A swinging cut made another drop his knife with a great cry of pain.A swinging cut made another drop his knife with a great cry of pain.
A swinging cut made another drop his knife with a great cry of pain.A swinging cut made another drop his knife with a great cry of pain.
A swinging cut made another drop his knife with a great cry of pain.
This sort of reception was by no means what they had expected; and as a shout in answer to my cry for help came from a distance, the unwounded man and the two who could get away rushed off at top speed; while the fourth who had only been dazed, struggled to his feet and would have staggered off as well had I let him. But I stopped him, made him give up his knife, and then I drove him before me to my rooms—only a very short distance off—without waiting for the man to come up who had replied to my shout for help. I did not want any help now. No one man was at all likely to do me any harm, and I might thus get to know the cause of the attack, without being troubled with any outside interference.
"Now, why did you seek to kill me?" I asked sternly, as soon as the man was in my room. "You're not a thief; your dress and style shew that. Why, then, do you turn assassin?"
"There should be no need for me to tell you that," said he, speaking with vehemence.
"Nevertheless, I ask it," I returned, with even more sternness. Evidently I was going to make another discovery; and when the man waited a long time before answering, I scanned him closely to see if I could guess his object. Clearly he was no thief. He was fairly well dressed in the style of an ordinary tradesman or a superior mechanic; his appearance betokened rather a sedentary life and his muscles had certainly not been hardened by any physical training. As certainly he was no police spy. He was the last man in the world to have been picked out for such a job as that of the attempt on my life. There was no probability of there being any private feud against me; that seemed ridiculous.
I could only conclude, therefore, that the attack was from the Nihilists. The man looked much more like an emissary of that kind—able to give a sudden thrust with a sharp knife; but incapable of doing more. The instant I had come to this conclusion, and I came to it much more quickly than I can write it, I resolved what to do.
"I am glad this encounter has taken place—not omitting the result, of course," I added grimly. "There is no cause whatever for this decree."
The man's lip curled somewhat contemptuously, as I made this protest. He seemed to have formed the average low estimate of the value of my word. Everywhere I turned I was met by the worthlessness of the scamp whose name I now bore. The contempt silenced, even while it angered, me.
"You did not attend," he said curtly. "A man's absence is poor proof of either innocence or courage. You are not only a traitor but a coward."
"What!" I turned on him as if he had struck me.
This puny, pale, insignificant weakling faced me as dauntlessly as if the positions were reversed and I was in his power, not he in mine.
"You are brave enough here now, no doubt—you armed against me unarmed." He threw this sneering taunt at me with deliberate insolence.
I stared at him first in amazement, and then in admiration.
I had but to raise my hand to kill him with a stroke. He read my thoughts.
"What do I care for my life, do you think? Take it, if you like. One murder more—even in cold blood—is a little matter to a soldier."
A couple of turns up and down the room cooled me.
"I don't want your life," said I, calmly. "Though it's dangerous to call me a coward, and were you other than what you are, I'd ram the word down your throat. With you, however, I'll deal differently. You say I was afraid to attend your last meeting. I'll do better than merely call that a lie, I'll prove it one. Call another meeting in as big a place as you can, pack it with all the deadliest cut-throats you can find, resolve to shoot me down as I enter the door, and if I dare not attend it, then call me coward—but not till then." My blood was up now, and I spoke as hotly as I felt.
"Will you come?" asked the man.
"Call the meeting and see. Nay, more. Between now and the time of the meeting think of the wildest and most dangerous scheme that you can to test what a desperate man can do for the cause, and give me the lead in it. And when I've failed, write me down traitor, and not till then. And now, go, or by God I may forget myself and lay hands on you."
My voice rang out in such sharp stern tones that the man's antagonism was beaten down by my earnestness. My fierceness seemed to fire him, and when I threw open the door for him to go, he stood a moment and stared into my face, his own all eagerness, light and wildness. Then he exclaimed in a tone of intense excitement:—-
"By God, I believe you're true after all." And with that he went.
It was not until the man had been gone some time and I was pacing up and down my room, still excited, and revolving the chances of this, perhaps the most desperate of all the complications which threatened me, that I saw a letter on tinted paper, lying on my table. I took it up and found it was from Olga, and my thoughts went back with a rush to her and to the circumstances under which I had left her that evening.
The letter was not very long.
MY DEAR BROTHER,
"I have not ceased to regret the hasty words I spoke to you this evening. Forgive me. Of course you do not think me a coward; and I can see now that you must have some other motive for wishing me to leave Moscow and Russia, while you remain here alone to face—what may have to be faced. But whatever your reason is, I cannot do it. Do you understand that? I cannot. That is stronger than I will not. I think you know me. If so, you know that I will not. If I thought you believed me capable of leaving you in the lurch after having brought all this on you, I should wish I had never had—such a brother. I will never even let you mention the matter to me again.
Your sister,OLGA."
I read this letter through two or three times, each time with a higher opinion of the staunch-hearted little writer. And at the end I surprised myself considerably by pressing the letter involuntarily to my lips.
She was a girl worth a good tough fight.
The Nihilists were not long in taking up my challenge; and on the following afternoon, the man whom I had interviewed in my rooms met me in the street and told me I was to meet him on the south side of the Cathedral Square at nine o'clock the next night. There was a peremptory ring in the message which I didn't care for, but I promised to keep the appointment.
I had thought out my plans and had come to see that the impulse under which I had spoken was as shrewd as the proposal itself was risky. If I was not to be a perpetual mark for their attacks, I must make an impression on them; and I saw at once that the safest thing that could happen was at the same time the most daring—I must take the lead. If some desperate scheme were placed in my hands for execution, I should certainly be allowed a free hand to carry it out, and as certainly have time in which to do it. That was what I needed.
I did not place the danger of attending the meeting very high. If I were not murdered on my way to the place, wherever it might be—and that was highly improbable—I did not think they would venture to kill me at the meeting itself. Moreover I reckoned somewhat on the effect I believed I had created on the man in my rooms.
I took a revolver with me as a precaution; but I had little doubt about getting through the night safely.
It turned out to be a very different affair from anything I had anticipated, however, and taken on the whole it was perhaps one of the most thrilling experiences I have ever passed through. Whether I was really in danger of death at any time, or whether the whole business was merely intended to try and scare me, I don't know. But I believe that if I had shewn any signs of fear, they would have murdered me there and then. Certainly they had all the means at hand.
I met the man by the Cathedral, and muttering to me to follow him at twenty paces distance, he walked on and presently plunged into a labyrinth of streets, leading from the Cathedral down to the river in the lowest quarter of the town. The place was ill lit and worse drained, and the noisome atmosphere of some of the alleys which we passed and the mess through which we trudged, were horribly repulsive.
In the lowest and darkest and dirtiest of the streets the man stopped and with a sign to me not to speak, pointed to a dark tumbling doorway. As I entered it, I saw it was about the aptest scene for a murder that could have been chosen.
The place was almost pitch dark, and as we had stepped out of a very bright moonlight, I had to stand a moment to let my eyes accustom themselves to the change. Then I made out a broken, rambling stairway just ahead of us. Taking it for granted that I was to go up these, ignorant whether I was supposed to know the place, and quite unwilling even to appear to wish to hang back, I stumbled up the stairs as quickly as the gloom would let me. When I reached the top I found myself in a long, low shed that ran on some distance in front of me to a point there I thought I could discern a faint light.
I groped my way forward, the boards giving ominously under my feet, when suddenly a voice said in a loud whisper out of the gloom and as if at my very ear:—
"Stand, if you value your life."
I stopped readily enough, as may be imagined; and then the silence was broken by the swishing, rushing swirl of the swiftly flowing river, while currents of cold air caused by the moving water, were wafted up full in my face. I strained my ears to listen and my eyes to see and craning forward, I could make out a huge gap in the floor wider than a man could have leapt, which opened right to my very feet.
What happened I don't know; it was too dark to see. But after a time there was a sound of a heavily moving body close at my feet, the noise of the water grew faint, and I was told to go forward. I went on until I was again called to a halt; and after a minute the sound of the rushing water came again clear and distinct, this time from behind me. Then a flaring light was kindled all suddenly and thrown down into the wide gap until with a hiss it was extinguished in the river below.
I knew what that meant. It was a signal that all hope of retreat was cut off, and the signal was given in this dramatic fashion to frighten me if my nerves should be unsteady. As a matter of fact it had rather the opposite effect. I have generally found that when men are really dangerous they are least demonstrative. These things—the darkness, the silence, the rushing water, the means of secret murder—were all calculated to frighten weak nerves no doubt, but they did not frighten me.
At the same time I saw that if the men wished to murder me, they had ample means of doing it safely, and that the situation might easily become a very ugly one.
Without wasting time I went forward again, and passing through a door which was opened at my approach, I found myself in the end room of a disused and tumbling riverside warehouse; the side next the river being quite open and over-hanging the waters. The place was unlighted save for the bright moonlight which came slanting in from the open end, and down through some chinks and gaps in the roof.
Scattered round the place were some thirty or forty men, their faces undistinguishable in the gloom, though care was taken to let me see that each man carried a knife: and when I entered, five or six of them closed round the door, as if to guard against the possibility of my retreat.
I glanced about me to see whom to address, or who would speak to me.
For a couple of minutes or more, not a soul moved and not a word was spoken. The only sounds audible were these which came from the river without; the hushed burr of night life from the dim city beyond.
"You plea has been considered," said a voice at length in a tone scarcely above a whisper; but I thought I could recognise it as that of the man who had been in my rooms. "It has been resolved not to accept it. You have been brought here to-night to die."
"As you will; I am ready," I answered promptly. "I am as ready to lose my life as you are to take it."
"Kneel down," said the man.
"Not I," I cried, resolutely. "If I am to die, I prefer to stand. But here, I'll make it easier for you. Here's the only weapon I have. Take it, someone." I laid my revolver on the floor in a little spot where a glint of moonlight fell on it. Then I threw off my coat and waistcoat and turning back my shirt bared the heart side of my breast. If they could be dramatic, so could I, I thought. "Here, strike," I cried. "And all I ask is for a clean quick thrust right to the heart." I was growing excited.
"Here, strike," I cried."Here, strike," I cried.
"Here, strike," I cried."Here, strike," I cried.
"Here, strike," I cried.
"No 13," said the man, after a long pause.
A tall, broad, huge man loomed up out of a dark corner and stood between me and the light from the river. As he laid his hands on me, the clasp was like a clamp of iron, and his enormous strength made me as a child in his clutch.
With a trick that seemed to tell of much practice, he seized me suddenly by the right arm, holding it in a grip I thought no man on earth could possess, and bending me backwards held me so that either my throat or my heart were at the mercy of the long knife he held aloft.
I let no sound escape me and did not move a muscle. The next instant my left hand was seized and a finger pressed on my pulse. In this position I stayed for a full minute. I do not believe that my pulse quickened, save for the physical strain, by so much as one beat.
"It is enough," said the man who had before spoken; and I was released.
"You are no coward," he said, addressing me. "I withdraw that. You can have your life, on one condition."
"And that?"
"That you swear..."
"I will swear nothing," I interposed.
"You have taken the oath of fealty."
"I will swear nothing. Take my life if you like, but swear I will not. If I had meant treachery, I should have had the police round us to-night like a swarm of bees. You have had a proof whether I'm true or not; and when I turn traitor, you can run a blade into my heart or lodge a bullet in my brain. But oaths are nothing to a man who means either to keep or break his word. What is the condition? I told you mine before."
"Yours is accepted. Your task is"—here he sunk his voice and whispered right into my ear—"the death of Christian Tueski."
"I accept," I answered readily. I would have accepted, had they told me to kill the Czar himself. "But it will take time. I will have no other hand in it than mine. It is a glorious commission. Mine alone the honour of success, and mine alone the danger, or mine alone the disgrace of failure." I looked on the whole thing now as more or less of a burlesque; but I played the part I had chosen as well as I could. And when the little puny rebel put out his hand in the darkness and clasped mine, I gripped his with a force that made his bones crack, as if to convey to him the intensity of my resolve and my enthusiastic pleasure at the grim work they had allotted me.
Then I was told to leave; and in a few minutes I was once more in the open air, quite as undecided then as I have always remained, as to what had been the real intentions in regard to myself. One of my chief regrets was not to be able to see the burly giant who had twisted me about on his knee as easily as I should a fowl whose neck I meant to wring. He was a man indeed to admire; and I would have given much for a sight of him.
But my guide hurried me back through the labyrinth of streets into respectable Moscow once more, and I was soon busy with my thoughts as to how long a shrift I should have before my new "comrades" would grow impatient for me to act.
Certainly they would have plenty of time for their patience to grow very cold before I should turn murderer to further their schemes. But I could not foresee the strange chain of events which was fated to fasten on me this new character that I had assumed so lightly and dramatically—the character of a desperate, bloodthirsty, and absolutely reckless Nihilist.
It will be readily understood that I now found life exciting enough even to satisfy me. The complications multiplied so fast, without any act of mine, that I had no time to think of the old troubles and disappointments which had so soured Hamylton Tregethner, and emptied life for him. They had already faded into little more than memories, associated with a life that I had once lived but had now done with altogether. I was getting rapidly absorbed by the dangers and incidents of the new life.
How completely I had changed the current of opinion about Alexis Petrovitch I had abundant evidence during the next few days, in the form of invitations to houses which had hitherto been closed to me. People also began to remember Olga, and she shared in this way in the altered condition of things.
I did not tell her any particulars of my night with the Nihilists, nor of the mission with which I was charged. It would probably distress her, and could do no good; unless I might find it necessary to use it to compel her to leave Moscow. I questioned her as to her own connections with the Nihilists, and from what she told me I saw that though they were slight in themselves, they were enough to put her in the power of a woman such as Paula Tueski; and decidedly much more than sufficient to make her arrest a certainty if I were to be arrested, or if anything should happen to throw increased suspicion on me.
Our meeting after her letter to me was a very pleasant one. She met me with a smile and begged me again to forgive her. That was not difficult.
"I can speak frankly to my brother, now. I couldn't always, you know, Alexis"—she glanced with roguish severity into my face—"because a few days ago you used to get very bad tempered and even swear a little. But I'll admit you are improving—in that respect; though I am afraid you are as dogged as ever. But I can be dogged, too: and if I speak frankly now, it is to tell you that nothing you can do will make me go out of Russia until you are safe. You may form what opinion you like of me—though I don't want that to be very bad—but a coward you shall never find me."
"I didn't think you a coward. You know that; you said it in your letter; and I shall not forgive that rudeness of yours, if you persist in this attitude."
"What is the use of a brother if one can't be rude to him, pray? As for your forgiveness, you can't help that now. You've given it. Besides, on reflection, I should not be frightened of you. Will you make me a promise?"
"Yes, if it has nothing to do with your going away."
"It has."
"Then I won't make it. But I'll make a truce. I will not press you to go away, unless I think it necessary for my own safety. Will that do?"
"Yes, I'll go then," she answered readily, holding out her hand to make a bargain of it, as she added:—"Mind, if it's necessary for your safety."
"You're as precise as a lawyer," said I, laughing, as I pressed her hand and saw a flush of colour tinge her face a moment.
"Now," she said, after a pause. "I have a surprise for you. I have a letter from an old friend of yours—a very old friend."
"An old friend of mine. Oh, I see. And old friend of your brother's, you mean. Well, who is it now? Is there another complication?"
"No, no. An old friend of my new brother's. From Mr. Hamylton Tregethner." She laughed merrily as she stumbled over the old Cornish syllables. "I don't like that Englishman," she said, gravely. "Do you know why?"
"Not for the life of me."
"Well, I do not; but I can't say why." Her manner was peculiar. "See, here is the passport. Mr. Tregethner has sent it and he seems to have crossed the Russian frontier without the least difficulty. He has gone to Paris by way of Austria. When shall you go?" She did not look up as she asked this, but stood rummaging among the papers on the table. I took the passport, unfolded and read it mechanically; then without thinking, folded it up again and put it away in my pocket.
Evidently she meant it as my dismissal; and it was very awkward for me to explain that I could not be dismissed in this way because of the difficulties in the road of my leaving. I did not wish to appear to force myself upon her as a brother; but I could not go without first seeing her in safety. And there was the crux.
"I'll make my arrangements as soon as I can," I replied, after a longish pause; and I was conscious of being a little stiff in my manner. "But of course I can't manage things quite as I please. You see, I didn't come into this—I mean, I took up the part and—well, I'm hanged if I know what I do mean; except that of course I'm sorry to seem to force myself on you longer than you like, but I can't get away quite so easily as you seem to think. I know it puts you in an awkward position, but for the moment I don't for the life of me see how it's to be helped."
As I finished she lifted her head, and her expression was at first grave, until the light of a smile in her blue eyes began to spread over her face, and the corners of her mouth twitched.
"Then you won't be able to go yet? Of course, it's very awkward, as you say: but I must manage to put up with it as best I can. In the meantime as we have to continue the parts, we had better play them so as to mystify people. Don't you agree with this?
"Yes, I think that, certainly," I answered, catching her drift, and smiling in my turn.
"Then I am riding this afternoon at three o'clock; and as it might occasion remark if our afternoon rides were broken off quite suddenly, don't you think it would be very diplomatic if you were to come with me?"
"Yes, very diplomatic," I assented, readily. "But you never told me before," said I, rising to go and get ready, "that we were in the habit of riding out together every day."
"It hasn't been exactly every afternoon," answered Olga, laughing. "In fact, it's more than a year since the last ride, but the principle of the thing is the same. We ought not to break the continuity."
"No, we ought not to break the continuity," I assented, laughing. "I'll soon be back." I was, and an exceedingly jolly ride we had. Olga was a splendid horsewoman—a seat like a circus rider—and as soon as we were free of the city we had two or three rattling spins. As we rode back we discussed the question of the best course for us to take. We were both too much exhilarated by the ride to take any but a sanguine view; and so far as I am concerned, I think I talked about it rather as a sort of link between us two than in any serious sense.
When I got to my rooms I was surprised to learn from my servant Borlas that my old opponent, Major Devinsky, had called to see me. I did not know he was back in Moscow, though I knew he had been away. I had been at drill that morning—I had quickly fallen into the routine of the work—and had heard nothing of his return. Certainly there was no reason why he should come to me; though there were many why he should keep away.
He may have watched me into my rooms; for almost before I had changed my riding things, he was announced. He came in smiling, impudent, self assertive, and disposed to be friendly.
"What can you want with me that can induce you to come here?" I asked coldly.
"I want an understanding, Petrovitch...."
"Lieutenant Petrovitch, if you please," I interposed.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, Lieutenant Petrovitch, I'm sure," he answered lightly. "But there's really no need for this kind of reception. I want to be friends with you."
I bowed as he paused.
"You and I have not quite understood each other in the past."
"Not until within the last few days," I returned, significantly.
"I'm not referring to that," he said, flushing. "Though as you've started it I'll pay you the compliment of saying you're devilish neat and clever in your workmanship. I had no idea of it, either, nor anyone less...."
"What do you want with me?" I interrupted, with a wave of the hand to stop his compliment.
"I want to talk quietly over with you my suit for your sister's hand. I want to know where we stand, you and I."
"My sister's hand is not mine to give." This very curtly.
"I don't ask you to give it, man; I only want to win it. I am as good a match for her as any man in Moscow..." and with that he launched out into a long account of his wealth, position, and prospects, and of the position his wife would occupy. I let him talk as long as he would, quite understanding that this was only the preface to something else—the real purpose of his visit. Gradually he drew nearer and nearer to the point, and I saw him eyeing me furtively to note the effect of his words, which he weighed very carefully. He spoke of his family influence; how he could advance my interests; what an advantage it was to have command of wealth when making an army career: and much more, until he shewed me that what he really intended was to presume on my old evil reputation and bribe me with money down if necessary, and with promises of future help, if I would agree to let Olga marry him.
"Your proposal put in plain terms means," I said, bluntly, when he had exhausted his circuitous suggestions, "that you want to buy my consent and assistance. I told you at the start that my sister's hand was not mine to give; neither is it mine to sell, Major Devinsky."
He bent a sharp, calculating look on me as if to judge whether I was in earnest, or merely raising my terms.
"I am not a man easily baulked," he said.
"Nor I one easily bribed," I retorted.
"You will have a fortune, and more than a fortune behind you. With skill like yours you can climb to any height you please."
"Sink to any depth you please, you should say," I answered sternly. "But my sister declines absolutely to be your wife. She dislikes you cordially—as cordially as I do: and no plea that you could offer would induce her to change her mind."
"You weren't always very solicitous about her wishes," he muttered, with an angry sneer. I didn't understand this allusion: but it made me very angry.
"You are under my roof," I cried hotly. "But even here you will be good enough to put some guard on your speech. It may clear your thoughts to know what my present feelings are." I now spoke with crisp, cutting emphasis. "If my sister could by any art or persuasion be induced to be your wife, I would never consent to exchange another word with her in all my life. As for the veiled bribe you have offered, I allowed you to make it, that I might see how low you would descend. Sooner than accept it, I would break my sword across my knee and turn cabman for a living. But your visit shall have one result—I will tell my sister all that has passed..."
"By Heaven, if you dare."
"All that has passed now, and if she would rather marry you than retain her relationship to me, I will retire in your favour. But you will do well not to be hopeful." I could not resist this rather petty little sneer.
"You will live to repent this, Lieutenant Petrovitch."
"At your service," I replied, quietly with a bow. He was white to the lips with anger when he rose to go, and he seemed as if fighting to keep back the utterance of some hot insult that rose to his tongue. But his rage got no farther than ugly looks, and he was still wrestling with his agitation when he left the room.
I could understand his chagrin. He would have dearly liked to force me at the point of the sword to consent, and the knowledge that this was no longer possible, that in some way which of course he could not understand I had broken his influence and was no longer afraid of him, galled and maddened him almost beyond endurance. He looked the baffled bully to the life.
It was two days before I had an opportunity of speaking to Olga about it. I had made a rule of seeing her daily if possible, lest anything should happen that needed explanation by her; but she was away the next day and our daily "business conference," did not take place.
She took the matter very curiously when I did mention it, however. She was a creature of changing moods, indeed.
"I have a serious matter to speak to you about; something that may perhaps surprise you," I said, when we were riding. "I am the bearer of a message to you."
"To me?" her face wrinkling with curiosity.
"Yes, to you. I have to be very much the brother in this; in fact the head of the family," and then without much beating about the bush I told her of Devinsky's visit and of his desire to make her his wife.
She listened to me very seriously, scanning my face the while; but did not interrupt me. I had expected a contemptuous and passionate refusal. But her attitude was simply a conundrum. She heard me out to the end with gravity, and when I had finished, reined in her horse and for a full minute stared point-blank into my eyes.
Then she laughed lightly, and asked as she sent her horse forward again:—
"Do you think I ought to marry him—brother?"
Frankly, I was a good deal disappointed at her conduct. I did not see that there could be a moment's hesitation about her answer, especially after all she had said to me about the man. And this feeling may perhaps have shewn in my manner.
"I could do no less than tell you of the proposal, considering that Devinsky believes in the relationship between us," I said. "But I don't see how you, knowing everything, can look to me for the judgment I should have had to give were that relationship real and I actually head of the family."
This stilted reply seemed to please her, for she glanced curiously at me and then smiled, as I thought almost merrily, or even mischievously, as she replied:—
"A proposal of marriage is a very serious thing, Alexis."
"Yes, and so people often find it."
"Major Devinsky is very rich, and very influential. He is right when he says that his wife would have a very good position in one way in Moscow."
"I wish her much happiness with him," I retorted, grimly.
"He is very handsome, too."
I said nothing. She disappointed and vexed me.
"Ah, you men never see other men's good looks. You're very moody," she added, after a pause when she found me still silent.
"I don't admire Major Devinsky," I said rather sullenly.
She laughed so heartily at this and seemed evidently so pleased that I wished I had found the laugh less musical. Next, she looked at me again thoughtfully before she spoke, as if to weigh the effect of her words.
"It would be greatly to your advantage, too, Alexis, to have Major Devinsky...."
"Thank you," I cut in shortly. "I do not seek Major Devinsky's patronage. When I cannot climb or stand without it, I'll fall, and quite contentedly, even if I break my neck. Shall we get on?" And I urged my horse to a quick trot.
My evident irritation at her suggestion—for I could not hear the matter without shewing my resentment—seemed to please her as much as anything, for she smiled as her nag cantered easily at my side. But I would not look at her. If she meant to marry Devinsky I meant what I had said to him. I would have no more to do with the business, and I would get out of Russia as soon as possible the best way I could.
A sidelong glimpse that I caught of Olga's face after a while shewed me that the look of laughing pleasure had died away and had given place to a thoughtful and rather stern expression. "Making up her mind," was my thought; and then having a stretch of road ahead, I quickened up my horse's speed to a hard gallop and we had a quick burst at a rattling pace.
When we pulled up and stood to breathe our horses before turning their heads homewards, the girl's cheeks were all aglow with ruddy colour and her eyes dancing with the excitement of the gallop. She made such a picture of beautiful womanhood that I was forced to gaze at her in sheer admiration.
We had not spoken since I had closed the last bit of dialogue, and now she manoeuvred her horse quite close to me and said:—
"Alexis, did you bring that proposal to me deliberately?"
"Alexis, did you bring that proposal to me deliberately?""Alexis, did you bring that proposal to me deliberately?"
"Alexis, did you bring that proposal to me deliberately?""Alexis, did you bring that proposal to me deliberately?"
"Alexis, did you bring that proposal to me deliberately?"
"Yes. It was scarcely a question I could answer for you."
"Couldn't you?" Her eyes rested on mine with an expression that at another time I should have read as reproach. "Did you think there could be any but one answer?"
"No, I didn't. But one never knows," I said, remembering what she had said just before the gallop.
"Don't you? Well, you must think we Russian women are poor stuff! One day, ready to sneak off in disgraceful cowardice: and the next, willing to marry an utterly despicable wretch because he has money and influence and position. Do you mean to tell me that you, acting as my brother, actually let this man make this proposition in cold blood, and did not hurl him out of your rooms? You!"
I stared at her in sheer amazement at the change, and could find not a word to say. Nor was there any need. Now that her real feelings had forced themselves to words she had plenty: and for some minutes she did nothing but utter protestation after protestation of her hatred and contempt of Devinsky: while her hits at me for having been the mouthpiece of the man were many and hard. What angered her was, she said, to feel that the smallest doubt of her intention had been left in Devinsky's mind; and it was not till I told her much more particularly and exactly all that had passed on this point that she was satisfied.
We had ridden some way homewards when her mood changed again, and laughter once more prevailed.
"So you told him I must choose between him and—my brother; or rather my present relationship to you?"
"I told him I would never speak to you again if you married him."
"Well, I have chosen," she replied at once. "I shall not give up—my brother," and with that she pricked up her nag and we rattled along fast, her cheeks growing ruddier and ruddier than ever with the exercise.
I couldn't follow her change of mood; but I was heartily glad she had decided to have nothing to do with Devinsky. She was far too good a girl to be wasted on him.
We were not by any means done with Devinsky yet, however, and I was to have striking proof of this a couple of days later. I met him in the interval as men in the same regiment are bound to meet; and I deemed it best to avoid all open rupture, seeing that he was my superior officer, and unpleasant consequences to others beside myself might result.
I told him shortly that Olga declined his offer and that it must never be renewed. He took it coolly enough, replying only that his feelings for her would never change, nor should he abandon the resolve to make her his wife. Then he made overtures of peace and apologised for what he had said. I thought it discreet to patch up a sort of treaty of mutual tolerance.
I was speaking of this to Essaieff, to whom, in common with all the mess, Devinsky's infatuation for Olga was perfectly well known, and my former second seemed particularly impressed by it. Since the duel I had seen more of him than of any other man, and I liked him. I could be with him more safely than with others, moreover, because he had seen so little of the unregenerate Alexis. Every man who had been at all intimate with my former self I now avoided altogether, because of the risk of detection—although this risk was of course diminishing with every day that passed.
"I don't like what you say, Petrovitch," said Essaieff, after he had thought it over. "I'm convinced Devinsky's a dangerous man; and if he attempts to make things up with you, depend upon it he's got some ugly reason behind."
"A reason in petticoats," said I, lightly. "A brother's a charming fellow to a man in love with the sister."
"No doubt; but he thought he was going to kill the 'charming fellow' in that duel. Why did he go away; and where did he go?"
"He didn't tell me his private business, naturally."
"Yet I'm much mistaken if it didn't in some way concern you."
"I don't see how."
"We don't see the sun at midnight, man; but that's only because there's something in the line of sight. Other people can see it clearly enough."
"Well, I don't see this sun, any way; and I'm not going to worry about it."
"Have you ever heard of Durescq? Alexandre Durescq?" he asked after a pause.
"No, never," I answered promptly, making one of those slips which it was impossible for me to avoid in my private chats. Essaieff's next words shewed me my blunder.
"My dear fellow, you must have heard of him. Durescq, the duellist. The man who has the reputation of being the best swordsman in the Russian army. The French fellow who naturalised, and clapped a 'c' into his name and cut off the tail of it to make Duresque into Durescq. Why, he was here last year, and dined with us at the mess. Devinsky brought him. You had joined us then, surely and must have been introduced by Devinsky? You must remember him."
"Oh, that Durescq!" I exclaimed, as if recalling the incident.
"'That Durescq!' There's no other for the whole Russian army," said Essaieff drily. "And if he heard you say it, he'd want an explanation quickly enough."
"I was thinking for a minute of another Duresque, Essaieff, whom I knew much better. Different sex, whose killing of men was done in a different way." I smiled as I made the equivocation.
"I met him this morning," said my companion, not noticing my remark and looking more thoughtful than before. "I wonder if Devinsky's absence has anything to do with Durescq's presence; and whether..." he paused and looked at me. "It would be a damnably ugly business; but Devinsky's not incapable of it; and so far as I know, the other man's worse than he is. Moreover, I know that they have been together in more than one very dirty affair. There are ugly items enough standing to both their debits. But this would be murder—sheer, deliberate, damnable murder, and nothing else."
I had rarely seen him so excited as he was now.
"You think Devinsky has brought this man here to do what he couldn't do himself the other morning?"
"I don't say I think it," replied Essaieff, cautiously. "I shouldn't like to think it of any man: but if I were you I'd be a bit cautious about getting into a quarrel."
"Caution be hanged," I cried. "If that's their game I'll force the pace for them. We'll have a real fight next time, Essaieff, and we'll make the thing such that one of us is bound to go under. But I'll have one condition, and one only—that Devinsky meets me first. And if I don't send him first to hell to wait for his friend or act as myavant courier, may I have the palsy."
"What a fire-devil you've turned, Alexis," said Essaief, enthusiastically. It was the first time he had used my Christian name, and it pleased me. "Even the rankers have found you out now. 'That devil Alexis,' is what they call you one to the other, since you beat their best men in leaping, and running, and staff playing. If the war comes, as like good Russians we pray it may, what a time you'll have. They'll follow you anywhere. Yes, there's shrewdness enough in your last devilment. If you insist on first killing Devinsky, Durescq will probably take back a bloodless sword to the capital."
His pithy reference to the feeling in the regiment touched my vanity on its weak spot, and gave me quite disproportionate pleasure. As we talked over this possible plan of Devinsky's I tried to get him to speak of the feeling again. It is rather a paltry confession to make; but the nick-name, 'That devil Alexis,' was exactly what I would have wished to bear.
Although Essaieff had suggested this action on the part of Devinsky, I scarcely thought it possible that he would do what we had discussed; but I had not been many minutes in the club that evening before the thing seemed not only probable, but certain; and I saw that I had a very ugly corner to turn.
Alexandre Durescq was there and I eyed him curiously. He was taller than I by an inch, but not so broad. His figure was well knit and lithe, and he moved with the air which a man gets whose sinews are of steel and are kept in perfect condition by constant and severe training. He was the type of a sinewy athlete.
His face was a most unpleasant one. The features were thin and all very long; and the thinness added to the apparent abnormal length from brow to chin. His complexion was almost Mongolian in its sallowness; his hair coal black, and his eyes, set close to his large and very prominent aquiline nose, were small but brilliant in expression and seemingly coal black in colour. Altogether a most remarkable looking man; and I was not astonished that Essaieff had been surprised when I said I had forgotten him. He was not a man to be forgotten. The expression of his face was sardonic and saturnine, and his manners and gestures were all saturated with intense self-assertiveness. He moved, looked, and spoke as though he felt that everyone was at once beneath him and afraid of him.
He was at the far end of the room when I entered, and I saw Devinsky stoop and whisper to him immediately he caught sight of me. The man turned slightly and glanced in my direction, and my instincts warned me of danger.
I would not baulk the pair; but I would not provoke the quarrel. I moved quietly about the room, chatting with one man and another; but keeping a wary eye disengaged for the two at the other end. Gradually I worked my way round to where they were, and both rose as I approached. I saw too, that Devinsky's old seconds and toadies were near and were watching me and smirking. They formed a group of three or four men who seemed to me to have intimation what was coming. They were waiting to see me "jumped."
I knew, however, that if I kept quiet, I should make the task more difficult for the pair, and thus compel Devinsky to shew his hand; and so give me the pretext I needed to force the first fight on him.
"Good evening, Petrovitch, or Lieutenant Petrovitch, I suppose I should say," said Devinsky, and the instant he spoke I could tell he had been drinking. "I think you've met my friend Captain Durescq?"
"Not yet," I said, looking straight into Devinsky's eyes with a meaning he read and didn't like.
"Is this the gentleman who is so particular in asserting his lieutenancy? Good evening, Lieutenant Petrovitch." He said this in a tone that was insufferably insolent; and as if to point the insult, the two toadies when they heard it, sniggered audibly.
Nothing could have played better into my hands. All four made an extraordinary blunder, since they shewed, before I had opened my lips, that the object was to force a quarrel; and thus the sympathies of every decent man in the place were on my side. I kept cool. I was too wary to take fire yet.
"I thought you knew Captain Durescq when he was here last year," said Devinsky. "But you may have forgotten."
"Good evening, Captain Durescq," said I, ignoring Devinsky and returning the other man's greeting. "What is the latest war news in St Petersburg?"
"Bad for those who do not like fighting," he said, looking at me in a way that turned this to a personal insult.
"But good perhaps, for those soldiers whose swords are to hire," I returned, with a smile which did not make my point less plain.
The man's eyes flashed.
"They will take the place of your friends who do not like the fighting," I added; and at this all about us grew suddenly silent.
"My friends? How do you mean?" asked Durescq stiffly.
"Those you mentioned in your first sentence. Whom else should I mean?" and I let my eye rest as if by accident on Devinsky.
"You have a singular manner of expressing yourself, Lieutenant."
"We provincials do not always copy the manners of the capital, you know," I returned in my pleasantest manner. "I think the provinces are growing more and more independent every year. We arrange our own affairs in our own way, have our own etiquette, form our own associations, and settle our own quarrels without aid from the capital."
I heard Devinsky swear softly into his moustache at this; but there was nothing for them to take hold of, though every man in the room understood what I meant; and nearly all were now listening.
"Yes, I have heard you have singular manners in the provinces. My friend here, Devinsky, has told me several curious things. I heard of one provincial for instance, who allowed himself to be insulted and browbeaten till his cowardice was almost a by-word, and it became really impossible for him to remain in the army unless he accepted the challenge he had so often refused. And then he begged, almost with tears, to get terms made; and when this was not done, he deadened his fears with drink and came to the club here like a witless fool, behaving like a drunken clown; and then at last actually went out and fought in a condition of seeming delirium. We do not have that in the capital. In St Petersburg we should have such a scabby rascal whipped on a gun."
A movement among the group of toadies shewed me how this burlesque of my conduct was appreciated there, while Devinsky was grinning boastfully.
"Did Major Devinsky tell you that?" I asked; my voice down at least two tones in my excitement, while my pulses thrilled at the insult. But outwardly I was calm.
"Yes, I think that's a pretty fair description, isn't it, Devinsky?" replied Durescq, turning coolly to the latter for confirmation. Then he turned again to me and asked:—"Why, do you recognise the description, Lieutenant Petrovitch?"
"You have not heard the whole of the story," I answered, getting the words out with difficulty between teeth I had to clench hard to keep my passion under control. "The man who was beaten in the duel left Moscow in a panic and went to St Petersburg for a purpose—that you may perhaps approve." There was now dead silence in all the room and the eyes of every man in it were rivetted on me. "The first object of the duel was that he might kill in it the man whose skill was thought to be inferior to his own, so that he might persecute with his disgusting attentions the sister of him on whom he had fixed the quarrel. Failing, he went to fetch a cleverer sword than his own to do his dirty work; and he fetched——" I paused and then my rage burst out like a volcano—"He fetched a butcher named Durescq to do butcher's work; and I, by God! won't baulk him."
With this I lost all control, and springing upon him I seized his nose and wrung it and twisted it, dragging his head from side to side in my ungovernable fury, until I nearly broke my teeth with the straining force with which I clenched them. Then raising my hand I slapped his face with a force and loudness that resounded right through the room and made every man start and wonder what would come next.
"That is from the man you say dare not fight. One last word. Before I meet the butcher, I insist on meeting the man who hired him. Lieutenant Essaieff will act for me."
With that I left the room, feeling that although I was now all but certain to be killed by Durescq I should at least die as became "that devil Alexis."