OUT OF THE DARKNESS.
The launch crossed the narrow channel between Fort Alexander and the
mainland swiftly. Paul did not linger in the town, but, full of his
promise to Marian, he went straight to the Governor’s house to seek
the General. He found Stefanovitch in his private cabinet, and was
welcomed with a questioning movement of the eyebrow which meant,
“Well, why are you here?”
“I come to tell you that I have been to the fort, my General, and have
seen the prisoner.”
Stefanovitch put down his pen and turned in his chair. Though it had
been a month of swift anxieties, the master of Kronstadt showed no
trace of them either by carelessness of dress or weariness of face. He
was as well groomed and dainty in his personal adornment as when last
he had racked his brains for compliments which should win the favour
of his governess.
“You have been to the fort!” he said, fixing his glass that he might
study Paul’s face. “By whose order was that?”
“By the Colonel’s order, my General.”
Stefanovitch nodded his head two or three times.
“He sent you there to question the woman?”
“He thought that she would tell me things which she would not tell to
others,” exclaimed Paul, speaking eagerly. “I have been--that is, I
called myself her friend.”
A smile crept over Stefanovitch’s face. He nodded his head again, as
though he understood perfectly.
“You called yourself her friend!” he repeated, as though weighing the
words. “But that is a _rôle_ you play no longer, Captain.”
“I am the friend of none who is the enemy of my country,” said Paul
stolidly. “It is because I do not believe Mademoiselle Best is our
enemy that I come here now.”
“But the documents, the plan which she sent to London?” exclaimed
Stefanovitch testily.
“She did not understand--she did not know what she was doing, General.
She made the map because her relations in London offered her money.
She did not think it was a crime. I have questioned her, and I know
that she has told you all. There is nothing to find out now. The man
to be punished is he who asked a woman to do such work. If _he_ were
in Russia----”
Stefanovitch laughed a little hardly. The instinctive gesture which
had carried the young soldier’s hand to the hilt of his sword was not
lost upon his chief.
“But he is not in Russia, and he will be too wise to come here. When
you want to cut his throat, you must go to London and be hanged by a
judge in a black cap afterwards. That is how they reward one who
defends his honour--là-bas! And they call us barbarians! But I am
waiting to hear more of your visit to Alexander. The woman has spoken
to you? She has made a confession, possibly?”
“She has told nothing but that which she told to you in the
council-room, General. A child could see that she spoke the truth. I
would stake my life upon it.”
Stefanovitch regarded him with some amusement. He knew perfectly well
whence came this earnestness surpassing the earnestness of the
advocate. As a principle Nikolai Stefanovitch loved all women, but he
could not understand the worship of the unit. Marian had amused him
when she was at his house. Another governess would take her place in a
day or two, and she would amuse him too. But that he should disturb
himself at the change was a possibility to be laughed at.
“You value your life at a low price when you stake it on a woman’s
word,” he said.
“Upon the word of some, true, my General; but not upon the word of
Mademoiselle Best. He is a foolish man who cannot tell when a woman is
lying to him. This one has never lied; the truth is written in her
eyes.”
“And you have been reading it there. Ho, ho! I must send this book to
the Censor. He will tell me if it is good for my officers to read a
work like that.”
He leered pleasantly, delighting in the embarrassment of the younger
man. There was no purpose either in his questions or his assumption of
curiosity. Those at Kronstadt knew now the whole of Marian Best’s
story. Their perplexity was the difficulty of keeping that knowledge
from Petersburg, and of saving themselves from the charge of
negligence which might be brought against them. This perplexity was
helped by the presence of the prisoner at Fort Alexander. They
hesitated to send her to the capital. They feared that her story would
be made public by some prying Englishman, and that unpleasant
revelations would follow. And this thought was in Stefanovitch’s mind
when he asked--
“Have you told Bonzo that which you are telling me?”
“I have told him nothing, my General.”
“And why not?”
“Because I wished first to speak to you; I wished you to know that the
prisoner is ill. They have put her in the south cell, and they give
her black bread to eat. God knows, I did not like to see that when I
spoke to her. She hid the bread behind her plate, General. She did not
complain, but I could see many things. They are starving her, and she
will not live long. Oh, she is so little and helpless; she has not
meant to harm us. I said that I would speak to you, for you could know
nothing of what has been done. I said that you would hear me, and
remember that she is an Englishwoman and have her taken to Fort
Katherine. The Colonel would not understand. I could not speak to him;
but with you it is different. You will listen to me; you will not
forget that she has been the friend of your children. Kronstadt will
gain nothing by this woman’s death. She would suffer eternal shame if
her story were known in England. And it will be known--I am sure of
that. The English spies are everywhere. Someone will tell them that we
have a prisoner at Alexander and that she is dying. They will say that
it is your act--you, who are the father of the city and have won the
love of your children. My General, you will send her to Fort
Katherine; you will not refuse me this.”
His earnestness surprised even Stefanovitch, who had always regarded
him with an affection which lost nothing from the indispensable
formality of their rank and duty. In all the years he had known him
the General had never seen Paul so moved or so eloquent of purpose.
For his own part, he disliked eloquence and all that disturbed the
easy ripple of his life; but his affection for the younger man came to
his aid now, and there was added to the force of it that warning word
which Bonzo had forgotten to speak. Stefanovitch said to himself that
Paul was right. They were dealing with an Englishwoman. The political
friends of an Englishwoman could be troublesome.
“Come,” he said, “you speak like the woman’s brother--or lover, my
friend Paul.”
Paul’s face flushed until it was crimson.
“I ask nothing for myself, General,” he said; “that day is gone. But I
speak as any honest man would speak when he sees a woman suffer.”
“And you think that this woman will cease to suffer when she is at
Fort Katherine.”
“She will not cease to suffer, but she will live no longer in the
darkness; she will not eat black bread; she will see the ships; she
will hear men’s voices. Will Kronstadt be hurt because of these
things, General? Oh, you know that she will not.”
Stefanovitch’s glass dropped from his eye. For a moment his quick
brain ran over the gamut of the possibilities.
“It would be for a few days at the most,” he said, while Paul began to
tremble with the excitement of success. “They will hear of her sooner
or later at Petersburg; it may be that the police will wish to talk to
her, and then our duty will be done. After that, my son--the deluge.”
He took a pen in his hand and wrote an order quickly. Paul watched him
as a hungry man may watch one who sets food upon his table.
“Take that to Sergius,” said Stefanovitch, when the order was written.
“Your English friend will be in Fort Katherine at sunset.”