She looked at A.J. enquiringly and said: “I’m afraid we just do what we can, as a rule, don’t we?”
“You mean that you just take a chance if it comes along?”
“What else is there we can do?”
“Do you think you will manage it in the end—what you are trying to do?”
“With luck, perhaps.”
“And you have had luck so far?”
She said: “Wonderful luck. And the most wonderful of all was to meet you.”
“Do you think so?”
“I would think so even if to-morrow sees the end of us, as it may do.”
Every word of speech between them seemed to have infinitely deeper and secondary meanings. He said, without emotion: “You are the most astonishing woman I have ever met. I altogether love you, as a matter of fact. I loved you from the minute I saw you last night. Am. I being very foolish or impertinent?”
“No, no, I’m sure you’re not.”
“You mean that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Ali, how perfect you are!” He stared at the pages of the book for another short interval. Then he turned to A.J. “I wonder if I might be permitted to have a little more of that excellent cognac? It would be good for me, I think—I feel a trifle faint.”
A.J. unpacked the bottle for him, and Daly said, warningly: “Remember now—you said you were unused to it.”
Poushkoff answered, taking a strong gulp and laughing: “I promise it won’t have the same effect again.” Then he leaned back on the cushions and closed his eyes. The train rattled on more slowly than ever; snow had stopped falling; it was nearly dusk. Neither A.J. nor Daly disturbed the strange silence through which the boy appeared to sleep. Suddenly he opened his eyes, yawned vigorously, and strode over to the window. “I think I can see a church in the distance,” he said, in perfectly normal tones. “That must be Tarzov—we have to change to another train there. Pick up your luggage and come out with me to the refreshment buffet—I may be able to get you some tea.”
In a few moments the train ground down to an impotent standstill at a small, crowded platform of a station. It looked an odd place to have to change; there was no sign of any rail junction, or of any other train, and Tarzov, seen through the gathering dusk, had the air of a very second-rate village indeed. There was the usual throng of waiting refugees, with their usual attitude of having come nowhence and being bound no-whither; and there was the usual shouting and bell-jangling and scrambling for places. Poushkoff led them through the crowd to the refreshment buffet, which, by no means to A.J.’s surprise, was found to be closed. The boy, however, seemed not only surprised but depressed and disappointed to a quite fantastic degree—he had so wished, he said, to drink tea with them once, before they separated. “You see,” he said, “the next station is Samara, only thirty versts away, and of course the authorities there have been notified about you by telephone, and there will be an escort waiting, and oh well, it is all going to be very difficult and complicated. Whereas here we can still be friends.” He led them some distance along the platform, away from the crowd, to a point whence there was a view of the village—a poor view, however, owing to the misty twilight.
He seemed anxious to talk to them about something—perhaps about anything. “Tarzov,” he said, “is only a small place—it is on the Volga. If you go down that street over there you come to the river in about ten minutes. There is a little quay and there are timber-barges usually, at this time of the year. They take the rafts downstream during the daytime, and tie up at the bank for the nights. Of course the passenger-boats have been stopped since the civil war, but I believe the timber- barges sometimes take a passenger or two, if people have the money and make their own arrangements with the bargemen. Some of the bargemen are Tartars—fine old fellows from the Kirghiz country.” He added, almost apologetically: “This is really a most interesting part of the world, though, of course, you don’t see it at its best at this time of the year.”
Suddenly, as if remembering something, he exclaimed: “Excuse me, I must go back to the train a moment—I shan’t be long.” He dashed away into the midst of the still scurrying crowd before they could answer, and in the twilight they soon lost sight of him.
“He looked ill,” Daly said.
A.J. answered: “He drank nearly all that brandy.”
“Did he? Poor boy! Do you like him?”
“Yes.”
“So do I—tremendously. And he’s only a boy.”
It was very cold, waiting there with the wind blowing little gusts of snow into their faces.
A.J. said: “It’s rather curious, having to change trains at a place like this. There doesn’t seem to be any junction, and if it’s only thirty versts to Samara, where else can the train be going on to?”
“Perhaps it isn’t going on anywhere.”
“Then why is everybody crowding to get into it?”
She clutched his arm with a sharp gesture. “Do you realise—that we could escape—now? It’s almost dark—there’s a mist—we should have a chance.”
He answered, his hand tightening over her wrist: “Yes—yes—I believe you’re right!” But he did not move. “Yes, it’s a chance—a chance!” Yet still he did not move, and all at once there came the splitting crack of a revolver-shot. It was not a sound to attract particular attention at such a place and at such a time—it would just, perhaps, make the average hearer turn his head, if he were idle enough, and wonder what it was. A.J. wondered, but his mind was grappling with that more insistent matter—escape. Yes, there would be a chance, and their only chance, for, as Poushkoff had told them, Samara was close, and Samara meant armed escorts and prison-cells. Yes, yes,—there was no time to lose—Poushkoff would be back any minute—they must think of themselves—they must go now—instantly….But no—not for a minute—a little man with a ridiculously tilted fur cap was pacing up and down the platform; he would pass them in a few seconds, would reach the end, turn, pass them again, and then would come their chance…Yet the man in the fur cap did not pass them. He stopped and remarked, cheerfully: “Exciting business down there, comrade,” and jerked his head backward towards the crowd. “Officer just shot himself. Through the head. Deliberately—everybody saw him. Not a bad thing, perhaps, if they all did it eh?” He laughed and passed on. A.J. stared incredulously; it was Daly who led him back to the crowd. “We must see,” she said. “We must make sure.” When they reached the crown, soldiers were already carrying a body into the waiting-room; it was she again who pressed forward, edging her way in what doubtless seemed mere ghoulish curiosity. When she rejoined A.J. it was only to nod her head and take his arm. They walked slowly away. Then she began to whisper excitedly: “Dear, I’m just understanding it—that’s what he wanted us to do—all that talk about the road to the river, and the bargemen who might take us if we offered them money—Dear, we must do it—think how furious he’d be if he thought we hadn’t had the sense to take the chance he gave us!”
“Yes. We’ll do it.”
They came to the end of the platform, but did not stop and turn, like other up-and-down walkers. They hastened on through the darkness, across the tracks and sidings, in between rows of damaged box-cars, over a ditch into pale, crunching snowfields, and towards the river.
They skirted the village carefully, keeping well away from the snow- covered roofs, yet not too far from them, lest they should lose themselves in the mist. But A.J. had sound directional instinct, and despite the mist and the deep snow it was no more than a quarter of an hour before they clambered over a fence and found themselves facing a black vastness which, even before they heard the lapping of the water, reassured them. They stopped for a few seconds to listen; as well as the water, they could hear, very faintly, the lilt of voices in the distance. They walked some way along the path, their footsteps muffled in snow. Then a tiny light came into view, reflected far over the water till the mist engulfed it; the voices became plainer. Suddenly A.J. whispered: “The timber-barges—here they are!”—and they could sec the great rafts of tree-trunks, snow-covered and lashed together, with the winking light of the towing barge just ahead of them. Voices were approaching as well as being approached; soon two men passed by, speaking a language that was not Russian, though it was clear from sound and gesture that one of the men was bidding farewell to the other. They both shouted out a cheerful ‘Good-night’ as they passed, and a moment later A.J. heard them stop and give each other resounding kisses on both cheeks. Then one of them returned, overtaking the two fugitives near the gang-plank that led down at a steep angle to the barge itself. They could not see his face, but he was very big and tall. He cried out a second cheerful ‘Good-night,’ and was about to cross the plank, when A.J. asked: “Are you the captain of this boat?”