A WEAK BROTHER.
George Brand was sitting alone in these rooms of his, the lamps lit, the
table near him covered with papers. He had just parted with two
visitors--Molyneux and a certain learned gentleman attached to Owens
College--who had come to receive his final plans and hints as to what
still lay before them in the north. On leaving, the fresh-colored,
brisk-voiced Molyneux had said to him,
"Well, Mr. Brand, seeing you so eager about what has to be done up
there, one might wonder at your leaving us and going off pleasuring. But
no matter; a man must have his holiday; so I wish you a pleasant
journey, and we'll do our best till you come back."
So that also was settled. In fact, he had brought all his affairs up to
a point that would enable him to start at any moment. But about Natalie?
He had not heard from her through any channel whatever. He had not the
least idea whither she had gone. Moreover, he gathered from Reitzei that
her father--who, in Reitzei's opinion, could at once have discovered
where she was--refused to trouble himself in the matter, and, indeed,
would not permit her name to be mentioned in his presence.
He leaned back in his chair with a sigh. Of what value to him now were
these carefully calculated suggestions about districts, centres,
conveners, and what not? And yet he had appeared deeply interested while
his two visitors were present. For the time being the old eagerness had
stirred him; the pride he had taken in his own work. But now that was
passed from him; he had relinquished his stewardship; and as he absently
gazed out into the black night before him, his thoughts drifted far
away. He was startled from his reverie by some one knocking at the door.
Immediately after Gathorne Edwards entered.
"Waters said I should find you alone," said the tall, pale, blue-eyed
student. "I have come to you about Kirski."
"Sit down. Well?"
"It's a bad business," he said, taking a chair, and looking rather
gloomy and uncomfortable. "He has taken to drink badly. I have been to
him, talked to him, but I have no influence over him, apparently. I
thought perhaps you might do something with him."
"Why, I cannot even speak to him!"
"Oh, he is accustomed to make much out of a few words; and I would go
with you."
"But what is the occasion of all this? How can he have taken to drink in
so short a time?"
"A man can drink himself into a pretty queer state in a very short time
when he sets his mind to it," Edwards said. "He has given up his work
altogether, and is steadily boozing away the little savings he had made.
He has gone back to his blood and kill, too; wants some one to go with
him to murder that fellow out in Russia who first of all took his wife,
and then beat him and set dogs on him. The fact is, Calabressa's cure
has gone all to bits."
"It is a pity. The unfortunate wretch has had enough trouble. But what
is the cause of it?"
"It is rather difficult to explain," said Edwards with some
embarrassment. "One can only guess, for his brain is muddled, and he
maunders. You know Calabressa's flowery, poetical interpretation. It was
Miss Lind, in fact, who had worked a miracle. Well, there was something
in it. She was kind to him, after he had been cuffed about Europe, and a
sort of passion of gratitude took possession of him. Then he was led to
believe at that time that--that he might be of service to her or her
friends, and he gave up his projects of revenge altogether--he was ready
for any sacrifice--and, in fact, there was a project--" Edwards glanced
at his companion; but Brand happened at that moment to be looking out of
the window.
"Well, you see, all that fell through; and he had to come back to
England disappointed; then there was no Calabressa to keep him up to his
resolutions: besides that, he found out--how, I do not know--that Miss
Lind had left London."
"Oh, he found that out?"
"Apparently. And he says he is of no further use to anybody; and all he
wants is to kill the man Michaieloff, and then make an end of himself."
Brand rose at once.
"We must go and see the unfortunate devil, Edwards. His brain never was
steady, you know, and I suppose even two or three days' hard drinking
has made him wild again. And just as I had prepared a little surprise
for him!"
"What?" Edwards asked, as he opened the door.
"I have made him a little bequest that would have produced him about
twenty pounds a year, to pay his rent. It will be no kindness to give it
to him until we see him straight again."
But Edwards pushed the door to again, and said in a low voice,
"Of course, Mr. Brand, you must know of the Zaccatelli affair?"
Brand regarded him, and said, calmly,
"I do. There are five men in England who know of it; you and I are two
of them."
"Well," said Edwards, eagerly, "if such a thing were determined on,
wouldn't it have been better to let this poor wretch do it? He would
have gloried in it; he had the enthusiasm of the martyr just then; he
thought he was to be allowed to do something that would make Miss Lind
and her friends forever grateful to him."
"And who put it into his head that Miss Lind knew anything about
it?--Calabressa, I suppose."
Edwards colored slightly.
"Well, yes--"
"And it was Calabressa who intrusted such a secret as that to a
maniac--"
"Pardon me, Kirski never knew specifically what lay before him; but he
was ready for anything. For my own part, I was heartily glad when they
sent him back to England. I did not wish to have any hand in such a
business, however indirectly; and, indeed, I hope they have abandoned
the whole project by this time."
"It might be wiser, certainly," said Brand, with an indifferent air.
"If they go on with it, it will make a fearful noise in Europe," said
Edwards, contemplatively. "The assassination of a cardinal! Well, his
life has been scandalous enough--but still, his death, in such a way--"
"It will horrify people, will it not?" Brand said, calmly; "and his
murderer will be execrated and howled at throughout Europe, no doubt!"
"Well, yes; you see, who is to know the motives?"
"There won't be a single person to say a single word for him," said
Brand, absently. "It is an enviable fate, isn't it, for some wretched
mortal? No matter, Edwards; we will go and look up this fellow Kirski
now."
They went out into the night--it was cold and drizzling--and made their
way up into Soho. They knocked at the door of a shabby-looking house;
and Kirski's landlady made her appearance. She was very angry when his
name was mentioned; of course he was not at home; they would find him in
some public-house or other--the animal!
"But he pays his rent, doesn't he?" Brand remonstrated.
Oh yes, he paid his rent. But she didn't like a wild beast in the house.
It was decent lodgings she kept; not a Wombwell's Menagerie.
"I am sure he gives you no trouble, ma'am," said Edwards, who had seen
something of the meek and submissive way the Russian conducted himself
in his lodgings.
This she admitted, but promptly asked how she was to know she mightn't
have her throat cut some night? And what was the use of her talking to
him, when he didn't know two words of a Christian language?
They gathered from this that the good woman had been lecturing her
docile lodger, and had been seriously hurt because of his inattention.
However, she at last consented to give them the name of the particular
public-house in which he was likely to be found, and they again set off
in quest of him.
They found him easily. He was seated in a corner of the crowded and
reeking bar-room by himself, nursing a glass of gin-and-water with his
two trembling hands. When they entered, he looked up and regarded them
with bleared, sunken eyes, evidently recognized them, and then turned
away sullenly.
"Tell him I am not come to bully him," said Brand quickly. "Tell him I
am come about some work. I want a cabinet made by a first-class workman
like himself."
Edwards went forward and put his hand on the man's shoulder and spoke to
him for some time; then he turned to Brand.
"He says, 'No use; no use.' He cannot work any more. They won't give him
help to kill Pavel Michaieloff. He wishes to die."
"Ask him, then, what the young lady who gave him her portrait will think
of him if she hears he is in this condition. Ask him how he has dared to
bring her portrait into a place like this."
When this was conveyed to Kirski, he seemed to arouse himself somewhat;
he even talked eagerly for a few seconds; then he turned away again, as
if he did not wish to be seen.
"He says," Edwards continued, "that he has not, that he would not bring
that portrait into any such place. He was afraid it might be found--it
might be taken from him. He made a small casket of oak, carved by his
own hands, and lined it with zinc; he put the photograph in it, and hid
himself in the trees of St. James's Park--at least, I imagine that St.
James's Park is what he means--at night. Then he buried it there. He
knows the place. When he has killed Michaieloff he will come back and
dig it up."
"The poor devil--his brain is certainly going, drink or no drink. What
is to be done with him, Edwards?"
"He says the young lady has gone away. He cares for nothing. He is of no
use. He despairs of getting enough money to take him back to Russia."
After a great deal of persuasion, however, they got him to leave the
public-house with them and return to his lodgings. They got him some tea
and some bread-and-butter, and made him swallow both. Then Edwards,
under his friend's instructions, proceeded to impress on Kirski that the
young lady was only away from London for a short time: that she would be
greatly distressed if she were to hear he had been misconducting
himself; that, if he returned to his work on the following morning, he
would find that his master would overlook his absence; and that finally,
he was to abandon his foolish notions about going to Russia, for he
would find no one to assist him; whereas, on the other hand, if he went
about proclaiming that he was about to commit a crime, he would be taken
by the police and shut up. All this, and a great deal more, they tried
to impress on him; and Edwards promised to call the next evening and see
how he was getting on.
It was late when Brand and Edwards again issued out into the wet night;
and Edwards, having promised to post a line to Kirski's employers, so
that they should get it in the morning, said good-bye, and went off to
his own lodgings. Brand walked slowly home through the muddy streets. He
preferred the glare and the noise to the solitude of his own rooms. He
even stood aimlessly to watch a theatre come out; the people seemed so
careless and joyous--calling to each other--making feeble jokes--passing
away under their umbrellas into the wet and shining darkness.
But at length, without any definite intention, he found himself at the
foot of the little thoroughfare in which he lived; and he was about to
open the door with his latch-key when out of the dusk beyond there
stepped forth a tall figure. He was startled, it is true, by the
apparition of this tall, white-haired man in the voluminous blue cloak,
the upturned hood of which half concealed his face, and he turned with a
sort of instinct of anger to face him.
"Monsieur mon frere, you have arrived at last!" said the stranger, and
instantly he recognized in the pronunciation of the French the voice of
Calabressa.
"What!" he said; "Calabressa?"
The other put a finger on his arm.
"Hush!" he said. "It is a great secret, my being here; I confide in
you. I would not wait in your rooms--my faith no! for I said to myself,
'What if he brings home friends who will know me, who will ask what the
devil Calabressa is doing in this country.'"
Brand had withdrawn his hand from the lock.
"Calabressa," he said, quickly, "you, if anybody knows, must know where
Natalie and her mother are. Tell me!"
"I will directly; but may I point out to you, my dear Monsieur Brand,
that it rains--that we might go inside? Oh yes, certainly, I will tell
you when we can say a word in secret, in comfort. But this devil of a
climate! What should I have done if I had not bought myself this cloak
in Paris? In Paris it was cold and wet enough; but one had nothing like
what you have here. Sapristi! my fingers are frozen."
Brand hurried him up-stairs, put him into an easy-chair, and stirred up
the fire.
"Now," said he, impatiently--"now, my dear Calabressa, your news!"
Calabressa pulled out a letter.
"The news--voila!"
Brand tore open the envelope; these were the contents:
* * * * *
"Dearest,--This is to adjure you not to leave England for the
present--not till you hear from me--or until we return. Have patience,
and hope. You are not forgotten. My mother sends you her blessing.
Your Betrothed."
* * * * *
"But there is no address!" he exclaimed. "Where are they?"
"Where are they? It is no secret, do you see? They are in Naples."
"In Naples!"
"Oh, I assure you, my dear friend, it is a noble heart, a brave heart,
that loves you. Many a day ago I said to her, 'Little child, when you
are in trouble, go to friends who will welcome you; say you are the
daughter of Natalie Berezolyi; say to them that Calabressa sent you.'
And you thought she was in no trouble! Ah, did she not tell me of the
pretty home you had got for the poor mother who is my old friend? did
she not tell me how you thought they were to be comfortable there, and
take no heed of anything else? But you were mistaken. You did not know
her. She said,'My betrothed is in danger: I will take Calabressa at his
word: before any one can hinder me, or interfere, I will go and appeal,
in the name of my family, in the name of myself!' Ah, the brave child!"
"But appeal to whom?" said Brand, breathlessly.
"To the Council, my friend!" said Calabressa with exultation.
"But gracious heavens!" Brand cried, with his hand nervously clutching
the arm of his chair, "is the secret betrayed, then? Do they think I
will shelter myself behind a woman?"
"She could betray no secret," Calabressa said, triumphantly, "she
herself not knowing it, do you not perceive? But she could speak
bravely!"
"And the result?"
"Who knows what that may be? In the mean time, this is the result--I am
here!"
At another moment this assumption of dignity would have been
ludicrous; but Brand took no heed of the manner of his companion;
his heart was beating wildly. And even when his reason forced him to
see how little he could expect from this intervention--when he
remembered what a decree of the Council was, and how irrevocable the
doom he had himself accepted--still the thought uppermost in his
mind was not of his own safety or danger, but rather of her love and
devotion, her resolve to rescue him, her quick and generous impulse
that knew nothing of fear. He pictured her to himself in Naples,
calling upon this nameless and secret power, that every man around
him dreaded, to reverse its decision! And then the audacity of her
bidding him hope! He could not hope; he knew more than she did. But
his heart was full of love and of gratitude as he thought of her.
"My dear friend," said Calabressa, lowering his voice, "my errand is one
of great secrecy. I have a commission which I cannot altogether explain
to you. But in the mean time you will be so good as to give me--_in
extense_, with every particular--the little history of how you were
appointed to--to undertake a certain duty."
"Unfortunately, I cannot," Brand said, calmly; "these are things one is
not permitted to talk about."
"But I must insist on it, my dear friend."
"Then I must insist on refusing you."
"You are trustworthy. No matter: here is something which I think will
remove your suspicions, my good friend--or shall we not rather say your
scruples?"
He took from his pocket-book a card, and placed it somewhat
ostentatiously on the table. Brand examined it, and then stared at
Calabressa in surprise.
"You come with the authority of the Council?"
"By the goodness of Heaven," Calabressa exclaimed with a laugh, "you
have arrived at the truth this time!"