CHAPTER VII. A ROMANCE OF THE STEPPE.

Our final glasses had been clinked; Mademoiselle had crossed herself devoutly before the ikon hanging over the door of the dingy old post-house at Uziansk, at the foot of the Ourals; and in a few moments our sleigh-bells were jingling merrily, and our runners hissing over the frozen snow, as the pretty Russian and myself sped along in the bright moonlight on our journey of over two thousand miles into Siberia. I was on my way to the little town of Lebiázhia, on a secret mission, and was travelling, as usual, with a false passport.

At the last moment I had been asked by my old friend, Paul Cherniávski, lieutenant in the Tzar’s Dragoons, to allow a friend of his to travel with me to Irkutsk; and having consented, I had discovered, to my surprise, that his friend—who was introduced to me only a quarter of an hour before as Mademoiselle Mariána Néstoff—was an exceedingly handsome, dark-eyed young lady of about twenty-two.

Who she was I had no idea, and Paul did not enlighten me. He was the best of good fellows, but in Petersburg he had always had a reputation among the fair sex; and one or two of his little affairs of the heart had afforded subjects for gossip, notably the coupling of his name with that of La Belle Estelle—a little French circus-rider, about whom he fought a duel.

But our adieux had been said; he had grumbled at being quartered in that out-of-the-world village; and soon my fair charge and I were out upon the open, snow-covered steppe, where the telegraph poles and verst-posts ran in a long black line to the horizon; and for a couple of hours the horses, eager for a spin, galloped steadily, taking us along swift as the wind.

“Why are you going to Irkutsk?” I asked, after chatting for a long time with my pretty travelling companion, who, under her rich furs, had nestled warmly at my side, and was smoking a cigarette.

“You will pardon me, M’sieur, if I do not answer that question,” she replied in musical French, moving uneasily. Then she whispered into my ear, “It—it is a secret!”

We were silent. I drew up the collar of my heavy coat and sat silent and puzzled; while upon my fair companion the rhythmic jingle of the bells and gliding motion of the sleigh must have had a soothing effect, for very soon she closed her great lustrous eyes, and her head gradually pillowed itself upon my shoulder. She fell fast asleep, and I drew her soft otter hood across her white cheek to prevent frost-bite.

She was evidently tired out, for through the long night she slept soundly, now and then murmuring low words that I could not catch. Her beauty had enchanted me; the mystery surrounding her added to the intense interest I felt in her. Even when, cramped by remaining in the same position so as to allow her head to rest comfortably, my arm stole gently around her waist and drew her towards me, she did not wake. Indeed, she remained oblivious to her surroundings until, just as the wintry dawn was spreading, Ivan, our driver, pulled up at the post-house of the little village of Rytsaieva, having accomplished our first stage.

Then, on opening her eyes and finding herself in my embrace, she blushed deeply, apologised for being such an uninteresting companion, and, shivering, alighted and entered the small log-built house.

During that day and the following night we remained at the post-house. Then each day passed much as its predecessor. While the light lasted we sped onward, putting up each night at the wretchedly dirty post-houses, at last crossing the frontier at Zverinogolovsk and entering that dreaded prison-land, Siberia. Gaining the Great Post-Road, we continued upon it day after day, week after week, over the barren snow-covered country through Ishim, Omsk, and Kolivan, until we reached Tomsk, one thousand miles from our starting-point. Mariána was an enigma, and, even before we had been companions a week, I found myself admiring her. Yet the mystery surrounding her was most tantalising. Though apparently a provincial, she spoke of people in the highest circle in Petersburg in a manner which showed them to be intimate friends, for many of the people about whom she gossiped so pleasantly were my own acquaintances.

At times I was inclined to regard her as a pure-minded girl whose safety had been entrusted to me by Paul; yet, when I remembered that his life had been one of joys without sorrow and loves without a morrow, I felt more inclined to suspect her to be a handsome adventuress.

Time after time we passed convicts dragging their leg-irons onward; men and women with hope left far beyond the Ourals, and with looks of unutterable despair upon their care-lined brows, were trudging wearily through the snow with footsteps hastened by the terrible knout wielded by fierce, brutal Cossacks.

Mariána, as she gazed with pitying looks at the miserable, smileless bands, would sigh heavily and lapse into deep thought. Once only when, just as we were passing, a Cossack’s whip fell heavily upon the shoulders of a young woman who seemed very weak and ill, the sight moved her to angrily declare that the Russian penal code was a blot on the progress of modern civilisation.

“Such thoughts are best left unuttered here, Mademoiselle,” I said. “To recklessly criticise his Majesty’s actions is a serious matter.”

“I care nothing for that,” she answered defiantly. “If you knew half as much of the injustice, the bribery, and corruption that exist all over the empire as I do, you would find it difficult to restrain your tongue.”

She spoke earnestly in French, so that Ivan, the driver, could not understand; and the vehemence of her words showed her to be suffering from some injustice. I was amazed at her violent denunciation. Suddenly a thought occurred to me, and bending, I whispered into her ear.

“So Mademoiselle is a Nihilist?”

She started, turning pale. With trembling fingers she clutched my arm and gasped—

“Who—who told you? Have I betrayed my secret?”

“Words are an index to one’s convictions,” I replied briefly, smiling. “Now that I know that you are working for the Cause, surely I may know why you are going to Irkutsk.”

“Ah,” she cried, terribly agitated. “Do not let us discuss it. The driver may understand, and—and it would mean death!”

“Your secret is quite safe with me, Mariána,” I said, reassuringly, taking her gloved hand in mine, and I uttered one word that gave her confidence.

“I—I do trust you,” she replied, in a low, faltering voice. “Ah! You do not know my past!” And her breast heaved and fell in a long, deep-drawn sigh.

“May I not know it? Are the recollections so very bitter?”

“Bitter!” she cried. “It is a story of wretched duplicity and dishonour. If you knew all you would hate me; therefore it is best that I should keep my secret hidden, and when we part you will perhaps sometimes remember me with kindly thoughts.”

“But tell me one thing,” I demanded anxiously. “Is Paul Cherniávski your protector?”

She held her breath, and as she looked at me I saw tears welling in her bright eyes.

“Yes,” she faltered. “He—he is my only friend.”

The silence that ensued was long and painful. The truth, as far as it went, was out, and I felt angry with myself.

That night, having halted at the lonely post-house of Artinsk, we sat in the uncleanly common-room, and Mariána, as usual, served tea to Ivan and myself from the samovar. As she handed the driver his cup I noticed that his hand trembled and he looked at her with a strange, almost demoniacal expression of hatred. In a moment, however, it had passed; yet throughout the evening, while Mariána and I smoked our cigarettes and chatted to the old post-house keeper and his wife, the sole occupants, I pondered over it, and at night little sleep came to my eyes.

Was there some secret between them, or had he understood Mariána’s confession?

Rising early, I went out into the clear, crisp air to smoke and think. It was a lonely place, sixty miles to the nearest village. When I returned I found the post-house keeper speechless with terror, and at once apprehended that some strange event had occurred. Judge my amazement and horror, however, when he half dragged me to a room where I saw Ivan, the driver, lying upon his truckle bed fully dressed. He had been stabbed to the heart!

Mariána, who came from her room a moment later, was horrified, though she declared that she was too much upset to enter to view the murdered man’s corpse. Pale, nervous, and haggard, she whispered in French a wish to get away as quickly as possible, and so agitated did she become when I announced my intention of going on to Irkutsk, four hundred versts distant, to inform the police, that suspicions were at once aroused in my mind.

I noticed, too, a deep scratch across her delicate wrist. How did she get it? Her actions were strange, and she was so anxious to get away from the scene of the crime that I at last became convinced of her guilt.

My fair travelling companion was a murderess!

We arrived in the Siberian city of Irkutsk one afternoon in December, and took tea at the post-house. Before we had finished our meal Mariána, who, though very pale, looked undeniably beautiful in a dress richly trimmed with otter, suddenly disappeared.

“Has any one seen the lady who arrived with me?” I asked presently of the men who were warming themselves around the stove.

“Yes,” replied a man who had just entered, and was shaking the snow from his sheepskin. “I saw her entering the Governor’s Palace.” Then he added, with a wink, “His Excellency has an eye for feminine beauty—he has.”

I waited for no more. Struggling into my shuba, I crammed my cap on my head and hurried to the Palace, only a few hundred yards away. Of the sentry at the gate I learned that a lady had called upon his Excellency, and been admitted. After a short conversation with a flunkey, the man pocketed one hundred roubles as a bribe, and I was conducted through the great handsomely-furnished residence of the representative of the Tzar, and shown into a small anteroom, shut off from another apartment by heavy plush curtains.

As I entered I heard voices in the adjoining room.

“So you have come, my little one,” a man’s gruff voice exclaimed.

“Yes—at last,” was the reply. The words were Mariána’s.

Peeping through the curtains I found I could observe all that went on in the luxuriant gaudy apartment. Before the glowing fire a tall, elderly man, in the white uniform of the Imperial Guard, with his breast covered with orders, was standing; and near him Mariána, pale, erect and queenly.

“I have come, General Korolénko, to free myself from the hateful toils you cast about me three years ago, when you were Chief of the Third Section of Police in Petersburg,” she said, regarding him steadily. “I was a Nihilist, and you, taking advantage of my youth and inexperience, gave me a choice of alternatives. You ordered me to the mines, and then gave me a chance of regaining my liberty and of saving my brother’s honour by becoming one of your contemptible spies. I agreed. For three years I have been your puppet. I have acted my ignominious, dishonourable part in Petersburg society, and been the means of sending dozens of unoffending persons to their terrible doom—to rot in the dungeons under the Neva, or toil in the dark silver mines of the Trans-Baikal—while you, the ex-Chief of Secret Police, live here in luxury and pose before your Imperial Master as the great detector of conspiracies!”

“And what of that?” he cried angrily. “Is my conduct to be criticised by a mere chit of a girl? Remember, you are an agent of the Third Section charged with the protection of the person of his Majesty, and as such you will remain. If not, recollect you are now in Siberia, and I have merely to sign this order here and you will go to hard labour at the mines for the remainder of your life, where my Cossacks will soon teach you obedience. So go, jade, and don’t let me hear or see any more of you,” and he stretched forth his hand to ring the bell.

“Hear me out!” she cried hoarsely. “I intend to change my despicable mode of life. I tell you that you must sign this paper releasing me from our secret compact and give me complete immunity from arrest,” and she drew a paper from her breast. “Otherwise I shall take——”

“Oh! You use threats—eh? Well, my dear, and what can you do, pray?” he asked with a sneer.

“Once you held me in your power,” she continued angrily. “Now the tables are turned. Refuse, and I shall send to his Majesty proofs, together with the signed confession, of the miserable coward who in Petersburg one night struck Marie Smirnitskaya dead!”

The General started, and his face blanched.

“How—how do you know?” he gasped.

“The confession is signed by you! Perhaps you forget that we, the Nihilists, tracked you down, compelled you to confess, and spared your life in consequence. Besides, have I not had another instance of your murderous villainy only last week at Artinsk, where one of your hired assassins brutally did our driver, Ivan, to death, because he knew the identity of the murderer of Marie Smirnitskaya!”

“You—you lie!” he cried, livid with rage. “You—you would wreck my life, and bring me to the mines! But, diable, you shall not!” he hissed, drawing a revolver and advancing towards her. “You—you too shall die!”

In a second I parted the curtains and sprang upon him. I was not a moment too soon, for he fired, and the bullet sped over Mariána’s head, smashing one of the great mirrors.

Wrenching the weapon from his grasp, I covered him.

“The safety of this lady has been entrusted to me, sir,” I said. “I have overheard all that has transpired, and as soon as you sign the document we will withdraw. Until then, we shall remain.”

He turned upon me, threatening to have me arrested; but I laughed, informing him that I was an official of the Tzar, holding his Majesty’s personal passport, therefore he had no power to detain me. For nearly half an hour he endeavoured to evade appending his signature, but at last he did so, and we left, Mariána telling him that if she were arrested as a Nihilist her brother would see that his confession was sent immediately to the Tzar.

“Who is your brother?” I asked, at last, as we slowly walked together down the frozen road.

“My brother and protector is your friend, Paul Cherniávski,” she answered.

“Paul—your brother!” I cried, half beside myself with delight. “Then I have no longer any hesitation in asking you to become my wife.”

Before we again entered the bare smoke-blackened post-house she had given her promise.