"I am a woman,Therefore I may notCall to him, cry to him,Bid him delay not;Showing no sign to him,By look of mine to him,What he has been to me.Pity me, lean to me,Philip, my king!"
"I am a woman,Therefore I may notCall to him, cry to him,Bid him delay not;Showing no sign to him,By look of mine to him,What he has been to me.Pity me, lean to me,Philip, my king!"
The voice ceased, and Mr. Tremain, his composure gone, his heart beating wildly, cried out again, this time with a ring of deepest passion:
"Patricia! Patty, have you come back to me?"
But it was not Patty's sweet voice he knew so well, that made answer, it was a far higher, lighter treble that cried out, as the door was flung open impetuously:
"Oh, Mr. Tremain, how very dull and mopy of you! All alone, in the dark, and no fire!" And Mrs. Esther swept in, trailing her plush tea-gown after her, followed by Perkins with a lamp, and Long with a silver tray set with a tea equipage.
"Dear me!" continued Mrs. Newbold, coming nearer, and blinking her eyes in affected short-sightedness, "how very dismal you look, and how very cold you feel! Here, Perkins, make up the fire directly. I have come to give you your tea, Philip, I am sure you need it, for you look as white as a ghost, and as dazed as a clairvoyant! Put the tray here, Long," drawing up a small table, "there, that will do; now tell your master to come to Mr. Tremain's sitting-room, immediately." Then as the two servants withdrew, she added with a comical little grimace, "now for ten minutes, until George can join us, my reputation is at stake! Isn't it awful? and I who have known you since my days of short frocks and pig-tails!" Then with a light laugh, "I knew you would be dull, Philip, I always think it's very trying work posing for a hero, and you know we all insist upon your personating that most uncomfortable character, whether you like it or not, so if I were you I'd get all the glory out of it that's possible! Now then, here's a cup of tea for you," and she jumped up, carrying it over to him, where he sat, half hidden in his arm-chair.
The newly kindled fire flashed up as she came to him, and shining full upon him, revealed the whiteness of his face, and the look of introspection in his eyes.
"Are you not well, Philip?" she asked; and then before he could reply, "Why, what a delicious odour of violets! You dear thing, have you got some for me?"
But Mr. Tremain made no answer; he put out his hand and took the cup from her, saying as he did so: "Then you, too, perceive it, Esther; itisthe odour of violets, is it not, and yet I have none for you."
"Of course it's violets," replied Mrs. Newbold, positively, "and of course you are hiding them from me. Ah, well, I don't mind, I dare say you are keeping them forsome one," and she smiled a little fine smile of superiority and knowledge.
After a moment's pause Mr. Tremain asked another question, and in spite of his attempted carelessness, his voice had a ring of anxiety.
"Esther, who—who was singing, just now, when you came in, or a moment before?"
"Singing?" queried Mrs. Newbold. "Oh, no one; they are all far too busy discussing this evening's rehearsal; though, stay a moment—yes, I remember now, I did hear some one grinding out a melancholy ditty, as I came down the corridor. Of course, it was Mdlle. Lamien."
"Mdlle. Lamien?" echoed Philip.
"Yes," replied Esther, "she has a little, tiny room in this very wing, where she keeps a piano and some books; you might hear her here, it's just possible."
But Mr. Tremain was not heeding her. Once again he was overwhelmed and confused as the strange spell of this woman's personality crept over him. He could have sworn the voice was Patricia's, just as the face of his vision had been Patricia's! Was he always to be haunted by this strange dual resemblance—which was no resemblance—between the Patricia of his youth, and this incomprehensible, mysterious stranger?
If the voice was the voice of Mdlle. Lamien, why should it affect him so strongly, or why should it seem but the fitting adjunct to the face of his vision, since that vision wore the semblance of Patricia?
"But whether she came as a faint perfume,Or whether a spirit in stole of white,I feel, as I pass from the darkened room,She has been with my soul to-night!"
"But whether she came as a faint perfume,Or whether a spirit in stole of white,I feel, as I pass from the darkened room,She has been with my soul to-night!"
When Mr. Tremain entered the drawing-room later in the evening, he was at once conscious of Patricia's presence. It did not require the practical use of his eyes to assure himself of the fact, for to him the room and the company were permeated with her personality.
It had always been so with Patricia. When she entered an assembly she drew to herself all the light and vivacity and beauty of the scene; and the homage which was always immediately accorded her, seemed but a fitting tribute to her fascinations.
Other women, by far more beautiful, paled before the witchery of her face; other wits, whose slightest expression was abon-mot, faded into insignificance when she entered the lists.
And yet she was neither very beautiful, nor veryspirituelle; but she possessed in a rare degree that namelesssomething, that charm of presence, of voice, of manner, which is unconquerable because intangible, and against which it is worse than useless to resist. It is a dangerous attribute, and heavy is the responsibility of those who possess it; it may lead them and others to the highest feats of heroic sacrifice, and it may doom them to the lowest depths of the woe that is eternal.
Philip, as he crossed the room, looked not so much for Patricia herself, but rather to where the black coats gathered thickest, and the tinkling sound of gay laughter and carelesspersiflagewaxed loudest; there he knew he should find Miss Hildreth, for was she not the candle about which the silly moths gathered eagerly, glad to singe their humble wings, or even spend their lives, if only once the flame of her brilliancy might rest upon them, and lift them for a moment from the dull round of commonplace?
The seal she affected was indeed a typical one, he thought, as he moved towards her with a slight smile upon his lips, his face still pale from his recent emotion; and was he any better than his fellows? Were not his unwilling feet moving towards her, drawn as the needle to the magnet? Was not his heart beating tumultuously at the thought of holding her hand in his once more? Was he not, in fact, the silliest of all human moths, since he, who knew by experience the cruelty of that flame, yet sought it wantonly, glad to bask again for a brief half-hour in its baleful light? As he came close to where sat Miss Hildreth, a queen of a mimic court, the knot of adorers and worshippers fell back, and accorded him, as of a right, a free passage to the lady of their allegiance. In a moment the hum of general conversation ceased; even Mrs. Newbold, who had watched his entrance with only half-suppressed excitement, felt the words die upon her lips, while Miss James made no pretence of even listening to her cavalier as she noted with flashing eyes and sullen heart the meeting of these whilom lovers, and Dick Darling, with sympathy written on every line of her fresh young face, laid an impetuous hand on Jack Howard's arm, drawing him a step or two nearer the charmed circle. Thus watched by every eye, and almost in total silence, Mr. Tremain bowed low before Patricia, holding out his hand, as he said in his most deferential tones:
"May I hope that Miss Hildreth still keeps a place for me in her remembrance, although it is so long since we last met?"
And now surely, if ever, Patricia earned for herself the character so freely bestowed upon her, of petulance and inconstancy. She raised her head a trifle haughtily as she replied, and so managed as not to see Mr. Tremain's outstretched hand, while her words fell cold and cutting:
"Can Mr. Tremain expect any woman to remember ten years back and own to it?"
Then she laughed, a cool, well-trained little defiant laugh, and turned nonchalantly to a tall, dark, foreign-looking man, who alone of all her court had refused to fall back as Philip approached her. The slight was a direct one, but if it told, the hurt was invisible to the world, for Mr. Tremain, smiling a little more indulgently, answered her no less coolly:
"That Miss Hildreth should remember the number of years since we met is answer sufficient, and too great an honour."
Then he bowed again, and turned away, and the crowd of eager satellites moved up closer and filled the gap; only Miss James remarked the wave of angry colour that swept across Patricia's face, and for an instant dyed it crimson.
Meantime, Mr. Tremain moved quietly back, and stationed himself where, half-hidden by the heavy fallingportières, he could study unseen the face and form of the woman on whom for ten long years he had bestowed the greatest love of his life.
It was with keenest eyes of disapproval that he noted each change in her, changes that to him seemed indicative only of the interior alteration that had come over her, and that while it gave her the polished brilliancy of a costly gem, he felt was gained only by some corresponding loss of heart.
Miss Hildreth was dressed in white, without a spot of colour save for the large bouquet of Parma violets that lay unheeded on her lap. Her costume, though simple in the extreme, yet bore evidence, even to Philip, of its costliness, and reminded him sadly, with its soft silken folds and filmy laces, of the dress in which he had last seen her. Evidently these baubles of fashion had not lost their charm to Patricia. Mr. Tremain in his character of critic saw only artificiality in each little curl that formed the coronal of soft, dusky hair, crowning the small delicate head; he read worldliness in each guarded laugh, each well-modulated tone; he descried vanity and pride in the very gestures of her hands—those little hands that had once rested so trustingly in his, and on which he had showered so many hot, youthful kisses. He noted every turn of her head, every line of her sweet face, every movement of the slim upright form, and to him it seemed as though a cold hard imperceptible coating of worldly artifice and selfishness wrapped her around and about, as hard and keen and impregnable as any corslet of triply-tried steel, from which all shafts of remembrance, affection, compassion, or naturalness, glanced off harmless, not leaving even a dent behind upon the polished surface.
This, then, was Patricia after ten long years? This was the woman of his love. This was the wilful Patty for whom Esther Newbold had pleaded so generously, and towards whom his heart had become as wax in the fire of tender remembrance. This was the reality of his vision; he had come from the presence of that spiritual Patty face to face with the real Patricia, and so coming his heart and soul had been moved with love and compassion towards her; he had yearned to make all right between them, to forget the past, to knit together the broken skein of their two lives, to be, in fact, magnanimous and generous, to hold out the hand of forgiveness and reconciliation, and to welcome in return a heart-broken, remorseful, penitent Patricia, who should fall upon his heart with glad gratitude, while she owned herself vanquished and grateful for the immensity of his goodness and patronage.
And he had found instead of this imaginary Patty a woman of the world, unmoved by his presence, irresponsive to his generosity, unconscious of her own shortcomings, unremorseful for the past, in fact, forgetful of it and of him; who, with cool insolence, overlooked his outstretched hand, and, with the well-bred impertinence of her class, made plain her indifference to him. Well, and was he not right when he told Esther Newbold that he would not consent again to play the fool to a woman's vanity? Had he not read aright Miss Hildreth's character when she scorned him ten years ago, and withdrew her love, because of his poverty and his bucolic indifference to thepetits soinsof her every-day life? Had he judged her too harshly? No; a thousand times no! Her character was but in bud then, and he had only too well foreseen how bitter would be the blossom, though so fair in outward seeming.
Ah, well! Let the dream vanish, the vision fade! He had been but allured by the Lorelei of desire, and, however near he had approached to the scorching flame of her seductions, he had come forth unscathed.
His meditations were here interrupted by a touch on his shoulder, and George Newbold's pleasant voice in his ear.
"I say, Tremain, I want to introduce some one to you——. Oh, no, my good fellow,nota woman; I am too much your friend to betray you in such a fashion. It's a man for whom I bespeak your politeness—a man, and not a brother, since he is a foreigner."
Mr. Newbold, after this, for him, very long speech, stopped to take breath, and, as he did so, patted Philip affectionately on the shoulder.
"There he is," he continued, presently, moving Mr. Tremain about, and motioning towards the crowd that still surrounded the spot where sat Patricia. "Don't you see him? Tall, dark man, pasty face and black eyes, wears a red ribbon in his button-hole that fetches all the women—there, bending over Miss Hildreth! By Jove! he's scarcely left her side since I presented him. She's a witch, is Miss Patty—a witch, with a long head, and minus a broomstick."
"Who is he?" asked Philip, not particularly impressed by the stranger's appearance. "Where on earth did you pick him up, and what the devil made you bring him down here?"
"He picked me up, don't you see?" replied George Newbold, not in the least put out by Philip's evident bad temper. "Found him at the Club—the Union, you know. Townsend had introduced him, and made him a stranger member. He brought a line of introduction to Townsend from Jim Goelet, who knew him in Paris. Townsend said he had been asking for me—knew my name, he said, from hearing the Goelets speak of me so often—awfully kind of Jim and Ada, I'm sure—so he wanted to know me, and I couldn't do less than be civil, so I asked him down for the theatricals—my birthday, you know—and he leaped at my fly at once, so here he is."
"I don't like him," said Mr. Tremain, didactically. "What's his name, Newbold, and where does he hail from?"
"Here's his card," replied George, pulling it out of his waistcoat-pocket. "I thought I had better be sure about it because of introducing him, you know. The women do get so savage when you leave a fellow's patronymic vague. Bless them, the dears! They've got their 'Almanach de Gotha' at their fingers' ends, and know to a fraction's nicety just how cordial they should be to each individual mother's son of them. So many smiles and graciousness to the elder son of a peer, so many less to an Honourable, and so many less again to a younger detrimental. The women of this country, my dear Tremain, are mad, simply mad over titles. It's the irony of history. What our forefathers fought and died for—equality, and the abolishment of mere hereditary rights—their grandchildren fall down and worship. For my part, I wonder the stern old Puritans don't turn in their graves with horror!"
The card which Mr. Tremain held bore the name of Count Vladimir Mellikoff, and had no address save a pencilled one—"Brevoort House"—in one corner. The bit of paste-board was as non-committal as the stranger's face.
"Is he a Russian?" asked Philip.
"It looks so, doesn't it?" was the careless reply. "'A Roosian or a Proosian,' but certainlynot'an Englishman.' Perhaps he's a Nihilist in disguise, perhaps he's a dynamiter, or a Land-leaguer, or a red-handed Communist, who knows? At any rate, he's got his match in Miss Patty; never saw such a case of 'bowl over' at first sight in my life, never, I give you my word."
But Philip failed to rejoice in Mr. Newbold's hilarity; and that gentleman strolled off presently, in his peculiarly aimless fashion, and securing Count Vladimir Mellikoff by the simple device of slipping his hand within his arm, led him up to Philip, presenting him with all due ceremony.
Mr. Tremain, contrary to the traditions of his country, and taking a leaf from Patricia's own book, passed by the foreigner's outstretched hand, and with a somewhat forbidding manner and bow, entered into conversation.
Count Vladimir, however, was not to be easily distanced or put down; he could with rare tact suit his manner and his words to the individual of the moment who formed his audience; so now, with his usual keen insight, while discovering Mr. Tremain's half-formed distrust and dislike, he also recognised his superior intellect and position, and set himself to work at once to dispel the unfavourable impression he had made. He had not learned his earliest lessons in diplomacy at Europe's politest Court, Petersburg, for nothing, therefore it was not long before Philip found his suspicions and scepticism melting beneath the charm of his manner, and his cultivated, modest conversation. He learned without trouble, that Count Mellikoff was travelling in the States for pleasure principally, though with a suspicion of political business to give interest to his visit; that he was a diplomat by birth and training, and a loyal servant to the present Tsar of all the Russias, whom he served with the like love and fidelity he had formerly bestowed upon Alexander II.
He was a distinguished-looking man, rather than handsome, with an air of breeding and distinction in the thin face, keen small black eyes, aquiline nose and broad, rather pointed forehead. His manners were self-possessed and quiet, he spoke English fluently, and in a pleasantly modulated voice, while the few gestures he used were indicative of absolute self-control. Mr. Tremain soon discovered that nothing escaped his observation, he was aware of every movement of the various groups scattered about the drawing-rooms, and while apparently absorbed in the topic of the moment, had the attribute of prescience so widely developed as to be conscious of the general tone of conversation throughout the room.
Philip acknowledged himself fascinated, and ere long dropping his habitual reserve, he entered cordially into Count Vladimir's graphic descriptions of life in Petersburg. By degrees the conversation glided on to more intimate grounds, and Philip found himself asking somewhat bold questions as to a certain Russian practice in which he had long been much interested. Count Mellikoff replied frankly and with great openness, and only laughed a little indulgently when Mr. Tremain advanced gingerly upon the spy system of the Tsar's Government. His remarks were firm and to the point, and the Count became more and more earnest as he refuted them, giving his interlocutor, every now and then, a keen and searching look.
"You cannot deny, Count Mellikoff," said Mr. Tremain at last, speaking with more than his usual animation, "that the spy system, as practised by your Government, makes of every true Russian a special constable, whose work is well understood, and whose life is devoted to the espionage, not only of suspects, but of every Russian citizen. You become, in fact, individual policemen, and you each watch the other with keenest scrutiny, ready at any moment to denounce and arrest each other."
"Why should I deny it, my dear sir?" answered the Count, very quietly. "It would be but useless waste of breath on my part, since all the world looks with awe and wonder on the workings of the Imperial Chancellerie of Petersburg. Nay, so far from denying it, let me give you some faint idea of its workings, and of the far-reaching, all-powerful engines it employs. Our system is divided into two sections, one of which is devoted to all international or foreign questions; the other deals only with the surveillance of the Tsar's subjects, who, for the time being, are non-resident or abroad. Our agents of the first section are generally well known; as a rule they make no secret of their connection with the Imperial Chancellerie, and they consist of both sexes and of all classes. Indeed, we find our cleverest work often accomplished by ladies. I need but mention Madame Novikoff, whose influence and power over a certain Premier of England is but a matter of commonon dits, and who, at one time, seriously affected the foreign policy of Great Britain. That work accomplished, she has wrought further mischief to Her Majesty's Government by encompassing the defection of Dhuleep Singh and enrolling him under Russia's flag. It is not beside the question, sir, if, in the future, he does not become a source of trouble to the British authorities at Calcutta. That, sir, is one woman's work. On the Continent, again, I could point out to you, in almost every city of importance, a like emissary. In Paris there was the charming Princess Lise Troubetskoi, followed now by that Marquis de —— and his fascinating wife, whose hotel is the gathering-place of all theélite, and whose identity is as strictly unknown now as when first they startled all Paris by the magnificence of their entertainments. At Brussels you will find Madame de M——; at Dresden, the Countess de B——; in Switzerland, the Prince A. P——; and at Rome, the Marquise di P——. Even Egypt is not forgotten, and in the Countess J—— Russia finds an able coadjutor, whose position as lady-in-waiting to the vice-Queen gains for us many secrets communicated by the British Government to the Khedive. And even you, sir, must remember the great noise regarding Madame Blavatsky, who, as the priestess of theosophy, for many years carried on a secret correspondence with Monsieur Zinovieff, then Chief of the Asiatic Department of the Foreign Office, and with Prince Doudaroff Korsakoff, Governor-General of the Caucasus? But for Lord Dufferin's clear-sightedness, Madame might still be carrying on her patriotic work."
"You astonish me, Count Mellikoff," said Mr. Tremain, as his informant stopped to draw breath; "I knew that 'the little father' held undoubted sway over all his own vast territory, but not that he bisected other nations with such regular and effective engines."
Count Mellikoff smiled, and the fire in his deep-set eyes leapt up, as he answered:
"Sir, this is but a small portion of the all-powerful protection bestowed on his children by our father, the Tsar. Even here, in your own land of equality and freedom, his emissaries are ever at work, and from every capital of Europe, indeed from many insignificant towns and villages, there go forth daily weekly or monthly reports to the Imperial Chancellerie at Petersburg. Is it not useless, then, for any one individual to fight against so omnipotent and universal a power?"
"Worse than useless, I should say," replied Philip, wondering within himself as he spoke, what part was played in the great political drama by this same quiet, well-bred gentleman who stood before him.
"But this," continued Count Mellikoff, smiling again, and turning his intensely black eyes, in which no pupil was visible, but all seemed iris, full upon Mr. Tremain, "this is but one section of the great organisation, and in some ways the most insignificant. The second section, which has to do directly with the Tsar's subjects abroad, is of much vaster proportions, and wields a far greater power. If you will permit me, sir, to introduce dry statistics?" And the Count drew from his pocket a small but substantial note-book, which he held unopened, waiting for Mr. Tremain's reply.
Philip bowed a trifle impatiently, as he said: "I beg you will continue, Count Mellikoff; statistics are the back-bone of political economics in all countries; to me they bear a special charm."
"I thank you, sir," replied the Count, who evidently was a literal translator of the polite Gaelic,Monsieur. He opened the note-book, and turned over the pages carefully and with a practised hand.
"Ah!" he said at last, "I have it. Listen, sir, to a quotation from the reports of the Chancellerie: 'In the year 1884, no less than 890,318 Russian subjects of the Tsar crossed the Western frontier, for the purpose of paying more or less prolonged visits to foreign countries. The next year the numbers had increased to 920,563;' and you must bear in mind that I do not exaggerate when I assert that every one of these travellers is subjected to the same amount of espionage abroad as at home. Their every movement is noted, every remark reported, every change of residence recorded. There lives no true-born and loyal Russian who is not bound by conscience, if not by oath, to report to Petersburg anything that may seem to him suspicious, or amiss, in any of his fellow-countrymen. It may be only a word, a look, a letter, a handshake, nothing is too trivial, because out of trivialities have grown the great revolutions of the world. You may be living in India, China, England, or America; you may be rich and noble, or poor and dependent; if you are one of the Tsar's children, you may be very sure that every day and hour of your life is known, nay, is commented upon and discussed within the Imperial Chancellerie, no matter how many thousands of miles of sea and land separate you from Russia. At any moment the Tsar can call you to account; he is no respecter of persons; it may be the highest noble at the Court, the poorest serf on the steppes, the fashionable beauty of the hour, the hired governess of your children, the maid of your toilette, thevalet de place; the very highest and the very lowest, one and all must obey when the voice of the Tsar of all the Russians speaks the word of command. No crime can be so hidden but it will be unearthed, no reparation accepted unless appointed by Imperial edict, no forgiveness sanctioned unless granted by word of the Tsar. Said I not right, sir, is it not a grand and wonderful system, this that puts to shame Nature's barriers, and acknowledges no limits to its power, save its own Imperial will?"
Count Mellikoff ceased speaking, and Philip, looking at him, saw his face for one moment lit with the mocking fires of conscious malignity and indomitable, cruel perseverance. For one moment only; but in that moment the fierce light of his eyes seemed to scorch all who came within its radiance—nay, seemed even to traverse the long room and touch Patricia with its malevolence. Then the passion faded, and the Count stood quietly before him, a smile on his lips, the black note-book clasped firmly between the long, thin fingers of both hands.
Mr. Tremain felt all his original dislike and mistrust rush full upon him once more. He for one moment felt actual hatred for this calm, composed foreigner, and his quiet, well-tutored face, his low voice and persuasive manner, and, above all, for the horrible system of torture and surveillance he upheld as his tenets and dogma. He gave a short, hard laugh as he replied:
"I cannot compliment you, Count Mellikoff, on either section of your system. To me, as I said before, you all appear to act only as special police spies, each one ready and eager to betray the other should occasion arise, and each knowing the other to hold this power over him. You have interested me deeply; but, pardon me, I cannot jump with you the entire length of the Tsar's fatherly protection, as exemplified by the Imperial Chancellerie. I have an old-fashioned prejudice in favour of individual free will and independence."
Count Mellikoff made a slight bow, and the smile on his lips deepened as he answered:
"At least, sir, you will pay us this justice, you never hear one Russian speak evil of another (I speak, of course, only of those of a certain social standing), nor will our ambassadors give any direct information to foreigners concerning any fugitive from justice, no matter how doubtful and suspicious their actions may appear. With us, sir, loyalty to our great Tsar and to his Government go hand-in-hand with our lives."
Mr. Tremain replied only by a gesture of assent, for, as he began to speak, George Newbold came up to him once more, and carried him off, with a hurried apology to the Count.
"We want him, you see. Many pardons, but he is needed for rehearsal. I'll be back directly," and Philip, thus hustled away, had no time to explain.
Count Vladimir Mellikoff stood very still for some moments after Philip left him; the lines of care and thought that were graven innumerably about his eyes and the corners of his mouth, came forth with startling prominence, and gave a crafty, sceptical look to his countenance; his eyes gleamed in their hollow sockets, his lips moved quickly, and then, with a sudden upward gesture of his right hand, he put back the note-book in his pocket, and, turning, walked slowly back to where he had left Patricia surrounded by her gay adorers.
The room, however, was empty now, and had Miss Hildreth been in very deed but a vision of his own creating she could not have vanished more completely—not a trace of her remained. The great carved chair in which she had sat was pushed hastily back, and about it, grouped in confusion, stood the ottomans, stools,causeusesand lowfauteuils, in which her train of devotees had reposed themselves, all equally unoccupied now. Not a trace of the queen of the revels, or her light-hearted companions, remained—not one. Yet stay; what is this lying on the floor, half-hidden by the fallen satin cushion of her chair? This bit of finest muslin and filmy lace, dropped or forgotten by Patricia as she moved away indifferent, yet alive, to every note of praise or flattery that rang about her.
Count Mellikoff crossed the room with noiseless footsteps, bent down and picked up the dainty morsel; it proved to be a lady's handkerchief, and in the corner were an embroidered crest, and the initialsA. de L.The Count gave one long-drawn sigh, almost a gasp, and then with dexterous fingers folded the delicate article neatly and placed it in an inner pocket of his waistcoat. He smiled as he did so, and said, half aloud:
"There's treason in every inch of that cambric and lace! Ah, madame, how we overreach ourselves sometimes, and how the odour of violets clings to every thread of this little traitor!"
Then he turned and walked down the empty room, and as he reached the heavily-draped doors dividing the drawing-rooms from the music-hall, one of the curtains was pulled further aside, and he came face to face with Miss Rosalie James.
Three months before that meeting between Patricia Hildreth and Mr. Tremain—out of which had grown such cynical disillusion on his part, and which had called forth such cogent reasons for his disenchantment—winter still held captive the great metropolis of Petersburg. But a winter of such dazzling brilliancy, such blue skies, such clear and glittering frost and snow, such floods of sunshine, such ringing out of joyful sleigh-bells, such flashing past of fair women robedcap-à-piein costly furs, and such a constant round of gaiety and frivolity, as to rob the ice-king of his usual hardships and terrors.
Looking on as an unbiassed spectator at the life and vivacity of the scene, the riches and luxury displayed day by day on the Nevski Prospekte, at the line of handsome equipages, the brilliant uniforms of the Tsar's Guard Imperial, at the laughing eyes and fair faces of the fairest women of the world, at the hourly ebb and flow of the splendid pageant, who could believe, or, believing, realise that not a stone's-throw away, beneath the horrible gloomy walls of Peter's fortress, there languished men and women, equal in birth and position to those gayflâneursof the present hour, and who once had flaunted their colours as bravely as the best, but who now, owing to the inexorable will of an acknowledged tyrant, wore their hearts away in imprisonment for some political lapse, some inadvertent dereliction, no matter how slight; perhaps but a word whispered in a lover's ear, a note given or taken, an uncontrolled exclamation, a gesture of emotion; and who, victims of that despotic secret police, betrayed, maybe, by their nearest and dearest, were hurled in one moment from comparative security and protection into the terrible, silent, unapproachable dungeons of Petropavlovsk, from which no word or sigh, no cry for help, no appeal for justice ever resounds, and into which no whisper of comfort or encouragement, no sign of love, friendship, or remembrance, ever penetrates, whose only outlook is the still more horrible sentence of exile to Siberia, or perhaps a merciful deliverance through death on the weary march thither?
The very air of the gay city breathes disaffection and suspicion, while upon the brightest countenance, beneath the merriest jest and laugh, one reads the fleeting look of terror, or hears the echo of strained anxiety.
It was of Venice that Lord Byron wrote his famous line:
"A palace and a prison on each hand."
"A palace and a prison on each hand."
And yet, surely, it may well be typical of great Petersburg, where fair, and grand, and imperial rises the Winter Palace, guarded night and day by ranks of soldiers and police, within which reign luxury, power, and wealth, though stalked by the grim shadows of treachery, deception, Nihilism; while hard by, the frowning bastions of Peter and Paul tell of the first Peter's cruel tyranny, as of the latter-day hand of iron despotism and oppression; within whose death-encircling walls languish many of Russia's proudest sons and daughters, who, grown hopeless from long and fruitless waiting for deliverance, have become
"... Bowed and bent,Wax gray, and ghostly, withering ere their time."
"... Bowed and bent,Wax gray, and ghostly, withering ere their time."
Thus does history but repeat itself, and the story ofIvan Ivanowichis rehearsed again and again, only the actors changing, not the drama, or themise-en-scène.
On one bright and beautiful morning in January, when all the fashionable world of the famous capital were out and abroad, and to all outward seeming "youth was at the prow, pleasure at the helm" of the day's amusements, a group of some half-dozen men were gathered together in a small inner apartment of the building known as the Imperial Chancellerie. Of these, some were in the police uniform of the Tsar, the others in plain morning dress, in one case enhanced by a great-coat lined with almost priceless sables. Conversation, which had been carried on in low tones, languished somewhat, and the only sounds that broke the increasing silence, were the scratching of a quill-pen over rough paper, or the fall of a coal from time to time from the open fireplace. It was the owner of the fur-lined great-coat who was writing, and as he sat busy and preoccupied, the clear, searching sunlight fell full upon him, and revealed a face of more than usual distinction. The brow was broad at the temples, growing narrow as it reached the hair that fell heavily across it, and which was well streaked with grey; the eyes were intensely black, deep set in cavernous sockets, out of which they flashed and glowed like smouldering fires; the cheeks were thin, the complexion olive; a slight, short beard and moustache accentuated the pointed chin and firm, thin lips; the hand that guided the pen was slender, nervous, long-fingered, and capable.
In a word, the man writing in the inner sanctum of the Petersburg Chancellerie, and the man paying hisdevoirsto Patricia Hildreth, and conversing amicably with Mr. Tremain, are one and the same, Count Vladimir Mellikoff. It was easy to see that he was the ruling spirit of the group assembled, each one of whom treated him with deference and respect.
The quill-pen continued its noisy progress over the official paper for some moments, and the silence grew so intense that the tinkling of the sleigh-bells and the echoed laughter of the occupants of the droschkies as they flew past could be distinctly heard, despite the heavy double casements. At length the door opened and another person entered, at sight of whom the assembled men fell into attitudes of anxious respect, even Count Mellikoff rising from the table and bowing deferentially to him.
The new-comer was a tall and handsome man, with a stern, uncompromising face, and of alert and dictatorial manner. He was dressed in morning attire, and wore on his coat more than one ribbon of merit or distinction. He advanced rapidly, bowing comprehensively, and took the chair offered him by Count Mellikoff, from which the latter had just arisen, with a courteous word and gesture.
This personage, for he well deserves the grander designation, was Paul Patouchki, a naturalised Russian, who owned Poland as his mother, yet yielded his allegiance to the Tsar; he was the head and chief in Petersburg of that secret section of the Chancellerie whose work it was to keep strict watch and ward over the Imperial subjects, who, from business or pleasure, elected to live without the Tsar's boundaries. Patouchki was trusted implicitly by his superiors, whom, indeed, he had often served at the risk of his life, and by them, the Emperor of all the Russias not excepted, he was entrusted with the organisation and development of the most delicate missions; for by no harsher word were the despotic actions and orders of the Chancellerie ever designated.
Patouchki seated himself and drew towards him a heavily brass-bound despatch-box, and unlocking it with a key suspended from his watch-chain, took from it his morning's correspondence; this he scrutinised rapidly, sorting out the more important papers, and pushing the largest number towards a fair, boyish-looking young man, who had entered with him, with a muttered, "For you, Ivor," and then opening and reading with quick and comprehensive eyes the few special communications he had reserved for his own perusal.
Indeed, every movement and action of this remarkable man bespoke a character of keen perceptions, unbending will, inflexible opinions, and quick deductions. As he finished his letters he folded them neatly and laid them down with nice precision, in due regularity of sequence of importance; this done, he leant back and looked up at the men who stood somewhat back from him in the same respectful attitudes. This slight movement was evidently a signal well known, for each one of the group now advanced in turn and laid before Patouchki their reports, which were in the form of sealed documents; then falling back again, waited for the chief to speak.
When he did so, his voice was harsh and crisp, the words fell from his lips with the precision of bullets from a repeating revolver, and it was noticeable that, whatever the bearing or meaning of his instructions, his countenance and expression never changed or softened; that hard, imperious, unsympathetic human mask was never known to show emotion of any kind.
"Count Vladimir," he said, addressing the most distinguished of the group, after himself, "I have read and considered your report of the work done by you in western France, which, I am requested by his Excellency to say, does you infinite credit; it has been decided by the secret committee of the Chancellerie to give into your hands a somewhat delicate mission. What say you, sir, to an expedition into the heart of Africa?"
"His Excellency knows he has but to command me at all times, and in any mission," replied Count Mellikoff, his musical voice sounding in marked contrast to the other's harsh tones; "my life is at the service of our father the Tsar."
"Well said," replied Patouchki, shortly; then, turning towards the others, he continued: "Gentlemen, we will dispense with your presence; we wish you good morning, sirs."
The salutation was a command, and so understood by those to whom it was addressed; they responded to it by bowing and withdrawing in silence; all but Ivor, who, as the chief's private secretary, was a privileged person.
As the door closed on the last departing agent, Patouchki turned somewhat hastily towards Count Mellikoff, and bade him be seated. Ivor Tolskoi's fair head was bent in studious attention over his official papers, and the chief had learned by experience that Ivor, despite his boyish face and girlish complexion, was both deaf, dumb, and blind when it behoved him to be so in the service of his master, even as his soft dimpled hand could, when occasion required, sheath itself in a gauntlet of iron, and deal a giant's blow.
"Vladimir Mellikoff," said the chief, dropping the more ceremonious title, "we have tried your metal often, and know of what true steel it is fashioned; but the mission I am now desired to commit to your skill and judgment is one requiring even morefinesse, delicacy, and determination than any that have gone before. Let me put well before you its hazards and unpleasant features, that you may withdraw your acquiescence, if you so desire."
Count Mellikoff, whose mobile face had responded by varying expressions to Patouchki's warning, now flushed suddenly, and as suddenly paled again; he leant forward impetuously, and spoke rapidly, the nervous fingers of his right hand moving restlessly as he did so.
"In what have I failed, chief, that you should think such words necessary?"
"In nothing, Vladimir Mellikoff," replied the other, coldly and without change of expression or voice; "we have ever found you ready and willing and zealous in our service; indeed, but one reproach can be attributed to you, and that is more an attribute of temperament than a fault;trop de zèle, Vladimir,trop de zèle, has ruined more than one diplomat, and frustrated more than one mission."
Count Vladimir drew back as if struck an unexpected blow; his eyes flashed for a moment intemperately, the lines about his mouth tightened; then the habitual and tutored reserve and control of long apprenticeship reasserted itself, and when he bowed in answer to the implied reproof, his face was as expressionless and cold as that of his monitor. Patouchki continued:
"It goes without the saying that your mission will not take you into Africa, that was but apour-parler; indeed, you must leave the East behind you and travel westward to the great continent of America; your work lies there, and if I mistake not, within the somewhat narrow limits of New York. You have read the minutes of the murder of Count Stevan Lallovich, and you know that our suspicions regarding the murderer all point to a woman, either as instigator or accomplice.Youmust find that woman, Vladimir. Stop," raising his hand imperatively, "we ask no impossibledevoir; you shall have every facility afforded you, and as the case now stands, you will want no deadlier weapons than tact,finesse, and delicacy, the surest tools with which to meet a woman, since they are essentially her own."
"It is but a poor warfare, chief," replied the Count, a smile curving his lips in disdain.
Patouchki frowned.
"No warfare is poor or trivial, Count Vladimir, that sustains the safety of our father the Tsar, or that strengthens the hands of his Government. Women have proved ere now our most dangerous foes; they strike in the dark, and pay no regard to honourable codes. Since, then, we may not fight them openly, let us turn their own forces of cunning, artifice, and falsehood against them. He who would serve the interests of the Tsar must put aside all considerations of sex."
Again Count Mellikoff bowed; and after a moment's silence the chief continued:
"You know the incidents of the murder, Vladimir, no need to recapitulate them; you know Count Stevan's near kinship to the Tsar, and the consequent lesson that must be read to all miscreants who think to spill the Imperial blood of Russia and escape unpunished. You know also of the oath sworn by that wretched woman, when, by Imperial ukase, her marriage to Stevan Lallovich was pronounced void; you know her subsequent career, and the chain of circumstantial evidence that points to her as at least an accessory to the crime. We have reason to believe that she has escaped to America, and is living there in disguise; the chain has narrowed its links until we can confine ourselves to one state and one city of that great country—New York, or a narrow radius therefrom. But so far the Chancellerie has been unable to lay the finger of certainty upon her, so far she has eluded our absolute knowledge; and therefore it is to you we would depute the task of tracking her, dogging her, and bringing her personally within the power and jurisdiction of the Imperial Chancellerie. Are you willing to accept this work, Vladimir? Remember, we ask it in the service of the Tsar, to whose protection you have hitherto, with undeviating fidelity, sworn to be true, even at the cost of your life."
Count Mellikoff, as Patouchki concluded, rose from his chair and walked quickly across the room to the window. As he did so, Ivor Tolskoi raised his fair head and youthful face, and looked after him. "Does he hesitate?" he said within himself. "By our Lady of Kazan, I wish the chance were but offered me. The chief should find me ready, and as adamant against the softest lures of the fairest woman of all her sex." Then he dropped his innocent blue eyes, and continued the monotonous pen-work on which he was engaged.
Vladimir Mellikoff remained for several long moments beside the window, looking out with unseeing eyes upon the well-known scene before him; upon the gaily decorated sleighs and droschkies flying by; upon the frozen Neva, over whose glittering ice the skaters were deftly circling; upon the Austrian band playing before the Admiralty, their light-blue uniforms seeming like a bit of the sky above, fallen to earth; upon the huge Imperial Winter Palace, whose innumerable windows glanced like jewels in the crisp cold sunlight; upon the officers and sentinels relieving guard at its gates; upon the throng of brightly attired pedestrians coming and going, up and down the broad streets, in quick succession; he knew it all so well, had been part of it for so many years. Was not this very scene photographed upon his brain's camera, with all the high lights accentuated, and all the shadows deepened? Who shall say what wave of memory swept over him, as he stood there gazing down, seeing, yet not seeing the ever-changing panorama that since his boyhood had been dear to him; from the unique charm with which only youth and youth's memories can embellish the most ordinary scene?
Did he hesitate, or draw back from this mission laid upon him; did his heart and soul shrink from hounding out a woman, whose wrongs and griefs had hurried her on to the perpetration of a crime, which even he felt to be but an outburst of that savage justice that reigns deep down in every human heart? Did he confess to himself that it was but coward's work to bring to bear upon this wretched fugitive all the political force of the Imperial Chancellerie, with himself at its head as its willing and revengeful agent?
He knew well that if he undertook this mission he would carry it through to the very end, that was his nature; combining something of the sleuth-hound and the bulldog, he could track his prey indefatigably, and could fasten his cruel fangs upon it relentlessly when found. But was it worth his while, was the game noble enough; was not fighting a woman, with her own weapons, but poor sport for one who had won his spurs in signal service under far braver and more dangerous circumstances?
As he stood thus, wavering within himself, a hoarse and mighty shout went echoing up to the blue vaulted sky; then came the clank of arms, the rattle of metal trappings, and a mounted guard swept into sight, their scarlet kaftans brilliant against the snow, the precursors of the Imperial equipage, in which, as it dashed past, Vladimir recognised the Tsar and Tsarina, enveloped though they were in robes and mantles of rarest furs. Behind them came another sleigh in which sat two ladies and an equerry; as they passed the Chancellerie, the lady nearest Vladimir's window lifted her face and turned it towards the grim walls; it was a pale and beautiful face, enhanced by the rich cap of sables that seemed to embrace lovingly the waves and masses of golden brown hair beneath it. As Count Vladimir caught sight of that proud, fair countenance, a sudden smile broke over it, called forth by some remark of her companion's, and melted all the pure still lines into the tenderest curves of youth.
It was but an instant. Then the sleigh had passed by, and was already far down the Nevski Prospekte, while the shouts and cries of "Long live the Tsar! Long live the Little Father!" grew fainter and fainter as the crowd followed in the wake of the Imperialcortège.
Count Vladimir started as from a reverie, and unconsciously drew up his tall figure proudly, while his face became haughty and resolved. Well he knew that fair, proud woman, and long had he served her as the most ardent and loving of her slaves. She had been a hard task-mistress, but he loved her, and to win her would gladly have sold his soul to the Prince of Darkness. She had given him some half-encouragement when last he urged his suit, and laughing half tenderly as she dismissed him, bade him bring her yet one more proof of his undeviating fidelity to the Tsar, augment by one more public expression his unqualified loyalty, add one more ribbon to those he already wore on State occasions, and then—why, then, she, Olga the beautiful, the Tsarina's favourite, most beloved and loving maid of honour, Olga the cold, the proud, the unbending, would consider his passionate pleadings, his long service, and perhaps reward it in the way he implored.
"You must hesitate at nothing, Count Vladimir," she had ended, "if it is to serve our father the Tsar. Remember, it is in small actions, rather than in great ones, that we prove our loyalty. Nothing can be too trivial or too heroic if it be undertaken for him."
And Vladimir had gone from her presence resolved to win her at any cost. Here then, lay his opportunity close to his hand. He turned abruptly from the window, and met Ivor Tolskoi's eager blue eyes with such an expression of determination and pride that that youth dropped his abashed, and felt his chances of superseding Count Mellikoff to be but vain and delusive hopes.
"Your pardon, chief," said Vladimir, in a quiet voice, once more taking the chair facing Patouchki; "I have taken, perhaps, too much time to consider the flattering mission his Excellency would honour me with. My answer is, as it ever has been, and ever will be, that I am at the disposal of my gracious father the Tsar. My life is his, consequently what his Government elect for me to do, I can but consider as an Imperial command, and consecrate myself to its fulfilment. I am ready to leave Petersburg at a moment's notice."
"It is well said, Vladimir," replied Patouchki, over whose composed features passed the faintest suspicion of relief. "My instructions are that you leave within the week; to-morrow your papers of detail will be given you. I need not remind so faithful a servant of the Tsar that secrecy, despatch, and caution should be your watchwords. Be discreet, Vladimir, and watchful. Remember how much depends upon our having this woman within our power; and remember, also, that in choosing you as their emissary, the secret committee have had particular regard to the exigencies of the case, and to the fact that you will have to deal with people of the upper classes, and through them work your way to the completion of the chain of evidence. Distrust every one, Vladimir; but, above all, distrust the ladies of the great world, they are our cleverest enemies, even as they are our best friends. Your letters of introduction and credit will be sent you in due course. And now, good-bye, Vladimir, for the present. You have carried good luck with you so far, may it not fail you now."
A week later saw Count Vladimir Mellikoff on his way to Paris,en routefor the United States, and as he settled himself comfortably in thesalon coupéreserved for him in thetrain de luxegoing southward, it was with the memory of Olga's blue eyes looking kindly on him, and Olga's hand resting just a moment longer in his than was necessary for good-bye, and his heart was warm within him, and he smiled as he watched the outlines of magnificent Petersburg fading in the distance.
His glance lingered longest on the glittering spire of Petropavlovsk, as it rose above the Neva, and when at last this was lost in the distance, he murmured, with a sigh upon his lips:
"Fate is stronger than conscience. I go to make war upon a woman, with a woman's smile as my reward!"
It was evening in the Winter Palace—evening of the day on which Vladimir Mellikoff had entered on the first stage of his new mission: to make war upon a woman.
Within the Palace all was hushed and still; the servants passed to and fro with noiseless footsteps and that well-trained air of repose only attainable by long and constant effort. For once no official or social entertainment was on hand, and the Imperial Family were enjoying the novelty of a comparatively quiet evening—a novelty, whose rarity precluded any possibility of its charm waxing dim.
The great State apartments, the Onyx Hall, and theSalle des Palmierswere empty, dark, and silent, hiding their wonderful treasures in the gloom and shadows: their priceless tables of malachite and lapis-lazuli; their jewel-encrusted frames to pictures rarer and more valuable than the gems that surrounded them. From out the dark corners started a thousand and one memories of bygone kings and dynasties—of that great and licentious Catherine II., to whose energy Petersburg owes so much, and the Winter Palace its existence; of Peter, also called the Great, who first raised his nation from out of its barbarism; of Napoleon, and his restless ambition; of Nicholas, who died broken-hearted when Sevastopol fell; of Alexander, the wise and beneficent, father of the Tsar who now occupies the Imperial throne, and who strove in vain to stem the current of mad republicanism that spread disaffection broadcast from the Baltic to the Caspian, and which gathering strength year by year and month by month, rolled on like some gigantic wave far out at sea, tossing high above the surrounding breakers, riding fearlessly to its doom, and breaking with devastating effect against the ill-protected breakwaters of monarchical institutions and traditions.
When the Court was alone, so to speak, and free from the onerous duties of perfunctory ceremonial, the Tsarina—whose nature was as gentle and loving and peaceful as that of her sister, the beloved Princess of England's hopes—shunned the vast State chambers, and held herpetites réunionsin a smaller suite of apartments, within which were gathered every luxury of modern civilisation, and where, when the heavy plushportièreswere drawn, the great stoves emitting the heat of a furnace, and the logs piled high on the low fire-dogs, it was possible to forget the ice and snow without, even as in looking upon the various spoils and souvenirs of every clime and country, from the rich silks and perfumed woods of the Orient, to the more homely comforts of Great Britain, it was possible to forget that this was Petersburg, and become oblivious to those frowning walls and cruel dungeons, mocked by the names of the two Apostles, St. Peter and St. Paul.
Nevertheless, there they stood, grim, real, dauntless, and within them languished the poor "prisoners of hope," wrapped, at least let us pray, in that merciful and dreamless sleep, which the dark hours bring even to the most miserable.
This favourite set of rooms of the Tsarina's opened one from another, each growing smaller until the last was reached, which was indeed a veritable nest of down for the fair Danish dove who had mated with the bold Russian eagle. Here the Empress received her most privileged guests, and permitted audiences that were of a peculiarly private or domestic order. Here, too, would come the Tsar, and throwing himself down into one of the low velvet ottomans, put from him his habitual air of reserve and anxiety, and enter with affectionate raillery into the spirit of the hour; or should such be his mood, at a sign all would withdraw, leaving him alone with the Empress, who at such times threw aside the conventionalities of a life hedged in by etiquette, and became only the loving, faithful wife, the intelligent companion, the cheerful counsellor and consoler.
Much indeed might the walls of that blue chamber have revealed could they have spoken: secrets on which hung the fate of nations; decisions that were to make history; and confidences that wrung tears of blood from the stern Tsar, whose heart, like that of his father, loved his mighty empire, but who, unlike him, failed to inspire complete trust in his nation's heart.
On these occasions, the larger room of all was given up to the use of the Court; and here gathered the different ladies and gentlemen attached to thepersonnelof their Imperial Majesties; and here, too, were often admitted particular friends of the bedchamber ladies, the maids of honour, the equerries, and other official personages of the Court. The orders, however, for such entrance were somewhat difficult to obtain, and each person who entered was keenly watched by a member of the secret committee of the Chancellerie, whose function, unknown to any but himself, obtained for him the fullest opportunities of scrutiny.
And in this incognito lay the power of the Chancellerie; for it might be the very individual to whom you spoke so confidingly; the friend, man or woman, on whose fidelity you relied implicitly, the young girl with the innocent face, the youth with the bold free carriage, the elderly courtier with venerable grey locks, or thedame d'honneurof highest repute, who was the secret agent and in the secret pay of the Chancellerie, and who, at a given signal, would deliver you up to its iron laws, its fearless judgments, and cruel sentence.
On this particular evening the outersalonwas well filled with guests, whose gay voices and subdued rippling laughter mingled with the strains of the Household band, and bespoke some hearts at least among the number as free from carking care. French was the language spoken, for Petersburg outvies even gay Lutetia itself in its undeviating worship of all things Parisian.
Within an embrasure of one of the heavily-draped windows, the curtains of which had been pulled somewhat hastily apart, sat a youthful couple, who would in any assembly have stood boldly forth as being more beautiful and distinguished than is the usual type of humanity. Of these, one was a young man, the other a woman scarcely entering her second decade, but with so much of imperious grandeur and haughty pride of race about her that to call her by the less dignified title of girl or maiden would seem an impertinence.
The young man was of more than ordinary proportions, tall and broad-shouldered, with a look of the innocence of childhood still clinging to the soft curves of his fair Northern face, that was revealed in his joyous azure-blue eyes, and reflected in the crisp golden curls which, despite the rigid cropping according to the last Paris mode, lay in tiny rings all over his round and well-shaped head. A close observer would perhaps have noted that his throat, though full and well developed, owned a straight and clean back line, denoting a lack of amative passion, and that the head and forehead were most developed where the phrenologists tell us to look for cruelty and perseverance. His hands were remarkably white, and kept in scrupulous order, even to the finely-rounded filbert nails that shone with the reflected sheen of apolissoireandpoudre des ongles. This was his only bit of cox-combry, however, and for the rest, it may be said, he had a hearty laugh, a merry jest, and a cheerful word for every one, and, while boasting more friends than any young patrician in Petersburg, yet admitted no one to a closer intimacy than that accorded by outward cordiality of manner.
This was Ivor Tolskoi. We have seen him before, in the inner sanctum of the Chancellerie, when Vladimir Mellikoff accepted his mission; and Ivor cursed the fate that trembling in the balance, fell in the favour of the older and more experienced man, and thus shut him out from winning his first spurs in the service of his master.
Ivor Tolskoi was, in many ways, anenfant gâtéof his world. He was an orphan, and very rich; a ward of the Tsar's, owning large estates in the wild Ural province, which he seldom visited, and serfs whose numbers he had never counted, who were free in name only, and whose sole use in the world was so to labour for him that his revenues year by year never failed, and never grew less. He owned no title, and he would have scorned the acceptance of any mere bauble of to-day's creation; he would have told you, with a toss of his golden head and a ringing laugh, that the Tolskois were lords of the soil and of human souls long centuries before Peter came to the Imperial throne, and raised his nation from out their barbaric indolence; and that while the imperious Tsar was learning ship-building at Deptford, his ancestor of that period was riding at large over his vast properties, hunting the wild boar and the wolf, the ermine and marten, across his own territory, whose boundaries not even he could define. It would ill become him, then, the last scion of his grand old race, to accept a tawdry title in place of his own simple name, Ivor Tolskoi, which each eldest son had born in succession for generation after generation, and before which the peasants upon his wide western property turned pale and trembled.
His companion was his equal in feminine beauty, and there were many circumstances in the life of each strangely similar, which served to draw them closer together, and more intimately than is usually the case in a country and a Court where etiquette governs rather than affinity.
The face of the young woman who leant back negligently against the pile of velvet cushions Ivor had placed for her, was strangely beautiful, with the weird, almost unholy beauty of an enchantress of old; such beauty as Faustine wore, or Cleopatra, or Messalina, which enslaves the senses at once, without leaving any loophole for calm reason. She too was tall and grand of build, though slight, as became her three-and-twenty years; her shoulders bore the curves of the Milo Venus; her neck and bosom fell in the round charming lines of maidenhood; her head rose proudly from the short classic pillar of her throat, and was carried with an almost royal grace; the sweep from chin to ear was perfect in its fine symmetry; the low arched forehead bespoke more than ordinary intelligence; beneath it her eyes, set wide apart and wearing a look of innocent fearlessness, were of the deepest shade of violet, to which the black lashes and pencilled brows gave the piquancy of unexpectedness, for her hair, which was rolled high in heavy masses and fastened with a jewelled arrow, was brown in colour, shot through with a thousand lights of golden auburn; her complexion was pale but warm, and the small perfectly modelled bow of her mouth was tinged with vivid crimson, adding the perfecting note to her ideal countenance.
In manner she was cold, proud, repellent, though beneath the outward ice ran a fire of passion that once let loose would sweep away all barriers of conventionality, and stop at nothing to accomplish its desires.
Like Ivor, she was an orphan, and like him untitled, but there ran within her veins a strain of the great Catherine's blood, transmuted to her from an ancestor who could boast of Imperial favours, and of this bar sinister in the past Olga—for she it was—was prouder than of any patent of a lesser nobility. It may be that, generations intervening notwithstanding, this last fair representative of her race possessed some traits and characteristics of her Imperial ancestress, for like her, she was both strong and weak, impetuous and calculating, passionate and mercenary, forgiving and tyrannical; and was indeed a pure specimen of the Russian type, in which are so strongly and so dispassionately blended the master passions of cruelty and remorse.
Olga Naundorff had known no home save that of the Court, for though she inherited a fair property from her father, it was situated many long miles from Petersburg, on the southern frontier amidst the trackless wastes of the steppes, where for nine months continual snow reigned, and where the long dreariness of winter was fraught with the terror of isolation and dull monotony.
Olga remembered but little of this far-away home, and shunned such memories whenever they came to her, with an instinctive shrinking from the unknown and undesirable.
Her father, who had been a brave and gallant officer, who had served his country on many a battle-field, and loved his Tsar, the Alexander of good deeds, with a strong and fervent love, which nothing, not even the claims of his little daughter, could outweigh, and who was trusted and loved in return by his Emperor, brought the little motherless Olga, when but a child of ten, to Gatschina, presented her to the Tsar, demanding an asylum for the pretty child, whose mother was dead, and whose fearlessness and beauty made her the more open to an untoward fate.
The great Alexander was pleased to gratify his faithful friend and servant, and was also captivated by the tiny maid's rare loveliness; and so it came about that General Naundorff's desire was granted, and his little Olga became the pet and plaything of the Imperial Court. There she grew from girlhood to maidenhood, and, as her beauty developed more and more, and her intelligence expanded, she became a special favourite with the Tsar, to whose private apartments she had free access, and from whom she gained by her pretty imperious pleading, many a coveted favour for some loyal subject of his Majesty.
The news came of her father's death, but it made little difference to Olga; she had scarcely known him, she could not be expected to weep for one she did not love. Her first real sorrow fell upon her when by the hand of an assassin, the kind and gracious Alexander II. passed from life to death. Her grief was inconsolable then; she wept for days and nights, and mourned him with a deep abiding sorrow, that fostered and strengthened her hate and abhorrence of those who, while calling themselves Russians and patriots, planned secretly, and in the dark, for the overthrow of the Imperial throne.
She was grown a woman then, and a rarely beautiful one, with her fair proud face with its touch of royal scorn, and her free, upright, graceful form. It was at this time that Vladimir Mellikoff first saw her, and claiming distant cousinship, proceeded straightway to fall in love with her and worship her; a worship she accepted as a right, but a love which she only tolerated with indifference.
When the new Tsarina formed her personal Court, she named Olga as maid of honour, and when first the young girl entered on her duties, received her with such winning sweetness and graciousness, as to subdue utterly the proud heart, and cause it to transfer to the young and still lovely woman all its treasure of intense veneration, affection, and allegiance which it had held for the beloved Alexander.
Count Mellikoff, meantime, succeeded but poorly in his suit; Olga was neither touched nor won by his persistency; she accepted his homage and his passionate devotion with her superb Imperial grace, but granted him nothing in return, save perhaps when she saw him wavering and uncertain, torn between his love and his self-respect, then she would bestow on him a smile of dazzling softness, or let her slim firm fingers rest a moment within his, or murmur some half inaudible word of praise or protest, when he would be again at her feet, her slave, her adorer, her passionate lover.
He had spoken out his love at last, and urged his claims upon her so vehemently and with such emotional force, as to rouse her even from her habitual indifference, and to call forth that half promise, on account of which Vladimir had started on his new mission with such an exulting heart and such visions of glorified future bliss.
There was onehabituéof the Court, however, whom Olga often favoured with her rare smiles, and in whose company she always appeared frankly content; this was Ivor Tolskoi, in whose fair good looks she took honest pride, and for whom she laid aside something of her haughty, imperious manner. Indeed, Ivor was so bright and joyous, such an incarnation of the brilliant sparkling cold sun of Petersburg, which exhilarates but does not warm, it was impossible not to like him, and not to melt under the cool fire of his blue eyes, and the fine if cruel smile of his lips; only Olga failed to see the coldness or the cruelty.
She fancied she knew Ivor Tolskoi's life from Alpha to Omega, that there was not a page of his daily existence that was not open to her inspection, and yet she in reality knew nothing; not even his daily avocations, beyond the light ones imposed upon him by Court regulations, and never dreamed that he was one of the most vigilant and most active members in the secret service of the Chancellerie. Indeed, Ivor Tolskoi's boyish face and youthful laugh seemed incompatible with intrigue and surveillance; and Ivor knew this, and took good care to play both his rôles with diplomaticfinesseand success.
"And so, Ivor," Olga was saying in her clear, cold voice, "you really believe that that wretched woman of thebourgeoisiehad a hand in the murder of poor Stevan Lallovich? Upon my word, to what heights will thecanaillenext aspire, if even a Prince of Russia is not safe from the stab of a knife in the hand of a red republican? Do you think she murdered him, Ivor?"
"Ah," replied Tolskoi, "you put a blunt question, Mdlle. Naundorff," for though Olga addressed him with the familiarity of a sister, Ivor never so far forgot himself as to reply in like manner. "How dare one express any opinion on any subject in these days of treachery, since the very walls have ears and the very doors speak? And even should you press me, mademoiselle, I could not answer; I never have any opinion on any subject more important than a ball cotillon;c'est trop de peine." And Ivor threw back his head and laughed, his full and hearty peal, at sound of which several of the other guests of thesalonstopped their idle occupations and laughed in sympathy. But Olga frowned and beat her pointed slipper impatiently against the foot-stool on which it rested.
"Don't be silly, Ivor," she said; "and don't laugh so loud, you will have old Madame Bettcheriski down upon us for breach of etiquette. When will you cease to be such a boy?"
"When I cease to sun myself in your smiles, mademoiselle," replied the young man, gallantly, and with a half-mocking bow. "When that unhappy day dawns for me I shall take leave of my youth for ever, and seeing it fall from me, grow as 'grave and reverend a signior' as Count Vladimir himself."
To this allusion to her absent lover, Olga made no rejoinder save by a scarcely perceptible upward movement of her head. She waited a moment before she spoke again, and in the silence that fell between them, there floated across the room the conclusion of a sentence, spoken in a musical though rather high-pitched voice:
"It is true, nevertheless. She may not care for him, but when he returns to Court our proud and haughty favourite will be prepared to bestow her hand upon him."
Then the speaker's voice faded away into space, and Olga looking up found Ivor's eyes fixed upon her with a strange and unwonted fierceness in their blue depths. Her own fell beneath his glance, and she felt with annoyance the blood rise in her face, and spread its crimson over her pale cheeks.
She was angry at this school-girl exhibition, and drew herself upright into a more dignified attitude, folding her hands on her knees, and looking up boldly into Ivor's face; as she did so the colour faded as quickly as it had come, leaving her paler than before. Tolskoi continued to gaze at her intently; he bent forward a little, bringing his golden head nearer her dark one, and said, in a voice quite different from his usual gayinsoucianttones:
"It is my turn to ask a question. Is this true, mademoiselle?"
"Is what true?" replied Olga, under her breath, half fascinated by the face and eyes looking down so close upon her; a face that bore the familiar lineaments of Ivor, but with an expression she had never seen there before, and which made this very familiarity seem strange and repellent.
"Is it true," repeated Ivor, in the same low voice, "that when Count Vladimir Mellikoff returns—if he returns—Mademoiselle Naundorff will bestow upon him the honour of her hand? Is it true? For that is the reading between the lines, is it not? Our Court recognises but one proud favourite, mademoiselle, and who should know her name so well as you? At present she lacks but one courtier in her train, Count Vladimir. You see the riddle is not difficult of solution; but is it true—Olga?"
It was the first time he had ever called her by her name, and Mademoiselle Naundorff winced perceptibly as she heard it fall from his lips, in the low suppressed tones of his voice. She started, and threw back her head with her favourite gesture, as if she would throw off the burden of the hour, and free herself from its restrictions.