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THE SUNNY SOUTH.
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) *?f Cottage by the Volya '
BY STEPNIAK,
Author of “Underground Russia," “Saved by the Stars and Stripes.”
COPYRIGHT IR97, AND PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.
Chapter III.
Within half an hour he came to a
bend in the river, where it flowed round
a little wooded tongue of land. As he
came into this tongue lie caught sight of
a boat in front of him, but it wus not
empty. He could neither hire nor seize
it, for there was a girl sitting in it
whom he saw at a glance to he a lady.
•She had evidently been bathing, and her
wet fair hair was tied up into a heavy
knot behind a sailor hat with a narrow
brim, under which he could see a young,
finely cut face, regular and firm in out
line. She wore a blue cotton blouse,
fastened at the waist by a leather band.
Her arms were bare to the elbow. She
had an oar in her hands and was slowly
rowing toward the bank. She had
brought the boat into the shallow water
at the sandy edge and was standing,
swaying it with her weight, just ready
to jump out, when the young man, de
scending to the water’s edge, came out
from among the bushes and coughed to
attract her attention.
“I beg your pardon,” ho began.
Tho girl turned her great, startled
blue eyes cn him and with a rapid
sweep of her oar pushed the boat back
from tho edge.
“Don’t bo frightened. I don’t want
to hurt you. Stop!” he said.
But the shy creature would not bear
him. She sat down beside the rudder
and turned the boat round with her oar.
“Wait! I must speak to you. Oh, for
God’s sake!” he cried out.
Tho girl stopped.
“What, do you want with me?” she
asked, still keeping at a respectful dis
tance.
Sbo spoke in a low chest voice, pro
nouncing the words with a certain not
nnpleasiug drawl.
“I must get across the river—to that
village over there. Bend mo your boat.
I’ll send it back to you. Take me across
yourself. It won’t be a great trouble to
you. ”
The suggestion that she should row
across alone with this unknown and
fearful looking man frightened her al
together.
“I am not a ferryman, ” she said, and
with a decided gesture turned tho boat
away from the bank, rowing with all
her strength. The light littlo craft shot
like an arrow across the still EU.tace of
the river.
When she had reached some distance
from the luuk and folt herself to be
completely out of danger, she turned
png jfjf^was standing
beside a tree. Clinging- desperately to a
low branch to keep himself from fall
ing. The last remnant of his strength
had suddenly forsaken him, and he felt
that be was on the point of fainting
again.
His look made the shy girl’s heart
ache. She turned the boat back again
with her strong hand, and rowing to
tho bank drovo the keel on to the sandy
bottom and sprang to land.
“What is the matter? You are ill,”
she said pityingly, and advancing to
ward him. “Why, you are all over
blood! Have you been robbed? You’re
wounded!”
He looked straight into her kind blue
eyes, and liopo began to come back to
him. He felt sure that this girl, whom
fate had sent to him, would help him.
But somehow he could not tell her a
falsehood, and ho put aside the sugges
tion that she herself had given him.
“No,” ho said, “I havo not been rob-
“I beg your pardon,” he began.
bed. I have run away. I jumped off a
train and hurt myself. ”
“Jumped off a train? Oh, how dread
ful! Why, what—what on earth”—
She wanted to ask what had induced
him to take so desperate a step.
“I am a political. Have you heard of
them?”
Had she heard! Her Vania—her dear
Vania, for whom she had prayed all
this year aDd whom she had wept for as
lost—was not he a political too?
“A political! Why didn’t you tell me
*o before?” she exclaimed.
He smiled.
“Well, yon didn't give me much
time,” he said.
She smiled, too, remembering her ab
surd terrors. Their exchange of smiles
made them feel like old friends. He
looked attentively into her face.
“Haven’t I met you before some
where?” suddenly asked the young
man. “It seems to me that I have seen
you somewhere.”
“No, I am sure we haven’t met. I
have not left home for thrje years, but
that doesn’t matter. I’ll derail I can for
you, just as if we wero old acquaint
ances—for Vania’s sake,” she added
softly, as if to herself. “Tell me what
you want. ”
“I want to get to the opposite bank. ”
! “All right. Get in. ’’
She jumped into the boat, and he fol
lowed her.
“Give me the oar, ” he said. "I know
how to row. You will have to row back
again, and you’ll get tired.”
| “Oh, no. I’ve often rowed across. ”
For some time they kept silence.
“Your face is covered with blood,”
said the girl presently. “There’s a towel
in that basket in the bows.”
He took the towel, dipped it in the
water nud wiped his face with it.
“Sit down in the bottom of the boat.
You will be more comfortable there.”
He obeyed her like a child.
“Whom are you going to in the vil
lage?” she began again. “Friends, or
have you relatives there?”
“I have no one there at all. ”
“No one? Then why do you want to
j go there?”
They had reached tho middle of the
great river and were quite alone be
tween earth and sky. They could just
see tho shore on either side above the
surface of the water. The trees and
houses looked like tiny objects in a pic
ture. From the bank their boat must
have looked like a wee nutshell driven
by tho wind.
Thus thrown upon each other in the
utter solitude of the wide water, they
forgot the strangeness of their meeting
and were natural and friendly with one
another.
The young man smiled faintly at the
girl’s naive question.
“Do you know what ‘covering one’s
track’ means?” he asked.
“No, I dou’t know. ”
“Then I hope you never may have to
know. ”
He did not try to explain to her. He
was so utterly worn out that every
word was an effort to him.
"Ah. I understand,” she exclaimed
suddenly. “It means making it diffi-
“feult for people io follow and catch
you. ”
He nodded his head.
"But how will you go on farther
when you're so done up that you can
hardly sit upright?” asked the girl.
“Oh, I shall manage,” he answered.
“I am resting now, and by the time we
get to the other bank I shall come to
life again."
She looked at him incredulously and
shook her head.
“ You don’t believe me? You’ll see. ”
“But you are quite ill.”
“Oh, that’s nothing. I shall pull
through,” he answered coolly.
Tho girl made no answer and fell in
to a brown study. She frowned a little,
and a set, determined look came into
her face.
“What are you doing? You’re not
steering right,” he cried out, observing
that she had turned the boat and was
rowing down stream.
* ‘I am going to take you home with
me,” she answered simply.
The young man could hardly believe
his ears.
“Home with you! But why? Ob, you
don’t know what you are doing. Why,
that may cost you”—
“I know. But what of that?”
She dropped her eyes as if embar
rassed or trying to evade something.
But her eyes shone under their lowered
lashes, her breathing grew quicker and
a bright, transparent color flamed in
her cheeks. She looked radiantly lovely
for a moment.
“But, look here. Why, you’re ODe of
us!” he said admiringly, lowering his
voice to a whisper.
The girl raised her truthfui, confiding
eyes to his.
“No,” she answered. “Can’t I be
willing to do it without that? I—it’s
for Vania’s sake. For all I know he
may be in the same need as you, and
perhaps God will remember me and
send some one to help him too,” she
ended earnestly.
“She's a good, simple girl,” thought
the young man. It was a great tempta
tion to him to place himself under her
protection, but he fought against it.
“Wait a bit,” he said, leaning for
ward and laying his hand upon her oar.
“You surely are not living alone? Do
you know to what you expose all your
family by sheltering me?”
The girl hesitated for a moment and
pondered.
“It doesn't matter,” she said at last,
freeing tho oar from his grasp. “I’ll
take it all on myself. My people shan’t
know anything about it. What am I to
call you?”
The young man did not answer at
once.
“Why do you want to know my name?
You will be counted as ten times more
guilty if you know who I am. ”
“Excuse me, you have not understood
my question. I have heard from Vania
that your people hide their names. I
don’t want to know your name, but tell
me what I am to call you. You can’t
live without any name at all, you
know.”
She burst out laughing merrily, like
a child.
“All right. Call me Volgin, in mem
ory of our meeting, ” he said. “And for
a Christian name you can call me Vladi
mir—Vladimir Petrovich. It’s my real
patronymic,” he added gravely.
“Vladimir Petrovich Volgin. Very
well. I’ll remember. You’re an ac
quaintance of mine, and I met you In
the wood and invited you in. Will that
do? No, no,” she corrected herself
hastily. "Not in the wood. I met you
in Yermalovka. That’s the village on
the other bank. That will be better.
We must cover your tracks.”
1 She began to laugh again.
“You would make a capital conspira
tor, ” he said, smiling. But she took
his words seriously.
“No, I will never be a conspirator,”
1 she answered, energetically bending
over her oar.
He looked at her with a long, pene
trating gaze.
“Dou’t be too sure beforehand, young
lady, he thought to himself with
youthful self assurance.
He had spoken the truth, in telling
her that he needed only a few minutes’
rest to come to life again. He had al
ready begun to recover from his ex
haustion, and with his physical powers
the instincts of the propagandist came
back to him.
“Here we are at home,” the girl
broke in upon the silence.
She began to turu the boat round to
the right bank. On the steep, high
'i
no ’
“Mamma wants to see you.”
bank he saw a little white house, half
hidden by foliage. It had a high wood
en roof, such as middle class country
houses often have. In front was a little
I “pavilion,” to the left were outhouses,
and behind the house, Stretching up
ward on the rising ground, was a large
orchard.
Running the boat to land, Vladimir
dragged it on to the sandy bank,' and
! they made tbeir way up in j.htj^nse by
! a narrow path. In the
! were met by* an old wor
- colored cap, who looked in hston:
: ment at the stranger. V
! “Has mamma got up yet, nurse 1 ”'
; asked the girl.
“Oh, yes, she’s waiting for you
come to breakfast, miss.”
“All right. I will be ready in one
minute. Just show Vladimir Petrovioh 1 ,
the way into the pavilion. I’ll come to
you directly,” she added, turning to
him.
Vladimir followed the old woman,
who, mumbling something to herself as
she went, showed him the way. As
they entered the pavilion she stopped
her muttering and turned round to him.
“Have you come on business, sir, or
aro you a friend of Katerina Vasilyev
na?” she asked, evidently in order to
start a conversation.
“A friend,” answered Vladimir, sud
denly reflecting how stupid he had been
not to ask the girl her name. He turned
away to the window to avoid further
questions.
The old woman made a low bow to his
back and went away, softly shutting
the door behind her. t
Vladimir looked round him. The
pav> on consisted of only two rooms.
In the front room stood a wasbstand, a
few wooden chairs and a large tiled
stove. In the back room he could see a
broad sofa, evidently used as a bed, and
a little oaken table. On the wall hung
several lithographs and a small book-
I case.
In spite of her promise to come at
once, the girl kept him waiting for
some time. No doubt she was having a
conversation with her mother. Vladi-
l mir made himself as tidy as he could
j and washed his head with cold water.
His wound had quite left off bleeding.
Then, in order to kill time while await
ing tho decision of his fate, he went up
to the bookcase and took at hazard the
first book that came to hand. He opened
it also at hazard. It wdfc a story for
i children. Turning to the first page to
look at the title, he saw, written in a
clear copy book hand, “Ekaterina Pro-
i zorov, for good conduct and progress in
her studies.”
“Frozorov! So that’s who she is!”
cried Vladimir. “And Vasilyevna too.
And she spoke of Vania! Yes, it must
be! Now I understand why her face
was so familiar to me. How odd,
though! It can’t be. Ah, there she is!”
Her rapid foutsteps interrupted him
as she came into the room.
“Mamma wants to see you. Come,
please,’’she said. “I have talked to
her about you.”
He showed her the book.
“Is this yours? Your name is Prozo-
rov? And you have a brother called
Ivan?”
“Yes, yes. Why?”
“I know him,” said Vladimir.
Katia clasped her hands.
“What? Vania! Oh, where is he?
What has happened to him? Is he alive?
Is he well? We haven’t heard of him
for a whole year. Ob, how glad mamma ^
will be! How stupid of me not to think
of asking you 1 Tell me, quick, how is
he?”
“It is three months now since I left
St. Petersburg, ” said Vladimir. “I saw
him just before I left, and he was quite
well.”
“Then why didn’t he write to us?”
asked Katia, in amazement.
“It has not been convenient for him
to write for some time,” answered
Vladimir evasively.
“Well, come to mamma now. Make
baste!” Kati3 broke in. “Y'ou can tell
us everything there.”
She caught hold of his hand uncere
moniously and almost ran with him in-
j to the house.
Chapter IV.
In the dining room they found tho
mother, a woman of about 50, with old
fashioned ringlets. She was very like
her daughter, but stout and heavy. She
seemed much disturbed and greeted the
newcomer with a severe and attentive
gaze that made him shrink up ami de
cide in his own mind that he would not
stay another hour in this house.
■ “Mamma!” cried Katia, before her
mother had time to utter a word,
"Vladimir Petrovich is a friend of our
Vania. He has brought us news of him. ”
Mrs. Prozorng. underwent a sudden
transformation* 'She shook hands with
I the visitor rapturously, made him sit
I beside her and showered upon him so
many questions that h’e had some diffi-
! culty in answering them all. The old
nurse, who had brought up both brother
I and sister, was called in.
The servants were also sent for, and
it was announced that their young mas
ter, whom they had feared must be
dead, was in St. Petersburg, alive and
well, and that his friend, passing by on
a journey, had come oat of his way to
I bring the good news
j Mrs. Prozorov herself fully believed
this version of the cause of Vladimir’s
unexpected appearance in her house.
i She put the story told to her by her
daughter—who had not been able to
keep the secret from her and had told
her the whole truth—out of her mind
as an absurdity. Was it likely that
Vania’s friend—and such a gentlemanly
young man, too, with such good man
ners—should have jumped out of a
train while it was going and run away
from the police like a highway robber?
Her daughter must have been making
fun of her, or perhaps the visitor had
told the story to Katia as a joke, and
Katia in her simplicity had taken it se
riously.
Vladimir at once became for her a
dear guest, for whom nothing was good
enough.
After breakfast be rose, saying that it
was time for him to go, and asked where
he could get horses to continue his jour
ney. Mrs. Prozorov held up her hands
in protest
“Why, little father, do you want to
desert us? You have had no time to tell
us anything yet, and think of going al
ready. Stay with us, please. We dou’t
have such guest* .often. ”
“Yes, indeed,'Vladimir Petrovich,”
Katia put in quietly. “Why are you in
such a hurry?”
• slight* encouragement on her
part' was enough to make him give in
at once.
He would willingly have faced many
dangers in order to stay a few days
with this charming girl and to have the
chance of converting her. Thus, at any
rate, he tried to explain to himself the
delight with which he accepted the in
vitation.
They lodged him in the little pavilion,
and for the first three days he was per
fectly happy. At table he talked with
his hostess about her son, recolleoting
various details of his St. Petersburg
life. Then he would go back to his own
room and read any books he could find,
or sit listening for the well known
sound of light footsteps on the gravel
path For tho first- two or three days
Katia was very anxious on his account
and would run in for a minute every
now and then to make sure that he was
safe and sound and had not been car
ried off up the chimney by gendarmes.
After a bit, however, her anxiety
calmed down, and she would come in
simply to chat with him. Sometimes
she would bring her embroidery with
her and would sit with him for a long
time. She was accustomed to the sim
plicity of country life, aDd on finding
I that the visitor was a friend of her
j brother she completely got over her shy-
| ness and behaved to him just as to an
old friend. She talked to him a great
| deal about her brother, and with her
Vladimir was not obliged to tax his
I memory in speaking of him. He was
I able to tell her about that side of her
brother’s life which he shared with
| him, and which was the only side that
he knew—his opinions, conviotions and
political work. About all this side of
Ivan’s life he was, of course, obliged to
; be silent with the mother. Then the
subject of conversation gradually shift
ed to Katia herself.
“Ivan and I wero great friends,”
: Vladimir said to her in one of their
after dinner talks. “I wonder why ho
f never spoke to me of you. ”
“Why should he speak of me?” she
i said without looking up from her work,
i “He knew that nothing will come of
; me.”
I “That is to say, he thought iio,”
corrected Vladimir. “I have always ob
served that relatives never can judge of
one another. ”
Katia smiled.
“Do you think so?” Ehe said, raising
her laughing eyes to his face. “I think
that Vania knows me very well. He
very nearly brought me up. You know,
I was quite little when our father died.
Of course he knew me well, and what
he thought about me is the truth.”
“If you say that, it only proves that
you don’t know yourself,” said Vladi
mir simply and earnestly. “Judge of it
yourself. Remember what you did and
what you risked for me, a complete
stranger to you. And here all round
you are people struggling and suffering
—people whom you know and whom 1
am sure you love. How am.I to believe
that you do not care to help them?”
“Yes, I often go to the village, and I
am very fond of the peasants here. That
is quite true, ” she answered. “And you
must not think ns worse than we are.
Mother and I do help whenever we
i can,” she added shyly.
I “For mercy’s sake, don’t talk to me
about charity!” exclaimed Vladimir.
“Is that what you call help? What you
give are the crumbs that fall from your'
table.”
“But what ought one to do—give
away one’s fortune to the poor as Christ
' commanded?” the girl asked earnestly
"One can certainly do that if one
: cares to, ” answered Vladimir. “That is
I not so hard to do. Only that is not
j enough, and that is not the main thing. ”
“Then what is the main thing?” she
I asked, looking at him with astonished
eyes.
Vladimir looked steadily at her, and
his gray eyes began to burn and glow.
“The main thing is to renounce your
own self,” he said. “It is to have no
other care day or night than howto help
these your humbler brothers. It is to
give up your soul to them. That is love
and help indeed.”
He began to talk to her about the
people—their want and misery, their
rights and their possible future. He
was a fine and animated speaker and
possessed the gift of carrying the hearer
along with him. Tho girl had never
heard such words before. Her brother
had expressed the same ideas to her, but
somehow bis discourses had always
seemed to her dry and authoritative,
possibly because she bad been accus
tomed to think of him as a teacher.
This strange visitor, who had, as it
were, suddenly dropped from the clouds,
opened for her a door into a new, un
known magic world. Yet his talk trou
bled but did not satisfy her. It seemed
to her that there was in it something
j unfinished, something left unsaid, and
she tried to control the agitation into
which it had thrown her, but could not.
The embroidery fell from her hands, and
her cheeks flushed deeply. She held her
breath as she listened.
; “You see.” Vladimir concluded
quietly, “the way is plain. We shall
not see the promised land. We are going
| toward it. Gird up your loins. Do yon
: remember what the gospel says? Leave
I home and friends and come to us, to
your brother. ”
“No, I will not go to you. I don’t
I want bloodshed,” she answered after a
silence.
“Wo call people to self sacrifice, not
! to bloodshed,” he answered. “It is not
our fault that nothing in the world is
j ever accomplished without pain ”
“No, no, that is not it I will never
1 join you,” the girl repeated. “You
spoke of the gospel. I believe that the
j whole truth is in it What is wanted is
that people should live as Christ taught,
and then everyone in the world will he
happy and people will all live like
brothers, and there will bo no need to
fight and kill each other Yon see, we
shall never agree,” she added, bending
over her work again.
At this point they were called to sup
per, and the conversation broko off.
Vladimir renewed it several times
| during the following days, but met
I with a degree of obstinate resistance
which ho had in no way expected.
Katia was even no longer troubled by
j his talk. It seemed as if his words had
| lost for her tbeir original charm. Her
criticisms grew more and more decisive.
She was not particularly gifted by na
ture, and with her the process of think
ing was slow and difficult, but she
thought seriously and conscientiously,
following out a train of reasoning to its
(Continued on Page Ten.)
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