THE EVENING OF THE SECOND DAY.
Paul heard a clock strike eight, and remembered that he had been
nearly thirty hours a prisoner in Talvi’s house. It seemed to him that
a century of hours had passed since he kissed Marian’s pretty lips and
told her that he would return to her without delay. He was sure that
he would never look upon her face again; that he would live his life
alone in dishonour and in exile. The lamp, which they had set in his
room, wounded his eyes with its garish light. He wished for darkness
that he might accustom himself to the thought of unending captivity.
He did not believe that any power on earth could snatch him from the
relentless hand of his own countryman which had, in treachery, struck
him down. They would send him to the fortress of St. Peter and St.
Paul. She, whom he loved to call his little wife, would look for him
and look in vain. He dared not ask himself how she would face the
world alone. Self-reproach would endure while life was: the unanswered
question would remain the surpassing punishment of his folly.
The room in which they had locked him was one of the garrets of the
house. A dormer window stood out upon a sloping roof, high above the
surrounding roofs. But the window was boarded up, and iron bars, newly
fixed, forbade any hope of it. He saw that Talvi had foreseen the need
of such a room when he sent the telegram. They had made up their minds
to get the spy out of England at any cost; friendship would count for
nothing with a Russian who believed that he was serving his country.
Even if Marian went to her English friends and told them her story, he
doubted that those friends could help him. False charges would be
made; his extradition would be demanded by a Government powerful to
enforce its wishes. They would brand him as a criminal and carry him
back to the unnameable horrors of the fortress of the Neva. And
Marian--he clenched his hands when he remembered her. She would be
standing at the window waiting for him. He pictured her to
himself--the wan face, the great thoughtful eyes, the quick girlish
movements, the gestures he had loved, the gold-brown hair, the winning
voice. He would hear that voice no more. It must be to him but a
memory through eternity. The way of pilgrimage was before him still;
but the hand which had been locked in his would never touch his own
again.
There was a little furniture in the room, a basket chair, a shelf of
books, a mahogany table, a camp bedstead. He had been there but a very
short time when the Russian servant brought a lamp to permit him to
see these things. He did not speak to the man nor question him, for he
knew well how little that would help him. When the servant was gone,
he resented the light which had been left. The gable of the roof was
dark and ominous above him. He moved in ghostly shadows, for they had
robbed him even of the day. So still was the place that he could hear
a clock ticking in the room below. No sound came up from the distant
street. The roar of the city’s life was as a falling of great waters
heard afar.
It was near to five o’clock of the afternoon then, he remembered.
Marian must have begun to ask herself what mischance had overtaken
him. Rightly, he could hope nothing from the friendship of a helpless
girl; and yet there were moments when he hoped much. She would tell
the English police that he had gone to Talvi’s house. The police would
begin to ask questions. It was possible that the whole of his story
would be made known, and then--and then! He dreamed even of liberty
won by her. She would not rest day or night in her quest of the truth.
She might save him even yet from the hand of the Russian.
The weary night dragged on, but the man neither slept nor ate. The
supper they had put upon his table reminded him of the short days of
content he had known in London. What a gift of the joy of life it had
been to sit by her side all day, to hear her morning words of
greeting, her pretty good-night, to hold her in his arms, and to say
that therein was the place of his abiding rest! But for the thought
that in some way--he knew not how--a miracle would bring her to his
side, even in that house of darkness, he would have lost his reason.
The impulse to beat upon the door of his prison, to cry aloud for
mercy, was scarce to be controlled. The hope that she might yet come
alone empowered him to play the man. He listened for her footstep
through the long watches of the terrible night, and laughed at himself
for the fancy. At dawn he fell asleep, and sleeping, he dreamed that
her arms were about his neck.
It was a quarter past nine o’clock on the evening of the second day
before any message came to him from the outer world. He had eaten a
little dinner, and was asking himself all the old questions when a
sound upon the stair without brought him quickly to his feet, and he
stood with heart a-quiver, wondering who came. For a spell, brought
down to earth suddenly from the giddy clouds of dreamland, the thought
lingered that it might be Marian’s step. He was still laughing at
himself for so foolish a notion when the door swung back upon its
hinges, and Count Feodor stood before him.
The Count was in plain evening dress; his face was flushed, for he had
run up the stairs; he was boisterous as a lad who carries good news.
He had regretted, with a friend’s regret, the indignity put upon Paul
by those whom he served. He was glad with a friend’s joy that those
indignities were soon to be forgotten.
“Paul, mon vieux, c’est fini,” he gasped, while he held out both his
hands to the prisoner, “you are to remain here no longer; they have
discovered their mistake, they know all; they have sent for her--she
is here!”
Paul staggered like a drunken man.
“She is here? Oh, my God!”
“It is Tolma’s work,” continued the Count, with a child’s pride of his
words. “He discovered that she could make the maps. He is downstairs
with her now. You are to go there. They want you--at once.”
“They want me at once?” repeated the dazed man. “But look at me--my
face, my hands, my beard.”
“Ivan shall see to that; he will not be ten minutes. There is no
time----”
Paul stood quite still. He seemed to read in that instant the moment
of Talvi’s words.
“For what should there be time?” he asked very quietly.
“For the priest to marry you to the little lady who knows so much
about Kronstadt.”
Paul reeled out into the light. He was sobbing like a child.