I confess I felt the deepest sympathy for her, and told her so frankly
and openly as I sat there taking leave of her, for that very evening I
intended to leave Brighton and catch the night mail from Charing Cross
direct for Moscow.
She said but little, but when we had returned to Brunswick Square and I
stood with her at the window of the big drawing-room, she was unable to
control her emotions further and burst into a flood of bitter tears.
In tenderness I placed my hand upon her shoulder, endeavouring to
console her. Alas! I fear my words were stilted and very unconvincing.
What could I say, when all the world over royal birth is a bar to love
and happiness, and marriages in Imperial and Royal circles are, for the
most part, loveless, unholy unions. The Grand Duchess or the royal
Princess loves just as ardently and devotedly as does the free and
flirting work-girl or the tea-and-tennis girl of the middle-classes.
Alas! however, the heart of the Highness is not her own, but at the
disposal of the family council, which discusses her marriage as a purely
business proposition, and sells her, too frequently, to the highest
bidder.
The poor girl, crushed by the hopeless bitterness of the situation,
declared with a sob:
"To be born in the purple, as the outside world calls it, is, alas! to
be born to unhappiness."
I remained there a full half-hour, until she grew calm again. Never in
all the years I had known her--ever since she was a girl--had I seen her
give way to such a paroxysm of despair. Usually she was so bright,
buoyant and light-hearted. But that afternoon she had utterly broken
down and been overcome by blank despair.
"You are young, Natalia," I said, with deep sympathy. "Enjoy your life
to-day, and do not endeavour to meet the troubles of the future. As
long as you remain here and are known as Miss Gottorp, so long may your
friendship with young Drury be maintained. Live for the present--do not
anticipate the future."
I said this because I knew that Time is the greatest healer of broken
hearts.
But she only shook her head very sadly, without replying.
The black marble clock on the mantelshelf chimed six, and I recollected
that Hartwig had wired that he would meet me at the "Metropole" at that
hour. My train was due to leave for London at seven. I had already
bidden Miss West adieu. So I took Natalia's hand, and pressing it
warmly, wished her farewell, promising to regularly report by telegraph
my progress across Siberia, as far as possible.
She struggled to her feet with an effort, and looking full into my face
said in a voice choked by emotion:
"Good-bye, Uncle Colin, I am sorry I cannot betray Marya's secret. You
are doing this in order to save two innocent women from the horrors of a
living tomb in the Siberian snows--to demand that justice shall be done.
Go. And may God in His great mercy take you under His protection."
What I replied I can scarcely tell. My heart was too full for words.
All I know is that a few moments later I turned out of the great wide
square, where the rooks were cawing in the high trees, and hurried along
the wide promenade, where the red sun was setting behind me in the sea.
Hartwig I found at the "Metropole" awaiting me. He related how he had
called at the flat in Albemarle street, and, by a judicious tip to the
young valet he found there, had learnt that Mr Richard Drury was the
son of old Sir Richard Drury, knight, the great ship-builder of
Greenock, who had built a number of cruisers for the Navy. He was a
self-made man, who commenced life as a fitter's labourer in a
ship-builder's yard up at Craigandoran on the Clyde--a bluff, hearty man
whose generosity was well-known throughout the kingdom.
"Young Richard, it seems," Hartwig went on, "after leaving Oxford became
a director of the company, and though apparently leading a life of
leisure, yet he takes quite an active part in the direction of the
London office of the firm in Westminster."
He expressed the strongest disapproval when I told him of my intention
to leave for Siberia and instructed him to remain there and to take the
Grand Duchess under his protection until he received definite orders
from the Emperor.
"I certainly don't like the idea of your going to Siberia alone, Mr
Trewinnard," he declared. "Markoff will know the instant you start, and
I fear that--well, that something may happen."
"It is just as likely to happen here in Brighton, Hartwig, as in
Russia," I replied.
"Well," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "all I advise is that you
exercise the very greatest care. Why not take my assistant, Petrakoff?
I will give him secret orders to join you at the frontier at
Ekaterinburg--and nobody will know. It will be best for you to have
company on that long sledge journey."
"If I want him I will telegraph to you from Petersburg," was my reply.
"You will want him," he said, "depend upon it. If you go alone to
Siberia, Mr Trewinnard," he added very earnestly, "then depend upon it
you will go to your grave!"