CHAPTER XIV.
“Long Live the People!”
I was rested and refreshed by my long sleep, and was glad to find that the events of the night had had no ill effect upon my health. The room in which I found myself opened into a smaller one, fitted up as a bedroom, and in this place, greatly to my astonishment, I saw all the luggage I had taken with me to the hotel, which, for many reasons, had better be nameless. How Sergius had managed things so cleverly I could not tell. But I was delighted to be able to remove my disfiguring disguise, and make the most of my natural appearance.
Now that I was no longer a solitary damsel, whose movements might attract undesirable notice, I ceased to feel the need of appearing of such mature age, and I actually felt glad at the sight of my own homely presentment, after I had attired myself in a frock which I knew Sergius would like. While I was still busy touching up my toilet, an elderly woman, of serious but pleasing appearance, entered the room, and asked if I would take my breakfast, or rather lunch.
On first seeing me, she looked rather surprised, as if she had still expected to be confronted by a becurled and bespectacled old lady. I was able to understand her, and to reply to her, but was relieved to find that she relapsed into German. As I knew that language much better than Russian, it was possible to get on very well with my visitor, who told me that her name was Marie Ivanovitch, that she was the nominal lessee of this house, and that she had seen me on the previous evening.
“Then there were women, as well as men, in the assembly?” I exclaimed.
“Certainly,” was the reply. “We women are as much alive to the griefs of our country as the men are, and the sexes are nearly equally balanced in our Society. Our usefulness is sometimes of a different nature to theirs, but, upon the whole, we have as much work to our hands as the men have.”
“And your work just now is to prevent me from leaving this house?”
“Even so. But I trust that you will not find your detention very irksome, since it is only the consequence of necessary precautions for the safety of your husband and others. And I cannot impress upon you sufficiently the danger of attempting to elude the vigilance of those whose judgment ordered your stay here.”
“I am not likely to do anything that will run counter to the wishes of the Society, provided Count Volkhoffsky approves of them.”
“What! Taking my name in vain?” cried another voice at this juncture, and Sergius put in an appearance.
“I was just telling Madame Ivanovitch that I would obey any orders of the Society that are indorsed by yourself,” I explained, while I smiled a glad welcome upon the face I loved.
“And the particular command in question?”
“That I do not attempt to leave these quarters.”
“I hope you will not. You are safer here than elsewhere. And this is the only place in which we could see much of each other.”
“Say no more, my dearest. Wild horses shall not drag me away without your approval.”
“There, what do you say to that, Sister Ivanovitch?” asked Sergius. “You see, my wife has pledged her word to me to be obedient. In fact, you need be under no apprehension of indiscretion on her part. We both give you our word of honor.”
“And yours is too well known to be doubted, Brother Volkhoffsky.”
“Sergius,” I said, as the worthy woman went to see after our lunch, “I feel thoroughly ashamed of myself for causing you so much trouble and anxiety. I shall—”
“Not another word, my darling. It does me good to see you looking something like your own bright self again. I ought never to have left you behind, for I might have known that you would have preferred to share danger with me, rather than live a life of suspense and inactivity at home.”
“My life promises to be inactive enough even here now.”
“But at least you know where I am and what I am doing, and that is something.”
“To me it is everything. Life away from you would be such a blank that I do not care to picture anything so dreary.”
Does the reader wonder at our ability to take things so quietly, even with an awful tragedy ever looming before us? I sometimes feel surprise thereat myself, until I remember that, in spite of our experiences, we were both still gifted with the elastic spirits of youth, and that the mere joy of being reunited was enough to make us temporarily forgetful of painful subjects.
Of course we had many confidences to exchange, and Sergius removed my mystification concerning several things. It seems that the man with whom I had seen him walking on the previous evening was Ivan Vassoffskoy, the husband of the handsome young woman I had seen at Hyde Park Corner, and the individual who would have had to officiate as my husband’s substitute in the event of his failure to respond to the injunction to repair to Moscow at once. Ivan Vassoffskoy had even more reason to dread recognition by government spies than had Sergius, for it was in Moscow itself that he had been denounced, and, but for the injunction of the Society, would ere now have sought safety in flight. His wife was already in England, having been deputed to carry out some plans for the Fraternity, of which she also was a member.
“Ivan has wonderful powers of contortion, which have saved him from discovery more than once,” said Sergius, when speaking of his colleague. “It would take his dearest friend all his time to recognize his naturally handsome face in the twisted and distorted visage which he presents to the public gaze. I have only heard of three people who could equal him in this direction. These were an English actor, a Japanese contortionist, and an English murderer. All three used their peculiar talent to good purpose, and were able to mystify whom they liked. The murderer even went so far as to masquerade in your Scotland Yard, although he knew that detectives were on the lookout for him. If Ivan’s powers of contortion serve him as well as they served the English malefactor he will have cause to be thankful for them.”
“I thought he looked very singular,” I said. “But I would never have dreamed that he could by any possibility be regarded as a handsome man. But tell me, where were you going when I saw you together?”
“We were going to visit and take pecuniary help to the wife of a man who has fallen a victim to official rancor. He had the misfortune to have a pretty daughter, who was beloved by a youth in every way worthy of her. Now, although both Olga and her father and mother favored this young suitor, he had several rivals for her hand. Olga is a very nice girl, but I fancy that the good pecuniary position of the family had something to do with the love of at least one of those who proposed for her hand. Be this as it may, on finding himself rejected, he swore to be revenged both upon his rival and upon the girl who had had the temerity to award a man of his standing the insult of a refusal.”
“His threats were heard with dread, for he was in a position of some importance, in which he had facilities for dealing underhand blows at those who were unfortunate enough to offend him. A large proportion of the denunciations, which result in death, imprisonment or banishment, are the outcome of personal malice; and when once a man or woman is in the position of an accused prisoner, there is small hope of delivery, especially if there is property to confiscate.”
“And did this bad man fulfill his threats?”
“Indeed he did. You shall judge what difference this enmity made to Olga and her parents when I tell you that her father and brother have been sent to Siberia as political exiles. The mother and daughter are reduced to poverty, and have found it impossible to support the younger children without help from friendly sympathizers, who have to exercise the greatest precautions in visiting them, lest they, too, fall into the power of iniquitous officialism.”
“And Olga’s lover—what of him? Can he not help them in their emergency?”
“Poor Paul! I fear there is little doubt that he languishes in that living grave—the fortress on the Neva.”
“How horrible! It makes me shudder to think of it. Oh, Sergius, for Heaven’s sake take care of yourself! What shall I do if evil befalls you, and how can you escape it in this dreadful country? I hardly dare hope that you will reach England alive. How thankful I would be if we could leave at once.”
“My dear girl, there are many things worse than death. That I must risk. But you could not retain your respect for a man whose oath has been broken, and whose word of honor is worthless. I will be as careful as is consistent with my duty. More I cannot promise, even to you.”
Was it true that I would rather welcome the death of my hero than that which he conceived to be dishonor? I think not. But I had not the temerity to argue the question with him, and, rather than distress him again, I tried to put the ghastly picture of his so-called duty from my mind.
“Tell me, if you may,” I said, “what special information it was that produced such a sensation at the meeting last night?”
“There is no reason why I should not tell you. Some members of our St. Petersburg branch have been denounced and tracked by informers in the pay of Count Karenieff and his myrmidons. Six of them have been arrested, and it is not likely that they will ever recover their liberty again. One lady, who was arrested some weeks ago, and who was really innocent of conspiracy, has been so monstrously treated that she has died in prison. The circumstance of her death would be regarded as an opportune release from a life that could never again become tolerable to her, were not the predisposing details so horrible. She was grossly insulted by the governor of the jail in which she was immured, but refused to forget that she was an honorable wife and mother. Nothing daunted by her indignant rebuff, the scoundrel again insulted her. This time the unhappy lady slapped her tormentor’s face, and aroused in him the demon of revenge. She was accused of attempting to take the governor’s life, and was ordered to be subjected to the frightful indignity of the knout. In spite of her alternate prayers for mercy and screams of resistance, she was dragged to the place of punishment, forcibly stripped, and mercilessly beaten.
“The physical pain was something terrible to endure, but one survives even worse things than that. It was the moral degradation that ate into her soul, and induced her to end her unhappy life. How she obtained it no one knows. But it is certain that she had poison in her possession, and that she used it to good purpose.”
“How can such iniquities be permitted! You make even me feel a longing to take part in the downfall of a government that can sanction such atrocities! To think that a noble woman’s end should be so sad!”
“Her end? That has not come. She lives in our souls, and cries aloud from the grave for vengeance! Her death has revived the ardor of both the enthusiasts and the lukewarm adherents of the cause of the people, and will do freedom more service than her life has done.”
We had much more conversation in the same strain, for I fully sympathized with my husband’s accounts of the cruelties inflicted upon his compatriots. But all subjects come to an end some time, and our talk varied itself by excursions to Greenby and to Courtney Grange, not to speak of all we hoped to do when we were once more at liberty to return to England and take possession of the handsome house intended for our reception.
“And I have already written to the Michaelows,” said Sergius. “Of course, neither their name nor ours appeared in the letter. But they will receive it indirectly, and they will understand that we are together. This will allay their anxiety about you, and all the particulars of our adventures can be related when we see them.”
“I wonder if such an event will really come to pass?”
“To be sure it will. I can’t have you always imagining the worst. You must look at the bright side of things.”
“Do you know what I would do if I had the power?”
“Something wonderful, no doubt.”
“I would give you a drug, if such were obtainable, that would make you oblivious of everything but my presence and my wishes. Then I would take you far away from Russia, and would keep you there until there was no longer any danger of your being recalled.”
“Ah! Dora, I’m afraid I shall never make a patriot of you.—But, whatever can be the matter! Do you hear the commotion?”
“Sergius! for Heaven’s sake, fly! Some one has betrayed you! Those are government men who are rushing upstairs! Oh, what shall we do? How can you escape?”
But my husband appeared much more astonished than frightened, and hardly seemed to notice what I was saying, for all his attention was apparently concentrated upon the hurrying footsteps without.
In another moment our room door was flung open without ceremony, and half a dozen people entered, among them being Madame Ivanovitch.
“The country is saved! Hurrah! Death to the tyrant!”
These and other exclamations became mixed in an inextricable jumble, so excited were all the speakers. Sergius saw that some great news had arrived, and became as excited as the rest.
“Silence, some of you,” he cried, “until I know what has happened! You, Vassoffskoy, what is it?”
“We have been anticipated. The czar will never come to Moscow now! Our St. Petersburg contingent has achieved the great deed. The tyrant has been assassinated! Long live the people!