AN IKON OATH.
Ivan Liustig was not like any one else. His friends of the Petersburg
Circle were conscious of some lack of foundation beneath the graceful
superstructure of his character. But they did not array themselves, as
his critics, against him. They smiled at him, but they loved him.
Since he had escaped with me after the wrecking of the Tzar’s train near
Borki, he had returned to Russia, whither I had also gone with Bounakoff
upon a secret quest.
When, in Petersburg, I heard of him as investigating psychical phenomena
as encoiled in psychology, it seemed another versatile phase at which
again to smile. For Ivan, who was an enthusiastic medical student, was
sure to have, here, as elsewhere, some exceptional experiences; was sure
to pour out the recital of the same in due time to his chosen associates
with a fulness of picturesque detail that shed a new light on all the
question involved. But when it appeared that it was not psychical
research in the abstract, but a feminine psychist in the concrete that
held Ivan in thrall, there was an altered feeling inducing a graver view.
“I hope all this we hear is an airy joke,” I said to him one day after a
meeting of the Circle. He honoured me, as his elder, with some deference
in his friendship; and the quality of the latter sentiment had been
exceptionally warm between us since our journey together in the Imperial
train.
He looked at me steadily with his handsome blue eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“You must know well enough. They say that you are spending all your
leisure with some shady female, who, at one and the same time, expounds
spirits, magnetic psychology, and exploits the pockets of the credulous.”
To my surprise he turned very pale.
“Were you not one of my best friends, Anton, I’d knock you down for that.”
“By the Virgin, you’re lost!” I cried.
I was about to turn away on my heel, but he drew me back. His anger had
been appeased.
“Don’t mind me,” he said in his tractable, normal tone. “But don’t
join the herd of fools who won’t understand. I looked for sympathy and
comprehension from you. You can’t judge till you know her—till you know
this wonderful—most wonderful woman.”
“I daresay,” I assented dryly. “Who, however, and what is she?”
“She is half Russian, half German, and wholly a citizen of the world.”
“Ah! I know the type—”
“You know nothing!” he exclaimed, flushing angrily. “But”—he shrugged his
shoulders—“the prejudices of the world count for—what? Nothing at all.
The curse of the Philistine is his Philistinism.”
“Very well. Forget what I have said. I approach the Russo-German in the
properly reverential spirit to apprehend the phenomena. They say she is
young and pretty. And what, especially, does she do?”
“You may see, some day.” His gaze grew bright, soft, and vague, as one
who catches a glimpse of the floating garments of supernatural mysteries.
“Ah! she is wonderful. She is charming!”
It was shortly after this that I obtained an introduction to Ivan
Liustig’s goddess. She lived in the Vosseressenski quarter, on the third
floor of a tall house, but with a degree of relative elegance that argued
either some personal means or a thriving trade. I had expected to see
an electric, opalescent person, with rouged face and a Cleopatra manner
calculated to enmesh the unwary. I met instead a little blonde woman with
great eyes, soft as black pearls and limpid as a brook. I had understood
from Ivan that she had been married and widowed. But with her loops of
flaxen braid tied deftly with ribbon, she looked no more matured than a
schoolgirl. Her dress, from head to foot, was tasteful and pleasing, but
of the simplest. And she had a way, after she had greeted you, of sitting
upon the edge of chairs and sofas and listening in grave-eyed confidence
that made you think of some precocious child forced, through the loss
of its natural protectors, to face the blackness of an unfamiliar world
alone. She was introduced as Wanda Waluiski.
“Your friend tells me that you are interested in psychical phenomena,”
she said to me, after a few moments. “But I fear I can show you nothing
much to-night. The conditions do not seem favourable, somehow.”
I made a murmur of regret.
“Are these things dependent on atmospheric conditions?”
“To a certain degree. But other obstacles step in—opposing mental
attitudes and currents.” She passed her hands over her eyes as she spoke,
as if to rid herself of some invisible oppression.
“A common charlatan, after all,” said I to myself. “She sees I am
sceptical of the validity of her claims and that prevents the full
operation of the trickery.”
Ivan ardently assured her that it was of no moment; that we would return
another day. Wanda was silent for an instant, and I had begun to think
her manner at least peculiar, when she turned her eyes full upon me.
“I ought not to let you come here again,” was her extraordinary remark.
“I have been warned this moment, I was warned the moment you entered the
roam that unhappiness must come to me through you. But one’s earthly fate
cannot be fought against. My forbidding you to come here would not delay
or turn aside the onward march of events.”
“I assure you I have no wish to inflict an unwelcome presence upon you,”
I hastened to explain.
“No—no.” Her pale, child-like face was overspread with a strange air of
weariness. “All we can do is of no use. Come. Come when you choose.”
When we were in the street Ivan broke out in apologies, urging that I
should not feel myself insulted.
“I do not feel insulted,” I said. “In fact, I find Madame Waluiski much
more interesting than I expected.”
And this was truth. If she were an impostor, an adventuress, I had been
impressed with the fact that she was one clever enough to be worthy of
study. But again, how doubt a personality apparently so unlike that of a
trickster, a face so transparent, a whole being so unusual, so ingenuous?
I knew not what to think.
* * * * *
The scene was, perhaps, one of the most picturesque in Petersburg. After
the dust and heat of the August day Mascha, Bounakoff, and myself were
sitting at dinner in the beautiful Gardens of Catherinenhoff. With the
sunset a cool wind had sprung up from the Neva, rendering Andrejeff’s
Restaurant an exceedingly pleasant retreat under the clear sky and
brilliant stars. At one of the small _al fresco_ tables we were in the
full enjoyment of our meal. It was a band night, and those who have
visited the Russian capital know how upon such occasions the Gardens are
illuminated and the tables filled by a fashionable throng of men and
women.
Ivan was sitting at the next table, and we had invited him to join
us, but as he had already finished his dinner he was waiting until we
commenced to smoke.
Those of my readers who have refreshed themselves at Andrejeff’s will
remember that one of the tables is placed against a large trellis
covered with tangled masses of creepers, which screens it from the gaze
of passers-by, and makes it a very cosy nook. It was here that Ivan sat
alone, contemplatively smoking a cigarette and sipping from the glass
of port beside him, while at our table we chaffed and laughed merrily
together. Conversation was general, and the hearty laughter and gay tones
of French voices mingled with the guttural exclamations of the Tzar’s
subjects as they walked under the linden trees beside the lake, while
ever and anon a burst of military music reached us from over the water.
As I sat watching the crowd of promenaders two figures that passed
engaged my attention. Why, I cannot tell. One was that of a lady,
apparently about forty years of age, good-looking, well-preserved, and
attired fashionably in a black jet-trimmed evening dress, with a lace
mantilla over her head. Alone, she walked past slowly and deliberately,
at the same time casting a searching glance in our direction. In the
dim half-light I could see she was undeniably handsome, but in a few
moments she had passed out of my sight, and I, joining in my companions’
conversation, forgot her.
The other figure which followed some minutes later was that of Wanda
Waluiski.
A few minutes later a lad, son of the _dvornik_ at Ivan’s lodging,
brought him some letters, being accompanied by his sister, a bright
little girl of ten. The student complimented the child on the way she was
dressed, patted her upon the cheek, and gave her some grapes, rewarding
the lad with a few kopecks. Then the girl laughed pleasantly, displaying
an even row of white teeth, afterwards making a dignified little bow, and
turning away with her brother.
They had scarcely gone when we were startled by a terrible cry.
Turning quickly, we saw that Ivan had risen from his chair, his face
flushed and distorted. One hand grasped his wine-glass, while the other
clutched convulsively at his throat, for he was choking.
Staggering a few uneven steps towards us, he stumbled. The glass fell
from his nerveless fingers, and was shattered. We sat speechless in
surprise and alarm.
His face became blanched in a moment, and he passed his hand across his
agonised brow.
“Ah!—Heaven!” he gasped with great effort. “You fellows—my wine!—can’t
you see?—I—I’m poisoned!”
With one accord we sprang to our feet and rushed towards him, but before
we could stretch forth our hands he had staggered forward with a loud cry
and fallen heavily upon the gravel.
Our endeavours to raise him were useless.
“Let me alone!” he shouted hoarsely. “The poison—was put into my
glass—through the trellis! You cannot save me. Ah! I—I’m dying! The
cowards have killed me!”
I knelt and raised his head upon my arm.
“Don’t touch me!” he cried. “Can’t you let me die?” Writhing in paroxysms
of intense pain, his face livid, his body horribly distorted, he ground
his teeth and foamed at the mouth.
The sight was awful; yet we were utterly powerless.
A violent trembling suddenly shook his whole frame, and his palsied limbs
stretched themselves out rigidly in the final struggle for existence.
Then he gasped. The breath left his body, and he lay pale and motionless
under the starlight. Ivan Liustig was dead!
So quickly had all this happened, that scarcely any one had been
attracted. As we lifted the body and carried it tenderly into the
restaurant the strains of the “_Boje Zara chrani_,” floating over the
lake, formed a jarring, incongruous dirge to our silent, sorrowful
_cortège_.
A doctor was quickly procured, but as soon as he touched him he removed
his hat respectfully, and pronounced him beyond human aid. I handed him
the pieces of broken glass which I had picked from the gravelled walk. He
smelt them, and finding a drop of wine remaining, dipped the tip of his
little finger into it, and placed it upon his tongue.
“Strychnine,” he remarked. “Without a doubt.”
Reverently they covered the body with a tablecloth, and it was
subsequently conveyed away.
It is unnecessary to refer in detail to the events that immediately
followed. That Ivan had been murdered in the most cowardly and secret
manner possible was plain, but the identity of the person who had
placed the poison in the glass from the opposite side of the trellis
was a mystery. The police quickly apprehended the _dvornik’s_ son and
daughter, both of whom were submitted to a searching cross-examination.
There was such an utter absence of motive, however, and so plain and
straightforward were their answers, that the officials were quickly
convinced of their innocence.
But I had my own suspicions. Later that night I took a _drosky_ to the
Vosseressenski quarter and sought the dead man’s idol, intending to break
the news to her, and closely observe the manner in which she received it.
Wanda Waluiski, when I entered, was sitting alone, dressed in semi-loose
drapery of white, that made her child-like figure seem only the more
youthful under the light of the bright lamp. Her eyes met mine instantly
as I came in, and their gaze had a fulness of significance I could not
fathom. I offered her my hand.
“I never shake the hand of any one,” she observed gently, not moving her
own. “It induces loss of power in psychic sensitives.”
I was looking into her weirdly delicate visage, with its large eyes
whose expression was so haunting, and a certain thrill of quickened zest
suddenly replaced the sensation of repugnance in my mind.
“I have come to break bad news to you,” I said gently.
“I know,” she replied. “I—I am aware that Ivan is dead.”
“Who told you?” I asked quickly, but my inquiry was not answered.
At that moment the door was flung open unceremoniously, and two police
officers entered.
“Wanda Waluiski,” exclaimed the elder of the two, advancing towards her,
“I arrest you, in the name of our Father the Tzar, for the murder of one
Ivan Liustig!”
“For murder!” she gasped, half-rising from her chair. “I—I am innocent!”
“Upon whose information do you make the arrest?” I asked.
The officer referred to the paper in his hand, and replied: “One Mascha
Prèhznev alleges that this woman placed the poison in the victim’s glass.”
“My sister!” I exclaimed involuntarily.
“Ah!” said Wanda, who had risen and stood stern and haggard before me. “I
told you on the first occasion you visited me that unhappiness must come
to me through you.” Turning quickly towards the gilded _ikon_ upon the
wall, she crossed herself reverently, murmuring, “Before Heaven, I swear
I am innocent!”
Then she took up her fur-lined cloak lying upon the couch, and throwing
it about her shoulders, drew the hood over her head and announced her
readiness to accompany the officers. As they were about to descend the
stairs two police spies in civilian dress entered and received orders
to search the place. I remained behind in order to ascertain what was
discovered, but after an hour’s investigation they had to acknowledge the
absence of any clue.
During the time they were rummaging in holes and corners I chanced to
take up a photograph album, and was looking casually through it when my
eyes fell upon a cabinet portrait of a well-preserved, handsomely attired
woman, evidently moving in fashionable society.
In a moment I recognised it as the counterfeit presentment of the woman
I had seen strolling in the Catherinenhoff Gardens almost immediately
before I had noticed Wanda! I closed the album and kept the discovery to
myself. Within an hour I saw Mascha, and asked her upon what grounds she
had given the information that had led to the mysterious Wanda’s arrest.
“She loved Ivan and was my rival,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders.
“I saw her emerge from behind the trellis. That is all the proof I have.”
I pointed out that the allegations were of so serious a character that,
in all probability, Wanda would be kept in prison while the matter was
being investigated, which would certainly be several months, perhaps
years.
“But she stole him from me,” my sister replied, with flashing eyes. “She
will now have to prove her innocence.”
I could see that Mascha was revengeful, and that all argument was useless.
The murder created a good deal of sensation in Petersburg; and, as I had
anticipated, Wanda was confined in the grim fortress of Peter and Paul.
Days, weeks, months passed, but she was not brought before the Court—the
police were still investigating. At length, after nearly seven months
had gone by, the case was brought to trial, and the accused was acquitted.
Strange how Fate directs our course through life. It was about a year
afterwards. I had returned to London, and drifting into journalistic
work, was representing a certain daily newspaper, that shall be nameless,
in the gallery of the House of Commons. I had a reason for entering
journalism, but that has nothing to do with the present story.
The hour was midnight. The Speaker had ordered a division upon an
important question affecting Ireland, and honourable members, stretching
themselves, had risen wearily and were strolling out to vote. Many of
my _confrères_ had flung down their pens and made for the Press bar;
but I was busy. The debate had been almost historical, for, in answer
to the objections of the Opposition, Mr. Balfour had made a brilliant
and telling reply, therefore I was unfortunately compelled to continue
writing, and that at express speed.
The _frou-frou_ of silk, mingled with frivolous feminine laughter, caused
me to look upward. The ladies’ gallery is over that devoted to the Press,
and somewhat in the rear, being irreverently termed the “gridiron,”
because feminine beauty is hidden from the curious gaze of honourable
members by ornamental iron-work. From the side seats, however, we
obtained a good view of the fair ones who came to hear their husbands,
fathers, and lovers descant upon their country’s ills, and as I glanced
up, I saw two faces behind the iron bars peering down upon the half-empty
benches.
One was that of an elderly white-haired lady, evidently a patrician. The
other was younger, and her features struck me as strangely familiar.
Where could I have seen her before? I tried to think, but, with
tantalising contrariness, my memory refused to answer. Yet I felt a
curious desire to remember who she was. It was almost like a presage of
evil.
I looked again. Her eyes met mine in a cold, haughty stare, but in a
second I had recollected her. She was the woman I had noticed in the
Catherinenhoff Gardens!
My pen almost fell from my grasp.
Although I felt positive I had not mistaken the face, yet I admit the
identification was so sudden that I found myself doubting whether it was
really the woman I had seen in the dimly illuminated grounds.
“Campbell,” I said, beckoning one of the attendants, “there’s a lady
upstairs with blue birds in her hat. Don’t notice her for a moment, but
look up presently and tell me if you know who she is.”
“Very well, sir,” he replied with a significant smile, arranging his gilt
chain of office over his glossy shirt-front, and strolling away along the
gallery.
Returning in a few moments, he bent over me and exclaimed, “That lady,
sir.”
“Yes,” I said anxiously.
“She’s Mrs. Elworthy, wife of the Member for North-west Huntingdon. She’s
well known in society, and comes as regularly when her husband speaks as
Mrs. Gladstone does.”
“Mrs. Elworthy!” I ejaculated. “Ah, thanks,” I added.
Remarking that I was welcome to the information, Campbell walked away.
Mrs. Elworthy! My thoughts were only of her. I knew her by reputation as
a leader of fashion; the centre of a dashing set. She joked pleasantly
with her elder companion, uttering a low, musical laugh. The diamonds on
her slim wrist sparkled as the daintily gloved hand grasped the iron-work.
I was watching that hand surreptitiously, when a strange thought occurred
to me. I wondered whether it was the same that had reached through the
creeper-covered trellis in Petersburg two years before!
But as these grave thoughts took possession of me, the “House” filled,
the tellers advanced to the table, and the result of the division was
declared.
I went out to hand it to my telegraphist in the lobby. When I returned
the object of my thoughts had gone. It was certainly a curious
coincidence that we should thus meet, yet what proof had I that she was
a murderess? Nothing beyond a strange, fitful fancy.
In a handsome drawing-room in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square, where the
wintry twilight filtered through pale-blue silk curtains, I was, about
two months later, sitting alone with Mrs. Elworthy.
Through a friend of the family I had succeeded in obtaining an
introduction to her, and now regularly received cards for all her
little festivities. Both she and her husband welcomed me warmly
whenever I called, and very soon I found myself one of a very pleasant,
if extravagant set. I made, however, two discoveries of a somewhat
remarkable character. Firstly, that Mrs. Elworthy was a Russian, and,
secondly, that the fascinating girl I had known as Wanda Waluiski was
living with her, and was, in reality, her daughter!
On this particular afternoon I had remained behind after the other
visitors had departed, and was chatting with Mrs. Elworthy, who, with all
a woman’s cunning, had chosen a _vieux rose_ tea-gown, which, falling in
artistic folds, gave sculptural relief to her almost angular outline.
For a woman, she was unusually conversant with political questions, and
I had purposely turned our discussion upon the prevalence of famine in
Russia.
“Were you ever in Petersburg?” I asked, glancing at her suddenly.
She gazed at me inquiringly, and the smile died from her face.
“No,” she replied quickly. “I came from Odessa. I have never been to the
capital. But of course you have.”
“Yes,” I said reflectively. “Unfortunately, however, my last visit was
marred by a very sad occurrence.”
“What was it?” she asked, lounging languidly in her chair.
“The murder of my friend Ivan Liustig,” I replied calmly, gazing straight
into her eyes.
The announcement did not produce the effect I had intended. She stirred
uneasily, but merely raised her eyebrows and uttered a low exclamation of
horror.
“The poor fellow was poisoned,” I continued, at the same time drawing my
wallet from my pocket. “Here is his photograph,” I added, handing her a
_carte de visite_.
She looked calmly at the pictured face.
“Very sad—very sad indeed,” she remarked. “And was the murderer caught?”
She kept her eyes upon the photograph as she asked the question.
“Murderess,” I said, in as unconcerned a tone as I could.
“A woman, then?”
“Yes, and, moreover, I have traced the assassin.”
She looked up sharply into my face. Her handsome features presented a
strange haggard appearance, and she toyed nervously with her rings.
“Why—what—what do you mean?” she gasped.
“Disguise is useless, Mrs. Elworthy,” I said sternly, as I rose to my
feet. “I mean I can prove that you poisoned Ivan Liustig!”
She started from her chair and glared at me.
“You—you say this! You insult me, sir—in my own house—brand me a
murderess! I’ll call the servants and have you shown out instantly,” she
cried angrily, at the same time making a motion as if to ring the bell.
I stayed her hand.
“No, madame,” I said, “you will do nothing of the kind. Your daughter
has probably not told you that I was present when she was arrested on
suspicion. Since then your guilt has been proved, and it is useless to
deny it. The bottle still containing a portion of the poison sold to you
by Wagner, the chemist in the Nevski, is here,” I continued, taking it
from my pocket and holding it before her eyes. “Besides, a Russian lad is
now in London who actually saw you pour it into Ivan’s glass!”
“He lies—I—I—never was in Petersburg in my life! I never knew Ivan——”
The proud, handsome woman, now pale to the lips, stopped suddenly. Her
tongue refused to articulate; she reeled, clutched at the table for
support, but, tottering back, fell heavily to the floor. Ringing for the
servants, I told them that their mistress had fainted. Then hurrying on
my coat, I crammed my hat upon my head, and left the house.
* * * * *
Lazily smoking before the fire in my chambers a fortnight afterwards,
with my feet upon the fender, I had given myself up to reflection. My
reverie was somewhat puzzling, for, truth to tell, I was in love, and
the object of my affection was none other than Wanda Elworthy. Her
face smiled down upon me from a cabinet photograph that stood upon the
mantel-shelf; yet, as the smoke curled before it, I could not help
thinking how much it resembled that of her unhappy mother.
Suddenly my meditations were interrupted by a loud rat-tat at the door.
Opening it, I was surprised to discover a lady, who passed me without a
word, and entered my sitting-room.
Closing the door I followed her, and found it was Mrs. Elworthy.
“Good afternoon,” I said, halting before the fire, with my hands behind
my back. “I confess I’m puzzled, madam, as to the object of this call.”
Frowning slightly, she tapped the floor impatiently with her shapely foot.
“My object is to come to terms with you.”
“Then you admit your guilt?” I remarked, amazed.
“It is useless, I suppose, to deny it. You have discovered my secret, and
I am prepared to pay the price you name.”
Her features were pale and set—a haggard face almost statuesque.
“Pardon me, madam,” I replied warmly; “I decline to accept gold as a
bribe to conceal the murder of my friend.”
“You misunderstand me. I have no intention of offering you money.”
“Then what request have you to make, pray?” I asked, looking fixedly at
her.
“You know the original of that photograph behind you?” she exclaimed in a
harsh, strained voice, pointing at it.
“I do.”
“It has come to my knowledge that you love her.”
I nodded, but did not speak.
“Then the object of my visit is to make a compact with you. It is this:
If you will marry Wanda within three months from to-day she shall have a
dowry of twenty thousand pounds.”
We were both silent for a moment. Then I said—
“Which proposal means that you are prepared to sacrifice your daughter
for the preservation of your own secret, eh?”
She did reply, but bowed her head in humiliation.
“Madam,” I said severely, “I admit I love Wanda, but your proposition is
absolutely loathsome.”
“Think—think—she cares for you! Besides, if you had money you would no
longer be compelled to work for an existence.”
“Impossible,” I replied decisively.
“Ah, don’t say that!” she cried hoarsely, as, with a sudden impulse,
she threw herself upon her knees before me. “See! I implore you for
mercy. God knows I have tried to atone and do my duty, but I yielded to
temptation, and this is my punishment!”
Drawing a long breath, she burst into tears.
“You—you do not know all, Anton Prèhznev, or you would find the
circumstances extenuating,” she sobbed bitterly. “I—I confess it was I
who poisoned Ivan! He—he was my son!”
“Your son?”
“Yes. I—I’m a vile wretch; as degraded as the woman who walks the
pavement. I killed my son! For twenty years he was ignorant of his
parentage, but, alas! he discovered the secret of his dishonourable
birth. As the living evidence of my shame he declared he would denounce
me—I, who had supplied him with money and secretly guided his career.
When he knew I was his mother he loathed me; he cursed me for my sin! His
hatred stung me; he threatened to expose me to my husband. Moreover, he
fell in love with my lawful daughter, Wanda, then studying in Petersburg!
What was I to do?”
She paused. Her hands were clasped; her agonised face was uplifted in
supplication.
“Ah! do not shrink from me!” she cried. “Have mercy, for here, before
Heaven, I swear I am penitent! Exposure meant ruin. Death only could rid
me of the terrible Nemesis. I went to Petersburg—followed him—and—and—you
know the rest. I—his mother—murdered him!”
Her chin rested upon her breast; her white lips moved again, but no sound
came from them.
“Madam,” I said at length, taking her hand and assisting her to rise,
“this interview is painful to us both, let us end it.”
“Will you not spare me? will you not be merciful and accept my offer?”
she implored.
“I cannot. I pity you, and hope forgiveness may be yours.”
“You will not accept the dowry?”
I shook my head.
She turned slowly, and, blinded by tears, tottered out, closing the door
gently after her.
* * * * *
The newspapers of the following evening contained a sensational item of
news, headed “Suicide of an M.P.’s wife.” It ran as follows:—
“Mrs. Elworthy, wife of Mr. Harold Elworthy, M.P., of Brook Street,
Grosvenor Square, was discovered dead in her dressing-room this morning.
A small bottle containing arsenic was found at her side, together with
a letter which leaves no doubt that she committed suicide. The contents
of the letter have not been made public, but it is rumoured that the
confession is of a very remarkable character.”
An inquest was held, and a verdict of “suicide whilst temporarily insane”
returned. Immediately following this came the announcement that the
member for North-west Huntingdon had accepted the stewardship of the
Chiltern Hundreds and gone abroad, accompanied by his daughter Wanda.
They have never returned.