"_Harosho_! Step this way, sir, if you please," she exclaimed, when she
had examined the letter by the feeble light shed by a neighbouring
street lamp. Then she closed the door and walked before me through a
well-kept garden up to the house. Entering, she conducted me to a small
and rather well-furnished apartment, the French windows of which opened
out upon a spacious tennis-lawn. Around the walls were hung several
choice paintings, and I noticed that upon the table lay a number of
pamphlets similar to those which the organisation were secretly
circulating throughout the Empire of the Tzar.
In a few moments the door opened, and a very pretty young Russian lady
of about twenty-three years of age came forward to meet me.
"Good-evening," she said, smiling. "My father will be here in a few
minutes. You will not object to wait, will you?"
I assured her I was in no hurry, whereupon she begged me to be seated,
at the same time producing a large box of cigarettes, offering me one,
and, in accordance with Russian etiquette, taking one herself.
She struck a vesta and lit hers quite naturally. Then, as she seated
herself upon a low chair, I recognised that she was very handsome, and
that every lineament and feature was perfect. Her countenance had an
expression of charming ingenuousness and blushing candour, while her
dark brilliant eyes had an intense and bewitching glance. In her brown
hair was a handsome crescent of diamonds, and her evening dress of soft
black net disclosed her white chest and arms.
"Were you surprised at my curt note?" she asked suddenly, blowing a
cloud of smoke from her pursed-up lips.
"Well, to tell the truth, I was," I admitted. "You see, we are
strangers."
"Ah, I forgot! I suppose I ought to introduce myself," she said,
laughing. "I'm Prascovie Souvaroff. I know your name, and have heard
how you assisted our cause."
After I had acknowledged the compliment, we commenced a commonplace
conversation, which was interrupted by the entrance of a tall, elderly
man, whose thin face, sunken cheeks, and deeply furrowed brow were
indicative of heavy toil or long imprisonment.
Prascovie rose quickly and introduced him.
"Ivan Souvaroff, my father," she exclaimed, and when we had exchanged
greetings, she said, "Now I'll go, because you want to talk. When you
have finished your conversation, ring the bell, and I will return and
bore you." And, laughing gaily, she tripped out of the room.
Souvaroff took a cigarette, lit it, and, seating himself thoughtfully,
looked into my face and said--
"I have to thank you for coming here to-night, sir; but the matter about
which I desired to see you is one of urgency. I have heard from
Grigorovitch and others how you have assisted us in London and in
Petersburg, and I thought it probable you would render me a small
personal service."
"If it is in my power, I shall be most happy," I replied.
"It is quite easy if you will only do it; it is merely to insert a
paragraph in the papers as news. I have it here, ready written." Then,
taking a slip of paper from his pocket, he read the following
announcement: "Prascovie, only daughter of Ivan Souvaroff, who escaped
from Siberia after five years at the mines, died in London yesterday."
"Died?" I repeated, in surprise. "What do you mean? Your daughter was
here, alive and well, a few moments ago!"
"I'm aware of that," he replied, smiling mysteriously. "You are not one
of Us, otherwise I could tell you the reason."
"Does she know?"
"No, no," he exclaimed quickly. "Don't tell her. Promise to keep the
matter strictly secret. If you publish the paragraph, I will see she
does not get hold of a copy of the paper."
"Very well," I said; "I'll do as you wish."
It was a puzzling paragraph, but I had already ceased to be astonished
at any action on the part of these men, for the more I thought over
their secrets, the more complicated they always appeared.
As he handed me the piece of paper, with an expression of earnest
thanks, I noticed that he wore a glove upon his right hand, and
commented mentally that it was a rather unusual custom to wear one glove
while in the house.
A few moments after he had rung the bell, Prascovie returned, followed
by the servant, bearing a steaming _samovar_.
"You've not been very long over your business," she remarked, glancing
at me with a smile. "Now it's all over, let's talk."
I was nothing loth to do this, and she and I resumed our chat. Then
Souvaroff related the story of his imprisonment, his transportation to
Siberia, his work in the Kara silver mines, and his subsequent escape
and journey to England, where he had been joined by his daughter. Some
English people thought, said he, that Russia was not prepared for the
freedom the Narodnoe Pravo would like to see it possess; but he assured
me that the time for autocracy was past, that the Tzar's Empire had
outgrown the period of benevolent despotism, and that the Russian people
were quite capable of governing themselves. When he had described some
of the exciting adventures connected with his escape, Prascovie, who had
handed me some tea and lemon, seated herself at the piano and sang an
old Russian love-song in a sweet contralto, full of harmony and
tenderness.
In the meantime, her father had left us, and when she had finished, she
turned upon the music-stool, and with few forewords inquired the nature
of Souvaroff's business with me. Of course, I was compelled to refuse
to satisfy her curiosity, and at my request she returned to the
instrument and commenced another song. As she sang the second verse,
there mingled with the music sounds of loud talking, boisterous
laughter, and greetings in Russian, which proceeded from the hall.
Evidently some one had arrived, and was being welcomed by my host.
Prascovie heard it, and ceased playing.
For a moment she sat in an attentive attitude. I noticed her face wore
an expression of intense anxiety and that the colour had fled from her
cheeks.
A few moments later I distinguished the voice of the servant answering
her master, and after some further conversation a man exclaimed--
"_Dobroi notsche_, Souvaroff." ["Good-night."]
To this the man addressed replied in a cheery tone, the front door
slammed, and my host returned into the room.
As he entered, he uttered some words in Polish _patois_ to his daughter.
It must have been some announcement of a startling character, for,
uttering an ejaculation of alarm, she reeled and almost fell.
In a moment, however, she had recovered herself, and sank into an
armchair in a grave, dejected attitude. All the light had left her
face, and with her chin resting upon her breast she gazed down in
thoughtful silence upon the rosettes on her little morocco slippers.
Souvaroff appeared to have aged ten years since he left the room half an
hour before, and although I endeavoured to resume our conversation, he
only replied in monosyllables.
I marvelled at this sudden change. Even if an unwelcome visitor had
called, I could see no reason why such a strange effect should be
produced.
I remained to supper, after which Prascovie threw a shawl about her
shoulders and walked with me to the gate. I expressed a desire to call
again and spend another evening in listening to the passionate
Caucausian songs, but she appeared strangely indifferent. She merely
wished me "_Prostchai_" very formally, and when we shook hands, she drew
back, and I fancied she shuddered.
Then I turned away, and the gate was locked behind me.
Slowly I walked along the deserted road, absorbed in thought. The night
was bright and frosty, and there was no sound save the echo of my own
footsteps. I had been strolling along for perhaps five minutes, when
suddenly I saw some object lying across the pavement. The thoroughfare
was very inadequately lit; indeed, so dark was it that I was unable to
distinguish the nature of the obstacle.
Bending down, I passed my hands rapidly over it. I found it was a man.
He was evidently drunk, therefore I resorted to the expedient of giving
him a gentle but firm kick in the ribs, at the same time urging him to
wake up. This, however, had no effect; therefore, after repeated
efforts to rouse him, I struck a vesta and held it close to his head.
The moment I saw the yellow pallor of the face and look of unutterable
horror in the glazing eyes, I knew the truth. He was dead!
His age was not more than thirty-five. He had grey eyes, fair hair and
beard, and from his dress I judged that he belonged to the upper class.
The heavy overcoat he wore was unbuttoned, and a silk muffler was
wrapped lightly around his throat.
A glance sufficed to ascertain that he was beyond human aid, and after a
moment's hesitation, I started off in search of a constable.
I was not long in finding one, and we returned to where the body lay.
Other assistance was quickly forthcoming, and, a doctor residing in the
neighbourhood having made an examination and pronounced life extinct,
the remains were conveyed to the mortuary. Owing to the lateness of the
hour and the quietness of the neighbourhood, there was no crowd of
curious onlookers, nor was there anything to create horror, for no marks
of violence could be discovered on the body.
At the inquest duly held I attended and gave evidence. The medical
testimony went to show that the unknown man had died suddenly owing to
an affection of the heart, and the jury returned a verdict of "death
from natural causes." Nothing was discovered in the pockets which could
lead to the unfortunate man's identification, and although his
description was circulated by the police, the body was buried three days
later in a nameless grave.
I had published the strange obituary notice Souvaroff had given me, and
on the day of the inquest I again called at Springfield Lodge. Only
Prascovie and the servant were at home. I had a pleasant _tete-a-tete_
with the fair Russian, and as we sat together, I commenced to relate my
discovery on the night of my previous visit.
"Ah," she exclaimed, interrupting me, "you need not tell me! I--I saw
from the newspapers that you had found him. The inquest was held
to-day. I'm so anxious to know the verdict."
I told her, and an exclamation of relief involuntarily escaped her.
This did not strike me as peculiar at the time, but I recollected the
incident afterwards, and was much puzzled at its significance.
"Do they know his name?" she asked eagerly.
"No. There was nothing to serve as a clue to his identity."
"Poor fellow!" she sighed sympathetically. "I wonder who he was."
Then our conversation turned upon other topics. We smoked several
cigarettes, and, after remaining an hour, I bade her adieu and departed,
half bewitched by her grace and beauty.
When, however, I called a week later and gave the usual four tugs at the
bell, my summons remained unanswered. A dozen times I repeated it, but
with the same effect, until a postman who chanced to pass informed me
that the occupants had gone away suddenly five days before and left no
address.
Surprised at this hurried departure, I walked to the house of
Grigorovitch, about half a mile distant, and told him of my friends and
their flight.
"Well," he said, with a smile, when I had told him their name, and
explained the various circumstances, "I shrewdly suspect you've been
tricked. I know no one by the name of Souvaroff. He is certainly not
one of Us, and it is equally certain that he got you to insert that
extraordinary paragraph by a very neat ruse."
And he laughed heartily, enjoying a joke that I confess I was unable to
appreciate.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Eight months passed, during which the strange incident gradually faded
from my mind.
The increased number of persons who were being sent from all parts of
Russia to Siberia without trial had become a subject of much comment in
England. Horrifying reports anent the state of the _etapes_, and the
shocking brutality and inhuman treatment to which the oft-times innocent
convicts were subjected, were continually reaching London from various
sources, and public feeling against Russian autocracy had risen to fever
heat.
Hence it was that one day when I entered my office I received
instructions to proceed without delay to Siberia, in order to inspect
the general condition of the prisoners and ascertain the truth of the
harrowing details. The prospect of this mission delighted me, for not
only was it certain to be fraught with a good deal of exciting
adventure, but it would also enable me to complete the novel, already
half written, and which I had been compelled to put aside owing to lack
of information regarding life in the Asiatic penal settlements.
That evening, after calling upon Grigorovitch and informing him of my
projected journey, I returned home, and sat at my writing-table far into
the night, finishing some work upon which I had been engaged. The whole
of the following day I spent in packing my traps, and otherwise
preparing for a long absence. In the evening, while I was busy writing
some letters, the servant announced that a young lady, who refused her
name, desired to see me. I was not particularly clean, and I confess
that just then I was too much engaged in making arrangements for my
departure to think of anything else. However, my curiosity got the
better of me, and I told her to admit the stranger.
"You?" I cried, when a moment later Prascovie Souvaroff entered.
"Yes. Why not?" she asked, laughing, and offering me her hand.
What could I say? I stammered out a greeting, invited her to be seated,
and began to question her regarding her sudden disappearance.