CHAPTER XIII. THE FATE OF THE TRAITOR.

Pale yellow sunset had poured out its cold half-light upon the roofs, and gradually in the depths of the London streets everything grew grey and dim. In the clear deep blue the first star was already shining. Objects began to assume a disordered aspect, and melt away in the darkness. The city, worn out with the vanity of the day, had become calm, as if gathering strength to pass the evening in the same vanity and turmoil.

Already the lights of the street lamps in Oakleigh Gardens were springing up, forming long, straight lines, as I drew down the blind and flung myself into the inviting armchair before the cheerful fire. Taking from the table an open letter written in cipher, I read it through by the flickering firelight. It was addressed to Pétroff, and ran as follows:—

“Nicolas Kassatkin, who will arrive in London on Tuesday next, is a trusted and valued member of our Circle at Novgorod. He has been twice imprisoned, first at Petropaulovsk, and secondly at Schlusselburg, whence he has escaped. We are sending him to you because we are confident that he can be of assistance. He is daring, enthusiastic, and speaks several languages. Being in possession of a private income, he will not need any financial help from the Executive. He will be the bearer of a note to you.—Signed, on behalf of the Novgorod Brothers of Freedom—Solomon Goldstein, Alexander Rostovtzeff.”

I replaced it upon the table, and leaning back in the chair, smoked reflectively.

Having called to consult the Executive on some urgent business, Pétroff had asked me to remain and welcome the newcomer. By repute I knew him as a fearless Revolutionist, who had taken an active part in several plots which had for their object the removal of corrupt officials, and had been more or less successful.

I was plunged in reverie, induced perhaps by the dim, uncertain light of the fire and the soothing properties of nicotine, when a loud ring at the hall-bell aroused me. Almost immediately afterwards I heard the voices of Pétroff, Tersinski, and Grinevitch welcoming the stranger in Russian, and a few moments later they entered and introduced him to me.

We shook hands cordially, and as Grinevitch lit the gas I saw that the stranger was a man of medium height, and about thirty years of age. His face was of a rather low type. He had deep-set, grey eyes, with a fixed stare, a large, fair moustache, prominent cheek bones, and fair, lank, unkempt hair, while his deeply-furrowed brow spoke mutely of long imprisonment and infinite pain and suffering. Removing his heavy travelling-coat, he seated himself before the fire to thaw, at the same time taking a letter from his pocket and handing it to Paul Pétroff.

Presently we sat down to dinner together, and during the meal Kassatkin showed himself to be an entertaining companion and vivacious talker. I sat next him, and he told us of the progress of the revolutionary movement in Novgorod, declaring that there were unmistakable signs of general upheaval, of an awakening of the public spirit, of patriotism, and of opposition, foreshadowing a coming struggle. He was bitter in his condemnation of the dark deeds of the Tzar’s officials, and expressed an opinion that if Russia could tell something approaching to the full truth about what was going on within her boundaries—the crimes committed in darkness, the malversations practised, the real state of the exchequer, the desperate tricks of the financiers—it would inflict upon the Autocracy a more severe blow than many conspiracies could strike.

“Tell us of your escape,” I said, after he had related the story of his arrest and imprisonment for carrying on propaganda among the soldiers of the Novgorod garrison.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, his face brightening. “It has been a terrible experience, but I was driven to desperation.” Turning to Pétroff he said: “You know the frightful horrors of Schlusselburg—the cold wet cells below the water?”

“I have, alas! much cause to remember them,” Paul answered, with a heavy sigh. “My wife, whom I loved so well, was imprisoned there at the same time as myself. The solitary confinement and the horrors of her cell drove her hopelessly insane. She is now an inmate of the criminal asylum at Krasnoje Selo.”

“Madness is the fate of the majority of prisoners there,” said Kassatkin. “In my case the many months of absolute silence and lack of exercise drove me into a state bordering on insanity. In order to check the imbecility that was slowly but surely taking possession of me, I used to pace my damp, dark cell and compose verses. For days, weeks, months, I had no other occupation than the composition of poems, which I afterwards committed to memory, having no writing materials. This was the only mental employment I had, and, although I grew strangely lightheaded, yet my self-imposed tasks prevented my mind becoming totally unhinged. An opportunity for escape presented itself in a most unexpected manner. A large batch of ‘common law’ prisoners had been sent from Petersburg, and the prison being already over-crowded, I was removed from my cell and confined in a room in the fire-tower. It thus happened that I was locked up in an ordinary room, with a window looking upon the bridge. It was rather high, but it was near the waterpipe running along the wall outside, and there was a slanting roof of the lower storey which could be utilised for the descent. I could not lose such an opportunity, and, in the dead of night, I opened the window and descended upon the bridge connecting the prison with the bank, congratulating myself upon a happy escape.”

“Were you discovered?” I asked.

“Yes, almost immediately. By ill-luck a sentry noticed me and gave the alarm. It was an exciting moment as I made a dash for the forest and disappeared among the trees. Half-a-dozen soldiers pursued me, but only for a short distance, and apparently considering that they had a poor chance of capturing a fugitive in a forest, they returned to the prison for assistance. I concealed myself and waited. Presently about twenty mounted soldiers galloped past along the forest road. When they were out of sight I left my hiding-place and walked on. My position was, however, critical, therefore I returned to the Neva, as I could not lose my way beside the river. I soon came to the water’s edge. By the opposite bank were some islands and something like a lake or arm of the river, near which I could see what in the fog appeared to be masts. Close beside me on the bank sat a group of fishermen, and a little way off an old man was doing something to a boat. Having two or three roubles in my pocket, I went up and asked the old man to ferry me across the river. He consented, but asked in a conversational way why I wanted to go across. Remembering the masts, I replied that I had to go on board a schooner that lay in the distance. The old man looked at me suspiciously.

“He asked who I was, and I told him that I was a working-man from Tichvin. The old man put on a very suspicious air and began a minute interrogation. I was at my wits’ end, and ready to make a dash for it; but that was out of the question: the fishermen were close by and would have caught me in five minutes. I resolved to take the bull by the horns, so I told the man that I had simply made up the former story, and that, in reality, I was an escaped political prisoner seeking a hiding-place. When the old man had asked me numerous other questions, he said: ‘Well, I won’t ferry you across myself, but I’ll tell my boy to. He’ll land you on the island, and you can stop there until to-morrow night. You’re all right so far. Only, look here, don’t you go telling anybody that you have to go to your schooner. In my young days there used to be plenty of schooners there, but for thirty years past there hasn’t been one near the place.’

“The old man then called a young fisherman, and told him to row me across to the island. On parting from the man who ferried me, I started to explore the place, which I found to be very marshy. The morning broke wet and cheerless, and I spent the day in a disused hut. When evening set in, it became too cold for me to spend the night shelterless, and as I was suffering severely from hunger, I wandered up and down the swampy forest looking for a village. By the time I succeeded in finding one it was quite dark. I knocked at a cottage door, but the people would not let me in. I went to a second and third cottage, but with no success. Finally I lost my temper, and addressing an obdurate householder, asked him where the starosta lived.

“The peasant directed me to the starosta’s cottage, and then slammed his door. I tapped at the door of the residence indicated, and it was opened by a woman. When I asked for the official I was in search of, she replied, ‘I am the starosta. What do you want?’ It appeared that she really was the starosta. The office was filled by all the peasants in the village in turn; and she, being an independent householder, took her turn like the men. I rattled off a wild story, how I had come for a holiday from Petersburg with some friends; how they had become intoxicated, and, for a practical joke, had returned home, leaving me alone on the island. The female starosta evinced the warmest sympathy with my misfortune, gave me supper, and allowed me to pass the night in her cottage.

“Next morning I hired a boat, arrived safely in Petersburg, and found my friends, who hid me for some time, while the police scoured the roads and country around Schlusselburg, and searched all the houses that appeared to them suspicious. When the excitement died down, I travelled as an ordinary passenger to the frontier, and have now arrived here.”

That evening I took Kassatkin to live with me at my chambers, and found him a pleasant, easy-going fellow, whose shrewdness proved most valuable to me in the various matters upon which I was from time to time engaged. We went about a good deal, and made many friends. I had always been considered a fair amateur actor, and was prevailed upon to join a well-known dramatic club which gave frequent performances at Kensington Town Hall.

Many of my friends belonged to the club, and I found the rehearsals a pleasant and amusing recreation, inasmuch as the people with whom I was brought into contact were useful to me in a variety of ways. They knew I was a foreigner, but believed me to be French, little suspecting that I was a Nihilist.

One evening there had been a dress-rehearsal of a new comedy which we were about to produce for copyright purposes. I was cast for the part of an affected English curate, one of the chief characters in the piece.

The rehearsal passed off satisfactorily, and it was nearly midnight when I left the hall and started on my walk homeward. I had a good hour’s tramp through the West End before me; but, as the night was clear and warm, I enjoyed the prospect rather than otherwise. As I walked along Kensington Gore there was scarce a sound in the street, save the occasional tread of a policeman, or the hurried footfall of the belated pleasure-seeker, breaking the stillness of the night suddenly, and then dying away in a succession of faint echoes.

Had any friend met me I should scarcely have been recognised, from the fact that I was still in clerical attire, having dressed myself at home to avoid trouble. I wore a long black coat of orthodox cut, black unmentionables, a clerical collar, a soft, wide-brimmed hat, and was effectually disguised, though I thought nothing of the circumstances at the time, having frequently worn my stage clothes out of doors.

I had walked for perhaps half an hour in silent contemplation, when I suddenly became aware that I had taken a wrong turning and that my footsteps had involuntarily carried me into that patrician of Kensington thoroughfares, Cromwell Road.

At that moment I was passing a large, handsome-looking house, the outward appearance of which had an unmistakable air of wealth. The other houses were in darkness, but several of the windows of this one were brilliantly lit.

Suddenly I heard something that caused me to pause. It sounded like a long, shrill scream.

A moment later the door was opened by a man-servant, who ran hurriedly down the steps. As he confronted me he stopped short, and peering into my face, said—

“Sir, would you have the kindness to step inside for a few minutes. His lordship sent me to look for a gentleman, and it is fortunate I found one so near.”

“A gentleman!” I exclaimed, astonished. “But I——”

“His lordship’s daughter is dying, sir, and he told me to get the first gentleman I could find.”

The man led the way up the steps, and, dumbfounded by the sudden manner in which I had been accosted, I followed.

He ushered me into a small but very elegantly furnished room, and then went to find his master. Just at that moment I heard the footsteps of two other men, who apparently entered from the street and walked down the hall to the room adjoining the one in which I was. I had hardly time to look about me, when the servant returned, accompanied by a strange-looking old man. He was well dressed, but seemed out of place in the clothes he wore. Small and thin, he had snow-white hair, sunken cheeks, and eyes in which shone a peculiar lustre. The manner in which he advanced to greet me was strange, for he seemed to glide noiselessly across the room. His face was colourless, and would have seemed almost devoid of life had it not been for his restless, glittering eyes.

“His lordship,” explained the servant.

I bowed, and the man retired. For a moment the old gentleman’s eyes shifted and roved, then he fixed my gaze with them, and said slowly, in a squeaky voice—

“I have a theory that everything may be purchased; that every man has his price. Do you agree with me?”

I was surprised. I shrank from him, and despised and hated him.

“Most things can undoubtedly be bought; but not everything,” I replied.

He smiled sadly.

“Of course, neither life nor intellect can be purchased; but the securing of any service from any person capable of performing it is merely a question of money.”

I nodded approbation of this remark, wondering what service he needed at my hands.

“I am quite at my wits’ end, and I require a small service from you,” he said suddenly, as a look of blank, unutterable despair swept over his face. He looked wearied and despondent; I pitied him.

“If I can render you that service I shall be pleased,” I replied.

His face brightened; the haggard expression vanished.

“Thank you,” he said. “It is perhaps a strange request, still I can find many men who will be only too eager to accept my offer.”

“But I am not——”

“Never mind,” he interrupted; “allow me to explain. I am the Earl of Wansford.”

I gave vent to an ejaculation of surprise, for the Earl was a well-known figure in the diplomatic world, and until three years ago had been British Ambassador to Russia. He smiled as he noticed my astonishment, and continued—

“I have but one daughter, who, alas! is dying. The physicians say hers is a hopeless case, and I desire that her last moments shall be made happy.”

“Ah! you want me to attend at the bedside and minister words of consolation. I am sorry I cannot——”

“No,” he snarled, “she is religious enough, and does not require you in that capacity.”

“But surely a dying person, whether prepared for the next world or not, should see a clergyman!” I said.

“True; but Muriel is insane,” he replied. “You remember what I said a minute ago, that it is only a question of money to any man?”

“What!”

“Why, marriage.”

I was puzzled. I could not comprehend his meaning.

“But what do you want of me?” I asked.

“A trifling service. You can perform it now; but if you refuse, you will always regret.”

“Tell me what it is, and I will give my answer.”

“It is this. Some time ago—perhaps about three years—while we were living in St. Petersburg, I became ill, and was obliged to go to the South of France. During my absence my daughter met a Russian for whom she conceived a violent fancy. Since I returned and brought her home to England, she has done nothing but mope and mourn for him, with the result that her intellect is impaired.”

“But will not the man marry her?” I asked, interested in the romance.

“He disappeared mysteriously, and although I have made the most strenuous efforts to trace him, he cannot be found. Of course she would marry him if she could; but her mental faculties are so weak that she would marry any one else and believe it to be him. But here’s the point——”

He felt in his pocket, and producing a wallet, took from it a roll of clean crisp Bank of England notes. He counted twenty of them, each for one hundred pounds, and held them towards me.

“These are yours,” he said slowly, “if you will consent to be my daughter’s husband!”

The strange proposal caused me to gasp. Two thousand pounds! Did ever temptation stand in man’s path in a more alluring guise? I had but little money of my own, and with this sum I could do many things.

Here was a dying girl whose passage to the grave would be rendered brighter by my marrying her; who would die in a few days, or weeks at most, and know no difference. Nobody need be aware of this strange midnight adventure, or the manner in which I had been bought. I hesitated.

“I give you my word that none know of her insanity except myself, and that she is upon her death-bed,” said my tempter.

Still I paused. I was wondering what could be the Earl’s ulterior motive. Besides, I had no desire to enter the ranks of Benedicts.

“Come, decide. I have a clergyman ready and a licence. Some one shall make my darling’s last moments happy. Is not the money enough? Well, here’s another thousand. Will you accept it?”

I summoned courage, and drawing a long breath, stretched forth my hand and grasped the notes, which I thrust hastily into my pocket.

I had sold myself. I had offered myself as a sacrifice to Mammon, as others had done. My purchaser opened the door, and called softly, “It’s all right.”

“Is it?” asked the clergyman who entered. “You are, I understand, the affianced husband of Lady Muriel?” he asked, addressing me.

“Yes,” I replied. Was it not true? Had I not three thousand pounds in my pocket as evidence of the fact?

“Come,” said the old man impatiently, as he led the way upstairs to a large bedroom on the first floor, where the light was so dim that I could hardly more than distinguish the shape of the bed and the form of some one closely covered up in it. The footman, who had accosted me in the street, entered behind us, and we took our places at the bedside.

Gradually, as my eyes grew accustomed to the semi-darkness, I could see that my future wife was lying upon her side, and with her face turned from me.

“Take her hand,” commanded the man to whom I had sold myself.

I obeyed.

“Proceed with the ceremony.”

The clergyman droned off the service by heart with the characteristic nasal intonation. Probably I faltered a little at the responses, but my dying bride never hesitated. Though her voice was low as distant music, her every word was prompt and clear.

I gave the alias I frequently used, Vladimir Mordvinoff, and when I uttered the name I fancied that she started.

“Mojnoli?” she gasped in a strange half-whisper, but she did not turn to look at me. It was evident, however, that she spoke Russian.

The ceremony concluded, we were pronounced man and wife; I was the husband of a girl who was insane, and whose face I had never looked upon!

Was ever there a stranger marriage? The thin wasted fingers that lay in my grasp were cold. A strange sense of guilt crept over me when I remembered that I had bound myself irrevocably to her, deceiving her during her last moments upon earth.

“Come,” exclaimed his lordship. “Let us go downstairs and sign the necessary documents.”

We all descended to the library, where the register was filled up and the signatures affixed, the clergyman handing me the certificate with a murmur of congratulation. A bottle of champagne was produced, and we each drank a glass, after which I was allowed to return to the room alone to make the acquaintance of my wife.

I entered on tiptoe, almost breathlessly, and paused for a moment beside the bed, trying to speak. At first my mouth refused to utter a sound. What could I say? Suddenly the Nihilist pass-word flashed across my mind, and I uttered it. It’s effect was almost magical. Struggling, she endeavoured to rise, but could only support herself upon her elbow, at the same time giving me the secret countersign.

I was anxious to see her countenance, so I turned up the gas, afterwards bending down to look upon her. It was a pretty, delicate face, but cut and swollen as if by savage blows, discoloured and disfigured, a blanched face in which were obvious signs of insanity!

When our eyes met she started, scrutinised me closely, and uttered a shrill scream of joy.

I recognised her instantly. While I was living in Petersburg several years before, she had been admitted to our Circle. She gave the name of Muriel Radford, but beyond the fact that she was English and that she apparently had plenty of money at her disposal, we knew nothing of her. At the meetings of the Circle we often met and had many a pleasant tête-à-tête. I had admired her and more than once was tempted to declare my love, but I refrained from doing so until too late, for suddenly, one snowy night in midwinter, I was compelled to fly from the Russian capital. Since then I had neither seen nor heard of her.

Now I had discovered her under these extraordinary circumstances.

She kissed me fondly, passionately, and I was about to explain our strange marriage, when the terrible light of insanity in her eyes caused me to hesitate. Of what use was it to speak? She did not understand.

Taking a small bunch of keys from under her lace-edged pillow, she handed them to me, saying—

“Go to that cabinet over there and unlock the second drawer. In the right-hand corner you will find a packet. Bring it here and open it.”

I did as I was commanded, and brought to the bedside a small packet of letters secured with crimson ribbon. As I untied the knot a cabinet photograph fell out upon the bed. I picked it up and looked at it.

It was a picture of myself!

“How did you obtain this?” I asked eagerly.

“I have never ceased to think of you,” she replied. “I prevailed upon one of your friends in Petersburg to give me the picture. But there is another photograph there. Take it out and look at it.”

Searching among the papers, I found the picture she indicated.

When I turned it face upwards in the gaslight it almost fell from my grasp, for I recognised it as a portrait of my companion with whom I shared chambers.

“Do you know Kassatkin?” I asked, in astonishment.

“Yes, I do,” she said, and raising herself upon her elbow, she continued earnestly: “Listen, Anton! You are now my husband, although I know I am dying. Nothing can save me, and I shall not live to inflict upon that cursed spy the punishment he deserves. I know——”

“Is he a spy?” I interrupted breathlessly.

“Yes. When you had left Petersburg they admitted him into the Circle, believing him to be trustworthy. Soon afterwards, however, the police arrested nearly the whole of the members, and had I not been the daughter of the British ambassador I should have been arrested also. Inquiries I afterwards made proved conclusively that Paramòn Markoff—or Nicolas Kassatkin, as he calls himself—was an officer of Secret Police; that he was admitted to the Circle by means of forged introductions, and that through his instrumentality over one hundred members of our Cause were exiled.”

“But what proof have you?” I asked excitedly, remembering how much Kassatkin knew of the conspiracy we were forming.

“The papers you hold in your hand will prove what I allege,” she replied. Then she continued wildly: “Find the spy. Let death be his reward for ingenuity and double-dealing. Kill him! Promise me! Do not let him send to Siberia other innocent supporters of the Cause!” Clutching my hand, she added, “Tell me that you will avenge the deaths of the men and women who fell victims to his treachery. Promise me!”

“I promise,” I replied. “If he is a spy he shall die.”

“Ah! At last he will receive his well-merited punishment. And he had the audacity to love me!” She uttered the words feebly, sinking wearily back upon her pillow.

Her face had changed, becoming paler and more drawn. She did not move, and I stood watching, not knowing what to do. The excitement had proved too much for her. Suddenly she opened her eyes, and whispered my name. Then she gave vent to a long, deep-drawn sigh, shuddered, and lay strangely still.

I knew then that my wife had passed away!

I was kissing her pale lips and closing the glazing eyes, when the footman entered hurriedly, and whispered that I was required in the library at once. He dashed downstairs, and I followed. On going into the room a sight met my gaze which I shall never forget, for, lying stretched upon the couch was his lordship, writhing in the horrible agonies of death from poisoning. A small bottle standing upon the table and a broken champagne glass had but one tale to tell.

He had taken his own life!

The clergyman was kneeling by his side, but in a few moments the old Earl gave a final sigh, and ere I had realised it, he passed to the land that lies beyond human ken.

I learned from the doctor who attended that the Earl of Wansford had, since relinquishing his post at Petersburg, showed signs of madness. During a fit of insanity, a year before, he had struck down his daughter, inflicting such injuries that she had been an invalid ever since. Her mind, too, became unhinged. It was supposed that, seized by sudden remorse, his lordship had imbibed the fatal draught.

Morning was breaking, cold and grey, as I ascended the stairs to my chambers. Opening the door with my latch-key, I entered the sitting-room. The lamp was still burning, and there were evidences that Kassatkin had not returned.

Upon the table was a note addressed to me.

I tore it open, and read as follows:—

“In the matter upon which we were engaged last week I have made an important discovery, which necessitates me leaving for the Continent to-night. Will let you know shortly where I am.”

It suddenly crossed my mind that, having ascertained the details of the plot we were preparing, he had left for Petersburg to give information to the police.

That morning I placed the papers my dead wife had given me before the Executive, and the same evening Tersinski and I, having discovered the route the spy had taken, were on our way to the Continent, following the man upon whom the sentence of our Order had been passed.

A week later the special edition of the Pall Mall Gazette contained the following among its general foreign news:—

“Reuter’s Cologne correspondent reports that a mysterious murder has created considerable sensation in Germany. Yesterday the body of a man was discovered floating in the Rhine, near Bonn, and on being taken from the water it was found that the man had been stabbed to the heart. From papers found upon him, it appears that the name of the murdered man was Nicolas Kassatkin, a Russian, who has recently been living in London.”