THE FATE OF THE TRAITOR.
Pale yellow sunset had poured out its cold half-light upon the roofs, and
gradually in the depths of the London streets everything grew grey and
dim. In the clear deep blue the first star was already shining. Objects
began to assume a disordered aspect, and melt away in the darkness.
The city, worn out with the vanity of the day, had become calm, as if
gathering strength to pass the evening in the same vanity and turmoil.
Already the lights of the street lamps in Oakleigh Gardens were springing
up, forming long, straight lines, as I drew down the blind and flung
myself into the inviting armchair before the cheerful fire. Taking from
the table an open letter written in cipher, I read it through by the
flickering firelight. It was addressed to Pétroff, and ran as follows:—
“Nicolas Kassatkin, who will arrive in London on Tuesday next, is a
trusted and valued member of our Circle at Novgorod. He has been twice
imprisoned, first at Petropaulovsk, and secondly at Schlusselburg, whence
he has escaped. We are sending him to you because we are confident that
he can be of assistance. He is daring, enthusiastic, and speaks several
languages. Being in possession of a private income, he will not need
any financial help from the Executive. He will be the bearer of a note
to you.—Signed, on behalf of the Novgorod Brothers of Freedom—SOLOMON
GOLDSTEIN, ALEXANDER ROSTOVTZEFF.”
I replaced it upon the table, and leaning back in the chair, smoked
reflectively.
Having called to consult the Executive on some urgent business, Pétroff
had asked me to remain and welcome the newcomer. By repute I knew him as
a fearless Revolutionist, who had taken an active part in several plots
which had for their object the removal of corrupt officials, and had been
more or less successful.
I was plunged in reverie, induced perhaps by the dim, uncertain light of
the fire and the soothing properties of nicotine, when a loud ring at the
hall-bell aroused me. Almost immediately afterwards I heard the voices of
Pétroff, Tersinski, and Grinevitch welcoming the stranger in Russian, and
a few moments later they entered and introduced him to me.
We shook hands cordially, and as Grinevitch lit the gas I saw that the
stranger was a man of medium height, and about thirty years of age.
His face was of a rather low type. He had deep-set, grey eyes, with a
fixed stare, a large, fair moustache, prominent cheek bones, and fair,
lank, unkempt hair, while his deeply-furrowed brow spoke mutely of
long imprisonment and infinite pain and suffering. Removing his heavy
travelling-coat, he seated himself before the fire to thaw, at the same
time taking a letter from his pocket and handing it to Paul Pétroff.
Presently we sat down to dinner together, and during the meal Kassatkin
showed himself to be an entertaining companion and vivacious talker.
I sat next him, and he told us of the progress of the revolutionary
movement in Novgorod, declaring that there were unmistakable signs of
general upheaval, of an awakening of the public spirit, of patriotism,
and of opposition, foreshadowing a coming struggle. He was bitter in his
condemnation of the dark deeds of the Tzar’s officials, and expressed an
opinion that if Russia could tell something approaching to the full truth
about what was going on within her boundaries—the crimes committed in
darkness, the malversations practised, the real state of the exchequer,
the desperate tricks of the financiers—it would inflict upon the
Autocracy a more severe blow than many conspiracies could strike.
“Tell us of your escape,” I said, after he had related the story of his
arrest and imprisonment for carrying on propaganda among the soldiers of
the Novgorod garrison.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, his face brightening. “It has been a terrible
experience, but I was driven to desperation.” Turning to Pétroff he said:
“You know the frightful horrors of Schlusselburg—the cold wet cells below
the water?”
“I have, alas! much cause to remember them,” Paul answered, with a heavy
sigh. “My wife, whom I loved so well, was imprisoned there at the same
time as myself. The solitary confinement and the horrors of her cell
drove her hopelessly insane. She is now an inmate of the criminal asylum
at Krasnoje Selo.”
“Madness is the fate of the majority of prisoners there,” said Kassatkin.
“In my case the many months of absolute silence and lack of exercise
drove me into a state bordering on insanity. In order to check the
imbecility that was slowly but surely taking possession of me, I used to
pace my damp, dark cell and compose verses. For days, weeks, months, I
had no other occupation than the composition of poems, which I afterwards
committed to memory, having no writing materials. This was the only
mental employment I had, and, although I grew strangely lightheaded,
yet my self-imposed tasks prevented my mind becoming totally unhinged.
An opportunity for escape presented itself in a most unexpected manner.
A large batch of ‘common law’ prisoners had been sent from Petersburg,
and the prison being already over-crowded, I was removed from my cell
and confined in a room in the fire-tower. It thus happened that I was
locked up in an ordinary room, with a window looking upon the bridge. It
was rather high, but it was near the waterpipe running along the wall
outside, and there was a slanting roof of the lower storey which could
be utilised for the descent. I could not lose such an opportunity, and,
in the dead of night, I opened the window and descended upon the bridge
connecting the prison with the bank, congratulating myself upon a happy
escape.”
“Were you discovered?” I asked.
“Yes, almost immediately. By ill-luck a sentry noticed me and gave the
alarm. It was an exciting moment as I made a dash for the forest and
disappeared among the trees. Half-a-dozen soldiers pursued me, but only
for a short distance, and apparently considering that they had a poor
chance of capturing a fugitive in a forest, they returned to the prison
for assistance. I concealed myself and waited. Presently about twenty
mounted soldiers galloped past along the forest road. When they were out
of sight I left my hiding-place and walked on. My position was, however,
critical, therefore I returned to the Neva, as I could not lose my way
beside the river. I soon came to the water’s edge. By the opposite bank
were some islands and something like a lake or arm of the river, near
which I could see what in the fog appeared to be masts. Close beside me
on the bank sat a group of fishermen, and a little way off an old man was
doing something to a boat. Having two or three roubles in my pocket, I
went up and asked the old man to ferry me across the river. He consented,
but asked in a conversational way why I wanted to go across. Remembering
the masts, I replied that I had to go on board a schooner that lay in the
distance. The old man looked at me suspiciously.
“He asked who I was, and I told him that I was a working-man from
Tichvin. The old man put on a very suspicious air and began a minute
interrogation. I was at my wits’ end, and ready to make a dash for it;
but that was out of the question: the fishermen were close by and would
have caught me in five minutes. I resolved to take the bull by the horns,
so I told the man that I had simply made up the former story, and that,
in reality, I was an escaped political prisoner seeking a hiding-place.
When the old man had asked me numerous other questions, he said: ‘Well,
I won’t ferry you across myself, but I’ll tell my boy to. He’ll land you
on the island, and you can stop there until to-morrow night. You’re all
right so far. Only, look here, don’t you go telling anybody that you
have to go to your schooner. In my young days there used to be plenty of
schooners there, but for thirty years past there hasn’t been one near the
place.’
“The old man then called a young fisherman, and told him to row me across
to the island. On parting from the man who ferried me, I started to
explore the place, which I found to be very marshy. The morning broke wet
and cheerless, and I spent the day in a disused hut. When evening set in,
it became too cold for me to spend the night shelterless, and as I was
suffering severely from hunger, I wandered up and down the swampy forest
looking for a village. By the time I succeeded in finding one it was
quite dark. I knocked at a cottage door, but the people would not let me
in. I went to a second and third cottage, but with no success. Finally I
lost my temper, and addressing an obdurate householder, asked him where
the _starosta_ lived.
“The peasant directed me to the _starosta’s_ cottage, and then slammed
his door. I tapped at the door of the residence indicated, and it was
opened by a woman. When I asked for the official I was in search of, she
replied, ‘I am the _starosta_. What do you want?’ It appeared that she
really was the _starosta_. The office was filled by all the peasants
in the village in turn; and she, being an independent householder,
took her turn like the men. I rattled off a wild story, how I had come
for a holiday from Petersburg with some friends; how they had become
intoxicated, and, for a practical joke, had returned home, leaving me
alone on the island. The female _starosta_ evinced the warmest sympathy
with my misfortune, gave me supper, and allowed me to pass the night in
her cottage.
“Next morning I hired a boat, arrived safely in Petersburg, and found my
friends, who hid me for some time, while the police scoured the roads and
country around Schlusselburg, and searched all the houses that appeared
to them suspicious. When the excitement died down, I travelled as an
ordinary passenger to the frontier, and have now arrived here.”
That evening I took Kassatkin to live with me at my chambers, and
found him a pleasant, easy-going fellow, whose shrewdness proved most
valuable to me in the various matters upon which I was from time to time
engaged. We went about a good deal, and made many friends. I had always
been considered a fair amateur actor, and was prevailed upon to join a
well-known dramatic club which gave frequent performances at Kensington
Town Hall.
Many of my friends belonged to the club, and I found the rehearsals a
pleasant and amusing recreation, inasmuch as the people with whom I was
brought into contact were useful to me in a variety of ways. They knew I
was a foreigner, but believed me to be French, little suspecting that I
was a Nihilist.
One evening there had been a dress-rehearsal of a new comedy which we
were about to produce for copyright purposes. I was cast for the part of
an affected English curate, one of the chief characters in the piece.
The rehearsal passed off satisfactorily, and it was nearly midnight
when I left the hall and started on my walk homeward. I had a good
hour’s tramp through the West End before me; but, as the night was clear
and warm, I enjoyed the prospect rather than otherwise. As I walked
along Kensington Gore there was scarce a sound in the street, save the
occasional tread of a policeman, or the hurried footfall of the belated
pleasure-seeker, breaking the stillness of the night suddenly, and then
dying away in a succession of faint echoes.
Had any friend met me I should scarcely have been recognised, from the
fact that I was still in clerical attire, having dressed myself at
home to avoid trouble. I wore a long black coat of orthodox cut, black
unmentionables, a clerical collar, a soft, wide-brimmed hat, and was
effectually disguised, though I thought nothing of the circumstances at
the time, having frequently worn my stage clothes out of doors.
I had walked for perhaps half an hour in silent contemplation, when
I suddenly became aware that I had taken a wrong turning and that my
footsteps had involuntarily carried me into that patrician of Kensington
thoroughfares, Cromwell Road.
At that moment I was passing a large, handsome-looking house, the outward
appearance of which had an unmistakable air of wealth. The other houses
were in darkness, but several of the windows of this one were brilliantly
lit.
Suddenly I heard something that caused me to pause. It sounded like a
long, shrill scream.
A moment later the door was opened by a man-servant, who ran hurriedly
down the steps. As he confronted me he stopped short, and peering into my
face, said—
“Sir, would you have the kindness to step inside for a few minutes. His
lordship sent me to look for a gentleman, and it is fortunate I found one
so near.”
“A gentleman!” I exclaimed, astonished. “But I——”
“His lordship’s daughter is dying, sir, and he told me to get the first
gentleman I could find.”
The man led the way up the steps, and, dumbfounded by the sudden manner
in which I had been accosted, I followed.
He ushered me into a small but very elegantly furnished room, and then
went to find his master. Just at that moment I heard the footsteps of
two other men, who apparently entered from the street and walked down
the hall to the room adjoining the one in which I was. I had hardly
time to look about me, when the servant returned, accompanied by a
strange-looking old man. He was well dressed, but seemed out of place
in the clothes he wore. Small and thin, he had snow-white hair, sunken
cheeks, and eyes in which shone a peculiar lustre. The manner in which
he advanced to greet me was strange, for he seemed to glide noiselessly
across the room. His face was colourless, and would have seemed almost
devoid of life had it not been for his restless, glittering eyes.
“His lordship,” explained the servant.
I bowed, and the man retired. For a moment the old gentleman’s eyes
shifted and roved, then he fixed my gaze with them, and said slowly, in a
squeaky voice—
“I have a theory that everything may be purchased; that every man has his
price. Do you agree with me?”
I was surprised. I shrank from him, and despised and hated him.
“Most things can undoubtedly be bought; but not everything,” I replied.
He smiled sadly.
“Of course, neither life nor intellect can be purchased; but the securing
of any service from any person capable of performing it is merely a
question of money.”
I nodded approbation of this remark, wondering what service he needed at
my hands.
“I am quite at my wits’ end, and I require a small service from you,” he
said suddenly, as a look of blank, unutterable despair swept over his
face. He looked wearied and despondent; I pitied him.
“If I can render you that service I shall be pleased,” I replied.
His face brightened; the haggard expression vanished.
“Thank you,” he said. “It is perhaps a strange request, still I can find
many men who will be only too eager to accept my offer.”
“But I am not——”
“Never mind,” he interrupted; “allow me to explain. I am the Earl of
Wansford.”
I gave vent to an ejaculation of surprise, for the Earl was a well-known
figure in the diplomatic world, and until three years ago had been
British Ambassador to Russia. He smiled as he noticed my astonishment,
and continued—
“I have but one daughter, who, alas! is dying. The physicians say hers is
a hopeless case, and I desire that her last moments shall be made happy.”
“Ah! you want me to attend at the bedside and minister words of
consolation. I am sorry I cannot——”
“No,” he snarled, “she is religious enough, and does not require you in
that capacity.”
“But surely a dying person, whether prepared for the next world or not,
should see a clergyman!” I said.
“True; but Muriel is insane,” he replied. “You remember what I said a
minute ago, that it is only a question of money to any man?”
“What!”
“Why, marriage.”
I was puzzled. I could not comprehend his meaning.
“But what do you want of me?” I asked.
“A trifling service. You can perform it now; but if you refuse, you will
always regret.”
“Tell me what it is, and I will give my answer.”
“It is this. Some time ago—perhaps about three years—while we were
living in St. Petersburg, I became ill, and was obliged to go to the
South of France. During my absence my daughter met a Russian for whom
she conceived a violent fancy. Since I returned and brought her home to
England, she has done nothing but mope and mourn for him, with the result
that her intellect is impaired.”
“But will not the man marry her?” I asked, interested in the romance.
“He disappeared mysteriously, and although I have made the most strenuous
efforts to trace him, he cannot be found. Of course she would marry him
if she could; but her mental faculties are so weak that she would marry
any one else and believe it to be him. But here’s the point——”
He felt in his pocket, and producing a wallet, took from it a roll of
clean crisp Bank of England notes. He counted twenty of them, each for
one hundred pounds, and held them towards me.
“These are yours,” he said slowly, “if you will consent to be my
daughter’s husband!”
The strange proposal caused me to gasp. Two thousand pounds! Did ever
temptation stand in man’s path in a more alluring guise? I had but
little money of my own, and with this sum I could do many things.
Here was a dying girl whose passage to the grave would be rendered
brighter by my marrying her; who would die in a few days, or weeks at
most, and know no difference. Nobody need be aware of this strange
midnight adventure, or the manner in which I had been bought. I hesitated.
“I give you my word that none know of her insanity except myself, and
that she is upon her death-bed,” said my tempter.
Still I paused. I was wondering what could be the Earl’s ulterior motive.
Besides, I had no desire to enter the ranks of Benedicts.
“Come, decide. I have a clergyman ready and a licence. Some one shall
make my darling’s last moments happy. Is not the money enough? Well,
here’s another thousand. Will you accept it?”
I summoned courage, and drawing a long breath, stretched forth my hand
and grasped the notes, which I thrust hastily into my pocket.
I had sold myself. I had offered myself as a sacrifice to Mammon, as
others had done. My purchaser opened the door, and called softly, “It’s
all right.”
“Is it?” asked the clergyman who entered. “You are, I understand, the
affianced husband of Lady Muriel?” he asked, addressing me.
“Yes,” I replied. Was it not true? Had I not three thousand pounds in my
pocket as evidence of the fact?
“Come,” said the old man impatiently, as he led the way upstairs to a
large bedroom on the first floor, where the light was so dim that I could
hardly more than distinguish the shape of the bed and the form of some
one closely covered up in it. The footman, who had accosted me in the
street, entered behind us, and we took our places at the bedside.
Gradually, as my eyes grew accustomed to the semi-darkness, I could see
that my future wife was lying upon her side, and with her face turned
from me.
“Take her hand,” commanded the man to whom I had sold myself.
I obeyed.
“Proceed with the ceremony.”
The clergyman droned off the service by heart with the characteristic
nasal intonation. Probably I faltered a little at the responses, but my
dying bride never hesitated. Though her voice was low as distant music,
her every word was prompt and clear.
I gave the _alias_ I frequently used, Vladimir Mordvinoff, and when I
uttered the name I fancied that she started.
“_Mojnoli?_” she gasped in a strange half-whisper, but she did not turn
to look at me. It was evident, however, that she spoke Russian.
The ceremony concluded, we were pronounced man and wife; I was the
husband of a girl who was insane, and whose face I had never looked upon!
Was ever there a stranger marriage? The thin wasted fingers that lay
in my grasp were cold. A strange sense of guilt crept over me when I
remembered that I had bound myself irrevocably to her, deceiving her
during her last moments upon earth.
“Come,” exclaimed his lordship. “Let us go downstairs and sign the
necessary documents.”
We all descended to the library, where the register was filled up and
the signatures affixed, the clergyman handing me the certificate with a
murmur of congratulation. A bottle of champagne was produced, and we each
drank a glass, after which I was allowed to return to the room alone to
make the acquaintance of my wife.
I entered on tiptoe, almost breathlessly, and paused for a moment beside
the bed, trying to speak. At first my mouth refused to utter a sound.
What could I say? Suddenly the Nihilist pass-word flashed across my
mind, and I uttered it. It’s effect was almost magical. Struggling, she
endeavoured to rise, but could only support herself upon her elbow, at
the same time giving me the secret countersign.
I was anxious to see her countenance, so I turned up the gas, afterwards
bending down to look upon her. It was a pretty, delicate face, but cut
and swollen as if by savage blows, discoloured and disfigured, a blanched
face in which were obvious signs of insanity!
When our eyes met she started, scrutinised me closely, and uttered a
shrill scream of joy.
I recognised her instantly. While I was living in Petersburg several
years before, she had been admitted to our Circle. She gave the name
of Muriel Radford, but beyond the fact that she was English and that
she apparently had plenty of money at her disposal, we knew nothing of
her. At the meetings of the Circle we often met and had many a pleasant
_tête-à-tête_. I had admired her and more than once was tempted to
declare my love, but I refrained from doing so until too late, for
suddenly, one snowy night in midwinter, I was compelled to fly from the
Russian capital. Since then I had neither seen nor heard of her.
Now I had discovered her under these extraordinary circumstances.
She kissed me fondly, passionately, and I was about to explain our
strange marriage, when the terrible light of insanity in her eyes caused
me to hesitate. Of what use was it to speak? She did not understand.
Taking a small bunch of keys from under her lace-edged pillow, she handed
them to me, saying—
“Go to that cabinet over there and unlock the second drawer. In the
right-hand corner you will find a packet. Bring it here and open it.”
I did as I was commanded, and brought to the bedside a small packet of
letters secured with crimson ribbon. As I untied the knot a cabinet
photograph fell out upon the bed. I picked it up and looked at it.
It was a picture of myself!
“How did you obtain this?” I asked eagerly.
“I have never ceased to think of you,” she replied. “I prevailed upon
one of your friends in Petersburg to give me the picture. But there is
another photograph there. Take it out and look at it.”
Searching among the papers, I found the picture she indicated.
When I turned it face upwards in the gaslight it almost fell from my
grasp, for I recognised it as a portrait of my companion with whom I
shared chambers.
“Do you know Kassatkin?” I asked, in astonishment.
“Yes, I do,” she said, and raising herself upon her elbow, she continued
earnestly: “Listen, Anton! You are now my husband, although I know I am
dying. Nothing can save me, and I shall not live to inflict upon that
cursed spy the punishment he deserves. I know——”
“Is he a spy?” I interrupted breathlessly.
“Yes. When you had left Petersburg they admitted him into the Circle,
believing him to be trustworthy. Soon afterwards, however, the police
arrested nearly the whole of the members, and had I not been the
daughter of the British ambassador I should have been arrested also.
Inquiries I afterwards made proved conclusively that Paramòn Markoff—or
Nicolas Kassatkin, as he calls himself—was an officer of Secret Police;
that he was admitted to the Circle by means of forged introductions, and
that through his instrumentality over one hundred members of our Cause
were exiled.”
“But what proof have you?” I asked excitedly, remembering how much
Kassatkin knew of the conspiracy we were forming.
“The papers you hold in your hand will prove what I allege,” she replied.
Then she continued wildly: “Find the spy. Let death be his reward for
ingenuity and double-dealing. Kill him! Promise me! Do not let him send
to Siberia other innocent supporters of the Cause!” Clutching my hand,
she added, “Tell me that you will avenge the deaths of the men and women
who fell victims to his treachery. Promise me!”
“I promise,” I replied. “If he is a spy he shall die.”
“Ah! At last he will receive his well-merited punishment. And he had the
audacity to love me!” She uttered the words feebly, sinking wearily back
upon her pillow.
Her face had changed, becoming paler and more drawn. She did not move,
and I stood watching, not knowing what to do. The excitement had proved
too much for her. Suddenly she opened her eyes, and whispered my name.
Then she gave vent to a long, deep-drawn sigh, shuddered, and lay
strangely still.
I knew then that my wife had passed away!
I was kissing her pale lips and closing the glazing eyes, when the
footman entered hurriedly, and whispered that I was required in the
library at once. He dashed downstairs, and I followed. On going into the
room a sight met my gaze which I shall never forget, for, lying stretched
upon the couch was his lordship, writhing in the horrible agonies of
death from poisoning. A small bottle standing upon the table and a broken
champagne glass had but one tale to tell.
He had taken his own life!
The clergyman was kneeling by his side, but in a few moments the old Earl
gave a final sigh, and ere I had realised it, he passed to the land that
lies beyond human ken.
I learned from the doctor who attended that the Earl of Wansford had,
since relinquishing his post at Petersburg, showed signs of madness.
During a fit of insanity, a year before, he had struck down his daughter,
inflicting such injuries that she had been an invalid ever since. Her
mind, too, became unhinged. It was supposed that, seized by sudden
remorse, his lordship had imbibed the fatal draught.
Morning was breaking, cold and grey, as I ascended the stairs to
my chambers. Opening the door with my latch-key, I entered the
sitting-room. The lamp was still burning, and there were evidences that
Kassatkin had not returned.
Upon the table was a note addressed to me.
I tore it open, and read as follows:—
“In the matter upon which we were engaged last week I have made an
important discovery, which necessitates me leaving for the Continent
to-night. Will let you know shortly where I am.”
It suddenly crossed my mind that, having ascertained the details of the
plot we were preparing, he had left for Petersburg to give information to
the police.
That morning I placed the papers my dead wife had given me before the
Executive, and the same evening Tersinski and I, having discovered the
route the spy had taken, were on our way to the Continent, following the
man upon whom the sentence of our Order had been passed.
A week later the special edition of the _Pall Mall Gazette_ contained the
following among its general foreign news:—
“Reuter’s Cologne correspondent reports that a mysterious murder has
created considerable sensation in Germany. Yesterday the body of a man
was discovered floating in the Rhine, near Bonn, and on being taken from
the water it was found that the man had been stabbed to the heart. From
papers found upon him, it appears that the name of the murdered man was
Nicolas Kassatkin, a Russian, who has recently been living in London.”