He held up his hand to command silence, for Kosmaroff, with eyes that suddenly blazed in anger, had stepped forward to the table, and was about to interrupt. And Kosmaroff, who was not given to obedience, paused, he knew not why.
“Think,” said the other, in his smooth, even voice—“one month from now, after waiting twenty years. In a month you yourself may be in a very different position to that you now occupy. You commit yourselves to nothing. You do not even give ground for the conclusion that the Polish party ever for a moment approved of our methods. Our methods are our own affair, as are the risks we are content to run. We have our reasons, and we seek the approval of no man.”
There was a deadly coldness in the man’s manner which seemed to vouch for the validity of those reasons which he did not submit to the judgment of any.
“Five thousand roubles,” he concluded. “And in exchange I give you the date—so that Poland may be ready.”
“Thank you,” said Kosmaroff, who had regained his composure as suddenly as he had lost it. “I decline—for myself and for the whole of Poland. We play a cleaner game than that.”
He turned and took up his hat, and his hand shook as he did it.
“If I did not know that you are a patriot according to your lights—if I did not know something of your story, and of those reasons that you do not give—I should take you by the throat and throw you out into the street for daring to make such a proposal to me,” he said, in a low voice.
“To a deserter from a Cossack regiment,” suggested the other.
“To me,” repeated Kosmaroff, touching himself on the breast and standing at his full height. No one spoke, as if the silent spell of History were again for a moment laid upon their tongues.
“Captain Cable,” said Kosmaroff, “you and I have met before, and I learned enough of you then to tell you now that this is no place for you, and these men no company for you. I am going—will you come?”
“I’m agreeable,” said Captain Cable, dusting his hat.
When they were out in the street, he turned to Kosmaroff and looked up into his face with bright and searching eyes.
“Who’s that man?” he asked, as if there had been only one in the room.
“I do not know his name,” replied Kosmaroff.
They were standing on the doorstep. The dirty man had closed the door behind them, and, turning on his heel, Kosmaroff looked thoughtfully at the dusty woodwork of it. Half absentmindedly he extended one finger and made a design on the door. It was not unlike a Greek cross.
“That is who he is,” he said.
Captain Cable followed the motion of his companion’s finger.
“I’ve heard of him,” he said. “And I heard his voice—sort of soft-spoken—on Hamburg quay one night, many years ago. That is why I refused the job and came out with you.”
XXV
The Captain’s Story
More especially in northern countries nature lays her veto upon the activity of men, and winter calls a truce even to human strife. Cartoner awaited orders in London, for all the world was dimly aware of something stirring in the north, and no one knew what to expect or where to look for the unexpected.
It was a cold winter that year, and the Baltic closed early. Captain Cable chartered the Minnie in the coasting trade, and after Christmas he put her into one of the cheaper dry-docks down the river towards Rotherhithe. His ship was, indeed, in dry-dock when the captain opened with the Brothers of Liberty those negotiations which came to such a sudden and untoward end.
Paul Deulin wrote one piteous letter to Cartoner, full of abuse of the cold and wet weather. “If the winter would only set in,” he said, “and dry things up and freeze the river, which has overflowed its banks almost to the St. Petersburg Station, on the Praga side, life would perhaps be more endurable.”
Then the silence of the northern winter closed over him too, and Cartoner wrote in vain, hoping to receive some small details of the Bukatys and perhaps a mention of Wanda’s name. But his letters never reached Warsaw, or if they travelled to the banks of the Vistula they were absorbed into that playful post-office where little goes in and less comes out.
There were others besides Cartoner who were wintering in London who likewise laid aside their newspaper with a sigh half weariness, half relief, to find that their parts of the world were still quiet.
“History is assuredly at a standstill,” said an old traveller one evening at the club, as he paused at Cartoner’s table. “The world must be quiet indeed with you here in London, all the winter, eating your head off.”
“I am waiting,” replied Cartoner.
“What for?”
“I do not know,” he said, placidly, continuing his dinner.
Later on he returned to his rooms in Pall Mall. He was a great reader, and was forced to follow the daily events in a dozen different countries in a dozen different languages. He was surrounded by newspapers, in a deep armchair by the table, when that came for which he was waiting. It came in the form of Captain Cable in his shore-going clothes. The little sailor was ushered in by the well-trained servant of this bachelor household without surprise or comment.
Cartoner made him welcome with a
