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Sunrise, a novel by William Black |
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Chapter 14. A Russian Episode |
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_ CHAPTER XIV. A RUSSIAN EPISODE "Is that the way you answer an appeal for help?" With that gentle protest still lingering in his ear, he was not inclined to be hard on this unfortunate wretch who was in the cab with him; and yet at the same time he was resolved to prevent any repetition of the scene he had just witnessed. At the last he discovered that the man had picked up in his wanderings a little German. His own German was not first-rate; it was fluent, forcible, and accurate enough, so far as hotels and railway-stations were concerned; elsewhere it had a tendency to halt, blunder, and double back on itself. But, at all events, he managed to convey to his companion the distinct intimation that any further troubling of that young lady would only procure for him broken head. The dull, stupid, savage-looking face betrayed no sign of intelligence. He repeated the warning again and again; and at last, at the phrase "that young lady," the dazed small eyes lit up somewhat, and the man clasped his hands. "Ein Engel!" he said, apparently to himself. "Ein Engel--ein Engel! Ach Gott--wie schon--wie gemuthlich!" "Yes, yes, yes," Brand said, "that is all very well; but one is not permitted to annoy angels--to trouble them in the street. Do you understand that that means punishment--one must be punished--if one returns to the house of that young lady? Do you understand?" The man regarded him with the small, deep-set eyes again sunk into apathy. "Ihr Diener, Herr," said he, submissively. "You understand you are not to go back to the house of the young lady?" "Ihr Diener, Herr." There was nothing to be got out of him, or into him; so Brand waited until he should get help of Heinrich Reitzei, Lind's _locum tenens_. Reitzei was in the chambers--at Lind's table, in fact. He was a man of about twenty-eight or thirty, slim and dark, with a perfectly pallid face, a small black mustache carefully waxed, and an affectedly courteous smile. He wore a _pince-nez_; was fond of slang, to show his familiarity with English; and aimed at an English manner, too. He seemed bored. He regarded this man whom Brand introduced to him without surprise, with indifference. "Hear what this fellow has to say," Brand said, "will you? and give him distinctly to understand that if he tries again to see Miss Lind, I will break his head for him. What idiot could have given him Lind's private address?" The man was standing near the door, stolid apparently, but with his small eyes keenly watching. Reitzei said a word or two to him. Instantly he went--he almost sprung--forward; and this movement was so unexpected that the equanimity of the pallid young man received a visible shock, and he hastily drew out a drawer a few inches. Brand caught sight of the handle of a revolver. But the man was only eager to tell his story, and presently Reitzei had resumed his air of indifference. As he proceeded to translate for Brand's benefit, in interjectional phrases, what this man with the trembling hands and the burning eyes was saying, it was strange to mark the contrast between the two men. "His name Kirski," the younger man was saying, as he eyed, with a cool and critical air, the wild look in the other's face. "A carver in wood, but cannot work now, for his hands tremble, through hunger and fatigue--through drink, I should say--native of a small village in Kiev--had his share of the Communal land--but got permission from the Commune to spend part of the year in Kiev itself--sent back all his taxes duly, and money too, because--oh, this is it?--daughter of village Elder--young, beautiful, of course--left an orphan, with three brothers--and their share of the land too much for them. Ah, this is the story, then, my friend? Married, too--young, beautiful, good--yes, yes, we know all that--" There were tears running down the face of the other man. But these he shook away; and a wilder light than ever came into his eyes. "He goes to Kiev as usual, foolish fellow; now I see what all the row is about. When he returns, three months after, he goes to his house. Empty. The neighbors will not speak. At last one says something about Pavel Michaieloff, the great proprietor, whose house and farm are some versts away--my good fellow, you have got the palsy, or is it drink?--he goes and seeks out the house of Pavel--yes, yes, the story is not new--Pavel is at the open window, smoking--he goes up to the window--there is a woman inside--when she sees him she utters a loud scream, and rushes for protection to the man Michaieloff--then all the fat is in the fire naturally--" The Russian choked and gasped; drops of perspiration stood on his forehead; he looked wildly around. "Water?" said Reitzei. "Poor devil, you need some water to cool down your excitement. You are making as much fuss as if that kind of thing had never happened in the world before." But he rose and got him some water, which the man drained eagerly; then he continued his story with the same fierce and angry vehemence. "Well, yes, he had something to complain of, certainly," Reitzei said, translating all that incoherent passion into cool little phrases. "Not a fair fight. Pavel summons his men from the court-yard--men with whips--dogs, too--he is lashed and driven along the roads, and the dogs tear at him! Oh yes, my good friend, you have been badly used; but you have come a long way to tell your story. I must ask him how the mischief he got here at all." But here Reitzei paused and stared. Something the man said--in an eager, low voice, with his sunken small eyes all afire--startled him out of his critical air. "Oh, that is it, is it?" he said, eyeing him. "He will do any thing for us--he will commit a murder--ten murders--if only we give him money, a knife, and help to kill the man Michaieloff. Well, he is a lively sort of person to let loose on society." "The man is clearly mad," Brand said. "The man was madder who sent him to us," Reitzei answered. "I should not like to be in his shoes if Lind hears that this maniac was allowed to see his daughter." The wretched creature standing there glanced eagerly from one to the other, with the eyes of a wild animal, seeking to gather something from their looks; then he went forward to the table, and stooped down and spoke to Reitzei still further, in the same low, fierce voice, his whole frame meanwhile shaking with his excitement. Reitzei said something to him in reply, and motioned him back. He retired a step or two, and then kept watching the faces of the two men. "What are you going to do with him?" Brand said. Reitzei shrugged his shoulders. "I know what I should like to do with him if I dared," he said, with a graceful smile. "There is a friend of mine not a hundred miles away from that very Kiev who wants a little admonition. Her name is Petrovna, she is the jail-matron of a female penitentiary; she is just a little too fierce at times. Murderers, thieves, prostitutes: oh yes, she can be civil enough to them; but let a political prisoner come near her--one of her own sex, mind--and she becomes a devil, a tigress, a vampire. Ah, Madame Petrovna and I may have a little reckoning some day. I have asked Lind again and again to petition for a decree against her; but no, he will not move; he is becoming Anglicized, effeminate." "A decree?" Brand said. The other smiled, with an affectation of calm superiority. "You will learn by-and-by. Meanwhile, if I dared, what I should like to do would be to give our friend here plenty of money, and not one but two knives, saying to him. 'My good friend, here is one knife for Michaieloff, if you like; but first of all here is this knife for that angel in disguise, Madame Petrovna, of the Female Penitentiary in Novolevsk. Strike sure and hard!'" For one instant his affectation forsook him, and there was a gleam in his eyes. This was but a momentary relapse from his professed indifference. "Well, Mr. Brand, I suppose I must take over this madman from you. You may tell Miss Lind she need not be frightened." "I should not think Miss Lind was in the habit of being frightened," said Brand, coldly. "Ah, no; doubtless not. Well, I shall see that this fellow does not trouble her again. What fine tidings we had of your work in the North! You have been a power; you have moved mountains." "I have moved John Molyneux," said Brand, with a laugh, "and in these days that is a more difficult business." "Fine news from Spain, too," said Reitzei, glancing at some letters. "From Valladolid, Barcelona, Ferrol, Saragossa--all the same story: coalition, coalition. Salmero will be in London next week." "But you have not told me what you are going to do with this man yet; you must stow the combustible piece of goods somewhere. Poor devil, his sufferings have made a pitiable object of him." "My dear friend," said Reitzei, "You don't suppose that a Russian peasant would feel so deeply a beating with whips, or the worrying of dogs, or even the loss of his wife? Of course, all together, it was something of a hard grind. He must have been constitutionally insane, and that woke the whole thing up." "Then he should be confined. He is a lunatic at large." "I don't think he would harm anybody," Reitzei said, regarding the man as if he were a strange animal. "I would not shut up a dog in a lunatic asylum; I would rather put a bullet through his head. And this fellow--if we could humbug him a little, and get him to his work again--I know a man in Wardour Street who would do that for me--and see what effect the amassing of a little English money might have on him. Better a miser than a wild beast. And he seems a submissive sort of creature. Leave him to me, Mr. Brand." Brand began to think a little better of Reitzei, whom hitherto he had rather disliked. He handed him five pounds, to get some clothes and tools for the man, who, when he was told of this generosity, turned to Brand and said something to him in Russian which set Reitzei laughing. "What is it he says?" "He said, 'Little Father, you are worthy to become the husband of the angel: may the day come soon!' I suppose the angel is Miss Lind; she must have been very kind to the man." "She only spoke to him; but her voice can be kind," said Brand, rather absently, and then he left. Away went the hansom back to Curzon Street. He said to himself that it was not for nothing that this unfortunate wretch Kirski had wandered all the way from the Dnieper to the Thames. He would look after this man. He would do something for him. Five pounds only? And he had been the means of securing this interview, if only for three of four minutes; after the long period of labor and hope and waiting he might have gone without a word at all but for this over-troubled poor devil. And now--now he might even see her alone for a couple of minutes in the hushed little drawing-room; and she might say if she had heard about what had been done in the North, and about his eagerness to return to the work. One look of thanks; that was enough. Sometimes, by himself up there in the solitary inns, the old fit had come over him; and he had laughed at himself, and wondered at this new fire of occupation and interest that was blazing through his life, and asked himself, as of old, to what end--to what end? But when he heard Natalie Lind's voice, there was a quick good-bye to all questioning. One look at the calm, earnest eyes, and he drank deep of faith, courage, devotion. And surely this story of the man Kirski--what he could tell her of it--would be sufficient to fill up five minutes, eight minutes, ten minute, while all the time he should be able to dwell on her eyes, whether they were downcast, or turned to his with their frank, soft glance. He should be in the perfume of the small drawing-room. He would see the Roman necklace Mazzini had given her gleam on her bosom as she breathed. He did not know what Natalie Lind had been about during his absence. "Anneli, Anneli--hither, child!" she called in German. "Run up to Madame Potecki, and ask her to come and spend the afternoon with me. She must come at once, to lunch with me; I will wait." "Yes, Fraulein. What music, Fraulein?" "None; never mind any music. But she must come at once." "Schon, Fraulein," said the little Anneli, about to depart. Her young mistress called her back, and paused, with a little hesitation. "You may tell Elizabeth," said she, with an indifferent air, "that it is possible--it is quite possible--it is at least possible--I may have two friends to lunch with me; and she must send at once if she wants anything more. And you could bring me back some fresh flowers, Anneli?" "Why not, Fraulein?" "Go quick, then, Anneli--fly like a roe--_durch Wald und auf der Haide_!" And so it came about that when George Brand was ushered into the scented little drawing-room--so anxious to make the most of the invaluable minutes--he found himself introduced first of all to Madame Potecki, a voluble, energetic little Polish gentlewoman, whose husband had been killed in the Warsaw disturbances of '61, and who now supported herself in London by teaching music. She was eager to know all about the man Kirski, and hoped that he was not wholly a maniac, and trusted that Mr. Brand would see that her dear child--her adopted daughter, she might say--was not terrified again by the madman. "My dear madame," said Brand, "you must not imagine that it was from terror that Miss Lind handed over the man to me--it was from kindness. That is more natural to her than terror." "Ah, I know the dear child has the courage of an army," said the little old lady, tapping her adopted daughter on the shoulder with the fan. "But she must take care of herself while her papa is away in America." Natalie rose; and of course Brand rose also, with a sudden qualm of disappointment, for he took that as the signal of his dismissal; and he had scarcely spoken a word to her. "Mr. Brand," said she, with some little trifle of embarrassment, "I know I must have deprived you of your luncheon. It was so kind of you to go at once with the poor man. Would it save you time--if you are not going anywhere--I thought perhaps you might come and have something with madame and myself. You must be dying of hunger." He did not refuse the invitation. And behold! when he went down-stairs, the table was already laid for three; had he been expected, he asked himself? Those flowers there, too: he knew it was no maid-servant's fingers that had arranged and distributed them so skilfully. How he blessed this little Polish lady, and her volubility, and her extravagant, subtle, honest flattery of her dear adopted daughter! It gave him liberty to steep himself in the rich consciousness of Natalie's presence; he could listen in silence for the sound of her voice--he could covertly watch the beauty of her shapely hands--without being considered preoccupied or morose. All he had to do was to say, "Yes, madame," or "Indeed, madame," the while he knew that Natalie Lind was breathing the same air with him--that at any moment the large, lustrous dark eyes might look up and meet his. And she spoke little, too; and had scarcely her usual frank self-confidence: perhaps a chance reference of Madame Potecki to the fact that her adopted daughter had been brought up without a mother had somewhat saddened her. The room was shaded in a measure, for the French silk blinds were down; but there was a soft golden glow prevailing all the same. For many a day George Brand remembered that little luncheon-party; the dull, bronze glow of the room; the flowers; the soft, downcast eyes opposite him; the bright, pleasant garrulity of the little Polish lady; and always--ah, the delight of it!--that strange, trembling, sweet consciousness that Natalie Lind was listening as he listened--that almost he could have heard the beating of her heart. And a hundred and a hundred times he swore that, whoever throughout the laboring and suffering world might regret that day, the man Kirski should not. _ |
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