Lona Ivanovna asks a second question and gets an unexpected reply
As soon as Leo had read Wallion's message, a feeling of great relief came over him. For the first time he dared to confess to himself that he had been on the point of giving up hope altogether. The realization of Baron Fayerling's true character had brought home to him his own utter helplessness. No one knew better than he that the isolated position of the Copper House gave, for the time being, a tremendous advantage to this dangerous gang; the baron's high-handed proceedings had also made him fear that the journalist--his only friend at this crisis--had already been secretly done away with. But the little slip of paper, so unexpectedly flung through his window, came like a sunbeam into a darkened room: Wallion was evidently still free, and at work. How, under present conditions, he had managed to evade the enemy, was more than Leo could imagine, but the mere knowledge of the fact exhilarated him like a glass of champagne; he drew a deep breath, and his mind, which had seemed frozen, began to work once more. The situation was, after all, full of possibilities as long as Wallion was anywhere in the neighborhood. The wish to do something himself returned to Leo with double force, and one idea after another chased through his active brain; he had a dangerous craving to lend a hand, to surprise his friend by some clever move, some stroke of genius that might even settle the whole affair for good.
He thrust the note into his waistcoat pocket, left his room, and ran whistling downstairs.
In the hall he found Lona Ivanovna, very quiet, and with a look of painfully-concentrated thought on her thin face. He noticed at once that the guard by the door had disappeared, and that quite a new kind of silence reigned over the house; a silence that kept one's ears and nerves perpetually on the stretch. The rooms, whose doors stood open on every side of the hall, gave one the impression of having only just been vacated, and that at any minute something might happen in them.
A flash of lightning flickered from the heavy bank of clouds outside, like the expiring ray of a searchlight, and was followed by a low growl of very distant thunder.
Lona Ivanovna turned, as she heard the young man's step on the stairs.
"They have gone," said she, "and they have not found him yet."
Leo glowed with satisfaction: for the first time the pugnacious old lady addressed him in the friendly tone hitherto reserved for her brother and Sonia. He was quite pleased to hear that Bernard Jenin had not been found, but that was not the most important thing from his point of view.
"Has the baron gone away?" he asked, eagerly.
"Yes, he went just now, with that miserable creature Tassler. But it's too soon to rejoice, my boy, Rastakov is left behind, and we are prisoners," she added in a dry sarcastic tone, as if she found this fact rather amusing.
"Prisoners!" echoed Leo; "how can that be? You must be joking. There is no prison here."
"Dear me, how shall I make you understand!" she muttered, scratching her forehead with her crochet-hook; "have you ever been in the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul?"
"No, never!" cried Leo, considerably taken aback.
"So I should think. But I have! It was in the days when I used to throw bombs," she said confidentially; "well, it would have been easier to escape from Peter and Paul than to get out of the Copper House now. Of course, I was young then...."
Leo stared at her, opened his mouth and--remained silent. He went over to the glass door, threw it open, and hurried out on to the terrace.
"Where are you off to?" demanded Rastakov, appearing in front of him, with his right hand in his pocket.
"Whatever business is it of yours!" retorted Leo furiously. "How dare you speak to me like that! I go where I choose."
Rastakov sneered provokingly.
"Yes, after eleven or twelve o'clock to-night, maybe; but until then you have got to keep quiet, or you may find yourself taken elsewhere first thing in the morning. Go indoors, and get your friends to amuse you; we have a small job on out here, and don't want to be interfered with: so that's all there is to it."
Leo took a couple of steps towards him, but the man quietly drew a huge revolver from his pocket; his face was grim and watchful.
"I mean it!" he said; "go indoors."
Leo looked all round him; he could not repress a shudder as he counted nine or ten armed men posted in front of the house, and he guessed that it would be equally well guarded on the remaining sides; Lona Ivanovna was right: they were prisoners.
"You must be mad!" he exclaimed; "we are not in Russia. I have only to report this to the police, and you would all be arrested."
"Do so, by all means," replied the other scornfully; "perhaps you would like me to send the message for you!"
"I shall--I shall...."
Leo checked himself, and turned back into the house. He was angry with himself, with Rastakov, with the whole world; he was aware that he played a sorry figure, and the knowledge did not improve his temper. However, the recollection of Wallion's message was some consolation, and by the time he saw Lona Ivanovna again in the hall, he was able to speak to her almost cheerfully:
"I must borrow one of those bombs of yours: I have had a dispute with Rastakov, and couldn't find any argument strong enough to convince him."
She stopped working, laid her bony hand on his arm, and said, with a weary little laugh:
"My boy, it is many years since I imagined that I could set the world to rights with a handful of dynamite in a sardine tin: gunpowder, or words, it all comes to the same in the long run."
They entered the drawing-room as she was speaking, and the blind man's feeble voice chimed in:
"Yes, you are right, it doesn't matter: it all ends in noise. Though a bomb is more straightforward, it seems to me," he added thoughtfully, and as if to himself.
This appeared to be a topic they had often discussed before, and Lona Ivanovna immediately joined issue with her brother.
"Not a single bomb that was ever thrown has improved the world in any way. It was the folly of youth that blinded us to the truth, when we were striving so desperately to bring about Russia's freedom. Russia is free now, but it is not our bombs that have brought it about."
"Possibly," answered Andrei Bernin, his voice sounding somewhat stronger; "but it is not finished yet. Who knows whether in this very house...."
His sister made a sudden movement, and he was silent.
After a pause he asked:
"Is the young man here?"
"Yes, he is here. Rastakov has just told him that he cannot leave the house.... Would you like to speak to him?"
"I should like to do so," said Andrei Bernin; "let me give you a piece of advice, Mr. Grath: leave this place as soon as you can."
"How can I do that? You heard...."
"Yes, yes, but give them your word that you will say nothing, and they will let you go. It will be better for you."
"He is right," said Lona Ivanovna, softly; "I will tell you the truth: we who are obliged to stop here are expecting nothing less than a catastrophe. I know you want to help us, but what can you do by yourself? You can leave us with a clear conscience."
"But you? What will you do?"
"We? Oh, it will soon be over, we must just have patience."
Before Leo could reply, Sonia sprang up, her eyes wide open, her hands clutching at her throat.
"Patience! I hate that word," she exclaimed. "I will not be patient, I want to see those wretches beaten, who are using Russia's misery as a stepping-stone for their own fortunes. It is cowardly to be patient, and I won't...."
Her voice broke, and she turned and went quickly out of the room. Her passionate words left the others silent; they scarcely ventured to look at one another, but at last Leo said:
"She is right. What you said was kindly meant and I am grateful, but let me tell you in my turn that I have no intention of leaving here. I am not a pessimist, and I am intensely anxious to see what will happen, especially as the matter concerns my own house."
He waited an instant for their reply, but none was forthcoming. Andrei Bernin sank back among his cushions, and his sister remained standing by the window. Leo bowed, and went out to see what had become of Sonia; she had not gone further than the stairs, where he found her leaning against the banister. She turned her face to him with a dazed expression, and, in her black dress, she looked so small and frail, that the young man seized her little sunburnt hands impulsively, and said:
"Try to be patient a little longer, won't you? Perhaps help is nearer than you think."
"It will have to come pretty quickly, then," she answered in a low voice; "all the same, I am not afraid."
Leo did not know what to say next. A vague masculine sympathy prompted him to try and console her, but he knew instinctively that she would take it amiss. She drew her hands away, and said gravely:
"There is no need for you to trouble yourself about us; we have been uninvited guests in your house, but it won't last much longer; in a short time we shall have gone for good."
"Yes, but look here!" he cried out impetuously; "that is just what I don't want, I ask nothing better than to know more of you, to be one of your best friends; you persist in keeping me at a distance!"
"You mustn't say that!" whispered Sonia, blushing deeply: "You understand something of what we are suffering: a man's life is at stake, and we are bound to keep silence for his sake...."
"Do you mean Sergius?"
"Yes," she answered softly. "He is hidden here, in spite of all their searching; he is my cousin."
This piece of news struck the young man like a flash of lightning.
"Your cousin! Bernard Jenin your cousin! That explains it. Then he must be...."
"Lona Ivanovna's son." Sonia completed the sentence. Leo's hands trembled with excitement. He felt that Wallion ought to know this at once, and he looked round the hall, almost as though he expected the journalist to be somewhere in it.
"Come!" he exclaimed, "come! You ought to have told me that before. We must go straight to him."
"To whom?"
"Maurice Wallion."
The girl gave a little cry.
"Is he here?"
"I don't know. But we must find out where he is."
Leo had no plan, no idea of what he was going to do. It did not occur to him that by acting too precipitately he might spoil everything, he was only conscious of a frantic desire to do something before it was too late, and he rushed off, dragging the girl after him.
They ran like two children through the silent house, and Leo began to call Wallion loudly by name.
"No, no," the girl hushed him; "don't call, they may hear us."
"We must find him! If Bernard Jenin can hide himself, Wallion can do the same."
"No," said she, "your friend couldn't hide himself here, in the way that Sergius has done."
Leo felt that she was speaking the truth. She knew, then, where Jenin was hidden.
"Then it's impossible," he faltered dejectedly; "Wallion can't be here after all."
"No, he certainly isn't inside the Copper House."
Leo began to wonder whether the journalist had abandoned them to their fate, and his eyes grew dim, but he shook off the feeling of hopelessness which was stealing over him, and said quickly:
"He must be somewhere close by."
A few minutes later, they went boldly out by the kitchen door, and took the path to the garden, their intention being to walk right round the house, in defiance of their jailers.
Rastakov was fortunately not to be seen, but four or five of the sentries shouted to them from a distance.
The girl, who was the more level-headed of the two, picked a rose, and arranged it deliberately in the lapel of her coat.
"Look as unconcerned as you can," she whispered. "They oughtn't to mind our taking a breath of fresh air: when they calm down, we will continue our round...."
But at this moment an unforeseen obstacle blocked their way. Rosenthal came striding towards them from the gardener's cottage, and as soon as he was within speaking distance, he called out in a threatening voice:
"Hallo, my young cockerel, what are you doing out here?"
Leo grew white with rage, and replied furiously:
"Mind what you're saying!"
Rosenthal closed with him, and gave him a formidable blow with his fist, on the point of the chin. Leo staggered back, but noticed with surprise that the blow was not so severe in reality as in appearance. And, next minute, he could hardly believe his own ears, when Rosenthal said, almost inaudibly:
"Hit me back, make the hell of a row, it's for your own advantage!"
The man's eyes were on a level with his, and he was aware of an extraordinarily humorous look in them. But, the next instant, the gardener was bellowing at the top of his voice:
"I'll teach you! Ha! You'd hit me back, would you! Come on then!"
He aimed another blow at Leo, who parried it mechanically, and in another moment they were at it, hammer and tongs, making a fearful din, though not before Rosenthal had whispered again:
"Hit me, shout, and make as much noise as you can! You will soon know the reason."
A whole crowd of Rastakov's men collected round them, laughing loudly, and Rastakov himself came hurrying up, looking exceedingly put out. Leo and Rosenthal were pounding one another to the accompaniment of an uninterrupted flow of strong language from the latter.
"What's all this?" Rastakov's voice broke in sharply: "Back to your posts, every one of you! Give it him well, Rosenthal: but you had better leave enough life in the puppy for him to be able to crawl indoors again."
The combatants were separated, and Leo, still giddy with astonishment, stood staring about him for a minute, then turned and reëntered the house without a word.
Sonia joined him with a radiant face.
"That was clever of you!" she said with boyish enthusiasm: "I wish you had killed him!"
"Killed him!" stammered the bewildered young man; "Rosenthal--didn't you hear--he said...."
But he found himself quite unable to explain what had happened: he had a general impression of having had a fight with a good-natured giant, who had been pommeling him out of sheer good will. He hurried in to the brother and sister Bernin, and sat down near them, panting. Lona Ivanovna, who was still standing by the window, turned to him and said dryly:
"May I ask the meaning of that comedy, Mr. Grath? I was watching all the time, and neither of you struck a single blow in earnest."
Leo saw with mortification a change in the expression of Sonia's face.
"Weren't you really fighting?" she asked in a disappointed voice. He made a poor attempt at a smile.
"Either Rosenthal or I must be mad," he said frankly: "the man told me to make as much noise as I could."
"Oh-h," said the old lady, slowly: "is that it!" Her bright, bird-like eyes shone, and she added softly:
"That being the case, I wonder if your friend Mr. Wallion would be so kind as to come in now...."
"Thanks, with the greatest pleasure," replied the journalist, coming in from the hall. "Your powers of observation do you credit, Madame."
His entrance seemed as though worked by magic: had he fallen from the sky? Even the blind man half rose from his chair.
"At last!" said Leo, from the bottom of his heart, as he made for the journalist and grasped his hand. Wallion looked at him with a smile:
"I hope you haven't quite crippled Rosenthal?" he inquired. "You two knocked one another about splendidly; everybody crowded up to stare at you; and I had only to walk straight in here. I hope soon to be able to present Rosenthal to you, as a useful and trustworthy friend."
"Do you mean to say," said Leo, amazed, "that Rosenthal faked the whole affair in order that you might get into the Copper House unobserved?"
"Yes, we planned it between us on the spur of the moment. What else was there for us to do? What did you think you were going to do, single-handed?"
"Why, of course, we meant to go and find you."
"Me?" said Wallion, gravely. "Couldn't you have waited till I was ready? Yes, I know, you had made a discovery, which we will talk about in a minute."
Leo introduced him to the two ladies; Sonia drew back a little after the first greetings, as though to take stock unobtrusively of the tall journalist, whose decided manner and piercing glance evidently impressed her. Lona Ivanovna shook hands heartily with him, and they seemed to understand one another at once: from that time on, they were on terms of the warmest esteem.
"I hope you will forgive me for keeping in the background until now," said Wallion; "there are plenty of sharp eyes round the Copper House, and I don't want Rastakov to take alarm too soon. But there need be no secrets between us henceforward."
He bent down over Andrei Bernin's chair, and took the invalid's hand in his like a doctor.
"Mr. Andrei Bernin," he continued, "your name has interested me immensely since this morning; you need not be afraid of me: don't turn away from me, for I am a friend."
The journalist's keen eyes were very close now to the blue spectacles:
"It is strange that no one but myself has noticed it!"
"What are you talking about?" murmured the blind man, uneasily.
"Of the fact that out of the letters forming the name Andrei Bernin, one can just as easily make the name of Bernard Jenin."
He patted the invalid's hand, and stood up.
"You need not disguise yourself from me, Mr. Bernard Jenin," he added in a low tone; "or may I say Sergius?"
The man in the armchair swept off the blue spectacles, and looked up into Wallion's face:
