There was a pause--then Bohun said, "I say, Durward--what an awful a.s.s I was."

"What about?" I asked.

"About my poetry--and all that. Thinking it so important."

"Yes," I said, "you were."

"I've written some poetry to her and I tore it up," he ended.

"That's a good thing," said I.

"I'm glad I told you," he said. He got up to go. "I say, Durward--"

"Well," I asked.

"You're an awfully funny chap. Not a bit what you look--"

"That's all right," I said; "I know what you mean."

"Well, good-night," he said, and went.

XVI

I thought that night, as I lay cosily in my dusky room, of those old stories by Wilkie Collins that had once upon a time so deeply engrossed my interest--stories in which, because some one has disappeared on a snowy night, or painted his face blue, or locked up a room and lost the key, or broken down in his carriage on a windy night at the cross-roads, dozens of people are involved, diaries are written, confessions are made, and all the characters move along different roads towards the same lighted, comfortable Inn. That is the kind of story that intrigues me, whether it be written about out-side mysteries by Wilkie Collins or inside mysteries by the great creator of "The Golden Bowl" or mysteries of both kinds, such as Henry Galleon has given us. I remember a friend of mine, James Marad.i.c.k, once saying to me, "It's no use trying to keep out of things. As soon as they want to put you in--you're in. The moment you're born, you're done for."

It's just that spectacle of some poor innocent being suddenly caught into some affair, against his will, without his knowledge, but to the most serious alteration of his character and fortunes, that one watches with a delight almost malicious--whether it be _The Woman in White, The Wings of the Dove,_ or _The Roads_ that offer it us. Well, I had now to face the fact that something of this kind had happened to myself.

I was drawn in--and I was glad. I luxuriated in my gladness, lying there in my room under the wavering, uncertain light of two candles, hearing the church bells clanging and echoing mysteriously beyond the wall. I lay there with a consciousness of being on the very verge of some adventure, with the a.s.surance, too, that I was to be of use once more, to play my part, to fling aside, thank G.o.d, that old cloak of apathetic disappointment, of selfish betrayal, of cynical disbelief. Semyonov had brought the old life back to me and I had shrunk from the impact of it; but he had brought back to me, too, the presences of my absent friends who, during these weary months, had been lost to me. It seemed to me that, in the flickering twilight, John and Marie were bringing forward to me Vera and Nina and Jerry and asking me to look after them.... I would do my best.

And while I was thinking of these things Vera Michailovna came in. She was suddenly in the room, standing there, her furs up to her throat, her body in shadow, but her large, grave eyes shining through the candlelight, her mouth smiling.

"Is it all right?" she said, coming forward. "I'm not in the way? You're not sleeping?"

I told her that I was delighted to see her.

"I've been almost every day, but Marfa told me you were not well enough.

She _does_ guard you--like a dragon. But to-night Nina and I are going to Rozanov's, to a party, and she said she'd meet me here.... Shan't I worry you?"

"Worry me! You're the most restful friend I have--" I felt so glad to see her that I was surprised at my own happiness. She sat down near to me, very quietly, moving, as she always did, softly and surely.

I could see that she was distressed because I looked ill, but she asked me no tiresome questions, said nothing about my madness in living as I did (always so irritating, as though I were a stupid child), praised the room, admired the Benois picture, and then talked in her soft, kindly voice.

"We've missed you so much, Nina and I," she said. "I told Nina that if she came to-night she wasn't to make a noise and disturb you."

"She can make as much noise as she likes," I said. "I like the right kind of noise."

We talked a little about politics and England and anything that came into our minds. We both felt, I know, a delightful, easy intimacy and friendliness and trust. I had never with any other woman felt such a sense of friendship, something almost masculine in its comradeship and honesty. And to-night this bond between us strengthened wonderfully. I blessed my luck. I saw that there were dark lines under her eyes and that she was pale.

"You're tired," I said.

"Yes, I am," she acknowledged. "And I don't know why. At least, I do know. I'm going to use you selfishly, Durdles. I'm going to tell you all my troubles and ask your help in every possible way. I'm going to let you off nothing."

I took her hand.

"I'm proud," I said, "now and always."

"Do you know that I've never asked any one's help before? I was rather conceited that I could get on always without it. When I was very small I wouldn't take a word of advice from any one, and mother and father, when I was tiny, used to consult me about everything. Then they were killed and I _had_ to go on alone.... And after that, when I married Nicholas, it was I again who decided everything. And my mistakes taught me nothing. I didn't want them to teach me."

She spoke that last word fiercely, and through the note that came into her voice I saw suddenly the potentialities that were in her, the other creature that she might be if she were ever awakened.

She talked then for a long time. She didn't move at all; her head rested on her hand and her eyes watched me. As I listened I thought of my other friend Marie, who now was dead, and how restless she was when she spoke, moving about the room, stopping to demand my approval, protesting against my criticism, laughing, crying out.... Vera was so still, so wise, too, in comparison with Marie, braver too--and yet the same heart, the same charity, the same n.o.bility.

But she was my friend, and Marie I had loved.... The difference in that!

And how much easier now to help than it had been then, simply because one's own soul _was_ one's own and one stood by oneself!

How happy a thing freedom is--and how lonely!

She told me many things that I need not repeat here, but, as she talked, I saw how, far more deeply than I had imagined, Nina had been the heart of the whole of her life. She had watched over her, protected her, advised her, warned her, and loved her, pa.s.sionately, jealously, almost madly all the time.

"When I married Nicholas," she said, "I thought of Nina more than any one else. That was wrong.... I ought to have thought most of Nicholas; but I knew that I could give her a home, that she could have everything she wanted. And still she would be with me. Nicholas was only too ready for that. I thought I would care for her until some one came who was worthy of her, and who would look after her far better than I ever could.

"But the only person who had come was Boris Grogoff. He loved Nina from the first moment, in his own careless, conceited, opinionated way."

"Why did you let him come so often to the house if you didn't approve of him?" I asked.

"How could I prevent it?" she asked me. "We Russians are not like the English. In England I know you just shut the door and say, 'Not at home.'

"Here if any one wanted to come he comes. Very often we hate him for coming, but still there it is. It is too much trouble to turn him out, besides it wouldn't be kind--and anyway they wouldn't go. You can be as rude as you like here and n.o.body cares. For a long while Nina paid no attention to Boris. She doesn't like him. She will never like him, I'm sure. But now, these last weeks, I've begun to be afraid. In some way, he has power over her--not much power, but a little--and she is so young, so ignorant--she knows nothing.

"Until lately she always told me everything. Now she tells me nothing.

She's strange with me; angry for nothing. Then sorry and sweet again--then suddenly angry.... She's excited and wild, going out all the time, but unhappy too.... I _know_ she's unhappy. I can feel it as though it were myself."

"You're imagining things," I said. "Now when the war's reached this period we're all nervous and overstrung. The atmosphere of this town is enough to make any one fancy that they see anything. Nina's all right."

"I'm losing her! I'm losing her!" Vera cried, suddenly stretching out her hand as though in a gesture of appeal. "She must stay with me. I don't know what's happening to her. Ah, and I'm so lonely without her!"

There was silence between us for a little, and then she went on.

"Durdles, I did wrong to marry Nicholas--wrong to Nina, wrong to Nicholas, wrong to myself, I thought it was right. I didn't love Nicholas--I never loved him and I never pretended to. He knew that I did not. But I thought then that I was above love, that knowledge was what mattered. Ideas--saving the world--and he had _such_ ideas! Wonderful!

There was, I thought, nothing that he would not be able to do if only he were helped enough. He wanted help in every way. He was such a child, so unhappy, so lonely, I thought that I could give him everything that he needed. Don't fancy that I thought that I sacrificed myself. I felt that I was the luckiest girl in all the world--and still, now when I see that he is not strong enough for his ideas I care for him as I did then, and I would never let any trouble touch him if I could help it. But if--if--"

She paused, turned away from me, looking towards the window.

"If, after all, I was wrong. If, after all, I was meant to love. If love were to come now... real love... now...."