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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9f57f44 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,13 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text +*.htm text +*.html text +*.png binary +*.jpg binary +*.svg text +*.pdf binary +*.bmp binary +*.zip binary +*.midi binary +*.mp3 binary diff --git a/79040-0.txt b/79040-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e92e2e2 --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7158 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79040 *** + + + + + [Illustration: “THEY HAD COME UP TO THE HEADLAND, WHEREFROM THEY + COULD OVERLOOK THE STRANGE HAVEN INTO WHICH DESTINY HAD CAST THEM”] + + + + + KRONSTADT + + BEING THE STORY OF MARIAN BEST + AND OF PAUL ZASSULIC, HER LOVER, + TOGETHER WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF + THE RUSSIAN FORTRESS OF KRONSTADT, + AND OF THOSE WHO WOULD + HAVE BETRAYED IT + + BY + MAX PEMBERTON + _Author of “A Puritan’s Wife,” “The Sea Wolves,” + “The Iron Pirate,” “The Impregnable City,” etc._ + + With a Map, and 8 Full-Page Illustrations by A. Forestier + + _TENTH THOUSAND_ + + + + + CASSELL and COMPANY, Limited + London, Paris, New York & Melbourne + 1898 + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + + + + [COPYRIGHT] + + First Edition _April_ 1898. + Reprinted _April_ 1898, May 1898. + + + + + [DEDICATION] + + To My Wife. + + + + + CONTENTS. + + Prologue + Chapter I. The Masquerade upon the Ice + Chapter II. “A Spy within the Gate” + Chapter III. At the coming of the Light + Chapter IV. Lover and Judge + Chapter V. Foreboding + Chapter VI. The Honour of Paul Zassulic + Chapter VII. Paul bears Witness + Chapter VIII. After Forty Days + Chapter IX. Out of the Darkness + Chapter X. Temptation + Chapter XI. The Beginning of the Flight + Chapter XII. The Citadel Awakes + Chapter XIII. At the Zenith of the Night + Chapter XIV. The Terrible Night + Chapter XV. Upon the Nameless Island + Chapter XVI. Alone + Chapter XVII. Forsaken of All + Chapter XVIII. A Strange Figure on the Shore + Chapter XIX. The Quest of the Woman + Chapter XX. The Ship of the Golden Cross + Chapter XXI. Acheron of the Waters + Chapter XXII. Prisoner of Love + Chapter XXIII. The Unforeseen + Chapter XXIV. Toward the Light + Chapter XXV. The Word of Tolma + Chapter XXVI. The Evening of the Second Day + Chapter XXVII. At Midnight + + + + + LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. + +“They had come up to the Headland, wherefrom they could overlook the +strange Haven into which destiny had cast them” + +Sketch Map of Kronstadt and its Surroundings + +“Conspicuous upon the Field of the Frozen Sea stood the Palace of Ice” + +“But Marian did not hear him. She had Fallen in a Swoon” + +“Kronstadt herself Stood Silhouetted as an Island of Rock and +Pinnacles” + +“She bounded forward into the heart of the Breakers” + +“The Procession advanced slowly” + +“On toward the Sea he bore her” + +“Silently, determinedly, they fell upon the fugitive, and threw him to +the ground” + + + + + [Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF KRONSTADT AND ITS SURROUNDINGS.] + + + + + KRONSTADT. + + PROLOGUE. + +Someone cried out that the flashing light we saw upon the far +horizon was Tollboken itself, and at this we left the quarter-deck and +hurried to the bows of the ship. Even the invalid clergyman, who had +not been more than an hour at the tea table, came panting up the +companion and stood with us while the beacon magnified and gained +majesty, and other lights shone over the vista of the waters, and the +black line of the island fortress took shape as some terrible +mausoleum of the sea. We had made Kronstadt at last--the Kronstadt of +my dreams. While others turned the pages of their guide-books, while +some were ready with history and some with anecdote, I gazed entranced +as the mighty citadel shaped itself against the lurid canopy of cloud +which hung in the eastern sky, and all the outward power and sullen +magnificence were revealed to me. I stood at the gate of Russia +indeed, at the impregnable gate, which the summons of war will never +open. The exclamations of wonder uttered by my companions seemed the +lispings of credulous children. The chatter of the tourist was like a +horrid discord in the temple of majestic silence. I had the wish to be +apart from my fellows, to stand in some place of solitude and offer +the worship of the imagination at the altar where I had worshipped in +spirit so many months. + +A Russian stood at my side, a young officer of artillery, who spoke +English with some fluency. He had found our pleasure yacht at +Copenhagen, and had taken passage with us to the island of Kronstadt, +where his duty lay. We had found him a pleasant companion--a man who +gave his laughter no holiday. But when the shores of the gulf began to +draw in toward one another, and the lights of the great citadel +flashed upon the horizon, I observed that the Russian was silent. Awe +of his own home possessed him. He leaned heavily upon the bulwarks of +the yacht, and had no eyes but for the ramparts and bastions before +him. When I spoke to him he came down from some high place of the +imagination to answer me; moments of time passed before he realised +that he stood upon the deck of a ship, and that gaping tourists were +his companions. + +“Forgive me,” he said, while he watched the group contemptuously. “You +asked me----?” + +“If those two lights to the right of Tollboken are the lights of +Menzikoff?” + +The question interested him, and after a word of surprise that I knew +the name of the harbour fort, he began to explain many things to me. + +“Yes,” he said, “that is Menzikoff, though the lights are not the +lights of the fort but of the harbour gates. The seven-fathom channel +is there, and that flashing light, still more to the right, is the +lantern upon the fort of Kronslott. Away a little to the south is Fort +Paul, and that battery which crosses its fire is Battery 3. You see +how well we protect the channel, which is no more than three hundred +yards wide, though covered by a hundred guns.” + +I asked him how long the island was, questioning at the same time the +accuracy of the statement that the southern channel was so narrow. + +“I should have given it a breadth of at least a mile, but of course +there are shallows.” + +“Exactly; the Oranienbaum spit runs out as far as Kronslott itself. It +is a spur of sand creating shallows--another barrier which nature has +put between Russia and her enemies. Though I am a Russian, and my word +may be the word of prejudice, I say that there is not in all the world +another citadel such as this; there is not one stamped out of the +earth so clearly, a work of God unmistakable, for the defence of an +empire. Observe the great bay into which we are sailing. It is in the +shape of a V; the mouth turned toward the Baltic, the apex toward our +capital. Kronstadt itself is also V-shaped, but the mouth of the +letter is now turned toward Petersburg, the apex toward the open sea. +Observe this clearly and you will see how the island, fitting into the +neck of the gulf, becomes a vast and natural wedge which foreign ships +may never pass. If they come by the north channel, there is the great +boom of granite which a hundred navies could not destroy. If they +attack us by the south channel, there are the guns of all the forts, a +tremendous armament, which would crumble cities to the dust. No, my +friend, you may search all seas and you will never find another +citadel like this. She is invincible, the terrible gate of my country. +We call her the tomb of spies, for no spy has betrayed her or ever +will betray her. She stands for all that is dear to us--our liberty +and our freedom. Her secrets are entombed in a heart of granite. He +who seeks for them walks with Death for his guide.” + +He turned upon his heel and left me to wonder as much at his eloquence +as at his earnestness. I had supposed him to be a mere lieutenant of +artillery doing his duty soberly and with no concern for the romance +of war. But it has been my good fortune since that day to meet many of +those who serve the fortress of Kronstadt, and I have found the same +love of the citadel, the same pride in its power influencing them all. +To them it is more than the mistress of the Gulf of Finland, it is the +temple of their country’s freedom, the arsenal of God’s weapons, a +barrier given of the Eternal for the safety of their kingdom. When it +shall fall the empire must fall with it. But that day will be the +great, the dreadful day. + +It was almost dark when our yacht came abreast the eastern end of the +island, where the lieutenant took leave of us. We seemed at this time +to be hemmed in by forts and batteries and by the tremendous walls +which protect the town and harbours; lights flashed from every side, +the lights of war-ships, the lights of barracks, the red and white and +green lanterns of the bastions. I thought as I watched the lieutenant +rowing away to the service he loved so well, that he had spoken truly +when he named Death as the comrade of him who would snatch the secrets +of this mighty fortress. Death indeed; or if not death, then the +terror worse than death, the sunless labour of the mines, the eternal +solitude, the groans and sufferings of the desolate land. + +To write a story of this fortress, and of certain people named in its +recent history, I had come to Russia. No books or plans could help me +to measure the achievements or the courage of those I was to speak +about. I must see with my own eyes the things which they had seen, +must stand where they had stood. As far as it lay in my power, I must +realise the grandeur and the greatness of that sanctuary of war which +they had invaded so resolutely; must hear the tramp of armed men and +the bugle’s blast where they had heard them. In that spirit I left my +yacht and entered the city which the Russian had called the tomb of +spies. And I thought as I went of Marian Best, the Woman of Kronstadt, +of her love and of her sorrows.* + + +* The author would wish it to be clearly understood that the +characters in this book are entirely fictional. + + + + + CHAPTER I. + THE MASQUERADE UPON THE ICE. + +Though the great bell of Kronstadt had struck the hour of nine and +the bugles had called “lights out” in the barracks of the town, there +was no perceptible curb upon the merriment of those who kept the +carnival of the sea. For Kronstadt was ice-bound, and the New Year, +bringing an end to the stress and storm of the earlier winter, had +sealed the waves with the seal of the welcome frost. Where ships +sailed a month ago, the merry skaters now ventured. Far out from the +great citadel the gulf was still and frozen. No longer was the call of +the pilot heard or the voice of the seaman crying to his men. The +whirr of skate and sledge, the music of artillery bands, the prattle +of pretty women, had taken their place. But here and there vast fires +blazing upon the ice drew the busy throngs to the door of tent or +wooden theatre. The light of many torches made golden rings upon the +fields of glistening snow. Old and young, generals and ensigns, +rothmisters and feldwebels, hurried to the joy of the whirling life. +As prisoners from the cells of solitude and silence they rushed from +their island home to the sea, which frost had stilled and the ice made +war upon. + +Conspicuous upon the field of the frozen sea, for it was built in the +ring of light shed by the beacons of Menzikoff, stood the palace of +ice, which the officers of the garrison had set up as the monument of +a winter so generous. Ready hands had hewn blocks from the shallower +waters of the military harbour; stout arms had dragged the glistening +boulders and piled them up for the foundations of the temple of the +frost. Soon a vast building arose, a tabernacle of shimmering and +transparent whiteness, into which cunning engineers carried wires for +the electric light, while zealous corporals brought the flaming eagles +of their regiments, and laughing girls bedecked the temple with +draperies of silk and satin. The enduring frost looked upon the work +and found it to be good. A keener breath of winter breathed strength +upon the palace and made it a perfect whole. Its builders spoke of +masquerade and carnival. Generals shook their heads but did not +refuse. The 29th of January in the year 1895 brought the proposal to +maturity, and all social Kronstadt came out that night to offer the +incense of laughter at the shrine. Old and young, poor and rich +hastened to enjoy an opportunity so rare. + + [Illustration: “CONSPICUOUS UPON THE FIELD OF THE FROZEN SEA STOOD + THE PALACE OF ICE”] + +While the palace within shone with countless lights, which gave a +glittering radiance to the uniforms of gold and white and green, the +dark field of the ice without was vantage ground for the townspeople +and sailors weary of waiting for an open sea. Frenchmen, Dutchmen, +Swedes, but English outnumbering all, they stood shivering in the icy +blast, or warming themselves at the great fires, or roaring with +laughter at the jests and the antics of the masqueraders. For them the +sup of vodki must suffice; no frothing champagne, no warmth of fur or +dance, no occupation of looking love gave them armour against the +cold. But they were critics always, and being critics, they spoke +their minds and were not afraid. Half an hour had not passed before +they had a name for every prominent person in the palace. The fat +general perspiring in an effort of agility, the gorgeous cuirassiers +of the Guard in their dazzling uniforms of white and blue--“flour +mills,” the English sailors called them, and qualified the noun; the +mincing cornets of cavalry; the three-starred colonels of artillery +groping for the honours of the clown--as each made the tour of the +frozen ballroom and came to clearer view of the uninvited, his new +name was roared lustily by the volleyed voices of the seamen. + +“Higher up, spangled shanks--lift ’em up!” bawled the bullet-headed +skipper of a trading steamer as an exceedingly stout lady came +shuffling into view. “There ain’t no bally ’oop in Roosher as you’re +a-going to jump through, marm.” + +“Leave the lady be, Bill,” retorted his mate. “’Tain’t often as you +see a fine growed thing like that--at her age too! You ain’t got no +manners. If she weighs more than twenty stun, I’m a nigger!” + +“She shall pose for Venus!” said a merry little Frenchman; but a +German protested-- + +“Blitzen! it is her harvest time. In ze summer der zun will melt her +down!” + +“Why, here’s little ‘Sixpence-a-box,’” chimed in a burly engineer as a +mannikin in the green uniform of an artillery officer came prancing +by. “‘Sixpence-a-box’ along with the ‘Tower of Babel’!” + +“He’ll want a ladder to hail her, I guess!” cried an able seaman who +surveyed the tall lady in question with the expression of one who +could not take in the whole of her height and magnificence at a +glance. “You’d have to take three reefs in that lot, Bill, before you +could lay your course for ’Ampstead ’Eath on a Sunday!” + +“Two to one St. Frusquin!” roared the purser of a small passenger +steamer when a lank and lean _stabcapitaine_ came galloping round with +feet lifted high as though he must crush the earth beneath him. “I’m +damned if he don’t fancy he’s running for a cup.” + +“I’ll be thinking he’s took with the spasms,” exclaimed the red and +shaggy-haired mate of a Scotch trading vessel. + +“Which shows your ignorance, Jack,” cried the engineer. “Don’t you +know a valtz when you sees one? Look at him cuddling Miss +‘Fore-and-aft’! It don’t want a book to tell you that she likes it +neither.” + +“I hear as cuddling’s come in again with the quick valtz,” said the +purser. “They’ve give up walking round one another like hands round a +capstan now. Maybe the weather’s too cold.” + +A few ejaculations of approval greeted the surmise, one of the most +melancholy among the company hazarding the opinion that the infernal +regions were already “froze up”; but thereafter the conversation began +to dribble away and was almost run out when a shout from the Frenchman +awoke all to attention, and a new buzz of talk was born of the passing +of a dancer whose steps were followed with pleasure and approval by +every eye in the group of the uninvited. + +“La voici! la belle Anglaise! la voici! Comme elle sait danser la +polka!” + +“That’s her right enough,” exclaimed the bullet-headed skipper; “and +ain’t she a beauty afore the wind. By gosh! I’d pay off with her +myself, I’m damned if I wouldn’t! See how she goes about--and sudden +too! It wants a head for that, mates, if so be as you’ve not been +brought up to it.” + +“She’s a daisy!” exclaimed the purser. “I told you so yesterday when +she was out at Fort Paul with ‘Sixpence-a-box.’ Look at the way she +carries her canvas! There’s style about that, mates, as anyone can +see.” + +“And look at the way her hair is wove! Oh, I tell you she’s a beauty!” + +“If you lofe her, you lofe little,” said the German, nettled at the +unanimity of the admiration. + +“Little it is for me, by thunder!” cried the skipper. “I don’t want a +wife, as I’ve got to walk round every morning to see if any of her is +missing. Give me the English miss, and the devil take all fat +Rooshians!” + +The argument waxed hot, but _la belle Anglaise_ skated on unconscious +of it. She was a brown-haired girl whose bright eyes and white skin +had cheated Time so that he forgot the day of her birth, which was +twenty-five years ago, and had come to believe her still in the teens. +A slightly-built, fragile creature, whose face was ever changing and +rarely carried the same expression; a creature of quick impulses and +unresting gaiety, whose words cost her nothing, whose gesture was the +gesture of a Frenchwoman. They called her “La Petite” in the fortress, +where she had won much love and many friends--none more zealous than +the deputy-governor, General Stefanovitch, who painted his eye-brows +and wore stays. He had followed her like a dog this night of carnival, +and she repaid him generously with many a word of compliment whispered +into his willing ear and many a press upon a hand which, younger men +said, should have been already paralysed. For they begrudged him _la +belle Anglaise_. There was no man in all that company of glittering +masqueraders who was not the happier for her word or the message of +her eyes. And one, at least, there had given her the best offering an +honest man can give--the offering of his love. + +He skated with her now, and had earned already from an approving +audience the name of the “Green-baize-tree.” A tall flaxen-haired man, +for whose fine figure the neat uniform of the artillery betrayed close +friendship, he had something of the manner of the more civilised West; +and had learnt in Paris and London, as many of his brothers had not, +the elements of those polite arts which win upon a woman’s favour. For +the moment he applied such arts to the purpose of pleasing his +partner, _la belle Anglaise_; and it was plain to be seen that he had +eyes only for her. In and out of the glittering throng they skated, a +harmony of gold and green, and soft furs and azure stuffs lifting to +the breeze like wings of gauze. But while the man looked ever into the +girl’s face, she, in turn, was spellbound by the trance of sensuous +music; and being carried from the world about her to a kingdom of her +imagination, she forgot all else and abandoned herself to the exalting +rhythm of the dance. Not until the last chord was a lingering harmony +upon the air did she so much as remember that a man’s arm was close +about her waist, or that his head was bent down toward her until his +lips almost kissed her ear. + +“You suffocate me,” she said, drawing back from his embrace and +fanning herself vigorously. “Am I so very like a rifle, Captain Paul? +Really, I thought you were going to present arms with me.” + +The great artilleryman began to pull his moustache and to look +foolish. + +“I thought you might fall,” he stammered. “It is very slippery, +Mademoiselle Marian. Besides, when I come to think of it, you are very +like a rifle--your bullets wound and your eyes are bayonets!” + +She took his arm and they walked with the others; the whole company +being drawn by a subtle law of gravitation to the refreshment-room, +where the corks popped, and silk petticoats rustled, and laughter +struck many chords, and champagne frothed in silver goblets. The touch +of her little gloved hand was like the caress of a rose; she seemed so +slight and fair and fragile that he had the impulse to crush her in +his strong arms and make her a part of his being. + +“You repent?” he asked her in a low voice, while he handed her a cup +of boiling tea. + +“I?--of what?” + +“Of many things--of all the dances you have not given me!” + +She laughed lightly, and turned to hear the complaints of an ensign +who wished to tell her that she had promised him the next dance; but +had not the courage to do anything but devour her with his eyes. When +she had sent the boy away, and had drunk her tea, she answered her +companion. + +“Repentance is a virtue,” she said, “but to repent you must sin. The +moral is obvious. I am going to dance with the ensign, and remember +the time when I was fifteen, and wrote my own romances. Have you ever +made heroes of your boy friends, Captain Paul? Oh, the bitterness of +it, when the divinity of your youth goes through the bankruptcy court, +or a judge reads his ‘Ode to the Chorus Girl,’ with emphasis. But of +course you don’t understand--how should you? It is only in England +that a man--a certain sort of man--writes poetry because he is in +love. You will come to that state of civilisation by-and-bye. +Meanwhile you are barbarians, and would be impossible if you could not +dance so beautifully upon skates. When I leave you I shall write a +book dividing you into two heads----” + +Captain Paul, who understood little beyond the fact that she was to +dance with the ensign, interrupted her with a laugh which rang out +like the note of a bell. + +“Into two heads? Moi! ça, c’est bien! I shall have four eyes to watch +you while you dance. After that there are no more numbers. It is one +long waltz and I am your partner, hein?” + +He twirled his moustache fiercely, seeming to watch every movement of +her eyes or hand; but when she was about to answer him, a voice at her +elbow jarred upon their privacy and stilled her laughter. It was the +voice of Mademoiselle Varia, the General’s daughter--the eldest of the +two children whom _la belle Anglaise_ had come to Russia to teach--and +at her side stood her yellow-haired sister Rina. + +“Ma’mselle, it is time to walk abroad.” + +“Ma’mselle, eleven does beat upon the clock.” + +Sixteen years and fifteen were the ages of the children, but their +English was not yet six months old and was unweaned from the jargon of +polyglot phrase inseparable from civilised Russian speech. They stood +now like two waxen figures beside their governess, whose art was +incapable of disguising the coldness of her welcome or her little love +for their company. She answered shortly and almost with irritation, +suffering Captain Paul to lead her back to the great ballroom; but +thither the intruders followed, and were not to be put off. + +“Ma’mselle, veux-tu partir?” + +“Ma’mselle, nous sommes parfaitement prêtes.” + +Mademoiselle looked over her shoulder and said, “In a moment, +children.” Then she made a doleful grimace. + +“I had forgotten ‘the Dolls,’” she said. “Does not it speak well for +your dance that I should forget them?” + +“But you are not going?” + +“Indeed and I am. Eleven o’clock is my curfew to-night. I am like the +little criminal who turned from his dark deed when he remembered that +the clock used to strike eleven in his mother’s house. You haven’t +read Dickens, equally of course.” + +Captain Paul made a gesture of impatience. “Why do you torture me? why +do you not ask me to walk with you?” he asked eagerly; “you know that +I am ready.” + +“Who am I to say to you, ‘Walk,’ and you will walk. Besides, you have +partners.” + +“Partners--I--partners when you are in the room! To the devil----!” + +He stopped abruptly, biting his moustache and rocking upon his heels. +But she turned from him with a gesture of one inexpressibly shocked, +and ran to the room where thicker furs awaited her, and old Ivan with +the lantern, and “the Dolls,” who still held each other’s hand and +seemed to say, “We are the good children from the fairy book.” She was +not at all surprised when, presently, she found him waiting for her at +the door of the palace; nor did she protest as he expected. + +“I am forgiven?” he asked. + +“I will tell you to-morrow?” she said. + +“You are glad it is not the General who walks with you?” + +“Gladness is a large emotion. Say that I am content.” + +“Only content?” + +“Why ‘only’? Is content so common an experience?” + +The man sighed, but pressed the arm which he held, and drew her closer +to him. They had crossed the ice which lay between the harbour and the +temple of the carnival, and had entered the town of barrack and +rampart and bastion. Though Kronstadt slept, her robe of war was still +upon her; the shadows upon her pavements were the shadows of her +mighty guns; the tramp of sentries, the sign and countersign, were her +music. Marian Best never entered that citadel of steel and granite +without a little shudder of indefinable fear. Captain Paul felt the +tremor upon her arm now, and it helped to an anxious sympathy. + +“You are cold,” he said; “then wait a moment and I will wrap you in my +cloak.” + +“And leave yourself a target for the east wind? No, I am not cold, but +I fear the shadows!” + +“They fall upon us both,” said the man; “we share them as we shared +the bright lights just now. Would that we might share them always, +Mademoiselle Marian, the light and the dark, the sorrow and the joy!” + +The girl tossed her pretty curls from her forehead and laughed up at +him. + +“Is it not too cold to talk nonsense?” she asked. “I thought poets +waited for the spring.” + +He took advantage of her words, for the lantern-bearer appeared now +like a star upon the road before them, and “the Dolls” were hand in +hand at old Ivan’s heels. + +“But I cannot wait,” he said earnestly, while he felt for her fingers +and tried to lock his own in them. “It is always spring when you are +at my side; it is always winter when the night takes you away from me. +Why do I read your English books all day? Is it not that I may find +words to speak to you? But I have no words--I have nothing but myself, +myself and my poverty, and my love for you. Some day, perhaps, it will +be different. Some day I shall be able to come to you and to say, ‘I +am no longer Paul Zassulic, of the Artillery, but Paul of Tolma, the +master of many and the servant of none but the Czar.’ I dare not think +that such a day is near--the gifts of life come too often in the +autumn of our years. But I shall be rich always while I possess my +love for you, Marian; you cannot rob me of that; you cannot make me +love you less; there is no one in the world who can take my riches +from me!” + +They had come up in their walk to the curtain of the bastion which +defended General Stefanovitch’s house, and therefrom could look down +upon the town, now darkened, yet showing in the moon’s rays a forest +of spires and turrets and the gloomy shapes of fort and barracks. Away +upon the ice a great blaze of light, focussed by the translucent walls +of the palace, marked the scene of carnival. Faint strains of music, +the note of horns, and the rolling of drums, came up to them for a +memory of their dance and of their pleasure. Some instinct held them +to the place, and they stood together with quickening hearts and muted +lips, the man trembling with a strange excitement, the girl dumb +because the word she had long awaited was now spoken. It was no secret +to her that Paul Zassulic loved her; it was no reproach to her, she +thought, that she had no answer for him. While she had been content in +his friendship and devotion, her busy life had forbidden that she +should reckon with herself or examine her own heart to see if any +treasure of an answering love were locked therein. She was dumb +because no certainty of self came to assist her; she would not wound, +yet knew not if she could heal. A great seriousness possessed her, a +realisation that such moments were supreme in every life. She had few +friends in all the world. The thought that this friend might be taken +from her was bitter. + +“Paul,” she said, when a sudden movement of his snapped the seal upon +her lips, “Paul, what shall I say to you--you who have been my friend, +who will be my friend always? Shall I tell you that I have done wrong +to listen to you? No, indeed, for I owe you that--I owe you more than +I can ever repay, a thousand times. Perhaps I am not like other women. +When I ask myself if I love, I cannot answer--I do not know what love +is. I am happy because you are my friend. I welcome the days which +bring you to me. But a wife should be able to say more than that. Some +day, perhaps, I shall know all. When that day comes I will not fear to +speak. I will answer as you wish. I will tell you that I have learned +to love you.” + +It was not the answer that he wished; but the word that he might ever +count himself her friend, and that she was happy when he was with her, +made his pulse leap, and he drew her towards him again, kissing her +upon the forehead many times and refusing to release her from his +strong embrace. + +“God bless you, little Marian! God bless you for the promise!” he +said. + +“It was only a promise, Paul,” she answered. “I cannot give you +more--I cannot lie to you, or how should I be worthy of your +friendship?” + +“There is no woman more worthy in all the world!” + +A voice from the ramparts brought them to a recollection of the hour +and the place. It was the voice of old Ivan, who wished to close the +gate of the enceinte, and at his call Marian broke swiftly from her +lover’s embrace and entered the fortress. But Captain Paul stood long +watching the lights in the Governor’s house. When he turned to go down +to the barracks he saw that carnival was done and the great palace in +darkness. + +“It is night now,” he said to himself, “but to-morrow the sun will +shine and I shall see her! She is to go with me to the batteries. I +shall show her everything, and that will take a long time. God bless +the little woman I love!” + +But Marian herself knelt by her bed, and heavy tears gathered in her +eyes. + +“If he knew!” she cried bitterly, “if he knew!” + + + + + CHAPTER II. + “A SPY WITHIN THE GATE.” + +General Stefanovitch, the deputy-governor of Kronstadt, entered his +library every morning at half-past eight precisely that he might kiss +his daughters upon the cheek and wish their governess “good-day.” The +years brought no variation of the ceremony; the same words were +spoken, the same compliments passed. When the General had unusual +leisure, he devoted some moments of it to a measured flirtation with +the young lady who taught his children. When he had no leisure, he +gave her a haunting leer or kissed the tips of his fingers to her if +his daughters were not looking. + +“Bon jour, Varia.” + +“Bon jour, cher papa.” + +“Et tu, Rina?” + +“Bien, cher papa.” + +Marian Best, the General’s governess in the year 1895, always said +that when the old soldier laughed the top of his head threatened to +come off like the half of an egg. But this alarming effect was rather +the result of his weakness for painted eyebrows than of any deficiency +of head or skull. Sixty years of life had not satisfied his vanity. A +glance from a woman’s eyes could still release the flow of compliment +and childish affectation. Marian said that he seemed at such moments +to be treading upon hot plates. His shrivelled body swelled until his +close-laced stays were strained to bursting point; he bowed +continually, and laid upon his breast a hand blue and long and almost +fleshless. She dreaded those mornings when he was not busy; it was a +relief to her when she heard his sword clanging in the stone passage +of the house or saw old Ivan running for his great boots. + +“Ah, you must learn our language,” he would say often; “you must learn +the verb ‘to lofe.’ Some day we will have the lesson by ourselves, +mademoiselle. You shall repeat the little word after me until you are +perfect. Ho, ho, ho! Will you not have me for your master, Meess Best? +Shall I not teach well, hein?” + +“Cher papa, qu’est-ce que tu dis à mademoiselle?” + +“Rien, ma chère, rien du tout.” + +Sometimes, when “the Dolls” sat staring with inquiring eyes at his +amatory contortions or strange pursuits of nimbleness, he would +entertain for them anything but a father’s love. He could not caper as +he would with the children for his audience. The snatched whisper or +stolen leer was not satisfying. He tasted the dry bones of flirtation +when he was hungering for the baked meats. It was difficult to believe +that this perfumed old dandy, whose head was like a shining ball of +mahogany, and whose eyebrows were an uncertain quantity, was the +master of Kronstadt and of her garrison, the sentinel of the mighty +Russian Empire, the keeper of the gate and of the freedom of millions. +Yet Russia knew no more faithful servant; there was no more devoted +soldier of the Czar in all the kingdom; no man whose pride in the +citadel of the gate was so enduring and ever-present. General +Stefanovitch lived for his work; the gaunt and bare Governor’s house +upon the north shore of the island was a palace for him; he desired no +other gardens but the garden of fort and bastion, of shallowing sea +and impassable rampart. His world lay in that calcareous, barren +island which God had set in the Gulf of Finland for the protection of +Russia. His vanities, his personal “scenery and effects,” as Marian +Best described them, were trifles of his leisure. He forgot them in an +instant when Kronstadt was named. She was all to him--the mighty +tablet upon which his life’s work was recorded. + +Thus it befell that the moments when he could employ himself with +amatory recreations were few. The half of an hour with his children in +the morning, a few words to them at night, sufficed for the proper +performance of the domestic _rôle_. At other times he was the +martinet, the hundred-eyed guardian of the gate, the precise soldier +who ruled with an ungloved hand of iron. Men feared his look; the +dungeons of the fortress echoed with the groans of those upon whom the +lash of his displeasure had fallen; the lightest breath of his +suspicion, blowing upon any who served him, withered up the blossoms +of that man’s fortune. They saw he was a just man, but one who knew +not forgiveness. + +Nine o’clock in the morning was the hour which found the General at +his writing-desk in the private cabinet of the Governor’s house. +Neither fast nor feast gave grace to those who awaited him. He would +enter the room as the clock struck; the echoes of the bell would not +have died away before the grim Colonel Bonzo, the second in command, +would have saluted and laid the report before him. Upon the morning +which followed carnival, the young officers, who had not been to bed, +declared his punctuality immoral. No rose gathered at the hour of the +dew was fresher than Nikolai Stefanovitch when he saluted the Colonel +as the clock struck nine. Painted, powdered, prim--he bowed to those +who awaited him with the inflexible courtesy of an automaton. The eyes +which had just beamed upon Marian Best, as they had beamed upon eight +governesses during the past five years, were now cold and steely and +devouring. A great silence fell upon those in the ante-room when he +passed through. Even the iron-framed Bonzo stiffened at his approach. + +“Good morning, Colonel. You have the papers?” + +“Here, my General.” + +General Stefanovitch fixed his eyeglass and began to peruse the bulky +document. He had read but a few lines when a subdued exclamation and a +shuffling of feet again drew his attention to his subordinate. Such a +breach of the discipline of silence was not to be endured; a sudden +flight of the General’s eyebrows, which seemed to run up to the top of +his head, marked his displeasure and impatience. + +“You spoke, Colonel?” he asked. + +“I wished to speak, my General.” + +“Now, when I read the despatches?” + +“If you please, my General.” + +General Stefanovitch let his glass fall and deliberately rolled up the +report. Such an interruption had not been known during the twenty +years he had spent at Kronstadt. It remained for Bonzo to justify +himself. + +“Well, Colonel?” + +“It is this, my General: the plan of Battery No. 3 was put into the +hands of the English Government a week ago.” + +Colonel Bonzo stood like a statue when the words were spoken. The +terrible news had been the burden of his night; he had heard it, and +yet twelve hours had passed before he had dared to speak. Now the deed +was done and the blow would fall--the blow of anger, of recrimination, +it might be of punishment. + +Five minutes, it may be, passed before General Stefanovitch found his +tongue. During that time he seemed outwardly to be unconscious of the +place or the word, but in reality his mind was seeking to and fro for +the first link of the chain which reason must forge for him. To +Bonzo’s surprise no martinet answered him. The voice was low and in +command; he did not speak in anger. + +“Where does this news come from?” + +“By telegram last night--from the Prince.” + +“How is it that I did not hear of this before?” + +Bonzo half raised his hands as though in a gesture of excuse. + +“There was carnival upon the ice, my General.” + +“Yes----?” + +“And when I returned at midnight, and you were still down there, I did +not think you would wish it.” + +He stood stammering and stuttering, but the other, awakened by all the +impulses of duty, smote the table with his fist until the very glass +in the windows of the room was shaken. + +“Not wish it?--I--whose honour is at stake. By heaven, Colonel Bonzo, +what do you mean?” + +The Colonel’s heart quaked, but he was glad that the moment had come. +He had waited for this, and now he took courage. + +“I mean, my General, that we have first to ascertain if the plan of +Battery 3, which the English Government is said to possess, is the +correct plan or no. These English would give much for the secret of +Kronstadt. Is it not possible that a part of the ten thousand pounds +they offer to him who shall help them has gone into the pocket of an +impostor? I say that it is possible. I say that it is the only +explication. The Prince is deceived; the plan is a forgery. We shall +laugh in our sleeves by-and-bye, and sell the people in London more +secrets. It will keep their tongues still and help us to hang the +spies. Oh! be assured, my General, if there is any man in the city who +has betrayed us, many hours shall not pass before we lay our hands +upon him.” + +The Colonel spoke with great earnestness; there was a light of anger +and of determination in his eyes; his great hands trembled with his +desire to be acting. Like his master, the island fortress was to him a +sacred citadel; his life, his work lay there; his honour was offered +upon that altar of granite and of steel. The two men had laboured side +by side for twenty years; they were more than friends, they were +brothers in a great and insurpassable trust. And now a common peril +was before them both. They could not wholly realise it; they dare not +tell themselves that a spy was within the gate; they were ready to be +deceived if it were only for a day. + +“I was a fool not to think of it at the first,” said Stefanovitch, +taking heart as the other spoke. “If they have a plan of Battery 3 in +London, it is not our plan. I will tell the Prince so to-day. He +should not have been deceived like that. He should not charge the +fidelity of those who have grown old in this service. We will see to +it that he is answered, Bonzo. You shall make it your business to draw +up our case, if that be necessary. Why does he not suggest at the same +time that these English have a plan of my house----” + +“Or of heaven?” said the Colonel bluntly. “They are as likely to get +it as the drawings of Battery 3. And why of Battery 3, my General? Why +not of Fort Peter, of Alexander, of Menzikoff? They have sought these +things long enough. Why should one be taken and the other left? Are +they children at Petersburg that they believe any tale which is told +them in London? Do they think that we sleep while spies are busy on +our ramparts? Oh, it is a jest, Nikolai, a jest, and we should be the +first to laugh at it.” + +Colonel Bonzo’s laugh had grown rusted from long disuse, so that when +he asked help of it the answer was loud and grating like the bark of a +dog. His earnestness had led him to address Stefanovitch in the +familiar style which the men assumed when no janissaries of office +overheard them, and this familiarity was not resented. + +“You say well,” replied the General, fixing his glass for the first +time since he had heard the tidings; “the Prince jests with us and we +shall answer him with another jest; it will be a list of all the +people who have entered Battery 3 since it was built. He shall then +tell us who is the spy, and we shall know what to do. Eh, Colonel, we +shall know what to do? Then let Captain Paul come to me.” + +Paul Zassulic had gone to bed at four o’clock in the morning. During +two short hours he had dreamed of Marian Best--of a garden of eternal +summer of which she was mistress. But when six o’clock struck and +twenty trumpets sounded the reveille from the ramparts, he had dragged +himself wearily from his couch and turned gloomily to his monotonous +work in the fortress. A roseate flush of the lagging sun which fell +upon the field of the ice as a die of crimson and of gold, awakened +him at last from his depression. A crisp wind of morning gave colour +to his face; the keen air was as a tonic to his veins. When he stood +up to salute his chief there was the seal of health upon his cheeks, +the light of untroubled youth in his eyes. + +“You sent for me, my General?” + +Stefanovitch, who loved Paul as a son, surveyed him critically through +the searching eyeglass before he answered. + +“Certainly, Captain, I sent for you. You have heard the news?” + +“The news, General?” + +“As I say, the news--that they have the plan of Battery 3 in London, +sold to them by someone who knows it as you know it or as I know it.” + +Stefanovitch spoke with assumed unconcern, as though the matter were +the most trifling he could mention. It was his habit to avoid any +outward display of anger; his glance was ever more feared than his +word. Paul knew this habit well; he dreaded it as a criminal may dread +the jests of his judge. + +“They have the plan of Battery 3 in London, General! Oh, but that is a +lie!” he cried, looking from one to the other with dazed eyes and +questioning glance; “it is a lie, I say, and I will tell them so! They +cannot have the plan; it is impossible. Who should have given it to +them? Who is there in Kronstadt who would sell his country’s secrets? +Who is there that could sell them? You know that it is not true, my +General. Lord God! that they should bring such a charge against me!” + +Moment by moment he began to realise the gravity of the unspoken +accusation. Sweat stood upon his forehead, tears welled up in his +eyes. He had worked so unselfishly to make himself a good servant of +Kronstadt that this overwhelming blow seemed to strike at the heart of +his honour and his life. They had implied that he was unworthy of the +trust--he, Paul Zassulic, who would have died willingly if the citadel +had asked his life of him. They could put no greater affront upon him. + +“It is a lie!” he continued to repeat, while Nikolai Stefanovitch +watched him approvingly, and old Bonzo’s grey eyes twinkled cunningly; +“it is a monstrous lie, General! No one has entered the fort but those +who have work there; I will swear to it upon the Holy Gospel. If you +doubt me, send for Seroff Ossinksy--he can tell you; he will laugh at +the story as I would laugh at it were my honour not at stake. Oh, they +cannot have the plan in London--you know that they cannot.” + +He appealed to them pitifully, looking from one to the other +questioningly, but he read nothing in their faces, neither of sympathy +nor of reassurance. Bonzo wore, as ever, the changeless mask of iron +severity; Stefanovitch lolled back in his chair and stared at the +speaker as he would have stared at some defaulter hurried to the +judgment. + +“I know nothing,” he said in answer to the earnest protestations, +“nothing at all beyond that which I am told by those in Petersburg. +They say that the plan of the fort has been sold to the English; you, +who were in command of the battery until a month ago, answer that it +is impossible, because no stranger has ever been permitted within the +enceinte. Is that so, Captain?” + +“I will swear it, General, and my successor will swear it too.” + +“You shall both swear it before the court which will investigate this +report. If your word be accepted, there is an end of the matter. For +my part I will tell you that I regard the story as ridiculous. The +plan which the English have bought is a forgery; there can be no doubt +of it. It rests upon us to convince the Prince of that, and to be +unresting in our vigilance. I need say no more, Captain; I am not here +to teach you your duty; the city is well served when she has servants +like Paul Zassulic.” + +Captain Paul opened his eyes. He had believed that they brought a +charge against him; he knew now that they did not. The burden of +suspicion was more than he could bear, and when it fell from his +shoulders, an impulse of gratitude and devotion came upon him. + +“Thank you, General,” he said simply. “I could ask nothing more than +your approval.” + +Stefanovitch dismissed him with a wave of the hand. He went from the +room gladly, and with the purpose to seek out his sergeant at once and +to question him. But before he had crossed the great courtyard of the +house, someone touched him upon the shoulder; and when he turned about +quickly he found that Bonzo had followed him from the room. + +“Ha! Colonel, you are going my way,” he cried. + +“I am going to the prison,” said the old soldier grimly. “It will be +full enough by-and-bye if there is anything in this news.” + +“But there cannot be anything, Colonel--I am ready to swear it upon +the Gospels. No one has entered the fort----” + +Bonzo shrugged his shoulders, his little eyes were screwed up until +they shone like the eyes of a ferret. + +“You say no one?” he asked. + +“Certainly. I would swear it to the Emperor.” + +“Do you forget that you had a visitor at the fort yesterday?” + +“Yesterday?” + +“I say so--the little Englishwoman, La Petite. What of her?” + +Captain Paul could not have stopped in his walk more abruptly if a +chasm had opened at his feet. + +“You mean Mademoiselle Marian, my Colonel?” + +“Certainly. Is she no one? Did you think so last night when you danced +with her for two hours, eh, my friend? Shall I tell her how soon you +forget the little lessons in gunnery? Shall I say that you are +prepared to swear to the Emperor that she is nobody, hein?” + +Captain Paul roared with laughter. + +“Sapristi!” he cried, “that I should forget Mademoiselle Marian, and +that you should remind me of her! Of course there is our spy. Why did +I not think of it before? Oh, this will amuse the General when I tell +him to-night. La Petite--who does not know which end you load a gun? +She has made the plans, there cannot be a doubt of it. We will tell +the people of Petersburg so. Jest for jest, n’est-ce pas, mon Colonel, +and ours a little more foolish than theirs. _La belle Anglaise_--that +I should forget her. Oh, quelle bêtise!” + +The humour of the idea seized upon him uncontrollably, and upon the +old soldier, so that they went down to their work laughing as lads at +play. When they separated at last before the doors of the church of +St. Vladimir, Captain Paul stood a moment to watch the other walking +toward the prison. Then, being quite alone, his face paled suddenly, +and he seemed about to reel against one of the pillars of the +cathedral. + +“My God!” he thought, “if the jest should be no jest!” + + * * * * * + +Old Bonzo, lumbering along the narrow streets of Kronstadt, was saying +to himself, “She is too innocent; she shall be watched--night and +day--the little Englishwoman.” + + + + + CHAPTER III. + AT THE COMING OF THE LIGHT. + +Marian Best opened her eyes dreamily, expecting to hear the boom of +the morning gun ringing in her ears. She saw that it must be six +o’clock of the day--time for her to think of “the Dolls” again, and of +all the uncoloured drudgery of her life. She had travelled far, in her +sleep, from the ice-bound fortress and the melancholy, prison-like +abode of Nikolai Stefanovitch; had sojourned awhile in the lanes and +orchards of her own Devonshire, there to gather flowers of her +affection and to kiss the lips of the child she loved. But when she +awoke, with a red glare of light playing in her eyes and the grip of +the frost to benumb her limbs, she came quickly from the garden of her +dreams and steeled herself to face the solitude and the gloom of her +island home. And she knew that the child, whose lips she had touched +in her sleep, was himself sleeping more than a thousand miles away, +and that between them lay the barrier of city and of sea--and of a +woman’s poverty. + +She was surprised at the first that her room was not in darkness, and +that she did not hear the voice of old Ivan asking if “Missa” would +“take a tea”; but anon the rustle of her silk skirt and the shape of +the great stove looming up in the ruddy light brought her to a +remembrance of the time and place, and she knew that she had dozed +before her fire at the hour of the General’s dinner. + +That was her moment of respite; the moment when she could shut herself +in her room and be mistress of her thoughts and enjoy that dominion of +self which no eye may share. When first she came to Kronstadt to teach +the General’s daughters those scraps of English which pass for culture +in Russia, she had welcomed this hour as the ultimate possibility of +her day; an hour when she could write to little Dick, her brother, and +remember the home she had left--the unforgotten voices and the harvest +time of love. As the months passed and the terrible winter fell upon +the land, and even the friendly sea below her windows was bound in the +chains of the frost, she began almost to be afraid of herself and of +the solitude. It may be that the work to which she had set her hand +could not fail to react upon her mind, and so to war against her +nerves that the creak of a door or the fall of a foot upon the stair +would bring her to piteous trembling and dread. The secret she guarded +so well was a heavy burden. Grim spectres followed it, haunting her, +or whispering words that seemed to still her heart and to bring cries +of fear to her lips. There were moments when a realisation of all she +had done, and would do, drove her to such depths of terror that her +reason seemed to be leaving her. At other moments she could call +herself a spy and laugh at the word. The living death of the mines, +the horrid sights and sounds of Russian prisons, were no more than +fairy tales to such a mind. She was only a woman, she said, and who +would harm her? She would tell them it was a jest, and they must +believe her. That pretty assumption of a child-like innocence, which +had befriended her often when she had cajoled Captain Paul and +obtained from him those secrets of the citadel for which her friends +in London were willing to pay so great a price, that innocence should +befriend her to the end. And the end was near now. She carried bound +about her own body, a very part of herself, as it were, the precious +sketches and maps and diaries for which she had laboured so earnestly. +She foresaw the day when the shadow of the living death would lie upon +her path no more; when an English home would harbour her and English +hands would shield her from peril, and the child she loved would be +ever near her. For his sake she would go on, for his sake self should +be forgotten with that new and sweetening impulse which the winter +months had brought to her. She dare not tell herself that such an +impulse was love for the man whose country she had betrayed and whose +honour she had played with. + +Many of these thoughts came to her in the moment of waking, when she +sat in her great chair and watched the fantastic shapes of light and +shadow; or listened to the moan and crash of the ice now mastered by +the warmth of later February and losing dominion over the sea. Her +room lay in the north wing of the Governor’s house, and was built out +upon the ramparts, so that when she pulled aside her curtain she +beheld a mighty moving field of shining floes, here decked with +hummocks which had the glitter of jewels, there broken into tiny bergs +and floating islands of snow; or again washed by the foaming waves +which cast the waters up in fountains of spray and displayed a hundred +changing lights as the moonbeams fell upon them. Grim and forbidding, +above this holocaust of the driven ice, stood the forts and batteries +of the northern channel. Marian remembered the long summer days she +had spent with Captain Paul in those steel-walled chambers of the +secrets; how she had paced the ramparts for a measurement of them; how +greedily she had learnt the lessons in gunnery; how in the silence of +this very room she had written down the answers to the questions her +English friends asked her, that thereby she might purchase liberty for +herself and for the child. To-night these memories were full of an +unexplained sadness. She recalled carnival--three weeks had passed +since that folly--and the words of love spoken to her then. A yearning +for sympathy, a sense of weakness, a consciousness that one man at +least in Kronstadt could bring blood to her cheeks and light to her +eyes, contributed to her sense of solitude. She found herself standing +in the darkness and telling herself that she was utterly alone. Then +fear--fear she knew not of what--swept upon her like a freshet; there +came to her the horrid thought that she was watched; that unseen eyes +followed her even in the privacy of her room; that a man stood close +to her and had but to stretch out his hand to touch her own. The +terror of such imaginings served to freeze her very blood in her +veins. She staggered to the wall and switched on the light. But the +lamp showed her an empty room--she was alone with her fears, to laugh +at them, to forget them as she had forgotten them a hundred times +since she had come to Kronstadt. + +The friendly light helped her quickly to this task of forgetfulness. +The hand which pressed upon her beating heart dropped to her side. She +ran to the door and looked out into the great corridor of the north +wing. The silence of night lay upon it. Gladly she turned back to her +own cosy room, to the warmth of the stove and the welcome privacy. A +moment at the glass, a moment before a photograph of little Dick set +boldly upon an easel, a touch of the dress here, a touch of the hair +there, a pose of the dainty head, a silent question, “Will he be there +to-night?” satisfied the personal instinct. She knew that they awaited +her in the drawing-room; “the Dolls” would sit, one on either side of +her, just now and hold her hand. The General himself would leer at her +from the depths of an arm-chair and ask her to sing “Bid me to lofe.” +It might be that Captain Paul would join them if his duties were done; +and that he would linger on when Nikolai Stefanovitch had gone to his +library, and would remind her, not by word, but by look and unspoken +appeal and the silent tributes of homage, of the night of her promise, +of the night when he had touched her forehead with his lips and she +had not refused him. + +The thought brought a deeper colour to her cheeks. She moved about her +room with the quick, nervous gesture of suppressed excitement. A man, +observing her, would have said that a well-trained mind governed every +act; he would have wondered, at the same time, that so fair a face +should have led its possessor so rarely to the mirror. + +Marian Best knew little of the weapons with which nature had armed +her. The thick brown hair straggled in picturesque disorder upon her +forehead and her neck; rebelling curls showed themselves at every +movement; her dress was “thrown on,” but it fitted her to perfection; +she had no rings upon her fingers, but the white hands were the +prettier for the need. + +Eight o’clock was being struck by the church bells of the town when at +last Marian left her room to join “the Dolls” in the salon of the +house. She had quite forgotten her strange fears of an hour ago, and +laughed at them when she trod the soft carpets of the corridor and +peeped into the chambers which opened off it. No one moved then in the +north wing. The rooms about her were tenantless and in darkness. When +she passed the library where old Nikolai Stefanovitch had set up his +holy of holies, she wondered to see the door of it open and a flicker +of red light upon the low-pitched ceiling. Once only since she had +been in the fortress had she dared to enter that room and to pry into +its secrets. She knew well that the book-shelves, upon which she +beheld the glare of the dancing light, were garners of maps and +documents which, could she possess them, would be a fortune to her; +she knew that here were locked away treasures for which spies had laid +down their lives unavailingly. + +Never did she pass that study without some little tremor of heart and +mind. Now it would be the devil of rashness saying, “Enter and see”; +or, again, the spirit of prudence telling her that therein lay the +living death. To-night she heard the first of the voices, and prudence +was no more her friend. The desire to have done with it all, to flee +Russia and the land of bondage, possessed her to the exclusion of all +else. She longed for the sound of little Dick’s voice in the English +lanes she loved. There came to her out of the darkness a message which +said, “Search, and all that you want shall be found there.” She +refused to listen to it, and answered in her heart that she would +betray no more the country of the man who loved her. And this drove +her from the door, but not many paces, for presently she stood quite +still to listen for any sounds, and, hearing none, she gave herself up +to the less subtle arguments. She told herself that when the summer +came she would be in England, that the price of her work would have +been paid by the British Government, that she would build a home to be +the haven of her love. + +So was she held, chained by hesitation to the precincts of the +corridor. The silence tempted her the more; she was sure that no man +in the house then thought of the north wing--that all were busy in the +kitchens below. A strong and conquering impulse sent her, at last, +with muted feet, back to her own room. She picked up a volume of +stories and deftly inserted a sheet of notepaper and a pencil between +the leaves. Quick and daring, and armed with all her courage, she ran +back to the General’s cabinet and entered it. She stood within the +holy of holies, and the shadow of the living death was all about her. + +It was a spacious room, ill furnished and bare, save for the many +volumes which gave ornament to the walls. A ponderous writing-table +had the place of honour, and this was littered with bulky documents +and official books decorative in their disorder. Marian could see, +even by the feeble light cast from the open door of the stove, that +the General had been occupied very recently with public affairs, +for a big blue paper was open upon his blotting-pad and his pen had +rolled from the inkstand and smirched the paper. A heavy volume, +bound in red, lay cheek by jowl with the letter he had been writing; +and a wine-glass, half emptied, spoke of an occupation interrupted +only by the gong for dinner. That occupation would be resumed when +the clock struck nine. Marian remembered that it had just gone +eight, and with the remembrance there came upon her another moment +of apprehension--such a moment as she had known when she awoke from +her sleep in the arm-chair. A panic, overwhelming and irresistible, +seized upon her. She thought again that unseen eyes watched her in +the darkness. She ran from the room and stood panting in the corridor. + +But the panic surrendered swiftly--as these fits were wont to do. She +laughed at herself when a minute had passed, and took heart of her new +resolution. She said that if anyone found her in the room she must be +ready with many an excuse--the excuse that the door of the stove was +open, that a cinder had fallen. When she entered the cabinet for the +second time, a great hope nerved her to resolution. It was the hope +that among the General’s maps there would be one of Fort Peter. She +lacked this alone for the completion of her work. She said that she +must have light; and growing bolder at the impulse, she found the +switch, and a blaze of soft rays illumined the apartment. + +The brightness of the light awed her. She shielded her eyes with both +her hands, and stood irresolute for the third time. Not until many +minutes had passed was she able to read the gilt lettering of the +books upon the shelves. When resolution came at last generously, she +took a map down and unfolded it. It was the map of the southern +channel wherein Fort Peter stands. She saw the name joyfully, and +opened her book that she might have pencil and paper. But before she +could use them a hand was laid upon her shoulder; and when she sprang +up with a cry unsuppressed upon her lips, she found herself face to +face with Paul Zassulic. + +All the little comedy of excuse she had planned so well failed in that +supreme moment to defend her. When she had faced her lover for a +moment, she knew that she had no word with which to answer him; and +all her courage deserting her, she stood white and trembling to hear +his accusation. + + + + + CHAPTER IV. + LOVER AND JUDGE. + +The red book with the plan of the southern channel had tumbled to +the floor when Marian started up from the table. Paul replaced it upon +the bookshelf before he spoke to her. She thought the act deliberate +to the point of cruelty, but she saw that the hand which held the +volume trembled, and she knew then that the man feared for her greatly +with a fear such as her own. + +“Paul,” she cried, finding her tongue after many minutes, “what are +you doing? Why do you not speak to me?” + +He turned swiftly to show her a face stern and angry. + +“I am putting away the map which interested you, mademoiselle; it is +ten years old and could be of no use to you. There are others, but we +do not leave them about for the amusement of everyone. They are locked +up in the safe, and I have no false keys, mademoiselle.” + +The mocking tone was as a blow to her. Chagrin at her own folly, the +certainty that the secret of her life was a secret no more, brought +tears to her eyes. This, she said, was the end of it all, of her dream +and of her liberty. To-morrow--she dare not think of to-morrow. When +she feigned to laugh, the laugh was hard and forced and must struggle +for mastery with a sob. + +“Oh,” she said, and every word cost her an effort, “you think that I +care whether your map is new or old. What an idea, Captain Paul! Why +do you not say that I came in here to read the General’s letters?” + +Paul, who had put away the book and possessed himself of the pencil +with which she had begun to draw, faced her for a moment and gave her +a look which withered her smile and silenced her excuse. + +“Do not lie to me,” he said; “God knows, there is enough without that. +You will not laugh to-morrow when the whip cuts your shoulders and the +prison blinds you. Fool! fool! Who but a woman would commit a folly +like this?” + +She did not speak when he charged her, but leaned back against the +wall as though in defiance of his anger. Her clever mind had begun to +be busy again, and she reproached herself that she should cut so sorry +a figure; but he did not permit her to speak. A door shutting in the +hall brought an exclamation to his lips. + +“Hark!” he said, “there is Ivan Grigarovitch. If he should find you +here--my God!” + +He switched off the electric light and dragged her from the room, back +to her own apartment. She did not resist him, but went with a mind +unconscious of her surroundings. Yesterday seemed far off; the thread +of her life had snapped, as it were, at the moment of the discovery; +she hoped nothing, could realise nothing; she thought that she passed +through some valley of her dreams, but would never pass out of it +again. When he had shut the door of her own room she dropped into an +arm-chair and sat staring vaguely at the red embers in the stove. She +tried to think that she had awakened from her sleep; the voice of the +man was as a distant sound coming to her across the sea. + +“Mademoiselle,” he said, crossing over to her and standing at her +side, “before I tell them what I have seen to-night, as my duty and my +honour compel me to do, I would ask you if you have anything to say to +me?” + +She continued to look into the fire, a smile hovering upon her face. + +“What should I say to you?” she asked, with a shrug of her shoulders. +“Is it so great an offence in Russia to look at a book which does not +belong to you?” + +“It is an offence,” he answered quietly, “for which men and women are +now dying in the dungeons of the fortresses or at the labour in the +mines; it is an offence for which we have lashed many a man to death +in the courtyard before this house; it is the one crime which Russia +neither forgets nor forgives. Great God, that it should be you--you +who sent the plan to London, you who brought this trouble upon us all! +I cannot believe it, Marian, I cannot believe the things I have seen +with my own eyes.” + +Again she had no answer for him, but the laugh left her face and she +clasped her hands together across her knee. + +“You do not understand,” she said after a while; “you will never +understand.” + +She was telling herself, secretly, that this trance of the mind which +held her tongue-tied and impotent was not to be explained. She knew +that if anyone but her lover had found her in the cabinet of Nikolai +Stefanovitch, she could have played her part to perfection; aping the +ingenuousness and the surprise which had been able hitherto to shield +her from suspicion. But she was dumb before Paul. A great shame of her +employment came upon her. She did not fear its consequences yet, for +she did not wholly realise them; but the thought that her lover knew +of it paralysed her understanding. He, meanwhile, paced the room in an +agony of uncertainty and of distress. + +“You say that I do not understand,” he exclaimed in anger at her +silence; “not understand, when I find you with the map in your hands +and your pencil busy! Not understand! Am I a child, then? Shall I tell +myself after this that it was someone else, and not you, who sent the +plan to London? Shall I look for another spy in Kronstadt? Pshaw! that +I should waste words when every minute is precious.” + +“You need look for no one, Paul,” she said, rising and facing him as +the resolve took her; “I alone did what you say. No one helped me. I +drew the map and sent it to London. I am the spy, if that is the word. +I do not ask you to pity me nor to think of me; I am not worthy of +your help, God knows. I can stand alone in the future as I have done +in the past. You say that your duty compels you to tell them of what +you have seen. Very well, tell them now, and I will wait until they +come for me. I am not afraid; why should you be afraid for me?” + +She had gathered up her courage and stood before him with blazing eyes +and flushed cheeks. He said that he had never seen so beautiful a +creature, and her spirit won him to a sudden remembrance of his love. + +“Why am I afraid for you, Marian? Can you ask that? Would not I give +my life for you? Is not your hurt my hurt? Oh, you know that it is. If +they take you from me, they take all that I have in the world. Why +could you not trust me? You have done this thing for money; why could +you not have told me of you trouble?” + +“To beg of you?” she cried, with scorn in her voice. + +“Certainly, if by begging you might have saved yourself this +dishonour.” + +“It is no dishonour to buy bread that a child may eat. That is my +crime; I am ready to suffer for it.” + +He stared at her in astonishment. + +“It is my turn to say that I do not understand,” he cried, “and I must +understand, I must know all, Marian I may yet be your friend if you +will be frank with me. But to do that you must hold nothing from me, +you must speak to me as you would speak to your own brother.” + +“I will hold nothing from you, Paul--there is nothing to hold. I sent +the letters to London because they offered me money for them, and I am +very poor, and there is a child in England who is dependent upon me. +God help him!” + +She sank upon her sofa sobbing, for a memory of little Dick brought +her back to reality. But Paul’s arms were about her in a moment, and +he held her to him and forgot that he was her judge. + +“They shall not hurt you, little one,” he said; “if you will only +trust me, I may yet see a way. Have I not loved you too well to wish +to see you harmed? Be frank with me, then, that I may know how to +serve you. You say that there is a child in England?” + +She looked at him gratefully through her tears. A photograph stood +upon the easel near her. She took it up and put it into his hand. + +“It is my brother Dick,” she said; “that is his picture. He and I were +left to face the world together three years ago. He will be six next +year. It was for his sake I came here. I have no other relative in the +world but my cousin Walter, who is at the Admiralty in London.” + +“Then he it was who asked you to commit this crime?” + +“He told me that the English Government would pay ten thousand pounds +to anyone who could secure the plans of the unknown forts here. Then +he sent the book which was written about Vladivostok, and the way the +English got the maps of that. I asked myself why a woman could not do +what a man had done. It was nothing to you that your plans should be +known. You say always that Kronstadt is strong enough to defy the +world. If that is so, what have you to fear from anyone? And it meant +so much to me--a home for myself and the child, and exile no more. +Cannot you understand now, Paul?” + +He kissed her upon the forehead. + +“I understand,” he said. “God help us both!” + +Her courage appealed to him, for she was quite calm now, saying to +herself that for the child’s sake she would do again what she had +done. And her mind was already occupied with a multitude of ideas, but +chiefly with the idea that her lover would save her. + +“Paul,” she said suddenly, “if you understand, are you not my friend +again?” + +He began to pace the room again, his spurs clanking over the bare +floor and his long cloak hanging loose from his shoulders. A voice of +conscience whispered to him that he was one of the children of +Kronstadt and must not betray her. The kiss of the girl was still warm +upon his lips as a kiss of mercy. But even in the crisis a memory of +smaller things intruded, and he spoke of them. + +“Mon Dieu!” he said, “what an actress you are, Marian! I remember the +day I took you to the battery and showed you the breech of a gun. You +asked me if a shell was a torpedo, and how we measured the ten-inch +Armstrong, which seemed to you three yards long. You remember that, do +you not? How you ran about from rampart to rampart like a schoolgirl. +If I had known!” + +She laughed, forgetting all that had gone before. + +“But you did not know,” she said; “and I measured the mole by pacing +it while you were making tea. I can see you now, scalding your fingers +with the kettle and saying that it was an honour. I wrote down the +number of the guns when old Seroff the sergeant went to look for +bread. He told me how deep the channel was, and repeated it over and +over again because I was so stupid. You were all so kind to me!” + +The love of jest was not conquered even by this, the tragedy of her +life. She laughed with the laugh of a child at the remembrance of the +comedy she had played upon the ramparts; and Paul laughed with her, +content that she and no other had acted for him. + +“Oh!” said he. “You have the cunning of the devil! If it had begun and +ended in this; but now--now when we have to-morrow to face, I cannot +laugh long when I think of that, Marian. How shall I help you? How +shall I do my duty? How shall I forget that I love you? Why, +to-morrow, holy God! they may send you to the fortress, and I may +never look upon your face again!” + +He stopped abruptly in his walk, but she, standing by the chimney, +looked into the ashes of the stove as though still seeking dream +pictures there. + +“They will do that if you tell them,” she said. + +“And I must tell them; I have no other course. My honour compels me. I +would give half the years of my life to get you out of Kronstadt +to-night, Marian; to-morrow it will be too late. I must tell them +then. I cannot delay--you know that I cannot.” + +The words cost him an effort, and when he had spoken them he came and +took both her hands in his and looked into her eyes. + +“My love! my love!” he said, “how shall I help you? How shall I save +you from this folly? Swear to me that you will do nothing more--that +you will never write another line to England while you are in this +house.” + +“I must write to little Dick,” she said petulantly. + +He stamped on the floor impatiently. + +“Promise--give me the promise!” he cried. + +“I promise,” she answered, clinging to him with a pitiful appeal; “oh, +I promise all. I will do anything if I may see the child again! You +will not tell them, Paul? Oh, for God’s sake pity me--listen to me!” + +“I must tell them,” he answered doggedly--“I must, I must!” + +He pushed her from him, for there was a sound of voices in the +corridor, and he reeled rather than walked from the room. But she +stood trembling and still, and she counted his footsteps as he crossed +the snow-clad courtyard. + + + + + CHAPTER V. + FOREBODING. + +The echo of the footsteps grew fainter and fainter, and was lost at +last in a murmur of other sounds--the sound of a sentry tramping and +the clang of arms. Marian listened keenly for some while in the hope +that she would hear the steps again, and that Paul would come back to +her, repentant of his determination. But the deeper silence of the +night fell again anon; the wind moaned dismally across the frozen sea; +the crash of the rending ice prevailed, and she knew that she was left +alone. + +There had been a buzz of voices in the corridor when Paul left her, +and she opened the door of the room to hear who it was that had come +up to the place. She thought that she could distinguish the deep +baying tones of old Bonzo and the cat-like purr of the servant Ivan; +but these were silenced in a little time; and she said to herself that +she could delay no longer, but must go down to “the Dolls” and to the +farce played every night in the gloomy and depressing salon. Though +her hands still trembled, and there was a stain of tears upon her +cheek, she would not think of that which had happened in the last +hour. She cheated herself with the assurance that her lover would not +tell; she believed that his love for her would prove stronger than his +resolution to guard his honour. At the same time, her prudence did not +desert her. Remotely and vaguely she realised the possibility that the +work of the night might bring some swift and terrible punishment. Just +as she had told her lover everything, so did she determine to tell +other accusers nothing. She would play the part of the _ingénue_ +again; she would answer their accusations with laughter and little +gestures of assumed fear and the weapons of the coquette. The utmost +that Paul could do, she said, would be to speak of a suspicion. It +would be her business to laugh that suspicion away, to make it +ridiculous. + +While this was in her mind her fingers were busy in the execution of +the plan. Although she was dressed for the comedy of the drawing-room, +she began to undress swiftly, loosing the laces of her bodice and +casting off her clothes until she was able to unwind from her body a +scroll of paper, upon which were many little sketches and names +innumerable, and the depths of soundings and the armament of forts. +She laughed to herself when at last she thrust into the fire this +treasure which had cost her so many months of secret labour and daring +schemes. She knew that its contents were written also upon her memory, +and that she could make a copy of it from memory alone whenever she +might choose. + +“They will search me and will find nothing,” she said to herself when +the ashes of the paper were scattered. “I shall write to England +to-morrow a letter for them to open. They cannot prove that I sent the +map to London, and Paul will not tell them. I shall go away from here +when the sea will let me, and that will be the end of all. Paul will +forget, and I----” + +She turned from the fire with a sigh and began to lace up her dress +again. A tremulous excitement possessed her, so that she went from +place to place in the room, now pulling aside the curtain that she +might look upon the moonlit sea; now standing before her glass to +discover that her face was drawn and pale and almost haggard; or going +to the door to listen for the voices of “the Dolls.” It was nine +o’clock when she entered the salon, to find the children sitting like +mutes before a picture-book, and old Stefanovitch himself dozing +peacefully in a chair. The scene was one with which she was familiar. +She took courage of it, and whispered that nothing had happened. She +tried to think that Paul had not spoken to her, that she had imagined +the scene in the cabinet and that other scene with her lover. It lay +upon her to play courageously the part she had played always. When the +General awoke with a start, and sat staring at her stupidly through +the after haze of sleep, she had a winning smile for him and a ready +word. + +“How stupid of me!” she cried, with a gesture of feigned amazement. “I +did not see that you were resting.” + +She paused as though she would draw back, but the General silenced her +gallantly. + +“Tais toi, tais toi,” said he, sitting upright and searching for his +glass; “how shall I keep awake when you are not here? Tell me that, +mademoiselle?” + +“But I have no business to let you know that I am here--at such a +time, General.” + +He twisted in his chair, seeking to follow her with his eyes as she +crossed the room. + +“Du tout, du tout,” he said pleasantly; “you shall sing to me and I +shall forget everything. One of the English songs, ma petite--a little +song of the lofe--hein, mademoiselle, of the lofe?” + +She looked at him prettily over her shoulder, and “the Dolls” rising +mechanically to stand one upon either side of the piano, she began to +sing the ballad of the King of Thule. She had a voice surpassingly +sweet and tender, and music was for her more than an accomplishment, +it was an art. The excitement and the passion of the past hour seemed +to mingle with the harmonies of the exquisitely tender ballad. Even +Stefanovitch, who thought that the angels must play upon trombones, +was held in a trance of admiration. + +“Magnifique! magnifique!” he cried again and again; “it is the genius +which sings like that. You shall be heard in all Russia by-and-by, and +the Emperor shall applaud you. Eh, mes enfants, would you not sing +like mademoiselle? Is she not superb? is she not beautiful?” + +He cackled and applauded again and again, while the children repeated +the words after him, though their wooden faces had no change of +expression, and the music was meaningless to them. + +“Quelle une chanson delicieuse!” + +“Oh, mademoiselle, si j’etais vous!” + +“It is the song of Marguerite.” + +“Sans doute--the song of Marguerite.” + +“Si je l’avais connu, Marguerite!” + +“Stupide! she is dead; n’est-ce pas, mademoiselle, Marguerite est +morte?” + +Old Nikolai listened to their chatter and hugged himself at the trend +of it. + +“Eh, what is that--you wish mademoiselle to tell you about Marguerite? +Ho, ho! Another time, children, another time. Mees Marian will first +tell that story to me--hein, mademoiselle, you will tell me the story +of Marguerite when we are alone?” + +Marian rose from the piano, telling herself that it would be a +pleasure to box the ears of Nikolai Stefanovitch. But she continued to +wear a contented face, for the thought that the friendship of the +master of Kronstadt might yet serve her was strong in her mind, and +she acted upon it. + +“I could not tell you anything, General,” she said; “I should not have +the courage.” + +“The courage--not have the courage--with me? Oh, but I will give you +the courage; you shall lean upon me, mademoiselle. Ho, ho! you shall +lean upon me and be strong, and I will put the flowers in the +garden--the English flowers, hein? You shall find them and sing the +song again.” + +She answered with a coquette’s glance. The Dolls stared at their +father open-mouthed. They could not understand how it was that he +slept when they were with him, or answered them in reluctant grunts, +while no sooner was their governess in the room, than these spasms of +gesture and ridiculous antics seized upon him, and he became another +man. Nor did they recall an occasion when Mademoiselle Marian had +responded so willingly to his foolishness. The _rôle_ of the demure +and shy little governess was cast off; she had become the coquette to +the “tips of her fingers.” Possibly, Mademoiselle Rina and +Mademoiselle Varia were very glad when old Colonel Bonzo entered the +room and put an end to such strange goings-on. + +“You are engaged, my General?” he said, standing motionless at the +door. + +Stefanovitch was on his feet in a moment. If he had shame to be +surprised in such employment, he did not show it. + +“You wait for me, Colonel?” + +“If you please, my General.” + +“There is news, then?” + +“There is grave news, Nikolai.” + +Marian, who had been turning over the leaves of a book, looked up +quickly. The tone in which the Man of Iron spoke, his neglect to pass +a word with her, were warnings of instinct. She felt the colour +rushing to her cheeks; her hands trembled upon the pages; a voice +whispered to her--a voice of her imagination--“Paul has told them that +is the news.” Excitement of the hour alone had enabled her to bear up +before the General and the children. She had almost cheated herself +into the idea that her alarms were foolish shadows created by her +fancy; but now, when she looked Bonzo full in the face, it was as +though the hand of the accuser already touched her shoulder. Grim, and +stern, and unbending, the Man of Iron watched her with a searching +gaze which stifled the words upon her lips and held her chained by +fear to the lounge. “He knows,” she thought; “he knows, and has come +here to tell the other. Paul has spoken, and this is the end.” + +“Mademoiselle, voulez-vous monter en haut?” + +“Mademoiselle, I have the wish to sleep.” + +The children spoke, and Marian rose with an effort. She turned to bow +to the men, but they had already left the room. She did not know that +minutes had elapsed while this agony of uncertainty troubled her. She +had not seen the stately salute with which the master of Kronstadt had +taken leave of her; the dreaded searching eyes of old Bonzo still +seemed to look her through and through, although the Colonel was no +longer in the room. They followed her, she thought, from the salon to +the bedrooms of the children; they watched her again in the corridor; +the same sensation of dread, and the desire to hide herself, was with +her when she entered her own apartment and locked the door, and sank, +weak, and trembling, and afraid, upon the couch. + +It was near to the hour of ten o’clock by this time, and the bugles +were blowing in the barracks of the town. Marian had heard them often +when she sat alone in the room, and had welcomed them as a message +coming from the haunts of men. She asked herself if she would hear +them to-morrow. She looked across the jagged sea, billowed with +pinnacles of ice and swirling floes, and found in it the frozen +barrier lying between her and freedom. She began to ask herself if she +could seek any place of shelter upon the island. Had it been summer, +some English ship might have given her harbourage; but now, when the +Gulf was wrestling with the fetters of the ice, and no ships could +venture from the harbours, what hope was there of that? She could +distinguish in the courtyard below her window the shining barrel of +the rifle which the sentry carried. The vast mass of the ramparts +beyond showed other sentries swiftly pacing the outworks of the fort. +The tomb could not have caged its victim more surely than Kronstadt +had caged the woman who had betrayed her. + +Midnight was struck in the town before she began to undress. Her +unwilling fingers went clumsily to the work; and when she had laid her +pretty gown upon the bed she asked herself if she had worn it for the +last time. Fear had wrought upon her nerves so pitilessly that she +could neither sit nor lie; but must be listening ever for the fall of +a foot in the corridor or the sound of voices in the courtyard +without. + +“They will come in five minutes--in ten,” she would say. And she began +to plan the defence she would make, repeating the excuses she must +plead and the arts she must practise. + +Or again, she would trust in the man’s love, telling herself that Paul +would not harm her, that he would find some way. She could not believe +that Fate would cut her off in a moment from the light of life and the +love of life, and that little world of self-content she had created. +All the comforts about her--the cheery fire in the stove, the pretty +chairs, the pictures, the bed wherein she had dreamed of little Dick +so often--she thought of these, and asked herself what magician’s wand +could spirit them away and set up in their place the reeking walls of +a prison. She had dared much, but the penalty of her daring remained +for her a phantom of her fears. + +Her long brown hair was tumbling upon her shoulders now, and she +passed from her sitting-room to the little white alcove wherein her +bed stood. All was very still and quiet here; she could distinguish no +longer the wash of the waters over the ice nor the tramp of the +sentries upon the ramparts. She shivered with the cold, and lay for +hours wondering why the great house slept and no one came to accuse +her. When, at last, the lagging dawn was winged, white and misty +across the sea, sleep took pity upon her, and a befriending dream put +her arms about the neck of the child she loved, and she held him close +to her; and anon she walked with him through the lanes and gardens of +her beloved England. Nor did she know that when next she slept it +would be in the lightless dungeon of Fort Alexander at Kronstadt. + + + + + CHAPTER VI. + THE HONOUR OF PAUL ZASSULIC. + +Captain Paul crossed the courtyard of the Governor’s house and began +to walk rapidly toward the town of Kronstadt. Marian had listened to +his footsteps as he went, but her thought that he would return again +was not in his mind. Indeed, he scarce knew whither he went or upon +what errand; so that the sentry crossed himself as he passed and said +that his officer was drunk with vodki, a condition which every +right-minded artilleryman considered to be the ultimate possibility of +bliss. But Paul never saw the man. The snow, white and crisp upon the +ramparts, was so much slush and mud beneath his feet. The keen north +wind nipped his ears and cast flakes of the driven hail into his eyes; +but he had no thought to draw his fur hood closer or to button up his +cloak. An impulse to flee the house, the city, to escape at any cost +from the terrible position he had been placed in, was paramount. Once +he thought that death was the way, and at that he stood very still in +the roadway and asked himself what would be the consequences of his +death. + +“It would not save her,” he thought; “she would be alone then. Even if +I hold my tongue they will know sooner or later. There is nothing +hidden long in Russia. It may be a week, it may be a month, but they +will know, and then----” + +He walked on with tremendous strides, ignoring the salutes of the +troopers who passed him by the way; deaf to the music in the cafés; +blind to the lights flashing over the frozen sea. His life had been so +barren of difficulties until this time; his duty had claimed absolute +and ready obedience. If anyone had told him a week ago that the day +would come when he would hesitate to do that duty, he would have +struck the speaker upon the mouth and have shot him afterwards. But he +loved Marian with a tenderness and a whole-hearted devotion of which +none but an honest man is capable. Proud of his own strength, her +helplessness and gentleness appealed to him with pathetic insistence. +If it had been permitted to him to suffer in her stead, he would have +laid down his own liberty gladly. He pictured her cast out from +civilisation, alone, and friendless, and weeping in the pitiless +prisons of Siberia. The sweet touch of her hands, when she had put +them about his neck and craved mercy of him, was an ecstasy of memory. +That she should ask mercy of him who had worshipped her so long in +silence, that was a bitter day indeed! + +“It cannot be--it cannot be,” he said to himself again and again. “She +did not send the plans to London; she did not mean to copy the map; it +is all a mistake; it will be proved so by-and-by. I will wait and see. +My God! if I should tell and she should be innocent! But she must be +innocent--she is!--I will swear it.” + +All the chivalry in his nature waged war with the more subtle +pleadings of conscience. He told himself that it would be a crime to +speak of what he had seen, or to take Marian’s words seriously, until +he was sure that she had sinned. “She did not know what she was doing. +They tempted her in London, but we cannot blame her for that. It is +impossible that she can have sent a correct map. We are strong enough +to laugh at a little enemy like that; and I shall make her our friend. +She will learn to love Russia as she has learned to love me.” + +He went on with a lighter step, happy in this contenting reflection. +But he was still oblivious of all about him--of the narrow streets of +the town which he entered, of the great looming buildings, of the +cathedral square, and of the soldiers’ cafés. When a man touched him +upon the shoulder and spoke to him, he awoke from his meditations as +one may wake from a broken sleep. + +“It is you, my Colonel! You wish to speak to me?” + +Old Bonzo, for he it was who had stopped him, laughed good humouredly. + +“You have long legs, Paul, my friend,” he said. “Do not let them walk +away with you into the sea. Upon my life, you look as though you had +seen a devil!” + +“I was in a hurry to get to barracks, Colonel; they will not begin +until I come, and it has struck nine.” + +Bonzo’s eyes twinkled curiously. + +“Old Nikolai will be gone to his room and La Petite to her +children--hein, my friend? You can come away from the big house while +the Englishwoman is still at the piano? I do not believe it. Ho, ho! +She is not well to-night, and that is why you walk fast.” + +Paul shrugged his shoulders impatiently. He was thinking that Marian’s +very life might depend upon his words. + +“Mademoiselle Best is now in the salon,” he said unconcernedly; “you +will find her there if you are going up. For myself, I prefer the +conversation of my friends.” + +Bonzo gave a great guffaw and slapped the younger man upon the +shoulder. + +“You shall tell that to the little Englishwoman to-morrow. I will +remind you of the words. When I go up to the house just now it will be +something to talk about. My friend Paul running away from the +petticoats! Bon Dieu! what a spectacle! Come and drink a glass of wine +with me, my son, for I have news for you.” + +They turned into a café, and the Colonel called for the wine of +Burgundy. The place was full and busy, the gold and green of many +uniforms shining under the tremulous rays of many brilliant lamps. But +they got a table to themselves, and Paul hastened to gulp down a glass +of wine that he might hide his curiosity from one who could read and +interpret the slightest gesture of friend or enemy. + +“Your news is from London, Colonel?” + +Bonzo nodded his head and pretended to light a cigar that he might +watch the face of his companion. + +“Yes,” he said, “from London.” + +“And, of course, the story we were talking about the other day proves +to be ridiculous.” + +Bonzo leaned over the table and whispered his answer. + +“It is not ridiculous at all; it is true. The map which was sent is a +correct map. Every gun is marked; the depths of the channels are +given. The names of the garrison are accurate. We could not have made +a better map ourselves.” + +Paul sat very white and still. He was asking himself whether he should +feign surprise or doubt. A little reflection led him to believe that +doubt would serve him better than surprise. + +“Quelle sottise!” he said, leaning back in his chair and smoking +quickly. “You do not believe that story, my Colonel?” + +Bonzo took up his glass. + +“I believe every word of it,” he said; “more than that, I know it is +true.” + +“You know?” + +“Certainly I know.” + +“Then there is a spy in the city! My God, what a thing to hear!” + +Bonzo drank off his wine at a draught. + +“Tut!” he said indifferently, “we shall know how to deal with it. And +mark you, my son, it would be another thing altogether if the man who +made the map were out of the city. It is just because we have him +trapped by the ice here that I can drink a glass of wine with you +instead of hurrying to the General with the news. To-morrow, perhaps, +we shall go and look for this man. There is no need to disturb +ourselves. No letters can leave us, no more maps can be sent to +London--at present. Why should we hurry? There is plenty of time, and +we do not see a man shot every day.” + +Paul started in spite of himself. + +“But you don’t shoot spies when there is no war,” he exclaimed +hurriedly. + +“It is a fashion of speaking, my son. For my part, I would shoot no +one when there is the whip--when you have only to raise your finger +so, and your enemy is an enemy no more.” + +“And you are sure that the man is still in the city?” + +“I know it!” cried Bonzo, bringing his fist down on the table with a +great crash. “You will know it too, directly. You shall see the fellow +for yourself. Who can say? perhaps we shall send him to you at +Alexander. To-morrow you must have the cell swept, and the irons +ready, and the whip waiting. Certainly, we shall know how to deal with +it; but with those at the capital it is another thing. Voyez-vous, mon +ami, we can say no longer it is a jest, there is no spy in Kronstadt. +If we report this arrest, there must be inquiry, blame, recrimination. +But if we do not report it”--here Bonzo lowered his voice until it was +but a whisper--“if we do not report it, and the man who made the map +should die in the cell at Fort Alexander--hein, how would they accuse +us then? You understand, my friend?” + +Paul’s heart beat quicker, for he understood perfectly. They would +flog the spy to death in the dungeons of Fort Alexander, that blame +might not rest upon their own shoulders. At the same time he did not +fail to remark that his companion spoke always of “the man.” Marian’s +secret was safe then! + +“It is a clever thought, my Colonel,” he said quickly. “Why should we +be bullied by people at Petersburg who do not know of our +difficulties? If I were the General, I would report nothing. But he +must be sure of the man; and is he sure? You say that he is, and I +believe you. But I should be glad to see him for myself.” + +“You shall see him to-morrow,” said Bonzo rising and buttoning his +greatcoat about him, “meanwhile, Captain, do not let us forget our +responsibilities. There is no officer here who should not be ashamed +that this work was ever finished; there is none who should not say to +himself, ‘My duty must be done.’ You have said so, I know. You will do +your duty and nothing will stand between you and the Czar you serve.” + +He laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder almost affectionately. +Paul shuddered at the touch and the words, for he seemed to read a +deeper meaning in them. He told himself that he was already a traitor +in his heart, for he had kept the great secret, had kept it with an +effort which was an agony. + +When he left the Colonel at the door of the café, the lights of +Kronstadt were dancing before his eyes; a fever of self-reproach and +doubt heated his blood and quickened his step as he went onwards to +the barracks. + +“They will know to-morrow,” he said again and again; “they will know +to-morrow, and she must suffer.” + +And he was impotent to serve her, impotent to do anything but remember +his love for her and bewail the doom she had brought upon herself. + +Those who met Paul Zassulic in the streets that night declared that he +walked with the step of a drunken man. He passed them without +recognition, or jostled them rudely from the pavements. Here and there +he was upon the brink of a brawl. A cornet meeting him before the +Observatory, and being thrust aside with little ceremony, ran after +him to call him “hobbledehoy.” When Paul turned swiftly the youth +slunk off. There was no better pistol shot, no quicker swordsman in +Kronstadt than the young captain of artillery. Men spoke of his +cleverness as a thing of which the city was proud. Bullies gave him +the wall and proclaimed their desire to meet him only before other +bullies. He had proved his courage in many a difficult moment; his +word was a bond to them. Could they have read his mind as he stalked +past them on his way to the barracks, they would have known that +courage was now wrestling with the agony of self-reproach; that he was +saying to himself, “I will tell at midnight, at dawn, before the sun +sets to-morrow.” + +A hearty welcome always awaited him in barracks, but to-night the men +who rose to make way for him could not suppress an exclamation upon +his appearance. + +“You are ill, mon vieux!” + +“Fichtre! you have plastered your face with the snow, Paul.” + +“He has quarrelled with La Petite, and comes here to be cured.” + +Paul turned upon the speaker, a grinning ensign, savagely. + +“Hold your tongue, or I will cut it out,” he said, and the boy slunk +from the room. + +“There is nothing the matter with me,” he continued, throwing off his +cloak and helping himself liberally to the absinthe ready upon the +table, “or, if there is,” he added, “it is the wine of old Bonzo. I +have been drinking with him up there. You understand?” + +The men exchanged glances swiftly. Some shrugged their shoulders, +others fidgeted with packs of cards in their hands. Paul turned to the +cards as to a refuge from perplexity. + +“What are you waiting for?” he said brusquely. “Is it to make more +complaints about my appearance? You, Sergius, Karl, are you going to +sleep there all night? or is it Lent which troubles you?” + +The lieutenants addressed rose from their chairs and seated themselves +in silence at the card table. They were asking themselves what was the +matter with their friend. They had a vague idea that the Englishwoman +was at the bottom of it; but were too careful of their skins to hazard +the opinion openly. + +“I shall win your money, Sergius, and cure my headache,” cried Paul +boisterously, as his friend began to deal; “there is always a headache +if you meet Bonzo after dinner.” + +“There is sometimes a headache if you meet him in the morning,” said +Karl, throwing a card upon the table. “That is the worst of these +silent men; you are always asking yourself what they are thinking +about, and so you get a headache. What is more, you never find out the +thing that perplexes you. I would wager old Bonzo against the devil at +any kind of cheat or cunning you like to name. He can read the papers +which lie in your pocket-book; I have known him to do it.” + +“Did he drink Burgundy to-night?” asked Sergius, passing some roubles +across the table with the air of a man not yet warmed to the game. “I +keep out of his way when he drinks Burgundy--it is a danger signal. +Champagne, now, that means peace, and possibly a pair of twinkling +eyes. He has even patted me on the shoulder with the paw of a +domesticated bear--after champagne.” + +“There will be no twinkling eyes to-morrow,” exclaimed an onlooker who +watched the game. “You have heard that he has news from the Prince--at +least, that is the story. It should mean that we are to learn all +about the map which went to London.” + +Sergius laughed; Paul continued to watch his cards. + +“For my part,” continued the speaker, while he lighted a cigarette +indolently, “I do not believe any such story--pas si bête. Someone +has played a joke upon the English, and we are paying for it with all +this fuss and trouble. As if a woman----” + +“A woman!” cried Paul, looking up suddenly. + +“Yes; have you not heard? They say that the map was drawn by a woman. +There is no doubt of it. Our own people in London have been at work, +and they are sure that a woman’s hand is to be traced. It is an +extraordinary story--to be told to a fool.” + +The man strolled away to the stove, while the others played intently +for a little while, until, indeed, Paul of a sudden threw down his +cards and rose from the table. + +“I cannot play,” he stammered; “you must excuse me, mes amis; my head +is going round. It is the cursed wine which old Bonzo drinks. I shall +walk in the cool air and then go to bed.” + +He threw his cloak about his shoulders and quitted the room with no +further exchange of words. The cry of one of his companions, that he +had left his money upon the table, did not arrest him. He was saying +to himself over and over again, “A woman’s hand--they know that the +map was drawn by a woman!” He had the desire to run up to the great +house to warn Marian that the hour had come. He dared not to think +that he had touched her lips for the last time; nevertheless a voice +told him that it must be so. The blow was about to fall, the gate of +the prison to shut upon the woman for whom he would have laid down his +life. + +“Sacre bleu!” cried Sergius the lieutenant, staring after the +retreating figure. “So Paul is like that to-night. And he has left his +roubles.” + +“Not at all,” said Karl “He has gone up to see La Petite; he goes +there every night. They have quarrelled, I say, and he is off to tell +her that it was his fault. He will not be in such a hurry by-and-by. +He should have waited. It is much prettier to forgive a woman than to +be forgiven by her, and it does not cost you forty roubles.” + +“Or make you ridiculous,” said one of the ensigns. “For my part, I +would not lose my temper for any woman in Russia.” + +Sergius cut the cards idly. + +“Vive la jeunesse!” he exclaimed gaily, “you will know better +by-and-by, mon vieux. I used to talk like that when I was twenty; but +I would not look twice now at any woman who could not provoke me. +Fichtre! it is not love at all until you have made her angry. And he +is very much in love, for he forgot to finish his absinthe. Let us go +to the square and hear more of the news from London. There will be +plenty to talk about by-and-by if the Sasha does not laugh at us.” + +“Of course he laughs at us,” replied Karl; “how should it be +otherwise? Where is the woman who could make a map of Battery 3? Who +took her there, and where did she learn her gunnery? It is a child’s +tale and the General is wise enough to laugh at it.” + +“Child’s tale or not,” chimed in the grinning ensign who had spoken of +La Petite when Paul first entered the room, “there has been one woman +in the battery. I saw her there myself. She took tea with Captain Paul +a week ago.” + +“You mean the Englishwoman?” asked Sergius, turning swiftly upon him. + +“Certainly. Ask Seroff if you do not believe me.” + +A great silence fell upon the room, the silence of embarrassment and +of sudden revelation. There was only one man there who did not love +Paul Zassulic, and he had spoken. The others heard his words, but knew +not how to answer. + +“You shall tell Paul that in the morning,” said Sergius, breaking a +troublesome silence; “it will amuse him and amuse us afterwards.” But +to the others he said, “This is no place for the friends of my friend. +Who is going with me to the square?” + +They went out together, leaving the ensign alone in the room. They did +not speak to each other of the meaning of the things they had heard; +the honour of a friend was in their keeping. + +Paul, meanwhile, had retraced his steps to the Governor’s house, and +now paced the courtyard regardless of the hour or of the night. +Streams of light were cast out upon the hazy air from many rooms in +the forbidding and barrack-like building; but one room alone was for +his eyes. He could distinguish, through the interstice of the +curtains, the depending lamp and the gilt mirror upon which Marian +displayed her photographs. Once he saw her pass the window swiftly, +her hair falling upon her shoulders. He was tempted to scout prudence +and to speak to her again before she slept. Although he had quarters +in Nikolai Stefanovitch’s house--for he was attached to the staff--it +was long before he could find the courage to enter or to learn what +Bonzo had done. The little star of light shining from the window of +the English girl’s room was for him as the lamp of a sanctuary. He +tortured himself with thoughts of Marian sleeping in the shadow of the +doom; he remembered her prettiness, her gentleness, her winning pride. +He said that they would crush that pride in the dust of suffering and +humiliation. The cruel severity with which the keepers of the gate of +Russia could punish even their own children was remembered by him with +loathing and regret. They would put unnameable indignities upon her, +he said. He foresaw the day when the childish face must become the +haggard face of the woman branded with the furrows of pain, and +torture, and mental agony. He swore that he would save her, though her +fate should become his own; and, swearing, he cursed his own impotence +and the very uniform he wore. + +Snow fell in lagging flakes at this time; the wind had fallen +somewhat, so that all sounds, other than the sound of men’s footsteps, +were plainly to be heard. Paul observed the passing lights in the +great house, but could detect no omen of warning. The lamp in Marian’s +room was a message to him telling of her safety. He could peer in +through the window of the General’s cabinet and make out old Bonzo +standing by the side of the writing-table; but the Colonel’s attitude +was one of patient waiting, and it reassured him. “It is not for +to-night,” he told himself; “it may never be at all. Even if they know +that the map was drawn by a woman’s hand, how can they trace it to +her? If they had any news she would not be sleeping in her room, she +would be in----” + +He ground his heel into the snow when he dared thus to think of the +possibilities. His mind was made up that he would stand sentinel no +more. He feared the observation, the chatter of the sentries. Old +Bonzo might find him in the courtyard when he returned to barracks; he +could imagine no greater calamity than to raise suspicion in the mind +of the Man of Iron. And this fear drove him into the house at last, +but with reluctant and halting steps. His own room, the bare room of a +soldier, was in the north wing, remote from Marian’s, but not so +remote that he could not hear the creak of her door when it opened or +shut. Nor did he enter before he had walked with a woman’s step to the +end of the corridor and had listened a little while to assure himself +that she slept. Then, delaying but a moment before the cabinet of the +General, he turned wearily to his bed and lay long listening for the +voice of Bonzo and for sleep to come upon the great house. + +There was no light in his room, nor had he kindled one. The moonbeams, +striking upward from the glittering fields of snow, made glorious +lamps of the night to shed a softening radiance upon all things. He +welcomed them, for they spoke of rest, and sleep, and the balm of the +mind. He thought that they were playing upon the face of her he loved; +putting a crown of gold about her white forehead and kissing her eyes +with the kiss of dreams. When sleep took pity upon him at last, he was +carried in thought to the night of carnival and the love message it +bore him. He walked with her again through the silent streets of +Kronstadt, but anon, as he walked, she fell at his feet and a scream +of terror awakened the sleeping city. No word, no prayer of his could +hush that cry of dolour which he heard in his dream. It rang in his +ears, terrifying him; he bore her in his arms, but awakened troopers +pursued him; men came from the looming buildings to exclaim upon her; +he looked back upon the grim forts and mighty ramparts, and the angel +of death hovered over them; he clasped his burden the closer in his +arms and ran on; but the cry was unchecked, and phantoms of pursuit +multiplied until they became an army. + +And so he awoke and sprang from his bed. There was a glimmer of +sunshine in his room, but the woman’s cry he had heard in his dream +still rang out in the silence of the great house. He listened for one +instant of agony and then reeled to the door. The corridor without was +full of the figures of gunners; he saw Bonzo, silent and grim; he saw +Marian, white and trembling. + +“My God!” he cried, “the hour has come!” + + + + + CHAPTER VII. + PAUL BEARS WITNESS. + +Paul returned to his room and began to dress, maladroitly, but with +some deliberation. The irons upon Marian’s wrists seemed to hurt his +own hands; her cry still echoed in his ears. He heard the heavy tramp +of feet in the passage; he thought he could distinguish the voice of +General Stefanovitch; but anon these sounds died away and silence fell +upon the house again. He said that it was typical of the silence which +henceforth must wait upon his life. He thought that he had looked upon +the woman he loved for the last time. She had gone from him with that +terrible appeal upon her lips; to what fate he knew not, save that the +impassable gates had shut upon her, that the herald of the living +death had struck her down. + +He was glad that she had not seen him when he stood for a moment at +his door and watched the gunners drag her from her room. The pitiful +figure, the babyish face, the beseeching eyes, would be for him the +everlasting remembrance of her. He knew well that the measure of her +guilt or innocence was not to be weighed by those who were to judge +her. She, the mere girl, alone and unaided, had set herself against +the might and the power and the terrible justice of Kronstadt, and had +been vanquished in the contest. She had looked upon the world of light +for the last time. No cry of hers would ever be heard by the world +again. She would go from the city and none would dare to ask whither. + +Now that the blow had fallen, Paul was surprised that his mind was so +ready to serve him and that he could think so clearly. The arrest of +Marian lifted one burden at least from his shoulders. There was no +longer a confession to make, he argued. That which he knew was known +also to the governors of the citadel. And he must defend himself from +the possibilities of suspicion; must be ready with words of surprise +and wonder. He alone in Russia remained the friend of the stricken +woman; for her sake he would dare anything in the hope that he might +yet be of service to her. And this hope began to give him courage, he +knew not why. His clumsy fingers became supple; he dressed swiftly and +walked boldly from the house. Old Bonzo was in the courtyard waiting +for his chief to come out. Smart and trim, with well-squared shoulders +and firm tread, the Man of Iron greeted the young officer with no more +concern than if this had been a _festa_ and they had been going +together for a picnic on the sea. + +“Bon jour, Captain Paul; I see you well this morning?” + +“Thank you, Colonel; and you?” + +Bonzo’s eyes twinkled cunningly. + +“All my nights are good,” he said; “it is the old bird who knows how +to roost. And I am just going to breakfast with a lady. You hear, my +son; then you will not tell madame--hein?” + +His jocund efforts were like the labour of a shire horse. They angered +Paul, whose feverish impatience scarcely brooked control. + +“Colonel,” he exclaimed, unable to hold his tongue any longer; “it is +said that they have just arrested Mademoiselle Best. Is the news +true?” + +Bonzo stopped suddenly in his walk. + +“You know that it is true, Captain Paul.” + +“I, my Colonel? how should I know?” + +“Because you stood at your door while they were taking her down +yonder.” + +Paul bit his lip. + +“Certainly I saw that, but I did not know the meaning of it. You +suspect her, then, my Colonel?” + +“We suspect her so far that we know it was her hand which drew the map +of Battery 3.” + +“Her hand, my Colonel--a woman’s hand! But she is as ignorant as a +child.” + +Paul wished to assume an air of great surprise, but his gesture was +false, his voice had a hollow ring in it. Bonzo watched him with +little twinkling eyes and read him as he would have read a book. + +“You shall learn how ignorant she is when the accusation is made just +now, my son. Did I not tell you that I would show you the spy this +morning? Well, if you will go up to the ramparts, you will see her in +the launch which carries her to Alexander. We will follow her there +when the General is ready, Captain Paul. It is not every day that we +can breakfast with a lady in Kronstadt.” + +“I cannot believe it!” cried Paul; “I cannot believe that she could +have----” + +“Cannot believe it! Bon Dieu! you tell that to me when you know that +it is true, when you know--but I will leave you to tell us what you +know, my son. I will leave you to remember that you are a servant of +the Czar. You do not forget that, Captain Paul.” + +Bonzo’s voice rang out in varying notes, loud and accusing, or gentle +and cooing. All the colour left Paul’s face when the words were +spoken. He had a great awe of the man whose eyes could read his very +thoughts; he began to ask himself, “What has he learned? What has he +seen?” But Bonzo, who served a purpose with every word, now laid his +hand upon the shoulder of the younger man and the gesture was a kind +one. + +“Come,” he said, “I do not forget that you are a man as well as a +soldier, Paul. Go and get your café and then meet me upon the quay. +We will cross together, and you shall hear the story for yourself.” + +Paul thanked him incoherently and hurried away. The Colonel watched +him as he went, and with no unfriendly eyes. + +“There goes a lover bewitched by a pretty face,” he said at last. “He +will come to reason by-and-by, or, if he does not, we shall know how +to deal with him. We will send him to the fort often. If there is +anything more between them, that will be the opportunity to find it +out.” + +Content with this design, Bonzo resumed his measured walk; but Paul +went swiftly through the town, avoiding the haunts of his fellows. He +saw nothing, heard nothing of the awakening life about him. “Marian is +arrested,” were the words ever whispered into his ear. Men saluted +him, he forgot to observe or to return their greeting; the sun shone +brightly, but for him the city was in darkness. “They will send her to +the mines, they will torture her,” he thought. The moment when he must +see her again was one to be dreaded. He feared his own courage, for he +knew that his courage alone could save her--if she was to be +saved--from the terrible days to come. + +It was eight o’clock when he arrived at the quay, and Bonzo had not +yet come down. Paul entered a little café just by the merchants’ +harbour, and called for tea and for prune brandy. There were many +soldiers and sailors in the place, but their talk convinced him that +they had no news of that which had happened. He began to see that the +authorities would keep their acts as secret as possible; but whether +this would help or hinder him, he could not say. He remembered Bonzo’s +words--if the prisoner should die in Fort Alexander, what inquiry +would then be held? He knew that they would not put a woman to death; +but Russian prisons have other weapons whereby the ends of death are +attained. Paul’s hand shook when he lifted the glass to his lips; he +left the café, driven on by all the impulses of fear and dread. “She +shall not die!” he said, and then laughed nervously at his own +helplessness. + +Fort Alexander, with its one hundred and sixteen guns, 8 and 10 inch, +in casemates, is perhaps the most imposing of the seven detached forts +which stand up, islets of steel and stone, in the southern channel of +Kronstadt. Built entirely of granite, in the shape of an ellipse, +there are four tiers of embrasures in its front; while its rear wall +bristles with great guns _en barbette_. A foundation of piles driven +down in a channel, here eighteen feet deep, carries the tremendous +blocks of which the battery is constructed, and its guns are so placed +that they cross fires with the guns of Fort Peter and of Battery 3, +thus rendering impassable the one narrow channel by which an enemy’s +ships must seek passage to Petersburg. The interior of the fort has +all the aspect of a gloomy and forbidding prison. Dark cell-like rooms +accommodate the garrison in charge of it. There are other cells below +into which the light of day never comes, tomb-like cavities hidden in +the very womb of the citadel. Upon this morning of Marian’s trial, +late in the month of February, the breaking ice scarred and groaned +beneath the bastions of the fort, but the sappers had blasted a +passage for the small steam launch with which the garrison reached the +merchants’ harbour, and through this passage General Stefanovitch and +two of his staff were carried to see the prisoner who had been +arrested so surprisingly in the earlier hours of the morning. + +Paul was already in the vaulted stone chamber where the inquiry was to +be held when Stefanovitch and Bonzo entered together. The General +answered his salute but did not speak. Bonzo exchanged a quick glance +with him and then busied himself with the bundle of papers which +seemed inseparable from his equipment. So dark was the place that the +figure of the sergeant at the door was like some phantom shape. The +feeble candles, flickering upon the table, cast a weirdly yellow light +on the faces of those who sat within their aureola. Paul saw that +Nikolai Stefanovitch looked wretchedly ill. The very neatness of dress +and affectation of manner aggravated the pallor and unrest of his +face. His hands wandered aimlessly, now touching a pen, now a paper, +now seeking to straighten the hair which should have been upon his +shining forehead. When he ordered the prisoner to be brought in, his +voice was hollow and unnatural. He cast his eyes upon the table and +did not look at the woman before him. Paul, in his turn, shrank back +into the shadows. He saw Marian enter that gloomy chamber, and the +impulse to speak to her, to stand at her side, was almost +irresistible. But prudence kept him still. He had decided upon the +part he would play; the keen air from the sea had stimulated him +mentally and bodily. He had said to himself, “I alone am her friend, +and I will save her.” + +They had arrested the girl shortly after sunrise, that none in the +town might whisper abroad the business upon which she had been carried +to Fort Alexander. So great was their haste that she had scarce time +to bind up her untidy tresses of silky brown hair or to get furs +against the cold of dawn. But she had used the intervening hours in +winning from the Sergeant permission to practise those arts which help +a woman’s victory. Paul said that she never looked so pretty. She +entered the gloomy room with a laugh upon her lips. The dainty head +was thrown back disdainfully; the fur about her neck and wrists +contrasted with the exquisite whiteness of her skin; her gesture was +one of amusement and of surprise. + +“Oh!” she cried mockingly, “comme je suis effrayée, comme je me sens +criminelle.” + +Stefanovitch looked up from his papers. + +“Silence,” he exclaimed sharply, and there was that in his voice which +compelled obedience. Paul trembled for her then. + +“She will act a part, and they will condemn her out of her own mouth,” +he thought. + +“Mademoiselle,” said Stefanovitch, beginning to address her in a low +voice, “there is no need for me to tell you why you are brought here; +you are as well aware of the reasons as I am.” + +“Indeed, General, I know nothing of your reasons.” + +The lines upon Stefanovitch’s face hardened perceptibly, but he did +not display any anger. + +“We will not argue the point,” he said quickly. “If I speak to you +this morning, here in this room, it is in the hope that you will help +us to lighten the punishment which your actions have deserved. For +some months now you have been sending to the British Government in +London such information concerning Kronstadt as our hospitality put +you in possession of. Within the course of the last month you have +sold for money a plan of Battery 3, and have prepared other plans +which, but for our prudence and foresight, would now have left the +city. It is not for me to tell you, mademoiselle, that these things +are an outrage upon the hospitality you have received. You came here +to us as a stranger, and we made you as one of our own people. We +trusted you as we should have trusted a daughter. It is possible that +you are unaware of the heinous nature of your crime and are willing to +atone so far as it is in your power. Should that be so, you have now +the opportunity to tell us how you came to do this thing, and whose +was the help and the promise you relied upon. The truth alone can help +you here, mademoiselle. I rely upon your good sense and your +cleverness to withhold nothing from us.” + +He paused and looked the girl full in the face. She had ceased to +laugh, for his accusation, that she had outraged the hospitality of +those who had befriended her, was one that she could not jest with. + +“I did not wish to be ungrateful,” she cried despairingly; “I did not +wish to injure or hurt any of those who have been kind to me. I drew +the map to send to a friend in London; he asked me for it, and I did +not think you would mind. It was such a little thing, and you are so +strong. Oh, General, you will not judge me for that; you will not +believe me guilty.” + +“Mademoiselle,” interrupted Stefanovitch sternly, “of your guilt there +is no doubt. Believe me that it is idle for you to stand there and +seek to mislead us. We do not imagine what you have done, we know.” + +“You know, monsieur!” + +“We know,” repeated Stefanovitch; “our chain of evidence is complete. +Six months ago this friend of yours in London, your cousin, +mademoiselle, told you that the British Government was willing to pay +a heavy price for such facts concerning the new forts here as it had +been unable to find out for itself. He sent you, at the same time, the +book which described how that other spy, your fellow-countryman, +obtained the secrets of Vladivostok. That work was your guide. As the +man had learned to measure a fort by pacing it, so you measured our +batteries. You sought to make us believe in your ignorance and your +childishness that you might win our confidence and profit by the sale +of it. You spied upon us while you were receiving our hospitality. You +feigned friendship for us that we might betray our secrets to you. You +entered even my own cabinet to copy the maps which lie there. Was that +also to amuse your friend in London, mademoiselle?” + +Marian shivered. She turned toward Paul eyes which beseeched his help, +but he stood silent. For a moment she sought still to wear the mask of +indifference and of ignorance, but the laugh froze upon her lips. + +“It is not true!” she exclaimed wildly; “you cannot know that. I did +not steal the maps in your cabinet. How could I have done so? It is a +foolish tale.” + +“Mademoiselle,” said Stefanovitch, raising his hand warningly, “there +is no need to add to your guilt by falsehood. I am waiting to hear +that you are willing to tell us the names of your friends both in +Russia and in England.” + +“I will tell you nothing!” she answered doggedly. “You know nothing. +The falsehood is yours, monsieur. You have no right to bring me here. +I am an Englishwoman; you dare not harm me! I will write to England. +You are cowards to torture me with these questions.” + +She clasped her hands together and stamped her foot angrily, for +excitement had mastered her, and, having robbed her of her arts, had +left the woman, weak and resourceless, but with courage undaunted. As +for her lover, the accusation with which she was charged stunned him. +They were the very words she herself had spoken in the privacy of her +own room when he had discovered her secret fifteen hours ago. There +was no longer a loophole for him. “I must tell all, for they know +all,” he argued. And yet his pity for her was an agony. Her +childishness, her helplessness, the days of suffering awaiting her, +prompted him to dare everything, to take her in his arms and ask that +he might suffer with her. When anon he heard his own name called, and +must come out into the light to answer the questions of the General, +his tongue, his limbs, seemed paralysed. He spoke in a thick voice and +swayed often against the slight table. + +“Captain Zassulic,” said Stefanovitch, “you have heard this woman’s +story. Have you anything to say to it?” + +Paul squared his shoulders. He dare not look at Marian; the figures +around seemed unreal and shadowy. + +“I have heard the story, my General,” he stammered. + +“Is it true or false, Captain?” + +“It is false, my General.” + +“You are sure of that? Then please to give us your reasons.” + +Paul leaned against the table and put his hand to his throat as though +to compel himself to speak. + +“Last night you sent me to your room, General, to leave there the +despatches from the Prince. It was at eight o’clock--after you had +dined--at eight o’clock, my General.” + +He wiped his brow with his hand and stared about the room in a dazed +way. For a moment his eyes rested on the face of the girl. She was +looking at him as she would have looked at one risen from the dead to +accuse her. + +“Well,” said Stefanovitch, “we are waiting for you, Captain.” + +Paul squared his shoulders again. He began to remember that the words +which now condemned the woman might save her in the end. + +“When I entered the corridor,” he said, speaking quickly, “there was a +light in the room, General; the Englishwoman was there. She was +copying one of the maps which she had taken from the shelf.” + +“To amuse her brother in London,” grunted Bonzo, who had stood +hitherto, motionless and voiceless, at the side of his master. + +But Marian did not hear him. She had fallen in a swoon, and, senseless +still, they carried her back to her cell. + +“Pshaw!” said old Bonzo, folding up his + + + [Illustration: “BUT MARIAN DID NOT HEAR HIM. SHE HAD FALLEN IN A + SWOON”] + + +papers quickly, “we waste time, my General. If I were in your shoes I +would flog the truth out of her. She is not alone here, be sure. There +are others.” + +“It shall be your work to learn their names, Colonel,” cried +Stefanovitch, rising from the table. “Stand at nothing which your duty +dictates. And to you, Captain, I would say that the Emperor is happy +in such servants. Let the woman be watched night and day. I count upon +you, my friends, in this hour of danger, upon your zeal and your +silence. Our honour is at stake, and we shall know how to guard it.” + +He saluted and returned to his launch; but old Bonzo lingered a moment +to whisper a word in Paul’s ear. + +“There were two prisoners this morning, my son,” he said, with a +kindly pat of his great hand, “two prisoners, but one is acquitted.” + +“You mean, my Colonel----” + +“That the woman was watched last night, and that the words you have +just spoken saved your life.” + +He lurched from the room to join his chief, but Paul remained long +standing by the table where the damning words were spoken. + +“She will never believe,” he thought. “I have lost her love. God help +me!” + + + + + CHAPTER VIII. + AFTER FORTY DAYS. + +The iron hand of winter relaxed its grip upon Kronstadt when the +last bitter winds of March had exhausted themselves. Gentle breezes +followed upon the devastating gales; trees blossomed generously as the +snow sank through the face of the land, and the grass lifted its head +again. No longer was the sea imprisoned nor the ships that had +wintered in the merchants’ harbour. Marian, awake through long nights +in her cell at Fort Alexander, could hear the waves gambolling in +their new-found freedom or surging heavily against the granite walls +with which the vast fort opposed them. There were even days when a +kindly ray of sunlight came down through the barred windows and shone +upon the icon set up in the corner of the dungeon. Marian welcomed +these days, though her welcome was not without a certain pathos. She +remembered that it was spring-time in Devonshire and that the child +was alone. An intense longing for the freedom of the lanes and the +perfume of the flowers possessed her. It was not that the intended +discomforts of the cell galled her, for she was schooled now to +privation and to suffering; she had made up her mind to pay the +penalty which was the guerdon of her rashness. But the thought that +she was never to hear little Dick’s voice again, that he was dependent +now upon charity for the very food he ate, drove her almost to +madness. She had been forty days in prison; she asked herself how it +would be when days had become years. + +Few visited her cell in those first hours of silence. They had sent a +woman from the Governor’s house to wait upon her, and she had seen the +Sergeant once or twice, though he had never spoken to her. But old +Bonzo came nearly every day and brought always the same promise. + +“Tell us the truth, mademoiselle,” he would say, “and it will be well +with you. There is a room in Fort Katherine where you can see the sun +and watch the ships upon the sea. You shall go there when you are +sensible. But first we must know the names of those who helped +you--your friends in Kronstadt, your friends in London. You cannot +save them by silence. We shall catch them sooner or later; we shall +know how to reward you when you help us in the attempt.” + +“I have no friends,” she would answer. “I have told you the truth. I +was poor, and they tempted me. I can tell you nothing more.” + +Bonzo would lose his temper at this, and threaten her, but her courage +remained unbroken. + +“You shall have the whip, and we will see what you can tell us then,” +he would cry. “Do you think to defy us, mademoiselle? Sapristi! I +could crush you with my fingers.” + +“They are large enough, monsieur,” she said simply. + +Bonzo would leave the cell and slam the door after such a scene. He +had hesitated until this time to carry out any of the threats he +uttered so glibly. He did not forget that Marian Best was an +Englishwoman; that the day might come when her story would be made +public. But he left nothing undone which could appeal to the natural +weakness of the woman; and there was a morning when she was carried up +to see a man flogged in the courtyard of the fort. The lash falling +brutally upon the bare flesh seemed to cut her own shoulders; the +screams and groans of the wretched victim were so many appeals for her +merciful intercession; she swooned when she saw the blood flow, but +her answer to Bonzo was unchanged. + +“You are cowards here,” she said, “and you are not clever in your +cowardice! You do not know the truth when you hear it. And you have no +manners, monsieur. Oh, you do not frighten me at all. I laugh when you +look like that. If you could only see yourself, you would laugh too.” + +She bore herself bravely indeed; but when the iron door groaned upon +its hinges, and she was left alone, and no sound but the surging of +the sea against the bastions was borne in to her from without, she +would sink down upon the bed, and tears and wretchedness would conquer +her. She had no longer a friend in all the world, she said. Her love +for Paul struggled for a while bravely against the damning testimony +he had given in the council-room. She was clever enough to think that +possibly some deep and hidden meaning was behind his words; but when +the days passed and he did not come, when no message, no word from him +reached her, the well of her love began to be dried up; she accounted +him her friend no more; she was, in spirit and in thought, a +broken-hearted woman. + +The morning of the fortieth day dawned generously, for there was a +gift of April sunshine in her room and the gaunt stone walls were +touched with its warming glow. Marian awoke at daybreak, and being +permitted to walk for an hour upon the ramparts--a concession made to +her but thrice in the weeks of her imprisonment--she beheld the town +again and wondered that the sun of spring could so transform it. Even +the grim shapes of the barracks were softened by the splendour of the +morning light. She could distinguish the gilded domes and minarets of +the churches; the cramped yet picturesque houses huddled about the +merchants’ harbour; the masts of ships in the docks; the stately hulls +of ironclads and cruisers; could hear the blasts of bugles, the shrill +piping of whistles, the clank of the great hammers at the arsenal. But +the sunshine touched every outstanding object with its transforming +rays. The muzzles of the great guns, peeping from the tremendous mole +of the island, were capped with gold; there were flashes of fire upon +all the bright places of the ships; the sea sparkled and foamed and +rolled merrily over the silver shallows of sand. She could perceive +the Ingrian coast and the woods creeping down to the water’s edge; it +was for her an emblem of the life she had lost. The very beauty of the +morning awoke in her that intense longing for liberty which is the +swift punishment of the prisoner. Everywhere the new day spoke of life +and work and the gladness of being; but for her it had no message. + +The short hour passed all too swiftly. She returned to her cell at +seven o’clock and to the meagre repast prepared for her. She asked +herself, while she drank the welcome tea and ate the coarse bread, if +Bonzo would come again upon that morning to threaten her or cajole her +as he had threatened and cajoled so often. An inconquerable spirit of +mischief prompted her to tell him some fool’s tale with which he might +occupy himself for a season. When someone knocked at her door +presently, she made sure that this was her opportunity, and began to +rack her brains for a plausible story. But the door was opened and the +man who entered was not Bonzo. + +“Paul!” she cried, and then stood silent and wondering. + +Her lover, for a truth, stood before her. She saw that he was dressed +in the full uniform of a captain of artillery--the green tunic with +the scarlet epaulettes and the scarlet and black facings, the +pipe-clayed belt, the high black boots, the fur cap with the golden +eagle for its crest. But his face wore deep lines which had not been +there at carnival, and the hand which rested upon the hilt of his +sword was thin and white. For an instant he could not find his tongue. +He stood rocking upon his heels as his habit was, while he sought +vainly for some word which might give his tongue release. + +Marian had risen from her seat as he entered, and when her first cry +of wonder had escaped her she was quick to take pity upon him. +Instinctively she had hidden the plate of coarse bread behind her cup +that he might not see of what kind her food was; instinctively, too, +she touched her wind-blown curls with her fingers and looked down at +the shabby dress she wore. + +“It is you, then,” she said, with a poor attempt at gaiety. “I might +have known that no one else in Russia would knock at my door.” + +Paul did not answer her. He was staring at the wretched furniture of +the cell. He shivered as though the cold of the granite walls had +struck his own heart. + +“My God!” he cried; “is this your new home, Marian?” + +She expected that he would begin to excuse himself, and to tell her +why he had been a witness against her in the council-room. His pity +for her was an enemy of her resolution to hide the truths of her +misfortune from him. + +“Yes,” she said, standing defiantly with her back to the wall; +“I am always at home here--to my friends. You need not ask me if +I have a day. I shall be glad--no, do not touch me--I am quite +strong--Paul----” + +How it was she knew not, but when next she opened her eyes Paul’s arms +were about her and she was held close in his strong embrace. The tears +still glistened upon her cheek, but they were tears of gladness. + +“Beloved,” he said, “do not wound me; I suffer too--oh, God knows! +Every hour has been an hour of pain since they took you away; there +has been no sunshine for me, no day, no night; my life has stood +still; I have lived in the darkness; my eyes have seen no image but +the image of her I love. Marian--you will not turn from me now?” + +He held her closer for the passionate words to be whispered into her +ear; nor did she restrain him. The long hours of loneliness were +remembered too well that this new love should not win her gratitude. + +“You told them,” she sobbed; “it was your word. They knew nothing +until you spoke. If I suffer, it is by your hand; your love for me has +brought me here. How can I believe----” + +The reproach was choked suddenly upon her lips. The arms which held +her trembled as with cold. She looked into the face of the man, and +the pain written upon it turned her anger to pity. + +“No, no, Paul--do not listen to me,” she cried in turn, clinging to +him. “It is not true. Oh, I am not changed; I am only weak, and ill, +and lonely. Tell me you are my friend; tell me you will help me!” + +His answer was to kiss her again and again upon the forehead and the +lips. + +“I am your friend always, little Marian. Would to God I could promise +as you wish! How shall I help you here--in this place? It cannot be. +You have made them your enemies, and they do not know how to forgive. +I am the servant, and it is my duty to obey.” + +She looked up at him, and smiling now through her tears. + +“And you have obeyed. Oh, I understand,” she said quickly. “When you +spoke against me I knew that you must speak. Paul, I do not love you +less because of that--how could I?” + +She kissed him prettily, but a flush of shame coloured his face, for +he remembered how much fear for himself had prompted his confession in +the council-room. It was upon his tongue to make a full confession to +her, for his simple honesty rebelled at her generous confidence; but +she began to speak of other things, and chiefly of the terrible forty +days which had passed. + +“You did not come,” she said, “and I counted the hours. Then I said +you would never come, or that you were ill. Paul, you have been +ill--your eyes tell me that.” + +She held his face between her hands that the sunlight might fall upon +it, but he shrugged his shoulders indifferently. + +“It was nothing,” he answered; “nothing at all. The work has been +heavy, and I am tired--I do not sleep. It will be better when the +summer comes.” + +He did not tell her that for ten days after they had arrested her he +had been at the point of death, and was newly risen from a bed of +sickness to visit the fort. Nevertheless, a woman’s instinct guided +her unerringly. + +“Oh, my love, my love, if I had foreseen all--if I had told you of my +folly and my trouble! And now it is too late; you suffer when you +should forget. Oh, you must forget, Paul; forget that I ever came to +Kronstadt; forget that you were my friend!” + +He laughed brusquely. + +“Shall I forget that I live, or that the sun shines?” he asked. “Shall +I forget that your freedom is to be won, that we are both upon the +threshold of our lives? No, for a truth, such things are not to be +forgotten. Let us ask ourselves, rather, how the folly is to be +undone, how our enemies are to be made our friends. It is because I +believe in the possibility of these things that I am here this +morning. If I can help you, Marian, it will be by telling them the +truth as you have told it to me?” + +There was a question in his words, the unspoken thought that she had +hidden something from him. + +“Paul,” she said earnestly, “you know that I have told you all as I +have told it to them. I have no friends in Kronstadt, none in London. +What I did was for the sake of the child. You see how it has helped +him, when they will not even let me write to him now.” + +“They will not let you write! You have asked them, then?” + +“God knows, I have asked them on my knees. You do not know what +humiliations they have put upon me here. I hope that you will never +know.” + +Paul laughed again. She looked up at him with startled eyes, but he +held both her wrists and pushed her from him that he might watch her +while he spoke. + +“You think that little Dick has had no message?” he asked. + +“How could he?” she exclaimed, though a suggestion of the truth began +to dawn upon her. + +“You think that he will write to you no more?” continued Paul, with a +child’s pleasure in his words. + +A smile lighted her face. + +“Tell me!” she cried; “do not torture me!” + +Laughing still, he released her hands and took a letter-case from his +pocket. His thin fingers trembled while he fumbled with the many +scraps the case contained, but at last he found a paper scrawled over +with a child’s writing. + +“There,” he said, laying the scrawl upon the table, “that is how +little Dick forgets to write.” + +He turned away and walked to the door of the cell, a subtle delicacy +forbidding him to watch the tears upon the blotted paper or to listen +to the half-spoken words of love and gratitude. Almost his first +thought on the morrow of the dreadful day, when he had seen the +soldiers at the Governor’s house, was one for the child for whom this +sacrifice was made. And now he reaped his reward. + +“Dick shall write every week,” he said, “and I shall be your +mouthpiece. Do not be afraid; I have planned it all, and he will learn +to call me brother. Are you not glad, little girl?” + +“I love you,” she said simply. “I am lonely no more, for your love +shall be with me always.” + +The footsteps of a sentry in the court without forced them apart, and +Paul began to remember again the purpose with which he had been sent +to Fort Alexander. + +“I am come here to question you,” he said; “we must not forget that. +They think that you have friends, but I shall tell them all, and then +we shall see. They must not keep you in this place. I will not rest +until you are at Fort Katherine. I will see the General at once; he +shall know how it is, and he will not refuse me. Oh, you are to be +lonely no more, Marian--that day is past. We will begin the summer +together, and it shall be our summer always. The sun will shine upon +us and we will forget the shadows.” + +“You make me forget them already, Paul,” she answered; “it is summer +for me now. I am happy even here when I know that to-morrow will bring +you to me again.” + +“To-morrow and all the to-morrows,” he said cheerily. “I will find a +way, be sure; there is no door which my love for you shall not open; +no night so dark that I shall not see the brightness of your eyes; no +day so silent that I shall not hear your voice. God guard you, little +girl, and give you back to me!” + +He stooped once more to kiss her and went from the room quickly that +he might say nothing which should awake her from this new dream of +content. There had been a ray of sunlight in the cell, but when he was +out upon the sea again it seemed to him that the sun shone no more and +that darkness lay upon the land. + +“God help me! how could I tell her the truth?” he thought. “They will +send her to the capital and I shall see her no more.” + + + + + CHAPTER IX. + OUT OF THE DARKNESS. + +The launch crossed the narrow channel between Fort Alexander and the +mainland swiftly. Paul did not linger in the town, but, full of his +promise to Marian, he went straight to the Governor’s house to seek +the General. He found Stefanovitch in his private cabinet, and was +welcomed with a questioning movement of the eyebrow which meant, +“Well, why are you here?” + +“I come to tell you that I have been to the fort, my General, and have +seen the prisoner.” + +Stefanovitch put down his pen and turned in his chair. Though it had +been a month of swift anxieties, the master of Kronstadt showed no +trace of them either by carelessness of dress or weariness of face. He +was as well groomed and dainty in his personal adornment as when last +he had racked his brains for compliments which should win the favour +of his governess. + +“You have been to the fort!” he said, fixing his glass that he might +study Paul’s face. “By whose order was that?” + +“By the Colonel’s order, my General.” + +Stefanovitch nodded his head two or three times. + +“He sent you there to question the woman?” + +“He thought that she would tell me things which she would not tell to +others,” exclaimed Paul, speaking eagerly. “I have been--that is, I +called myself her friend.” + +A smile crept over Stefanovitch’s face. He nodded his head again, as +though he understood perfectly. + +“You called yourself her friend!” he repeated, as though weighing the +words. “But that is a _rôle_ you play no longer, Captain.” + +“I am the friend of none who is the enemy of my country,” said Paul +stolidly. “It is because I do not believe Mademoiselle Best is our +enemy that I come here now.” + +“But the documents, the plan which she sent to London?” exclaimed +Stefanovitch testily. + +“She did not understand--she did not know what she was doing, General. +She made the map because her relations in London offered her money. +She did not think it was a crime. I have questioned her, and I know +that she has told you all. There is nothing to find out now. The man +to be punished is he who asked a woman to do such work. If _he_ were +in Russia----” + +Stefanovitch laughed a little hardly. The instinctive gesture which +had carried the young soldier’s hand to the hilt of his sword was not +lost upon his chief. + +“But he is not in Russia, and he will be too wise to come here. When +you want to cut his throat, you must go to London and be hanged by a +judge in a black cap afterwards. That is how they reward one who +defends his honour--là-bas! And they call us barbarians! But I am +waiting to hear more of your visit to Alexander. The woman has spoken +to you? She has made a confession, possibly?” + +“She has told nothing but that which she told to you in the +council-room, General. A child could see that she spoke the truth. I +would stake my life upon it.” + +Stefanovitch regarded him with some amusement. He knew perfectly well +whence came this earnestness surpassing the earnestness of the +advocate. As a principle Nikolai Stefanovitch loved all women, but he +could not understand the worship of the unit. Marian had amused him +when she was at his house. Another governess would take her place in a +day or two, and she would amuse him too. But that he should disturb +himself at the change was a possibility to be laughed at. + +“You value your life at a low price when you stake it on a woman’s +word,” he said. + +“Upon the word of some, true, my General; but not upon the word of +Mademoiselle Best. He is a foolish man who cannot tell when a woman is +lying to him. This one has never lied; the truth is written in her +eyes.” + +“And you have been reading it there. Ho, ho! I must send this book to +the Censor. He will tell me if it is good for my officers to read a +work like that.” + +He leered pleasantly, delighting in the embarrassment of the younger +man. There was no purpose either in his questions or his assumption of +curiosity. Those at Kronstadt knew now the whole of Marian Best’s +story. Their perplexity was the difficulty of keeping that knowledge +from Petersburg, and of saving themselves from the charge of +negligence which might be brought against them. This perplexity was +helped by the presence of the prisoner at Fort Alexander. They +hesitated to send her to the capital. They feared that her story would +be made public by some prying Englishman, and that unpleasant +revelations would follow. And this thought was in Stefanovitch’s mind +when he asked-- + +“Have you told Bonzo that which you are telling me?” + +“I have told him nothing, my General.” + +“And why not?” + +“Because I wished first to speak to you; I wished you to know that the +prisoner is ill. They have put her in the south cell, and they give +her black bread to eat. God knows, I did not like to see that when I +spoke to her. She hid the bread behind her plate, General. She did not +complain, but I could see many things. They are starving her, and she +will not live long. Oh, she is so little and helpless; she has not +meant to harm us. I said that I would speak to you, for you could know +nothing of what has been done. I said that you would hear me, and +remember that she is an Englishwoman and have her taken to Fort +Katherine. The Colonel would not understand. I could not speak to him; +but with you it is different. You will listen to me; you will not +forget that she has been the friend of your children. Kronstadt will +gain nothing by this woman’s death. She would suffer eternal shame if +her story were known in England. And it will be known--I am sure of +that. The English spies are everywhere. Someone will tell them that we +have a prisoner at Alexander and that she is dying. They will say that +it is your act--you, who are the father of the city and have won the +love of your children. My General, you will send her to Fort +Katherine; you will not refuse me this.” + +His earnestness surprised even Stefanovitch, who had always regarded +him with an affection which lost nothing from the indispensable +formality of their rank and duty. In all the years he had known him +the General had never seen Paul so moved or so eloquent of purpose. +For his own part, he disliked eloquence and all that disturbed the +easy ripple of his life; but his affection for the younger man came to +his aid now, and there was added to the force of it that warning word +which Bonzo had forgotten to speak. Stefanovitch said to himself that +Paul was right. They were dealing with an Englishwoman. The political +friends of an Englishwoman could be troublesome. + +“Come,” he said, “you speak like the woman’s brother--or lover, my +friend Paul.” + +Paul’s face flushed until it was crimson. + +“I ask nothing for myself, General,” he said; “that day is gone. But I +speak as any honest man would speak when he sees a woman suffer.” + +“And you think that this woman will cease to suffer when she is at +Fort Katherine.” + +“She will not cease to suffer, but she will live no longer in the +darkness; she will not eat black bread; she will see the ships; she +will hear men’s voices. Will Kronstadt be hurt because of these +things, General? Oh, you know that she will not.” + +Stefanovitch’s glass dropped from his eye. For a moment his quick +brain ran over the gamut of the possibilities. + +“It would be for a few days at the most,” he said, while Paul began to +tremble with the excitement of success. “They will hear of her sooner +or later at Petersburg; it may be that the police will wish to talk to +her, and then our duty will be done. After that, my son--the deluge.” + +He took a pen in his hand and wrote an order quickly. Paul watched him +as a hungry man may watch one who sets food upon his table. + +“Take that to Sergius,” said Stefanovitch, when the order was written. +“Your English friend will be in Fort Katherine at sunset.” + + + + + CHAPTER X. + TEMPTATION. + +Paul left the Governor’s house with a light step. The sun shone for +him again; the surge of the sea was sweet music for his ears; the +green heights of the distant shores were a joy to his eyes. +“To-night,” he said to himself, “to-night she will leave Alexander, +to-night she will eat white bread and see the sky again.” But more +often the thought was, “To-night she will be near me, she will think +of me, she will know that I have spoken to the General.” + +He walked swiftly, holding the paper as he would have held a jewel, in +the hollow of his hand. It was his purpose to seek out old Sergius and +to make sure that the hardly-gained order was enacted without delay. +This purpose carried him through the heart of the town toward the +arsenal. He had a cheery word and a nod for such of his friends as he +passed; but he would stand to speak to none, and when he met Bonzo +face to face in the great square he begrudged the minutes of delay. + +“Sacré bleu! you walk like the devil!” said Bonzo, taking from his +mouth a cigar as long as a pistol. “Are you going back to Alexander, +my son?” + +Paul laughed, and displayed the paper triumphantly. + +“There is no more Alexander,” he said with fervour; “she is to be at +Fort Katherine to-night. I have the General’s order. He remembers that +she is an Englishwoman, and he is wise.” + +Bonzo opened his cunning eyes. + +“Oh,” he said, “it is that, then. I thought there was something. So +Nikolai is touched. Ho, ho! She has been on her knees to him. Now he +will go on his knees to her. Quelle farce!” + +Paul wondered if this man had ever known a moment’s love, or sympathy +for a fellow-creature; but he was careful to conceal his thoughts and +to overlook the jest. + +“The General is afraid of the English tongues,” he said simply. “I +think that he is right to be afraid. She is no criminal, my Colonel, +and we are not a savage people. She will be just as safe at Fort +Katherine, and we shall not suffer because she eats white bread.” + +Bonzo laughed. + +“You should all wear petticoats!” he exclaimed boorishly; “you should +go to a nunnery and mope and mew together. How shall such fellows be +soldiers?” + +He turned on his heel, for he remembered he was speaking of his chief; +but as he resumed his walk he cried with a careful assumption of +indifference: + +“Mind you don’t run away with her yourself, Captain Paul; she is not +in Fort Katherine yet!” + +Paul stood still and choked the word which rose to his lips. He was +about to resent with heat the suggestion that he could be guilty of +this dishonour; but Bonzo had already turned the corner of the square, +and the younger man stood still to repeat the words of temptation +again and again. + +“She is not in Fort Katherine yet!” + +Paul laughed and walked on. At a distance of ten paces he stopped +again, and began to read the paper he had treasured so earnestly. + + + “The Englishwoman to be removed at sunset, and to be delivered into + the custody of Rothmister Siebenski at Fort Katherine. + + “Stefanovitch. + + “At Kronstadt, April 19, 1895.” + + +Paul read the paper three times. He turned it over and over, as though +seeking for some name which should be written upon it. + +“So,” he said to himself, “he has forgotten to write the name of +Sergius upon it. He who delivers this paper may carry the Englishwoman +from Fort Alexander. The Captain will not be there at sunset; he will +be in the café or at the barracks. The Sergeant would not question my +authority, since I come straight from the great house, and here is the +General’s order. Holy God! what an idea!” + +He continued his walk, but at a more rapid pace. The suggestion which +Bonzo had thrown out jestingly began to haunt him. He heard a voice +whispering: “It is possible. She would suffer no more. She would lie +in your arms. It would be your business to see that she did not betray +Kronstadt. She would be your wife--the friend of Russia.” + +He laughed aloud as men will at the first swift advance of some +triumphant temptation which they have the wish but not the strength to +resist. His hurried walk carried him from the square to the café, +where he had drunk with Bonzo on that night of Marian’s arrest. He +entered and called for a glass of absinthe. Destiny, now busy with +him, contrived that he should take a seat wherefrom he could look over +the harbour and spy out his own little launch lying a biscuit toss +from the quay. She had been a present to him from his kinsman, Prince +Tolma. They said that there was no faster yacht in all the Baltic; men +pointed to her as the work of the great Yarrow, and wagered that she +would outsteam the fleetest cruiser then lying in the roads. Paul +spent most of his money upon this little ship. She was his toy, his +plaything. He loved to steam in her to the islands of the Finnish +shore, and there to camp for days at the zenith of the summer. He had +a better knowledge of the Gulf than many a master mariner. His servant +Reuben, the young Englishman sent out by the Yarrow people to tend the +launch, was devoted to him heart and soul. “He would be the very man +for this,” Paul said to himself; “he would remember that she is an +Englishwoman.” And so he drank off his absinthe and went out into the +sunshine again. + +Kronstadt had begun to sweat with her day’s work then. The great +hammers clanged unceasingly in the arsenal; the bellow of steam +whistles echoed across the water; the cries of seamen, their oaths, +their songs, filled the nearer harbour. Squadrons passed weary from +long drill; the courtyards of the barracks were full of troops +hungering for dinner; launches steamed swiftly between the outlying +forts and the mainland. Paul remembered that this tumult of the active +life was very dear to him. He loved Kronstadt as a child loves its +home. He looked across the sea to the granite walls and to the guns +shining as silver in the blaze of sunlight, and he asked himself how +it would be if he were cut off from this iron home for ever, branded +as a traitor, spoken of with curses, the mock of those who had +honoured him. + +“Bah!” he said, “that day will never come. I shall deliver the paper +to Sergius; he will take a file of men and conduct the prisoner to +Fort Katherine. I must do my duty. I am a servant of the Czar. I will +forget that she has loved me.” + +But as he walked the voice of the tempter spake again. + +“Reuben is down there upon the quay. He would have steam up in your +yacht by sunset. You could find a few drunken artillery men to act as +your file. It would be a long time before they would discover your +flight. She would be a wife to you--the woman you love.” + +He cursed the tempter, but called to his man Reuben, and was answered. + + + + + CHAPTER XI. + THE BEGINNING OF THE FLIGHT. + +Marian in her cell could hear the bells of the ships striking the +hours; and she would count them and wait to see if the harbour clock +answered to their signal. There was little else to do through the long +days of darkness, save it were to listen to the cries of the seamen as +they warped their ships to the buoys or exchanged a word with one of +the sentries at the fort. Until this time her jailers permitted her no +other occupations. Designedly, that she might become acquainted with +the whole meaning of imprisonment in a fortress, they kept her hands +idle and shut the daylight from her eyes. She thought sometimes that +she would lose her reason for very dread of the silence and the +darkness. Or she would succumb to the frenzy of the prisoner and be +tempted to beat upon the door with her fist, or to dash herself +against the granite walls, seeking thus an escape from the living +death. But upon the day of Paul’s visit a new sense of resignation +possessed her. The man’s great love, surpassing all she had imagined, +spoke to her still when he had quitted her cell; she heard his voice +again bidding her to be of good courage; she had kept the letter which +little Dick had written, and tears of affection sealed the childish +words. She asked herself what craven spirit had mastered her, that she +should be the victim of this weakness and despair. They had accounted +her a woman of unfailing nerve; no shackles of cowardice had hampered +her will during those months of excitement when she had filched the +secrets of Kronstadt one by one; had measured the forts, and counted +the guns, and cried with delight at the successes she numbered. She +determined to remember those days and to live them again. + +“I will not show him that I suffer,” she said; “he shall find me +laughing when he comes here to-morrow. And he shall write to Dick for +me--a long letter about our home that is to be. After that he will +speak to them. They will not keep me here always. It was such a little +thing.” + +This spirit of courage breathed upon all her actions of the day. She +showed a smiling face to the Sergeant when he brought her dinner. +Surrendering herself to childish anticipations, she began to think of +a hundred things which Paul would do--how he would write to England, +or see the Governor, or even go to the Czar for her. The hours hurried +now, each bell telling her that her lover was up and working for her. +To-morrow she would see him again. Perchance he would bring good news. +At least she would touch his hand and hear his voice. + +They were wont to bring her a little supper at sunset--the boiling tea +and the black bread which was as earth in her mouth. But she ate it +to-night with relish; and when her supper was done she let her head +sink upon her arms and so was carried away to a dreamland of wood and +meadow, to gardens warmed with everlasting sunshine, and woods alive +with music of song-birds. Therein she walked awhile, holding her +lover’s hand; she heard voices long forgotten, the voices of dead +friends and the laughter of the child. The sleep was sweet, for it was +a sleep of hope new born and of courage rekindled; but when it had +endured a little while, the harsh skirl of the outer door turning upon +its hinges awoke her rudely. She opened her eyes to see the Sergeant +standing before her, and with him rough artillery men in their great +grey cloaks, and others who were strangers to her. She thought for the +moment that they had come to take her to Petersburg, or even to the +nameless punishment beyond. She began to tremble, and stood back +against the wall as though she would find protection there--the weak +woman shrinking from the terrible hand which was about to touch her. + +“What is it?” she cried, while she shielded her eyes, dewed with +sleep, from the garish rays of the lanterns. “Why do you come here? +what do you want with me?” + +“To take you to Fort Katherine, mademoiselle, by order of the +Governor.” + +Marian clenched her hands; she scarce dared to believe what she heard. +Paul had spoken, then; the night had passed; she would see the sun +again. + +“You wish to take me now?” she asked, vainly seeking to cloak the +excitement which possessed her. + +“Now,” said the Sergeant gruffly--“that is, if you have finished your +supper.” + +She laughed joyously, as though the suggestion were a folly. + +“Oh!” she cried; “as if one would wait for that!” + +Her hands were busy with the cape of fur while she spoke, and when she +had buttoned it about her shoulders and had drawn the little fur cap +over her untrammelled hair, she was ready for them. The men watched +her with admiring eyes. The youngest among them was saying to himself, +“What lips to kiss!” + +“I am ready, quite ready,” she exclaimed, looking up with eyes awake +and laughing. “You are sure it is to Fort Katherine, Sergeant?” + +The Sergeant shrugged his shoulders. + +“Sei tchas! are we here to play at being children, mademoiselle? Read +that paper--it is the writing of the Governor.” + +“I can read nothing to-night,” she said, pushing aside the lantern; +“my eyes are blinded by the light. I cannot breathe in this place. It +is good of you to come for me.” + +“It is not good at all, mademoiselle. I am the servant, and it is my +business to obey.” + +He turned from the cell and the girl walked beside him still babbling +like a child. No thought of prudence could have stilled her tongue in +that hour. The burden of her punishment fell from her shoulders when +she quitted the cell and ascended the short flight of steps leading to +the quay above. The mighty granite walls terrified her no longer. She +could see the heaven above her, gray-blue through the silver haze of +night; the stars shone down upon her; they would be shining down upon +England, she said; and she would watch them every night henceforth +from her windows in Fort Katherine. The joy of liberty half possessed +quickened her heart and released all her impulses and affection. She +could have kissed the hand of the Sergeant who conducted her to the +launch. She talked to him unceasingly while they traversed the +corridor and the courtyard of the fortress; she was talking still when +he threw open the iron-bound door and stepped out on to the quay which +lies upon the north side of Alexander. + +It was a glorious night, a night of soft winds and rippling sea. +Though the sun had sunk, there was still a glow of crimson light in +the West, a vast arc pointed with jagged spikes of orange and green +and purple flame. Kronstadt herself stood silhouetted as an island of +rock and pinnacles in an atmosphere of quivering haze. Great ships, +belching clouds of smoke from mighty funnels, passed noiselessly +behind the curtain of the eastern mists; lanterns flashed from all the +forts, here white and far-reaching, there scarlet and dim; strange +rays played upon the fretting waters; lakes of golden waves glistened +where the warships spread the searching arcs of their lamps; the steam +whistle moaned distantly or bellowed warningly from the nearer +harbours. The West was a splendid canopy of flame hung in the heavens, +as it were, above the throne of liberty and of freedom. + +Marian stood upon the quay and the fresh wind scattered her curls and +cast refreshing spray + + + [Illustration: “KRONSTADT HERSELF STOOD SILHOUETTED AS AN ISLAND OF + ROCK AND PINNACLES”] + + +upon her weary eyes. The scene around her was bewildering and not to +be realised. She beheld a steam launch lying at the quay; she heard +its timbers groaning as the swell lifted it against the granite wall +and the fenders were flattened and twisted at the rush of the seas. +But her eyes were rather for the West. There lay her own England. She +could have stretched out her arms to the befriending light and have +prayed that some messenger of God might come down to carry her from +this tomb to which folly had brought her. + +“Oh,” she said, “I am ready, quite ready, Sergeant. Is this the boat?” + +The Sergeant ignored her question. He was bending down to speak to one +who stood in the bows of the launch, a tall man wearing the rough +overcoat of an officer of artillery. Notwithstanding the light in the +West, it was very dark in the loom of the walls of Alexander. Marian +could see little of the faces of those about her. The flickering rays +of the lanterns danced upon the white deck of the yacht, but not upon +the figure of the man who seemed to command it. + +“I am to go on board?” she asked of one near her. “Why have you +brought me here if you are not ready?” + +The soldier laughed good-naturedly. + +“We are quite ready, mademoiselle; it is the Captain for whom we +wait.” + +“The Captain!” + +“Yes, for Captain Zassulic, who is to take you to Fort Katherine.” + +She laughed in her turn, nervously and with the desire that surprise +should not betray her. She did not dare, for some moments, to look +again at the little ship or at the tall figure now standing by the +engine-room. But when she was sure of herself, when she had driven +from her mind the wild thoughts that occupied it, she saw that the +figure was the figure of Paul, her lover; and at this the lights and +the stars, the ships and the men, swam before her eyes, and she leaned +heavily upon the arm of the trooper. + +“Why do you keep me waiting? I am weak and cold,” she cried +petulantly. “I cannot stand here.” + +“Mademoiselle,” said the Sergeant, turning to her, “there is no need +to keep you waiting any longer.” + +Marian suffered herself almost to be lifted upon the launch. So soon +as her feet had touched the deck a strong hand seized her own and drew +her towards the companion. It was the hand of Paul, hot and burning as +the hand of one in a fever. + +“Let go!” he cried to the engineer, speaking in a voice which rang +across the sea; and, almost with the words, the ropes were cast off +and the launch stood away from the quay. + +It was the work of a moment, so dexterously done, so unlooked for, +that the Sergeant stood staring stupidly as one dazed with drink. + +“Stoi, stoi!” he cried; “there are the others, my Captain.” + +“I have no need of them. Do you think the girl is going to jump into +the sea?” + +“But the General’s order, my Captain.” + +Paul laughed and took his place at the woman’s side. + +“We shall know how to answer the General. Good-night to you, +Sergeant.” + +He cried again to the engineer and the little ship leaped into the +waves. Foam flew from her bows and sparkled upon her decks. The whirr +of her screw was as the whirr of a cascade thundering. The surrounding +forts seemed to recede back to a more distant horizon. The lights of +Kronstadt, the black shapes of barrack and church, were hidden in the +deepening mists. Into the West, outward to the greater seas of the +Baltic, the launch was bearing them. But the man continued to keep his +eyes upon the great citadel he was leaving, to look upon it as one may +look upon a home which shall be a home no more. + +“My God!” he said, “it is for ever!” + +And so he turned to the girl as though to shield her with his arm. The +lights around him began to vanish one by one; the salt of the sea was +on his face; he waited to hear the boom of the guns which should +signal his flight and tell the city that he was a traitor--he who had +served Kronstadt with an abiding love. + + + + + CHAPTER XII. + THE CITADEL AWAKES. + +Marian sat in the saloon of the _Esmeralda_, and the saloon was in +darkness. She still wore her pretty cap of fur, and the cape was +unbuttoned upon her shoulders. Her impatient imagination told her that +she had been a full hour in the cabin of the ship waiting for Paul to +come to her. But no more than twenty minutes had passed since she had +quitted her cell at Fort Alexander. The yacht was still running down +the southern shore of the island; the great guns still threatened from +the mighty ramparts. + +Until this time she understood nothing of her lover’s purpose or of +the meaning of her journey. She believed that Paul was compelled thus +to steer toward the open sea that he might come to Fort Katherine, +which lies upon the northern shore of the island. Little as she knew +of ships, the tremendous vibration of everything around her, the +rattle of glass, the swirl of the seas against the ports, spoke of +high speed and freshening wind. It was her argument that they were +making Tollboken, the great lighthouse at the western point of +Kronstadt. The ship would put back presently and run down the northern +shore to the new prison awaiting her. The sweet hour of liberty would +be at an end; the door of a cell would close upon her again +unpityingly. When the launch was not put about, but continued to hold +its course for the Baltic, she could not understand why it was, and +was puzzling her brains to think, when her lover entered the cabin +brusquely, with spray shining in crystals of salt upon his oilskins +and the dew of the sea upon his cheek. He answered her unspoken +question, but not as she wished him to answer it. + +“You have no fire and no light,” he said cheerily; “and this is your +welcome to the _Esmeralda_. Well, it will be better presently.” + +She took his wet hands and held them to her lips. + +“Paul,” she cried, “for the love of God tell me, what does it mean? +Where am I? where are you taking me to?” + +He kissed her upon the forehead very tenderly. + +“I am taking you to London--to your friends,” he said. + +“Oh, you do not mean it,” she answered impatiently, “you do not mean +it, dearest. It is to Fort Katherine. I heard them say so.” + +“If you think that I do not mean it, Marian, come up to the deck with +me and you will see the light of Tollboken. You had better come, for +we shall never look at Kronstadt again.” + +He did not wait for her answer, but led the way to the companion and +to the deck above. When she stood there with him the wind blew so +freshly and the spray so blinded her that she must cling to him for a +while and cry that she could see nothing. But anon she got footing by +the shrouds of the mainmast, and from that place she looked over the +gathering seas and beheld a great white light hanging, as a globe of +fire, above the northern point of the island. She remembered that she +had seen the light for the first time when she came to Russia to be +governess to the children of Nikolai Stefanovitch. But now she was +leaving it; the yacht had not rounded the point as she thought it +would; it held a course straight for the open sea. She dare not ask +herself what this course meant. + +“Well,” said Paul, “do you believe me now? Yonder is Tollboken. You +are looking at it for the last time.” + +She began to tremble at his words. + +“For the last time--and you?” + +A shadow rested upon his face. + +“Moi c’est égal. I am weary of Kronstadt and of my friends there. I +shall find new friends in England. Besides, I do my country a service +since I take charge of one who has been her enemy. Tell me, little +Marian, you will be the enemy of Russia no more.” + +He drew her beneath the shelter of his oilskins and kissed the lips +upraised to his. But the girl was silent. She could not then measure +the sacrifice he had made so willingly. Of all the thoughts crowding +upon her mind this thought predominated, that her lover had saved her +from the living death. + +“I do not understand,” she said at length, “I do not know what you are +saying to me. Oh, it is not true, Paul, it cannot be.” + +“You shall tell me to-morrow whether it is true or not,” he answered +merrily. “Meanwhile, there is supper to think of, and after supper, +rest. It is time that we lighted the saloon; you are tired, Marian.” + +She was about to tell him that her fatigue was only the fatigue of +joy, when a flame of light leaped up from the shore of the distant +islands, and the boom of a great gun rolled across the darkening seas +like the rumble of approaching thunder. + +“Hark!” she said, starting involuntarily; “they have fired a gun from +Tollboken.” + +Paul turned impatiently. + +“It is a captain’s salute, little girl.” + +“I think of the shadows again,” she exclaimed with a shudder. And then +she asked-- + +“Paul, whose yacht is this?” + +“It is mine, Marian.” + +“And you had the Governor’s permission to take me from Alexander?” + +“Certainly, or how could you be here now?” + +“He gave me my liberty, then?” + +Paul laughed. + +“You ask too many questions, Marian, and supper should be waiting.” + +A second gun fired from the ramparts of Tollboken arrested the laugh +upon his face. He could conceal from her no longer the terrible dread +which had possessed him since the yacht left Alexander. She read his +secret upon his face; she knew that he risked his life for the guerdon +of her love. + +“Paul,” she said, clinging to him now with a passionate gesture of +reproach and gratitude, “I understand all. Oh, God forgive me for +bringing you to this!” + +“No,” he said, “where you live I must live, Marian; where your home +is, there must be my home. It could not be otherwise. Without you +there is nothing for me--the sun does not shine, there are no stars at +night. We will stand together for good or ill until the end, as God +wills.” + +“I am not worthy,” she answered through her tears. “Oh, God knows, I +am not worthy!” + +“You will be my wife,” he said simply; “you will repay a thousand +times.” + +A grinning face, appearing above the coamings of the engine-room +hatchway, put them apart. It was the face of Reuben the engineer. + +“Well,” said Paul, turning to him, “you wish to tell me----” + +“That she is doing twenty knots, sir.” + +“She must do more. Spare nothing. We must burn the very ship if need +be. Hark to that! It is the gun at Menzikoff, which means that the +garrison is alarmed. We shall see the lights of their ships soon.” + +The grinning face disappeared, and anon thick smoke rolled from the +funnel of the _Esmeralda_. She plunged with new speed into the choppy, +spuming waves which the fresh wind drove in from the Baltic. The water +washed her bows and ran ankle-deep over her flush-decks. She had no +lights save the glow which hovered above her funnel or spread +fan-shaped when the furnace-door was opened. Every timber in her +quivered at the heightening speed. Not a man of the four aboard her +but knew that this was a race for liberty--it might be for life. +Yonder, through the northern darkness, lay freedom and reward; behind, +where the guns made thunder of the night, were the prisons of Russia +and the fields of Bondage. + +Their course lay almost due west for a while and when they had been an +hour at sea they could discern the lights upon the Finnish shore no +longer nor the twinkling stars which spoke of villages on the Ingrian +coast. The Gulf broadened so quickly that they stood almost at once in +the heart of the widening sea, in the channel of ships steaming to +Russia or labouring to make Helsingfors. At one time a great ironclad +loomed above them suddenly and passed so close that they could hear +men calling to one another upon her decks. Or, again, they passed a +Norwegian barque lubbering in the swell in a vain effort to keep the +great breakers from her decks. These shapes loomed out of the dark for +an instant to be lost immediately. Scudding white mists hid the moon +fitfully as though relishing a jest with those who sought light on the +earth below. Storm-clouds began to gather in the south and to beat up +warningly. The night fell bitter cold and the wind was as a whip upon +the face. + +“Come, let us go down,” said Paul, who hitherto had been held to the +deck as one chained there by the anticipation of advancing peril. “I +have tasted no food since midday; and you, little girl, I should be +ashamed to keep you here.” + +“My place is at your side, Paul.” + +“Then my side shall be in the saloon. And you shall give me my supper +there. It will be time enough to think of other things when we see the +light of their ships.” + +“You think that they will follow us?” + +“Is it possible not to think so?” + +“They will send a cruiser?” + +“Undoubtedly; but we shall not mind that. There is no ship in Russia +which can catch the _Esmeralda_ while she has coal in her bunkers; and +we have coal everywhere. Oh, it will amuse you well when the fun +begins.” + +He entered the saloon and switched on the electric lights. The veils +for the ports were ready now, and when he had covered up the glasses +with them he gave the girl hot wine. + +“You must drink it at a draught,” he said. “I want to see the colour +in your pretty cheeks.” + +“Paul,” she said earnestly, “how can I thank you? how can I tell you +all I feel?” + +“You can thank me by drinking the wine and afterwards by eating your +supper. You must say how you like the _Esmeralda_ and her cook. She is +my other self, this little ship. We have been friends many years, but +not the friends we shall be to-night.” + +The steward, a portly, good-humoured, but, above all, fatherly man, +known in twenty ports by the name of Sal, by reason of his ability to +perform all woman’s work, now hurried into the cabin and set a +steaming dish upon the table. + +“A bit of beef, and cooked with my own hand, miss,” he said. “I +thought you’d be glad of it, and so I made bold.” + +She thanked him prettily. + +“You come from London?” she asked. + +A voluble man, her question was like oil upon his tongue. + +“Indeed and I do, my miss. I was born at West ’Am, as my poor mother +knows, and precious glad I shall be to see Hingerland again. It’s a +dreadful thing to feel as you’re an ixile, miss. Fourteen years now it +is since I clapped eyes on London. As for these Russians, I can’t +abide ’em.” + +Paul roared with laughter. + +“Sapristi!” said he, “you’re a fine fellow to sign for a Russian +ship.” + +“A Russian ship? No, it ain’t that, sir. I had the word of Reuben +afore I come aboard. ‘Where you like and when you like,’ says I, ‘but +no foringers for yours truly.’ And that’s what we signed upon. ‘As for +the young gentleman,’ says I, ‘he’s no Russian, or what’s he doing +with our lingo? You don’t find Joshua Sill sailing with foringers +willing.’ Five times round the world, miss, I’ve been, believe me. But +there ain’t no place like the country we was bred to, indeed there +ain’t.” + +His patriotism choked him with emotion, and he withdrew, still shaking +his head. His talk had led them away for a brief moment from the hour +and the place, and the shadows passed from their faces. It was +possible, down there in the warmth and brightness of the pretty cabin, +to imagine that they, too, were already upon the seas of liberty and +safety; to imagine that they had come to that kingdom of love and +possession which they had sought in tears and tribulation and perils +often. They began to talk with a new confidence; to promise each other +what they would do when the sunny fields of Devon were theirs to roam +and the white cliffs of England stood up for their defence. The spell +of the warming wine worked upon them so that the man could tell +himself that the reward was greater than the sacrifice; the girl, that +love was at last born in her heart unquestionably, a love to endure, +to overshadow all, to be the very sap of her life. Lying there in her +lover’s arms, the past, the future, the scene, the peril alike were +forgotten. She lived in a present which was in itself an eternity--the +eternity of love realised. + +In this employment of supper two hours passed swiftly away. Paul +lingered in the cabin because he knew that the deck might show him +that which he feared to see--the lights of the cruisers sent out from +Kronstadt or Helsingfors in pursuit of the _Esmeralda_. Trusting to +the quick eyes and to the devotion of his servant Reuben, he knew that +they would summon him when need was that he should go above. The +quiver of the boards beneath his feet, the jar of the glass upon the +table, spoke of the high speed maintained and of a smoother sea. Could +they but keep the _Esmeralda_ at such a speed she would outsteam any +vessel which Stefanovitch could command. The danger lay ahead--in the +warships at Helsingfors and at Revel. The telegraph could warn these +that a launch was escaping from Kronstadt. The _Esmeralda_ had yet to +pass the neck of the Gulf, yet to outwit those who would strain every +nerve to take her. Folly alone helped Paul to hope in the midst of +dangers such as these. Despair whispered that the girl he loved was in +his arms, but that he touched her lips for the last time. + +“Let us forget, Marian, let us forget all,” he would cry; “let us +think only of to-night, and of each other.” + +“I could never forget,” she answered with deep affection. “I am +unworthy of the love you bestow upon me; I shall be your servant until +my death.” + +“You shall be my wife!” he cried passionately. “I will hear your words +all day. The days cannot be long enough. There shall be nothing to +think of--no past, no future, but only the moment of our love. When +to-morrow comes we shall be where no Russian ships can harm us. It +will be yours then to repay me, dearest, to remember whose servant I +have been and why I left Russia. You will be the friend of my country +as I shall be of yours. You will forget all that you learnt and saw at +Kronstadt.” + +“I have forgotten it already, Paul. Oh, I should be for ever guilty if +I did not regret all that I have done and said, if I did not think of +Russia as of my own country. How could it be otherwise since I love +you?” + +“They will tempt you,” he said: “they will offer you money as they +offered it before; and I am poor, I have no longer an employment. The +home which I can give you must be one of your own cottages. My friends +will not help me now; they will call me a traitor and forget my name.” + +She shrank at the words, for they rebuked her selfishness. She +realised she had made him the partner of her guilt. + +“Oh, no, no, do not say that!” she cried; “do not let me bring this +shame upon you. Take me back to Russia, Paul; to-morrow it will be too +late.” + +“It is too late now,” he said with a bitter smile. + +The door of the cabin opened as he spoke, and the face of Reuben, +still wearing the bucolic grin, appeared unwelcomely. Paul rose at +once. + +“You have something to say to me, Reuben?” + +“It is about the coal, sir.” + +“Then I will come immediately.” + +But to Marian he said-- + +“You must sleep now, little wife. To-morrow we shall be in the Baltic +and sunset will bring us to Stockholm. You can begin to think of +England then.” + +She raised her lips to his and clung to him with a new tenderness. The +words he had spoken, that his friends would call him a traitor, echoed +again in her ears. She thought of them still when he had left her, and +they were an enemy to sleep. The gift of sacrifice cut her heart; it +poisoned the cup of forgetfulness she had tasted so willingly. + +But Paul hurried to the deck, and so soon as his feet had left the +ladder he knew why Reuben called him. Away upon the port quarter a +great arc of golden light was playing upon the sea. Now rising in a +focus of dazzling beams, now skimming the water with a vast area of +radiance, now shining full as a star new fallen from the heavens, the +meaning of the light was not to be hidden from those on board the +_Esmeralda_. The telegraph had done its work. A cruiser had put out +from Helsingfors and was searching the Gulf for the yacht which sought +to carry from Russian waters secrets of such price. + +“God help my little wife!” said Paul when he saw the light--and that +was all. + + + + + CHAPTER XIII. + AT THE ZENITH OF THE NIGHT. + +The yacht stood upon a course almost due west. The lamps in her +saloons burned no longer; she carried no light and showed no glow of +flame above her funnel. Save for the vibrations of her screw and the +buffet of the seas upon her arched bows, no sound followed in her +wake. She cut the gathering waves rather than breasted them; she +rushed onward through the swell as some living thing come up for +breath or to the pursuit of prey. Until this time the arc of light +which lay upon the sea as a golden carpet had not spread so far that +its rays were shed upon the yacht. She stood out of it to the +northward. Her crew watched its path with an excitement not to be +described. Men clenched their hands when the great lamp swung round +and their eyes were blinded by its fuller radiance. But darkness +continued to befriend them. Save in that place where the great lantern +gave gold to the waves, night reigned upon the sea. And night might +yet deliver the _Esmeralda_ if destiny willed. + +“They are standing for the south, sir,” said old John Hook, who was at +the wheel. “It’ll be in their heads that we’re running for the German +coast--perhaps for the Baltic port. You’ll go by ’em yet with a +handful of luck--I’m damned if you won’t!” + +Old John, who had shipped for the trip willingly when he heard that an +Englishwoman was to be snatched from a Russian prison, trusted to pick +up at Stockholm his own brig, then at anchor in Kronstadt harbour. The +adventure was no more to him than an hour in the fog at the mouth of +the Thames. + +“Stop you, sir!” he had exclaimed. “Why, there ain’t no ship in the +Baltic as could catch yon bit of a kettle when she’d the mind to show +her starn. And if so be as they do, why, ain’t there such things as +counsels for to talk to ’em properly and show ’em what’s the colour of +your flag? I’d spit on all the skippers in Roosher for a noggin of +rum--damn me if I wouldn’t.” + +With this proper contempt for all foreigners and their ships (and a +bundle containing a lace handkerchief, a photograph and a dirty +shirt), John had come aboard the _Esmeralda_. The race from Kronstadt +to the open Gulf had been a joy to him. Nor did this sudden appearance +of a warship upon the horizon terrify him at all. The yacht had the +heels of her. If they were taken, the English Consul at Kronstadt +would shake his fist in the face of the Governor, he reasoned, and +that would be the end of it. Paul shared nothing of such stolid +optimism. The very darkness of the seas about him caused the great +white light to stand out like some uncanny beacon set up to remind him +that he was still in Russian waters; that Kronstadt knew of his flight +and of his purpose. + +“She is running to the south, John,” he said gloomily, “but it will +not be for long. For the matter of that she is going about now.” + +John touched the little wheel and spat emphatically. + +“That’s true, by thunder!” he cried; “but what of it, sir? It’ll be a +pretty steady hand that picks us off in this light; and we’ve the +heels of her, all said and done. You take my word for it, if they’re +waiting to take us afore they turn in they won’t finish this watch +until the day of judgment.” + +Paul smiled. + +“You English have a pleasant way of looking at things; we Russians are +not so ready.” + +“Which is your misfortune, sir, a-begging your pardon. It don’t do to +be a Rooshian, not in these days--leastwise not when you can sail +under a skipper who reads the noosepapers.” + +He touched the wheel again, and the little yacht rose on the crest of +a great wave before plunging into the shining darkness of the hollow. +The arc ceased to glow while the great ship went about; the curtain of +the cloud was unlifted, save at one spot low upon the horizon where a +little gate of light, like a wicket-gate to the heaven beyond the +envelope, gave promise of a clear sky before the morning. For ten +minutes the yacht raced in darkness toward the distant seas of refuge. +Then the mighty beams shone out again, and their glory, surpassing the +glory of day, fell once more upon the waters. Rippling as with a +ripple of molten gold, the wave of radiance flowed on. It made jewels +of the wind-tossed spindrift; it focussed upon the black sails of a +fishing-boat and showed her labouring and sagging in the trough of the +seas; it struck upon the dark hull of a distant steamer, and she stood +out in it so that the very men upon her decks were to be counted: and +it rested at last upon the _Esmeralda_, gathering her into its +aureola, feeling her, as with fingers of light which touched prey and +would torture it. + +No man spoke in that supreme moment. The hand of old John was still +upon the spokes of the wheel; Paul leaned spell-bound against the +shrouds and watched the quivering beams; Reuben showed his head above +the engine-room hatchway, and the grin still hovered upon his face. +Minutes passed and the enchantment was not broken. Full upon them the +light rested, discovering every shroud and rope. And the men had no +answer to it--no answer save the answer of the _Esmeralda_, which +rushed onward toward her goal as though the race were a joy to her--a +race from which she would yet reap victory. + +Reuben was the first to find his tongue. + +“She’s the _Peter Veliky_, of Revel,” he said quietly; “I could pick +her out of a thousand. She carries four twelve-inch, and her speed’s +fourteen--in the books.” + +“To hell with the books!” cried John Hook. “The question is, what’s +her speed here, and when is she going to show it?” + +Reuben’s grin was yet broader. + +“She is going to show it now, John; if you want to dance, there’s the +music.” + +A gun boomed out above the moaning of the wind, and its smoke hung for +an instant, like an envelope of vapour above the decks of the _Peter +Veliky_. Then a woman’s voice was heard, and Paul turned quickly to +find Marian standing at his side. + +“I could not stay below,” she said, “it suffocates me--and I saw the +light, Paul.” + +She slipped her hand into his and stood with him. She feared no longer +for herself, but for the man who had risked life and honour that she +might be free. + +“You will never make a sailor, Marian,” Paul answered; “you do not +know how to obey.” + +“I have come here to learn, dearest; I could not stay down there with +yesterday for my friend.” + +Paul pointed to the distant ship whose blinding lantern moved slowly +across the spuming sea. + +“There is our to-morrow,” he said grimly. “I did not wish you to know +that. I thought that you would sleep and wake where no one could harm +you; but now--we shall dance, as Reuben says.” + +She laughed to conceal her excitement. + +“Who can harm me here when you are with me?” she asked--and then, less +heroically, “Did you not say that the _Esmeralda_ was the fastest +yacht in the Baltic?” + +Paul took her face between his rough hands and kissed it. + +“Little woman,” he said, “if I had your heart! You give me courage +always. Indeed, good luck goes with you, Marian; we are leaving them +already.” + +The ships were abreast now, a mile of sparkling sea racing between +them. But the _Peter Veliky_ was no match for the yacht which Yarrow +had built. The _Esmeralda_ forged ahead from the first. She held her +course unflinchingly even when the gun sent flame again across the +water and a shell fell hissing into the waves behind her. She steamed +on in the envelope of night, seeking to shake the light from her as +quarry might shake a dog. + +“To hell with the books!” cried old John Hook in the fervour of the +moment. “There ain’t a ship in Roosher which is going to catch her +this night, a-begging your pardon for the expression, miss.” + +“Oh, it is true, it is true!” cried Marian, clasping her hands +joyfully. “To-morrow we shall be at Stockholm. What a thing to tell +little Dick!” + +Her eyes blazed; the magic of combat, that inexplicable fever, which +gives scorn of death had touched them. She stood entranced, a little +slim figure, upon which the white beams fell picturesquely. When the +man looked upon her he forgot all else but the morrow which should put +her in his arms and dower him with her love while life was. + +“We will tell the story together, little girl,” he said; “but there is +something else to say before then, and the music has not finished.” + +A second shot hissed above the sea and was swallowed up in a fountain +of foam which rose up so close to the _Esmeralda_ that the faces of +her crew were wetted as by driven rain. It drew a curse from old John, +but the girl laughed fearlessly. She could not realise the meaning of +the tragedy which was being played. To her it was no more than some +great set scene in a theatre where wondrous lights coloured the +enchanted waters, and demons danced impotently before the gates of the +house impregnable. She did not believe that anything on earth could +harm a ship manned by English sailors and built in London city. And +she had an abounding confidence in her lover. He would save her--that +had been her thought from the beginning of the terrible days. + +“Paul,” she asked, turning to him with a gesture of love, “when shall +we be in London?” + +“In four days’ time, little one.” + +“And then----” + +“And then--it will be your turn to command. I have no plans; I have +not thought of it.” + +“There is no need to think, dearest. I shall make England a home to +you indeed. We will live for that. We will talk of to-night often. You +shall tell Dick how they fired at us. He will not believe, but it will +be good to remember. You do not regret, Paul?” + +“Regret--with you at my side, and the day to dawn, and the little +yacht to carry me--how should I regret? It is life to look into your +eyes, Marian!” + +She answered with a half caress, and he led her to the poop, where +together they watched the wake of water behind them aglow with +phosphorescent brilliance and the jewelled spray of the white-capped +waves. For a moment the danger seemed to be passing. The ships were no +longer abreast; the great aureola scarce touched them; silence fell +upon the sea, and the guns of the _Peter Veliky_ ceased to speak. Anon +the yacht plunged into the welcome shadow, and all the pent-up +gladness of those who had waged the fight so dauntlessly broke out and +was not to be restrained. A great cheer--an English cheer--went +ringing across the sea. It was the answer of the four to the four +hundred aboard the _Peter Veliky_. + +“Outsteamed, by God!” cried old John Hook. “I said there warn’t no +Rooshian as could touch her.” + + + + + CHAPTER XIV. + THE TERRIBLE NIGHT. + +The echo of the cheer which rose up from the decks of the +_Esmeralda_ yet lingered upon the sea when the Russian answer to it +was forthcoming. Even as the crew of the little yacht said that the +danger was done with, and that an open sea now lay before them, a +voice out of the darkness gave them the lie. So swift was it to come, +so surprising, that the men stood mute and wondering and helpless. It +was as though the avenger had risen from the depths before them--a +phantom ship conjured up by the powers of ill to reckon with them. +They thought themselves without consort in the heart of the Gulf, and +while the thought was still with them the strange ship appeared. Her +light shone full upon them from a point not two hundred yards distant. +They could count the men upon her decks; could see the figure of her +commander outstanding on the bridge; could follow the delicate contour +of the great hull which now towered above them. + +The strange ship lay motionless, for she had been awaiting the signal +of the _Peter Veliky_, and so stood toward the centre of the Gulf that +she might command the channel. It is possible that the _Esmeralda_ +would have slipped by her in the dark but for the cheer of victory +raised so foolishly. That triumphant cry was as the gun of a sentinel +to those on board the Russian ship. Her lantern blazed out; voices of +warning were raised on her decks; men roared to one another that the +quarry had run into the snare, that the hunt was done. The beams of +the great light fell upon the yacht and upon her crew, and the cheer +froze on the lips of those who had raised it. Her men were powerless +to think or act. The ultimate terror of defeat was upon them. + +A man wearing the uniform of a naval lieutenant stood in the bows of +the cruiser and was the first to hail the _Esmeralda_. His voice was +like the roar of a bull; the wind carried his words so that none of +them were lost. Already Reuben had shut off steam mechanically, so +that the two ships lay rolling to the swell like swimmers who seek +breath after the travail of a race. But no one gave answer to the hail +of the lieutenant. Stupor possessed the crew of the yacht. The blow +had been so swift to come; the shadow of the prison lay already upon +the men. + +“What ship?” roared the lieutenant, putting the question for the third +time. + +“She’s the _Kremi_, of Helsingfors,” said Reuben, who was again the +first to reckon up the danger. + +“An old ship,” said John Hook in a giant’s whisper. “She might catch a +hearse--leastwise I’d venture on it.” + +“Nine knots in the books, John.” + +“To hell with the books! She carries her guns forward.” + +“Then they cannot fire at us as we pass them,” exclaimed the girl +excitedly. + +Old John added to the wealth of the sea by a mouthful of tobacco +juice. + +“You’ve hit it on the head, miss!” cried he. “If we drift past ’em +they want five minutes to get her about, and where shall we be in five +minutes, mates?” + +Reuben ceased to grin. Paul could not take his eyes off the cruiser. +They had drifted so close to her that they could see the faces of +those who trod the great decks above them. There was not a man on +board the _Esmeralda_ whose heart did not beat high, not one who did +not tell himself that this was the hour of reckoning. + +“C’est fini!” Paul exclaimed, drawing the girl into his embrace. “This +is our to-morrow, little Marian. But I have done my best, God knows.” + +She kissed his lips and that was her answer. + +Many men had come together to the port-bow of the _Kremi_, and they +stood gaping at the stranger and at her crew. The lieutenant who had +first cried out, asking “What ship?” gave the order that a gangway +should be lowered; he did not doubt that it was the intention of the +pursued to surrender without further effort. But those on board the +_Esmeralda_ were of one mind and purpose again. The grin broadened +upon the face of Reuben; old John lighted his pipe with the +deliberation of a man at his own fireside. Silently he waited while +the crew of the _Kremi_ flocked to the gangway, encouraged by the +shrill, fife-like voice of a commander who plumed himself already upon +his victory. Child’s work, the Russian thought, to grapple with the +impudent and perky cockle-shell which had defied so vain-gloriously +the might of his country. He gave the order triumphantly. He came to +the very edge of the bridge to watch the irons slipped upon the hands +of Zassulic the spy and of the woman who had tempted him. When the +_Esmeralda_ did not stop at the gangway, but drifted on, he thought +for the moment that it was clumsy seamanship; but when, with dramatic +suddenness, she began to go full steam ahead, his anger was not to be +controlled. + +“Stand by to clear the guns!” he roared. “Are you going to lose her? +Great God! she will cheat us yet!” + +He foamed and raged like a madman, for the yacht shot into the +darkness as a shell from a great gun. The terrible moment of waiting +was past. Inch by inch the little ship had drifted, carrying men whose +hearts quivered with excitement but whose spirit was unbroken. The +terror of waiting was upon them no more. They had been within a boat’s +length of the ladder when John cried “Let her go!” Then all the +courage of their despair fired them. As a horse champing at his bit, +so was the _Esmeralda_ sagging there in the trough of the sea. The +rush of steam into her cylinders was the touch of the spur she asked. +She bounded forward into the heart of the breakers, and a cloud of +spray hid her from the enemy’s sight. + +“Below, below for your lives!” roared old John; “they’re manning the +machine-guns!” + +“We cannot leave you here!” cried Paul, ashamed for the moment that it +was not a fellow-countryman who spoke. + + + [Illustration: “SHE BOUNDED FORWARD INTO THE HEART OF THE BREAKERS”] + + +“Then you stand to your death!” cried John Hook. “There ain’t a gun in +Roosher which I care a d---- for!--the Lord be my witness. Down there, +sir, as you vally your life!” + +The rattle of musketry and a sputter of bullets on the near sea cut +short his honest bravado. Paul, needing no other argument, dragged +Marian into the shelter of the scantling. The yacht, yawing in her +course that she might avoid the hail of bullets, appeared to rush into +the very bowels of the seas. Onward she flew, the foam frothing at her +bows, the spray reeking upon her funnel, a great wake of quivering +water behind her. Bullets struck her decks and sent chips of wood +flying as though an adze cleaved them; the search-light followed her +path as the light upon a stage follows the step of the dancer. Every +minute was an eternity of suspense. The hearts of the men seemed to +stand still. When at last the guns ceased there were tears upon the +faces of the crew, but they were tears of joy. + +“Down under again, by the Lord!” roared old John, who rolled with +excitement. “Down under again, and the young lady thought of it. Glory +be to God who made me an Englishman this night!” + +He shook his fist defiantly at the distant light, for he knew that the +hour of deliverance was at hand. The lumbering _Kremi_, which ventured +rarely from her moorings in Helsingfors, was marked in the books as a +ship which could steam at nine knots, but that was a fiction beloved +of officials. Put to it now in the heavy swell of a fresh night, she +strained and groaned like a derelict of the deep; she lurched over the +seas, she smothered herself in them. The yacht ran from her as a hare +from a bull. She fired her great gun again and again, but the shells +found no other billet than the thundering breakers. When thirty +minutes had passed she abandoned the pursuit and headed once more for +the harbour she quitted so rarely. But first she shot a rocket high +into the darkness and was answered by other rockets, blue and flaming +on the far horizon. And at this sight old John ceased to laugh, and +foreboding fell again upon the crew of the _Esmeralda_. + +“You saw that, Reuben?” cried John Hook, pointing upward with his bony +finger. + +“I saw it, John.” + +“Then there ain’t no need for me to speak.” + +“Speak or silent, it don’t make no difference.” + +“If I’ve eyes in my head, that’s the Baltic Fleet coming up the Gulf.” + +“It is so, John.” + +“The Baltic Fleet!” exclaimed Paul. “Then God help us! We shall never +run by there.” + +“You speak gospel truth, sir.” + +The master of the _Esmeralda_ paced the deck again in all the agony of +uncertainty prolonged. He had persuaded Marian to lie down in her +cabin so soon as the _Kremi_ ceased to fire; there she slept and +dreamed of England. But for him there was no sleep. These recurring +difficulties were to him as a sign from God rebuking his work. It had +seemed so simple when he planned it at Kronstadt--the quick rush in +the darkness, the friendship of surprise, the possibility of escape +before the news was known. But now the truth would not be hidden. The +flaming rockets spoke of a girdle put about him by the avenger. He +realised what a task was that which a man set himself when he sought +to pit his cunning against the might of Russia. His enemies would +crush him as they would crush a worm. They would drag him from the +woman whose lips he had kissed, whose love was all that remained to +him in life. + +“You think there is no hope for us, Reuben?” he asked, suddenly +stopping in his walk and facing the silent group. + +“No hope out yonder, sir--leastways not to-night.” + +“You have no plan in your mind?” + +“None--unless you should run north, sir. There are always the +islands.” + +“I had not thought of them,” said Paul. + +“I thought of them from the first,” continued Reuben. “There are a +hundred creeks which might hide us until the hunt is over. And we’ve +the land behind us, sir, if it should come to the worst.” + +“Then to the islands let it be, and God help us if they know that we +are still in the Gulf.” + +“Ay, ay, to that,” said old John; and so the little ship went about, +and heading straight for the coast of Finland, she began to race anew. +But the hearts of the men were heavy. It was as though they turned her +towards the gates of that prison which their minds had built for them +during the hours of the terrible night. + + + + + CHAPTER XV. + UPON THE NAMELESS ISLAND. + +It was the afternoon of the day, and the _Esmeralda_ lay at anchor +under the lee of one of the rocky islets which abound upon the +southern shores of Finland. They had warped her to the sheer rock, so +that she lay snug and hidden and sheltered from the wind-driven tide +which raced between the island and its neighbour. A loom of haze above +her funnel alone spoke of life within her. Her crew had gone ashore to +stretch their legs, and were to be discovered upon the beach in all +those attitudes of repose which seamen court. The sun fell upon the +barren rock and upon their faces, but did not wake them. They had kept +the long vigil, and this was their hour of rest. + +The day had been one of tempest since the dawn: and though it was now +late in the afternoon and the rain had ceased to fall, there was a +thunder of surf upon the outer islands of the archipelago and the open +water frothed white with foam. But the creek into which they had +moored the _Esmeralda_ was sheltered both from the wind and seas. +Sheer walls of granite towered above the decks of the yacht; a girdle +of tiny islets, stretching far out to the Gulf or back to the distant +shore of Finland, was her defence against the breakers. She rode +proudly at her moorings as though conscious of the victory which the +night had given her. + +This haven had been made at the dawn of the day by men who knew every +channel and landmark in the Gulf. They had welcomed it, for therein +they could think of food and sleep, and forget that the Russian was at +their heels. Though the truce might prove but a truce of hours, it was +a gift of God to those whose eyes ached with watching, whose limbs +were cold with wet, whose tongues were parched with thirst. The gale +which sprang up with the coming of the light was a befriending gale to +them. They said that no ship of war would venture near them while the +surf thundered, and the mist of spray made clouds above the land, and +the west wind screamed in the Gulf. And so they slept, and the +sunshine of the later day was a balm of light to their eyes, and +welcome warmth suffused bodies that had been stiff and cramped with +the bitter cold of the Baltic night. + +Though Paul had gone ashore with his crew, it was not to sleep. The +few hours of rest he had snatched in the earlier hours of the day +sufficed for him. He, perhaps, of all the little company, understood +most truly the malevolence of Fate in casting him back to the shelter +of the island at an hour when he should have been in the great +sea-road of the Baltic. The Land of the West, wherein liberty lay, +seemed to have become a land beyond the horizon of his dreams. He +looked out from the island upon the whitened billows and remembered +that Russian ships, sent to the pursuit of him, were watching and +waiting in the channel of the Gulf. The distant shore, high and rocky +and barren, spoke of coast patrols and Finns who soon must learn that +a strange yacht lay in the harbour of the islands; of peasants who +would run to carry the news to Helsingfors that a few kopecks might be +thrown to them. Scheme as he would, he could contrive no plan whereby +the peril wrought of the gale might be turned. He must wait for a +smoother sea and a fairer wind. And waiting was an agony of doubt +scarce to be supported. + +All this was in his mind when Marian awoke at midday and was rowed by +old John Hook to the little patch of beach which permitted them to +land upon the nameless island. He met her at the water-side and lifted +her from the boat; but he would tell her nothing of his thoughts, for +he saw that colour had come again to her face and that the great rings +beneath her eyes had been washed out by the waters of sleep. She was, +indeed, almost the light-hearted pretty creature who had won his love +at the Governor’s house; and when he looked into her brightening eyes +and heard her girlish laughter, love came surging up to compel +forgetfulness of all else. + +“I have been waiting for you,” he said tenderly. “The hours were +long.” + +“They will race now,” she answered, as she locked her hand in his. “We +shall see each other growing old, Paul. Oh, is it not good to breathe +again? I could run, run, run to the world’s end.” + +She dragged him on, hastening with joy of her freedom, telling him a +hundred things at once, asking unfinished questions and waiting for no +answer. When they had come to the high place of the rock she curled +herself up on the ground and there she feasted her eyes on the +panorama of whitened sea and whirling gull and desolate island. The +man lay beside her, content that he had won her this hour of +happiness. + +“I cannot believe it,” she said, while the spindrift freshened her +face and the wind swept the curls from her little ears, “I cannot +believe that we are here. How should a day make such a difference? How +should our lives run so evenly through long years and then turn so +swiftly, carrying us away from everything we have ever known to things +we never dreamed of? A month ago I was a governess in the house at +Kronstadt. I taught the twins to grow up in the way they did not want +to go. But to-day, where am I? what am I? Why are these things hidden +from us? And if it is so strange to-day, what will it be next year and +the year after? Oh, if one could look even for a moment into the glass +of life!” + +“But you cannot,” said Paul stolidly. “There is no glass except the +glass of your mind and conscience. We cannot look; we can only act, +Marian. And that is what we have been doing, you and I, though God +knows what kind of a story we have written or where it will end. At +this moment we are on an island near Hango, and we wait there until +the wind and the sea go down. When that happens we shall go aboard the +_Esmeralda_ again, and to-morrow we shall come to Stockholm.” + +She clapped her hands, and regarding her environment wistfully, she +cried-- + +“It is a world of islands, a world without life. There can be no spot +on all the earth as lonely as this. And yet it is a city to me now. I +could people it with the birds; the rocks should be the churches and +buildings for me. Paradise lies on the broad road when one has been a +month and has not seen the sun.” + +He stroked her face, encouraging her to forget that her freedom might +depend upon the whim of the wind. + +“You are glad to be free, Marian, as glad as I am! Some day, perhaps, +we will remember this day and speak of it as the morning of our love. +I do not think that they will follow us; there are few that can sail +these seas. Even the fishermen come here reluctantly. It is a grave +for sailors, as many a good fellow knows.” + +“And yet _you_ come here?” + +“It was the one thing left to do. We could not pass the ships they had +sent out yonder; we could not go back; this was our only haven, unless +we returned to the prison as they wished.” + +She shuddered and drew close to him. + +“We shall never go back, dearest; you think that?” + +He began to pick at the rocky stones and to throw them into the froth +of the breaking waves. + +“I do not know,” he said after a long pause. “Who can say what the +future will bring? But I am a Russian no more. I have no country now. +It does not concern me.” + +The infinite pathos of his words was not to be concealed from her. +Never since he had carried her from the cell at Alexander had she +understood so well the price he had paid. + +“Oh, Paul, Paul!” she exclaimed bitterly, “what have I done? what +crime have I committed that I should bring this upon you? Let me go +back to Kronstadt. I am not worth your sacrifice. I can never repay. +There is time yet.” + +The man laughed at her distress, and, blaming himself because he had +spoken, he answered by taking her face into his hands and looking into +her tear-stained eyes. + +“The crime you have committed,” he said, “is to be the sweetest woman +on earth! The wrong which you have done is to make me love you so that +without you there is no world for me! Why talk of repaying? Is there +to be a reckoning between those who love? Have they not all things in +common? Who hurts you hurts me. When you are content I am content. I +lose a country to gain the whole world. If I am no longer a Russian, +shall I not be the husband of Marian? Let us not talk of these things; +it is ingratitude while we have the bread of life so abundantly. When +that bread fails we will complain. To-morrow, if the wind goes down, +we shall be at Stockholm. I shall leave the yacht there and take an +English steamer for London. It will then be your turn to forget that +you are an Englishwoman; you will be the wife of Zassulic; you will be +the friend of Russia. All that you have learnt at Kronstadt will be +forgotten; the friends who tempted you will be strangers to you +henceforth. We will begin life again, pilgrims in a strange country. +But we shall walk the way of life together, and so the journey will be +easy.” + +The shadow of regret passed from his face while he went on to speak of +all he would do in London; how that he hoped much from his kinsman and +from his own training as an engineer. Marian, in her turn, listened +with smiling face, though she was telling herself all the time that +she must prevent the sacrifice, must compel him to return to his work +and his country; if possible, to return, not as one disgraced, but a +man who had wrestled with a great temptation and had vanquished it. As +for herself, she did not doubt that her wits would find a way whereby +she might reach her own country. The present danger she was in, the +peril of almost immediate discovery by the Russian ships, was not real +to her. She could run again and see the sky and breathe the fresh air. +She felt herself adrift upon the ocean of circumstance, and the voyage +was not without its measure of excitement. + +“You must go back, Paul,” she said very firmly when he had done +speaking; “we must find a way and an excuse.” + +“A way, Petite, when you have been seen upon my ship, and the Sergeant +has told them that I took you from the fort? Oh, yes, that would be +easy enough; they are such simpletons at Kronstadt; they will believe +me when I say, ‘The prisoner escaped: it was an accident’; they will +reward me--with a file of soldiers and lead for medicine. The day when +I can return to Russia will be the day when stars fall at our feet and +there is no longer any sun in the sky. It is foolish to talk of it. +Henceforth you shall make a country for me; it shall be a country of +the heart; the house will be the house of our affections. We shall +laugh then to remember of what little worth are all those material +things which at one time seemed so much to us; we shall laugh at +to-day, and tell how we cheated old Bonzo after all.” + +It was a brave effort to conceal from her the apprehension he felt; +but the woman’s instinct rightly interpreted the words. When next he +looked into her face she was gazing over the storm-tossed waste to the +distant field of the open sea, where the west wind still blew with +hurricane force and banks of gathering cloud were the gloomy heralds +of the night to come. + +“The wind befriends us,” she said thoughtfully, “but the wind will die +away presently, and then----” + +“And then the darkness will take its place, little woman. Even if they +think we are here among the islands, they must spend days before they +discover upon which island we are. While they are looking for us we +shall be snug in the harbour at Stockholm. We must steal from harbour +to harbour until we see that no ships follow, and then the little +yacht will do the rest. There is no ship in Russia that can outsteam +her with a clear sea before us. We shall wait for the clear sea and +all will be well.” + +They had left the grassy knoll at this time and had come up to the +headland, wherefrom they could overlook the strange haven into which +destiny had cast them. Marian beheld again the world of islands, vast, +interminable, stretching as far as the eye could see away toward the +Baltic or back to the Russia they had left. The gloom of water and +sky, the cold gray light, the haunting solitude, the wash of the +waves, the shrill note of the gull, oppressed her anew with a vast +sense of her own loneliness. She thought that she was an outcast from +the world. She pictured herself flying from man to the desolate places +of the earth. A hundred years of time seemed to lie between her and +the life she had lived. She reproached herself bitterly that she had +rewarded so great a love with so terrible a gift--the gift of men’s +slander and the insult of evil tongues, the brand of dishonour and the +exile’s lot. + +And this thought grew upon her, that she must save Paul from himself +and go alone upon the way to which her folly had carried her. + + + + + CHAPTER XVI. + ALONE. + +The westerly gale held throughout the day, and was still at its +height when the men of the _Esmeralda_ turned into their bunks. They +had watched unceasingly during the afternoon for any sign of ships +upon the horizon or for token of life upon the neighbouring shore of +Finland. But the sea continued to run mountains high in the broad of +the Gulf, and there was a haze of mist and spray over the land which +served them well in those anxious moments of waiting. They argued that +the Baltic Fleet would not attempt to weather such a gale, but would +be already snug and sheltered at Helsingfors or at Revel. As for the +fishermen of the neighbouring isles, the circumstance of the day +accounted for them and for their ships. No little craft could live in +such a gale; no peasant would patrol the shores while the west wind +swept up the Gulf and the breakers thundered upon the outer reef. +To-morrow the wind would fall away and the calm would come. To-morrow +they would begin to live again. + +The night fell dark and misty and threatening, so that there was no +need of any watch upon the decks of the little ship. Guarded by the +breakers without and the towering crags for sentinels within, the +haven befriended her beyond hope. No lights shone from the ports of +the _Esmeralda_ upon the swirling waters of the channel. Her men went +to and fro silently as though afraid to speak. They welcomed the hours +of truce, for therein they could sleep and rest. Marian alone kept a +vigil of the night. For her sleep had become a fitful friend. There +were terrors of her dreams which no waking argument could shake off. +She slept to imagine herself once more in the cell at Alexander; she +awoke to ask herself if she would ever come to England again. She +remembered that she was an outcast and had struck at the honour of the +man she loved in her fall. + +Old John Hook and Reuben, the engineer, went ashore several times +during the night to see if there was any abatement of wind or sea; but +when at four o’clock they found the gale still blowing, it was evident +to them that the necessity for watchfulness existed no longer--at +least until the day dawned. They were sound asleep in their bunks when +Marian dressed herself in the darkness at four o’clock and left the +cabin wherein sleep had brought her so many terrible dreams. She had +no set purpose in quitting her bed other than the desire to breathe +the fresh air of morning. The gray beams of light shining behind banks +of sullen cloud were welcome to her after the darkness and confinement +of her little cabin. Silently she trod the steps of the companion, and +ran to the bow of the yacht to stand there and hear the water lapping +monotonously upon the face of the cliff. The nameless islands around +began slowly to shape themselves in a vista of spray and haze. Strange +birds went screaming from crag to crag; but of human life there was no +sight or sound. + +It had been an impulse which brought her to the deck, but this was to +prove a morning of impulses. Ever present through the weary night of +waiting had been the desire to save the man she loved from the +consequences of her folly. Just as at Kronstadt, in the hour of her +necessity, a woman’s weakness had cast her upon his pity and devotion, +so now was she convinced that she must rely upon that pity and +devotion no longer. She told herself, but with the vaguest notions of +reasoning, that if Paul were alone, it would be easy for him to return +to his own country with some story that would convince Bonzo and old +Stefanovitch of his fidelity. And she must not deny him that +opportunity. He had given all; her gift should not be less. + +“I will save him from himself,” she said again and again. “They shall +not find me upon his yacht. He will go back to Russia and forget. I +have been alone so many years; it is nothing that I am alone until the +end.” + +She repeated the words while she stood at the bow of the _Esmeralda_ +and watched the sea racing in the narrow of the channel. To save the +man who had lost all for her, to give him back country, friends, +honour--she cared not at what cost--that must be her purpose. All the +happiness of his love which had come into her life must wither and +die. If God willed, she would still have the love of the child. Her +unbroken courage suggested that she would find the way to England when +once she was alone. Half-formed schemes of a place of hiding in the +hut of a peasant, of flight in a fisherman’s ship, helped her +resolutions. She remembered that she had rowed a boat often upon the +river Dart, and that weeks of imprisonment had still left much of her +girlish strength. And so the great idea took finite shape and was +resolved upon. + +Quickly, silently, with deft hands, she drew the yacht’s boat, then +lying at the stern of the ship, to the gangway, which had been left +down during the night. A feverish haste characterised all her +movements. She was afraid that they would come and rob her of success; +she feared that someone would awake to prevent her emprise. Her great +love for Paul surged up in her heart, yet did but quicken her steps. A +rebellious anger urged her on to a war against circumstance: a war she +must wage alone and without friends. + +Stealthily the little gray-clad figure moved in the morning light. +Hither and thither, pitiful in the agony of a farewell she could not +speak, tears falling upon her cold hands, anger (she knew not why) in +her heart, the girl bent down to kiss the deck beneath which her lover +was sleeping. + +“God bless you, Paul, my love! God bless you for your love of me!” + +And so the voyage began, and the pilgrim was alone again, and the +curtain of the mist shut the yacht from her sight. + + * * * * * * + +They awoke the master of the _Esmeralda_ and told him of her flight. +He did not answer them, but stood long peering into the mists which +enveloped the island seas. When Reuben spoke to him at last he turned +quickly and fell senseless upon the deck of the silent ship. + + + + + CHAPTER XVII. + FORSAKEN OF ALL. + +There were oars in the yacht’s boat, but the current ran so swiftly +that Marian was unable to fix them in the rowlocks before the tide +caught the little ship in its embrace and swept it out towards the +open sea. So rapid was the race that the panorama of crag and headland +about her seemed to be hidden in a moment from her sight. Turn where +she would she espied an horizon of fog and vapour. The searching white +mists of morning lay upon the sea in billows of chilling cloud. No +breath of wind stirred to sweep the Gulf and roll up this veil which +hid the world from her sight. Calm--the calm that those upon the +_Esmeralda_ had wished for--had come at last. But the very silence of +it was a terror to the helpless girl cast adrift at the whim of +impulse, the martyr to a woman’s logic and a woman’s love. + +Swiftly the current ran, but silently, so that no sound broke the +stillness save the lap of the water upon the prow. Minutes were +numbered, but were hours for her. She heard bells ringing strangely +through the curtain of the fog, and wondered if they were the bells of +a town. Anon the sound of waves breaking upon some strand spoke either +of the coast of Finland or of the shore of a neighbouring island; but +she could make out no land looming through the haze, and though she +tried to row the boat in the direction of the bells, the current +mastered her, and she was borne on, she knew not whither. It seemed to +her that Fate was carrying her out to the death of the veiled sea. +While the mist benumbed her hands and drenched her clothes, and the +spray sparkled upon her face, an anger of impulse still drove her on, +she cared not to what end if her lover might thereby be saved. He had +suffered that she might be free; she would suffer that his country +might be given back to him. + +“I will save him!” was her cry, oft repeated, while she used her oars +desperately and shut her lips firmly as though to help the resolution. +“They will find him alone, and he will be able to make some excuse. He +will say that I am dead.” + +At other times she would laugh aloud, asking herself what she must +look like with her hair drenched and dank, and her face white and +pinched, and her gown bedraggled. She said that old Stefanovitch would +make love to her no more if he could see her at such a moment. She +ceased to row a little while that she might recall all his leers and +amorous antics--how long ago it was since they had been a part of her +daily life! Or she would gaze wistfully at the barrier of fog, as +though seeking beyond it a lamp of destiny which should show her the +course. Death itself must be like this solitude; the stillness of the +grave could bring no greater terror than the terror of one drifting in +the loom of mists, far from friends and from men. + +“I must not think,” she said, beginning to row again with new energy. +“There will be sunshine presently, and then it will be different. I +shall put ashore on some island, and the fishermen will give me food +and take me across to Sweden. Paul will go back to Russia. I have done +right, and have only myself to blame.” + +She longed for sunshine as the sick long after the vigil of a night of +waking. The folly of putting out to sea in a boat which carried +neither food nor drink became more apparent to her every hour. There +were moments of regret, when she began to wonder if Paul would follow +her, when she hated the obscurity of day, which was her shield against +pursuit. Hunger now began to forewarn her of added suffering to come. +The biting air of morning and the labour of the oar were foes to the +little reserve of strength which had nerved her to flight. She said +that none but a woman would have done so foolish a thing, and laughed +at herself because she had done it. When she found herself able to row +no more than a dozen strokes at a spell, when her head began to swim +and all nature cried out for food, she laughed no more, but bit her +lips again, and remembered that it was for her lover’s life. And so +day came up at last out of the sea, and the curtain of the mist was +rolled back. + +Gradually, as though a hand from the ether was stretched out to +scatter it, the fog lifted. A golden sea shone beneath, rippling, +sparkling with jewels of light. Farther back, and yet farther, showing +new glories of the mirror of waters, the curtain was drawn. Marian +beheld the red disc of the sun like a mighty globe hanging in the +east; she saw a new world rise up out of the dissolving fog. Jagged +crags of rock stood suddenly in the path of the current. Shapes as of +cliffs and domes of granite were formed against the white background. +A new warmth suffused the whole air softly; the outposts of the night +were rolled back until day triumphed and all the sea was glorious with +its radiance. + +For some little while the girl sat entranced at the spectacle. The +current, which had borne her vessel to this new scene, no longer raced +toward the open sea. The tide was on the turn, and the boat rested in +the slack of the water. Far away, beyond many a reef and boulder, lay +the greater waters of the Gulf. She spied out the shape of a vessel +lying at anchor there, and her first thought was that a Russian ship +had come to the islands in pursuit of the _Esmeralda_. She said that +it would find Paul alone. As for herself, there was no longer need to +fear. Islands lay all about her. Here and there she perceived smoke +rising from some cot or village; the friendly sea brought her almost +to the very beach of an islet green and ripe with spring grasses. She +rowed to its sandy shore, and dragging the boat as far as her strength +would permit up on a ridge of shingle, she set out to discover upon +what kind of a haven she had fallen. Never did woman set foot upon +land more gladly. Wet and cold and miserable, knowing well that she +stood alone in the world, conscious that the Russian guarded the gate +by which she must pass to England, nevertheless the sunshine was as +wine to her, the warmth of morning as a gift of God. Impulsively, with +a child’s joy, she ran to the higher places of the island; she wrung +her wet clothes and bound her unkempt hair again. There would be +fishermen’s huts upon the other side, she said; they would give her +food for charity’s sake; she would make them understand, it would be +fun to do so. But when she stood upon the high place of her little +kingdom she found that it was desolate as the other isles had been. No +hut or cottage spoke of life awaking, or of men still at their sleep. +The shrill note of the whirling birds, the splash of the sea upon the +golden sands, were the voices of the sanctuary. Marian listened to +them a little while as one who hears the tidings of surpassing ill. +Then with a bitter cry of woe she ran down to the beach again. + +She had thought to find her boat where she had left it, washed by the +lips of the waves, but the tide had ebbed back a little way--for there +is always a suggestion of tide in the Gulf--and the little ship lay +high and dry upon a bed of oozy sand. Nor could all her strength move +it again, even so much as a foot, from its resting-place. When she was +sure of this, when she knew that she was alone upon that desolate +isle, her courage forsook her for the first time since she had left +Kronstadt, and she sank upon the sands weeping bitterly. + +“Paul, Paul,” she cried, “come to me--do not leave me here alone!” + +So she cried for her lover. A gull screaming above her head answered +with a mocking note. Only the life-giving sunshine befriended one whom +all the world had forsaken. + + + + + CHAPTER XVIII. + A STRANGE FIGURE ON THE SHORE. + +The fit of weeping passed when reason had come to her own again, and +Marian sat a long while gazing wistfully over the rippling sheen of +the sunlit sea. Once she thought she heard a gun fired in the +distance; and this spoke to her of a life being lived around her, of +other isles near by, wherein men’s voices were heard and the laughter +of children. She began to argue that she had but to wait for the flood +of the tide to put off her boat and come at some neighbouring shore +which should offer more welcome harbourage. Weary and faint as she +was, with hope dimmed and courage broken, despair was not for such an +hour. She had the idea to go up to the cliff and there to drink at the +spring which she had seen jetting forth from the face of the rock. +Thereafter she would sleep, and night would bring her food and +friends. + +While she knew nothing of her situation, of the land upon which she +was cast, or of its environment, she was in reality upon that place +known to the Finns as the island of the Holy Well. In circuit perhaps +the third part of a mile, this speck of land lay five miles from that +other isle which had harboured the _Esmeralda_ from the storm. But it +was a kindlier shore, for the cliff reared its head only on the +westward side, and elsewhere silver sand made a bed, as of the dust of +jewels, for the gentle seas which fell upon it. A few sickly trees +stood sentinels about the spring, and heather-like bushes thrived and +flourished in the path of the water. Marian sought the scanty shade of +these trees so soon as it was plain to her that she must await the +will of the sea. She drank long draughts of the fresh water and bathed +her face and hands in the translucent pool. Now that the sun shone +gloriously upon the island her heart was lighter and her hope +returning. She perceived other isles, distant more than a mile, and +she could distinguish the cottages of the fishermen. Night should find +her sleeping in one of those huts, she argued. She would sleep the +sounder because of the sacrifice, because she had found strength to +give as it had been given unto her. + +“I shall live my life with little Dick,” she said. “There is always a +living in England for those who will work. We will face the world +together, the child and I, and God will show us the road. I must +forget that it has ever been otherwise. Paul will marry a Russian +woman, and yesterday will be scored out of the book.” + +She was tearing at the grass vindictively when she said this, and the +sheen of the pool glowing radiantly, she beheld her own face in it--a +face white and drawn and pitiful, with curls run wild and eyes shining +from black rings. Ill as the picture pleased her, a little vanity +helped to recall the faces of the Russian women she had known; and +therein she found a great content. It was good to tell herself that +Paul’s wife would have the face of a Japanese; that her figure would +be flat like a board; that her skin would be parched and brown, and +that her dresses would come from Paris and would not fit her. She said +that she hated all Russian women; but the woman who was to be his wife +she hated already with a hatred which, when she reflected upon it a +little while, compelled her to laugh. She was still laughing when she +saw the apparition on the beach. + +So intent had she been upon her occupation of gazing into the pool +that for the time being she lost all memory of the island and of the +silent seas about her. When she looked up again and came back to +remembrance, her first thought was of the boat lying down there upon +the silver sand below her. Quickly her eyes sought it out; but she +could scarce trust them when she beheld a strange figure, come, she +knew not whence, to stand by the seashore and watch her vain +employment. + +The figure was the figure of a man garbed in a flowing robe of brown +cloth girdled at the waist with a coarse knotted rope. Huge in +stature, the monk, for such he seemed to be, stood motionless as a +pillar of rock. His long waving hair fell upon his shoulders +abundantly and was caught by the gentle breeze, which tossed it over +his haggard face so that his features were hidden. The glowing eyes +shone cadaverously with a light of fasting and of faith. So old were +the leather sandals he wore that they permitted the sharp rock to cut +his feet, the sea to wash them. Strange and forbidding, like some wild +man of the woods, the apparition stood with folded arms to watch the +girl, while she in turn, speechless with fear and dread of the +mystery, crouched upon the grass and found herself unable to utter a +word or stir a step from the place. Never in all her life had she been +so conscious of that ultimate terror of the unseen, which surpasses +the terror of death itself. Sure as she was that no human thing had +moved upon the island when she first trod it, this apparition seemed +to have risen up before her from the very heart of the rock. Her +impulse was to cry out, to flee the place as an abode of dreadful +images, but her limbs did not answer to her will. The cry she would +have uttered froze upon her lips; she shook with the beating of her +heart. For some little while indeed the trance of fear passed to +oblivion. She fell in a swoon, and when consciousness returned to her +the apparition had vanished. + +Marian had never known, until she came to Russia, what the meaning of +a nervous system might be. Though her nerves had been shattered by the +terrors of Alexander and by days and nights of dreadful contemplation, +she was still able to recover quickly from panic and to laugh at it. +When she found herself crouching upon the grass, and was conscious of +a great glare of sunlight in her eyes, she did not, upon the instant, +recall why she had swooned. The island about her was as desolate as +when first she set foot upon it. The sea droned its lazy song as +though welcoming the restful spring; the beach showed no sign of human +thing. She watched it dreamily for a little while and then recalled +the terror. + +“It was a dream,” she said, though she shuddered again at the memory. +“I must have been asleep. How could there be anyone here? Or if there +is, why should I be afraid of him? What nonsense to think of such +things!” + +Consoling herself thus, she sprang up lightly and ran down to the +shore. Her boat was just as she had left it; but when she turned to +examine the sand thereabout she discovered unmistakably the imprint of +a sandalled foot; she could trace the steps to the border of the +grass, but thereafter they were lost. And at this she stood spellbound +again, not fearing because a man was with her upon the island, but +because he hid himself thus from her, and his place of habitation was +not to be discovered by her eyes. She had heard, it is true, of +fanatical hermits who build pillars for themselves upon these lone +rocks of Finland, but the traditions did not help her reasoning. She +thought that she could never rest until she had seen and spoken to the +unknown. The terrible hunger from which she suffered drove her rather +to desire a meeting with him. She must know that he was human. Calling +out with all her strength, she began to run across the island. She +searched the beach and all the little caves and crannies cut out in +the heart of the rock. She stood to listen for the sound of steps, but +the dreadful silence was unbroken. No dwelling place nor other trace +of man, save those footsteps upon the shore, was to be discovered. It +was an awful thought for her, this thought of mystery and concealment; +it was more dreadful to think that night might come and trap her still +on the haven. + +The sun had passed the meridian by this time. It was nearly three in +the afternoon. Hunger, relentless and increasing, became an added +punishment of her pilgrimage. She had the strength to walk no more, +yet feared to sleep. She knew not what might happen to her if she lost +consciousness and the apparition should stand over her while she +dreamed. Her place of refuge was a ledge of rock raised ten feet above +the sand, and so narrow that anyone coming up to her must awake her in +the act. Here she was sheltered from the sun; a great boulder of +granite hid her from the view of anyone who might pass on the beach +below. At the very moment when she said that she would not close her +eyes, nature prevailed above her resolution and she fell into a sound +sleep. When she awoke, the sun was dipping into the sea and the chill +of a spring sunset was upon the island. + +The West was aflame then with mountains of crimson light merging at +the crown of the arc into orange and purple and the finer shades of +yellow. The monitive stillness of the coming night lay heavy upon the +waters. There were gray shadows everywhere and darkness in the glens +of the rock. Marian sat up, blaming herself that she had slept so +long. Her brain burned and her hands were hot and dry. She had never +known that hunger could be such a cruel foe. It seemed to her then +that she would have given half her years for a drink of milk and a +cake of bread. All the dainties she loved were shaped in fancy before +her eyes; she could have eaten the very grass. Slowly and painfully +she rose, determined to go up again and drink a little water at the +spring, but no sooner was she upon her feet than she cried out with +joy and clasped her hands as a child that hears of a holiday. + +While she slept someone had set a rough earthenware dish at her side. +She opened the dish to find that it contained a loaf of coarse brown +bread with a mess of meat and vegetables, and close by there was a +bottle of red wine, rough and sour, but more sweet to the little +wanderer than all the vintages of Champagne. + +“A miracle! a miracle!” she cried gladly, while she took the black +bread in her hands and drank a long draught of the wine. “The ghost +has been here while I slept, and I share his dinner. Oh, how good it +is to eat and drink!” + +The wine warmed her as a strong cordial. Blood suffused her cheeks; +there was a nervous pulsation in all her limbs. She feared the +apparition no more, for she knew that some wandering priest must be +with her upon the island and that he had set the food at her side. All +her thought then was to get her boat into the water and to set off for +that unknown port which should be to her a port of safety. She would +not delay another hour upon the desolate isle, for the flood was now +surging upon the beach and the heralds of night were winging in the +East. + +Strong in the desire to quit the lonely scene, she ate her food +quickly and ran down to the beach; but there she stood once more +irresolute, for a ship lay in the offing, and it was one of the most +curious she had ever seen. + + + + + CHAPTER XIX. + THE QUEST OF THE WOMAN. + +It was midday and the _Esmeralda_ lay at anchor in the shelter of +some outstanding rocks which girdled an island distant three miles +from that haven which had witnessed the flight of Marian. Two men of +the four who had accompanied her master from Kronstadt were to be seen +upon her decks; but so well chosen was her place of hiding, and so +wonderfully did the boulders of rock shield her, that her crew were +indifferent alike to the presence of a Russian cruiser which lay at +anchor in the distant offing, and to the eyes of the neighbouring +fishermen whose boats dotted the unruffled surface of the sea. + +Of the two upon the deck, one was old John Hook, who leaned heavily +upon the bulwarks and exposed his brawny arms and matted hair to the +welcome warmth of the spring sun; the other was Reuben, the engineer, +who squatted wearily upon a coil of rope. + +“Eight bells,” said Reuben, filling a pipe with a seaman’s +deliberation, “eight bells, John. By gosh! I’d like to know where we +shall be at eight bells to-morrow.” + +“To hell with the bells!” replied John Hook, spitting vindictively +into the sea. “I’m damned if all you chaps don’t think you’re +sky-pilots! It’ll want something more than a Death’s-head Rooshian to +put a white choker round me, as sure as my name’s John Hook!” + +Reuben continued to cut his tobacco methodically. + +“Women are rum-uns, I’m blessed if they’re not,” said he after a +spell. “To think as she should have turned it up, in the middle of the +night too! Why, if she’d have held on another twelve hours, we’d have +put her into Stockholm before morning. What was in her head, that’s +what I want to know?” + +“Common-sense, that’s what was in her head, mate. She’s a rare plucked +’un if ever I sailed with one! Why, think of a little bit of goods +like that, not more’n you could crush in your ’and easy, a little bit +of goods like that agen all Rooshia and agen all the world! Where’s +she now?--ask yerself. Starvin’ meybe, meybe in one o’ them +ground-floor hells they call a prison in these parts. And why’s she +dun it? Why, so as they shan’t find her along wi’ him. It’s a cruel +thing, mate, a bit of a gal all alone on a shore like this. I’m derned +if I wouldn’t sign for a twelvemonth, if that would bring her back +agen!” + +Reuben lit his pipe and got up to watch the distant warship. + +“Well,” said he, “wishin’ ain’t goin’ to bring her back, John, and as +for that I’d take my dinner more easy if yon lot would weigh. +Supposin’ they’ve no news of us, what are they doing there? Is it to +see a fisher fleet? A shilling sail wouldn’t swallow that.” + +“Who’s asking of you to swallow it?” asked the other testily. “Of +course they’ve got the news; but having the news and sighting us +through ten feet of rock’s a different story, ain’t it? Who’s to tell +’em we’re lyin’ here? Are we goin’ to run up a fleg? or is one of them +swabs a-fishin’ out there goin’ to beat in a mile to spy us out? +Damned if you don’t talk like a babe and sucklin’!” + +Reuben smoked angrily and crossed to the other side of the ship. + +“I wish the guv’nor was aboard,” said he; “there ain’t no good to be +done over yonder, I’ll swear. It’s eight hours since she went now. You +want a good eye to spy out eight hours, John.” + +“That’s so, mate, always rememberin’ as tides don’t go on like women’s +tongues, for ever and ever. If she ain’t gone ashore afore this, she’s +somewhere in the flow of this channel, and there we’ll find her. It’ll +take more than the skipper of Petersburg to stop me when it’s an +English lady that’s between us. I’m derned if I wouldn’t pull his nose +for a shilling!” + +He added to the volume of the sea again; but Reuben continued to gaze +wistfully at the island upon which his master had landed in quest of +the little fugitive. Paul had known no resting hour since she was +gone. He understood that he had played for the great stake and had +lost. He saw himself branded as a traitor by the men who had known him +and loved him; cast out from the career of his ambition to these +desolate islands; utterly alone at a moment when, with all his heart +and soul, he yearned for the love which destiny had robbed him of. + +“My little wife!” he had cried when they brought him the news. “I +cannot lose you. God help me, I cannot live alone again!” + +Haggard and worn and weary with grief, the man, who had dared all for +a woman’s love, learned that love was to come no more into his life. +The cup had been snatched from his lips at a moment when he had first +tasted the sweetness of the draught. He began to remember all that +Marian had meant to him. He recalled her tenderness, her prettiness, +the delight of that hour when he had whispered his love in the shadow +of the bastions of Kronstadt. He swore to God that he would never see +the sun again if she were not given back to him; he raged against his +destiny; a voice whispered that the woman had left him to carry the +plans of the great fortress to England, and there to sell them as she +had first intended. To this voice he would not listen; and when the +paralysis of despair had passed, a new activity, the activity of the +quest, possessed him as a fever. “He would find her,” he said, “though +he lived and died on that desolate shore!” + +One boat remained to the _Esmeralda_, the dinghy which she carried +midships. He ordered them to lower it that no haven or creek or +channel might remain unsearched. Reckless, defiant, caring nothing for +prudence or pursuit, his voice was raised pitifully in many a rocky +harbour and upon many a shore. The moan of the wind alone answered +him. The desolate sea was unpitying. + +At midday the yacht made an island, prominent amongst the others by +reason of a curious girdle of outstanding rocks which defended it. It +was here that the men first observed the Russian cruiser lying far out +at sea. They warped their ship to one of the boulders of the rock, +while their master, headstrong and not to be restrained, went ashore +to see if the heights of the new land would help him to discover the +missing boat and the little wanderer, whose purpose in flight was now +becoming more clear to him. But the journey was fruitless. He looked +out from the heights upon a sea dotted with crags and isles; often +shining in still lagoons of sunlit water; showing here and there the +hulls of fishing boats, but giving no other answer to his question. A +great fear--the fear that Marian had, indeed, been taken by the +cruiser--began to give place to the supposition that she had found a +refuge upon the shore. Nevertheless, he continued to watch and to +wait, and would not return to the yacht until the quick eyes of his +companion perceived the danger of the place and of the scene. + +“They have put out a boat, sir,” said the man; “what’s more, that’s a +signal gun.” + +A puff of white smoke floated up from the deck of the distant cruiser, +and anon the muted roar of a gun was to be heard. Paul delayed no +longer upon the island, but hastened to regain his ship and there to +consult with those who, in their rough way, offered him so precious a +sympathy. + +“Well!” cried old John, merrily, when the dinghy came to view. “Ye +have news, sir?” + +Paul shook his head. + +“The cruiser is putting off a boat; that is my news, John.” + +“To hell with the boat! What’s a boat got to do with us?” + +Paul laughed sadly while he swung up on to the deck of the +_Esmeralda_. + +“You are good fellows,” he said, “and you have been true friends to +me. It is no good to deceive you any more, and it would be wrong to +bring trouble upon you. I am the one to answer for this business, and +I am ready to answer. What happens now is nothing to me. But you, my +friends, you must all go ashore and leave me to make my answer alone.” + +John Hook thrust his hands deep into his trousers’ pockets. + +“Look here, sir,” he said determinedly; “if it’s questions, I’m on +that job. And let me arst you this--am I a Britisher or am I a +furringer?” + +He looked appealingly to the others, who said knowingly-- + +“Ay, ay; that’s the question, John.” + +Paul laughed again. + +“I do not care what you are,” said he; “it is sufficient that you have +been my friends.” + +“And friends we’ll remain. Leave you here alone! Is my name John Hook? +Is my port Swansea, or ain’t it? Am I goin’ ashore because a lot of +lubbers cruise round and fire off a popgun? I’m derned if I don’t +blush like a gal to hear you say so, sir!” + +Paul held out his hand and shook the great rough paw of the English +seaman. + +“I wish you were my countryman,” he said. “If you will not go ashore, +you shall stay with me to the end, and it shall be as God wills. I +have few friends now. I have no longer a country.” + +His voice failed him, and he turned away, pretending to watch the +coming boat which was now being rowed rapidly toward the shore. It was +as though the messenger of destiny winged across the sea. The hand of +Fate appeared to be thrust out towards him. There was sunlight for his +eyes to-day, but to-morrow there would be darkness--the darkness of +the pitiless reckoning. He saw himself carried back to Kronstadt in +ignominy. He would stand alone, he said. The little head, which should +have nestled upon his shoulder, was to comfort him no more. And he had +no longer a reproach upon his lips. The friendship of the stout hearts +that sailed with him was a thing precious to him beyond words. + +The _Esmeralda_ had been warped to a rock sufficiently high to conceal +her mast from any passing ship. The hands clambered upon this rock +when the dinghy was hauled up; and therefrom they watched the +long-boat which the Russian warship had lowered. Phlegmatic as they +were in word and deed, the steady approach of the strange craft set +their hearts beating with suppressed excitement. They could not turn +their eyes away; they watched her foot by foot as she drew toward +them. Some even whispered schemes for their defence; others spoke of +the skipper’s pistol and of their own good knives. John Hook alone +cried out upon such an idea, and his word prevailed. + +“There’s twenty men yonder if there’s one,” said he doggedly; +“supposing as this is their port, do you think they’re bringing +umbrellas with them? My eyes and limbs, that’s a woman’s notion! And +who’s goin’ to sit here for a Rooshian swab to play marbles with him? +Not me, by thunder! But I’ll tell you what, mates, if we cast off, and +back out while they’re coming round, there’ll be three hundred yards +between us before they wake up to it. And there won’t be nobody on +deck besides me for them to play at pigeons with. It’s for the guv’nor +to say; but I know what I should do if old Death’s-head yonder was +coming down my street.” + +“Ay, ay; John’s right,” cried the other. + +“I leave it to you,” exclaimed Paul, indifferently; “I care no longer. +The time for that has passed.” + +They cast the ship free at the words and stood with boat-hooks to +steady her. So great was the silence of doubt and expectancy that the +sound of the men breathing was like a whisper of voices. Yard by yard +the strange craft crept into the bay. They could see the cutlasses her +men carried, could read the name upon her prow. The agony of doubt was +scarce to be endured when the lieutenant in charge of the boat cried +an easy, and his crew ceased to row. Then indeed Paul said that the +hour was at hand, that the dream was done with. + +For twenty seconds, perhaps, the long-boat lay still upon the lagoon. +The men, watching and waiting upon the decks of the _Esmeralda_, shut +their eyes and stood like figures of bronze. But that was the supreme +moment; and when they had counted twenty, their hearts began to +quicken with a tremulous hope. For the oars were dipped again; and +going about suddenly, the Russian boat made off towards the further +side of the island. The sigh of relief from the watchers was almost a +nervous titter. Paul found that his forehead was wet and cold with icy +perspiration. + +“It is not for us after all. I do not understand,” he said. + +“But I do,” cried John Hook excitedly. “Look yonder, sir. D’ye see +that white barge with three masts? It’s a leper ship, I reckon. The +monks aboard ’em load with lepers as we load with coal. They go from +island to island until they’ve took a cargo, and then they head north +for the ’orspital. That’s what brings old Death’s-head this way. He +must have a patient for ’em.” + +It was as he said. The cruiser’s boat was rowed straight to a +lumbering barge-like ship which had appeared suddenly in the centre of +the lagoon. Twenty minutes later the small boat was but a speck in the +offing, and the men of the _Esmeralda_ were at dinner. + + + + + CHAPTER XX. + THE SHIP OF THE GOLDEN CROSS. + +The strange craft which Marian had seen from the beach of her island +lay, perhaps, a quarter of a mile from the shore. It had three masts, +whereof two were very short, while the third was lofty and capped with +a great golden crucifix which shone glitteringly in the crimson light +of the setting sun. A brown jib, half lowered, flapped to the fitful +breeze; and a vast mainsail, resembling in many ways the lateen sails +of the South, half hid the decks from view. Marian observed that the +colour of the vessel’s hull was a dull white, ornamented with many +crimson crosses and with that which she thought must be an +inscription, though her eyes could not read the lettering. At the same +time she could make out the figures of many men standing together upon +the poop of the ship; and a long white boat, which had carried four of +its crew to the beach, now lay with its bow upon the sands and its +stern rolled by the breaking waves. Of the four men who rowed the +boat, three sat still at their oars, but the other stood in close talk +with the recluse whom Marian had watched and feared earlier in the +day. She could see that the two men were asking the meaning of her +visit to the island, for they pointed often to her own boat and walked +a little way to examine it more closely. + +Her first thought was to go out and speak with them, telling, if she +could, of her condition, and begging them to give her passage to some +more friendly shore. But a subtle instinct, which spoke of the +unfathomable superstition of the Finns and of their cruelty when those +superstitions were aroused, held her a little while to her place of +shelter behind the great boulder, and therefore she watched the men. +Much to her surprise, she perceived that the recluse was no old man, +as she had thought, but one still in the springtime of life. His long +flowing locks of black hair, and the coarse robe which clothed him, +deceived her. She had never imagined a young monk. As for the other, +he also wore the rough habit of brown stuff, but his hair was short +and crisp, and his face was the face of an intelligent man. That he +read the story of the visit aright she could not doubt. He pointed +often towards the distant Gulf with a gesture which seemed to tell her +that the secret, not only of her presence upon the island, but also of +her flight from Kronstadt, was known to him; and this sent her back to +the shelter of the higher rocks, where she stood trembling with a +vague dread, not so much of the discovery as of the men. + +The last of the day was ebbing at this time; the fitful dusk of +northern latitudes gave gray hues to all things about her, so that the +men upon the distant ship were as figures moving in shadow. A haze of +night floated above the waters. She seemed to be the habitant of a +strange world, an unreal world of fear and fantasy. The visit of the +cowled friars to her shore accentuated her loneliness. She crouched +upon the rocks and cried despairingly for her lover, as though some +miracle would wing her voice across the sea. Never until that moment +had she realised how this love had grown about her heart protectingly, +so that without it the very fount of life ebbed and was dried up. + +“Paul, my husband,” she cried. “Come to me--I am alone--alone!” + +Voices answered her, but not the voice of him she called. She raised +her pretty head to listen, and she heard sweet, melodious music +floating to her from the distant ship. It rose and fell as a song of +the placid sea; a harmony of many voices united in the evening hymn. +The rocks gave it back in lingering echoes. It was as though nereids +had come up from the depths to hymn the setting sun, to greet the +darkness and the hour of their amours. When the last note died away +she continued still to hunger for those sweet sounds; but other +singers raised their voices in turn to chant a dirge-like litany, and +this was a true hymn to the darkness, so weird, so mournful, so full +of the suggestion of death and after. + +Marian shuddered at this new song, for it carried her back to the +place of shadows. When she had listened to it a little while, the +harmonies became more clear, the note of the sonorous voices deeper. +She awoke to the fact that the singers, whoever they were, had left +the ship and were coming to shore. Lanterns now cast their yellow +light upon the pulsing swell. A flame of torches illumined weirdly the +rugged faces of a company which seemed to have voyaged from some +monastery of the ultimate seas. Anon, three boats touched the sands, +and a band of men, all garbed in the pilgrim’s dress, began to gather +upon the shore and to congregate about some dark object which the +shadows hid from the watcher’s eyes. She perceived, to her surprise, +that an acolyte in a cassock and cotta carried a brazen crucifix on +high. Torch-bearers walked at his side. Thurifers swung censers, from +which an odorous smoke floated perfumingly on the still air. Presently +a procession was formed and began to wind its way to the cliff of the +island. The dirge-like chant arose again. The burden which the men +carried was no longer hidden from the watcher’s eyes. She saw that it +was a coffin. The monks had come ashore to bury their dead. + +The procession advanced slowly, for the thurifers turned often to +cense the coffin and the priest to sprinkle it with holy water. +Solemnly and deliberately the singers set out for the grass plateau by +the well from which Marian had drunk earlier in the day. She on her +part stood white and trembling in the shadow of the cliff. Though it +was plain to her that the men had not come to the island in quest of +her, she feared the visitation as she had never feared anything in all +her life. The hour, the misty twilight, the brown habits, tortured her +imagination. She did not ask herself wherefrom such strange voyagers +had come; her thought was to escape them, even at the risk of +discovery. But escape was not to be. So close to her did the +procession pass that she could have touched the cross-bearer with her +hand. She beheld the faces of the monks and read in them the visual +record of fasting and of an emaciating faith. One by one they passed +her; here an old man bent with the penance of years, there a youth + + + [Illustration: “THE PROCESSION ADVANCED SLOWLY”] + + +whose eyes were aflame with the light of visions; here a face that +spoke of the withered flesh, there lips which had fed upon the +luxuries of life and still hungered for them. And when the monks were +gone up, others followed in the grim train--old men hobbling, women +weeping, even children. Marian looked at the faces of these, and her +heart seemed to be stilled. The mission of the ship was a mystery to +her no more. + +“They are the lepers!” she cried, and so tried to draw back from them, +as though God would open the rocks behind her and hide from her +terrified eyes the awful sights they looked upon. + + + + + CHAPTER XXI. + ACHERON OF THE WATERS. + +The procession passed slowly, for many stragglers followed the +priests. The minutes of waiting were as hours to the terrified woman. +Often the lantern’s light flashed in her very eyes; she felt the hot +breath of the lepers upon her cheeks; she thought their dreadful hands +would touch her. Whence they had come, whose ship it was, she did not +know. The story of the monks of the Northern seas and of their mission +to the outcasts of the islands was unknown to her. She saw rather a +visitation of spirits; the dirge was a sound as of the woe of life; +the graves had given up their dead to haunt her. While she had the +impulse to flee, to seek, if it must be, the refuge of the waves, the +ghostly shapes still held her to the rock. Moaning voices of the +lagging sick mingled with the melancholy song of the billows. She +beheld the fanatical carousals of the desperate, who laughed like +imbeciles, or cast themselves foaming upon the grass, or shrieked to +heaven for the mercy of death. Far above on the heights the monks were +digging a grave for him who had died at sea. Their litanies echoed as +sweet interludes to the cacophonous cries below. She repented bitterly +that she had not gone down earlier in the day and spoken with the +recluse of the well. She remembered that she was a woman, alone with +this rabble, upon whom God’s curse seemed to have fallen. + +At this time, no memory of the peril of the island troubled her. She +thought no more that she might be left alone upon it; nay, she prayed +that the sick might return speedily to their ship and leave her to the +silence and the night. Hours seemed to pass before the monks came down +from the heights again. She watched the lanterns dancing upon the +hillside as a mariner watches a beacon of the shore. Often she said to +herself, “They are coming now; I hear them.” Then the litanies would +begin anew; the garish yellow stars would be still again; the hoarse +laughter or the weeping of some leper near to her would crush her +hope. Childlike, she fell to counting, and said that when she had +numbered a thousand the ship would sail. But of that employment she +soon wearied; and, impatiently, she crept out a little way from her +place of shelter and stood for a moment that the breeze of the sea +might blow upon her heated face. In that instant a leper observed her +and sprang up with a loud cry to seize her by the wrist and drag her +toward the open of the beach. It was as though the ultimate horror had +gripped her, had come out of the darkness to embrace her in a loathly +and indescribable embrace. + +She dared not to look upon the man’s face, but vaguely, for speech was +choked and all her limbs were benumbed, she perceived that he wore a +tattered green uniform and carried a knife stuck in a worn girdle. She +heard a torrent of words poured into her shrinking ear; but had not +Russian enough to interpret them. Once she thought that the man would +have crushed her in his lusty arms, and then she knew that he said, +“Thou art such as I have lost.” When release of tongue came, she +raised her voice again and again in shrieks of uncontrollable fear, +and at this other lepers ran up to the place. Soon a rabble surrounded +her, and the cry was uttered that she was a spy. From twenty throats +she heard the fierce accusation, “The Englishwoman: kill her! into the +sea with her!” + +Women, ragged and blear-eyed, forced their way to the heart of the +throng; young girls laughed hysterically and tried to strike her down; +old men raised their sticks to beat her bloodless + + + [Illustration: “ON TOWARD THE SEA HE BORE HER”] + + +face. She was carried on, she knew not whither; countless eyes, +shining with the fire of disease, looked into her own; fleshless claws +ripped the dress from her shoulders; they would have torn her limb +from limb but for the strong arm of the man who first had gripped her. +But he, roused to some dream of the days before the curse, never once +released his hold of her. He bore her high above the throng; he +answered their curses with a madman’s laughter; the blows fell upon +his own face; they were as a flagellation of straws to him; women +struck him; he forced them back and trampled upon them. On toward the +sea he bore her. He had the strength of ten men, the passions of the +maniac aroused, the maniac’s purpose. They stood from him at last +terrified; the devils of their own superstitions possessed him; the +cries ceased, their sticks were lowered; he was alone when he dragged +the woman into her boat and thrust it from the shore. + +Marian had shut her eyes when the crowd first pressed upon her; she +thought that this was the moment of her death; she waited for some +blow which would still the life within her and permit her to rise up +in spirit above these horrid sights and sounds. Strong as her desire +was for insensibility, for a trance of the mind, she did not swoon, +nor lose her sense of time and place, and of the peril. She heard +distinctly the fervid ravings of the madman who defended her; his hot +breath was upon her cheek; his loathly touch was a torture. But still +she would not look at him. While the blood surged in her ears, and her +brain whirled, and her limbs were paralysed, she had no wish for life +or freedom, no hope but that death would be quick to come. When she +felt the grip released and sank helpless from the man’s arms, she was +conscious still that he was beside her. She opened her eyes at last to +discover that the boat was already some way from the shore. She could +see the lanterns dancing on the hillside, could hear the voices of the +priests above the clamour of the rabble. The man had saved her life, +though whither he carried her, or to what Acheron of the night, she +dare not think. + +The leper was huge in stature and of great strength. He plied the oar +with a giant’s arms, so that the yacht’s boat shot out quickly toward +the broad of the lagoon. For the time being he appeared to have +forgotten the woman at his feet. His words were incoherent and +unceasing; he chattered horribly. Presently the island was but a blot +upon the sea; the lanterns were twinkling stars. No longer were voices +to be heard; the stillness of the night lay like a cloak upon the +waters. Marian said that she was being carried out of the world. She +shivered with the cold and the spray cast upon her face. Gradually +there crept upon her a new dread--dread of him who had saved her. She +feared to move, lest, moving, she might remind him of her presence. +When he ceased to row she could hear her own heart beating. + +For a spell the man stood gazing with wistful eyes to the shore he had +left. Then suddenly he turned and uttered a great cry, for he had +forgotten the woman; forgotten why he was in a boat at all, and how he +had been driven from his companions. But now the impulse which had led +him to clasp her in his arms was re-born. He sank upon his knees and +whispered wild endearments; he stroked her hands gently as one strokes +an animal; he pushed her wet hair from her forehead and held back her +head that he might look into her eyes. The name by which he called her +was, she imagined, the name of one who had been dear to him long years +ago. When she would have drawn back from him shudderingly, the words +of love gave place to threats and ravings; he seized her by both +wrists, and would have kissed her upon the lips. She screamed with +fear, and rolled from his embrace. + +Long minutes passed before either moved. The leper had risen again and +once more looked out into the night. Marian was sobbing hysterically. + +“Paul,” she moaned; “O my God! Paul, come to me!” + +Faintly across the sea the answer came. She thought at first that she +heard it in her sleep. But the madman listened with ears erect and +hand stayed. Once, twice, the cry was raised; the hail of English +voices. When the little wanderer understood that it was no dream, but +that someone upon the sea had answered her, she seemed to hear the +music of heaven itself. Courage came back to her in that supreme +moment. She leaped up from the bows of the boat and sprang into the +waters. A loud demoniacal laugh followed her as the spuming sea closed +over her head. It was the laughter of the leper, who had forgotten her +again. + +The sea was still as a lake in summer; the moon, new risen, cast a +glow of silvery light upon the sleeping lagoon. Marian felt the water +cold and sweet upon her face. She had been a swimmer since her +childhood; she swam now as one hunted in the seas. Onward toward the +cry of English voices! God would not drag her down, she said; she +thought already to feel her lover’s embrace. Life might be before her +yet--the life with him she had left. To-morrow she might nestle on his +shoulder again and tell him that nothing now should carry her from his +side. Though her clothes were soaked and weighty, though the gentle +waves rolled often over her mouth, she swam on with courage unbroken. +“I go to Paul,” she said. “O, God help me--I cannot die here!” The +nether world seemed open to receive her; but the stars shone above; +the gate of heaven was her lamp in the sky. A future of love and +affection was imagined by her awakened brain. + +“Paul,” she cried, “come to me--I will not die!” + +There was a pathos of an eternity of suffering in the prayer; but the +night of her life was at an end, and the God-given day was about to +dawn. Even as she cried out, and thought that cold hands were dragging +her down to the icy depths below, a boat shot out from the loom of the +darkness; strong arms gripped her; she saw her lover bending over her, +she saw the star-lit heaven; warm lips kissed her forehead; she was +crushed in a close embrace--the embrace of a man who held her to him +as though never more in life should she escape his arms again. + +“Beloved, it is I--Paul. Oh, God be thanked, she lives, she lives!” + +Swiftly he bore her to the _Esmeralda_ and to her cabin. She had no +strength to speak to him, but holding both his hands, she fell into a +sweet sleep, and the gardens of England were opened for her while she +slept. + + +At dawn of the day the _Esmeralda_ sighted in the far distance one of +the warships of the Baltic Fleet. But old John hitched up his breeches +at the spectacle, and expressed himself as he was wont to do. + +“To hell with that,” said he; “they’re the wrong side of us this time, +mates. We’ll be in Stockholm by eight bells.” + +Old John spoke a true word. + + + + + CHAPTER XXII. + PRISONER OF LOVE. + +On the morning of the fifteenth day after the flight from Kronstadt, +Paul sat at the open window of his apartment in the Strand. The bells +of St. Martin’s at Charing Cross had just chimed half-past nine; the +streets below his window were alive with the hum of voices and the +echo of steps. He had visited London once or twice in his days of +tutelage; but this spectacle of massed humanity, of countless men +surging towards the East in quest of the daily wage, was new and +wonderful to him as when first he beheld it. That vast multitude, +looking neither to the right hand nor to the left, what tragedies and +comedies of life it played every day! All the notes of the social +scale seemed written upon that human score. Spruce stockbrokers lolled +in hansom cabs on their way to ’Change; sleek barristers thrust +themselves through the press as though the briefs they had waited for +these long years lay to-day upon their tables; clerks from the suburbs +passed with slow step or fast, as the office hours dictated; smart +girls carried themselves proudly, buoyed up with consciousness of sex +and environment; ’buses lumbered by with a harvest of human grain +heaped upon their roofs; only the clergy dallied before the +shop-windows or sauntered contentedly in the sunlight. + +Paul had heard of London as an abode of gloom, a city without a sky, a +mighty capital of fog and mists. This morning of a glorious spring +gave the lie to the reproach. Notwithstanding that April had many days +still to run, the sun shone warmingly: the air was fresh and sweet as +though blowing upon the city from a perfumed garden. And to the +sweetness of morning was added the comfort of the English rooms he had +engaged for himself and his “sister” Marian. It had been a solemn +compact between them that she should not communicate with her English +friends, should not even see them, until that future they loved to +speak of was something more than the dream of lovers. And she had +respected the understanding as though it were a law to her. + +“I owe my life to you,” she had said; “I will see no one, speak to no +one, until you wish it. But I must write to Dick.” + +“And tell them that you are in England!” he exclaimed, a little +anxiously. “If you write, they will come here; they will ask you for +your secrets. I know that you will tell them nothing; but I do not +wish you to see them; I do not wish to meet the man who tempted you.” + +“I will not see him, Paul, dearest; God knows, if you asked me, I +would never see him again.” + +She had begun to understand her lover wholly at this time; to +understand him with that intimate appreciation of moods which nothing +but the magnetism of one mind for another can make clear. Great as was +his love for her, the thought that she carried in her clever head +those secrets, of which he had been the guardian, haunted him now that +she was in England, a free agent beyond the reach of the Russian. A +soldier’s creed of honour was ever upon his lips. “I will not betray +my country,” he said always. He knew that marriage would seal her lips +for ever. But until they stood before the altar together he must rely +absolutely upon her promise. What their future was to be, he scarce +dared to think. The son of a Russian noble, he knew not how to serve. +A stranger in a strange country, what miracle should give him +livelihood? If he married at once, it would be to cast himself blindly +upon the sea of life, trusting that some wind of destiny would carry +him to a friendly shore. A great sympathy for her prevailed even above +his passionate longing to call her wife. + +“We are two children drifting,” he said. “God alone knows where the +journey will carry us; but we will be together always. You wish it, +Marian?” + +She put her arms about his neck. + +“We shall not drift while I have a home in your heart,” she said. + +That was upon the day after they had arrived in London. They had +gravitated toward the city; drawn there by no impulse that was +defined, but only by the hope that London would befriend them. Much as +Marian desired to see her child-brother again; yearn as she might for +the lanes and villages of Devonshire, she did not speak of these +desires to her lover. Had he asked her, she would have gone with him, +on the day of their arrival, straight to some church, and there have +given herself to him for ever. She welcomed the remembrance that it +was hers now to play the strong part. She would help him and compel +him to forget. For her sake he had cut himself off from friends and +fortune. His courage, which had saved her at Kronstadt, here moved her +to pity. A child lost in a maze of streets could not have been more +helpless than the man she loved, cast out by fortune to this city of +exile. She began to plan that she might work for him, might build the +home of her promise. The desperate task did not affright her. + +“If I had my health, if I could have the child near me, it would be +easy,” she thought. “These are the days when a clever woman earns a +living for herself in London, and I have brains.” + +The ambition was well enough, but the execution lagged. They had come +from Stockholm straight to this apartment by Charing Cross, and there, +passing as brother and sister--no difficult achievement, since Paul +spoke English fluently--they waited for the light. She obeyed his wish +that her arrival should be kept a stern secret. Of her few friends in +London, none knew that she had left Kronstadt. She did not write to +the child; she never left her rooms. Paul, in his turn, remembered +that one who had been a comrade of his student days, Feodor Talvi of +Novgorod, was now at the Russian Embassy in Chesham Square. He wrote +to him, and to his kinsman Prince Tolma, telling them of his condition +and of his purpose. “I am no traitor to Russia,” he wrote. “I am here +to keep her secrets, not to betray them.” + +The letters were despatched, but many days passed and no answer was +returned. On the fifteenth day, when Paul sat at his window waiting +for Marian to come down to breakfast, he began to tell himself that +his friends would be friends to him no more. He had thought his +kinsman, Tolma, to be a man of broad mind and generous impulses, one +who had lost a Russian’s creed in the teaching of many cities. But the +earnest appeal he had despatched to Paris remained unanswered. He said +that the Prince was not in the city; he was at Monaco, or cruising in +his yacht. Paul would not believe that one who had loved him as a son +would desert him in this hour of misfortune. He shrank from the truth, +and would not reckon with it. + +Marian entered the sitting-room while he was still musing at the +window. She crossed it with girlish step, and bent down quickly to +kiss his cheek. Regardless of time or place, he sprang up and took her +in his arms. + +“Dear little one!” he said, “you bring me back to earth again. And you +have roses on your cheeks to-day. There is no doctor like one’s own +country. You have slept, Marian?” + +She would not tell him of her night of waking; nor had he eyes to see +that the flush upon her cheeks was a flush of weakness. + +“I sleep always,” she answered, with a little laugh; “you must not +worry about that.” + +He pushed her back from him, still holding her hands. + +“Oh,” he said, “and that is our new dress! Am I not a good modiste, +little one? Is it not splendid? I shall open a shop here, and you will +make my fortune.” + +She kissed his hands, and turned to the breakfast-table. + +“I shall send you to buy my dresses when we are married,” she +exclaimed. “You won’t mind them laughing----” + +“I mind? Sapristi! Did I mind yesterday when I bought the ‘triumph,’ +and twelve young ladies fitted it on for me, and the boutiquier +himself carried it to the cab? Nom de Dieu! it was a procession, and I +was the flag. You must lose your clothes again, and get another cold, +Marian. It will amuse me to buy your dresses.” + +He had shopped for her on the previous day; for she carried no dresses +from Russia, and Stockholm had furnished her with a poor wardrobe. Her +promise not to go abroad in the streets of London she kept faithfully, +as much from will as from weakness. The chill and horror of her night +at the island of the Holy Well had eaten into her little store of +strength. She feared that some dangerous illness would overtake her, +and that he would be alone to wage the unequal fight. + +“You have letters, dear?” she asked him, while she poured out his tea +and busied herself with his breakfast. + +He shook his head a little sadly. + +“Feodor Talvi cannot be in London; I shall hear from him the day he +arrives. We were as brothers; he must listen to me at least. As for +Tolma, it will be sooner or later. He is not a man of this city or of +that. He makes the world his home, and wherever the sun shines, there +is his fireside. But I know that he will help me when my letter +reaches him. He cares nothing for other people’s stories. He has +called me his son since I was twelve years old. I wrote to him as to a +father. While we wait for their help, we have two hundred pounds--your +English pounds--to spend. When we have spent those, there is the +_Esmeralda_ to sell. I shall order her to the Island of Wight, where +all your yachting people go, and she will bring us twenty thousand +roubles at the least. They will give us time to think and to plan. I +have thought a little already, and the way seems clearer to me. After +all, a strong man does not starve when he is willing to work. I can +teach the Russian language if the worst comes, and box the ears of +little boys who will not learn.” + +He laughed merrily at the idea, and passed his cup for tea. She would +not tell him that she could not share his hopes; her face wore a +bright smile when she lifted it to look at him. + +“You are making a home of England already,” she said; “I am happy to +think it is so. It will all come right by-and-bye, when I am strong +and can work again. You must not forget me when you speak of your +plans. I could not be an idle woman; I should go mad.” + +“You shall be the mistress of my house,” he answered, with a touch of +the old pride. “I am the heir of Tolma, and I shall know how to find a +home for you.” + +“Yes, but while we wait, dear--there is no dishonour here in England +because a woman works. You were not born for the things you speak of; +you do not know the difficulties. It is I who have learnt how to face +the world and not to fear what people call independence. Your friends +may write to you, or they may not. But it will help us both if there +are no drones in the hive. You will be happy because I am happy, and I +shall come to forgive myself then.” + +“There is nothing to forgive,” he said tenderly. “God knows, it is +happiness enough to hear your voice all day, and to tell myself that I +shall kiss you when the morning comes. By-and-bye I shall not wait for +the morning--that will be when the priest has spoken. You understand, +little one?” + +They had risen from the table and stood together in the shadow. He +drew her to him winningly and kissed her white face again and again. + +“I understand, dearest--a little,” she said, with a new flush upon her +cheeks. + +“A little--is it not more than that? You still ask yourself questions +as you did at Kronstadt.” + +“Certainly, I ask myself questions--but not the questions of +carnival.” + +“You want to run away again?” + +“Oh, yes--when I am strong enough.” + +He looked into her eyes questioningly. The love of jest was written +there. + +“Arrivons!” he said; “where would you run to, here in London?” + +“To the church,” she whispered, and so hid her head upon his shoulder. + +A knock upon the door of the room put them apart. She turned to the +glass to straighten her hair while he tore open a telegram, which the +slut of the house delivered triumphantly, as though she carried +letters of gold. + +“For the gentleming,” she said, with great satisfaction, “and he’s +a-waiting.” + +Marian looked over Paul’s shoulder to read the message. + +“Is it from your friends, dearest?” she asked anxiously. + +“It is from Feodor Talvi,” he answered, while the hand which offered +her the paper shook with pleasure and excitement. “I am to go to him +at once. I told you that we were as brothers; read that, and write the +answer for me. I will see him to-day--now. There are no more troubles, +thank God!” + +He began to search about for his hat and gloves; he did not see the +shadow of doubt which flitted upon her face. When the message was +written, she gave him instructions for his momentous journey to South +Audley Street, where the house of Talvi was. + +“You must take a cab, and it must wait for you,” she said +determinedly; “I have a good mind to pin a card inside the flap of +your coat--or you will forget where we live. Do not let him keep you +long, dearest.” + +“He shall not keep me an hour; he shall come here to be presented. We +will all go to the great hotel to dine together. I told you that my +friends would not desert me.” + +He babbled on incessantly while she picked threads from his new +frock-coat and pinned in his buttonhole a spray of the lilies he had +bought for her. When they had said good-bye for the tenth time, she +watched him from the window, a manly figure, broad and confident, in +the throng below. Many turned to look at one who carried himself with +such a fine air; but he saw nothing save the white face at the +window--the face for which he had dared all and had brought himself to +this land of exile. + +“She shall be my wife before the week has run,” he said to himself as +he went. “I forget the rest when she is near me!” + + * * * * * + +The hour of his promise passed swiftly, and found Marian still waiting +for the sound of his steps upon the stair. A second hour was numbered, +and a third. She began to count the minutes; she took her stand at +last by the open window and scanned the faces of all who came +eastward. But his face was not among them. When six o’clock struck, +and the throngs were hurrying home again, and Paul did not return, +there came to her suddenly the thought that some peril had overtaken +him. That the hand of the Russian is everywhere active had long been +known to her. She began to blame herself that she had permitted him to +leave her. Since that night of nameless horror upon the sea, her +shattered nerves were quick to bring foreboding upon her. + +“O my God!” she said at last; “if they have trapped him here in +London!” + +Dusk succeeded to the sunshine of the day; night loomed over the city; +but Marian continued to watch at her window, and to pray God that no +ill had befallen the man she loved. + + + + + CHAPTER XXIII. + THE UNFORESEEN. + +Paul rested his gloved hand upon the doors of his cab; he smoked +contentedly. For the first time since he had set foot in London the +streets and the people were without interest to him. A boyish +readiness to accept the possible for the actual had already carried +him in his mind to the realisation of fine schemes. He was sure that +fate would work some miracle of surprise for his particular benefit. + +“I shall tell the truth; it is no good to conceal anything,” he +thought. “Feodor will write to the Prince at Petersburg and say that I +am here in London protecting the secrets of my city. If they had kept +Marian at Alexander, there would have been trouble with the English +Government; possibly, they would have been compelled to release her, +and then she would have returned here with all those plans in her +head. I do not see why it should be so great an affair. I have done +them a service, and they know that I am not a traitor. Granted that +they will not restore me to my regiment, there is other work for a +clever man to do. I might even go to the Balkans and serve Ferdinand +or the Austrians. When they learn how small my offence is, they will +not be too hard upon me. And I shall marry the little girl I love, and +take her where these English fellows will not trouble her. Ma foi! +what crowds, and not a soldier among them all!” + +He was passing the Criterion at the moment. The crowd of idlers, the +youth of bars and stage-doors, the sleek dandy, the hastening clerk, +moved him to a fine contempt for their stooping bodies and undrilled +gait. A soldier’s blood had run in his veins from his birth. To wear +gold lace and to carry a sword, to strut in the market-place, to serve +the Czar--what other career was open to an honest man? Merchants and +traders--he regarded them as so many licensed thieves. Priests were +necessary to minister to the superstitions of the people and to pray +for the sins of the army. Professions were all very well for little +men and knaves; but they were not a career. As for himself, he had +inherited wits above the ordinary; but it never dawned on him that +they could be used to other ends than those of his regiment. There was +no better scholar in Kronstadt, no more promising officer of +artillery, but that, he said, was his good fortune. His wits would +never have been awakened but for the music of the great guns and the +clash of steel. Whatever lay before him, he determined to work to one +end--the right to carry a sword once more, once more to be the master +of the guns. + +The cab, bumping roughly against the kerb, brought him back from the +success of thought to the broken baskets of reality. He saw that they +were in a narrow street before the doors of a large but ugly house, +which had no ornaments for its windows and little paint for its +railings. He paid the cabman the money which Marian had put into his +hand, and rang the bell of the house timidly. A moment later he stood +in a hall furnished with such exquisite taste, and so richly, that he +could hardly believe it to be the hall of the house before which the +cabman had set him down. But the man who opened the door was a +Russian, and that reassured him. + +“Count Feodor--is he at home?” + +“He expects you. He is waiting.” + +Paul entered the house confidently. The magnificence of the +ante-chamber astonished him, for he had lived his life in barracks; +and such splendour of habitation as he had known was the splendour of +palaces at Petersburg or of hotels at Paris. When he followed the +footman up a broad flight of stairs and through a conservatory upon +the first floor, the same richness of decoration and of ornament +testified to the luxury with which Feodor Talvi had surrounded +himself. The apartment into which he was shown at last, though of +limited extent, was draped with exceeding taste. Dainty watercolour +sketches gave brightness to the silk-panelled walls; lounges cunningly +contrived were the emblems of ample leisure; flowers stood upon many +little tables; a stained glass window hid from the eyes the ugly stone +wall which bounded the garden of the mansion. Paul put his hat upon a +sofa and sat down with a great air of content. + +“These diplomatists,” he said to himself, “they talk all day and dance +all night. They are paid twenty thousand roubles a year for telling +their neighbours that black is white. When there is any work to be +done, they go home. Fichtre! it should be easy to tell lies for twenty +thousand roubles a year. And Feodor has no need of them; he was rich +always. He must be very rich now.” + +The footman left him when he had given his name, saying that the Count +would be disengaged presently. Paul took up a Russian paper and read +it through. It was a pleasure to be carried in spirit back to +Petersburg and his home. He found himself thinking about his friends +of yesterday--old Stefanovitch who had loved him, and Bonzo whom he +had feared and never understood. Karl, too, and Sergius and the +others--had one among them taken pity upon him and remembered that he +had been a friend of the old time? The pathos of memory was very +bitter. He was as a child shut out from his old home. Imagination +kindled for him a fire burning redly upon the hearth; the rays shone +upon the unpitying faces of those who had been brothers to him. + +This occupation of regret carried him away from the house of Feodor +Talvi, so that he forgot where he was and upon what errand he had +come. When the little gilt clock upon the mantelshelf struck one, he +put the paper down quickly and remembered with amazement that he had +been an hour in the room. That rascal of a lackey must have forgotten +to speak to the Count, he said. Impatiently he pressed the button of +an electric bell, and it was answered immediately, not by the Russian +who had brought him to the boudoir, but by an English servant, who +seemed astounded to find a stranger in the place. + +“You are waiting for the Count, sir?” + +“If I am waiting!” exclaimed Paul, turning on the man as he would have +turned upon a defaulting corporal, “I have been here an hour! Is your +master out, then?” + +“I don’t know, sir; I will ask, if you like--that is, if you wish it, +sir.” + +Paul stared at the man with astonishment. If he had been in Russia, he +would have laid his cane sharply upon the shoulders of the rogue; but +he was not in Russia, and the English barbarians did not permit a man +to flog his servants. He was still seeking a word when the lackey shut +the door and left him to reflect upon a state of civilisation so +monstrous. + +The little gilt clock struck a quarter past one; the man had not +returned. There was no sign of Feodor. Paul went to the door of the +room and threw it open. The house was silent as one of his own cells +at Alexander. He could hear a great clock ticking in the hall below; +there was a rumble of passing carts from the street without, but of +human life within the house no evidence. He returned to the boudoir +and rang the bell for the second time. To his amazement the Russian +answered him, and began at once to apologise. + +“We expect the Count every moment,” he said stolidly; “my master is +sorry to keep you waiting. He has been called away. We are to offer +you lunch, Excellency.” + +Paul assented indifferently. + +“It is a peep-show,” he said with scorn: “first the English rogue and +then you. I shall speak to the Count, and tell him that he has made a +mistake. You should both dance in a booth--to the music of the whip.” + +The Russian listened without changing a muscle of his face--he was +accustomed to a _rôle_ of servility. When Paul had finished, the man +set to work to clear a little table and to get the lunch ready. Then +he disappeared once more, and another quarter was struck upon the +bell. + +“Sacré nom!” said Paul, pacing the room angrily; “the servants lie +better than the master! If this is the house of a diplomatist, to the +devil with the twenty thousand roubles!” + +“My dear fellow!” cried a voice at the door, “do you know that the +chair you are kicking was once the property of Napoleon?” + +He turned and stood face to face with the intruder. A spectator would +have said that the two men resembled each other as brothers of a +house. Both were tall and finely built; both had flaxen hair and blue +eyes; both held themselves as those trained in the school of the +world. If the newcomer was slightly shorter than the captain of +artillery, if his face was less sunburnt and more furrowed, that was +to be set down to the life of the city and the Court. + +“Paul--it is you then?” + +“Feodor--my friend!” + +“You have been waiting here?” + +“A century!” + +“The devil! It is that rogue Demetrius again. You are hungry; _tais +toi_, we shall lunch and talk afterwards. I have a thousand things to +say; you have a thousand things to tell. I become a boy again at the +sight of you!” + +He talked, indeed, with a boy’s enthusiasm, but said nothing +of that great and engrossing subject which Paul desired so +earnestly to broach. For the moment they might have been students +together--students enjoying such a rare day of fortune that they ate +the dishes of princes and washed them down with the wine of kings. +Paul wondered, in the moments of silence, if he had, in truth, +branded himself as an outcast and a traitor. For if that charge were +true, how came it that he ate and drank with Feodor Talvi and was +called brother by him? He could not believe in such good fortune. “He +does not know,” he thought; “he will not call me brother when I tell +him.” + +The dishes were many before luncheon was done; champagne foamed in +long Venetian glasses; the dainty manner of the service was beyond +question. When the cloth had been cleared, Demetrius carried cigars +and liquors to a little bower of palms in the conservatory. Paul found +himself reclining indolently upon a sofa, while the Count curled +himself up in a basket armchair which Sleep herself might have +designed. For the first time since they had met, an embarrassing +interlude of silence gave the men opportunity for recollection. Paul +made up his mind that this was the time to speak; but before he could +open his lips Feodor asked him a question. + +“The young English lady--is she well?” + +The question was astonishing, bewildering. Paul opened his eyes very +wide, for he thought it was a jest. + +“Oh, she is very well,” he stammered; “that is to say--you know about +her?” + +The Count answered sympathetically-- + +“I know your story, Paul, my friend; I read it in a despatch four days +after you left Kronstadt.” + +Paul took heart. + +“If you know my story, you know also that I am no traitor to Russia; +you know that I am here in London to guard her secrets.” + +“Exactly, or how could I receive you at my house? It was all clear to +me from the first. A pretty face, a clever little head, a bribe from +the English Government; my old friend falls in love with the pretty +face, and persuades the woman to deliver up to him all the plans she +has stolen. He comes here to give me those plans, and to tell me that +the woman may go to the devil, while he goes back to Russia.” + +The smile left Paul’s boyish face. He stood up awkwardly against the +mantelshelf. + +“You do not understand,” he said gravely. “It is not that, Count; +there are no maps to be given up. Marian has none. I am convinced of +it. When I left Russia it was to make sure that she did not see any of +her friends--that she did not betray us. It is true that her father +and mother died some years ago; but she has relations in London--the +Englishman who tempted her. I did not wish her to meet those people. +Judge me as you will for what is past, I have this to say, that, by +God’s help, I will never leave her side again!” + +Feodor, no longer the diplomatist, but the man of the world, laughed +good-humouredly. + +“Oh,” he said, “we are still in that stage, then. It is the second +stage, I think. When I was the bel ami of ‘La Superbe’ in Paris, I +took a course. You begin with a bad appetite and end by buying a +pistol. Convalescence dates from the moment when you present your +pistol to your brother at school and go out to dine at Voisin’s. +Complete recovery is to hear with equanimity that she, for whom you +would have died a thousand deaths, has married the leader of the +orchestra. Possibly, in your case, if you had stayed in Russia, you +would have been well by this time; but a change of air fosters these +complaints. A month, even two months, may be necessary now. And pity +is a factor. Send the girl back to her relations, since you know that +she has brought no luggage with her, and enjoy London for a month. I +can recommend nothing better.” + +Paul took up his cigar and lit it. His hand trembled undisguisedly. +The love creed, chanted by the man of the world, was a thing he had +ever despised. He knew well the impossibility of convincing this dandy +of a dozen cities of the reality of his love or of the nature of it. +He would not try, he thought; he feared that mockery might cast a +false light on the name so dear to him. + +“Do not let us speak of Marian,” he said after a moment of silence; +“you do not understand me, and I do not understand you. No man has a +right to say to another, you shall love here or there. If you are my +friend, you will help me at home. You must tell me what they are +saying there. God knows, I dare not ask myself that question. Have I +any longer a name in Russia? Is there any friend of mine to speak a +word for me? These are the questions I ask myself while I lie awake at +night and remember Kronstadt. The night is punishment enough--believe +me, Feodor.” + +The Count, who disliked emotion of any kind, looked foolishly at the +fire of his cigar. + +“My dear fellow,” he exclaimed in the tone of the candid friend, “it +is no good exciting yourself. And it would be absurd to tell you any +lies. How can I know what they are saying now at Petersburg. Am I +likely to find the expression of any sympathy in official documents? +When a man runs away from his regiment without leave, and takes with +him a young lady who has been occupied for a month or more in stealing +the plans of his fortress, he must expect his friends to open their +eyes. How could it be otherwise? We judge men by their deeds. As the +thing stands, you, in the eyes of the authorities, share the woman’s +guilt; we, who are your well-wishers, cannot stoop to help you with +the expression of false hopes. That you will ever return to Kronstadt +I do not believe. The thing is out of the question. Discipline would +suffer and you would suffer. But I will not say that influence at +Petersburg might not, at some distant day, restore you to the +Emperor’s service. It depends upon yourself and upon the course you +take here in London. You will not expect us to join with any +enthusiasm in a scheme for your benefit as long as you utter this +ridiculous nonsense about marrying the Englishwoman and constituting +yourself her protector. Oh, my dear Paul, do you not see that she is +the soubrette of your opera, and that her tears are shed only while +the curtain is up? By-and-bye she will be supping with the leading +tenor, while you are back in your own country and are ready to thank +Heaven that you have done with her.” + +Paul bit his lip. He was within an ace of losing his temper and of +quitting the house. + +“It is a lie!” he said doggedly; “there is no better woman breathing. +If you knew her, Feodor--if you were my friend, you would not say +these things. I came here thinking that you would help me; I am sorry +now that I came.” + +The Count sank deeper into the cushions of his chair. + +“Du calme, du calme!” he cried, with the air of one who is much +amused. “We are at the third stage now, and these are the symptoms. +While I knew ‘La Superbe,’ I had not a friend in Paris. There was not +a man whose throat I did not wish to cut. See, mon ami, how these +diseases resemble each other. As I live, you will fight me before +dinner-time!” + +“No, indeed,” replied Paul very quietly; “I cannot quarrel with you, +Count. If your creed of life is not mine, I do not complain of that. +We will talk of it no more, for I am going home. It was a promise to +her. She will be waiting. I said that I would be away an hour, and +three have passed.” + +A shadow of anxiety crossed the Count’s face. + +“Oh, you must not talk about going,” he exclaimed earnestly, “and you +must not think me unfriendly. What has passed is nothing. We will talk +of serious things presently, and you shall meet one better able to +advise you than the mere diplomatist who sees everything through the +glass of office. If you think that mademoiselle will be anxious, write +a little letter and the man will take it. You will find pens and ink +in the library on the next floor. I am going to smoke here until you +return. It would be folly to go away now, at the beginning of it.” + +Paul stood irresolute, but the Count touched a gong at his side, and +the Russian appeared once more. + +“Demetrius, show the way to the library. His Excellency will give you +a letter; see that it is delivered at once.” + +The library was a small room furnished prettily, with many books +chiefly in French. Paul wrote his letter quickly--a letter of love and +hope. He had met Feodor; the Count was his friend still; he was +waiting for another to help him to some position of honour and +emolument--all this he honestly believed as he wrote it. Never for a +moment did it dawn upon him that he was the victim of a trick. He was +convinced that the note would be delivered at once. He did not know +that Demetrius would carry it so far as the kitchen of the house and +there burn it in the stove. When he returned to the conservatory a +smile of content was upon his face. It was good to have found a friend +again. He determined to show a greater gratitude to the Count; but the +words he wanted would not come to his lips. Nor was the reason far to +seek. When he descended the stairs, whom should he see with Feodor but +old Bonzo himself--the Bonzo of Kronstadt; the Bonzo whose name had +struck terror into his heart so often; the Man of Iron whom all +feared. + +The Colonel sat upon a basket sofa. He wore a black frock coat with +flowing skirts; his trousers were grey; his tie was a tremendous bow +in the French fashion, _négligé_ and ample. He smoked a black cigar +and sipped a glass of absinthe. When he saw Paul, confused and +hesitating, upon the threshold of the conservatory, his little eyes +twinkled merrily, and he held out a great paw, as though to give the +younger man confidence. + +“Le voici!” he exclaimed boisterously, “le voici! the renegade, the +traitor, who has brought me all the way from Petersburg!” + +Paul shook the outstretched hand timidly. The room seemed to dance +before his eyes. + +“You here, my Colonel--you?” he repeated, with broken words. “You have +come to London to see me?” + +“If I have come to London to see you! Do I make the Cook’s Tour then? +Am I here to visit the Westminster Abbey--have I the tourist’s suit? +Look at me--Bonzo--and ask why I come?” + +He put the question in a voice of thunder--the voice Paul had heard so +often on the ramparts of Kronstadt. But the note of jest mingled with +a deeper chord, and the two who listened to him laughed when he +laughed. + +“I should not call it a tourist’s suit,” said the Count, surveying the +tremendous proportions of Bonzo’s coat; “there is too much cloth in +it. They don’t make a fortune out of you, Colonel--those tailors.” + +Bonzo nodded his head approvingly. He was a stranger to civilian +dress, and his new appearance amused him. + +“Behold!” he said, “it is a coat for my son and for my son’s son. I +have worn it twice in fourteen years. It is only a barbarous people +that would wear a coat like this. Sit down, my friend, Paul, and see +how I degrade myself for you.” + +He thrust a low chair forward, and Paul sat down, hoping he knew not +what, afraid to ask why the Man of Iron had followed him to the land +of exile. + +“You are well, my Colonel? You had a good passage?” + +“I am very well, my son.” + +“You stay in London long?” + +“Until I hear that a foolish young man has come to his senses again.” + +Paul flushed. There came upon him irresistibly the impulse to appeal +to this strong man’s pity. + +“Oh,” he said, “you do not think me guilty, Colonel? You do not +believe that I am a traitor to my country?” + +“Du tout, du tout, my son; you are no traitor--you have not the +brains.” + +Paul stopped as though one had shot him. The eloquence of pity, which +had inspired him in thought, deserted him at the first word of that +ironical response. As well ask mercy of the tomb as of the Man of +Iron. + +“It was not a question of brains!” he blurted out presently. “I am not +clever, my Colonel, I know that, but I am no traitor to Russia.” + +“Pah!” said old Bonzo, a little severely; “traitors do not run off +with chorus-girls and then say they could not help it. You are a fool, +my son; you have not the wisdom of the boy! What, when you had the +woman in Alexander, when she was alone with you, when you could have +made love to her all day, you bring her back here to her friends, you +cut yourself off from those who love you, and then say that you did it +for us! Oh, it is a story for a fairy-book.” + +Bonzo spoke with a strong man’s contempt for the folly of the child. +Paul shuddered at his words. The horrible suggestion--for he knew well +what the other meant--fired his blood. He could have struck the +speaker on the mouth. + +“Colonel,” he asked in a low voice, “you knew Mademoiselle at +Kronstadt, and yet you are ready to say these things of her!” + +“Certainly I am ready. Would you have me cry that she is of noble +birth? Shall I raise my hat when I mention the name of Stefanovitch’s +governess, the daughter of an English _batushka_, a village priest at +fifteen hundred roubles a year? What, a woman who played with you as I +play with this leaf; who brings you to England to draw for her the +maps which she had not time to draw when she was with us; who will +laugh in your face presently and tell you to go to the devil--is this +the one that Tolma’s heir would marry? Pah! I have not the patience to +speak of it!” + +Paul picked up a cigarette and began to roll it in his fingers. He was +unable to answer such an argument. Bonzo, he made sure, would never +understand him; the hopes he had placed in his friends were shattered +at last; they did not know Marian; they would never know her. He was +still searching for his reply to the accusation when the Colonel spoke +again, but with less heat. + +“À la bonne heure!” he said, “I am not here to scold you. We will say +good-bye to this day of folly, for it is done. To-morrow you will +leave London for Paris, my son. It will be the beginning of your +journey to Vienna, where you will stay until this madness is +forgotten. After that we shall appeal to the Emperor. His clemency may +find for you some duty in the East. If you have suffered, those who +love you have suffered too. Even I--Bonzo--could I hear of this, and +forget that, of all at Kronstadt, you alone were a son to me? You +shall be a son to me once more--when you have left England.” + +Paul stood up as the speaker continued. An undefined dread of some +calamity about to overtake him prompted him to speak. + +“Colonel,” he said, “I cannot go to Paris with you to-morrow. I cannot +leave England. Mademoiselle is waiting for me now. I thank you with +all my heart for your promises, but the day for them is past. I think +of Russia no more. I shall find a home here. Some day you will +understand me.” + +Bonzo waved his arm dramatically. + +“Sit--sit,” he said; “this is not a theatre, Captain Paul. You are in +Russia here. This house is our house. It is the Emperor’s house. Your +English friends may come, but we shall not let them in. Be reasonable, +and make up your mind that mademoiselle must wait a little longer.” + +Paul looked from one to the other with dazed eyes. Count Feodor had +risen, and stood with his back towards the window; the Colonel’s face +was not to be read. + +“I do not understand!” he exclaimed excitedly. “You would not keep me +here against my wish, Colonel?” + +Bonzo laughed ironically. + +“For a few days,” he said, with a gesture of indifference, “until you +come to your senses, Captain. Meanwhile, if mademoiselle is waiting, +send another little note.” + +In that moment the truth flashed upon Paul. He stepped backward as +though seeking a way of escape; there was the look of a hunted animal +in his eyes when he turned to the master of the house. + +“My God!” he cried, “you would not do this, Count! You have no right +to do it. I must go back to my house. I tell you that she is waiting +for me.” + +Bonzo answered him by striking a gong at his side. + +“My son,” he said sternly, “she will wait many days yet. It is the +duty of your friends to save you from yourself.” + + + [Illustration: “SILENTLY, DETERMINEDLY, THEY FELL UPON THE FUGITIVE, + AND THREW HIM TO THE GROUND”] + + +The deep note of the gong echoed through the silent rooms of the house +like an alarum. The three men--for all had risen--stood facing each +other. They knew that the time for words was past. As for Bonzo, he +had ceased to smile; anger and determination were to be read in his +eyes. He looked around him with the air of one who has planned +everything, and whose plan is to be put into execution. + +“You are mad, Captain Zassulic, and we shall cure you,” he repeated +triumphantly. “To-morrow we set out, but not for Vienna. The fortress +of St. Peter shall be your hospital. Fool that you were to pit your +wits against mine.” + +He raised his hand to point threateningly, and, as if in instant +answer to the signal, the conservatory was filled with troopers in the +uniform of the Russian service. Silently, determinedly, with great +strength, they fell upon the fugitive and threw him to the ground. So +sudden was the attack, so swift had been the sequence of word and of +event, that Paul was a prisoner in their arms even while the thought +of escape was shaping in his mind. For a moment he struck at them with +the strength of ten men. Agony and despair gave him courage. The whole +bitterness of life seemed to be his portion. + +“Marian!” he cried. “O my God, let me go to her--you kill me--I +suffocate--let me go to her--let me go----” + +A strong arm, the arm of a giant, stifled the broken cries. The whole +landing seemed to be full of men. Though the captive struck right and +left, clutching at this object and at that, they carried him swiftly +from the place up and still up to the prison of the garrets. He beheld +other landings and the interiors of bedrooms poorly furnished, the +stairs were stairs of marble no longer, the light of the fuller day +fell upon his face through a frosted dome of glass. When they flung +him down at last, with blood upon his hands, and torn clothes, the +light was shut swiftly from his eyes. He lay in utter darkness, and he +thought it the darkness of hell. For he knew that the unpitying hand +of the Russian had fallen upon him even in England--the England for +which she whom he loved had longed so earnestly. + + + + + CHAPTER XXIV. + TOWARD THE LIGHT. + +Marian awoke from a troubled sleep when the clock of St. Martin’s +Church was striking a quarter past four of the morning. She had not +meant to sleep at all, but weakness prevailed above her misery, and +for an hour she was carried in her dreams back to Alexander and to the +nameless horror of her cell below the sea. + +When she awoke she was still sitting in her low chair by the window, +but the cold of dawn had stiffened her limbs, and the burden of the +night and its weariness lay heavy upon her heart. Nor could she bring +her mind at the first to remember why she was not in her bed, or how +it came to be that she looked down upon the silent streets at such an +hour. When memory helped her, it was swift and terrible. She rose to +her feet and opened the door of their little sitting-room. Had Paul +come back to her? she asked herself. Why did he wait? What new ill had +overtaken him? God, if he should be dead! + +A tortured, helpless woman, worn with suffering and doubt, she crept +along the darkened passage until she stood at his bedroom door. It was +wide open. She could see the bed, but no one had slept in it. +Scattered here and there were the few things he had purchased since +they had been in London--a pair of slippers, a little dressing-case, a +writing-desk. A bunch of violets he had worn when shopping for her two +days ago stood on his washhand-stand. She took it up and kissed the +faded flowers; she knelt at his bedside and prayed, a woman’s prayer, +that the day might bring him back to her. + +It was strange, at this time, how her sense of dependence upon the man +was magnified and made real to her. A year ago the truth that she +stood alone in the world would have been a matter of indifference to +her. But that day had passed. While she had no exaggerated notions of +Paul’s cleverness, while she knew him, heart and mind, he remained the +idol of her dreams and of her love. She had trembled when he held her +in his arms. Her first waking thought had been for him; she had won +sleep often with his name upon her lips. The past years of loneliness, +of struggle, of poverty, seemed removed by ages from her present life. +If there had come to her sometimes the reflection that this whirl of +events was unreal and false, that she was deceiving herself, that the +reckoning must be paid, she brushed the thought aside. She was a +woman, and she had learned to love. + +The house was quiet with the stillness of the hour before the dawn. +Without, the steely gray light fell upon shuttered windows and silent +streets. Even great London nodded. Her gaudy ornament of gold and +garish painting had become subdued and shabby; immense buildings +loomed up as though the sun had shaped them from the mists. Save for +the passing carts, or the rumble of a wagon on its way to market, or +the fleeting figure of some ragged and homeless creature awake once +more to the hopeless life of thousands, she might have looked down +upon a city of the dead. Those who had passed and repassed while the +sun shone--whither had they gone to sleep? What change of fortune had +they known since yesterday? Who among them would rejoice with the day? +How many would know the day no more? The very emptiness of the city +awed her. She was afraid of the stillness. Not one in all those +millions would stand at her side to help her. She remembered the +child, and thought of him sleeping in a house of sunshine and of +flowers, but the remembrance was bitter, for her courage was broken. +The old way of life was closed for ever. She would go hand in hand +with little Dick, but there would be tears upon her face. + +Seven o’clock struck, and the sun shone upon the city. People flocked +to the great railway stations; cabs began to loiter by the pavements; +she heard the scream of whistles and the cry of the newsboys. It was a +relief to her, this surging of the stream of life. She began to reckon +with herself as she had not reckoned since she left Kronstadt. If Paul +did not return during the morning, she resolved that she would go to +Scotland Yard and tell his story, in so far as it could be told +without the surrender of her promise. A woman of clear and quick +thought, she scouted the trivial suggestions which desire to deceive +herself had prompted. Taking new courage of the morning, she refused +to believe that her lover was dead or that an accident had overtaken +him. An echo of the truth dinned in her ears. “It is the hand of his +own countrymen,” she thought, “he has been lured from here by a +trick.” And then she remembered that these things were not to be done +in England. A glad pride in the might of her own country quickened her +heart. “I will save him!” she said; “I will go to them and learn the +whole story.” + +Her course would have been easier if she had known Paul’s intentions +when he left her. It was in her mind that he had gone to the Russian +Embassy; she remembered that he spoke of South Audley Street, but +could not recall the number of the house. + +She said that she would get her breakfast and go afterwards to the +Embassy in quest of news. If none was to be had there, it would be +time to consult with the people at Scotland Yard. True, she had given +Paul her word that she would not go out alone; but the promise was +made for a set of circumstances other than these. His liberty, his +very life, might depend upon her breaking that promise. A great desire +to be up and away at once took possession of her. It was hers now to +play the strong part. Nevertheless, the hope that she might hear his +step on the stair before the clock struck again held her to the place. + +“He has stayed at the Count’s house all night,” she argued childishly; +“it was necessary, and he is among friends.” + +At eight o’clock she dressed herself, wearing the pretty blouse that +he had bought for her, and coiling up her wealth of brown hair +picturesquely above her white face. She sighed often when she looked +into the shabby glass, and asked herself how it came to be that a man +had cast off country and friends for her sake. Very few in the world +cared whether she lived or died. She did not wonder at that. Her life +had been one long battle with circumstances; the smile her face had +worn during the years of childhood was but the cloak which hid the +scars of mental ill and oftentimes of defeat. Yet here was one to +stand among the multitude and to say “Thou art the woman.” The mystery +of love baffled her. + +It was nine o’clock when she finished her cup of tea and found herself +ready to go out. She had but a few shillings in her pocket; their +little store of gold was locked in Paul’s trunk, yet she would not +stop to reflect upon that new trouble which lack of money must bring +to her presently. Glad in her way to escape the confinement of the +stuffy room, rejoicing that her errand was for her lover’s sake, she +descended the stairs with quick step. But at the street door she stood +irresolute; and when she had looked about her an instant, she returned +hastily to her room, and went to the window to watch. + +A carriage drawn by a pair of magnificent grey horses was the secret +of her irresolution. It stood before her house at the moment she would +have begun her errand. She saw that the master of the carriage, a +white-haired old man, slight and slim, but with the face of an +aristocrat, was about to send the footman to her door. Instinct told +her that here was one of Paul’s friends. When the footman waited in +the street below, she had the impulse to run down, fearing that the +carriage would be driven away before she could tell Paul’s friend what +had happened. She was still wavering when the slut of the house +entered the room, holding in her dirty fingers the card of Prince +Tolma. + +“It ain’t for you; it’s for the gentleming,” she said, wiping a smut +from her forehead. “I told ’em as he’d gawn out to supper, and hadn’t +come back yet.” + +Marian brushed her aside and ran down the stairs with the step of a +schoolgirl. Care for her own dignity was forgotten. She arrived in the +street breathless and with flushed cheeks. It was in her mind that +this stranger would save her lover. + +“Paul is not here,” she said excitedly; “he left me yesterday to visit +Count Talvi, and has not returned. I fear that something has happened. +He would not leave me without a word. I am Marian Best, and I have +heard your name so often. If I might speak to you for a little +while----” + +She stood panting and expectant, while the old man regarded her with +wondering eyes. Apparently the spectacle pleased him, for, of a +sudden, he grunted like an animal and called to the footman. + +“John, I am going to get out.” + +With great pomp and ceremony, after the unwrapping of rugs and +laborious changes of posture, the Prince wormed himself from his seat. + +“My dear,” he said apologetically, “you must give me your hand. I am +an old man--and your English wines do not love me. Is it far to +mount?--there are many stairs?” + +Marian blushed. + +“We are not rich,” she said diffidently; “we feared to go to an +hotel----” + +“Du tout, du tout,” said the Prince; “we must find another apartment +for you. The sun up there will scorch that pretty face. Ma foi, we go +to heaven itself!” + +A friendly banister and the strong arm of the footman dragged the +burden to the heights. Marian followed with a sense of relief such as +she had scarce known in all her life. It was as though a strong hand +had been thrust out to her from the shadows of the great city. The +tone, the gesture, the kindly eyes of this old man, the easy air of +command and authority--these won upon her confidence. + +The Prince entered the shabby little room and waddled to an arm-chair. +He sank in it with a pathetic sigh of gratitude. Drops of sweat stood +upon his bald forehead. He mopped them up with a tremendous +handkerchief; his breathing was stertorous and rapid. + +“It is a vapour bath,” he exclaimed between his gasps; “you shall send +for a shampooer, my dear. Or if you will not do that, you shall give +me a little of the red wine I see upon the buffet there.” + +A flask of Australian wine stood upon the sideboard. Marian half +filled a tumbler, and diluted the wine with soda-water. She had not +noticed the poverty of her surroundings before. The coming of the +aristocrat, his spotless clothes, his grand air, showed them in all +their nakedness. + +“I am sorry,” she said, moving about with girlish activity; “I fear +our stairs are dreadful. If it had not been that I knew you were +Paul’s friend----” + +“Tut, tut,” replied the Prince, taking the tumbler in his hand; “it is +a recompense to see you in the room. There is no other ornament +necessary, my dear--your eyes and the sunshine. If I were a young man, +I would come here every day to see you. We do not count the rungs of +the ladder which leads up to Paradise.” + +He swelled with gallantry, remembering the days which had carried him, +hungering for love, to many a garret of old Paris. When he had emptied +his tumbler and put it down, he began to speak again, leaning forward +heavily upon his gold-mounted cane and staring so hard at his little +hostess that her cheeks flushed crimson. + +“So you are Mademoiselle,” he said, nodding his head cunningly, “and +you have brought my boy to England, and it is for you that he has +forsaken his friends and turned his back upon his country. Well, my +dear, I should begin by scolding you. I meant to scold you when I came +here. But I am helpless, you see--so come and sit by me and we will +talk a little while.” + +He pointed to a little stool, and she obeyed him, sitting almost at +his feet. Never in her life had she met one whom she would have +trusted so implicitly. Her own father--long dead--the man of dusty +books and monotoned sermons, had awakened in her but pity. The fine +face of this noble Russian, his soft and winning voice, his kindly +gesture, inspired her to ask herself what her own life would have been +if such a man had brought her into the world. + +“You are very kind to me,” she said simply; “it is a long time since I +have found a friend. I think sometimes that I shall never find +another. I cannot call Paul my friend; he is more than that. But then, +he has left me here----” + +Her cheeks reddened and she paused. Tolma patted her arm +encouragingly. + +“Do not be afraid to speak to me,” he said. “I know your story, but it +comes prettily from these pretty lips. You do not call Paul your +friend; he is more than that. Ma foi, I would disown him if he were +not!” + +“I love him,” she answered, taking courage of herself; “whatever he +may do here, I could not blame him. He has given up everything for +me--God knows how much I regret it if it is not for his good. Yet how +can a woman answer such a question? How is she to read the depths of a +man’s love? If you and his friends wish him to leave me, if you think +it is in his interest to do so, I have no right to stand between you. +It would be happiness to know that he is happy.” + +Tolma moved restlessly in his chair. He had come to carry his heir +from the trap into which he believed that he had fallen. He had come +to convince Paul that the woman was a charlatan, an impostor, the tool +of the English Government. When he hastened back from Paris, it had +seemed to him that his mission was the easiest in the world. He +flattered himself that no man knew women as he knew them. He thought +that he would find his nephew with some notorious servant of the spies +of Europe--a chorus-girl, the wife of a _chevalier d’industrie_ gone +bankrupt, the partner of a baron snapping up unconsidered trifles. Ten +words with her shattered that hypothesis. “She is an English lady--she +is honest,” he said to himself; “we shall have trouble.” + +“You are a pair of children,” he exclaimed, cutting Marian short in +her protests; “it is all a play to you--the ships and the armies of +Russia are your toys. And yet, like your elders, you can think of the +money.” + +She was silent at the rebuke. + +“Yes,” he went on very seriously, “you can think of the money, +children that you are. What you have done, mademoiselle, is a great +crime toward my country. If I did not believe the story which Paul has +told me, if I did not say that there are excuses which must suffice +when a woman is the offender, nothing would keep me in this room even +for an hour. But I am not like those others. I know men. I know women, +vous savez. To me they are the pieces upon the board. I have seen so +many put in the box; a few years more or less and destiny will have +done with me. You are young, and your life is before you. I shall see +that it is a pleasant life. You will live here in your England. Paul +will go with me to be my companion in Paris. I like young faces; I am +lonely in age. If it rested with me alone, I might make other promises +for the future. But I must win a way for Paul to return to his +country, and to return with honour. Do not think me harsh. I speak as +the friend of you both. It cannot be otherwise: it is the only way.” + +Marian sat very still and white and silent. She thought herself in +that instant to be abandoned of God and man. And yet she did not turn +from the sacrifice. + +“It is for Paul,” she cried bitterly. “If there is no other way, let +it be so, and God help us both!” + +Tolma abhorred the spectacle of a woman distressed unless his were the +hand to wipe away the tears. The fair, girlish figure at his side, so +slight, so pitiful, created for him a boyhood to be lived again in an +instant of thought. He drew Marian’s head upon his knee and stroked +the curls through which the hardly checked tears glistened. + +“My child,” he said gently, “if an old man could work a miracle, +assuredly it should be worked to-day. But what would you? If we wish +Paul’s name again to be known in Russia, shall not we make this +sacrifice gladly? While he is with you--when he is your husband--they +will say, ‘Ah, she loves him for what he is worth to her.’ They will +declare that you have not all the maps you want to sell to your +English Government, and that Paul will make them for you. By-and-bye +you will laugh at him, and find another officer of artillery and +another Kronstadt. That is what they will say.” + +Marian smiled through her tears. + +“Poor Paul,” she said; “if he had to live by making maps of Kronstadt, +we should starve, Prince.” + +Tolma looked at her searchingly. + +“You do not think that he is clever?” + +“Oh, yes, he is clever, but not in that way. He would laugh if he +could hear you. I do not believe he sleeps at night for thinking that +I should tell someone the things that I know. He came here at first to +be quite sure that the memory he says I am cursed with should not do +Kronstadt any harm. He feared that I would draw the maps.” + +“The maps? But you have not got any maps; they were all burnt. He told +me so.” + +“He told you the truth; but you cannot burn the memory. I could draw +Kronstadt now, this instant. I could place every fort and every gun. +If I did not love Paul, my drawings would make me a rich woman, +Prince.” + +Tolma sat very still. He was debating quickly a hundred possibilities. +The girl had struck every weapon from his hand. If her tale were true, +she had struck every weapon from the hands of her enemies in London. + +“It may be so,” he said, with the politest possible suggestion of +doubt, “it may be so, my child; but who will believe a story like +that?” + +“I ask no one to believe it. Why should I? What have I to gain?” + +She drew back from him, and, rising, went and stood by the window. The +sun of morning flashed upon her white face and gave threads of gold to +her tumbled hair. Tolma saw the child no more; a woman, self-reliant, +proud, and beautiful, now answered him. + +“What have I to gain?” + +She repeated the question with just a _soupçon_ of mockery in her +tone. She did not forget that she was in England. The strong arm of +her own country stood between her and the Russian. The man on his part +was ready to appreciate the drama of the moment and to act up to it. + +“Mademoiselle,” he said, struggling to his feet and posing +threateningly, “you have a husband to gain.” + +“A husband! Oh, Prince, you jest.” + +The woman of Kronstadt spoke--the woman who had been willing, before +love weakened her hand, to strike a blow at the Russian in his very +holy of holies. + +“You jest, Prince,” she said again, with the air of a grand dame; +“what is more, you do not believe me.” + +Tolma answered her by banging the table with his cane. + +“Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, “I jest so little that if you will prove +your story I will make you Paul’s wife to-morrow.” + +It was her turn now to open her eyes in wonderment. But he continued +without pause-- + +“Do you not see that they have taken him from you because they believe +you want his secrets? Prove to them that the secrets are yours, not +his, and they will move heaven and earth to shut your lips. A child +would understand that. You are a free woman in your own country; who +can prevent you speaking where you will? But the wife of Paul +Zassulic--will she betray Russia! Ma foi, the boy’s eyes are better +than ours now! He will cheat Bonzo yet and I shall be there to enjoy +it. And he will be the husband of a clever woman, mademoiselle. Do not +contradict me; I, Tolma, say it, and I am never wrong. You shall be my +daughter. You shall live in Paris with me--when you have proved the +story.” + +Lack of breath alone put a curb upon his eloquence. Marian listened to +him as she would have listened to one who spoke of miracles. It had +been upon her lips to tell him of her promise to Paul, her promise to +keep the secrets to the day of her death; but love working in her +heart silenced her. She could not shatter the cup raised so +unexpectedly to her lips. + +“I will prove my story when and where you will,” she said with +dignity. “Give me time to get pen and ink, and I will prove it now.” + +Tolma raised his hand. + +“Not here,” he said, with a gesture of an actor; “to-night, at the +house of Count Feodor. My carriage shall fetch you. Fear nothing; you +have the word of Tolma.” + +He waddled down the stairs, calling loudly for “John.” Marian stood as +one in a trance; but it was a trance of joy. + + + + + CHAPTER XXV. + THE WORD OF TOLMA. + +It was the evening of the day. Three men waited in the great +drawing-room of Count Talvi’s house in South Audley Street. The silver +clock upon the mantelshelf had just struck nine. Its ticking was the +only sound to be heard. + +Of the three who waited, Tolma alone sat at his ease. He lounged in a +great chair and smoked Russian cigarettes incessantly. A glass of +Chartreuse at his elbow went often to his lips. There was a complacent +smile upon his face, the smile of a man who has played a great card +and waits for his opponents. He looked ever and anon at Bonzo, the +second of the three, moving in and out of the shadows which the dim +light of shaded candles cast in dark patches upon the heavy carpet. +But Bonzo was unconscious of the Prince’s gaze. His hands were linked +behind his back. He did not smoke. He paced the room restlessly. If he +had eyes for anything, it was for a white sheet of paper spread out +upon a writing-table in the alcove of the window. There his glance +rested often, as though some wonder would be wrought by an unseen +hand. He feared that lines would appear upon the paper. + +Count Feodor, the third of the men, sat upon a sofa near the door. He +had a Russian newspaper in his hand, but he did not read it. His eyes +turned often toward the silver clock. He seemed to be waiting for +someone who should break the silence of the room. When, at five +minutes past nine, a carriage was heard at the door below, he rose +with a little sigh of relief. At the same moment, Bonzo stood quite +still and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. + +“Ha,” he said, “they have come then.” + +“You mean that _she_ has come,” said Tolma, with a slight emphasis for +the pronoun. + +“I wait and see,” replied Bonzo diplomatically; “I expect nothing, +Prince, from a woman.” + +“And yet you owe everything to one, my dear Colonel.” + +Bonzo resumed his sentry duty, but at the door he stopped suddenly. A +lackey was there to announce a guest. + +“Mademoiselle Best,” cried the fellow in a loud voice. + +Marian entered the room upon his heels. + +She wore a black French hat, becoming and unobtrusive. The cape, which +Paul had bought for her, sat well upon her shoulders. Her gown was new +and rich and in excellent taste. Tolma chuckled when he saw it, for he +had caused it to be sent to her that very day. He said to himself +that, gowned thus, this English girl might hold her own in any room in +Europe. There was about her a dignity of presence, a sweet +graciousness which no mere childish prettiness of face could rival. +She seemed born to command. Nor did she betray the fear which had +dogged her steps when she set out for the house of Feodor Talvi. She +had been ready to take the word of Tolma, and he would answer for her +safety. + +“Bravo! bravo!” he cried, struggling painfully to his feet; “I said +that you would come, mademoiselle. I told them that you would not be +afraid.” + +“Why should I be, Prince?” she asked, with a pretty laugh. “Am I not +among friends?” + +Again it was the old Marian who spoke, the Marian of carnival, the +light of the Governor’s house. + +“Certainly you are among friends,” repeated the Prince, while he +raised her hand to his lips with an Eastern courtesy; “you have the +word of Tolma.” + +“And the knowledge that I am in England,” she said with simple pride. + +Bonzo laughed harshly. + +“Mademoiselle prefers the English police,” he cried with iron gaiety; +“assuredly she is among friends here.” + +Marian turned her great eyes upon him and looked him full in the face. + +“Monsieur,” she said with a gaiety to which she had long been a +stranger, “you have helped me to my preference.” + +“Arrivons!” exclaimed Tolma, “we are not here to write histories. What +has been has been; let us forget it.” + +“No woman could forget Colonel Bonzo,” said Marian jestingly, with a +laugh, “at least, if she had shaken hands with him.” + +Bonzo’s great face flushed angrily, but while he was still seeking a +clever answer, Count Feodor slipped out of the shadows. + +“Colonel,” he said, “we forget the business upon which Mademoiselle +Best has been good enough to come here to-night. Is it not time for +that?” + +“Sans doute,” exclaimed Tolma. “To the affairs. Why do we wait? +Mademoiselle is ready, I am sure.” + +Marian looked from one to the other with anxious eyes. Then she +perceived the table upon which the white paper was spread. + +“I am quite ready,” she said, though her heart began to beat quickly, +“when you tell me what you wish me to do.” + +Bonzo advanced to the table and set it straight. + +“Mademoiselle,” said he, “we have been so long away from Russia that +we forget our own country. You, they tell us, have a better memory. If +you will make a little map upon that paper, it is possible that you +will have no cause to regret the trouble we shall put you to. It would +be a map of Fort Constantine, mademoiselle.” + +He watched her as he spoke. She drew off her gloves with trembling +fingers. The hour stood supreme among all the hours of her life. If +she had forgotten! If her memory failed her now! It was for Paul’s +sake, she said to herself again and again. It was that she might be +his wife. The lights danced before her eyes. The figures of the men +were blurred to her sight. She lived in a room of shadows. The white +paper seemed to spread out until it became a mighty scroll upon which +her own doom or her own joy was to be written. “God,” she prayed in +her heart, “help me, hear me!” + +“A map of Fort Constantine? Oh, that is easy, Colonel!” + +She sat at the table, guiding herself thereto with shaking fingers. +Minutes passed and she could not find the pen. Tolma put it at last +into her hand. + +“Du courage,” he whispered; “it is for his liberty, his life. He is a +prisoner in this house.” + +She took the pen; her hand ceased to tremble. Quickly she drew the +outline of the fort. The scratching upon the paper, the ticking of the +silver clock, were the only sounds in the great drawing-room. Those +who watched her breathed with an effort. The figure of old Bonzo seen +in the shadows was like a figure of bronze. + +Fifteen minutes passed. The woman had forgotten where she sat. She +drew upon the paper with the skill of a trained draughtsman. She lived +again under the shadow of the mighty fortress. Kronstadt arose above +the sea of white waves. Line by line she conquered it; alone she went +into the chambers of the secrets; the living death came near but could +not touch her. + +“There is your map,” she said. + +The three were about her chair now. The paper was in Bonzo’s hands. He +laid it side by side with another map and compared the two. For ten +minutes no word escaped him. Then he drew himself up erect and +delivered his judgment. + +“Mademoiselle,” he said, “there are few in Russia who could draw a +better map than that.” + +She did not answer him nor the others as they exclaimed upon the +excellence of her handiwork. Rather she asked herself again if they +had mocked her; had brought her to the house to charge these things +against her. And while she stood, doubting and fearful she knew not of +what, the folding doors which divided the great room from a smaller +one behind it were thrown open by one of the servants, and she beheld +a little room fitted up as a chapel, and an old priest standing before +a shrine, upon which many candles were burning. + + + + + CHAPTER XXVI. + THE EVENING OF THE SECOND DAY. + +Paul heard a clock strike eight, and remembered that he had been +nearly thirty hours a prisoner in Talvi’s house. It seemed to him that +a century of hours had passed since he kissed Marian’s pretty lips and +told her that he would return to her without delay. He was sure that +he would never look upon her face again; that he would live his life +alone in dishonour and in exile. The lamp, which they had set in his +room, wounded his eyes with its garish light. He wished for darkness +that he might accustom himself to the thought of unending captivity. +He did not believe that any power on earth could snatch him from the +relentless hand of his own countryman which had, in treachery, struck +him down. They would send him to the fortress of St. Peter and St. +Paul. She, whom he loved to call his little wife, would look for him +and look in vain. He dared not ask himself how she would face the +world alone. Self-reproach would endure while life was: the unanswered +question would remain the surpassing punishment of his folly. + +The room in which they had locked him was one of the garrets of the +house. A dormer window stood out upon a sloping roof, high above the +surrounding roofs. But the window was boarded up, and iron bars, newly +fixed, forbade any hope of it. He saw that Talvi had foreseen the need +of such a room when he sent the telegram. They had made up their minds +to get the spy out of England at any cost; friendship would count for +nothing with a Russian who believed that he was serving his country. +Even if Marian went to her English friends and told them her story, he +doubted that those friends could help him. False charges would be +made; his extradition would be demanded by a Government powerful to +enforce its wishes. They would brand him as a criminal and carry him +back to the unnameable horrors of the fortress of the Neva. And +Marian--he clenched his hands when he remembered her. She would be +standing at the window waiting for him. He pictured her to +himself--the wan face, the great thoughtful eyes, the quick girlish +movements, the gestures he had loved, the gold-brown hair, the winning +voice. He would hear that voice no more. It must be to him but a +memory through eternity. The way of pilgrimage was before him still; +but the hand which had been locked in his would never touch his own +again. + +There was a little furniture in the room, a basket chair, a shelf of +books, a mahogany table, a camp bedstead. He had been there but a very +short time when the Russian servant brought a lamp to permit him to +see these things. He did not speak to the man nor question him, for he +knew well how little that would help him. When the servant was gone, +he resented the light which had been left. The gable of the roof was +dark and ominous above him. He moved in ghostly shadows, for they had +robbed him even of the day. So still was the place that he could hear +a clock ticking in the room below. No sound came up from the distant +street. The roar of the city’s life was as a falling of great waters +heard afar. + +It was near to five o’clock of the afternoon then, he remembered. +Marian must have begun to ask herself what mischance had overtaken +him. Rightly, he could hope nothing from the friendship of a helpless +girl; and yet there were moments when he hoped much. She would tell +the English police that he had gone to Talvi’s house. The police would +begin to ask questions. It was possible that the whole of his story +would be made known, and then--and then! He dreamed even of liberty +won by her. She would not rest day or night in her quest of the truth. +She might save him even yet from the hand of the Russian. + +The weary night dragged on, but the man neither slept nor ate. The +supper they had put upon his table reminded him of the short days of +content he had known in London. What a gift of the joy of life it had +been to sit by her side all day, to hear her morning words of +greeting, her pretty good-night, to hold her in his arms, and to say +that therein was the place of his abiding rest! But for the thought +that in some way--he knew not how--a miracle would bring her to his +side, even in that house of darkness, he would have lost his reason. +The impulse to beat upon the door of his prison, to cry aloud for +mercy, was scarce to be controlled. The hope that she might yet come +alone empowered him to play the man. He listened for her footstep +through the long watches of the terrible night, and laughed at himself +for the fancy. At dawn he fell asleep, and sleeping, he dreamed that +her arms were about his neck. + +It was a quarter past nine o’clock on the evening of the second day +before any message came to him from the outer world. He had eaten a +little dinner, and was asking himself all the old questions when a +sound upon the stair without brought him quickly to his feet, and he +stood with heart a-quiver, wondering who came. For a spell, brought +down to earth suddenly from the giddy clouds of dreamland, the thought +lingered that it might be Marian’s step. He was still laughing at +himself for so foolish a notion when the door swung back upon its +hinges, and Count Feodor stood before him. + +The Count was in plain evening dress; his face was flushed, for he had +run up the stairs; he was boisterous as a lad who carries good news. +He had regretted, with a friend’s regret, the indignity put upon Paul +by those whom he served. He was glad with a friend’s joy that those +indignities were soon to be forgotten. + +“Paul, mon vieux, c’est fini,” he gasped, while he held out both his +hands to the prisoner, “you are to remain here no longer; they have +discovered their mistake, they know all; they have sent for her--she +is here!” + +Paul staggered like a drunken man. + +“She is here? Oh, my God!” + +“It is Tolma’s work,” continued the Count, with a child’s pride of his +words. “He discovered that she could make the maps. He is downstairs +with her now. You are to go there. They want you--at once.” + +“They want me at once?” repeated the dazed man. “But look at me--my +face, my hands, my beard.” + +“Ivan shall see to that; he will not be ten minutes. There is no +time----” + +Paul stood quite still. He seemed to read in that instant the moment +of Talvi’s words. + +“For what should there be time?” he asked very quietly. + +“For the priest to marry you to the little lady who knows so much +about Kronstadt.” + +Paul reeled out into the light. He was sobbing like a child. + + + + + CHAPTER XXVII. + AT MIDNIGHT. + +A candelabrum set before the altar in the chapel of Count Talvi’s +house cast a soft light upon the face of the old priest and upon the +little group around him. Huge and unwieldy, like some broken pillar, +was the figure of Bonzo back in the shadows. But the Man of Iron +thought and planned no longer. The difficult mission which had carried +him to England was accomplished. For the rest he cared nought. +Kronstadt had lost a good soldier, but her secrets were safe. The +clever little woman, who knelt before the altar with the light of love +awakened in her eyes, would betray the citadel no more. Everything +else was indifferent to the servant of the Gate. Love was the +recreation of children. He had never loved. + +Near to the Man of Iron sat old Tolma. There was upon his face a look +of sly triumph and of elation. He had crossed swords with Bonzo of +Kronstadt and had defeated him. The pretty English girl would bring +sunshine into his house in Paris. Paul should become a son to him in +deed and act. This strange marriage, at night in a house of Western +London, appealed to an insatiable appetite for romance. He recalled +the faces of all the women to whom he would willingly have given +himself under similar circumstances. What a roll-call it was! The +subjects of his amours would have numbered a battalion. + +The remaining witness to this strangest of strange marriages was the +master of the house. Count Talvi showed how much his old friend’s +happiness meant to him. He came often to Paul’s side; he whispered +words of congratulation to him. Hither and thither he moved with +silent step, now to help the priest, now to give orders to the +lackeys. He was a servant of Russia still, but this was his holiday. + +The priest raised his hands to bless those whom God had joined +together in the holy mystery of marriage. For one long moment Paul +held his wife’s burning face close to his. Then all rose and passed to +the great dining-room below. + +Here lights from many electric lamps shone down upon Talvi’s guests. +Lackeys were busy at the tables laid for supper. It was the moment for +congratulations. + +“You forgive me?” cried old Bonzo, holding out both his hands to the +trembling girl. “You forgive an old soldier for making you a Russian?” + +Marian turned laughing eyes to his. + +“I don’t know what I am or where I am,” she said bewilderedly; “I +cannot believe that any of you are real.” + +Bonzo laughed his great laugh, which filled the house with a +tumultuous sound. + +“Fichtre!” he roared. “I--Bonzo--I am not real! Oh, c’est bien drôle! +Will you not kiss me, my child, and see if I am real?” + +Tolma, waddling laboriously, put his arms round the girl’s neck and +kissed her on both cheeks. + +“You must eat and drink, little girl,” he said; “you must remember +that you are the daughter of Tolma. It is ten o’clock, and the train +is at midnight.” + +“The train?” she asked wonderingly. + +“Yes, the train to your Devonshire. It is there you will go until the +house in Paris is prepared for you.” + +“To little Dick,” she said, and the words were his reward. + + * * * * + +The mail rushed on towards the West. By sleeping villages, through +silent towns, above dark swirling rivers, away to the gardens of +England it carried the man and the woman who had suffered. But the day +of suffering was forgotten already. + +In the corner of their carriage Paul held Marian in his strong arms. A +rug was wrapped about them. The wan light of the feeble lamp fell +dimly upon their happy faces. + +“It is good to rest,” she said, as his arm closed about her and she +laid her pretty head upon his shoulder. + +“The rest shall be for ever,” he answered. + + THE END + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + +This book was also published as _A woman of Kronstadt_. + +The D. Appleton and Co. edition (New York, 1899) was consulted for +many of the changes listed below. + +Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. frock-coat/frock coat, +warships/war-ships, etc.) have been preserved. + +Alterations to the text: + +Punctuation fixes: some quotation mark pairings, and assorted missing +periods, commas, and semicolons. + +[Chapter II] + +“the Prince jests with us and we shall _anwer_ him” to _answer_. + +[Chapter XVI] + +“And she must not deny him that _pportunity_” to _opportunity_. + + [End of text] + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79040 *** diff --git a/79040-h/79040-h.htm b/79040-h/79040-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..13d93f5 --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/79040-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9766 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Kronstadt | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +/* Headers and Divisions */ + h1, h2, h3, h4 {margin:4em 0em 1em 0em; page-break-before:always; text-align:center;} + +/* General */ + + body {margin:0% 5% 0% 5%;} + + .break {page-break-before:always;} + .nobreak {margin:2em auto 1em auto; page-break-before:avoid;} + + p {margin:0em 0em 0em 0em; text-align:justify; text-indent:1em;} + .center {margin:0em 0em 0em 0em; text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} + .noindent {text-indent:0em;} + .spacer {margin:0.5em 0em 0.5em 0em; text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} + + .toc_l {font-variant:small-caps; margin:0em 0em 0em 2em; text-indent:-2em;} + + .rt1 {margin:0em 1em 0em 0em; text-align:right; text-indent:0em;} + + .chap_sub {font-size:80%;} + .font80 {font-size:80%;} + .sc {font-variant:small-caps;} + +/* special formatting */ + + blockquote {margin:1em 2em 1em 2em;} + + .mt1 {margin-top:1em;} + .mt2 {margin-top:2em;} + .mt4 {margin-top:4em;} + + figure {margin:auto; padding:1em 1em 1em 1em; text-align:center;} + figcaption {font-size:80%; padding:0 2em 0 2em; text-align:center;} + +</style> +</head> + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79040 ***</div> + + +<figure> + <a href="images/img_006.jpg" id="img_006"> + <img src="images/img_006_th.jpg" alt="img_006"> + </a> + <figcaption> + “THEY HAD COME UP TO THE HEADLAND, WHEREFROM THEY COULD + OVERLOOK THE STRANGE HAVEN INTO WHICH DESTINY HAD CAST + THEM” + </figcaption> +</figure> + + +<h1> +KRONSTADT +</h1> + +<p class="center"> +BEING THE STORY OF MARIAN BEST<br> +AND OF PAUL ZASSULIC, HER LOVER,<br> +TOGETHER WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF<br> +THE RUSSIAN FORTRESS OF KRONSTADT,<br> +AND OF THOSE WHO WOULD<br> +HAVE BETRAYED IT +</p> + +<p class="center mt2"> +<span class="font80">BY</span><br> +MAX PEMBERTON<br> +<span class="font80"><i>Author of “A Puritan’s Wife,” “The Sea Wolves,”<br> +“The Iron Pirate,” “The Impregnable City,” etc.</i></span> +</p> + +<p class="center mt1"> +<span class="font80"><span class="sc">With a Map, and 8 Full-Page Illustrations by A. Forestier</span></span> +</p> + +<p class="center mt1"> +<i>TENTH THOUSAND</i> +</p> + +<p class="center mt4"> +<span class="sc">CASSELL and COMPANY, Limited<br> +<span class="font80">London, Paris, New York & Melbourne</span><br> +1898<br> +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</span> +</p> + + +<h2> +[COPYRIGHT] +</h2> + +<p class="center"> +First Edition <i>April</i> 1898.<br> +Reprinted <i>April</i> 1898, May 1898. +</p> + + +<h2> +[DEDICATION] +</h2> + +<p class="center"> +To My Wife. +</p> + + +<h2> +CONTENTS. +</h2> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#prologue">Prologue</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch01">Chapter I. The Masquerade upon the Ice</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch02">Chapter II. “A Spy within the Gate”</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch03">Chapter III. At the coming of the Light</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch04">Chapter IV. Lover and Judge</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch05">Chapter V. Foreboding</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch06">Chapter VI. The Honour of Paul Zassulic</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch07">Chapter VII. Paul bears Witness</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch08">Chapter VIII. After Forty Days</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch09">Chapter IX. Out of the Darkness</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch10">Chapter X. Temptation</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch11">Chapter XI. The Beginning of the Flight</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch12">Chapter XII. The Citadel Awakes</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch13">Chapter XIII. At the Zenith of the Night</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch14">Chapter XIV. The Terrible Night</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch15">Chapter XV. Upon the Nameless Island</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch16">Chapter XVI. Alone</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch17">Chapter XVII. Forsaken of All</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch18">Chapter XVIII. A Strange Figure on the Shore</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch19">Chapter XIX. The Quest of the Woman</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch20">Chapter XX. The Ship of the Golden Cross</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch21">Chapter XXI. Acheron of the Waters</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch22">Chapter XXII. Prisoner of Love</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch23">Chapter XXIII. The Unforeseen</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch24">Chapter XXIV. Toward the Light</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch25">Chapter XXV. The Word of Tolma</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch26">Chapter XXVI. The Evening of the Second Day</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch27">Chapter XXVII. At Midnight</a> +</p> + + +<h2> +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. +</h2> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#img_006"> +“They had come up to the Headland, wherefrom they could overlook the +strange Haven into which destiny had cast them” +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#img_i8"> +Sketch Map of Kronstadt and its Surroundings +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#img_008"> +“Conspicuous upon the Field of the Frozen Sea stood the Palace of Ice” +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#img_106"> +“But Marian did not hear him. She had Fallen in a Swoon” +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#img_140"> +“Kronstadt herself Stood Silhouetted as an Island of Rock and +Pinnacles” +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#img_172"> +“She bounded forward into the heart of the Breakers” +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#img_224"> +“The Procession advanced slowly” +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#img_229"> +“On toward the Sea he bore her” +</a></p> + +<p class="toc_l"><a href="#img_269"> +“Silently, determinedly, they fell upon the fugitive, and threw him to +the ground” +</a></p> + + +<figure class="break"> + <a href="images/img_i8.jpg" id="img_i8"> + <img src="images/img_i8_th.jpg" alt="img_i8"> + </a> + <figcaption> + SKETCH MAP OF KRONSTADT AND ITS SURROUNDINGS. + </figcaption> +</figure> + + +<h2> +KRONSTADT. +</h2> + +<h3 class="nobreak" id="prologue"> +PROLOGUE. +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Someone</span> cried out that the flashing light we saw upon the far +horizon was Tollboken itself, and at this we left the quarter-deck and +hurried to the bows of the ship. Even the invalid clergyman, who had +not been more than an hour at the tea table, came panting up the +companion and stood with us while the beacon magnified and gained +majesty, and other lights shone over the vista of the waters, and the +black line of the island fortress took shape as some terrible +mausoleum of the sea. We had made Kronstadt at last—the Kronstadt of +my dreams. While others turned the pages of their guide-books, while +some were ready with history and some with anecdote, I gazed entranced +as the mighty citadel shaped itself against the lurid canopy of cloud +which hung in the eastern sky, and all the outward power and sullen +magnificence were revealed to me. I stood at the gate of Russia +indeed, at the impregnable gate, which the summons of war will never +open. The exclamations of wonder uttered by my companions seemed the +lispings of credulous children. The chatter of the tourist was like a +horrid discord in the temple of majestic silence. I had the wish to be +apart from my fellows, to stand in some place of solitude and offer +the worship of the imagination at the altar where I had worshipped in +spirit so many months. +</p> + +<p> +A Russian stood at my side, a young officer of artillery, who spoke +English with some fluency. He had found our pleasure yacht at +Copenhagen, and had taken passage with us to the island of Kronstadt, +where his duty lay. We had found him a pleasant companion—a man who +gave his laughter no holiday. But when the shores of the gulf began to +draw in toward one another, and the lights of the great citadel +flashed upon the horizon, I observed that the Russian was silent. Awe +of his own home possessed him. He leaned heavily upon the bulwarks of +the yacht, and had no eyes but for the ramparts and bastions before +him. When I spoke to him he came down from some high place of the +imagination to answer me; moments of time passed before he realised +that he stood upon the deck of a ship, and that gaping tourists were +his companions. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me,” he said, while he watched the group contemptuously. “You +asked me——?” +</p> + +<p> +“If those two lights to the right of Tollboken are the lights of +Menzikoff?” +</p> + +<p> +The question interested him, and after a word of surprise that I knew +the name of the harbour fort, he began to explain many things to me. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, “that is Menzikoff, though the lights are not the +lights of the fort but of the harbour gates. The seven-fathom channel +is there, and that flashing light, still more to the right, is the +lantern upon the fort of Kronslott. Away a little to the south is Fort +Paul, and that battery which crosses its fire is Battery 3. You see +how well we protect the channel, which is no more than three hundred +yards wide, though covered by a hundred guns.” +</p> + +<p> +I asked him how long the island was, questioning at the same time the +accuracy of the statement that the southern channel was so narrow. +</p> + +<p> +“I should have given it a breadth of at least a mile, but of course +there are shallows.” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly; the Oranienbaum spit runs out as far as Kronslott itself. It +is a spur of sand creating shallows—another barrier which nature has +put between Russia and her enemies. Though I am a Russian, and my word +may be the word of prejudice, I say that there is not in all the world +another citadel such as this; there is not one stamped out of the +earth so clearly, a work of God unmistakable, for the defence of an +empire. Observe the great bay into which we are sailing. It is in the +shape of a V; the mouth turned toward the Baltic, the apex toward our +capital. Kronstadt itself is also V-shaped, but the mouth of the +letter is now turned toward Petersburg, the apex toward the open sea. +Observe this clearly and you will see how the island, fitting into the +neck of the gulf, becomes a vast and natural wedge which foreign ships +may never pass. If they come by the north channel, there is the great +boom of granite which a hundred navies could not destroy. If they +attack us by the south channel, there are the guns of all the forts, a +tremendous armament, which would crumble cities to the dust. No, my +friend, you may search all seas and you will never find another +citadel like this. She is invincible, the terrible gate of my country. +We call her the tomb of spies, for no spy has betrayed her or ever +will betray her. She stands for all that is dear to us—our liberty +and our freedom. Her secrets are entombed in a heart of granite. He +who seeks for them walks with Death for his guide.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned upon his heel and left me to wonder as much at his eloquence +as at his earnestness. I had supposed him to be a mere lieutenant of +artillery doing his duty soberly and with no concern for the romance +of war. But it has been my good fortune since that day to meet many of +those who serve the fortress of Kronstadt, and I have found the same +love of the citadel, the same pride in its power influencing them all. +To them it is more than the mistress of the Gulf of Finland, it is the +temple of their country’s freedom, the arsenal of God’s weapons, a +barrier given of the Eternal for the safety of their kingdom. When it +shall fall the empire must fall with it. But that day will be the +great, the dreadful day. +</p> + +<p> +It was almost dark when our yacht came abreast the eastern end of the +island, where the lieutenant took leave of us. We seemed at this time +to be hemmed in by forts and batteries and by the tremendous walls +which protect the town and harbours; lights flashed from every side, +the lights of war-ships, the lights of barracks, the red and white and +green lanterns of the bastions. I thought as I watched the lieutenant +rowing away to the service he loved so well, that he had spoken truly +when he named Death as the comrade of him who would snatch the secrets +of this mighty fortress. Death indeed; or if not death, then the +terror worse than death, the sunless labour of the mines, the eternal +solitude, the groans and sufferings of the desolate land. +</p> + +<p> +To write a story of this fortress, and of certain people named in its +recent history, I had come to Russia. No books or plans could help me +to measure the achievements or the courage of those I was to speak +about. I must see with my own eyes the things which they had seen, +must stand where they had stood. As far as it lay in my power, I must +realise the grandeur and the greatness of that sanctuary of war which +they had invaded so resolutely; must hear the tramp of armed men and +the bugle’s blast where they had heard them. In that spirit I left my +yacht and entered the city which the Russian had called the tomb of +spies. And I thought as I went of Marian Best, the Woman of Kronstadt, +of her love and of her sorrows.* +</p> + +<p class="mt1"> +* The author would wish it to be clearly understood that the +characters in this book are entirely fictional. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch01"> +CHAPTER I.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">THE MASQUERADE UPON THE ICE.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Though</span> the great bell of Kronstadt had struck the hour of nine and +the bugles had called “lights out” in the barracks of the town, there +was no perceptible curb upon the merriment of those who kept the +carnival of the sea. For Kronstadt was ice-bound, and the New Year, +bringing an end to the stress and storm of the earlier winter, had +sealed the waves with the seal of the welcome frost. Where ships +sailed a month ago, the merry skaters now ventured. Far out from the +great citadel the gulf was still and frozen. No longer was the call of +the pilot heard or the voice of the seaman crying to his men. The +whirr of skate and sledge, the music of artillery bands, the prattle +of pretty women, had taken their place. But here and there vast fires +blazing upon the ice drew the busy throngs to the door of tent or +wooden theatre. The light of many torches made golden rings upon the +fields of glistening snow. Old and young, generals and ensigns, +rothmisters and feldwebels, hurried to the joy of the whirling life. +As prisoners from the cells of solitude and silence they rushed from +their island home to the sea, which frost had stilled and the ice made +war upon. +</p> + +<p> +Conspicuous upon the field of the frozen sea, for it was built in the +ring of light shed by the beacons of Menzikoff, stood the palace of +ice, which the officers of the garrison had set up as the monument of +a winter so generous. Ready hands had hewn blocks from the shallower +waters of the military harbour; stout arms had dragged the glistening +boulders and piled them up for the foundations of the temple of the +frost. Soon a vast building arose, a tabernacle of shimmering and +transparent whiteness, into which cunning engineers carried wires for +the electric light, while zealous corporals brought the flaming eagles +of their regiments, and laughing girls bedecked the temple with +draperies of silk and satin. The enduring frost looked upon the work +and found it to be good. A keener breath of winter breathed strength +upon the palace and made it a perfect whole. Its builders spoke of +masquerade and carnival. Generals shook their heads but did not +refuse. The 29th of January in the year 1895 brought the proposal to +maturity, and all social Kronstadt came out that night to offer the +incense of laughter at the shrine. Old and young, poor and rich +hastened to enjoy an opportunity so rare. +</p> + +<figure> + <a href="images/img_008.jpg" id="img_008"> + <img src="images/img_008_th.jpg" alt="img_008"> + </a> + <figcaption> + “CONSPICUOUS UPON THE FIELD OF THE FROZEN SEA STOOD THE PALACE OF ICE” + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p class="noindent"> +While the palace within shone with countless lights, which gave a +glittering radiance to the uniforms of gold and white and green, the +dark field of the ice without was vantage ground for the townspeople +and sailors weary of waiting for an open sea. Frenchmen, Dutchmen, +Swedes, but English outnumbering all, they stood shivering in the icy +blast, or warming themselves at the great fires, or roaring with +laughter at the jests and the antics of the masqueraders. For them the +sup of vodki must suffice; no frothing champagne, no warmth of fur or +dance, no occupation of looking love gave them armour against the +cold. But they were critics always, and being critics, they spoke +their minds and were not afraid. Half an hour had not passed before +they had a name for every prominent person in the palace. The fat +general perspiring in an effort of agility, the gorgeous cuirassiers +of the Guard in their dazzling uniforms of white and blue—“flour +mills,” the English sailors called them, and qualified the noun; the +mincing cornets of cavalry; the three-starred colonels of artillery +groping for the honours of the clown—as each made the tour of the +frozen ballroom and came to clearer view of the uninvited, his new +name was roared lustily by the volleyed voices of the seamen. +</p> + +<p> +“Higher up, spangled shanks—lift ’em up!” bawled the bullet-headed +skipper of a trading steamer as an exceedingly stout lady came +shuffling into view. “There ain’t no bally ’oop in Roosher as you’re +a-going to jump through, marm.” +</p> + +<p> +“Leave the lady be, Bill,” retorted his mate. “ ’Tain’t often as you +see a fine growed thing like that—at her age too! You ain’t got no +manners. If she weighs more than twenty stun, I’m a nigger!” +</p> + +<p> +“She shall pose for Venus!” said a merry little Frenchman; but a +German protested— +</p> + +<p> +“Blitzen! it is her harvest time. In ze summer der zun will melt her +down!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, here’s little ‘Sixpence-a-box,’ ” chimed in a burly engineer as a +mannikin in the green uniform of an artillery officer came prancing +by. “ ‘Sixpence-a-box’ along with the ‘Tower of Babel’!” +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll want a ladder to hail her, I guess!” cried an able seaman who +surveyed the tall lady in question with the expression of one who +could not take in the whole of her height and magnificence at a +glance. “You’d have to take three reefs in that lot, Bill, before you +could lay your course for ’Ampstead ’Eath on a Sunday!” +</p> + +<p> +“Two to one St. Frusquin!” roared the purser of a small passenger +steamer when a lank and lean <i>stabcapitaine</i> came galloping round with +feet lifted high as though he must crush the earth beneath him. “I’m +damned if he don’t fancy he’s running for a cup.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll be thinking he’s took with the spasms,” exclaimed the red and +shaggy-haired mate of a Scotch trading vessel. +</p> + +<p> +“Which shows your ignorance, Jack,” cried the engineer. “Don’t you +know a valtz when you sees one? Look at him cuddling Miss +‘Fore-and-aft’! It don’t want a book to tell you that she likes it +neither.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hear as cuddling’s come in again with the quick valtz,” said the +purser. “They’ve give up walking round one another like hands round a +capstan now. Maybe the weather’s too cold.” +</p> + +<p> +A few ejaculations of approval greeted the surmise, one of the most +melancholy among the company hazarding the opinion that the infernal +regions were already “froze up”; but thereafter the conversation began +to dribble away and was almost run out when a shout from the Frenchman +awoke all to attention, and a new buzz of talk was born of the passing +of a dancer whose steps were followed with pleasure and approval by +every eye in the group of the uninvited. +</p> + +<p> +“La voici! la belle Anglaise! la voici! Comme elle sait danser la +polka!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s her right enough,” exclaimed the bullet-headed skipper; “and +ain’t she a beauty afore the wind. By gosh! I’d pay off with her +myself, I’m damned if I wouldn’t! See how she goes about—and sudden +too! It wants a head for that, mates, if so be as you’ve not been +brought up to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s a daisy!” exclaimed the purser. “I told you so yesterday when +she was out at Fort Paul with ‘Sixpence-a-box.’ Look at the way she +carries her canvas! There’s style about that, mates, as anyone can +see.” +</p> + +<p> +“And look at the way her hair is wove! Oh, I tell you she’s a beauty!” +</p> + +<p> +“If you lofe her, you lofe little,” said the German, nettled at the +unanimity of the admiration. +</p> + +<p> +“Little it is for me, by thunder!” cried the skipper. “I don’t want a +wife, as I’ve got to walk round every morning to see if any of her is +missing. Give me the English miss, and the devil take all fat +Rooshians!” +</p> + +<p> +The argument waxed hot, but <i>la belle Anglaise</i> skated on unconscious +of it. She was a brown-haired girl whose bright eyes and white skin +had cheated Time so that he forgot the day of her birth, which was +twenty-five years ago, and had come to believe her still in the teens. +A slightly-built, fragile creature, whose face was ever changing and +rarely carried the same expression; a creature of quick impulses and +unresting gaiety, whose words cost her nothing, whose gesture was the +gesture of a Frenchwoman. They called her “La Petite” in the fortress, +where she had won much love and many friends—none more zealous than +the deputy-governor, General Stefanovitch, who painted his eye-brows +and wore stays. He had followed her like a dog this night of carnival, +and she repaid him generously with many a word of compliment whispered +into his willing ear and many a press upon a hand which, younger men +said, should have been already paralysed. For they begrudged him <i>la +belle Anglaise</i>. There was no man in all that company of glittering +masqueraders who was not the happier for her word or the message of +her eyes. And one, at least, there had given her the best offering an +honest man can give—the offering of his love. +</p> + +<p> +He skated with her now, and had earned already from an approving +audience the name of the “Green-baize-tree.” A tall flaxen-haired man, +for whose fine figure the neat uniform of the artillery betrayed close +friendship, he had something of the manner of the more civilised West; +and had learnt in Paris and London, as many of his brothers had not, +the elements of those polite arts which win upon a woman’s favour. For +the moment he applied such arts to the purpose of pleasing his +partner, <i>la belle Anglaise</i>; and it was plain to be seen that he had +eyes only for her. In and out of the glittering throng they skated, a +harmony of gold and green, and soft furs and azure stuffs lifting to +the breeze like wings of gauze. But while the man looked ever into the +girl’s face, she, in turn, was spellbound by the trance of sensuous +music; and being carried from the world about her to a kingdom of her +imagination, she forgot all else and abandoned herself to the exalting +rhythm of the dance. Not until the last chord was a lingering harmony +upon the air did she so much as remember that a man’s arm was close +about her waist, or that his head was bent down toward her until his +lips almost kissed her ear. +</p> + +<p> +“You suffocate me,” she said, drawing back from his embrace and +fanning herself vigorously. “Am I so very like a rifle, Captain Paul? +Really, I thought you were going to present arms with me.” +</p> + +<p> +The great artilleryman began to pull his moustache and to look +foolish. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you might fall,” he stammered. “It is very slippery, +Mademoiselle Marian. Besides, when I come to think of it, you are very +like a rifle—your bullets wound and your eyes are bayonets!” +</p> + +<p> +She took his arm and they walked with the others; the whole company +being drawn by a subtle law of gravitation to the refreshment-room, +where the corks popped, and silk petticoats rustled, and laughter +struck many chords, and champagne frothed in silver goblets. The touch +of her little gloved hand was like the caress of a rose; she seemed so +slight and fair and fragile that he had the impulse to crush her in +his strong arms and make her a part of his being. +</p> + +<p> +“You repent?” he asked her in a low voice, while he handed her a cup +of boiling tea. +</p> + +<p> +“I?—of what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of many things—of all the dances you have not given me!” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed lightly, and turned to hear the complaints of an ensign +who wished to tell her that she had promised him the next dance; but +had not the courage to do anything but devour her with his eyes. When +she had sent the boy away, and had drunk her tea, she answered her +companion. +</p> + +<p> +“Repentance is a virtue,” she said, “but to repent you must sin. The +moral is obvious. I am going to dance with the ensign, and remember +the time when I was fifteen, and wrote my own romances. Have you ever +made heroes of your boy friends, Captain Paul? Oh, the bitterness of +it, when the divinity of your youth goes through the bankruptcy court, +or a judge reads his ‘Ode to the Chorus Girl,’ with emphasis. But of +course you don’t understand—how should you? It is only in England +that a man—a certain sort of man—writes poetry because he is in +love. You will come to that state of civilisation by-and-bye. +Meanwhile you are barbarians, and would be impossible if you could not +dance so beautifully upon skates. When I leave you I shall write a +book dividing you into two heads——” +</p> + +<p> +Captain Paul, who understood little beyond the fact that she was to +dance with the ensign, interrupted her with a laugh which rang out +like the note of a bell. +</p> + +<p> +“Into two heads? Moi! ça, c’est bien! I shall have four eyes to watch +you while you dance. After that there are no more numbers. It is one +long waltz and I am your partner, hein?” +</p> + +<p> +He twirled his moustache fiercely, seeming to watch every movement of +her eyes or hand; but when she was about to answer him, a voice at her +elbow jarred upon their privacy and stilled her laughter. It was the +voice of Mademoiselle Varia, the General’s daughter—the eldest of the +two children whom <i>la belle Anglaise</i> had come to Russia to teach—and +at her side stood her yellow-haired sister Rina. +</p> + +<p> +“Ma’mselle, it is time to walk abroad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ma’mselle, eleven does beat upon the clock.” +</p> + +<p> +Sixteen years and fifteen were the ages of the children, but their +English was not yet six months old and was unweaned from the jargon of +polyglot phrase inseparable from civilised Russian speech. They stood +now like two waxen figures beside their governess, whose art was +incapable of disguising the coldness of her welcome or her little love +for their company. She answered shortly and almost with irritation, +suffering Captain Paul to lead her back to the great ballroom; but +thither the intruders followed, and were not to be put off. +</p> + +<p> +“Ma’mselle, veux-tu partir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ma’mselle, nous sommes parfaitement prêtes.” +</p> + +<p> +Mademoiselle looked over her shoulder and said, “In a moment, +children.” Then she made a doleful grimace. +</p> + +<p> +“I had forgotten ‘the Dolls,’ ” she said. “Does not it speak well for +your dance that I should forget them?” +</p> + +<p> +“But you are not going?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed and I am. Eleven o’clock is my curfew to-night. I am like the +little criminal who turned from his dark deed when he remembered that +the clock used to strike eleven in his mother’s house. You haven’t +read Dickens, equally of course.” +</p> + +<p> +Captain Paul made a gesture of impatience. “Why do you torture me? why +do you not ask me to walk with you?” he asked eagerly; “you know that +I am ready.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who am I to say to you, ‘Walk,’ and you will walk. Besides, you have +partners.” +</p> + +<p> +“Partners—I—partners when you are in the room! To the devil——!” +</p> + +<p> +He stopped abruptly, biting his moustache and rocking upon his heels. +But she turned from him with a gesture of one inexpressibly shocked, +and ran to the room where thicker furs awaited her, and old Ivan with +the lantern, and “the Dolls,” who still held each other’s hand and +seemed to say, “We are the good children from the fairy book.” She was +not at all surprised when, presently, she found him waiting for her at +the door of the palace; nor did she protest as he expected. +</p> + +<p> +“I am forgiven?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I will tell you to-morrow?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“You are glad it is not the General who walks with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Gladness is a large emotion. Say that I am content.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only content?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why ‘only’? Is content so common an experience?” +</p> + +<p> +The man sighed, but pressed the arm which he held, and drew her closer +to him. They had crossed the ice which lay between the harbour and the +temple of the carnival, and had entered the town of barrack and +rampart and bastion. Though Kronstadt slept, her robe of war was still +upon her; the shadows upon her pavements were the shadows of her +mighty guns; the tramp of sentries, the sign and countersign, were her +music. Marian Best never entered that citadel of steel and granite +without a little shudder of indefinable fear. Captain Paul felt the +tremor upon her arm now, and it helped to an anxious sympathy. +</p> + +<p> +“You are cold,” he said; “then wait a moment and I will wrap you in my +cloak.” +</p> + +<p> +“And leave yourself a target for the east wind? No, I am not cold, but +I fear the shadows!” +</p> + +<p> +“They fall upon us both,” said the man; “we share them as we shared +the bright lights just now. Would that we might share them always, +Mademoiselle Marian, the light and the dark, the sorrow and the joy!” +</p> + +<p> +The girl tossed her pretty curls from her forehead and laughed up at +him. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it not too cold to talk nonsense?” she asked. “I thought poets +waited for the spring.” +</p> + +<p> +He took advantage of her words, for the lantern-bearer appeared now +like a star upon the road before them, and “the Dolls” were hand in +hand at old Ivan’s heels. +</p> + +<p> +“But I cannot wait,” he said earnestly, while he felt for her fingers +and tried to lock his own in them. “It is always spring when you are +at my side; it is always winter when the night takes you away from me. +Why do I read your English books all day? Is it not that I may find +words to speak to you? But I have no words—I have nothing but myself, +myself and my poverty, and my love for you. Some day, perhaps, it will +be different. Some day I shall be able to come to you and to say, ‘I +am no longer Paul Zassulic, of the Artillery, but Paul of Tolma, the +master of many and the servant of none but the Czar.’ I dare not think +that such a day is near—the gifts of life come too often in the +autumn of our years. But I shall be rich always while I possess my +love for you, Marian; you cannot rob me of that; you cannot make me +love you less; there is no one in the world who can take my riches +from me!” +</p> + +<p> +They had come up in their walk to the curtain of the bastion which +defended General Stefanovitch’s house, and therefrom could look down +upon the town, now darkened, yet showing in the moon’s rays a forest +of spires and turrets and the gloomy shapes of fort and barracks. Away +upon the ice a great blaze of light, focussed by the translucent walls +of the palace, marked the scene of carnival. Faint strains of music, +the note of horns, and the rolling of drums, came up to them for a +memory of their dance and of their pleasure. Some instinct held them +to the place, and they stood together with quickening hearts and muted +lips, the man trembling with a strange excitement, the girl dumb +because the word she had long awaited was now spoken. It was no secret +to her that Paul Zassulic loved her; it was no reproach to her, she +thought, that she had no answer for him. While she had been content in +his friendship and devotion, her busy life had forbidden that she +should reckon with herself or examine her own heart to see if any +treasure of an answering love were locked therein. She was dumb +because no certainty of self came to assist her; she would not wound, +yet knew not if she could heal. A great seriousness possessed her, a +realisation that such moments were supreme in every life. She had few +friends in all the world. The thought that this friend might be taken +from her was bitter. +</p> + +<p> +“Paul,” she said, when a sudden movement of his snapped the seal upon +her lips, “Paul, what shall I say to you—you who have been my friend, +who will be my friend always? Shall I tell you that I have done wrong +to listen to you? No, indeed, for I owe you that—I owe you more than +I can ever repay, a thousand times. Perhaps I am not like other women. +When I ask myself if I love, I cannot answer—I do not know what love +is. I am happy because you are my friend. I welcome the days which +bring you to me. But a wife should be able to say more than that. Some +day, perhaps, I shall know all. When that day comes I will not fear to +speak. I will answer as you wish. I will tell you that I have learned +to love you.” +</p> + +<p> +It was not the answer that he wished; but the word that he might ever +count himself her friend, and that she was happy when he was with her, +made his pulse leap, and he drew her towards him again, kissing her +upon the forehead many times and refusing to release her from his +strong embrace. +</p> + +<p> +“God bless you, little Marian! God bless you for the promise!” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +“It was only a promise, Paul,” she answered. “I cannot give you +more—I cannot lie to you, or how should I be worthy of your +friendship?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no woman more worthy in all the world!” +</p> + +<p> +A voice from the ramparts brought them to a recollection of the hour +and the place. It was the voice of old Ivan, who wished to close the +gate of the enceinte, and at his call Marian broke swiftly from her +lover’s embrace and entered the fortress. But Captain Paul stood long +watching the lights in the Governor’s house. When he turned to go down +to the barracks he saw that carnival was done and the great palace in +darkness. +</p> + +<p> +“It is night now,” he said to himself, “but to-morrow the sun will +shine and I shall see her! She is to go with me to the batteries. I +shall show her everything, and that will take a long time. God bless +the little woman I love!” +</p> + +<p> +But Marian herself knelt by her bed, and heavy tears gathered in her +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“If he knew!” she cried bitterly, “if he knew!” +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch02"> +CHAPTER II.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">“A SPY WITHIN THE GATE.”</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">General Stefanovitch</span>, the deputy-governor of Kronstadt, entered his +library every morning at half-past eight precisely that he might kiss +his daughters upon the cheek and wish their governess “good-day.” The +years brought no variation of the ceremony; the same words were +spoken, the same compliments passed. When the General had unusual +leisure, he devoted some moments of it to a measured flirtation with +the young lady who taught his children. When he had no leisure, he +gave her a haunting leer or kissed the tips of his fingers to her if +his daughters were not looking. +</p> + +<p> +“Bon jour, Varia.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bon jour, cher papa.” +</p> + +<p> +“Et tu, Rina?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bien, cher papa.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian Best, the General’s governess in the year 1895, always said +that when the old soldier laughed the top of his head threatened to +come off like the half of an egg. But this alarming effect was rather +the result of his weakness for painted eyebrows than of any deficiency +of head or skull. Sixty years of life had not satisfied his vanity. A +glance from a woman’s eyes could still release the flow of compliment +and childish affectation. Marian said that he seemed at such moments +to be treading upon hot plates. His shrivelled body swelled until his +close-laced stays were strained to bursting point; he bowed +continually, and laid upon his breast a hand blue and long and almost +fleshless. She dreaded those mornings when he was not busy; it was a +relief to her when she heard his sword clanging in the stone passage +of the house or saw old Ivan running for his great boots. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you must learn our language,” he would say often; “you must learn +the verb ‘to lofe.’ Some day we will have the lesson by ourselves, +mademoiselle. You shall repeat the little word after me until you are +perfect. Ho, ho, ho! Will you not have me for your master, Meess Best? +Shall I not teach well, hein?” +</p> + +<p> +“Cher papa, qu’est-ce que tu dis à mademoiselle?” +</p> + +<p> +“Rien, ma chère, rien du tout.” +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes, when “the Dolls” sat staring with inquiring eyes at his +amatory contortions or strange pursuits of nimbleness, he would +entertain for them anything but a father’s love. He could not caper as +he would with the children for his audience. The snatched whisper or +stolen leer was not satisfying. He tasted the dry bones of flirtation +when he was hungering for the baked meats. It was difficult to believe +that this perfumed old dandy, whose head was like a shining ball of +mahogany, and whose eyebrows were an uncertain quantity, was the +master of Kronstadt and of her garrison, the sentinel of the mighty +Russian Empire, the keeper of the gate and of the freedom of millions. +Yet Russia knew no more faithful servant; there was no more devoted +soldier of the Czar in all the kingdom; no man whose pride in the +citadel of the gate was so enduring and ever-present. General +Stefanovitch lived for his work; the gaunt and bare Governor’s house +upon the north shore of the island was a palace for him; he desired no +other gardens but the garden of fort and bastion, of shallowing sea +and impassable rampart. His world lay in that calcareous, barren +island which God had set in the Gulf of Finland for the protection of +Russia. His vanities, his personal “scenery and effects,” as Marian +Best described them, were trifles of his leisure. He forgot them in an +instant when Kronstadt was named. She was all to him—the mighty +tablet upon which his life’s work was recorded. +</p> + +<p> +Thus it befell that the moments when he could employ himself with +amatory recreations were few. The half of an hour with his children in +the morning, a few words to them at night, sufficed for the proper +performance of the domestic <i>rôle</i>. At other times he was the +martinet, the hundred-eyed guardian of the gate, the precise soldier +who ruled with an ungloved hand of iron. Men feared his look; the +dungeons of the fortress echoed with the groans of those upon whom the +lash of his displeasure had fallen; the lightest breath of his +suspicion, blowing upon any who served him, withered up the blossoms +of that man’s fortune. They saw he was a just man, but one who knew +not forgiveness. +</p> + +<p> +Nine o’clock in the morning was the hour which found the General at +his writing-desk in the private cabinet of the Governor’s house. +Neither fast nor feast gave grace to those who awaited him. He would +enter the room as the clock struck; the echoes of the bell would not +have died away before the grim Colonel Bonzo, the second in command, +would have saluted and laid the report before him. Upon the morning +which followed carnival, the young officers, who had not been to bed, +declared his punctuality immoral. No rose gathered at the hour of the +dew was fresher than Nikolai Stefanovitch when he saluted the Colonel +as the clock struck nine. Painted, powdered, prim—he bowed to those +who awaited him with the inflexible courtesy of an automaton. The eyes +which had just beamed upon Marian Best, as they had beamed upon eight +governesses during the past five years, were now cold and steely and +devouring. A great silence fell upon those in the ante-room when he +passed through. Even the iron-framed Bonzo stiffened at his approach. +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning, Colonel. You have the papers?” +</p> + +<p> +“Here, my General.” +</p> + +<p> +General Stefanovitch fixed his eyeglass and began to peruse the bulky +document. He had read but a few lines when a subdued exclamation and a +shuffling of feet again drew his attention to his subordinate. Such a +breach of the discipline of silence was not to be endured; a sudden +flight of the General’s eyebrows, which seemed to run up to the top of +his head, marked his displeasure and impatience. +</p> + +<p> +“You spoke, Colonel?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I wished to speak, my General.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, when I read the despatches?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, my General.” +</p> + +<p> +General Stefanovitch let his glass fall and deliberately rolled up the +report. Such an interruption had not been known during the twenty +years he had spent at Kronstadt. It remained for Bonzo to justify +himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Colonel?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is this, my General: the plan of Battery No. 3 was put into the +hands of the English Government a week ago.” +</p> + +<p> +Colonel Bonzo stood like a statue when the words were spoken. The +terrible news had been the burden of his night; he had heard it, and +yet twelve hours had passed before he had dared to speak. Now the deed +was done and the blow would fall—the blow of anger, of recrimination, +it might be of punishment. +</p> + +<p> +Five minutes, it may be, passed before General Stefanovitch found his +tongue. During that time he seemed outwardly to be unconscious of the +place or the word, but in reality his mind was seeking to and fro for +the first link of the chain which reason must forge for him. To +Bonzo’s surprise no martinet answered him. The voice was low and in +command; he did not speak in anger. +</p> + +<p> +“Where does this news come from?” +</p> + +<p> +“By telegram last night—from the Prince.” +</p> + +<p> +“How is it that I did not hear of this before?” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo half raised his hands as though in a gesture of excuse. +</p> + +<p> +“There was carnival upon the ice, my General.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes——?” +</p> + +<p> +“And when I returned at midnight, and you were still down there, I did +not think you would wish it.” +</p> + +<p> +He stood stammering and stuttering, but the other, awakened by all the +impulses of duty, smote the table with his fist until the very glass +in the windows of the room was shaken. +</p> + +<p> +“Not wish it?—I—whose honour is at stake. By heaven, Colonel Bonzo, +what do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel’s heart quaked, but he was glad that the moment had come. +He had waited for this, and now he took courage. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean, my General, that we have first to ascertain if the plan of +Battery 3, which the English Government is said to possess, is the +correct plan or no. These English would give much for the secret of +Kronstadt. Is it not possible that a part of the ten thousand pounds +they offer to him who shall help them has gone into the pocket of an +impostor? I say that it is possible. I say that it is the only +explication. The Prince is deceived; the plan is a forgery. We shall +laugh in our sleeves by-and-bye, and sell the people in London more +secrets. It will keep their tongues still and help us to hang the +spies. Oh! be assured, my General, if there is any man in the city who +has betrayed us, many hours shall not pass before we lay our hands +upon him.” +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel spoke with great earnestness; there was a light of anger +and of determination in his eyes; his great hands trembled with his +desire to be acting. Like his master, the island fortress was to him a +sacred citadel; his life, his work lay there; his honour was offered +upon that altar of granite and of steel. The two men had laboured side +by side for twenty years; they were more than friends, they were +brothers in a great and insurpassable trust. And now a common peril +was before them both. They could not wholly realise it; they dare not +tell themselves that a spy was within the gate; they were ready to be +deceived if it were only for a day. +</p> + +<p> +“I was a fool not to think of it at the first,” said Stefanovitch, +taking heart as the other spoke. “If they have a plan of Battery 3 in +London, it is not our plan. I will tell the Prince so to-day. He +should not have been deceived like that. He should not charge the +fidelity of those who have grown old in this service. We will see to +it that he is answered, Bonzo. You shall make it your business to draw +up our case, if that be necessary. Why does he not suggest at the same +time that these English have a plan of my house——” +</p> + +<p> +“Or of heaven?” said the Colonel bluntly. “They are as likely to get +it as the drawings of Battery 3. And why of Battery 3, my General? Why +not of Fort Peter, of Alexander, of Menzikoff? They have sought these +things long enough. Why should one be taken and the other left? Are +they children at Petersburg that they believe any tale which is told +them in London? Do they think that we sleep while spies are busy on +our ramparts? Oh, it is a jest, Nikolai, a jest, and we should be the +first to laugh at it.” +</p> + +<p> +Colonel Bonzo’s laugh had grown rusted from long disuse, so that when +he asked help of it the answer was loud and grating like the bark of a +dog. His earnestness had led him to address Stefanovitch in the +familiar style which the men assumed when no janissaries of office +overheard them, and this familiarity was not resented. +</p> + +<p> +“You say well,” replied the General, fixing his glass for the first +time since he had heard the tidings; “the Prince jests with us and we +shall answer him with another jest; it will be a list of all the +people who have entered Battery 3 since it was built. He shall then +tell us who is the spy, and we shall know what to do. Eh, Colonel, we +shall know what to do? Then let Captain Paul come to me.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul Zassulic had gone to bed at four o’clock in the morning. During +two short hours he had dreamed of Marian Best—of a garden of eternal +summer of which she was mistress. But when six o’clock struck and +twenty trumpets sounded the reveille from the ramparts, he had dragged +himself wearily from his couch and turned gloomily to his monotonous +work in the fortress. A roseate flush of the lagging sun which fell +upon the field of the ice as a die of crimson and of gold, awakened +him at last from his depression. A crisp wind of morning gave colour +to his face; the keen air was as a tonic to his veins. When he stood +up to salute his chief there was the seal of health upon his cheeks, +the light of untroubled youth in his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“You sent for me, my General?” +</p> + +<p> +Stefanovitch, who loved Paul as a son, surveyed him critically through +the searching eyeglass before he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, Captain, I sent for you. You have heard the news?” +</p> + +<p> +“The news, General?” +</p> + +<p> +“As I say, the news—that they have the plan of Battery 3 in London, +sold to them by someone who knows it as you know it or as I know it.” +</p> + +<p> +Stefanovitch spoke with assumed unconcern, as though the matter were +the most trifling he could mention. It was his habit to avoid any +outward display of anger; his glance was ever more feared than his +word. Paul knew this habit well; he dreaded it as a criminal may dread +the jests of his judge. +</p> + +<p> +“They have the plan of Battery 3 in London, General! Oh, but that is a +lie!” he cried, looking from one to the other with dazed eyes and +questioning glance; “it is a lie, I say, and I will tell them so! They +cannot have the plan; it is impossible. Who should have given it to +them? Who is there in Kronstadt who would sell his country’s secrets? +Who is there that could sell them? You know that it is not true, my +General. Lord God! that they should bring such a charge against me!” +</p> + +<p> +Moment by moment he began to realise the gravity of the unspoken +accusation. Sweat stood upon his forehead, tears welled up in his +eyes. He had worked so unselfishly to make himself a good servant of +Kronstadt that this overwhelming blow seemed to strike at the heart of +his honour and his life. They had implied that he was unworthy of the +trust—he, Paul Zassulic, who would have died willingly if the citadel +had asked his life of him. They could put no greater affront upon him. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a lie!” he continued to repeat, while Nikolai Stefanovitch +watched him approvingly, and old Bonzo’s grey eyes twinkled cunningly; +“it is a monstrous lie, General! No one has entered the fort but those +who have work there; I will swear to it upon the Holy Gospel. If you +doubt me, send for Seroff Ossinksy—he can tell you; he will laugh at +the story as I would laugh at it were my honour not at stake. Oh, they +cannot have the plan in London—you know that they cannot.” +</p> + +<p> +He appealed to them pitifully, looking from one to the other +questioningly, but he read nothing in their faces, neither of sympathy +nor of reassurance. Bonzo wore, as ever, the changeless mask of iron +severity; Stefanovitch lolled back in his chair and stared at the +speaker as he would have stared at some defaulter hurried to the +judgment. +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing,” he said in answer to the earnest protestations, +“nothing at all beyond that which I am told by those in Petersburg. +They say that the plan of the fort has been sold to the English; you, +who were in command of the battery until a month ago, answer that it +is impossible, because no stranger has ever been permitted within the +enceinte. Is that so, Captain?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will swear it, General, and my successor will swear it too.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall both swear it before the court which will investigate this +report. If your word be accepted, there is an end of the matter. For +my part I will tell you that I regard the story as ridiculous. The +plan which the English have bought is a forgery; there can be no doubt +of it. It rests upon us to convince the Prince of that, and to be +unresting in our vigilance. I need say no more, Captain; I am not here +to teach you your duty; the city is well served when she has servants +like Paul Zassulic.” +</p> + +<p> +Captain Paul opened his eyes. He had believed that they brought a +charge against him; he knew now that they did not. The burden of +suspicion was more than he could bear, and when it fell from his +shoulders, an impulse of gratitude and devotion came upon him. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, General,” he said simply. “I could ask nothing more than +your approval.” +</p> + +<p> +Stefanovitch dismissed him with a wave of the hand. He went from the +room gladly, and with the purpose to seek out his sergeant at once and +to question him. But before he had crossed the great courtyard of the +house, someone touched him upon the shoulder; and when he turned about +quickly he found that Bonzo had followed him from the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Ha! Colonel, you are going my way,” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to the prison,” said the old soldier grimly. “It will be +full enough by-and-bye if there is anything in this news.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there cannot be anything, Colonel—I am ready to swear it upon +the Gospels. No one has entered the fort——” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo shrugged his shoulders, his little eyes were screwed up until +they shone like the eyes of a ferret. +</p> + +<p> +“You say no one?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly. I would swear it to the Emperor.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you forget that you had a visitor at the fort yesterday?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yesterday?” +</p> + +<p> +“I say so—the little Englishwoman, La Petite. What of her?” +</p> + +<p> +Captain Paul could not have stopped in his walk more abruptly if a +chasm had opened at his feet. +</p> + +<p> +“You mean Mademoiselle Marian, my Colonel?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly. Is she no one? Did you think so last night when you danced +with her for two hours, eh, my friend? Shall I tell her how soon you +forget the little lessons in gunnery? Shall I say that you are +prepared to swear to the Emperor that she is nobody, hein?” +</p> + +<p> +Captain Paul roared with laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Sapristi!” he cried, “that I should forget Mademoiselle Marian, and +that you should remind me of her! Of course there is our spy. Why did +I not think of it before? Oh, this will amuse the General when I tell +him to-night. La Petite—who does not know which end you load a gun? +She has made the plans, there cannot be a doubt of it. We will tell +the people of Petersburg so. Jest for jest, n’est-ce pas, mon Colonel, +and ours a little more foolish than theirs. <i>La belle Anglaise</i>—that +I should forget her. Oh, quelle bêtise!” +</p> + +<p> +The humour of the idea seized upon him uncontrollably, and upon the +old soldier, so that they went down to their work laughing as lads at +play. When they separated at last before the doors of the church of +St. Vladimir, Captain Paul stood a moment to watch the other walking +toward the prison. Then, being quite alone, his face paled suddenly, +and he seemed about to reel against one of the pillars of the +cathedral. +</p> + +<p> +“My God!” he thought, “if the jest should be no jest!” +</p> + +<p class="spacer"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +Old Bonzo, lumbering along the narrow streets of Kronstadt, was saying +to himself, “She is too innocent; she shall be watched—night and +day—the little Englishwoman.” +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch03"> +CHAPTER III.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">AT THE COMING OF THE LIGHT.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Marian Best</span> opened her eyes dreamily, expecting to hear the boom of +the morning gun ringing in her ears. She saw that it must be six +o’clock of the day—time for her to think of “the Dolls” again, and of +all the uncoloured drudgery of her life. She had travelled far, in her +sleep, from the ice-bound fortress and the melancholy, prison-like +abode of Nikolai Stefanovitch; had sojourned awhile in the lanes and +orchards of her own Devonshire, there to gather flowers of her +affection and to kiss the lips of the child she loved. But when she +awoke, with a red glare of light playing in her eyes and the grip of +the frost to benumb her limbs, she came quickly from the garden of her +dreams and steeled herself to face the solitude and the gloom of her +island home. And she knew that the child, whose lips she had touched +in her sleep, was himself sleeping more than a thousand miles away, +and that between them lay the barrier of city and of sea—and of a +woman’s poverty. +</p> + +<p> +She was surprised at the first that her room was not in darkness, and +that she did not hear the voice of old Ivan asking if “Missa” would +“take a tea”; but anon the rustle of her silk skirt and the shape of +the great stove looming up in the ruddy light brought her to a +remembrance of the time and place, and she knew that she had dozed +before her fire at the hour of the General’s dinner. +</p> + +<p> +That was her moment of respite; the moment when she could shut herself +in her room and be mistress of her thoughts and enjoy that dominion of +self which no eye may share. When first she came to Kronstadt to teach +the General’s daughters those scraps of English which pass for culture +in Russia, she had welcomed this hour as the ultimate possibility of +her day; an hour when she could write to little Dick, her brother, and +remember the home she had left—the unforgotten voices and the harvest +time of love. As the months passed and the terrible winter fell upon +the land, and even the friendly sea below her windows was bound in the +chains of the frost, she began almost to be afraid of herself and of +the solitude. It may be that the work to which she had set her hand +could not fail to react upon her mind, and so to war against her +nerves that the creak of a door or the fall of a foot upon the stair +would bring her to piteous trembling and dread. The secret she guarded +so well was a heavy burden. Grim spectres followed it, haunting her, +or whispering words that seemed to still her heart and to bring cries +of fear to her lips. There were moments when a realisation of all she +had done, and would do, drove her to such depths of terror that her +reason seemed to be leaving her. At other moments she could call +herself a spy and laugh at the word. The living death of the mines, +the horrid sights and sounds of Russian prisons, were no more than +fairy tales to such a mind. She was only a woman, she said, and who +would harm her? She would tell them it was a jest, and they must +believe her. That pretty assumption of a child-like innocence, which +had befriended her often when she had cajoled Captain Paul and +obtained from him those secrets of the citadel for which her friends +in London were willing to pay so great a price, that innocence should +befriend her to the end. And the end was near now. She carried bound +about her own body, a very part of herself, as it were, the precious +sketches and maps and diaries for which she had laboured so earnestly. +She foresaw the day when the shadow of the living death would lie upon +her path no more; when an English home would harbour her and English +hands would shield her from peril, and the child she loved would be +ever near her. For his sake she would go on, for his sake self should +be forgotten with that new and sweetening impulse which the winter +months had brought to her. She dare not tell herself that such an +impulse was love for the man whose country she had betrayed and whose +honour she had played with. +</p> + +<p> +Many of these thoughts came to her in the moment of waking, when she +sat in her great chair and watched the fantastic shapes of light and +shadow; or listened to the moan and crash of the ice now mastered by +the warmth of later February and losing dominion over the sea. Her +room lay in the north wing of the Governor’s house, and was built out +upon the ramparts, so that when she pulled aside her curtain she +beheld a mighty moving field of shining floes, here decked with +hummocks which had the glitter of jewels, there broken into tiny bergs +and floating islands of snow; or again washed by the foaming waves +which cast the waters up in fountains of spray and displayed a hundred +changing lights as the moonbeams fell upon them. Grim and forbidding, +above this holocaust of the driven ice, stood the forts and batteries +of the northern channel. Marian remembered the long summer days she +had spent with Captain Paul in those steel-walled chambers of the +secrets; how she had paced the ramparts for a measurement of them; how +greedily she had learnt the lessons in gunnery; how in the silence of +this very room she had written down the answers to the questions her +English friends asked her, that thereby she might purchase liberty for +herself and for the child. To-night these memories were full of an +unexplained sadness. She recalled carnival—three weeks had passed +since that folly—and the words of love spoken to her then. A yearning +for sympathy, a sense of weakness, a consciousness that one man at +least in Kronstadt could bring blood to her cheeks and light to her +eyes, contributed to her sense of solitude. She found herself standing +in the darkness and telling herself that she was utterly alone. Then +fear—fear she knew not of what—swept upon her like a freshet; there +came to her the horrid thought that she was watched; that unseen eyes +followed her even in the privacy of her room; that a man stood close +to her and had but to stretch out his hand to touch her own. The +terror of such imaginings served to freeze her very blood in her +veins. She staggered to the wall and switched on the light. But the +lamp showed her an empty room—she was alone with her fears, to laugh +at them, to forget them as she had forgotten them a hundred times +since she had come to Kronstadt. +</p> + +<p> +The friendly light helped her quickly to this task of forgetfulness. +The hand which pressed upon her beating heart dropped to her side. She +ran to the door and looked out into the great corridor of the north +wing. The silence of night lay upon it. Gladly she turned back to her +own cosy room, to the warmth of the stove and the welcome privacy. A +moment at the glass, a moment before a photograph of little Dick set +boldly upon an easel, a touch of the dress here, a touch of the hair +there, a pose of the dainty head, a silent question, “Will he be there +to-night?” satisfied the personal instinct. She knew that they awaited +her in the drawing-room; “the Dolls” would sit, one on either side of +her, just now and hold her hand. The General himself would leer at her +from the depths of an arm-chair and ask her to sing “Bid me to lofe.” +It might be that Captain Paul would join them if his duties were done; +and that he would linger on when Nikolai Stefanovitch had gone to his +library, and would remind her, not by word, but by look and unspoken +appeal and the silent tributes of homage, of the night of her promise, +of the night when he had touched her forehead with his lips and she +had not refused him. +</p> + +<p> +The thought brought a deeper colour to her cheeks. She moved about her +room with the quick, nervous gesture of suppressed excitement. A man, +observing her, would have said that a well-trained mind governed every +act; he would have wondered, at the same time, that so fair a face +should have led its possessor so rarely to the mirror. +</p> + +<p> +Marian Best knew little of the weapons with which nature had armed +her. The thick brown hair straggled in picturesque disorder upon her +forehead and her neck; rebelling curls showed themselves at every +movement; her dress was “thrown on,” but it fitted her to perfection; +she had no rings upon her fingers, but the white hands were the +prettier for the need. +</p> + +<p> +Eight o’clock was being struck by the church bells of the town when at +last Marian left her room to join “the Dolls” in the salon of the +house. She had quite forgotten her strange fears of an hour ago, and +laughed at them when she trod the soft carpets of the corridor and +peeped into the chambers which opened off it. No one moved then in the +north wing. The rooms about her were tenantless and in darkness. When +she passed the library where old Nikolai Stefanovitch had set up his +holy of holies, she wondered to see the door of it open and a flicker +of red light upon the low-pitched ceiling. Once only since she had +been in the fortress had she dared to enter that room and to pry into +its secrets. She knew well that the book-shelves, upon which she +beheld the glare of the dancing light, were garners of maps and +documents which, could she possess them, would be a fortune to her; +she knew that here were locked away treasures for which spies had laid +down their lives unavailingly. +</p> + +<p> +Never did she pass that study without some little tremor of heart and +mind. Now it would be the devil of rashness saying, “Enter and see”; +or, again, the spirit of prudence telling her that therein lay the +living death. To-night she heard the first of the voices, and prudence +was no more her friend. The desire to have done with it all, to flee +Russia and the land of bondage, possessed her to the exclusion of all +else. She longed for the sound of little Dick’s voice in the English +lanes she loved. There came to her out of the darkness a message which +said, “Search, and all that you want shall be found there.” She +refused to listen to it, and answered in her heart that she would +betray no more the country of the man who loved her. And this drove +her from the door, but not many paces, for presently she stood quite +still to listen for any sounds, and, hearing none, she gave herself up +to the less subtle arguments. She told herself that when the summer +came she would be in England, that the price of her work would have +been paid by the British Government, that she would build a home to be +the haven of her love. +</p> + +<p> +So was she held, chained by hesitation to the precincts of the +corridor. The silence tempted her the more; she was sure that no man +in the house then thought of the north wing—that all were busy in the +kitchens below. A strong and conquering impulse sent her, at last, +with muted feet, back to her own room. She picked up a volume of +stories and deftly inserted a sheet of notepaper and a pencil between +the leaves. Quick and daring, and armed with all her courage, she ran +back to the General’s cabinet and entered it. She stood within the +holy of holies, and the shadow of the living death was all about her. +</p> + +<p> +It was a spacious room, ill furnished and bare, save for the many +volumes which gave ornament to the walls. A ponderous writing-table +had the place of honour, and this was littered with bulky documents +and official books decorative in their disorder. Marian could see, +even by the feeble light cast from the open door of the stove, that +the General had been occupied very recently with public affairs, for a +big blue paper was open upon his blotting-pad and his pen had rolled +from the inkstand and smirched the paper. A heavy volume, bound in +red, lay cheek by jowl with the letter he had been writing; and a +wine-glass, half emptied, spoke of an occupation interrupted only by +the gong for dinner. That occupation would be resumed when the clock +struck nine. Marian remembered that it had just gone eight, and with +the remembrance there came upon her another moment of +apprehension—such a moment as she had known when she awoke from her +sleep in the arm-chair. A panic, overwhelming and irresistible, seized +upon her. She thought again that unseen eyes watched her in the +darkness. She ran from the room and stood panting in the corridor. +</p> + +<p> +But the panic surrendered swiftly—as these fits were wont to do. She +laughed at herself when a minute had passed, and took heart of her new +resolution. She said that if anyone found her in the room she must be +ready with many an excuse—the excuse that the door of the stove was +open, that a cinder had fallen. When she entered the cabinet for the +second time, a great hope nerved her to resolution. It was the hope +that among the General’s maps there would be one of Fort Peter. She +lacked this alone for the completion of her work. She said that she +must have light; and growing bolder at the impulse, she found the +switch, and a blaze of soft rays illumined the apartment. +</p> + +<p> +The brightness of the light awed her. She shielded her eyes with both +her hands, and stood irresolute for the third time. Not until many +minutes had passed was she able to read the gilt lettering of the +books upon the shelves. When resolution came at last generously, she +took a map down and unfolded it. It was the map of the southern +channel wherein Fort Peter stands. She saw the name joyfully, and +opened her book that she might have pencil and paper. But before she +could use them a hand was laid upon her shoulder; and when she sprang +up with a cry unsuppressed upon her lips, she found herself face to +face with Paul Zassulic. +</p> + +<p> +All the little comedy of excuse she had planned so well failed in that +supreme moment to defend her. When she had faced her lover for a +moment, she knew that she had no word with which to answer him; and +all her courage deserting her, she stood white and trembling to hear +his accusation. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch04"> +CHAPTER IV.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">LOVER AND JUDGE.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> red book with the plan of the southern channel had tumbled to +the floor when Marian started up from the table. Paul replaced it upon +the bookshelf before he spoke to her. She thought the act deliberate +to the point of cruelty, but she saw that the hand which held the +volume trembled, and she knew then that the man feared for her greatly +with a fear such as her own. +</p> + +<p> +“Paul,” she cried, finding her tongue after many minutes, “what are +you doing? Why do you not speak to me?” +</p> + +<p> +He turned swiftly to show her a face stern and angry. +</p> + +<p> +“I am putting away the map which interested you, mademoiselle; it is +ten years old and could be of no use to you. There are others, but we +do not leave them about for the amusement of everyone. They are locked +up in the safe, and I have no false keys, mademoiselle.” +</p> + +<p> +The mocking tone was as a blow to her. Chagrin at her own folly, the +certainty that the secret of her life was a secret no more, brought +tears to her eyes. This, she said, was the end of it all, of her dream +and of her liberty. To-morrow—she dare not think of to-morrow. When +she feigned to laugh, the laugh was hard and forced and must struggle +for mastery with a sob. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she said, and every word cost her an effort, “you think that I +care whether your map is new or old. What an idea, Captain Paul! Why +do you not say that I came in here to read the General’s letters?” +</p> + +<p> +Paul, who had put away the book and possessed himself of the pencil +with which she had begun to draw, faced her for a moment and gave her +a look which withered her smile and silenced her excuse. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not lie to me,” he said; “God knows, there is enough without that. +You will not laugh to-morrow when the whip cuts your shoulders and the +prison blinds you. Fool! fool! Who but a woman would commit a folly +like this?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not speak when he charged her, but leaned back against the +wall as though in defiance of his anger. Her clever mind had begun to +be busy again, and she reproached herself that she should cut so sorry +a figure; but he did not permit her to speak. A door shutting in the +hall brought an exclamation to his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Hark!” he said, “there is Ivan Grigarovitch. If he should find you +here—my God!” +</p> + +<p> +He switched off the electric light and dragged her from the room, back +to her own apartment. She did not resist him, but went with a mind +unconscious of her surroundings. Yesterday seemed far off; the thread +of her life had snapped, as it were, at the moment of the discovery; +she hoped nothing, could realise nothing; she thought that she passed +through some valley of her dreams, but would never pass out of it +again. When he had shut the door of her own room she dropped into an +arm-chair and sat staring vaguely at the red embers in the stove. She +tried to think that she had awakened from her sleep; the voice of the +man was as a distant sound coming to her across the sea. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” he said, crossing over to her and standing at her +side, “before I tell them what I have seen to-night, as my duty and my +honour compel me to do, I would ask you if you have anything to say to +me?” +</p> + +<p> +She continued to look into the fire, a smile hovering upon her face. +</p> + +<p> +“What should I say to you?” she asked, with a shrug of her shoulders. +“Is it so great an offence in Russia to look at a book which does not +belong to you?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is an offence,” he answered quietly, “for which men and women are +now dying in the dungeons of the fortresses or at the labour in the +mines; it is an offence for which we have lashed many a man to death +in the courtyard before this house; it is the one crime which Russia +neither forgets nor forgives. Great God, that it should be you—you +who sent the plan to London, you who brought this trouble upon us all! +I cannot believe it, Marian, I cannot believe the things I have seen +with my own eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +Again she had no answer for him, but the laugh left her face and she +clasped her hands together across her knee. +</p> + +<p> +“You do not understand,” she said after a while; “you will never +understand.” +</p> + +<p> +She was telling herself, secretly, that this trance of the mind which +held her tongue-tied and impotent was not to be explained. She knew +that if anyone but her lover had found her in the cabinet of Nikolai +Stefanovitch, she could have played her part to perfection; aping the +ingenuousness and the surprise which had been able hitherto to shield +her from suspicion. But she was dumb before Paul. A great shame of her +employment came upon her. She did not fear its consequences yet, for +she did not wholly realise them; but the thought that her lover knew +of it paralysed her understanding. He, meanwhile, paced the room in an +agony of uncertainty and of distress. +</p> + +<p> +“You say that I do not understand,” he exclaimed in anger at her +silence; “not understand, when I find you with the map in your hands +and your pencil busy! Not understand! Am I a child, then? Shall I tell +myself after this that it was someone else, and not you, who sent the +plan to London? Shall I look for another spy in Kronstadt? Pshaw! that +I should waste words when every minute is precious.” +</p> + +<p> +“You need look for no one, Paul,” she said, rising and facing him as +the resolve took her; “I alone did what you say. No one helped me. I +drew the map and sent it to London. I am the spy, if that is the word. +I do not ask you to pity me nor to think of me; I am not worthy of +your help, God knows. I can stand alone in the future as I have done +in the past. You say that your duty compels you to tell them of what +you have seen. Very well, tell them now, and I will wait until they +come for me. I am not afraid; why should you be afraid for me?” +</p> + +<p> +She had gathered up her courage and stood before him with blazing eyes +and flushed cheeks. He said that he had never seen so beautiful a +creature, and her spirit won him to a sudden remembrance of his love. +</p> + +<p> +“Why am I afraid for you, Marian? Can you ask that? Would not I give +my life for you? Is not your hurt my hurt? Oh, you know that it is. If +they take you from me, they take all that I have in the world. Why +could you not trust me? You have done this thing for money; why could +you not have told me of you trouble?” +</p> + +<p> +“To beg of you?” she cried, with scorn in her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, if by begging you might have saved yourself this +dishonour.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is no dishonour to buy bread that a child may eat. That is my +crime; I am ready to suffer for it.” +</p> + +<p> +He stared at her in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“It is my turn to say that I do not understand,” he cried, “and I must +understand, I must know all, Marian I may yet be your friend if you +will be frank with me. But to do that you must hold nothing from me, +you must speak to me as you would speak to your own brother.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will hold nothing from you, Paul—there is nothing to hold. I sent +the letters to London because they offered me money for them, and I am +very poor, and there is a child in England who is dependent upon me. +God help him!” +</p> + +<p> +She sank upon her sofa sobbing, for a memory of little Dick brought +her back to reality. But Paul’s arms were about her in a moment, and +he held her to him and forgot that he was her judge. +</p> + +<p> +“They shall not hurt you, little one,” he said; “if you will only +trust me, I may yet see a way. Have I not loved you too well to wish +to see you harmed? Be frank with me, then, that I may know how to +serve you. You say that there is a child in England?” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him gratefully through her tears. A photograph stood +upon the easel near her. She took it up and put it into his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“It is my brother Dick,” she said; “that is his picture. He and I were +left to face the world together three years ago. He will be six next +year. It was for his sake I came here. I have no other relative in the +world but my cousin Walter, who is at the Admiralty in London.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then he it was who asked you to commit this crime?” +</p> + +<p> +“He told me that the English Government would pay ten thousand pounds +to anyone who could secure the plans of the unknown forts here. Then +he sent the book which was written about Vladivostok, and the way the +English got the maps of that. I asked myself why a woman could not do +what a man had done. It was nothing to you that your plans should be +known. You say always that Kronstadt is strong enough to defy the +world. If that is so, what have you to fear from anyone? And it meant +so much to me—a home for myself and the child, and exile no more. +Cannot you understand now, Paul?” +</p> + +<p> +He kissed her upon the forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand,” he said. “God help us both!” +</p> + +<p> +Her courage appealed to him, for she was quite calm now, saying to +herself that for the child’s sake she would do again what she had +done. And her mind was already occupied with a multitude of ideas, but +chiefly with the idea that her lover would save her. +</p> + +<p> +“Paul,” she said suddenly, “if you understand, are you not my friend +again?” +</p> + +<p> +He began to pace the room again, his spurs clanking over the bare +floor and his long cloak hanging loose from his shoulders. A voice of +conscience whispered to him that he was one of the children of +Kronstadt and must not betray her. The kiss of the girl was still warm +upon his lips as a kiss of mercy. But even in the crisis a memory of +smaller things intruded, and he spoke of them. +</p> + +<p> +“Mon Dieu!” he said, “what an actress you are, Marian! I remember the +day I took you to the battery and showed you the breech of a gun. You +asked me if a shell was a torpedo, and how we measured the ten-inch +Armstrong, which seemed to you three yards long. You remember that, do +you not? How you ran about from rampart to rampart like a schoolgirl. +If I had known!” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed, forgetting all that had gone before. +</p> + +<p> +“But you did not know,” she said; “and I measured the mole by pacing +it while you were making tea. I can see you now, scalding your fingers +with the kettle and saying that it was an honour. I wrote down the +number of the guns when old Seroff the sergeant went to look for +bread. He told me how deep the channel was, and repeated it over and +over again because I was so stupid. You were all so kind to me!” +</p> + +<p> +The love of jest was not conquered even by this, the tragedy of her +life. She laughed with the laugh of a child at the remembrance of the +comedy she had played upon the ramparts; and Paul laughed with her, +content that she and no other had acted for him. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said he. “You have the cunning of the devil! If it had begun and +ended in this; but now—now when we have to-morrow to face, I cannot +laugh long when I think of that, Marian. How shall I help you? How +shall I do my duty? How shall I forget that I love you? Why, +to-morrow, holy God! they may send you to the fortress, and I may +never look upon your face again!” +</p> + +<p> +He stopped abruptly in his walk, but she, standing by the chimney, +looked into the ashes of the stove as though still seeking dream +pictures there. +</p> + +<p> +“They will do that if you tell them,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“And I must tell them; I have no other course. My honour compels me. I +would give half the years of my life to get you out of Kronstadt +to-night, Marian; to-morrow it will be too late. I must tell them +then. I cannot delay—you know that I cannot.” +</p> + +<p> +The words cost him an effort, and when he had spoken them he came and +took both her hands in his and looked into her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“My love! my love!” he said, “how shall I help you? How shall I save +you from this folly? Swear to me that you will do nothing more—that +you will never write another line to England while you are in this +house.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must write to little Dick,” she said petulantly. +</p> + +<p> +He stamped on the floor impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“Promise—give me the promise!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +“I promise,” she answered, clinging to him with a pitiful appeal; “oh, +I promise all. I will do anything if I may see the child again! You +will not tell them, Paul? Oh, for God’s sake pity me—listen to me!” +</p> + +<p> +“I must tell them,” he answered doggedly—“I must, I must!” +</p> + +<p> +He pushed her from him, for there was a sound of voices in the +corridor, and he reeled rather than walked from the room. But she +stood trembling and still, and she counted his footsteps as he crossed +the snow-clad courtyard. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch05"> +CHAPTER V.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">FOREBODING.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> echo of the footsteps grew fainter and fainter, and was lost at +last in a murmur of other sounds—the sound of a sentry tramping and +the clang of arms. Marian listened keenly for some while in the hope +that she would hear the steps again, and that Paul would come back to +her, repentant of his determination. But the deeper silence of the +night fell again anon; the wind moaned dismally across the frozen sea; +the crash of the rending ice prevailed, and she knew that she was left +alone. +</p> + +<p> +There had been a buzz of voices in the corridor when Paul left her, +and she opened the door of the room to hear who it was that had come +up to the place. She thought that she could distinguish the deep +baying tones of old Bonzo and the cat-like purr of the servant Ivan; +but these were silenced in a little time; and she said to herself that +she could delay no longer, but must go down to “the Dolls” and to the +farce played every night in the gloomy and depressing salon. Though +her hands still trembled, and there was a stain of tears upon her +cheek, she would not think of that which had happened in the last +hour. She cheated herself with the assurance that her lover would not +tell; she believed that his love for her would prove stronger than his +resolution to guard his honour. At the same time, her prudence did not +desert her. Remotely and vaguely she realised the possibility that the +work of the night might bring some swift and terrible punishment. Just +as she had told her lover everything, so did she determine to tell +other accusers nothing. She would play the part of the <i>ingénue</i> +again; she would answer their accusations with laughter and little +gestures of assumed fear and the weapons of the coquette. The utmost +that Paul could do, she said, would be to speak of a suspicion. It +would be her business to laugh that suspicion away, to make it +ridiculous. +</p> + +<p> +While this was in her mind her fingers were busy in the execution of +the plan. Although she was dressed for the comedy of the drawing-room, +she began to undress swiftly, loosing the laces of her bodice and +casting off her clothes until she was able to unwind from her body a +scroll of paper, upon which were many little sketches and names +innumerable, and the depths of soundings and the armament of forts. +She laughed to herself when at last she thrust into the fire this +treasure which had cost her so many months of secret labour and daring +schemes. She knew that its contents were written also upon her memory, +and that she could make a copy of it from memory alone whenever she +might choose. +</p> + +<p> +“They will search me and will find nothing,” she said to herself when +the ashes of the paper were scattered. “I shall write to England +to-morrow a letter for them to open. They cannot prove that I sent the +map to London, and Paul will not tell them. I shall go away from here +when the sea will let me, and that will be the end of all. Paul will +forget, and I——” +</p> + +<p> +She turned from the fire with a sigh and began to lace up her dress +again. A tremulous excitement possessed her, so that she went from +place to place in the room, now pulling aside the curtain that she +might look upon the moonlit sea; now standing before her glass to +discover that her face was drawn and pale and almost haggard; or going +to the door to listen for the voices of “the Dolls.” It was nine +o’clock when she entered the salon, to find the children sitting like +mutes before a picture-book, and old Stefanovitch himself dozing +peacefully in a chair. The scene was one with which she was familiar. +She took courage of it, and whispered that nothing had happened. She +tried to think that Paul had not spoken to her, that she had imagined +the scene in the cabinet and that other scene with her lover. It lay +upon her to play courageously the part she had played always. When the +General awoke with a start, and sat staring at her stupidly through +the after haze of sleep, she had a winning smile for him and a ready +word. +</p> + +<p> +“How stupid of me!” she cried, with a gesture of feigned amazement. “I +did not see that you were resting.” +</p> + +<p> +She paused as though she would draw back, but the General silenced her +gallantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Tais toi, tais toi,” said he, sitting upright and searching for his +glass; “how shall I keep awake when you are not here? Tell me that, +mademoiselle?” +</p> + +<p> +“But I have no business to let you know that I am here—at such a +time, General.” +</p> + +<p> +He twisted in his chair, seeking to follow her with his eyes as she +crossed the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Du tout, du tout,” he said pleasantly; “you shall sing to me and I +shall forget everything. One of the English songs, ma petite—a little +song of the lofe—hein, mademoiselle, of the lofe?” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him prettily over her shoulder, and “the Dolls” rising +mechanically to stand one upon either side of the piano, she began to +sing the ballad of the King of Thule. She had a voice surpassingly +sweet and tender, and music was for her more than an accomplishment, +it was an art. The excitement and the passion of the past hour seemed +to mingle with the harmonies of the exquisitely tender ballad. Even +Stefanovitch, who thought that the angels must play upon trombones, +was held in a trance of admiration. +</p> + +<p> +“Magnifique! magnifique!” he cried again and again; “it is the genius +which sings like that. You shall be heard in all Russia by-and-by, and +the Emperor shall applaud you. Eh, mes enfants, would you not sing +like mademoiselle? Is she not superb? is she not beautiful?” +</p> + +<p> +He cackled and applauded again and again, while the children repeated +the words after him, though their wooden faces had no change of +expression, and the music was meaningless to them. +</p> + +<p> +“Quelle une chanson delicieuse!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, mademoiselle, si j’etais vous!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is the song of Marguerite.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sans doute—the song of Marguerite.” +</p> + +<p> +“Si je l’avais connu, Marguerite!” +</p> + +<p> +“Stupide! she is dead; n’est-ce pas, mademoiselle, Marguerite est +morte?” +</p> + +<p> +Old Nikolai listened to their chatter and hugged himself at the trend +of it. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, what is that—you wish mademoiselle to tell you about Marguerite? +Ho, ho! Another time, children, another time. Mees Marian will first +tell that story to me—hein, mademoiselle, you will tell me the story +of Marguerite when we are alone?” +</p> + +<p> +Marian rose from the piano, telling herself that it would be a +pleasure to box the ears of Nikolai Stefanovitch. But she continued to +wear a contented face, for the thought that the friendship of the +master of Kronstadt might yet serve her was strong in her mind, and +she acted upon it. +</p> + +<p> +“I could not tell you anything, General,” she said; “I should not have +the courage.” +</p> + +<p> +“The courage—not have the courage—with me? Oh, but I will give you +the courage; you shall lean upon me, mademoiselle. Ho, ho! you shall +lean upon me and be strong, and I will put the flowers in the +garden—the English flowers, hein? You shall find them and sing the +song again.” +</p> + +<p> +She answered with a coquette’s glance. The Dolls stared at their +father open-mouthed. They could not understand how it was that he +slept when they were with him, or answered them in reluctant grunts, +while no sooner was their governess in the room, than these spasms of +gesture and ridiculous antics seized upon him, and he became another +man. Nor did they recall an occasion when Mademoiselle Marian had +responded so willingly to his foolishness. The <i>rôle</i> of the demure +and shy little governess was cast off; she had become the coquette to +the “tips of her fingers.” Possibly, Mademoiselle Rina and +Mademoiselle Varia were very glad when old Colonel Bonzo entered the +room and put an end to such strange goings-on. +</p> + +<p> +“You are engaged, my General?” he said, standing motionless at the +door. +</p> + +<p> +Stefanovitch was on his feet in a moment. If he had shame to be +surprised in such employment, he did not show it. +</p> + +<p> +“You wait for me, Colonel?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, my General.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is news, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is grave news, Nikolai.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian, who had been turning over the leaves of a book, looked up +quickly. The tone in which the Man of Iron spoke, his neglect to pass +a word with her, were warnings of instinct. She felt the colour +rushing to her cheeks; her hands trembled upon the pages; a voice +whispered to her—a voice of her imagination—“Paul has told them that +is the news.” Excitement of the hour alone had enabled her to bear up +before the General and the children. She had almost cheated herself +into the idea that her alarms were foolish shadows created by her +fancy; but now, when she looked Bonzo full in the face, it was as +though the hand of the accuser already touched her shoulder. Grim, and +stern, and unbending, the Man of Iron watched her with a searching +gaze which stifled the words upon her lips and held her chained by +fear to the lounge. “He knows,” she thought; “he knows, and has come +here to tell the other. Paul has spoken, and this is the end.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle, voulez-vous monter en haut?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle, I have the wish to sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +The children spoke, and Marian rose with an effort. She turned to bow +to the men, but they had already left the room. She did not know that +minutes had elapsed while this agony of uncertainty troubled her. She +had not seen the stately salute with which the master of Kronstadt had +taken leave of her; the dreaded searching eyes of old Bonzo still +seemed to look her through and through, although the Colonel was no +longer in the room. They followed her, she thought, from the salon to +the bedrooms of the children; they watched her again in the corridor; +the same sensation of dread, and the desire to hide herself, was with +her when she entered her own apartment and locked the door, and sank, +weak, and trembling, and afraid, upon the couch. +</p> + +<p> +It was near to the hour of ten o’clock by this time, and the bugles +were blowing in the barracks of the town. Marian had heard them often +when she sat alone in the room, and had welcomed them as a message +coming from the haunts of men. She asked herself if she would hear +them to-morrow. She looked across the jagged sea, billowed with +pinnacles of ice and swirling floes, and found in it the frozen +barrier lying between her and freedom. She began to ask herself if she +could seek any place of shelter upon the island. Had it been summer, +some English ship might have given her harbourage; but now, when the +Gulf was wrestling with the fetters of the ice, and no ships could +venture from the harbours, what hope was there of that? She could +distinguish in the courtyard below her window the shining barrel of +the rifle which the sentry carried. The vast mass of the ramparts +beyond showed other sentries swiftly pacing the outworks of the fort. +The tomb could not have caged its victim more surely than Kronstadt +had caged the woman who had betrayed her. +</p> + +<p> +Midnight was struck in the town before she began to undress. Her +unwilling fingers went clumsily to the work; and when she had laid her +pretty gown upon the bed she asked herself if she had worn it for the +last time. Fear had wrought upon her nerves so pitilessly that she +could neither sit nor lie; but must be listening ever for the fall of +a foot in the corridor or the sound of voices in the courtyard +without. +</p> + +<p> +“They will come in five minutes—in ten,” she would say. And she began +to plan the defence she would make, repeating the excuses she must +plead and the arts she must practise. +</p> + +<p> +Or again, she would trust in the man’s love, telling herself that Paul +would not harm her, that he would find some way. She could not believe +that Fate would cut her off in a moment from the light of life and the +love of life, and that little world of self-content she had created. +All the comforts about her—the cheery fire in the stove, the pretty +chairs, the pictures, the bed wherein she had dreamed of little Dick +so often—she thought of these, and asked herself what magician’s wand +could spirit them away and set up in their place the reeking walls of +a prison. She had dared much, but the penalty of her daring remained +for her a phantom of her fears. +</p> + +<p> +Her long brown hair was tumbling upon her shoulders now, and she +passed from her sitting-room to the little white alcove wherein her +bed stood. All was very still and quiet here; she could distinguish no +longer the wash of the waters over the ice nor the tramp of the +sentries upon the ramparts. She shivered with the cold, and lay for +hours wondering why the great house slept and no one came to accuse +her. When, at last, the lagging dawn was winged, white and misty +across the sea, sleep took pity upon her, and a befriending dream put +her arms about the neck of the child she loved, and she held him close +to her; and anon she walked with him through the lanes and gardens of +her beloved England. Nor did she know that when next she slept it +would be in the lightless dungeon of Fort Alexander at Kronstadt. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch06"> +CHAPTER VI.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">THE HONOUR OF PAUL ZASSULIC.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Captain Paul</span> crossed the courtyard of the Governor’s house and began +to walk rapidly toward the town of Kronstadt. Marian had listened to +his footsteps as he went, but her thought that he would return again +was not in his mind. Indeed, he scarce knew whither he went or upon +what errand; so that the sentry crossed himself as he passed and said +that his officer was drunk with vodki, a condition which every +right-minded artilleryman considered to be the ultimate possibility of +bliss. But Paul never saw the man. The snow, white and crisp upon the +ramparts, was so much slush and mud beneath his feet. The keen north +wind nipped his ears and cast flakes of the driven hail into his eyes; +but he had no thought to draw his fur hood closer or to button up his +cloak. An impulse to flee the house, the city, to escape at any cost +from the terrible position he had been placed in, was paramount. Once +he thought that death was the way, and at that he stood very still in +the roadway and asked himself what would be the consequences of his +death. +</p> + +<p> +“It would not save her,” he thought; “she would be alone then. Even if +I hold my tongue they will know sooner or later. There is nothing +hidden long in Russia. It may be a week, it may be a month, but they +will know, and then——” +</p> + +<p> +He walked on with tremendous strides, ignoring the salutes of the +troopers who passed him by the way; deaf to the music in the cafés; +blind to the lights flashing over the frozen sea. His life had been so +barren of difficulties until this time; his duty had claimed absolute +and ready obedience. If anyone had told him a week ago that the day +would come when he would hesitate to do that duty, he would have +struck the speaker upon the mouth and have shot him afterwards. But he +loved Marian with a tenderness and a whole-hearted devotion of which +none but an honest man is capable. Proud of his own strength, her +helplessness and gentleness appealed to him with pathetic insistence. +If it had been permitted to him to suffer in her stead, he would have +laid down his own liberty gladly. He pictured her cast out from +civilisation, alone, and friendless, and weeping in the pitiless +prisons of Siberia. The sweet touch of her hands, when she had put +them about his neck and craved mercy of him, was an ecstasy of memory. +That she should ask mercy of him who had worshipped her so long in +silence, that was a bitter day indeed! +</p> + +<p> +“It cannot be—it cannot be,” he said to himself again and again. “She +did not send the plans to London; she did not mean to copy the map; it +is all a mistake; it will be proved so by-and-by. I will wait and see. +My God! if I should tell and she should be innocent! But she must be +innocent—she is!—I will swear it.” +</p> + +<p> +All the chivalry in his nature waged war with the more subtle +pleadings of conscience. He told himself that it would be a crime to +speak of what he had seen, or to take Marian’s words seriously, until +he was sure that she had sinned. “She did not know what she was doing. +They tempted her in London, but we cannot blame her for that. It is +impossible that she can have sent a correct map. We are strong enough +to laugh at a little enemy like that; and I shall make her our friend. +She will learn to love Russia as she has learned to love me.” +</p> + +<p> +He went on with a lighter step, happy in this contenting reflection. +But he was still oblivious of all about him—of the narrow streets of +the town which he entered, of the great looming buildings, of the +cathedral square, and of the soldiers’ cafés. When a man touched him +upon the shoulder and spoke to him, he awoke from his meditations as +one may wake from a broken sleep. +</p> + +<p> +“It is you, my Colonel! You wish to speak to me?” +</p> + +<p> +Old Bonzo, for he it was who had stopped him, laughed good humouredly. +</p> + +<p> +“You have long legs, Paul, my friend,” he said. “Do not let them walk +away with you into the sea. Upon my life, you look as though you had +seen a devil!” +</p> + +<p> +“I was in a hurry to get to barracks, Colonel; they will not begin +until I come, and it has struck nine.” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo’s eyes twinkled curiously. +</p> + +<p> +“Old Nikolai will be gone to his room and La Petite to her +children—hein, my friend? You can come away from the big house while +the Englishwoman is still at the piano? I do not believe it. Ho, ho! +She is not well to-night, and that is why you walk fast.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul shrugged his shoulders impatiently. He was thinking that Marian’s +very life might depend upon his words. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle Best is now in the salon,” he said unconcernedly; “you +will find her there if you are going up. For myself, I prefer the +conversation of my friends.” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo gave a great guffaw and slapped the younger man upon the +shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“You shall tell that to the little Englishwoman to-morrow. I will +remind you of the words. When I go up to the house just now it will be +something to talk about. My friend Paul running away from the +petticoats! Bon Dieu! what a spectacle! Come and drink a glass of wine +with me, my son, for I have news for you.” +</p> + +<p> +They turned into a café, and the Colonel called for the wine of +Burgundy. The place was full and busy, the gold and green of many +uniforms shining under the tremulous rays of many brilliant lamps. But +they got a table to themselves, and Paul hastened to gulp down a glass +of wine that he might hide his curiosity from one who could read and +interpret the slightest gesture of friend or enemy. +</p> + +<p> +“Your news is from London, Colonel?” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo nodded his head and pretended to light a cigar that he might +watch the face of his companion. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, “from London.” +</p> + +<p> +“And, of course, the story we were talking about the other day proves +to be ridiculous.” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo leaned over the table and whispered his answer. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not ridiculous at all; it is true. The map which was sent is a +correct map. Every gun is marked; the depths of the channels are +given. The names of the garrison are accurate. We could not have made +a better map ourselves.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul sat very white and still. He was asking himself whether he should +feign surprise or doubt. A little reflection led him to believe that +doubt would serve him better than surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Quelle sottise!” he said, leaning back in his chair and smoking +quickly. “You do not believe that story, my Colonel?” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo took up his glass. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe every word of it,” he said; “more than that, I know it is +true.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then there is a spy in the city! My God, what a thing to hear!” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo drank off his wine at a draught. +</p> + +<p> +“Tut!” he said indifferently, “we shall know how to deal with it. And +mark you, my son, it would be another thing altogether if the man who +made the map were out of the city. It is just because we have him +trapped by the ice here that I can drink a glass of wine with you +instead of hurrying to the General with the news. To-morrow, perhaps, +we shall go and look for this man. There is no need to disturb +ourselves. No letters can leave us, no more maps can be sent to +London—at present. Why should we hurry? There is plenty of time, and +we do not see a man shot every day.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul started in spite of himself. +</p> + +<p> +“But you don’t shoot spies when there is no war,” he exclaimed +hurriedly. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a fashion of speaking, my son. For my part, I would shoot no +one when there is the whip—when you have only to raise your finger +so, and your enemy is an enemy no more.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you are sure that the man is still in the city?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know it!” cried Bonzo, bringing his fist down on the table with a +great crash. “You will know it too, directly. You shall see the fellow +for yourself. Who can say? perhaps we shall send him to you at +Alexander. To-morrow you must have the cell swept, and the irons +ready, and the whip waiting. Certainly, we shall know how to deal with +it; but with those at the capital it is another thing. Voyez-vous, mon +ami, we can say no longer it is a jest, there is no spy in Kronstadt. +If we report this arrest, there must be inquiry, blame, recrimination. +But if we do not report it”—here Bonzo lowered his voice until it was +but a whisper—“if we do not report it, and the man who made the map +should die in the cell at Fort Alexander—hein, how would they accuse +us then? You understand, my friend?” +</p> + +<p> +Paul’s heart beat quicker, for he understood perfectly. They would +flog the spy to death in the dungeons of Fort Alexander, that blame +might not rest upon their own shoulders. At the same time he did not +fail to remark that his companion spoke always of “the man.” Marian’s +secret was safe then! +</p> + +<p> +“It is a clever thought, my Colonel,” he said quickly. “Why should we +be bullied by people at Petersburg who do not know of our +difficulties? If I were the General, I would report nothing. But he +must be sure of the man; and is he sure? You say that he is, and I +believe you. But I should be glad to see him for myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall see him to-morrow,” said Bonzo rising and buttoning his +greatcoat about him, “meanwhile, Captain, do not let us forget our +responsibilities. There is no officer here who should not be ashamed +that this work was ever finished; there is none who should not say to +himself, ‘My duty must be done.’ You have said so, I know. You will do +your duty and nothing will stand between you and the Czar you serve.” +</p> + +<p> +He laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder almost affectionately. +Paul shuddered at the touch and the words, for he seemed to read a +deeper meaning in them. He told himself that he was already a traitor +in his heart, for he had kept the great secret, had kept it with an +effort which was an agony. +</p> + +<p> +When he left the Colonel at the door of the café, the lights of +Kronstadt were dancing before his eyes; a fever of self-reproach and +doubt heated his blood and quickened his step as he went onwards to +the barracks. +</p> + +<p> +“They will know to-morrow,” he said again and again; “they will know +to-morrow, and she must suffer.” +</p> + +<p> +And he was impotent to serve her, impotent to do anything but remember +his love for her and bewail the doom she had brought upon herself. +</p> + +<p> +Those who met Paul Zassulic in the streets that night declared that he +walked with the step of a drunken man. He passed them without +recognition, or jostled them rudely from the pavements. Here and there +he was upon the brink of a brawl. A cornet meeting him before the +Observatory, and being thrust aside with little ceremony, ran after +him to call him “hobbledehoy.” When Paul turned swiftly the youth +slunk off. There was no better pistol shot, no quicker swordsman in +Kronstadt than the young captain of artillery. Men spoke of his +cleverness as a thing of which the city was proud. Bullies gave him +the wall and proclaimed their desire to meet him only before other +bullies. He had proved his courage in many a difficult moment; his +word was a bond to them. Could they have read his mind as he stalked +past them on his way to the barracks, they would have known that +courage was now wrestling with the agony of self-reproach; that he was +saying to himself, “I will tell at midnight, at dawn, before the sun +sets to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +A hearty welcome always awaited him in barracks, but to-night the men +who rose to make way for him could not suppress an exclamation upon +his appearance. +</p> + +<p> +“You are ill, mon vieux!” +</p> + +<p> +“Fichtre! you have plastered your face with the snow, Paul.” +</p> + +<p> +“He has quarrelled with La Petite, and comes here to be cured.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul turned upon the speaker, a grinning ensign, savagely. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold your tongue, or I will cut it out,” he said, and the boy slunk +from the room. +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing the matter with me,” he continued, throwing off his +cloak and helping himself liberally to the absinthe ready upon the +table, “or, if there is,” he added, “it is the wine of old Bonzo. I +have been drinking with him up there. You understand?” +</p> + +<p> +The men exchanged glances swiftly. Some shrugged their shoulders, +others fidgeted with packs of cards in their hands. Paul turned to the +cards as to a refuge from perplexity. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you waiting for?” he said brusquely. “Is it to make more +complaints about my appearance? You, Sergius, Karl, are you going to +sleep there all night? or is it Lent which troubles you?” +</p> + +<p> +The lieutenants addressed rose from their chairs and seated themselves +in silence at the card table. They were asking themselves what was the +matter with their friend. They had a vague idea that the Englishwoman +was at the bottom of it; but were too careful of their skins to hazard +the opinion openly. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall win your money, Sergius, and cure my headache,” cried Paul +boisterously, as his friend began to deal; “there is always a headache +if you meet Bonzo after dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is sometimes a headache if you meet him in the morning,” said +Karl, throwing a card upon the table. “That is the worst of these +silent men; you are always asking yourself what they are thinking +about, and so you get a headache. What is more, you never find out the +thing that perplexes you. I would wager old Bonzo against the devil at +any kind of cheat or cunning you like to name. He can read the papers +which lie in your pocket-book; I have known him to do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did he drink Burgundy to-night?” asked Sergius, passing some roubles +across the table with the air of a man not yet warmed to the game. “I +keep out of his way when he drinks Burgundy—it is a danger signal. +Champagne, now, that means peace, and possibly a pair of twinkling +eyes. He has even patted me on the shoulder with the paw of a +domesticated bear—after champagne.” +</p> + +<p> +“There will be no twinkling eyes to-morrow,” exclaimed an onlooker who +watched the game. “You have heard that he has news from the Prince—at +least, that is the story. It should mean that we are to learn all +about the map which went to London.” +</p> + +<p> +Sergius laughed; Paul continued to watch his cards. +</p> + +<p> +“For my part,” continued the speaker, while he lighted a cigarette +indolently, “I do not believe any such story—pas si bête. Someone +has played a joke upon the English, and we are paying for it with all +this fuss and trouble. As if a woman——” +</p> + +<p> +“A woman!” cried Paul, looking up suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; have you not heard? They say that the map was drawn by a woman. +There is no doubt of it. Our own people in London have been at work, +and they are sure that a woman’s hand is to be traced. It is an +extraordinary story—to be told to a fool.” +</p> + +<p> +The man strolled away to the stove, while the others played intently +for a little while, until, indeed, Paul of a sudden threw down his +cards and rose from the table. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot play,” he stammered; “you must excuse me, mes amis; my head +is going round. It is the cursed wine which old Bonzo drinks. I shall +walk in the cool air and then go to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +He threw his cloak about his shoulders and quitted the room with no +further exchange of words. The cry of one of his companions, that he +had left his money upon the table, did not arrest him. He was saying +to himself over and over again, “A woman’s hand—they know that the +map was drawn by a woman!” He had the desire to run up to the great +house to warn Marian that the hour had come. He dared not to think +that he had touched her lips for the last time; nevertheless a voice +told him that it must be so. The blow was about to fall, the gate of +the prison to shut upon the woman for whom he would have laid down his +life. +</p> + +<p> +“Sacre bleu!” cried Sergius the lieutenant, staring after the +retreating figure. “So Paul is like that to-night. And he has left his +roubles.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” said Karl “He has gone up to see La Petite; he goes +there every night. They have quarrelled, I say, and he is off to tell +her that it was his fault. He will not be in such a hurry by-and-by. +He should have waited. It is much prettier to forgive a woman than to +be forgiven by her, and it does not cost you forty roubles.” +</p> + +<p> +“Or make you ridiculous,” said one of the ensigns. “For my part, I +would not lose my temper for any woman in Russia.” +</p> + +<p> +Sergius cut the cards idly. +</p> + +<p> +“Vive la jeunesse!” he exclaimed gaily, “you will know better +by-and-by, mon vieux. I used to talk like that when I was twenty; but +I would not look twice now at any woman who could not provoke me. +Fichtre! it is not love at all until you have made her angry. And he +is very much in love, for he forgot to finish his absinthe. Let us go +to the square and hear more of the news from London. There will be +plenty to talk about by-and-by if the Sasha does not laugh at us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course he laughs at us,” replied Karl; “how should it be +otherwise? Where is the woman who could make a map of Battery 3? Who +took her there, and where did she learn her gunnery? It is a child’s +tale and the General is wise enough to laugh at it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Child’s tale or not,” chimed in the grinning ensign who had spoken of +La Petite when Paul first entered the room, “there has been one woman +in the battery. I saw her there myself. She took tea with Captain Paul +a week ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean the Englishwoman?” asked Sergius, turning swiftly upon him. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly. Ask Seroff if you do not believe me.” +</p> + +<p> +A great silence fell upon the room, the silence of embarrassment and +of sudden revelation. There was only one man there who did not love +Paul Zassulic, and he had spoken. The others heard his words, but knew +not how to answer. +</p> + +<p> +“You shall tell Paul that in the morning,” said Sergius, breaking a +troublesome silence; “it will amuse him and amuse us afterwards.” But +to the others he said, “This is no place for the friends of my friend. +Who is going with me to the square?” +</p> + +<p> +They went out together, leaving the ensign alone in the room. They did +not speak to each other of the meaning of the things they had heard; +the honour of a friend was in their keeping. +</p> + +<p> +Paul, meanwhile, had retraced his steps to the Governor’s house, and +now paced the courtyard regardless of the hour or of the night. +Streams of light were cast out upon the hazy air from many rooms in +the forbidding and barrack-like building; but one room alone was for +his eyes. He could distinguish, through the interstice of the +curtains, the depending lamp and the gilt mirror upon which Marian +displayed her photographs. Once he saw her pass the window swiftly, +her hair falling upon her shoulders. He was tempted to scout prudence +and to speak to her again before she slept. Although he had quarters +in Nikolai Stefanovitch’s house—for he was attached to the staff—it +was long before he could find the courage to enter or to learn what +Bonzo had done. The little star of light shining from the window of +the English girl’s room was for him as the lamp of a sanctuary. He +tortured himself with thoughts of Marian sleeping in the shadow of the +doom; he remembered her prettiness, her gentleness, her winning pride. +He said that they would crush that pride in the dust of suffering and +humiliation. The cruel severity with which the keepers of the gate of +Russia could punish even their own children was remembered by him with +loathing and regret. They would put unnameable indignities upon her, +he said. He foresaw the day when the childish face must become the +haggard face of the woman branded with the furrows of pain, and +torture, and mental agony. He swore that he would save her, though her +fate should become his own; and, swearing, he cursed his own impotence +and the very uniform he wore. +</p> + +<p> +Snow fell in lagging flakes at this time; the wind had fallen +somewhat, so that all sounds, other than the sound of men’s footsteps, +were plainly to be heard. Paul observed the passing lights in the +great house, but could detect no omen of warning. The lamp in Marian’s +room was a message to him telling of her safety. He could peer in +through the window of the General’s cabinet and make out old Bonzo +standing by the side of the writing-table; but the Colonel’s attitude +was one of patient waiting, and it reassured him. “It is not for +to-night,” he told himself; “it may never be at all. Even if they know +that the map was drawn by a woman’s hand, how can they trace it to +her? If they had any news she would not be sleeping in her room, she +would be in——” +</p> + +<p> +He ground his heel into the snow when he dared thus to think of the +possibilities. His mind was made up that he would stand sentinel no +more. He feared the observation, the chatter of the sentries. Old +Bonzo might find him in the courtyard when he returned to barracks; he +could imagine no greater calamity than to raise suspicion in the mind +of the Man of Iron. And this fear drove him into the house at last, +but with reluctant and halting steps. His own room, the bare room of a +soldier, was in the north wing, remote from Marian’s, but not so +remote that he could not hear the creak of her door when it opened or +shut. Nor did he enter before he had walked with a woman’s step to the +end of the corridor and had listened a little while to assure himself +that she slept. Then, delaying but a moment before the cabinet of the +General, he turned wearily to his bed and lay long listening for the +voice of Bonzo and for sleep to come upon the great house. +</p> + +<p> +There was no light in his room, nor had he kindled one. The moonbeams, +striking upward from the glittering fields of snow, made glorious +lamps of the night to shed a softening radiance upon all things. He +welcomed them, for they spoke of rest, and sleep, and the balm of the +mind. He thought that they were playing upon the face of her he loved; +putting a crown of gold about her white forehead and kissing her eyes +with the kiss of dreams. When sleep took pity upon him at last, he was +carried in thought to the night of carnival and the love message it +bore him. He walked with her again through the silent streets of +Kronstadt, but anon, as he walked, she fell at his feet and a scream +of terror awakened the sleeping city. No word, no prayer of his could +hush that cry of dolour which he heard in his dream. It rang in his +ears, terrifying him; he bore her in his arms, but awakened troopers +pursued him; men came from the looming buildings to exclaim upon her; +he looked back upon the grim forts and mighty ramparts, and the angel +of death hovered over them; he clasped his burden the closer in his +arms and ran on; but the cry was unchecked, and phantoms of pursuit +multiplied until they became an army. +</p> + +<p> +And so he awoke and sprang from his bed. There was a glimmer of +sunshine in his room, but the woman’s cry he had heard in his dream +still rang out in the silence of the great house. He listened for one +instant of agony and then reeled to the door. The corridor without was +full of the figures of gunners; he saw Bonzo, silent and grim; he saw +Marian, white and trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“My God!” he cried, “the hour has come!” +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch07"> +CHAPTER VII.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">PAUL BEARS WITNESS.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Paul</span> returned to his room and began to dress, maladroitly, but with +some deliberation. The irons upon Marian’s wrists seemed to hurt his +own hands; her cry still echoed in his ears. He heard the heavy tramp +of feet in the passage; he thought he could distinguish the voice of +General Stefanovitch; but anon these sounds died away and silence fell +upon the house again. He said that it was typical of the silence which +henceforth must wait upon his life. He thought that he had looked upon +the woman he loved for the last time. She had gone from him with that +terrible appeal upon her lips; to what fate he knew not, save that the +impassable gates had shut upon her, that the herald of the living +death had struck her down. +</p> + +<p> +He was glad that she had not seen him when he stood for a moment at +his door and watched the gunners drag her from her room. The pitiful +figure, the babyish face, the beseeching eyes, would be for him the +everlasting remembrance of her. He knew well that the measure of her +guilt or innocence was not to be weighed by those who were to judge +her. She, the mere girl, alone and unaided, had set herself against +the might and the power and the terrible justice of Kronstadt, and had +been vanquished in the contest. She had looked upon the world of light +for the last time. No cry of hers would ever be heard by the world +again. She would go from the city and none would dare to ask whither. +</p> + +<p> +Now that the blow had fallen, Paul was surprised that his mind was so +ready to serve him and that he could think so clearly. The arrest of +Marian lifted one burden at least from his shoulders. There was no +longer a confession to make, he argued. That which he knew was known +also to the governors of the citadel. And he must defend himself from +the possibilities of suspicion; must be ready with words of surprise +and wonder. He alone in Russia remained the friend of the stricken +woman; for her sake he would dare anything in the hope that he might +yet be of service to her. And this hope began to give him courage, he +knew not why. His clumsy fingers became supple; he dressed swiftly and +walked boldly from the house. Old Bonzo was in the courtyard waiting +for his chief to come out. Smart and trim, with well-squared shoulders +and firm tread, the Man of Iron greeted the young officer with no more +concern than if this had been a <i>festa</i> and they had been going +together for a picnic on the sea. +</p> + +<p> +“Bon jour, Captain Paul; I see you well this morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Colonel; and you?” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo’s eyes twinkled cunningly. +</p> + +<p> +“All my nights are good,” he said; “it is the old bird who knows how +to roost. And I am just going to breakfast with a lady. You hear, my +son; then you will not tell madame—hein?” +</p> + +<p> +His jocund efforts were like the labour of a shire horse. They angered +Paul, whose feverish impatience scarcely brooked control. +</p> + +<p> +“Colonel,” he exclaimed, unable to hold his tongue any longer; “it is +said that they have just arrested Mademoiselle Best. Is the news +true?” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo stopped suddenly in his walk. +</p> + +<p> +“You know that it is true, Captain Paul.” +</p> + +<p> +“I, my Colonel? how should I know?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because you stood at your door while they were taking her down +yonder.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul bit his lip. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly I saw that, but I did not know the meaning of it. You +suspect her, then, my Colonel?” +</p> + +<p> +“We suspect her so far that we know it was her hand which drew the map +of Battery 3.” +</p> + +<p> +“Her hand, my Colonel—a woman’s hand! But she is as ignorant as a +child.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul wished to assume an air of great surprise, but his gesture was +false, his voice had a hollow ring in it. Bonzo watched him with +little twinkling eyes and read him as he would have read a book. +</p> + +<p> +“You shall learn how ignorant she is when the accusation is made just +now, my son. Did I not tell you that I would show you the spy this +morning? Well, if you will go up to the ramparts, you will see her in +the launch which carries her to Alexander. We will follow her there +when the General is ready, Captain Paul. It is not every day that we +can breakfast with a lady in Kronstadt.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot believe it!” cried Paul; “I cannot believe that she could +have——” +</p> + +<p> +“Cannot believe it! Bon Dieu! you tell that to me when you know that +it is true, when you know—but I will leave you to tell us what you +know, my son. I will leave you to remember that you are a servant of +the Czar. You do not forget that, Captain Paul.” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo’s voice rang out in varying notes, loud and accusing, or gentle +and cooing. All the colour left Paul’s face when the words were +spoken. He had a great awe of the man whose eyes could read his very +thoughts; he began to ask himself, “What has he learned? What has he +seen?” But Bonzo, who served a purpose with every word, now laid his +hand upon the shoulder of the younger man and the gesture was a kind +one. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” he said, “I do not forget that you are a man as well as a +soldier, Paul. Go and get your café and then meet me upon the quay. +We will cross together, and you shall hear the story for yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul thanked him incoherently and hurried away. The Colonel watched +him as he went, and with no unfriendly eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“There goes a lover bewitched by a pretty face,” he said at last. “He +will come to reason by-and-by, or, if he does not, we shall know how +to deal with him. We will send him to the fort often. If there is +anything more between them, that will be the opportunity to find it +out.” +</p> + +<p> +Content with this design, Bonzo resumed his measured walk; but Paul +went swiftly through the town, avoiding the haunts of his fellows. He +saw nothing, heard nothing of the awakening life about him. “Marian is +arrested,” were the words ever whispered into his ear. Men saluted +him, he forgot to observe or to return their greeting; the sun shone +brightly, but for him the city was in darkness. “They will send her to +the mines, they will torture her,” he thought. The moment when he must +see her again was one to be dreaded. He feared his own courage, for he +knew that his courage alone could save her—if she was to be +saved—from the terrible days to come. +</p> + +<p> +It was eight o’clock when he arrived at the quay, and Bonzo had not +yet come down. Paul entered a little café just by the merchants’ +harbour, and called for tea and for prune brandy. There were many +soldiers and sailors in the place, but their talk convinced him that +they had no news of that which had happened. He began to see that the +authorities would keep their acts as secret as possible; but whether +this would help or hinder him, he could not say. He remembered Bonzo’s +words—if the prisoner should die in Fort Alexander, what inquiry +would then be held? He knew that they would not put a woman to death; +but Russian prisons have other weapons whereby the ends of death are +attained. Paul’s hand shook when he lifted the glass to his lips; he +left the café, driven on by all the impulses of fear and dread. “She +shall not die!” he said, and then laughed nervously at his own +helplessness. +</p> + +<p> +Fort Alexander, with its one hundred and sixteen guns, 8 and 10 inch, +in casemates, is perhaps the most imposing of the seven detached forts +which stand up, islets of steel and stone, in the southern channel of +Kronstadt. Built entirely of granite, in the shape of an ellipse, +there are four tiers of embrasures in its front; while its rear wall +bristles with great guns <i>en barbette</i>. A foundation of piles driven +down in a channel, here eighteen feet deep, carries the tremendous +blocks of which the battery is constructed, and its guns are so placed +that they cross fires with the guns of Fort Peter and of Battery 3, +thus rendering impassable the one narrow channel by which an enemy’s +ships must seek passage to Petersburg. The interior of the fort has +all the aspect of a gloomy and forbidding prison. Dark cell-like rooms +accommodate the garrison in charge of it. There are other cells below +into which the light of day never comes, tomb-like cavities hidden in +the very womb of the citadel. Upon this morning of Marian’s trial, +late in the month of February, the breaking ice scarred and groaned +beneath the bastions of the fort, but the sappers had blasted a +passage for the small steam launch with which the garrison reached the +merchants’ harbour, and through this passage General Stefanovitch and +two of his staff were carried to see the prisoner who had been +arrested so surprisingly in the earlier hours of the morning. +</p> + +<p> +Paul was already in the vaulted stone chamber where the inquiry was to +be held when Stefanovitch and Bonzo entered together. The General +answered his salute but did not speak. Bonzo exchanged a quick glance +with him and then busied himself with the bundle of papers which +seemed inseparable from his equipment. So dark was the place that the +figure of the sergeant at the door was like some phantom shape. The +feeble candles, flickering upon the table, cast a weirdly yellow light +on the faces of those who sat within their aureola. Paul saw that +Nikolai Stefanovitch looked wretchedly ill. The very neatness of dress +and affectation of manner aggravated the pallor and unrest of his +face. His hands wandered aimlessly, now touching a pen, now a paper, +now seeking to straighten the hair which should have been upon his +shining forehead. When he ordered the prisoner to be brought in, his +voice was hollow and unnatural. He cast his eyes upon the table and +did not look at the woman before him. Paul, in his turn, shrank back +into the shadows. He saw Marian enter that gloomy chamber, and the +impulse to speak to her, to stand at her side, was almost +irresistible. But prudence kept him still. He had decided upon the +part he would play; the keen air from the sea had stimulated him +mentally and bodily. He had said to himself, “I alone am her friend, +and I will save her.” +</p> + +<p> +They had arrested the girl shortly after sunrise, that none in the +town might whisper abroad the business upon which she had been carried +to Fort Alexander. So great was their haste that she had scarce time +to bind up her untidy tresses of silky brown hair or to get furs +against the cold of dawn. But she had used the intervening hours in +winning from the Sergeant permission to practise those arts which help +a woman’s victory. Paul said that she never looked so pretty. She +entered the gloomy room with a laugh upon her lips. The dainty head +was thrown back disdainfully; the fur about her neck and wrists +contrasted with the exquisite whiteness of her skin; her gesture was +one of amusement and of surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she cried mockingly, “comme je suis effrayée, comme je me sens +criminelle.” +</p> + +<p> +Stefanovitch looked up from his papers. +</p> + +<p> +“Silence,” he exclaimed sharply, and there was that in his voice which +compelled obedience. Paul trembled for her then. +</p> + +<p> +“She will act a part, and they will condemn her out of her own mouth,” +he thought. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” said Stefanovitch, beginning to address her in a low +voice, “there is no need for me to tell you why you are brought here; +you are as well aware of the reasons as I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, General, I know nothing of your reasons.” +</p> + +<p> +The lines upon Stefanovitch’s face hardened perceptibly, but he did +not display any anger. +</p> + +<p> +“We will not argue the point,” he said quickly. “If I speak to you +this morning, here in this room, it is in the hope that you will help +us to lighten the punishment which your actions have deserved. For +some months now you have been sending to the British Government in +London such information concerning Kronstadt as our hospitality put +you in possession of. Within the course of the last month you have +sold for money a plan of Battery 3, and have prepared other plans +which, but for our prudence and foresight, would now have left the +city. It is not for me to tell you, mademoiselle, that these things +are an outrage upon the hospitality you have received. You came here +to us as a stranger, and we made you as one of our own people. We +trusted you as we should have trusted a daughter. It is possible that +you are unaware of the heinous nature of your crime and are willing to +atone so far as it is in your power. Should that be so, you have now +the opportunity to tell us how you came to do this thing, and whose +was the help and the promise you relied upon. The truth alone can help +you here, mademoiselle. I rely upon your good sense and your +cleverness to withhold nothing from us.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused and looked the girl full in the face. She had ceased to +laugh, for his accusation, that she had outraged the hospitality of +those who had befriended her, was one that she could not jest with. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not wish to be ungrateful,” she cried despairingly; “I did not +wish to injure or hurt any of those who have been kind to me. I drew +the map to send to a friend in London; he asked me for it, and I did +not think you would mind. It was such a little thing, and you are so +strong. Oh, General, you will not judge me for that; you will not +believe me guilty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” interrupted Stefanovitch sternly, “of your guilt there +is no doubt. Believe me that it is idle for you to stand there and +seek to mislead us. We do not imagine what you have done, we know.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know, monsieur!” +</p> + +<p> +“We know,” repeated Stefanovitch; “our chain of evidence is complete. +Six months ago this friend of yours in London, your cousin, +mademoiselle, told you that the British Government was willing to pay +a heavy price for such facts concerning the new forts here as it had +been unable to find out for itself. He sent you, at the same time, the +book which described how that other spy, your fellow-countryman, +obtained the secrets of Vladivostok. That work was your guide. As the +man had learned to measure a fort by pacing it, so you measured our +batteries. You sought to make us believe in your ignorance and your +childishness that you might win our confidence and profit by the sale +of it. You spied upon us while you were receiving our hospitality. You +feigned friendship for us that we might betray our secrets to you. You +entered even my own cabinet to copy the maps which lie there. Was that +also to amuse your friend in London, mademoiselle?” +</p> + +<p> +Marian shivered. She turned toward Paul eyes which beseeched his help, +but he stood silent. For a moment she sought still to wear the mask of +indifference and of ignorance, but the laugh froze upon her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not true!” she exclaimed wildly; “you cannot know that. I did +not steal the maps in your cabinet. How could I have done so? It is a +foolish tale.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” said Stefanovitch, raising his hand warningly, “there +is no need to add to your guilt by falsehood. I am waiting to hear +that you are willing to tell us the names of your friends both in +Russia and in England.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will tell you nothing!” she answered doggedly. “You know nothing. +The falsehood is yours, monsieur. You have no right to bring me here. +I am an Englishwoman; you dare not harm me! I will write to England. +You are cowards to torture me with these questions.” +</p> + +<p> +She clasped her hands together and stamped her foot angrily, for +excitement had mastered her, and, having robbed her of her arts, had +left the woman, weak and resourceless, but with courage undaunted. As +for her lover, the accusation with which she was charged stunned him. +They were the very words she herself had spoken in the privacy of her +own room when he had discovered her secret fifteen hours ago. There +was no longer a loophole for him. “I must tell all, for they know +all,” he argued. And yet his pity for her was an agony. Her +childishness, her helplessness, the days of suffering awaiting her, +prompted him to dare everything, to take her in his arms and ask that +he might suffer with her. When anon he heard his own name called, and +must come out into the light to answer the questions of the General, +his tongue, his limbs, seemed paralysed. He spoke in a thick voice and +swayed often against the slight table. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Zassulic,” said Stefanovitch, “you have heard this woman’s +story. Have you anything to say to it?” +</p> + +<p> +Paul squared his shoulders. He dare not look at Marian; the figures +around seemed unreal and shadowy. +</p> + +<p> +“I have heard the story, my General,” he stammered. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it true or false, Captain?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is false, my General.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are sure of that? Then please to give us your reasons.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul leaned against the table and put his hand to his throat as though +to compel himself to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Last night you sent me to your room, General, to leave there the +despatches from the Prince. It was at eight o’clock—after you had +dined—at eight o’clock, my General.” +</p> + +<p> +He wiped his brow with his hand and stared about the room in a dazed +way. For a moment his eyes rested on the face of the girl. She was +looking at him as she would have looked at one risen from the dead to +accuse her. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Stefanovitch, “we are waiting for you, Captain.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul squared his shoulders again. He began to remember that the words +which now condemned the woman might save her in the end. +</p> + +<p> +“When I entered the corridor,” he said, speaking quickly, “there was a +light in the room, General; the Englishwoman was there. She was +copying one of the maps which she had taken from the shelf.” +</p> + +<p> +“To amuse her brother in London,” grunted Bonzo, who had stood +hitherto, motionless and voiceless, at the side of his master. +</p> + +<p> +But Marian did not hear him. She had fallen in a swoon, and, senseless +still, they carried her back to her cell. +</p> + +<p> +“Pshaw!” said old Bonzo, folding up his +</p> + +<figure> + <a href="images/img_106.jpg" id="img_106"> + <img src="images/img_106_th.jpg" alt="img_106"> + </a> + <figcaption> + “BUT MARIAN DID NOT HEAR HIM. SHE HAD FALLEN IN A SWOON” + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p class="noindent"> +papers quickly, “we waste time, my General. If I were in your shoes I +would flog the truth out of her. She is not alone here, be sure. There +are others.” +</p> + +<p> +“It shall be your work to learn their names, Colonel,” cried +Stefanovitch, rising from the table. “Stand at nothing which your duty +dictates. And to you, Captain, I would say that the Emperor is happy +in such servants. Let the woman be watched night and day. I count upon +you, my friends, in this hour of danger, upon your zeal and your +silence. Our honour is at stake, and we shall know how to guard it.” +</p> + +<p> +He saluted and returned to his launch; but old Bonzo lingered a moment +to whisper a word in Paul’s ear. +</p> + +<p> +“There were two prisoners this morning, my son,” he said, with a +kindly pat of his great hand, “two prisoners, but one is acquitted.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean, my Colonel——” +</p> + +<p> +“That the woman was watched last night, and that the words you have +just spoken saved your life.” +</p> + +<p> +He lurched from the room to join his chief, but Paul remained long +standing by the table where the damning words were spoken. +</p> + +<p> +“She will never believe,” he thought. “I have lost her love. God help +me!” +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch08"> +CHAPTER VIII.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">AFTER FORTY DAYS.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> iron hand of winter relaxed its grip upon Kronstadt when the +last bitter winds of March had exhausted themselves. Gentle breezes +followed upon the devastating gales; trees blossomed generously as the +snow sank through the face of the land, and the grass lifted its head +again. No longer was the sea imprisoned nor the ships that had +wintered in the merchants’ harbour. Marian, awake through long nights +in her cell at Fort Alexander, could hear the waves gambolling in +their new-found freedom or surging heavily against the granite walls +with which the vast fort opposed them. There were even days when a +kindly ray of sunlight came down through the barred windows and shone +upon the icon set up in the corner of the dungeon. Marian welcomed +these days, though her welcome was not without a certain pathos. She +remembered that it was spring-time in Devonshire and that the child +was alone. An intense longing for the freedom of the lanes and the +perfume of the flowers possessed her. It was not that the intended +discomforts of the cell galled her, for she was schooled now to +privation and to suffering; she had made up her mind to pay the +penalty which was the guerdon of her rashness. But the thought that +she was never to hear little Dick’s voice again, that he was dependent +now upon charity for the very food he ate, drove her almost to +madness. She had been forty days in prison; she asked herself how it +would be when days had become years. +</p> + +<p> +Few visited her cell in those first hours of silence. They had sent a +woman from the Governor’s house to wait upon her, and she had seen the +Sergeant once or twice, though he had never spoken to her. But old +Bonzo came nearly every day and brought always the same promise. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell us the truth, mademoiselle,” he would say, “and it will be well +with you. There is a room in Fort Katherine where you can see the sun +and watch the ships upon the sea. You shall go there when you are +sensible. But first we must know the names of those who helped +you—your friends in Kronstadt, your friends in London. You cannot +save them by silence. We shall catch them sooner or later; we shall +know how to reward you when you help us in the attempt.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no friends,” she would answer. “I have told you the truth. I +was poor, and they tempted me. I can tell you nothing more.” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo would lose his temper at this, and threaten her, but her courage +remained unbroken. +</p> + +<p> +“You shall have the whip, and we will see what you can tell us then,” +he would cry. “Do you think to defy us, mademoiselle? Sapristi! I +could crush you with my fingers.” +</p> + +<p> +“They are large enough, monsieur,” she said simply. +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo would leave the cell and slam the door after such a scene. He +had hesitated until this time to carry out any of the threats he +uttered so glibly. He did not forget that Marian Best was an +Englishwoman; that the day might come when her story would be made +public. But he left nothing undone which could appeal to the natural +weakness of the woman; and there was a morning when she was carried up +to see a man flogged in the courtyard of the fort. The lash falling +brutally upon the bare flesh seemed to cut her own shoulders; the +screams and groans of the wretched victim were so many appeals for her +merciful intercession; she swooned when she saw the blood flow, but +her answer to Bonzo was unchanged. +</p> + +<p> +“You are cowards here,” she said, “and you are not clever in your +cowardice! You do not know the truth when you hear it. And you have no +manners, monsieur. Oh, you do not frighten me at all. I laugh when you +look like that. If you could only see yourself, you would laugh too.” +</p> + +<p> +She bore herself bravely indeed; but when the iron door groaned upon +its hinges, and she was left alone, and no sound but the surging of +the sea against the bastions was borne in to her from without, she +would sink down upon the bed, and tears and wretchedness would conquer +her. She had no longer a friend in all the world, she said. Her love +for Paul struggled for a while bravely against the damning testimony +he had given in the council-room. She was clever enough to think that +possibly some deep and hidden meaning was behind his words; but when +the days passed and he did not come, when no message, no word from him +reached her, the well of her love began to be dried up; she accounted +him her friend no more; she was, in spirit and in thought, a +broken-hearted woman. +</p> + +<p> +The morning of the fortieth day dawned generously, for there was a +gift of April sunshine in her room and the gaunt stone walls were +touched with its warming glow. Marian awoke at daybreak, and being +permitted to walk for an hour upon the ramparts—a concession made to +her but thrice in the weeks of her imprisonment—she beheld the town +again and wondered that the sun of spring could so transform it. Even +the grim shapes of the barracks were softened by the splendour of the +morning light. She could distinguish the gilded domes and minarets of +the churches; the cramped yet picturesque houses huddled about the +merchants’ harbour; the masts of ships in the docks; the stately hulls +of ironclads and cruisers; could hear the blasts of bugles, the shrill +piping of whistles, the clank of the great hammers at the arsenal. But +the sunshine touched every outstanding object with its transforming +rays. The muzzles of the great guns, peeping from the tremendous mole +of the island, were capped with gold; there were flashes of fire upon +all the bright places of the ships; the sea sparkled and foamed and +rolled merrily over the silver shallows of sand. She could perceive +the Ingrian coast and the woods creeping down to the water’s edge; it +was for her an emblem of the life she had lost. The very beauty of the +morning awoke in her that intense longing for liberty which is the +swift punishment of the prisoner. Everywhere the new day spoke of life +and work and the gladness of being; but for her it had no message. +</p> + +<p> +The short hour passed all too swiftly. She returned to her cell at +seven o’clock and to the meagre repast prepared for her. She asked +herself, while she drank the welcome tea and ate the coarse bread, if +Bonzo would come again upon that morning to threaten her or cajole her +as he had threatened and cajoled so often. An inconquerable spirit of +mischief prompted her to tell him some fool’s tale with which he might +occupy himself for a season. When someone knocked at her door +presently, she made sure that this was her opportunity, and began to +rack her brains for a plausible story. But the door was opened and the +man who entered was not Bonzo. +</p> + +<p> +“Paul!” she cried, and then stood silent and wondering. +</p> + +<p> +Her lover, for a truth, stood before her. She saw that he was dressed +in the full uniform of a captain of artillery—the green tunic with +the scarlet epaulettes and the scarlet and black facings, the +pipe-clayed belt, the high black boots, the fur cap with the golden +eagle for its crest. But his face wore deep lines which had not been +there at carnival, and the hand which rested upon the hilt of his +sword was thin and white. For an instant he could not find his tongue. +He stood rocking upon his heels as his habit was, while he sought +vainly for some word which might give his tongue release. +</p> + +<p> +Marian had risen from her seat as he entered, and when her first cry +of wonder had escaped her she was quick to take pity upon him. +Instinctively she had hidden the plate of coarse bread behind her cup +that he might not see of what kind her food was; instinctively, too, +she touched her wind-blown curls with her fingers and looked down at +the shabby dress she wore. +</p> + +<p> +“It is you, then,” she said, with a poor attempt at gaiety. “I might +have known that no one else in Russia would knock at my door.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul did not answer her. He was staring at the wretched furniture of +the cell. He shivered as though the cold of the granite walls had +struck his own heart. +</p> + +<p> +“My God!” he cried; “is this your new home, Marian?” +</p> + +<p> +She expected that he would begin to excuse himself, and to tell her +why he had been a witness against her in the council-room. His pity +for her was an enemy of her resolution to hide the truths of her +misfortune from him. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said, standing defiantly with her back to the wall; “I am +always at home here—to my friends. You need not ask me if I have a +day. I shall be glad—no, do not touch me—I am quite +strong—Paul——” +</p> + +<p> +How it was she knew not, but when next she opened her eyes Paul’s arms +were about her and she was held close in his strong embrace. The tears +still glistened upon her cheek, but they were tears of gladness. +</p> + +<p> +“Beloved,” he said, “do not wound me; I suffer too—oh, God knows! +Every hour has been an hour of pain since they took you away; there +has been no sunshine for me, no day, no night; my life has stood +still; I have lived in the darkness; my eyes have seen no image but +the image of her I love. Marian—you will not turn from me now?” +</p> + +<p> +He held her closer for the passionate words to be whispered into her +ear; nor did she restrain him. The long hours of loneliness were +remembered too well that this new love should not win her gratitude. +</p> + +<p> +“You told them,” she sobbed; “it was your word. They knew nothing +until you spoke. If I suffer, it is by your hand; your love for me has +brought me here. How can I believe——” +</p> + +<p> +The reproach was choked suddenly upon her lips. The arms which held +her trembled as with cold. She looked into the face of the man, and +the pain written upon it turned her anger to pity. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Paul—do not listen to me,” she cried in turn, clinging to +him. “It is not true. Oh, I am not changed; I am only weak, and ill, +and lonely. Tell me you are my friend; tell me you will help me!” +</p> + +<p> +His answer was to kiss her again and again upon the forehead and the +lips. +</p> + +<p> +“I am your friend always, little Marian. Would to God I could promise +as you wish! How shall I help you here—in this place? It cannot be. +You have made them your enemies, and they do not know how to forgive. +I am the servant, and it is my duty to obey.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked up at him, and smiling now through her tears. +</p> + +<p> +“And you have obeyed. Oh, I understand,” she said quickly. “When you +spoke against me I knew that you must speak. Paul, I do not love you +less because of that—how could I?” +</p> + +<p> +She kissed him prettily, but a flush of shame coloured his face, for +he remembered how much fear for himself had prompted his confession in +the council-room. It was upon his tongue to make a full confession to +her, for his simple honesty rebelled at her generous confidence; but +she began to speak of other things, and chiefly of the terrible forty +days which had passed. +</p> + +<p> +“You did not come,” she said, “and I counted the hours. Then I said +you would never come, or that you were ill. Paul, you have been +ill—your eyes tell me that.” +</p> + +<p> +She held his face between her hands that the sunlight might fall upon +it, but he shrugged his shoulders indifferently. +</p> + +<p> +“It was nothing,” he answered; “nothing at all. The work has been +heavy, and I am tired—I do not sleep. It will be better when the +summer comes.” +</p> + +<p> +He did not tell her that for ten days after they had arrested her he +had been at the point of death, and was newly risen from a bed of +sickness to visit the fort. Nevertheless, a woman’s instinct guided +her unerringly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my love, my love, if I had foreseen all—if I had told you of my +folly and my trouble! And now it is too late; you suffer when you +should forget. Oh, you must forget, Paul; forget that I ever came to +Kronstadt; forget that you were my friend!” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed brusquely. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I forget that I live, or that the sun shines?” he asked. “Shall +I forget that your freedom is to be won, that we are both upon the +threshold of our lives? No, for a truth, such things are not to be +forgotten. Let us ask ourselves, rather, how the folly is to be +undone, how our enemies are to be made our friends. It is because I +believe in the possibility of these things that I am here this +morning. If I can help you, Marian, it will be by telling them the +truth as you have told it to me?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a question in his words, the unspoken thought that she had +hidden something from him. +</p> + +<p> +“Paul,” she said earnestly, “you know that I have told you all as I +have told it to them. I have no friends in Kronstadt, none in London. +What I did was for the sake of the child. You see how it has helped +him, when they will not even let me write to him now.” +</p> + +<p> +“They will not let you write! You have asked them, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“God knows, I have asked them on my knees. You do not know what +humiliations they have put upon me here. I hope that you will never +know.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul laughed again. She looked up at him with startled eyes, but he +held both her wrists and pushed her from him that he might watch her +while he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“You think that little Dick has had no message?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“How could he?” she exclaimed, though a suggestion of the truth began +to dawn upon her. +</p> + +<p> +“You think that he will write to you no more?” continued Paul, with a +child’s pleasure in his words. +</p> + +<p> +A smile lighted her face. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me!” she cried; “do not torture me!” +</p> + +<p> +Laughing still, he released her hands and took a letter-case from his +pocket. His thin fingers trembled while he fumbled with the many +scraps the case contained, but at last he found a paper scrawled over +with a child’s writing. +</p> + +<p> +“There,” he said, laying the scrawl upon the table, “that is how +little Dick forgets to write.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned away and walked to the door of the cell, a subtle delicacy +forbidding him to watch the tears upon the blotted paper or to listen +to the half-spoken words of love and gratitude. Almost his first +thought on the morrow of the dreadful day, when he had seen the +soldiers at the Governor’s house, was one for the child for whom this +sacrifice was made. And now he reaped his reward. +</p> + +<p> +“Dick shall write every week,” he said, “and I shall be your +mouthpiece. Do not be afraid; I have planned it all, and he will learn +to call me brother. Are you not glad, little girl?” +</p> + +<p> +“I love you,” she said simply. “I am lonely no more, for your love +shall be with me always.” +</p> + +<p> +The footsteps of a sentry in the court without forced them apart, and +Paul began to remember again the purpose with which he had been sent +to Fort Alexander. +</p> + +<p> +“I am come here to question you,” he said; “we must not forget that. +They think that you have friends, but I shall tell them all, and then +we shall see. They must not keep you in this place. I will not rest +until you are at Fort Katherine. I will see the General at once; he +shall know how it is, and he will not refuse me. Oh, you are to be +lonely no more, Marian—that day is past. We will begin the summer +together, and it shall be our summer always. The sun will shine upon +us and we will forget the shadows.” +</p> + +<p> +“You make me forget them already, Paul,” she answered; “it is summer +for me now. I am happy even here when I know that to-morrow will bring +you to me again.” +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow and all the to-morrows,” he said cheerily. “I will find a +way, be sure; there is no door which my love for you shall not open; +no night so dark that I shall not see the brightness of your eyes; no +day so silent that I shall not hear your voice. God guard you, little +girl, and give you back to me!” +</p> + +<p> +He stooped once more to kiss her and went from the room quickly that +he might say nothing which should awake her from this new dream of +content. There had been a ray of sunlight in the cell, but when he was +out upon the sea again it seemed to him that the sun shone no more and +that darkness lay upon the land. +</p> + +<p> +“God help me! how could I tell her the truth?” he thought. “They will +send her to the capital and I shall see her no more.” +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch09"> +CHAPTER IX.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">OUT OF THE DARKNESS.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> launch crossed the narrow channel between Fort Alexander and the +mainland swiftly. Paul did not linger in the town, but, full of his +promise to Marian, he went straight to the Governor’s house to seek +the General. He found Stefanovitch in his private cabinet, and was +welcomed with a questioning movement of the eyebrow which meant, +“Well, why are you here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I come to tell you that I have been to the fort, my General, and have +seen the prisoner.” +</p> + +<p> +Stefanovitch put down his pen and turned in his chair. Though it had +been a month of swift anxieties, the master of Kronstadt showed no +trace of them either by carelessness of dress or weariness of face. He +was as well groomed and dainty in his personal adornment as when last +he had racked his brains for compliments which should win the favour +of his governess. +</p> + +<p> +“You have been to the fort!” he said, fixing his glass that he might +study Paul’s face. “By whose order was that?” +</p> + +<p> +“By the Colonel’s order, my General.” +</p> + +<p> +Stefanovitch nodded his head two or three times. +</p> + +<p> +“He sent you there to question the woman?” +</p> + +<p> +“He thought that she would tell me things which she would not tell to +others,” exclaimed Paul, speaking eagerly. “I have been—that is, I +called myself her friend.” +</p> + +<p> +A smile crept over Stefanovitch’s face. He nodded his head again, as +though he understood perfectly. +</p> + +<p> +“You called yourself her friend!” he repeated, as though weighing the +words. “But that is a <i>rôle</i> you play no longer, Captain.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am the friend of none who is the enemy of my country,” said Paul +stolidly. “It is because I do not believe Mademoiselle Best is our +enemy that I come here now.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the documents, the plan which she sent to London?” exclaimed +Stefanovitch testily. +</p> + +<p> +“She did not understand—she did not know what she was doing, General. +She made the map because her relations in London offered her money. +She did not think it was a crime. I have questioned her, and I know +that she has told you all. There is nothing to find out now. The man +to be punished is he who asked a woman to do such work. If <i>he</i> were +in Russia——” +</p> + +<p> +Stefanovitch laughed a little hardly. The instinctive gesture which +had carried the young soldier’s hand to the hilt of his sword was not +lost upon his chief. +</p> + +<p> +“But he is not in Russia, and he will be too wise to come here. When +you want to cut his throat, you must go to London and be hanged by a +judge in a black cap afterwards. That is how they reward one who +defends his honour—là-bas! And they call us barbarians! But I am +waiting to hear more of your visit to Alexander. The woman has spoken +to you? She has made a confession, possibly?” +</p> + +<p> +“She has told nothing but that which she told to you in the +council-room, General. A child could see that she spoke the truth. I +would stake my life upon it.” +</p> + +<p> +Stefanovitch regarded him with some amusement. He knew perfectly well +whence came this earnestness surpassing the earnestness of the +advocate. As a principle Nikolai Stefanovitch loved all women, but he +could not understand the worship of the unit. Marian had amused him +when she was at his house. Another governess would take her place in a +day or two, and she would amuse him too. But that he should disturb +himself at the change was a possibility to be laughed at. +</p> + +<p> +“You value your life at a low price when you stake it on a woman’s +word,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon the word of some, true, my General; but not upon the word of +Mademoiselle Best. He is a foolish man who cannot tell when a woman is +lying to him. This one has never lied; the truth is written in her +eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you have been reading it there. Ho, ho! I must send this book to +the Censor. He will tell me if it is good for my officers to read a +work like that.” +</p> + +<p> +He leered pleasantly, delighting in the embarrassment of the younger +man. There was no purpose either in his questions or his assumption of +curiosity. Those at Kronstadt knew now the whole of Marian Best’s +story. Their perplexity was the difficulty of keeping that knowledge +from Petersburg, and of saving themselves from the charge of +negligence which might be brought against them. This perplexity was +helped by the presence of the prisoner at Fort Alexander. They +hesitated to send her to the capital. They feared that her story would +be made public by some prying Englishman, and that unpleasant +revelations would follow. And this thought was in Stefanovitch’s mind +when he asked— +</p> + +<p> +“Have you told Bonzo that which you are telling me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have told him nothing, my General.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I wished first to speak to you; I wished you to know that the +prisoner is ill. They have put her in the south cell, and they give +her black bread to eat. God knows, I did not like to see that when I +spoke to her. She hid the bread behind her plate, General. She did not +complain, but I could see many things. They are starving her, and she +will not live long. Oh, she is so little and helpless; she has not +meant to harm us. I said that I would speak to you, for you could know +nothing of what has been done. I said that you would hear me, and +remember that she is an Englishwoman and have her taken to Fort +Katherine. The Colonel would not understand. I could not speak to him; +but with you it is different. You will listen to me; you will not +forget that she has been the friend of your children. Kronstadt will +gain nothing by this woman’s death. She would suffer eternal shame if +her story were known in England. And it will be known—I am sure of +that. The English spies are everywhere. Someone will tell them that we +have a prisoner at Alexander and that she is dying. They will say that +it is your act—you, who are the father of the city and have won the +love of your children. My General, you will send her to Fort +Katherine; you will not refuse me this.” +</p> + +<p> +His earnestness surprised even Stefanovitch, who had always regarded +him with an affection which lost nothing from the indispensable +formality of their rank and duty. In all the years he had known him +the General had never seen Paul so moved or so eloquent of purpose. +For his own part, he disliked eloquence and all that disturbed the +easy ripple of his life; but his affection for the younger man came to +his aid now, and there was added to the force of it that warning word +which Bonzo had forgotten to speak. Stefanovitch said to himself that +Paul was right. They were dealing with an Englishwoman. The political +friends of an Englishwoman could be troublesome. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” he said, “you speak like the woman’s brother—or lover, my +friend Paul.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul’s face flushed until it was crimson. +</p> + +<p> +“I ask nothing for myself, General,” he said; “that day is gone. But I +speak as any honest man would speak when he sees a woman suffer.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you think that this woman will cease to suffer when she is at +Fort Katherine.” +</p> + +<p> +“She will not cease to suffer, but she will live no longer in the +darkness; she will not eat black bread; she will see the ships; she +will hear men’s voices. Will Kronstadt be hurt because of these +things, General? Oh, you know that she will not.” +</p> + +<p> +Stefanovitch’s glass dropped from his eye. For a moment his quick +brain ran over the gamut of the possibilities. +</p> + +<p> +“It would be for a few days at the most,” he said, while Paul began to +tremble with the excitement of success. “They will hear of her sooner +or later at Petersburg; it may be that the police will wish to talk to +her, and then our duty will be done. After that, my son—the deluge.” +</p> + +<p> +He took a pen in his hand and wrote an order quickly. Paul watched him +as a hungry man may watch one who sets food upon his table. +</p> + +<p> +“Take that to Sergius,” said Stefanovitch, when the order was written. +“Your English friend will be in Fort Katherine at sunset.” +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch10"> +CHAPTER X.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">TEMPTATION.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Paul</span> left the Governor’s house with a light step. The sun shone for +him again; the surge of the sea was sweet music for his ears; the +green heights of the distant shores were a joy to his eyes. +“To-night,” he said to himself, “to-night she will leave Alexander, +to-night she will eat white bread and see the sky again.” But more +often the thought was, “To-night she will be near me, she will think +of me, she will know that I have spoken to the General.” +</p> + +<p> +He walked swiftly, holding the paper as he would have held a jewel, in +the hollow of his hand. It was his purpose to seek out old Sergius and +to make sure that the hardly-gained order was enacted without delay. +This purpose carried him through the heart of the town toward the +arsenal. He had a cheery word and a nod for such of his friends as he +passed; but he would stand to speak to none, and when he met Bonzo +face to face in the great square he begrudged the minutes of delay. +</p> + +<p> +“Sacré bleu! you walk like the devil!” said Bonzo, taking from his +mouth a cigar as long as a pistol. “Are you going back to Alexander, +my son?” +</p> + +<p> +Paul laughed, and displayed the paper triumphantly. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no more Alexander,” he said with fervour; “she is to be at +Fort Katherine to-night. I have the General’s order. He remembers that +she is an Englishwoman, and he is wise.” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo opened his cunning eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” he said, “it is that, then. I thought there was something. So +Nikolai is touched. Ho, ho! She has been on her knees to him. Now he +will go on his knees to her. Quelle farce!” +</p> + +<p> +Paul wondered if this man had ever known a moment’s love, or sympathy +for a fellow-creature; but he was careful to conceal his thoughts and +to overlook the jest. +</p> + +<p> +“The General is afraid of the English tongues,” he said simply. “I +think that he is right to be afraid. She is no criminal, my Colonel, +and we are not a savage people. She will be just as safe at Fort +Katherine, and we shall not suffer because she eats white bread.” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“You should all wear petticoats!” he exclaimed boorishly; “you should +go to a nunnery and mope and mew together. How shall such fellows be +soldiers?” +</p> + +<p> +He turned on his heel, for he remembered he was speaking of his chief; +but as he resumed his walk he cried with a careful assumption of +indifference: +</p> + +<p> +“Mind you don’t run away with her yourself, Captain Paul; she is not +in Fort Katherine yet!” +</p> + +<p> +Paul stood still and choked the word which rose to his lips. He was +about to resent with heat the suggestion that he could be guilty of +this dishonour; but Bonzo had already turned the corner of the square, +and the younger man stood still to repeat the words of temptation +again and again. +</p> + +<p> +“She is not in Fort Katherine yet!” +</p> + +<p> +Paul laughed and walked on. At a distance of ten paces he stopped +again, and began to read the paper he had treasured so earnestly. +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +“The Englishwoman to be removed at sunset, and to be delivered into +the custody of Rothmister Siebenski at Fort Katherine. +</p> + +<p class="rt1"> +“<span class="sc">Stefanovitch</span>. +</p> + +<p> +“At Kronstadt, April 19, 1895.” +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +Paul read the paper three times. He turned it over and over, as though +seeking for some name which should be written upon it. +</p> + +<p> +“So,” he said to himself, “he has forgotten to write the name of +Sergius upon it. He who delivers this paper may carry the Englishwoman +from Fort Alexander. The Captain will not be there at sunset; he will +be in the café or at the barracks. The Sergeant would not question my +authority, since I come straight from the great house, and here is the +General’s order. Holy God! what an idea!” +</p> + +<p> +He continued his walk, but at a more rapid pace. The suggestion which +Bonzo had thrown out jestingly began to haunt him. He heard a voice +whispering: “It is possible. She would suffer no more. She would lie +in your arms. It would be your business to see that she did not betray +Kronstadt. She would be your wife—the friend of Russia.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed aloud as men will at the first swift advance of some +triumphant temptation which they have the wish but not the strength to +resist. His hurried walk carried him from the square to the café, +where he had drunk with Bonzo on that night of Marian’s arrest. He +entered and called for a glass of absinthe. Destiny, now busy with +him, contrived that he should take a seat wherefrom he could look over +the harbour and spy out his own little launch lying a biscuit toss +from the quay. She had been a present to him from his kinsman, Prince +Tolma. They said that there was no faster yacht in all the Baltic; men +pointed to her as the work of the great Yarrow, and wagered that she +would outsteam the fleetest cruiser then lying in the roads. Paul +spent most of his money upon this little ship. She was his toy, his +plaything. He loved to steam in her to the islands of the Finnish +shore, and there to camp for days at the zenith of the summer. He had +a better knowledge of the Gulf than many a master mariner. His servant +Reuben, the young Englishman sent out by the Yarrow people to tend the +launch, was devoted to him heart and soul. “He would be the very man +for this,” Paul said to himself; “he would remember that she is an +Englishwoman.” And so he drank off his absinthe and went out into the +sunshine again. +</p> + +<p> +Kronstadt had begun to sweat with her day’s work then. The great +hammers clanged unceasingly in the arsenal; the bellow of steam +whistles echoed across the water; the cries of seamen, their oaths, +their songs, filled the nearer harbour. Squadrons passed weary from +long drill; the courtyards of the barracks were full of troops +hungering for dinner; launches steamed swiftly between the outlying +forts and the mainland. Paul remembered that this tumult of the active +life was very dear to him. He loved Kronstadt as a child loves its +home. He looked across the sea to the granite walls and to the guns +shining as silver in the blaze of sunlight, and he asked himself how +it would be if he were cut off from this iron home for ever, branded +as a traitor, spoken of with curses, the mock of those who had +honoured him. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” he said, “that day will never come. I shall deliver the paper +to Sergius; he will take a file of men and conduct the prisoner to +Fort Katherine. I must do my duty. I am a servant of the Czar. I will +forget that she has loved me.” +</p> + +<p> +But as he walked the voice of the tempter spake again. +</p> + +<p> +“Reuben is down there upon the quay. He would have steam up in your +yacht by sunset. You could find a few drunken artillery men to act as +your file. It would be a long time before they would discover your +flight. She would be a wife to you—the woman you love.” +</p> + +<p> +He cursed the tempter, but called to his man Reuben, and was answered. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch11"> +CHAPTER XI.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">THE BEGINNING OF THE FLIGHT.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Marian</span> in her cell could hear the bells of the ships striking the +hours; and she would count them and wait to see if the harbour clock +answered to their signal. There was little else to do through the long +days of darkness, save it were to listen to the cries of the seamen as +they warped their ships to the buoys or exchanged a word with one of +the sentries at the fort. Until this time her jailers permitted her no +other occupations. Designedly, that she might become acquainted with +the whole meaning of imprisonment in a fortress, they kept her hands +idle and shut the daylight from her eyes. She thought sometimes that +she would lose her reason for very dread of the silence and the +darkness. Or she would succumb to the frenzy of the prisoner and be +tempted to beat upon the door with her fist, or to dash herself +against the granite walls, seeking thus an escape from the living +death. But upon the day of Paul’s visit a new sense of resignation +possessed her. The man’s great love, surpassing all she had imagined, +spoke to her still when he had quitted her cell; she heard his voice +again bidding her to be of good courage; she had kept the letter which +little Dick had written, and tears of affection sealed the childish +words. She asked herself what craven spirit had mastered her, that she +should be the victim of this weakness and despair. They had accounted +her a woman of unfailing nerve; no shackles of cowardice had hampered +her will during those months of excitement when she had filched the +secrets of Kronstadt one by one; had measured the forts, and counted +the guns, and cried with delight at the successes she numbered. She +determined to remember those days and to live them again. +</p> + +<p> +“I will not show him that I suffer,” she said; “he shall find me +laughing when he comes here to-morrow. And he shall write to Dick for +me—a long letter about our home that is to be. After that he will +speak to them. They will not keep me here always. It was such a little +thing.” +</p> + +<p> +This spirit of courage breathed upon all her actions of the day. She +showed a smiling face to the Sergeant when he brought her dinner. +Surrendering herself to childish anticipations, she began to think of +a hundred things which Paul would do—how he would write to England, +or see the Governor, or even go to the Czar for her. The hours hurried +now, each bell telling her that her lover was up and working for her. +To-morrow she would see him again. Perchance he would bring good news. +At least she would touch his hand and hear his voice. +</p> + +<p> +They were wont to bring her a little supper at sunset—the boiling tea +and the black bread which was as earth in her mouth. But she ate it +to-night with relish; and when her supper was done she let her head +sink upon her arms and so was carried away to a dreamland of wood and +meadow, to gardens warmed with everlasting sunshine, and woods alive +with music of song-birds. Therein she walked awhile, holding her +lover’s hand; she heard voices long forgotten, the voices of dead +friends and the laughter of the child. The sleep was sweet, for it was +a sleep of hope new born and of courage rekindled; but when it had +endured a little while, the harsh skirl of the outer door turning upon +its hinges awoke her rudely. She opened her eyes to see the Sergeant +standing before her, and with him rough artillery men in their great +grey cloaks, and others who were strangers to her. She thought for the +moment that they had come to take her to Petersburg, or even to the +nameless punishment beyond. She began to tremble, and stood back +against the wall as though she would find protection there—the weak +woman shrinking from the terrible hand which was about to touch her. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” she cried, while she shielded her eyes, dewed with +sleep, from the garish rays of the lanterns. “Why do you come here? +what do you want with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“To take you to Fort Katherine, mademoiselle, by order of the +Governor.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian clenched her hands; she scarce dared to believe what she heard. +Paul had spoken, then; the night had passed; she would see the sun +again. +</p> + +<p> +“You wish to take me now?” she asked, vainly seeking to cloak the +excitement which possessed her. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” said the Sergeant gruffly—“that is, if you have finished your +supper.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed joyously, as though the suggestion were a folly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she cried; “as if one would wait for that!” +</p> + +<p> +Her hands were busy with the cape of fur while she spoke, and when she +had buttoned it about her shoulders and had drawn the little fur cap +over her untrammelled hair, she was ready for them. The men watched +her with admiring eyes. The youngest among them was saying to himself, +“What lips to kiss!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am ready, quite ready,” she exclaimed, looking up with eyes awake +and laughing. “You are sure it is to Fort Katherine, Sergeant?” +</p> + +<p> +The Sergeant shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Sei tchas! are we here to play at being children, mademoiselle? Read +that paper—it is the writing of the Governor.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can read nothing to-night,” she said, pushing aside the lantern; +“my eyes are blinded by the light. I cannot breathe in this place. It +is good of you to come for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not good at all, mademoiselle. I am the servant, and it is my +business to obey.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned from the cell and the girl walked beside him still babbling +like a child. No thought of prudence could have stilled her tongue in +that hour. The burden of her punishment fell from her shoulders when +she quitted the cell and ascended the short flight of steps leading to +the quay above. The mighty granite walls terrified her no longer. She +could see the heaven above her, gray-blue through the silver haze of +night; the stars shone down upon her; they would be shining down upon +England, she said; and she would watch them every night henceforth +from her windows in Fort Katherine. The joy of liberty half possessed +quickened her heart and released all her impulses and affection. She +could have kissed the hand of the Sergeant who conducted her to the +launch. She talked to him unceasingly while they traversed the +corridor and the courtyard of the fortress; she was talking still when +he threw open the iron-bound door and stepped out on to the quay which +lies upon the north side of Alexander. +</p> + +<p> +It was a glorious night, a night of soft winds and rippling sea. +Though the sun had sunk, there was still a glow of crimson light in +the West, a vast arc pointed with jagged spikes of orange and green +and purple flame. Kronstadt herself stood silhouetted as an island of +rock and pinnacles in an atmosphere of quivering haze. Great ships, +belching clouds of smoke from mighty funnels, passed noiselessly +behind the curtain of the eastern mists; lanterns flashed from all the +forts, here white and far-reaching, there scarlet and dim; strange +rays played upon the fretting waters; lakes of golden waves glistened +where the warships spread the searching arcs of their lamps; the steam +whistle moaned distantly or bellowed warningly from the nearer +harbours. The West was a splendid canopy of flame hung in the heavens, +as it were, above the throne of liberty and of freedom. +</p> + +<p> +Marian stood upon the quay and the fresh wind scattered her curls and +cast refreshing spray +</p> + +<figure> + <a href="images/img_140.jpg" id="img_140"> + <img src="images/img_140_th.jpg" alt="img_140"> + </a> + <figcaption> + “KRONSTADT HERSELF STOOD SILHOUETTED AS AN ISLAND OF ROCK AND + PINNACLES” + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p class="noindent"> +upon her weary eyes. The scene around her was bewildering and not to +be realised. She beheld a steam launch lying at the quay; she heard +its timbers groaning as the swell lifted it against the granite wall +and the fenders were flattened and twisted at the rush of the seas. +But her eyes were rather for the West. There lay her own England. She +could have stretched out her arms to the befriending light and have +prayed that some messenger of God might come down to carry her from +this tomb to which folly had brought her. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she said, “I am ready, quite ready, Sergeant. Is this the boat?” +</p> + +<p> +The Sergeant ignored her question. He was bending down to speak to one +who stood in the bows of the launch, a tall man wearing the rough +overcoat of an officer of artillery. Notwithstanding the light in the +West, it was very dark in the loom of the walls of Alexander. Marian +could see little of the faces of those about her. The flickering rays +of the lanterns danced upon the white deck of the yacht, but not upon +the figure of the man who seemed to command it. +</p> + +<p> +“I am to go on board?” she asked of one near her. “Why have you +brought me here if you are not ready?” +</p> + +<p> +The soldier laughed good-naturedly. +</p> + +<p> +“We are quite ready, mademoiselle; it is the Captain for whom we +wait.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Captain!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, for Captain Zassulic, who is to take you to Fort Katherine.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed in her turn, nervously and with the desire that surprise +should not betray her. She did not dare, for some moments, to look +again at the little ship or at the tall figure now standing by the +engine-room. But when she was sure of herself, when she had driven +from her mind the wild thoughts that occupied it, she saw that the +figure was the figure of Paul, her lover; and at this the lights and +the stars, the ships and the men, swam before her eyes, and she leaned +heavily upon the arm of the trooper. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you keep me waiting? I am weak and cold,” she cried +petulantly. “I cannot stand here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” said the Sergeant, turning to her, “there is no need +to keep you waiting any longer.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian suffered herself almost to be lifted upon the launch. So soon +as her feet had touched the deck a strong hand seized her own and drew +her towards the companion. It was the hand of Paul, hot and burning as +the hand of one in a fever. +</p> + +<p> +“Let go!” he cried to the engineer, speaking in a voice which rang +across the sea; and, almost with the words, the ropes were cast off +and the launch stood away from the quay. +</p> + +<p> +It was the work of a moment, so dexterously done, so unlooked for, +that the Sergeant stood staring stupidly as one dazed with drink. +</p> + +<p> +“Stoi, stoi!” he cried; “there are the others, my Captain.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no need of them. Do you think the girl is going to jump into +the sea?” +</p> + +<p> +“But the General’s order, my Captain.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul laughed and took his place at the woman’s side. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall know how to answer the General. Good-night to you, +Sergeant.” +</p> + +<p> +He cried again to the engineer and the little ship leaped into the +waves. Foam flew from her bows and sparkled upon her decks. The whirr +of her screw was as the whirr of a cascade thundering. The surrounding +forts seemed to recede back to a more distant horizon. The lights of +Kronstadt, the black shapes of barrack and church, were hidden in the +deepening mists. Into the West, outward to the greater seas of the +Baltic, the launch was bearing them. But the man continued to keep his +eyes upon the great citadel he was leaving, to look upon it as one may +look upon a home which shall be a home no more. +</p> + +<p> +“My God!” he said, “it is for ever!” +</p> + +<p> +And so he turned to the girl as though to shield her with his arm. The +lights around him began to vanish one by one; the salt of the sea was +on his face; he waited to hear the boom of the guns which should +signal his flight and tell the city that he was a traitor—he who had +served Kronstadt with an abiding love. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch12"> +CHAPTER XII.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">THE CITADEL AWAKES.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Marian</span> sat in the saloon of the <i>Esmeralda</i>, and the saloon was in +darkness. She still wore her pretty cap of fur, and the cape was +unbuttoned upon her shoulders. Her impatient imagination told her that +she had been a full hour in the cabin of the ship waiting for Paul to +come to her. But no more than twenty minutes had passed since she had +quitted her cell at Fort Alexander. The yacht was still running down +the southern shore of the island; the great guns still threatened from +the mighty ramparts. +</p> + +<p> +Until this time she understood nothing of her lover’s purpose or of +the meaning of her journey. She believed that Paul was compelled thus +to steer toward the open sea that he might come to Fort Katherine, +which lies upon the northern shore of the island. Little as she knew +of ships, the tremendous vibration of everything around her, the +rattle of glass, the swirl of the seas against the ports, spoke of +high speed and freshening wind. It was her argument that they were +making Tollboken, the great lighthouse at the western point of +Kronstadt. The ship would put back presently and run down the northern +shore to the new prison awaiting her. The sweet hour of liberty would +be at an end; the door of a cell would close upon her again +unpityingly. When the launch was not put about, but continued to hold +its course for the Baltic, she could not understand why it was, and +was puzzling her brains to think, when her lover entered the cabin +brusquely, with spray shining in crystals of salt upon his oilskins +and the dew of the sea upon his cheek. He answered her unspoken +question, but not as she wished him to answer it. +</p> + +<p> +“You have no fire and no light,” he said cheerily; “and this is your +welcome to the <i>Esmeralda</i>. Well, it will be better presently.” +</p> + +<p> +She took his wet hands and held them to her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Paul,” she cried, “for the love of God tell me, what does it mean? +Where am I? where are you taking me to?” +</p> + +<p> +He kissed her upon the forehead very tenderly. +</p> + +<p> +“I am taking you to London—to your friends,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you do not mean it,” she answered impatiently, “you do not mean +it, dearest. It is to Fort Katherine. I heard them say so.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you think that I do not mean it, Marian, come up to the deck with +me and you will see the light of Tollboken. You had better come, for +we shall never look at Kronstadt again.” +</p> + +<p> +He did not wait for her answer, but led the way to the companion and +to the deck above. When she stood there with him the wind blew so +freshly and the spray so blinded her that she must cling to him for a +while and cry that she could see nothing. But anon she got footing by +the shrouds of the mainmast, and from that place she looked over the +gathering seas and beheld a great white light hanging, as a globe of +fire, above the northern point of the island. She remembered that she +had seen the light for the first time when she came to Russia to be +governess to the children of Nikolai Stefanovitch. But now she was +leaving it; the yacht had not rounded the point as she thought it +would; it held a course straight for the open sea. She dare not ask +herself what this course meant. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Paul, “do you believe me now? Yonder is Tollboken. You +are looking at it for the last time.” +</p> + +<p> +She began to tremble at his words. +</p> + +<p> +“For the last time—and you?” +</p> + +<p> +A shadow rested upon his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Moi c’est égal. I am weary of Kronstadt and of my friends there. I +shall find new friends in England. Besides, I do my country a service +since I take charge of one who has been her enemy. Tell me, little +Marian, you will be the enemy of Russia no more.” +</p> + +<p> +He drew her beneath the shelter of his oilskins and kissed the lips +upraised to his. But the girl was silent. She could not then measure +the sacrifice he had made so willingly. Of all the thoughts crowding +upon her mind this thought predominated, that her lover had saved her +from the living death. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not understand,” she said at length, “I do not know what you are +saying to me. Oh, it is not true, Paul, it cannot be.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall tell me to-morrow whether it is true or not,” he answered +merrily. “Meanwhile, there is supper to think of, and after supper, +rest. It is time that we lighted the saloon; you are tired, Marian.” +</p> + +<p> +She was about to tell him that her fatigue was only the fatigue of +joy, when a flame of light leaped up from the shore of the distant +islands, and the boom of a great gun rolled across the darkening seas +like the rumble of approaching thunder. +</p> + +<p> +“Hark!” she said, starting involuntarily; “they have fired a gun from +Tollboken.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul turned impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a captain’s salute, little girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think of the shadows again,” she exclaimed with a shudder. And then +she asked— +</p> + +<p> +“Paul, whose yacht is this?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is mine, Marian.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you had the Governor’s permission to take me from Alexander?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, or how could you be here now?” +</p> + +<p> +“He gave me my liberty, then?” +</p> + +<p> +Paul laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“You ask too many questions, Marian, and supper should be waiting.” +</p> + +<p> +A second gun fired from the ramparts of Tollboken arrested the laugh +upon his face. He could conceal from her no longer the terrible dread +which had possessed him since the yacht left Alexander. She read his +secret upon his face; she knew that he risked his life for the guerdon +of her love. +</p> + +<p> +“Paul,” she said, clinging to him now with a passionate gesture of +reproach and gratitude, “I understand all. Oh, God forgive me for +bringing you to this!” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said, “where you live I must live, Marian; where your home +is, there must be my home. It could not be otherwise. Without you +there is nothing for me—the sun does not shine, there are no stars at +night. We will stand together for good or ill until the end, as God +wills.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not worthy,” she answered through her tears. “Oh, God knows, I +am not worthy!” +</p> + +<p> +“You will be my wife,” he said simply; “you will repay a thousand +times.” +</p> + +<p> +A grinning face, appearing above the coamings of the engine-room +hatchway, put them apart. It was the face of Reuben the engineer. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Paul, turning to him, “you wish to tell me——” +</p> + +<p> +“That she is doing twenty knots, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“She must do more. Spare nothing. We must burn the very ship if need +be. Hark to that! It is the gun at Menzikoff, which means that the +garrison is alarmed. We shall see the lights of their ships soon.” +</p> + +<p> +The grinning face disappeared, and anon thick smoke rolled from the +funnel of the <i>Esmeralda</i>. She plunged with new speed into the choppy, +spuming waves which the fresh wind drove in from the Baltic. The water +washed her bows and ran ankle-deep over her flush-decks. She had no +lights save the glow which hovered above her funnel or spread +fan-shaped when the furnace-door was opened. Every timber in her +quivered at the heightening speed. Not a man of the four aboard her +but knew that this was a race for liberty—it might be for life. +Yonder, through the northern darkness, lay freedom and reward; behind, +where the guns made thunder of the night, were the prisons of Russia +and the fields of Bondage. +</p> + +<p> +Their course lay almost due west for a while and when they had been an +hour at sea they could discern the lights upon the Finnish shore no +longer nor the twinkling stars which spoke of villages on the Ingrian +coast. The Gulf broadened so quickly that they stood almost at once in +the heart of the widening sea, in the channel of ships steaming to +Russia or labouring to make Helsingfors. At one time a great ironclad +loomed above them suddenly and passed so close that they could hear +men calling to one another upon her decks. Or, again, they passed a +Norwegian barque lubbering in the swell in a vain effort to keep the +great breakers from her decks. These shapes loomed out of the dark for +an instant to be lost immediately. Scudding white mists hid the moon +fitfully as though relishing a jest with those who sought light on the +earth below. Storm-clouds began to gather in the south and to beat up +warningly. The night fell bitter cold and the wind was as a whip upon +the face. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, let us go down,” said Paul, who hitherto had been held to the +deck as one chained there by the anticipation of advancing peril. “I +have tasted no food since midday; and you, little girl, I should be +ashamed to keep you here.” +</p> + +<p> +“My place is at your side, Paul.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then my side shall be in the saloon. And you shall give me my supper +there. It will be time enough to think of other things when we see the +light of their ships.” +</p> + +<p> +“You think that they will follow us?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it possible not to think so?” +</p> + +<p> +“They will send a cruiser?” +</p> + +<p> +“Undoubtedly; but we shall not mind that. There is no ship in Russia +which can catch the <i>Esmeralda</i> while she has coal in her bunkers; and +we have coal everywhere. Oh, it will amuse you well when the fun +begins.” +</p> + +<p> +He entered the saloon and switched on the electric lights. The veils +for the ports were ready now, and when he had covered up the glasses +with them he gave the girl hot wine. +</p> + +<p> +“You must drink it at a draught,” he said. “I want to see the colour +in your pretty cheeks.” +</p> + +<p> +“Paul,” she said earnestly, “how can I thank you? how can I tell you +all I feel?” +</p> + +<p> +“You can thank me by drinking the wine and afterwards by eating your +supper. You must say how you like the <i>Esmeralda</i> and her cook. She is +my other self, this little ship. We have been friends many years, but +not the friends we shall be to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +The steward, a portly, good-humoured, but, above all, fatherly man, +known in twenty ports by the name of Sal, by reason of his ability to +perform all woman’s work, now hurried into the cabin and set a +steaming dish upon the table. +</p> + +<p> +“A bit of beef, and cooked with my own hand, miss,” he said. “I +thought you’d be glad of it, and so I made bold.” +</p> + +<p> +She thanked him prettily. +</p> + +<p> +“You come from London?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +A voluble man, her question was like oil upon his tongue. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed and I do, my miss. I was born at West ’Am, as my poor mother +knows, and precious glad I shall be to see Hingerland again. It’s a +dreadful thing to feel as you’re an ixile, miss. Fourteen years now it +is since I clapped eyes on London. As for these Russians, I can’t +abide ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul roared with laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Sapristi!” said he, “you’re a fine fellow to sign for a Russian +ship.” +</p> + +<p> +“A Russian ship? No, it ain’t that, sir. I had the word of Reuben +afore I come aboard. ‘Where you like and when you like,’ says I, ‘but +no foringers for yours truly.’ And that’s what we signed upon. ‘As for +the young gentleman,’ says I, ‘he’s no Russian, or what’s he doing +with our lingo? You don’t find Joshua Sill sailing with foringers +willing.’ Five times round the world, miss, I’ve been, believe me. But +there ain’t no place like the country we was bred to, indeed there +ain’t.” +</p> + +<p> +His patriotism choked him with emotion, and he withdrew, still shaking +his head. His talk had led them away for a brief moment from the hour +and the place, and the shadows passed from their faces. It was +possible, down there in the warmth and brightness of the pretty cabin, +to imagine that they, too, were already upon the seas of liberty and +safety; to imagine that they had come to that kingdom of love and +possession which they had sought in tears and tribulation and perils +often. They began to talk with a new confidence; to promise each other +what they would do when the sunny fields of Devon were theirs to roam +and the white cliffs of England stood up for their defence. The spell +of the warming wine worked upon them so that the man could tell +himself that the reward was greater than the sacrifice; the girl, that +love was at last born in her heart unquestionably, a love to endure, +to overshadow all, to be the very sap of her life. Lying there in her +lover’s arms, the past, the future, the scene, the peril alike were +forgotten. She lived in a present which was in itself an eternity—the +eternity of love realised. +</p> + +<p> +In this employment of supper two hours passed swiftly away. Paul +lingered in the cabin because he knew that the deck might show him +that which he feared to see—the lights of the cruisers sent out from +Kronstadt or Helsingfors in pursuit of the <i>Esmeralda</i>. Trusting to +the quick eyes and to the devotion of his servant Reuben, he knew that +they would summon him when need was that he should go above. The +quiver of the boards beneath his feet, the jar of the glass upon the +table, spoke of the high speed maintained and of a smoother sea. Could +they but keep the <i>Esmeralda</i> at such a speed she would outsteam any +vessel which Stefanovitch could command. The danger lay ahead—in the +warships at Helsingfors and at Revel. The telegraph could warn these +that a launch was escaping from Kronstadt. The <i>Esmeralda</i> had yet to +pass the neck of the Gulf, yet to outwit those who would strain every +nerve to take her. Folly alone helped Paul to hope in the midst of +dangers such as these. Despair whispered that the girl he loved was in +his arms, but that he touched her lips for the last time. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us forget, Marian, let us forget all,” he would cry; “let us +think only of to-night, and of each other.” +</p> + +<p> +“I could never forget,” she answered with deep affection. “I am +unworthy of the love you bestow upon me; I shall be your servant until +my death.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall be my wife!” he cried passionately. “I will hear your words +all day. The days cannot be long enough. There shall be nothing to +think of—no past, no future, but only the moment of our love. When +to-morrow comes we shall be where no Russian ships can harm us. It +will be yours then to repay me, dearest, to remember whose servant I +have been and why I left Russia. You will be the friend of my country +as I shall be of yours. You will forget all that you learnt and saw at +Kronstadt.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have forgotten it already, Paul. Oh, I should be for ever guilty if +I did not regret all that I have done and said, if I did not think of +Russia as of my own country. How could it be otherwise since I love +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“They will tempt you,” he said: “they will offer you money as they +offered it before; and I am poor, I have no longer an employment. The +home which I can give you must be one of your own cottages. My friends +will not help me now; they will call me a traitor and forget my name.” +</p> + +<p> +She shrank at the words, for they rebuked her selfishness. She +realised she had made him the partner of her guilt. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, no, do not say that!” she cried; “do not let me bring this +shame upon you. Take me back to Russia, Paul; to-morrow it will be too +late.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is too late now,” he said with a bitter smile. +</p> + +<p> +The door of the cabin opened as he spoke, and the face of Reuben, +still wearing the bucolic grin, appeared unwelcomely. Paul rose at +once. +</p> + +<p> +“You have something to say to me, Reuben?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is about the coal, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I will come immediately.” +</p> + +<p> +But to Marian he said— +</p> + +<p> +“You must sleep now, little wife. To-morrow we shall be in the Baltic +and sunset will bring us to Stockholm. You can begin to think of +England then.” +</p> + +<p> +She raised her lips to his and clung to him with a new tenderness. The +words he had spoken, that his friends would call him a traitor, echoed +again in her ears. She thought of them still when he had left her, and +they were an enemy to sleep. The gift of sacrifice cut her heart; it +poisoned the cup of forgetfulness she had tasted so willingly. +</p> + +<p> +But Paul hurried to the deck, and so soon as his feet had left the +ladder he knew why Reuben called him. Away upon the port quarter a +great arc of golden light was playing upon the sea. Now rising in a +focus of dazzling beams, now skimming the water with a vast area of +radiance, now shining full as a star new fallen from the heavens, the +meaning of the light was not to be hidden from those on board the +<i>Esmeralda</i>. The telegraph had done its work. A cruiser had put out +from Helsingfors and was searching the Gulf for the yacht which sought +to carry from Russian waters secrets of such price. +</p> + +<p> +“God help my little wife!” said Paul when he saw the light—and that +was all. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch13"> +CHAPTER XIII.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">AT THE ZENITH OF THE NIGHT.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> yacht stood upon a course almost due west. The lamps in her +saloons burned no longer; she carried no light and showed no glow of +flame above her funnel. Save for the vibrations of her screw and the +buffet of the seas upon her arched bows, no sound followed in her +wake. She cut the gathering waves rather than breasted them; she +rushed onward through the swell as some living thing come up for +breath or to the pursuit of prey. Until this time the arc of light +which lay upon the sea as a golden carpet had not spread so far that +its rays were shed upon the yacht. She stood out of it to the +northward. Her crew watched its path with an excitement not to be +described. Men clenched their hands when the great lamp swung round +and their eyes were blinded by its fuller radiance. But darkness +continued to befriend them. Save in that place where the great lantern +gave gold to the waves, night reigned upon the sea. And night might +yet deliver the <i>Esmeralda</i> if destiny willed. +</p> + +<p> +“They are standing for the south, sir,” said old John Hook, who was at +the wheel. “It’ll be in their heads that we’re running for the German +coast—perhaps for the Baltic port. You’ll go by ’em yet with a +handful of luck—I’m damned if you won’t!” +</p> + +<p> +Old John, who had shipped for the trip willingly when he heard that an +Englishwoman was to be snatched from a Russian prison, trusted to pick +up at Stockholm his own brig, then at anchor in Kronstadt harbour. The +adventure was no more to him than an hour in the fog at the mouth of +the Thames. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop you, sir!” he had exclaimed. “Why, there ain’t no ship in the +Baltic as could catch yon bit of a kettle when she’d the mind to show +her starn. And if so be as they do, why, ain’t there such things as +counsels for to talk to ’em properly and show ’em what’s the colour of +your flag? I’d spit on all the skippers in Roosher for a noggin of +rum—damn me if I wouldn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +With this proper contempt for all foreigners and their ships (and a +bundle containing a lace handkerchief, a photograph and a dirty +shirt), John had come aboard the <i>Esmeralda</i>. The race from Kronstadt +to the open Gulf had been a joy to him. Nor did this sudden appearance +of a warship upon the horizon terrify him at all. The yacht had the +heels of her. If they were taken, the English Consul at Kronstadt +would shake his fist in the face of the Governor, he reasoned, and +that would be the end of it. Paul shared nothing of such stolid +optimism. The very darkness of the seas about him caused the great +white light to stand out like some uncanny beacon set up to remind him +that he was still in Russian waters; that Kronstadt knew of his flight +and of his purpose. +</p> + +<p> +“She is running to the south, John,” he said gloomily, “but it will +not be for long. For the matter of that she is going about now.” +</p> + +<p> +John touched the little wheel and spat emphatically. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s true, by thunder!” he cried; “but what of it, sir? It’ll be a +pretty steady hand that picks us off in this light; and we’ve the +heels of her, all said and done. You take my word for it, if they’re +waiting to take us afore they turn in they won’t finish this watch +until the day of judgment.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“You English have a pleasant way of looking at things; we Russians are +not so ready.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which is your misfortune, sir, a-begging your pardon. It don’t do to +be a Rooshian, not in these days—leastwise not when you can sail +under a skipper who reads the noosepapers.” +</p> + +<p> +He touched the wheel again, and the little yacht rose on the crest of +a great wave before plunging into the shining darkness of the hollow. +The arc ceased to glow while the great ship went about; the curtain of +the cloud was unlifted, save at one spot low upon the horizon where a +little gate of light, like a wicket-gate to the heaven beyond the +envelope, gave promise of a clear sky before the morning. For ten +minutes the yacht raced in darkness toward the distant seas of refuge. +Then the mighty beams shone out again, and their glory, surpassing the +glory of day, fell once more upon the waters. Rippling as with a +ripple of molten gold, the wave of radiance flowed on. It made jewels +of the wind-tossed spindrift; it focussed upon the black sails of a +fishing-boat and showed her labouring and sagging in the trough of the +seas; it struck upon the dark hull of a distant steamer, and she stood +out in it so that the very men upon her decks were to be counted: and +it rested at last upon the <i>Esmeralda</i>, gathering her into its +aureola, feeling her, as with fingers of light which touched prey and +would torture it. +</p> + +<p> +No man spoke in that supreme moment. The hand of old John was still +upon the spokes of the wheel; Paul leaned spell-bound against the +shrouds and watched the quivering beams; Reuben showed his head above +the engine-room hatchway, and the grin still hovered upon his face. +Minutes passed and the enchantment was not broken. Full upon them the +light rested, discovering every shroud and rope. And the men had no +answer to it—no answer save the answer of the <i>Esmeralda</i>, which +rushed onward toward her goal as though the race were a joy to her—a +race from which she would yet reap victory. +</p> + +<p> +Reuben was the first to find his tongue. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s the <i>Peter Veliky</i>, of Revel,” he said quietly; “I could pick +her out of a thousand. She carries four twelve-inch, and her speed’s +fourteen—in the books.” +</p> + +<p> +“To hell with the books!” cried John Hook. “The question is, what’s +her speed here, and when is she going to show it?” +</p> + +<p> +Reuben’s grin was yet broader. +</p> + +<p> +“She is going to show it now, John; if you want to dance, there’s the +music.” +</p> + +<p> +A gun boomed out above the moaning of the wind, and its smoke hung for +an instant, like an envelope of vapour above the decks of the <i>Peter +Veliky</i>. Then a woman’s voice was heard, and Paul turned quickly to +find Marian standing at his side. +</p> + +<p> +“I could not stay below,” she said, “it suffocates me—and I saw the +light, Paul.” +</p> + +<p> +She slipped her hand into his and stood with him. She feared no longer +for herself, but for the man who had risked life and honour that she +might be free. +</p> + +<p> +“You will never make a sailor, Marian,” Paul answered; “you do not +know how to obey.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have come here to learn, dearest; I could not stay down there with +yesterday for my friend.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul pointed to the distant ship whose blinding lantern moved slowly +across the spuming sea. +</p> + +<p> +“There is our to-morrow,” he said grimly. “I did not wish you to know +that. I thought that you would sleep and wake where no one could harm +you; but now—we shall dance, as Reuben says.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed to conceal her excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“Who can harm me here when you are with me?” she asked—and then, less +heroically, “Did you not say that the <i>Esmeralda</i> was the fastest +yacht in the Baltic?” +</p> + +<p> +Paul took her face between his rough hands and kissed it. +</p> + +<p> +“Little woman,” he said, “if I had your heart! You give me courage +always. Indeed, good luck goes with you, Marian; we are leaving them +already.” +</p> + +<p> +The ships were abreast now, a mile of sparkling sea racing between +them. But the <i>Peter Veliky</i> was no match for the yacht which Yarrow +had built. The <i>Esmeralda</i> forged ahead from the first. She held her +course unflinchingly even when the gun sent flame again across the +water and a shell fell hissing into the waves behind her. She steamed +on in the envelope of night, seeking to shake the light from her as +quarry might shake a dog. +</p> + +<p> +“To hell with the books!” cried old John Hook in the fervour of the +moment. “There ain’t a ship in Roosher which is going to catch her +this night, a-begging your pardon for the expression, miss.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it is true, it is true!” cried Marian, clasping her hands +joyfully. “To-morrow we shall be at Stockholm. What a thing to tell +little Dick!” +</p> + +<p> +Her eyes blazed; the magic of combat, that inexplicable fever, which +gives scorn of death had touched them. She stood entranced, a little +slim figure, upon which the white beams fell picturesquely. When the +man looked upon her he forgot all else but the morrow which should put +her in his arms and dower him with her love while life was. +</p> + +<p> +“We will tell the story together, little girl,” he said; “but there is +something else to say before then, and the music has not finished.” +</p> + +<p> +A second shot hissed above the sea and was swallowed up in a fountain +of foam which rose up so close to the <i>Esmeralda</i> that the faces of +her crew were wetted as by driven rain. It drew a curse from old John, +but the girl laughed fearlessly. She could not realise the meaning of +the tragedy which was being played. To her it was no more than some +great set scene in a theatre where wondrous lights coloured the +enchanted waters, and demons danced impotently before the gates of the +house impregnable. She did not believe that anything on earth could +harm a ship manned by English sailors and built in London city. And +she had an abounding confidence in her lover. He would save her—that +had been her thought from the beginning of the terrible days. +</p> + +<p> +“Paul,” she asked, turning to him with a gesture of love, “when shall +we be in London?” +</p> + +<p> +“In four days’ time, little one.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then——” +</p> + +<p> +“And then—it will be your turn to command. I have no plans; I have +not thought of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no need to think, dearest. I shall make England a home to +you indeed. We will live for that. We will talk of to-night often. You +shall tell Dick how they fired at us. He will not believe, but it will +be good to remember. You do not regret, Paul?” +</p> + +<p> +“Regret—with you at my side, and the day to dawn, and the little +yacht to carry me—how should I regret? It is life to look into your +eyes, Marian!” +</p> + +<p> +She answered with a half caress, and he led her to the poop, where +together they watched the wake of water behind them aglow with +phosphorescent brilliance and the jewelled spray of the white-capped +waves. For a moment the danger seemed to be passing. The ships were no +longer abreast; the great aureola scarce touched them; silence fell +upon the sea, and the guns of the <i>Peter Veliky</i> ceased to speak. Anon +the yacht plunged into the welcome shadow, and all the pent-up +gladness of those who had waged the fight so dauntlessly broke out and +was not to be restrained. A great cheer—an English cheer—went +ringing across the sea. It was the answer of the four to the four +hundred aboard the <i>Peter Veliky</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Outsteamed, by God!” cried old John Hook. “I said there warn’t no +Rooshian as could touch her.” +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch14"> +CHAPTER XIV.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">THE TERRIBLE NIGHT.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> echo of the cheer which rose up from the decks of the +<i>Esmeralda</i> yet lingered upon the sea when the Russian answer to it +was forthcoming. Even as the crew of the little yacht said that the +danger was done with, and that an open sea now lay before them, a +voice out of the darkness gave them the lie. So swift was it to come, +so surprising, that the men stood mute and wondering and helpless. It +was as though the avenger had risen from the depths before them—a +phantom ship conjured up by the powers of ill to reckon with them. +They thought themselves without consort in the heart of the Gulf, and +while the thought was still with them the strange ship appeared. Her +light shone full upon them from a point not two hundred yards distant. +They could count the men upon her decks; could see the figure of her +commander outstanding on the bridge; could follow the delicate contour +of the great hull which now towered above them. +</p> + +<p> +The strange ship lay motionless, for she had been awaiting the signal +of the <i>Peter Veliky</i>, and so stood toward the centre of the Gulf that +she might command the channel. It is possible that the <i>Esmeralda</i> +would have slipped by her in the dark but for the cheer of victory +raised so foolishly. That triumphant cry was as the gun of a sentinel +to those on board the Russian ship. Her lantern blazed out; voices of +warning were raised on her decks; men roared to one another that the +quarry had run into the snare, that the hunt was done. The beams of +the great light fell upon the yacht and upon her crew, and the cheer +froze on the lips of those who had raised it. Her men were powerless +to think or act. The ultimate terror of defeat was upon them. +</p> + +<p> +A man wearing the uniform of a naval lieutenant stood in the bows of +the cruiser and was the first to hail the <i>Esmeralda</i>. His voice was +like the roar of a bull; the wind carried his words so that none of +them were lost. Already Reuben had shut off steam mechanically, so +that the two ships lay rolling to the swell like swimmers who seek +breath after the travail of a race. But no one gave answer to the hail +of the lieutenant. Stupor possessed the crew of the yacht. The blow +had been so swift to come; the shadow of the prison lay already upon +the men. +</p> + +<p> +“What ship?” roared the lieutenant, putting the question for the third +time. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s the <i>Kremi</i>, of Helsingfors,” said Reuben, who was again the +first to reckon up the danger. +</p> + +<p> +“An old ship,” said John Hook in a giant’s whisper. “She might catch a +hearse—leastwise I’d venture on it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nine knots in the books, John.” +</p> + +<p> +“To hell with the books! She carries her guns forward.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then they cannot fire at us as we pass them,” exclaimed the girl +excitedly. +</p> + +<p> +Old John added to the wealth of the sea by a mouthful of tobacco +juice. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve hit it on the head, miss!” cried he. “If we drift past ’em +they want five minutes to get her about, and where shall we be in five +minutes, mates?” +</p> + +<p> +Reuben ceased to grin. Paul could not take his eyes off the cruiser. +They had drifted so close to her that they could see the faces of +those who trod the great decks above them. There was not a man on +board the <i>Esmeralda</i> whose heart did not beat high, not one who did +not tell himself that this was the hour of reckoning. +</p> + +<p> +“C’est fini!” Paul exclaimed, drawing the girl into his embrace. “This +is our to-morrow, little Marian. But I have done my best, God knows.” +</p> + +<p> +She kissed his lips and that was her answer. +</p> + +<p> +Many men had come together to the port-bow of the <i>Kremi</i>, and they +stood gaping at the stranger and at her crew. The lieutenant who had +first cried out, asking “What ship?” gave the order that a gangway +should be lowered; he did not doubt that it was the intention of the +pursued to surrender without further effort. But those on board the +<i>Esmeralda</i> were of one mind and purpose again. The grin broadened +upon the face of Reuben; old John lighted his pipe with the +deliberation of a man at his own fireside. Silently he waited while +the crew of the <i>Kremi</i> flocked to the gangway, encouraged by the +shrill, fife-like voice of a commander who plumed himself already upon +his victory. Child’s work, the Russian thought, to grapple with the +impudent and perky cockle-shell which had defied so vain-gloriously +the might of his country. He gave the order triumphantly. He came to +the very edge of the bridge to watch the irons slipped upon the hands +of Zassulic the spy and of the woman who had tempted him. When the +<i>Esmeralda</i> did not stop at the gangway, but drifted on, he thought +for the moment that it was clumsy seamanship; but when, with dramatic +suddenness, she began to go full steam ahead, his anger was not to be +controlled. +</p> + +<p> +“Stand by to clear the guns!” he roared. “Are you going to lose her? +Great God! she will cheat us yet!” +</p> + +<p> +He foamed and raged like a madman, for the yacht shot into the +darkness as a shell from a great gun. The terrible moment of waiting +was past. Inch by inch the little ship had drifted, carrying men whose +hearts quivered with excitement but whose spirit was unbroken. The +terror of waiting was upon them no more. They had been within a boat’s +length of the ladder when John cried “Let her go!” Then all the +courage of their despair fired them. As a horse champing at his bit, +so was the <i>Esmeralda</i> sagging there in the trough of the sea. The +rush of steam into her cylinders was the touch of the spur she asked. +She bounded forward into the heart of the breakers, and a cloud of +spray hid her from the enemy’s sight. +</p> + +<p> +“Below, below for your lives!” roared old John; “they’re manning the +machine-guns!” +</p> + +<p> +“We cannot leave you here!” cried Paul, ashamed for the moment that it +was not a fellow-countryman who spoke. +</p> + +<figure> + <a href="images/img_172.jpg" id="img_172"> + <img src="images/img_172_th.jpg" alt="img_172"> + </a> + <figcaption> + “SHE BOUNDED FORWARD INTO THE HEART OF THE BREAKERS” + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p> +“Then you stand to your death!” cried John Hook. “There ain’t a gun in +Roosher which I care a d—— for!—the Lord be my witness. Down there, +sir, as you vally your life!” +</p> + +<p> +The rattle of musketry and a sputter of bullets on the near sea cut +short his honest bravado. Paul, needing no other argument, dragged +Marian into the shelter of the scantling. The yacht, yawing in her +course that she might avoid the hail of bullets, appeared to rush into +the very bowels of the seas. Onward she flew, the foam frothing at her +bows, the spray reeking upon her funnel, a great wake of quivering +water behind her. Bullets struck her decks and sent chips of wood +flying as though an adze cleaved them; the search-light followed her +path as the light upon a stage follows the step of the dancer. Every +minute was an eternity of suspense. The hearts of the men seemed to +stand still. When at last the guns ceased there were tears upon the +faces of the crew, but they were tears of joy. +</p> + +<p> +“Down under again, by the Lord!” roared old John, who rolled with +excitement. “Down under again, and the young lady thought of it. Glory +be to God who made me an Englishman this night!” +</p> + +<p> +He shook his fist defiantly at the distant light, for he knew that the +hour of deliverance was at hand. The lumbering <i>Kremi</i>, which ventured +rarely from her moorings in Helsingfors, was marked in the books as a +ship which could steam at nine knots, but that was a fiction beloved +of officials. Put to it now in the heavy swell of a fresh night, she +strained and groaned like a derelict of the deep; she lurched over the +seas, she smothered herself in them. The yacht ran from her as a hare +from a bull. She fired her great gun again and again, but the shells +found no other billet than the thundering breakers. When thirty +minutes had passed she abandoned the pursuit and headed once more for +the harbour she quitted so rarely. But first she shot a rocket high +into the darkness and was answered by other rockets, blue and flaming +on the far horizon. And at this sight old John ceased to laugh, and +foreboding fell again upon the crew of the <i>Esmeralda</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“You saw that, Reuben?” cried John Hook, pointing upward with his bony +finger. +</p> + +<p> +“I saw it, John.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then there ain’t no need for me to speak.” +</p> + +<p> +“Speak or silent, it don’t make no difference.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I’ve eyes in my head, that’s the Baltic Fleet coming up the Gulf.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is so, John.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Baltic Fleet!” exclaimed Paul. “Then God help us! We shall never +run by there.” +</p> + +<p> +“You speak gospel truth, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +The master of the <i>Esmeralda</i> paced the deck again in all the agony of +uncertainty prolonged. He had persuaded Marian to lie down in her +cabin so soon as the <i>Kremi</i> ceased to fire; there she slept and +dreamed of England. But for him there was no sleep. These recurring +difficulties were to him as a sign from God rebuking his work. It had +seemed so simple when he planned it at Kronstadt—the quick rush in +the darkness, the friendship of surprise, the possibility of escape +before the news was known. But now the truth would not be hidden. The +flaming rockets spoke of a girdle put about him by the avenger. He +realised what a task was that which a man set himself when he sought +to pit his cunning against the might of Russia. His enemies would +crush him as they would crush a worm. They would drag him from the +woman whose lips he had kissed, whose love was all that remained to +him in life. +</p> + +<p> +“You think there is no hope for us, Reuben?” he asked, suddenly +stopping in his walk and facing the silent group. +</p> + +<p> +“No hope out yonder, sir—leastways not to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have no plan in your mind?” +</p> + +<p> +“None—unless you should run north, sir. There are always the +islands.” +</p> + +<p> +“I had not thought of them,” said Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought of them from the first,” continued Reuben. “There are a +hundred creeks which might hide us until the hunt is over. And we’ve +the land behind us, sir, if it should come to the worst.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then to the islands let it be, and God help us if they know that we +are still in the Gulf.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay, to that,” said old John; and so the little ship went about, +and heading straight for the coast of Finland, she began to race anew. +But the hearts of the men were heavy. It was as though they turned her +towards the gates of that prison which their minds had built for them +during the hours of the terrible night. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch15"> +CHAPTER XV.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">UPON THE NAMELESS ISLAND.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">It</span> was the afternoon of the day, and the <i>Esmeralda</i> lay at anchor +under the lee of one of the rocky islets which abound upon the +southern shores of Finland. They had warped her to the sheer rock, so +that she lay snug and hidden and sheltered from the wind-driven tide +which raced between the island and its neighbour. A loom of haze above +her funnel alone spoke of life within her. Her crew had gone ashore to +stretch their legs, and were to be discovered upon the beach in all +those attitudes of repose which seamen court. The sun fell upon the +barren rock and upon their faces, but did not wake them. They had kept +the long vigil, and this was their hour of rest. +</p> + +<p> +The day had been one of tempest since the dawn: and though it was now +late in the afternoon and the rain had ceased to fall, there was a +thunder of surf upon the outer islands of the archipelago and the open +water frothed white with foam. But the creek into which they had +moored the <i>Esmeralda</i> was sheltered both from the wind and seas. +Sheer walls of granite towered above the decks of the yacht; a girdle +of tiny islets, stretching far out to the Gulf or back to the distant +shore of Finland, was her defence against the breakers. She rode +proudly at her moorings as though conscious of the victory which the +night had given her. +</p> + +<p> +This haven had been made at the dawn of the day by men who knew every +channel and landmark in the Gulf. They had welcomed it, for therein +they could think of food and sleep, and forget that the Russian was at +their heels. Though the truce might prove but a truce of hours, it was +a gift of God to those whose eyes ached with watching, whose limbs +were cold with wet, whose tongues were parched with thirst. The gale +which sprang up with the coming of the light was a befriending gale to +them. They said that no ship of war would venture near them while the +surf thundered, and the mist of spray made clouds above the land, and +the west wind screamed in the Gulf. And so they slept, and the +sunshine of the later day was a balm of light to their eyes, and +welcome warmth suffused bodies that had been stiff and cramped with +the bitter cold of the Baltic night. +</p> + +<p> +Though Paul had gone ashore with his crew, it was not to sleep. The +few hours of rest he had snatched in the earlier hours of the day +sufficed for him. He, perhaps, of all the little company, understood +most truly the malevolence of Fate in casting him back to the shelter +of the island at an hour when he should have been in the great +sea-road of the Baltic. The Land of the West, wherein liberty lay, +seemed to have become a land beyond the horizon of his dreams. He +looked out from the island upon the whitened billows and remembered +that Russian ships, sent to the pursuit of him, were watching and +waiting in the channel of the Gulf. The distant shore, high and rocky +and barren, spoke of coast patrols and Finns who soon must learn that +a strange yacht lay in the harbour of the islands; of peasants who +would run to carry the news to Helsingfors that a few kopecks might be +thrown to them. Scheme as he would, he could contrive no plan whereby +the peril wrought of the gale might be turned. He must wait for a +smoother sea and a fairer wind. And waiting was an agony of doubt +scarce to be supported. +</p> + +<p> +All this was in his mind when Marian awoke at midday and was rowed by +old John Hook to the little patch of beach which permitted them to +land upon the nameless island. He met her at the water-side and lifted +her from the boat; but he would tell her nothing of his thoughts, for +he saw that colour had come again to her face and that the great rings +beneath her eyes had been washed out by the waters of sleep. She was, +indeed, almost the light-hearted pretty creature who had won his love +at the Governor’s house; and when he looked into her brightening eyes +and heard her girlish laughter, love came surging up to compel +forgetfulness of all else. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been waiting for you,” he said tenderly. “The hours were +long.” +</p> + +<p> +“They will race now,” she answered, as she locked her hand in his. “We +shall see each other growing old, Paul. Oh, is it not good to breathe +again? I could run, run, run to the world’s end.” +</p> + +<p> +She dragged him on, hastening with joy of her freedom, telling him a +hundred things at once, asking unfinished questions and waiting for no +answer. When they had come to the high place of the rock she curled +herself up on the ground and there she feasted her eyes on the +panorama of whitened sea and whirling gull and desolate island. The +man lay beside her, content that he had won her this hour of +happiness. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot believe it,” she said, while the spindrift freshened her +face and the wind swept the curls from her little ears, “I cannot +believe that we are here. How should a day make such a difference? How +should our lives run so evenly through long years and then turn so +swiftly, carrying us away from everything we have ever known to things +we never dreamed of? A month ago I was a governess in the house at +Kronstadt. I taught the twins to grow up in the way they did not want +to go. But to-day, where am I? what am I? Why are these things hidden +from us? And if it is so strange to-day, what will it be next year and +the year after? Oh, if one could look even for a moment into the glass +of life!” +</p> + +<p> +“But you cannot,” said Paul stolidly. “There is no glass except the +glass of your mind and conscience. We cannot look; we can only act, +Marian. And that is what we have been doing, you and I, though God +knows what kind of a story we have written or where it will end. At +this moment we are on an island near Hango, and we wait there until +the wind and the sea go down. When that happens we shall go aboard the +<i>Esmeralda</i> again, and to-morrow we shall come to Stockholm.” +</p> + +<p> +She clapped her hands, and regarding her environment wistfully, she +cried— +</p> + +<p> +“It is a world of islands, a world without life. There can be no spot +on all the earth as lonely as this. And yet it is a city to me now. I +could people it with the birds; the rocks should be the churches and +buildings for me. Paradise lies on the broad road when one has been a +month and has not seen the sun.” +</p> + +<p> +He stroked her face, encouraging her to forget that her freedom might +depend upon the whim of the wind. +</p> + +<p> +“You are glad to be free, Marian, as glad as I am! Some day, perhaps, +we will remember this day and speak of it as the morning of our love. +I do not think that they will follow us; there are few that can sail +these seas. Even the fishermen come here reluctantly. It is a grave +for sailors, as many a good fellow knows.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet <i>you</i> come here?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was the one thing left to do. We could not pass the ships they had +sent out yonder; we could not go back; this was our only haven, unless +we returned to the prison as they wished.” +</p> + +<p> +She shuddered and drew close to him. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall never go back, dearest; you think that?” +</p> + +<p> +He began to pick at the rocky stones and to throw them into the froth +of the breaking waves. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know,” he said after a long pause. “Who can say what the +future will bring? But I am a Russian no more. I have no country now. +It does not concern me.” +</p> + +<p> +The infinite pathos of his words was not to be concealed from her. +Never since he had carried her from the cell at Alexander had she +understood so well the price he had paid. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Paul, Paul!” she exclaimed bitterly, “what have I done? what +crime have I committed that I should bring this upon you? Let me go +back to Kronstadt. I am not worth your sacrifice. I can never repay. +There is time yet.” +</p> + +<p> +The man laughed at her distress, and, blaming himself because he had +spoken, he answered by taking her face into his hands and looking into +her tear-stained eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“The crime you have committed,” he said, “is to be the sweetest woman +on earth! The wrong which you have done is to make me love you so that +without you there is no world for me! Why talk of repaying? Is there +to be a reckoning between those who love? Have they not all things in +common? Who hurts you hurts me. When you are content I am content. I +lose a country to gain the whole world. If I am no longer a Russian, +shall I not be the husband of Marian? Let us not talk of these things; +it is ingratitude while we have the bread of life so abundantly. When +that bread fails we will complain. To-morrow, if the wind goes down, +we shall be at Stockholm. I shall leave the yacht there and take an +English steamer for London. It will then be your turn to forget that +you are an Englishwoman; you will be the wife of Zassulic; you will be +the friend of Russia. All that you have learnt at Kronstadt will be +forgotten; the friends who tempted you will be strangers to you +henceforth. We will begin life again, pilgrims in a strange country. +But we shall walk the way of life together, and so the journey will be +easy.” +</p> + +<p> +The shadow of regret passed from his face while he went on to speak of +all he would do in London; how that he hoped much from his kinsman and +from his own training as an engineer. Marian, in her turn, listened +with smiling face, though she was telling herself all the time that +she must prevent the sacrifice, must compel him to return to his work +and his country; if possible, to return, not as one disgraced, but a +man who had wrestled with a great temptation and had vanquished it. As +for herself, she did not doubt that her wits would find a way whereby +she might reach her own country. The present danger she was in, the +peril of almost immediate discovery by the Russian ships, was not real +to her. She could run again and see the sky and breathe the fresh air. +She felt herself adrift upon the ocean of circumstance, and the voyage +was not without its measure of excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“You must go back, Paul,” she said very firmly when he had done +speaking; “we must find a way and an excuse.” +</p> + +<p> +“A way, Petite, when you have been seen upon my ship, and the Sergeant +has told them that I took you from the fort? Oh, yes, that would be +easy enough; they are such simpletons at Kronstadt; they will believe +me when I say, ‘The prisoner escaped: it was an accident’; they will +reward me—with a file of soldiers and lead for medicine. The day when +I can return to Russia will be the day when stars fall at our feet and +there is no longer any sun in the sky. It is foolish to talk of it. +Henceforth you shall make a country for me; it shall be a country of +the heart; the house will be the house of our affections. We shall +laugh then to remember of what little worth are all those material +things which at one time seemed so much to us; we shall laugh at +to-day, and tell how we cheated old Bonzo after all.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a brave effort to conceal from her the apprehension he felt; +but the woman’s instinct rightly interpreted the words. When next he +looked into her face she was gazing over the storm-tossed waste to the +distant field of the open sea, where the west wind still blew with +hurricane force and banks of gathering cloud were the gloomy heralds +of the night to come. +</p> + +<p> +“The wind befriends us,” she said thoughtfully, “but the wind will die +away presently, and then——” +</p> + +<p> +“And then the darkness will take its place, little woman. Even if they +think we are here among the islands, they must spend days before they +discover upon which island we are. While they are looking for us we +shall be snug in the harbour at Stockholm. We must steal from harbour +to harbour until we see that no ships follow, and then the little +yacht will do the rest. There is no ship in Russia that can outsteam +her with a clear sea before us. We shall wait for the clear sea and +all will be well.” +</p> + +<p> +They had left the grassy knoll at this time and had come up to the +headland, wherefrom they could overlook the strange haven into which +destiny had cast them. Marian beheld again the world of islands, vast, +interminable, stretching as far as the eye could see away toward the +Baltic or back to the Russia they had left. The gloom of water and +sky, the cold gray light, the haunting solitude, the wash of the +waves, the shrill note of the gull, oppressed her anew with a vast +sense of her own loneliness. She thought that she was an outcast from +the world. She pictured herself flying from man to the desolate places +of the earth. A hundred years of time seemed to lie between her and +the life she had lived. She reproached herself bitterly that she had +rewarded so great a love with so terrible a gift—the gift of men’s +slander and the insult of evil tongues, the brand of dishonour and the +exile’s lot. +</p> + +<p> +And this thought grew upon her, that she must save Paul from himself +and go alone upon the way to which her folly had carried her. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch16"> +CHAPTER XVI.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">ALONE.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> westerly gale held throughout the day, and was still at its +height when the men of the <i>Esmeralda</i> turned into their bunks. They +had watched unceasingly during the afternoon for any sign of ships +upon the horizon or for token of life upon the neighbouring shore of +Finland. But the sea continued to run mountains high in the broad of +the Gulf, and there was a haze of mist and spray over the land which +served them well in those anxious moments of waiting. They argued that +the Baltic Fleet would not attempt to weather such a gale, but would +be already snug and sheltered at Helsingfors or at Revel. As for the +fishermen of the neighbouring isles, the circumstance of the day +accounted for them and for their ships. No little craft could live in +such a gale; no peasant would patrol the shores while the west wind +swept up the Gulf and the breakers thundered upon the outer reef. +To-morrow the wind would fall away and the calm would come. To-morrow +they would begin to live again. +</p> + +<p> +The night fell dark and misty and threatening, so that there was no +need of any watch upon the decks of the little ship. Guarded by the +breakers without and the towering crags for sentinels within, the +haven befriended her beyond hope. No lights shone from the ports of +the <i>Esmeralda</i> upon the swirling waters of the channel. Her men went +to and fro silently as though afraid to speak. They welcomed the hours +of truce, for therein they could sleep and rest. Marian alone kept a +vigil of the night. For her sleep had become a fitful friend. There +were terrors of her dreams which no waking argument could shake off. +She slept to imagine herself once more in the cell at Alexander; she +awoke to ask herself if she would ever come to England again. She +remembered that she was an outcast and had struck at the honour of the +man she loved in her fall. +</p> + +<p> +Old John Hook and Reuben, the engineer, went ashore several times +during the night to see if there was any abatement of wind or sea; but +when at four o’clock they found the gale still blowing, it was evident +to them that the necessity for watchfulness existed no longer—at +least until the day dawned. They were sound asleep in their bunks when +Marian dressed herself in the darkness at four o’clock and left the +cabin wherein sleep had brought her so many terrible dreams. She had +no set purpose in quitting her bed other than the desire to breathe +the fresh air of morning. The gray beams of light shining behind banks +of sullen cloud were welcome to her after the darkness and confinement +of her little cabin. Silently she trod the steps of the companion, and +ran to the bow of the yacht to stand there and hear the water lapping +monotonously upon the face of the cliff. The nameless islands around +began slowly to shape themselves in a vista of spray and haze. Strange +birds went screaming from crag to crag; but of human life there was no +sight or sound. +</p> + +<p> +It had been an impulse which brought her to the deck, but this was to +prove a morning of impulses. Ever present through the weary night of +waiting had been the desire to save the man she loved from the +consequences of her folly. Just as at Kronstadt, in the hour of her +necessity, a woman’s weakness had cast her upon his pity and devotion, +so now was she convinced that she must rely upon that pity and +devotion no longer. She told herself, but with the vaguest notions of +reasoning, that if Paul were alone, it would be easy for him to return +to his own country with some story that would convince Bonzo and old +Stefanovitch of his fidelity. And she must not deny him that +opportunity. He had given all; her gift should not be less. +</p> + +<p> +“I will save him from himself,” she said again and again. “They shall +not find me upon his yacht. He will go back to Russia and forget. I +have been alone so many years; it is nothing that I am alone until the +end.” +</p> + +<p> +She repeated the words while she stood at the bow of the <i>Esmeralda</i> +and watched the sea racing in the narrow of the channel. To save the +man who had lost all for her, to give him back country, friends, +honour—she cared not at what cost—that must be her purpose. All the +happiness of his love which had come into her life must wither and +die. If God willed, she would still have the love of the child. Her +unbroken courage suggested that she would find the way to England when +once she was alone. Half-formed schemes of a place of hiding in the +hut of a peasant, of flight in a fisherman’s ship, helped her +resolutions. She remembered that she had rowed a boat often upon the +river Dart, and that weeks of imprisonment had still left much of her +girlish strength. And so the great idea took finite shape and was +resolved upon. +</p> + +<p> +Quickly, silently, with deft hands, she drew the yacht’s boat, then +lying at the stern of the ship, to the gangway, which had been left +down during the night. A feverish haste characterised all her +movements. She was afraid that they would come and rob her of success; +she feared that someone would awake to prevent her emprise. Her great +love for Paul surged up in her heart, yet did but quicken her steps. A +rebellious anger urged her on to a war against circumstance: a war she +must wage alone and without friends. +</p> + +<p> +Stealthily the little gray-clad figure moved in the morning light. +Hither and thither, pitiful in the agony of a farewell she could not +speak, tears falling upon her cold hands, anger (she knew not why) in +her heart, the girl bent down to kiss the deck beneath which her lover +was sleeping. +</p> + +<p> +“God bless you, Paul, my love! God bless you for your love of me!” +</p> + +<p> +And so the voyage began, and the pilgrim was alone again, and the +curtain of the mist shut the yacht from her sight. +</p> + +<p class="spacer"> +* * * * * * +</p> + +<p> +They awoke the master of the <i>Esmeralda</i> and told him of her flight. +He did not answer them, but stood long peering into the mists which +enveloped the island seas. When Reuben spoke to him at last he turned +quickly and fell senseless upon the deck of the silent ship. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch17"> +CHAPTER XVII.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">FORSAKEN OF ALL.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">There</span> were oars in the yacht’s boat, but the current ran so swiftly +that Marian was unable to fix them in the rowlocks before the tide +caught the little ship in its embrace and swept it out towards the +open sea. So rapid was the race that the panorama of crag and headland +about her seemed to be hidden in a moment from her sight. Turn where +she would she espied an horizon of fog and vapour. The searching white +mists of morning lay upon the sea in billows of chilling cloud. No +breath of wind stirred to sweep the Gulf and roll up this veil which +hid the world from her sight. Calm—the calm that those upon the +<i>Esmeralda</i> had wished for—had come at last. But the very silence of +it was a terror to the helpless girl cast adrift at the whim of +impulse, the martyr to a woman’s logic and a woman’s love. +</p> + +<p> +Swiftly the current ran, but silently, so that no sound broke the +stillness save the lap of the water upon the prow. Minutes were +numbered, but were hours for her. She heard bells ringing strangely +through the curtain of the fog, and wondered if they were the bells of +a town. Anon the sound of waves breaking upon some strand spoke either +of the coast of Finland or of the shore of a neighbouring island; but +she could make out no land looming through the haze, and though she +tried to row the boat in the direction of the bells, the current +mastered her, and she was borne on, she knew not whither. It seemed to +her that Fate was carrying her out to the death of the veiled sea. +While the mist benumbed her hands and drenched her clothes, and the +spray sparkled upon her face, an anger of impulse still drove her on, +she cared not to what end if her lover might thereby be saved. He had +suffered that she might be free; she would suffer that his country +might be given back to him. +</p> + +<p> +“I will save him!” was her cry, oft repeated, while she used her oars +desperately and shut her lips firmly as though to help the resolution. +“They will find him alone, and he will be able to make some excuse. He +will say that I am dead.” +</p> + +<p> +At other times she would laugh aloud, asking herself what she must +look like with her hair drenched and dank, and her face white and +pinched, and her gown bedraggled. She said that old Stefanovitch would +make love to her no more if he could see her at such a moment. She +ceased to row a little while that she might recall all his leers and +amorous antics—how long ago it was since they had been a part of her +daily life! Or she would gaze wistfully at the barrier of fog, as +though seeking beyond it a lamp of destiny which should show her the +course. Death itself must be like this solitude; the stillness of the +grave could bring no greater terror than the terror of one drifting in +the loom of mists, far from friends and from men. +</p> + +<p> +“I must not think,” she said, beginning to row again with new energy. +“There will be sunshine presently, and then it will be different. I +shall put ashore on some island, and the fishermen will give me food +and take me across to Sweden. Paul will go back to Russia. I have done +right, and have only myself to blame.” +</p> + +<p> +She longed for sunshine as the sick long after the vigil of a night of +waking. The folly of putting out to sea in a boat which carried +neither food nor drink became more apparent to her every hour. There +were moments of regret, when she began to wonder if Paul would follow +her, when she hated the obscurity of day, which was her shield against +pursuit. Hunger now began to forewarn her of added suffering to come. +The biting air of morning and the labour of the oar were foes to the +little reserve of strength which had nerved her to flight. She said +that none but a woman would have done so foolish a thing, and laughed +at herself because she had done it. When she found herself able to row +no more than a dozen strokes at a spell, when her head began to swim +and all nature cried out for food, she laughed no more, but bit her +lips again, and remembered that it was for her lover’s life. And so +day came up at last out of the sea, and the curtain of the mist was +rolled back. +</p> + +<p> +Gradually, as though a hand from the ether was stretched out to +scatter it, the fog lifted. A golden sea shone beneath, rippling, +sparkling with jewels of light. Farther back, and yet farther, showing +new glories of the mirror of waters, the curtain was drawn. Marian +beheld the red disc of the sun like a mighty globe hanging in the +east; she saw a new world rise up out of the dissolving fog. Jagged +crags of rock stood suddenly in the path of the current. Shapes as of +cliffs and domes of granite were formed against the white background. +A new warmth suffused the whole air softly; the outposts of the night +were rolled back until day triumphed and all the sea was glorious with +its radiance. +</p> + +<p> +For some little while the girl sat entranced at the spectacle. The +current, which had borne her vessel to this new scene, no longer raced +toward the open sea. The tide was on the turn, and the boat rested in +the slack of the water. Far away, beyond many a reef and boulder, lay +the greater waters of the Gulf. She spied out the shape of a vessel +lying at anchor there, and her first thought was that a Russian ship +had come to the islands in pursuit of the <i>Esmeralda</i>. She said that +it would find Paul alone. As for herself, there was no longer need to +fear. Islands lay all about her. Here and there she perceived smoke +rising from some cot or village; the friendly sea brought her almost +to the very beach of an islet green and ripe with spring grasses. She +rowed to its sandy shore, and dragging the boat as far as her strength +would permit up on a ridge of shingle, she set out to discover upon +what kind of a haven she had fallen. Never did woman set foot upon +land more gladly. Wet and cold and miserable, knowing well that she +stood alone in the world, conscious that the Russian guarded the gate +by which she must pass to England, nevertheless the sunshine was as +wine to her, the warmth of morning as a gift of God. Impulsively, with +a child’s joy, she ran to the higher places of the island; she wrung +her wet clothes and bound her unkempt hair again. There would be +fishermen’s huts upon the other side, she said; they would give her +food for charity’s sake; she would make them understand, it would be +fun to do so. But when she stood upon the high place of her little +kingdom she found that it was desolate as the other isles had been. No +hut or cottage spoke of life awaking, or of men still at their sleep. +The shrill note of the whirling birds, the splash of the sea upon the +golden sands, were the voices of the sanctuary. Marian listened to +them a little while as one who hears the tidings of surpassing ill. +Then with a bitter cry of woe she ran down to the beach again. +</p> + +<p> +She had thought to find her boat where she had left it, washed by the +lips of the waves, but the tide had ebbed back a little way—for there +is always a suggestion of tide in the Gulf—and the little ship lay +high and dry upon a bed of oozy sand. Nor could all her strength move +it again, even so much as a foot, from its resting-place. When she was +sure of this, when she knew that she was alone upon that desolate +isle, her courage forsook her for the first time since she had left +Kronstadt, and she sank upon the sands weeping bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“Paul, Paul,” she cried, “come to me—do not leave me here alone!” +</p> + +<p> +So she cried for her lover. A gull screaming above her head answered +with a mocking note. Only the life-giving sunshine befriended one whom +all the world had forsaken. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch18"> +CHAPTER XVIII.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">A STRANGE FIGURE ON THE SHORE.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> fit of weeping passed when reason had come to her own again, and +Marian sat a long while gazing wistfully over the rippling sheen of +the sunlit sea. Once she thought she heard a gun fired in the +distance; and this spoke to her of a life being lived around her, of +other isles near by, wherein men’s voices were heard and the laughter +of children. She began to argue that she had but to wait for the flood +of the tide to put off her boat and come at some neighbouring shore +which should offer more welcome harbourage. Weary and faint as she +was, with hope dimmed and courage broken, despair was not for such an +hour. She had the idea to go up to the cliff and there to drink at the +spring which she had seen jetting forth from the face of the rock. +Thereafter she would sleep, and night would bring her food and +friends. +</p> + +<p> +While she knew nothing of her situation, of the land upon which she +was cast, or of its environment, she was in reality upon that place +known to the Finns as the island of the Holy Well. In circuit perhaps +the third part of a mile, this speck of land lay five miles from that +other isle which had harboured the <i>Esmeralda</i> from the storm. But it +was a kindlier shore, for the cliff reared its head only on the +westward side, and elsewhere silver sand made a bed, as of the dust of +jewels, for the gentle seas which fell upon it. A few sickly trees +stood sentinels about the spring, and heather-like bushes thrived and +flourished in the path of the water. Marian sought the scanty shade of +these trees so soon as it was plain to her that she must await the +will of the sea. She drank long draughts of the fresh water and bathed +her face and hands in the translucent pool. Now that the sun shone +gloriously upon the island her heart was lighter and her hope +returning. She perceived other isles, distant more than a mile, and +she could distinguish the cottages of the fishermen. Night should find +her sleeping in one of those huts, she argued. She would sleep the +sounder because of the sacrifice, because she had found strength to +give as it had been given unto her. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall live my life with little Dick,” she said. “There is always a +living in England for those who will work. We will face the world +together, the child and I, and God will show us the road. I must +forget that it has ever been otherwise. Paul will marry a Russian +woman, and yesterday will be scored out of the book.” +</p> + +<p> +She was tearing at the grass vindictively when she said this, and the +sheen of the pool glowing radiantly, she beheld her own face in it—a +face white and drawn and pitiful, with curls run wild and eyes shining +from black rings. Ill as the picture pleased her, a little vanity +helped to recall the faces of the Russian women she had known; and +therein she found a great content. It was good to tell herself that +Paul’s wife would have the face of a Japanese; that her figure would +be flat like a board; that her skin would be parched and brown, and +that her dresses would come from Paris and would not fit her. She said +that she hated all Russian women; but the woman who was to be his wife +she hated already with a hatred which, when she reflected upon it a +little while, compelled her to laugh. She was still laughing when she +saw the apparition on the beach. +</p> + +<p> +So intent had she been upon her occupation of gazing into the pool +that for the time being she lost all memory of the island and of the +silent seas about her. When she looked up again and came back to +remembrance, her first thought was of the boat lying down there upon +the silver sand below her. Quickly her eyes sought it out; but she +could scarce trust them when she beheld a strange figure, come, she +knew not whence, to stand by the seashore and watch her vain +employment. +</p> + +<p> +The figure was the figure of a man garbed in a flowing robe of brown +cloth girdled at the waist with a coarse knotted rope. Huge in +stature, the monk, for such he seemed to be, stood motionless as a +pillar of rock. His long waving hair fell upon his shoulders +abundantly and was caught by the gentle breeze, which tossed it over +his haggard face so that his features were hidden. The glowing eyes +shone cadaverously with a light of fasting and of faith. So old were +the leather sandals he wore that they permitted the sharp rock to cut +his feet, the sea to wash them. Strange and forbidding, like some wild +man of the woods, the apparition stood with folded arms to watch the +girl, while she in turn, speechless with fear and dread of the +mystery, crouched upon the grass and found herself unable to utter a +word or stir a step from the place. Never in all her life had she been +so conscious of that ultimate terror of the unseen, which surpasses +the terror of death itself. Sure as she was that no human thing had +moved upon the island when she first trod it, this apparition seemed +to have risen up before her from the very heart of the rock. Her +impulse was to cry out, to flee the place as an abode of dreadful +images, but her limbs did not answer to her will. The cry she would +have uttered froze upon her lips; she shook with the beating of her +heart. For some little while indeed the trance of fear passed to +oblivion. She fell in a swoon, and when consciousness returned to her +the apparition had vanished. +</p> + +<p> +Marian had never known, until she came to Russia, what the meaning of +a nervous system might be. Though her nerves had been shattered by the +terrors of Alexander and by days and nights of dreadful contemplation, +she was still able to recover quickly from panic and to laugh at it. +When she found herself crouching upon the grass, and was conscious of +a great glare of sunlight in her eyes, she did not, upon the instant, +recall why she had swooned. The island about her was as desolate as +when first she set foot upon it. The sea droned its lazy song as +though welcoming the restful spring; the beach showed no sign of human +thing. She watched it dreamily for a little while and then recalled +the terror. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a dream,” she said, though she shuddered again at the memory. +“I must have been asleep. How could there be anyone here? Or if there +is, why should I be afraid of him? What nonsense to think of such +things!” +</p> + +<p> +Consoling herself thus, she sprang up lightly and ran down to the +shore. Her boat was just as she had left it; but when she turned to +examine the sand thereabout she discovered unmistakably the imprint of +a sandalled foot; she could trace the steps to the border of the +grass, but thereafter they were lost. And at this she stood spellbound +again, not fearing because a man was with her upon the island, but +because he hid himself thus from her, and his place of habitation was +not to be discovered by her eyes. She had heard, it is true, of +fanatical hermits who build pillars for themselves upon these lone +rocks of Finland, but the traditions did not help her reasoning. She +thought that she could never rest until she had seen and spoken to the +unknown. The terrible hunger from which she suffered drove her rather +to desire a meeting with him. She must know that he was human. Calling +out with all her strength, she began to run across the island. She +searched the beach and all the little caves and crannies cut out in +the heart of the rock. She stood to listen for the sound of steps, but +the dreadful silence was unbroken. No dwelling place nor other trace +of man, save those footsteps upon the shore, was to be discovered. It +was an awful thought for her, this thought of mystery and concealment; +it was more dreadful to think that night might come and trap her still +on the haven. +</p> + +<p> +The sun had passed the meridian by this time. It was nearly three in +the afternoon. Hunger, relentless and increasing, became an added +punishment of her pilgrimage. She had the strength to walk no more, +yet feared to sleep. She knew not what might happen to her if she lost +consciousness and the apparition should stand over her while she +dreamed. Her place of refuge was a ledge of rock raised ten feet above +the sand, and so narrow that anyone coming up to her must awake her in +the act. Here she was sheltered from the sun; a great boulder of +granite hid her from the view of anyone who might pass on the beach +below. At the very moment when she said that she would not close her +eyes, nature prevailed above her resolution and she fell into a sound +sleep. When she awoke, the sun was dipping into the sea and the chill +of a spring sunset was upon the island. +</p> + +<p> +The West was aflame then with mountains of crimson light merging at +the crown of the arc into orange and purple and the finer shades of +yellow. The monitive stillness of the coming night lay heavy upon the +waters. There were gray shadows everywhere and darkness in the glens +of the rock. Marian sat up, blaming herself that she had slept so +long. Her brain burned and her hands were hot and dry. She had never +known that hunger could be such a cruel foe. It seemed to her then +that she would have given half her years for a drink of milk and a +cake of bread. All the dainties she loved were shaped in fancy before +her eyes; she could have eaten the very grass. Slowly and painfully +she rose, determined to go up again and drink a little water at the +spring, but no sooner was she upon her feet than she cried out with +joy and clasped her hands as a child that hears of a holiday. +</p> + +<p> +While she slept someone had set a rough earthenware dish at her side. +She opened the dish to find that it contained a loaf of coarse brown +bread with a mess of meat and vegetables, and close by there was a +bottle of red wine, rough and sour, but more sweet to the little +wanderer than all the vintages of Champagne. +</p> + +<p> +“A miracle! a miracle!” she cried gladly, while she took the black +bread in her hands and drank a long draught of the wine. “The ghost +has been here while I slept, and I share his dinner. Oh, how good it +is to eat and drink!” +</p> + +<p> +The wine warmed her as a strong cordial. Blood suffused her cheeks; +there was a nervous pulsation in all her limbs. She feared the +apparition no more, for she knew that some wandering priest must be +with her upon the island and that he had set the food at her side. All +her thought then was to get her boat into the water and to set off for +that unknown port which should be to her a port of safety. She would +not delay another hour upon the desolate isle, for the flood was now +surging upon the beach and the heralds of night were winging in the +East. +</p> + +<p> +Strong in the desire to quit the lonely scene, she ate her food +quickly and ran down to the beach; but there she stood once more +irresolute, for a ship lay in the offing, and it was one of the most +curious she had ever seen. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch19"> +CHAPTER XIX.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">THE QUEST OF THE WOMAN.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">It</span> was midday and the <i>Esmeralda</i> lay at anchor in the shelter of +some outstanding rocks which girdled an island distant three miles +from that haven which had witnessed the flight of Marian. Two men of +the four who had accompanied her master from Kronstadt were to be seen +upon her decks; but so well chosen was her place of hiding, and so +wonderfully did the boulders of rock shield her, that her crew were +indifferent alike to the presence of a Russian cruiser which lay at +anchor in the distant offing, and to the eyes of the neighbouring +fishermen whose boats dotted the unruffled surface of the sea. +</p> + +<p> +Of the two upon the deck, one was old John Hook, who leaned heavily +upon the bulwarks and exposed his brawny arms and matted hair to the +welcome warmth of the spring sun; the other was Reuben, the engineer, +who squatted wearily upon a coil of rope. +</p> + +<p> +“Eight bells,” said Reuben, filling a pipe with a seaman’s +deliberation, “eight bells, John. By gosh! I’d like to know where we +shall be at eight bells to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“To hell with the bells!” replied John Hook, spitting vindictively +into the sea. “I’m damned if all you chaps don’t think you’re +sky-pilots! It’ll want something more than a Death’s-head Rooshian to +put a white choker round me, as sure as my name’s John Hook!” +</p> + +<p> +Reuben continued to cut his tobacco methodically. +</p> + +<p> +“Women are rum-uns, I’m blessed if they’re not,” said he after a +spell. “To think as she should have turned it up, in the middle of the +night too! Why, if she’d have held on another twelve hours, we’d have +put her into Stockholm before morning. What was in her head, that’s +what I want to know?” +</p> + +<p> +“Common-sense, that’s what was in her head, mate. She’s a rare plucked +’un if ever I sailed with one! Why, think of a little bit of goods +like that, not more’n you could crush in your ’and easy, a little bit +of goods like that agen all Rooshia and agen all the world! Where’s +she now?—ask yerself. Starvin’ meybe, meybe in one o’ them +ground-floor hells they call a prison in these parts. And why’s she +dun it? Why, so as they shan’t find her along wi’ him. It’s a cruel +thing, mate, a bit of a gal all alone on a shore like this. I’m derned +if I wouldn’t sign for a twelvemonth, if that would bring her back +agen!” +</p> + +<p> +Reuben lit his pipe and got up to watch the distant warship. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said he, “wishin’ ain’t goin’ to bring her back, John, and as +for that I’d take my dinner more easy if yon lot would weigh. +Supposin’ they’ve no news of us, what are they doing there? Is it to +see a fisher fleet? A shilling sail wouldn’t swallow that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s asking of you to swallow it?” asked the other testily. “Of +course they’ve got the news; but having the news and sighting us +through ten feet of rock’s a different story, ain’t it? Who’s to tell +’em we’re lyin’ here? Are we goin’ to run up a fleg? or is one of them +swabs a-fishin’ out there goin’ to beat in a mile to spy us out? +Damned if you don’t talk like a babe and sucklin’!” +</p> + +<p> +Reuben smoked angrily and crossed to the other side of the ship. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish the guv’nor was aboard,” said he; “there ain’t no good to be +done over yonder, I’ll swear. It’s eight hours since she went now. You +want a good eye to spy out eight hours, John.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s so, mate, always rememberin’ as tides don’t go on like women’s +tongues, for ever and ever. If she ain’t gone ashore afore this, she’s +somewhere in the flow of this channel, and there we’ll find her. It’ll +take more than the skipper of Petersburg to stop me when it’s an +English lady that’s between us. I’m derned if I wouldn’t pull his nose +for a shilling!” +</p> + +<p> +He added to the volume of the sea again; but Reuben continued to gaze +wistfully at the island upon which his master had landed in quest of +the little fugitive. Paul had known no resting hour since she was +gone. He understood that he had played for the great stake and had +lost. He saw himself branded as a traitor by the men who had known him +and loved him; cast out from the career of his ambition to these +desolate islands; utterly alone at a moment when, with all his heart +and soul, he yearned for the love which destiny had robbed him of. +</p> + +<p> +“My little wife!” he had cried when they brought him the news. “I +cannot lose you. God help me, I cannot live alone again!” +</p> + +<p> +Haggard and worn and weary with grief, the man, who had dared all for +a woman’s love, learned that love was to come no more into his life. +The cup had been snatched from his lips at a moment when he had first +tasted the sweetness of the draught. He began to remember all that +Marian had meant to him. He recalled her tenderness, her prettiness, +the delight of that hour when he had whispered his love in the shadow +of the bastions of Kronstadt. He swore to God that he would never see +the sun again if she were not given back to him; he raged against his +destiny; a voice whispered that the woman had left him to carry the +plans of the great fortress to England, and there to sell them as she +had first intended. To this voice he would not listen; and when the +paralysis of despair had passed, a new activity, the activity of the +quest, possessed him as a fever. “He would find her,” he said, “though +he lived and died on that desolate shore!” +</p> + +<p> +One boat remained to the <i>Esmeralda</i>, the dinghy which she carried +midships. He ordered them to lower it that no haven or creek or +channel might remain unsearched. Reckless, defiant, caring nothing for +prudence or pursuit, his voice was raised pitifully in many a rocky +harbour and upon many a shore. The moan of the wind alone answered +him. The desolate sea was unpitying. +</p> + +<p> +At midday the yacht made an island, prominent amongst the others by +reason of a curious girdle of outstanding rocks which defended it. It +was here that the men first observed the Russian cruiser lying far out +at sea. They warped their ship to one of the boulders of the rock, +while their master, headstrong and not to be restrained, went ashore +to see if the heights of the new land would help him to discover the +missing boat and the little wanderer, whose purpose in flight was now +becoming more clear to him. But the journey was fruitless. He looked +out from the heights upon a sea dotted with crags and isles; often +shining in still lagoons of sunlit water; showing here and there the +hulls of fishing boats, but giving no other answer to his question. A +great fear—the fear that Marian had, indeed, been taken by the +cruiser—began to give place to the supposition that she had found a +refuge upon the shore. Nevertheless, he continued to watch and to +wait, and would not return to the yacht until the quick eyes of his +companion perceived the danger of the place and of the scene. +</p> + +<p> +“They have put out a boat, sir,” said the man; “what’s more, that’s a +signal gun.” +</p> + +<p> +A puff of white smoke floated up from the deck of the distant cruiser, +and anon the muted roar of a gun was to be heard. Paul delayed no +longer upon the island, but hastened to regain his ship and there to +consult with those who, in their rough way, offered him so precious a +sympathy. +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” cried old John, merrily, when the dinghy came to view. “Ye +have news, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +Paul shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“The cruiser is putting off a boat; that is my news, John.” +</p> + +<p> +“To hell with the boat! What’s a boat got to do with us?” +</p> + +<p> +Paul laughed sadly while he swung up on to the deck of the +<i>Esmeralda</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“You are good fellows,” he said, “and you have been true friends to +me. It is no good to deceive you any more, and it would be wrong to +bring trouble upon you. I am the one to answer for this business, and +I am ready to answer. What happens now is nothing to me. But you, my +friends, you must all go ashore and leave me to make my answer alone.” +</p> + +<p> +John Hook thrust his hands deep into his trousers’ pockets. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, sir,” he said determinedly; “if it’s questions, I’m on +that job. And let me arst you this—am I a Britisher or am I a +furringer?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked appealingly to the others, who said knowingly— +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay; that’s the question, John.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul laughed again. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not care what you are,” said he; “it is sufficient that you have +been my friends.” +</p> + +<p> +“And friends we’ll remain. Leave you here alone! Is my name John Hook? +Is my port Swansea, or ain’t it? Am I goin’ ashore because a lot of +lubbers cruise round and fire off a popgun? I’m derned if I don’t +blush like a gal to hear you say so, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +Paul held out his hand and shook the great rough paw of the English +seaman. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you were my countryman,” he said. “If you will not go ashore, +you shall stay with me to the end, and it shall be as God wills. I +have few friends now. I have no longer a country.” +</p> + +<p> +His voice failed him, and he turned away, pretending to watch the +coming boat which was now being rowed rapidly toward the shore. It was +as though the messenger of destiny winged across the sea. The hand of +Fate appeared to be thrust out towards him. There was sunlight for his +eyes to-day, but to-morrow there would be darkness—the darkness of +the pitiless reckoning. He saw himself carried back to Kronstadt in +ignominy. He would stand alone, he said. The little head, which should +have nestled upon his shoulder, was to comfort him no more. And he had +no longer a reproach upon his lips. The friendship of the stout hearts +that sailed with him was a thing precious to him beyond words. +</p> + +<p> +The <i>Esmeralda</i> had been warped to a rock sufficiently high to conceal +her mast from any passing ship. The hands clambered upon this rock +when the dinghy was hauled up; and therefrom they watched the +long-boat which the Russian warship had lowered. Phlegmatic as they +were in word and deed, the steady approach of the strange craft set +their hearts beating with suppressed excitement. They could not turn +their eyes away; they watched her foot by foot as she drew toward +them. Some even whispered schemes for their defence; others spoke of +the skipper’s pistol and of their own good knives. John Hook alone +cried out upon such an idea, and his word prevailed. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s twenty men yonder if there’s one,” said he doggedly; +“supposing as this is their port, do you think they’re bringing +umbrellas with them? My eyes and limbs, that’s a woman’s notion! And +who’s goin’ to sit here for a Rooshian swab to play marbles with him? +Not me, by thunder! But I’ll tell you what, mates, if we cast off, and +back out while they’re coming round, there’ll be three hundred yards +between us before they wake up to it. And there won’t be nobody on +deck besides me for them to play at pigeons with. It’s for the guv’nor +to say; but I know what I should do if old Death’s-head yonder was +coming down my street.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay; John’s right,” cried the other. +</p> + +<p> +“I leave it to you,” exclaimed Paul, indifferently; “I care no longer. +The time for that has passed.” +</p> + +<p> +They cast the ship free at the words and stood with boat-hooks to +steady her. So great was the silence of doubt and expectancy that the +sound of the men breathing was like a whisper of voices. Yard by yard +the strange craft crept into the bay. They could see the cutlasses her +men carried, could read the name upon her prow. The agony of doubt was +scarce to be endured when the lieutenant in charge of the boat cried +an easy, and his crew ceased to row. Then indeed Paul said that the +hour was at hand, that the dream was done with. +</p> + +<p> +For twenty seconds, perhaps, the long-boat lay still upon the lagoon. +The men, watching and waiting upon the decks of the <i>Esmeralda</i>, shut +their eyes and stood like figures of bronze. But that was the supreme +moment; and when they had counted twenty, their hearts began to +quicken with a tremulous hope. For the oars were dipped again; and +going about suddenly, the Russian boat made off towards the further +side of the island. The sigh of relief from the watchers was almost a +nervous titter. Paul found that his forehead was wet and cold with icy +perspiration. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not for us after all. I do not understand,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“But I do,” cried John Hook excitedly. “Look yonder, sir. D’ye see +that white barge with three masts? It’s a leper ship, I reckon. The +monks aboard ’em load with lepers as we load with coal. They go from +island to island until they’ve took a cargo, and then they head north +for the ’orspital. That’s what brings old Death’s-head this way. He +must have a patient for ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +It was as he said. The cruiser’s boat was rowed straight to a +lumbering barge-like ship which had appeared suddenly in the centre of +the lagoon. Twenty minutes later the small boat was but a speck in the +offing, and the men of the <i>Esmeralda</i> were at dinner. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch20"> +CHAPTER XX.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">THE SHIP OF THE GOLDEN CROSS.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> strange craft which Marian had seen from the beach of her island +lay, perhaps, a quarter of a mile from the shore. It had three masts, +whereof two were very short, while the third was lofty and capped with +a great golden crucifix which shone glitteringly in the crimson light +of the setting sun. A brown jib, half lowered, flapped to the fitful +breeze; and a vast mainsail, resembling in many ways the lateen sails +of the South, half hid the decks from view. Marian observed that the +colour of the vessel’s hull was a dull white, ornamented with many +crimson crosses and with that which she thought must be an +inscription, though her eyes could not read the lettering. At the same +time she could make out the figures of many men standing together upon +the poop of the ship; and a long white boat, which had carried four of +its crew to the beach, now lay with its bow upon the sands and its +stern rolled by the breaking waves. Of the four men who rowed the +boat, three sat still at their oars, but the other stood in close talk +with the recluse whom Marian had watched and feared earlier in the +day. She could see that the two men were asking the meaning of her +visit to the island, for they pointed often to her own boat and walked +a little way to examine it more closely. +</p> + +<p> +Her first thought was to go out and speak with them, telling, if she +could, of her condition, and begging them to give her passage to some +more friendly shore. But a subtle instinct, which spoke of the +unfathomable superstition of the Finns and of their cruelty when those +superstitions were aroused, held her a little while to her place of +shelter behind the great boulder, and therefore she watched the men. +Much to her surprise, she perceived that the recluse was no old man, +as she had thought, but one still in the springtime of life. His long +flowing locks of black hair, and the coarse robe which clothed him, +deceived her. She had never imagined a young monk. As for the other, +he also wore the rough habit of brown stuff, but his hair was short +and crisp, and his face was the face of an intelligent man. That he +read the story of the visit aright she could not doubt. He pointed +often towards the distant Gulf with a gesture which seemed to tell her +that the secret, not only of her presence upon the island, but also of +her flight from Kronstadt, was known to him; and this sent her back to +the shelter of the higher rocks, where she stood trembling with a +vague dread, not so much of the discovery as of the men. +</p> + +<p> +The last of the day was ebbing at this time; the fitful dusk of +northern latitudes gave gray hues to all things about her, so that the +men upon the distant ship were as figures moving in shadow. A haze of +night floated above the waters. She seemed to be the habitant of a +strange world, an unreal world of fear and fantasy. The visit of the +cowled friars to her shore accentuated her loneliness. She crouched +upon the rocks and cried despairingly for her lover, as though some +miracle would wing her voice across the sea. Never until that moment +had she realised how this love had grown about her heart protectingly, +so that without it the very fount of life ebbed and was dried up. +</p> + +<p> +“Paul, my husband,” she cried. “Come to me—I am alone—alone!” +</p> + +<p> +Voices answered her, but not the voice of him she called. She raised +her pretty head to listen, and she heard sweet, melodious music +floating to her from the distant ship. It rose and fell as a song of +the placid sea; a harmony of many voices united in the evening hymn. +The rocks gave it back in lingering echoes. It was as though nereids +had come up from the depths to hymn the setting sun, to greet the +darkness and the hour of their amours. When the last note died away +she continued still to hunger for those sweet sounds; but other +singers raised their voices in turn to chant a dirge-like litany, and +this was a true hymn to the darkness, so weird, so mournful, so full +of the suggestion of death and after. +</p> + +<p> +Marian shuddered at this new song, for it carried her back to the +place of shadows. When she had listened to it a little while, the +harmonies became more clear, the note of the sonorous voices deeper. +She awoke to the fact that the singers, whoever they were, had left +the ship and were coming to shore. Lanterns now cast their yellow +light upon the pulsing swell. A flame of torches illumined weirdly the +rugged faces of a company which seemed to have voyaged from some +monastery of the ultimate seas. Anon, three boats touched the sands, +and a band of men, all garbed in the pilgrim’s dress, began to gather +upon the shore and to congregate about some dark object which the +shadows hid from the watcher’s eyes. She perceived, to her surprise, +that an acolyte in a cassock and cotta carried a brazen crucifix on +high. Torch-bearers walked at his side. Thurifers swung censers, from +which an odorous smoke floated perfumingly on the still air. Presently +a procession was formed and began to wind its way to the cliff of the +island. The dirge-like chant arose again. The burden which the men +carried was no longer hidden from the watcher’s eyes. She saw that it +was a coffin. The monks had come ashore to bury their dead. +</p> + +<p> +The procession advanced slowly, for the thurifers turned often to +cense the coffin and the priest to sprinkle it with holy water. +Solemnly and deliberately the singers set out for the grass plateau by +the well from which Marian had drunk earlier in the day. She on her +part stood white and trembling in the shadow of the cliff. Though it +was plain to her that the men had not come to the island in quest of +her, she feared the visitation as she had never feared anything in all +her life. The hour, the misty twilight, the brown habits, tortured her +imagination. She did not ask herself wherefrom such strange voyagers +had come; her thought was to escape them, even at the risk of +discovery. But escape was not to be. So close to her did the +procession pass that she could have touched the cross-bearer with her +hand. She beheld the faces of the monks and read in them the visual +record of fasting and of an emaciating faith. One by one they passed +her; here an old man bent with the penance of years, there a youth +</p> + +<figure> + <a href="images/img_224.jpg" id="img_224"> + <img src="images/img_224_th.jpg" alt="img_224"> + </a> + <figcaption> + “THE PROCESSION ADVANCED SLOWLY” + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p class="noindent"> +whose eyes were aflame with the light of visions; here a face that +spoke of the withered flesh, there lips which had fed upon the +luxuries of life and still hungered for them. And when the monks were +gone up, others followed in the grim train—old men hobbling, women +weeping, even children. Marian looked at the faces of these, and her +heart seemed to be stilled. The mission of the ship was a mystery to +her no more. +</p> + +<p> +“They are the lepers!” she cried, and so tried to draw back from them, +as though God would open the rocks behind her and hide from her +terrified eyes the awful sights they looked upon. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch21"> +CHAPTER XXI.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">ACHERON OF THE WATERS.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> procession passed slowly, for many stragglers followed the +priests. The minutes of waiting were as hours to the terrified woman. +Often the lantern’s light flashed in her very eyes; she felt the hot +breath of the lepers upon her cheeks; she thought their dreadful hands +would touch her. Whence they had come, whose ship it was, she did not +know. The story of the monks of the Northern seas and of their mission +to the outcasts of the islands was unknown to her. She saw rather a +visitation of spirits; the dirge was a sound as of the woe of life; +the graves had given up their dead to haunt her. While she had the +impulse to flee, to seek, if it must be, the refuge of the waves, the +ghostly shapes still held her to the rock. Moaning voices of the +lagging sick mingled with the melancholy song of the billows. She +beheld the fanatical carousals of the desperate, who laughed like +imbeciles, or cast themselves foaming upon the grass, or shrieked to +heaven for the mercy of death. Far above on the heights the monks were +digging a grave for him who had died at sea. Their litanies echoed as +sweet interludes to the cacophonous cries below. She repented bitterly +that she had not gone down earlier in the day and spoken with the +recluse of the well. She remembered that she was a woman, alone with +this rabble, upon whom God’s curse seemed to have fallen. +</p> + +<p> +At this time, no memory of the peril of the island troubled her. She +thought no more that she might be left alone upon it; nay, she prayed +that the sick might return speedily to their ship and leave her to the +silence and the night. Hours seemed to pass before the monks came down +from the heights again. She watched the lanterns dancing upon the +hillside as a mariner watches a beacon of the shore. Often she said to +herself, “They are coming now; I hear them.” Then the litanies would +begin anew; the garish yellow stars would be still again; the hoarse +laughter or the weeping of some leper near to her would crush her +hope. Childlike, she fell to counting, and said that when she had +numbered a thousand the ship would sail. But of that employment she +soon wearied; and, impatiently, she crept out a little way from her +place of shelter and stood for a moment that the breeze of the sea +might blow upon her heated face. In that instant a leper observed her +and sprang up with a loud cry to seize her by the wrist and drag her +toward the open of the beach. It was as though the ultimate horror had +gripped her, had come out of the darkness to embrace her in a loathly +and indescribable embrace. +</p> + +<p> +She dared not to look upon the man’s face, but vaguely, for speech was +choked and all her limbs were benumbed, she perceived that he wore a +tattered green uniform and carried a knife stuck in a worn girdle. She +heard a torrent of words poured into her shrinking ear; but had not +Russian enough to interpret them. Once she thought that the man would +have crushed her in his lusty arms, and then she knew that he said, +“Thou art such as I have lost.” When release of tongue came, she +raised her voice again and again in shrieks of uncontrollable fear, +and at this other lepers ran up to the place. Soon a rabble surrounded +her, and the cry was uttered that she was a spy. From twenty throats +she heard the fierce accusation, “The Englishwoman: kill her! into the +sea with her!” +</p> + +<p> +Women, ragged and blear-eyed, forced their way to the heart of the +throng; young girls laughed hysterically and tried to strike her down; +old men raised their sticks to beat her bloodless +</p> + +<figure> + <a href="images/img_229.jpg" id="img_229"> + <img src="images/img_229_th.jpg" alt="img_229"> + </a> + <figcaption> + “ON TOWARD THE SEA HE BORE HER” + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p class="noindent"> +face. She was carried on, she knew not whither; countless eyes, +shining with the fire of disease, looked into her own; fleshless claws +ripped the dress from her shoulders; they would have torn her limb +from limb but for the strong arm of the man who first had gripped her. +But he, roused to some dream of the days before the curse, never once +released his hold of her. He bore her high above the throng; he +answered their curses with a madman’s laughter; the blows fell upon +his own face; they were as a flagellation of straws to him; women +struck him; he forced them back and trampled upon them. On toward the +sea he bore her. He had the strength of ten men, the passions of the +maniac aroused, the maniac’s purpose. They stood from him at last +terrified; the devils of their own superstitions possessed him; the +cries ceased, their sticks were lowered; he was alone when he dragged +the woman into her boat and thrust it from the shore. +</p> + +<p> +Marian had shut her eyes when the crowd first pressed upon her; she +thought that this was the moment of her death; she waited for some +blow which would still the life within her and permit her to rise up +in spirit above these horrid sights and sounds. Strong as her desire +was for insensibility, for a trance of the mind, she did not swoon, +nor lose her sense of time and place, and of the peril. She heard +distinctly the fervid ravings of the madman who defended her; his hot +breath was upon her cheek; his loathly touch was a torture. But still +she would not look at him. While the blood surged in her ears, and her +brain whirled, and her limbs were paralysed, she had no wish for life +or freedom, no hope but that death would be quick to come. When she +felt the grip released and sank helpless from the man’s arms, she was +conscious still that he was beside her. She opened her eyes at last to +discover that the boat was already some way from the shore. She could +see the lanterns dancing on the hillside, could hear the voices of the +priests above the clamour of the rabble. The man had saved her life, +though whither he carried her, or to what Acheron of the night, she +dare not think. +</p> + +<p> +The leper was huge in stature and of great strength. He plied the oar +with a giant’s arms, so that the yacht’s boat shot out quickly toward +the broad of the lagoon. For the time being he appeared to have +forgotten the woman at his feet. His words were incoherent and +unceasing; he chattered horribly. Presently the island was but a blot +upon the sea; the lanterns were twinkling stars. No longer were voices +to be heard; the stillness of the night lay like a cloak upon the +waters. Marian said that she was being carried out of the world. She +shivered with the cold and the spray cast upon her face. Gradually +there crept upon her a new dread—dread of him who had saved her. She +feared to move, lest, moving, she might remind him of her presence. +When he ceased to row she could hear her own heart beating. +</p> + +<p> +For a spell the man stood gazing with wistful eyes to the shore he had +left. Then suddenly he turned and uttered a great cry, for he had +forgotten the woman; forgotten why he was in a boat at all, and how he +had been driven from his companions. But now the impulse which had led +him to clasp her in his arms was re-born. He sank upon his knees and +whispered wild endearments; he stroked her hands gently as one strokes +an animal; he pushed her wet hair from her forehead and held back her +head that he might look into her eyes. The name by which he called her +was, she imagined, the name of one who had been dear to him long years +ago. When she would have drawn back from him shudderingly, the words +of love gave place to threats and ravings; he seized her by both +wrists, and would have kissed her upon the lips. She screamed with +fear, and rolled from his embrace. +</p> + +<p> +Long minutes passed before either moved. The leper had risen again and +once more looked out into the night. Marian was sobbing hysterically. +</p> + +<p> +“Paul,” she moaned; “O my God! Paul, come to me!” +</p> + +<p> +Faintly across the sea the answer came. She thought at first that she +heard it in her sleep. But the madman listened with ears erect and +hand stayed. Once, twice, the cry was raised; the hail of English +voices. When the little wanderer understood that it was no dream, but +that someone upon the sea had answered her, she seemed to hear the +music of heaven itself. Courage came back to her in that supreme +moment. She leaped up from the bows of the boat and sprang into the +waters. A loud demoniacal laugh followed her as the spuming sea closed +over her head. It was the laughter of the leper, who had forgotten her +again. +</p> + +<p> +The sea was still as a lake in summer; the moon, new risen, cast a +glow of silvery light upon the sleeping lagoon. Marian felt the water +cold and sweet upon her face. She had been a swimmer since her +childhood; she swam now as one hunted in the seas. Onward toward the +cry of English voices! God would not drag her down, she said; she +thought already to feel her lover’s embrace. Life might be before her +yet—the life with him she had left. To-morrow she might nestle on his +shoulder again and tell him that nothing now should carry her from his +side. Though her clothes were soaked and weighty, though the gentle +waves rolled often over her mouth, she swam on with courage unbroken. +“I go to Paul,” she said. “O, God help me—I cannot die here!” The +nether world seemed open to receive her; but the stars shone above; +the gate of heaven was her lamp in the sky. A future of love and +affection was imagined by her awakened brain. +</p> + +<p> +“Paul,” she cried, “come to me—I will not die!” +</p> + +<p> +There was a pathos of an eternity of suffering in the prayer; but the +night of her life was at an end, and the God-given day was about to +dawn. Even as she cried out, and thought that cold hands were dragging +her down to the icy depths below, a boat shot out from the loom of the +darkness; strong arms gripped her; she saw her lover bending over her, +she saw the star-lit heaven; warm lips kissed her forehead; she was +crushed in a close embrace—the embrace of a man who held her to him +as though never more in life should she escape his arms again. +</p> + +<p> +“Beloved, it is I—Paul. Oh, God be thanked, she lives, she lives!” +</p> + +<p> +Swiftly he bore her to the <i>Esmeralda</i> and to her cabin. She had no +strength to speak to him, but holding both his hands, she fell into a +sweet sleep, and the gardens of England were opened for her while she +slept. +</p> + + +<p class="mt1"> +At dawn of the day the <i>Esmeralda</i> sighted in the far distance one of +the warships of the Baltic Fleet. But old John hitched up his breeches +at the spectacle, and expressed himself as he was wont to do. +</p> + +<p> +“To hell with that,” said he; “they’re the wrong side of us this time, +mates. We’ll be in Stockholm by eight bells.” +</p> + +<p> +Old John spoke a true word. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch22"> +CHAPTER XXII.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">PRISONER OF LOVE.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">On</span> the morning of the fifteenth day after the flight from Kronstadt, +Paul sat at the open window of his apartment in the Strand. The bells +of St. Martin’s at Charing Cross had just chimed half-past nine; the +streets below his window were alive with the hum of voices and the +echo of steps. He had visited London once or twice in his days of +tutelage; but this spectacle of massed humanity, of countless men +surging towards the East in quest of the daily wage, was new and +wonderful to him as when first he beheld it. That vast multitude, +looking neither to the right hand nor to the left, what tragedies and +comedies of life it played every day! All the notes of the social +scale seemed written upon that human score. Spruce stockbrokers lolled +in hansom cabs on their way to ’Change; sleek barristers thrust +themselves through the press as though the briefs they had waited for +these long years lay to-day upon their tables; clerks from the suburbs +passed with slow step or fast, as the office hours dictated; smart +girls carried themselves proudly, buoyed up with consciousness of sex +and environment; ’buses lumbered by with a harvest of human grain +heaped upon their roofs; only the clergy dallied before the +shop-windows or sauntered contentedly in the sunlight. +</p> + +<p> +Paul had heard of London as an abode of gloom, a city without a sky, a +mighty capital of fog and mists. This morning of a glorious spring +gave the lie to the reproach. Notwithstanding that April had many days +still to run, the sun shone warmingly: the air was fresh and sweet as +though blowing upon the city from a perfumed garden. And to the +sweetness of morning was added the comfort of the English rooms he had +engaged for himself and his “sister” Marian. It had been a solemn +compact between them that she should not communicate with her English +friends, should not even see them, until that future they loved to +speak of was something more than the dream of lovers. And she had +respected the understanding as though it were a law to her. +</p> + +<p> +“I owe my life to you,” she had said; “I will see no one, speak to no +one, until you wish it. But I must write to Dick.” +</p> + +<p> +“And tell them that you are in England!” he exclaimed, a little +anxiously. “If you write, they will come here; they will ask you for +your secrets. I know that you will tell them nothing; but I do not +wish you to see them; I do not wish to meet the man who tempted you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not see him, Paul, dearest; God knows, if you asked me, I +would never see him again.” +</p> + +<p> +She had begun to understand her lover wholly at this time; to +understand him with that intimate appreciation of moods which nothing +but the magnetism of one mind for another can make clear. Great as was +his love for her, the thought that she carried in her clever head +those secrets, of which he had been the guardian, haunted him now that +she was in England, a free agent beyond the reach of the Russian. A +soldier’s creed of honour was ever upon his lips. “I will not betray +my country,” he said always. He knew that marriage would seal her lips +for ever. But until they stood before the altar together he must rely +absolutely upon her promise. What their future was to be, he scarce +dared to think. The son of a Russian noble, he knew not how to serve. +A stranger in a strange country, what miracle should give him +livelihood? If he married at once, it would be to cast himself blindly +upon the sea of life, trusting that some wind of destiny would carry +him to a friendly shore. A great sympathy for her prevailed even above +his passionate longing to call her wife. +</p> + +<p> +“We are two children drifting,” he said. “God alone knows where the +journey will carry us; but we will be together always. You wish it, +Marian?” +</p> + +<p> +She put her arms about his neck. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall not drift while I have a home in your heart,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +That was upon the day after they had arrived in London. They had +gravitated toward the city; drawn there by no impulse that was +defined, but only by the hope that London would befriend them. Much as +Marian desired to see her child-brother again; yearn as she might for +the lanes and villages of Devonshire, she did not speak of these +desires to her lover. Had he asked her, she would have gone with him, +on the day of their arrival, straight to some church, and there have +given herself to him for ever. She welcomed the remembrance that it +was hers now to play the strong part. She would help him and compel +him to forget. For her sake he had cut himself off from friends and +fortune. His courage, which had saved her at Kronstadt, here moved her +to pity. A child lost in a maze of streets could not have been more +helpless than the man she loved, cast out by fortune to this city of +exile. She began to plan that she might work for him, might build the +home of her promise. The desperate task did not affright her. +</p> + +<p> +“If I had my health, if I could have the child near me, it would be +easy,” she thought. “These are the days when a clever woman earns a +living for herself in London, and I have brains.” +</p> + +<p> +The ambition was well enough, but the execution lagged. They had come +from Stockholm straight to this apartment by Charing Cross, and there, +passing as brother and sister—no difficult achievement, since Paul +spoke English fluently—they waited for the light. She obeyed his wish +that her arrival should be kept a stern secret. Of her few friends in +London, none knew that she had left Kronstadt. She did not write to +the child; she never left her rooms. Paul, in his turn, remembered +that one who had been a comrade of his student days, Feodor Talvi of +Novgorod, was now at the Russian Embassy in Chesham Square. He wrote +to him, and to his kinsman Prince Tolma, telling them of his condition +and of his purpose. “I am no traitor to Russia,” he wrote. “I am here +to keep her secrets, not to betray them.” +</p> + +<p> +The letters were despatched, but many days passed and no answer was +returned. On the fifteenth day, when Paul sat at his window waiting +for Marian to come down to breakfast, he began to tell himself that +his friends would be friends to him no more. He had thought his +kinsman, Tolma, to be a man of broad mind and generous impulses, one +who had lost a Russian’s creed in the teaching of many cities. But the +earnest appeal he had despatched to Paris remained unanswered. He said +that the Prince was not in the city; he was at Monaco, or cruising in +his yacht. Paul would not believe that one who had loved him as a son +would desert him in this hour of misfortune. He shrank from the truth, +and would not reckon with it. +</p> + +<p> +Marian entered the sitting-room while he was still musing at the +window. She crossed it with girlish step, and bent down quickly to +kiss his cheek. Regardless of time or place, he sprang up and took her +in his arms. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear little one!” he said, “you bring me back to earth again. And you +have roses on your cheeks to-day. There is no doctor like one’s own +country. You have slept, Marian?” +</p> + +<p> +She would not tell him of her night of waking; nor had he eyes to see +that the flush upon her cheeks was a flush of weakness. +</p> + +<p> +“I sleep always,” she answered, with a little laugh; “you must not +worry about that.” +</p> + +<p> +He pushed her back from him, still holding her hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” he said, “and that is our new dress! Am I not a good modiste, +little one? Is it not splendid? I shall open a shop here, and you will +make my fortune.” +</p> + +<p> +She kissed his hands, and turned to the breakfast-table. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall send you to buy my dresses when we are married,” she +exclaimed. “You won’t mind them laughing——” +</p> + +<p> +“I mind? Sapristi! Did I mind yesterday when I bought the ‘triumph,’ +and twelve young ladies fitted it on for me, and the boutiquier +himself carried it to the cab? Nom de Dieu! it was a procession, and I +was the flag. You must lose your clothes again, and get another cold, +Marian. It will amuse me to buy your dresses.” +</p> + +<p> +He had shopped for her on the previous day; for she carried no dresses +from Russia, and Stockholm had furnished her with a poor wardrobe. Her +promise not to go abroad in the streets of London she kept faithfully, +as much from will as from weakness. The chill and horror of her night +at the island of the Holy Well had eaten into her little store of +strength. She feared that some dangerous illness would overtake her, +and that he would be alone to wage the unequal fight. +</p> + +<p> +“You have letters, dear?” she asked him, while she poured out his tea +and busied herself with his breakfast. +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head a little sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“Feodor Talvi cannot be in London; I shall hear from him the day he +arrives. We were as brothers; he must listen to me at least. As for +Tolma, it will be sooner or later. He is not a man of this city or of +that. He makes the world his home, and wherever the sun shines, there +is his fireside. But I know that he will help me when my letter +reaches him. He cares nothing for other people’s stories. He has +called me his son since I was twelve years old. I wrote to him as to a +father. While we wait for their help, we have two hundred pounds—your +English pounds—to spend. When we have spent those, there is the +<i>Esmeralda</i> to sell. I shall order her to the Island of Wight, where +all your yachting people go, and she will bring us twenty thousand +roubles at the least. They will give us time to think and to plan. I +have thought a little already, and the way seems clearer to me. After +all, a strong man does not starve when he is willing to work. I can +teach the Russian language if the worst comes, and box the ears of +little boys who will not learn.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed merrily at the idea, and passed his cup for tea. She would +not tell him that she could not share his hopes; her face wore a +bright smile when she lifted it to look at him. +</p> + +<p> +“You are making a home of England already,” she said; “I am happy to +think it is so. It will all come right by-and-bye, when I am strong +and can work again. You must not forget me when you speak of your +plans. I could not be an idle woman; I should go mad.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall be the mistress of my house,” he answered, with a touch of +the old pride. “I am the heir of Tolma, and I shall know how to find a +home for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but while we wait, dear—there is no dishonour here in England +because a woman works. You were not born for the things you speak of; +you do not know the difficulties. It is I who have learnt how to face +the world and not to fear what people call independence. Your friends +may write to you, or they may not. But it will help us both if there +are no drones in the hive. You will be happy because I am happy, and I +shall come to forgive myself then.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing to forgive,” he said tenderly. “God knows, it is +happiness enough to hear your voice all day, and to tell myself that I +shall kiss you when the morning comes. By-and-bye I shall not wait for +the morning—that will be when the priest has spoken. You understand, +little one?” +</p> + +<p> +They had risen from the table and stood together in the shadow. He +drew her to him winningly and kissed her white face again and again. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand, dearest—a little,” she said, with a new flush upon her +cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“A little—is it not more than that? You still ask yourself questions +as you did at Kronstadt.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, I ask myself questions—but not the questions of +carnival.” +</p> + +<p> +“You want to run away again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes—when I am strong enough.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked into her eyes questioningly. The love of jest was written +there. +</p> + +<p> +“Arrivons!” he said; “where would you run to, here in London?” +</p> + +<p> +“To the church,” she whispered, and so hid her head upon his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +A knock upon the door of the room put them apart. She turned to the +glass to straighten her hair while he tore open a telegram, which the +slut of the house delivered triumphantly, as though she carried +letters of gold. +</p> + +<p> +“For the gentleming,” she said, with great satisfaction, “and he’s +a-waiting.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian looked over Paul’s shoulder to read the message. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it from your friends, dearest?” she asked anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +“It is from Feodor Talvi,” he answered, while the hand which offered +her the paper shook with pleasure and excitement. “I am to go to him +at once. I told you that we were as brothers; read that, and write the +answer for me. I will see him to-day—now. There are no more troubles, +thank God!” +</p> + +<p> +He began to search about for his hat and gloves; he did not see the +shadow of doubt which flitted upon her face. When the message was +written, she gave him instructions for his momentous journey to South +Audley Street, where the house of Talvi was. +</p> + +<p> +“You must take a cab, and it must wait for you,” she said +determinedly; “I have a good mind to pin a card inside the flap of +your coat—or you will forget where we live. Do not let him keep you +long, dearest.” +</p> + +<p> +“He shall not keep me an hour; he shall come here to be presented. We +will all go to the great hotel to dine together. I told you that my +friends would not desert me.” +</p> + +<p> +He babbled on incessantly while she picked threads from his new +frock-coat and pinned in his buttonhole a spray of the lilies he had +bought for her. When they had said good-bye for the tenth time, she +watched him from the window, a manly figure, broad and confident, in +the throng below. Many turned to look at one who carried himself with +such a fine air; but he saw nothing save the white face at the +window—the face for which he had dared all and had brought himself to +this land of exile. +</p> + +<p> +“She shall be my wife before the week has run,” he said to himself as +he went. “I forget the rest when she is near me!” +</p> + +<p class="spacer"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +The hour of his promise passed swiftly, and found Marian still waiting +for the sound of his steps upon the stair. A second hour was numbered, +and a third. She began to count the minutes; she took her stand at +last by the open window and scanned the faces of all who came +eastward. But his face was not among them. When six o’clock struck, +and the throngs were hurrying home again, and Paul did not return, +there came to her suddenly the thought that some peril had overtaken +him. That the hand of the Russian is everywhere active had long been +known to her. She began to blame herself that she had permitted him to +leave her. Since that night of nameless horror upon the sea, her +shattered nerves were quick to bring foreboding upon her. +</p> + +<p> +“O my God!” she said at last; “if they have trapped him here in +London!” +</p> + +<p> +Dusk succeeded to the sunshine of the day; night loomed over the city; +but Marian continued to watch at her window, and to pray God that no +ill had befallen the man she loved. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch23"> +CHAPTER XXIII.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">THE UNFORESEEN.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Paul</span> rested his gloved hand upon the doors of his cab; he smoked +contentedly. For the first time since he had set foot in London the +streets and the people were without interest to him. A boyish +readiness to accept the possible for the actual had already carried +him in his mind to the realisation of fine schemes. He was sure that +fate would work some miracle of surprise for his particular benefit. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall tell the truth; it is no good to conceal anything,” he +thought. “Feodor will write to the Prince at Petersburg and say that I +am here in London protecting the secrets of my city. If they had kept +Marian at Alexander, there would have been trouble with the English +Government; possibly, they would have been compelled to release her, +and then she would have returned here with all those plans in her +head. I do not see why it should be so great an affair. I have done +them a service, and they know that I am not a traitor. Granted that +they will not restore me to my regiment, there is other work for a +clever man to do. I might even go to the Balkans and serve Ferdinand +or the Austrians. When they learn how small my offence is, they will +not be too hard upon me. And I shall marry the little girl I love, and +take her where these English fellows will not trouble her. Ma foi! +what crowds, and not a soldier among them all!” +</p> + +<p> +He was passing the Criterion at the moment. The crowd of idlers, the +youth of bars and stage-doors, the sleek dandy, the hastening clerk, +moved him to a fine contempt for their stooping bodies and undrilled +gait. A soldier’s blood had run in his veins from his birth. To wear +gold lace and to carry a sword, to strut in the market-place, to serve +the Czar—what other career was open to an honest man? Merchants and +traders—he regarded them as so many licensed thieves. Priests were +necessary to minister to the superstitions of the people and to pray +for the sins of the army. Professions were all very well for little +men and knaves; but they were not a career. As for himself, he had +inherited wits above the ordinary; but it never dawned on him that +they could be used to other ends than those of his regiment. There was +no better scholar in Kronstadt, no more promising officer of +artillery, but that, he said, was his good fortune. His wits would +never have been awakened but for the music of the great guns and the +clash of steel. Whatever lay before him, he determined to work to one +end—the right to carry a sword once more, once more to be the master +of the guns. +</p> + +<p> +The cab, bumping roughly against the kerb, brought him back from the +success of thought to the broken baskets of reality. He saw that they +were in a narrow street before the doors of a large but ugly house, +which had no ornaments for its windows and little paint for its +railings. He paid the cabman the money which Marian had put into his +hand, and rang the bell of the house timidly. A moment later he stood +in a hall furnished with such exquisite taste, and so richly, that he +could hardly believe it to be the hall of the house before which the +cabman had set him down. But the man who opened the door was a +Russian, and that reassured him. +</p> + +<p> +“Count Feodor—is he at home?” +</p> + +<p> +“He expects you. He is waiting.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul entered the house confidently. The magnificence of the +ante-chamber astonished him, for he had lived his life in barracks; +and such splendour of habitation as he had known was the splendour of +palaces at Petersburg or of hotels at Paris. When he followed the +footman up a broad flight of stairs and through a conservatory upon +the first floor, the same richness of decoration and of ornament +testified to the luxury with which Feodor Talvi had surrounded +himself. The apartment into which he was shown at last, though of +limited extent, was draped with exceeding taste. Dainty watercolour +sketches gave brightness to the silk-panelled walls; lounges cunningly +contrived were the emblems of ample leisure; flowers stood upon many +little tables; a stained glass window hid from the eyes the ugly stone +wall which bounded the garden of the mansion. Paul put his hat upon a +sofa and sat down with a great air of content. +</p> + +<p> +“These diplomatists,” he said to himself, “they talk all day and dance +all night. They are paid twenty thousand roubles a year for telling +their neighbours that black is white. When there is any work to be +done, they go home. Fichtre! it should be easy to tell lies for twenty +thousand roubles a year. And Feodor has no need of them; he was rich +always. He must be very rich now.” +</p> + +<p> +The footman left him when he had given his name, saying that the Count +would be disengaged presently. Paul took up a Russian paper and read +it through. It was a pleasure to be carried in spirit back to +Petersburg and his home. He found himself thinking about his friends +of yesterday—old Stefanovitch who had loved him, and Bonzo whom he +had feared and never understood. Karl, too, and Sergius and the +others—had one among them taken pity upon him and remembered that he +had been a friend of the old time? The pathos of memory was very +bitter. He was as a child shut out from his old home. Imagination +kindled for him a fire burning redly upon the hearth; the rays shone +upon the unpitying faces of those who had been brothers to him. +</p> + +<p> +This occupation of regret carried him away from the house of Feodor +Talvi, so that he forgot where he was and upon what errand he had +come. When the little gilt clock upon the mantelshelf struck one, he +put the paper down quickly and remembered with amazement that he had +been an hour in the room. That rascal of a lackey must have forgotten +to speak to the Count, he said. Impatiently he pressed the button of +an electric bell, and it was answered immediately, not by the Russian +who had brought him to the boudoir, but by an English servant, who +seemed astounded to find a stranger in the place. +</p> + +<p> +“You are waiting for the Count, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“If I am waiting!” exclaimed Paul, turning on the man as he would have +turned upon a defaulting corporal, “I have been here an hour! Is your +master out, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, sir; I will ask, if you like—that is, if you wish it, +sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul stared at the man with astonishment. If he had been in Russia, he +would have laid his cane sharply upon the shoulders of the rogue; but +he was not in Russia, and the English barbarians did not permit a man +to flog his servants. He was still seeking a word when the lackey shut +the door and left him to reflect upon a state of civilisation so +monstrous. +</p> + +<p> +The little gilt clock struck a quarter past one; the man had not +returned. There was no sign of Feodor. Paul went to the door of the +room and threw it open. The house was silent as one of his own cells +at Alexander. He could hear a great clock ticking in the hall below; +there was a rumble of passing carts from the street without, but of +human life within the house no evidence. He returned to the boudoir +and rang the bell for the second time. To his amazement the Russian +answered him, and began at once to apologise. +</p> + +<p> +“We expect the Count every moment,” he said stolidly; “my master is +sorry to keep you waiting. He has been called away. We are to offer +you lunch, Excellency.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul assented indifferently. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a peep-show,” he said with scorn: “first the English rogue and +then you. I shall speak to the Count, and tell him that he has made a +mistake. You should both dance in a booth—to the music of the whip.” +</p> + +<p> +The Russian listened without changing a muscle of his face—he was +accustomed to a <i>rôle</i> of servility. When Paul had finished, the man +set to work to clear a little table and to get the lunch ready. Then +he disappeared once more, and another quarter was struck upon the +bell. +</p> + +<p> +“Sacré nom!” said Paul, pacing the room angrily; “the servants lie +better than the master! If this is the house of a diplomatist, to the +devil with the twenty thousand roubles!” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear fellow!” cried a voice at the door, “do you know that the +chair you are kicking was once the property of Napoleon?” +</p> + +<p> +He turned and stood face to face with the intruder. A spectator would +have said that the two men resembled each other as brothers of a +house. Both were tall and finely built; both had flaxen hair and blue +eyes; both held themselves as those trained in the school of the +world. If the newcomer was slightly shorter than the captain of +artillery, if his face was less sunburnt and more furrowed, that was +to be set down to the life of the city and the Court. +</p> + +<p> +“Paul—it is you then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Feodor—my friend!” +</p> + +<p> +“You have been waiting here?” +</p> + +<p> +“A century!” +</p> + +<p> +“The devil! It is that rogue Demetrius again. You are hungry; <i>tais +toi</i>, we shall lunch and talk afterwards. I have a thousand things to +say; you have a thousand things to tell. I become a boy again at the +sight of you!” +</p> + +<p> +He talked, indeed, with a boy’s enthusiasm, but said nothing of that +great and engrossing subject which Paul desired so earnestly to +broach. For the moment they might have been students +together—students enjoying such a rare day of fortune that they ate +the dishes of princes and washed them down with the wine of kings. +Paul wondered, in the moments of silence, if he had, in truth, branded +himself as an outcast and a traitor. For if that charge were true, how +came it that he ate and drank with Feodor Talvi and was called brother +by him? He could not believe in such good fortune. “He does not know,” +he thought; “he will not call me brother when I tell him.” +</p> + +<p> +The dishes were many before luncheon was done; champagne foamed in +long Venetian glasses; the dainty manner of the service was beyond +question. When the cloth had been cleared, Demetrius carried cigars +and liquors to a little bower of palms in the conservatory. Paul found +himself reclining indolently upon a sofa, while the Count curled +himself up in a basket armchair which Sleep herself might have +designed. For the first time since they had met, an embarrassing +interlude of silence gave the men opportunity for recollection. Paul +made up his mind that this was the time to speak; but before he could +open his lips Feodor asked him a question. +</p> + +<p> +“The young English lady—is she well?” +</p> + +<p> +The question was astonishing, bewildering. Paul opened his eyes very +wide, for he thought it was a jest. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, she is very well,” he stammered; “that is to say—you know about +her?” +</p> + +<p> +The Count answered sympathetically— +</p> + +<p> +“I know your story, Paul, my friend; I read it in a despatch four days +after you left Kronstadt.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul took heart. +</p> + +<p> +“If you know my story, you know also that I am no traitor to Russia; +you know that I am here in London to guard her secrets.” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly, or how could I receive you at my house? It was all clear to +me from the first. A pretty face, a clever little head, a bribe from +the English Government; my old friend falls in love with the pretty +face, and persuades the woman to deliver up to him all the plans she +has stolen. He comes here to give me those plans, and to tell me that +the woman may go to the devil, while he goes back to Russia.” +</p> + +<p> +The smile left Paul’s boyish face. He stood up awkwardly against the +mantelshelf. +</p> + +<p> +“You do not understand,” he said gravely. “It is not that, Count; +there are no maps to be given up. Marian has none. I am convinced of +it. When I left Russia it was to make sure that she did not see any of +her friends—that she did not betray us. It is true that her father +and mother died some years ago; but she has relations in London—the +Englishman who tempted her. I did not wish her to meet those people. +Judge me as you will for what is past, I have this to say, that, by +God’s help, I will never leave her side again!” +</p> + +<p> +Feodor, no longer the diplomatist, but the man of the world, laughed +good-humouredly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” he said, “we are still in that stage, then. It is the second +stage, I think. When I was the bel ami of ‘La Superbe’ in Paris, I +took a course. You begin with a bad appetite and end by buying a +pistol. Convalescence dates from the moment when you present your +pistol to your brother at school and go out to dine at Voisin’s. +Complete recovery is to hear with equanimity that she, for whom you +would have died a thousand deaths, has married the leader of the +orchestra. Possibly, in your case, if you had stayed in Russia, you +would have been well by this time; but a change of air fosters these +complaints. A month, even two months, may be necessary now. And pity +is a factor. Send the girl back to her relations, since you know that +she has brought no luggage with her, and enjoy London for a month. I +can recommend nothing better.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul took up his cigar and lit it. His hand trembled undisguisedly. +The love creed, chanted by the man of the world, was a thing he had +ever despised. He knew well the impossibility of convincing this dandy +of a dozen cities of the reality of his love or of the nature of it. +He would not try, he thought; he feared that mockery might cast a +false light on the name so dear to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not let us speak of Marian,” he said after a moment of silence; +“you do not understand me, and I do not understand you. No man has a +right to say to another, you shall love here or there. If you are my +friend, you will help me at home. You must tell me what they are +saying there. God knows, I dare not ask myself that question. Have I +any longer a name in Russia? Is there any friend of mine to speak a +word for me? These are the questions I ask myself while I lie awake at +night and remember Kronstadt. The night is punishment enough—believe +me, Feodor.” +</p> + +<p> +The Count, who disliked emotion of any kind, looked foolishly at the +fire of his cigar. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear fellow,” he exclaimed in the tone of the candid friend, “it +is no good exciting yourself. And it would be absurd to tell you any +lies. How can I know what they are saying now at Petersburg. Am I +likely to find the expression of any sympathy in official documents? +When a man runs away from his regiment without leave, and takes with +him a young lady who has been occupied for a month or more in stealing +the plans of his fortress, he must expect his friends to open their +eyes. How could it be otherwise? We judge men by their deeds. As the +thing stands, you, in the eyes of the authorities, share the woman’s +guilt; we, who are your well-wishers, cannot stoop to help you with +the expression of false hopes. That you will ever return to Kronstadt +I do not believe. The thing is out of the question. Discipline would +suffer and you would suffer. But I will not say that influence at +Petersburg might not, at some distant day, restore you to the +Emperor’s service. It depends upon yourself and upon the course you +take here in London. You will not expect us to join with any +enthusiasm in a scheme for your benefit as long as you utter this +ridiculous nonsense about marrying the Englishwoman and constituting +yourself her protector. Oh, my dear Paul, do you not see that she is +the soubrette of your opera, and that her tears are shed only while +the curtain is up? By-and-bye she will be supping with the leading +tenor, while you are back in your own country and are ready to thank +Heaven that you have done with her.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul bit his lip. He was within an ace of losing his temper and of +quitting the house. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a lie!” he said doggedly; “there is no better woman breathing. +If you knew her, Feodor—if you were my friend, you would not say +these things. I came here thinking that you would help me; I am sorry +now that I came.” +</p> + +<p> +The Count sank deeper into the cushions of his chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Du calme, du calme!” he cried, with the air of one who is much +amused. “We are at the third stage now, and these are the symptoms. +While I knew ‘La Superbe,’ I had not a friend in Paris. There was not +a man whose throat I did not wish to cut. See, mon ami, how these +diseases resemble each other. As I live, you will fight me before +dinner-time!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, indeed,” replied Paul very quietly; “I cannot quarrel with you, +Count. If your creed of life is not mine, I do not complain of that. +We will talk of it no more, for I am going home. It was a promise to +her. She will be waiting. I said that I would be away an hour, and +three have passed.” +</p> + +<p> +A shadow of anxiety crossed the Count’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you must not talk about going,” he exclaimed earnestly, “and you +must not think me unfriendly. What has passed is nothing. We will talk +of serious things presently, and you shall meet one better able to +advise you than the mere diplomatist who sees everything through the +glass of office. If you think that mademoiselle will be anxious, write +a little letter and the man will take it. You will find pens and ink +in the library on the next floor. I am going to smoke here until you +return. It would be folly to go away now, at the beginning of it.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul stood irresolute, but the Count touched a gong at his side, and +the Russian appeared once more. +</p> + +<p> +“Demetrius, show the way to the library. His Excellency will give you +a letter; see that it is delivered at once.” +</p> + +<p> +The library was a small room furnished prettily, with many books +chiefly in French. Paul wrote his letter quickly—a letter of love and +hope. He had met Feodor; the Count was his friend still; he was +waiting for another to help him to some position of honour and +emolument—all this he honestly believed as he wrote it. Never for a +moment did it dawn upon him that he was the victim of a trick. He was +convinced that the note would be delivered at once. He did not know +that Demetrius would carry it so far as the kitchen of the house and +there burn it in the stove. When he returned to the conservatory a +smile of content was upon his face. It was good to have found a friend +again. He determined to show a greater gratitude to the Count; but the +words he wanted would not come to his lips. Nor was the reason far to +seek. When he descended the stairs, whom should he see with Feodor but +old Bonzo himself—the Bonzo of Kronstadt; the Bonzo whose name had +struck terror into his heart so often; the Man of Iron whom all +feared. +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel sat upon a basket sofa. He wore a black frock coat with +flowing skirts; his trousers were grey; his tie was a tremendous bow +in the French fashion, <i>négligé</i> and ample. He smoked a black cigar +and sipped a glass of absinthe. When he saw Paul, confused and +hesitating, upon the threshold of the conservatory, his little eyes +twinkled merrily, and he held out a great paw, as though to give the +younger man confidence. +</p> + +<p> +“Le voici!” he exclaimed boisterously, “le voici! the renegade, the +traitor, who has brought me all the way from Petersburg!” +</p> + +<p> +Paul shook the outstretched hand timidly. The room seemed to dance +before his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“You here, my Colonel—you?” he repeated, with broken words. “You have +come to London to see me?” +</p> + +<p> +“If I have come to London to see you! Do I make the Cook’s Tour then? +Am I here to visit the Westminster Abbey—have I the tourist’s suit? +Look at me—Bonzo—and ask why I come?” +</p> + +<p> +He put the question in a voice of thunder—the voice Paul had heard so +often on the ramparts of Kronstadt. But the note of jest mingled with +a deeper chord, and the two who listened to him laughed when he +laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“I should not call it a tourist’s suit,” said the Count, surveying the +tremendous proportions of Bonzo’s coat; “there is too much cloth in +it. They don’t make a fortune out of you, Colonel—those tailors.” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo nodded his head approvingly. He was a stranger to civilian +dress, and his new appearance amused him. +</p> + +<p> +“Behold!” he said, “it is a coat for my son and for my son’s son. I +have worn it twice in fourteen years. It is only a barbarous people +that would wear a coat like this. Sit down, my friend, Paul, and see +how I degrade myself for you.” +</p> + +<p> +He thrust a low chair forward, and Paul sat down, hoping he knew not +what, afraid to ask why the Man of Iron had followed him to the land +of exile. +</p> + +<p> +“You are well, my Colonel? You had a good passage?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very well, my son.” +</p> + +<p> +“You stay in London long?” +</p> + +<p> +“Until I hear that a foolish young man has come to his senses again.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul flushed. There came upon him irresistibly the impulse to appeal +to this strong man’s pity. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” he said, “you do not think me guilty, Colonel? You do not +believe that I am a traitor to my country?” +</p> + +<p> +“Du tout, du tout, my son; you are no traitor—you have not the +brains.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul stopped as though one had shot him. The eloquence of pity, which +had inspired him in thought, deserted him at the first word of that +ironical response. As well ask mercy of the tomb as of the Man of +Iron. +</p> + +<p> +“It was not a question of brains!” he blurted out presently. “I am not +clever, my Colonel, I know that, but I am no traitor to Russia.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pah!” said old Bonzo, a little severely; “traitors do not run off +with chorus-girls and then say they could not help it. You are a fool, +my son; you have not the wisdom of the boy! What, when you had the +woman in Alexander, when she was alone with you, when you could have +made love to her all day, you bring her back here to her friends, you +cut yourself off from those who love you, and then say that you did it +for us! Oh, it is a story for a fairy-book.” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo spoke with a strong man’s contempt for the folly of the child. +Paul shuddered at his words. The horrible suggestion—for he knew well +what the other meant—fired his blood. He could have struck the +speaker on the mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“Colonel,” he asked in a low voice, “you knew Mademoiselle at +Kronstadt, and yet you are ready to say these things of her!” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly I am ready. Would you have me cry that she is of noble +birth? Shall I raise my hat when I mention the name of Stefanovitch’s +governess, the daughter of an English <i>batushka</i>, a village priest at +fifteen hundred roubles a year? What, a woman who played with you as I +play with this leaf; who brings you to England to draw for her the +maps which she had not time to draw when she was with us; who will +laugh in your face presently and tell you to go to the devil—is this +the one that Tolma’s heir would marry? Pah! I have not the patience to +speak of it!” +</p> + +<p> +Paul picked up a cigarette and began to roll it in his fingers. He was +unable to answer such an argument. Bonzo, he made sure, would never +understand him; the hopes he had placed in his friends were shattered +at last; they did not know Marian; they would never know her. He was +still searching for his reply to the accusation when the Colonel spoke +again, but with less heat. +</p> + +<p> +“À la bonne heure!” he said, “I am not here to scold you. We will say +good-bye to this day of folly, for it is done. To-morrow you will +leave London for Paris, my son. It will be the beginning of your +journey to Vienna, where you will stay until this madness is +forgotten. After that we shall appeal to the Emperor. His clemency may +find for you some duty in the East. If you have suffered, those who +love you have suffered too. Even I—Bonzo—could I hear of this, and +forget that, of all at Kronstadt, you alone were a son to me? You +shall be a son to me once more—when you have left England.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul stood up as the speaker continued. An undefined dread of some +calamity about to overtake him prompted him to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Colonel,” he said, “I cannot go to Paris with you to-morrow. I cannot +leave England. Mademoiselle is waiting for me now. I thank you with +all my heart for your promises, but the day for them is past. I think +of Russia no more. I shall find a home here. Some day you will +understand me.” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo waved his arm dramatically. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit—sit,” he said; “this is not a theatre, Captain Paul. You are in +Russia here. This house is our house. It is the Emperor’s house. Your +English friends may come, but we shall not let them in. Be reasonable, +and make up your mind that mademoiselle must wait a little longer.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul looked from one to the other with dazed eyes. Count Feodor had +risen, and stood with his back towards the window; the Colonel’s face +was not to be read. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not understand!” he exclaimed excitedly. “You would not keep me +here against my wish, Colonel?” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo laughed ironically. +</p> + +<p> +“For a few days,” he said, with a gesture of indifference, “until you +come to your senses, Captain. Meanwhile, if mademoiselle is waiting, +send another little note.” +</p> + +<p> +In that moment the truth flashed upon Paul. He stepped backward as +though seeking a way of escape; there was the look of a hunted animal +in his eyes when he turned to the master of the house. +</p> + +<p> +“My God!” he cried, “you would not do this, Count! You have no right +to do it. I must go back to my house. I tell you that she is waiting +for me.” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo answered him by striking a gong at his side. +</p> + +<p> +“My son,” he said sternly, “she will wait many days yet. It is the +duty of your friends to save you from yourself.” +</p> + +<figure> + <a href="images/img_269.jpg" id="img_269"> + <img src="images/img_269_th.jpg" alt="img_269"> + </a> + <figcaption> + “SILENTLY, DETERMINEDLY, THEY FELL UPON THE FUGITIVE, AND THREW HIM + TO THE GROUND” + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p> +The deep note of the gong echoed through the silent rooms of the house +like an alarum. The three men—for all had risen—stood facing each +other. They knew that the time for words was past. As for Bonzo, he +had ceased to smile; anger and determination were to be read in his +eyes. He looked around him with the air of one who has planned +everything, and whose plan is to be put into execution. +</p> + +<p> +“You are mad, Captain Zassulic, and we shall cure you,” he repeated +triumphantly. “To-morrow we set out, but not for Vienna. The fortress +of St. Peter shall be your hospital. Fool that you were to pit your +wits against mine.” +</p> + +<p> +He raised his hand to point threateningly, and, as if in instant +answer to the signal, the conservatory was filled with troopers in the +uniform of the Russian service. Silently, determinedly, with great +strength, they fell upon the fugitive and threw him to the ground. So +sudden was the attack, so swift had been the sequence of word and of +event, that Paul was a prisoner in their arms even while the thought +of escape was shaping in his mind. For a moment he struck at them with +the strength of ten men. Agony and despair gave him courage. The whole +bitterness of life seemed to be his portion. +</p> + +<p> +“Marian!” he cried. “O my God, let me go to her—you kill me—I +suffocate—let me go to her—let me go——” +</p> + +<p> +A strong arm, the arm of a giant, stifled the broken cries. The whole +landing seemed to be full of men. Though the captive struck right and +left, clutching at this object and at that, they carried him swiftly +from the place up and still up to the prison of the garrets. He beheld +other landings and the interiors of bedrooms poorly furnished, the +stairs were stairs of marble no longer, the light of the fuller day +fell upon his face through a frosted dome of glass. When they flung +him down at last, with blood upon his hands, and torn clothes, the +light was shut swiftly from his eyes. He lay in utter darkness, and he +thought it the darkness of hell. For he knew that the unpitying hand +of the Russian had fallen upon him even in England—the England for +which she whom he loved had longed so earnestly. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch24"> +CHAPTER XXIV.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">TOWARD THE LIGHT.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Marian</span> awoke from a troubled sleep when the clock of St. Martin’s +Church was striking a quarter past four of the morning. She had not +meant to sleep at all, but weakness prevailed above her misery, and +for an hour she was carried in her dreams back to Alexander and to the +nameless horror of her cell below the sea. +</p> + +<p> +When she awoke she was still sitting in her low chair by the window, +but the cold of dawn had stiffened her limbs, and the burden of the +night and its weariness lay heavy upon her heart. Nor could she bring +her mind at the first to remember why she was not in her bed, or how +it came to be that she looked down upon the silent streets at such an +hour. When memory helped her, it was swift and terrible. She rose to +her feet and opened the door of their little sitting-room. Had Paul +come back to her? she asked herself. Why did he wait? What new ill had +overtaken him? God, if he should be dead! +</p> + +<p> +A tortured, helpless woman, worn with suffering and doubt, she crept +along the darkened passage until she stood at his bedroom door. It was +wide open. She could see the bed, but no one had slept in it. +Scattered here and there were the few things he had purchased since +they had been in London—a pair of slippers, a little dressing-case, a +writing-desk. A bunch of violets he had worn when shopping for her two +days ago stood on his washhand-stand. She took it up and kissed the +faded flowers; she knelt at his bedside and prayed, a woman’s prayer, +that the day might bring him back to her. +</p> + +<p> +It was strange, at this time, how her sense of dependence upon the man +was magnified and made real to her. A year ago the truth that she +stood alone in the world would have been a matter of indifference to +her. But that day had passed. While she had no exaggerated notions of +Paul’s cleverness, while she knew him, heart and mind, he remained the +idol of her dreams and of her love. She had trembled when he held her +in his arms. Her first waking thought had been for him; she had won +sleep often with his name upon her lips. The past years of loneliness, +of struggle, of poverty, seemed removed by ages from her present life. +If there had come to her sometimes the reflection that this whirl of +events was unreal and false, that she was deceiving herself, that the +reckoning must be paid, she brushed the thought aside. She was a +woman, and she had learned to love. +</p> + +<p> +The house was quiet with the stillness of the hour before the dawn. +Without, the steely gray light fell upon shuttered windows and silent +streets. Even great London nodded. Her gaudy ornament of gold and +garish painting had become subdued and shabby; immense buildings +loomed up as though the sun had shaped them from the mists. Save for +the passing carts, or the rumble of a wagon on its way to market, or +the fleeting figure of some ragged and homeless creature awake once +more to the hopeless life of thousands, she might have looked down +upon a city of the dead. Those who had passed and repassed while the +sun shone—whither had they gone to sleep? What change of fortune had +they known since yesterday? Who among them would rejoice with the day? +How many would know the day no more? The very emptiness of the city +awed her. She was afraid of the stillness. Not one in all those +millions would stand at her side to help her. She remembered the +child, and thought of him sleeping in a house of sunshine and of +flowers, but the remembrance was bitter, for her courage was broken. +The old way of life was closed for ever. She would go hand in hand +with little Dick, but there would be tears upon her face. +</p> + +<p> +Seven o’clock struck, and the sun shone upon the city. People flocked +to the great railway stations; cabs began to loiter by the pavements; +she heard the scream of whistles and the cry of the newsboys. It was a +relief to her, this surging of the stream of life. She began to reckon +with herself as she had not reckoned since she left Kronstadt. If Paul +did not return during the morning, she resolved that she would go to +Scotland Yard and tell his story, in so far as it could be told +without the surrender of her promise. A woman of clear and quick +thought, she scouted the trivial suggestions which desire to deceive +herself had prompted. Taking new courage of the morning, she refused +to believe that her lover was dead or that an accident had overtaken +him. An echo of the truth dinned in her ears. “It is the hand of his +own countrymen,” she thought, “he has been lured from here by a +trick.” And then she remembered that these things were not to be done +in England. A glad pride in the might of her own country quickened her +heart. “I will save him!” she said; “I will go to them and learn the +whole story.” +</p> + +<p> +Her course would have been easier if she had known Paul’s intentions +when he left her. It was in her mind that he had gone to the Russian +Embassy; she remembered that he spoke of South Audley Street, but +could not recall the number of the house. +</p> + +<p> +She said that she would get her breakfast and go afterwards to the +Embassy in quest of news. If none was to be had there, it would be +time to consult with the people at Scotland Yard. True, she had given +Paul her word that she would not go out alone; but the promise was +made for a set of circumstances other than these. His liberty, his +very life, might depend upon her breaking that promise. A great desire +to be up and away at once took possession of her. It was hers now to +play the strong part. Nevertheless, the hope that she might hear his +step on the stair before the clock struck again held her to the place. +</p> + +<p> +“He has stayed at the Count’s house all night,” she argued childishly; +“it was necessary, and he is among friends.” +</p> + +<p> +At eight o’clock she dressed herself, wearing the pretty blouse that +he had bought for her, and coiling up her wealth of brown hair +picturesquely above her white face. She sighed often when she looked +into the shabby glass, and asked herself how it came to be that a man +had cast off country and friends for her sake. Very few in the world +cared whether she lived or died. She did not wonder at that. Her life +had been one long battle with circumstances; the smile her face had +worn during the years of childhood was but the cloak which hid the +scars of mental ill and oftentimes of defeat. Yet here was one to +stand among the multitude and to say “Thou art the woman.” The mystery +of love baffled her. +</p> + +<p> +It was nine o’clock when she finished her cup of tea and found herself +ready to go out. She had but a few shillings in her pocket; their +little store of gold was locked in Paul’s trunk, yet she would not +stop to reflect upon that new trouble which lack of money must bring +to her presently. Glad in her way to escape the confinement of the +stuffy room, rejoicing that her errand was for her lover’s sake, she +descended the stairs with quick step. But at the street door she stood +irresolute; and when she had looked about her an instant, she returned +hastily to her room, and went to the window to watch. +</p> + +<p> +A carriage drawn by a pair of magnificent grey horses was the secret +of her irresolution. It stood before her house at the moment she would +have begun her errand. She saw that the master of the carriage, a +white-haired old man, slight and slim, but with the face of an +aristocrat, was about to send the footman to her door. Instinct told +her that here was one of Paul’s friends. When the footman waited in +the street below, she had the impulse to run down, fearing that the +carriage would be driven away before she could tell Paul’s friend what +had happened. She was still wavering when the slut of the house +entered the room, holding in her dirty fingers the card of Prince +Tolma. +</p> + +<p> +“It ain’t for you; it’s for the gentleming,” she said, wiping a smut +from her forehead. “I told ’em as he’d gawn out to supper, and hadn’t +come back yet.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian brushed her aside and ran down the stairs with the step of a +schoolgirl. Care for her own dignity was forgotten. She arrived in the +street breathless and with flushed cheeks. It was in her mind that +this stranger would save her lover. +</p> + +<p> +“Paul is not here,” she said excitedly; “he left me yesterday to visit +Count Talvi, and has not returned. I fear that something has happened. +He would not leave me without a word. I am Marian Best, and I have +heard your name so often. If I might speak to you for a little +while——” +</p> + +<p> +She stood panting and expectant, while the old man regarded her with +wondering eyes. Apparently the spectacle pleased him, for, of a +sudden, he grunted like an animal and called to the footman. +</p> + +<p> +“John, I am going to get out.” +</p> + +<p> +With great pomp and ceremony, after the unwrapping of rugs and +laborious changes of posture, the Prince wormed himself from his seat. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” he said apologetically, “you must give me your hand. I am +an old man—and your English wines do not love me. Is it far to +mount?—there are many stairs?” +</p> + +<p> +Marian blushed. +</p> + +<p> +“We are not rich,” she said diffidently; “we feared to go to an +hotel——” +</p> + +<p> +“Du tout, du tout,” said the Prince; “we must find another apartment +for you. The sun up there will scorch that pretty face. Ma foi, we go +to heaven itself!” +</p> + +<p> +A friendly banister and the strong arm of the footman dragged the +burden to the heights. Marian followed with a sense of relief such as +she had scarce known in all her life. It was as though a strong hand +had been thrust out to her from the shadows of the great city. The +tone, the gesture, the kindly eyes of this old man, the easy air of +command and authority—these won upon her confidence. +</p> + +<p> +The Prince entered the shabby little room and waddled to an arm-chair. +He sank in it with a pathetic sigh of gratitude. Drops of sweat stood +upon his bald forehead. He mopped them up with a tremendous +handkerchief; his breathing was stertorous and rapid. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a vapour bath,” he exclaimed between his gasps; “you shall send +for a shampooer, my dear. Or if you will not do that, you shall give +me a little of the red wine I see upon the buffet there.” +</p> + +<p> +A flask of Australian wine stood upon the sideboard. Marian half +filled a tumbler, and diluted the wine with soda-water. She had not +noticed the poverty of her surroundings before. The coming of the +aristocrat, his spotless clothes, his grand air, showed them in all +their nakedness. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry,” she said, moving about with girlish activity; “I fear +our stairs are dreadful. If it had not been that I knew you were +Paul’s friend——” +</p> + +<p> +“Tut, tut,” replied the Prince, taking the tumbler in his hand; “it is +a recompense to see you in the room. There is no other ornament +necessary, my dear—your eyes and the sunshine. If I were a young man, +I would come here every day to see you. We do not count the rungs of +the ladder which leads up to Paradise.” +</p> + +<p> +He swelled with gallantry, remembering the days which had carried him, +hungering for love, to many a garret of old Paris. When he had emptied +his tumbler and put it down, he began to speak again, leaning forward +heavily upon his gold-mounted cane and staring so hard at his little +hostess that her cheeks flushed crimson. +</p> + +<p> +“So you are Mademoiselle,” he said, nodding his head cunningly, “and +you have brought my boy to England, and it is for you that he has +forsaken his friends and turned his back upon his country. Well, my +dear, I should begin by scolding you. I meant to scold you when I came +here. But I am helpless, you see—so come and sit by me and we will +talk a little while.” +</p> + +<p> +He pointed to a little stool, and she obeyed him, sitting almost at +his feet. Never in her life had she met one whom she would have +trusted so implicitly. Her own father—long dead—the man of dusty +books and monotoned sermons, had awakened in her but pity. The fine +face of this noble Russian, his soft and winning voice, his kindly +gesture, inspired her to ask herself what her own life would have been +if such a man had brought her into the world. +</p> + +<p> +“You are very kind to me,” she said simply; “it is a long time since I +have found a friend. I think sometimes that I shall never find +another. I cannot call Paul my friend; he is more than that. But then, +he has left me here——” +</p> + +<p> +Her cheeks reddened and she paused. Tolma patted her arm +encouragingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not be afraid to speak to me,” he said. “I know your story, but it +comes prettily from these pretty lips. You do not call Paul your +friend; he is more than that. Ma foi, I would disown him if he were +not!” +</p> + +<p> +“I love him,” she answered, taking courage of herself; “whatever he +may do here, I could not blame him. He has given up everything for +me—God knows how much I regret it if it is not for his good. Yet how +can a woman answer such a question? How is she to read the depths of a +man’s love? If you and his friends wish him to leave me, if you think +it is in his interest to do so, I have no right to stand between you. +It would be happiness to know that he is happy.” +</p> + +<p> +Tolma moved restlessly in his chair. He had come to carry his heir +from the trap into which he believed that he had fallen. He had come +to convince Paul that the woman was a charlatan, an impostor, the tool +of the English Government. When he hastened back from Paris, it had +seemed to him that his mission was the easiest in the world. He +flattered himself that no man knew women as he knew them. He thought +that he would find his nephew with some notorious servant of the spies +of Europe—a chorus-girl, the wife of a <i>chevalier d’industrie</i> gone +bankrupt, the partner of a baron snapping up unconsidered trifles. Ten +words with her shattered that hypothesis. “She is an English lady—she +is honest,” he said to himself; “we shall have trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a pair of children,” he exclaimed, cutting Marian short in +her protests; “it is all a play to you—the ships and the armies of +Russia are your toys. And yet, like your elders, you can think of the +money.” +</p> + +<p> +She was silent at the rebuke. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he went on very seriously, “you can think of the money, +children that you are. What you have done, mademoiselle, is a great +crime toward my country. If I did not believe the story which Paul has +told me, if I did not say that there are excuses which must suffice +when a woman is the offender, nothing would keep me in this room even +for an hour. But I am not like those others. I know men. I know women, +vous savez. To me they are the pieces upon the board. I have seen so +many put in the box; a few years more or less and destiny will have +done with me. You are young, and your life is before you. I shall see +that it is a pleasant life. You will live here in your England. Paul +will go with me to be my companion in Paris. I like young faces; I am +lonely in age. If it rested with me alone, I might make other promises +for the future. But I must win a way for Paul to return to his +country, and to return with honour. Do not think me harsh. I speak as +the friend of you both. It cannot be otherwise: it is the only way.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian sat very still and white and silent. She thought herself in +that instant to be abandoned of God and man. And yet she did not turn +from the sacrifice. +</p> + +<p> +“It is for Paul,” she cried bitterly. “If there is no other way, let +it be so, and God help us both!” +</p> + +<p> +Tolma abhorred the spectacle of a woman distressed unless his were the +hand to wipe away the tears. The fair, girlish figure at his side, so +slight, so pitiful, created for him a boyhood to be lived again in an +instant of thought. He drew Marian’s head upon his knee and stroked +the curls through which the hardly checked tears glistened. +</p> + +<p> +“My child,” he said gently, “if an old man could work a miracle, +assuredly it should be worked to-day. But what would you? If we wish +Paul’s name again to be known in Russia, shall not we make this +sacrifice gladly? While he is with you—when he is your husband—they +will say, ‘Ah, she loves him for what he is worth to her.’ They will +declare that you have not all the maps you want to sell to your +English Government, and that Paul will make them for you. By-and-bye +you will laugh at him, and find another officer of artillery and +another Kronstadt. That is what they will say.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian smiled through her tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Paul,” she said; “if he had to live by making maps of Kronstadt, +we should starve, Prince.” +</p> + +<p> +Tolma looked at her searchingly. +</p> + +<p> +“You do not think that he is clever?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, he is clever, but not in that way. He would laugh if he +could hear you. I do not believe he sleeps at night for thinking that +I should tell someone the things that I know. He came here at first to +be quite sure that the memory he says I am cursed with should not do +Kronstadt any harm. He feared that I would draw the maps.” +</p> + +<p> +“The maps? But you have not got any maps; they were all burnt. He told +me so.” +</p> + +<p> +“He told you the truth; but you cannot burn the memory. I could draw +Kronstadt now, this instant. I could place every fort and every gun. +If I did not love Paul, my drawings would make me a rich woman, +Prince.” +</p> + +<p> +Tolma sat very still. He was debating quickly a hundred possibilities. +The girl had struck every weapon from his hand. If her tale were true, +she had struck every weapon from the hands of her enemies in London. +</p> + +<p> +“It may be so,” he said, with the politest possible suggestion of +doubt, “it may be so, my child; but who will believe a story like +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I ask no one to believe it. Why should I? What have I to gain?” +</p> + +<p> +She drew back from him, and, rising, went and stood by the window. The +sun of morning flashed upon her white face and gave threads of gold to +her tumbled hair. Tolma saw the child no more; a woman, self-reliant, +proud, and beautiful, now answered him. +</p> + +<p> +“What have I to gain?” +</p> + +<p> +She repeated the question with just a <i>soupçon</i> of mockery in her +tone. She did not forget that she was in England. The strong arm of +her own country stood between her and the Russian. The man on his part +was ready to appreciate the drama of the moment and to act up to it. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” he said, struggling to his feet and posing +threateningly, “you have a husband to gain.” +</p> + +<p> +“A husband! Oh, Prince, you jest.” +</p> + +<p> +The woman of Kronstadt spoke—the woman who had been willing, before +love weakened her hand, to strike a blow at the Russian in his very +holy of holies. +</p> + +<p> +“You jest, Prince,” she said again, with the air of a grand dame; +“what is more, you do not believe me.” +</p> + +<p> +Tolma answered her by banging the table with his cane. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, “I jest so little that if you will prove +your story I will make you Paul’s wife to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +It was her turn now to open her eyes in wonderment. But he continued +without pause— +</p> + +<p> +“Do you not see that they have taken him from you because they believe +you want his secrets? Prove to them that the secrets are yours, not +his, and they will move heaven and earth to shut your lips. A child +would understand that. You are a free woman in your own country; who +can prevent you speaking where you will? But the wife of Paul +Zassulic—will she betray Russia! Ma foi, the boy’s eyes are better +than ours now! He will cheat Bonzo yet and I shall be there to enjoy +it. And he will be the husband of a clever woman, mademoiselle. Do not +contradict me; I, Tolma, say it, and I am never wrong. You shall be my +daughter. You shall live in Paris with me—when you have proved the +story.” +</p> + +<p> +Lack of breath alone put a curb upon his eloquence. Marian listened to +him as she would have listened to one who spoke of miracles. It had +been upon her lips to tell him of her promise to Paul, her promise to +keep the secrets to the day of her death; but love working in her +heart silenced her. She could not shatter the cup raised so +unexpectedly to her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“I will prove my story when and where you will,” she said with +dignity. “Give me time to get pen and ink, and I will prove it now.” +</p> + +<p> +Tolma raised his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Not here,” he said, with a gesture of an actor; “to-night, at the +house of Count Feodor. My carriage shall fetch you. Fear nothing; you +have the word of Tolma.” +</p> + +<p> +He waddled down the stairs, calling loudly for “John.” Marian stood as +one in a trance; but it was a trance of joy. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch25"> +CHAPTER XXV.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">THE WORD OF TOLMA.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">It</span> was the evening of the day. Three men waited in the great +drawing-room of Count Talvi’s house in South Audley Street. The silver +clock upon the mantelshelf had just struck nine. Its ticking was the +only sound to be heard. +</p> + +<p> +Of the three who waited, Tolma alone sat at his ease. He lounged in a +great chair and smoked Russian cigarettes incessantly. A glass of +Chartreuse at his elbow went often to his lips. There was a complacent +smile upon his face, the smile of a man who has played a great card +and waits for his opponents. He looked ever and anon at Bonzo, the +second of the three, moving in and out of the shadows which the dim +light of shaded candles cast in dark patches upon the heavy carpet. +But Bonzo was unconscious of the Prince’s gaze. His hands were linked +behind his back. He did not smoke. He paced the room restlessly. If he +had eyes for anything, it was for a white sheet of paper spread out +upon a writing-table in the alcove of the window. There his glance +rested often, as though some wonder would be wrought by an unseen +hand. He feared that lines would appear upon the paper. +</p> + +<p> +Count Feodor, the third of the men, sat upon a sofa near the door. He +had a Russian newspaper in his hand, but he did not read it. His eyes +turned often toward the silver clock. He seemed to be waiting for +someone who should break the silence of the room. When, at five +minutes past nine, a carriage was heard at the door below, he rose +with a little sigh of relief. At the same moment, Bonzo stood quite +still and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +“Ha,” he said, “they have come then.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean that <i>she</i> has come,” said Tolma, with a slight emphasis for +the pronoun. +</p> + +<p> +“I wait and see,” replied Bonzo diplomatically; “I expect nothing, +Prince, from a woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet you owe everything to one, my dear Colonel.” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo resumed his sentry duty, but at the door he stopped suddenly. A +lackey was there to announce a guest. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle Best,” cried the fellow in a loud voice. +</p> + +<p> +Marian entered the room upon his heels. +</p> + +<p> +She wore a black French hat, becoming and unobtrusive. The cape, which +Paul had bought for her, sat well upon her shoulders. Her gown was new +and rich and in excellent taste. Tolma chuckled when he saw it, for he +had caused it to be sent to her that very day. He said to himself +that, gowned thus, this English girl might hold her own in any room in +Europe. There was about her a dignity of presence, a sweet +graciousness which no mere childish prettiness of face could rival. +She seemed born to command. Nor did she betray the fear which had +dogged her steps when she set out for the house of Feodor Talvi. She +had been ready to take the word of Tolma, and he would answer for her +safety. +</p> + +<p> +“Bravo! bravo!” he cried, struggling painfully to his feet; “I said +that you would come, mademoiselle. I told them that you would not be +afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I be, Prince?” she asked, with a pretty laugh. “Am I not +among friends?” +</p> + +<p> +Again it was the old Marian who spoke, the Marian of carnival, the +light of the Governor’s house. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly you are among friends,” repeated the Prince, while he +raised her hand to his lips with an Eastern courtesy; “you have the +word of Tolma.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the knowledge that I am in England,” she said with simple pride. +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo laughed harshly. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle prefers the English police,” he cried with iron gaiety; +“assuredly she is among friends here.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian turned her great eyes upon him and looked him full in the face. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” she said with a gaiety to which she had long been a +stranger, “you have helped me to my preference.” +</p> + +<p> +“Arrivons!” exclaimed Tolma, “we are not here to write histories. What +has been has been; let us forget it.” +</p> + +<p> +“No woman could forget Colonel Bonzo,” said Marian jestingly, with a +laugh, “at least, if she had shaken hands with him.” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo’s great face flushed angrily, but while he was still seeking a +clever answer, Count Feodor slipped out of the shadows. +</p> + +<p> +“Colonel,” he said, “we forget the business upon which Mademoiselle +Best has been good enough to come here to-night. Is it not time for +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sans doute,” exclaimed Tolma. “To the affairs. Why do we wait? +Mademoiselle is ready, I am sure.” +</p> + +<p> +Marian looked from one to the other with anxious eyes. Then she +perceived the table upon which the white paper was spread. +</p> + +<p> +“I am quite ready,” she said, though her heart began to beat quickly, +“when you tell me what you wish me to do.” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo advanced to the table and set it straight. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” said he, “we have been so long away from Russia that +we forget our own country. You, they tell us, have a better memory. If +you will make a little map upon that paper, it is possible that you +will have no cause to regret the trouble we shall put you to. It would +be a map of Fort Constantine, mademoiselle.” +</p> + +<p> +He watched her as he spoke. She drew off her gloves with trembling +fingers. The hour stood supreme among all the hours of her life. If +she had forgotten! If her memory failed her now! It was for Paul’s +sake, she said to herself again and again. It was that she might be +his wife. The lights danced before her eyes. The figures of the men +were blurred to her sight. She lived in a room of shadows. The white +paper seemed to spread out until it became a mighty scroll upon which +her own doom or her own joy was to be written. “God,” she prayed in +her heart, “help me, hear me!” +</p> + +<p> +“A map of Fort Constantine? Oh, that is easy, Colonel!” +</p> + +<p> +She sat at the table, guiding herself thereto with shaking fingers. +Minutes passed and she could not find the pen. Tolma put it at last +into her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Du courage,” he whispered; “it is for his liberty, his life. He is a +prisoner in this house.” +</p> + +<p> +She took the pen; her hand ceased to tremble. Quickly she drew the +outline of the fort. The scratching upon the paper, the ticking of the +silver clock, were the only sounds in the great drawing-room. Those +who watched her breathed with an effort. The figure of old Bonzo seen +in the shadows was like a figure of bronze. +</p> + +<p> +Fifteen minutes passed. The woman had forgotten where she sat. She +drew upon the paper with the skill of a trained draughtsman. She lived +again under the shadow of the mighty fortress. Kronstadt arose above +the sea of white waves. Line by line she conquered it; alone she went +into the chambers of the secrets; the living death came near but could +not touch her. +</p> + +<p> +“There is your map,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +The three were about her chair now. The paper was in Bonzo’s hands. He +laid it side by side with another map and compared the two. For ten +minutes no word escaped him. Then he drew himself up erect and +delivered his judgment. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” he said, “there are few in Russia who could draw a +better map than that.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer him nor the others as they exclaimed upon the +excellence of her handiwork. Rather she asked herself again if they +had mocked her; had brought her to the house to charge these things +against her. And while she stood, doubting and fearful she knew not of +what, the folding doors which divided the great room from a smaller +one behind it were thrown open by one of the servants, and she beheld +a little room fitted up as a chapel, and an old priest standing before +a shrine, upon which many candles were burning. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch26"> +CHAPTER XXVI.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">THE EVENING OF THE SECOND DAY.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Paul</span> heard a clock strike eight, and remembered that he had been +nearly thirty hours a prisoner in Talvi’s house. It seemed to him that +a century of hours had passed since he kissed Marian’s pretty lips and +told her that he would return to her without delay. He was sure that +he would never look upon her face again; that he would live his life +alone in dishonour and in exile. The lamp, which they had set in his +room, wounded his eyes with its garish light. He wished for darkness +that he might accustom himself to the thought of unending captivity. +He did not believe that any power on earth could snatch him from the +relentless hand of his own countryman which had, in treachery, struck +him down. They would send him to the fortress of St. Peter and St. +Paul. She, whom he loved to call his little wife, would look for him +and look in vain. He dared not ask himself how she would face the +world alone. Self-reproach would endure while life was: the unanswered +question would remain the surpassing punishment of his folly. +</p> + +<p> +The room in which they had locked him was one of the garrets of the +house. A dormer window stood out upon a sloping roof, high above the +surrounding roofs. But the window was boarded up, and iron bars, newly +fixed, forbade any hope of it. He saw that Talvi had foreseen the need +of such a room when he sent the telegram. They had made up their minds +to get the spy out of England at any cost; friendship would count for +nothing with a Russian who believed that he was serving his country. +Even if Marian went to her English friends and told them her story, he +doubted that those friends could help him. False charges would be +made; his extradition would be demanded by a Government powerful to +enforce its wishes. They would brand him as a criminal and carry him +back to the unnameable horrors of the fortress of the Neva. And +Marian—he clenched his hands when he remembered her. She would be +standing at the window waiting for him. He pictured her to +himself—the wan face, the great thoughtful eyes, the quick girlish +movements, the gestures he had loved, the gold-brown hair, the winning +voice. He would hear that voice no more. It must be to him but a +memory through eternity. The way of pilgrimage was before him still; +but the hand which had been locked in his would never touch his own +again. +</p> + +<p> +There was a little furniture in the room, a basket chair, a shelf of +books, a mahogany table, a camp bedstead. He had been there but a very +short time when the Russian servant brought a lamp to permit him to +see these things. He did not speak to the man nor question him, for he +knew well how little that would help him. When the servant was gone, +he resented the light which had been left. The gable of the roof was +dark and ominous above him. He moved in ghostly shadows, for they had +robbed him even of the day. So still was the place that he could hear +a clock ticking in the room below. No sound came up from the distant +street. The roar of the city’s life was as a falling of great waters +heard afar. +</p> + +<p> +It was near to five o’clock of the afternoon then, he remembered. +Marian must have begun to ask herself what mischance had overtaken +him. Rightly, he could hope nothing from the friendship of a helpless +girl; and yet there were moments when he hoped much. She would tell +the English police that he had gone to Talvi’s house. The police would +begin to ask questions. It was possible that the whole of his story +would be made known, and then—and then! He dreamed even of liberty +won by her. She would not rest day or night in her quest of the truth. +She might save him even yet from the hand of the Russian. +</p> + +<p> +The weary night dragged on, but the man neither slept nor ate. The +supper they had put upon his table reminded him of the short days of +content he had known in London. What a gift of the joy of life it had +been to sit by her side all day, to hear her morning words of +greeting, her pretty good-night, to hold her in his arms, and to say +that therein was the place of his abiding rest! But for the thought +that in some way—he knew not how—a miracle would bring her to his +side, even in that house of darkness, he would have lost his reason. +The impulse to beat upon the door of his prison, to cry aloud for +mercy, was scarce to be controlled. The hope that she might yet come +alone empowered him to play the man. He listened for her footstep +through the long watches of the terrible night, and laughed at himself +for the fancy. At dawn he fell asleep, and sleeping, he dreamed that +her arms were about his neck. +</p> + +<p> +It was a quarter past nine o’clock on the evening of the second day +before any message came to him from the outer world. He had eaten a +little dinner, and was asking himself all the old questions when a +sound upon the stair without brought him quickly to his feet, and he +stood with heart a-quiver, wondering who came. For a spell, brought +down to earth suddenly from the giddy clouds of dreamland, the thought +lingered that it might be Marian’s step. He was still laughing at +himself for so foolish a notion when the door swung back upon its +hinges, and Count Feodor stood before him. +</p> + +<p> +The Count was in plain evening dress; his face was flushed, for he had +run up the stairs; he was boisterous as a lad who carries good news. +He had regretted, with a friend’s regret, the indignity put upon Paul +by those whom he served. He was glad with a friend’s joy that those +indignities were soon to be forgotten. +</p> + +<p> +“Paul, mon vieux, c’est fini,” he gasped, while he held out both his +hands to the prisoner, “you are to remain here no longer; they have +discovered their mistake, they know all; they have sent for her—she +is here!” +</p> + +<p> +Paul staggered like a drunken man. +</p> + +<p> +“She is here? Oh, my God!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is Tolma’s work,” continued the Count, with a child’s pride of his +words. “He discovered that she could make the maps. He is downstairs +with her now. You are to go there. They want you—at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“They want me at once?” repeated the dazed man. “But look at me—my +face, my hands, my beard.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ivan shall see to that; he will not be ten minutes. There is no +time——” +</p> + +<p> +Paul stood quite still. He seemed to read in that instant the moment +of Talvi’s words. +</p> + +<p> +“For what should there be time?” he asked very quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“For the priest to marry you to the little lady who knows so much +about Kronstadt.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul reeled out into the light. He was sobbing like a child. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch27"> +CHAPTER XXVII.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">AT MIDNIGHT.</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">A candelabrum</span> set before the altar in the chapel of Count Talvi’s +house cast a soft light upon the face of the old priest and upon the +little group around him. Huge and unwieldy, like some broken pillar, +was the figure of Bonzo back in the shadows. But the Man of Iron +thought and planned no longer. The difficult mission which had carried +him to England was accomplished. For the rest he cared nought. +Kronstadt had lost a good soldier, but her secrets were safe. The +clever little woman, who knelt before the altar with the light of love +awakened in her eyes, would betray the citadel no more. Everything +else was indifferent to the servant of the Gate. Love was the +recreation of children. He had never loved. +</p> + +<p> +Near to the Man of Iron sat old Tolma. There was upon his face a look +of sly triumph and of elation. He had crossed swords with Bonzo of +Kronstadt and had defeated him. The pretty English girl would bring +sunshine into his house in Paris. Paul should become a son to him in +deed and act. This strange marriage, at night in a house of Western +London, appealed to an insatiable appetite for romance. He recalled +the faces of all the women to whom he would willingly have given +himself under similar circumstances. What a roll-call it was! The +subjects of his amours would have numbered a battalion. +</p> + +<p> +The remaining witness to this strangest of strange marriages was the +master of the house. Count Talvi showed how much his old friend’s +happiness meant to him. He came often to Paul’s side; he whispered +words of congratulation to him. Hither and thither he moved with +silent step, now to help the priest, now to give orders to the +lackeys. He was a servant of Russia still, but this was his holiday. +</p> + +<p> +The priest raised his hands to bless those whom God had joined +together in the holy mystery of marriage. For one long moment Paul +held his wife’s burning face close to his. Then all rose and passed to +the great dining-room below. +</p> + +<p> +Here lights from many electric lamps shone down upon Talvi’s guests. +Lackeys were busy at the tables laid for supper. It was the moment for +congratulations. +</p> + +<p> +“You forgive me?” cried old Bonzo, holding out both his hands to the +trembling girl. “You forgive an old soldier for making you a Russian?” +</p> + +<p> +Marian turned laughing eyes to his. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what I am or where I am,” she said bewilderedly; “I +cannot believe that any of you are real.” +</p> + +<p> +Bonzo laughed his great laugh, which filled the house with a +tumultuous sound. +</p> + +<p> +“Fichtre!” he roared. “I—Bonzo—I am not real! Oh, c’est bien drôle! +Will you not kiss me, my child, and see if I am real?” +</p> + +<p> +Tolma, waddling laboriously, put his arms round the girl’s neck and +kissed her on both cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“You must eat and drink, little girl,” he said; “you must remember +that you are the daughter of Tolma. It is ten o’clock, and the train +is at midnight.” +</p> + +<p> +“The train?” she asked wonderingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the train to your Devonshire. It is there you will go until the +house in Paris is prepared for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“To little Dick,” she said, and the words were his reward. +</p> + +<p class="spacer"> +* * * * +</p> + +<p> +The mail rushed on towards the West. By sleeping villages, through +silent towns, above dark swirling rivers, away to the gardens of +England it carried the man and the woman who had suffered. But the day +of suffering was forgotten already. +</p> + +<p> +In the corner of their carriage Paul held Marian in his strong arms. A +rug was wrapped about them. The wan light of the feeble lamp fell +dimly upon their happy faces. +</p> + +<p> +“It is good to rest,” she said, as his arm closed about her and she +laid her pretty head upon his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“The rest shall be for ever,” he answered. +</p> + +<p class="center mt1"> +THE END +</p> + + +<h2> +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES +</h2> + +<p> +This book was also published as <i>A woman of Kronstadt</i>. +</p> + +<p> +The D. Appleton and Co. edition (New York, 1899) was consulted for +many of the changes listed below. +</p> + +<p> +Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. frock-coat/frock coat, +warships/war-ships, etc.) have been preserved. +</p> + +<p class="noindent mt1"> +<b>Alterations to the text</b>: +</p> + +<p> +Punctuation fixes: some quotation mark pairings, and assorted missing +periods, commas, and semicolons. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter II] +</p> + +<p> +“the Prince jests with us and we shall <i>anwer</i> him” to <i>answer</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[Chapter XVI] +</p> + +<p> +“And she must not deny him that <i>pportunity</i>” to <i>opportunity</i>. +</p> + +<p class="center mt1"> +[End of text] +</p> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79040 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/79040-h/images/cover.jpg b/79040-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1acf340 --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/79040-h/images/img_006.jpg b/79040-h/images/img_006.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f442dec --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/images/img_006.jpg diff --git a/79040-h/images/img_006_th.jpg b/79040-h/images/img_006_th.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..14af311 --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/images/img_006_th.jpg diff --git a/79040-h/images/img_008.jpg b/79040-h/images/img_008.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e6ec508 --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/images/img_008.jpg diff --git a/79040-h/images/img_008_th.jpg b/79040-h/images/img_008_th.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..be24b1b --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/images/img_008_th.jpg diff --git a/79040-h/images/img_106.jpg b/79040-h/images/img_106.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6944dba --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/images/img_106.jpg diff --git a/79040-h/images/img_106_th.jpg b/79040-h/images/img_106_th.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..348a563 --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/images/img_106_th.jpg diff --git a/79040-h/images/img_140.jpg b/79040-h/images/img_140.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..51b7438 --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/images/img_140.jpg diff --git a/79040-h/images/img_140_th.jpg b/79040-h/images/img_140_th.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4a1cbdb --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/images/img_140_th.jpg diff --git a/79040-h/images/img_172.jpg b/79040-h/images/img_172.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..93ca9b9 --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/images/img_172.jpg diff --git a/79040-h/images/img_172_th.jpg b/79040-h/images/img_172_th.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..611024b --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/images/img_172_th.jpg diff --git a/79040-h/images/img_224.jpg b/79040-h/images/img_224.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..31809cb --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/images/img_224.jpg diff --git a/79040-h/images/img_224_th.jpg b/79040-h/images/img_224_th.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..33c7bef --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/images/img_224_th.jpg diff --git a/79040-h/images/img_229.jpg b/79040-h/images/img_229.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2ba143b --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/images/img_229.jpg diff --git a/79040-h/images/img_229_th.jpg b/79040-h/images/img_229_th.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2cc4efe --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/images/img_229_th.jpg diff --git a/79040-h/images/img_269.jpg b/79040-h/images/img_269.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6d84f0f --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/images/img_269.jpg diff --git a/79040-h/images/img_269_th.jpg b/79040-h/images/img_269_th.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3176eca --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/images/img_269_th.jpg diff --git a/79040-h/images/img_i8.jpg b/79040-h/images/img_i8.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c76372a --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/images/img_i8.jpg diff --git a/79040-h/images/img_i8_th.jpg b/79040-h/images/img_i8_th.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..459ddf1 --- /dev/null +++ b/79040-h/images/img_i8_th.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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