"You will do nothing of the sort," was the equally quiet reply.
"There is a difference in our cases. You wish to live without love; and
I--to me love is life. This silence is not to be endured. Why no
response to my letters? I shall wait one more month, and then I shall go
to Moscow."
"You dare not! Haven't you seen enough of Russian prisons?"
"More than three years since I set eyes on her," muttered the other; and
his face, which bore the marks of much suffering, became all at once
haggard with perplexity.
"Three years is a long time and a hard test," argued Tweed.
The other caught his meaning. He smiled as he said, simply, "My friend,
you do not know this woman."
"But I know the Trans-Baikal, and the frozen horror of your northern
swamps. And I have seen a gang of exiles, in their long, earth-coloured
coats, women and men, chained together, living statues of despair,
tramping, tramping, and the soldiers with their bayonets fixed----"
"Don't!" said Stefanovitch. But the other went on unheedingly.
"And I have seen your northern forests in winter, shrouded in snow, with
an Arctic wind rattling down the pine needles, bending the cedars, and
the fir trees making a sound that gives you the shivers. And I have seen
the wolves there. They appear to rise out of the ground. Once they
chased me for three leagues. We were in a tarantass, and were nearly
caught, by Jove! What brutes! Every tooth looked like a dagger. And
frequently a poor wretch will escape from a convict station and try to
hide himself in these forests----"
[Illustration: "HE PERCEIVED THAT SHE WAS YET STANDING, GAZING AFTER
HIM."]
"Will you stop?" cried Stefanovitch, covering his eyes.
"----will endeavour to conceal himself in one of these forests; but
either he starves to death or the wolves get him, or perhaps a party of
soldiers, say Cossacks, come upon him and take him for a _varnak_. And I
have known one instance in which the man, having resisted authority, was
lashed to a tree to wait for the wolves. He succeeded in releasing
himself, it is true; and ultimately he escaped from the country,
but----"
"Enough, enough!" implored Stefanovitch, as if appalled by some memory
that had seared heart and brain.
"----but next time he will not meet with such fortune." Tweed rose and
smashed down the window.
"Why do you recall these things to me?" said the other, huskily.
"Why will you make a fool of yourself?" was the heated retort. "I tell
you that you shall not go back to Moscow if I can prevent it. There's
not a woman on this earth who is worth running so great a risk for. If
she will not answer your letters, you must forget her, that is all."
"You suggest an impossibility."
"And you suggest a madness. What are you gazing at? Do you recognise
anybody?"
The other was looking across the roadway to where a tall, broad figure,
in a massive fur-trimmed coat, was leisurely pacing the thronged
pavement. Tweed repeated his question.
"I--I don't know," replied Stefanovitch, indecisively. "The face of that
tall fellow--I thought it was familiar--the light is so bad--and a cab
came between----"
"What, that fellow in the coat? How strange! I seem to know him, too.
Even his back is familiar. Let me think. Where on earth did I
meet--ah!--no, it's slipped me again. Yet I'm sure--almost sure--that
I--got it, by thunder! The man's Vassilitch--Ivan Féodor Vassilitch, a
countryman of yours; not a bad sort, but cold and hard--hard as
sheet-iron. You have met him, perhaps?"
"The name is not familiar to me."
"I met him at Etheridge's place in Cumberland. It was four months back."
Tweed spoke cheerily, feeling glad that the subject was changed. "There
were some nice people down there," he continued. "I should like you to
know Etheridge. Ah, yes--there was also a countrywoman of yours staying
at the place. She and Vassilitch were rather thick, we thought. A
singularly beautiful creature. Her name was Gabrielle Rupinsky.
She----What on earth is the matter?"
"Gabrielle Rupinsky!" echoed Stefanovitch, springing so suddenly to his
feet that his chair went flying.
"The same. Do----"
"The daughter of old Otto Rupinsky, General of Hussars?" The speaker was
trembling with excitement.
"That is she," said the other, astonished.
Stefanovitch caught at his collar as if emotion were choking him. "Do
you know what you are saying?" he cried. "Fool that I was not to have
mentioned her name! This is the woman who is all--all the beauty of the
world to me. Gabrielle in England! Now it is clear why my letters were
not answered. Heaven bless you for this news. Her address--quick!"
Tweed, overjoyed and immensely relieved, was wringing the other's hands
in his delight. "I'm afraid I can't give it you straight away," said he.
"You see, she isn't in Cumberland now. But I will write at once to
Etheridge, and you should have it within forty-eight hours. 'Pon my
word, old fellow, this is great news. Are you going?"
"If you do not mind. A thousand thanks. I hope it is not a dream; it
seems too good to be true," he added, with pathos. "What! I shall see
Gabrielle within forty-eight hours? Shall hold her in my arms? Pardon
me; these things may not appeal to you. But if you had waited and
suffered----"
"I know, I know," said Tweed, sympathetically. They had descended the
stairway and were at the open door. "Look here," he added, in parting,
"we have supper together at my club to-morrow night; that engagement
holds good, of course?"
"As you will; most certainly."
Stefanovitch pressed his friend's hand and was gone. At that moment
Tweed perceived the tall form of Ivan Vassilitch repassing. He murmured,
"I should like to renew my acquaintance with this man; he fascinated me,
rather. I'll go out and meet him." And he bounded upstairs for his coat
and hat.