The fatalistic idea that he was being carried onward in spite of himself
would occur insistently; he felt that he was no longer master of
circumstance.
It was hardly to be wondered at, since it was largely a matter of
nerves. Vassilitch had returned to his hotel after the scene at the
club, and spent half the night writing a letter to Gabrielle; slept
badly, breakfasted on four cups of black coffee, spent the best part of
the day in pacing the narrow dimensions of his sitting-room, and was
now--as the afternoon waned--as undecided as ever.
He told himself that the only clear part of the business was that he
could not do without her--no, nor would he; that he was guiltless of the
crime that had awakened her abhorrence and fierce desire for justice.
For her brother had escaped death, it appeared, and had come back. But
that brother would denounce him, would have to be reckoned with. It was
certainly awkward. The difference in their names did not puzzle him.
Doubtless the name of Stefanovitch had been assumed from political
reasons of prudence.
But, then, he told himself, brother and sister must have met in England,
perhaps weeks, even months past. In that case Gabrielle must have
learned the truth, and so might very well be playing with him. This
thought was terrible. Yet when he called to mind the obvious surprise
and discomfiture of Stefanovitch he felt relieved. Then another
suspicion arose: what if that meeting had been a prearranged thing? It
was a little unusual that the Englishman, George Tweed, should accost
him--a mere acquaintance--in Regent Street, and invite him to supper.
Yes, it really did appear as if he were the dupe of Gabrielle and
Stefanovitch, that they were indeed amusing themselves at his expense.
If not, how strange that she should have said to him, of all men on
earth, "Kill the man who killed my brother."
This frightful suspicion was not to be endured. He combated it, since it
was for his life. He strove to remember one soft look that she might
have given him. He had imagined at times that she trusted a little in
him.
A firm resolve to act came at last to him. He tore into small pieces the
letter that he had written. He would see Gabrielle--would end this
torment.
He examined a time-table and started to leave the hotel. Half-way down
the stairs he paused, returned quickly, and slipped into his pocket a
Derringer pistol, which he took, without exactly knowing why, from a
drawer. A minute later he was bowling towards King's Cross Station.
On the platform he saw Stefanovitch, and guessed rightly that the latter
was bound for the same destination as himself. If Vassilitch had been
sure of this he would have abandoned his intention; as it was he
resolved to go on without losing sight of the other.
The train sped from the Metropolis, rushing with piercing cries through
the winter-laden country. The short day was passing from fields and sky;
already the tops of the leafless trees mingled with the grey of evening.
When Ivan Vassilitch alighted at his station he perceived that
Stefanovitch was before him, that he was just quitting the platform,
moving with sharp strides, as if he were in a hurry. Vassilitch had half
a mind to turn back, but, not caring to wait for perhaps a long time
till an up train came in, he almost mechanically followed the other at a
safe distance.
Stefanovitch stopped once or twice, and appeared to make inquiries as to
his way. This mystified Vassilitch. Was it possible, he asked himself,
that Gabrielle had not met her brother; that the latter had but just set
foot in England? The consideration was comforting.
Stefanovitch walked on with great strides, not looking behind, or
scarcely to right and left. Gabrielle's cottage was isolated from other
habitations. It was built on an eminence that was sheltered on three
sides by poplar trees, while the gravelled drive that led to the front
of the house was bordered by elms, whose branches met overhead and
formed an avenue.
Stefanovitch was approaching the head of this avenue when he perceived,
coming toward him, the figure of a woman. His heart almost stopped
beating, then continued with great thumps of excitement. The waning,
pallid twilight obscured the form, but something in the poise of that
figure, in the walk, brought back to him a flood of dear remembrance.
With fingers that shook he lifted the latch of the gate and continued
down the avenue, that was covered with dead leaves of autumn. And then
he saw that it was indeed she.