X
THE SOUND OF A TRUMPET
The Prince of Slavna's answer to the intimation of his father's wisheswas dutiful, courteous, and discreetly diplomatic. The Prince was muchoccupied with his drills and other occupations; he availed himself ofMax von Hollbrandt's practised pen--the guest was glad to do his royalhost this favor.
They talked over the sense of the reply; Max then draughted it. ThePrince did no more than amend certain expressions which the youngdiplomatist had used. Max wrote that the Prince cordially sympathizedwith the King's wishes; the Prince amended to the effect that hethoroughly understood them. Max wrote that the Prince was preparedcordially and energetically to co-operate in their realization; thePrince preferred to be prepared to consider them in a benevolent spirit.Max suggested that two or three months' postponement of the suggestedjourney would not in itself be fatal; the Prince insisted that such adelay was essential, in order that negotiations might be set on foot toensure his being welcomed with due _empressement_. Max added that thelater date would have an incidental advantage, since it would obviatethe necessity of the Prince's interrupting the important labors on whichhe was engaged; the Prince said instead that, in his judgment, it wasessential, in the interests of the kingdom, that the task of trainingthe artillery should not be interfered with by any other object, howeverwell worthy of consideration that object might be.
In the result, the draught as amended, though not less courteous ordutiful than Max's original, was noticeably more stiff. Translate themboth into the terse and abrupt speech of every-day life, and one said:"I'd rather not, please," while the other came at least very near to ablank "I won't!" Max's was acquiescence, coupled with a prayer forpostponement; the Prince's was postponement first, with an accompanyingassurance of respectful consideration.
Max was not hurt, but he felt a professional disapproval; the Prince hadsaid more, and shown more of his mind, than was needful; it was throwingmore cards on the table than the rules of the game demanded.
"Mine would have done just as well," he complained to Marie Zerkovitch."If mine had been rejected, his could have followed. As it is, he'swasted one or other of them. Very foolish, since just now time's hismain object!" He did not mean saving time, but protracting it.
Marie did no more than toss her head peevishly. The author of theoriginal draught persevered.
"Don't you think mine would have been much wiser--to begin with?"
"I don't see much difference. There's little enough truth in either ofthem!" she snapped.
Max looked at her with an amused and tolerant smile. He knew quite wellwhat she meant. He shook his head at her with a humorous twinkle. "Oh,come, come, don't be exacting, madame! There's a very fair allowance oftruth. Quite half the truth, I should think. He is really very anxiousabout the gunners!"
"And about what else?"
Max spread out his hands with a shrug, but passed the question by. "Somuch truth, in fact, that it would have served amply for at least twoletters," he remarked, returning to his own special point of complaint.
Marie might well amuse the easy-going, yet observant and curious, youngman; he loved to watch his fellow-creatures under the stress of feelingsfrom which he himself was free, and found in the opportunities affordedhim in this line the chief interest both of his life and of hisprofession.
But Marie had gradually risen to a high, nervous tension. She was nopuritan--puritans were not common in Kravonia, nor had Paris graftedsuch a slip onto her nature. Had she thought as the men in the Palacethought when they smiled, had she thought that and no more, it isscarcely likely that she would have thus disturbed herself; after all,such cases are generally treated as in some sense outside the commonrules; exceptional allowances are, in fact, whether properly or not,made for exceptional situations. Another feeling was in her mind--anobsession which had come almost wholly to possess her. The fatefulforeboding which had attacked her from the first had now full dominionover her; its rule was riveted more closely on her spirit day by day, asday by day the Prince and Sophy drew closer together. Even that Sophyhad once saved his life could now no longer shake Marie's dolefulprepossession. Unusual and unlooked-for things take color from the mindof the spectator; the strange train of events which had brought Sophyto Praslok borrowed ominous shadows from a nervous, apprehensivetemperament.
No such gloom brooded over Sophy. She gave herself up to the hour: thepast forgotten, the future never thought of. It was the great time ofher life. Her feelings, while not less spontaneous and fresh, were moremature and more fully satisfied than when Casimir de Savres poured hislove at her feet. A cry of happiness almost lyrical runs through herscanty record of these days--there was little leisure for diary orletters.
Winter was melting into spring, snow dwelled only on the hill-tops, LakeTalti was unbound and sparkled in the sun; the days grew longer, yetwere far too short. To ride with him to Volseni, to hear the cheers, tosee the love they bore him, to watch him at work, to seem to share thelabor and the love--then to shake off the kindly clinging friends andtake to a mountain-path, or wander, the reins on the horses' necks, bythe margin of the lake, and come home through the late dusk, talkingoften, silent often, always together in thought as in bodilypresence--was not this enough? "If I had to die in a month, I should owelife a tremendous debt already"--that is her own summing up; it ispleasant to remember.
It would be enough to say--love; enough with a nature ardent as hers.Yet, with love much else conspired. There was the thought of what shehad done, of the things to which she was a party; there was the sense ofpower, the satisfaction of ambition, a promise of more things; there wasthe applause of Volseni as well as the devotion of the Prince; therewas, too--it persisted all through her life--the funny, half-childish,and (to a severe eye) urchin-like pleasure in the feeling that thesewere fine doings for Sophy Grouch, of Morpingham in Essex! "Fancy _me_!"is the indefensibly primitive form in which this delight shows in one ofthe few letters bearing date from the Castle of Praslok.
Yet it is possible to find this simple, gracious surprise at Fortune'sfancies worthy of love. Her own courage, her own catching at Fortune'sforelock, seem to have been always unconscious and instinctive. Theseshe never hints at, nor even begins to analyze. Of her love for thePrince she speaks once or twice--and once in reference to what she hadfelt for Casimir. "I loved him most when he left me, and when he died,"she writes. "I love him not less now because I love Monseigneur. But Ican love Monseigneur more for having loved Casimir. God bade the deardead die, but He bade me live, and death helped to teach me how to doit." Again she reflects: "How wonderfully everything is _worthwhile_--even sorrows!" Following which reflection, in the very next line(she is writing to Julia Robins), comes the naive outburst: "I look justsplendid in my sheepskin tunic--and he's given me the sweetest toy of arevolver; that's in case they ever charge, and try and cut us up behindour guns!" She is laughing at herself, but the laugh is charged with aninfectious enjoyment. So she lived, loved, and laughed through thoseunequalled days, trying to soothe Marie Zerkovitch, bantering Max vonHollbrandt, giving her masculine mind and her feminine soul wholly toher Prince. "She was like a singularly able and energetic sunbeam," Maxsays quaintly, himself obviously not untouched by her attractions.
The Prince's mind was simple. He was quite sincere about his guns; hehad no wish to go on his travels until they had arrived, and he coulddeliver them into the safe custody of his trained and trusty Volsenians,and of Lukovitch their captain. Less than that was not safety, withStenovics in office and Colonel Stafnitz on duty at the capital. ButMarie Zerkovitch was right, too, even though over-exacting, as Max hadtold her. The letter to the King held but half the truth, and that halfnot the more significant. He could not go from Sophy's side to seek awife. The desire of his heart and the delight of his eyes--she was herein Praslok.
Her charm was not only for his heart and eyes, her fascination notsolely for his passion; on his intellect also she laid her powerfulhold, opening the narrow confines of his mind
to broader views, andsoftening the rigor of his ideals. He had seen himself only as the sternmaster, the just chastiser of a turbulent capital and an unrulysoldiery. But was there not a higher aim? Might he not be loved in theplains as on the hills, at Slavna as at Volseni?
By himself he could not achieve that; his pride--nay, hisobstinacy--forbade the first step. But what his sensitive dignityrejected for himself, he could see her sunny graciousness accomplishwithout loss of self-respect, naturally, all spontaneously. He was asoldier; hers were the powers of peace, of that instinctivestatesmanship of the emotions by which hearts are won and kingdoms knittogether by a tie stronger than the sword. Because in his mind's eye hesaw her doing this, the idea at which the men in the Palace had smiled,and which even Marie Zerkovitch would have accepted as the lesser evil,never came into his head. In the future years she was to be openly athis side, doing these things for him and for the land of his love andlabor. Would she not be a better partner than some stranger, to whom hemust go cap in hand, to whom his country would be a place of exile andhis countrymen seem half-barbarians, whose life with him would be onelong tale of forced and unwilling condescension? A pride more subtlethan his father's rose in revolt.
If he could make the King see that! There stood the difficulty. Right inthe way of his darling hope was the one thing on which the Kinginsisted. The pride of family--the great alliance--the single pointwhereon the easy King was an obstacle so formidable! Yet had hedespaired, he would have been no such lover as he was.
His answer had gone to the King; there was no news of its reception yet.But on the next day, in the evening, great tidings came from Slavna,forwarded by Zerkovitch, who was in charge of the Prince's affairsthere. The Prince burst eagerly into the dining-room in the tower ofPraslok, where Sophy sat alone. He seemed full of triumphant excitement,almost boyish in his glee. It is at such moments that hesitations areforgotten and the last reserves broken down.
"My guns!" he cried. "My guns! They've started on their way. They're duein Slavna in a month!"
"In a month!" she murmured softly. "Ah, then--"
"Our company will be ready, too. We'll march down to Slavna and meet theguns!" He laughed. "Oh, I'll be very pleasant to Slavna now--just as youadvise me. We'll meet them with smiles on our faces." He came up to herand laid his hand on hers. "You've done this for me," he said, smilingstill, yet growing more grave.
"It'll be the end of this wonderful time, of this our time together!"
"Of our time at Praslok--not of our time together. What, won'tLieutenant Baroness Dobrava march with her battery?"
She smiled doubtfully, gently shaking her head. "Perhaps! But when weget to Slavna--? Oh, I'm sorry that this time's so nearly done!"
He looked at her gravely for a few moments, making, perhaps, a lastquick calculation--undergoing, perhaps, a last short struggle. But theRed Star glowed against the pallor of her face; her eyes were gleamingbeacons.
"Neither the guns, nor the men, nor Slavna--no, nor the Crown, when thattime comes--without you!" he said.
She rose slowly, tremblingly, from her chair, and stretched out herhands in an instinctive protest: "Monseigneur!" Then she clasped herhands, setting her eyes on his, and whispering again, yet lower:"Monseigneur!"
"Marie Zerkovitch says Fate sent you to Kravonia. I think she's right.Fate did--my fate. I think it's fated that we are to be together to theend, Sophy."
A step creaked on the old stairs. Marie Zerkovitch was coming down fromher room on the floor above. The door of the dining-room stood open, butneither of them heard the step; they were engrossed, and the soundpassed unheeded.
Standing there with hands still clasped, and eyes still bound to his,she spoke again--and Marie Zerkovitch stood by the door and heard thequick yet clear words, herself fascinated, unable to move or speak.
"I've meant nothing of it. I've thought nothing of it. I seem to havedone nothing towards it. It has just come to me." Her tone took on atouch of entreaty, whether it were to him, or to some unseen powerwhich ruled her life, and to which she might have to render an account.
"Yet it is welcome?" he asked quietly. She was long in answering; hewaited without impatience, in a confidence devoid of doubt. She seemedto seek for the whole truth and to give it to him in gravest, fullestwords.
"It is life, Monseigneur," she said. "I can't see life without it now."
He held out his hands, and very slowly she laid hers in them.
"It is enough--and nothing less could have been enough from you to meand from me to you," he said gently. "Unless we live it together, Ithink it can be no life for us now."
The chain which had held Marie Zerkovitch motionless suddenly snapped.She rushed into the room, and, forgetful of everything in her agitation,seized the Prince by the arm.
"What do you mean?" she cried. "What do you mean? Are you mad?"
He was very fond of little Marie. He looked down at her now with anaffectionate, indulgent smile.
"Come, you've heard what I said, I suppose--though it wasn't meant foryour ears, you know! Well, then, I mean just what I said, Marie."
"But what do you mean by it?" she persisted in a feverish, almostchildish, excitement. She turned on Sophy, too. "And what do you mean byit, Sophy?" she cried.
Sophy passed a hand across her brow. A slow smile relieved the enchantedtension of her face; she seemed to smile in a whimsical surprise atherself. Her answer to Marie came vague and almost dreamy. "I--Ithought of nothing, dear Marie," she said; then with a sudden low murmurof delighted laughter she laid her hands in the Prince's again. She hadthought of nothing but of that life together and their love.
"She'll share my life, Marie, and, when the time comes, my throne," thePrince said softly: he tried to persuade and soothe her with his gentletones.
Marie Zerkovitch would not have it. Possessed by her old fear, her oldforeboding, she flung away the arm she held with an angry gesture. "It'sruin!" she cried. "Ruin, ruin!" Her voice rang out through the old roomand seemed to fill all the Castle of Praslok with its dirgeful note.
"No," said he firmly. "Ruin will not come through me, nor through her.It may be that ruin--what you call ruin--will come. It may be that Ishall lose my life or my throne." He smiled a little. "Such changes andchances come as nothing new to a Stefanovitch. I have clever and boldmen against me. Let them try! We'll try, too. But ruin will not be byher fault, nor through this. And if it were, don't I owe her my lifealready? Should I refuse to risk for her the life she has given?" Hedropped his voice to homelier, more familiar tones, and ended, with ahalf-laugh: "Come, little friend, you mustn't try to frighten SergiusStefanovitch. It's better the House should end than live on in a coward,you know."
The plea was not perfect--there was wisdom as well as courage inquestion. Yet he would have maintained himself to be right in point ofwisdom, too, had Marie pressed him on it. But her force was spent; herviolence ended, and with it her expostulations. But not her terror anddismay. She threw herself into a chair and covered her face with herhands, sobbing bitterly.
The Prince gently caressed her shaking shoulder, but he raised his eyesto Sophy, who had stood quiet through the scene.
"Are you ready for what comes, Sophy?" he asked.
"Monseigneur, I am ready," she said, with head erect and her face set.But the next instant she broke into a low yet rich and ringing laugh; itmingled strangely with Marie's sobs, which were gradually dying away,yet sounded still, an undertone of discord with Sophy's mirth. Shestretched out her hands towards him again, whispering in an amused pity:"Poor child--she thought that we should be afraid!"
Out from the dusk of the quiet evening came suddenly the blare of atrumpet, blown from Volseni by a favoring breeze. It sounded everyevening, at nightfall, to warn the herdsmen in the hills of the closingof the gates, and had so sounded from time beyond man's memory.
The Prince raised his hand to bid her listen.
"In good Volseni there is watch and ward for us!"
The echoes of the bl
ast rang for an instant round the hills.
"And there is watch and ward, and the glad sound of a trumpet, in myheart, Monseigneur," she said.
The sobs were still, laughter was hushed, the echoes died away. In uttersilence their hands and their eyes met. Only in their hearts love'sclarion rang indomitable and marvellously glad.