_Lona Ivanovna asks a second question and gets an unexpected reply_
As soon as Leo had read Wallion's message, a feeling of great relief
came over him. For the first time he dared to confess to himself that
he had been on the point of giving up hope altogether. The realization
of Baron Fayerling's true character had brought home to him his own
utter helplessness. No one knew better than he that the isolated
position of the Copper House gave, for the time being, a tremendous
advantage to this dangerous gang; the baron's high-handed proceedings
had also made him fear that the journalist--his only friend at this
crisis--had already been secretly done away with. But the little
slip of paper, so unexpectedly flung through his window, came like a
sunbeam into a darkened room: Wallion was evidently still free, and
at work. How, under present conditions, he had managed to evade the
enemy, was more than Leo could imagine, but the mere knowledge of the
fact exhilarated him like a glass of champagne; he drew a deep breath,
and his mind, which had seemed frozen, began to work once more. The
situation was, after all, full of possibilities as long as Wallion
was anywhere in the neighborhood. The wish to do something himself
returned to Leo with double force, and one idea after another chased
through his active brain; he had a dangerous craving to lend a hand,
to surprise his friend by some clever move, some stroke of genius that
might even settle the whole affair for good.
He thrust the note into his waistcoat pocket, left his room, and ran
whistling downstairs.
In the hall he found Lona Ivanovna, very quiet, and with a look of
painfully-concentrated thought on her thin face. He noticed at once
that the guard by the door had disappeared, and that quite a new kind
of silence reigned over the house; a silence that kept one's ears and
nerves perpetually on the stretch. The rooms, whose doors stood open
on every side of the hall, gave one the impression of having only just
been vacated, and that at any minute something might happen in them.
A flash of lightning flickered from the heavy bank of clouds outside,
like the expiring ray of a searchlight, and was followed by a low growl
of very distant thunder.
Lona Ivanovna turned, as she heard the young man's step on the stairs.
"They have gone," said she, "and they have not found him yet."
Leo glowed with satisfaction: for the first time the pugnacious old
lady addressed him in the friendly tone hitherto reserved for her
brother and Sonia. He was quite pleased to hear that Bernard Jenin had
not been found, but that was not the most important thing from his
point of view.
"Has the baron gone away?" he asked, eagerly.
"Yes, he went just now, with that miserable creature Tassler. But
it's too soon to rejoice, my boy, Rastakov is left behind, and we are
prisoners," she added in a dry sarcastic tone, as if she found this
fact rather amusing.
"Prisoners!" echoed Leo; "how can that be? You must be joking. There is
no prison here."
"Dear me, how shall I make you understand!" she muttered, scratching
her forehead with her crochet-hook; "have you ever been in the fortress
of St. Peter and St. Paul?"
"No, never!" cried Leo, considerably taken aback.
"So I should think. But _I_ have! It was in the days when I used to
throw bombs," she said confidentially; "well, it would have been easier
to escape from Peter and Paul than to get out of the Copper House now.
Of course, I was young then...."
Leo stared at her, opened his mouth and--remained silent. He went over
to the glass door, threw it open, and hurried out on to the terrace.
"Where are you off to?" demanded Rastakov, appearing in front of him,
with his right hand in his pocket.
"Whatever business is it of yours!" retorted Leo furiously. "How dare
you speak to me like that! I go where I choose."
Rastakov sneered provokingly.
"Yes, after eleven or twelve o'clock to-night, maybe; but until then
you have got to keep quiet, or you may find yourself taken elsewhere
first thing in the morning. Go indoors, and get your friends to amuse
you; we have a small job on out here, and don't want to be interfered
with: so that's all there is to it."
Leo took a couple of steps towards him, but the man quietly drew a huge
revolver from his pocket; his face was grim and watchful.
"I mean it!" he said; "go indoors."
Leo looked all round him; he could not repress a shudder as he counted
nine or ten armed men posted in front of the house, and he guessed that
it would be equally well guarded on the remaining sides; Lona Ivanovna
was right: they were prisoners.
"You must be mad!" he exclaimed; "we are not in Russia. I have only to
report this to the police, and you would all be arrested."
"Do so, by all means," replied the other scornfully; "perhaps you would
like me to send the message for you!"
"I shall--I shall...."
Leo checked himself, and turned back into the house. He was angry with
himself, with Rastakov, with the whole world; he was aware that he
played a sorry figure, and the knowledge did not improve his temper.
However, the recollection of Wallion's message was some consolation,
and by the time he saw Lona Ivanovna again in the hall, he was able to
speak to her almost cheerfully:
"I must borrow one of those bombs of yours: I have had a dispute with
Rastakov, and couldn't find any argument strong enough to convince him."
She stopped working, laid her bony hand on his arm, and said, with a
weary little laugh:
"My boy, it is many years since I imagined that I could set the world
to rights with a handful of dynamite in a sardine tin: gunpowder, or
words, it all comes to the same in the long run."
They entered the drawing-room as she was speaking, and the blind man's
feeble voice chimed in:
"Yes, you are right, it doesn't matter: it all ends in noise. Though a
bomb is more straightforward, it seems to me," he added thoughtfully,
and as if to himself.
This appeared to be a topic they had often discussed before, and Lona
Ivanovna immediately joined issue with her brother.
"Not a single bomb that was ever thrown has improved the world in any
way. It was the folly of youth that blinded us to the truth, when we
were striving so desperately to bring about Russia's freedom. Russia
_is_ free now, but it is not our bombs that have brought it about."
"Possibly," answered Andrei Bernin, his voice sounding somewhat
stronger; "but it is not finished yet. Who knows whether in this very
house...."
His sister made a sudden movement, and he was silent.
After a pause he asked:
"Is the young man here?"
"Yes, he is here. Rastakov has just told him that he cannot leave the
house.... Would you like to speak to him?"
"I should like to do so," said Andrei Bernin; "let me give you a piece
of advice, Mr. Grath: leave this place as soon as you can."
"How can I do that? You heard...."
"Yes, yes, but give them your word that you will say nothing, and they
will let you go. It will be better for you."
"He is right," said Lona Ivanovna, softly; "I will tell you the truth:
we who are obliged to stop here are expecting nothing less than a
catastrophe. I know you want to help us, but what can you do by
yourself? You can leave us with a clear conscience."
"But you? What will you do?"
"We? Oh, it will soon be over, we must just have patience."
Before Leo could reply, Sonia sprang up, her eyes wide open, her hands
clutching at her throat.
"Patience! I hate that word," she exclaimed. "I will not be patient, I
want to see those wretches beaten, who are using Russia's misery as a
stepping-stone for their own fortunes. It is cowardly to be patient,
and I won't...."
Her voice broke, and she turned and went quickly out of the room. Her
passionate words left the others silent; they scarcely ventured to look
at one another, but at last Leo said:
"She is right. What you said was kindly meant and I am grateful, but
let me tell you in my turn that I have no intention of leaving here. I
am not a pessimist, and I am intensely anxious to see what will happen,
especially as the matter concerns my own house."
He waited an instant for their reply, but none was forthcoming. Andrei
Bernin sank back among his cushions, and his sister remained standing
by the window. Leo bowed, and went out to see what had become of
Sonia; she had not gone further than the stairs, where he found her
leaning against the banister. She turned her face to him with a dazed
expression, and, in her black dress, she looked so small and frail,
that the young man seized her little sunburnt hands impulsively, and
said:
"Try to be patient a little longer, won't you? Perhaps help is nearer
than you think."
"It will have to come pretty quickly, then," she answered in a low
voice; "all the same, I am not afraid."
Leo did not know what to say next. A vague masculine sympathy prompted
him to try and console her, but he knew instinctively that she would
take it amiss. She drew her hands away, and said gravely:
"There is no need for you to trouble yourself about us; we have been
uninvited guests in your house, but it won't last much longer; in a
short time we shall have gone for good."
"Yes, but look here!" he cried out impetuously; "that is just what I
don't want, I ask nothing better than to know more of you, to be one of
your best friends; you persist in keeping me at a distance!"
"You mustn't say that!" whispered Sonia, blushing deeply: "You
understand something of what we are suffering: a man's life is at
stake, and we are bound to keep silence for his sake...."
"Do you mean Sergius?"
"Yes," she answered softly. "He is hidden here, in spite of all their
searching; he is my cousin."
This piece of news struck the young man like a flash of lightning.
"Your cousin! Bernard Jenin your cousin! That explains it. Then he must
be...."
"Lona Ivanovna's son." Sonia completed the sentence. Leo's hands
trembled with excitement. He felt that Wallion ought to know this at
once, and he looked round the hall, almost as though he expected the
journalist to be somewhere in it.
"Come!" he exclaimed, "come! You ought to have told me that before. We
must go straight to him."
"To whom?"
"Maurice Wallion."
The girl gave a little cry.
"Is he here?"
"I don't know. But we must find out where he is."
Leo had no plan, no idea of what he was going to do. It did not occur
to him that by acting too precipitately he might spoil everything, he
was only conscious of a frantic desire to do something before it was
too late, and he rushed off, dragging the girl after him.
They ran like two children through the silent house, and Leo began to
call Wallion loudly by name.
"No, no," the girl hushed him; "don't call, they may hear us."
"We must find him! If Bernard Jenin can hide himself, Wallion can do
the same."
"No," said she, "your friend couldn't hide himself here, in the way
that Sergius has done."
Leo felt that she was speaking the truth. She knew, then, where Jenin
was hidden.
"Then it's impossible," he faltered dejectedly; "Wallion can't be here
after all."
"No, he certainly isn't inside the Copper House."
Leo began to wonder whether the journalist had abandoned them to
their fate, and his eyes grew dim, but he shook off the feeling of
hopelessness which was stealing over him, and said quickly:
"He must be somewhere close by."
A few minutes later, they went boldly out by the kitchen door, and took
the path to the garden, their intention being to walk right round the
house, in defiance of their jailers.
Rastakov was fortunately not to be seen, but four or five of the
sentries shouted to them from a distance.
The girl, who was the more level-headed of the two, picked a rose, and
arranged it deliberately in the lapel of her coat.
"Look as unconcerned as you can," she whispered. "They oughtn't to mind
our taking a breath of fresh air: when they calm down, we will continue
our round...."
But at this moment an unforeseen obstacle blocked their way. Rosenthal
came striding towards them from the gardener's cottage, and as soon as
he was within speaking distance, he called out in a threatening voice:
"Hallo, my young cockerel, what are you doing out here?"
Leo grew white with rage, and replied furiously:
"Mind what you're saying!"
Rosenthal closed with him, and gave him a formidable blow with his
fist, on the point of the chin. Leo staggered back, but noticed with
surprise that the blow was not so severe in reality as in appearance.
And, next minute, he could hardly believe his own ears, when Rosenthal
said, almost inaudibly:
"Hit me back, make the hell of a row, it's for your own advantage!"
The man's eyes were on a level with his, and he was aware of an
extraordinarily humorous look in them. But, the next instant, the
gardener was bellowing at the top of his voice:
"I'll teach you! Ha! You'd hit me back, would you! Come on then!"
He aimed another blow at Leo, who parried it mechanically, and in
another moment they were at it, hammer and tongs, making a fearful din,
though not before Rosenthal had whispered again:
"Hit me, shout, and make as much noise as you can! You will soon know
the reason."
A whole crowd of Rastakov's men collected round them, laughing loudly,
and Rastakov himself came hurrying up, looking exceedingly put out.
Leo and Rosenthal were pounding one another to the accompaniment of an
uninterrupted flow of strong language from the latter.
"What's all this?" Rastakov's voice broke in sharply: "Back to your
posts, every one of you! Give it him well, Rosenthal: but you had
better leave enough life in the puppy for him to be able to crawl
indoors again."
The combatants were separated, and Leo, still giddy with astonishment,
stood staring about him for a minute, then turned and reëntered the
house without a word.
Sonia joined him with a radiant face.
"That _was_ clever of you!" she said with boyish enthusiasm: "I wish
you had killed him!"
"Killed him!" stammered the bewildered young man; "Rosenthal--didn't
you hear--he said...."
But he found himself quite unable to explain what had happened: he had
a general impression of having had a fight with a good-natured giant,
who had been pommeling him out of sheer good will. He hurried in to
the brother and sister Bernin, and sat down near them, panting. Lona
Ivanovna, who was still standing by the window, turned to him and said
dryly:
"May I ask the meaning of that comedy, Mr. Grath? I was watching all
the time, and neither of you struck a single blow in earnest."
Leo saw with mortification a change in the expression of Sonia's face.
"Weren't you really fighting?" she asked in a disappointed voice. He
made a poor attempt at a smile.
"Either Rosenthal or I must be mad," he said frankly: "the man told me
to make as much noise as I could."
"Oh-h," said the old lady, slowly: "is _that_ it!" Her bright,
bird-like eyes shone, and she added softly:
"That being the case, I wonder if your friend Mr. Wallion would be so
kind as to come in now...."
"Thanks, with the greatest pleasure," replied the journalist, coming in
from the hall. "Your powers of observation do you credit, Madame."
His entrance seemed as though worked by magic: had he fallen from the
sky? Even the blind man half rose from his chair.
"At last!" said Leo, from the bottom of his heart, as he made for the
journalist and grasped his hand. Wallion looked at him with a smile:
"I hope you haven't quite crippled Rosenthal?" he inquired. "You two
knocked one another about splendidly; everybody crowded up to stare at
you; and I had only to walk straight in here. I hope soon to be able
to present Rosenthal to you, as a useful and trustworthy friend."
"Do you mean to say," said Leo, amazed, "that Rosenthal faked the whole
affair in order that you might get into the Copper House unobserved?"
"Yes, we planned it between us on the spur of the moment. What else
was there for us to do? What did you think _you_ were going to do,
single-handed?"
"Why, of course, we meant to go and find you."
"Me?" said Wallion, gravely. "Couldn't you have waited till I was
ready? Yes, I know, you had made a discovery, which we will talk about
in a minute."
Leo introduced him to the two ladies; Sonia drew back a little after
the first greetings, as though to take stock unobtrusively of the
tall journalist, whose decided manner and piercing glance evidently
impressed her. Lona Ivanovna shook hands heartily with him, and they
seemed to understand one another at once: from that time on, they were
on terms of the warmest esteem.
"I hope you will forgive me for keeping in the background until now,"
said Wallion; "there are plenty of sharp eyes round the Copper House,
and I don't want Rastakov to take alarm too soon. But there need be no
secrets between us henceforward."
He bent down over Andrei Bernin's chair, and took the invalid's hand in
his like a doctor.
"Mr. Andrei Bernin," he continued, "your name has interested me
immensely since this morning; you need not be afraid of me: don't turn
away from me, for I am a friend."
The journalist's keen eyes were very close now to the blue spectacles:
"It is strange that no one but myself has noticed it!"
"What are you talking about?" murmured the blind man, uneasily.
"Of the fact that out of the letters forming the name Andrei Bernin,
one can just as easily make the name of Bernard Jenin."
He patted the invalid's hand, and stood up.
"You need not disguise yourself from me, Mr. Bernard Jenin," he added
in a low tone; "or may I say Sergius?"
The man in the armchair swept off the blue spectacles, and looked up
into Wallion's face:
"Say Sergius!" he replied as quietly.