I.
"If you ever kill a man, my friends—ah! but you may—take care to dispossess the mind of haunting fancies. Murder is a wrong against society, certainly. So is borrowing a sovereign which you do not intend to return. Both may be forgotten."
Vassilitch spoke across the dinner-table. His unconventional philosophy was meant for every ear there, though he addressed himself to his host—George Etheridge, of Hollowfield Court.
Gabrielle Rupinsky, the speaker's countrywoman, who was seated at his right side, turned her head to flash into his face one look from her calm eyes.
A silence followed the remark; not an uncomfortable period, but rather one of that satisfaction which we feel when a good talker ventures out from the ruts of conversation and trite opinion. Then Tweed, a round-faced, optimistic schoolboy of a man, said, cheerfully:—
"How comforting! Let us go and exterminate our enemies before they get wind of so pleasing an assurance and exterminate us. Alas, though, we have not altogether done with Leviticus yet; still the hangman takes care of our consciences."
In the first place they had been speaking about echoes. Several of the company had heard wonderful echoes in different parts of the world. George Etheridge had told of an echo in Bavaria which had startled him—as it startles all to whom it speaks. He said: "You row out to the middle of the lake. There is an immense rugged cliff on one hand, and on the other a dense wood of pines. You fire a pistol. The sound rolls from between precipice and forest, tossed from one to the other, gathering in intensity and power, until it breaks like a clap of thunder overhead. The effect is certainly terrifying. Shall I tell you of what it made me think? Of one of those imprudent acts, one of those small sins that we commit in an unconsidered moment, which is the trifling cause of growing and overwhelming effects that end in cataclysm."
The conversation having been given this serious turn, first one and then another of Etheridge's guests recalled stories of sins that had worked in lives as worms through a ship's planks. Tweed mocked. He was rarely grave, but his easy heart was valued by all who knew him. He said, "You will all give yourselves a nightmare at bedtime. Come, let us have a murder yarn to wind up with."
And so Vassilitch, who was no stranger to the fatalism of the Slav, and who on that account had listened with considerable interest to the dialogue, had suddenly roused himself to utter his views expressed above.
"I will repeat my advice," said he. "If you ever kill a man do not think about it afterwards. Ah! the fantasies that we invent to torment ourselves with!"
Gabrielle was compelled to look at the speaker once more. As the guests of Etheridge they had seen much of one another during the past three days. She liked to have him by her side because he was her countryman; also, to her eyes, he appeared to be the strongest man in the company. And he? Whenever Mademoiselle Rupinsky came in late he was silent to taciturnity; and when she took her place he thawed.
"You are not—you cannot be—in earnest?" said Gabrielle.
"Never more so, mademoiselle."
"It is your profession that has killed your sentiment," explained Etheridge.
"As you will."
Clearly they were all waiting for him to continue. He perceived that he was the centre of observation, of interest—Ivan Féodor Vassilitch, sometime captain of a Cossack regiment that had made a reputation for hardihood and valour unique even amongst those northern soldiers whose nerves have the iron coldness of their ice-plains. He raised his glass, emptied it, and went on:—
"I tell you, my friends, that if circumstance compels you to such an act as I have spoken of, then any future terrors must be entirely the product of a superstitious imagination. No spirit will haunt you save that which you yourself conjure by bending the mind continually to that idea. No worm of remorse will tear your peace unless you believe liars who tell you it exists."
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"'YOU ARE NOT—YOU CANNOT BE—IN EARNEST?' SAID GABRIELLE."
That was all. None cared to argue the point. He was so quietly certain of his philosophy; so terribly sure.
An hour later Vassilitch was addressed by Gabrielle. "I should like five minutes' talk with you," she said.
He expressed both readiness and pleasure, and he spoke the truth. They passed out into the garden, after he had insisted that she should cover her shoulders with a wrap, for the dews of late autumn were condensing and falling imperceptibly on the still trees and flowers.
"Will you sit down?"
"I should prefer to walk slowly." He saw her bosom rise and fall in agitation, and he wondered what was coming.
"Monsieur, I have a story to tell you. Of all the men I know, you can best appreciate it. It may be that you will care to help me—ah! do not be too ready; my request, if I prefer it, is altogether an unusual one, and such as only you might understand, and I. These Englishmen have cold hearts; passion with them is slow to catch fire and easy to be extinguished."
"You speak of love, mademoiselle?" said Vassilitch, uneasily.
"No."
"Then it must be revenge. I am all attention."
"You have heard of that society that call themselves 'The Scourge'? Of their political opinions I know nothing. Three years ago the police broke into a Moscow cellar and captured fifteen of this confraternity. Of the ultimate fate of those fifteen I also know nothing, but the end that came to one has been told me. He, at any rate, was a man, and a true Russian."
Gabrielle caught her breath with a gasp, paused a moment, then continued:—
"He was deprived of civil rights, his property confiscated, and he himself sent into exile. He escaped from a convict station in the Trans-Baikal. He gained the woods, but it was winter, and you know what that means."
"Ah!" muttered Vassilitch, twisting his black moustache and watching the pale face of his beautiful companion.
"I have not seen those dreary forests, but I have heard and read of them; how packs of hungry wolves seek food and cannot find it; and how the varnaks—those wretches who have committed real crimes—infest the lonely pathways at evening to rob and murder. They say that the police kill them as dogs."
"Pardon, mademoiselle; you must not credit these wild tales."
"But I do believe them. Listen. This poor exile, after he had wandered for days in that dead land, was discovered by a band of Cossacks riding along a forest path. He was seized. Their officer cried out that he was a varnak, a bradyaga, and ordered that he should be shot. You start; perhaps this story has reached your ears?"
"No, no," said the other, quickly. "Pray go on."
"The exile protested that he was an escaped political prisoner. He was not believed. The officer again repeated his order. A soldier was about to obey, but the other threw the man from his horse. Instantly a dozen carbines were levelled, but the officer, convulsed with passion, cried out, 'You will tie this scoundrel to a tree, eight feet above the ground, and leave him to the wolves.' Ah! why do you recoil from me? Do you not believe this story? I tell you that it is absolutely true in every detail."
Gabrielle was trembling with emotion.
"It is quite cold out here; you will catch your death. Let us go indoors," said Vassilitch, harshly.
She continued unheedingly. "The command of that monster was obeyed by his men. The victim was lashed to the trunk of a pine tree, high above the ground. The Cossacks rode away, laughing, and left him there until the wolves should come to surround the tree, to bite it through with their sharp teeth, and then—and then——"
A gleam of lightning passed over the sky, and the rumble of thunder followed.
"Do you recollect the talk at the table?" said Gabrielle; "about echoes? This act is one of those that return to break in thunder upon the perpetrator."
The ex-captain of Cossacks shrugged his shoulders. "What is your request?" he demanded.
Gabrielle stopped in the garden path and faced him. A faint light from the windows of the mansion fell upon her form with its perfect lines, its loveliness. She was conscious of her beauty then, and she knew that he was conscious of it.
"Find the man who did this thing."
He was silent.
"You think me revengeful? I acknowledge it. Right or wrong, for three years I have prayed for this."
"Mademoiselle, I must ask you two questions: The name of your informant?"
"I am pledged not to give it. He was a trooper in the band who obeyed the orders of their officer."
"That is unfortunate, for I should much like to know his name. Let that pass. Question number two: What was this prisoner to you that his fate should awake these feelings of deep sorrow and revenge?"
For an instant Gabrielle hesitated, while his eyes appeared to be reading her inmost thoughts. Then she said, "He was a brother."
"Ah!"
Vassilitch was clearly relieved by the answer. He said, "This will, of course, necessitate a journey to Russia. Well, I will find this man."
"And you will challenge him?"
"I will challenge him."
"And you will kill him?"
"If by that time you still wish it—yes, I will kill him."
They looked into one another's eyes, adding no further word. A heavy clap of thunder broke and rolled overhead.
"You had better go in now," said Vassilitch.
He left her at the doors of the French windows, while he lighted a cigar and went again into the garden. Suddenly he turned. He perceived that she was yet standing, gazing after him. He could see her in the aureole of light, though she could not see him in the outer gloom.
"How beautiful she is!" muttered Vassilitch.
He flung down his cigar, put his foot upon it, and ground it into the earth.