Knight Without Armour

But before they reached the suburban fringe of the town this plan became suddenly impossible, for Daly was clearly on the point of collapse. It was obvious that she could not walk another mile, much less the unknown distance to the nearest village, and there was nothing for it but to contemplate the risks of seeking shelter in Saratof itself. The town was noted for its strongly Red sympathies, and A.J. did not feel happy at the prospect of spending a night in it. He tried a few cottages, playing the part of the wandering but not quite penniless working-man who could pay a small sum for a bed for himself and his wife until the morning; but in every case he was turned away. One haggard housewife told him that nobody was allowed to take in strangers, and that if he wanted accommodation he had better apply to the Labour Bureau at the commisariat offices of the local Soviet. When he reached Daly, whom he had left a little distance away, he found her lying on the snow-covered pavement. He picked her up; she was shivering and trying to smile, but incapable of speech and only able to stagger along with great difficulty. There remained one last resource, which he had not wished to be driven to—the address of the ex-butler. He mentioned it, and she nodded agreement. Then he called at another house and enquired the way; by good fortune it was in the same quarter of the town, quite close.

A few moments later he was tapping at the door of a small workman’s- cottage. An elderly, white-haired man appeared, to whom he said: “Does Stapen live here?” At that the man’s face took on an expression of sudden terror. “Stapen?” he exclaimed, acting very badly. “No, there is no one here of that name.” Then A.J. realised the fears that might be in the man’s mind, and added: “I was sent here by the Valimoffs, of Novarodar.” The old man stared incredulously and, after a pause, asked them inside. He had been almost dumb with fear, and now was in the same condition with astonishment. A.J. talked a little to reassure him, while Daly sank into a chair, too weak to take any part in the conversation.

In the end their identities were satisfactorily established, and the old man admitted that he was himself Stapen, the ex-butler. He was also more than willing to help them, though he had very little food and no money. His wife was out at that moment, trying to get bread. Life was terrible in Saratof, and he prayed that Denikin’s army might arrive soon.

Daly recovered a little in front of the fire, and Stapen recognised her—or so he said—he had seen her in the old days in Moscow. Daly also said (but perhaps from mere politeness) that she thought she remembered him.

It was soon apparent that Stapen’s mind was obsessed with some other matter which he was afraid to mention until Daly broached it first. She said: “Well, and have you the little girl with you still?” Stapen’s voice dropped then to a throbbing whisper, he was evidently delighted that the strangers knew all about it, yet at the same time awestruck to be discussing it with them. He replied: “Yes, the princess is upstairs. She has been ill—she has had typhus—but she is now getting well. You would wish to see her, eh? Or no—she may be asleep—perhaps to-morrow will be better. You are going to take her with you when you go?” He turned to A.J. and added: “Ah, I knew the Valimoffs would make a good choice—how I have been longing for the day when I should hand her over to someone such as yourself!”

His sincerity and devotion were beyond suspicion, but A.J. at that moment was hardly in a mood to be appreciative. He felt, indeed, a little impatient with the fellow. Did nothing matter except the rescue of a princess? He realised again how difficult and complicated would be the escape to Denikin’s lines if he and Daly were to be burdened with a small and illustrious child.

“For the present,” he answered, rather coldly, “we can hardly look ahead as far as that. My wife is ill and needs rest.”

Stapen bowed, controlling his excitement like a well-trained servant who allows it to be supposed that he had momentarily forgotten himself. Within a short time he had prepared a bed and Daly was being put into it. She whispered, as A.J. laid her head on the pillow: “Dear, why are you so angry with people like Stapen? You were angry with the Valimoffs too.” He answered: “I’m not really angry with them—I’m everlastingly grateful in most ways. It’s just that they seem to think other things matter more than you.”

“Well, don’t they?”

“Possibly, but I can’t be expected to agree to it.”

“I don’t think you care, then, for this little princess?”