Hearts in exile

"You think she will be in in a few minutes, Marya?"

"Assuredly. She is past her time now," said the old woman.

"She may have called somewhere," said the young man, and glanced doubtfully at her.

"Sit down, Paul Ivanuitch," she said, in a more than simply hospitable tone, "and I will get you some tea. She cannot be many minutes now."

The old woman nodded knowingly to herself as she went down the passage. The young man sat down for a moment, and then jumped up and began to wander restlessly about the room. How could any man sit still when all his future happiness was in the balance, and when he had good reason to know that the hand that held the scales was no ordinary hand, and might let itself be swayed by no ordinary feelings?

Straight and tall, and spare of figure; deep-set, trustworthy eyes, dark like his hair; frank, thoughtful face, high in the cheek-bones and lean in the cheeks, so that at times one could follow or even anticipate his feelings by the curves and lines that came and went there, Paul Pavlof was distinctly attractive to look upon.

For his was, above all, an invitingly honest face, and one does not come across too many such. Perhaps also there was, in the eager face and strenuous figure, more than a suggestion that such of the good things of life as had come his way had been rather mental than material, had contributed more to his inner well-being than to his outer, that the lower things held but small interest for him, and that he had not greatly missed them.

It was a very plainly furnished room, and Paul Pavlof knew intimately every single thing that was in it. Table, couch, chairs, white-tiled stove, green-shaded student's lamp, all were severely simple and without individuality, but each separate article was glorified in his eyes by the high service to which it was dedicated. He felt like kneeling and kissing the chairs because Hope Arskaïa used them, the floor because she walked on it, the lamp because she read and thought by it, for all these things pertained to the higher life.

He wondered if she had ever thought of him as she sat in the chair or walked the floor.

He knew she had, and moreover that her thoughts of him had been pleasant thoughts. But all the same----

There were neither books nor papers lying about. The lack of them contributed largely to the austerity of the apartment. But books and papers are dangerous things when one never knows at what moment the steps of the gendarmes may be heard on the stair.

On the walls were three portraits. Paul eyed them with reverence, and stopped his wanderings now and again to look at them, as though they might afford him some clue to the answer Hope Ivanovna would give to the question he had come to put to her.

The bearded man with the calm, intent face and thoughtful eyes was her father. He died in the Schlusselburg casemates, martyred for an idea. High thought and fixity of purpose were the dominant features here, and Pavlof's mouth tightened somewhat as he looked at it. Hope Ivanovna took after her father.

The sweet-faced woman was her mother--the Scotchwoman. She died a few months before him, broken-hearted at the racking injustice of it all. Hope Ivanovna had her beauty and more, but her spirit was her father's.

The bright, curly-headed boy was her brother. He died before she came into Paul's life for its brightening and embittering.

He was standing before the portraits, finding likenesses in them all to Hope herself, when the door opened again, and Marya, with an apologetic look and shrug, ushered in another visitor--Serge Palma, a strapping, jovial fellow, with blue eyes and light hair, and full beard and moustache; very well dressed, and carrying an air of opulence and hearty good feeling towards himself and the rest of the world; in all respects the very antithesis of the first-comer. He stopped with a short laugh at sight of Pavlof, and Pavlof's forehead crumpled with annoyance at sight of him.

"Hola, Paul! It was not you I came to see," said Palma jovially, in spite of the infelicity of the meeting.

"Nor I you."

"No, I suppose not," said Palma, with another short laugh. "Moreover, unless I'm mistaken, it is no good our both stopping here at the same time. Is it not so?"

Paul regarded him with gloomy annoyance. He was strung to concert pitch himself, and the careless gaiety of the other jarred upon him exceedingly. At the moment he hated Serge Palma most cordially, though as a rule they were on friendly terms enough.

"I really don't think you need wait," said Pavlof quietly.

"Of course you don't. But then I do, you see, and that makes all the difference in the world."

"It will make no difference."

"Da! As to that we shall see. But it's no good our waiting together, if you've come, as I imagine you have, to put your fortune to the test."

"I suggest then the propriety of your retiring."

"Of course you do. But, again, I don't see it, my friend. Why should I leave you a clear field? First come may be first served."

"That's as it may be, and since I was first here----"

"Tell you what--let the fates decide it," said the other, with that cheerful laugh of his which made Pavlof grind his teeth. And Palma drew a coin from his pocket and spun and caught it. "Heads you stop, tails you go."

But Pavlof shook his head with an expression of disgust at such unseemly frivolity in so momentous a matter.

Palma laughed and uncovered the coin on the table. "You win," he said, "so I go. If it had been tails I would have stopped in spite of you, my boy. I shall wait till I see you leave, then I take my turn. I'd wish you luck if I had no conscience. As it is----"

He nodded and went out, just as old Marya brought in the samovar and teacups.

"Nu!" said she, with a wag of the head "That's right. I'm glad he's gone--if he does not meet her on the road."

"You don't like Serge Palma, Masha?" said the young man hopefully.

"Not in that way, no," with another thoughtful shake of the head.

"He is rich, good-looking, good-tempered----"

"No doubt, no doubt. But there are better things even than those."

Then the door opened and Hope Arskaïa came in, and, to both Masha and Pavlof, the homely casket glowed suddenly radiant with the brightness of its treasure.

"Ah, Paul, mon ami! You have come to share a cup of tea with two lonely old maids. That is good of you. Is it all ready, Matushka? I am later than usual."

From the sweet, full tones of her voice to the light, firm tread that bore her so rapidly and so gracefully, she was the embodiment of health and energy, and her beauty was very remarkable. But, after the first glow of satisfaction which fineness and regularity and proportion of feature never fail to produce, it was the purposeful soul shining through the eagerness of the beautiful face, and especially through the great dark-blue eyes, which gave her the mastery.

It was the knowledge--the partial knowledge--of what was in her that made Paul Pavlof's hand tremble as he took the cup of tea she handed him. For a woman animated by feelings so mighty as those which moved and restrained Hope Arskaïa was capable of anything.