CHAPTER XIV.AN IKON OATH.
Ivan Liustig was not like any one else. His friends of the Petersburg Circle were conscious of some lack of foundation beneath the graceful superstructure of his character. But they did not array themselves, as his critics, against him. They smiled at him, but they loved him.
Since he had escaped with me after the wrecking of the Tzar’s train near Borki, he had returned to Russia, whither I had also gone with Bounakoff upon a secret quest.
When, in Petersburg, I heard of him as investigating psychical phenomena as encoiled in psychology, it seemed another versatile phase at which again to smile. For Ivan, who was an enthusiastic medical student, was sure to have, here, as elsewhere, some exceptional experiences; was sure to pour out the recital of the same in due time to his chosen associates with a fulness of picturesque detail that shed a new light on all the question involved. But when it appearedthat it was not psychical research in the abstract, but a feminine psychist in the concrete that held Ivan in thrall, there was an altered feeling inducing a graver view.
“I hope all this we hear is an airy joke,” I said to him one day after a meeting of the Circle. He honoured me, as his elder, with some deference in his friendship; and the quality of the latter sentiment had been exceptionally warm between us since our journey together in the Imperial train.
He looked at me steadily with his handsome blue eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“You must know well enough. They say that you are spending all your leisure with some shady female, who, at one and the same time, expounds spirits, magnetic psychology, and exploits the pockets of the credulous.”
To my surprise he turned very pale.
“Were you not one of my best friends, Anton, I’d knock you down for that.”
“By the Virgin, you’re lost!” I cried.
I was about to turn away on my heel, but he drew me back. His anger had been appeased.
“Don’t mind me,” he said in his tractable, normal tone. “But don’t join the herd of fools who won’t understand. I looked for sympathy and comprehension from you. You can’t judge till you know her—till you know this wonderful—most wonderful woman.”
“I daresay,” I assented dryly. “Who, however, and what is she?”
“She is half Russian, half German, and wholly a citizen of the world.”
“Ah! I know the type—”
“You know nothing!” he exclaimed, flushing angrily. “But”—he shrugged his shoulders—“the prejudices of the world count for—what? Nothing at all. The curse of the Philistine is his Philistinism.”
“Very well. Forget what I have said. I approach the Russo-German in the properly reverential spirit to apprehend the phenomena. They say she is young and pretty. And what, especially, does she do?”
“You may see, some day.” His gaze grew bright, soft, and vague, as one who catches a glimpse of the floating garments of supernatural mysteries. “Ah! she is wonderful. She is charming!”
It was shortly after this that I obtained an introduction to Ivan Liustig’s goddess. She lived in the Vosseressenski quarter, on the third floor of a tall house, but with a degree of relative elegance that argued either some personal means or a thriving trade. I had expected to see an electric, opalescent person, with rouged face and a Cleopatra manner calculated to enmesh the unwary. I met instead a little blonde woman with great eyes, soft as black pearls and limpid as a brook. I had understood from Ivan that shehad been married and widowed. But with her loops of flaxen braid tied deftly with ribbon, she looked no more matured than a schoolgirl. Her dress, from head to foot, was tasteful and pleasing, but of the simplest. And she had a way, after she had greeted you, of sitting upon the edge of chairs and sofas and listening in grave-eyed confidence that made you think of some precocious child forced, through the loss of its natural protectors, to face the blackness of an unfamiliar world alone. She was introduced as Wanda Waluiski.
“Your friend tells me that you are interested in psychical phenomena,” she said to me, after a few moments. “But I fear I can show you nothing much to-night. The conditions do not seem favourable, somehow.”
I made a murmur of regret.
“Are these things dependent on atmospheric conditions?”
“To a certain degree. But other obstacles step in—opposing mental attitudes and currents.” She passed her hands over her eyes as she spoke, as if to rid herself of some invisible oppression.
“A common charlatan, after all,” said I to myself. “She sees I am sceptical of the validity of her claims and that prevents the full operation of the trickery.”
Ivan ardently assured her that it was of no moment; that we would return another day. Wanda was silent for an instant, and I had begun to think her manner at least peculiar, when she turned her eyes full upon me.
“I ought not to let you come here again,” was her extraordinary remark. “I have been warned this moment, I was warned the moment you entered the roam that unhappiness must come to me through you. But one’s earthly fate cannot be fought against. My forbidding you to come here would not delay or turn aside the onward march of events.”
“I assure you I have no wish to inflict an unwelcome presence upon you,” I hastened to explain.
“No—no.” Her pale, child-like face was overspread with a strange air of weariness. “All we can do is of no use. Come. Come when you choose.”
When we were in the street Ivan broke out in apologies, urging that I should not feel myself insulted.
“I do not feel insulted,” I said. “In fact, I find Madame Waluiski much more interesting than I expected.”
And this was truth. If she were an impostor, an adventuress, I had been impressed with the fact that she was one clever enough to be worthy of study. But again, how doubt a personality apparently so unlike that of a trickster, a face so transparent, a whole being so unusual, so ingenuous?
I knew not what to think.
The scene was, perhaps, one of the most picturesque in Petersburg. After the dust and heat of the August day Mascha, Bounakoff, and myself were sitting at dinner in the beautiful Gardens of Catherinenhoff. With the sunset a cool wind had sprung up from the Neva, rendering Andrejeff’s Restaurant an exceedingly pleasant retreat under the clear sky and brilliant stars. At one of the smallal frescotables we were in the full enjoyment of our meal. It was a band night, and those who have visited the Russian capital know how upon such occasions the Gardens are illuminated and the tables filled by a fashionable throng of men and women.
Ivan was sitting at the next table, and we had invited him to join us, but as he had already finished his dinner he was waiting until we commenced to smoke.
Those of my readers who have refreshed themselves at Andrejeff’s will remember that one of the tables is placed against a large trellis covered with tangled masses of creepers, which screens it from the gaze of passers-by, and makes it a very cosy nook. It was here that Ivan sat alone, contemplatively smoking a cigarette and sipping from the glass of port beside him, while at our table we chaffed and laughed merrily together. Conversation was general, and the hearty laughter and gay tones of French voices mingled with the guttural exclamations of the Tzar’s subjects as they walked under the linden trees beside the lake, while everand anon a burst of military music reached us from over the water.
As I sat watching the crowd of promenaders two figures that passed engaged my attention. Why, I cannot tell. One was that of a lady, apparently about forty years of age, good-looking, well-preserved, and attired fashionably in a black jet-trimmed evening dress, with a lace mantilla over her head. Alone, she walked past slowly and deliberately, at the same time casting a searching glance in our direction. In the dim half-light I could see she was undeniably handsome, but in a few moments she had passed out of my sight, and I, joining in my companions’ conversation, forgot her.
The other figure which followed some minutes later was that of Wanda Waluiski.
A few minutes later a lad, son of thedvornikat Ivan’s lodging, brought him some letters, being accompanied by his sister, a bright little girl of ten. The student complimented the child on the way she was dressed, patted her upon the cheek, and gave her some grapes, rewarding the lad with a few kopecks. Then the girl laughed pleasantly, displaying an even row of white teeth, afterwards making a dignified little bow, and turning away with her brother.
They had scarcely gone when we were startled by a terrible cry.
Turning quickly, we saw that Ivan had risen from his chair, his face flushed and distorted.One hand grasped his wine-glass, while the other clutched convulsively at his throat, for he was choking.
Staggering a few uneven steps towards us, he stumbled. The glass fell from his nerveless fingers, and was shattered. We sat speechless in surprise and alarm.
His face became blanched in a moment, and he passed his hand across his agonised brow.
“Ah!—Heaven!” he gasped with great effort. “You fellows—my wine!—can’t you see?—I—I’m poisoned!”
With one accord we sprang to our feet and rushed towards him, but before we could stretch forth our hands he had staggered forward with a loud cry and fallen heavily upon the gravel.
Our endeavours to raise him were useless.
“Let me alone!” he shouted hoarsely. “The poison—was put into my glass—through the trellis! You cannot save me. Ah! I—I’m dying! The cowards have killed me!”
I knelt and raised his head upon my arm.
“Don’t touch me!” he cried. “Can’t you let me die?” Writhing in paroxysms of intense pain, his face livid, his body horribly distorted, he ground his teeth and foamed at the mouth.
The sight was awful; yet we were utterly powerless.
A violent trembling suddenly shook his whole frame, and his palsied limbs stretched themselves out rigidly in the final struggle for existence.
Then he gasped. The breath left his body, and he lay pale and motionless under the starlight. Ivan Liustig was dead!
So quickly had all this happened, that scarcely any one had been attracted. As we lifted the body and carried it tenderly into the restaurant the strains of the “Boje Zara chrani,” floating over the lake, formed a jarring, incongruous dirge to our silent, sorrowfulcortège.
A doctor was quickly procured, but as soon as he touched him he removed his hat respectfully, and pronounced him beyond human aid. I handed him the pieces of broken glass which I had picked from the gravelled walk. He smelt them, and finding a drop of wine remaining, dipped the tip of his little finger into it, and placed it upon his tongue.
“Strychnine,” he remarked. “Without a doubt.”
Reverently they covered the body with a tablecloth, and it was subsequently conveyed away.
It is unnecessary to refer in detail to the events that immediately followed. That Ivan had been murdered in the most cowardly and secret manner possible was plain, but the identity of the person who had placed the poison in the glass from the opposite side of the trellis was a mystery. The police quickly apprehended thedvornik’sson and daughter, both of whom were submitted to a searching cross-examination. There was such an utter absence of motive, however, and so plainand straightforward were their answers, that the officials were quickly convinced of their innocence.
But I had my own suspicions. Later that night I took adroskyto the Vosseressenski quarter and sought the dead man’s idol, intending to break the news to her, and closely observe the manner in which she received it.
Wanda Waluiski, when I entered, was sitting alone, dressed in semi-loose drapery of white, that made her child-like figure seem only the more youthful under the light of the bright lamp. Her eyes met mine instantly as I came in, and their gaze had a fulness of significance I could not fathom. I offered her my hand.
“I never shake the hand of any one,” she observed gently, not moving her own. “It induces loss of power in psychic sensitives.”
I was looking into her weirdly delicate visage, with its large eyes whose expression was so haunting, and a certain thrill of quickened zest suddenly replaced the sensation of repugnance in my mind.
“I have come to break bad news to you,” I said gently.
“I know,” she replied. “I—I am aware that Ivan is dead.”
“Who told you?” I asked quickly, but my inquiry was not answered.
At that moment the door was flung open unceremoniously, and two police officers entered.
“Wanda Waluiski,” exclaimed the elder of the two, advancing towards her, “I arrest you, in the name of our Father the Tzar, for the murder of one Ivan Liustig!”
“For murder!” she gasped, half-rising from her chair. “I—I am innocent!”
“Upon whose information do you make the arrest?” I asked.
The officer referred to the paper in his hand, and replied: “One Mascha Prèhznev alleges that this woman placed the poison in the victim’s glass.”
“My sister!” I exclaimed involuntarily.
“Ah!” said Wanda, who had risen and stood stern and haggard before me. “I told you on the first occasion you visited me that unhappiness must come to me through you.” Turning quickly towards the gildedikonupon the wall, she crossed herself reverently, murmuring, “Before Heaven, I swear I am innocent!”
Then she took up her fur-lined cloak lying upon the couch, and throwing it about her shoulders, drew the hood over her head and announced her readiness to accompany the officers. As they were about to descend the stairs two police spies in civilian dress entered and received orders to search the place. I remained behind in order to ascertain what was discovered, but after an hour’s investigation they had to acknowledge the absence of any clue.
During the time they were rummaging in holesand corners I chanced to take up a photograph album, and was looking casually through it when my eyes fell upon a cabinet portrait of a well-preserved, handsomely attired woman, evidently moving in fashionable society.
In a moment I recognised it as the counterfeit presentment of the woman I had seen strolling in the Catherinenhoff Gardens almost immediately before I had noticed Wanda! I closed the album and kept the discovery to myself. Within an hour I saw Mascha, and asked her upon what grounds she had given the information that had led to the mysterious Wanda’s arrest.
“She loved Ivan and was my rival,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders. “I saw her emerge from behind the trellis. That is all the proof I have.”
I pointed out that the allegations were of so serious a character that, in all probability, Wanda would be kept in prison while the matter was being investigated, which would certainly be several months, perhaps years.
“But she stole him from me,” my sister replied, with flashing eyes. “She will now have to prove her innocence.”
I could see that Mascha was revengeful, and that all argument was useless.
The murder created a good deal of sensation in Petersburg; and, as I had anticipated, Wanda was confined in the grim fortress of Peter and Paul. Days, weeks, months passed, but she was not brought before the Court—the police werestill investigating. At length, after nearly seven months had gone by, the case was brought to trial, and the accused was acquitted.
Strange how Fate directs our course through life. It was about a year afterwards. I had returned to London, and drifting into journalistic work, was representing a certain daily newspaper, that shall be nameless, in the gallery of the House of Commons. I had a reason for entering journalism, but that has nothing to do with the present story.
The hour was midnight. The Speaker had ordered a division upon an important question affecting Ireland, and honourable members, stretching themselves, had risen wearily and were strolling out to vote. Many of myconfrèreshad flung down their pens and made for the Press bar; but I was busy. The debate had been almost historical, for, in answer to the objections of the Opposition, Mr. Balfour had made a brilliant and telling reply, therefore I was unfortunately compelled to continue writing, and that at express speed.
Thefrou-frouof silk, mingled with frivolous feminine laughter, caused me to look upward. The ladies’ gallery is over that devoted to the Press, and somewhat in the rear, being irreverently termed the “gridiron,” because feminine beauty is hidden from the curious gaze of honourable members by ornamental iron-work. From the side seats, however, we obtained a good view of the fair ones who came to hear their husbands,fathers, and lovers descant upon their country’s ills, and as I glanced up, I saw two faces behind the iron bars peering down upon the half-empty benches.
One was that of an elderly white-haired lady, evidently a patrician. The other was younger, and her features struck me as strangely familiar. Where could I have seen her before? I tried to think, but, with tantalising contrariness, my memory refused to answer. Yet I felt a curious desire to remember who she was. It was almost like a presage of evil.
I looked again. Her eyes met mine in a cold, haughty stare, but in a second I had recollected her. She was the woman I had noticed in the Catherinenhoff Gardens!
My pen almost fell from my grasp.
Although I felt positive I had not mistaken the face, yet I admit the identification was so sudden that I found myself doubting whether it was really the woman I had seen in the dimly illuminated grounds.
“Campbell,” I said, beckoning one of the attendants, “there’s a lady upstairs with blue birds in her hat. Don’t notice her for a moment, but look up presently and tell me if you know who she is.”
“Very well, sir,” he replied with a significant smile, arranging his gilt chain of office over his glossy shirt-front, and strolling away along the gallery.
Returning in a few moments, he bent over me and exclaimed, “That lady, sir.”
“Yes,” I said anxiously.
“She’s Mrs. Elworthy, wife of the Member for North-west Huntingdon. She’s well known in society, and comes as regularly when her husband speaks as Mrs. Gladstone does.”
“Mrs. Elworthy!” I ejaculated. “Ah, thanks,” I added.
Remarking that I was welcome to the information, Campbell walked away.
Mrs. Elworthy! My thoughts were only of her. I knew her by reputation as a leader of fashion; the centre of a dashing set. She joked pleasantly with her elder companion, uttering a low, musical laugh. The diamonds on her slim wrist sparkled as the daintily gloved hand grasped the iron-work.
I was watching that hand surreptitiously, when a strange thought occurred to me. I wondered whether it was the same that had reached through the creeper-covered trellis in Petersburg two years before!
But as these grave thoughts took possession of me, the “House” filled, the tellers advanced to the table, and the result of the division was declared.
I went out to hand it to my telegraphist in the lobby. When I returned the object of my thoughts had gone. It was certainly a curious coincidence that we should thus meet, yet what proof had Ithat she was a murderess? Nothing beyond a strange, fitful fancy.
In a handsome drawing-room in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square, where the wintry twilight filtered through pale-blue silk curtains, I was, about two months later, sitting alone with Mrs. Elworthy.
Through a friend of the family I had succeeded in obtaining an introduction to her, and now regularly received cards for all her little festivities. Both she and her husband welcomed me warmly whenever I called, and very soon I found myself one of a very pleasant, if extravagant set. I made, however, two discoveries of a somewhat remarkable character. Firstly, that Mrs. Elworthy was a Russian, and, secondly, that the fascinating girl I had known as Wanda Waluiski was living with her, and was, in reality, her daughter!
On this particular afternoon I had remained behind after the other visitors had departed, and was chatting with Mrs. Elworthy, who, with all a woman’s cunning, had chosen avieux rosetea-gown, which, falling in artistic folds, gave sculptural relief to her almost angular outline.
For a woman, she was unusually conversant with political questions, and I had purposely turned our discussion upon the prevalence of famine in Russia.
“Were you ever in Petersburg?” I asked, glancing at her suddenly.
She gazed at me inquiringly, and the smile died from her face.
“No,” she replied quickly. “I came from Odessa. I have never been to the capital. But of course you have.”
“Yes,” I said reflectively. “Unfortunately, however, my last visit was marred by a very sad occurrence.”
“What was it?” she asked, lounging languidly in her chair.
“The murder of my friend Ivan Liustig,” I replied calmly, gazing straight into her eyes.
The announcement did not produce the effect I had intended. She stirred uneasily, but merely raised her eyebrows and uttered a low exclamation of horror.
“The poor fellow was poisoned,” I continued, at the same time drawing my wallet from my pocket. “Here is his photograph,” I added, handing her acarte de visite.
She looked calmly at the pictured face.
“Very sad—very sad indeed,” she remarked. “And was the murderer caught?”
She kept her eyes upon the photograph as she asked the question.
“Murderess,” I said, in as unconcerned a tone as I could.
“A woman, then?”
“Yes, and, moreover, I have traced the assassin.”
She looked up sharply into my face. Her handsome features presented a strange haggard appearance, and she toyed nervously with her rings.
“Why—what—what do you mean?” she gasped.
“Disguise is useless, Mrs. Elworthy,” I said sternly, as I rose to my feet. “I mean I can prove that you poisoned Ivan Liustig!”
She started from her chair and glared at me.
“You—you say this! You insult me, sir—in my own house—brand me a murderess! I’ll call the servants and have you shown out instantly,” she cried angrily, at the same time making a motion as if to ring the bell.
I stayed her hand.
“No, madame,” I said, “you will do nothing of the kind. Your daughter has probably not told you that I was present when she was arrested on suspicion. Since then your guilt has been proved, and it is useless to deny it. The bottle still containing a portion of the poison sold to you by Wagner, the chemist in the Nevski, is here,” I continued, taking it from my pocket and holding it before her eyes. “Besides, a Russian lad is now in London who actually saw you pour it into Ivan’s glass!”
“He lies—I—I—never was in Petersburg in my life! I never knew Ivan——”
The proud, handsome woman, now pale to the lips, stopped suddenly. Her tongue refused to articulate; she reeled, clutched at the table for support, but, tottering back, fell heavily to the floor. Ringing for the servants, I told them that their mistress had fainted. Then hurrying on mycoat, I crammed my hat upon my head, and left the house.
Lazily smoking before the fire in my chambers a fortnight afterwards, with my feet upon the fender, I had given myself up to reflection. My reverie was somewhat puzzling, for, truth to tell, I was in love, and the object of my affection was none other than Wanda Elworthy. Her face smiled down upon me from a cabinet photograph that stood upon the mantel-shelf; yet, as the smoke curled before it, I could not help thinking how much it resembled that of her unhappy mother.
Suddenly my meditations were interrupted by a loud rat-tat at the door. Opening it, I was surprised to discover a lady, who passed me without a word, and entered my sitting-room.
Closing the door I followed her, and found it was Mrs. Elworthy.
“Good afternoon,” I said, halting before the fire, with my hands behind my back. “I confess I’m puzzled, madam, as to the object of this call.”
Frowning slightly, she tapped the floor impatiently with her shapely foot.
“My object is to come to terms with you.”
“Then you admit your guilt?” I remarked, amazed.
“It is useless, I suppose, to deny it. You have discovered my secret, and I am prepared to pay the price you name.”
Her features were pale and set—a haggard face almost statuesque.
“Pardon me, madam,” I replied warmly; “I decline to accept gold as a bribe to conceal the murder of my friend.”
“You misunderstand me. I have no intention of offering you money.”
“Then what request have you to make, pray?” I asked, looking fixedly at her.
“You know the original of that photograph behind you?” she exclaimed in a harsh, strained voice, pointing at it.
“I do.”
“It has come to my knowledge that you love her.”
I nodded, but did not speak.
“Then the object of my visit is to make a compact with you. It is this: If you will marry Wanda within three months from to-day she shall have a dowry of twenty thousand pounds.”
We were both silent for a moment. Then I said—
“Which proposal means that you are prepared to sacrifice your daughter for the preservation of your own secret, eh?”
She did reply, but bowed her head in humiliation.
“Madam,” I said severely, “I admit I love Wanda, but your proposition is absolutely loathsome.”
“Think—think—she cares for you! Besides,if you had money you would no longer be compelled to work for an existence.”
“Impossible,” I replied decisively.
“Ah, don’t say that!” she cried hoarsely, as, with a sudden impulse, she threw herself upon her knees before me. “See! I implore you for mercy. God knows I have tried to atone and do my duty, but I yielded to temptation, and this is my punishment!”
Drawing a long breath, she burst into tears.
“You—you do not know all, Anton Prèhznev, or you would find the circumstances extenuating,” she sobbed bitterly. “I—I confess it was I who poisoned Ivan! He—he was my son!”
“Your son?”
“Yes. I—I’m a vile wretch; as degraded as the woman who walks the pavement. I killed my son! For twenty years he was ignorant of his parentage, but, alas! he discovered the secret of his dishonourable birth. As the living evidence of my shame he declared he would denounce me—I, who had supplied him with money and secretly guided his career. When he knew I was his mother he loathed me; he cursed me for my sin! His hatred stung me; he threatened to expose me to my husband. Moreover, he fell in love with my lawful daughter, Wanda, then studying in Petersburg! What was I to do?”
She paused. Her hands were clasped; her agonised face was uplifted in supplication.
“Ah! do not shrink from me!” she cried.“Have mercy, for here, before Heaven, I swear I am penitent! Exposure meant ruin. Death only could rid me of the terrible Nemesis. I went to Petersburg—followed him—and—and—you know the rest. I—his mother—murdered him!”
Her chin rested upon her breast; her white lips moved again, but no sound came from them.
“Madam,” I said at length, taking her hand and assisting her to rise, “this interview is painful to us both, let us end it.”
“Will you not spare me? will you not be merciful and accept my offer?” she implored.
“I cannot. I pity you, and hope forgiveness may be yours.”
“You will not accept the dowry?”
I shook my head.
She turned slowly, and, blinded by tears, tottered out, closing the door gently after her.
The newspapers of the following evening contained a sensational item of news, headed “Suicide of an M.P.’s wife.” It ran as follows:—
“Mrs. Elworthy, wife of Mr. Harold Elworthy, M.P., of Brook Street, Grosvenor Square, was discovered dead in her dressing-room this morning. A small bottle containing arsenic was found at her side, together with a letter which leaves no doubt that she committed suicide. The contents of the letter have not been made public, but it isrumoured that the confession is of a very remarkable character.”
An inquest was held, and a verdict of “suicide whilst temporarily insane” returned. Immediately following this came the announcement that the member for North-west Huntingdon had accepted the stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds and gone abroad, accompanied by his daughter Wanda. They have never returned.