CHAPTER I

HOW HOPE SACRIFICED HERSELF FOR LOVE OF THE PEOPLE

"You think she will be in in a few minutes, Marya?"

"Assuredly. She is past her time now," said the old woman.

"She may have called somewhere," said the young man, and glanced doubtfully at her.

"Sit down, Paul Ivanuitch," she said, in a more than simply hospitable tone, "and I will get you some tea. She cannot be many minutes now."

The old woman nodded knowingly to herself as she went down the passage. The young man sat down for a moment, and then jumped up and began to wander restlessly about the room. How could any man sit still when all his future happiness was in the balance, and when he had good reason to know that the hand that held the scales was no ordinary hand, and might let itself be swayed by no ordinary feelings?

Straight and tall, and spare of figure; deep-set, trustworthy eyes, dark like his hair; frank, thoughtful face, high in the cheek-bones and lean in the cheeks, so that at times one could follow or even anticipate his feelings by the curves and lines that came and went there, Paul Pavlof was distinctly attractive to look upon.

For his was, above all, an invitingly honest face, and one does not come across too many such. Perhaps also there was, in the eager face and strenuous figure, more than a suggestion that such of the good things of life as had come his way had been rather mental than material, had contributed more to his inner well-being than to his outer, that the lower things held but small interest for him, and that he had not greatly missed them.

It was a very plainly furnished room, and Paul Pavlof knew intimately every single thing that was in it. Table, couch, chairs, white-tiled stove, green-shaded student's lamp, all were severely simple and without individuality, but each separate article was glorified in his eyes by the high service to which it was dedicated. He felt like kneeling and kissing the chairs because Hope Arskaïa used them, the floor because she walked on it, the lamp because she read and thought by it, for all these things pertained to the higher life.

He wondered if she had ever thought of him as she sat in the chair or walked the floor.

He knew she had, and moreover that her thoughts of him had been pleasant thoughts. But all the same----

There were neither books nor papers lying about. The lack of them contributed largely to the austerity of the apartment. But books and papers are dangerous things when one never knows at what moment the steps of the gendarmes may be heard on the stair.

On the walls were three portraits. Paul eyed them with reverence, and stopped his wanderings now and again to look at them, as though they might afford him some clue to the answer Hope Ivanovna would give to the question he had come to put to her.

The bearded man with the calm, intent face and thoughtful eyes was her father. He died in the Schlusselburg casemates, martyred for an idea. High thought and fixity of purpose were the dominant features here, and Pavlof's mouth tightened somewhat as he looked at it. Hope Ivanovna took after her father.

The sweet-faced woman was her mother--the Scotchwoman. She died a few months before him, broken-hearted at the racking injustice of it all. Hope Ivanovna had her beauty and more, but her spirit was her father's.

The bright, curly-headed boy was her brother. He died before she came into Paul's life for its brightening and embittering.

He was standing before the portraits, finding likenesses in them all to Hope herself, when the door opened again, and Marya, with an apologetic look and shrug, ushered in another visitor--Serge Palma, a strapping, jovial fellow, with blue eyes and light hair, and full beard and moustache; very well dressed, and carrying an air of opulence and hearty good feeling towards himself and the rest of the world; in all respects the very antithesis of the first-comer. He stopped with a short laugh at sight of Pavlof, and Pavlof's forehead crumpled with annoyance at sight of him.

"Hola, Paul! It was not you I came to see," said Palma jovially, in spite of the infelicity of the meeting.

"Nor I you."

"No, I suppose not," said Palma, with another short laugh. "Moreover, unless I'm mistaken, it is no good our both stopping here at the same time. Is it not so?"

Paul regarded him with gloomy annoyance. He was strung to concert pitch himself, and the careless gaiety of the other jarred upon him exceedingly. At the moment he hated Serge Palma most cordially, though as a rule they were on friendly terms enough.

"I really don't think you need wait," said Pavlof quietly.

"Of course you don't. But then I do, you see, and that makes all the difference in the world."

"It will make no difference."

"Da! As to that we shall see. But it's no good our waiting together, if you've come, as I imagine you have, to put your fortune to the test."

"I suggest then the propriety of your retiring."

"Of course you do. But, again, I don't see it, my friend. Why should I leave you a clear field? First come may be first served."

"That's as it may be, and since I was first here----"

"Tell you what--let the fates decide it," said the other, with that cheerful laugh of his which made Pavlof grind his teeth. And Palma drew a coin from his pocket and spun and caught it. "Heads you stop, tails you go."

But Pavlof shook his head with an expression of disgust at such unseemly frivolity in so momentous a matter.

Palma laughed and uncovered the coin on the table. "You win," he said, "so I go. If it had been tails I would have stopped in spite of you, my boy. I shall wait till I see you leave, then I take my turn. I'd wish you luck if I had no conscience. As it is----"

He nodded and went out, just as old Marya brought in the samovar and teacups.

"Nu!" said she, with a wag of the head "That's right. I'm glad he's gone--if he does not meet her on the road."

"You don't like Serge Palma, Masha?" said the young man hopefully.

"Not in that way, no," with another thoughtful shake of the head.

"He is rich, good-looking, good-tempered----"

"No doubt, no doubt. But there are better things even than those."

Then the door opened and Hope Arskaïa came in, and, to both Masha and Pavlof, the homely casket glowed suddenly radiant with the brightness of its treasure.

"Ah, Paul, mon ami! You have come to share a cup of tea with two lonely old maids. That is good of you. Is it all ready, Matushka? I am later than usual."

From the sweet, full tones of her voice to the light, firm tread that bore her so rapidly and so gracefully, she was the embodiment of health and energy, and her beauty was very remarkable. But, after the first glow of satisfaction which fineness and regularity and proportion of feature never fail to produce, it was the purposeful soul shining through the eagerness of the beautiful face, and especially through the great dark-blue eyes, which gave her the mastery.

It was the knowledge--the partial knowledge--of what was in her that made Paul Pavlof's hand tremble as he took the cup of tea she handed him. For a woman animated by feelings so mighty as those which moved and restrained Hope Arskaïa was capable of anything.

The one thing that troubled him was the doubt whether she was capable of condescending to so small a thing as the love of Paul Pavlof--to him the mightiest thing on earth.

Her greeting was full of hearty fellowship, nevertheless the first quick glance she had given him had in it something of apprehension. She knew what he had come for, and she feared the result of the interview--for him--and--well, yes, for herself as well. For they had been good comrades for many years, and friendship which aspires to more does not readily content itself with less.

"Any callers, Masha?" she asked, as she drank her tea.

"Is not this one enough, Hope Ivanovna?" said the old woman diplomatically, with a friendly nod at Pavlof, and hastened out of the way of further questioning.

"Masha bullies me," said Hope, with a smile.

"She is a good old soul. You would have been very lonely without her.... Sometime she will die, and then, Hope Ivanovna, you will be more lonely still, unless--unless you have some one to take care of you. I have come to-day to ask you to let me be that one. My heart has been yours to trample on since the first time I looked into your eyes. You have known it."

Yes, she had known it, she had known it only too well. And she had looked with foreboding to this moment, for many a day, as the possible end to their friendship.

Under other skies, under other circumstances, it might have been. But as things were--the ordinary joys of wifehood, home, motherhood, were not for Hope Arskaïa. Rightly or wrongly, her heart was set on other things, and for those other things she was prepared to sacrifice all that womankind holds most dear. Compared with those other things she held herself of very small account.

That was the view he had feared she would take. Nay, he knew instantly, even as he spoke, that he had known it all along, and he knew her too well to hope to move her by any passionate pleading.

Her response would have been instant, if response had been possible. One glance from the great dark eyes would have carried his soul up into heaven.

But the eloquent eyes, which would have told him so much, remained downcast, and he saw only the shadow of the long lashes on the white cheek. He rose instantly.

"Forgive me, Hope," he said, as quietly as though his life's hopes had not in the space of a moment crumbled into a heap of burnt-out ashes.

"Paul!" she said, and raised a detaining hand, and there was that in her tone--something of pleading and of pity both for herself and for him--which made him glance quickly at her from under his pinched brows.

He stood silently in front of her and waited--so near to heaven, nearer than he knew, yet separated from it by the deep gulf of a woman's invincible determination, and that woman to other women as a volcano to a candle.

"My friend," she said at last, and her voice was full and strong again, "you know to what my life is dedicated." She did not look at him, but at the portraits on the wall. "To that end I am prepared to sacrifice myself, body and soul, and these other things are not for me. You are poor, I am poor. Poverty ties our hands. With all your help I could do little of all that cries aloud to be done. Yet I want your help. Will you work with me still for the people, Paul Ivanuitch--in spite of this--in spite of--of all?"

"I would lay down my life for you, Hope Ivanovna. You know it."

"I know it. I know it. Even though I----"

"Even though you marry Serge Palma's millions, Hope Ivanovna."

He could not keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"Ah!"

"He was here. He will be back presently. God help us all. Why does He permit these things to be?"

"If the sacrifice of one can help the many, it is right to make it, Paul. Palma's millions may help to break the fetters of a nation. What am I that I should withhold myself?"

"You are the sacrifice," he said sadly, and bent and kissed her hand, and went quietly out.

Hope sat silently gazing at the portraits on the wall--past them, at what she had put from her--past that, at what lay before her. And her eyes were sad in spite of the spirit that was in her--nay, because of it. For she knew, as well as any, where that path would probably lead her.

Old Masha came in presently, and eyed her anxiously as she announced Serge Palma.

Hope's face was grave and composed as his keen glance swept it. There was an afterglow in the great dark eyes which he took to himself, and courage therewith.

"You are welcome, Serge Petrovitch," said Hope.

"Ah!" said Palma, with a humorous twinkle. "Condolences, then, to friend Paul," to which her only answer was a slight lift of the level brows.

"You know what brings me, Hope Ivanovna," he said in reply. "I am no student and have no gift of words. Will you be my wife?"

She looked at him quietly, and then asked, "Are you sure you know what that means, Serge Petrovitch?"

"What it means? To be my wife? I know what it means to me, Hope Ivanovna."

"I must be sure of that. Listen to me. You know that I work among the people."

"Every one knows it," he nodded.

"Since ever I can remember, the thought of the people under the yoke has weighed upon me, and my heart has groaned with them. My father died in Schlusselburg, as all the world knows. His only crime was the desire to raise the people out of the slough. My mother went before he did. The same blow killed her. There they are on the wall, and night and day they cry to me to help the work on."

"It is a good work."

"And a dangerous, and heart-breaking in its slowness, for lack of workers and for lack of funds. If you are ready to join me in the work I will be your wife."

"I will join you, Hope Ivanovna, so long as you don't go to extremes. I am no believer in force as a remedy."

"Nor I; brains and money properly applied will bring the remedy in time. It may be slow, but it will come. It must come. It shall come," she said vehemently; and added, with quiet conviction, "we want to build up, not to overthrow; to plant, not to uproot."

"I am with you there with all my heart. We will work side by side in the matter."

And doubtless in the glow of his passion he meant it.

He had been prepared for some such demand. He had considered it. He was ready to accede to it sooner than lose her. Doubtless, also, somewhere in his mind there was the feeling that altruistic notions such as these were common to most women gifted with intelligence above the ordinary. And if one's heart were set upon such an one, why, you had to take the rough with the smooth, the thorn with the rose. It was a phase which time would overlay. The inducements of a safe, luxurious life would wean her from it by degrees, and there would be no harm done.

But that only showed how very little he actually knew of the woman he had asked to be his wife.

Her father was that Dr. Ivan Arskoi whose only crime was his far-sighted love for his fellows, and for the best interests of his country. To Autocracy and Bureaucracy, however, such a man represented social revolution. And so he did--but revolution by natural growth, not by fire and steel; evolution, therefore, though the results to the bureaucrats would be the same in the end. And, since those results must necessarily be extremely unpleasant, the bureaucrats promptly nipped Ivan Arskoi in the bud. He was labelled "untrustworthy." Administrative process carried him off one night to the Schlusselburg. For two years he lay there without trial, and there he died. His wife's heart broke against the bars, and Hope, a girl student of sixteen, was left alone in the world, except for an aunt who took charge of her, and old Marya Ostronaya, her nurse.

Hope continued her studies and nourished the faith and hopes of her father. When the guardian aunt died, leaving her a tiny patrimony, she eked out her living by teaching, and devoted every spare minute of her life, and every rouble that could be saved from the slender housekeeping, to that quiet propaganda among the down-trodden for which her father had already given his life.

Paul Pavlof she had long known in the schools. She had also been on terms of closest friendship with his mother, Elizabeth Pavlovna, one of those sweet, saintly souls which every land and every creed produces, and Paul, in his highmindedness and abstraction from the lower things, was very like her, as he was like her in the face and eyes. His aim in life and Hope's were identical, but he was poorer even than she. His father was a proprietor possessed of no business aptitude. When he died, what remained after the Jews were satisfied was just about sufficient to keep Paul's soul and body together during his University career, and no more.

He was a quiet, thoughtful fellow, student still, and teacher in his spare moments of those same wakening ideas which animated Hope Arskaïa.

Their common interests and common dangers--for it is dangerous in Russia to think of things as they ought to be, and still more dangerous to speak of them--these things had drawn them very close together. So close that Pavlof had even dared to dream of a closer union still.

He had told himself a hundred times that it was only a dream, and yet he would not banish it, for it was the radiance and glory of his life, the dash of colour in the grey, without which a man's life flies low on sombre wings.

Then Serge Palma came upon the scene. He was the only son of Peter Palma, of Odessa--Prince Peter, by descent from a former petty ruling family, just as Paul Pavlof, if he had chosen, could have claimed a similar title, but wisely forbore. Prince Peter, however, finding, like Pavlof's father, that his rentals were decreasing year by year, had gone into the grain business and had amassed a fortune in it. He died, and his son Serge was enjoying the fruits of his labours, scattering what he had not gathered, dispensing with free hand that which had cost him nothing to procure.

He met Hope Arskaïa first at the house of Kataya Barenina, whose brother Mikhail was one of his many friends. The girl's remarkable combination of beauty and high intelligence and intense earnestness had made a great impression on him. With wide-open eyes to possible consequences--for Peter Palma's son was no fool--he pursued the acquaintance to its ultimate issue, and now he had asked her to share his life, and she, for sake of what she held more highly than any earthly happiness, had consented--on condition that he also shared hers.