—I ventured to remind her,I suppose with a voice of less steadinessThan usual, for my feeling exceeded me,—Something to the effect that I was in readinessWhenever God should please she needed me.—ROBERT BROWNING.
To the English imagination, Siberia is mainly a land of cold and darkness, through which gangs of despairing convicts are driven with the lashings of governmental whips.
But its beauties and its resources are being by degrees revealed through that wonderful agency for the uniting of the isolated and the rejoining of the divided, which we call the railway.
The province of Barralinsk is one of the most beautiful, lying, as it does, not far east of the Ural Mountains and being well wooded in its southern part.
To reach the Savlinsky Copper Mines one must leave the Trans-Siberian railway at Gretz and drive for five hundred miles in a northwesterly direction. The last three hundred miles of the journey are, for the most part, across a treeless, rolling steppe, like some heaving sea transformed into dry land without losing its rise and fall. But Savlinsky itself lies not more than ten miles from a beautifully wooded district, known as Nicolashof, where the present Governor of the province, Stepan Nikitsch, or as he was usually called, Stepan Stepanovitch, had built himself, not far from a woodland village, a summer residence, in which he was accustomed to pass the hot weather, his solitude being shared by his only and motherless daughter, Nadia Stepanovna.
The foothills of the Urals begin to rise, very gradually, out of the plain at this point. In the distance faint blue summits and gleaming snow peaks border the western horizon. The summer climate is delicious, and but for the isolation Nadia would have enjoyed her Siberian summers. With her was an English lady, Miss Forester, formerly her governess, now her companion.
Stepan Stepanovitch was by no means the traditional Russian despotic governor, grinding the faces of the poor. He was a just man, if a somewhat hard one. He knew the people with whom he had to deal, and was respected for his steady justice. He was a man with a hobby, and the nature of his enthusiasm was one which is rare among his race.
He greatly desired to see the resources of this vast tract of practically useless country opened up and developed. He saw in Siberia the future of Russia. To anyone who did anything for the furtherance of his great idea he showed the utmost encouragement and kindness. And within driving distance from Nicolashof there was such a man established.
Vronsky had bought the mining rights of the copper which had been newly discovered at Savlinsky, and in the midst of the steppe had called into being a center of industry.
For this reason Stepan Stepanovitch loved him. His burly figure was constantly to be seen, side by side with Vronsky's tall, thin one, among the wooden huts, not unlike Swiss cottages, which clustered thickly where Vronsky had gashed the plain with his excavations. And Vronsky was at all times a welcome guest at Nicolashof, where also went constantly his secretary and adopted son, Felix Vanston; for the young man had abandoned his alias upon passing into Asia.
Vronsky was on the way to become a rich man. He had a genius for the development of industry—a genius which the delighted Governor could not sufficiently admire.
His workmen were all Kirgiz, among whom there is practically no Nihilism and no treachery. In fact, these things attract but small attention in the remote province. The Kirgiz, besides being a more reliable person, works for lower wages than the Russian. Work in those parts—good, regular work with good, regular wages—was not easy to come by. The venture had prospered exceedingly.
One glorious summer day, about two o'clock Vronsky was in bed, a most unwilling victim of a bout of fever. He lay in his pleasant room, under his mosquito net, smoking lazily and glancing at the papers. Presently, with a tap on the door, a young man entered in an English suit, brown shoes, and straw hat. A racquet was in his hand.
"Well, old man, I suppose you can't go to Nicolashof to-day? I must make your excuses to the Governor?" he said, lightly.
Vronsky grunted. "They won't mind my absence, if you don't fail them," he remarked, grimly, but with a twinkle in his eye. "Take my apologies to the Governor. He knows what fever is; and there is something else which you must take—something of more importance to you than my regrets—of a confounded deal more importance! Give me my dispatch-box."
The time which had elapsed since Felix Vanston and Vronsky first met at Basingstoke railway station had made a vast difference in the younger man. Felix had, even at that time, looked older than his age. Now this trait was more marked. But the lines upon his face were those traced by experience and discipline. This was a man who had himself well in hand. His boyhood lay far behind him; he had learnt in the school of adversity. The result was that Felix had become, in the fullest sense of the word—a Man. You looked at him, and instinctively you trusted him. There was strength in the expression of his mouth and truth in the steady light of his deep-set gray eyes. These eyes had humor in them of a quiet sort. They were the eyes of one who knew the harder side of life, and did not fear it: unlike those of the elder man. Vronsky's were the eyes of a dreamer, and beamed with the idealistic love which is the virtue of the Slav race. To him this young man was as a son. He had found him, taken him up out of despair, restored to him his self-respect, and given him, into the bargain, the love for lack of which the young man's soul had starved until that hour. Felix had satisfied the warmest hopes of his adopted father. He had proved clever, persevering, trustworthy. Together they had accomplished much, and meant to accomplish more.
Felix placed upon the bed the black tin dispatch-box. Vronsky felt under his pillow, drew forth a key, opened with care, and took out a far smaller box of the same kind. This he set down, and drew from his own neck a string upon which was suspended another key with which he opened the smaller box.
There was a sharp knock upon the door, and before Vronsky could cry out "Who's there?" a clerk had entered abruptly.
The man paused just inside the door, while Vronsky cried, angrily, "Get out, you fool! I am busy! Wait outside!"
Felix rose, went to the door, and closed it behind him. "What is it? Is it important?" he asked.
"They rang up from the mine to know if the No. 40 was dispatched," said the clerk, sulkily.
"When Mr. Vronsky is in bed, and I am in his room, you are never to enter without permission," said Felix, severely. "It is an order—do you understand?"
"Yes, sir. I am sorry," mumbled the young clerk, who was new to his work, and possibly over-zealous. He went off, and Felix returned to where Vronsky sat, flushed and disturbed, grasping a folded paper.
"Is that it?" whispered Felix, having locked the door.
"Yes—and he saw it. He saw the key round my neck," replied Vronsky, furiously, though under his breath. "It was intentional. I have suspected him ever since he entered my service. Now, the question is, What am I to do?"
Felix made a motion of his head towards the paper.
"That is the evidence of the guilt of Cravatz?"
"It came late last night."
"And I am to take it to the Governor to-day?"
"Yes; he told me that the moment it was in his hands he would have Cravatz arrested. There is ground enough for hanging him here."
Felix stood immovable, while the blood came slowly into his face. He might be nearer death than he knew, and the thought showed him that life was sweeter than at times he was wont to think.
The entrance of Streloff, the new clerk, in that summary way, was the first evidence he had had of Cravatz's spies among their own people. It shook him a little.
"I wonder where he is—Cravatz, I mean?" he slowly said.
"Not too near, but near enough to keep in touch with your movements, you may depend. At Gretz, I daresay."
Felix pondered. "What I have to do is to leave the house in safety with these papers. The clerk must be detained until I have started."
"Yes," said Vronsky, after a moment's thought. "I will have him in to take down a typed statement from my dictation. Summon him, and let Hutin come with him—a man I thoroughly trust. I will keep them until you are an hour upon your journey. By that time you will be out of reach. But, Felix, will it not be more prudent for you to remain at Nicolashof to-night? Not to return?"
"Oh, no," said Felix, impatiently. "What good would it do to waylay me on the way back? I shall not then have the thing they want. And besides, who is to do it? Even if this man Streloff is a traitor—and we have no proof that he is—what could he do against me? I am a match for any two of them, and so far as we know, he has no accomplices. No fear! He is here to steal if he can, but not to fight. Fighting is not in the line of the Brotherhood. Assassination is safer, far." He spoke with the slow, concentrated bitterness which came into his voice whenever he thought of the toils in which he had been caught in his hot youth.
"Give me the papers, little father," he said, "and I will put them in the inner pocket that is upon my shirt, and button my coat and vest over them. They will be safe enough then. There! That is all right. Shall I summon Streloff and Hutin?"
Vronsky sighed. "I suppose so. Heaven bless you, little son." He paused a long minute, and then added, while the blood rose under his olive cheek, "Make my compliments to Nadia Stepanovna."
Felix looked at him with sudden sympathy, made a movement to speak, but thought better of it. "I will do so, most certainly," he said, very gently. He bent over Vronsky and kissed him, gave him a drink of iced lemonade, and with a wave of his hand, bright and full of confidence, he left the room. Crossing a wide passage he pushed open a door on the other side and entered an office where two or three clerks sat busy.
"Streloff!" he cried. There was no reply. "Hutin, where is Streloff?"
"The master sent him to carry a message to the mines, sir."
"The master did nothing of the kind," cried Felix, angrily. "He is lying, for some reason of his own. How did he go? Horse, or on foot?"
Hutin rose. He was a strong-looking young man. "He can hardly be gone yet, sir. He went to the stables to saddle a horse."
"Run after him and bring him back," commanded Felix.
Hutin ran swiftly out. Felix fumed, but commanded himself. He would not go back and distress Vronsky until he knew that the spy had got clear off. For three long, endless minutes he stood there frowning by his own table in the office, turning over sheets of figures in an aimless way, until there was a sound in the doorway and Hutin came in, followed by the truant Streloff, with a scowl upon his dark features. Felix turned to him a face full of kindness and tinged with amusement.
"You are too zealous, Streloff," said he. "It is quite true, the message for the mines was somewhat urgent, but don't go off without express orders, for, you see, as it happens, you are wanted at once by the master. I will not tell him that you were absent, as he is apt to be a good deal vexed by that sort of thing."
Streloff was young, and he could not quite conceal the look of malevolence which he cast upon the man who had foiled him. Felix watched him collect his things and go across the passage to Vronsky's room. He said, low, in Hutin's ear, "Don't let him out of your sight till I come back, if you can help it."
Hutin lifted big, dog-like eyes to the young man's face, and squared a huge fist with an amiable smile.
Felix waited a moment, shrugged his shoulders, and went out to where his tarantasse waited at the door, in the brilliant sunshine. Max, his driver, nodded gayly as the young master appeared, seated himself in the elegant little carriage, took the reins from his servant, shook them lightly, and with the sound of bells they shot off along the good road that led straight from the mines to Nicolashof.
For the first three miles still the bare, treeless plain, of coarse grass, in undulations like the waves of a dirty gray-green sea suddenly solidified, and overblown with dust. But on the western horizon was a dark purple line which, as they approached it, showed itself to be the edge of the huge black forest, stretching for miles and miles. Straight into the trees led the white ribbon of road. First there were birch trees, light and fanciful, a wood full of sunshine and wild-flowers. But in another mile or so their place was taken by the black firs, the straight, unbending shafts of the dim mysterious pines. Still, the forest was not here so deep. Glades intervened and broke the monotony. After a while they came out upon a large clearing, whereon was built a prosperous-looking village, with its church and school: just beyond it, the park gates of Nicolashof. Max opened them, and the tarantasse shot lightly up the well-kept road, and came to a standstill before the door of a long, low house, built of wood, but massive and comfortable-looking.
Felix's face, as he threw the reins to Max and alighted from his carriage, bore a look of preoccupation. For several months there had hung over his head the malign shadow of the Brotherhood. The order sent to him to remove the Governor was, of course, merely a pretext for his own murder. Cravatz knew well that Felix would not, at the command of any secret society, assassinate his friend. But after the lapse of the appointed time, Cravatz would be justified in accomplishing the murder of Felix himself.
That the sinister order should have been conveyed to him was a part of the policy of the Brotherhood. They knew that the young man had thrown off their influence. To them he was a renegade, though he had not, by any overt action, proved himself so. As he went about at all hours, quite fearlessly, he could have been shot many times over by some lurking conspirator with practical certainty of immunity. But the Brotherhood knew its own business. It had to keep together a number of desperate men, of all nationalities, in faithful subservience. The way to do this was by fear, the fear of a vengeance that could not fail to fall upon the traitor; and it is well known that there is one sort of fear which more than any other will weaken the courage, even of a strong man, and wear down the resolution even of the most determined. It is the policy of the Sword of Damocles.
They worked by means of the threat of a fate that never failed to overtake, perhaps sooner, perhaps later, but certainly: the threat of a concealed power always on the watch. After a few weeks the strongest nerves are frayed by these tactics.
A message is received; the victim disregards it. Days pass; nothing happens. Then, one day, upon dressing-table, or pillow, or through the post, there is some small reminder of the existence of the deadly machinery which can compel obedience.
Such a jolt had the mind of Felix Vanston received that day. The brusque irruption of Streloff into the sleeping-room of Vronsky at the moment when the fatal papers were being dealt with was like the flash of the bull's-eye of a dark lantern. Cravatz was on the watch.
It was not so much the presence of the spy in the place which disturbed him. It was practically certain that Cravatz must be keeping him under observation. But Streloff's action of that day seemed to suggest the fact that Vronsky's own movements against Cravatz were known to the enemy. And this was serious.
Ever since the deadly message first came to Felix, Vronsky had been at work. Acting upon secret information which had come to him, he had been busily, privately, with the aid of the first detectives in Gretz, in Petropavlosk, in St. Petersburg, tracking down Cravatz to his just end. And now the threads of the case were all in his hands. In Felix's pocket lay the complete indictment. Acting upon the Governor's order, Cravatz could be at once arrested.
The young man had a moment of triumph in thinking that for the time he had outwitted the enemy. Streloff the spy was shut up in Vronsky's room, in charge of the vast and formidable Hutin; and Felix, the papers safely in his coat, was entering the cool, dim hall at Nicolashof, where the abundant flowers, the Persian rugs, the elegant furniture, showed traces of the English influence of Miss Forester.
"The ladies are in the garden," said the old man-servant who opened the door.
"Thank you, Petro Petrovitch," said Felix. "But first, please ask the Governor to give me ten minutes in his library."
He was shown into the big comfortable room, which overlooked a beautiful garden. Its walls were decorated with the antlers and wolf-skins and wild-boar tusks which Stepan Stepanovitch had secured as the spoils of his rifle. On the writing-table, where the father's eye could always rest upon it, stood a panel portrait of a beautiful young girl—Nadia Stepanovna, as she appeared when she made her first bow to the Czar at Court.
Felix stood where he could see the photograph, and gazed upon it while he waited.
It was a vivid face, truly Russian in its intensity. The great eyes seemed to hold almost too much expression: a woman who would both love and hate with passionate fervor, to whom the sober tenor of existence which comes natural to English girls would be a thing impossible.
This was the second summer in which she and Felix had seen one another constantly. But there was an image upon the young man's heart which Nadia's had by no means availed to shake. Though his feeling rested upon so small a basis of actuality—though the hours he had spent in the society of Rona were hardly more than the years of his life in number—he yet was hers, body and soul. You cannot pour wine, however fine the vintage, into a vessel already full.
His impassivity was a marvel to Vronsky, who worshiped at the shrine of Nadia with the hopeless intensity of disparity of years and rank intervening to prevent his love from ever descending from the clouds into an atmosphere of practical reality.
He adored her as a saint is adored by her votary. He loved her, but would have rejoiced to see her beloved and possessed by his dearly cherished adopted son, Felix. It was, to him, an inexplicable thing that young Vanston should remain constant to the memory of a girl who was apparently far from reciprocating his devotion. Vronsky was working, slaving, that Felix might be wealthy. He knew that his birth was good. Why should he not become suitor for this lovely young lady? What a couple they would make! He had, however, the good sense not to confide his desires to Felix, who was himself, as a rule, most reserved upon the subject in which all his heart was involved.
The door opened, and the Governor came in, with cordial greeting. "Where is my friend Vronsky?" he cried, wringing the young man's hand.
Felix explained. "I have brought a message from him," he continued, bringing out the papers from his coat pocket. "These documents, sir, are of the very gravest importance. They contain the evidence upon which Vronsky wishes you to order the arrest of Gregor Cravatz."
The Governor, instantly full of attention, sat down by the table. "The man whom he suspected of Nihilism?"
"The same. The justification is here. Not merely Nihilism, but murder; and that not once nor twice. But now, sir, comes a point at which I wish to be perfectly frank with you. There are two strong reasons why Vronsky would urge you to have this man put out of the way. The first will, I believe, seem enough to you. It is simply that the society to which he belongs has determined to remove you from your Governorship. In other words, while he lives your own life is in danger——"
He broke off short, and both men turned towards the garden with a simultaneous movement; for there was a cry of horror. And they saw, too late, that Nadia stood in the open window, in her white dress and straw hat, her lovely face blanched with apprehension.
O thou young man, the air of Heaven is soft,And warm and pleasant; but the grave is cold!Heaven's air is better than the cold dead grave.—MATTHEW ARNOLD.
Stepan Stepanovitch started forward, and caught his daughter in his arms as she fell. He carried her to a couch and hung over her in some alarm. She had fainted quite away. After a minute or two of fruitless effort to rouse her, her father departed in search of Miss Forester; and Felix was left alone in charge. For a while he gazed, with a troubled face, upon the strongly marked brows, the olive complexion, and night-black hair of the young beauty. How different from the girl whose memory he carried with him from England—the pale, appealing face, in its chestnut halo, the expressive mouth, and eyes of deepest blue.
Nadia stirred and awoke. Felix bent over her, fanning her with a screen of feathers. Her large, eloquent eyes rested intently upon his face. He felt himself coloring under her scrutiny. Abruptly she sat up.
"I fainted," she said, as if angry that she should so have given way. "How weak of me! Because I heard you say that my father was in danger. I—I—when I was a child, I heard terrific tales of the inhuman conduct of Nihilists. I used to lie awake in my bed at Moscow, fearing to hear the shrieks of murder, the call of Revolution, in the streets at night. And when I grew up, my father said he was going to a province where such things never happened. All my old nightmares were swept away. We live secure from day to day; the peasants here are kind and faithful, and not surly and treacherous. I have grown to look upon all those terrors as past, like a dark night when it is morning. And the shock of hearing you say those words—of hearing you tell my father that his life was in danger—was too great. It seemed to stop my heart."
"I would have given much to keep such knowledge from you," said Felix, remorsefully. "Forgive me. I had no idea that you were there."
"It is true?" she asked, fixing her eyes upon his face, as if to compel him to deny his former words.
"It was true," said Felix; "but it is not serious, for the man who has devised the scheme is a criminal, and he will be brought to justice and put out of the way. I have with me the proof of his guilt, and upon that your father will proceed at once to take steps against him."
"Where is he?" gasped Nadia.
"I do not know. But I think not within a hundred miles of this place."
Miss Forester and the Governor then entered, and there was much petting and consoling of the girl, who was completely reassured by what they told her.
"How came my good friend Vronsky to know of this traitor, Cravatz?" asked the Governor, when they were all seated and talking the thing over.
"That is part of what I have come to-day to tell you," replied Felix. "If I have your permission, sir, I will tell it to both these ladies as well as to yourself. I have no wish to sail under false colors. I wished Vronsky to tell you when first I had the honor of being presented to you. But at that time he thought it better not, little dreaming that circumstances would later arise which would bring me into such a strange position with regard to your Excellency."
The Governor looked curiously at the young man, who stood up before them with pride and composure, though his confession would evidently cost him an effort. "You have my permission to speak, if you think what you have to say is necessary for me to hear," he replied, kindly.
"Then I will speak," said Felix, "and if, after you have heard, you think it better for me to take my leave at once, and not again to accept your hospitality, nor visit your house, as it has been my delight and privilege to do, I shall feel that you are justified in your decision." He hesitated a moment. There was a deep silence, which showed how much his unexpected words had impressed his three auditors.
"You are an Englishman, I have always understood?" asked Stepan Stepanovitch, abruptly.
"I am," replied Felix, in some distress. "Both my parents were English, and on my father's side I come of a good old family. As you may know, the English county gentry hold themselves the equals of the Continental nobility. The Vanstons trace back their pedigree to a Flemish noble, one Van Steen, who came to the Court of England with Queen Anne of Cleves, married an Englishwoman, and founded a family."
"Yet you seem to imply that you yourself have been in some sort involved with this miscreant Cravatz. I ask your pardon if I have misunderstood you."
Felix crimsoned, like a boy. Nadia, who had never till that moment seen his face express emotion, gazed with a thrill of excitement at the feeling which he evidently found it hard to control. He spoke low and rapidly. "When I was quite a young man I unhappily became imbued with revolutionary notions. There are in London plenty of desperate characters who are ready and waiting to take advantage of the enthusiasm of young lads such as I was. I fell into the hands of an Anarchist Brotherhood. I was put on by them to do the more dangerous part of their propaganda. The police interfered, I was sent to prison for a term of two years, and have actually served my sentence in an English jail."
He paused, his head sinking upon his chest. Nobody spoke. The face of Nadia had turned from crimson to chalk-white.
"My only brother," went on Felix, "disowned me. It is not to be wondered at. But what was to become of me? When I came back to the world, my prison record stood between me and every effort I made to earn a living. I was pretty well in despair when Vronsky found me, and by God's goodness, conceived an affection for me. He brought me out of England, and for a time it seemed as if the Brotherhood, who dogged my steps, had been thrown off the scent. But this man, Cravatz, was determined to track me down. He had a grudge against me, for I had exposed a slight piece of dishonesty of which he had been guilty. He found out where I was, and came to me secretly, bearing the order from the Brotherhood for your removal. I was the man selected for the business."
Nadia had sprung to her feet. She rushed to her father, flung her arms about his neck, and sank to the ground beside him. Felix waited a moment, but as nobody spoke he went on:
"When first I saw myself again in their toils, I felt I would struggle no more. I made up my mind that only death awaited me. But Vronsky's courage and faithfulness never wavered. He made a careful examination of the paper, the order which Cravatz had handed me; and he discovered, with infinite pains and the use of a microscope, that the name of the person ordered to murder you had been changed. There is a law in the Brotherhood that any brother who has been exposed to conspicuous danger, and has in consequence suffered imprisonment or other punishment for the cause, shall not again be called upon to do dangerous work for a period of seven years, except in very exceptional cases. This made Vronsky doubt whether the Council would have sanctioned my being appointed to a mission which meant almost certain death. He became convinced that it was Cravatz himself who had been appointed by the Council to execute their command, and that he was using me as his tool, intending to take the credit of your assassination to himself afterwards. He determined that Cravatz should be handed over to justice. The matter has taken him long, but all is now complete. Within the last few months Cravatz has committed murder of a peculiarly cold-blooded kind in this very province. But one more thing remains to be said. In some way unknown to us, Cravatz seems to have been informed that Vronsky was making plans against him. He is on his guard. If you wish to lay hands upon him, you must act speedily, and in the manner he is least likely to expect. We believe him to be at Gretz, or somewhere on the road between that and here, as we think it unlikely that he will venture into this neighborhood until the time for the execution of your sentence draws nearer."
The Governor looked up. "How long do they give me?" he asked, with a smile.
"Until the 31st of August, your Excellency."
Nadia, who had been clinging to her father with her face hidden, now raised it and shot a glance at Felix. "Why did you not, when you came out of prison, fling off all connection with such fiends?" she cried, in a passion of protest.
"Mademoiselle, you might as well ask the son of a drunkard why he does not fling off all connection with such a father. The answer simply is that it is not in my power to free myself. They bound me by an oath, and they hold me to it. I repudiate it, but what matters that if they do not?"
"If Cravatz wants to get rid of you it is a cleverly devised trap," said the Governor, thoughtfully.
"It is a cleverly devised trap, for I die either way. Cravatz argues that I, seeing death is before me in any case, shall choose rather to take the extreme risk and kill you, thereby earning for myself some glory among the miscreants who call themselves friends of liberty, than to be secretly made away with as a traitor by them. But even were I to commit this incredible baseness, as he expects, he would take to himself the credit of your murder, since hardly anybody but himself knows that I am here at all. He would have the glory of achieving your death, and would get this glory without risk to himself. It was worth trying for." He paused a minute—a long minute. Then he took up his hat.
"Shall I go, your Excellency?" he asked, quietly.
The Governor held out his hand. "Accept my sympathy," he said, gravely. Felix knelt, took the offered hand, and kissed it with gratitude.
Stepan Stepanovitch, without a word, turned to his table, opened the package sent him by Vronsky, and began to examine the contents. Among these were one or two photos—snapshots. "These are pictures of Cravatz?" he asked.
Felix assented, and drawing near the table, told him the story of Streloff's behavior that day.
The Governor listened with attention. "But this means," he said, "that until Cravatz is arrested your life is not safe. If so much is known one must move very warily. You could hardly arrest the man Streloff on the evidence you have. But if there is one spy, there may be others, and you go in danger. They will not give you till August 31st."
Felix pondered. "That is true," he said. "I am hoping to take a short holiday in England before long, but I should not be safe there. Several things combine to make me sure that Cravatz has not made known at headquarters the fact of my presence here; because he is playing his own game. But were I to attempt to leave the country, he could telegraph to a dozen places to have me waylaid and disposed of. While he is at large, I can think of no place in which I should be safe."
"I can imagine a way to insure your safety," said the Governor, thoughtfully, "but I do not like to suggest it, because it might seem to you as if I do not trust you."
Felix made a movement of gratitude. "Your Excellency," he said, with a sincerity which carried conviction, "I am in your hands. Do what you think best. You have every reason to distrust a man with such a record as mine. How could I complain? I will not protest my loyalty, my hatred of assassination. I will only say that I am ready, not merely to give my life for yours if necessary—that would be quite simple—but to fall in with any plan you may have to suggest, in deepest gratitude to you for thinking of my safety."
The Governor smiled. Nadia, who stood near, impulsively held out both hands to Felix, and the young man bent his head above them, the hot color suffusing his face. He was only twenty-five, after all.
"You may rely upon him, your Excellency," quietly said Miss Forester, the English governess. "My countrymen are not traitors—still less are they assassins."
The Governor smiled. "Had Mr. Vanston harbored designs against my life," he said, "he would not have told us the things we have just heard. I am going to save him from the power of his tyrants. Let me consider."
There was deep silence in the pleasant room.
"Well, this is my plan," said Stepan Stepanovitch, after a few minutes' thought. "You have a man with you to-day?"
"Max, my coachman——"
"Only he?"
"Only he, your Excellency."
"Is he faithful?"
"Entirely. He is not a Russian, though he speaks Russian well. He is a German Pole, and came to this country with me. He will do anything I tell him."
"Then," said the Governor, "I will send out two or three of my own private police—men I can trust—to waylay you on your homeward journey. They shall be stationed in the darkest part of the wood, And when you drive up, you must let there be as many signs of a scrimmage as you can. The cook shall give them a little blood to scatter, and you must drop a torn handkerchief, or something by which you can be identified. Am I right in supposing that the horses, if frightened, will gallop back to Savlinsky?"
"Yes, I am pretty sure they would."
"Then you must all of you return here by different ways, very privately. You must on no account be seen. You had better be waylaid on the farther side of the village, that all may see you pass through. But you must, of course, not go through it on your way back here. I will make arrangements to admit you and your man by the little postern door in the grounds which opens upon the forest. And you must remain here in hiding until Cravatz is secured. The only thing against the plan is that I must give my good Vronsky a severe fright. For it is most important that he should be as surprised as anybody by your disappearance. What do you say? You and I know enough of these secret societies to feel sure that their threats are not empty. If we can put our hands upon Cravatz at once, you can be released in a few days. But we are not sure of doing so. And as long as he is at large, so long will he manage some kind of communication with his man, Streloff. I could, of course, merely detain you here, without going to the risk and trouble of a feigned abduction. But this would show Streloff that you and I understand each other. They would know that we are on the alert, and they would take measures accordingly. By my plan, Streloff will be puzzled. He will see that Vronsky is not in the secret of your disappearance; and I can think of a way of getting you off afterwards to Gretz in such a manner that nobody shall know where you come from, or where you have been."
Felix nodded his head slowly two or three times. "It is a clever plan," he said, "but I fail to see in what respect it seems as though you did not trust me."
"Silly fellow, I shall have you under lock and key," said the Governor, with a smile. "And if so minded, I can keep you there, can I not? And nobody will know that you are there—will they? So that if we want to feel extra secure, Nadia and I—to sleep the sounder in our beds—we might send and have you murdered in yours—might we not?"
Felix smiled. He also bowed. "If the plan looks as if you did not trust me, it will also show whether or no I trust your Excellency," he said gallantly.
"Ah, well said! Well said!" cried Nadia, clasping her hands together in admiration. "Papa, you and Mr. Vanston are two! Two of a kind, I mean! Two men, each honorable enough to understand the other!"
"You think so?" said the Governor, laying his hand fondly a moment upon the dark hair. "Then take this young man away with you and play tennis diligently with him, that all may see we are upon just our usual terms. Until the time comes!"
—I found it a terrible thing. These villains set on me, and I beginning to resist, they gave but a call, and in came their master. I would, as the saying is, have given my life for a penny: but that, as God would have it, I was clothed with armor of proof.—JOHN BUNYAN.
In the northern parts of Siberia, in summer time, it seems as if the night would never come. At midsummer, it is almost true to say that there is no night—nothing but a veil of sapphire twilight, which lasts three or four hours. It was a month past midsummer when Felix drove to play tennis and dine at the Governor's house; but even then the dark was long in coming, and Vronsky did not expect his darling home until midnight. There was no moon that night; but the sky was cloudless, and the North burnt as if with the glow of a furnace hidden just below the horizon.
Out on the Steppe, between Savlinsky and the Forest of Nicolashof, there stood, some quarter of a mile from the road, and hidden from view by one of those undulations of the ground too low to be called hills, a Kirgiz yourtar, or tent. From a distance these yourtars look more like haystacks than anything else—round, fat haystacks, bound together by strips of hide. The material of which they are really made is thick, warm felt; and they afford a most efficient protection from cold and wet.
By the door, all that afternoon, sat three men, in the dress of Kirgiz peasants—long linen shirts, such as one may imagine Abraham to have worn as he sat in his tent door. The woman also, in her long white robe, with a white handkerchief bound round her head, going to and fro with her waterpails to a pond at a short distance, was very like a figure from the Old Testament.
From a hillock on the way to the pond she could just see a glimpse of the white highroad, her own head not being a conspicuous object upon the landscape, and all the rest of her being hidden from view by intervening swells of ground. From an hour before mid-day until an hour or so after, her avocations seemed to necessitate almost constant passing to and fro for water. Soon after half-past one a carriage shot past upon the quiet road. The woman at once reported this unusual event to her male companions. She added the information that the tarantasse contained Felix only, and that Vronsky was not with him. The statement was evidently of interest to one of the men, whose features did not seem to be of the true Kirgiz type, and who was smoking a pipe that suggested Western civilization. He consulted in low tones with the two other men. They seemed to come to some arrangement, and then fell silent. The long afternoon hours passed away, and they sat on like graven images. About five o'clock the woman again grew restless, and remained long at her coign of vantage, watching the road. But nothing stirred upon its empty expanse. After a while the woman brought supper, and they ate in silence, while the children, unwashed, untended, crept inside to sleep. It was about nine o'clock when a solitary figure appeared over the top of the low hillock which protected the yourtar from view of the road.
The men at the tent door made no movement nor sign that they had seen this man. He came on, quite alone; and when he had come near enough to speak, he greeted them in Russian. It was Streloff.
Evidently he bore disturbing news. He directed most of his talk to Cravatz, who, in his disguise, sat immovable, his eyes alone glittering in the dusk, showing his deep concern in the affairs related. There followed much urging, discussion, argument. At last a decision was arrived at. Cravatz was to depart southward at once, and alone. He must walk during the greater part of the night, not touching the highroad, straight to a yourtar which belonged to the brother of the man who now sheltered him. This man was a political refugee—no Kirgiz, but living as one, and married to a Kirgiz woman. As soon as Cravatz was gone, the other two men took off the Kirgiz shirts they wore, armed themselves, and with Streloff proceeded quietly westward, towards Nicolashof, not walking by the road, but keeping as far possible parallel with it, though out of sight of it, and using great caution until they were lost in the beginnings of the forest.
They disappeared—Cravatz to the south, they to the west—and the woman and children remained in the yourtar alone.
Soon they were sound asleep, while the deep rich blue of the northern summer night grew deeper and more intense, and the stars glowed like drops of fire.
Streloff carried the dagger of the Brotherhood. He had received his orders. Felix, in spite of Streloff's attempt to prevent it, had carried to the Governor the arraignment of Cravatz. Felix was to die that night. It was the first mission of the kind upon which the young man had been engaged, and he relished it.
In the wood all was very quiet. No living soul was astir. The village was long ago hushed into slumber, no light glimmered in all its extent. But Streloff and the two men with him did not go as far as the village. They passed the outer skirting of birch trees, where too much light fell upon the road, and entered with precaution the deeper depths of the pine trees, intending to halt at a certain spot where there was a dense thicket into which a body might with ease be dragged and hidden.
Suddenly one of the two men—a genuine Kirgiz—halted, his finger on his lip. The other two halted also, and crouched where they stood. They had heard a noise—very, very slight. It sounded like the striking of a match. Streloff felt his heart in his mouth. A moment later, and the unmistakable flicker of a light gleamed among the trees some distance ahead. It died down. The very, very faint sound of a voice, a whisper, broke the stillness. Someone was there. They held their breath, listening intently. They looked from one to the other blankly. What was to be done? Someone was there, and meant to stay there, for no movement was perceptible. Streloff considered. If there were but a solitary wayfarer it was awkward. They did not want to murder anybody unnecessarily; but this was not a solitary wayfarer, since they had heard someone speak. One does not talk to oneself—as a rule.
The one thing supremely important to the young spy was that he should not be seen. And he doubted whether it were now possible even to retreat, without making some slight noise to put those mysterious others upon the alert. They had almost walked into an ambush. His brain ached with the wonder. Who could they possibly be? What conceivable object, save to stop Felix Vanston's tarantasse, could lead men to hide in the wood at that hour? And he could not think of any others besides himself who would be likely to wish to do that. He was horribly agitated. For these men, no doubt, were as desirous as himself of being unobserved. They made no noise. In the intense silence of the forest he could not hear a sound. And he dared not make one.
Nothing was less desired by this young man than any kind of a fight. He wanted a murder, that was all. One accomplice to hold the horse, one to hold the coachman—and himself to knife Felix, who would almost certainly be unarmed. This sudden, wholly unexpected check upset his nerves. His subordinates looked to him for orders. He had none to give. But a few minutes' reflection steadied his nerves. They must somehow retreat, unobserved. They must cross the road lower down, and re-enter the wood on the other side of the road. Then they must rapidly work their way along, to a point between the village and the spot where the ambush lay, and there await the coming of their victim.
With inconceivable precaution they crept away. Among pine trees there is little undergrowth, few dead twigs to crack beneath the foot. Nevertheless, in that silence, for three men to retreat unheard was something of a feat; and Streloff, when after a quarter of an hour that seemed an eternity they stood out of sight and earshot, at the edge of the road, felt that he was proving himself a born spy.
They listened. Not a sound broke the calm of the summer night except the sigh of the wandering breeze in the tops of the pines. Like three flitting shadows, they crossed the road; and entered the wood upon the farther side. Streloff was immensely anxious to go on for at least half a mile—to meet the tarantasse at as great a distance as possible from where the ambush waited. But he was bothered, for the unknown others had chosen the very place he had decided to occupy—in the deep part of the wood, yet far enough from the village to prevent sounds from being heard. Who could they be? As they pushed along, he told himself that he was a fool. Doubtless these men were but three or four tramps, perhaps on their way from the harvest of one village to that of another—sleeping in the woods on their journey. But, whoever they were, they must not be witnesses of what was to take place.
And then, before he and his followers had reached a spot parallel to that where they had seen the lighted match, they heard the ringing of the harness-bells upon Felix's carriage.
For a moment they paused, simultaneously, while the musical ting, ting, ting, sounded each second clearer. This sudden destruction of his plans caused Streloff to hesitate—to hesitate three or four long, endless seconds, before he said: "Run back—back—as far down the road as we can."
They ran. But behind them the bells of the tarantasse rang more and more piercing sweet. And then there was a long, wild shout, and Streloff faced suddenly round, to see that a man had sprung from the other side of the road and caught the horse's head, and that Felix Vanston was standing up in the tarantasse, and had just hurled a second man down upon the ground; while two or three others were winding ropes about the prostrate form of Max, whom they had dragged from his seat.
Streloff gave no orders to his followers. He forgot all about them. Without a second thought he sprang into the mêlée. He never doubted that these men, though unknown to him, were his allies, for manifestly they were hostile to Felix; and he ran forward, his knife bare, shouting wildly, "Kill him—kill him! What is the use of taking him prisoner?"
He had brought no revolver, for he had meant to do his work silently, and shots carry on a still night. But his sudden appearance from nowhere seemed to strike the other men for a breathing space still with amazement. He saw then that they were masked.
"Help! Help!" cried Felix, writhing in the grip of three of them.
But the man who led had recovered from his bewilderment. "Stand, or I fire!" he called out, covering Streloff with the muzzle of his revolver.
"Streloff!" shouted Felix. "What are you doing here? Help me, you young fool! Knock that fellow down!"
"He has a knife! Look out!" cried another of the masked men, springing behind Streloff and pinioning his elbows.
The young man guessed himself in a trap, though unable to understand its nature. They were gagging Felix—he saw that—they could not understand that he, Streloff, was on their side—they might think him a rescue party, since they probably knew him to be in Vronsky's service. He struggled like a panther in the hold of his captor, writhed himself free, and hurled himself, knife in hand, upon Vanston. There could be no doubt of his murderous intent, and the man who covered him with his revolver fired without hesitation. The sound died away upon the quiet air, a light smoke drifted between the horrified eyes of Felix and the black trunks of the surrounding trees. Streloff dropped forwards, a strangled word upon his lips, a grin of rage upon his features. His blade had actually grazed young Vanston's ribs.
"Please God," said the policeman who had shot Streloff to Felix, "you'll never be nearer death than that again—until your time comes."
"Are there any more of them?" asked one of his colleagues, moving cautiously along the edge of the wood.
"I saw only him," replied a subordinate.
They raised the young fellow's body. He was quite dead.
"But he never could have started out alone to grapple with Mr. Vanston and Max," thoughtfully said the policeman. He gave an order, suddenly and sharp. "Search the wood thoroughly on both sides."
The men went off, searching up and down. But the two Kirgiz had got a couple of minutes' start, and they made the most of it. Like streaks of shadow they fled, down by-ways they knew well, and never paused until they stood before the yourtar, and roused the sleeping wife and children. By morning all was gone. There was no trace of yesterday's camp, except the brown circle of downtrodden grass where the tent had stood. The two men, the woman and the children, were tramping harmlessly along the highroad southward, towards the yourtar whither Cravatz had withdrawn.
It was past midnight when, with a rush and a crash of breaking wood, the horses galloped madly into the stableyard at Savlinsky, having broken one wheel off the tarantasse against the gate-post. Vronsky, who was restless and feverish, heard the uproar, and sent his servant, who slept in his room, to find out what had happened.
The man returned, chalk-white, and shaking as with ague. The carriage had returned, but it contained neither Felix nor Max. Its only occupant was—was the corpse of Streloff, the young clerk, murdered by a bullet wound in the temple.
The single shot fired by the policeman—the shot that killed Streloff—did not rouse the sleeping village. There was nobody to see the party of kidnappers slip in among the trees with their bound victims, nor to watch them unloose their bonds as soon as darkness covered them.
There was not, nevertheless, a moment to be lost, for the dawn was hard upon their heels, and all must re-enter the Governor's domain unseen. They separated. Only one remained as a guide with Felix and his servant, the others melted away into the forest in various directions. The guide kept them going at a swift trot, along a wood-cutter's path, and in several places over tracts where there was no path. If they came to a place where footmarks were perceptible he covered them up before proceeding. But in most places, on the hard, dry summer ground, their feet left no trace. On they went, on and on, the dawn shimmering down each instant with a more direct threat of daylight. Soon the north-east was on fire with rose-red light, as if it must burst into flame in a few minutes more. Trails of gossamer drifted across the eyes of Felix as he ran, the gray Siberian squirrels ran up the smooth trunks, the birds began to chatter and call. At last, when it seemed they had run for hours, they found themselves breasting a steep hill, where their feet slipped perpetually in the pine needles, and their guide, with infinite labor, had to obliterate their tracks by brushing them with a branch of pine foliage.
At last they reached the high wall or palisade of untrimmed fir trunks which protected the Governor's grounds from the forest.
Along it they moved, battling here with rank undergrowth which grew in profusion wherever trees had been cut down. At last came a door; their guide inserted a key. They slipped through, and found themselves in a long dim green alley.
It seemed to Felix that it reached to the end of the world. His head was swimming, his feet sticky with something that ran down his legs into his boots. But he staggered on, holding on to Max, who did not seem at all distressed; and at last dragged himself into a small room, where stood a table with food and drink, and the Governor himself advanced, with hand outstretched.
"All well?" he asked. "I was a little anxious. You are later than you should have been by nearly an hour."
"There was more than one ambush," began Felix; but, to his own surprise, his voice failed, and the room rocked round him. He made a dizzy step forward and lurched. But the arms of Max behind upheld him.
"Unfasten his coat," said the servant, himself still breathless with the flight. "Unless I am much mistaken he has been losing blood all the way."
"Blood!" echoed the Governor. "Was there an accident, then?"
"There were real murderers afoot, your Excellency, as well as sham ones," said Max. "If your men had not been there, who can tell what might have happened?"
He had opened Felix's shirt at the throat. The whole of his clothing was soaked and saturated with blood. A handkerchief which the policeman had hurriedly pushed in was scarlet and dripping.
"Good heavens! This was not my fault?" cried the Governor, in horror.
"No, indeed, my Lord. As I say, it is a good thing your men were in the way. They have saved his life," said Max, gathering his master into his arms. "Before they tell you more may we carry him to bed, and stop this bleeding?"
Old men love, while young men die.—RUDYARD KIPLING.
The Governor, his daughter, and Miss Forester were all at breakfast, in a charming room into which the sunshine was streaming, when, unannounced, Vronsky staggered into the room, a piteous figure.
The pallor of fever was still upon him; his eyes were wild, his demeanor agitated. He greeted nobody; his usually courtly manners had deserted him completely. His head fell upon his chest as he sank down on a chair, ejaculating hoarsely, "My boy! I have lost my boy!"
The three breakfasting rose simultaneously to their feet. The Governor looked disconcerted, Miss Forester as though amused, and ashamed that she should feel amused; and Nadia's eyes were swimming with tears of pure pity.
They had but that moment been speaking of Felix, and Stepan Stepanovitch had been impressing upon them both the absolute necessity of complete reticence at present. He had not confided to the ladies the plight in which the young man had returned to the castle. They only knew that he had returned, and that he was resting—under lock and key, as the Governor had threatened!
But, as it happened, Miss Forester had heard more. She knew that Felix had been wounded, though the wound was quite superficial. She knew other things as well—things she must not let the young girl know.
They all simulated astonishment; sympathy they had no need to simulate. For it would have been a hard-hearted woman who was not moved by the extremity of Vronsky's trouble.
"He was everything to me—my whole future—and if they have taken him," he vowed, "I will spend the rest of my life and my fortune in hunting down and torturing every member of that vile Brotherhood as if they were vermin."
"But give me all the details," said Stepan Stepanovitch. He had been displeased at the dramatic action of his subordinates in placing the corpse of Streloff in the tarantasse. But nothing, as a matter of fact, could more completely have put not only Vronsky, but others, off the scent.
Vronsky explained, in shaken tones. He told how Streloff had behaved the previous day; how his suspicions had been awakened; how the great, strong Hutin had been told off to watch the spy; how the spy had managed to drug Hutin's coffee, and had got off unseen between nine and ten in the evening. He told how he had been asleep, for the first time in forty-eight hours, and how his own servant had declined to allow him to be disturbed by Hutin upon a matter of business; and how an hour later he had started up out of his slumbers, at sound of the maddened horses dashing into the yard.
"All is mystery," said Vronsky. "Who shot Streloff? Not Felix, for he had no revolver with him. In this peaceful province we no more think of carrying firearms than we should in London. But if Felix did not shoot him, who did? And where is my boy? Ah! where? I shall never see him again."
"Have you searched the road carefully?" asked the Governor, after a pause.
"Yes. The spot is obvious—a mile on the Savlinsky side of the village, in the forest. There is blood on the ground, and the trampling of many feet. I found, also, the small amber mouthpiece in which my boy smokes his cigarettes." He laid it on the table, and his voice broke in a sob.
The Governor rose. "I shall go myself at once," he said, "and examine the ground. If Mr. Vanston was really kidnapped there, and carried off helpless, there must be some sign of the way he was taken. Find Cravatz, and we find him—that is my notion." He laid a kindly hand upon Vronsky's shoulder. "Courage!" he said. "I leave you here with the ladies. You must not go back yet awhile to Savlinsky to eat your heart out. Wait here and rest until I bring you tidings."
"Yes, do," said Nadia, with all the ardent impetuosity of her nature, deeply moved by the sight of the man's grief. She came and stood by Vronsky, holding out her hand, and he let his craving eyes feed upon her beauty. He even dared to carry the sympathizing little hand to his lips. It was astonishing how much it comforted him.
"There never was such a boy," he said, "and all his life he has had such misfortune to contend against! His father was a good man; but I fear his mother was not exemplary. His half-brother never understood him. Then he got involved with these thrice-accursed tyrants who call themselves friends of liberty. And then he performed an heroic action—he saved from worse than death a young girl ... and with her he fell deep, deep in love. She promised to wait for him, and his heart is altogether hers. But I do not think she is faithful to him. He could marry now, and he longs to do so. He was to have his holiday and go to England and see what his chance was. But now, where is he? Once again his evil fate has been too strong for him."
Nadia withdrew her hand somewhat precipitately as he spoke, and went to the window. Miss Forester, watching her curiously, saw the red color mount to her very brow, and pitied her. Miss Forester thought Felix a most attractive young man, and marveled that Stepan Stepanovitch should allow him to be so freely in his daughter's company. It had seemed almost impossible that these two young creatures, thrown so exclusively into each other's society, should not fall in love with each other. Yet all along the Englishwoman had been doubtful whether Felix returned the feeling which she was positive he had aroused in Nadia. And this morning, when she had received the whispered confidences of Kathinka, the woman who had been summoned to wash and bind up Felix's wound, there had been a small thing said:
"And though he is a heretic, he wears around his neck a charm or a token. It is the half of a small silver coin."
Miss Forester's heart contracted with a sharp pang. She did not like the notion that her darling Nadia should be made unhappy.
Vronsky saw the withdrawal of Nadia, and rose to his feet. He followed her. "Alas!" he said, "men are selfish things! I am bewailing my loss, and cutting you to your sympathetic heart. I am lamenting, and I do not reflect that my Felix, who is to me wife and son and all I have to love in a desolate world, is nothing to others—nothing!" He covered his face. "Mademoiselle, I cannot control my feeling. Let me go out into the garden until I have got the better of this weakness." His tears were actually falling, and he shook with emotion. To the astonishment of her governess Nadia went up to him, and laid her hands upon his shoulders; it seemed as if she almost embraced him, as though he had been a father.
"Oh!" she cried, and her sweet voice—the Slav voice, with tears in it—quivered and vibrated with emotion. "Oh! is it possible that he should love a girl who—who cannot keep faith with him?"
Vronsky grew suddenly very still. His sobs ceased. As though he were touching some sacred thing, he put his arms about the girl's shoulders. A curious succession of feelings played over his fine, expressive face. It was as if he knew that she felt towards him as towards an elderly relative—him, who was quivering with the true passion of a man for her—and as if, in the moment of his hopeless craving and bitter sadness, some other idea, new and sweet, had dawned upon his unselfish soul.
"Dorogaya (dearest)," he faltered, hardly knowing that he used the word—"these English girls are not like ourselves. They are selfish and grasping. They think of their own feeling, the gratifying of their own desire. They do not think of what a man may suffer in their cruel hands." He had grown very white. The girl's face, trustful, uncomprehending, was very near his own lips. He turned, with a supreme effort of strength, and seated her in a chair near. "The comfort of knowing that I have your sympathy," he muttered, brokenly.
Miss Forester, watching, thought she had seldom seen anything more delicate, more touching, than his handling of the situation. Nadia was very young, and her whole heart went out to the man who thus wonderfully responded to her inmost feeling. She let her hand lie in his hold, while she leant languidly back in her chair and let him talk to her of Felix—of the young man's excellencies, and his own hopes and fears. Then suddenly she started up.
"My friend," she said, with a beautiful earnestness and confidence, "I have a vision—I have a presentiment. Your son, whom you love so much, is safe! He is safe! I know it! He will come back to you—my father will restore him to you safe and sound! Will you share my faith?"
Vronsky, who had been kneeling by her chair, rose slowly to his feet. His wondering eyes were fixed upon her glowing, kindled face. "Yes," he said, slowly, "I will share your fine faith. I will not despair, since you—you, Nadia Stepanovna, tell me to hope."
The girl turned impulsively to where a huge and beautifully carved Eikon hung upon the wall. Side by side, Vronsky and she knelt before it, and their united prayer for Felix arose in the deep silence which followed.
Elle songeait—"C'en est fini de la vie heureuse!—Quelle est donc cette loi cruelle qui régit le monde? Pourquoi l'homme ne peut il vivre avec la femme ou même la voir simplement sans la convoiter? Qu'est-ce que cette nourriture misérable dont ne peuvent se passer les cœurs, ce pain de l'amour, toujours pétri de larmes et quelquefois de sang?"—ANATOLE LE BRAZ.
Aunt Bee awaited with a good deal of humorous anticipation the return of the picnic party from Newark. She had, as she well knew, shot an arrow into the heart of the slowly-moved Denzil by suggesting to him the imminent departure of Rona under certain circumstances. She felt almost sure that upon this hint he must realize what was the matter with him, and speak.
She eyed the various members of the party with some care during the evening, and became pretty certain that something had happened, for Denzil was unusually flushed; and the heaviness of Rona's eyelids seemed to suggest that she had been weeping.
No word was said, however, and no announcement made. The evening passed off a little heavily. Rona, hitherto the life and soul of the party, was the victim of a depression she could not shake off. Rallied upon her silence, she owned to being very tired; said she thought the sun had made her head ache, and slipped away early to bed.
But, when she had gained her room—the pretty, dainty nest, with its rose chintzes, and its air of subdued luxury—she did not attempt to undress nor to lie down to rest.
Pushing wide the casement of her window, she sat down upon the window seat, joined her hands beneath her chin, and gazed upon the stars. The drifting by of the soft night wind, like an impatient sigh, lifted her loosened hair from her brow. The beauty of the velvet darkness, the perfume of the roses that clustered upon the wall outside her room were all unnoticed. Her life was torn with the pain of having to decide.
In spite of her convent rearing, in spite of a childhood so sheltered, this young creature had come into contact with much that maidens of her age never know.
Most girls begin life cradled in the soft lap of sentiment. As a rule, the sentimental and diluted version of sex feeling which they call love, comes to them first. They pass out from their world of dreams into real life, through a fairy archway built up of the pretty accessories which go to make a wedding.
But Veronica had no such initiation. Hardly had the door of her convent closed upon, her than the wolves of life were upon her heels. The shock which she had received, when first a glimmering of what was meant by her uncle's arrangement with Levy dawned upon her, had as it were flung her violently away from the mood of shy and artless pleasure with which the average young girl awaits her destiny.
Rona had no idea what being in love meant.
Her nature was essentially an honest one. She wanted to do right. But she felt as if, in her present distress, she had no rudder.
Denzil and Felix! Brothers! One had saved her life, the other had preserved it. To which did she owe her allegiance?
As a matter of fact, she loved neither. But she knew she did not love Felix, and she did not know that she did not love Denzil. The elder brother was known to her, he was her daily companion, her kind friend. She was very fond of him, and this was more than she could say of any other man she had ever seen.
She was not fond of Felix—she feared him. She had preserved a memory as of a great force—of something in him that might compel her to do as he wished. This she resented, and hated.
All her own wishes inclined to the side of Denzil. But this very fact made her anxious that Felix should have full justice.
Small things sometimes modify the feelings in a quite unexpected way. Thus, the discovery that the cruel brother whose image she had detested for two years—the brother whose brutal indifference had goaded Felix to suicide—was none other than the moderate, sensible, benevolent Denzil Vanston, had in some measure impaired her belief in Felix's judgment, if not his accuracy. She felt so sure, so convinced that Denzil would in all circumstances be reasonable, and treat his younger brother with fairness; that she was shaken in her sympathies, and doubtful of Felix's wisdom.
Denzil had to-day told her something of Felix's mother. She had learned how, for the years ensuing on his father's death, the second Mrs. Vanston had practically turned him out of doors. He told her of the pain and anxiety which the light woman had caused her elderly husband, and of the "goings-on" at Normansgrave after his death. She discovered that family affairs have usually two sides, and that Felix was by no means the injured innocent which, in her inexperience, she had thought him.
But, all the more for this change of mind in herself, she was determined that Felix must have fair play. Her notion of fair play for him was that she should write to him and explain the whole situation, as far as she herself understood it. If she were sure that it was right, she would go out and marry Felix, and sacrifice the rest of her life to him. But she did not believe that it was right to marry a man without loving him, unless he clearly understood that this was so. And Denzil manifestly had his claims, as well as Felix. To her, his claims appeared the stronger.
Felix was now doing well. He had a good friend, in the person of Mr. Vronsky, who was devoted to him. He was still quite young, and would doubtless marry somebody else.
She thought out the thing in her own mind as clearly as she could, and then went to her writing-table, sat down, and wrote to Felix before she slept. After explaining to him the situation as well as she could—
"—I do not love you," she wrote. "I own it. I do not wish to marry you. I admit it. I do not think that this is my fault. One cannot compel the feelings. To me you are almost a stranger. But your brother is my friend. He is splendidly unselfish, and after he had recovered from the shock of finding that I had been deceiving him all the time that he has been benefiting me, he said that of course there could be nothing between us unless you released me.
"But I admit that I promised I would marry you. And I will keep that promise if you hold me to it, and do all I can to make up for the fact that I have not love to give. And perhaps I ought to tell you that I do not believe I shall ever be in love. Sometimes I think that the agony I went through, before my attempt to kill myself, has seared my feelings and made me hard and stupid. If you think of marrying me it is right that you should know this.
"I am not including in this letter a word of thanks for all that you have been to me. I feel that, were I in your place, thanks would seem an insult if the love that ought to wing them were lacking.
"But do ask yourself honestly whether you really love me any more than I love you. What could your feeling be but just a sentiment, a figment of the imagination? You do not know me, or my tastes, or my temper, or my habits. How can you desire my daily companionship? Am I doing you a real wrong or only an imaginary one?
"I write far more coldly than I feel. My heart is aching with sympathy for you. But if I were you sympathy would madden me, and I do not offer it.
"I do ask forgiveness for my—what must I call it?—my involuntary inconstancy."
At the back of her mind rankled the thought of all the money of his which she had accepted and spent. But she did not dare allude to it in the letter. She must await his answer to her confession. If she were to accept Denzil, and marry him, this money must be repaid. She wondered at herself now, to think how simply she had accepted it.