HOW THEY SAT SIDE BY SIDE WITH A GULF BETWEEN
One day, as winter was drawing towards the spring, Pavlof received a
customary order to inspect a convoy of newly-arrived prisoners.
Since the epidemic of the previous year the officials had exercised
unusual precautions, more with a view, however, to their own safety
than from any special care for the rest. These entailed no
expenditure of money and little trouble for themselves. Each convoy
as it arrived was carefully inspected, for life in the _étapes_ was
an inducement to disease. To one who had passed through those
hotbeds of vice and infection himself, it seemed a miracle that any
could possibly come through uncontaminated.
The authorities at St. Petersburg--busy just then with more important
matters--had taken no slightest notice of the Governor's request for
a successor to the late medical officer. So Pavlof, in the exercise
of his duties, subjected every arrival, male and female, to careful
examination, and promptly isolated every suspicious case. With a
view to the utilisation of waste material, they were tended in
hospital by female prisoners of some standing, under the distant but
arbitrary oversight of Cossack sentries, whose natural density led
them at times to interfere between nurses and patients when neither
had dreamt for a moment of overstepping the most rigid disciplinary
bounds. But they were, for the most part, dull-witted, low-browed,
bullet-headed fellows, whose narrow understandings were capable of
little beyond the fact that these were prisoners and they their
warders. Coarse-grained by nature, their feelings had become
pachyderm through constant contact with suffering humanity, and their
highest aspirations might safely have been packed into a glass of
vodka.
Many a strange meeting took place in that wretched hospital. In
spite of the vigilance of the officials, it became a regular bureau
of information concerning the happenings in the outside world.
The news, indeed, that trickled through was many months old, but it
was of a very definite character, and concerned matters of very
special interest which the rigid censorship would never have admitted
in any other way. For the letters to the Free Command were subject
to severest scrutiny and most abominable mutilation, and reached them
occasionally, when they reached them at all, in fragments which taxed
their ingenuity sorely at times to make head or tail of.
Among the abjects subjected to Pavlof's scrutiny that day was one
whom he recognised, in spite of travel-wear and tangle, and a quick
glance of surprise passed between them.
Mikhail Barenin had been one of the circle in Odessa to which Hope
Arskaïa and himself, and later Serge Palma, had belonged. Paul
promptly consigned him to hospital as a suspicious case, and
presently visited him there.
"So you have come to join us, Mikhail Mikhailovitch?" he whispered,
as he laid a professional hand on his patient's wrist.
"And you, Paul Ivanuitch? How come you on the side of the
oppressors?"
"Force of circumstances. The doctor died of typhus. They were
scared out of their lives, so they let me take his place till a new
one comes. It enables me to serve my friends at times. But listen,
Mikhail Mikhailovitch, and do not forget! I changed names on the
road with Serge Palma, and here I am known by his name."
"I will remember. You may wear it without fear of disturbance."
"How? You have news? Tell me quick," and his heart was in his
throat at thought of what this might possibly mean for him--and to
Hope.
"Serge Petrovitch--Palma--is dead. He was shot in an attempt to
escape."
Pavlof's face burned red as his released heart sent the hot blood
whirling on its way. He ground his teeth to keep his face from
twisting. He closed his eyes for a moment lest the light in them
should blaze his secret abroad.
"You are sure of this, Mikhail Mikhailovitch?" he asked, when his
thumping heart gave him leave to speak.
"Quite sure of the report. I was not there to see. But it was
accepted as true before I left."
"We will speak of it again"--as the Cossack sentry sauntered towards
them. "I can keep you here for some days. The rest will do you
good. Remember, I am Serge Palma."
The other nodded and closed his eyes wearily. The comforts of a
prison hospital were slight, but it was heaven compared with the
pestiferous étapes and crowded kameras and the drudgery of the mines.
Paul Pavlof had enough to occupy his mind that day, and as he lay on
his mattress before the stove at night his thoughts tossed him to and
fro and gave him little rest.
Before morning he had decided that Mikhail Barenin must be told of
Hope's presence there, and how it came about. For an unlikely, but
still possible, chance encounter between them, even at a distance,
might otherwise lead to trouble.
As to telling Hope of the report of Serge's death, he could not make
up his mind.
He debated it with and against himself, and tried to look at it in
every possible light.
If he could have been absolutely assured of its truth he would not
have hesitated. But he could not be sure. It might be true. It
might very likely be true. It was just as likely to be true as not.
Nay, he said to himself at last, it was more likely to be true than
not. And thereupon brought himself to with a round turn and took
himself soberly to task.
For after all, looked at coldly, calmly, judicially--points of view
only to be arrived at after severest condemnation of the
self-confessed prisoner at the bar--it might not be true, and, above
all thought of himself, was his thought for her, and--ay--of her.
For, do what he would, now that the door of possibility, of
probability--must he with shame confess it,--of hope, was unlatched
by Mikhail Barenin's news, his thoughts refused the leash and ran
freely. They leaped barriers, and climbed ladders whose end might
rest in Kara snows, but whose summits touched rosy heavens. For a
man may control his judgment, his words, his looks, but his thoughts
have a will of their own and a way of their own, and when they take
the bit it is time for him to pray that he may be delivered from evil.
He saw Barenin again next day, and under cover of a careful
examination of his patient, while the sentry looked on suspiciously
from a distance, he managed to tell him what he wished.
"Put out your tongue, Barenin," he said, "and listen to me before the
watchdog barks. Hope Palma is here--keep your tongue out, man--she
came expecting to find her husband, of course. We have been waiting
news. I have not told her yet lest it should not be true. I am
supposed to be Palma. She is supposed to be my wife. She lives in
my house since it is not safe for a woman to live here alone. But
she lives only in hope of word from Palma so that she may join him.
Now you understand the situation."
"I understand." There was a twinkle in his eye as he added, "For
your sake I hope the news is true."
"I wish only her happiness."
"We know that who know you. It was a surprise to us all when she
married Palma. Every one thought----"
"Here comes the sentry. Your wrist---- So! You must remain here a
day or two still. I will see you to-morrow."
At home he imposed so strict a guard upon himself, lest the tumult
which Barenin's news had excited in him should escape in look or
tone, that to Hope it seemed that he had suddenly become cold and
distant as never before.
Time and restored health had made her almost her old self again,
capable once more of calm, wide views of life, and less given to fits
of bitter despondency, though these indeed still came upon her at
times. Now, taking blame to herself for his coldness, she tried back
in her mind for cause given, and failed to find it in spite of most
rigorous searching.
She knew him too well to believe him capable of ill-feeling for her
past offences; and had she not shown him by subsequent gracious
meekness that her declensions came not of herself, but of her
circumstances?
Finally, unaware of the fundamental upheaval wrought in him by
Barenin's news, she said to herself that the complexities of their
position were trying them both too hardly, and that the time had come
for a change.
Yet where to go and what to do? Any move might be the wrong one and
deprive her of the news for which she was waiting.
She could not, like Anna Roskova, find another lodging. For where
should Serge Palma's wife live except with Serge Palma? And as to
getting away, the risks and difficulties would be enormous. The
nightmare horrors of the convoys and rest-houses still overwhelmed
her at times, and, deep in heart, unacknowledged, not to be thought
about, but still there, was a deep, comforting sense of peace and
security in Pavlof's guardianship, and a very great disinclination to
lose it. She was at her wits' end, and sorely troubled in her mind
as to what course to pursue.
Paul had not dared to tell her of Barenin's presence at Kara. She
would inevitably ask if he brought any news, and then he must
disclose the whole matter.
Meanwhile he gripped his heart and treated her with the gravest
courtesy. He provided for her comfort in every way within the
compass of his power and the limited possibilities of Kara. But, by
reason of the fire that was in him, he bore himself coldly perforce,
hard as it was to do so, lest the slightest divergence from his
narrow line should lead him astray into the open country of his
heart's desire, and show her that which he was doing his best to keep
from her.
And she? Trust her, she knew, somewhat at all events, of that which
was in him, in spite of all his iciness and aloofness. And perhaps
she feared somewhat for herself, and perhaps she feared somewhat for
him. But always, except at those rarer and rarer intervals when her
heart got twisted awry with the long strain of waiting, she thought
of him warmly and gratefully.
Yet, now and again, after sitting in long silence before the stove of
a night, the falseness and awkwardness of their position would spur
her to speech, though the result was always the same. And--
"How much longer are we to go on in this way?" she would jerk out.
"What would you do, Hope Ivanovna?"
"Oh, I do not know, but I feel that I ought to be going."
"Where would you go?" At which she would shake her head hopelessly.
"I do not know, but I feel myself a burden to you."
"You know better, Hope Ivanovna," and he would strive to make that
statement as colourless as possible.
"Shall we ever hear?" she would ask.
"God knows," and he thought of Barenin.
They never got much further than that, and she remained there,
waiting, waiting, waiting, for the news which never came--a captivity
of the spirit, harder to bear in some respects than the thraldom of
the mines, though here, indeed, redeeming features were not entirely
lacking.
But as time passed, and the absence of the promised word from Serge
himself lent countenance to Barenin's news, Paul decided at last that
she must be told.
He was quite aware that the anxiously expected letter might even then
be lying in the hands of the officials as a suspect, might have been
there for months, might never be delivered. Such things were by no
means uncommon. Many a perfectly innocent letter, full of homely
tidings into which morbid officialism read things undreamt of by the
writer, was never delivered at all, and many a heart sickened and
died of starvation in consequence.
He had a great fear, too, that this news of Barenin's, when she heard
it, might bring about changes in their delicate relationship--changes
which might not be for the better.
It seemed to him, indeed, at times that matters could hardly be more
trying for them than they were, and yet--there was no knowing. This
word of Barenin's might be like the dropping of an acid into a
delicate solution, resulting in spicules and facets, in the instant
formation of frosty points and angles where, before, all was
colourless quiescence and limpid clearness. For, after all, Hope
Ivanovna was a woman, and, little as he knew of women and their ways,
he had seen enough of late to know that they are unaccountable at
times and not to be understood of men.
She would regard him with different eyes. Would her glance be more
kindly? Or would he find there, or imagine, new suspicions of
himself and all his motives?
She would understand, in part at all events, the coldness and
aloofness to which he had schooled himself so rigorously. Would she
ascribe it to fear on his own account or on hers?
Would she after all understand that his coldness was meant in
kindness--that if he had been over cold it had been through fear of
being over kind?
For while Serge lived--if Serge lived--he stood between them as
inviolable as a law of God. But if Serge were indeed dead, then
there was no law, of God or man, that could keep them apart--if both
their hearts so willed it.
No further news filtered through to them. Serge's promised letter
never came; and at last he decided to tell her, and, having decided,
still put off the telling from day to day in dread of the result.
Then one night, as they sat in silence before the stove, he said
abruptly, "You remember Mikhail Barenin?"
"Surely," she said quickly, and gazed at him hungrily. It was a link
with the past. It might mean news.
"He is here--in the prison."
"Ah?" she said with a quick swallow of her hopes and fears. "And he
brings news?"
"He brings a rumour--but it may not be true."
His words prepared her for ill news. She eyed him anxiously.
"He says that when he left Odessa it was understood there that Serge
had been shot in attempting to escape----"
"Ah!" she gasped. "And it was through you----"
Then her little round chin sunk on to her chest, and her bosom heaved
convulsively.
"Yes," he began bitterly. "It was through me----" and stopped.
It was unjust, cruelly unjust. But he choked it down and sat in
silence gazing into the ashes. Jangled heartstrings emit strange
discords at times, even in a man, and he knew it. And this was a
woman, and the woman he loved more than anything on earth.
All the same, as he sat there, life felt to him like a handful of
grey ashes. All his hopes were trembling in the balance, but not by
a word would he sway the balance either way.
"Give her time, give her time," he said to himself. "It is Hope
Ivanovna. She will come to herself."
And she did. For the sobs died away at last, and presently she
stretched a trembling hand round towards him, and said falteringly,
"Forgive me, my friend--I was unjust.--You did it for the best----"
He took her hand very gently, and bent and kissed it, and she got up
and went away to her closet.
The grey morning light showed how little she had slept. Her face was
white and anxious, the circles round her eyes were darker than ever
Her first words were--
"When did Mikhail Barenin come?"
"Three months ago."
"And you have known it all this time! Oh, why----"
"We do not know even yet that it is true, Hope Ivanovna."
"Does Mikhail believe it is true?"
"He said it was generally accepted as true," he said gravely, "but
rumour often lies, and rumour from Siberia----"
"Why did you not tell me before?"
"I did not wish to distress you----"
"Why did you tell me now?"
"I thought much before I did so. I tried to view the matter from all
points. I decided at last that it was right you should know. I
could not but see the distress the long suspense is causing you."
"It is terrible," she said miserably. "It will kill me. This not
knowing if he is alive is worse almost than knowing that he is dead."
"It leaves us hope."
"Hope dies of want," she said sadly.
"Hope must not die," he said. "When hope dies life is not worth
living."
It was bravely said, for he could not but know that, if that other
hope did finally die through lapse of time, then there might be
hope--ay, and Hope for him.