TALES AND SKETCHES.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 5698, 17 October 1896, Page 1

TALES AND SKETCHES.

THE BROKEN FETTER.

[By John K. Lets.] Author of "In the Toils," "The Lindsays," "On the Track of the Iron Horse," " The Lawyer's Secret," <£c. {All Rights Reserved.) Chapter XVII. ALEXIS' LETTER. There were three half -sheets of common, coarse papei% such as TTrsula remembered seeing in the village shop when she was a girl. Tenderly she \tnfolded them, and pressed them to her lips and then to her bosom. As she spread them out to read them a warm tear-drop fell on the open page. Every inch of space was covered ■with fine "writing. The six pages must have taken hours to write, so small and clear was the caligraphy. With glowing eyes and fast-beating heart Ursula began to read. "Ursula, best and dearest of sisters! Bow I long to see/thee.l I do not say I ■would give two years of my life, for life is now to me something worse than valueless, . — bat I tTiinTr I would consent to suffer two years longer for one poor half -hour of yonr company. How is it with you, my sister ? Are you still living in the Castle F Or lave you gone abroad ? Are you an exile, like so many of our countrymen ? Are you rich or poor, well or iIL happy or miserable H Do yon think sometimes of your unhappy ■brother? I ask these questions, bub I Imow weD I shall never receive an answer. Seldom, very seldom, does a message from "the great living world outside penetrate this sepulchre — a letter never. " But I must tell you how it is that I am able to communicate with you, and what my life has been since we parted at the drawbridge of the Castle. • "I was sentenced to imprisonment for £fes but as my offence was purely political, it was understood that I would be "sent to Siberia. But whether through 'some official blunder I was confounded with some other prisoner, or whether I made an enemy of some ■personage in authority, it matters little. I was sent here instead, and my existence has been one long painful martyrdom since I arrived at Birtova. I will not shock you •with ah account of my sufferings ; they are not so .great aa those of some dthei?; nnf or-^ innate creatures who ;are confined here. 'I hare sense enough not to court punishment by resenting the insults I receive^ But my heart has bled to see how some wretched prisoners are first baited into being refractory and then punished with the utmost cruelty. Captain Ivanieff, the Governor, is a monster of wickedness. He seems to blind his superiors with ease ; no law is known in this prison but his will. : " Some weeks since Ivanieff was superseded. He disappeared, no one knew •widfcher. Everybody hoped that his malpractices had been discovered, and that he iad fallen under the displeasure of the Government. There was a rumour that he had received a threatening letter from the Nihilists 5 and that may have Jhad something to do with his sudden removal, though I confess I do not think him the sort of man to be frightened in that way. JLt any rate he was gone, and we enjoyed some weeks of quiet, I might almost say of comparative happiness. But ten days ago the news spread through the prison that Ivanieff had returned ; and I venture to say that no man heard the report without a curse, or at least' a groan of despair, •scaping his lips. " Some time ago I sent you a message — "whether it ever reached you or not, of course I cannot tell. One of the warders, ■whose name I must not mention, underitook to deliver it to some friend of his, who, [he seemed to think, might be able to have it forwarded to you. I had great hopes that I might be able to open some way of communication with the outside world by means of this man ; but it was not long before he was removed to another part of the prison, and then to another town. In his place there ha 3 been assigned to me a soldier named Sindorff, through whose kindness I am enabled to write this letter. "And now for my secret — the great Hews "which, makes my hand, tremble as I •write. Ursula, there is a chance for me to escape from this place of horror. After some persuasion, Sindorff has promised to aid me so far as to leave the door of my cell unlocked one night. More than that he says he dare not do ; but I think I may • be able to persuade hiai to loave an old coat an the corridor to enable me to hide the prison dress to some extent. Once outside any cell, and with a whole night to work in, 1 it will go hard with me if I cannot break out of the prison. • " But, of course, you will see that when I dd get outside the walls my task will be only half done. I shall be re-captured to a certainty unless I have some one at hand to aid me— to provide me with clothes, money, and. the means of leaving the country. And I have no one to look to but you. my sister ; for I could not expect any of my old friends, unless it were our cousin, Borovitchi, to undertake the frightful risk of helping a prisoner to escape. But Borovitchi will advise you low to engage trustworthy agents, and assist you to do all that 13 necessary. " I shall not have time, probably, to jtnakeany preparations : and it may be that you may have no opportunity of replying to this letter. So I will tell you now what you must do. " I shall make no attempt to escape before the end of May, for you will need some time to mnke the necessary arrangements. Engage a thoroughly trustworthy agent — Borovitchi will do this for you — and provide him with money enough to buy a pair of good horses. You must also entrust him with a sum of live hundred mmbles, which. I have promised to give to Sindorff, the warder. Not far from this .-prison there is a church with a peal of bells. I hear them ring on Sundays ; it is the only thing I have to remind me of the rfree, happy world outside these walls. your agent to find a house as near the church as possible, a house provided with a stable. Every night after the thirty-firsj; of May he must saddle the horses an hour after sundown, and keep them saddled tfll dawn, so that they may be ready at any moment during the night that they are -wanted. It may be impossible for him to find a house with, the necessary accommo<Jatkmmthetororn; if so, he must take a smafl farmhouse, as near to the town as 2»can. Butin any case— and this is the important point— he must be waiting for aae near thacimrch at intervals through the night, every night from the first of ijmetffl the end of the month. If I could I would fix a day, ' but that I cannot do. Kaderff wfll naturally -choose a. day, when.,

he thinks he may be able to act with the least likelihood of suspicion falling \ipon him. But you u.ay^ely on it I will urge him to let the day chosen be as early in the month as possible. As your agent cannot be expected to spend every night in the open air, his ■ best plan will be to secure a bedroom in one of the houses which overlook the church, and in that case he could watch for me from his window. But entreat him not to rely entirely upon that, but to visit the church, at least occasionally during each night, for you must tmderstaud that if he and I fail to liieet, lam a lost man. To make sure. of pur recognising each other, I will say to him when we lneet, 'Do you think it will rain to-uioriwv ?' And tell him to reply, ' There has been snow in June before now/ " If your agent should find it impracticable to cany out my suggestions about horses, he must find a lodging for me within a few miles of the town to which we can go. at once. The best r/ay would be to rent a cottage in a lonely neighbourhood. If he cannot do that, he must tell the people of the house that he expects a brother to visit him from Moscow, or some other town. In auy case tell the man to bring an overcoat or cloak with him to the church; for every minute I reiaain out of doors in the hateful prison dress, I offer myself, *as it were, to be apprehended. "And now, dear sister,- 1 have come to an end of my paper, 'without saying anything of thu love that is burning in my heart for you. If I was fond of you during those happy months we spent together at Beritza, you are a thousand times dearer to me now. You are continually in my thoughts ; and at night I often dream of yon. I dream sometimes that lam riding with you over the wide, treeless plains, the fresh wind of heaven on my cheek. 1 see you as ■plainly, it may be, as ever I saw you in my life ; you even seem to speak to nie. And P awake to find myself within these stone walls, kept like a wild beast in a cage. " But I am lio longer a prisoner without hope. Can it be possible, Ursula, that in a few weeks I shall see you. 1 cannot realise it. I know the enterprise is more than doubtful, but it is well worth risking. I am not .sure— l cannot make up my mind —whether it would be safer to make a bolt for the' frontier at once, .or try to find a hiding-place in some quiet neighbourhood in this country, -and lie still until the search;for me is relaxed. Gonsult with Bo'fimfccM about this ; I will do whatever you and he think best. - "And now, dearest sister, good-bye. God bless you, and give you wisdom and strength to aid me. The issue is in His hands. Pray for me, that I may be set free! — Your brother, " Alexis." No words could tell the emotions that filled Ursula's heart as she read this letter. One moment surprise and joy almost overpowered her ; the next she was trembling with apprehension. As soon as she had finished the letter she read it through a second time, then a third time, to make suVe that she thoroughly tmderstood all that her brother meant to convey to her: As she replaced the letter in its envelope, she examined the cover to see whether it had been forwarded by some friends at Beritza. But it had not been posted in Eussia. The only post-mark was " London ■ — W.C.," and she concluded that it had I been enclosed in a letter sent to Goloffski, j who, Dimitrieff had told her, had relations | living at Birtova. A sad smile crossed the girl's face as she remembered her brother's repeated , allusions to Borovitchi as being the only man who cotildbe relied on to help her in this emergency — BorOvitchi, whose treachery had been the indirect cause of all Alexis' sufferings. But to whom, then, could she go for assistance ? Who would help her to find an agent at once bold, shrewd, patient and trust-worthy ? Dimiti'ieff ? She recoiled from the idea of placing confidence in him. His face, his bearing, his voice had inspired her .with distrust. Besides, she knew nothing of his capability to find a suitable agent. There was another difficulty. She had already spent a large part of her two hundred pounds. Nearly a hundred must be set aside • for the reward which Alexis had promised to the gaoler, Sindorff. There was barely enough left for railway fares and the hiring of lodgings — certainly not enough for the purchase of horses. There was only one who might help, both with adviceand money — Eli Lobieski. He might have returned home. As the thought crossed her mind Ursula rose instinctively to her feet. There was not a moment to be lost, for already the month was far advanced. By the first of June everything must be in readiness. The thought of Alexis actually free, wandering about that church he spoke of throughout the summer night, dreading the dawn which would proclaim him an escaped convict by the clothes he wore, seeking with feverish haste, sick with anxiety, for the succour he expected and finding none — the thought haunted her as the fear of the gallows haunts a murderer. The first thing, she considered, was to ascertain whether Lobieski had come home, or had sent auy letter telling where he might be found. Her hopes were fixed on him. "Oh, surely," she thought, " he must have come back by this time, or, if not, Rachel may know where he is. If he is in Eussia I can go to him there, at once." Without waiting even to eat or to change her dress, she drank the cold tea which was still upon the table, and set out for Liobie3ki's house. Ckavtek XVIII. A. MYSTERIOUS TKLEGRAM. It was nearly eleven before Ursula reached the Manor House. The shrubs and trees that surrounded the old weatherbeaten dwelling were now dressed in their robes of green, but they failed to render the place bright and cheerful. The signs of neglect were more apparent than ever. The grass that bordered the avenue was encroaching upon the gravel ; the flowerbeds had not been attended to; everything told of iorgetf ulness, stagnation, and decay. It .seemed to the girl that all this was a sign that the master of the house had not returned, and she was prepared for the melancholy shake of the head which Eachel gave in answer to her inquiry. "No, ma'am," said the woman, "he's not come back; and no word from him either, as far as I know." She paused and glanced behind her, as if she feared being overheard. " Can I come in ?" asked Ursula. " I should like to apeak with you." "Would you mind coming into the

kitchen ?" said Rachel, as she closed the outer door behind her visitor. "We shall be more comfortable there." As they cro&sed the hall, Ursula happened to "look upstairs, and there she saw, looking over the bannisters, the dark visage of Madame Fabrini scowling at her. . Arrived in the great stone-floored kitchen, Raohel first of all locked the door, and then drew an armchair forward upon a large piece of carpet which covered the floor in front of the fireplace, and made her visitor sit down. " I see you lock the door, " said Ursula, with an amused smile. "Surely you would not presume to keep the housekeeper out if she chose to come in ?" "Would I not?" cried - Rachel. "She has no business here, a^d she knows it. I don't own her for my mistress, not while the master is away. Since he left she had the impudence to dismiss me, as she called it. I told her she might dismiss herself, if she liked, but that I meant to stay and watch over the furniture till my master came back." "Well?" " She said she Avould send for the police, and have me turned out. I told her to do it if she liked j and the police did come, but refused to interfere. So ever since she won't have anything to do with mo ; cooks her own meals, and makes Surah wait upon her. I am sure the master will turn her out of the house when he comes back." " I am sure I hope he may," said Ursula, glad to get back to the one subject tha.t was of importance in her eyes. "But if you can even make a guess as to where M. Lobieski can be, 1 wish you would tell me. I am going away — to Russia, to help my brother to escaj)e from the prison at Birtova!" "Is it possible, ma'am? God help you !" " I trust He will," said Ursula, calmly. " And I must, if possible, see your master first. If there is any town in France or Germany which he is in the habit of visiting, I would go there on my way to B^iissia. Have you no idea where he may be ? Can you give me no hint that might put me on his track •?" " Indeed, ma'am, I cannot, except that I believe he went home." "Home? To Russia?" " Yes. ' I am very anxious . about him." " Do you think — ?" "I think he may have been arrested. AiSd in that case we may never see him again." "Oh! don't say that," cried Ursula. " That would be too horrible." The face of the Polish woman did not soften into an expression of pity. It was hard and stern, but for a pained look about the eyes, which betrayed her anxiety. " I am afraid it must be that," she said in a low tone. "He has never been away from home so long before without writing to me. If he were at liberty he would surely let me hear from him." "But lie is so prudent. He would never run into danger," said Ursula. " True ; but he has enemies," returned Rachel, with a quick glance at the door. " You mean Madame Fabrini ?" . " She and some others. Last night she went to London — " " "I know," interrupted Ursula.. "I happened to be in the house when the servant mentioned her name." " Were you indeed ? And whose house was it, if I might be so bold as ask the question?" " I know no reason, " said Ursula, "why I should not tell you. It was to the house of Count Borovitchi that Madame Fabrini went last night." " Ah, " said Rachel, sagely nodding her head, " then no doubt it was he who sent her the telegram in the afternoon." " Indeed ! She got a telegram, then ? I wish I knew what that message was, " said Ursula, remembering how the Count had in her hearing denied that he so much as knew Madame Fabrini's name. "The message would most likely be asking her to go and see him," said Rachel, a little mystified. She had no knowledge of Ursula's belief that the Italian woman and the Count had been accomplices in the attack upon her life. I "Do you think it possible," said Ursula, I suddenly lifting her head, and fixing her beautiful eyes on her companion's face, " do you think it possible that a letter may have come from M. Lobieski, and she has told you nothing about it ?" "It is possible, though I think the master would have written to me, at least if he were in any kind of trouble. But if she knows where the master is we can't make her speak." " No ; but do you think it possible that he can have written to you, and that Madame Fabrini lias suppressed the letter ?' &ackelsprangtoherfeet,hereyesglowing, her muscles strained with passion. Raising her clenched hand's over her head — "If I thought that," she said, solemnly, " I would kill her." " Don't get so excited, please, Rachel. I really know no reason why the housekeeper should keep back any letter or message M. Lobieski may have sent to you, nor any reason why she should try to prevent your knowing where he is. It is all pure conjecture on my part. It-only struck me as being possible," " I will soon find out," cried Rachel. "How?" " The daughter of our postmistress, who looks after the mails, is a friend of mine. She has a sick child, and I gave it medicine, and helped to nurse it. She will tell me whether any letter has arrived for me lately." While she had been speaking- the woman had thrown on a bonnet and shawl. She and Ursula left the house together. "You had .better wait outside," said Rachel, when they had readied the postoffice. "Please go towards the railwaystation, and I will come on and overtake you when I have found out what I want to know." Rachel was gone a long time, much to Ursula's surprise. The girl was able to go on to the station, and return' almost as far as tho post-office, before her companion rejoined her. " Just as you thought ! " cried Rachel. " She has stoleu my letter ! One came for me yesterday morning. It had foreign stamps. It must have been from the master. What are we to do ?" " I'm afraid we can't do anything," said Ursula, gravely and sorrowfully, " unless the postman gave the letter to Madame Fabrini." "No," said Rachel. "I waited to see '•iim; and he declares he put it in the letter-box, and rang as usual. I remember hearing the bell, but that woman was before me. She must have been waiting behind the door, and uo doubt took it out of the letter-box even before the postman had time to ring. She showed me a newspaper addressed to herself as if that was all that had come. Cannot we' punish her ? Can't we force her to give up the letter ?' . " You might prosecute her, perhaps ; but that can wait till your master comes home. We could not force her to tell what | was in your letter; and by this time she has certainly burned it." "I did something for you while I was waiting for the postman," said Rachel, after a moment's ailence. " Mrs Newman went upstairs to see after her little one ; and I remembered that you had said that you would very much like to see the telegram that came fcr Madame Fabrini last night. So I just turned over one or two

of them, and soon came 'to it. I took a copy of it. Here it is." "Oh, Eachel, you shouldn't have done that. It was very kind of you, but too dangerous." "Danger ? Pooh !*' Oiie must not be too scrupulous when One has to do with a brigand — Take it." Ursula took the morsel of paper, and read — "Let me know, the* moment you hear news of L. If heretunra suddenly, at all costs prevent him and the Countess meeting. This is of V great importance. They must not meet for a day or two, cost what it may." Ursula felt bewildered^ Why should Count Borovitchi be so anxious to prevent, a meeting between' M. Lobieski and herself j — for she, "of course, must be the " Countess " of the telegram — at that particular time ? His reason, whatever it might be, could not relate to the affair of the writing-desk, for 'that had happened after the despatch of the telegram. However, there was no time to think about it then. Ursula went into the post-office and bought a sheet of paper, a pencil, a bit of sealing-wax and a couple of envelopes. In one of the envelopes she placed the three letters which she had. taken from Borovitchi's writing-table. On the sheet of paper she hastily scribbled a note for Lobieski. " Dear Friend," she wrote, " I am going to Russia to help my brother to escape from prison. Tf we fail I maybe taken. In that case — that is to say, if you do not hear from mo before the 15th of July, yon may open the enclosed envelope. I, Ursula Beritza, took these three letters from a locked drawer in the writing-table of Count borovitchi. You will know how to act with regard to them. But in dealing with him, be as merciful as you can. Remember that he is my near relation. Your continued absence has caused me great anxiety, but I am glad to know that you are still alive. Eachel will explain what became of your, letter to her. Farewell. — Ursula Beritza." : This letter, with the others, Ursula put into the second envelope, which she sealed, addressed to M. Lobieski, and handed to Rachel, charging her to give it to her master when he returned. Then she bade Eachel farewell, and returned to London. Ursula's next visit was to Dollis Hill. By good luck Maud was at home, and she ran at once into the drawing-room to welcome her friend. Ursula took her caress almost without knowing it was given, so great was her anxiety. " Maud, can you help me ?" she said, devouring the girl's face with her eyes. " Can you 4end me a large sum of money — fifty pounds ? My brother, you know, is in a Russian prison. He has written to me, j and he says he has a chance of escaping. .But money is needed. I have not enough, j by at least fifty pounds. Is it possible, do you think r" . She stopped, quite. unable to go on. i " I am sure papa aviU give you a cheque if I ask him," said Maud, passing her arm round the other's waist, and forcing her to sit down. ' " But he is not here. He will not be home till five o'clock ?'•' . "" "No." "And' every moment is precious to me. I had hoped to be able to leave London to-night " " You, Ursula ! Are you going yourself to Russia ? " " Yes, I must." " Why, you are a heroine ! I almost envy you — but wait." She ran out of the room, and came back in a few minutes, carrying a little drawer in her hands. In it there lay a cheque for five and twenty pounds, a five pound note, and three sovereigns, and a small antique watch set with brilliants and pearls. " Mr Lewis, the jeweller, in Bond Street, offered me fifty pounds for this watch once," said Maud. "He will be willing, I am sure, to lend you twenty on the security of it ; or at least tell you how to get the money. I will write him a note that you can take with you. But how weak and ill you look, my poor dai'ling ! " " Oh, no ! But how good you are, Maud ! Oh, how good!" And she seized the large, white, shapely hands, and kissad them passionately. Maud's eyes glistened. " Don't, dear. It isn't worth it. You see, I thought papa might ask questions, and make objections ; but he can't refuse to give me some more money. He can't help himself. Now, you must, and shall, eat some lunch while I write the note to Mr Lewis." t On reaching her lodgings with the money safe in her pocket, Ursula told her landlady that she was obliged to leave for the Continent at a moment's notice, and that in conseqiience she would give up her rooms. Her reason for. this was that she wished to make it impossible for Borovitchi to trace her on her return to London. Her belongings she packed in a trunk which she deposited at the left-luggage office at the railway station as*she left London by the evening mail. Determined not to spend a penny which she could save, Ursula travelled by thirdclass. As she was sitting on the deck of the steamer she noticed a tall, ill-dressed man, something like a mechanic out of work, leaning over the bulwarks. Something in his shape and carriage made her think that she had seen him before, and that not long since. She rose, and went nearer to him. Then she knew him. It was the man who had come to her lodgings with the Secretary on the night when she joined the Society of the Nihilists. A moment later she remembered his name — Goloffski. Stepping up close to him Ursula laid her hand on his arm, and spoke to j him. He started, looked round, and stared at her. When he saw who it was he stared yet harder. " You have not forgotten me, £1 see," said Ursula, in her low sweet voice ; "nor have I forgotten you. lam glad to meet you, for 1 am quite alone, and I can trust myself with one of our own people. But first let me thank you for forwarding' me •that letter. It was from him — from my brother." " What letter ? I know of no letter." " But it was certainly from my brother, Gount Beritza." Then she remembered that the warder in charge of her brother had been changed; and that the new warder might have found some other way of communicating with her. It did not occur to her to ask how he had discovered her address in London. " Where are you going ?" she asked her companion. : "1 ? To Russia," "Is it not dangerous for you?" asked Ursula, dropping her voice to a whisper, " too dangerous ?" "I do not care. I must go." "I, too, am going to Russia," said Ursula, after a pause. "Shall we go together ?" "Together, Countess ? You and I P' , " Yeß. I need your help." The rough peasant bent down, and in the friendly darkness reverently kissed her dress. Then he said, simply, " I am ready " (To be continued.)