In tenderness I placed my hand upon her shoulder, endeavouring to console her. Alas! I fear my words were stilted and very unconvincing. What could I say, when all the world over royal birth is a bar to love and happiness, and marriages in Imperial and Royal circles are, for the most part, loveless, unholy unions. The Grand Duchess or the royal Princess loves just as ardently and devotedly as does the free and flirting work-girl or the tea-and-tennis girl of the middle-classes. Alas! however, the heart of the Highness is not her own, but at the disposal of the family council, which discusses her marriage as a purely business proposition, and sells her, too frequently, to the highest bidder.
The poor girl, crushed by the hopeless bitterness of the situation, declared with a sob:
“To be born in the purple, as the outside world calls it, is, alas! to be born to unhappiness.”
I remained there a full half-hour, until she grew calm again. Never in all the years I had known her—ever since she was a girl—had I seen her give way to such a paroxysm of despair. Usually she was so bright, buoyant and light-hearted. But that afternoon she had utterly broken down and been overcome by blank despair.
“You are young, Natalia,” I said, with deep sympathy. “Enjoy your life to-day, and do not endeavour to meet the troubles of the future. As long as you remain here and are known as Miss Gottorp, so long may your friendship with young Drury be maintained. Live for the present—do not anticipate the future.”
I said this because I knew that Time is the greatest healer of broken hearts.
But she only shook her head very sadly, without replying.
The black marble clock on the mantelshelf chimed six, and I recollected that Hartwig had wired that he would meet me at the “Métropole” at that hour. My train was due to leave for London at seven. I had already bidden Miss West adieu. So I took Natalia’s hand, and pressing it warmly, wished her farewell, promising to regularly report by telegraph my progress across Siberia, as far as possible.
She struggled to her feet with an effort, and looking full into my face said in a voice choked by emotion:
“Good-bye, Uncle Colin, I am sorry I cannot betray Marya’s secret. You are doing this in order to save two innocent women from the horrors of a living tomb in the Siberian snows—to demand that justice shall be done. Go. And may God in His great mercy take you under His protection.”