IN THE DEEPS.
The sudden shock of the cold night air was a relief to his burning
brain; and so also as he passed into the crowded streets, was the low
continuous thunder all around him. The theatres were coming out; cabs,
omnibuses, carriages added to the muffled roar; the pavements were
thronged with people talking, laughing, jostling, calling out one to the
other. He was glad to lose himself in this seething multitude; he was
glad to be hidden by the darkness; he would try to think.
But his thoughts were too rapid and terrible to be very clear. He only
vaguely knew--it was a consciousness that seemed to possess both heart
and brain like a consuming fire--that the beautiful dreams he had been
dreaming of a future beyond the wide Atlantic, with Natalie living and
working by his side, her proud spirit cheering him on, and refusing to
be daunted--these dreams had been suddenly snatched away from him; and
in their stead, right before him, stood this pitiless, inexorable fate.
He could not quite tell how it had all occurred, but there at least was
the horrible certainty, staring him right in the face. He could not
avoid it; he could not shut his eyes to it, or draw back from it; there
was no escape. Then some wild desire to have the thing done at once
possessed him. At once--at once--and then the grave would cover over his
remorse and despair. Natalie would forget; she had her mother now to
console her. Evelyn would say, "Poor devil, he was not the first who got
into mischief by meddling in schemes without knowing how far he might
have to go." Then amidst all this confused din of the London streets,
what was the phrase that kept ringing in his ears?--"_And when she bids
die he shall surely die!_" But he no longer heard the pathetic vibration
of Natalie Lind's voice; the words seemed to him solemn, and distant,
and hopeless, like a knell. But only if it were over--that was again his
wild desire. In the grave was forgetfulness and peace.
Presently a curious fancy seized him. At the corner of Windmill Street a
ragged youth was bawling out the name of a French journal. Brand bought
a copy of the journal, passed on, and walked into an adjacent cafe, and
took a seat at one of the small tables. A waiter came to him, and he
mechanically ordered coffee. He began to search this newspaper for the
array of paragraphs usually headed _Tribunaux_.
At last, in the corner of the newspaper, he found that heading, though
under it there was nothing of any importance or interest. But it was the
heading itself that had a strange fascination for him. He kept his eyes
fixed on it. Then he began to see detached phrases and sentences--or,
perhaps, it was only in his brain that he saw them: "The Assassination
of Count Zaccatelli! The accused, an Englishman, who refuses to declare
his name, admits that he had no personal enmity--commanded to execute
this horrible crime--a punishment decreed by a society which he will not
name--confesses his guilt--is anxious to be sentenced at once, and to
die as soon as the law permits.... This morning the assassin of Cardinal
Zaccatelli, who has declared his name to be Edward Bernard, was
executed."
He hurriedly folded up the paper, just as if he were afraid of some one
overlooking and reading these words, and glanced around. No one was
regarding him. The cafe was nearly full, and there was plenty of
laughing and talking amidst the glare of the gas. He slunk out of the
place, leaving the coffee untasted. But when he had got outside he
straightened himself up, and his face assumed a firmer expression. He
walked quickly along to Clarges Street. The Evelyns' house was dark from
top to bottom; apparently the family had retired for the night. "Perhaps
he is at the Century," Brand said to himself, as he started off again.
But just as he got to the corner of the street a hansom drove up, and
the driver taking the corner too quickly, sent the wheel on to the curb.
"Why don't you look where you're going to?" a voice called out from the
inside of the cab.
"Is that you, Evelyn?" Brand cried.
"Yes, it is," was the reply; and the hansom was stopped, and Lord Evelyn
descended. "I am happy to say that I can still answer for myself. I
thought we were in for a smash."
"Can you spare me five minutes?"
"Five hours if you like."
The man was paid; the two friends walked along the pavement together.
"I am glad to have found you after all, Evelyn," Brand said. "The fact
is, my nerves have had a bad shake."
"I never knew you had any. I always fancied you could drive a
fire-brigade engine full gallop along the Strand on a wet night, with
the theatres coming out."
"A few minutes' talk with you will help me to pull myself together
again. Need we go into the house?"
"We sha'n't wake anybody."
They noiselessly went into the house, and passed along the hall until
they reached a small room behind the dining-room. The gas was lit,
burning low. There were biscuits, seltzer-water, and spirits on the
table.
Lord Evelyn was in the act of turning the gas higher, when he happened
to catch sight of his friend. He uttered a quick exclamation. Brand, who
sat down in a chair, was crying, with his hands over his face, like a
woman.
"Great heavens, what is it, Brand?"
That confession of weakness did not last long. Brand rose to his feet
impatiently, and took a turn or two up and down the small room.
"What is it? Well, I have received my sentence to-night, Evelyn. But it
isn't that--it is the thought of those I shall leave behind--Natalie,
and those boys of my sister's--if people were to find out after all that
they were related to me!"
He was looking at the things that presented themselves to his own mind;
he forgot that Evelyn could not understand; he almost forgot that he was
speaking aloud. But by-and-by he got himself better under control. He
sat down again. He forced himself to speak calmly: the only sign of
emotion was that his face was rather pale, and his eyes looked tired and
harassed.
"Yes, I told you my nervous system had got a shock, Evelyn; but I think
I have got over it. It won't do for me in my position to abandon one's
self to sentiment."'
"I wish you would tell me what you mean."
Brand regarded him.
"I cannot tell you the whole thing, but this will be enough. The Council
have decreed the death of a certain person, and I am appointed his
executioner."
"You are raving mad!"
"Perhaps it would be better if I were," he said, with a sigh. "However,
such is the fact. The ballot was taken to-night; the lot fell to me. I
have no one to blame except myself."
Lord Evelyn was too horrified to speak. The calm manner of his companion
ought to have carried conviction with it; and yet--and yet--how could
such a thing be possible?
"Yes, I blame myself," Brand said, "for not having made certain
reservations when pledging myself to the Society. But how was one to
think of such things? When Lind used to denounce the outrages of the
Nihilists, and talk with indignation of the useless crimes of the
Camorra, how could one have thought it possible that assassination
should be demanded of you as a duty?"
"But Lind," Lord Evelyn exclaimed--"surely Lind does not approve of such
a thing?"
"No, he does not," Brand answered. "He says it will prove a
misfortune--"
"Then why does he not protest?"
"Protest against a decree of the Council!" the other exclaimed. "You
don't know as much as I do, Evelyn, about that Council. No, I have sworn
obedience, and I will obey."
He had recovered his firmness; he seemed resigned--even resolved. It was
his friend who was excited.
"I tell you all the oaths in the world cannot compel a man to commit
murder," Evelyn said, hotly.
"Oh, they don't call it murder," Brand replied, without any bitterness
whatever; "they call it a punishment, a warning to the evil-doers of
Europe. And no doubt this man is a great scoundrel, and cannot be
reached by the law; and then, besides, one of the members of the
Society, who is poor and old, and who has suffered grievous wrong from
this man, has appealed to the Council to avenge him. No; I can see their
positions. I have no doubt they believe they are acting justly."
"But you yourself do not think so."
"My dear fellow, it is not for the private soldier to ask whether his
sovereign has gone to war justly or unjustly. It is his business to obey
commands--to kill, if need be--according to his oath."
"Why, you are taking the thing as a matter of course," Lord Evelyn
cried, indignantly. "I cannot believe if possible yet! And--and if it
were possible--consider how I should upbraid myself: it was I who led
you into this affair, Brand."
"Oh no," said the other, absently.
He was staring into the smouldering fire; and for a second or two he sat
in silence. Then he said, slowly and thoughtfully,
"I am afraid I have led a very selfish life. Natalie would not say so;
she is generous. But it is true. Well, this will make some atonement.
She will know that I kept my word to her. She gave me that ring,
Evelyn."
He held out his hand for a moment
"It was a pledge that I should never draw back from my allegiance to the
Society. Well, neither she nor I then fancied this thing could happen;
but now I am not going to turn coward. You saw me show the white
feather, Evelyn, for a minute or two: I don't think it was about myself;
it was about her--and--and one or two others. You see our talking
together has sent off all that nervous excitement; now we can speak
about business--"
"I will not--I will not!" Evelyn said, still greatly moved. "I will go
to Lind himself. I will tell him that no duty of this kind was ever
contemplated by any one joining here. It may be all very well for Naples
or Sicily; it won't do for the people on this side the Channel: it will
ruin his work: he must appeal--I will drive him to it!"
"My dear fellow," Brand said, quietly, "I told you Lind has accepted the
execution of this affair with reluctance. He knows it will do our
work--well, my share in it will be soon over--no good. But in this
business there in no appeal. You are only a companion; you don't know
what stringent vows you have to undertake when you get into the other
grades. Moreover, I must tell you this thing to his credit. He is not
bound to take the risk of the ballot himself, but he did to-night. It is
all over and settled, Evelyn. What is one man's life, more or less?
People go to throw away hundreds of thousands of lives 'with a light
heart.' And even if this affair should give a slight shock to some of
our friends here, the effect will not be permanent. The organization is
too big, too strong, too eager, to be really injured by such a trifle. I
want to talk about business matters now."
"I won't hear you--I will not allow this," Lord Evelyn protested,
trembling with excitement.
"You must hear me; the time is short," Brand said, with decision. "When
this thing has to be done I don't know; I shall probably hear to-morrow;
but I must at once take steps to prevent shame falling on the few
relatives I have. I shall pretend to set out on some hunting-expedition
or other--Africa is a good big place for one to lose one's self in--and
if I do not return, what then? I shall leave you my executor, Evelyn;
or, rather, it will be safer to do the whole thing by deed of gift. I
shall give my eldest sister's son the Buckinghamshire place; then I must
leave the other one something. Five hundred pounds at four per cent,
would pay that poor devil Kirski's rent for him, and help him on a bit.
Then I am going to make you a present, Evelyn; so you see you shall
benefit too. Then as for Natalie--or rather, her mother--"
"Her mother!" Evelyn stared at him.
"Natalie's mother is in London: you will learn her story from herself,"
Brand continued, briefly. "In the mean time, do not tell Lind until she
permits you. I have taken rooms for her in Hans Place, and Natalie will
no doubt go to see her each day; but I am afraid the poor lady is not
very well off, for the family has always been in political troubles.
Well, you see, Evelyn, I could leave you a certain sum, the interest of
which you could manage to convey to her in some roundabout and delicate
way that would not hurt her pride. You could do this, of course."
"But you are talking as if your death was certain!" Lord Evelyn
exclaimed, rather wildly. "Even if it is all true, you might escape."
Brand turned away his head as he spoke.
"Do you think, then," he said, slowly, "that, even if that were
possible, I should care to live red-handed? The Council cannot demand
that of me too. If there is one bullet for him, the next one will be for
myself; and if I miss the first shot I shall make sure about the second.
There will be no examination of the prisoner, as far as I am concerned.
I shall leave a paper stating the object and cause of my attempt; but I
shall go into it nameless, and the happiest thing I can hope for is that
forgetfulness will gather round it and me as speedily as may be."
Lord Evelyn was deeply distressed. He could no longer refuse to believe;
and inadvertently he bethought himself of the time when he had besought
and entreated this old friend of his to join the great movement that was
to regenerate Europe. Was this the end, then--a vulgar crime?--the
strong, manly, generous life to be thrown away, and Natalie left
broken-hearted?
"What about her?" he asked, timidly.
"About Natalie, do you mean?" said Brand, starting somewhat. "Curiously
enough, I was thinking about her also. I was wondering whether it could
be concealed from her--whether it would not be better to let her imagine
with the others that I had got drowned or killed somewhere. But I could
not do that. The uncertainty would hang over her for years. Better the
sharp pain, at once--of parting; then her mother must take charge of her
and console her, and be kind to her. What I fear most is that she may
blame herself--she may fancy that she is some how responsible--"
"It is I, surely, who must take, that blame on myself," said Lord
Evelyn, sadly. "But for me, how could you have been led into joining the
Society?"
"Neither she nor you have anything to reproach yourselves with. What
was my life worth to me when I joined? Then for a time I saw a vision of
what may yet be in the world--of what will be, please God; and what does
it matter if one here or one there falls out of the ranks?--the great
army is moving on: and for a time there were others visions. Poor
Natalie!--I am glad her mother has come to her at last."
He rose.
"I wish I could offer you a bed here," Lord Evelyn said.
"I have a great many things to arrange to-night," he answered, simply.
"Perhaps I may not be able to get to bed at all."
Lord Evelyn hesitated.
"When can I see you to-morrow?" he said at length. "You know I am going
to Lind the first thing in the morning."
Brand stopped abruptly.
"I must absolutely forbid your doing anything of the kind," said he,
firmly. "This is a matter of the greatest secrecy; there is to be no
talking about it; I have given you some hint, and the same I shall give
to Natalie, and there an end." He added, "Your interference would be
quite useless, Evelyn. The matter is not in Lind's hands."
He bade his friend good-night.
"Thank you for letting me bore you so long. You see, I expected talking
over the thing would drive off that first shock of nervousness. Now I am
going to play the part of Karl Sand with indifference. When you hear of
me, you will think I must have been brought up by the Tugendbund or the
Carbonari, or some of those societies."
This cheerfulness did not quite deceive Lord Evelyn. He bade his friend
good-night with some sadness; his mind was not at ease about the share
he attributed to himself in this calamity.
When Brand reached his chambers in Buckingham Street there was a small
parcel awaiting him. He opened it, and found a box with, inside, a tiny
nosegay of sweet-smelling flowers. These were not half as splendid as
those he had got the previous afternoon for the rooms in Hans Place, but
there was something accompanying them that gave them sufficient value.
It was a strip of paper, and on it was written--"From Natalie and from
Natalushka, with more than thanks."
"I will carry them with me," he thought to himself, "until the day of my
death. Perhaps they may not have quite withered by then."