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THE MISSION OF POUBALOV
by
FREDERICK R. BURTON
[Illustration]
New York
Street & Smith, Publishers
29 Rose Street
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I--Her Wedding Morning 7
II--An Explanation Suggested 15
III--An Imperfect Vision 23
IV--Clara's Search Begins 31
V--The Agent of the Czar 39
VI--Litizki at Work 47
VII--A Dangerous Man 55
VIII--In the Hands of the Enemy 63
IX--Litizki's Lesson 71
X--Corroborative Detail 78
XI--Strange Exit of Poubalov 87
XII--Litizki Breaks His Appointment 95
XIII--What Became of Litizki 103
XIV--A New Departure 111
XV--Louise Receives a Caller 119
XVI--Lizzie White 127
XVII--How Litizki Saved Miss Hilman 135
XVIII--The Key to Ivan's Prison 143
XIX--The Ghost of Poubalov 151
XX--The Little Front Room 159
XXI--What Paul Palovna Saw 167
XXII--Poubalov's Revolution 175
XXIII--At One O'clock A.M. 183
XXIV--The New Clew 191
XXV--A Stubborn Antagonist 199
XXVI--Hide and Seek 207
XXVII--Behind Closed Doors 216
XXVIII--Poubalov Succeeds 225
A WEDDING BUT RATHER LATE
CHAPTER I.
THEIR WEDDING MORNING.
Ivan pulled aside the curtain and looked up at the sky. It was as clear
as crystal, as blue as the eyes of his beloved, the promise fulfilled
of a perfect day. On a window cornice across the street a tiny bird
perked his head toward the sun and chirped noisily. To a lively
imagination kindled by fond anticipations the twittering of the bird
would have seemed like music. So it was to Ivan. His heart responded
with unformed melodies, and some of their stray notes found their way
humming to his throat as he hastened his toilet.
A long process it was in spite of his haste. Every outer garment,
though but yesterday brought by the tailor, had to be brushed with
exquisite care, and when it came to adjusting his tie, what with
finding in the light of this beautiful morning that not one of the
numerous assortment seemed to be bright enough for the occasion, and
having rejected all in turn, and having selected one at last that might
be made to do, and having found the knot and loosed it--well, time
had passed, and under ordinary circumstances patience might have gone
with it. Ordinary, the circumstances were not, and if they had been I
presume any tie could have, and would have been thrown together in a
shape not less pleasing than that which finally caused him to turn from
the mirror in cheerful despair and ring for breakfast.
Mrs. White was prompt in responding to the summons, for she had been
expecting it with quivering anxiety for the last half hour. Good soul!
With eggs at thirty-five cents a dozen she nevertheless plunged two in
hot water every four minutes, in order that her lodger might not trace
the slightest sense of disappointment, on this eventful day, to her.
"I do hope his last breakfast here will be a pleasant one," she said
when her daughter protested against the extravagance.
There was certainly nothing in the plain breakfast to call for
criticism. Ivan might not have noticed it if there had been, for his
thoughts were elsewhere, and his emotions were stirred by causes at
once more delicate and more powerful than appetite; but Mrs. White was
probably in the right. It would have been a pity to permit any chance
of a jarring note however slight in the harmony that pervaded his being.
Ivan greeted his landlady gayly, and attacked his meal as if there were
no such thing as love in the world, love that makes man melancholy,
that destroys the delights of good living, that drives him to the
production of gloomy wails in more or less eccentric verse. There
was no such love for him. Out of the storm and stress of an eventful
career, in which misfortune had rained its blows upon him with undue
severity, love had arisen like the comforting glow of a home hearth
fire, and it shone upon his exile with naught in its beams but serenity
and peace. Ivan was happy.
Breakfast was hardly begun when Mrs. White again appeared.
"There's a gentleman to see you, Mr. Strobel," she said hesitatingly;
"I didn't like to disturb you, but he seemed very anxious, and so I
said I would see if you were at home."
She laid a card upon the breakfast table and waited.
Ivan glanced at it and frowned. So, there must needs be a cloud upon
this day to remind him, as if he needed it! how surely the sun of
happiness was shining for him. Alexander Poubalov! What could he be
doing in America, and what could have led him to call at just this
juncture? Bah! there could be no significance in it, nothing but a
memory of troublous experiences could be evoked by his presence,
nothing connected with that past could possibly intervene now between
him and the new life upon which he was joyously entering.
Mrs. White was sorely distressed, for she saw that her lodger was
disturbed, and in her motherly heart she wished that she had told the
stranger below one of those white lies that have come to be regarded
as not sinful in that they effect at least a postponement of evil. She
might have said that Mr. Strobel was engaged, or that he had given up
his room a week before. Both statements would have been true enough for
the Recording Angel's book, goodness knows!
"If you had only just gone, or if he had come an hour later," she
murmured plaintively.
"Oh, there's nothing the matter," cried Ivan, lightly; "I was simply
wondering what in the world he could want with me. I haven't seen him
for five years. Show him up, please."
Not half satisfied that nothing was the matter, Mrs. White obeyed,
and presently Alexander Poubalov stood upon the threshold. He was a
distinguished-looking man, tall, swarthy, middle-aged, a remarkable
contrast to his fair-haired fellow countryman, Ivan Strobel.
"I am indeed glad to see you, Strobel," he said, his deep tones vibrant
as a church bell; "may I come in?"
"I received your card and I sent for you," replied Ivan, coldly. He had
risen and was standing by the breakfast table.
"I shall be sorry if I have disturbed you, for I had no such purpose in
calling upon you. Pray go on with your breakfast," and Poubalov took a
step or two forward, as if waiting for an invitation to sit down.
"To what purpose, then, may I attribute your call?" asked Ivan, without
stirring.
"You are in haste, my friend," replied Poubalov, smiling; "you have
probably learned the American habit of putting business ahead of all
other things; but I see, too, that there may be some especial reason
to-day for hurry. You are dressed to go out, and you have packed your
trunks----"
"It is quite like you," interrupted Ivan, "to note every detail and
attach some significance of your own to it. You are right, however, on
this occasion. Time is precious with me to-day. I am to be married at
noon."
"Ah! married! Strobel," and Poubalov made as if he would extend his
hand, "I wish you would permit me to congratulate you."
"It is unnecessary," responded Ivan, remaining like a statue by his
chair.
Poubalov shrugged his shoulders and looked disappointed.
"As you will," he said, "and perhaps it would be as well to postpone my
call, as it seems you regard it as an unhappy intrusion."
"If you have any business other than that attending to a spy in
general," said Ivan, "I shall be pleased if you will dispatch it now.
If, on the contrary, you still have any interest in my movements, I
will give you my itinerary, and you can follow me if you like. I will
only suggest that we are not in Russia, and that it is not my intention
to go outside the jurisdiction of the United States."
"You need only tell me, if you have no objection," replied Poubalov,
"where I may look for you some time after your wedding journey."
Ivan picked up Poubalov's card and wrote an address upon it. "I shall
live there," he said, handing the card to his caller. "I expect to
return in two weeks."
Poubalov read the card and thoughtfully placed it in his pocketbook.
"If I knew how to, Strobel," he remarked gravely, "I would assure you
that you need have no anxiety on my account during your honeymoon, or
afterward; but I see clearly that now, as heretofore, you will place no
reliance whatever upon my words, and that you discredit my motives."
"You speak truly," said Ivan; "but we will not discuss the reasons
for my distrust. You know them even better than I do. You may spare
yourself any words. I shall not be disturbed by anxiety."
"On another occasion, then, I may hope for a somewhat extended
conversation. Good-morning. My good wishes would doubtless be repugnant
to you."
Ivan bowed silently and Poubalov withdrew.
"Strange that I should be pursued after all this lapse of time, and to
this far country," thought Ivan; "but I have done right. I have nothing
to fear from Poubalov or the government whose paid spy he is."
He looked at his watch, and, resuming his place at the table, hastily
swallowed a cup of coffee. Mrs. White's eggs remained unbroken.
A carriage was waiting for him at the door and it was time that he
should go, for the wedding was to take place at Rev. Dr. Merrill's
little church in Roxbury, four miles away. With moderate driving and
no accident he would be there in time to meet the bridal party at the
door. A happy farewell to his landlady and her daughter, and he was off.
He did not notice that as his coupé turned into Somerset Street from
Ashburton Place, a closed carriage left its position not far from Mrs.
White's door and followed. If he had observed it he would have thought
nothing of it, for in Boston other persons besides bridegrooms employ
public conveyances, and it is not always that a cabman is employed to
drive a fare to a wedding.
Ivan's coupé rolled gently down Park Street, and just as it reached the
corner of Tremont, one of the forward wheels came off. The passenger
was precipitated forward, and the driver with difficulty kept his
seat. He climbed down in a moment, angry and bewildered. He could
discover no break about his vehicle, but there was the wheel upon the
ground, there was the body leaning forward, straining upon the shafts,
disconcerting the horse----
"Open the door!" cried Ivan, imperatively; "I can't be shut up here!"
The driver got the door open after a little trouble and Ivan crawled
out.
"I don't see how it happened," began the driver.
"No matter. It can't be helped in a minute, can it? I must have another
conveyance."
A crowd was quickly gathering, and as Ivan looked around him he caught
the eye of the driver of the closed carriage.
"Are you engaged?" called Ivan. Then, as the driver signified his
willingness to take a fare, Ivan recoiled. The carriage looked as if
it were on the way to a funeral. He hated presentiments and despised
himself for the momentary feeling of discomfort.
"You can pull down the curtains, sir, after you get in," said the
driver as if he had noticed his prospective passenger's discomfort.
"Where to, sir?" he continued with his hand on the door.
Ivan told him and with a "Hurry, please," bolted into the carriage.
The driver sprang to his seat as if his salvation depended on his
speed, lashed his horse heavily, and the carriage fairly leaped through
the crowd and down Tremont Street. It was a beautiful June morning and
the passenger was on his way to his own wedding, but he did not lower
the curtains of the gloomy carriage.
* * * * *
A gentle quiver of excitement stirred the congregation that filled
the little vine-covered church on Parker Avenue as the clock tolled
the noon hour and the organist began to play softly, his fingers
weaving scraps of melody into a vague but pleasing harmony like the
light that filtered through the stained glass windows. This was but
the suggestion of a coming outburst of harmony, for presently, as
the joyful procession would be ready to move, he would open all the
gates of sound and flood the edifice with the triumphal strains of the
Wedding March, strains that seem light and music, too, to all listeners
and beholders. Within the vestibule the bridal party awaited the coming
of the groom. There, too, were Ivan's two friends, to do him honor by
marching with him; one a Russian like himself, the other an American.
With smiling faces they all endeavored to conceal annoyance that was
speedily turning to anxiety over Ivan's delay.
Clara Hilman, as lovely a bride as ever donned the orange-decked veil,
stood with palpitating heart beside her uncle and guardian, Matthew
Pembroke. With awkward words he was trying to soothe what he felt must
be her fears. All about them were pretty children dressed to follow the
bride, and Clara's dearest girl friends. Within the chancel Dr. Merrill
waited, wondering a little, but not permitting himself to attach hasty
blame to anybody for this embarrassing hitch in the proceedings. The
organist looked inquiringly at the group that had found places in the
choir loft and they returned his gaze by shakes of the head.
"You are more nervous than I am, uncle," said Clara with an attempt at
bravery, though her trembling lips betrayed her; "he will be here."
"There he is!" cried Ralph Harmon, one of Ivan's friends, as a carriage
was seen to turn into the avenue from a street a little way off, and
come hurrying toward the church. "Be ready to tell the organist," he
whispered to a boy who stood near.
The waiting procession fell into partial disarray as every one craned
his or her neck to see the bridegroom step from the carriage which now
halted at the steps. All, nearly all, could see through the open doors
as the driver dismounted and opened the door.
A shiver of disappointment passed over the wedding party. An old, bent
man issued from the carriage, leaning heavily on a cane and hobbled up
the steps.
"This is stranger than Ivan's delay!" exclaimed Harmon in a whisper
to his Russian colleague; "I don't believe old Dexter ever went to a
wedding before unless it was his own, and I never knew he was married."
"Who is he?" asked the Russian.
"Old Dexter is all I can say. He's a kind of miser and money-lender
combined, I think. I don't believe he's any friend of Ivan's."
"No. He's bowing to Mr. Pembroke."
Very ceremoniously but with a halting movement, the old man had taken
off his hat to Mr. Pembroke and passed on into the church. Mr. Pembroke
had bowed stiffly in return and then bent over his niece to speak to
her.
Clara was by this time plainly disturbed. It was a quarter past the
hour, and the congregation itself was getting nervous. A few persons
came out into the vestibule to learn what caused the delay. The
organist's flitting harmonies became monotonous, intolerable, and the
rector within the chancel was not so impatient as alarmed.
A few minutes later the organist stopped altogether. The rector joined
the wedding party in the vestibule. Clara had been taken to a room in
the vestry by her guardian.
"If he should come now," said Mr. Pembroke, gravely, "I don't believe
we could go on. The strain has been too great for Clara."
Dr. Merrill spoke to her as only a clergyman can speak to a
parishioner, and minutes dragged along.
At last when an hour had passed, and there was yet no word from Ivan,
the rector dismissed the congregation, and the members of the wedding
party went homeward, wondering and sorrowful.