Guilty Bonds Part 6

One evening, a fortnight afterwards, we had driven to Pegli, a quaint old fis.h.i.+ng village four miles from Genoa. It was a gorgeous sunset, the sea a glittering expanse of blue and gold stretching out toward the descending sky, with nothing to fleck its surface but the gleam of a white sail or two; and as we walked together, close to the lapping waves, I fancied she looked a trifle wan and anxious.

At first I took no heed of it, but presently her agitation became so apparent that I asked whether she were well.

"Yes, well enough in health," she sighed, "but very unhappy."

"Why, how is that?" I asked in concern.

"Ah! Frank," she said, with her eyes fixed sorrowfully upon the ground, "I must not tell you all, so you cannot understand but I am one of those born to unhappiness."

"Tell me something of this sorrow, that I may sympathise with you," I said, looking into her eyes. "If it is in my power to help you I will do so willingly."

"Ah! if you would?" she exclaimed wistfully, her face brightening at a suggestion which appeared to flash across her mind. "There is indeed one way by which you might render me a service, but it is impossible. I am afraid the commission is too great for you to undertake."

"I am ready to serve you in any way, Vera. If a test of my devotion is required, I'm prepared for the ordeal," I replied seriously.

She halted, and gazing into my face with eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears, said: "Believe me, I am in sore need of a friend. I will tell you something of my trouble, but do not ask for further explanations now, as I cannot give them. The man whom you know as my uncle holds me in his power. He is harsh, cruel, and--and--"

"_He is your husband_!" I interrupted in a low voice, for somehow I felt convinced that such was the case.

"No! no!" she cried hoa.r.s.ely; "no, I swear that is not so. He is neither husband, nor even friend. Though my uncle, he is unworthy the name of relation. I am unfortunately in his thrall, and dare not disobey his will. To do so would mean--"

"What?--tell me."

"Impossible. The longer I live the more I learn to hate his presence.

Ah, if you could but know!"

There was an intensity of bitterness in that utterance, a flash in her clear dark eyes that spoke of a fierce pa.s.sion. Could it be hatred?

"Vera; why not trust me?" I implored, taking her hand, and seeking to penetrate the indomitable reserve in which her words were shrouded.

"Once and for all, Frank, it cannot be."

Her answer came short, sharp, decisive, firm, yet with ineffable sadness.

"Heaven knows! I would willingly share your burden, Vera."

She paused, as if in doubt.

The silence grew painful, and I watched the mobile features which so plainly indexed the pa.s.sing emotions of her mind. A blush, like that of shame, tinged her cheek and pallid brow as she lifted her face to mine, although her eyes were downcast.

"Frank," she said, slowly, "will you help me?"

"With heart and soul, dearest."

"Then you _can_ do so." And she drew a deep breath.

"How?"

She hesitated, wavering even then, as it seemed; and the colour left her cheeks as suddenly as it had appeared.

In a low voice, speaking rapidly and impetuously, she replied:--

"Briefly, you may learn this. My uncle is my guardian. He has, I believe, appropriated a large sum of money which is mine by right. Ah!

I know what you would say. But I dare not prosecute or expose him, for the consequences would be almost beyond conception, and would affect myself more even than him. I am powerless!"

"But I can help you?"

"I'm afraid you will not consent to what I ask."

"What is it? You know I cannot refuse a behest of yours."

"A further annoyance, in fact a great danger, threatens me now. My dead mother's jewels--on which I place great store, for they are the only souvenir remaining of she whom I dearly loved--are now coveted by him.

In vain I have besought him to let me keep them, but he is inexorable.

To place them with a friend in whom I have confidence is the only course remaining; that friend lives--"

"Yes, where?"

"At St Petersburg."

"St Petersburg!" I exclaimed, in surprise. "Oh! but, of course, it is your home?"

"It is; or rather was. Had I the opportunity I would convey them there myself, braving the displeasure of my harsh relative and the punishment that would follow. Unhappily I am debarred. To trust the jewels to the post would be too great a risk, and it is only to--to such a--_confidant_ as you that I can look for a.s.sistance."

"And this is all?" I asked. "You merely want me to take them to St Petersburg?"

"That is all."

"The commission is a slight one, Vera; you know how willingly I would undertake, for your sake, a thousand such--"

"How can I ever thank you enough?" she interrupted, her face a.s.suming a brighter expression. "I really thought it too much to ask of you."

"Nothing could be too much, dearest. When shall I start?"

"As soon as possible. By delay all may be lost. It is imperative you should be in Russia three weeks from to-day."

"Three weeks from to-day," I echoed.

"Yes, within that time, or it will be useless--my friend will have departed."

"Then I am ready to set out to-morrow. Have you any message? What must I do?"

"To-morrow morning I will give you the case. Go to the Hotel Michaeli, on the Galernoi Oulitza, at St Petersburg, and remain there until a tall, fair gentleman presents my card and asks for them. He will give his name as Paul Volkhovski."

"Very well," I said, "I shall leave to-morrow night."

Then we retraced our steps, and entering the carriage, drove back to Genoa in the fading twilight.

Next morning we met alone in the drawing-room, and she placed in my hands a leather jewel-case about nine inches square and three deep, securely sealed, saying,--