PUT TO THE PROOF.
It was not at all likely that, at such a crisis, George Brand should pay
much attention to the man Kirski, who was now ushered into the room. He
left Edwards to deal with him. In any case he could not have understood
a word they were saying, except through the interpretation of Edwards,
and that was a tedious process. He had other things to think of.
Edwards was in a somewhat nervous and excited condition after hearing
this strange news, and he grew both impatient and angry when he saw that
Kirski was again half dazed with drink.
"Yes, I thought so!" he exclaimed, looking as fierce as the mild
student-face permitted. "This is why you are not at the shop when I
called to-day. What do you mean by it? What has become of your
promises?"
"Little father, I have great trouble," said the man, humbly.
"You! You in trouble!" said Edwards, angrily. "You do not know what
trouble is. You have everything in the world you could wish for. You
have good friends, as much employment as you can want, fair wages, and a
comfortable home. If your wife ran away from you, isn't it a good
riddance? And then, instead of setting about your work like a good
citizen, you think of nothing but murdering a man who is as far away
from you as the man in the moon, and then you take to drinking, and
become a nuisance to every one."
"Little father, I have many troubles, and I wish to forget."
"Your troubles!" said Edwards, though his anger was a little bit
assumed: he wished to frighten the man into better ways. "What are your
troubles? Think of that beautiful lady you are always talking about, who
interested herself in you--the bigger fool she!--think of her trouble
when she knows that her father is to die; and for what? Because he was
not obedient to the laws of the Society. And he is punished with death;
and you, have you been obedient? What has become of your promises to
me?"
The man before him seemed at this moment to arouse himself. He answered
nothing to the reproaches hurled at him; but said, with a glance of
eager interest in the sunken eyes,
"Is she in great trouble, little father?"
This gleam of intelligence rather startled Edwards. He had been merely
scolding a half-drunken poor devil, and had been incautious as to what
he said. He continued, with greater discretion,
"Would she have her troubles made any the less if she knew how you were
behaving? She was interested in you; many a time she asked about you--"
"Yes, yes," the man said, slowly; and he was twisting about the cap that
he held in his hand.
"And she gave you her portrait. Well, I am glad you knew you were not
fit to retain such a gift. A young lady like that does not give her
portrait to be taken into public-houses--"
"No more--do not say any more, little father," Kirski said, though in
the same humble way. "It is useless."
"Useless?"
"I will not go back to any public-house--never."
"So you said to me four days ago," Edwards answered.
"This time it is true," he said, though he did not lift his bleared
eyes. "To-morrow I will take back the portrait, little father; it shall
remain with me, in my room. I do not go back to any public-house, I
shall be no more trouble." Then he said, timidly raising his eyes, "Does
she weep--that beautiful one?"
"Yes, no doubt," said Edwards, hastily, and in some confusion. "Is it
not natural? But you must not say a word about it; it is a secret. Think
of it, and what one has to suffer in this world, and then ask yourself
if you will add to the trouble of one who has been so kind to you. Now
do I understand you aright? Is it a definite promise this time?"
"This time, yes, little father. You will have no more need to complain
of me, I will not add to any one's trouble. To-morrow--no, to-night I
take back the portrait; it is sacred; I will not add to any one's
trouble."
There was something strange about the man's manner, but Edwards put it
down to the effects of drink, and was chiefly concerned in impressing
on the dazed intelligence before him the responsibility of the promises
he had given.
"To-morrow, then, at nine you are at the shop."
"Assuredly, if you wish it, little father."
"Remember, it is the last chance your master will give you. He is very
kind to give you this chance. To-morrow you begin a new course of
conduct; and when the young lady comes back I will tell her of it."
"I will not add to her troubles, little father; you may be sure of it
this time."
When he had gone, Brand turned to his companion. He still held that
letter in his hands. His face, that had grown somewhat haggard of late,
was even paler than usual.
"I suppose I ought to feel very glad, Edwards," he said. "This is a
reprieve, don't you see, so far as I am concerned. And yet I can't
realize it; I don't seem to care about it; all the bitterness was
over--"
"You are too bewildered yet, Brand--no wonder."
"If only the girl and her mother were over here!" he said; and then he
added, with a quick instinct of fear, "What will she say to me? When she
appealed to the Council, surely she could not have imagined that the
result would be her father's death. But now that she finds it so--when
she finds that, in order to rescue me, she has sacrificed him--"
He could not complete the sentence.
"But he has richly deserved it," said Edwards.
"That is not what she will look to," he said. "Edwards," he added,
presently, "I am going home now. This place stifles me. I hate the look
of it. That table is where they played their little sleight-of-hand
business; and oh! the bravery of the one and the indifference of the
other, and Lind's solemn exposition of duty and obedience, and all the
rest of it! Well, what will be the result when this pretty story becomes
known? Rascality among the very foremost officers of the Society! what
are all those people who have recently joined us, who are thinking of
joining us, likely to say? Are these your high-priests? Are these the
apostles of self-sacrifice, and all the virtues?"
"It is bad enough, but not irreparable," said Edwards, calmly. "If a
member here or there falls out, the association remains; if one of its
high officers betrays his trust, you see how swift and terrible the
punishment is."
"I do not," said Brand. "I see that the paper decree is swift enough,
but what about the execution of it? Have the Council a body of
executioners?"
"I don't know about that," said Edwards, simply; "but I know that when
I was in Naples with Calabressa, I heard of the fate of several against
whom decrees had been pronounced; and I know that in every instance they
anticipated their own fate; the horror of being continually on the watch
was too much for them. You may depend on it, that is what Lind will do.
He is a proud man. He will not go slinking about, afraid at every
street-corner of the knife of the Little Chaffinch, or some other of
those Camorra fellows--"
"Edwards," said Brand, hastily, "there is a taint of blood--of
treachery--about this whole affair that sickens me. It terrifies me when
I think of what lies ahead. I--I think I have already tasted death, and
the taste is still bitter in the mouth. I must get into the fresh air."
Edwards got his coat and hat, and followed. He saw that his companion
was strangely excited.
"If all this work--if all we have been looking forward to--were to turn
out to be a delusion," Brand said, hurriedly, when they had got into the
dark clear night outside, "that would be worse than the suicide of
Ferdinand Lind or the disappearance of Beratinsky. If this is to be the
end--if these are our companions--"
"But how can you suggest such a thing?" Edwards protested. "Your
imagination is filled with blackness, Brand. You are disturbed, shocked,
afraid. Why, who are your colleagues? What do you think of--" Here he
mentioned a whole string of names, some of them those of well-known
Englishmen. "Do you accuse them of treachery? Have you not perfect
confidence in them? Have they not perfect confidence in the work we are
all pledged to?"
But he could not shake off this horrible feeling. He wished to be alone,
to fight with it; he did not even think of going to Lord Evelyn; perhaps
it was now too late. Shortly afterward he bade Edwards good-night, and
made his way to his rooms at the foot of Buckingham Street.
Waters had left the lights low; he did not turn them up. Outside lay the
black night-world of London, hushed and silent, with its thousand golden
points of fire. He was glad to be alone.
And yet an unknown feeling of dread was upon him. It seemed as if now
for the first time he realized what a terrible destiny had nearly been
his; and that his escape, so far from rendering him joyful, had left him
still trembling and horrified. Hitherto his pride had conquered. Even as
he had undertaking that duty, it was his pride that had kept him
outwardly calm and indifferent. He would not show fear, he would not
even show repugnance, before these men. And it was pride, too, that had
taught him at length and successfully to crush down certain vague
rebellions of conscience. He would not go back from his oath. He would
not go back from the promise to which Natalie's ring bound him. He would
go through with this thing, and bid farewell to life; further than that
no one could have demands on him.
But the sudden release from this dire pressure of will left his nerves
somewhat unstrung. For the mere sake of companionship he would like to
have taken Natalie's hand, to have heard her voice: that would have
assured him, and given him courage. He knew not what dangers encompassed
her, what agony she might not be suffering. And the night did not answer
these sudden, wavering, confused questionings; the darkness outside was
as silent as the grave.
Then a deeper gloom, almost touching despair, fell upon him. He saw in
all those companions of his only so many dupes; the great hope of his
life left him, the future became blank. He began to persuade himself
that he had only toyed with that new-found faith; that it was the
desperation of _ennui_, not a true hope, that had drawn him into this
work; that henceforth he would have no right to call upon others to join
in a vain undertaking. If such things as had just occurred were possible
in this organization, with all its lofty aims and professions--if there
was to be a background of assassination and conspiracy--why, this dream
must go as others had done. Then what remained to him in life? He almost
wished he had been allowed to go forward to this climax unknowing; to
have gone with his heart still filled with faith; to be assured until
the last moment that Natalie would remember how he had fulfilled his
promise to her.
It was a dark night for him, within and without. But as he sat there at
the window, or walked up and down, wrestling with these demons of doubt
and despair, a dull blue light gradually filled the sky outside; the
orange stars on the bridges grew less intense; the broad river became
visible in the dusk. Then by-and-by the dull blue cleared into a pale
steel-gray, and the forms of the boats could be made out, anchored in
the stream there: these were the first indications of the coming dawn.
Somehow or other he ceased these restless pacings of his, and was
attracted to the window, though he gazed but absently on the slow change
taking place outside--the world-old wonder of the new day rising in the
east. Up into that steely-gray glides a soft and luminous
saffron-brown; it spreads and widens; against it the far dome of St.
Paul's becomes a beautiful velvet-purple. A planet, that had been golden
when it was in the dusk near the horizon, has now sailed up into the
higher heaven, and shines a clear silver point. And now, listen! the
hushed and muffled sounds in the silence; the great city is awakening
from its sleep--there is the bark of a dog--the rumble of a cart is
heard. And still that saffron glow spreads and kindles in the east, and
the dome of St. Paul's is richer in hue than ever; the river between the
black-gray bridges, shines now with a cold light, and the gas-lamps have
grown pale. And then the final flood of glory wells up in the eastern
skies, and all around him the higher buildings catch here and there a
swift golden gleam: the sunrise is declared; there is a new day born for
the sons and daughters of men.
The night had fled, and with it the hideous phantoms of the night. It
seemed to him that he had escaped from the grave, and that he was only
now shaking off the horror of it. Look at the beautiful, clear colors
without; listen to the hum of the city awakening to all its cheerful
activities; the new day has brought with it new desires, new hopes. He
threw open the windows. The morning air was cold and sweet--the sparrows
were beginning to chirp in the garden-plots below. Surely that black
night was over and gone.
If only he could see Natalie for one moment, to assure her that he had
succumbed but once, and for the last time, to despair. It was a
confession he was bound to make; it would not lessen her trust in him.
For now all through his soul a sweet, clear voice was ringing: it was
the song the sunrise had brought him; it was the voice of Natalie
herself, with all its proud pathos and fervor, as he had heard it in the
olden days:
"A little time we gain from time
To set our seasons in some chime,
For harsh or sweet, or loud or low,
With seasons played out long ago--
And souls that in their time and prime
Took part with summer or with snow,
Lived abject lives out or sublime,
And had there chance of seed to sow
For service or disservice done
To those days dead and this their son.
"A little time that we may fill
Or with such good works or such ill
As loose the bonds or make them strong,
Wherein all manhood suffers wrong.
By rose-hung river and light-foot rill
There are who rest not; who think long
Till they discern, as from a hill,
At the sun's hour of morning song,
Known of souls only, and those souls free,
The sacred spaces of the sea."
Surely it was still for him and her together to stand on some such
height, hand-in-hand, and watch the sunrise come over the sea and
awakening world. They would forget the phantoms of the night, and the
traitors gone down to Erubus; perhaps, for this new life together, they
might seek a new clime. There was work for them still; and faith, and
hope, and the constant assurance of love: the future might perchance be
all the more beautiful because of these dark perils of the past.
As he lay thus communing with himself, the light shining in on his
haggard face, Waters came into the room, and was greatly concerned to
find that not only had his master not been to bed, but that the supper
left out for him the night before had not been touched. Brand rose,
without betraying any impatience over his attendant's pertinacious
inquiries and remonstrances. He went and got writing materials, and
wrote as follows:
"Dear Evelyn,--If you could go over to Naples for me--at once--I would
take it as a great favor. I cannot go myself. Whether or not, come to
see me at Lisle Street to-day, by twelve.
"Yours, G.B."
"Take this to Lord Evelyn, Waters; and if he is up get an answer."
"But your breakfast, sir. God bless me--"
"Never mind breakfast. I am going to lie down for an hour or two now: I
have had some business to think over. Let me have some breakfast about
eleven--when I ring."
"Very well, sir."
That was his phrase--he had had some business to think over. But it
seemed to him, as he went into the adjacent room, that that night he had
passed through worse than the bitterness of death.