THE word was like the lash of a whip. He stared at the patriot
open-mouthed.
“Yes, Poland,” said Boronowski. “Why not? You want to fight for a Great
Cause. Is not a free and independent Poland the keystone of the arch of
reconstructed Europe? It is a commonplace axiom. Poland overthrown,
overrun with Bolshevism, all Europe crumbles into dust. The world is
convulsed. Fighting for Poland is fighting for the salvation of the
world. Could there be a greater cause?”
His dark eyes glowed with compelling inspiration. His outflung arm ended
in a pointing finger. And Triona saw it as the finger of Salvation Yeo
in his boyhood’s picture.
“Wonderful, wonderful,” he said, below his breath.
“And simple. Come with me to Warsaw. I have friends of some influence.
Otherwise I should not be here. The Polish Army would welcome you with
open arms.”
Triona thrust out a sudden hand, which the other gripped.
“By God!” he cried, “I’ll come.”
An hour afterwards, his brain dominated by the new idea, he danced his
way through the melancholy streets. Here, indeed, was salvation. Here he
could live the life of Truth. Here was the glorious chance—although he
would never see her on earth again—of justifying himself in Olivia’s
eyes. And in itself it was a marvellous adventure. There would be
endless days when he should live for the hour that he was alive, without
thought of an unconjecturable to-morrow. Into the cause of Poland he
would fling his soul. Yes, Boronowski was right. The sovereign remedy.
His individual life—what did it matter to him? All the beloved things
were past and gone. They lay already on the further side of the Valley
of the Shadow of Death. His personality was merged into a
self-annihilating creature that would henceforth be the embodiment of a
spiritual idea.
Thus for the rest of the day, and during the night, his mind worked.
Arrived in Poland, he would press for the fiercest section of the front.
The bullet that killed him would be welcome. He would die gloriously.
Olivia should know.
As John Briggs, with his papers in order, he found his passport a simple
matter. Boronowski, with whom he spent most of his time, obtained a
speedy visa at the Polish and other Consulates. During the period of
waiting he went carefully through the contents of the suit-case and
removed all traces of the name and initials of Alexis Triona. The little
black book he burned page by page with matches in the empty grate of his
room. When it was consumed, he felt himself rid of an evil thing. In
strange East London emporiums, unknown to dwellers in the West End, and
discovered by restless wandering, he purchased an elementary kit for the
campaign. Much of his time he spent in Boronowski’s quarters in Somers
Town, reading propaganda pamphlets and other literature dealing with
Polish actualities. When the Polish Army welcomed him with open arms,
they must find him thoroughly equipped. He bought a Polish grammar, and
compiled with Boronowski a phrase-book so as to be prepared with an
elementary knowledge of the language. The Pole marvelled at his fervour.
“You spring at things like an intellectual tiger,” said he, “and then
fasten on to them with the teeth of a bulldog.”
“I’m a quick worker when I concentrate,” said Triona.
And for many days he concentrated, sleeping and eating little, till his
cheeks grew gaunt and his eyes bright and haggard. In his interminable
talks with Boronowski, he concentrated all his faculties, until the
patriot would laugh and accuse him of a tigerish spring on the secrets
of his soul.
“It’s true,” cried Triona, “it’s the soul of Poland I want to make enter
my being. To serve you to any purpose I must see through Polish eyes and
feel with a Polish heart, and feel my veins thrill with the spirituality
of Poland.”
“Is that possible?”
“You shall see,” answered Triona.
And just as he had fallen under the obsession of the dead Krilov during
the night watches in the North Sea, so did he fall under the obsession
of this new Great Cause. Something fundamentally histrionic in his
temperament flung him into these excesses of impersonation. Already he
began to regret his resumption of the plain name of John Briggs. Even in
the pre-war Russian days he had seldom been addressed by it. For the
first social enquiry in Russia elicited the Christian name of a man’s
father. And his father’s name being Peter, he was called by all and
sundry Ivan Petrovitch. So that even then, in his fervent zeal to merge
himself into the Russian spirit, he had grown to regard the two
downright words of his name as meaningless monosyllables. But he
strangled the regret fiercely as soon as it arose.
“No, by heaven!” said he, “No more lies.”
And yet, in spite of unalterable resolve, as he lay sleepless with
overwrought nerves in the sour room in the Euston Road, he was haunted
by lunatic Polish forms, Brigiovski, Brigowski, which he might adopt
without breaking his vow; he could not see himself in the part of a
Polish patriot labelled as John Briggs; just as well might a great actor
seek to identify himself with Hamlet while wearing cricketing flannels
and a bowler hat.
Only once in his talks with Boronowski did he refer to the unhappiness
to which he was to apply the sovereign remedy. The days were passing
without sign of immediate departure. Boronowski, under the orders of his
superiors, must await instructions. Triona chafed at the delay.
Boronowski smiled indulgently.
“The first element in devotion to a cause, or a woman, is patience.
Illimitable patience. The demands of a cause are very much like those of
a woman, apparently illogical and capricious, but really inexorable and
unswerving in their purpose.”
“It’s all very well to talk of patience,” Triona fumed, “but when one is
hag-ridden as I am——”
Boronowski smiled again. “_Histoire de femme——_”
Triona flushed scarlet and sprang to his feet.
“How dare you twist my words like that?”
Boronowski looked at him for a puzzled moment, seeking the association
of ideas. Then, grasping it:
“Forgive me, my friend,” he said courteously. “My English, after all, is
that of a foreigner. The word connection was far from my mind. I took
your speech to mean that you were driven by unhappiness. And the
unhappiness of a young man is so often—— Again, I beg your pardon.”
Triona passed his hand through his brown hair.
“All right,” he said, “I’m sorry. Yes. If you want to know, it’s a
woman. She’s the day-spring from on high, and I’m damned beyond
redemption. The best thing that could happen would be if she knew I were
dead.”
Boronowski tugged at his little greyish-red beard. A follower of great
causes was never the worse for having the Furies at his heels. But he
was a man of kindly nature.
“No one while he is alive can be damned beyond redemption,” he said. “I
don’t wish to press my indiscretion further. Yet, as an older man, could
I be of service to you in any way?”
“No, you’re very kind, but no one can help me.” Then an idea flashed
across his excited brain. “Not until I’m dead. Then, perhaps, you might
do something for me.”
“You’re not going to die yet, my friend.”
“How do we know? I’m going to fight. The first day I may get knocked
out. Should anything happen to me, would you kindly communicate with
some one?”
He moved to the paper-littered table and began to scribble.
“It’s all rather premature, my friend,” said Boronowski. “But as you
wish.” He took the scrap of paper which bore the name and address of
Major Olifant. “This I may be liable to lose. I will enter it in my
notebook.” He made the entry. Then, “May I say a serious word to you?”
“Anything you like.”
“There is such a thing as the fire of purification. But—” he put a hand
on the younger man’s shoulder, “you can’t call it down from Heaven. You
must await its coming. So we get back to my original remark. Patience,
more patience, and always patience.”
This was consoling for the moment; but after a few days’ further
grappling with the Polish language, he burst into Boronowski’s lodgings
and found the patriot at his table, immersed in work.
“If we don’t start soon,” he cried, “I’ll go mad. I haven’t slept for
nights and nights. I’ll only sleep when we are on our journey, and I
know that all this is reality and not a dream.”
“I’ve just had orders,” replied Boronowski. “We start to-morrow morning.
Here are our tickets.”
That night, Triona wrote to Olivia. It was an eternal farewell. On the
morrow he was leaving England to offer up his unworthy life as a
sacrifice to the Great Cause of Poland. The only reparation he could
make for the wrong he had done her was to beseech her to look on him as
one already dead. It covered many pages.
When he returned to his musty room after this last hour’s heart-breaking
communion with her, he sat on his bed overwhelmed by sudden despair.
What guarantee had she of this departure for Poland greater than that of
his mission to Helsingfors last summer? Would she not throw the letter
aside in disgust—another romantic lie? He wished he had not written. He
took faint hope again on the reflection that by posting another letter
from Warsaw he could establish his veracity. But why should he keep on
worrying her with the details of his miserable existence? Better, far
better that she should look on him as dead; better, far better that she
should believe him dead, so that she could reconstruct her young and
broken life. He might die in battle; but then he might not. He had
already carried his life safely through battles by land and sea. Again
he might come out unscathed. Even if he was killed, how should she hear
of his death? And if he survived, was it fair that she should be bound
by law eternally to a living ghost? Somebody had said that before. It
was Olifant. Olifant, the fool out for Grails, yet speaking the truth of
chivalry. Well, this time—he summoned up the confidence of dismal
hope—he would make sure that he was dead and that she heard the news.
At any rate, he had prepared the ground; Boronowski would communicate
with Olifant.
Then came a knock at his door—it was nearly midnight. The night porter
entered. A man downstairs wished to see him—a foreigner. A matter of
urgent importance.
“Show him up,” said Triona.
He groaned, put both his hands up to his head. He did not want to see
Boronowski to-night. His distraught brain could not stand the patriot’s
tireless lucidity of purpose. Boronowski belonged to the inhuman band of
fanatics, the devotees to one idea, who had nothing personal to
sacrifice. Just like lonely old maids who gave themselves up to
church-going and good works, and thereby plumed themselves on the
acquisition of immortal merit. What soul-shattering tragedy had
Boronowski behind him, any more than the elderly virgins aforesaid? If
Boronowski kept him up talking Poland till three o’clock in the
morning—as he had already done—he would go mad. No, not to-night. The
mounting steps on the uncarpeted stairs hammered at every nerve in his
body. And when the door opened, it was not Boronowski who appeared, but
a pallid, swarthy wisp of a man whom Triona recognized as one Klinski, a
Jew, and a trusted agent of Boronowski. He was so evilly dressed that
the night porter, accustomed to the drab clientele of the sad hostelry,
yet thought it his duty to linger by the door.
Triona dismissed him sharply.
“What’s the matter?” he asked in Russian, for he was aware of the man’s
scanty English.
Klinski did not know. He was but the bearer of a letter, a large
envelope, which he drew from his breast pocket. Triona tore it open. It
contained two envelopes and a covering letter. The letter ran:
“My Dear Friend,
“A sudden change in the political situation has made it
necessary for me to go—where I must not tell you. So, to my
great regret, I cannot accompany you. You, however, will start
by the morning train, as arranged. The route, as you know, is
Paris, Zurich, Saltzburg, and Prague. I enclose letters to sound
friends in Prague and Warsaw who will relieve you of all worries
and responsibilities. If you do not hear from me in Prague,
where I should like you to remain one week—it is a beautiful
city, and the Czecho-Slovak Republic is one of the most
interesting outcomes of the war—await instructions at Warsaw.
But I anticipate picking you up in Prague.
“Yours,
“Boronowski.”
A moment ago, he had dreaded the interruption of Boronowski on his
nerve-racked vigil. Now the dismayed prospect of a journey across Europe
alone awoke within him a sudden yearning for Boronowski’s society. A
dozen matters could be cleared up in an hour’s talk. Suppose
Boronowski’s return to Warsaw were indefinitely delayed.
“Thanks very much,” he said. “I’ll take back the answer to Mr.
Boronowski myself.”
“There can be no answer,” said Klinski.
“Why?”
“Mr. Boronowski left his lodgings early this evening, and has gone—who
knows where?”
Triona shrugged his shoulders. It was the uncomfortable way of
conspirators all the world over. To himself he cursed it with
heatedness, but to no avail.
“Why didn’t you bring the letter before?” he asked.
“I have had many messages to deliver to-night, sir,” said Klinski, “and
I have not finished.”
The stunted, pallid man looked tired out, half-starved. Triona drew from
his pocket a ten-shilling note. Klinski drew back a step.
“I thank you. But in the service of my country I can only accept payment
from my Government.”
Triona regarded him in admiration.
“It must be a great country!”
“It is,” said Klinski, with a light in his eyes.
“And I’m proud to go and fight for her.”
“It’s a privilege that I envy you,” said Klinski. “May God preserve
you.”
* * * * *
Driven by the impossibility of sleep in the frowsy room, by the
incurable wander-fever which took him at periods of unrest, he found
himself an hour later standing before the block of flats in the
Buckingham Palace Road, staring up at the windows of his home. In the
bedroom was a faint streak of light quite visible from below through a
crack in the curtains. He remembered how, a year ago, he had been
compelled by a similar impulse, to stand romantically beneath the
building which housed her sacredness, and how the gods, smiling on him,
had delivered her into his rescuing hands. And now there were no
gods—or if there were, they did but mock him. No white wraith would
appear on the pavement, turning to warm flesh and blood, demanding his
succour. She was up there, wakeful, behind that streak of light.
He stood racked by an agony of temptation. The Yale latch key was still
at the end of his watch-chain. He was her husband. He had the right of
entrance. His being clamoured for her, and found utterance in a horrible
little cry. The light invited him like a beacon. Yes. He would cross the
road. Perhaps the fool Olifant was right. She might yet love him. And
then, as if in answer to his half-crazed imaginings, the light went out.
He turned, and walked wearily back across sleeping London.
It was four o’clock when the night porter admitted him. He stumbled to
his room. As his train left Victoria at eight, it would be an absurdity
to undress and go to bed. Utterly weary, he threw himself on it as he
was, his brain whirling. There could be no question of sleep.
Yet suddenly he became conscious of daylight. He started up and looked
at his watch. It was past seven. He had slept after all. He made a
perfunctory toilet and hurriedly completed his neglected packing. The
drowsy night porter, on duty till eight, tardily answered his summons,
and took his suit-case to the shabby vestibule. Triona followed, with
heavy great coat and canvas kit-bag, his purchases for the campaign. The
porter suggested breakfast. There was no time. Luckily he had paid his
bill the evening before. All he demanded was a taxi.
But at that early hour of the morning there were none, save a
luggage-laden few bound for St. Pancras or King’s Cross.
“I can’t leave the hotel, sir,” said the porter, “or I would get you one
from Euston.”
“I’ll find one, then,” said Triona, and putting on the heavy khaki coat
and gripping suit-case in one hand and kit-bag in the other, he set off
along the Euston Road. As he neared the station entrance, he staggered
along, aching and sweating. What a fool he had been not to foresee this
idiot difficulty! What a fool he had been to give way to sleep. He came
in view of the clock. Given a cab, he would still have time to catch the
train at Victoria. He had it on his brain that his salvation depended on
his catching the train at Victoria. He stumbled into the outer court,
past the hotel wings. An outgoing taxi-cab swirled towards him. He
dropped his burdens and stood in its path with upheld arms. There was a
sudden pandemonium of hoarse cries, a sounding of brakes. He glanced
round just in time to see, for a fraction of a second, the entering
motor-lorry which struck him down.