Chapter IX: 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.”