The Price of Power

“Then you are not certain whether, after all, it is an elopement?” asked the Emperor, glancing at him a few moments later. And turning impatiently to me he said in reproach: “I gave her into your hands, Trewinnard. You promised me solemnly to exercise all necessary vigilance in order to prevent a repetition of that affair in Moscow, when the madcap was about to run away to London. Yet you relaxed your vigilance and she has escaped while you have been on your wild-goose chase through Siberia.”

“With greatest respect to your Majesty, I humbly submit that my mission was no wild-goose chase. It concerned a woman’s honour and her liberty,” and I glanced at Markoff’s grey, imperturbable countenance. “But the unfortunate lady was sent to her death – purposely killed by exhaustion and exposure, ere I could reach Yakutsk.”

“She was a dangerous person,” the General snapped, with a smile of sarcasm.

“Yes,” I said in a hard, bitter voice. “She was marked as such upon the list of exiles – and treated as such – treated in a manner that no woman is treated in any other country which calls itself Christian!”

I saw displeasure written upon the Emperor’s face, therefore I apologised for my outburst.

“It ill becomes you, an Englishman, to criticise our penal system, Trewinnard,” the Emperor remarked in quiet rebuke. “And, moreover, we are not discussing it. Madame de Rosen conspired against my life and she is dead. Therefore the question is closed.”

“I believe when Your Majesty comes to ascertain the truth – the actual truth,” I said, glancing meaningly at Markoff, who was then standing before the Sovereign, his hands clasped behind his back, “that you will discover some curious connection between the death of Marya de Rosen in the Yakutsk prison and the disappearance and probable death of Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Natalia.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, staring at me in surprise.

“For answer,” I said, “I must, with great respect, direct Your Majesty to His Excellency General Markoff, who is aware of all that concerns the Imperial family. He probably knows the truth regarding the strange disappearance of the young lady, and what connection it has with Madame de Rosen’s untimely end.”

“I really do not understand you,” cried the renowned chief of Secret Police, drawing himself up suddenly. “What do you infer?”

“His Majesty is anxious to learn the truth,” I said, looking straight into those cunning blue eyes of his. “Your Excellency, a loyal and dutiful subject, will, I trust, now make full revelation of what has really happened during the past twelve months, and what secret tie existed between Her Highness and Marya de Rosen.” His face went white as paper. But only for a single second. He always preserved the most marvellous self-control.

“I do not follow your meaning,” he declared. “Madame de Rosen’s death was surely no concern of mine. Many other politicals have died on their way to the Arctic settlements.”

“You speak in enigmas, Trewinnard. Pray be more explicit,” the Emperor urged.

I could see that my words had suddenly aroused his intense curiosity, although well aware of the antagonism in which I held the dreaded oppressor of Holy Russia.

“I regret, Your Majesty, that I cannot be more explicit,” I said. “His Excellency will reveal the truth – a strange truth. If not, I myself will do so. But not, however, to-day. His Excellency must be afforded an opportunity of explaining circumstances of which he is aware. Therefore I humbly beg to withdraw.”

And I crossed to the door and bowed low.

“As you wish, Trewinnard,” answered the Emperor impatiently, as with a wave of the hand he indicated that my audience was at an end.

So as I backed out, bowing a second time, and while Markoff stood there in statuesque silence, his face livid, I added in a clear voice:

“Ask His Excellency for the truth – the disgraceful truth! He alone knows. Let him find Her Imperial Highness – if he can – if he dare!”

Then I opened the door and made my exit, full of wonder at what might occur when the pair were alone.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Presents another Problem

On returning to Petersburg that evening and entering the Embassy, I found a telegram from Hartwig, summoning me back to London immediately. There were no details, only the words: “Return here at once.” All my letters to the club I had ordered to be sent to him during my absence, so I wondered whether he had received any communication from the missing pair. With the knowledge that any telegrams to me would be copied and sent to the Bureau of Secret Police, he had wisely omitted any reason for my return to London. I sent him, through the Bureau of Detective Police, the message to wire me details to the Esplanade Hotel in Berlin, and at midnight left by the ordinary train for the German frontier.

Four eager anxious days I spent on that never-ending journey between the Neva and the Channel. At Berlin, on calling at the hotel, I received no word from him, only when I entered the St. James’s Club at five o’clock on the afternoon of my arrival at Charing Cross did I find him awaiting me.

“Well,” I asked anxiously, as I entered the square hall of the club, “what news?”

“She’s alive,” he said. “She saw your advertisement and has replied!”

“Thank heaven!” I gasped. “Where is she?”

“Here is the address,” and he drew from his pocket-book a slip of paper, with the words written in Natalia’s own hand: “Miss Stebbing, Glendevon House, Lochearnhead, Perthshire.” And with it he handed the note which had come to the club and which he had opened – a few brief words merely enclosing her address and telling me to exercise the greatest caution in approaching her. “I have been watched by very suspicious persons,” she added, “and so I am in hiding here. When you can come, do so. I am extremely anxious to see you.”

“What do you make of that?” I asked the famous police official.

“That she scented danger and escaped,” he replied. “My first intention was to go up to Scotland to see her, but on reflection I thought, sir, that you might prefer to go alone.”

“I do. I shall leave Euston by the mail to-night and shall be there to-morrow morning. She has, I see assumed another name.”

“Yes, and she has certainly gone to an outlandish spot where no one would have thought of searching for her.”

“Drury suggested it, without a doubt. He knows Scotland so well,” I said.

Therefore yet another night I spent in a sleeping-car between Euston and Perth, eating scones for breakfast in the Station Hotel at the latter place, and leaving an hour later by way of Crieff and St. Fillans, to the beautiful bank of Loch Earn, lying calm and blue in the spring sunshine.

At the farther end of the loch the train halted at the tiny station of Lochearnhead, a small collection of houses at the end of the picturesque little lake, where the green wooded banks sloped to the water’s edge. Quiet, secluded, and far from the bustle of town or city it was. I found a rural little lake-side village, with a post-office and general shop combined, and a few charming old-world cottages inhabited by sturdy, homely Scottish folk.

Of a brown-whiskered shepherd passing near the station I inquired for Glendevon House, whereupon he pointed to a big white country mansion high upon the hill-side, commanding a wide view across the loch and surrounding hills; a house hemmed in by tall firs, fresh in their bright spring green.

A quarter of an hour later, having climbed the winding road leading to it, I entered the long drive flanked by rhododendrons, and was approaching the house when, across the lawn a slim female figure, in a white cotton gown, with a crimson flower in the corsage, came flying toward me, crying:

“Uncle Colin! Uncle Colin! At last!”

And a moment later Natalia wrung my hand warmly, her cheeks flushed with pleasure at our encounter.

“Whatever is the meaning of this latest escapade?” I asked. “You’ve given everybody a pretty fright, I can tell you.”

“I know, Uncle Colin. But you’ll forgive me, won’t you? Say you do,” she urged.

“I can’t before I know what has really happened.”

“Let’s go over to that seat,” she suggested, pointing to a rustic bench set invitingly on the lawn beneath a spreading oak, “and I’ll tell you everything.”

Then as we walked across the lawn she regarded me critically and said: “How thin you are! How very travel-worn you look!”

“Ah!” I sighed. “I’ve been a good many thousand miles since last I saw Your Highness.”

“I know. And how is poor Marya? You found her, of course.”

“Alas!” I said in a low voice, “I did not. My journey was of no avail. She died a few hours before my arrival in Yakutsk!”

“Died in Yakutsk,” she echoed in a hoarse whisper halting and looking at me. “Poor Marya dead! And Luba?”

“Luba is well, but still in prison.”

“Dead!” repeated the girl, speaking to herself, “and so your long winter journey was all in vain!”

“Utterly useless,” I said. “Then, on returning to London a fortnight ago, I learned that you had mysteriously disappeared. I have been back to Petersburg and informed the Emperor.”

“And what did he say? Was he at all anxious?” she asked quickly.

“It is known that Drury has also disappeared, and therefore His Majesty believes that you have fled together.”

“So we did, but it was not an elopement. No, dear old Uncle Colin, you needn’t be horribly scandalised. Mrs Holbrook, the owner of this place, is Dick’s aunt, and he brought me here so that I might hide from my enemies.”

“Then where is he?”

“Staying at the hotel over at St. Fillans, at the other end of the loch, under the name of Gregory. Fortunately his aunt has only recently bought this place, so he has never been here before. She is extremely kind to me.”

“Then you often see Drury – eh?”

“Oh, yes, we spend each day together. Dick comes over by the eleven o’clock train. It is such fun – much better than Brighton.”

“But the London police are searching everywhere for you both,” I said.

“This is a long way from London,” she replied with a bright laugh; “they are not likely to find us, nor are those bitter enemies of ours.”

“What enemies?”

“The revolutionists. There is a desperate plot against me. Of that I am absolutely convinced,” she said as she sank upon the rustic garden seat beneath the tree. The sunny view over loch and woodland was delightful, and the pretty garden and fir wood surrounding were full of birds singing their morning song.

“But you told neither Hartwig nor Dmitri of your fears,” I remarked. “Why not?” and I looked straight into her beautiful face, lit by the brilliant sunshine.

“Well, I will tell you, Uncle Colin,” she said, leaning back, putting her neat little brown shoe forth from the hem of her white gown, and folding her bare arms as she turned to me. “Dick one day discovered that wherever we went we were followed by Dmitri, and, as you may imagine, I had considerable difficulty in explaining his constant presence. But Dick loves me, and hence believes every word I tell him. He – ”

“I know, you little minx,” I interrupted reprovingly, “you’ve bewitched him. I only fear lest your mutual love may lead to unhappiness.”

“That’s just it. I don’t know exactly what will happen when he learns who I really am.”

“He must be told very soon,” I said; “but go on, explain what happened.”

“Ah! no,” cried the girl in quick alarm; “you must not tell him. He must not know. If so, it means our parting, and – and – ” she faltered, her big, expressive eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Well – you know, Uncle Colin – you know how fondly I love Dick.”

“Yes, I know, my child,” I sighed. “But continue, tell me all about your disappearance and its motive.” Now that I had found her I saw to what desperate straights Markoff must be reduced. He had, after all, no knowledge of her whereabouts.

“It was like this,” she said. “One evening we had walked along the cliffs to Rottingdean together. Dmitri had not followed us, or else he had missed us before we left Brighton. But just as we were coming down the hill, after passing that big girls’ college, Dick noticed that we were being followed by a man, who he decided was a foreigner. He was, I saw, a thin-faced man with a black moustache and deeply-furrowed brow, and then I recognised him as a man whom I had seen on several previous occasions. I recollected that he followed us that night on the pier when you first saw Dick walking with Doctor Ingram.”

“A man of middle height, undoubtedly a Russian,” I cried. “I remember him distinctly. His name is Danilo Danilovitch – a most dangerous person.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, “I see you know him. Well, at the moment I was not at all alarmed, but next day I received an anonymous letter telling me to exercise every precaution. There was a revolutionary plot to kill me. It was intended to kill both Dick and myself. I showed him the letter. At first he was puzzled to know why the revolutionary party should seek to assassinate a mere girl like myself, but again he accepted my explanation that it was in revenge for some action of my late father, and eventually we resolved to disappear together and remain in hiding until you returned. Then, according to what Marya de Rosen had told you, I intended to act.”

“Alas! I learnt nothing.”

“Ah!” she sighed. “That is the unfortunate point. I am undecided now how to act.”

“Explain how you managed to elude Dmitri’s vigilance in Eastbourne.”

“Well, on that evening in Eastbourne I induced Miss West, Gladys Finlay and Dmitri to walk on to the station, and I entered a shop. When I came cut, Dick joined me. We slipped round a corner, and after hurrying through a number of back streets found ourselves again on the Esplanade. We walked along to Pevensey, whence that night we took train to Hastings, and arrived in London just before eleven. At midnight we left Euston for Scotland, and next morning found ourselves in hiding here. I was awfully sorry to give poor Miss West such a fright, and I knew that Hartwig would be moving heaven and earth to discover me. But I thought it best to escape and lie quite low until your return. I telegraphed to you guardedly to the British Consulate in Moscow, hoping that you might receive the message as you passed through.”

“I was only half an hour in Moscow, and did not leave the station,” I replied. “Otherwise I, no doubt, should have received it.”

“To telegraph to Russia was dangerous,” she remarked. “The Secret Police are furnished with copies of all telegrams coming from abroad, and Markoff is certainly on the alert.”

“No doubt he is,” I said. “As you well know, he is desperately anxious to close your lips. Now that poor Marya is dead, you alone are in possession of his secret – whatever it may be.”

“And for that reason,” she said slowly, her fine eyes fixed straight before her across the blue waters of the loch, “he has no doubt decided that I, too, must die.”

“Exactly; therefore it now remains for Your Highness to reveal to the Emperor the whole truth concerning those letters and the secret which resulted in Marya de Rosen’s arrest and death. It is surely your duly! You have no longer to respect the promise of secrecy which you gave her. Her death must be avenged – and by you —and you alone,” I added very quietly and in deep earnestness. “You must see the Emperor – you must tell him the whole truth in the interests of his own safety – in the interests, also, of the whole nation.” My dainty little companion remained silent, her eyes still fixed, her slim white fingers toying nervously with her skirt.

“And forsake Dick?” she asked presently in a low voice which trembled with emotion. “No, Uncle Colin. No, don’t ask me!” she urged. “I really can’t do that – I really can’t do that. I – I love him far too well.”

I sighed. And of a sudden, ere I was aware of it the girl, torn by conflicting emotions, burst into a flood of tears.

There, at her side I sat utterly at a loss what to say in order to mitigate her distress; for too well I knew that the pair loved each other truly, nay, madly. I knew that the love of an Imperial Grand Duchess of the greatest family in Europe is just as intense, just is passionate, just as fervent as that of a commoner, be she only a typist, a seamstress, or a serving-maid. The same feelings, the same emotions, the same passionate longings and tenderness; the same loving heart bests beneath the corsets of the patrician as beneath those of the plebeian.

You, my friendly readers, each of you – be you man or woman, love to-day, or have loved long ago. Your love is human, your affection firm, strong and undying, differing in no particular to the emotions experienced by the peasant in the cottage or the princess of the blood-royal.

I looked at the little figure on the rustic seat at my side, and all my sympathy went out to her.

I have loved once, just as you have, my reader; and I knew, alas! what she suffered, and how she foresaw opened before her the grave of all her hopes, of all her aspirations, of all her love.

She was committing the greatest sin pronounced by the unwritten law of her Imperial circle. She loved a commoner! To go forward, to speak and save her nation from the depredations of that unscrupulous camarilla, the Council of Ministers, would mean to her the abandonment of the young Englishman she loved so intensely and devotedly – the sacrifice, alas! of all she held most dear in life by the betrayal of her identity.

Chapter Thirty.

Reveals the Gulf

Having been introduced to Mrs Holbrook – a pleasant-fated old lady in a white-laced cap with mauve ribbons – I made excuse to “Miss Stebbing” to leave, and took train a quarter of an hour later back to St. Fillans. From the village post-office I sent an urgent wire to Hartwig to go again to Lower Clapton, see Danilovitch, explain how Her Highness had discovered the plot against her, and assure him that if any attempt were male, proof of his treachery would be placed at once before his “comrades.”

I called at the hotel and inquired for Mr Gregory, but was informed that he was out fishing. But though I lunched there and waited till evening, yet he did not return.

So again I took train back to Lochearnhead, and with the golden sunset flashing upon the loch, climbed the hill path towards Glendevon House – a nearer cut than by the carriage road.

Suddenly, as I turned the corner, I saw two figures going on before me – Natalia and Richard Drury. She wore a darker gown than in the morning, with simple, knockabout country hat, while he had on a rough tweed jacket and breeches. I drew back quickly when I recognised them. His arm was tenderly around her waist as they walked, and he was bending to her, speaking softly, as with slow steps they ascended through the hill-side copse.

Yes, they were indeed a handsome, well-matched pair. But I held, my breath, foreseeing the tragic grief which must ere long arise as the result of that forbidden affection.

Standing well back in the hedge, I gazed after their as with halting steps they went up that unfrequented Scotch by-way, rough and grass-grown. Suddenly they paused, and the man, believing that they were alone, took his well-beloved in his strong embrace, pushed back her hat, and imprinted a warm, passionate kiss upon her white, open brow.

Perhaps it was impolite to watch. I suppose it was; yet my sympathy was entirely with them. I, who had once loved and experienced a poignant sorrow as result, knew well all that they felt at that moment, especially now that the girl, even though an Imperal Princess, was compelled to decide between love and duty.

Unseen, I watched them cling to each other, exchanging fond, passionate caresses. I saw him tenderly push the dark hair from her eyes and again place his hot lips reverently to her brow. He held her small hand, and looking straight into her wonderful eyes, saw truth, honesty and pure affection mirrored there.

They had halted. While the evening shadows fell he had placed his hand lightly upon her shoulder and was whispering in her ear, speaking words of passionate affection, in ignorance that between them, alas! lay a barrier of birth which could never be bridged.

I felt myself a sneak and an eavesdropper; but I assure you it was with no idle curiosity – only because what I had witnessed aroused within me the most intense sorrow, because I knew that only a man’s great grief and a woman’s broken heart could accrue from that most unfortunate attachment.

In all the world I held no girl in greater respect than Natalia, the unconventional daughter of proud Imperial Romanoffs. Indeed, I regarded her with considerable affection, if the truth were told. She had charmed me by her natural gaiety of heart, her disregard for irksome etiquette and her plain outspokenness. She was a typical outdoor girl. What the end of her affection for Dick Drury would be I dreaded to anticipate.

Again he bent, and kissed her upon the lips, her sweet face raised to his, aglow in the crimson sunset.

He had clasped her tenderly to his heart, holding her there in his strong arms, while he rained his hot, fervent kisses upon her, and she stood in inert ecstasy.

Soon the shadows declined, yet the pair still stood there in silent enjoyment of their passionate love, all unconscious of observation. I drew a long breath. Had I not myself long ago drunk the cup of happiness to the very dregs, just as Dick Drury was now drinking it – and ever since, throughout my whole career in those gay Court circles in foreign cities, I had been obsessed by a sad and bitter remembrance. She had married a peer, and was now a great lady in London society. Her pretty face often looked out at me from the illustrated papers, for she was one of England’s leading hostesses, and mentioned daily in the “personal” columns.

Once she had sent me an invitation to a shooting-party at her fine castle in Yorkshire. The irony of it all! I had declined in three lines of formal thanks.

Ah! yes. No man knew the true depths of grief and despair better than myself, therefore, surely, no man was more fitted to sympathise with that handsome couple, clasped at that moment in each other’s arms.

I turned back; I could endure it no longer, foreseeing tragedy as I did.

Descending the hill to the loch-side again, I found the carriage road, and approached the big white house.

I was standing alone in the long, old-fashioned drawing-room, with its bright chintzes and bowls of potpourri, awaiting Mrs Holbrook, when the merry pair came in through the long French windows, from the sloping lawn.

“Why, Uncle Colin!” she gasped, starting and staring at me. “How long have you been here?”

“Only a few moments,” I replied, and then, advancing, I shook Drury’s hand. He looked a fine, handsome fellow in his rough country tweeds.

“So glad to meet you again, Mr Trewinnard,” he said frankly, a smile upon his healthy, bronzed face. “I’ve heard from Miss Gottorp of your long journey across Siberia. You’ve been away months – ever since the beginning of the winter! I’ve always had a morbid longing to see Siberia. It must be a most dreadful place.”

“Well, it’s hardly a country for pleasure-seeking,” I laughed; then changing my tone, I said: “You two have given me a nice fright! I returned to find you both missing, and feared lest something awful had happened to you.”

“Fear of something happening caused us to disappear,” he answered; then he practically repeated what Natalia had told me earlier in the day. “My aunt very kindly offered to put Miss Gottorp up, and I have since lived down at St. Fillans under the name of Gregory.”

I told him of the search in progress in order to discover him. But he declared that a Scotch village or the back streets of a manufacturing town were the safest places in which to conceal oneself.

“But how long do you two intend causing anxiety to your friends?” I asked, glancing from one to the other.

Natalia looked at her lover with wide-open eyes of admiration.

“Who knows?” she asked. “Dick has to decide that.”

“But Miss West and Davey, and all of them at Hove are distracted,” I said, and then, turning to Drury, added, “Your man in Albemarle Street and the people at your offices in Westminster are satisfied that you’ve met with foul play. You certainly ought to relieve their minds by making some sign.”

“I must, soon,” he said. “But meanwhile – ” and he turned his eyes upon his well-beloved meaningly.