by Max Brand
“And I cannot tell why I came here tonight,” he answered, “for I determined to stay away, but my steps guided themselves. Here I am. It is not you or I who speak here tonight, Beatrice, but old forces greater than we. We are puppets in the game. We are the guests of chance. Do you not feel it?”
“I cannot say,” she said, “but everything seems changed. It is as if I knew you for a long time. When you speak I remember your words from long ago. And my heart is cold and strange. And — and — I wish you would go, John Ovington. I am afraid of you.”
“I cannot go yet,” he answered bitterly, “for I sit here and see as plainly as if I were looking at you, the stir of your breast, and the moonlight white and cold along your throat, and the unconscious smiling of your lips, and the unsearchable shadows of your eyes.”
He turned to her fiercely and his left hand gripped the back of the stone seat as he leaned over her.
“Can’t you make them clear and plain and readable? Can’t you make me feel that I have no hope? That you are completely lost to me? That I have no share in your soul? Why do you torment me with this damnable ghost of hope, Beatrice?”
She made no answer to the compelling whisper, but through a long moment she met his eyes and into the silence once more the shaking of the fountain beat like a pulse. Then she shrank a little away with a musical tremor of sound, and her hand fell palm up across her eyes. He drew her to him, rich with the soft warmth of her body.
His lips touched her throat. A sob formed there. He kissed the tremulous hollow of her hand. At once it fell away helplessly. He crushed the parted lips. At once her breath came brokenly and moaning to his ear, and while the thunder of his heart shook both their spirits, she whispered:
“God help me! God help me!”
Thereat he rose suddenly and turned away with bowed head, for at the moan of her voice the thought of the yellow, rustling papers of the cedar box came upon him like a drift of the last leaves of dead autumn. Then he knew that she was by his side.
“It is not ended yet,” she was saying. “If we are the guests of chance now, oh, be strong and become the master of it all! Find out the way. There is always one road home, John, I trust in you.”
When he was able to raise his head she was gone, and a mist that drew across the moon made all the play grey and cold.
He reached his house again and stood a long time before the picture of John Ovington until it seemed that the hard half sneer of the pictured smile was meant for him, and when he slept that night the mockery of the smile followed him.
§ IV
But when he rose the next morning and looked over the shimmer of color running on the hills, a new hope swelled in him and a confidence of power. But as the day drew on the thought of the papers in the cedar box depressed him.
In the middle of the afternoon Hillton brought him a letter. Once more he knew the contents before he broke the seal, but as he read the expected words a sick feeling of suspense came over him.
Vincent Colvin has been with me all this morning. I am going to ride away with him tonight. I have not forgotten, but I promised myself to him long ago, and now I shall keep the promise. My father objects, so we are going out for a ride from which we shall never come back. We will take the Newbury Road. Oh, my dear, it breaks my heart to ride out of your life! It has all been so strange, so maddingly dear and painful. Must this be good-bye?
Once the letter was finished the suspense left him. Automatically he ordered his trunk packed and arranged his affairs as if he were about to go on a long journey. At sunset he went for the last time to look at the picture of the other John Ovington.
The smile twitched the lips and the sneer was doubly bitter.
After that he rode the black horse down the Newbury Road. He hardly knew what position to take, but when he came to a branching of the road the black horse of his own accord drew down to a walk. He had ridden him under the black shadow of an oak by the roadside before he remembered Hillton’s story:
“And John Ovington waited for them at a forking of the Newbury Road.”
He would have ridden out and found some other waiting-place as he remembered, but a grim determination came up in him and he sat his horse motionless. He remained there for perhaps an hour. The moon came up and ran white along the road. Then a clatter of hoofs beat far away.
Colvin came first as they rounded the last run, a large man riding strongly on a grey horse. They were a hundred yards away when Ovington rode out from beneath the tree, his hand raised.
Colvin brought his horse to a stop on grinding hoofs.
“Who the devil are you, sir?” he shouted. “What do you mean by stopping me?”
“I haven’t the least wish to stop you,” said Ovington calmly, “but I intend to stop Beatrice Jervan tonight. As for you, you may ride to hell, for all of me.”
He could see Colvin’s face set with fury.
“What authority have you for this?” he demanded, still partially controlling his voice.
“The authority of good sense,” smiled Ovington, “which says that it is both too late and far too cold for a girl to be out riding.”
“Damn your impertinence,” cried Colvin. “Get out of the road or I’ll ride you down like a dog!”
“Ah,” said Ovington, “you talk well, Colvin. But there is an older score to settle between us than you dream of. You must ride this way alone tonight.”
“You fool,” shouted Colvin, “if you must have it, take it!”
As he spoke a revolver flashed in his hand, but as it dropped to the level Ovington spurred his black suddenly forward.
With his left hand he struck up Colvin’s arm, and the revolver roared past his ear. With his right arm he seized Colvin about the waist and drew him bodily from the saddle.
As he swayed a moment struggling on the saddle-bow, Ovington swung his right hand free and struck. The blow fell behind Colvin’s ear and he collapsed without a sound.
Ovington flung his limp body to the ground.
“You have killed him!” whispered Beatrice. “Flee! Flee!”
“He is merely stunned,” said Ovington. “Turn your horse. We ride another way this night.”
She reined her horse away and raised her riding-crop.
“Keep away,” she cried in a choked voice. “I am afraid! Keep away. He has my promise — I shall never leave him!”
He laughed short and hard.
“Promise?” he said. “Do you think that words will stop me tonight after I have conquered destiny at last? Do you dream that words will stop me? Then one way with both!”
As he spoke he rode upon her. The riding-crop fell upon his shoulder, but he did not notice it. He swept her from the saddle into his arms and crushed the parted lips fiercely against his own.
“Dearest,” he said, “after four generations of waiting, I have returned for you and won you away from fate.”
Suddenly her straining body gave to him, he heard a murmuring and changed voice in his ear:
“Ride! Ride! He is stirring on the road. He is awakening!”
And as they spurred up the road he turned his head and saw the grey horse and the brown fleeing side by side far away with loose shaken bridle-reins and empty saddles.
THE END
OUT OF THE DARK
THE PRINCIPALITY OF Pornia is not a large country and in the ordinary course of history it should have been swallowed entire, centuries ago, by one of the kingdoms which surround it. Its situation has saved it from this fate, for it is the buffer state between two great monarchies whose jealousy has preserved for Pornia an independent existence.
Despite its independence, Pornia has never received much consideration from the rest of Europe, and the aim of its princes for many generations has been to foist it into the great councils by a strong alliance with one of the two kingdoms to which it serves as a buffer.
The long-desired opportunity came at last in the reign of Alexander VI, who, one morning, commanded Rudolph of Herzvina
to appear at the palace. As soon as the worthy old baron appeared, Alexander spoke to him as follows: “Rudolph, you are an old and respected counselor, a devoted servant of the State, and therefore I am delighted to announce that the greatest honor is about to descend upon your family, an honor so great that the entire State of Pornia will be elevated thereby. The Crown Prince Charles wishes to make your daughter his wife!”
At this he stepped back, the better to note the joy with which old Rudolph would receive this announcement, but, to his astonishment, the baron merely bowed his head and sighed.
“Your highness,” said Rudolph of Herzvina, “I have long known of the attachment which the crown prince has for my daughter, Bertha, but I fear that the marriage can never be consummated.”
“Come, come!” said the prince genially. “It is a far leap indeed from Baron of Herzvina to father-in-law to Prince Charles, but there have been stranger things in history than this, though never anything that could so effectually elevate Pornia. Have no fear of Charles. He loves your daughter; he is strong-minded as the very devil; he will override any opposition from his father. As a matter of fact, it is no secret that Charles is already practically the ruler over his kingdom. So rejoice, Herzvina, and I will rejoice with you!”
But the baron merely shook his head sadly and repeated: “I fear the marriage can never be consummated.”
“Why not?” said the prince in some heat. “I tell you, his royal highness loves the girl. I could read passion even in the stilted language of his ambassador’s message. Why not?”
“I was not thinking of his royal highness, but of the girl. She will not marry him.”
The prince dropped into a chair with jarring suddenness.
Rudolph continued hastily: “I have talked with Bertha many times and seriously of the matter; I have tried to convince her of her duty; but she will not hear me. The foolish girl says she does not love his highness.”
The prince smote his hands together in an ecstasy of impatience.
“Love! Love! In the name of God, Herzvina, what has love to do with this? This is the thing for which Pornia has waited during centuries. Through this alliance I can make a treaty that will place Pornia once and forever upon the map of the diplomatic powers. Love!”
“I have said all this to her, but she is obdurate.”
“Does she expect some fairy prince? She is not a child; she is not even — forgive me — beautiful.”
“True. She is not even pretty, but even homely women, your highness, will sometimes think of love. It is a weakness of the sex.”
He was not satirical; he was very earnest indeed. He continued: “I have tried every persuasion. She only says in reply: ‘He is too old. I cannot love him.’”
An inspiration came to Alexander of Pornia. Under the stress of it he rose and so far forgot himself as to clap a hand upon the shoulder of Herzvina. In so doing he had to reach up almost as high as his head, for the princes of Pornia have been small men, time out of mind.
“Baron,” he said, “will you let me try my hand at persuasion?”
“It would be an honor, sire. My family is ever at the disposal of my prince.”
He answered with a touch of emotion: “I know it, Rudolph; but will you trust the girl in my hands for a number of days? A thought has come to me. I know I can convince her that this love of which she dreams is a thing of the flesh alone, a physical necessity. Come, send her to me, and I shall tear away her illusions. She will not thank me for it, but she will marry the crown prince.”
“I will send her to the palace to-day.”
“Very good; and first tell her why I wish to speak with her. It may be that of herself she will change her mind when she learns the wishes of her prince. Farewell.”
And the prince rode off to a review of the troops of the city guard. So it was that Bertha of Herzvina sat for a long time in a lonely room, after her arrival at the palace before the door opened, a man in livery bowed for the entrance of the prince, and she found herself alone with her sovereign.
Automatically she curtsied, and he let her remain bowed while he slowly drew off his white gloves. He still wore his general’s uniform with the stiff padding which would not allow his body to grow old, for a prince of Pornia must always look the soldier.
“Sit down,” he ordered, and as she obeyed he commenced to walk the room.
He never sat quietly through an interview if he could avoid it; a constitutional weakness of the nerves made it almost impossible for him to meet another person’s eyes. The pacing up and down gave a plausible reason for the continual shifting of his glance.
“A good day, a very good day,” he said. “The hussars were wonderful.”
His shoulders strained further back. The prince himself always rode at the head of the hussars; in her childhood she had admired him. He stopped at a window and hummed a marching air. That was a planned maneuver, for his back was far more royal than his face, with its tall forehead and diminutive mouth and chin. She felt as if she were in the presence of a uniformed automaton.
He broke off his humming and spoke without turning.
“Well?”
“My decision is unchanged.”
“Impossible! In the length of a whole day even a woman must think twice.”
“Yes, many times.”
“You will not marry him?”
“I cannot love him.”
He whirled, and the pale blue eyes flashed at her a brief glance which made her cringe. It was as if an X-ray had been turned on her heart.
“Love!” he said softly, and she shuddered again. “Because he is old? Bertha, you are no longer a child. Other women marry for what they may term love. It is your privilege to marry for the State. That is the nobler thing.”
He smiled and nodded, repeating for his own ear: “The nobler thing! What is greater than such service — what is more glorious than to forget self and marry for the good of the thousands?”
“I have an obligation to myself.”
“Who has filled you with so many childish ideas?”
“They have grown of themselves, sire.”
The pacing up and down the room recommenced. “Child, have you no desire to serve me? I mean, your country?”
She answered slowly, as if feeling for her words: “It is impossible that I should be able to serve you through my dishonor. If I should marry the crown prince, my life would be one long sleep, sire. I would not dare awaken to the reality.”
His head tilted and he laughed noiselessly. A weakness of the throat prevented him from raising his voice even in times of the greatest excitement.
“A soul that sleeps, eh? The kiss of love will awaken it?”
He surveyed her with brief disdain.
“My dear, you scorn titles, and yet as an untitled woman you are not a match for the first red-faced tradesman’s daughter. Stand up!”
She rose and he led her in front of a pier glass. Solemnly he studied her pale image.
“A sleeping soul!” he repeated.
She covered her face.
“Will that bait catch the errant lover, Bertha?”
“God will make up the difference.”
He cursed softly. She had not known he could be so moved.
“Poor child, let me talk with you.”
He led her back to a chair almost with kindness and sat somewhat behind her so that he need not meet her eyes.
“This love you wait for — it is not a full-grown god, dear girl, but a blind child. Given a man and a woman and a certain propinquity, and nature does the rest. We put a mask on nature and call it love, we name an abstraction and call it God. Love! Love! Love! It is a pretty disguise — no more. Do you understand?”
“I will not.”
She listened to his quick breathing.
“Bertha, if I were to chain you with a ten-foot chain to the first man off the streets and leave you alone with him for three days, what would happen?”
Her hand closed on the arm of t
he chair. He rose and paced the room as his idea grew.
“Your eyes would criticize him and your shame would fight in behalf of your — soul? And the sight of your shame would keep the man in check. But suppose the room were dark — suppose you could not see his face and merely knew that a man was there — suppose he could not see and merely knew that a woman was there? What would happen? Would it be love? Pah! Love is no more deified than hunger. If it is satisfied, it goes to sleep; if it is satiated, it turns to loathing. Aye, at the end of the three days you would be glad enough to have the ten-foot chain cut. But first what would happen?”
The vague terror grew coldly in her, for she could see the idea taking hold of him like a hand.
“If I were to do this, the world might term it a shameful thing, but I act for Pornia — not for myself. I consider only the good of the State. By this experiment I prove to you that love is not God, but blind nature. Yes, and if you knew it as it is, would you oppose me longer? The thought grows upon me! Speak!”
Her smile made her almost beautiful.
“Sire, in all the world there is only one man for every woman.”
“Book talk.”
He set his teeth because he could not meet her eyes.
“And who will bring you this one man?”
“God.”
Once more the soundless laugh.
“Then I shall play the part of God. Bertha, you must now make your decision: a marriage for the good of the State, or the ten-foot chain, the dark room — and love!”
“Even you will not dare this, sire.”
“Bertha, there is nothing I do not dare. What would be known? I give orders that this room be utterly darkened; I send secret police to seize a man from the city at random and fetter him to a chain in that room; then I bring you to the room and fasten you to the other end of the chain, and for three days I have food introduced into the room. Results? For the man, death; for you, a knowledge first of yourself and, secondly, of love. The State will benefit.”