The Price of Power

Chapter Thirty One.

The Painful Truth

With Her Highness’s permission I had despatched a reassuring telegram in the private cipher to the Emperor prefixed by the word “Bathildis” – a message which, I think, greatly puzzled the local postmaster at Lochearnhead. Another I had sent to Miss West, and then returned to the small hotel at the loch-side where I intended to spend the night.

I had left the pair together, and strolled out across the lawn. Of what happened afterwards I was in ignorance. The girl had come in search of me a quarter of an hour later, pale, trembling and tearful, and in a broken voice told me that they had parted.

I took her soft little hand, and looking straight into her eyes asked:

“Does he know the truth?”

She shook her head slowly in the negative.

“I – I have resolved to return to Russia,” she said simply, in a faltering voice.

“To see the Emperor?” I asked eagerly. “To tell him the truth – eh?”

Her white lips were compressed. She only drew a long, deep breath.

“Dick has gone,” she said at last, in a strange, dreamy voice. “And – and I must go back again to all the horrible dreariness and formality of the life to which, I suppose, I was born. Ah! Uncle Colin – I – I can’t tell you how I feel. My happiness is all at an end – for ever.”

“Come, come,” I said, placing my hand tenderly upon the girl’s shoulder. “You will go back to Petersburg – and you will learn to forget. We all of us have similar disappointments, similar sorrows. I, too, have had mine.”

But she only shook her head, bursting into tears as she slowly disengaged herself from me.

Then, with head sunk upon her chest in blank despair and sobbing bitterly, she turned from me, and in the clear, crimson afterglow, went slowly back up the garden-path to the house.

I stood gazing upon her slim, dejected figure until it was lost around the bend of the laurels. Then I retraced my steps towards the little lake-side village.

At ten o’clock that night, while writing a letter in the small hotel sitting-room, Richard Drury was shown in.

His face was paler than usual, hard and set.

He apologised for disturbing me at that hour, but I offered him a chair and handed him my cigarette-case. His boots were very dusty, I noticed; therefore I surmised that since leaving his well-beloved he had been tramping the roads.

“I am much puzzled, Mr Trewinnard,” he blurted forth a moment later. “Miss Gottorp has suddenly sent me from her and refused to see me again.”

“That is to be much regretted,” I said. “Before I left I heard her declare that there were certain circumstances which rendered it impossible for you to marry. I therefore know that your interview this evening must have been a painful one.”

“Painful!” he echoed wildly. “I love her, Mr Trewinnard! I confess it to you, because you are her friend and mine.”

“I honestly believe you do, Drury. But,” I sighed, “yours is, I fear, an unfortunate – a very unfortunate attachment.”

I was debating within myself whether or not it were wise to reveal to him Natalia’s identity. Surely no good could now accrue from further secrecy, especially as she had resolved to return at once to Russia.

I saw how agitated the poor fellow was, and how deep and fervent was his affection for the girl who, after all, was sacrificing her great love to perform a duty to her oppressed nation and to avenge the lives of thousands of her innocent compatriots.

“Yes. I know that my affection for her is an unfortunate one,” he said, in a thick voice. “She has talked strangely about this barrier between us, and how that marriage is not permitted to her. It is all so mysterious, so utterly incomprehensible, Mr Trewinnard. She is concealing something. She has some secret, and I feel sure that you, as an intimate friend of her family, are aware of it.” Then after a slight pause he grew calm and, looking me straight in the face, asked: “May I not know it? Will you not tell me the truth?”

“Why should I, Drury, when the truth must only cause you pain?” I queried. “You have suffered enough already. Why not go away and forget? Time heals most broken hearts.”

“It will never heal mine,” he declared, adding: “Her words this evening have greatly puzzled me. I cannot see why we may not marry. She has no parents, I understand. Yet how is it that she seems eternally watched by certain suspicious-looking foreigners? Why is her life – and even mine – threatened as it is?”

For a few moments I did not speak. My eyes were fixed upon his strong, handsome face, tanned as it was by healthy exercise.

“If you wish to add to your grief by ascertaining the truth, Drury, I will tell you,” I said quietly.

“Yes,” he cried. “Tell me – I can bear anything now. Tell me why she refuses any longer to allow me at her side – I who love her so devotedly.”

“Her decision is only a just one,” I replied. “It must cause you deep grief, I know, but it is better for you to be made aware of the truth at once, for she knew that a great and poignant sorrow must fall upon you both one day.”

“Why?” he asked, still puzzled and leaning in his chair towards me.

“Because the woman you love – whom you know as Miss Gottorp – has never yet revealed her true identity to you.”

“Ah! I see!” he cried, starting to his feet. “I guess what you are going to say. She – she is already married!”

“No.”

“Thank God for that!” he gasped. “Well, tell me.”

Again I paused, my eyes fixed steadily upon his.

“Her true name is not Gottorp. She is Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Natalia Olga Nicolaievna of Russia, niece of His Majesty the Emperor!”

The man before me stared at me with open mouth in blank amazement.

“The Grand Duchess Natalia!” he echoed. “Impossible!”

“It is true,” I went on. “At Eastbourne, in her school-days, she was known as Miss Gottorp – which is one of the family names of the Imperial Romanoffs – and on her return to Brighton she resumed that name. The suspicious-looking foreigners who have puzzled you by haunting her so continuously are agents of Russian police, attached to her for her personal protection; while the threats against her have emanated from the Revolutionary Party. And,” I added, “you can surely now see the existence of the barrier between you – you can discern why, at last, foreseeing tragedy in her love for you, Her Highness has summoned courage and, even though it has broken her heart, has resolved to part from you in order to spare you further anxiety and pain.”

For some moments he did not speak.

“Her family have discovered her friendship, I suppose,” he murmured at last, in a low, despairing voice.

“Her family have not influenced her in the least,” I assured him. “She told me the truth that she could not deceive you any longer, or allow you to build up false hopes, knowing as she did that you could never become her husband.”

“Ah! my God! all this is cruel, Mr Trewinnard!” he burst forth, with clenched hands. “I have all along believed her to be a girl of the upper middle-class, like myself. I never dreamed of her real rank or birth which precluded her from becoming my wife! But I see it all now – I see how – how utterly impossible it is for me to think of marriage with Her Imperial Highness. I – I – ”

He could not finish his sentence. He stretched out his strong hand to me, and in a broken breath murmured a word of thanks.

In his kind, manly eyes I saw the bright light of unshed tears. His voice was choked by emotion as, turning upon his heel, poor fellow! he abruptly left the room, crushed beneath the heavy blow which had so suddenly fallen upon him.

Chapter Thirty Two.

At What Cost!

Colonel Paul Polivanoff, Marshal of the Imperial Court, gorgeous in his pale-blue and gold uniform of the Nijni-Novgorod Dragoons, with many decorations, tapped at the white-enamelled steel door of His Majesty’s private cabinet in the Palace of Tzarskoie-Selo, and then entered, announcing in French:

“Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Natalia and M’sieur Colin Trewinnard.”

Nine days had passed since that parting of the lovers at Lochearnhead, and now, as we stood upon the threshold of the bomb-proof chamber, I knew that our visit there in company was to be a momentous event in the history of modern Russia.

As we entered, the Emperor, who had been busy with the pile of State documents upon his table, rose, settled the hang of his sword – for he was in a dark green military uniform, with the double-headed eagle of Saint Andrew in diamonds at his throat – and turned to meet us.

Towards me His Majesty extended a cordial welcome, but I could plainly detect that his niece’s presence caused him displeasure.

“So you are back again in Russia – eh, Tattie?” he snapped in French, speaking in that language instead of Russian because of my presence. “It seems that during your absence you have been guilty of some very grave indiscretions and more than one scandalous escapade – eh?”

“I am here to explain to Your Majesty,” the girl said quite calmly, and looking very pale and sweet in her half-mourning.

“Trewinnard has furnished me with reports,” he said hastily, motioning her to a chair. “What you have to say, please say quickly, as I have much to do and am leaving for Moscow to-night. Be seated.”

“I am here for two reasons,” she said, seating herself opposite to where he had sunk back into his big padded writing-chair, “to explain what you are pleased to term my conduct, and also to place your Majesty in possession of certain facts which have been very carefully hidden from you.”

“Another plot – eh?” he snapped. “There are plots everywhere just now.”

“A plot – yes – but not a revolutionary one,” was her answer.

“Leave such things to Markoff or to Hartwig. They are not women’s business,” he cried impatiently. “Rather explain your conduct in England. From what I hear, you have so far forgotten what is due to your rank and station as to fall in love with some commoner! Markoff made a long report about it the other day. I have it somewhere,” and he glanced back upon his littered table, whereon lay piled the affairs of a great and powerful Empire.

Her cheeks flushed slightly, and I saw that her white-gloved hand twitched nervously. We had travelled together from Petersburg, and upon the journey she had been silent and thoughtful, bracing herself up for an ordeal.

“I care not a jot for any report of General Markoff’s,” she replied boldly. “Indeed, it was mainly to speak of him that I have asked for audience to-day.”

“To tell me something against him, I suppose, just because he has discovered your escapades in England – because he has dared to tell me the truth – eh, Tattie?” he said, with a dry laugh. “So like a woman!”

“If he has told you the truth about me, then it is the first time he has ever told Your Majesty the truth,” she said, looking straight at the Emperor.

The Sovereign glanced first at her with quick surprise and then at myself.

“Her Imperial Highness has something to report to Your Majesty, something of a very grave and important nature,” I ventured to remark.

“Eh? Eh?” asked the big bearded man, in his quick, impetuous way. “Something grave – eh? Well, Tattie, what is it?”

The girl, pale and agitated, held her breath for a few moments. Then she said:

“I know, uncle, that you consider me a giddy, incorrigible flirt. Perhaps I am. But, nevertheless, I am in possession of a secret – a secret which, as it affects the welfare of the nation and of the dynasty, it is, I consider, my duty to reveal to you.”

“Ah! Revolutionists again!”

“I beg of you to listen, uncle,” she urged. “I have several more serious matters to place before you.”

“Very well,” he replied, smiling as though humouring her. “I am listening. Only pray be brief, won’t you?”

“You will recollect the attempt planned to be made in the Nevski on the early morning of our arrival from the Crimea, and in connection with that plot a lady, a friend of mine and of Mr Trewinnard’s, named Madame de Rosen, and her daughter Luba were arrested and sent by administrative process to Siberia?”

“Certainly. Trewinnard went recently on a quixotic mission to the distressed ladies,” he laughed. “But why, my dear child, refer to them further? They were conspirators, and I really have no interest in their welfare. The elder woman is, I understand, dead.”

“Yes,” the Grand Duchess cried fiercely; “killed by exposure, at the orders of General Serge Markoff.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “then you have come here to denounce poor Markoff as an assassin – eh? This is really most interesting.”

“What I have to relate to Your Majesty will, I believe, be found of considerable interest,” she said, now quite calm and determined. “True, I have charged Serge Markoff with the illegal arrest and the subsequent death of an innocent woman. It is for me now to prove it.”

“Certainly,” said His Imperial Majesty, settling himself in his big chair, and placing the tips of his strong white fingers together in an attitude of listening.

“Then I wish to reveal to you a few facts concerning this man who wields such wide and autocratic power in our Russia – this man who is the real oppressor of our nation, and who is so cleverly misleading and terrorising its ruler.”

“Tattie! What are you saying?”

“You will learn when I have finished,” she said. “I am only a girl, I admit, but I know the truth – the scandalous truth – how you, the Emperor, are daily deceived and made a catspaw by your clever and unscrupulous Chief of Secret Police.”

“Speak. I am all attention,” he said, his brows darkening.

“I have referred to poor Marya de Rosen,” said the girl, leaning her elbow upon the arm of the chair and looking straight into her uncle’s face. “If the truth be told, Marya and Serge Markoff had been acquainted for a very long time. Two years after the death of her husband, Felix de Rosen, the wealthy banker of Odessa and Warsaw, Serge Markoff, in order to obtain her money, married her.”

“Married her!” echoed the Emperor in a loud voice. “Can you prove this?”

“Yes. Three years ago, when I was living with my father in Paris, I went alone one morning to the Russian Church in the Rue Daru, where, to my utter amazement, I found a quiet marriage-service in progress. The contracting parties were none other than General Markoff and the widow, Madame de Rosen. Beyond the priest and the sacristan, I was the only person in possession of the truth. They both returned to Petersburg next day, but agreed to keep their marriage secret, as the General was cunning enough to know that marriage would probably interfere with his advancement and probably cause Your Majesty displeasure.”

“I had no idea of it!” he remarked, much surprised. “Marya de Rosen – or Madame Markoff, as she really was – frequently went to her husband’s house, but always clandestinely and unknown to Luba, who had no suspicion of the truth,” the girl went on. “According to the story told to me by Marya herself, a strange incident occurred at the General’s house one evening. She had called there and been admitted, by the side entrance, by a confidential servant, and was awaiting the return of the General, who was having audience at the Winter Palace. While sitting alone, a young woman of the middle-class – probably an art-student – was ushered into the room by another servant, who believed Marya was awaiting formal audience of His Excellency. The girl was highly excited and hysterical, and finding Marya alone, at once broke out in terrible invective against the General. Marya naturally took Markoff’s part, whereupon the girl began to make all sorts of charges of conspiracy, and even murder, against him – charges which Marya declared to the girl’s face were lies.

“Suddenly, however, the girl plunged her hand deep into the pocket of her skirt and produced three letters, which, with a mocking laugh, she urged Marya to read and then to judge His Excellency accordingly. Meanwhile, the manservant, having heard the girl’s voice raised excitedly, entered and promptly ejected her, leaving the letters in Marya’s hands. She opened them. They were all in Serge Markoff’s own handwriting, and were addressed to a certain man named Danilo Danilovitch, once a shoemaker at Kazan, and now, in secret, the leader of the Revolutionary Party.

“From the first of these Marya saw that it was quite plain that the General – the man in whom Your Majesty places such implicit faith – had actually bribed the man with five thousand roubles and a promise of police protection to assassinate Your Majesty’s brother, the Grand Duke Peter Michailovitch, from whom he feared exposure, as he had been shrewd enough to discover his double-dealing and the peculation of the public funds of which Markoff had been guilty while holding the office of Governor of Kazan. Six days after that letter,” Her Highness added in a hard, clear voice, “my poor Uncle Peter was shot dead by an unknown hand while emerging from the Opera House in Warsaw.”

“Ah! I remember!” exclaimed His Majesty hoarsely, for the Grand Duke Peter was his favourite brother, and his assassination had caused him the most profound grief.

“Of the other two letters – all of them having been in my possession,” Her Highness went on, “one was a brief note, appointing a meeting for the following evening at a house near the Peterhof Station, in Petersburg, while the third contained a most amazing confession. In the course of it General Markoff wrote words to the following effect: ‘You and your chicken-hearted friends are utterly useless to me. I was present and watched you. When he entered the theatre you and your wretched friends were afraid – you failed me! You call yourself Revolutionists – you, all of you, are without the courage of a mouse! I thought better of you. When you failed so ignominiously, I waited – waited until he came out. Where you failed, I was fortunately successful. He fell at the first shot. Arrests were, of course, necessary. Some of your cowardly friends deserve all the punishment they will get. Forty-six have been arrested to-day. Meet me to-morrow at eight p.m. at the usual rendezvous. You shall have the money all the same, though you certainly do not deserve it. Destroy this.’”

“Where is that letter?” demanded His Majesty quickly.

“It has unfortunately been destroyed – destroyed by its writer. Marya was aghast at these revelations of her husband’s treachery and double-dealing, for while Chief of Secret Police and Your Majesty’s most trusted adviser he was actually aiding and abetting the Revolutionists! She placed the letters which had so opportunely come into her possession into her pocket, and said nothing to Markoff when he returned. But from that moment she distrusted him, and saw how ingenious and cunning were his dealings with both yourself and with the leader of the Revolutionists. He, assisted by his catspaw, Danilo Danilovitch, formed desperate plots for the mere purpose of making whole sale arrests, and thus showing you how active and astute he was. Danilo Danilovitch – who, as ‘The One,’ the leader whose actual identity is unknown by those poor deluded wretches who believe they can effect a change in Russia by means of bombs – is as cunning and crafty as his master. It was he who threw the bomb at our carriage and who killed my poor dear father. He – ”