CHAPTER XVI.
THE CASTLE OF PALENKA.
While his heart sank within him, at the idea of being so suddenly rendered helpless and unfit for active exertion, in such a place and at such a time, his first thought was to ascertain that Milano's despatches were safe and dry. With difficulty he found that they were so, in his sabretache, and after putting fresh cartridges in his pistols, to be ready (though one handed now) for any emergency, he took his horse by the bridle, and somewhat disconsolately led it up a slope, towards where some lights were twinkling, high in the air above him, to all appearance, and about a mile distant.
Up, up the steep slope he struggled, by a path that led through an open gateway, and pursued a winding direction, till he reached a terrace or plateau, before a castellated edifice of striking outline and considerable dimensions, to all appearance the abode of some Servian magnate or landholder; but he was so faint with pain and exertion, that all he looked on seemed to be whirling around him.
An appeal to the knocker, a huge ring in the mouth of a grotesque face, brought a servant, a tall and robust fellow, in a species of livery, to the door, and by the lights in the vestibule that opened beyond, he stared with equal surprise and alarm upon the dripping visitor, who in a somewhat polyglot language, stated the predicament he was in. Another and another came, and ere long they made out that Cecil was an officer of the Servian cavalry—a messenger from the king, who had met with an accident; and as such he found himself rather abruptly ushered into an apartment of palatial aspect, where two ladies, an elder and a younger, were intent upon a game of chess, by the light of a large shaded lamp, the globe of which was supported on the shoulders of a silver statuette of Atlas; but both now arose with astonishment expressed in their faces.
Cecil at that time felt himself as if in a dream, or only half conscious of what was passing around him; he remembered afterwards his words of explanation, the commiseration of their replies in the most softly modulated Servian (a soft language at all times) and he found himself committed to the care of 'Theodore,' the man whom he had first seen, and who proved to have been an old soldier, who had seen many broken bones in his time.
Cecil's sodden uniform was removed, and his hurt at once seen to, by the valet and an attendant of the lady of the house, who had been for a time one of the good sisters of the Santas Kreuz Militar, and knew precisely what to do, so fortunately for Cecil he was in good hands.
By them, gently, but firmly, the partial dislocation of the arm at the shoulder—fortunately it was only a partial one—was speedily reduced, a process during which Cecil nearly fainted. Cloths dipped in vinegar were then applied; some wine was given him, and soon after he was left to repose; but he, who had slept on the bare ground for months past—though now in a charming room and luxurious bed, with a coverlet of rich silk lace, lined with pale blue silk, surrounded by luxuries to him unknown since he quitted Britain—felt sleepless, and as the hours passed by they were hours of pain and anxiety—pain to endure, and anxiety to be gone on his duty.
Great weariness weighed down his eyelids, and pain would be exchanged for what he thought at times was a dream, or sound sleep; and as parts of the dream, he saw the walls of a handsome room, a little Greek oratory with a prie dieu before it; and therein the figure of some saint, with a gilt halo of horseshoe-shape around the head, and a tiny pink lamp burning before it, and the girl, Ottilie, for such was her name, watching and flitting about it noiselessly.
She was more than pretty, with a violet-coloured velvet jacket, embroidered with gold, under which she wore a habit-shirt of the softest white cambric; and her dark sheeny hair was braided close round her small head, not under, but over a skull-cap of crimson cloth.
These, and other details, Cecil took note of next day, rather than on the night in question; and closing his eyes, he strove to collect his thoughts and think—think of what, or of whom, but Mary Montgomerie?
He was now to deem as past and gone for ever the love that made his veins to tingle and his heart to thrill in his bosom; yet he could not but remember with intense tenderness the last kiss she had given him, and the time—one of those, so some one says, that are given us by God to help us by the sweetness of their memory, in weary days to come.
She was so far away—so far away! It seemed he could but think of her as the living do of the dead—perhaps as the dead may do of the living.
To him the slow hours were passed restlessly—almost without repose. 'There is,' says a writer, 'a strong contrast between a sleepless night and the first hours that follow it. Everything appears from so different a point of view! The phantoms of night become again familiar objects, in the same way as in the region of ideas things gigantic reassume ordinary proportions. We fancy we are contending with the impossible, and find ourselves in presence of paltry difficulties. We believed that heroism was demanded of us, and find that it is simple duty we have to accomplish.'
So it was with Cecil when day dawned, and brought with it ideas that were practical.
Betimes came Theodore with hot coffee on a silver salver, which he proffered with a military salute, and the information that 'his excellency's' horse had been attended to at the stables, and there was his uniform, dry and brushed to perfection, with his pistols and sword, burnished as only an old soldier could burnish them, for Theodore had served with the Austrian army in Bohemia, and been twice wounded at Sadowa, where his regiment was that remarkable one which perished nearly to a man under the new and terrible fire of the Prussian needle-gun; with all of which facts he informed Cecil, while re-dressing his hurt and assisting him to attire.
He also informed him of something else—that he was in the family residence of Michail, Count Palenka; and so, by mid-day, with his arm in a sling, Cecil expressed his anxiety to thank his hostess, the widowed mother of the count, for her kindness to him.
He announced himself as 'Sub-Lieutenant Cecil Falconer, of "Tchernaieff's Own," aide-de-camp on the staff,' and was ushered into the presence of the ladies whom he had seen on the preceding night.
'The preserver of my son's life in the battle by the Morava!' exclaimed the countess, coming forward and taking his left hand between both of hers, and gazing upon his face with humid yet beaming eyes.
'I only did my duty, madam, though the count was pleased to think I did more,' replied Cecil, 'and bestowed this ring upon me.'
'My birthday gift to my dear brother!' said the younger lady, laughingly.
'Your hand has worn it, then?' asked Cecil.
'Since I was a little girl in Vienna.'
'That enhances the value of it to me,' said Cecil gallantly, with a bow; 'but surely it must have been a world too wide for one of your fingers.'
'True; but I had it enlarged for Michail.'
Now, during the natural well-bred inquiries concerning his injury, and so forth, Cecil had opportunity for observing his hostess and her daughter Margarita.
The countess, though verging on fifty, was still very handsome, for the Servian women, by their mode of life, can prolong their beauty beyond the average climacteric. She wore a long flowing dress of black cashmere, with a train behind, and confined at the waist by a silver girdle; a frill of softest muslin was round her throat, and a square of fine white lace arranged like a widow's cap was pinned over her head, with the ends falling on her shoulders. She had clearly cut features, soft dark hair lined with silver, fine eyes, and a shapely figure still.
Margarita was a womanly-looking girl of more than middle height, having a full and rounded figure of remarkable grace and elegance of bearing, set off by quantities of delicate lace and flowing drapery. Stately in walk and in every movement, she was a brilliant, flashing, and imperial-like beauty, with large and liquid eyes, a clear-cut aquiline profile, masses of rich, dark hair, and a small mobile mouth, with pouting, red and rather sensuous lips; and she was self-possessed, refined, and highly-bred.
Educated at Vienna—for Servia was long a province of Austria (after being shuffled backward and forward between the Emperor and the Porte)—she was highly accomplished, according to the European standard, and it was but too evident that she welcomed the advent of Cecil's visit—especially as a young Briton—for the women in Servia are reckoned as being quite inferior to the men, fit only to be the plaything of youth and the nurse of old age; a peculiarity of manners that has not arisen from four centuries of tyrant Turkish rule, but seems to be inherent in old Slavic custom, such as still appertains in Russia. But European ideas and fashions are now the rule at Belgrade, thus the country must change fast; and Margarita had been the reigning beauty when there as a maid of honour to the Princess Natalie, the wife of Milano, and daughter of a wealthy banker in Odessa.
The conversation soon drifted back to the great Servian victory, and the narrow escape of Count Palenka and the general.
'How courageous it was of you to risk your life to save theirs; how self-devoted to give Tchernaieff your horse!' said the countess.
'It is not often a soldier has two such strokes of good luck at once,' replied Cecil.
'Had you no fear for your own life—no dread of dying?' asked the countess.
'No, madam.'
'Why?' asked Margarita, who had scarcely spoken yet.
'Because it is as natural to die as to live—to die as to be born; and life has now not many charms for me,' he added, with involuntary sadness or bitterness.
'Now—had it more once?' asked Margarita.
'Yes—many—nearly all that I could desire, contrasted with it now.'
'I grieve to hear you say so—you, with life before you still,' said she, eyeing him with growing interest, while slowly fanning herself with a great round feather fan, though the atmosphere was cool enough.
'You cannot leave this place for days yet,' said the countess, after a pause. 'Margarita shall write to the count and request him to tell General Tchernaieff of your accident. Meantime she and I will nurse you,' she added, with a kind motherly smile, 'and make you well and strong.'
Cecil sighed as he thanked her, and feared that his sword-arm would be useless for many a day; and indeed he was incapable of mounting a horse as yet.