THE STORYTELLER.

Waikato Times, Volume XLIII, Issue 3501, 1 December 1894, Page 13

THE STORYTELLER.

THEBEGfifIR-GIRL.

It was just three years ago, in May, 1891. I had wandered towards evening, as I was fond of doing, from my lodgings near the Newski Prospect into one of those suburbs of St. Petersburg which afford to him who is observant a far deeper insight into the peculiarities of Russian life as lived by the people than the grand boulevards or Prospects of the fashionable quarter with their bustle and traffic and Western polish. The clocks of the distant churches in St. Petersburg were just striking nine, warning me that it was time to wend my way homewards again, when I was suddenly arrested by a succession of screams issuing from a side street which I had just passed. The spot at all times a lonely one was quite deserted this evening, owing probably to the inclement weather, which was cold and rainy, and thinking some one was being attacked and robbed—not an unfrequent occurrence in this region of factories—l rushed back, dashed into the dark and narrow street whence the cries came, and found myself a minute later engaged in a hand to hand struggle with two rough looking fellows, who between them were subjecting a poor little beggar-girl to violent ill-treatment.

I am a strong man, and had no difficulty in dealing with the fellows, one of whom I felled with my fist before either could turn his attention tome. > I then grappled with the other, and after a short struggle succeeded in flinging him also heavily to the ground, where he kept his comrade company. At that moment, however, I heard the first fellow, still lying in thegutter, exclaim with a Russian oath,'as he pointed his finger at me:

"Look, look! Iwan Nicolaiwitch. It is Iwan Nicolaiwitch."

But before they had time to rise and attack me again, if, indeed, they felt any inclination, the girl, a mere child as she; appeared to me, seized my arm agitatedly, and whispered: "Quick, quick, follow me, for Heaven'* sake. They are officers of the Secret Police. You are lost if they take you." And with a strength I should scarcely have expected in so frail a little creature, she dragged me across the street into a dark passage, along which she carefully groped her way for some '■ distance, until a turning brought us out into a small alley. :" Follow me, follow me quickly," she said again, breathlessly, and I followed her, obediently through a labyrinth of lanes and passages, until I grew quite bewildered and dizzy. At last we issued forth into what appeared to me to be a marketplace. There was a good many people about; and mixing among them we crossed the place, and presently halted in the doorway of a house on the opposite side, All this passed so rapidly that I scarcely, had time to realise my position. I now glanced at my little companion, whose face was turned up to nie with a strange expt'f ssion of wondering curiosity. It was one of the sweetest little faces I have ever seen, and belonged, as I now recognised in spite of the child-like figure and voice, to a girl apparently about nineteen or twenty years of age.

"Iwan Nicolaiwitch," she murf mured, as she aazed at me with her dark, dreamy eyes, and I thought I detected a tone of regret and pity as she pronounced the name. It iyas not .mine—hue there w,?s no reason for me to disavow it; in fact, considering the possible unpleasant consequences of my collision with the Knssiaii secret police, I could only co tig rat ul ate myself on having been mistaken for some one else, " Well, my little one," I said to my companion, "and what more can I do for youf

Instead of answering my question she stepped out of the doorway, and peered cautiously up and down the street.

"There is a droshky coming along," she said. " Hail it, and drive as

quickly as possible into St. Petersburg. You are not safe in this neighbourhood." "And you child, what is to become of you?" I asked. " Will you takii me with you—only as far as the Newski Prospect?" she said.

"Certainly," I replied. "Come." And hailing the passing droshky, I lifted the ragged little creature into it and directed the driver to drive us by the quickest route to the Newski Prospect. •

As we drove along I could not help smiling at my curious situation. My little beggar friend sat opposite me silent. But as we passed the street lamps, and their fitful light fell upon her face, I was again struck by its exquisite beauty and sweet, almost refined expression. There was something so uncommon about her, ragged and unkempt though she was, that I felt strangely interested in her. But she answered all my questions as to the cause of the ill-treatment from which I had rescued her evasively, and I could get nothing out of her beyond the statement that she had been suddenly set upon by the two men, who had accused her of theft, and were on the point of dragging her off to the police-office, when I intervened and saved her.

" Are you alone in the world ?" I asked.

She nodded he head affirmatively. "Poor child," I said, " how do you live ?" "As I can," she replied. I was silent for a while, only glancing at her every now and again with a growing feeling of pity at the thought that so much loveliness should be doomed to an exiatenceof poverty and squalor. All the time I noticed that her eyes remained fixed upon me with that same curious expression of regret and something else which I had seen in them, whilst we stood in the doorway of the house on the mar-ket-place. " Would'you like to,giveup your roving life, my little one ?" I asked her presently, yielding to a sudden impulse, which seized me. There was a quick flash in her daik eyes, " Perhaps," she answered. "And if I provided for you, would you always be good, and do what I required of you ?" "Why do you wish to provide for me ?" she asked abruptly, instead of answering my question. " Because there is something in your face that pleases me, little one," I replied, amused at her decided manner. ■■''""'"■

Again her dark eyes flashed upon me, this time with an expression ot defiance.

"And what is it that you- would require of me ?" she asked in the same abrupt manner, "Nothing wrong, my child," I answered, earnestly. "You may trust me. lam not one to harm such as you." "You pity me then?" she asked softly. "I pity you," I said "and I should like to rescue you from a life of misery and danger. You are but a child and can still learn. I will have you taught, if you will promise to be good and obedient' She laughed a silvery little laugh. "I am twenty," she said. "It is too late for that. I must remain what I am. Besides—"

She hesitated, and looked at me once more with that curious expression I had noticed before. ." Besides what?" I asked. "I think you are a good man, Iwan Nicolaiwitch," she said,' almost sadly. "But I would not trust mvself to any man, unless—" Again she hesitated.. "Unless?" I asked. " Unless I could love him," she said, simply. " Aud have you never known any one you could love, little one ?" I inquired, touched by her simplicity. She shook her head. "And has no one ever loved you?"

"Me?" she said, openging her eyes wide.

"AVho would love a beggar-girl? Could you love a beggar-girl, Iwan Nicolaiwitch ?"

Her tone was half mocldug, half wistful, audi felt sensible of a dangerous fascination in those large eyes that gazed upon me so fearfully. But before I could reply,

she had risen and stopped the droshky. " I must get out here," she said (we had just entered the Newski Prospect). "Tell me where you live, Iwan Nicolaiwitch," I wavered a minute, and then gave her my address. " Shall ' I see you again, little one ?" I asked, taking her tiny hand in mine. "Perhaps," she answered.

I took a piece from my pocket, and gave it her. She koked at it, laughed, and sprang lightly out of the carriage. "Beware of the secret police, Iwan Nicolaiwitch," she said," and do not drive home."

With these words she was gone. I told my driver to continue his course along the Prospect until I stopped him. He whipped up his beast, and we started off again. But we had hardly proceeded twenty yards when something flew into the carriage, and fell on the floor at my feet. I picked it up. It was the two-rouble piece I had given my little companion a minute ago,

I gazed out, but only to see her lithe figure vanish into a side street.

For an instant I thought of following her, and if possible ascertaining where she lived. But after all, it would probably have proved a fruitless pursuit, so T gave it up, and after driving a little way farther, I stopped l 'my Jehu, paid hini, and, mindful of ray little friend's warning, proceeded to my lodgings on foot.

Somehow the face of my little beggar-girl pursued me incessantly during the following days, so much so that I used' to walk about the streets for hours in the hope of meeting her again. lam a painter —not unknown to fame—and the powerful attraction exercised upon me by a beautiful face is for that reason' perhaps not inexcusable, At the same time it must be acknowledged that my particular branch of art is landscape painting, and when I persuaded myself—as I occasionally felt impelled to do—that in spending my valuable time in running about the streets looking for a ragged beggar-girl I was only following the natural instincts of an artist who h*s found his ideal model, I cannot deny that I was to some extent hoodwinking myself, for I really wanted no model, and had I had one should scarcely have known what to do with it,

I lived in a quiet bye-street not far from the Newski Prospect, where I had fitted up an atelier for temporary purposes, for I had come to St. Petersburg a few weeks before in order to make studies of certain local scenery which I required for the painting I was then engaged on, Though English by birth, I had lived the greater part of my life in Russia. My father had married a Russian lady, and settled soon afterwards in Moscow, where he established himself in business, and where I was consequently brought up and educated. In fact, until 1 became of age, whon I lost both ray parents, I had never seen my native counrry since I left it, a little fellow just out of frocks. That was then nearly thirty years ago.

The object of my present visit to St. Petersburg was really accomplished, and there was nothing to keep me there any longer, except my own faney, or whatever else it may have been that caused me to stay on.

I laughed at myself for telling myself, as I sometimes did, that the true reason was because I wanted to find my strange little beauty, and do something for her, whatever that something was, for I had as yet no very clear notion on the subject. Still, there I was, and after all, 1 had given the poor girl my address, and if she came, and I were gone—well, it would have looked almost like deceit on my part, and somehow the idea hurt me. So I stayed.

It was about ten days after my adventure in the suburb, when on returning to my lodgings one night towards ten o'clock, and entering the dark passage which led from the entrance of the house to the foot of the staircase, I felt my arm clutched by some one who appeared to have been lying in wait for me, Coming from the glare of the street lamps, I

was unable to recognise in the darkness who it was, but i heard a voice which I remembered only too well, whisper:

"Hush. Don't speak, Iwan Nicolaiwitch, Lead on: I will follow."

There was no mistaking the sweet, musical voice with its imperious accent, and a thrill of pleasure passed through me as I heard it.

_ " You have come then at last, little one," I exclaimed.

"Hush," she said again. "I must speak with you, and have no time to lose. Quick; lead the way."

i led the way upstairs, and a minute or two later entered my sitting-room on the third floor, followed by my ragged little friend. She looked quickly round the apartment, taking in every detail with a curious eye. Then she turned to me and said :

"You are no longer safe here, Iwar Nicolai witch. Your hidingplace has been betrayed to the secret police, You must seek another,"

The anxious expression in her pale face touched me.'

" Do you fear so much for my safety then, little one ?" I asked. "What does it matter what I fear?" she replied, impatiently. "You did me a service, and T. am grateful, nothing more." " But why do you think I should fear the secret police, child?" I asked. "And whence do you obtain your knowledge of my danger V "Ask no questions," she replied. "Enough that I know of it, and can bring you to a place of safety, where you can remain, until "

"Until?" I queried, seeing her hesitate.

"Until a passport can be obtained for you, which will enable you to escape from Russia."

"And are you able to procure such a passport?" I said, incredulously.

"Not I," she said. "But I knovr one who can."

"Tell me, child," I exclaimed, as a sudden thought shot across my mind, "are you a Nihilist ?" "I am not," she answered. "Cease questioning me, for time is precious. Listen. When I am gone, burn your papers, leave the house quietly and proceed to the church of St. Olga in the X quarter. As the clock strikes half-past eleven a man will accost you; Follow him for he is a friend, and will conduct you to the place I have spoken of."

The spot she mentioned was a lonely one, situated in a quarter of the town which was of ill-repute, and although I felt strongly inclined to pursue this curious adventure to the end, I shrank not unnaturally from the risk attaching to it. Besides, it might all be a snare, and the real object in view robbery, perhaps something worse.

The girl read my thoughts in my face. " You distrust me, then, Iwan Nicolaiwitch," she said. "Yet you would have had me trust you." I. seized her two hands, and looked searchingly into her eyes. She met my gazo unflinchingly. "I will trust you," I said. "But by what token shall I know the man I am to follow V She did not reply at once, but seemed to ponder a moment. " His greeting will be,' Fortune to him whom Vera loves,' she said at last. " Is Vera your name f "It is my name," she said, and this time her eyes sank timidly before mine. But only for an instant, then she looked up again with her old .resolute expression. "You will be there?" she asked. " I will be there." I answered. "Farewell, then, Iwan Nicolaiwitch. Remember the token, "Fortune to him whom Vera loves.'"

Before I could say anything more, she was gone, and I heard her little feet tripping nimbly down the dark stairs, When I arrived at the church of St. OJga the clock was just on the strike of half-past eleven, the hour appointed for the meeting', My late

arrival was due to the circuitous route I had taken, .partly in order to ■escape observation, partly I confess, because once in the street all sorts of doubts and fears as to the result ■of this adventure began to assail mo. Who was this Iwan Nicolaiwitch in whose fate my little friend seemed to take so deep an interest? Was it. not madness for me to continue a personification, in voluntary though it was, which might possibly lead me into dangers I, had no conception of ? And' all merely for the sake of a pair of fascinating eyes which belonged to a little beggar-girl. A dozen times 1 thought of turn ing back and giving up my hazardous venture. But each time those singular words, "Fortune to him whom Vera loves," rang in my ears again, and I saw the drooping eyes and the blushing cheeks of her who had spoken them. Then a •strange, reckless- passion took possession of me, and forced rue to proceed. The place in which the church of St Olga stood was dreary and desolate. The only sign of life I met there was a solitary vehicle standing in the shadow of one of,the church portals. Its driver was fast asleep on the box, and the horses seemed inclined to follow suit. Otherwise all was still I walked twice round the church without seeing a soul. The clock had struck the half hour at least five minutes ago, and I was already beginning to tire of waiting, when suddenly I saw the figure of a man glide out of tne •church portal where the carriage stood, just as I was about to pass it .a third time. He beckoned to me, and 1 approached, but instead of accostiug me with .the words I expected, he placed his finger on his lips, as if enjoining me to be sileut. At the same moment I felt both my arms pinioned from behind, and before 1 could recover from my surprise my eyes were bandaged, I was gagged, bound, and lifted like a 6ack into the carnage, which had no doubt been on the spot in readmess to receive me. My captors entered after the door was closed, and the carriage started off .at an ordinaay pace. i,;; t All this was accomplished almost in a twinkling, and until then not a word'had been spoken. Presently, however, the gag was removed from my mouth, and a gruff voice beside me whispered in my ear: •* Make n» sound, as you value your life,; we aro friends." But .disregarding the injuction, £ turned my, head angrily in the direction?, whence the voice cauie, and demanded to know where I Was being;taken ,tp. _...;.„ "If you speak another word we; shall gag you again." the : same gruff voice replied. "You are with iriends; let that suffice you." ; Strauge friends indeed, I thought, und I inwardly cursed my folly in placing iny trust in the face of a pretty begg a-girl. But I felt my helplessness, and kept silent. Ah,- what a fool I was. Even now, as I was being driven along, •to meet heaven knows what fate, I thought less of the danger I was iu ithan of the cruel deceit practised upon me by one whom I had befriended and protected, one whom I had—l almost laughed aloud as I thought of my mad passion tor, a miserable, ragged le?;:a'-«irl. It was only now that I confessed to myself with a feeling of bitter shame that the real cause of my lingering in St Petersburg had been foolish infatuation.

Onr progress seemed to me interminably slow. At last! after an hour's drive at the leisurely pace at which we had started the horses were whipped up, and we set off at .a quick gallop. Tnis pace continued for some time, and by the jolting of the carriage it was evident that we had left the town and were driving along some country road. Suddenty there came a sharp turn, then a grating sound, as if the wheels of the carriage were passing over a gravel way, and a minute later we stopped, With the same rapidity with which I had been lifted into the •carriage, I was now hoisted out. and carried up a few steps through •what appeared to bo a s'aort poimgo, I heard a door being closed behind me, and the next moment I was set on iny legs, my bonds were ret moved, the bandage was taken from my eyes, and I found myself

in a small room lighted by a few candles, and furnished with a table in the centre and a couch and half-a-dozen chairs round the walls. Before me stood the man I had seen emerge from the church portal and beckon to me, My first impulse, seeing he was alone, was to spring upon him, and force him to release me. But he no doubt guessed my purpose from my looks, and drawing a long Russian knife from his girdle, he held it up before me with a grimly smile. •"Where am I?" I said, seeing that to attempt violence would be fatal, "With friends," he answered. " Ask no questions. You are safe. I can say no more." " But how long am I to be kept a prisoner here?" I asked. "You will learn in time," he replied, approaching the door. "Be satisfied; seek to know no more." With these words he went out, and I heard him look the door behind Mm. In mute rage I paced up and down my room. It had only one window, which was protected by stout iron bars and to escape by it was impossible. Morever, through the thick shutters, which I was unable to open owing to the iron bars in front of them, I could hear the regular tread of feet on tine gravel outside, and knew that I was guarded. At last I threw myself on the couch, and after tossing about restlessly for some time, and revolving my situation in my mind, I fell asleep. When I awoke the next morning, my candles had burnt out, and the daylight was streaming into the room through two small apertures in the shutters. Presently the door opened, and my guardian entered. He brought me, my breakfast, which he invited me, to partake of with a friendly gesture. But lie obstinately refused, as before, to answer the questions I put to him. His manner was firm, yet deferential, and he inquired if I had any wants, telling me that he had orders to provide we with anything I might desire. I asked for paper and pencils, which he brought me, and after making as good a, : meal as circumstances would permit, I while-J away the, hours by sketching, and drawing. Twice,my man returned during the day, each time bringing me food and drink., When darkness.fell again, the candles'were, renewed, and I was left, as I thought, to, pass another night in my strange, quarters.; It must have been ;ten o'clock i according to my, reckoning,'when I was startled by!hearing the sound of approaching, carriage wheels They seemed to stop underneath the window of my room 'lmmediately afterwards!, heard a tripping little footstep in the passage outside. The door opened, .'and —on the 'threshold stood my little beggargirl. , : She; closed the, door slowly, and advanced towards me with a timid, : hesitating air. I had started up on seeing her enter, and now stood with crossed arms and a stern look, waiting for her to speak. : " You are angry with me," she said, deprecatingly. " But the mistake was not my fault. Why did jou let mo believe you were Iwan Nicolaiwitch ?" ''You know now then that I am not I wan Nicolaiwitch 1 " I ask' d. " I know it," she answered, " for 'lwan Nicolaiwitch, the Nihilist was captured in his lodgings last night, and is now in the prison of St, Peter and St. Paul." " Was it to save this man, whom you can never have seen, that yoii arranged for me to be brought here?" I said, forgetting my anger at the sight of her sweet little face ami the sound oS>hcr voi.'!,\

"Iwan Nieolaiwitch ?" she said, with a flash of scorn. " What is he to me? He deserves his fate,"

" Yet because you believed I was he, you risked so much to save me?"

"You once showed mc a kindness," she murmured. "I would have icpaid it," " What I did was nothing'," I said. ■" Eufc this—it mijjlit have cost you your liberty, your lile. Why did you risk all this for me?"

She looked at me, and shrugged her shoulders. But there was something in her look that made the blood shoot to my head, and I seized her little hands passionately. " Vera—little one," I whispered, "could you love me ?" il I will love no one who does not love me," she replied, with a proud toss of her head. As she spoke she took up one of the sketches which lay on the table. A crimson (lush mounted to her cheeks, as she glanced at it and saw that it was of herself. "But if I loved you, little one," I whispered again, endeavouring to draw her towards me. She disengaged the hand I was raising to my lips. "Would you marry, a beggar girl, Philip Bruce f she said. "You know my name?" I exclaimed. She pointed to the sketch she had taken up. , I had signed my name at the foot of it. "You can read, then?" I said, more and more surprised. She bit her lip, and looked confused. " Ah," I exclaimed, as a sudden suspicion flashed upon me, " you are playing a part. You are not a common beggar-girl." She reflected an instant, then raised her head proudly, and looked straight into my eyes. "Do you know where you arc, Philip Bruce V I shook my head. " You are in the country house of Count Feodor Gregbrow, the Chief of the Russian Secret Police." I started back amazed. "And you?" I murmured. " I am the Princess Vera Grcgorowna, his niece." I knew the name as that of one of the most noted beauties at the Imperial Court. I looked at her earnestly, and then laughed aloud. "I don't believe it, little one," I said. She flushed hotly. "You think I lie?" "I would rather think you lie than think anything else of yon that is not good and tine," I saicK "If you were what you say you. are, your motive in bringing lwan Nicolaiwitch to til's place coulJ only have been to destroy him, aiui Nihilist, though he be, such treachery were, blacker/than words can ; paint." : -...,,, " ; Ypu'jtiiink sol" she said, with a scornful little laugh. .•f < 6h,"'i ; ,crie(l, f "tellmeit,isnot so, child." ;.,. :■.'•, ■ : j|.. ;. "Listen, Philip Bruce," f she said. : " ; Have you; heard offOlga Aksanoff?'!;,, : ;.,, v :! . ~;,;• "The unfortunate girl who .was implicated in. the last plot against the Czar's:life?: Who has notf I replied. "But what of her? She has- escaped: from Russia, they say," - ; - . "She did escape, ten days ago, with a pass signed by the Chief of the Secret Police, and conveyed to her by m", Vera Gregorowna, But for yon, Philip Bruce, I should have been discovered/and Olga Aksanoff would shared the fate of Iwari Nicolaiwitch. She was once my friend, ami I believed her innocent. I knew the police were on her track. There was only one means of saving her, and I adopted it." ; "You risked your life to save hers?" I said. " I could have trusted no one else. Ah, I was nearly too late. The quarter was already watched, and while you rescued the little girl, Olga Aksanoff escaped from her lodging, and left Rnssia the next day, disguised and protected-by the secret pass I,had brought her." " Yes," I said, " I understand it all. And lwan Nicolaiwitch—you would have saved him, too. But tell me, why was I brought here?" " Because it was the onlv place where no one would search for you. The country house of the Chief of the Secret Police is not a likely hiding-place for a Nihilist, f think'. Besides, I. had made all arrangements to leave for the frontier tomorrow." " And what would have become of me?"' She smiled. "You would have passed out of Russia safely as one of fclfe servants of the Princess Vera Gregorowna, niece of the Chief of the Russian Secret Police."

"Vera Gregorowna," I said, bending over her hand, and raising it reverentially to my lips, " you are a good woman." I felt the little hand tremble as I kissed it. Then I looked up, our eyes met, and I clasped her in my arms, and kissed her passionately. "You love me, Philip Bruce 1" she whispered as she nestled her fair little head on my breast " You love me for myself alone ?" '•'l love you, little one," 1 said. "As a princess or a beggar-girl, I love you for yourself alone." Endless were the conjectures as to how it came about that the Princess Vera Gregorowna, who had scorned so many powerful suitors, married a simple English artist. No one guessed the truth.