“The Countess Anna—she was Grand Duchess then, though we never addressed her so—made her plan speedily, as she ever did. She slipped away, with only her cousin Stepán and I. My master did not know. He thought she was in her cabin after dinner.
“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 Stepán 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 Stepán,—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 passed, 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 God for it. There was a smile on his face—”
His deep voice broke for the first time, and he sat silent for a space,—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!”
“God 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 Mishkai 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 godfather,—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.