"If you ever kill a man, my friends--ah! but you may--take care to
dispossess the mind of haunting fancies. Murder is a wrong against
society, certainly. So is borrowing a sovereign which you do not intend
to return. Both may be forgotten."
Vassilitch spoke across the dinner-table. His unconventional philosophy
was meant for every ear there, though he addressed himself to his
host--George Etheridge, of Hollowfield Court.
Gabrielle Rupinsky, the speaker's countrywoman, who was seated at his
right side, turned her head to flash into his face one look from her
calm eyes.
A silence followed the remark; not an uncomfortable period, but rather
one of that satisfaction which we feel when a good talker ventures out
from the ruts of conversation and trite opinion. Then Tweed, a
round-faced, optimistic schoolboy of a man, said, cheerfully:--
"How comforting! Let us go and exterminate our enemies before they get
wind of so pleasing an assurance and exterminate us. Alas, though, we
have not altogether done with Leviticus yet; still the hangman takes
care of our consciences."
In the first place they had been speaking about echoes. Several of the
company had heard wonderful echoes in different parts of the world.
George Etheridge had told of an echo in Bavaria which had startled
him--as it startles all to whom it speaks. He said: "You row out to the
middle of the lake. There is an immense rugged cliff on one hand, and on
the other a dense wood of pines. You fire a pistol. The sound rolls from
between precipice and forest, tossed from one to the other, gathering in
intensity and power, until it breaks like a clap of thunder overhead.
The effect is certainly terrifying. Shall I tell you of what it made me
think? Of one of those imprudent acts, one of those small sins that we
commit in an unconsidered moment, which is the trifling cause of growing
and overwhelming effects that end in cataclysm."
The conversation having been given this serious turn, first one and then
another of Etheridge's guests recalled stories of sins that had worked
in lives as worms through a ship's planks. Tweed mocked. He was rarely
grave, but his easy heart was valued by all who knew him. He said, "You
will all give yourselves a nightmare at bedtime. Come, let us have a
murder yarn to wind up with."
And so Vassilitch, who was no stranger to the fatalism of the Slav, and
who on that account had listened with considerable interest to the
dialogue, had suddenly roused himself to utter his views expressed
above.
"I will repeat my advice," said he. "If you ever kill a man do not think
about it afterwards. Ah! the fantasies that we invent to torment
ourselves with!"
Gabrielle was compelled to look at the speaker once more. As the guests
of Etheridge they had seen much of one another during the past three
days. She liked to have him by her side because he was her countryman;
also, to her eyes, he appeared to be the strongest man in the company.
And he? Whenever Mademoiselle Rupinsky came in late he was silent to
taciturnity; and when she took her place he thawed.
"You are not--you cannot be--in earnest?" said Gabrielle.
"Never more so, mademoiselle."
"It is your profession that has killed your sentiment," explained
Etheridge.
"As you will."
Clearly they were all waiting for him to continue. He perceived that he
was the centre of observation, of interest--Ivan Féodor Vassilitch,
sometime captain of a Cossack regiment that had made a reputation for
hardihood and valour unique even amongst those northern soldiers whose
nerves have the iron coldness of their ice-plains. He raised his glass,
emptied it, and went on:--
"I tell you, my friends, that if circumstance compels you to such an act
as I have spoken of, then any future terrors must be entirely the
product of a superstitious imagination. No spirit will haunt you save
that which you yourself conjure by bending the mind continually to that
idea. No worm of remorse will tear your peace unless you believe liars
who tell you it exists."
[Illustration: "'YOU ARE NOT--YOU CANNOT BE--IN EARNEST?' SAID
GABRIELLE."]
That was all. None cared to argue the point. He was so quietly certain
of his philosophy; so terribly sure.
An hour later Vassilitch was addressed by Gabrielle. "I should like five
minutes' talk with you," she said.
He expressed both readiness and pleasure, and he spoke the truth. They
passed out into the garden, after he had insisted that she should cover
her shoulders with a wrap, for the dews of late autumn were condensing
and falling imperceptibly on the still trees and flowers.
"Will you sit down?"
"I should prefer to walk slowly." He saw her bosom rise and fall in
agitation, and he wondered what was coming.
"Monsieur, I have a story to tell you. Of all the men I know, you can
best appreciate it. It may be that you will care to help me--ah! do not
be too ready; my request, if I prefer it, is altogether an unusual one,
and such as only you might understand, and I. These Englishmen have cold
hearts; passion with them is slow to catch fire and easy to be
extinguished."
"You speak of love, mademoiselle?" said Vassilitch, uneasily.
"No."
"Then it must be revenge. I am all attention."
"You have heard of that society that call themselves 'The Scourge'? Of
their political opinions I know nothing. Three years ago the police
broke into a Moscow cellar and captured fifteen of this confraternity.
Of the ultimate fate of those fifteen I also know nothing, but the end
that came to one has been told me. He, at any rate, was a man, and a
true Russian."
Gabrielle caught her breath with a gasp, paused a moment, then
continued:--
"He was deprived of civil rights, his property confiscated, and he
himself sent into exile. He escaped from a convict station in the
Trans-Baikal. He gained the woods, but it was winter, and you know what
that means."
"Ah!" muttered Vassilitch, twisting his black moustache and watching the
pale face of his beautiful companion.
"I have not seen those dreary forests, but I have heard and read of
them; how packs of hungry wolves seek food and cannot find it; and how
the _varnaks_--those wretches who have committed real crimes--infest the
lonely pathways at evening to rob and murder. They say that the police
kill them as dogs."
"Pardon, mademoiselle; you must not credit these wild tales."
"But I do believe them. Listen. This poor exile, after he had wandered
for days in that dead land, was discovered by a band of Cossacks riding
along a forest path. He was seized. Their officer cried out that he was
a _varnak_, a _bradyaga_, and ordered that he should be shot. You start;
perhaps this story has reached your ears?"
"No, no," said the other, quickly. "Pray go on."
"The exile protested that he was an escaped political prisoner. He was
not believed. The officer again repeated his order. A soldier was about
to obey, but the other threw the man from his horse. Instantly a dozen
carbines were levelled, but the officer, convulsed with passion, cried
out, 'You will tie this scoundrel to a tree, eight feet above the
ground, and leave him to the wolves.' Ah! why do you recoil from me? Do
you not believe this story? I tell you that it is absolutely true in
every detail."
Gabrielle was trembling with emotion.
"It is quite cold out here; you will catch your death. Let us go
indoors," said Vassilitch, harshly.
She continued unheedingly. "The command of that monster was obeyed by
his men. The victim was lashed to the trunk of a pine tree, high above
the ground. The Cossacks rode away, laughing, and left him there until
the wolves should come to surround the tree, to bite it through with
their sharp teeth, and then--and then----"
A gleam of lightning passed over the sky, and the rumble of thunder
followed.
"Do you recollect the talk at the table?" said Gabrielle; "about echoes?
This act is one of those that return to break in thunder upon the
perpetrator."
The ex-captain of Cossacks shrugged his shoulders. "What is your
request?" he demanded.
Gabrielle stopped in the garden path and faced him. A faint light from
the windows of the mansion fell upon her form with its perfect lines,
its loveliness. She was conscious of her beauty then, and she knew that
he was conscious of it.
"Find the man who did this thing."
He was silent.
"You think me revengeful? I acknowledge it. Right or wrong, for three
years I have prayed for this."
"Mademoiselle, I must ask you two questions: The name of your
informant?"
"I am pledged not to give it. He was a trooper in the band who obeyed
the orders of their officer."
"That is unfortunate, for I should much like to know his name. Let that
pass. Question number two: What was this prisoner to you that his fate
should awake these feelings of deep sorrow and revenge?"
For an instant Gabrielle hesitated, while his eyes appeared to be
reading her inmost thoughts. Then she said, "He was a brother."
"Ah!"
Vassilitch was clearly relieved by the answer. He said, "This will, of
course, necessitate a journey to Russia. Well, I will find this man."
"And you will challenge him?"
"I will challenge him."
"And you will kill him?"
"If by that time you still wish it--yes, I will kill him."
They looked into one another's eyes, adding no further word. A heavy
clap of thunder broke and rolled overhead.
"You had better go in now," said Vassilitch.
He left her at the doors of the French windows, while he lighted a cigar
and went again into the garden. Suddenly he turned. He perceived that
she was yet standing, gazing after him. He could see her in the aureole
of light, though she could not see him in the outer gloom.
"How beautiful she is!" muttered Vassilitch.
He flung down his cigar, put his foot upon it, and ground it into the
earth.