When Wilfrid saw the Princess manifesting every sign of death, there came over him that strange feeling that often follows a fall from a great height, a numbing of the limbs and a dulling of the senses.
He could hear the melancholy lap-lap of the water upon the sands and the distant strains of music, without understanding the origin of the sounds; he knew that he was supporting the head of the Princess, not because his arm felt the weight of what he was holding, but because he could see the arm performing the task; he knew that he was looking down upon a face, beautiful and still, but could not for the moment tell why the sight of this face should cause him to feel a gnawing pain at his heart.
As for Beauvais, he, too, looked quite confounded when the mask was lifted; indeed, his expression of fear at the sight of the dead countenance seemed somewhat out of place in a physician, especially in one who, having lived through the September Massacres and the Reign of Terror, should have grown familiar with death in whatever shape it came.
Wilfrid, wrapped in stupor, saw nothing of this strange perturbation on the part of Beauvais.
The latter, becoming suddenly conscious of his professional duty, drew forth a penknife, severed the cord that bound Marie’s wrists, and applied his trained fingers to the pulse, while Wilfrid, dimly comprehending what the other was about, waited in a state of suspense more dreadful than any he had ever known.
“She is past my art,” said Beauvais, in an awe-struck tone. He rose to his feet, and eyed Wilfrid curiously, as if wondering what effect the statement would have upon him. One might have thought that he knew something of the relationship previously existing between Wilfrid and the Princess.
As Wilfrid realised the fell meaning of Beauvais’ words, there broke from him a cry of anguish; his arm relaxed its hold, and the Princess’s golden head slid gradually down on his arm to the sands again.
Brought by the swift-flowing river to the Silver Strand, she must have reached it alive, for the body was too high upon the beach to have been cast there by the current.
“Syncope!” murmured Beauvais. “The joy of having escaped from the waters proved too much for her, and she dropped dead upon the sands.”
Wilfrid, who had never once removed his eyes from the Princess’s face, suddenly thrilled with a new sensation. For the first time in his life he found it a struggle to speak. He could get his words out only in husky, staccato tones.
“Doctor ... she’s ... not ... dead ... I ... saw ... this eyelid ... quiver.”
Beauvais dropped like a stone upon his knees, lifted the lid, and scrutinised the eye while holding her pulse again.
“The rigor mortis, and yet not dead? Catalepsy, by heaven!” he cried. “She’s just rousing from it. There’s life in her. But—but, it may ebb. Brandy, hot water, chafing—without delay.”
“Will it do hurt to carry her thus?” asked Wilfrid, tenderly lifting the still form.
“Not at all.”
“Then in heaven’s name run on first to the castle, and rouse the women-folk.”
Beauvais required no second bidding; he set off with fleet feet, while Wilfrid, bearing the Princess in his arms, followed as fast as he was able.
At the castle-entrance he was met by a wondering-eyed maid, who, apprised of his coming, asked no questions but at once led the way to a bed-chamber that was being rapidly prepared for the reception of the patient. Two other maids were there under the doctor’s directions, getting ready the necessary restoratives.
“Now, girls, to work!” said he cheerfully. “It’s a struggle betwixt life and death, and we’re not going to let death be the winner.”
Leaving the still comatose Princess to their ministrations Wilfrid withdrew to the corridor, and there met Vera, Pauline’s chief maid, and, it may be added, confidante.
“My lady is in a sleep so sweet that it would be a pity to awake her,” she observed. “Still, if you think—”
“Let her sleep on. Why should we disturb her? She can do no more good than is being done. Besides——”
But Wilfrid thought it best to let his next thought remain unspoken. He recalled the Princess’s expressed aversion for Pauline, and though he doubted whether that aversion had any real justification, still it might tend to retard her recovery if, upon opening her eyes, the first person seen by her should be the one whom she regarded as her deadliest enemy.
So Pauline was permitted to continue her sleep in ignorance of what was happening.
While the doctor was busied in his work, Wilfrid, sitting in the corridor without, tried to picture the circumstances that had brought the Princess to the shores of Runö.
Though her clothing had felt quite dry to his touch, it bore the appearance of having been saturated, proof that the body of the Princess had been carried to the Silver Strand by the current of the Nevka.
That her plight was due neither to accident nor to attempted suicide was shown by the fact that her hands had been fixed behind her back in such a fashion as to preclude the possibility of their being self-tied. As she was still wearing her mask and domino, it scarcely admitted a doubt that, falling into the hands of the four hirelings, she had been flung into the river from the terrace of the Sumaroff gardens before the bal masque had come to an end.
Her white satin shoes, he had noticed, were deep stained with black ooze, matter not to be found on any part of the Silver Strand; hence her feet must have touched the bed of the river, once at least. As the Nevka is remarkably deep, it followed, in Wilfrid’s opinion, that her feet could not have descended so far, unless they had been attached to some heavy weight; this must have somehow slipped from its fastenings, with the result that the body of the Princess rose immediately to the surface. She was evidently versed, to a greater or less extent, in the art of swimming, for though bound hand and foot, and weighted by heavy clothing, she had contrived to maintain her breathing during a course of three miles. Swimming or floating as she best could, her head now above water and now below it, blinded by her mask that had slipped down over her eyes, battling desperately for life, she was borne along on the broad bosom of the rushing river till, by happy chance, she found her feet touching ground, and making her way through the lessening depth of water, ended her course by crawling up the shelving shore.
The sudden revulsion of joy at this escape from death proved too much for her; catalepsy supervened.
So, by a singular destiny, during the whole term of Wilfrid’s captivity, and for some time before and after it, the Princess had been on this island, separated from him by a distance of less than a quarter of a mile!
While he had been anxiously wondering what had become of her, there, upon the warm sandy shore, the Princess had lain all day long, nature alone attentive to her. The sunlight had dried her clothing, the breeze had played with the tangles of her golden hair, but till nightfall no denizen of the isle had drawn near. As for passing boats, their occupants, unless they had come very near the shore indeed, would have been unable to distinguish the silver grey of her costume from the silver grey of the hollow in which she lay.
Such was the train of thought pursued by Wilfrid during the suspense of waiting.
By means of Vera he was kept informed as to the state of the patient. After a lapse of two hours a turn for the better was announced; each succeeding report became more and more favourable, till at last, his work apparently over, Beauvais himself made his appearance, his face expressive of pleasure at having come off victor in his wrestle with death.
“A tough struggle,” he said, “but we’ve won it. Talk? No, she didn’t talk much. Wanted to, but I enjoined silence. She’s sleeping peacefully now, a natural, healthful sleep. She’ll wake up as bright as a new silver rouble.”
This was all Wilfrid wanted to know. With a sense of relief he bade the doctor good-night, and, under the guidance of one of the maids, repaired to the room appointed him.
Upon Wilfrid’s departure Beauvais went back to the Princess’s bed-chamber and dismissed the second maid, by which act Vera was left the sole attendant. Standing at some distance from the bed the doctor beckoned her to approach. She came forward on tip-toe. Keeping a watchful eye upon the sleeper, Beauvais said in a whisper:—
“I saw that you recognised her, and cannot sufficiently commend your prudence in keeping a silent tongue. Those who attempted her life may attempt it again, should they find that their plan miscarried. Hence we must exercise caution, and keep her name and whereabouts a secret. So far you and I are the only two to recognise her. The Baroness will make a third, and perhaps we shall have to admit Lord Courtenay into our confidence, but that’s my business; yours is to be mute and to know nothing. It may be that our patient herself for reasons of her own will wish to keep her identity a secret, even from Lord Courtenay. In such case not a word to him. You may be quite sure that I should not give you this advice were it not for the good of the Baroness. Now show me where you have put our patient’s clothing.”
Vera indicated the place, and the doctor, walking thither, proceeded to examine the Princess’s garments. Discovering a pocket within the domino, he placed his hand within and drew forth a sealed envelope, crumpled and discoloured. Its exterior was a blank.
“Now what does this envelope contain?” muttered Beauvais pressing it between his fingers. “I must know its contents. Perhaps it’s the key to the mystery. It may—or may not—explain how she came to be in the river. Vera, should our patient or Lord Courtenay question you on this point, you will be pleased to say that you searched the clothing and found—nothing.” He moved towards the door as he spoke. “I will send you a companion, and as soon as our patient awakens let me know, for I must have a talk with her before the Baroness or Lord Courtenay sees her.”
Having summoned another maid Beauvais betook himself to his own room.
“In the Baroness’s service,” he remarked, “everything is lawful.”
And without the least hesitation he broke the seal of the envelope, and read the letter it contained.
“A very useful document,” he observed with a smile of wonder and delight. “The one thing wanting to round off my plan and make its success sure.”
He laid the missive aside. Its contents had set him thinking, and so absorbed was he that he let the hours pass without taking any rest.
A message coming from Vera caused him to repair once more to the Princess’s bed-chamber, from which, after the lapse of half an hour, he emerged with a triumphant smile.
“Better and better!” he murmured. “Who’d have thought it? Why, there’s little need to plot. Matters are taking of themselves the very course I want.”
An hour later, when Pauline issued from her dressing-room, beautiful for the day, she was surprised to see Beauvais waiting for her in the corridor.
“A story for you, Baroness,” said he. “One that you must hear without delay.”
His air brooked no refusal, and so with a little shrug of her shoulders she took a seat within an embrasured window.
Her look of indifference vanished with his first sentence, and as he proceeded her interest finally passed into vivid horror.
“Consider who she is,” concluded the doctor, “and then picture her lying alone on that shore for nearly twenty hours, and a whole castleful of people close by.”
“Tied hand and foot, and flung into the Neva!” Pauline gasped. “My God! This must be Alexander’s work!”
“Not so, Baroness.”
“But I say yes. Who would dare lay a finger on her except by his order?”
“Be calm, dear Baroness. Alexander is guiltless. The truth is, the assassins made a terrible mistake. Did you not tell me that she went to this masquerade in gold-brocaded silk? Just so! Well, when discovered by us she was wearing a grey domino of common serge, which is a clear proof that she must have exchanged her costume with some other woman, her aim probably being to conceal more effectually her interview with Lord Courtenay, and I strongly suspect that this other woman was one Nadia Borovna, of the Inn of the Silver Birch. It is easy to see how one woman might meet the fate intended for the other. In fact, the ruffians appear to have made so sure of their victim that they did not even remove her mask. This letter, written by the said Nadia and found upon the dress of the victim, will partly help to prove my theory.”
Pauline took the missive and read it slowly.
“It must have been Baranoff’s doings,” she remarked, looking up from the letter, intensely relieved to find her suspicions against Alexander groundless.
“Seemingly. At any rate he is the one most interested in seeing that both the letter and its writer are destroyed. When he learns what a mistake his hirelings have made he’ll be ready to cut his throat. The Czar will show him no mercy.”
“I never believed in Lord Courtenay’s guilt at the Inn of the Silver Birch,” said Pauline, glancing over the missive again, “and this letter vindicates my opinion.”
“True, but you’ll be unwise to show it to him.”
“Why?”
“Because if that event is allowed to receive an innocent interpretation, it will be still easier to explain away the kiss given by her at the masquerade. It was simply a reward for service done to the State. No, no, Baroness; it must be our duty to see that her return to Alexander is made an impossibility, and as matters are at present the way is still open for a reconciliation between them.”
“What, then, do you advise?”
“Why, this. Let her remain here for a time in concealment. She’ll not object. She is evidently in love with Lord Courtenay; he with her. Let matters, then, take their natural course. Isn’t it to your interest to promote this love affair?”
“Didn’t you tell Lord Courtenay last night who she was?”
“I kept it a secret for—for reasons.”
“Lord Courtenay is a man of honour. When he learns the truth his love will cease.”
“Just so, and therefore we must not let him know the truth, till—till it be too late.”
“You talk foolishly. How can he be kept any longer in ignorance?”
Beauvais smiled mysteriously and triumphantly.
“My dear Baroness, everything is working beautifully for our ends, so beautifully that I am tempted almost to think that Providence——”
“Providence!” she repeated significantly.
“I’ll say fate, to please you. Fate must have had a hand in bringing her and Lord Courtenay under this roof.”
“You are not answering my question. How can we keep him from learning her name, if she chooses to reveal it?”
“There’s the point, the very point in our favour. She can’t reveal it.”
“In heaven’s name, why not?”
“Because, though her intellect be otherwise as clear and as bright as your own—and that’s saying a good deal, Baroness—it is accompanied by one defect. The awful shock occasioned by her sudden plunge into the waters of the Neva has had the effect of depriving her, not of her whole memory, but of a part of it—that part relating to her personal identity. She cannot recall her own name. You don’t believe it, I see,” smiled the doctor, noting her look of scepticism, “but you can soon test my words. Go and see your rival. She won’t know you!”