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CHICAGO AND NEW YORK:
BELFORD, CLARKE AND COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS
(1883?)
It was time to bring our interview to an end. It had lasted so long that the civil captain had more than once peeped in with a significant look on his face, as much as to say there was such a thing as overstepping the limits of even such an authority as I held. I had no desire to protract the conversation with the convict. The object of my long journey had been attained. I had learned all that I could learn. I knew Pauline's history. The crime had been fully confessed. The man with me had no claim upon my consideration. Even had I felt inclined to help him I had no means of so doing. Why should I linger?
But I did linger for a while. The thought that my rising and giving the signal that my business was finished, would immediately consign the prisoner to that loathsome den from which he had emerged, was inexpressively painful to me. Every moment I could keep him with me would be precious to him. Never again would he see the face of a friend or acquaintance.
He had ceased speaking He sat with his head bent forward; his eyes resting on the ground. A tattered, haggard, hopeless wretch; so broken down that one dare not reproach him. I watched him in silence
Presently he spoke: "You can find no excuse for me, Mr. Vaughan?"
"None," I said. "It seems to me there is little to choose between you and your associates."
He rose wearily. "Pauline will recover, you think?"
"I think —— I hope I shall find her almost well on my return."
"You will tell her how you have found me; she may be happier in knowing that Anthony's death has indirectly brought me to this."
I bowed assent to this dreary request.
"I must go back now," he said, with a kind of shiver and dragging his weary limbs slowly toward the door.
In spite of his sins I could not let the wretched being go without a word.
"Stop a moment," l said. "Tell me if there is anything I can do to make your life any easier?"
He smiled faintly. "You may give me money —— a little. I may be able to keep it and buy a few prisoners' luxuries."
I gave him several notes which he secreted on his person.
"Will you have more?" I asked. He shook his head.
"I expect these will be stolen from me before I spend them."
"But is there no way of leaving money with any one for your use?"
"You might leave some with the captain. It may be, if he is kind-hearted and honest, a portion of it may reach me. But even that is doubtful."
I promised to do so, and knew that, whether it reached him or not, I should feel easier for having made the attempt.
"But what will your future be? Where are they taking you, and what will be your life?"
"They are taking us right to the end of Siberia —— to Nertchinsk. There I shall be drafted off with others to work in the mines. We go all the way on foot and in chains."
"What an awful fate!"
Ceneri smiled. "After what I have passed through it is Paradise opening before me. When a man offends against the Russian law his one hope is that he may be sent at once to Siberia. That means going from hell to heaven."
"I do not understand."
"You would if you had lain like me for months, untried and uncondemned. If you had been placed in a cell without light, without air, without room to move. If you heard those next to you screaming in their madness —— madness brought on by solitary confinement and cruel treatment. If every morning as you woke you had said, 'I too shall be an idiot before nightfall.' If you had been frozen, beaten, starved, in order to make you betray your friends. If you had been reduced to such a state that your death warrant would be welcome then, Mr. Vaughan, you would look forward to and long for the gentle rigors of Siberia. I swear to you sir," he continued, with more fire and animation than he had yet displayed, "that if the civilized nations of Europe knew one-tenth part of the horrors and deeds in a Russian prison, they would say, 'guilty or innocent, no human beings shall be tormented like this,' and for the sake of common humanity would sweep the whole accursed government from the face of the earth!"
"But twenty years in the mines! Is there no hope of escaping?"
"Where could I escape to? Look at the map and see where Nertchinsk is. If I escaped I could only wander about the mountains until I died or until some of the savages around killed me. No, Mr. Vaughan, escapes from Siberia only occur in novels."
"Then you must slave until your death?"
"I hope not. I once gathered together much information respecting Siberian convicts, and, to tell you the truth, was rather disgusted to find how incorrect the common opinion is. Now I can only hope my researches showed me the truth."
"The treatment is not so bad, then?"
"It is bad enough, as you are always at the mercy of a petty tyrant. There is no doubt but for a year or two I must slave in the mines. If I survive the toil, which is very unlikely, I may, by finding favor in the ruler's eyes, be released from further work of that description. I may even be allowed to reside at some town and earn my living. I have great hopes that my professional skill may be of use to me. Doctors are scarce in Asiatic Russia."
Little as he deserved it, my heart echoed his wish; but as I looked at him I felt sure there was small chance of his enduring even a year's toil at the mines.
The door opened and the captain once more looked in. He was growing quite impatient. I had no reason for wishing to prolong the conversation, so I told him I should have finished in a moment. He nodded his head and withdrew.
"If there is any thing more I can do let me know," I said, turning to Ceneri.
"There is nothing. Stay! one thing. Macari, that villain —— sooner or later he will get his deserts. I have suffered —— so will he. When that time comes will you try to send me word? It may be difficult to do so, and I have no right to ask the favor. But you have interest, and might get intelligence sent me. If I am not dead by then it will make me happier."
Without waiting for my reply he walked hastily to the door, and with the sentry at his side was marched off to the prison. I followed him.
As the cumbrous lock was being turned he paused. "Farewell, Mr. Vaughan," he said. "If I have wronged you I entreat your pardon. We shall meet no more."
"So far as I am concerned I forgive you freely."
He hesitated a moment and then held out his hand. The door was now open. I could see the throng of repulsive, villainous faces —— the faces of his fellow-prisoners. I could hear the jabber of curiosity and wonder. I could smell the foul odors coming from that reeking den crowded with filthy humanity. And in such a place as this, with such associates, a man of education, culture and refined tastes, was doomed to spend his last days. It was a fearful punishment!
Yet it was well merited. As he stood on the threshold with outstretched hand I felt this. To all intents and purposes the man was a murderer. Much moved as I was by his fate I could not bring myself to grasp his hand. My refusal may have been harsh, but I could not do it.
He saw that I did not respond to his action. A flush of shame passed over his face; he bowed his head and turned away. The soldier took him roughly by the arm and thrust him through the doorway. Then he turned, and his eyes met mine with an expression that haunted me for days. He was gazing thus when the heavy door was shut and hid him from my sight forever.
I turned away sick at heart, perhaps regretting I had added anything to his shame and punishment. I sought my obliging friend, the captain, and received his word of honor that any money I left with him should be expended for the convict's benefit. I placed a considerable sum in his hands, and can only hope that a part of it reached its destination.
Then I found my interpreter, and ordered horses to be at once procured and the tarantass brought out. I would start without a moment's delay for England and Pauline!
In half an hour all was ready. Ivan and I stepped into the carriage; the yemschik flourished his whip; the horses sprang forward; the bells jingled merrily, and away we went in the darkness, commencing the return journey which counted by thousands of miles. It was only now, when burning to find myself home again, that I realized the fearful distance which lay between me and my love.
A turn of the road soon hid the gloomy ostrog from my sight, but it was not until we were miles and miles away that my spirits recovered anything like their former tone, and it was days before I ceased to think, at nearly every moment, of that terrible place in which I had found Ceneri, and to which I saw him again consigned after my business with him was finished.
As this is not a book of travel I will not recapitulate the journey. The weather nearly all the time was favorable, the roads were in good condition. My impatience forced me to travel almost day and night. I spared no expense; my extraordinary passport procured me horses when other travellers were compelled to wait —— my large gratuities made those horses use their best speed. In thirty-five days we drove up to the Hotel Russia at Nijnei Novgorod, with the tarantass in such a dilapidated condition that in all probability another stage would have finished its work in this world. I bestowed it, a free gift, upon my guide, who, I believe, sold it immediately for three rubles.
From Nijnei by rail to Moscow; from Moscow to St. Petersburg. I only tarried in the capital long enough to pay my respects to Lord , and once more thank him for his assistance: then, having collected what luggage I had left there, away for England!
On my road from Irkutsk I found letters from Priscilla at Tomsk, at Tobolsk, and at Perm, also more recently written ones at St. Petersburg. All up to the date of the last was going on well. Priscilla had taken her charge to Devonshire. Having been reared in that country the old woman had a great belief in its virtues. They were at a quiet, but beautiful little watering-place on the north coast, and Priscilla averred that Pauline "was blooming as a rose and seemed as sensible as Master Gilbert himself."
No wonder after hearing this good news I was eager to reach home —— longing, not only to see my wife again, but to see her, as I had never yet seen her, with her mind restored. Would she remember me? How should we meet? Would she at last learn to love me? Were my troubles at an end or only begun? These were the questions which could only be answered when England was reached.
Home at last! How delightful to stand among one's own countrymen, and hear nothing but good intelligible English around one. I am bronzed with exposure to the wind and sun, my beard has grown to a great length; one or two acquaintances I met when I reached London scarcely knew me. In my present trim I could not hope that I should awaken any recollections in Pauline's mind.
By the aid of a razor and fresh apparel I was soon converted to a fairly good semblance of my former self and then, without having apprised even Priscilla of my return, I started for the West, to see what fate had in store for me.
What is a run across England after a man has made such a journey as my recent one? Yet, that pitiful hundred and fifty miles seemed to me as long as a thousand did a month ago. The last few miles I had to go by coach, and, although four splendid horses spun us along, each individual mile seemed as long as a Siberian stage. But the journey was at last ended, and, leaving my luggage in the coach office, I sallied forth, with a beating heart, to find Pauline.
I went to the address given in Priscilla's letter. The house was a quiet little building, nestling on a wooded bank, with a sloping garden in front, full of late summer flowers. Honeysuckles twined round the porch, great sunflowers stared fiercely from the beds, and carnations sweetened the air. As I waited for the door to be opened I had time to approve Priscilla's choice of a resting place.
I inquired for Mrs. Drew. She was not at home —— had gone out with the young lady some time ago, and would not be back until the evening. I turned away and went in search of them.
It was early in autumn, but the leaf showed no signs of fading. Everything was green, fresh and beautiful. The sky was cloudless, and a soft balmy air fanned my cheek. I paused and looked around me before I decided in which direction to go. Far below my feet lay the little fishing village; its houses clustered round the mouth of the noisy, brawling stream which ran down the valley, and leaped joyously into the sea. On either hand were great tors, and behind them inland hills covered with woods, and in front of me stretching away and away was the calm green sea. The scene was fair enough, but I turned away from it. I wanted Pauline.
It seemed to me that on such a day as this the shady woods and the running stream must offer irresistible attractions; so I found my way down the steep hill, and began walking up the riverside, while the merry stream danced past me, throwing its rich brown peat-stained waters into a thousand little cascades as it shot over and foamed round the great boulders which disputed its passage.
I followed its course for about a mile —— now clambering over moss-grown rocks, now wading through ferns, now forcing my way through pliant hazel boughs —— then in an open space on the opposite bank I saw a girl sitting sketching. Her back was toward me, but I knew every turn of that graceful figure well enough to feel sure she was my wife.
If I had needed extra assurance I had but to look at her companion, who sat near her and appeared to be dozing over a book. I should have recognized that shawl of Priscilla's a mile away —— its like has never been known on earth.
Hard as I found it to do so, I resolved not to make my presence known to them. Before I met Pauline I wanted to talk to Priscilla and be guided by her report as to my future method of proceeding. But in spite of my determination I yielded to the temptation of drawing nearer —— from where I stood I could not see her face —— so I crept on inch by inch till I was nearly opposite the sketcher, and, half hidden by the undergrowth, I stood watching her to my heart's content.
There was the hue of health upon her cheek —— there was the appearance of health in every movement, and as she turned and spoke a few words to her companion there was that in her look and in her smile which made my heart bound. The wife I returned to was a different being from the girl I had married.
She turned and looked across the stream. Carried away by my joy I had entirely emerged from my lurking place. With the river between us our eyes met.
She must in some way have remembered me. Were it but as in a dream my face must have seemed familiar to her. She dropped her pencil and sketch-book and sprang to her feet before Priscilla's exclamation of surprise and delight was heard. She stood looking at me as though she expected I would speak or come to her, while the old servant was sending words of welcome across the noisy stream.
Had I wished to retreat, it was now too late. I found a crossing-place and in a minute or two was on the opposite bank.
Pauline had not moved, but Priscilla ran to meet me and almost shook my hands off.
"Does she remember —— does she know me?" I whispered, as I disengaged myself and walked toward my wife.
"Not yet; but she will. I am sure she will, Master Gilbert."
Breathing a prayer that her prophecy might come true, I reached Pauline's side and held out my hand. She took it without hesitation, and raised her dark eyes to mine. How did I refrain from clasping her to my heart!
"Pauline, do you know me?"
She dropped her eyes "Priscilla has talked of you. She tells me you are a friend and that until you came I must be content and ask no questions."
"But do you not remember me? I fancied you knew me just now."
She sighed. "I have seen you in dreams —— strange dreams." As she spoke a bright blush spread over her cheek.
"Tell me the dreams," I said.
"I cannot. I have been ill, very ill, for a long time. I have forgotten much —— everything that happened."
"Shall I tell you?"
"Not now —— not now." she cried eagerly. "Wait, and it may all come back."
Had she an inkling of the truth? Were the dreams she spoke of but the struggles of growing memory? Did that bright ring which was still on her finger suggest to her what had happened? Yes, I would wait and hope.
We walked back together, with Priscilla following at a proper distance. Pauline seemed to accept my society as though it was a perfectly natural thing to do so. When the path grew steep or rugged she held out her hand for mine, as though its support was her right. Yet for a long time she said nothing.
"Where have you come from?" she asked at last.
"From a long, long journey of many thousands of miles."
"Yes; when I saw your face you were always travelling. Did you find what you sought?" she asked eagerly.
"Yes. I found the truth. I know everything."
"Tell me where he is?"
"Where who is?"
"Anthony, my own brother —— the boy they killed. Where is his grave?"
"He is buried by the side of his mother."
"Thank God! I shall be able to pray over him."
She spoke, if excitedly, quite sensibly, but I wondered she was not craving for justice to be meted out to the murderers.
"Do you wish for vengeance on those who killed him?"
"Vengeance! what good can vengeance do? It will not bring him back to life. It happened long ago. When, I know not; but now it seems years ago. God may have avenged him by now."
"He has, in a great measure. One died in prison raving mad; another is in chains, working like a slave; the third, as yet, is unpunished."
"It will come to him, sooner or later. Which is it?"
"Macari."
She shuddered at the name and said no more. Just before we reached the house in which they lodged, she said, softly and beseechingly, ——
"You will take me to Italy —— to his grave?"
I promised, only too glad to find how instinctively she turned to me to prefer the request. She must remember more than she gave herself credit for.
"I will go there," she said, "and see the place, and then we will speak of the past no more."
We were now at the garden gate. I took her hand in mine.
"Pauline," I said, "try —— try to remember me."
A ghost of the old puzzled look came into her eyes; she passed her disengaged hand over her forehead, and then, without a word, turned away and entered the house.
(End of chapter fourteen.)
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