CHAPTER XXIII

HOW ONE CAME BACK FROM THE DEAD

Captain Sokolof's orderly never for one moment thought of standing on ceremony with the doctor, who was in and out of the very prison all day long. He showed him at once to the room where the captain was entertaining his guest.

Pavlof crossed the threshold and stood numb and dazed. His eyes blinked at the newcomer in a stare of petrified horror. Then they wrenched themselves away and fixed hypnotically on Sokolof, who gazed back, at him with pity.

Sokolof thought he understood. He knew what Yakutsk meant. He knew that few survived it, and that most would prefer death to trying it, and that for a woman it was impossible.

"She will not go?" said the captain commiseratingly. "And yet, I don't know but what she is right. It is no place for a woman. And perhaps she will change her mind."

But Pavlof did not speak, did nothing but stare at him as if he were a ghost.

"Take heart, Palma," he growled, in the nearest approach to kindliness which twenty years in the _gendarmerie_ had left him. "Take heart. I will not rest till this matter is righted. It is too damnable! There is some mistake. This is Lieutenant Vinsky, who brings the bad news."

But there was more here than Captain Sokolof remotely dreamed of.

Paul had put up his hand to the doorpost for support. His head was spinning. The two men at the table and the lights in the room began to swim slowly round and round. The doorpost began to reel on its own account and tried to slip out of his fingers.

For the man who sat there hobnobbing with Sokolof--trim, official, booted and belted, perfectly satisfied with himself and his surroundings--was Serge Palma in the flesh, and his bold blue eye had winked encouragingly and admonishingly at Paul the moment he entered the room.

"Vodka," said Sokolof, and sprang up and slid a chair under Pavlof, and hastened to bring him brandy in a glass. "It has been too much for him. Damn those--um----" for it is not always wise to express one's feelings concerning one's superiors, even though the grounds be ample.

"I am with you, Captain," said Palma heartily. "Petersburg lacks heart, and the Ministry of the Interior is destitute of the most elementary bowels of compassion. If they had to carry out their own instructions they would learn many things they are ignorant of."

"It is true," growled Sokolof, but said no more. Even people who agreed with you in their hearts sometimes made the most of one's indiscretions, and reported them behind one's back to one's undoing.

"So, Mr. Palma," said Serge, the instant he saw Paul pulling himself together, "Madame is not inclined for Yakutsk?"

Paul shook his head vaguely, without looking at him. His brain was in a tangle, but, slowly and confusedly, it was beginning to work again and to piece things together.

"It is truly a terrible place for any civilised being to go to," said Serge. "And one cannot be surprised at Madame's hesitation. It is natural. But, after all, a wife's place is by her husband's side. Perhaps, as Captain Sokolof says, she may change her mind before morning. It would be better for her to change it now than when we are gone. It is a bad journey at best, but we would do all in our power to smooth it for her. I think you should talk with her again on the subject, Mr. Palma."

"Yes," nodded Pavlof, understanding dimly what was expected of him, "I will talk with her again."

"And what, in Heaven's name, are we to do here without you?" said Sokolof.

"You must get out a doctor before the summer comes," said Paul dully.

"Da! Must! That is all very well, but we are dependent on those----"

"Fools," suggested Serge heartily.

"Well, those gentlemen who sit in comfort in St. Petersburg, and whose thoughts don't carry as far as Kara."

"I will go," said Paul, getting up. "I will go--and speak with her again," and he went out, feeling like one who has fallen on his head and is going home to tell of the accident.

The thought of Yakutsk was horrifying to Hope. But Paul would be with her and that would make up for much. He had made Kara a heaven for her. Well, they would carry their heaven with them wherever they went,--ay, even to Yakutsk. And perhaps it might be only for a time, and then they would be allowed to come back to Kara.

What happiness the rough little house had held for them! She would have liked to take that chair with her--that chair at which they had knelt the other night. Perhaps Captain Sokolof would let her have it. She would get Paul to ask him.

It was hard to decide what else to take and what to leave, for if they took everything they had they would still be bare at Yakutsk, and in a thousand mile journey by teléga there was little room for superfluous baggage. Still, she would have that chair, whatever she had to leave behind.

She flitted busily to and fro, arranging and folding and tying into bundles.

She would put a bold face on matters and bear herself bravely, for she knew his fears were all for her. She would show him that he need not fear. The only thing on earth she feared was losing him. Side by side with him she could stand anything, even Yakutsk.

With such thoughts working in her, the face she turned on Pavlof when he opened the door was to him as the face of an angel. So high a courage, so much of tenderness, so much of love were in it. He never forgot it.

"Paul, my dear----" she began, and broke off short at sight of his ghastly face.

"Oh, what is it?" she cried, in new distress and terror, as he sank heavily on a seat.

"Listen, Hope," he said quietly, but his voice was as strained and unnatural as his face. "I have other news for you--terrible news----"

"Ah!" She jumped to it with womanly instinct. He knew it by the sudden pallor of her face.

"Serge--is alive and well."

"My God!" she gasped, and her hands fluttered gropingly, as though they sought something tangible to hold on to.

"He is here, Hope," and he caught the wandering hands and held them.

"Here? Oh, Paul! Paul!" and her hands gripped his convulsively, and the sudden tumult of her heart fined her voice to a terrified whisper.

"Dearest," he said, "we did what seemed right and our hearts are clean. A higher than Serge must judge us."

It was the right note, and it quieted her. But they sat long in silence and gazed desperately into the future, and it was full of shadows.

"We must be very cautious, Hope--for his sake," he said at last. "His life hangs by a thread. A word, a sign, and he is lost. It is he who has brought the order to transport me to Yakutsk."

"Serge?--Paul, what are you saying?" And she gazed at him with a new fear in her eyes.

"No," he said, with a rough, quick shake of the head, "I am not crazy. It is as I tell you. He has come here at risk of his life to get me out of the toils. The order he brings is, doubtless, forged. The uniform he wears without a right. It is bravely done----"

He tried his best to instil life and warmth into his words, but they would not come to his bidding. They were only words.

"But--" she said dazedly--"Yakutsk?"

"Do you not see? That is only a blind like all the rest. Once clear of Kara we go where we will."

"You have spoken with him?"

"Only before Captain Sokolof. But I understand it all. Serge is Lieutenant Vinsky. I went to tell Sokolof that you would go with me."

"Oh, Paul! How can we go?" she gasped.

"We must, Hope. There is nothing else to be done. Serge's life is at stake."

"Oh, why--why did he not come sooner--if he had to come? It is terrible his coming now."

"Yes, it is terrible his coming now. It is God's will, dearest, and our hearts are void of offence. We must think now of Serge. It will try you hard in the morning, Hope."

"I will be careful," she said, eyeing him breathlessly still, with wide, amazed eyes,----"But you will come too, Paul? We all go together?"

"I must go. It is for me he came."

"Does he not know I am here?" she gasped.

"I cannot tell what he knows.----But--yes----he must understand. He knows I am Serge Palma here. He knows Madame Palma is here. He must have reasoned it all out.----Yes----I remember.----It was he who suggested that Madame might change her mind----"

"Change her mind?"

"And decide to go. Captain Sokolof did not believe you would face it."

"He never had a wife."

"I must try to speak with Serge," he said. "I must tell him. It will be terrible----"

"Tell him how we waited, Paul. How we waited, and hoped, and despaired. And how we heard twice of his death----"

"I will tell him all. It will be sore telling, Hope, and sore hearing."

"Our hearts are clean, Paul."

"God bless you, dearest, and forgive me for bringing this trouble on you."

"Not so," she said quickly. "I share the blame if blame there is. Have I not shared the joy of it?"

"God keep you, my dear heart," and he kissed her very lovingly and went out.

And she sat looking into the future--the near and the far, with woeful eyes and tightened lips.

He went straight to Sokolof's quarters, ostensibly to tell him that his wife would go on the morrow, but determined, if he could, to get speech alone with Serge.

And so he became witness of a curious scene between the captain and the pseudo-lieutenant, a scene which, in very different ways, was highly creditable to both. It bore eloquent testimony to Captain Sokolof's good feeling. It spoke worlds for Palma's self-command.

The captain and his visitor had got on exceedingly well together, since the latter endorsed to the full the former's exasperation at the treatment Kara received from St. Petersburg.

No matter what the immediate subject of discussion, Sokolof would constantly break out in bitter recurrence to his grievance.

When Paul was shown in to them, the matter of his translation was uppermost again, and in a very acute form.

"Ha, Doctor, we were speaking of you," said Sokolof. "I want Lieutenant Vinsky to allow you one day more, while I telegraph to headquarters and beg them to reconsider the matter. It is out of all reason. They cannot surely have received my letters or they have not read them. It is inhuman. It is brutal."

"I am indebted to you, Captain," Paul made shift to answer, as all the disastrous possibilities of such a course crowded his brain. "You have done all you could for me. I would never forgive myself if you did yourself any disservice by trying to help me further."

"Exactly!" said Palma quietly. "That is the danger." He pursed his lips and shook his head dubiously. "Do you know why Simonofsky was removed from Barnaul, Captain Sokolof?"

"I can imagine, from the way you put it," said Sokolof, blowing out smoke viciously.

"Exactly. For alleged favouring of politicals. He has had no post since."

"I don't care a kopeck," said Sokolof stubbornly. "This is no ordinary case. Besides, we need him here to keep down the fever. That is reason enough."

"It is not for me to advise, Captain," said Palma, with another dubious shake. "You know who you are dealing with. Telegraph by all means, if you are willing to take the risk. As for me, I have only one thing to do, and that is to carry out my instructions to the letter, much as I may regret them," with a bow to Paul. "I have strained them somewhat, perhaps, already, but--well, we could hardly have started to-night, and besides, the unexpected question as to Madame arose. How is that matter decided, Mr. Palma?"

"Madame decides to go," said Paul.

"Bravo!" said the lieutenant. "I thought she would. Can't you procure a tarantas for her, Captain--just for the first stage or two? We shall strike the snow in the Yablonois and then it will be smooth going. But teléga travelling is the very devil, especially for a woman. My bones are aching yet."

"Zazarin has a tarantas," said Sokolof.

"He won't need it for some time to come," said Paul.

"If he ever needs it," said Sokolof. "All the same I shall telegraph at once, let them think and do what they please. Help me, Vinsky, to word it so that they will understand, the----"

"Blockheads," suggested Palma, with a smile. "I will help you with pleasure, Captain, only you understand, answer or no answer, I start at eight o'clock to-morrow morning for Yakutsk. What is the soonest you can get their reply?"

"If they answered at once we might hear during the night. It all depends on things at the other end. The Minister might be away, and no one else would take the responsibility. But I will have an orderly waiting at this end so as to lose no time."

"Well, I can do this for you," said Palma. "We will travel easily and make no undue speed. If you receive a favourable reply after we have left, a messenger can catch us. For your sake, Mr. Palma, and for Madame's, we will hope it may be so."

"That will do," said Sokolof. "Now--the telegram."

He hunted up an official form and began to write--

"To the Minister of the Interior. Concerning political prisoner Palma ordered to Yakutsk. Typhus raging here"--"that's straining a point, but it probably will be soon"--"Palma's services as doctor urgently needed----"

"Say that the Governor is at the point of death," suggested Palma.

"Good! That is stronger still," and he wrote in the addition, and continued, thinking it out word by word--"Beg your permission retain prisoner here for present. See my letters."

At which the lieutenant laughed out loud. "My dear Captain," he said, "those last words would lose you both your place and your request. His Excellency is not accustomed to be addressed in so terse a fashion as that. His reply would probably be, 'Tell Captain Sokolof to go to the devil--or to Yakutsk,' which is pretty much the same thing. Level it up to his altitude, my dear sir, or worse will come of it. It might do for the office, but it won't do for the big man himself."

"It does read a bit brusque," said Sokolof, looking at the objectionable words. "What do you suggest?"

"You can't make it too flowery. I would suggest--'Crave your Excellency's gracious perusal of my letters concerning this prisoner.' When would your letters reach them, Captain?"

"Weeks ago, months ago. Before you left, certainly."

"Of course, I forgot. It is to those letters that you attribute their present action and my presence here."

"Yes," said Sokolof, looking sober. "I was forgetting that."

"Is it wise to refer to the letters at all, think you? Why not base your request solely on the ground of the typhus?"

Sokolof considered the point, tapping the pencil up and down between his teeth.

"That is," continued Palma, "if you are quite decided on sending the telegram at all. It is doubtful if any good will come of it, and as far as you yourself are concerned it would undoubtedly be safer not to interfere."

"It shall go," said Sokolof obstinately. "They may break me if they like, but Palma saved my life and I do not forget."

He finished the telegram and gave it to his orderly to despatch at once, bidding him at the same time station a messenger at the office to bring him the answer without delay at whatever hour it might arrive.

Pavlof marvelled at Palma's careless ease in face of so imminent a danger. For, if Sokolof's telegram passed quickly through from point to point, and reached the Minister's hands, and was deemed worthy of prompt attention, discovery was unavoidable, and the results to Serge himself must be disastrous.

But he sat there smoking as coolly as if he had not a care in the world, and Paul came to believe that the forethought which had devised so bold a scheme must have provided also for such a contingency as this.

But Palma's calmness was simply the courage of a brave man who had calculated the chances in his favour. He had done all he could to improve them by delaying the telegram. Now he awaited the result with, at all events, outward equanimity.

It was then ten o'clock at night. Taking into account the difference of time between Kara and St. Petersburg, it would probably be five or six in the evening before the telegram reached its destination. The chances were that the Minister would not be at his office--one chance to the good. Again the chances were that the telegram would take considerably longer in transmission from station to station over those 4,000 miles of desert--another chance to the good.

Even if it got to the Minister that night it was incredible that he should remember who Serge Palma was, without inquiry and the turning up of dossiers, all of which meant time and trouble. And why should the great man worry himself unduly over so very small an affair as the sending, or not sending, of a poor devil of a political to Yakutsk?--several chances to the good there.

If they troubled to investigate at all they would discover that some mistake had been made by some one. But mistakes--and very terrible mistakes--were constantly being made. If Serge Palma had been ordered to Yakutsk by some one, some one naturally must have had very good reason for so doing. Serge Palma would be as safe at Yakutsk as at Kara, and it is an awkward thing to interfere with accomplished facts without very good grounds for doing so--a galaxy of chances to the good in all that.

And Serge's mind had flashed over them as the smoke curled lazily through his moustache, and he felt fairly safe. And so he sipped his vodka as quietly as if he had been in a Petersburg café without a care on his mind.

Pavlof's mind had been so jangled by the day's happenings that it was not working as sharply and clearly as usual. He would not have been in the least surprised if the orderly had walked in at any moment with a telegram from headquarters exploding the mine on which they sat. If he could have spoken privately to Serge he would have urged him to leave them to their fate and flee while yet there was time.

But he had no chance of speaking, since Sokolof never left his guest, and, finding the atmosphere too electrical for his tight-strung nerves, he begged the captain's permission to retire, on the plea of packing his belongings for the journey.

"At eight o'clock we start Mr. Palma," said Serge.

"I will be here."

"And Madame?"

"And Madame."

"Unless she changes her mind again," said Sokolof. "It is about the only privilege we can offer her here, and, God knows, no one would blame her if she did."

"She will not change her mind," said Pavlof, and withdrew, and went wearily home again.

He felt utterly fagged out, body and soul, with the rending emotions of the day, and he knew there was no rest for him that night. Time enough to rest when he got to Yakutsk. From all accounts it was the only thing to be done there. Bah! he was forgetting. His brain was getting muddled with it all. It was not to Yakutsk they were going.

He wondered vaguely where Palma would make for. The Amur probably, and Vladivostok. But he would have it all arranged, and God grant them a good deliverance! For when they got clear of Kara their troubles would only be beginning. It was a desperate venture at best, but they must go through with it and trust in providence.

He felt, however, more like a prisoner bound for Yakutsk than a prisoner on the eve of enlargement, more of a bondman than he had ever felt since he came to Kara.