THE DEED WHICH RANG THROUGH RUSSIA.
It was not destined that Olga should leave Russia yet.
A terrible event happened within the next few hours, the report of which rang through Russia like a clap of thunder, convulsing the whole nation, and shaking for the moment the entire social fabric to its lowest foundations. And one of its smaller consequences was to ruin my plans and expose me to infinite personal peril.
Olga was to start at noon, and I proposed to see her an hour before then, for what I knew would be a very trying ordeal. But I was at that hour in the midst of a very different kind of interview.
Outside official circles I was one of the first men to learn the news. Just before ten o'clock a messenger came with a request for me to go at once to the chief Police Bureau. I started in the full conviction that for some cause Tueski had changed his mind and meant to arrest me. I was of course helpless: and could do no more than scribble a hasty line to Olga telling her of my appointment, asking her not to wait for me, and bidding her good-bye. But I did not send it. The police agent said with great politeness he would prefer my not doing anything then: I could send the note equally well from the Bureau. I knew what that meant, and yielded.
The moment I arrived at the office I could see that some event of altogether unusual importance and gravity had occurred. The air was laden with the suggestion of excitement. There was an absence of that orderly, business-like routine always characteristic of Russian public offices. The police agents were present in exceptionally large numbers; hurrying through the corridors, thronging the rooms, and standing in groups engaged in animated discussion.
I was kept waiting some time, perhaps half an hour, before a word was spoken to me by anyone in authority; and then I was ushered into the presence of a man I did not know.
"I am sorry to trouble you, Lieutenant Petrovitch, but there are one or two questions you can answer—and I need not say that as a Russian officer, bearing the Emperor's commission, we shall look to you to reply very fully."
I bowed. It was a fit preface to a conversation which should end as such things generally did. But at any rate I should learn what they intended to do with me. Before he spoke again I asked that the letter I had written to Olga might be sent; but he put the question aside, with a curt reply that it could wait until the Emperor's business was finished; and again I bowed in acquiescence. I could do nothing.
"Please to tell me exactly what passed between you and M. Tueski yesterday," he said. "And particularly how you obtained the permits for yourself and sister. I invite you to be particularly frank."
The question startled me. I couldn't understand it.
"Your question surprises me," I replied, to gain a little time to think. "M. Tueski himself knows, and can surely tell you everything."
"I ask my questions in the name of the Emperor, sir," returned my examiner, sternly.
"M. Tueski had done me the honour of trying to have me murdered, and I went to see him to demand the reason. He did not deny it. I persuaded him in the end to abandon his private malice and prevailed upon him to give me the permits for myself and my sister to leave Russia for a while. When he had given them to me I left him."
"Where are they?"
"Here is one. The other is with my sister, who leaves Moscow at midday."
"You may stop her attempting to leave. It will be useless. What else passed?" And he then plunged into a close cross-examination of me, the real object of which I could not guess, unless it meant that Tueski had in some way got into a mess for letting me have the permits. I answered all the questions as fully as possible, taking care only to avoid mentioning Paula Tueski's name in connection with the compact with her husband.
To my surprise I seemed to satisfy the man for the time. When he had about turned me inside out, he sat for some minutes looking over my answers and comparing them with some of his notes: after which he remained thinking closely.
"What did you do after leaving M. Tueski?"
"I went straight to my rooms to my sister and Madame Tueski; together we drove Madame Tueski to her house; I then went home with my sister, remained there about an hour, or perhaps less; and went home and to bed."
"You have told me all you know, Lieutenant?"
"You can ask M. Tueski," I returned.
He fixed his eyes steadily on me while I could have counted twenty, and then said slowly and with deep emphasis:—
"M. Tueski is dead."
"Dead!" I repeated in the profoundest surprise.
"Murdered. Found this morning in the lower part of his own house with a dagger thrust through his heart."
"Murdered?" I could scarcely believe my ears.
"Yes. 'For Freedom's sake'," said the man with a curl of the lip. "At least, so a message on the dagger said. Now you can understand the significance of my questions."
I understood it all well enough: far better than the man himself even imagined; and I was completely beaten as to what the inner meaning of this most terrible event could be.
One of my first reflections was that if any of the suspicions of my Nihilism, which the dead man entertained, were chronicled anywhere, my arrest and that of Olga would certainly follow; and we should both be doomed.
"I can scarcely realise it," I said. "It is horrible!"
"So these wretches will find," returned my interlocutor. "These carrion! But now, in view of this—and I have told you because of the candid manner in which you have answered my questions—is there anything you noticed in your visit yesterday to help us."
Clearly, he did not suspect me; and no records had been found yet.
"No. The place seemed alive with inmates—like a rabbit warren. Enough to have held it against a regiment. Good God, what villains!" I cried in horror. Mine was genuine feeling enough, for some of the terrible effects to myself were fast crowding into my thoughts. I recalled my encounter with my Nihilist comrade on the very threshold of the house.
"Of course, those permits will be withdrawn now, Lieutenant," said the official as he dismissed me. But his manner was much less severe and curt than at the outset. "As a matter of fact they ought never to have been granted, though I cannot explain why just now. But under the circumstances you will probably feel personally unwilling to leave Russia at such a juncture."
"I should feel myself a traitor," said I, grandiloquently; and in fact I did feel very much like one as I left him, rejoicing that I still breathed the fresh air of heaven instead of the foetid atmosphere of a gaol.
One thing was certain now—neither Olga nor I could hope to escape yet. Any attempt would be fatal. The murder of such a man would mean that the lurid search light of suspicion would fall in all directions, on the guilty and guiltless alike. The liberty certainly, and probably the life, of every suspected Nihilist in Moscow at the moment were at stake: and the slightest trip or false step on our part would amount to a direct invitation to ruin.
As I walked back sadly and thoughtfully to my rooms, I had abundant proofs of the terrible effects of the assassination. The police agents were everywhere, watching, raiding, arresting; and in my short walk I met more than one gloomy party of them, each with its one or two prisoners in their midst, hurrying on foot or in hired carriages to the police stations.
It is not my business, however, to describe here the scenes that followed the most daring, most secret, most thrilling, and save one, most terrible assassination that ever convulsed Russia. The murder of the Czar stirred the surface of the world more, because it had more of the pageantry of crime about it; but the death of the Chief of the Secret Police caused a much deeper sense of insecurity, and spread a far greater dread of the secret power of Nihilism.
Who had done it? To me it was an inscrutable mystery; unless it had been the man I had seen near the house. But what I had to consider was not whose hand had driven the dagger home, but rather what the effects would be to me and to her for whose safety I now felt more fears and concern than I had felt for myself in all my life.
One incident in the interview I had just had impressed me greatly: the reference which the official had dropped as to the power behind Tueski in dealing with me. My questioner had seemed to know about it that morning: and all this perplexed me.
As soon as I reached my rooms I had to hurry off to the barracks in response to an urgent summons; and I joined readily in the excited conversation of my comrades about this latest Nihilist stroke. The news was only beginning to leak out, and it assumed the wildest shapes; nor did I feel at liberty to reduce the rumours to facts.
Before the morning's work was over orders came that the troops were to be paraded for duty in the streets: and we were told off for patrol work in different parts of the city to protect the railway stations, and other public buildings. All that day we were kept on duty; and as other troops came pouring in from other centres the whole place seemed under arms like a beleaguered town.
All day and all night the raids and surprise visits by the police were in progress, and hundreds, if not thousands of men and women must have been arrested, until the gaols were crowded to suffocation point, and every spot where prisoners could be packed was crammed and choked with suspects.
The cries and curses of men and the shrieks of women made the air stifling.
We were not relieved until late at night, having been all day without food; and even then we were kept in the barracks in readiness for any disturbance.
The next day's programme was much the same; and I fretted at not being able to either see or send to Olga. Knowing of her brother's Nihilism she would surely think I had been arrested; while I on my side was afraid for her.
In the afternoon of the third day we got leave from duty and from barracks for a few hours; and I went straight off to Olga. Meanwhile not a hint had been obtained as to the identity of the assassin.
I found Olga white and wan and ill on my account; and when we met I was on my side almost too moved for speech. At first I could do no more than glance into her eyes as we clasped each the other's hand.
"You are looking frightfully ill, Olga," I said at length.
She returned my look without a word and then her brow contracted, she breathed deeply as if in pain, and turning away wrung her hands with a gesture of despair.
"What is the matter? What has happened to you? There must be something..." I stopped, or rather the sight of the white face all drawn and quivering with pain stopped me.
"Oh, it is too horrible, too awful! God have mercy on us! God have mercy on us!"
Bad as things were so far as I knew them, this dejection seemed disproportionate and excessive. She was like a mad woman distraught with fear or grief; and she waved her hands about as if wrestling with emotions she could not conquer.
"Oh, it can't be true; it can't be," she moaned; and then came suddenly to me, turned my face to the light holding it between her white trembling hands, and gazed at me with a look of mingled anguish, fear, doubt, wildness, and—love; her lips parted and her bosom rising and falling as if with the strain of her passionate feelings.
When her scrutiny was over, her hands seemed to slip down and she fell on her knees close to me and I heard her muttering prayers with vehement fervour.
"What does this mean, Olga?" I asked gently, bending down and laying my hand on her shoulder. She looked round and up at my touch, and tried to smile. Then she rose and standing opposite to me, put her hands on my two shoulders so that her face was close beneath mine. And all the time she was muttering prayers. Then, in a voice all broken and tremulous, she said:—
"Brother, swear as you believe there is a God in Heaven, you will answer truly what I ask."
"I will. I swear it," I answered, wishing to quiet her.
"Did you really do this?"
"Do what?" I asked, not understanding.
"Kill Christian Tueski?"
"Did I kill him? No, child, certainly not." I spoke in the greatest astonishment.
"Oaths may bind you to secrecy, I know. But for God's sake, tell me the truth—the truth. You can tell me. I am...." I felt her shudder.
"Is it this which has been driving you distracted? There is no cause. I know no more by whose hand that man came by his death than a babe unborn."
"Say that again, Alexis. Say it again. It is the sweetest music I have heard in all my life."
I repeated the assurance, and a smile of genuine relief broke out over her face. Next she cried and laughed and cried again, and then sat down as if completely overcome by the rush of relief from a too heavy strain.
"What does all this mean?" I asked quietly, after a while. "Try and tell me."
"I have been like a mad thing for two days. Let me wait awhile. I will tell you presently. Oh, thank God, thank God for what you have said. It drove me mad to think you should have been driven to this by me; and that perhaps for my sake you might have been urged to do such a horrible thing. Waking and sleeping alike I have thought of nothing but of your suffering torture and death. And all through me—through me." She covered her face in horror at the remembrance of her thoughts: but a moment later took away her hands to smile at me.
"You have not told me yet what made you think anything of the sort."
"I will tell you. As soon as I heard the news, I knew of course that as I had been mixed up in some old Nihilist troubles, it would be hopeless for me to think of leaving Moscow; and when the police agent came I let him understand that I had given up all thought of travelling yet. Then I was all anxiety for news of you, and in the afternoon I went to your rooms. I found the door shut and could hear nothing. Then I began to fear for you. I am only a woman."
She stopped and smiled to me before resuming. Then with a shudder she continued:—
"Then a most strange thing happened, Borlas came to me just at dusk; and he looked so strange that at first I thought he had been drinking. Saying he had a message from you he waited until I had sent the servant away.
"'What is it?' I asked.
"For answer he gave me a sign that made my heart sink. I knew it too well, and I looked at him with the keenest scrutiny. Had the Nihilists put a spy on you even in your own servant? Then I saw—that it was not Borlas, but a man so cleverly made up to resemble him that I had been at first deceived.
"'What do you want here?' I asked, now with every nerve in my body at full tension.
"'Do you know?' and the light in his eyes seemed to flash into mine.
"'Do I know what?' I could see there was something behind all this.
"He bent close to me, though we were of course alone, and spoke his reply in a fierce whisper.
"'Tell your brother that after this proof our hearts beat but for him; our plans shall all wait on him; every man of us will go to his death silently and cheerfully at his mere bidding. He leads, we follow. He has nobly kept his pledge for the cause of God and Freedom.'
"As I heard this my heart seemed to stop in pain. I had to hold to the table to save myself from falling."
"'Do you mean,' I gasped, 'that Alexis has murdered....'
"'Silence, sister,' replied the man sternly. 'That is no word for you to utter or for me to hear. Your brother is as true a friend as Russian Liberty ever had; and I thank my God that I have ever been allowed to even touch the hand that has dealt this vigorous blow and done this noble and righteous act.'
"'I will tell him,' I said.
"'Tell him also, he need have no fear. Not a man who was at the meeting is in the city now, save me; and not a single soul of the thousands these hell dogs of tyranny can seize knows anything—save only me. And I would to the Almighty God they would take me and torture me and tear my flesh off bit by bit with their cursed red-hot pincers that I might use my last breath and my latest effort to taunt them that I know the hero who has done it, and die with my knowledge a secret.'
"Then this terrible man, you may not know his name, but I know him, left me, telling me it was 'a glorious day for Russia, and that God would smile for ever upon you for this deed.' And I—I was plunged into a maelstrom of agonising fears, racking doubts, and poisoned thoughts about you and what I had led you to do."
What Olga said had also immense importance and significance for me. It shewed me a startling view of my situation. It was clear the Nihilists attributed the murder to me, and what effect that would have upon us I was at a loss even to conjecture.
"The man's blood is not on my hands, Olga; but I cannot be surprised at the mistake. I will tell you everything;" and I told her then all that had passed.
"Who can have done it then?" she asked, when I finished.
"It is as complete a mystery to me as to the police. The man I saw near the house might have done it; but then I suppose it must have been the same man who came to you: and in that case he certainly wouldn't have set it down to me. I am beaten. But I am likely to find the wrongful inheritance embarrassing. I must be more cautious than ever to draw down no word of suspicion upon either of us. We must both be scrupulously careful. And thus it will be impossible for you to think of getting away."
"It's a leaden sky that has no silver streak," replied Olga. "And that impossibility is my streak."
I could not but understand this, and even while my judgment condemned her, my heart was warmed by her words. But my judgment spoke.
"If you were away my anxieties would be all but ended."
"If I were away my anxieties would be all but unendurable," she retorted, following my words and smiling. It was not possible to hear this with anything but delight; but I had my feelings too well under control now to let them be seen easily.
"That may be," I said. "But my first and chief effort will be to get you safe across the frontier."
She made no answer: but her manner told me she would not consent to go until it had become a rank impossibility for her to stay. Presently she said with much feeling:—
"If I had been away and the news had come that you had done the thing these men assert, how do you think I could have borne it? I should have either come rushing back here or have died of remorse and fear and anxiety on your account. It was through me you commenced all this."
"But of my own choice that I continued," I replied. "And believe me, if all were to come over again I should act in just the same way. I have never had such a glorious time before; and all I want now is to see you safe."
Olga paused to look at me steadily.
"You've never told me all the reason why you were so ready to take all these desperate risks. Will you tell me now?"
"I had made a mess of things generally, as I told you before," I answered, with a smile and a slight flush at the reminiscences thus disturbed by her question.
"Was there a woman in it?" Her eyes were fixed on me as she put the question.
"There's a woman in most things," I answered, equivocally.
"Yes, I suppose so." She turned away and looked down, and asked next:—
"Were you very fond of her, Alexis?"
"Judging by the little ripple that remains on the surface now that she's gone out of my life, no: judging by the splash the stone made at first, yes. But she's gone."
"Yet the waters of the pool may be left permanently clouded. I am sorry for you, Alexis: and if you were really my brother, I would try and help you two together."
"That's not altogether a very proper thing to say." I spoke lightly, and she looked up to question me. "Her husband might not thank you, I mean: though I'm not quite sure about that;" and then having told her so much, I told her the story of my last meeting with Sir Philip Cargill and Edith. But she did not take it as I wished.
"You must have loved her if you meant to kill her," she said.
"And ceased then, if I left her to live a miserable life."
"I should like to see the woman you have ceased to love," she said, woman-like in curiosity—and something else.
"You may do that yet, if only Alexis Petrovitch can make a safe way for his sister out of Russia;" and then I added, pausing and looking at her with a meaning in my eyes which I wished her to understand though I dared not put it in plain words:—"But we shall not be brother and sister then."
She glanced up hurriedly, her face aglow with a sudden rush of thought—pleasurable thought too—and then looked down again and smiled.
"In that case how should we two be together?" she asked.
"Do you mean that such a time as this will be likely to render us ready to part?"
To that her only answer was another glance and a deeper blush. Then I made an effort and recovered myself on the very verge.
"But while we are here, we are brother and sister, Olga;" and feeling that if I wished to keep other things unsaid I had better go away, I left her.