Princess Maritza

by Percy Brebner

  On several occasions the Queen made Ellerey repeat his confession, and he did so with a smile upon his lips.

  “I expected downcast eyes and a stammering tongue to-night,” she said one evening, and as Ellerey looked at her, she glanced swiftly across the room toward a small group, of which a woman was the centre—a beautiful woman, with a silvery laugh which had the spirit and joy of youth in it. By common consent, her beauty had no rival in the Court of Sturatzberg. Men whose tastes on all else were as wide asunder as the poles were at one in praise of her, and even women were content to let her reign supreme. Her dark eyes, fringed with long lashes, were, perhaps, the most perfect feature of a perfect face. They could persuade, they could reprove, and it was dangerous to look into them too constantly if one would not be a slave. Her hair, which had a wave in it, and was rich nut-brown in color, was gathered in loose coils about her head, a veritable crown to her, and her voice was low, as if compelling you to listen to some sweet secret it had to tell, a secret that was only for you.

  “I can still make my confession, your Majesty,” said Ellerey, wondering whether his words were quite true, for he had looked into this woman's eyes many times. Then he went toward the group, quick to observe that Baron Petrescu left it at his coming.

  Ellerey understood that the Queen must have watched him carefully. To this woman he had certainly paid more attention than to any other. She was in close attendance upon the Queen, was treated by her with marked favor, and many envious and angry glances had been cast upon Ellerey, because she seemed to find pleasure in being with him. Ellerey could not deny that the time spent in her company sped faster than all other hours, but he had another reason for seeking her so persistently. He had seen little of the face of the woman who had cried to him for help that night at the corner of the Altstrasse, being more concerned with what was required of him than with her who petitioned, but somehow this woman always reminded him of that night. Whenever she walked beside him, he recalled that other woman who had run hand-in-hand with him through the deserted streets. Was she the woman, or, at least, was she aware of what had occurred that right? Why had she so easily given him her friendship? Why should she so obviously prefer his company to that of others? There was some reason, and yet she had made no confession, had stepped into none of his carefully prepared traps. Did she know Maritza? Were those Maritza's eyes which had looked through the silken mask?

  “You will dance with me, Countess?”

  She placed her hand upon his arm at once.

  “You are ever generous to me,” he said, as they went toward the ball-room. “I wonder why?”

  She looked up at him. He might have been laughed at for not understanding such a look.

  “A Captain of Horse is a small person in Sturatzberg,” he said carelessly.

  “Even if he is honored with her Majesty's friendship?” she asked.

  “Is he?”

  “Well, are you not? I can judge by what I see, and you seem welcome always.”

  “I have noticed that, Countess, and have thought sometimes that you might tell me the reason.”

  “Of her Majesty's welcome, do you mean?”

  “Of her welcome, and of your own kindness to me,” Ellerey answered.

  The woman laughed.

  “I think Englishmen are slow of comprehension,” she said.

  “But a Captain of Horse, Countess?”

  “Who may be of much higher rank to-morrow, and in his own country may be—Ah! you know, so many come to Sturatzberg.”

  “Many vagabonds, Countess.” “Oh, yes, and others,” and then she made a gesture that they should dance, and they floated gracefully out among the couples gliding over the floor of the ballroom to the strains of a sensuous German waltz. Ellerey danced well. He had earned the reputation in many a London ball-room, and the Countess Frina danced as few English women can, with the soul of the music in her feet.

  “Those others are sometimes difficult to distinguish,” Ellerey said presently.

  “Not to a woman,” was the answer. “She has an intuition which is denied to most men. Indeed, I only know one man who has it in the fullest sense, in greater measure even than most women, and he is an Englishman, curiously enough. Yonder!”

  With a touch she directed Ellerey's attention to one side of the room, where Lord Cloverton was standing talking to two men. He seemed to be interested in the conversation, but at the same time took notice of every couple which glided by him. Ellerey thought the Ambassador's eyes rested upon him for a moment, although he did not go near him.

  “He, too, has noted you,” the Countess whispered, “and if you have aught to conceal, Captain Ellerey, take care that the secret be well buried, or those small eyes will spy it out.”

  “You do not like the Ambassador?” said Ellerey, as he guided his partner to a deserted seat in an alcove.

  “I admire him. It is not the same thing, but admiration I cannot help. There would have been desperate work for you soldiers long since had it not been for Lord Cloverton.”

  “And that would have pleased you?”

  “It would have given my friends a chance of distinction,” she answered. “And turned some friends into enemies, Countess. Surely you must know that. There are such conflicting interests in Sturatzberg.”

  “I have taken great care in choosing my friends,” she answered.

  “Ah, then, you have a very definite idea to which interest you are attached.”

  “Of course.”

  “And which is it?” he asked in a whisper, leaning toward her.

  “The same as monsieur's,” she said.

  Ellerey was baffled. He had expected to surprise her into a confession. He did not suppose he had subjugated this woman so completely that she would make her interests identical with his own, and he could only explain her answer by presuming that she was sufficiently in the Queen's confidence to know something of the mission to which he stood pledged.

  “You seem very certain of me, Countess.”

  “Have I not said that I take great care in choosing my friends?”

  “I cannot conceive any reason for your faith in me, unless—-”

  “Well, you may question me.”

  “I had lately a strange adventure, Countess, in which a woman was concerned. She found me after midnight at the corner of the Altstrasse, and—-”

  “Monsieur! monsieur!” she exclaimed, holding up her hand. “Do you imagine I should visit the Altstrasse for my politics, and after midnight, too?”

  “I confess that was in my mind.” “It pleases you to jest, Captain Ellerey, and I am in no mood for such jesting.”

  She rose, and he was forced to take her from the ballroom. He had succeeded in making her angry, and had gained nothing. He had been ill-advised to question her.

  “You must pardon me,” he said.

  “You must earn your pardon, monsieur,” was her answer, as she turned away with another partner who had approached, leaving Ellerey perplexed.

  “A love quarrel, monsieur? I have noted several; they are frequent here.”

  At the slight touch on his arm Ellerey turned to face Lord Cloverton.

  “Hardly a quarrel, my lord; certainly not a love one,” he said.

  “I was mistaken then, or you think so, Captain Ellerey. Love is a curious disease at all times, and in all places, difficult to diagnose sometimes. In the Court of Sturatzberg one has ample opportunity of studying it. I may be right after all, Captain Ellerey. I have more knowledge of this Court than you have; I have spent a longer time in it.”

  Lord Cloverton moved forward smiling, evidently expecting Ellerey to walk beside him across the room.

  “I endeavor to fit myself to my surroundings,” Ellerey said, as he walked slowly by the Ambassador's side, striving in vain to accommodate his step to the mincing gait of his companion.

  “Quite so, but it is hardly the best atmosphere for a young man to develop himself in.”

  “Perhaps not.”


  “You interest me, Captain Ellerey.”

  “Since when, my lord?”

  The small, deep-set eyes were turned upon him for a moment, as though to gauge the full meaning of the question, and they looked into steady blue eyes, which, perhaps, made Lord Cloverton more interested than ever, although he did not say so. “You are thinking that I might have taken notice of a countryman before this,” he replied. “Well, perhaps there is something in the thought. Still, you were not brought to my notice at the Embassy. I heard no mention of Desmond Ellerey as a friend of anyone connected with the Embassy, nor, indeed, any remark that an English officer was serving his Majesty the King of Wallaria.”

  “No, my lord, my friendships are few, and, in truth, I have no great desire to increase the number.”

  “I might, indeed, repeat your question—since when?” laughed Lord Cloverton, “for lately surely you have made many new acquaintances, and move in the sunshine of Royal favor.”

  “I am afraid I have not been conscious of the fact,” Ellerey returned. “I must be more careful to study his Majesty.”

  “I was speaking of the Queen.”

  Ellerey looked at Lord Cloverton in astonishment.

  “Indeed, I think you are mistaken. Her Majesty is very gracious to all. I do not think she has been especially so to me.”

  “Another mistake of mine,” said the Ambassador, with a smile. “I am full of them to-night. They began immediately after dinner. I dropped two lumps of sugar into my coffee, instead of one. It made it abominable, and I had to leave it. But there is another reason why I have become interested in you lately. I heard that you were the brother of Sir Ralph Ellerey. I know Sir Ralph.”

  “We are certainly sons of the same father; our relationship has got no further than that. If you know my brother well enough to accept his opinion about me, you have, doubtless, accorded me a very low place in your estimation.”

  “I am supposed never to accept another man's opinion about anything,” the Ambassador replied; “certainly, I seldom do in judging men I come in contact with. Sir Ralph, however, gives some prominence to the name of Ellerey, and his brother can hardly hope to pass through the world unnoticed.”

  “I am succeeding beyond my expectations,” said Ellerey.

  “Are you?”

  “Believe me, my lord, I am.”

  They were standing apart in a corner of one of the rooms. There was no one near enough to overhear their conversation. Lord Cloverton glanced over his shoulder to make sure of this before he went on quietly:

  “I have heard that Desmond Ellerey was obliged to leave a crack cavalry regiment on account of his cheating at cards and for other dishonorable practices. I took you to be this same Desmond Ellerey.”

  “Yet another mistake to-night, my lord,” Ellerey answered, looking the Ambassador unflinchingly in the eye. “The Desmond Ellerey you speak of was an unfortunate English gentleman and honorable soldier, whose services his King and country had no further need of. He was foully murdered by a lie. The Desmond Ellerey who has the honor to speak to you is a Captain of Horse in the service of his Majesty Ferdinand IV. of Wallaria, and looks for favor and reward only from the King and country he serves.”

  He turned on his heel as he spoke, and the Ambassador stood looking after him until his figure was lost in the moving crowd.

  CHAPTER V. TWO VISITORS

  Lord Cloverton sat in his private room at the Embassy, a knitted brow and tightly-closed lips showing that he was deeply occupied in a problem which either baffled him altogether, or which, having been solved, gave him considerable anxiety. He had pushed his chair back from the table, and his attention was concentrated on the papers he held in his hand. They had come during the past few days, and although he had read each one carefully on its arrival, he had put them aside until he could study them together. They were all before him now, and he had spent the greater part of the morning reading them, and in piecing together the information they contained into one complete and intelligible story. It was not an easy task, and the result he arrived at gave him little satisfaction.

  “This pestilential fellow will make trouble for us,” he said to himself, and then he went systematically through the letters again.

  “Absolutely no doubt of his guilt,” he read slowly from one of them. “He denied everything, of course, but the evidence was exceedingly strong against him. That he accepted the verdict and disappeared in the manner he did, would seem to confirm the truth. That is what I cannot understand,” said the Ambassador, arguing the point to the empty room. “Why did he accept it and disappear? Why didn't he stand and face the frowning world and beat it? That is what I should have expected from such a man, and with such eyes, too.”

  He took up another paper.

  “The question can hardly be reopened, my lord, and since it was closed nothing has transpired to suggest that there was any error of justice in the matter. Of course he might bring an action for slander in the civil courts, and for this purpose be persuaded to return to England.”

  The Ambassador shook his head; he had not much faith in persuasion in this case. Then he turned to another letter and read one paragraph in it more than once. It impressed him.

  “'I feel convinced that Desmond Ellerey is an innocent man. One has such convictions without being able to explain them. That he accepted the inevitable I think I can understand, considering the weight of evidence against him; and although I endeavored to persuade him against his determination to offer his sword to another country, I can appreciate his point of view since his career had been ruined in his own. If you think any good will come of my writing to him, making on my own account the suggestion contained in your letter, I will certainly do so, and shall, of course, not mention that I have heard from you, or that we are known to each other.'“ The Ambassador looked at the signature—“'Charles Martin.' An excellent man to have for a friend, and I believe he is right.”

  He turned over another paper signed Ralph Ellerey.

  “He does not count,” said the Ambassador with a gesture of contempt, and threw the letter aside without troubling to read it again. Then he rang a bell upon his table, and a man entered.

  “Ask Captain Ward to come to me.”

  The Ambassador was pacing the room with little short steps when the Captain entered. “Do you know a Desmond Ellerey, who lodges by the Western Gate, Ward?”

  “I know there is such a man, but I know nothing about him.”

  “He is likely to be dangerous. I want you to keep an eye upon his movements. He is friendly with Monsieur De Froilette, and is in her Majesty's favor. I do not want you to make Ellerey's acquaintance. I don't want him to know who you are, for the present at any rate.”

  “I understand.”

  “I should be glad to see him turn his back upon Wallaria; failing that, I am uncharitable enough to hope he may meet with an accident,” said Lord Cloverton.

  “That might be arranged,” was the answer.

  “Sturatzberg is having a bad effect upon your moral sense. At least we will try persuasion first,” and it was difficult to tell from the Ambassador's smiling face whether a sinister thought had entered his head or not. After a moment's pause he added: “Will you also have a telegram sent to Sir Charles Martin? Just say, 'Please write, Cloverton.' He will understand.”

  The extent of the Ambassador's interest in him would have surprised Ellerey considerably had he known of it. After his interview with Lord Cloverton he had half-expected that he would seek to question him further, or, if he had any reason to suppose he was in his way, might bring pressure to bear upon the King to dismiss him from the army. He certainly did not do the one, and Ellerey had no reason to think he had attempted to do the other. At Court the Ambassador had bowed slightly as he passed him, and the flicker of a smile had been on his face for a moment when he saw him crossing the room with Countess Mavrodin, almost as though he wished him to remember what he had said about a lovers' quarrel. Ellerey had made his peace w
ith the Countess as speedily as possible. He was likely to make so many enemies that he could not afford to lose a friend, and he felt that this woman was a friend. He had duly humbled himself and had been forgiven, and even when she questioned him about his adventure in the Altstrasse, he refused to speak of it lest he should again offend. He succeeded, as he hoped to do, in raising her curiosity.

  “But if this woman so resembled me, surely it would be a satisfaction to me to know something more about her,” she said.

  “It was dark, Countess, but she seemed to be pretty. That misled me perhaps. I was foolish to imagine for a moment that it could have been you.”

  Ellerey knew that such an explanation would not content her. Would it satisfy any woman? He had only to wait and she would ply him with further questions, and, if she were not the woman, would not rest until she had discovered who the other woman was. She would probably help him to some explanation of his adventure in the long run, her curiosity leading her to play the part of a useful ally.

  The days passed and no message came from the Queen, neither did he see nor hear anything of De Froilette. The Frenchman was not at Court, and Ellerey did not meet him in the streets of Sturatzberg. He did not go to visit him in the Altstrasse; it had been agreed that he should not do so.

  After consideration Ellerey had taken Stefan into his confidence. He believed the rough soldier had some affection for him, so had told him something of his adventure in the Altstrasse, and of the mysterious mission he might be called upon at any moment to perform. Such men as Ellerey wished to enlist in the enterprise were not easy to find. There were plenty of adventurous spirits ready for any service so they were well paid, but such men were quite likely to desert him at the critical moment if they saw any benefit to themselves in doing so.