The Shadow of the Czar Part 11

"What? and but just recovered from a fever! Besides, you will blister your fingers."

But Barbara was not to be dissuaded. She took the oar, and, never having held one before, behaved like a true novice. She failed to keep time with her partner, and her oar either did not strike the water, or striking, deluged the boat with spray, till Paul began to consider whether it would not be wise to suspend the luncheon-basket from the masthead. Strange how man will tolerate in woman blundering such as he would not tolerate for a moment in his fellowman! Barbara's incompetence at the oar was delightful in Paul's eyes.

"I'd better give it up," she cried laughingly. "Our boat is performing such extraordinary gyrations that the steamer from Zara, which I can see in the distance, will be coming up to ascertain the cause."

So Paul resumed possession of the oar, and rowing onward in gallant style, reached the island, and ran the boat in upon the sands of a little bay.

Isola Sacra was not more than two miles in length, and about one in breadth; nevertheless, within its limited s.p.a.ce there was considerable diversity. There were cliffs rising vertically from the water; there were strips of yellow sand by the sea; there were woods, and a silver-flas.h.i.+ng stream. And most attractive sight of all, the remains of a Grecian temple crowning the summit of a small eminence, the marble columns glowing brilliantly white against a background of dark cypresses.

Towards this edifice they slowly made their way.

"To whom was this temple raised?" asked Barbara, as they stood within the ruin.

"It was the shrine of Eros."

The Temple of Love! What more appropriate place could there be for an avowal?

"The G.o.d of love," she murmured softly. "And his altar and shrine are fallen!"

"But not his wors.h.i.+p," replied Paul. "That is eternal."

Barbara averted her eyes, and trembled with a sweet feeling.

They sat down on a fallen column beneath the shadow cast by a graceful palm. Before them lay the bay they had just crossed,--a blue semicircular mirror, the Illyrian mountains forming a picturesque background.

Paul and Barbara sat drinking in the deep beauty of the scene. In the boat their conversation had been lively and unrestrained, but now a silence lay on both.

Barbara was the first to speak.

"I think," she murmured dreamily, gazing at the sky, "that the loveliest part of heaven must be above this isle."

Paul glanced at her inquiringly, not quite comprehending her remark.

"The Arabian poets," she continued, "a.s.sert that the fairest spot on earth is situated beneath the fairest spot in heaven, the earthly, as it were, being a reflex of the heavenly."

"A pretty idea!" said Paul. "With me, however, the fairest place on earth is not a fixed, but a moveable point."

"Yes?" said Barbara inquiringly.

"To me the fairest place is wherever you happen to be. Do I make myself clear, dearest Barbara, or shall I say more?"

Barbara tried to speak, but the words would not come. There was no need for speech, however. A light that would have made the plainest features beautiful stole over her face. She placed her little hand within his, and by that act Paul knew that she was his for ever.

He drew her to his embrace, where she reclined supremely happy and yet afraid to raise her eyes to his.

"Barbara," he whispered, "you have never yet told me the story of your life. Will you not do so now?"

There was nothing Barbara would not have done to please Paul. She was silent for a few moments, as if collecting her thoughts, and then, still within the circle of his arms, she began in a voice as low and silvery as if coming from dreamland.

"If I have been truly told, I was born at Warsaw in 1826, and shall therefore be nineteen years of age next month.

"My parents I never knew; indeed I am even ignorant of their names and station in life. I had been adopted in infancy by a n.o.ble Polish lady, the Countess Lorenska,--a youthful widow, who, although kindness itself, was always mute to any remark relative to my parentage, though, as you may guess, the question as to my origin troubled me but little in those early days.

"The Countess Lorenska was very rich, her mansion at Warsaw a palace, and the ladies and gentlemen who attended her salons vied with each other in caressing and spoiling me. I had all that wealth could supply, including learned masters, under whose tuition I began that course of instruction which you have characterized as peculiar for a woman.

"My adoptive mother, herself well educated, superintended my studies, but the lesson she seemed chiefly desirous of inculcating is contained in almost the first sentence I was taught to utter,--'I will always love Poland and the Catholic Church. I will never cease to oppose Russia and the Greek Faith.' This vow was part of my prayers morning and evening, and such is the force of habit that I still continue to say it.

"As you may suppose, Polish history formed part, and a very important part, of my curriculum. My blood glowed as I listened to the story of my country's wrongs. But indeed I did not require the voice of past history to teach me patriotism. What was happening all round was sufficient. I was between five and six years of age when the uprising at Warsaw took place, and the unjust and terrible reprisals exacted by the conquering Russians have left an impression upon my mind which no length of time can ever efface.

"The war pa.s.sed, and an era of tranquillity, or rather of torpor, followed.

"Among those who frequented the a.s.semblies held by the Countess Lorenska--a.s.semblies that partook more of a political than of a social character--was a young priest of Italian origin, named Pasqual Ravenna, who exercised considerable influence over the mind of my adoptive mother, inasmuch as he was her father-confessor.

"One night during a brilliant entertainment I stole out of the _salle de danse_ into the moonlit gardens without, in order to avoid waltzing with a silly fellow who was my special aversion. I secreted myself in a quiet arbor. On the other side of the shrubbery two persons were slowly pacing to and fro, and earnestly conversing. I recognized the voices of Countess Lorenska and Father Ravenna. I had no wish to hear what they were saying; indeed, I was too much pre-occupied with my would-be partner, whom I could see through the leaves vainly trying to find me, to pay much attention to them, but still fragments of their dialogue reached my ears.

"'She must be removed,' Ravenna was saying; 'she is too near'--I did not catch the word--'to be safe. He often visits Warsaw. If she should be seen and recognized by him, our plan would be frustrated. Besides, she is growing. We must take care that she forms no love-attachment.'

"The countess laughed.

"'How absurd! She is too young for such notions.'

"'She is only twelve, 'tis true, but she is more advanced physically and mentally than most girls of fifteen. She will be safer in a convent till--till--her restoration,' he added, as if hesitating for the choice of a word.

"'If you say so, it must be so,' said the countess with a sigh, 'though it will almost break my heart to part with her. Your instructions have been carried out to the very letter. She will always be a devout Catholic, and patriotically Polish.'

"'So far--good,' replied Ravenna.

"They both moved off at this point, and not till then did it dawn upon me that they were speaking of myself.

"Next morning I was summoned by the countess, whom I found seated with Father Ravenna.

"'Barbara,' she said, 'you are going to live in a convent for the next six years, where you will continue the studies you have begun here.

Father Ravenna will conduct you to the convent. And do not forget that if I should die he will be your guardian, and you must obey his commandments, however strange they may appear.'

"I cried very much on parting from my adoptive mother.

"'Courage! It is for the good of Poland,' said the countess, as she folded me in a last embrace.

"I failed to understand how Poland could be benefited by poor simple me, still less how my six years' residence in a convent was to accomplish that end.

"Under the conduct of Ravenna I travelled southward by easy stages. I began to forget my grief in the novelty of the scenes that succeeded each other. We entered Dalmatia, the country growing in grandeur and wildness with every mile of our journey.

"At last we reached our destination,--the Convent of the Holy Sacrament, situated in an isolated valley amid the loftiest peaks of the Dinaric Alps,--and here Ravenna left me after a long conference with the abbess.

"My life in the convent was a very pleasant one. Being the youngest person in the establishment, I became a sort of pet with the nuns.

Though I took part in the devotional services of the convent, I did not wear the religious habit, nor did I partake of the food of the other inmates. My fare was more delicate than theirs; I wore costly dresses; I had my own dining-chamber with a nun to wait upon me. In short, if I had been a princess they could not have paid me more deference and attention.

"My studies were mainly directed by three monks from a neighboring establishment, one of whom, so the nuns a.s.serted, had been a leading statesman of Austria, who, for some offence, had been ordered by the Kaiser to retire to a monastery; be that as it may, his was a mind well stored with political knowledge, and Metternich himself could not have taught me more of the secrets of contemporary history.