HEARTS IN EXILE
BY
JOHN OXENHAM
TORONTO: HENRY FROWDE
LONDON: HODDER AND STOUGHTON
[Illustration: Title page]
TO
EVERY HEART IN EXILE
THIS BOOK OF HOPE
IS INSCRIBED
IN THE SURE AND CERTAIN FAITH
THAT LOVE STILL KNOWS THE WAY.
Contents
CHAPTER I
HOW HOPE SACRIFICED HERSELF FOR LOVE OF THE PEOPLE
CHAPTER II
HOW ONE WENT FORTH ALONE
CHAPTER III
HOW ONE WENT TO THE COUNTRY AND ONE WENT OUT OF IT
CHAPTER IV
HOW ONE FOUND HIMSELF IN HADES
CHAPTER V
HOW TWO MET IN HADES
CHAPTER VI
HOW THE WHITE SEEDS GREW
CHAPTER VII
HOW THE SEEDS BORE FRUIT AND FLOWER
CHAPTER VIII
HOW HOPE WRESTLED WITH SATAN AND GOT HER OWN WAY
CHAPTER IX
HOW HOPE SHORTENED THE LONG ROAD
CHAPTER X
HOW THREE PASSED WITHOUT MEETING
CHAPTER XI
HOW HOPE FOUND LESS THAN SHE EXPECTED AND MORE
CHAPTER XII
HOW HOPE CAME SLOWLY BACK
CHAPTER XIII
HOW HOPE GOT GLIMPSE OF HELL
CHAPTER XIV
HOW THEY LIVED TOGETHER AND YET APART
CHAPTER XV
HOW PAVLOF LEARNED HARD LESSONS
CHAPTER XVI
HOW THEY SAT SIDE BY SIDE WITH A GULF BETWEEN
CHAPTER XVII
HOW PAUL FOUGHT THE TERROR AND MADE A FRIEND
CHAPTER XVIII
HOW THE NEWS CAME THAT DREW THEM TOGETHER
CHAPTER XIX
HOW HOPE IMPOSED HER WILL UPON HIM
CHAPTER XX
HOW THE TIME CAME TO AN END
CHAPTER XXI
HOW THEIR CUP BRIMMED FULL
CHAPTER XXII
HOW THE CUP SPILLED
CHAPTER XXIII
HOW ONE CAME BACK FROM THE DEAD
CHAPTER XXIV
HOW THEY PREPARED TO GO WITH HIM
CHAPTER XXV
HOW THEY STRUCK A FRIEND
CHAPTER XXVI
HOW THEY FOUGHT IN THE CLEFT
CHAPTER XXVII
HOW THREE CAME HOME AND ONE WENT FURTHER
CHAPTER XXVIII
HOW SOKOLOF PAID HIS DEBT
CHAPTER I
HOW HOPE SACRIFICED HERSELF FOR LOVE OF
THE PEOPLE
"You think she will be in in a few minutes, Marya?"
"Assuredly. She is past her time now," said the old woman.
"She may have called somewhere," said the young man, and glanced
doubtfully at her.
"Sit down, Paul Ivanuitch," she said, in a more than simply
hospitable tone, "and I will get you some tea. She cannot be many
minutes now."
The old woman nodded knowingly to herself as she went down the
passage. The young man sat down for a moment, and then jumped up and
began to wander restlessly about the room. How could any man sit
still when all his future happiness was in the balance, and when he
had good reason to know that the hand that held the scales was no
ordinary hand, and might let itself be swayed by no ordinary feelings?
Straight and tall, and spare of figure; deep-set, trustworthy eyes,
dark like his hair; frank, thoughtful face, high in the cheek-bones
and lean in the cheeks, so that at times one could follow or even
anticipate his feelings by the curves and lines that came and went
there, Paul Pavlof was distinctly attractive to look upon.
For his was, above all, an invitingly honest face, and one does not
come across too many such. Perhaps also there was, in the eager face
and strenuous figure, more than a suggestion that such of the good
things of life as had come his way had been rather mental than
material, had contributed more to his inner well-being than to his
outer, that the lower things held but small interest for him, and
that he had not greatly missed them.
It was a very plainly furnished room, and Paul Pavlof knew intimately
every single thing that was in it. Table, couch, chairs, white-tiled
stove, green-shaded student's lamp, all were severely simple and
without individuality, but each separate article was glorified in his
eyes by the high service to which it was dedicated. He felt like
kneeling and kissing the chairs because Hope Arskaïa used them, the
floor because she walked on it, the lamp because she read and thought
by it, for all these things pertained to the higher life.
He wondered if she had ever thought of him as she sat in the chair or
walked the floor.
He knew she had, and moreover that her thoughts of him had been
pleasant thoughts. But all the same----
There were neither books nor papers lying about. The lack of them
contributed largely to the austerity of the apartment. But books and
papers are dangerous things when one never knows at what moment the
steps of the gendarmes may be heard on the stair.
On the walls were three portraits. Paul eyed them with reverence,
and stopped his wanderings now and again to look at them, as though
they might afford him some clue to the answer Hope Ivanovna would
give to the question he had come to put to her.
The bearded man with the calm, intent face and thoughtful eyes was
her father. He died in the Schlusselburg casemates, martyred for an
idea. High thought and fixity of purpose were the dominant features
here, and Pavlof's mouth tightened somewhat as he looked at it. Hope
Ivanovna took after her father.
The sweet-faced woman was her mother--the Scotchwoman. She died a
few months before him, broken-hearted at the racking injustice of it
all. Hope Ivanovna had her beauty and more, but her spirit was her
father's.
The bright, curly-headed boy was her brother. He died before she
came into Paul's life for its brightening and embittering.
He was standing before the portraits, finding likenesses in them all
to Hope herself, when the door opened again, and Marya, with an
apologetic look and shrug, ushered in another visitor--Serge Palma, a
strapping, jovial fellow, with blue eyes and light hair, and full
beard and moustache; very well dressed, and carrying an air of
opulence and hearty good feeling towards himself and the rest of the
world; in all respects the very antithesis of the first-comer. He
stopped with a short laugh at sight of Pavlof, and Pavlof's forehead
crumpled with annoyance at sight of him.
"Hola, Paul! It was not you I came to see," said Palma jovially, in
spite of the infelicity of the meeting.
"Nor I you."
"No, I suppose not," said Palma, with another short laugh.
"Moreover, unless I'm mistaken, it is no good our both stopping here
at the same time. Is it not so?"
Paul regarded him with gloomy annoyance. He was strung to concert
pitch himself, and the careless gaiety of the other jarred upon him
exceedingly. At the moment he hated Serge Palma most cordially,
though as a rule they were on friendly terms enough.
"I really don't think you need wait," said Pavlof quietly.
"Of course you don't. But then I do, you see, and that makes all the
difference in the world."
"It will make no difference."
"Da! As to that we shall see. But it's no good our waiting
together, if you've come, as I imagine you have, to put your fortune
to the test."
"I suggest then the propriety of your retiring."
"Of course you do. But, again, I don't see it, my friend. Why
should I leave you a clear field? First come may be first served."
"That's as it may be, and since I was first here----"
"Tell you what--let the fates decide it," said the other, with that
cheerful laugh of his which made Pavlof grind his teeth. And Palma
drew a coin from his pocket and spun and caught it. "Heads you stop,
tails you go."
But Pavlof shook his head with an expression of disgust at such
unseemly frivolity in so momentous a matter.
Palma laughed and uncovered the coin on the table. "You win," he
said, "so I go. If it had been tails I would have stopped in spite
of you, my boy. I shall wait till I see you leave, then I take my
turn. I'd wish you luck if I had no conscience. As it is----"
He nodded and went out, just as old Marya brought in the samovar and
teacups.
"Nu!" said she, with a wag of the head "That's right. I'm glad he's
gone--if he does not meet her on the road."
"You don't like Serge Palma, Masha?" said the young man hopefully.
"Not in that way, no," with another thoughtful shake of the head.
"He is rich, good-looking, good-tempered----"
"No doubt, no doubt. But there are better things even than those."
Then the door opened and Hope Arskaïa came in, and, to both Masha and
Pavlof, the homely casket glowed suddenly radiant with the brightness
of its treasure.
"Ah, Paul, mon ami! You have come to share a cup of tea with two
lonely old maids. That is good of you. Is it all ready, Matushka?
I am later than usual."
From the sweet, full tones of her voice to the light, firm tread that
bore her so rapidly and so gracefully, she was the embodiment of
health and energy, and her beauty was very remarkable. But, after
the first glow of satisfaction which fineness and regularity and
proportion of feature never fail to produce, it was the purposeful
soul shining through the eagerness of the beautiful face, and
especially through the great dark-blue eyes, which gave her the
mastery.
It was the knowledge--the partial knowledge--of what was in her that
made Paul Pavlof's hand tremble as he took the cup of tea she handed
him. For a woman animated by feelings so mighty as those which moved
and restrained Hope Arskaïa was capable of anything.
The one thing that troubled him was the doubt whether she was capable
of condescending to so small a thing as the love of Paul Pavlof--to
him the mightiest thing on earth.
Her greeting was full of hearty fellowship, nevertheless the first
quick glance she had given him had in it something of apprehension.
She knew what he had come for, and she feared the result of the
interview--for him--and--well, yes, for herself as well. For they
had been good comrades for many years, and friendship which aspires
to more does not readily content itself with less.
"Any callers, Masha?" she asked, as she drank her tea.
"Is not this one enough, Hope Ivanovna?" said the old woman
diplomatically, with a friendly nod at Pavlof, and hastened out of
the way of further questioning.
"Masha bullies me," said Hope, with a smile.
"She is a good old soul. You would have been very lonely without
her.... Sometime she will die, and then, Hope Ivanovna, you will be
more lonely still, unless--unless you have some one to take care of
you. I have come to-day to ask you to let me be that one. My heart
has been yours to trample on since the first time I looked into your
eyes. You have known it."
Yes, she had known it, she had known it only too well. And she had
looked with foreboding to this moment, for many a day, as the
possible end to their friendship.
Under other skies, under other circumstances, it might have been.
But as things were--the ordinary joys of wifehood, home, motherhood,
were not for Hope Arskaïa. Rightly or wrongly, her heart was set on
other things, and for those other things she was prepared to
sacrifice all that womankind holds most dear. Compared with those
other things she held herself of very small account.
That was the view he had feared she would take. Nay, he knew
instantly, even as he spoke, that he had known it all along, and he
knew her too well to hope to move her by any passionate pleading.
Her response would have been instant, if response had been possible.
One glance from the great dark eyes would have carried his soul up
into heaven.
But the eloquent eyes, which would have told him so much, remained
downcast, and he saw only the shadow of the long lashes on the white
cheek. He rose instantly.
"Forgive me, Hope," he said, as quietly as though his life's hopes
had not in the space of a moment crumbled into a heap of burnt-out
ashes.
"Paul!" she said, and raised a detaining hand, and there was that in
her tone--something of pleading and of pity both for herself and for
him--which made him glance quickly at her from under his pinched
brows.
He stood silently in front of her and waited--so near to heaven,
nearer than he knew, yet separated from it by the deep gulf of a
woman's invincible determination, and that woman to other women as a
volcano to a candle.
"My friend," she said at last, and her voice was full and strong
again, "you know to what my life is dedicated." She did not look at
him, but at the portraits on the wall. "To that end I am prepared to
sacrifice myself, body and soul, and these other things are not for
me. You are poor, I am poor. Poverty ties our hands. With all your
help I could do little of all that cries aloud to be done. Yet I
want your help. Will you work with me still for the people, Paul
Ivanuitch--in spite of this--in spite of--of all?"
"I would lay down my life for you, Hope Ivanovna. You know it."
"I know it. I know it. Even though I----"
"Even though you marry Serge Palma's millions, Hope Ivanovna."
He could not keep the bitterness out of his voice.
"Ah!"
"He was here. He will be back presently. God help us all. Why does
He permit these things to be?"
"If the sacrifice of one can help the many, it is right to make it,
Paul. Palma's millions may help to break the fetters of a nation.
What am I that I should withhold myself?"
"You are the sacrifice," he said sadly, and bent and kissed her hand,
and went quietly out.
Hope sat silently gazing at the portraits on the wall--past them, at
what she had put from her--past that, at what lay before her. And
her eyes were sad in spite of the spirit that was in her--nay,
because of it. For she knew, as well as any, where that path would
probably lead her.
Old Masha came in presently, and eyed her anxiously as she announced
Serge Palma.
Hope's face was grave and composed as his keen glance swept it.
There was an afterglow in the great dark eyes which he took to
himself, and courage therewith.
"You are welcome, Serge Petrovitch," said Hope.
"Ah!" said Palma, with a humorous twinkle. "Condolences, then, to
friend Paul," to which her only answer was a slight lift of the level
brows.
"You know what brings me, Hope Ivanovna," he said in reply. "I am no
student and have no gift of words. Will you be my wife?"
She looked at him quietly, and then asked, "Are you sure you know
what that means, Serge Petrovitch?"
"What it means? To be my wife? I know what it means to me, Hope
Ivanovna."
"I must be sure of that. Listen to me. You know that I work among
the people."
"Every one knows it," he nodded.
"Since ever I can remember, the thought of the people under the yoke
has weighed upon me, and my heart has groaned with them. My father
died in Schlusselburg, as all the world knows. His only crime was
the desire to raise the people out of the slough. My mother went
before he did. The same blow killed her. There they are on the
wall, and night and day they cry to me to help the work on."
"It is a good work."
"And a dangerous, and heart-breaking in its slowness, for lack of
workers and for lack of funds. If you are ready to join me in the
work I will be your wife."
"I will join you, Hope Ivanovna, so long as you don't go to extremes.
I am no believer in force as a remedy."
"Nor I; brains and money properly applied will bring the remedy in
time. It may be slow, but it will come. It must come. It shall
come," she said vehemently; and added, with quiet conviction, "we
want to build up, not to overthrow; to plant, not to uproot."
"I am with you there with all my heart. We will work side by side in
the matter."
And doubtless in the glow of his passion he meant it.
He had been prepared for some such demand. He had considered it. He
was ready to accede to it sooner than lose her. Doubtless, also,
somewhere in his mind there was the feeling that altruistic notions
such as these were common to most women gifted with intelligence
above the ordinary. And if one's heart were set upon such an one,
why, you had to take the rough with the smooth, the thorn with the
rose. It was a phase which time would overlay. The inducements of a
safe, luxurious life would wean her from it by degrees, and there
would be no harm done.
But that only showed how very little he actually knew of the woman he
had asked to be his wife.
Her father was that Dr. Ivan Arskoi whose only crime was his
far-sighted love for his fellows, and for the best interests of his
country. To Autocracy and Bureaucracy, however, such a man
represented social revolution. And so he did--but revolution by
natural growth, not by fire and steel; evolution, therefore, though
the results to the bureaucrats would be the same in the end. And,
since those results must necessarily be extremely unpleasant, the
bureaucrats promptly nipped Ivan Arskoi in the bud. He was labelled
"untrustworthy." Administrative process carried him off one night to
the Schlusselburg. For two years he lay there without trial, and
there he died. His wife's heart broke against the bars, and Hope, a
girl student of sixteen, was left alone in the world, except for an
aunt who took charge of her, and old Marya Ostronaya, her nurse.
Hope continued her studies and nourished the faith and hopes of her
father. When the guardian aunt died, leaving her a tiny patrimony,
she eked out her living by teaching, and devoted every spare minute
of her life, and every rouble that could be saved from the slender
housekeeping, to that quiet propaganda among the down-trodden for
which her father had already given his life.
Paul Pavlof she had long known in the schools. She had also been on
terms of closest friendship with his mother, Elizabeth Pavlovna, one
of those sweet, saintly souls which every land and every creed
produces, and Paul, in his highmindedness and abstraction from the
lower things, was very like her, as he was like her in the face and
eyes. His aim in life and Hope's were identical, but he was poorer
even than she. His father was a proprietor possessed of no business
aptitude. When he died, what remained after the Jews were satisfied
was just about sufficient to keep Paul's soul and body together
during his University career, and no more.
He was a quiet, thoughtful fellow, student still, and teacher in his
spare moments of those same wakening ideas which animated Hope
Arskaïa.
Their common interests and common dangers--for it is dangerous in
Russia to think of things as they ought to be, and still more
dangerous to speak of them--these things had drawn them very close
together. So close that Pavlof had even dared to dream of a closer
union still.
He had told himself a hundred times that it was only a dream, and yet
he would not banish it, for it was the radiance and glory of his
life, the dash of colour in the grey, without which a man's life
flies low on sombre wings.
Then Serge Palma came upon the scene. He was the only son of Peter
Palma, of Odessa--Prince Peter, by descent from a former petty ruling
family, just as Paul Pavlof, if he had chosen, could have claimed a
similar title, but wisely forbore. Prince Peter, however, finding,
like Pavlof's father, that his rentals were decreasing year by year,
had gone into the grain business and had amassed a fortune in it. He
died, and his son Serge was enjoying the fruits of his labours,
scattering what he had not gathered, dispensing with free hand that
which had cost him nothing to procure.
He met Hope Arskaïa first at the house of Kataya Barenina, whose
brother Mikhail was one of his many friends. The girl's remarkable
combination of beauty and high intelligence and intense earnestness
had made a great impression on him. With wide-open eyes to possible
consequences--for Peter Palma's son was no fool--he pursued the
acquaintance to its ultimate issue, and now he had asked her to share
his life, and she, for sake of what she held more highly than any
earthly happiness, had consented--on condition that he also shared
hers.