Читать книгу Trusia: A Princess of Krovitch - Brinton Davis - Страница 2

In the soul of Calvert Carter arose a vague unrest. A voiceless summons bade him, with every April stir of wind, to shake off the tale of common things and match his manhood and keen intelligence in Nature's conflict, the battle of the male. Six years past had found him in Cuba. In that brief campaign against Spain, his entire military career, each day so crowded with anticipation or actual battle, had been laid the foundation for this wanderlieb; this growing appetite for excitement and hazard. Occasional trips to Europe and even forays after big game had failed to satisfy him. Without realizing it, his was the aboriginal's longing for war, – primitive savage against primitive savage, and – his life lacked a woman.

He paced about his library as in a cage.

He strove desperately to understand the elusive impulse which urged him to go forth running, head up, pulses flaming; on, on, out of the reeking city to the cool, clean woods; on, on, to the heart of the world where all brutes and mankind strove in one titanic fight for supremacy. Conventions held him fast. He must go somewhere, however. Where? Was there in Old or New World an unbeaten track his feet had not trodden, a chance for adventure – man-strife? Manchuria! It would not do. His was not the mood for the porcelain, perfect politeness of Nippon. He was no beast to revel in the stupid orgies of the Slav!

The door opened and Carrick entered. It was not the Carrick of yesterday, but one who, though unable to eradicate all the traces of his earlier environments, had nevertheless succeeded in achieving externally and mentally a much higher plane than that on which Carter first found him. When he spoke, seeing his master was in some perplexity, there still lingered in his accent the unmistakable evidence of his Whitechapel origin.

"What is it, sir?"

Carter turned to him with a troubled countenance.

"Carrick," he said, "do you ever feel as if you wanted to be back on the fighting line?"

The fellow smiled guiltily.

"Yes, Mr. Carter, when I 'ave the go-fever as I call it! Then you see," he explained apologetically, "I was allus a sort of a tramp before you took 'old of me, sir. Don't think it's because the plyce don't suit – no man ever 'ad a better, thanks to you. Sometimes I think, though, as 'ow all men get the feelin' in spells. Do you ever feel that wye?"

"I'm chock full of it now, Carrick. I must get away from the manacles of cities. Hand me that atlas – I'll study the map of Europe again. Thanks. This is about the tenth time." Carter bent over the plotted page anxiously while his man stood at his elbow.

"Germany won't do," said Calvert. "I hate the very sight of a wasp-waisted, self-sufficient Prussian subaltern. They're everywhere. Imperial arrogance seems to pervade even their beer gardens." His voice trailed off into silence again, as in a preoccupied manner his finger wandered over the map. It stopped suddenly as he leaned closer to study the pink plot on which it rested. "Krovitch; Krovitch!" he muttered, "now where the devil have I heard of Krovitch? Russian province it seems but that doesn't give me any clue. I'm stuck, Carrick," he said with a frank laugh as he looked up to meet the man's responsive smile.

"Can I 'elp you, sir?" He leaned over Carter's shoulder.

"What is there about that little spot to set me guessing?" His finger kept tapping the indicated locality perplexedly.

His man studied a moment as if some old memory were awakened. "Can't sye, sir; but wasn't Count Zulka, of the Racquet Club, from there, sir?" he hesitatingly suggested. "Seems as if I remember 'is man saying as much."

"Now we are getting at it, Carrick. Certainly. Zulka is a Krovitzer. Has a mediæval castle at Schallberg. Capital, I think it is. Saunderson the newspaper fellow let fall a hint that there was going to be a big fight over there. That was after Zulka went abroad so suddenly. They're going to try and restore the ancient monarchy or something. Hand me that volume of the Encyclopedia – 'H-o-r' to 'L-i-b' I think will cover it. I'll look up Krovitch. Thanks," and he was soon deeply engrossed in the desired information.

A copy of the Almanac de Gotha lay at his hand. Having avidly absorbed the meagre narration of the country's history from the pages of the encyclopedia, his inquiring mind sought enlightenment as to the present personnel of the house who had ruled the ancient race.

The almanac disclosed no descendant of Stovik. Apparently the dynasty of which he was the head had ceased with his deposition. "Humph," he ejaculated, "here is something interesting. 'Sole descendant of Augustus. Girl, twenty-two, name – Trusia.' Pretty, poetical – Trusia! I like it. Seems to me I'll be repeating that name a good deal. I wonder what she's like."

He looked up again, his face glowing with enthusiasm. "Carrick," he said indignantly, "that country ought to be free. Russia stole it by a shabby trick. Two hundred years ago the reigning king of Krovitch was a chap called Stovik. The head of another royal family there named Augustus was his rival for the crown. Not being able to arouse much of a following among a loyal people, Augustus sought aid of his namesake, the Czar of Russia, to help in his contest. Knowing that Augustus would be easily disposed of once they got a foothold in Krovitch, the Russ, who had only been waiting for some such pretext, gladly espoused his cause and threw an army of veterans across the length and breadth of the devoted land. Stovik was deposed and Russia put her dupe upon the throne. Europe stood by and let that nation, which, single handed, had time and again saved them from Moslem invasions, be annexed by the government at Moscow. I'm going there. I'll look up Zulka and get him to have me counted in if there's any fight going to occur."

"And me too, sir," answered Carrick, standing like a stag who from a peak challenges his kind.

Carter looked at the man with evident appreciation and a pleased smile animated his face.

"It will be the old days over again. I warn you, Carrick, you'll have to hustle to beat me up another hill."

The Cockney laughed in the free masonry of their mutual reminiscences. "All right, sir, forewarned is forearmed. How soon do we start?"

"Just as soon as you can get our camp kits ready. We'll board the next steamer for Danzig. I think I'll take the big auto along, too. It may come in handy."