CHAPTER IX

HOW HOPE SHORTENED THE LONG ROAD

In spite of her high courage and fervent spirit, Hope Palma never recalled without a shudder the horrors of that long journey down the Volga, over the Urals, down the Irtish and up the Ob, to Tomsk, and thence along the great Siberian road to Irkutsk. The physical trials of the road, the defective supply of coarse food, the bone-bruising bumping of the springless telégas, the promiscuous herding at night in the filthy, unventilated étapes--the convict stage-houses--where the tortured children cried incessantly till they slept and sometimes never woke, and the equally tortured mothers tended them in stony despair--these things burnt themselves into her very soul, and would have broken a less courageous spirit.

Old Marya had had to be left behind. The paternal Government provided transport, such as it was, for convicts' wives and children, but Marya had no such claim, and with unflinching kindliness Hope had sent her home to her own people. And the loss of her faithful and whole-hearted sympathy was to her almost as the loss of a part of herself.

What money she had she hoarded with miserly care, for there was no knowing for what high service it might avail at the end of her journey. Every rouble might be a step towards Serge's enlargement, and she treasured her pieces as the woman of the Gospel.

And yet, at times, the miseries of those about her prevailed. The little ones crept into her heart and her purse, and precious coins were dispensed for slabs of brick tea and cakes, for any possible sweetening of the bitterness which came home to her so closely. With her sweet, firm face and glowing eyes, and the tender pity of a guardian spirit, she lived and moved among them like an angel of mercy, and smoothed their little passages--to exile or the stars, as the case might be--as well as she was able, and in such gentle ministries found relief from her own griefs and fears.

She talked with the women as they walked, learned their pitiful stories, and gave them much wise counsel which they accepted for the sake of her brick tea, and remembered long after she and her tea had passed out of their lives. She argued with them day by day, and scolded them by night, for their many and obtrusively undeniable sins of omission and commission. She saved many a tiny life by her care and insistence. That, indeed, was a doubtful benefit to the little ones themselves, but she could not stand by and see them die. And, by her own words and her own high courage, she strengthened into hopefulness many a heart that was weary to death of its load and embittered with the bearing of it.

But each day now brought brighter weather, and to that extent softened the asperities of the road. The birches and poplars fluttered trembling welcomes as they passed, as though they feared the law might take official cognizance of more; the children began to stray outside the slow-moving line to gather bunches of forget-me-nots and wild roses, and Hope's sore heart was gladdened and her eyes filled as the shy little tokens of their remembrance were tendered her.

The aspect of the country surprised her greatly. She had thought of Siberia as a mighty desert of snow and ice and desolate wastes. But here were great sweeps of growing corn, and pastures and farmsteadings. There were rolling rivers and rustling forests. They walked in clouds of dust and the children picked flowers by the wayside.

But this was midsummer, and Siberia in summer and Siberia in winter are as different as heaven and hell.