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Chapter Fourteen
Sonia
Notwithstanding official assurances that no alarm need be felt at the political outlook, the popular excitement, fostered by a sensational Press, abated but slowly. On the morning following the memorable scene in the House of Commons, a great panic occurred on the Stock Exchange, and it was fully a week ere confidence was restored. Meanwhile, at Lord Warnham’s dictation, I exchanged constant communications with our ambassador in St Petersburg, and although every endeavour was used to elucidate the mysterious reason why the Russian Government so suddenly altered its tactics, it remained as inexplicable as the means whereby they had obtained the original of our secret convention with Germany.
Both the London police and our secret agents in Russia abandoned none of their activity, but all their efforts were to no purpose. The incident was a perfect enigma.
Thus a month went by. Lord Warnham had slightly relaxed towards me as if, after all, he believed that I had spoken the truth, although he frequently, when vexed, would refer in uncomplimentary terms to what he called my “carelessness that nearly cost England her honour.” Indeed, although I had been reinstalled in the position of great trust I had previously held, mine was no enviable lot. The Foreign Minister was a man of moods, strangely eccentric, sometimes preserving a rigid silence for hours, and often working for long periods alone during the night, attending to unimportant dispatches that might have been answered by a lower-grade clerk. But it was his object always to know the exact work done in each department, and to be able to do it himself. Thus he was enabled to keep a more careful watch over everything that went on, and was not, like the majority of Cabinet Ministers, a mere figure-head. Times without number I have gone to Berkeley Square early in the morning when some important matter of diplomacy has been in progress, and found the grey, thin-faced peer still seated in his study, the blinds still down, the electric light still on, showing how he had worked on unconsciously throughout the whole night, and was quite unaware of dawn. His servants had strict orders never to disturb him, even for meals, hence, when he was busy, he frequently spent many hours in his chair, regardless of day or night.
These periods of intense mental strain would, however, be followed by exasperating irritability of such a character that I often feared to utter a word lest he should break out into a fierce ebullition of anger. At those times he would scatter broadcast the most severe censures on all and sundry, sparing neither ambassador nor consul, so fierce was his wrath. Knowing this, I would sometimes, after writing an abusive dispatch at his dictation, put it aside and, instead of forwarding it, accidentally overlook it. Then, next day, he would almost invariably relent, and after deep thought, exclaim, —
“Read me the copy of that dispatch I sent yesterday to Vienna, Deedes.”
“Oh,” I would answer, as if suddenly recollecting, “I quite forgot to forward it, we were so busy yesterday.”
“Ah, too late now! too late!” he would grumble, feigning annoyance, yet secretly pleased. “Destroy it, Deedes; destroy it.”
Afterwards he would dictate a more temperate and less offensive letter, which the messenger leaving London that night would carry in his valise.
One morning, towards the end of July, I received a strangely-worded letter, written in a foreign hand, asking me to call at an address in Pembroke Road, Kensington, and signed “Sonia.” The missive, which had been left at my flat by a commissionaire, stated that the matter upon which the writer desired to see me was extremely urgent, and contained a request that I would telegraph a reply. This I did, accepting the appointment, for, on reflection, I had a very dim recollection of having, at some time or other, written officially to someone named “Sonia,” and the letter aroused curiosity within me.
That night, at the time she named, I found myself before a large, substantial-looking detached house, situated in the quiet, rather unfrequented thoroughfare off Earl’s Court Road, a house which, to my excited imagination, bore external evidence of mystery within. Why such thought should seize me I know not. Perhaps it was because the writer of the letter was unknown, and the object of my visit at present unexplained; nevertheless I entered the small garden that divided the house from the roadway, and, ascending the steps, rang the bell. My summons was immediately answered by a neat maid, to whom I gave my card, and next moment I was ushered into a well-furnished drawing-room, dimly lit by one tall, shaded lamp, the light of which was insufficient to illuminate the whole room.
For a few moments I remained alone in wonder, when suddenly the door opened, and there entered an extremely pretty girl, scarcely out of her teens, dark-haired, with clear-cut features, bright eyes, and a delicately-rounded chin. It struck me, however, even before she spoke, that in her face was a strange expression of unutterable sadness, a look that told of long suffering and intense agony of mind. Her mannerisms were those of a foreigner, her chic was that of the true Parisienne, her dress of black silk crêpon was plainly but well made, and the fact that she spoke in broken French was, next second, conclusive.
“Ah! You have come, m’sieur. You are indeed very good,” she exclaimed, with a charming accent, her skirt rustling as she advanced to greet me.
“I am at your service, mademoiselle,” I answered, bowing, at the same time accepting the seat she offered.
“Well,” she commenced, with a smile, slowly sinking into an armchair near me, “when I wrote to you I feared you would not come. You have been so good to me already that I fear to ask any further favour.”
“I must ask your pardon, mademoiselle,” I said, “but I really am unaware that I have ever rendered you any service.”
“What, do you not remember?” she cried. “You, who were so good to my father and myself; you, to whom we both owed our lives.”
“I certainly have some hazy recollection of your name,” I answered, puzzled, “but try how I will, I cannot recollect in what connection it has come before me.”
“Do you not remember the case of the refugee, Anton Korolénko, the man who, after being hounded all over Europe, in Vienna, in Madrid, in Paris, by the agents provocateurs of the Secret Police, found an asylum in London?” she inquired, surprised. “They said we need not fear the Okhrannoë Otdelenïe here, in your free England, but no sooner had we arrived than, owing to the treachery of one of our brotherhood, a warrant for our extradition was issued by General Sekerzhinski, chief of the Department in St Petersburg. News of this was telegraphed to us, and I applied to your Minister for protection. You yourself saw me and gave me your promise of assistance, a promise which you kept; the warrant was returned to Russia unexecuted, and you thus saved us from the fate we dreaded.”
“Ah, yes,” I answered quickly. “Of course, I remember now. It is fully two years ago; but you have so altered that I scarcely knew you.”
“I was a girl then,” she smiled. “Now I feel quite a woman. Since I saw you last I have sustained a bereavement. My poor father is, alas! dead.”
“Dead!” I echoed sympathetically.
“Yes,” she sighed, with bitterness. “He died of a broken heart. On the day we escaped from St Petersburg, my mother, who was perfectly innocent, had unfortunately fallen into the drag-net of the police. She was imprisoned for six months, then sent to Siberia, but died of cold and fever on the road there. Her tragic end proved such a terrible blow to my father that, even here in safety, he grew morose, his health, already broken by long years of imprisonment, failed, and six months ago he died, and I was left alone.”
“Your life is indeed a sad one, mademoiselle,” I said, for I well-remembered the touching story she related when, a mere girl, pale-faced and agitated, she came to implore the protection of the British Government on behalf of her aged father. She had, with tears in her dark, brilliant eyes, told me a narrative of systematic persecution almost incredible; how her father, a wealthy merchant, having fallen into disfavour with General Sekerzhinski, the chief of Secret Police in St Petersburg, that official had formed a cunningly-devised plan to entrap him into a political conspiracy. She admitted that at one time, during the Terror that culminated in the murder of Alexander II, her father had participated in the revolutionary movement, and had spent eight years of solitary confinement in the Peter-Paul Fortress. Although he had long ago renounced all revolutionary ideas, it was, of course, easy enough for an all-powerful official like Sekerzhinski to discover evidence against him. The agents provocateurs were quickly at work, with the result that orders were in a few days issued for the arrest of Korolénko for the murder of a woman in a low quarter of the city, and for the apprehension of his wife and their pretty daughter, Sonia, as accomplices. The reason of this allegation was plain. If the General had only alleged a political offence his victims could not be extradited from a foreign country, while for an ordinary crime they could. Korolénko’s wife was arrested while shopping in the Nevski Prospekt, but Sonia and her father, fortunately, obtained word from a friend of theirs in the secret service, and fled, succeeding in escaping from St Petersburg into Finland, and after weeks of starvation and terrible hardships found themselves in Stockholm, whence they went to Hamburg. Here they narrowly escaped arrest by the German police, but succeeded in getting to Vienna, and thence to Venice, Marseilles, Madrid, and afterwards to Paris, where they had heard a large colony of Russian refugees resided. After two days, however, owing to a fact they ascertained, they fled to London. Here they believed themselves safe until one day they received another telegram from their friend in the secret police, warning them that a request for their extradition was on its way to London. It was then, in desperation, that Sonia came to crave an interview with Lord Warnham, and I had seen her on his behalf.
Her story of wrong, hatred, and heartless persecution I have only here briefly outlined, but during the half-hour she had sat in the waiting-room at the Foreign Office relating it to me in detail she spoke with such earnestness that I was convinced of the truth, and resolved to assist her. Urging her to be assured that I would do all that lay in my power, she had at last dried her tears, and grasping my hand as she went out, had said, —
“I shall never forget your kindness to us, m’sieur. We are alone, friendless, forsaken, hounded down by a man who has sworn to ruin my father and his family. That you can protect us, I am confident. You can save us from the mines – nay, you can save our lives, if you will. I appeal to you, our only friend. Assist us, and you will ever receive the thanks from one who is to-day on the verge of despair and suicide.”
I promised, and she went away hopeful and confident. But to secure their immunity from arrest was by no means an easy matter. Fortunately, however, I was on excellent terms with the Secretary of the Russian Embassy, and having obtained the sanction of Lord Warnham, who was always chivalrous wherever women were concerned, treating them with a charming old-world courtesy, I set about attaining my object, securing it at last, but being compelled in turn to promise my friend assistance in an important matter of diplomacy. The warrant was next day returned to Russia unexecuted, and Sonia and her father were free.
From her I had received a brief note in response to my intimation of the withdrawal of the warrant, apparently hastily written, but thanking me, and declaring that they both owed their future happiness to my exertions. For a few days I reflected upon the strange drama of real life that had been enacted, then the circumstances passed out of my mind.
Now, as she sat before me, older and yet more beautiful, gazing into my eyes with that intense, wistful look that had attracted me when first we had met, all her tragic story came back to me vividly, and I was not surprised at her deep sorrow at the loss of her father she had loved so dearly.
“So you desire my assistance,” I exclaimed presently, after she had been explaining how lonely she was in exile from her friends.
“Yes,” she said slowly, with emphasis. “But first tell me one thing. You are acquainted with a woman named Ella Laing. Do you know her past?”
Chapter Fifteen
Beyond Recall
“Really your question is a curious one,” I exclaimed, smiling, although inwardly I resented her intrusion upon my affairs.
“Do not think I intended to be unduly inquisitive,” my youthful hostess said quickly, fidgeting with her golden bangle whereon a tiny bell tinkled musically as she moved, and glancing up at me with her dark, bright eyes.
“Ella’s past can concern no one except herself,” I observed, rather puzzled. There was a strange, half-suspicious expression in her face that I had not at first noticed.
“If you intend to marry her it concerns you also, does it not?” she asked, in a quiet, grave voice.
“Yes, of course,” I answered. “But how do you know I intend to marry her?”
“I have heard so, and have seen you together,” she answered, rather evasively.
“Well, let us come to the point at once,” I said, still smiling, and feigning to be amused. “Tell me what objection there is to her. Why do you inquire about her past?”
“Because it is a mystery,” she replied, regarding me calmly, the strange glint in her penetrating eyes increasing my mistrust.
“In what way?” I inquired. I had known Mrs Laing and Ella for over a year, and certainly nothing I had learnt regarding their antecedents had excited my suspicion. The Yorkshire Laings are a county family, and Edward Laing, Ella’s father, had been the head of the great shipping firm that has its headquarters in Hull, and is well-known in the North Sea and Atlantic trades. At his death the concern was turned into a company, and Mrs Laing and her daughter had travelled for nearly three years, returning to London shortly before I met them. The statement that Ella’s past was mysterious was certainly puzzling, therefore I added, “When you make an allegation, I really think it is only fair that you should substantiate it.”
She shrugged her shoulders with a foreign mannerism that was charming, exclaiming in her broken English, – “Ah, you understand me not, m’sieur. I speak not your language with politeness. Well, it is, oh, so very difficult?”
“Do you tell me that Ella Laing is not what she represents herself to be?” I inquired eagerly.
“Ah, no,” she answered. “I ask m’sieur if he knows of her past. M’sieur was once good to me, very good. I forget never those who to me are generous.”
“But your words contain a hidden meaning,” I said, dropping into French, hoping thereby to induce her to place my mind at rest.
“Yes, I am well aware of that,” she answered, with volubility. “You love her; you have offered her marriage – the woman who is your most bitter foe!”
“What do you mean? That Ella is my enemy?” I cried, dismayed.
Her full, red lips parted in a silvery peal of laughter, displaying an even set of pearly teeth, as, throwing back her handsome head, she exclaimed, —
“Ah! I expected it would cause you pain to learn the truth. Yet, after all, is it not best to know now, instead of hereafter?”
“In what way is she my enemy?” I asked, bending forward to her and transfixing her with my eyes.
She remained silent, merely giving her shoulders a slight shrug, sighing the while.
“A moment ago you told me that because I once performed you a service you intended to render me one in return. Come, tell me the truth,” I urged.
Again she sighed, but at last said, “The truth has already been forced upon you, I should think.”
“In what manner?”
“By the death of your friend, Dudley Ogle,” she replied, in a half whisper, the strange look of almost murderous hatred again showing in her eyes.
“Well,” I said, “I can see nothing in that tragic incident to lead me to any conclusion that Ella is my enemy.”
“Love is blind, of course,” she answered, rather contemptuously. “Your blindness extends apparently even to the theft of the important dispatch entrusted to your care.”
Her words amazed me, for, with the exception of Lord Warnham, the Marquis of Maybury, and Frayling at Scotland Yard, no living person knew of the theft of the secret convention.
“How, pray, are you aware that any document has been stolen?” I asked quickly, my mind at once filled with suspicion. The fact that this girl was a Russian was in itself sufficient to place me at once upon my guard.
“I have heard so,” she answered, with a mysterious smile.
“Well, and what do you allege?” I inquired, keeping my eyes fixed upon her.
“Allege!” she cried. “Why, nothing. I have merely asked you a simple question, whether you are aware of the past of Ella Laing, and you have not answered. You are silent.”
“I know sufficient of her past to love her,” I answered, determined that the words of this strange-mannered girl should not arouse greater suspicion than that which already dwelt in my mind.
“Love her! Bah! You will hate her when you learn the truth,” she cried, with a gesture of disgust.
“Then tell me,” I cried impatiently. “Why should I hate her?”
“No,” she said slowly, shaking her head, and slightly raising her shoulders. “I make no reflections. If you love her – well, I suppose you desire that your fool’s paradise should last as long as possible.”
“My fool’s paradise, as you term it, will, I trust, last always,” I said resentfully, for her manner had suddenly changed, and she treated me reproachfully, with a familiarity that was as surprising as it was annoying.
“Alas! not always, I fear,” she smiled, as if pitying my simplicity. “Your present paradise will soon be a veritable hell.”
“You speak candidly, at least,” I said, angered at her words. “But I did not call here to listen to libellous allegations of which there are no proofs.”
“No proofs?” she echoed. “Ah, do not be so confident, m’sieur. You have no knowledge of the character of the woman you love, or you would not say this. I do not wish you to follow my advice; I do not urge you to listen to my words. I only warn you because you have been my best friend,” and she gazed straight into my eyes with an earnestness that was intense.
“You warn me. Of what?”
“Of Ella, the woman who has apparently fascinated you as she has done others,” and she sighed, as if memories were painful.
“A pretty woman may often unconsciously fascinate many men before meeting the man she marries,” I said, as calmly as I could.
“Unconsciously, yes,” she answered. “But there are some who use the beauty that their Maker has bestowed upon them to allure their victims.”
“You anticipate I am doomed, then?” I laughed.
She regarded me gravely for an instant, then said, in a voice quiet and low, —
“I do not think – I know. The mysterious death that overtook your friend Dudley Ogle should have overtaken you instead. But for an amazing coincidence, by which your life was saved and his taken, you would, ere this, have been in your grave.”
“And my assassin would have been the woman I love, I suppose, you are going to tell me?” I observed, amused at her melodramatic manner and the absurdity of the idea.
“No, I leave you to discover the truth,” she answered, arching her dark brows, a shadow of annoyance crossing her refined features at that moment.
“You are apparently well acquainted with Miss Laing,” I said, after a long pause.
“I know her,” she admitted abruptly.
“Then, as I refuse to listen further to any charges against her of which you can give me no corroboration, it may be best for me to bring her here to hear your allegations, even at risk of creating a scene. You said you intended to render me a service, and by facing her you can.”
“No, no,” she cried, suddenly jumping from her chair and laying her hand upon my arm in earnestness. “She does not know I am in London; she must never know, otherwise our plans will be spoilt. Do not mention my name to her; now promise me,” she implored. “Promise me, and I will render you the assistance you will require ere long. The secret knowledge I possess enables me to give you warning. Remember that what I have said is between one friend and another.”
Through my perturbed mind there surged vivid recollections of recent events, of Ella’s beauty, and of the inscrutable mystery surrounding her. It was amazing, to say the least, that this handsome girl, whose life had been so romantic and full of tragedy, should thus make veiled allegations and denounce as vile and worthless the woman I so deeply loved. That she had some ulterior motive was, of course, apparent, but although I debated within myself its probable cause, I utterly failed to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion. One fact was, however, impressed upon me during our subsequent conversation – namely, that Sonia was in possession of the secret that Ella withheld from me. That the pretty Russian had known Mrs Laing and Ella intimately I could not doubt from what she told me regarding them, yet I did not fail to detect in her voice a harshness whenever she spoke of them, the more so when she mentioned the name of my well-beloved. Once, in trying to determine the cause of this, I felt inclined to attribute it to jealousy, but when I reflected that I had seen Sonia only once before, and that I knew absolutely nothing of her except what she herself had told me, I scouted the idea.
It was plain, too, that she had been intimately acquainted with Dudley, for she spoke of him familiarly, smiled at his little eccentricities, and expressed the most heartfelt regret at his mysterious and tragic end. Times without number, when she had sunk back into her chair, I tried to induce her to impart to me something more regarding the woman I loved, but she declined. She warned me by constant utterances to be circumspect, but regarding the past preserved a silence rigid and severe.
Presently, as my eyes wandered around the well-furnished room, I noticed, standing upon the piano, a photograph frame of oxydised silver containing a portrait. I looked at it astounded, for it was the likeness of my dead friend. She noticed my attention attracted by it, and rising in silence, brought it across to me, and taking it from its frame, said, —
“This, perhaps, will convince you that Mr Ogle was my friend.”
I took the portrait from her hand, and read on the back in his well-known handwriting the words, – “From Dudley to dearest Sonia.”
No copy of this portrait had I before seen. From the suit of light tweed he wore I knew that he could not have been photographed longer than a month prior to his death, and it seemed likely that he had had this taken specially for her. Although fond of telling me of his flirtations, he had never spoken of his acquaintance with this pretty refugee, yet from her remarks I knew that they had been friends for several years.
Long and earnestly I looked at the picture, then handed it back to her without comment. Truth to tell, even this counterfeit presentment filled me with a fierce hatred against him, for had not Lord Maybury been absolutely correct in remarking that everything pointed to the conclusion that he was a spy? Indeed, his association with this pretty Russian, who had perhaps fascinated him, was another fact which seemed now to confirm my increasing suspicions. It was a romantic story that Sonia told me, but what evidence did I possess that she was actually a political refugee? The warrant issued from St Petersburg for the arrest of her father and herself was for the murder of a foreign woman who, according to the depositions that my friend at the Russian Embassy showed me, had been enticed to a house in a low quarter of the city and strangled with a silken cord. No hint had been given that the pair “wanted” were “apostles of dynamite,” and I now remembered that when I had suggested it to my friend he laughed, declaring that I was utterly mistaken. I recollected that the words he used were, —
“They are not revolutionists, but a precocious pair of criminals who, from time to time, have made enormous coups. No doubt the charming girl has told you some ingenious fiction or other about her father’s patriotism, but I should advise you to take it all with the proverbial grain of salt. They are the only two of an utterly unscrupulous gang now remaining at liberty, and if your Government will give them up, we will rid society of them by burying them deep in one of our Siberian mines. But as you have come with this offer to readjust the little diplomatic friction in return for their liberty, I will urge my chief to accept it; nevertheless, do not forget that this action of yours will set at liberty a pair of the most fearless and ingenious harpies in Europe.”
As I sat opposite her, watching her seductive smiles, these words recurred to me, and I wondered whether the allegations of the Secretary of the Embassy was true. I recollected also, when, with tears in those brilliant eyes, she had besought me to intercede on her father’s behalf, how she told me distinctly that Sekerzhinski, the Chief of Police, had made charges against them cruel and false. Certainly when she had come to me humbly imploring the protection of the British Government against the persecution of her accusers she had none of the swagger of the adventuress. Even now, dressed in plain mourning, with no jewellery except the single golden bangle which I remembered she had worn when we before met, I could not bring myself to think that she was actually the desperate criminal that my friend Paul Verblioudovitch would have me believe.
Knowing, as I did, how the Tzar’s emissaries followed and captured by all manner of subtle devices those suspected of revolutionary conspiracy, I was again convinced, as I had been two years ago, that Sonia was a conspirator against the life of his Majesty. She certainly was not a common criminal. As she chatted to me, young, refined, sad-eyed, there were in her face unmistakable traces of anxiety and suffering. Finding that she absolutely refused to say anything further regarding the woman I adored, I began to question her as to her own happiness and future.
“Ah,” she sighed, “I am lonely, dull, and unhappy now that my father is no longer alive. Together we shared months of terrible hardship, of semi-starvation, hiding in the frozen wilds of the North, and ever pushing forward through that great lonely land towards our goal of freedom. Often and often we were compelled to exist on roots and leaves, and more than once we were compelled to face death,” and she shuddered. “The recollection of that terrible journey is to me like some hideous nightmare, for to escape detection we often travelled by night, in terror of the wolves, and guided only by the brilliant stars high in the bright, frosty sky. The knowledge of our fate if caught – the mines in far Siberia – held us in dread and hastened our footsteps. Thus, clad only in tattered rags, we went forward shivering, knowing that to halt meant certain death. Not until after three long months of suffering did we reach Stockholm, where we once more awakened to the joys of life, but then, alas! they had in them the dregs of bitterness. Two days after regaining our liberty, the news reached us that my poor mother had died at the roadside while chained to a gang of desperate convicts on their long and weary journey to Lake Baikal, the most dreaded district in all Asiatic Russia. The Almighty spared her the horrors of the fever-infected étapes and the gloom and torture of the mines, but from that moment my poor father, heart-broken, grew careless of the future, and it was only for my sake that he endeavoured to elude the bloodhounds of the Tzar.”
“Do you live here, in this house, alone?” I asked.
“No,” she replied. “I have Pétrouchka and his wife Akoulina, who were our servants in St Petersburg for many years, in addition to the English maid who admitted you.”
“Then you are not quite alone,” I said. “Besides, you ought not to be unhappy, for you have enough money to live comfortably, and you should try and forget your sad bereavement.”
“Alas! I cannot forget,” she said, still speaking in French. “It is impossible. I am exiled here in your country, while all my relatives and friends are so far away. I cannot go into your society, for I have no chaperon; besides, English puzzles me so. I shall never learn it, never. Oh, it is so difficult.”
“Yes,” I admitted, laughing. “But not so puzzling as your own Russian, with all its bewildering letters.”
She smiled, but there was a touch of wistful sadness in her handsome face when, after a slight pause, she looked at me earnestly, saying, —
“It was because I am so lonely and unhappy that I asked you to come here to-night.”
“To be your companion – eh?” I observed, laughing. “Well, what you have told me regarding Ella Laing is scarcely calculated to set a man’s mind at rest.”
“Ah, no. I have only told you in order that you should be forewarned. Let that pass; yet remember the words I have uttered, proof of which you shall have some day. The fact is, I want you to do me a favour. I am tired of this exile from my friends; I have no one as companion except old Akoulina, and I want to return to Russia for a month or so to visit my relatives, and to transact some legal business connected with my poor father’s estate.”
“But is it safe for you to return?” I hazarded.
“Not unless you will procure me a passport. This you can do if you will,” she answered earnestly.
“You would be arrested on the frontier,” I said. “Is it wise to run such risk?”
“Of course the passport must not be in my own name,” she went on. “You alone can obtain one from your friend at the Embassy.”
