HAPPENINGS IN A STRANGE LAND
--I ventured to remind her,
I suppose with a voice of less steadiness
Than usual, for my feeling exceeded me,
--Something to the effect that I was in readiness
Whenever God should please she needed me.
--ROBERT BROWNING.
To the English imagination, Siberia is mainly a land of cold and
darkness, through which gangs of despairing convicts are driven with
the lashings of governmental whips.
But its beauties and its resources are being by degrees revealed
through that wonderful agency for the uniting of the isolated and the
rejoining of the divided, which we call the railway.
The province of Barralinsk is one of the most beautiful, lying, as it
does, not far east of the Ural Mountains and being well wooded in its
southern part.
To reach the Savlinsky Copper Mines one must leave the Trans-Siberian
railway at Gretz and drive for five hundred miles in a northwesterly
direction. The last three hundred miles of the journey are, for the
most part, across a treeless, rolling steppe, like some heaving sea
transformed into dry land without losing its rise and fall. But
Savlinsky itself lies not more than ten miles from a beautifully
wooded district, known as Nicolashof, where the present Governor of
the province, Stepan Nikitsch, or as he was usually called, Stepan
Stepanovitch, had built himself, not far from a woodland village, a
summer residence, in which he was accustomed to pass the hot weather,
his solitude being shared by his only and motherless daughter, Nadia
Stepanovna.
The foothills of the Urals begin to rise, very gradually, out of the
plain at this point. In the distance faint blue summits and gleaming
snow peaks border the western horizon. The summer climate is
delicious, and but for the isolation Nadia would have enjoyed her
Siberian summers. With her was an English lady, Miss Forester,
formerly her governess, now her companion.
Stepan Stepanovitch was by no means the traditional Russian despotic
governor, grinding the faces of the poor. He was a just man, if a
somewhat hard one. He knew the people with whom he had to deal, and
was respected for his steady justice. He was a man with a hobby, and
the nature of his enthusiasm was one which is rare among his race.
He greatly desired to see the resources of this vast tract of
practically useless country opened up and developed. He saw in
Siberia the future of Russia. To anyone who did anything for the
furtherance of his great idea he showed the utmost encouragement and
kindness. And within driving distance from Nicolashof there was such
a man established.
Vronsky had bought the mining rights of the copper which had been
newly discovered at Savlinsky, and in the midst of the steppe had
called into being a center of industry.
For this reason Stepan Stepanovitch loved him. His burly figure was
constantly to be seen, side by side with Vronsky's tall, thin one,
among the wooden huts, not unlike Swiss cottages, which clustered
thickly where Vronsky had gashed the plain with his excavations. And
Vronsky was at all times a welcome guest at Nicolashof, where also
went constantly his secretary and adopted son, Felix Vanston; for the
young man had abandoned his alias upon passing into Asia.
Vronsky was on the way to become a rich man. He had a genius for the
development of industry--a genius which the delighted Governor could
not sufficiently admire.
His workmen were all Kirgiz, among whom there is practically no
Nihilism and no treachery. In fact, these things attract but small
attention in the remote province. The Kirgiz, besides being a more
reliable person, works for lower wages than the Russian. Work in
those parts--good, regular work with good, regular wages--was not
easy to come by. The venture had prospered exceedingly.
One glorious summer day, about two o'clock Vronsky was in bed, a most
unwilling victim of a bout of fever. He lay in his pleasant room,
under his mosquito net, smoking lazily and glancing at the papers.
Presently, with a tap on the door, a young man entered in an English
suit, brown shoes, and straw hat. A racquet was in his hand.
"Well, old man, I suppose you can't go to Nicolashof to-day? I must
make your excuses to the Governor?" he said, lightly.
Vronsky grunted. "They won't mind my absence, if you don't fail
them," he remarked, grimly, but with a twinkle in his eye. "Take my
apologies to the Governor. He knows what fever is; and there is
something else which you must take--something of more importance to
you than my regrets--of a confounded deal more importance! Give me
my dispatch-box."
The time which had elapsed since Felix Vanston and Vronsky first met
at Basingstoke railway station had made a vast difference in the
younger man. Felix had, even at that time, looked older than his
age. Now this trait was more marked. But the lines upon his face
were those traced by experience and discipline. This was a man who
had himself well in hand. His boyhood lay far behind him; he had
learnt in the school of adversity. The result was that Felix had
become, in the fullest sense of the word--a Man. You looked at him,
and instinctively you trusted him. There was strength in the
expression of his mouth and truth in the steady light of his deep-set
gray eyes. These eyes had humor in them of a quiet sort. They were
the eyes of one who knew the harder side of life, and did not fear
it: unlike those of the elder man. Vronsky's were the eyes of a
dreamer, and beamed with the idealistic love which is the virtue of
the Slav race. To him this young man was as a son. He had found
him, taken him up out of despair, restored to him his self-respect,
and given him, into the bargain, the love for lack of which the young
man's soul had starved until that hour. Felix had satisfied the
warmest hopes of his adopted father. He had proved clever,
persevering, trustworthy. Together they had accomplished much, and
meant to accomplish more.
Felix placed upon the bed the black tin dispatch-box. Vronsky felt
under his pillow, drew forth a key, opened with care, and took out a
far smaller box of the same kind. This he set down, and drew from
his own neck a string upon which was suspended another key with which
he opened the smaller box.
There was a sharp knock upon the door, and before Vronsky could cry
out "Who's there?" a clerk had entered abruptly.
The man paused just inside the door, while Vronsky cried, angrily,
"Get out, you fool! I am busy! Wait outside!"
Felix rose, went to the door, and closed it behind him. "What is it?
Is it important?" he asked.
"They rang up from the mine to know if the No. 40 was dispatched,"
said the clerk, sulkily.
"When Mr. Vronsky is in bed, and I am in his room, you are never to
enter without permission," said Felix, severely. "It is an order--do
you understand?"
"Yes, sir. I am sorry," mumbled the young clerk, who was new to his
work, and possibly over-zealous. He went off, and Felix returned to
where Vronsky sat, flushed and disturbed, grasping a folded paper.
"Is that it?" whispered Felix, having locked the door.
"Yes--and he saw it. He saw the key round my neck," replied Vronsky,
furiously, though under his breath. "It was intentional. I have
suspected him ever since he entered my service. Now, the question
is, What am I to do?"
Felix made a motion of his head towards the paper.
"That is the evidence of the guilt of Cravatz?"
"It came late last night."
"And I am to take it to the Governor to-day?"
"Yes; he told me that the moment it was in his hands he would have
Cravatz arrested. There is ground enough for hanging him here."
Felix stood immovable, while the blood came slowly into his face. He
might be nearer death than he knew, and the thought showed him that
life was sweeter than at times he was wont to think.
The entrance of Streloff, the new clerk, in that summary way, was the
first evidence he had had of Cravatz's spies among their own people.
It shook him a little.
"I wonder where he is--Cravatz, I mean?" he slowly said.
"Not too near, but near enough to keep in touch with your movements,
you may depend. At Gretz, I daresay."
Felix pondered. "What I have to do is to leave the house in safety
with these papers. The clerk must be detained until I have started."
"Yes," said Vronsky, after a moment's thought. "I will have him in
to take down a typed statement from my dictation. Summon him, and
let Hutin come with him--a man I thoroughly trust. I will keep them
until you are an hour upon your journey. By that time you will be
out of reach. But, Felix, will it not be more prudent for you to
remain at Nicolashof to-night? Not to return?"
"Oh, no," said Felix, impatiently. "What good would it do to waylay
me on the way back? I shall not then have the thing they want. And
besides, who is to do it? Even if this man Streloff is a
traitor--and we have no proof that he is--what could he do against
me? I am a match for any two of them, and so far as we know, he has
no accomplices. No fear! He is here to steal if he can, but not to
fight. Fighting is not in the line of the Brotherhood.
Assassination is safer, far." He spoke with the slow, concentrated
bitterness which came into his voice whenever he thought of the toils
in which he had been caught in his hot youth.
"Give me the papers, little father," he said, "and I will put them in
the inner pocket that is upon my shirt, and button my coat and vest
over them. They will be safe enough then. There! That is all
right. Shall I summon Streloff and Hutin?"
Vronsky sighed. "I suppose so. Heaven bless you, little son." He
paused a long minute, and then added, while the blood rose under his
olive cheek, "Make my compliments to Nadia Stepanovna."
Felix looked at him with sudden sympathy, made a movement to speak,
but thought better of it. "I will do so, most certainly," he said,
very gently. He bent over Vronsky and kissed him, gave him a drink
of iced lemonade, and with a wave of his hand, bright and full of
confidence, he left the room. Crossing a wide passage he pushed open
a door on the other side and entered an office where two or three
clerks sat busy.
"Streloff!" he cried. There was no reply. "Hutin, where is
Streloff?"
"The master sent him to carry a message to the mines, sir."
"The master did nothing of the kind," cried Felix, angrily. "He is
lying, for some reason of his own. How did he go? Horse, or on
foot?"
Hutin rose. He was a strong-looking young man. "He can hardly be
gone yet, sir. He went to the stables to saddle a horse."
"Run after him and bring him back," commanded Felix.
Hutin ran swiftly out. Felix fumed, but commanded himself. He would
not go back and distress Vronsky until he knew that the spy had got
clear off. For three long, endless minutes he stood there frowning
by his own table in the office, turning over sheets of figures in an
aimless way, until there was a sound in the doorway and Hutin came
in, followed by the truant Streloff, with a scowl upon his dark
features. Felix turned to him a face full of kindness and tinged
with amusement.
"You are too zealous, Streloff," said he. "It is quite true, the
message for the mines was somewhat urgent, but don't go off without
express orders, for, you see, as it happens, you are wanted at once
by the master. I will not tell him that you were absent, as he is
apt to be a good deal vexed by that sort of thing."
Streloff was young, and he could not quite conceal the look of
malevolence which he cast upon the man who had foiled him. Felix
watched him collect his things and go across the passage to Vronsky's
room. He said, low, in Hutin's ear, "Don't let him out of your sight
till I come back, if you can help it."
Hutin lifted big, dog-like eyes to the young man's face, and squared
a huge fist with an amiable smile.
Felix waited a moment, shrugged his shoulders, and went out to where
his tarantasse waited at the door, in the brilliant sunshine. Max,
his driver, nodded gayly as the young master appeared, seated himself
in the elegant little carriage, took the reins from his servant,
shook them lightly, and with the sound of bells they shot off along
the good road that led straight from the mines to Nicolashof.
For the first three miles still the bare, treeless plain, of coarse
grass, in undulations like the waves of a dirty gray-green sea
suddenly solidified, and overblown with dust. But on the western
horizon was a dark purple line which, as they approached it, showed
itself to be the edge of the huge black forest, stretching for miles
and miles. Straight into the trees led the white ribbon of road.
First there were birch trees, light and fanciful, a wood full of
sunshine and wild-flowers. But in another mile or so their place was
taken by the black firs, the straight, unbending shafts of the dim
mysterious pines. Still, the forest was not here so deep. Glades
intervened and broke the monotony. After a while they came out upon
a large clearing, whereon was built a prosperous-looking village,
with its church and school: just beyond it, the park gates of
Nicolashof. Max opened them, and the tarantasse shot lightly up the
well-kept road, and came to a standstill before the door of a long,
low house, built of wood, but massive and comfortable-looking.
Felix's face, as he threw the reins to Max and alighted from his
carriage, bore a look of preoccupation. For several months there had
hung over his head the malign shadow of the Brotherhood. The order
sent to him to remove the Governor was, of course, merely a pretext
for his own murder. Cravatz knew well that Felix would not, at the
command of any secret society, assassinate his friend. But after the
lapse of the appointed time, Cravatz would be justified in
accomplishing the murder of Felix himself.
That the sinister order should have been conveyed to him was a part
of the policy of the Brotherhood. They knew that the young man had
thrown off their influence. To them he was a renegade, though he had
not, by any overt action, proved himself so. As he went about at all
hours, quite fearlessly, he could have been shot many times over by
some lurking conspirator with practical certainty of immunity. But
the Brotherhood knew its own business. It had to keep together a
number of desperate men, of all nationalities, in faithful
subservience. The way to do this was by fear, the fear of a
vengeance that could not fail to fall upon the traitor; and it is
well known that there is one sort of fear which more than any other
will weaken the courage, even of a strong man, and wear down the
resolution even of the most determined. It is the policy of the
Sword of Damocles.
They worked by means of the threat of a fate that never failed to
overtake, perhaps sooner, perhaps later, but certainly: the threat of
a concealed power always on the watch. After a few weeks the
strongest nerves are frayed by these tactics.
A message is received; the victim disregards it. Days pass; nothing
happens. Then, one day, upon dressing-table, or pillow, or through
the post, there is some small reminder of the existence of the deadly
machinery which can compel obedience.
Such a jolt had the mind of Felix Vanston received that day. The
brusque irruption of Streloff into the sleeping-room of Vronsky at
the moment when the fatal papers were being dealt with was like the
flash of the bull's-eye of a dark lantern. Cravatz was on the watch.
It was not so much the presence of the spy in the place which
disturbed him. It was practically certain that Cravatz must be
keeping him under observation. But Streloff's action of that day
seemed to suggest the fact that Vronsky's own movements against
Cravatz were known to the enemy. And this was serious.
Ever since the deadly message first came to Felix, Vronsky had been
at work. Acting upon secret information which had come to him, he
had been busily, privately, with the aid of the first detectives in
Gretz, in Petropavlosk, in St. Petersburg, tracking down Cravatz to
his just end. And now the threads of the case were all in his hands.
In Felix's pocket lay the complete indictment. Acting upon the
Governor's order, Cravatz could be at once arrested.
The young man had a moment of triumph in thinking that for the time
he had outwitted the enemy. Streloff the spy was shut up in
Vronsky's room, in charge of the vast and formidable Hutin; and
Felix, the papers safely in his coat, was entering the cool, dim hall
at Nicolashof, where the abundant flowers, the Persian rugs, the
elegant furniture, showed traces of the English influence of Miss
Forester.
"The ladies are in the garden," said the old man-servant who opened
the door.
"Thank you, Petro Petrovitch," said Felix. "But first, please ask
the Governor to give me ten minutes in his library."
He was shown into the big comfortable room, which overlooked a
beautiful garden. Its walls were decorated with the antlers and
wolf-skins and wild-boar tusks which Stepan Stepanovitch had secured
as the spoils of his rifle. On the writing-table, where the father's
eye could always rest upon it, stood a panel portrait of a beautiful
young girl--Nadia Stepanovna, as she appeared when she made her first
bow to the Czar at Court.
Felix stood where he could see the photograph, and gazed upon it
while he waited.
It was a vivid face, truly Russian in its intensity. The great eyes
seemed to hold almost too much expression: a woman who would both
love and hate with passionate fervor, to whom the sober tenor of
existence which comes natural to English girls would be a thing
impossible.
This was the second summer in which she and Felix had seen one
another constantly. But there was an image upon the young man's
heart which Nadia's had by no means availed to shake. Though his
feeling rested upon so small a basis of actuality--though the hours
he had spent in the society of Rona were hardly more than the years
of his life in number--he yet was hers, body and soul. You cannot
pour wine, however fine the vintage, into a vessel already full.
His impassivity was a marvel to Vronsky, who worshiped at the shrine
of Nadia with the hopeless intensity of disparity of years and rank
intervening to prevent his love from ever descending from the clouds
into an atmosphere of practical reality.
He adored her as a saint is adored by her votary. He loved her, but
would have rejoiced to see her beloved and possessed by his dearly
cherished adopted son, Felix. It was, to him, an inexplicable thing
that young Vanston should remain constant to the memory of a girl who
was apparently far from reciprocating his devotion. Vronsky was
working, slaving, that Felix might be wealthy. He knew that his
birth was good. Why should he not become suitor for this lovely
young lady? What a couple they would make! He had, however, the
good sense not to confide his desires to Felix, who was himself, as a
rule, most reserved upon the subject in which all his heart was
involved.
The door opened, and the Governor came in, with cordial greeting.
"Where is my friend Vronsky?" he cried, wringing the young man's hand.
Felix explained. "I have brought a message from him," he continued,
bringing out the papers from his coat pocket. "These documents, sir,
are of the very gravest importance. They contain the evidence upon
which Vronsky wishes you to order the arrest of Gregor Cravatz."
The Governor, instantly full of attention, sat down by the table.
"The man whom he suspected of Nihilism?"
"The same. The justification is here. Not merely Nihilism, but
murder; and that not once nor twice. But now, sir, comes a point at
which I wish to be perfectly frank with you. There are two strong
reasons why Vronsky would urge you to have this man put out of the
way. The first will, I believe, seem enough to you. It is simply
that the society to which he belongs has determined to remove you
from your Governorship. In other words, while he lives your own life
is in danger----"
He broke off short, and both men turned towards the garden with a
simultaneous movement; for there was a cry of horror. And they saw,
too late, that Nadia stood in the open window, in her white dress and
straw hat, her lovely face blanched with apprehension.