"We rowed swiftly up the river,--the tide was near flood,--and I waited in the boat while they went to Selinski's; Yossof had given them the key. They found his paper, with all the evidences of his treachery to the League and to her. Selinski came in at the moment when their task was finished, and Stepan stabbed him to the heart. It was not her wish; she would have spared him, vile though he was! Well, it is all one now.

They are all gone; she and Stepan,--and my master--"

"He is dead, then?"

"Should I be here if he were living? No, they did not kill him. I think he really died when she did,--that his soul pa.s.sed, as it were, with hers; though he made no sign, as you know. I found him,--it is more than a week since,--in the early morning, sitting at the table where she used to write, his head on his arms,--so. He was dead and cold,--and I thanked G.o.d for it. There was a smile on his face--"

His deep voice broke for the first time, and he sat silent for a s.p.a.ce,--and I did.

"And so,--I came away," he resumed presently. "I have come to you, because he loved you. It was not his wish, but hers, that you should be deceived, made use of. I think she felt it as a kind of justice that she should press you into the service of the Cause,--as she meant to do from the moment she heard of you. And it was quite easy, since you never suspected that she was not the Fraulein you knew, and loved--_hein_? She herself, too, had borne the burden so long, had toiled, and schemed, and suffered for the Cause; while this sister had always been shielded; knew nothing, cared nothing for the Cause,--though, indirectly, she had suffered somewhat through that mistake on the part of Selinski's accomplices. Therefore this sister should give her lover to the Cause; that was the thought in her mind, I am sure. She was wrong; but we must not judge her too harshly, my friend!"

"G.o.d forbid!" I said huskily.

All that was over a year ago, and now, my task done, I sit at my writing-table by a western window and watch the sun, a clear red ball, sink into the Atlantic. We are at Pencarrow, for Anthony Pendennis has at last returned to his own house. He is my father-in-law now, for Anne and I were married in the spring, and returned after a long honeymoon to Pencarrow. We found Mishka settled on a farm near, as much at home there as if he had lived in England all his life. He speaks English quite creditably,--with a Cornish accent,--and I hear that it won't be long before the farm has a mistress, a plump, bright-eyed widow who is going to change her present name of Stiddyford for that of Pavloff.

We are quite a family party just now, for Jim and Mary Cayley and the baby,--a smart little chap; I'm his G.o.dfather,--have come down to spend Easter; and Mr. and Mrs. Treherne will drive over from Morwen vicarage, for Mary's matchmaking in that direction panned out exactly as she wished.

All is well with us,--pleasant and peaceful, and homelike,--and yet--

I look at a miniature that lies on the table before me, and my mind drifts back to the unforgettable past. I am far away from Pencarrow, when--some one comes behind my chair; a pair of soft hands are laid over my eyes.

"Dreaming or working,--which?" laughs Anne.

I take the hands in mine, and draw her down till she has her chin on my shoulder, her soft cheek against my face.

The dusk is falling, but through it she sees the glint of the diamonds on the table,--and pulls her hands away.

"You have been thinking of those dreadful days in Russia again!" she says reproachfully, with a queer little catch in her voice. "Why don't you forget them altogether, Maurice? Let me put this in the drawer. I hate to look at it,--to see you looking at it!"

She picks up the miniature, gently enough, slips it into a drawer, and turns the key.

"I--I know it's horrid of me, darling, but I can't help it," she whispers, kneeling beside me, her fair face upturned,--a face crowned once more with a wealth of bright hair, which she dresses in a different way now, and I'm glad of that. It makes her look less like her dead sister.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Some one comes behind my chair._ Page 354]

"I know how--she--suffered, and--and I'm not bitter against her, really," she continues rapidly. "But when I think of all we had to suffer because of her, I--I can't quite forgive her, or--or forget that you loved her once; though you thought you were loving me all the time!"

"I did love you all the time, sweetheart," I a.s.sure her, and that is true; but it is true also that I still love that dead woman as I loved her in life; not as I love Anne, my wife, but as the page loved the queen.

I shall never tell that to Anne, though. She would not understand.

THE END