"I have got it--I have got it all!" cried Vjera, as she came up with
Schmidt on the pavement. His quick eye caught sight of the parcel, only
half hidden by her shawl.
"But you have brought the hair away with you," he said, in some anxiety,
and fearing a mistake or some new trouble.
"Yes," she answered. "That is the best of it." Her tears had disappeared
as suddenly as they had come, and she could now hardly restrain the
nervous laughter that rose to her lips.
"But how is that?" asked Schmidt, stopping.
"I gave them my own," she laughed, hysterically. "I gave them my
own--instead. Quick, quick--there is no time to lose. Is it an hour yet,
since I left him?" She ran along, and Schmidt found it hard to keep beside
her without running, too. At last he broke into a sort of jog-trot. In
five minutes they were at the door of the café.
The Count was sitting at a small table near the door, an empty coffee-cup
before him, staring with a fixed look at the opposite wall. There were few
people in the place, as the performances at the theatres had already
begun. Vjera entered alone.
"I have brought you the money," she said, joyfully, as she stood beside
him and laid a hand upon his arm to attract his attention, for he had not
noticed her coming.
"The money?" he said, excitedly. "The fifty marks? You have got it?"
She sat down at the table, and began to count the gold and silver,
producing it from her pocket in instalments of four or five coins, and
making little heaps of them before him.
"It is all there--every penny of it," she said, counting the piles again.
The poor man's eyes seemed starting from his head, as he leaned eagerly
forward over the money.
"Is it real? Is it true?" he asked in a low voice. "Oh, Vjera, do not
laugh at me--is it really true, child?"
"Really true--fifty marks." Her pale face beamed with pleasure. "And now
you can go and pay Fischelowitz at once," she added.
But he leaned back a moment in his chair, looking at her intently. Then
his eyes grew moist, and, when he spoke, his voice quivered.
"May God forgive me for taking it of you," he said. "You have saved me,
Vjera--saved my honour, my life--all. God bless you, dear, God bless you!
I am very, very thankful."
He put the coins carefully together and wrapped them in his silk
handkerchief, and rose from his seat. He had already paid for his cup of
coffee. They went out together. The Cossack had disappeared.
"You have saved my life and my honour--my honour and my life," repeated
the Count, softly and dwelling on the words in a dreamy way.
"I will wait outside," said Vjera as they reached the tobacconist's shop,
a few seconds later.
The Count turned to her and laid both hands upon her shoulders, looking
into her face.
"You cannot understand what you have done for me," he said earnestly.
He stooped, for he was much taller than she, and closing his tired eyes
for a moment, he pressed his lips upon her waxen forehead. Before he had
seen the bright blush that glowed in her cheeks, he had entered the shop.
Akulina was seated in one corner, apparently in a bad humour, for her dark
face was flushed, and her small eyes looked up savagely at the Count. Her
husband was leaning over the counter, smoking and making a series of
impressions in violet ink upon the back of an old letter, with an
india-rubber stamp in which the word "Celebrated Manufactory" held a
prominent place. He nodded familiarly.
"Herr Fischelowitz," said the Count, regaining suddenly his dignity of
manner and bearing, "in the course of the conversation last evening, I
said that I would to-day refund the fifty marks which you once lent to
that atrocious young man who wore green glasses. I daresay you remember
the circumstance?"
"I had quite forgotten it," said Fischelowitz. "Please do not allow it to
trouble you, my dear Count. I never considered you responsible for it, and
of course you cannot--"
"It is a shame!" Akulina broke in, angrily. "You ought to make him pay it
out of what he earns, since he took the Gigerl!"
"Madam," said the Count, addressing her with great civility, "if it is
agreeable to you, we will not discuss the matter. I only reminded Herr
Fischelowitz of what took place because--"
"Because you have no money--of course!" interrupted Akulina.
"On the contrary, because I have brought the money, and shall be obliged
to you if you will count it."
Akulina's jaw dropped, and Fischelowitz looked up in amazement. The Count
produced his knotted handkerchief and laid it on the table.
"I only wish you to understand," he said, speaking to Akulina, "that when
a gentleman gives his word he keeps it. Will you do me the favour to count
the money?"
"Of course, it is no business of ours to find out how he got it," observed
Akulina, rising and coming forward.
"None whatever, madam," answered the Count, spreading out the coins which
had been collected by loving hands from so many sources. "The only
question is, to ascertain whether there are fifty marks here or not."
Fischelowitz stood looking on. He had not yet recovered from his surprise,
and was half afraid that there might be something wrong. But the practical
Akulina lost no time in assuring herself that the sum was complete. As she
realised this fact, her features relaxed into a pleasant smile.
"Well, Count," she said, "we are very much obliged to you for this. It is
very honest of you, for of course, you were not exactly called upon--"
"I understood you to say that I was," replied the Count, gravely.
"Oh, that was yesterday, and I am very sorry if I annoyed you. But let
bygones be bygones! I hope there is no ill-will between us?"
"Oh, none at all," returned the other indifferently. "I have the honour to
wish you a very good evening." Without waiting for more, the Count bowed
and left the shop.
"Akulina," said Fischelowitz, thoughtfully, as the door closed, "that man
is a gentleman, say what you please."
"A pretty gentleman," laughed Akulina, putting the money into the till. "A
gentleman indeed--why, look at his coat!"
"And you are a fool, Akulina," added Fischelowitz, handling his
india-rubber stamp.
"Thank you; but for my foolery you would be fifty marks poorer to-night,
Christian Gregorovitch. A gentleman, pah!"
The Count had drawn Vjera's willing arm through his, and they were walking
slowly away together.
"I must be going home," she said, reluctantly. "The little sister will be
crying for me. I cannot leave her any longer."
"Not till I have thanked you, dear," he answered, pressing her arm to his
side. "But I will go with you to your door, and thank you all the
way--though the way is far too short for all I have to say."
"I have done nothing--it has really cost me nothing." Vjera squeezed her
limp parcel under her shawl, and felt that she was speaking the truth.
"I cannot believe that, Vjera," said the Count. "You could not have found
so much money so quickly, without making some great sacrifice. But I will
give it back to you--"
"Oh no--no," she cried, earnestly. "Make no promises to me. Think what
this promise has cost you. When you have the money, you may give it back
if you choose--but it would make me so unhappy if you promised."
"Would it, child? And yet, my friends are waiting for me, and they have
money for me, too. Then, I will only say that I will give it back to you
as soon as possible. Is that right?"
"Yes--and nothing more than that. And as for thanking me--what have I done
that needs thanks? Would you not have done as much for me if--if, for
instance, I had been ill, and could not pay the rent of the room? And
then--think of the happiness I have had!"
The words were spoken so simply and it was so clear that they were true,
that the Count found it hard to answer. Not because he had nothing to
express, but because the words for the expression could not be found.
Again he pressed her arm.
"Vjera," he said, when they had walked some distance farther, "it is of no
use to speak of this. There is that between you and me which makes speech
contemptible and words ridiculous. There is only one thing that I can do,
Vjera dearest. I can love you, dear, with all my heart. Will you take my
love for thanks--and my devotion for gratitude? Will you, dear? Will you
remember what you promised and what I promised last night? As soon as all
is right, to-morrow, will you be my wife?"
"If it could ever be!" sighed the poor girl, recalled suddenly to the
remembrance of his pitiful infirmity.
"It can be, it shall be and it will be," he answered in tones of
conviction. "They are waiting for me now, Vjera, in my little room--but
they may wait, for I will not lose a moment of your dear company for them
all. They are waiting for me with the money and the papers and the orders.
I have waited long for them, they can afford to have a little patience
now. And to-morrow, at this time, we shall be together, Vjera, in the
train--I will have a special carriage for you and me, and then, a night
and a day and another night and we shall be at home--for ever. How happy
we shall be! Will you not be happy with me, darling? Why do you sigh?"
"Did I sigh?" asked Vjera, trying to laugh a little.
He hardly noticed the question, but began to talk again, as he had talked
on the previous evening, describing all that he meant to do, and all that
they would do together. Vjera heard and tried not to listen. Her joy was
all gone. The great, overwhelming pleasure she had felt in dispelling his
anxiety and in averting what had seemed a near and terrible catastrophe,
gave place to the old, heartrending pity for him, as he rambled on in his
delusion. She had hoped that, as it was late on Wednesday evening, the
time of it was passed and that, for another week, he would talk no more of
his friends and his money and his return to fortune. But the fixed idea
was there still, as dominant as ever. Her light tread grew weary and her
head sank forward as she walked. For one short hour she had felt the glory
of sacrificing all she had to give, to her love. Are there many who have
felt as much, with as good reason, in a whole lifetime?
But the hour was gone, taking with it the reality and leaving in its place
a memory, fair, brilliant, and dear as the tress of golden hair Vjera was
carrying home in her parcel, but as useless perhaps and as valueless in
the world of realities as that had proved to be.
They reached her door and stopped in their walk. She looked up sadly into
his eyes, as she held out her hand. He hesitated a moment, and then threw
both his arms round her and drew her to his heart and kissed her
passionately again and again. She tried to draw back.
"Oh no, no!" she cried. "It cannot be so to-morrow--why should you kiss me
to-day?" But he would not let her go. She loved him, though she knew he
was mad, and she let her head fall upon his shoulder, and allowed herself
to believe in love for a moment.
Suddenly she felt that he was startled by something.
"Vjera!" he cried. "Have you cut off your beautiful hair? What have you
done, child? How could you do it?"
"It was so heavy," she said, looking up with a bright smile. "It made my
head ache--it is best so."
But he was not satisfied, for he guessed something of the truth, and the
pain and horror that thrilled him told him that he had guessed rightly.
"You have cut it off--and you have sold it--you have sold your hair for
me--" he stammered in a broken voice.
She hung her head a little.
"I always meant to cut it off. I did not care for it, you know. And
besides," she added, suddenly looking up again, "you will not love me
less, will you? They said it would grow again--you will not love me less?"
"Love you less? Ah, Vjera, that promise I may make at least--never--to the
end of ends!"
"And yet," she answered, "if it should all be true--if it only should--you
could not--oh, I should not be worthy of you--you could never marry me."
The Count drew back a step and held out his right hand, with a strangely
earnest look in his weary eyes. She laid her fingers in his almost
unconsciously. Then, as though he were in a holy place, he took off his
hat, and stood bareheaded before her.
"If I forsake you, Vjera," he said very solemnly, "if I forsake you ever,
in riches or in poverty, in honour or in disrepute, may the God of heaven
forsake me in the hour of my death."
He swore the great oath deliberately, in a strong, clear voice, and then
was silent for a moment, his eyes turned upwards, his attitude unchanged.
Then he raised the poor girl's thin hand to his lips and kissed it, three
times, reverently, as devout persons kiss the relics of departed saints.
"Good-night, Vjera," he said, quietly. "We shall meet to-morrow."
Vjera was awed by his solemn earnestness, and strongly moved by his
action.
"Good-night," she answered, lovingly. "Heaven bless you and keep you
safe." She looked for a last time into his face, as though trying to
impress upon her mind the memories of that fateful evening, and then she
withdrew into the house, shutting the street door behind her.
The Count stood still for several minutes, unconsciously holding his hat
in his hand. At last he covered his head and walked slowly away in the
direction of his home. By degrees his mind fell into its old groove and he
hastened his steps. From time to time, he fancied that some one was
following him at no great distance, but though he glanced quickly over his
shoulder he saw no one in the dimly-lighted street. The door of the house
in which he lived was open, and he ran up the stairs at a great pace, sure
that by this time his friends must be waiting for him in his room. When he
reached it, all was dark and quiet. The echo of his own footsteps seemed
still to resound in the staircase as he closed his door and struck a
match. He found his small lamp in a corner, lighted it with some
difficulty, set it on the table and sat down. There, beside him, propped
up against two books, was the piece of paper on which he had written the
few words for his friends, in case they came while he was out. He took it
up, looked over it absently and began to fold it upon itself again and
again.
"Dear Vjera!" he exclaimed, in a low caressing tone, as he smoothed the
folded strip between his fingers.
He was thinking, and thinking connectedly, of all that had just taken
place, and wondering how it was that he had been able to accept such a
sacrifice from one so little able to sacrifice anything. It seemed as
though it should have been impossible for him to let the poor little
shell-maker take upon herself his burden, and free him of it and set him
right again in his own eyes.
"I know that I love her now," he said to himself.
And he was right. There are secret humiliations to which no man would
submit, as such, but from which love, when it is real, can take away the
sting and the poison. The man of heart, who does not love but is loved in
spite of himself, fears to accept a sacrifice, lest in so doing he should
seem to declare his readiness to do as he is done by, from like motives.
But when love is on both sides there is no such drawing back from love's
responsibilities. The sacrifice is accepted not only with gratitude, but
with joy, as a debt of which the repayment by sacrifice again constitutes
in itself a happiness. And thus, perhaps, it is that they love best who
love in sorrow and in want, in worldly poverty and in distress of soul,
for they alone can know what joy it is to receive, and what yet infinitely
greater joy lies in giving all when all is sorely needed.
But as the Count dwelt on the circumstances he saw also what it was that
Vjera had done, and he wondered how she could have found the strength to
do it. He did not, indeed, say to himself that for his sake she had parted
with her only beauty, for he had never considered whether she were
good-looking or not. The bond between them was of a different nature, and
would not have been less strong had Vjera been absolutely ugly instead of
being merely, what is called, plain. He would have loved her as well, had
she been a cripple, or deformed, just as she loved him in spite of his
madness. But he knew well enough how women, even the most wretched, value
their hair when it is beautiful, what care they bestow upon it and what
consolation they derive from the rich, silken coil denied to fairer women
than themselves. There is something in the thought of cutting off the
heavy tress and selling it which appeals to the pity of most people, and
which, to women themselves, is full of horror. A man might have felt the
same in those days when long locks were the distinctive outward sign of
nobility in man, and perhaps the respect of that obsolete custom has left
in the minds of most people a sort of unconscious tradition. However that
may be, we all feel that in one direction, at least, a woman's sacrifice
can go no further than in giving her head to the shears.
The longer the Count thought of this, the more his gratitude increased,
and the more fully he realised at what great cost poor Vjera had saved him
from what he considered the greatest conceivable dishonour, from the shame
of breaking his word, no matter under what conditions it had been given.
He could, of course, repay her the money, so soon as his friends arrived,
but by no miracle whatever could he restore to her head the only beauty it
had ever possessed. He had scarcely understood this at first, for he had
been confused and shaken by the many emotions which had in succession
played upon his nervous mind and body during the past twenty-four hours.
But now he saw it all very clearly. He had taken only money, which he
would be able to restore; she had given a part of herself, irrevocably.
So deeply absorbed was he in his thoughts that the clocks struck many
successive quarters without rousing him from his reverie, or suggesting
again to him the fixed idea by which his life was governed on that day of
the week. But as midnight drew near, the prolonged striking of the bells
at every quarter at last attracted his attention. He started suddenly and
rose from his seat, trying to count the strokes, but he had not heard the
first ones and was astray in his reckoning. It was very late, that was
certain, and not many minutes could elapse before the door would open and
his friends would enter. He hastily smoothed his hair, looked to the flame
of his bright little lamp and made a trip of inspection round the room.
Everything was in order. He was almost glad that they were to come at
night, for the lamplight seemed to lend a more cheerful look to the room.
The Turkey-red cotton counterpane on the bed looked particularly well, the
Count thought. During the next fifteen minutes he walked about, rubbing
his hands softly together. At the first stroke of the following quarter he
stood still and listened intently.
Four quarters struck, and then the big bell began to toll the hour. It
must be eleven, he thought, as he counted the strokes. Eleven--twelve--he
started, and turned very white, but listened still, for he knew that he
should hear another clock striking in a few seconds. As the strokes
followed each other, his heart beat like a fulling-hammer, giving a
succession of quick blows, and pausing to repeat the rhythmic tattoo more
loudly and painfully than before. Ten--eleven--twelve--there was no
mistake. The day was over. It was midnight, and no one had come. The room
swam with him.
Then, as in a vision of horror, he saw himself standing there, as he had
stood many times before, listening for the last stroke, and suddenly
awaking from the dream to the crushing disappointment of the reality. For
one brief and terrible moment his whole memory was restored to him and he
knew that his madness was only madness, and nothing more, and that it
seized him in the same way, week by week, through the months and the
years, leaving him thus on the stroke of twelve each Wednesday night, a
broken, miserable, self-deceived man. As in certain dreams, we dream that
we have dreamed the same things before, so with him an endless calendar of
Wednesdays was unrolled before his inner sight, all alike, all ending in
the same terror of conscious madness.
He had dreamed it all, there was no one to come to him in his distress, no
one would ever enter that lonely room to bring back to him the treasures
of a glorious past, for there was no one to come. It had all been a dream
from beginning to end and there was no reality in it.
He staggered to his chair and sat down, pressing his lean hands to his
aching temples and rocking himself to and fro, his breath hissing through
his convulsively closed teeth. Still the fearful memory remained, and it
grew into a prophetic vision of the future, reflecting what had been upon
the distant scenery of what was yet to be. With that one deadly stroke of
the great church bell, all was gone--fortune, friends, wealth, dignity.
The majestic front of the palace of his hopes was but a flimsy, painted
tissue. The fire that ran through his tortured brain consumed the gaudy,
artificial thing in the flash and rush of a single flame, and left behind
only the charred skeleton framework, which had supported the vast canvas.
And then, he saw it again and again looming suddenly out of the darkness,
brightening into beauty and the semblance of strength, to be as suddenly
destroyed once more. With each frantic beat of his heart the awful
transformation was renewed. For dreams need not time to spin out their
intolerable length. With each burning throb of his raging blood, every
nerve in his body, every aching recess of his brain, was pierced and
twisted, and pierced again with unceasing agony.
Then a new horror was added to the rest. He saw before him the poor Polish
girl, her only beauty shorn away for his sake, he saw all that he had
promised in return, and he knew that he had nothing to give her, nothing,
absolutely, save the crazy love of a wretched madman. He could not even
repay her the miserable money which had cost her so dear. Out of his
dreams of fortune there was not so much as a handful of coin left to give
the girl who had given all she had, who had sold her hair to save his
honour. With frightful vividness the truth came over him. That honour of
his, he had pledged it in the recklessness of his madness. She had saved
it out of love, and he had not even--but no--there was a new memory
there--love he had for her, passionate, tender, true, a love that had not
its place among the terrors of the past. But--was not this a new dream, a
new delusion of his shaken brain? And if he loved her, was it not yet more
terrible to have deceived the loved one, more monstrous, more infamous,
more utterly damnable? The figure of her rose before him, pitiful, thin,
weak, with outstretched hands and trusting eyes--and he had taken of her
all she had. Neither heart, nor body, nor brain could bear more.
"Vjera! God! Forgive me!" With the cry of a breaking heart the poor Count
fell forward from his seat and lay in a heap, motionless upon the floor.
Only his stiffening fingers, crooked and contorted, worked nervously for a
few minutes, scratching at the rough boards. Then all was quite still in
the little room.
There was a noise outside, and some one opened the door. The Cossack stood
upon the threshold, holding his hand up against the lamp, for he was
dazzled as he entered from the outer darkness of the stairs. He looked
about, and at first saw nothing, for the Count had fallen in the shadow of
the table.
Then, seeing where he lay, Johann Schmidt came forward and knelt down, and
with some difficulty turned his friend upon his back.
"Dead--poor Count!" he exclaimed in a low voice, bending down over the
ghastly face.
The pale eyes were turned upward and inward, and the forehead was damp.
Schmidt unbuttoned the threadbare coat from the breast. There was no
waistcoat under it--nothing but a patched flannel shirt. A quantity of
papers were folded neatly in a flat package in the inner pocket. Schmidt
put down his head and listened for the beatings of the heart.
"So it is over!" he said mournfully, as he straightened himself upon his
knees. Then he took one of the extended hands in his, and pressed it, and
looked into the poor man's face, and felt the tears coming into his eyes.
"You were a good man," he said in sorrowful tones, "and a brave man in
your way, and a true gentleman--and--I suppose it was not your fault if
you were mad. Heaven give you peace and rest!"
He rose to his feet, debating what he should do.
"Poor Vjera!" he sighed. "Poor Vjera--she will go next!"
Once more, he looked down, and his eye caught sight of the papers
projecting from the inner pocket of the coat, which was still open and
thrown back upon the floor. It has been noticed more than once that Johann
Schmidt was a man subject to attacks of quite irresistible curiosity. He
hesitated a moment, and then came to the conclusion that he was as much
entitled as any one else to be the Count's executor.
"It cannot harm him now," he said, as he extracted the bundle from its
place.
One of the letters was quite fresh. The rest were evidently very old,
being yellow with age and ragged at the edges. He turned over the former.
It was addressed to Count Skariatine, at his lodging, and it bore the
postmark of a town in Great-Russia, between Petersburg and Moscow. Schmidt
took out the sheet, and his face suddenly grew very dark and angry. The
handwriting was either in reality Akulina's, or it resembled it so closely
as to have deceived a better expert than the Cossack.
The missive purported to be written by the wife of Count Skariatine's
steward, and it set forth in rather servile and illiterate language that
the said Count Skariatine and his eldest son were both dead, having been
seized on the same day with the smallpox, of which there had been an
epidemic in the neighbourhood, but which was supposed to have quite
disappeared when they fell ill. A week later and within twenty-four hours
of each other they had breathed their last. The Count Boris Michaelovitch
was now the heir, and would do well to come home as soon as possible to
look after his possessions, as the local authorities were likely to make a
good thing out of it in his absence.
The Cossack swore a terrific oath, and stamped furiously on the floor as
he rose to his feet. It was evident to him that Akulina had out of spite
concocted the letter, and had managed to have it posted by some friend in
Russia. He was not satisfied with one expletive, nor with many. The words
he used need not be translated for the reader of the English language. It
is enough to say that they were the strongest in the Cossack vocabulary,
that they were well selected and applied with force and precision.
Johann Schmidt was exceedingly wroth with the tobacconist's wife, for it
was clear that she had caused the Count's untimely death by her abominable
practical joke. He went and leaned out of the window, churning and
gnashing the fantastic expressions of his rage through his teeth.
Suddenly there was a noise in the room, a distinct, loud noise, as of
shuffling with hands and feet. The Cossack's nerves were proof against
ghostly terrors, but as he turned round he felt that his hair was standing
erect upon his head.
The Count was on his feet and was looking at him.