It was winter once more, and the gay Russian capital had returned to its round of festivities and merry-makings.
The Imperial family were in residence at the Winter Palace, and the longsalonresounded nightly to the laughter and jests of the Court circle. Not a cloud apparently marred the harmony and well-being of Petersburg.
All without was bright and brilliant; the sun shone on the dazzling snow, the merry sleigh-bells rang out on the frosty air, and the Nevski arcades were thronged with richly-dressedmondaines, who laughed and chatted, and tossed over the costly trifles in the Circassian shop with careless fingers. Within were ease and comfort and luxury; huge fires of keen-scented woods, heavy draperies to shut out the shrewd air, and respectful attendants to minister to the most wilful caprice.
But beyond and below all this brave assumption of security, there lay hidden a terrible passionate hate. Slowly, slowly, the patient masses of that under world had wakened to the consciousness of their wrongs, and with the bitter knowledge of contrast came the thirst for compensation; the burning desire to throw off the hand that had so long oppressed them, the yoke that had galled for centuries.
"What maketh us to differ?" was the cry of thousands; and, with the wording of the dumb misery that had held them silent so long, there awoke also the craving for vengeance. "How long," went up the cry to heaven, "how long, O Lord, shall the wicked oppress us?" And in the pause that ensued between petition and answer, pleasure was stalked by blood-red fear, and distrust kept pace with merriment.
The Countess Vera had opened the season by a grandbal costumé, in the huge palace of her name. It was the maddest of all the little Countess's mad freaks, for her guests were to come attired as beasts of the forest, the chase, and the field. Grizzlies from the Rockies elbowed white lambs, elephants and camelopards hob-nobbed with pussy-cats and fawns, while tigers and wolves flirted tentatively with rabbits and red squirrels.
The Countess, in a delightful white-cat costume, with diamond eyes and jewelled paws, was the life and soul of the revels; flying hither and thither, her little feet in their white fur boots treading as lightly as her namesake, and startling more than one king of the forest by the sharp tap of a little fur paw, and the merry smile beneath the pussy-head that covered her giddy little brain.
It was during one of these frolicsome onslaughts that she caught sight of Ivor Tolskoi's fresh face and yellow locks, looking ridiculously out of keeping under the heavy disguise of a polar bear. She ran up to him lightly, and stood before him laughing, a tiny figure set against his feet and inches.
"Oh, my brave Ursa Major!" she exclaimed, "what a beautiful fierce creature you are, to be sure! I am quite frightened to look at you."
Ivor glanced down at her smiling, but he failed to toss back her jesting words with an equally quick repartee.
The little Countess laughed and shook her head, until the diamond eyes in the pussy-cat mask danced with a thousand reflections.
"Oh, what a cross Ursa Major it is!" she cried, "and all because ofsome onewho is not here, and who will not come." Then she came a step nearer, and, dropping her bantering tone, said quickly: "I am sorry for your disappointment,mon cher, but it is one of the prerogatives of beauty, to be fickle. She would, and she would not, and the latter, you see, won the day. Olga Naundorff has declined to honour my ball with her presence. But is that a matter of such grave importance to you? Ah, I see, it is the old story; he who has most, always craves more. You are not satisfied with having won the Court favourite, even to the naming of the wedding day, but you must be miserable because she is not always present to swell your triumph! Be content, my dear boy, youhavewon her, and broken Vladimir Mellikoff's heart, that ought to suffice; and after you are married, you can force her to attend any and all kinds of festivities."
Ivor did not respond to this pleasant outlook, and Vera, with a mutinous grimace, continued, banteringly:
"For my part, my sympathies all go out to that most unfortunate Count Mellikoff. Only to think of what he has come to! So established as he was in the Emperor's regard, so esteemed by the Chancellerie; such a diplomatist and courtier, so distinguished and beyond reproach. And now, behold, where is he? Poof! he is but a feather, blown about by each contrary wind of prejudice. A failure, a fallen idol, a suspect. Bah, I would rather die than be a failure! Be content,mon cher, be content; you are on the crest of the wave, don't spoil your success by a fit of the sulks."
Then she laughed again, and shook her fan of soft white feathers at him, and fluttered off to a sedate elephant, whose thin cheeks and eagle eyes beneath the grotesque head-gear, betrayed him to be a certain State minister, whose word was law, whose smile power.
"Such a foolish boy I never saw," cooed the Countess Vera in the statesman's ear, "as that Ivor Tolskoi. Not contented with ruining Vladimir Mellikoff, and winning the lady of his affections, he mopes because, forsooth, she is not here to illustrate his triumph. Youth is very hard and illogical, monsieur; it takes older heads and hearts to be merciful." And the little Countess sighed profoundly.
"Ah," she said, suddenly, "my heart is all in tune with the fallen Mellikoff. I wonder, monsieur, what is to be the nature of his punishment, and what his—destination?"
But the wary minister was not to be caught even by Vera's casuistry.
"Punishment is so entirely a relative matter," he replied. "I, for instance, can imagine no severer sentence, no more desolate outlook than to be shut away for ever from the light and sweetness of the Countess Vera's presence."
"A thousand thanks," she answered quickly. "I appreciate your chivalry, monsieur; but when one adds the mines, or a casemate in Petropavlovsk, to the lesser evil—what then?"
"Neither are to be desired, madame," he replied, gravely, "and neither can ever come within the experience of the Countess Vera. The mines, and Petropavlovsk, are for those who betray, or mock at, Russia; not for loyal subjects of his Majesty."
"Loyalty is such a very big word," sighed the Countess flippantly; and then she flew away with a laughing gesture. But to herself she said:
"I know your destination now, my poor friend. I back a woman's wits against a statesman's imperturbability. Alas! poor Vladimir!"
It was as the Countess Vera had said. Ivor Tolskoi had triumphed beyond his most sanguine hopes. Olga was now his formally betrothed bride, and the marriage day was in the immediate future.
With the arrest of Adèle Lallovich in Petersburg, came the downfall of Mellikoff's mission, and the ruin of all his cleverly-laid schemes. He would reach Russia only to find his disgrace had preceded him, and only to find distrust and displeasure on every side. He too well knew the nature of Russia's resentment, to strive to stem the current that set so steadily against him.
It was worse than useless to expect such a thing as justice, at the hands of the Chancellerie, or to look for condonement from the Council.
He had not only failed, but he had bungled, and in so doing had opened the flood-gates of public opinion upon the Imperial policy. Russia never forgave inefficiency, still less inefficiency that brought ridicule in its wake. He knew this, and he knew also that his disgrace was imminent. Still he clung to Patouchki, to his belief in the chief's calm equipoise of judgment. He could endure a public expression of disgrace, if only Patouchki absolved him from intentional failure.
And then, too, was not Olga awaiting him? He had done nothing to alienate her love; she stood far above and beyond the lesser prejudices of political intrigue and jealousy. He was still her lover. What mattered anything so long as he had Olga to cling to; Olga's love and trust for his haven of refuge? He would marry her at once, and take her away, out of the fœtid artificial air of Petersburg, out of the network of personal envy and political stratagem, to those wide, far-reaching estates on the Balkan frontier, and there they would be free and untrammelled, removed from the narrow suspicions and cruel dogmatism of the Court.
And so planning, hoping, believing, Vladimir Mellikoff turned his face towards Petersburg. He lingered on his homeward journey, hoping against hope at each halt to receive more pacific communications from the Chancellerie; and thus when at last he reached the Russian capital, the first month of the long Muscovite winter was already on the wane. He drove to his lonely palace on the Neva, where the dark windows and barred doors afforded but a sorry welcome.
It was a dreary home-coming, and Vladimir, as he crossed the threshold and met the cold, damp atmosphere of long-closed and disused rooms, shrank back shuddering. Unsuperstitious though he was, he could not throw off the chill of apprehension which seized him, as he entered the echoing corridor and passed on to a small drawing-room, that served as study and office.
A fire smouldered in the stove, and the curtains were closely drawn, giving a less cheerless aspect to the apartment. A couple of candles in tall silver sticks were lighted on the chimney shelf, and beneath them were arranged the numerous notes and cards of invitation that had accumulated during his absence. Somewhat apart from these lay a small sealed envelope, addressed in a clear, flowing hand.
Vladimir glanced over the notes and cards, holding in his hand the while the huge ticket, covered with a Noah's Ark gallery, by which the Countess Vera had invited her friends to her uniquebal costumé. With a half smile on his lips, called out by the little Countess's vagaries, Vladimir caught sight of the note lying apart by itself, and in a moment his heart told him who was the sender.
"It is from Olga," he murmured passionately, as he took it up and touched it with his lips. "It is from Olga; it is my welcome home."
Then he broke the seal and drew forth the thick, creamy paper; as he did so a slight, subtle perfume floated across the air.
It was a short letter; brief almost to cruelty. But when one deals a death-blow, it is as well to strike swift and sure.
Vladimir read the words through, again and again, without comprehension, without understanding; and then, suddenly, as their meaning struck him, one low and terrible cry burst from him; he flung himself down on his knees, burying his face in his hands. The letter floated slowly from his grasp and fell noiselessly upon the carpet, the distinct careful penmanship plainly visible in the candlelight.
"Vladimir," the lines ran, "I never forgive or forget treachery or failure. You have failed, and you are a traitor. Knowing this, you must also realise that all is over for ever between you and"Olga Naundorff."
"Vladimir," the lines ran, "I never forgive or forget treachery or failure. You have failed, and you are a traitor. Knowing this, you must also realise that all is over for ever between you and
"Olga Naundorff."
That was all. No word of regret, no expression of sorrow, no hint of personal grief and pain.
Simply he had failed: failure was a sin never to be condoned by Mdlle. Naundorff. It was shipwreck utter and entire—shipwreck without a chance or hope of rescue. He knew it, he realised it, as perfectly as though Olga had stood before him in her proud beauty, and spoken the cruel words in her sweet, cold voice.
What was death compared to this agony of loss that overwhelmed him? What was life—oh, God! what could life be without Olga?
How long he knelt there he never knew. The hours crept on long past midnight, the great house was silent as a tomb. Outside, the stars shone in myriad numbers, lighting the cold, dark heavens with thousands of fairy lamps. The snow lay dense and white, stretching miles away, in unbroken masses along the Neva's banks.
Presently the cathedral chimes struck the quarter, and themisererebells followed with their minor chant, "Have mercy upon me, O Lord, have mercy upon me."
As the last note died away Vladimir arose; and with the change of attitude he became aware of a stealthy, muffled sound—a sound that came ever nearer and nearer; and that was neither the sweeping up of the wind, nor the jangle of bells, but a sliding, creaking noise, as of two smooth surfaces in friction.
A low exclamation escaped him, a look of horror crept over his dark face. For a moment he stood as if paralysed, then he moved suddenly, with soft, quick steps, towards one of the heavily-draped windows.
The stealthy, creaking noise had ceased.
He cautiously drew back a corner of the heavy curtain and peered out. All was still and silent; a great field of glistening snow, with the dull swish of the Neva against its banks. Was he mistaken? Had he not heard aright? For a moment the wild beating of his heart threatened to overpower him, then as suddenly it grew still.
Drawn up within the shadow of the deepporte-cochère, standing out black and distinct against the white background, stood a covered droschky; the horses' flanks steaming in the chill air, the lamps carefully shaded. A figure stood beside the vehicle, wrapped in a heavy coat and peaked fur cap; where the folds of the coat opened a gleam of steel was visible.
Vladimir dropped the curtain and came back to the centre of the room.
"It has come," he said in a half whisper. "It is my turn at last. I, who have gloried in Russia's stern vengeance, am I to feel her power now?"
Then his eye caught the open letter on the carpet.
He picked it up, touching it half-tenderly.
"How little it matters to me, now!" he said. "But you, Olga, shall be freed from all reproach, and no one shall ever know that it is through you the heaviest disgrace of all has come upon me. That much I can still spare you."
He looked at the signature she had written with so firm a hand—Olga Naundorff—"Good-bye," he said again, "good-bye."
He pressed his lips to her name, then held the paper in the candle-flame with a steady hand, and watched it burn slowly, slowly.
As the last bit fell from his fingers and fluttered down to the little heap of ashes on the velvet mantel-shelf, the door opened without noise, and two men stepped within the room.
Vladimir turned and faced them. The foremost spoke quietly, and without menace or threat.
"Count Vladimir Mellikoff, you are arrested in the name of the Emperor. Long live the Tsar."
Vladimir bowed, and a smile for one moment passed over his dark face.
"I am ready, gentlemen," he said, and turning, took up his heavy coat and cap of sables.
In the meantime the second intruder had crossed the room, attracted by the faint odour of burnt paper. He fingered the little pile of ashes suspiciously. Again Vladimir smiled.
"A burnt-out passion, monsieur," he said, "a discarded love-letter. That is all; nothing in any way interesting to the Chancellerie—or, its agents."
Then he put on the heavy furred coat and signified his readiness to depart.
A moment later the three dark figures were lost in the shadowy interior of the waiting droschky, and the curious scraping noise of steel runners upon frozen snow began again.
As one of his captors leant forward to give a last instruction to the officer without, a gleam from the shaded lamp fell across the face beneath the high-peaked hat; in it Vladimir recognised the boyish contour and innocent blue eyes of Ivor Tolskoi.
The heavy equipage moved on, and as the hour of dawn struck from the great cathedral clock, and the chimes clashed out triumphantly the liturgical chant, "How glorious is our Lord in Zion," Vladimir Mellikoff stood a prisoner, within a nameless casemate of the impregnable fortress of Petropavlovsk.
It was the 4th of January—the New Year's Day of Russia.
All the morning, from the earliest peep of dawn, the bells had rung clamorously and joyfully; from every public building the blue, red, and white standard floated in the keen breeze; the streets were full of merry-makers, the Boulevard de Cavaliero and the Nevski, were thronged with sight-seers, the little shrine and chapel of St. Nicholas, on the Nicholas Bridge, were buried in lights, evergreen wreaths, and votive offerings; an air of festivity and joyousness pervaded the atmosphere, and even the grim Chancellerie, and Peter's Fortress, crept out of their habitual gloom, under the lavish caresses of the brilliant sunshine.
The old year was dead—dead and buried—with all its weight of sin and failure; of wrongs unrighted, of crimes unavenged, of evils unremedied. Let it go, let it go! "Ring out the false, ring in the true!" Welcome this jocund New Year, this youngster, with the rosy cheeks and sturdy limbs, this herald of a newrégime, this hopeful progeny of a decrepit past!
It wanted but half an hour to mid-day, and already the approaches to St. Isaac's Church were thronged by a numerous and ever increasing crowd. The eight grand entrances were all thrown open; down the wide central granite steps a rich carpet was spread, and up this crimson pathway passed a continuous stream of guests, the bright costumes of the ladies mingling with the uniforms, Court dress, and plainer citizen habiliments of the sterner sex, until one and all became submerged and impersonal in the greater glory of the grand cathedral's gorgeous interior.
A line of the Petersburg Grenadiers, in their sombre green uniform, were drawn up on either side of the central approach, while behind them were grouped a guard of honour of the Caucasus Cossacks, their long scarlet tunics adding picturesque vividness to the scene. All that was best and brightest, most distinguished and most renowned, of the great Tsar's Court was represented within St. Isaac's, on that winter morning, and nothing could exceed the brilliancy and vivacity of the scene.
For not only was it the festa of the gay New Year, but it was also the marriage day of Olga Naundorff, and the religious function was to be celebrated with Royal splendour and pomp, honoured by the presence of the Tsar and Tsarina, who took this occasion to testify their friendship for the beautiful orphan, whose father had laid down his life in the service of Russia.
And now excitement reached the highest pitch, for the Imperialcortègewas in sight, each equipage drawn by four black horses, mounted by postillions, and accompanied by outriders. The Tsarina, looking fair and fresh and young, bowed her acknowledgments to right and left, smiling as she did so, while the Grand Duchess Xenia laughed girlishly at the sparkling pageant. And now Alexander himself appeared, the great Tsar of all the Russias, wearing his favourite crimson kaftan, and saluting courteously in response to the old patriotic cry, as it echoed again and again: "Health we wish your Imperial Majesty! Long live the Tsar!"
But the greatest and final burst of enthusiasm was reserved for Olga. When she appeared—stepping down from the royal equipage, her white draperies sweeping behind her, a cloak of regal ermine wrapped about her neck and shoulders, from which her proud, beautiful face arose as cold and white as the surrounding snow, crowned by the shining masses of her golden-tinted hair, in which the Imperial gift of diamonds shone resplendent—a hush of admiration held the onlookers for one brief second; then, as she passed up the crimson foot-path, a deep low murmur burst forth, growing in strength and enthusiasm, until, as the great portal received her, it broke all bounds and ended in a prolonged and hearty cheer.
Within St. Isaac's all was hushed and reverent, though gorgeous and magnificent in its adornments. The lights from the eight great candelabra threw their beams on the golds and purples, the reds and blues of the mosaic decorations, and flashed forth in myriad reflections from the jewels that gleamed and sparkled in the costumes of the Court ladies.
The ceremonial was of the grandest; the Metropolitan, vested in cloth of gold, entered by the central door and was met by a procession of priests, who walked before him to the great altar, where the eight massive malachite columns, and priceless lapis-lazuli shafts, separated "the holy of holies" from the body of the cathedral. The trained voices of the Imperial choir rose and fell in regular cadences, unsupported by instruments of any kind, but perfect in harmony and unison. The bells chimed at intervals, while the worshippers, as they fell upon their knees, repeated again and again the symbol of the cross on forehead and breast.
And so it was that Olga Naundorff became the wife of Ivor Tolskoi.
Sanctioned by the most solemn ritual of her faith, surrounded by the highest nobility of her land; loved, admired, feared, and envied, Olga, the beloved of Vladimir Mellikoff, pledged her vows to Ivor Tolskoi; and shuddered even as she did so, at the light of triumph that flashed in his bold blue eyes, when, as her husband, he bent his head, and for the first time pressed a kiss upon her proud lips.
She had made her choice. But, after all, was it a wise one? Could she be sure of ruling this lover, who had now become her husband? Despite theinsoucianceof his boyish face, despite the frank boldness of his blue eyes and innocent smile, was he not destined to be the master, she the slave? Already she could feel the iron hand beneath the velvet glove, already she descried the touch of cruelty beneath his gayest smile, the echo of tyranny beneath his fondest caress.
Alas, poor Olga! If the dawn of her marriage morning was marred by such fore-bodings, what were its noontide and evening likely to prove?
We may not follow her so far into the future; and even if we dared, it were wisest to draw the curtain close about that ruined life, and not seek to pry into its wretchedness. A woman scorned is of all beings the most desolate, so Vladimir Mellikoff had said, little thinking that his prophecy was one day to come true of his passionately-loved Olga. Let us refrain from gazing on her in her hour of despair.
There is no fairer woman to-day, in all Russia, than Olga Tolskoi; one more envied and feared, nor one more hopeless and beyond hope. Like her Imperial ancestress, she has forsaken the good for the evil; and, in giving rein to the lower passions of her nature, has lost for ever the power of repentance and contrition. She who once ruled supreme, is now the neglected wife of a husband who is one in name only, and whose indignities have long since reached the climax of insult.
Ivor has risen higher and higher on the wave of success. He holds a foremost place in the Imperial Councils, he is esteemed and feared in the Chancellerie, bowed down to and fawned upon at Court. Only within the privacy of his own household is his true character known; only there does he lay aside the mask of hypocrisy, and let loose the passions of cruelty and oppression; only there does he give rein to the bitter joke and cutting mockery, which are all that remain of the once humble wooing and suppliant entreaty.
And Olga, knowing how he has deceived her, finding out too late by what cunning subterfuge he turned suspicion upon Vladimir Mellikoff, and thus won from her the only free gift a woman has to bestow—herself—hates him, with an ever increasing hatred and loathing, that drives her to the wildest deeds of imprudent folly.
And so the baser nature within her triumphs, and the better nature dies; crushed out by passions too consuming to bear contradiction. Alas, poor Olga! So to her has come the lesson, that not even the fairest charms of woman's beauty and purity can bind the constancy of one, who, knowing his legal rights secure, scorns to keep them intact, and throws fidelity to the winds in the indulgence of the moment.
Well may the old despairing cry break from her in her splendour and loneliness, as she thinks of the time when Vladimir loved her, and her faith and trust in him were still unbroken:
"Eheu fugaces! Postume, Postume!Oh, for the days that are lost to me, lost to me!"
Brilliant indeed was the scene within the Onyx Hall, of the Winter Palace, on that New Year's night, the morning of which had seen the completion of Ivor Tolskoi's highest hopes. The bride and her husband were already far on their way towards those vast possessions on the Ural frontier, of which Ivor was so justly proud; but the time-honoured ceremonies of the festa were no less gay and joyous because shorn of Olga's fair presence.
The great Onyx Hall was filled with guests, awaiting the magic signal, gathered together in groups, chatting, laughing, intriguing, while ever nearer and nearer the hands on the dial of the large gold incrusted clock, standing at one end of the apartment, crept on to the hour of midnight. Suddenly a single stroke from the great bells of Isaac's Church, rang out, and a hush fell upon the waiting assembly; the clock chimed deep and full—twelve slow notes, whose dying echoes were caught up and thundered back by twelve salutes from the guns of Petropavlovsk, broken here and there by the triumphant strains, "How glorious is our Lord in Zion!" And as these died away the cathedral chimes broke forth in resonant glad music.
Simultaneously the folding doors at the top of the great hall were thrown open, and the Tsar entered, with the Empress leaning on his arm, and followed by the Imperial family. Passing down between the double lines of the Preobrashensky Grenadiers, and the Semenoffskoie Guards, drawn up on either side, his Majesty walked up to the chief actor in this brilliant pageant, and, halting before the tiny figure of the smallest cadet in the Russian army, dressed in the historical uniform of the Emperor Paul's Grenadiers, bent down over the mimic warrior and bestowed upon him the kiss of peace.
At this mark of kindly condescension the trumpets burst forth in a grand flourish, the bands struck up the spirited national air, and all the guests cried out with one accord:
"Many years to the Tsar! Health we wish your Imperial Majesty!"
And thus the first day of the New Year sinks to rest, crowned by the old but ever fresh benison, "Peace on earth, to men of good will."
With the departure of their Majesties the tongues of the guests were once more let loose, and the little Countess Vera, flitting across the wide hall, stops long enough beside the grave keen-eyed State minister, who in the guise of an elephant had graced her costume ball, to say, in a half whisper, and with a mocking smile:
"Well, monsieur, and were you present at the famous marriage function this morning? Was ever man so lucky asce cherIvor?—if it be luck to win so cold and cheerless a bride as Olga Naundorff. For my part, I could think of no one save that unfortunate Vladimir, whose shrift I hear is to be short enough. No trial for him, poor soul! He has played his game but ill, and we know, monsieur, you and I, what fate awaits one who has played to win for the Chancellerie and—lost. It's a dreary march to Siberia, even in the best of company; what must it be then when one's companion is a murderer by confession?Hélas, poor Vladimir, you should not have failed; for to failure Patouchki is implacable, and for failure Russia can punish silently and surely. And so ends the farce, monsieur, or was it tragedy? But let me whisper one word—let him laugh loudest who wins last. There are evil days in store for Ivor, or I am no true prophet; and for his bride? Bah! she will get but what she deserves; I will leave her fate in the hands of the gods, whose mills, we are told, 'grind slowly, but with justice grind they all.' And, after all, her beauty will not last.Sans adieu, monsieur, à tantôt."
Then with another laugh the little Countess flew away, and was lost in the undulations of the crowd.
A second day's journey had begun for Ivor and his bride; the afternoon was already closing down upon them, as they halted at a small post-house where a relay of fresh horses awaited them. Ivor sprang out, glad to exercise his cramped limbs and light a cigarette; but Olga remained within the sleigh, buried in her costly wraps of fur.
There was some little delay, and as she sat alone, half lost in a retrospective dream, she was suddenly aroused by the dull clank of arms and the regular tread of marching feet. Leaning forward she looked out, and saw coming towards her a party of men and women, who trod wearily, with downcast heads, and hopeless hanging hands, and whose every step was accompanied by the monotonous clank of steel chains. As she gazed upon them she realised their situation and their destiny. They were Russian criminals, arrested by Russian law, on their way to Siberia and the mines.
Instinctively she drew back, shivering; as she did so the foremost detachment of prisoners came into line with her sleigh. At that moment a halt was called, to enable the officers in charge to refresh themselves at the bar of the post-house.
Once more Olga leant forward; her heart beat rapidly, her breath came quick and short, she clasped her hands together passionately, and as her white face gleamed out from the heavy sables surrounding it, one of the prisoners, he who was nearest to her, lifted his head, and thrust back as well as he could with his manacled hand, the peaked hat that shaded his forehead.
As he did so he turned his head slowly towards her, and in the dark haggard face, the burning feverish eyes, Olga beheld the countenance of Vladimir Mellikoff!
Fascinated, she gazed upon it, her own face blanched, her eyes wild with horror. She tried to speak, to call out, to break the cruel band of silence that held her as in a vice. It was useless. No words would come, no sound, no cry.
And as she thus looked upon him, a sudden light of recognition sprang to life within his eyes. He bent forward, holding her gaze with his; studying each curve and line of that fair, beautiful countenance, noting each golden curl where the hair lay about her neck and upon her brow, reading each fleeting expression of the proud lips, and deep blue eyes. And as he thus held her spell-bound, a smile passed over his worn face, a smile so pitying and accusing that Olga shuddered and drew closer her rich wraps, as if to ward off the cruelty of its tenderness.
For full a moment they looked thus upon one another, without word or gesture of recognition. Then the order came for the march to recommence, and Vladimir, with a single upward movement of his manacled hand, bade her an immutable farewell.
As he did so the figure next to him was drawn forward by the heavy chain that linked them together, and thus turned upon her companion in exile a face so beautiful, despite the marks passion and suffering had stamped upon it, that again Olga started, and drew back instinctively.
It was the face of Adèle Lamien, the murderer of Count Stevan Lallovich.
In another moment the exiles were in full march, and Olga, straining her eyes to the utmost, could see nothing save an indistinct moving mass against the miles of far-stretching snow; which even as she watched was lost in the evening shadows that crept up with silent but resistless steps.
It was a farewell from out eternity.
Truly Ivor Tolskoi's vengeance was complete, when Patouchki's cruel sentence was carried out to the letter, and Vladimir Mellikoff, linked to Adèle Lallovich, passed onward to that desolate Gehenna—Siberian exile.
For Russia never forgets, and Russia never forgives.
It was a golden day in the golden month of October, when Philip Tremain stepped down from the railway train, and stood, a solitary traveller, upon the platform of the open station at Beetons, high up among the rolling "white hills" of New Hampshire.
An open waggon, drawn by four sturdy mountain ponies, was in waiting beside the rustic platform, and into this he sprang; the driver cracked his long whip, accompanying it by a shrill whistle, and off the willing little creatures started.
Up the steep winding roads and down again they went at a swift, even gallop, while Mr. Tremain, with a sudden recollection of Mrs. Newbold's park ponies and irreproachable basket phaeton, laughed aloud at the dissimilarity between them and his present primitive conveyance, and at the contrast of the solemn hills, and long wooded slopes, with the suburban and ornamental prettiness that environed the Folly.
All before him stretched the grand White Mountain range, from Jefferson's and Madison's verdure-tipped sides, to Washington's rocky cliffs and snow-crowned peak. On every side the richest glory prevailed; scarlet and crimson of the sugar maple, gold and amber of beech and birch, russet brown of oak, and sombre green of hemlock. A keen pine-scented breeze swept past him, swaying the tall golden-rod and blue asters, and shaking out the bitter-sweet perfume from the purple gentian where it grew far up the mountain side.
The road wound on, up and up, growing steeper and steeper with each mile, fringed on either side by tall ferns, grasses, and brown bracken, and starred with late yellow-and-white ox-eyed daisies. To his right the steep mountains rose far above his head, to his left the beautiful "wild Ammonoouc" leapt from stone to stone, and dashed into rivulets against the lichen-covered boulders, breaking over them in creamy foam.
Once Philip bade his charioteer stop, and climbing down over the high-sided vehicle, he gathered a nosegay of the wild, white daisies, adding a maple and beech leaf as a set-off to the pure petals. Then, with a smile upon his lips, he took his place beside the taciturn Jehu, and on they went again, with the same long swinging gallop.
As the last roseate glow of sunshine was lighting up the western heavens, and the great Phœbus was sinking to rest in the arms of grey and violet clouds, they came upon a long low house, built far out on a projecting spur of rock, which seemed to hang 'twixt earth and sky, and looked as if a stiff north-easter would make short work of its walls and foundations. This house was painted a dull venetian red, and was covered with creepers and wild vines, and brilliant with rows of scarlet geraniums marking each casement.
It glowed like some bird of tropical plumage, alighted suddenly upon the cooler neutral tints of this northern land.
And this was the home of Patricia Hildreth.
Door and window stood open wide, and Philip's impatient feet carried him over the threshold into the dainty atmosphere of Patricia's drawing-room. And what a paradise it was to his hungry eyes! And how redolent of her!
Flowers, birds, books, an open piano, and through the windows such a view of mountain towering above mountain, all transfigured and etherealised by the magic touch of the dying sun-god. Ah, it was good to be here, it was good to breathe this free, keen air; it was good to stand within her home, to think how soon, how very soon, he should look upon her face, and read within her deep blue eyes the secret hidden there for ten long years.
The sunlight blinded him, the birds' song dulled his hearing, the perfume of the flowers steeped his senses; he was lost in a day-dream of ecstatic bliss.
And did he still dream, or was this reality? This graceful, bending figure, whose hands flashed in and out among the piano's ivory keys, awaking the music of a plaintive strain, that, as it grew into melody, became so strangely familiar?
It was no surprise to hear it, and still less was it a surprise to find the melody take shape in words, falling across the refrain, half chanted, half spoken as they were.
"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!"
"Patty, my little Patty! Oh, my darling, I have found you at last, I shall never let you go from me again."
"And have you forgiven me, Philip?" she asked, some long minutes after. "Have you forgiven me my selfishness, and wilfulness, and deception? I sometimes think I can never forgive myself."
He framed the beautiful face in both his hands, and feasted his eyes upon it.
"Forgive you, my darling! Forgiveness is not necessary between us now. We have found our love, Patty, after ten long years of loss; thank God, my darling, we have not found it too late."
And to them both it seemed, that a little of the joy and beatitude of heaven had come down to them on the golden sunset clouds.
"And so it was you, Patty," Philip says again, "who sang that very song that evening—how long ago it seems, dear—at the Folly; and it was your presence and your personality that influenced me so strongly, that drew me to you as Adèle Lamien, and yet that perplexed and troubled and almost frightened me?"
"Yes, Philip, it was I," she answered. "And, do you know, through all my trickery and deceiving, it gave me keen delight to see how truly you did love me; for, after all, Philip, even as Adèle Lamien, when I won your half avowal of love, I was scarcely treacherous, because it could be no treachery for Patty, to win you from—Patricia Hildreth."
It was specious reasoning mayhap, but it served.
It was Miss Hildreth's old mocking laugh that next broke the silence, and Miss Hildreth's most tantalising voice that said:
"Ah, but Philip, there is one thing more that lies between us. Do you remember a certain evening ten years ago, when an angry lover parted from his fickle sweetheart? And do you remember his words when she begged for one little good-bye token? 'When I can think of you, look at you, speak of you as other men do; when all my love is dead; ask me then, Patricia.'"
"And do you ask me?" he cried, a little of the old masterful ring in his voice. "Nay, Patty, do not ask me, for that supposes it possible for me to refuse you. My dearest, let me rather plead from you."
And there was that within her eyes that gave him leave to gather her close into his arms, and bending down to lay his lips on hers.
And so, after ten years, the kiss was given and taken.
THE END.
CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.