Chapter Eighteen. Shows Hartwig’s Anxiety.

Her Highness’s firm refusal to reveal to me the contents of those letters, the knowledge of which had caused Madame de Rosen and her daughter to be sent to Siberia, while the Grand Duke Nicholas, her father, hid lost his life, disappointed me.

For a full hour I remained there, trying by all means in my power to persuade her to assist me in the overthrow of the fêted Chief of Secret Police.

She would have done so, she declared, were it not for the fact that she had given her solemn word of honour to Marya de Rosen not to divulge anything she knew concerning the contents of those mysterious letters. That compact she held sacred. She had given her faithful promise to her friend.

I pointed out to her the determination she had expressed to me in Petersburg that she intended to reveal to the Emperor his favourite in his true light, and thus avenge the lives of thousands of innocent persons who had died on their way to exile or in the foetid, overcrowded prisons of Moscow, and Tomsk, and the vermin-infested étapes of the Great Post Road.

But in reply she sighed deeply, and, looking straight before her in desperation, declared that she had now no proof; and even if she had, she had not the permission of Marya de Rosen to make the exposure. “It is her secret—her own personal secret,” she said. “I vowed not to reveal it.”

Then for the first time I indicated her own peril. Hitherto I had not wished to alarm her. But I now showed her how it would be to the advantage of the General, cunning, daring and unscrupulous as he was, that some untoward incident should occur by which her life would be sacrificed in his desperate attempt to conceal the truth.

In silence she listened to me, her beautiful face pale and graver than I had ever before seen it. At last she realised the peril.

“Ah!” she sighed, and then, as though speaking to herself, said: “If only I could obtain Marya’s consent to speak—to tell the Emperor the truth! But that is now quite impossible. No letter could ever reach her, and, indeed, we have no idea where she is. She is, alas! as dead to the world as though she were in her grave!” she added sadly.

I reflected for a moment.

“If it were not that I feared lest misfortune might befall you during my absence, Highness, I would at once follow and overtake her.”

“Oh, but the long journey to Siberia! Why, it would take you at least six months! That is quite impossible.”

“Not impossible, Highness,” I responded very gravely. “I am prepared to undertake the journey for your sake—and hers—for the sake of the Emperor.”

“Ah! I know, Uncle Colin, how good you always are to me, but I couldn’t ask you to undertake a winter journey such as that, in search of poor Marya.”

“If I go, will you, on your part, promise me solemnly not to go out on these night escapades? Indeed, it is not judicious of you to walk out at all, unless one or other of the police-agents is in close attendance upon you. One never knows, in these present circumstances, what may happen,” I said. “And as soon as Markoff knows that I have set out for Siberia, he will guess the reason, and endeavour to bring disaster upon both of us, as well as upon the exile herself.”

For some minutes she did not reply. Then she said: “You must not go. It is too dangerous for you—far too dangerous. I will not allow it.”

“If you refuse to reveal Marya’s secret, then I shall go,” was my quiet response. “I shall ask the Emperor to send you Hartwig, to be near you. He will watch over your safety until my return.”

“Ah! his alertness is simply marvellous,” she declared. “Did you read in the London papers last week how cleverly he ran to earth the three men who robbed the Volga Kama Bank in Moscow of a quarter of a million roubles?”

“Yes. I read the account of it. He was twice shot at by the men before they were arrested. But he seems always to lead a charmed life. While he is at your side, I shall certainly entertain no fear.”

“Then you have really decided to go?” she said, looking at me with brows slightly knit. “I cannot tell—I cannot—what I read in those letters after giving my word of honour to Marya.”

“I have decided,” I said briefly.

“I do not like the thought of your going. Something dreadful may happen to you.”

“I shall be wary—never fear,” I assured her with a laugh. “I intend to secure the release of Madame and Luba—to set right an unjust and outrageous wrong. I admire your firm devotion to your friend, but I will bring back to you, I hope, her written permission to speak and reveal the truth.”

Five minutes later I rose, and we descended to the hall, where patient Dmitri was idling over his French newspaper.

Then the weather being fine again, we passed out together into the autumn sunshine of the Lawns, at that hour of the morning agog with well-dressed promenaders and hundreds of pet dogs. And a few moments later we came face to face with Richard Drury, to whom she introduced me as “Mr Colin Trewinnard, my uncle, Mr Drury.” We bowed mutually, and then all three of us strolled on together, though he seemed a little ill at ease in my presence.

I had made a firm resolution. In order to learn the secret of those letters and to place Her Highness, who so honourably refused to break her word, in a position to expose the unscrupulous official who was the real Oppressor of Russia, I intended to set out on that long journey in search of the exile, now, alas! unknown by name, but only by number.

Drury struck me as a rather good fellow, and no doubt a gentleman. We halted together, and, when near the pier, he raised his hat and left us.

Before leaving Brighton I had yet much to do. I was not altogether satisfied concerning the young man, my object being to try and learn for myself something more tangible regarding him.

“Well,” she asked, when he had gone, “what is your verdict, Uncle Colin?”

“Favourable,” I replied, whereat she smiled in gratification.

An hour later I succeeded in obtaining a short confidential chat with the hall-porter of the Royal York Hotel, whom I found quite ready to assist me. As I had suspected, Dmitri had failed and formed utterly wrong conclusions, because of his lack of fluent English. It is always extremely difficult for a foreigner to obtain confidential information in England.

The hall-porter, however, told me that their visitor was well-known to them, and had frequently stayed there for several months at a time. He had, he believed, formerly lived with his invalid mother at Eastbourne. But the lady had died, and he had then gone to live in bachelor chambers in London. From the bureau of the hotel he obtained the address, scribbled on a bit of paper—an address in Albemarle Street, Piccadilly, to which letters were sometimes re-directed.

“And he has a friend—a doctor—hasn’t he?” I asked the man.

“Oh, yes, sir. You mean Doctor Ingram. He was down here with him the other day.”

Having obtained all the information I could, I telegraphed to Hartwig at the Savoy Hotel, asking him to make inquiries at Albemarle Street and then to come to Brighton immediately, for I dared not leave until I could place my little madcap charge in safe hands. I knew not into what mischief she might get so soon as my back was turned.

That afternoon we strolled together across the Lawns, and presently sat down to listen to the military band.

She looked extremely neat in her dead-black gown, which, by its cut and material, bore the unmistakable cachet of the Rue de la Paix, and as we passed up and down I saw many a head turned in her direction in admiration of her remarkable beauty. Little did that crowd of seaside idlers dream that this extremely pretty girl in black who was so much of a mystery to everybody was a member of the great Imperial House of Russia. She was believed to be Miss Gottorp, whose father had been German and her mother English, both of whom were recently dead.

Seeing her so often walking with me, everyone, of course, put me down as the lucky man to whom she was engaged to be married, and I have little doubt that many a young man envied me. How strange is the world!

When in a tantalising mood she often referred to that popular belief, and that afternoon, while we rested upon two of the green chairs set apart from the others on the Lawn, she said:

“I’m quite sure that everybody in Hove is convinced that I am to be Mrs Trewinnard;” and then, referring to her English maid, she added: “Davey has heard it half a dozen times already.”

I laughed merrily, saying:

“Well, that’s only to be expected, I suppose. But what about Drury—eh?”

“They don’t see very much of Dick. We only meet at night,” she laughed, poking the grass with her sunshade.

“And that you really must not do in future,” I said firmly.

“Then I can go about with him in the daytime—eh?” she asked, looking up imploringly into my face.

“My dear child,” I said, “though I do not approve of it, yet how can I debar you from any little flirtation, even though the Emperor would, I know, be extremely angry if it came to his ears?”

“But it won’t. I’m sure it won’t, Uncle Colin, through you. You are such a funny old dear.”

“Well,” I said reluctantly, “for my own part I would much prefer that you invited your gentleman friend to the house, where Miss West could at least play propriety. But only now and then—for recollect one fact always, that you and he can never marry, however fond you may be of each other. It is that one single fact which causes me pain.”

Her hard gaze was fixed upon the broad expanse of blue sea before her. I saw how grave she had suddenly become, and that in her great dark eyes stood unshed tears.

Her chest heaved slowly and fell. She was filled with emotion which she bravely repressed.

“Yes,” she managed to murmur in a low whisper.

“It is too cruel. Because—”

“Because what?” I asked, in a sympathetic voice, bending towards her.

“Ah, don’t ask me, Uncle Colin!” she said bitterly, her welling eyes still fixed blankly upon the sea. “It is cruel because—because I love Dick,” she whispered in open confession.

“My little friend,” I said, “I sympathise with you very deeply. It is, I admit, a very bitter truth which I have been compelled to point out. For that very reason I have been so much against your friendship with young men. Drury is in ignorance of your true identity. He believes you to be plain Miss Gottorp. But when I tell him the truth—”

“Ah, no!” she cried. “You will not tell him—you won’t—will you? Promise me,” she urged. “I must, I know, one day find a way of breaking the bond of love which exists between us. When—when—that—time—comes—then we must part. But he must never know that I have deceived him—he must never know that the reason we cannot be more than mere friends is on account of my Imperial birth. No,” she added bitterly, “even though I love Dick so dearly and he loves me devotedly, I shall be compelled to do something purposely in order that his love for me may die.” Then, sighing deeply, my dainty little companion implored: “You will therefore promise me, Uncle Colin, that you will never—never, under any circumstances, breathe a word to him of who I really am?”

I took her trembling hand for a second and gave her my promise.

I confess I felt the deepest sympathy for her, and told her so frankly and openly as I sat there taking leave of her, for that very evening I intended to leave Brighton and catch the night mail from Charing Cross direct for Moscow.

She said but little, but when we had returned to Brunswick Square and I stood with her at the window of the big drawing-room, she was unable to control her emotions further and burst into a flood of bitter tears.

In tenderness I placed my hand upon her shoulder, endeavouring to console her. Alas! I fear my words were stilted and very unconvincing. What could I say, when all the world over royal birth is a bar to love and happiness, and marriages in Imperial and Royal circles are, for the most part, loveless, unholy unions. The Grand Duchess or the royal Princess loves just as ardently and devotedly as does the free and flirting work-girl or the tea-and-tennis girl of the middle-classes. Alas! however, the heart of the Highness is not her own, but at the disposal of the family council, which discusses her marriage as a purely business proposition, and sells her, too frequently, to the highest bidder.

The poor girl, crushed by the hopeless bitterness of the situation, declared with a sob:

“To be born in the purple, as the outside world calls it, is, alas! to be born to unhappiness.”

I remained there a full half-hour, until she grew calm again. Never in all the years I had known her—ever since she was a girl—had I seen her give way to such a paroxysm of despair. Usually she was so bright, buoyant and light-hearted. But that afternoon she had utterly broken down and been overcome by blank despair.

“You are young, Natalia,” I said, with deep sympathy. “Enjoy your life to-day, and do not endeavour to meet the troubles of the future. As long as you remain here and are known as Miss Gottorp, so long may your friendship with young Drury be maintained. Live for the present—do not anticipate the future.”

I said this because I knew that Time is the greatest healer of broken hearts.

But she only shook her head very sadly, without replying.

The black marble clock on the mantelshelf chimed six, and I recollected that Hartwig had wired that he would meet me at the “Métropole” at that hour. My train was due to leave for London at seven. I had already bidden Miss West adieu. So I took Natalia’s hand, and pressing it warmly, wished her farewell, promising to regularly report by telegraph my progress across Siberia, as far as possible.

She struggled to her feet with an effort, and looking full into my face said in a voice choked by emotion:

“Good-bye, Uncle Colin, I am sorry I cannot betray Marya’s secret. You are doing this in order to save two innocent women from the horrors of a living tomb in the Siberian snows—to demand that justice shall be done. Go. And may God in His great mercy take you under His protection.”

What I replied I can scarcely tell. My heart was too full for words. All I know is that a few moments later I turned out of the great wide square, where the rooks were cawing in the high trees, and hurried along the wide promenade, where the red sun was setting behind me in the sea.

Hartwig I found at the “Métropole” awaiting me. He related how he had called at the flat in Albemarle street, and, by a judicious tip to the young valet he found there, had learnt that Mr Richard Drury was the son of old Sir Richard Drury, knight, the great ship-builder of Greenock, who had built a number of cruisers for the Navy. He was a self-made man, who commenced life as a fitter’s labourer in a ship-builder’s yard up at Craigandoran on the Clyde—a bluff, hearty man whose generosity was well-known throughout the kingdom.

“Young Richard, it seems,” Hartwig went on, “after leaving Oxford became a director of the company, and though apparently leading a life of leisure, yet he takes quite an active part in the direction of the London office of the firm in Westminster.”

He expressed the strongest disapproval when I told him of my intention to leave for Siberia and instructed him to remain there and to take the Grand Duchess under his protection until he received definite orders from the Emperor.

“I certainly don’t like the idea of your going to Siberia alone, Mr Trewinnard,” he declared. “Markoff will know the instant you start, and I fear that—well, that something may happen.”

“It is just as likely to happen here in Brighton, Hartwig, as in Russia,” I replied.

“Well,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “all I advise is that you exercise the very greatest care. Why not take my assistant, Petrakoff? I will give him secret orders to join you at the frontier at Ekaterinburg—and nobody will know. It will be best for you to have company on that long sledge journey.”

“If I want him I will telegraph to you from Petersburg,” was my reply.

“You will want him,” he said, “depend upon it. If you go alone to Siberia, Mr Trewinnard,” he added very earnestly, “then depend upon it you will go to your grave!”