the First Consul, Napoleon; his next will be to declare war against him. If, then, Alexander should fall by your hand, and such accident might happen, that barbarian Constantine would be Czar, and then, good-bye to my bright hopes, for he favours Bonaparte. No, Lord Courtenay, you shall not imperil my plans. For this seizure of your person I have the sanction of the British Government——”
“What?” cried Wilfrid incredulously.
“That is, if Lord St. Helens be the representative of the British Government, as I suppose he is. I had a ten-minutes’ interview with him early this morning, and he approved this plan of mine.”
“He did, did he?” muttered Wilfrid, a little confounded to find that Pauline was acting with a sort of quasi-legality. “And pray, how long do you propose to detain me here?”
She hesitated; and then, adopting a gentler tone, she said, with a persuasive look:—
“Promise me—promise that you will give up all thoughts of this duel, and you are free now.”
“Such promise I will never give.”
“Then here you will remain,” she said firmly, “till you be of a better mind.”
“That answer cancels all friendship between us. Baroness, I have said my last word to you.”
With a look that cut her to the heart, he turned his back upon her; and then, seized with the sudden hope of being able to force his way from the castle, he made quickly for the door by which he had entered, only to find that it had been locked on the outside by Beauvais. He turned back just in time to see Pauline disappear through the only remaining door. Ere he could cross the room she had closed this door and turned the key in the lock.
Foiled in his attempt Wilfrid looked angrily round upon the place appointed for his detention. It was an apartment dainty with pictures and tapestry, with velvet carpeting and costly furniture. The bookcase contained the works of those English authors for whom he had once expressed a preference in Pauline’s hearing. Upon a table was an epergne crowned with fruit of different kinds. Various sorts of wines glowed in decanters, and Wilfrid, reading the silver labels, saw in them another tribute to Pauline’s memory. A box of fragrant Havanas was likewise to be seen. It was evidently the aim of the Baroness to make his captivity as pleasant as possible.
To avail himself of these luxuries would, to a certain extent, placate Pauline; for this very reason he resolved to abstain from them.
After a long and careful scrutiny of the apartment, with its barred windows, locked doors, solid walls, and flooring of oak, Wilfrid sat down to think out some plan of escape; but whatever shape the attempt might take, its execution must be deferred till nightfall. The numerous servants, moving in and around the castle, would make his flight in the face of day difficult, if not impossible.
His natural longing for freedom was intensified by the wish to see the Princess again, the desired of the Czar! As he contemplated his position, nameless terrors for her safety seized him. He was tormented with a mixed sensation of love and jealousy, fear and despair; in this mood he sprang to his feet again, and paced the apartment, inwardly raging against the Czar, Lord St. Helens, Beauvais, and above all, against Pauline, the originator of his present misfortune.
The grating of a key caused him to sink quietly with folded arms into a chair that faced one of the open windows, through which came a pleasant breeze.
He did not even turn his head to notice who was entering, but the rustle of silken skirts showed that the new-comer was a woman, and he supposed that it was Pauline. He would abide by his word, and treat her with silence.
Pauline—for it was she—suddenly stopped. The fruit and the wine had been arranged by her own hand; she saw that neither had been touched. She turned her eyes to the bookcase; not one volume had been lifted from its shelf. With a strange sinking of heart she realised that he would take no favour at her hands.
Though well aware that Pauline was standing by his chair, Wilfrid took not the least notice of her, but continued to gaze fixedly through the window over the Cronstadt Bay, whose waters glittered in the rays of the afternoon sun.
“Lord Courtenay,” she said, with an air of humility, very rare in her, “I regret that this—this state of affairs should have arisen between us. Promise that you will not seek to renew this duel, and I will let you go.”
The colour of shame tinged her cheek as she spoke. What right had she to detain him a prisoner against his will? Even the sanction of that great potentate, Lord St. Helens, was proving but a sorry salve to her conscience. Her cheek paled again when she found that Wilfrid remained indifferent both to her presence and to her words.
“Give me your parole not to attempt escape, and you are free to wander at will through the castle and the isle.”
There was no reply. With a fresh sinking of heart she recalled Wilfrid’s utterance that he had spoken his last word to her.
“You are angry, I see; but I, too, have cause for anger in your resolve to do hurt to the Czar. Give me credit for good intentions. I am acting for the best interests of both parties. Why should two good men seek to slay each other?”
Still Wilfrid sat staring stonily at the sea.
Observing in what direction his eyes were set she drew near to the window, ostensibly to arrange a curtain, in reality to come within the sphere of his vision. It would be a pleasure if only she could attract his look. His glance fell on her form, apparently without noticing it; his eyes seemed to look through and beyond her.
Humiliated beyond measure Pauline turned away, and with a quick step quitted the apartment.
The moment she had gone Wilfrid allowed his hitherto grim face to relax into a smile.
“You are not so hard in grain as I thought, Mistress Pauline. You are beginning to feel remorse, and that remorse, if I err not, will work for my good.”
Time flowed quietly on. The sunlight stole from point to point along the tapestried wall, till finally it took its leave of the room altogether, and still Wilfrid sat in silent meditation.
Again the grating of the key and an opening of the door; and again Wilfrid showed his indifference by not turning his head.
This time it was two prettily attired maids who entered, each bearing a tray laden with hot dishes, which they proceeded to arrange upon the table.
“Will the little father be pleased to dine?”
The little father paid no attention, though being mightily hungry he had secretly to confess that the savour arising from the dishes was very appetising.
The maids repeated their words. Receiving no reply they glanced in surprise at each other, whispered together for a moment, and then withdrew.
“They will tell their mistress that the Englishman refuses to eat. She will come here again.”
Nor was he wrong. Ere the lapse of an hour Pauline was again in the room, and saw that the repast was cold and untouched.
“You cannot live on air.”
Wilfrid sat, the same impassive figure as before; to her eye it looked as if he had not moved a muscle since her previous visit.
She contemplated him with secret terror. This grim silence, the silence of one who seemed to have taken a vow upon him; this abstention from food, served vividly to bring to her mind an anecdote he had once told her of a certain Viking ancestor of his, who, enraged at some insult, went home, sat by his fireside, refused to take food, and so died! Was Wilfrid going to do the like?
Though secretly piqued, grieved, angered—there is no one word to describe properly her strange feeling—by Wilfrid’s manner, she could not refrain from addressing additional remarks to him, remarks whose tenor showed an interest, and even a tenderness, in his welfare.
She might as well have talked to a statue. Animated by a spirit of despair she at last put the question point blank:—
“Lord Courtenay, will you not speak?”
No! he would not; and to hide her vexation and tears, she flung herself from the room.
“The woman is yielding,” was his thought. “Her next coming will be to set me free.”
An opinion that proved correct. From the moment when she had first locked the door upon Wilfrid, Pauline had been miserable. She could not see him mortified without being mortified herself. What her head bade her do, her heart bade her not do. All day long this struggle had been going on in her mind, and when night came the struggle was too great to be borne any longer.
The key turned in the lock, the door swung wide, and Pauline entered. With timid steps she drew near to Wilfrid.
“Lord Courtenay,” she said humbly, “forgive me for carrying matters with so high a hand. It has been done with good intent, to avert bloodshed; but it—it pains me to keep you a prisoner. See! the door is open. My Finland henchmen are withdrawn. You are free.”
Then, overcoming a sort of shame that had hitherto kept her from the act, she knelt before him.
“Say that you forgive me, for I—I have been most wretched all the day.”
Hard indeed would have been the mortal who could have resisted the wistful light of her dark eyes when added to the pleading tone of her voice.
Moved by a sudden and natural impulse, Wilfrid took her hands within his own and carried them to his lips; and by that act Pauline knew that she was forgiven.