Chapter XXVI: 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.