Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Such a man was the Wanderer, as he paced the deserted street in the cruel, gloomy cold of the late day. Between his sight and the star of his own hope an impenetrable shadow had arisen, so that he saw it no more. The memory of Beatrice was more than ever distinct to his inner sense, but the sudden presentiment of her death, real in its working as any certainty, had taken the reality of her from the ground on which he stood. For that one link had still been between them. Somewhere, near or far, during all these years, she, too, had trodden the earth with her light footsteps, the same universal mother earth on which they both moved and lived. The very world was hers, since she was touching it, and to touch it in his turn was to feel her presence. For who could tell what hidden currents ran in the secret depths, or what mysterious interchange of sympathy might not be maintained through them? The air itself was hers, since she was somewhere breathing it; the stars, for she looked on them; the sun, for it warmed her; the cold of winter, for it chilled her too; the breezes of spring, for they fanned her pale cheek and cooled her dark brow. All had been hers, and at the thought that she had passed away, a cry of universal mourning broke from the world she had left behind, and darkness descended upon all things, as a funeral pall.

  Cold and dim and sad the ancient city had seemed before, but it was a thousandfold more melancholy now, more black, more saturated with the gloom of ages. From time to time the Wanderer raised his heavy lids, scarcely seeing what was before him, conscious of nothing but the horror which had so suddenly embraced his whole existence. Then, all at once, he was face to face with some one. A woman stood still in the way, a woman wrapped in rich furs, her features covered by a dark veil which could not hide the unequal fire of the unlike eyes so keenly fixed on his.

  “Have you found her?” asked the soft voice.

  “She is dead,” answered the Wanderer, growing very white.

  CHAPTER VIII

  DURING THE SHORT silence which followed, and while the two were still standing opposite to each other, the unhappy man’s look did not change. Unorna saw that he was sure of what he said, and a thrill of triumph, as jubilant as his despair was profound ran through her. If she had cared to reason with herself and to examine into her own sincerity, she would have seen that nothing but genuine passion, good or bad, could have lent the assurance of her rival’s death such power to flood the dark street with sunshine. But she was already long past doubt upon that question. The enchanter had bound her heart with his spells at the first glance, and the wild nature was already on fire. For one instant the light shot from her eyes, and then sank again as quickly as it had come. She had other impulses than those of love, and subtle gifts of perception that condemned her to know the truth, even when the delusion was most glorious. He was himself deceived, and she knew it. Beatrice might, indeed, have died long ago. She could not tell. But as she sought in the recesses of his mind, she saw that he had no certainty of it, she saw the black presentiment between him and the image, for she could see the image too. She saw the rival she already hated, not receiving a vision of the reality, but perceiving it through his mind, as it had always appeared to him. For one moment she hesitated still, and she knew that her whole life was being weighed in the trembling balance of that hesitation. For one moment her face became an impenetrable mask, her eyes grew dull as uncut jewels, her breathing ceased, her lips were set like cold marble. Then the stony mask took life again, the sight grew keen, and a gentle sigh stirred the chilly air.

  “She is not dead.”

  “Not dead!” The Wanderer started, but fully two seconds after she had spoken, as a man struck by a bullet in battle, in whom the suddenness of the shock has destroyed the power of instantaneous sensation.

  “She is not dead. You have dreamed it,” said Unorna, looking at him steadily.

  He pressed his hand to his forehead and then moved it, as though brushing away something that troubled him.

  “Not dead? Not dead!” he repeated, in changing tones.

  “Come with me. I will show her to you.”

  He gazed at her and his senses reeled. Her words sounded like rarest music in his ear; in the darkness of his brain a soft light began to diffuse itself.

  “Is it possible? Have I been mistaken?” he asked in a low voice, as though speaking to himself.

  “Come!” said Unorna again very gently.

  “Whither? With you? How can you bring me to her? What power have you to lead the living to the dead?”

  “To the living. Come.”

  “To the living — yes. I have dreamed an evil dream — a dream of death. She is not — no, I see it now. She is not dead. She is only very far from me, very, very far. And yet it was this morning — but I was mistaken, deceived by some faint likeness. Ah, God! I thought I knew her face! What is it that you want with me?”

  He asked the question as though again suddenly aware of Unorna’s presence. She had lifted her veil and her eyes drew his soul into their mysterious depths.

  “She calls you. Come.”

  “She? She is not here. What can you know of her? Why do you look at me so?”

  He felt an unaccountable uneasiness under her gaze, like a warning of danger not far off. The memory of his meeting with her on that same morning was not clear at that moment, but he had not forgotten the odd disturbance of his faculties which had distressed him at the time. He was inclined to resist any return of the doubtful state and to oppose Unorna’s influence. He felt the fascination of her glance, and he straightened himself rather proudly and coldly as though to withdraw himself from it. It was certain that Unorna, at the surprise of meeting her, had momentarily dispelled the gloomy presentiment which had given him such terrible pain. And yet, even his disturbed and anxious consciousness found it more than strange that she should thus press him to go with her, and so boldly promise to bring him to the object of his search. He resisted her, and found that resistance was not easy.

  “And yet,” said she, dropping her eyes and seeming to abandon the attempt, “you said that if you failed to-day you would come back to me. Have you succeeded, that you need no help?”

  “I have not succeeded.”

  “And if I had not come to you — if I had not met you here, you would have failed for the last time. You would have carried with you the conviction of her death to the moment of your own.”

  “It was a horrible delusion, but since it was a delusion it would have passed away in time.”

  “With your life, perhaps. Who would have waked you, if I had not?”

  “I was not sleeping. Why do you reason? What would you prove?”

  “Much, if I knew how. Will you walk with me? It is very cold.”

  They had been standing where they had met. As she spoke, Unorna looked up with an expression wholly unlike the one he had seen a few moments earlier. Her strong will was suddenly veiled by the most gentle and womanly manner, and a little shiver, real or feigned, passed over her as she drew the folds of her fur more closely round her. The man before her could resist the aggressive manifestation of her power, but he was far too courteous to refuse her request.

  “Which way?” he asked quietly.

  “To the river,” she answered.

  He turned and took his place by her side. For some moments they walked on in silence. It was already almost twilight.

  “How short the days are!” exclaimed Unorna, rather suddenly.

  “How long, even at their shortest!” replied her companion.

  “They might be short — if you would.”

  He did not answer her, though he glanced quickly at her face. She was looking down at the pavement before her, as though picking her way, for there were patches of ice upon the stones. She seemed very quiet. He could not guess that her heart was beating violently, and that she found it hard to say six words in a natural tone.

  So far as he himself was concerned he was in no humour for talking. He had seen almost everything in the world, and had read or heard almost everything that mankind had to say. The
streets of Prague had no novelty for him, and there was no charm in the chance acquaintance of a beautiful woman, to bring words to his lips. Words had long since grown useless in the solitude of a life that was spent in searching for one face among the millions that passed before his sight. Courtesy had bidden him to walk with her, because she had asked it, but courtesy did not oblige him to amuse her, he thought, and she had not the power that Keyork Arabian had to force him into conversation, least of all into conversing upon his own inner life. He regretted the few words he had spoken, and would have taken them back, had it been possible. He felt no awkwardness in the long silence.

  Unorna for the first time in her life felt that she had not full control of her faculties. She who was always so calm, so thoroughly mistress of her own powers, whose judgment Keyork Arabian could deceive, but whose self-possession he could not move, except to anger, was at the present moment both weak and unbalanced. Ten minutes earlier she had fancied that it would be an easy thing to fix her eyes on his and to cast the veil of a half-sleep over his already half-dreaming senses. She had fancied that it would be enough to say “Come,” and that he would follow. She had formed the bold scheme of attaching him to herself, by visions of the woman whom he loved as she wished to be loved by him. She believed that if he were once in that state she could destroy the old love for ever, or even turn it to hate, at her will. And it had seemed easy. That morning, when he had first come to her, she had fastened her glance upon him more than once, and she had seen him turn a shade paler, had noticed the drooping of his lids and the relaxation of his hands. She had sought him in the street, guided by something surer than instinct, she had found him, had read his thoughts, and had felt him yielding to her fixed determination. Then, suddenly, her power had left her, and as she walked beside him, she knew that if she looked into his face she would blush and be confused like a shy girl. She almost wished that he would leave her without a word and without an apology.

  It was not possible, however, to prolong the silence much longer. A vague fear seized her. Had she really lost all her dominating strength in the first moments of the first sincere passion she had ever felt? Was she reduced to weakness by his presence, and unable so much as to sustain a fragmentary conversation, let alone suggesting to his mind the turn it should take? She was ashamed of her poverty of spirit in the emergency. She felt herself tongue-tied, and the hot blood rose to her face. He was not looking at her, but she could not help fancying that he knew her secret embarrassment. She hung her head and drew her veil down so that it should hide even her mouth.

  But her trouble increased with every moment, for each second made it harder to break the silence. She sought madly for something to say, and she knew that her cheeks were on fire. Anything would do, no matter what. The sound of her own voice, uttering the commonest of commonplaces, would restore her equanimity. But that simple, almost meaningless phrase would not be found. She would stammer, if she tried to speak, like a child that has forgotten its lesson and fears the schoolmaster as well as the laughter of its schoolmates. It would be so easy if he would say something instead of walking quietly by her side, suiting his pace to hers, shifting his position so that she might step upon the smoothest parts of the ill-paved street, and shielding her, as it were, from the passers-by. There was a courteous forethought for her convenience and safety in every movement of his, a something which a woman always feels when traversing a crowded thoroughfare by the side of a man who is a true gentleman in every detail of life, whether husband, or friend, or chance acquaintance. For the spirit of the man who is really thoughtful for woman, as well as sincerely and genuinely respectful in his intercourse with them, is manifest in his smallest outward action.

  While every step she took increased the violence of the passion which had suddenly swept away her strength, every instant added to her confusion. She was taken out of the world in which she was accustomed to rule, and was suddenly placed in one where men are men, and women are women, and in which social conventionalities hold sway. She began to be frightened. The walk must end, and at the end of it they must part. Since she had lost her power over him he might go away, for there would be nothing to bring him to her. She wondered why he would not speak, and her terror increased. She dared not look up, lest she should find him looking at her.

  Then they emerged from the street and stood by the river, in a lonely place. The heavy ice was gray with old snow in some places and black in others, where the great blocks had been cut out in long strips. It was lighter here. A lingering ray of sunshine, forgotten by the departing day, gilded the vast walls and turrets of venerable Hradschin, far above them on the opposite bank, and tinted the sharp dark spires of the half-built cathedral which crowns the fortress. The distant ring of fast-moving skates broke the stillness.

  “Are you angry with me?” asked Unorna, almost humbly, and hardly knowing what she said. The question had risen to her lips without warning, and was asked almost unconsciously.

  “I do not understand. Angry? At what? Why should you think I am angry?”

  “You are so silent,” she answered, regaining courage from the mere sound of her own words. “We have been walking a long time, and you have said nothing. I thought you were displeased.”

  “You must forgive me. I am often silent.”

  “I thought you were displeased,” she repeated. “I think that you were, though you hardly knew it. I should be very sorry if you were angry.”

  “Why would you be sorry?” asked the Wanderer with a civil indifference that hurt Unorna more than any acknowledgment of his displeasure could have done.

  “Because I would help you, if you would let me.”

  He looked at her with sudden keenness. In spite of herself she blushed and turned her head away. He hardly noticed the fact, and, if he had, would assuredly not have put upon it any interpretation approaching to the truth. He supposed that she was flushed with walking.

  “No one has ever helped me, least of all in the way you mean,” he said. “The counsels of wise men — of the wisest — have been useless, as well as the dreams of women who fancy they have the gift of mental sight beyond the limit of bodily vision.”

  “Who fancy they see!” exclaimed Unorna, almost glad to find that she was still strong enough to feel annoyance at the slight.

  “I beg your pardon. I do not mean to doubt your powers, of which I have had no experience.”

  “I did not offer to see for you. I did not offer you a dream.”

  “Would you show me that which I already see, waking and sleeping? Would you bring to my hearing the sound of a voice which I can hear even now? I need no help for that.”

  “I can do more than that — for you.”

  “And why for me?” he asked with some curiosity.

  “Because — because you are Keyork Arabian’s friend.” She glanced at his face, but he showed no surprise.

  “You have seen him this afternoon, of course,” he remarked.

  And odd smile passed over Unorna’s face.

  “Yes. I have seen him this afternoon. He is a friend of mine, and of yours — do you understand?”

  “He is the wisest of men,” said the Wanderer. “And also the maddest,” he added thoughtfully.

  “And you think it was in his madness, rather than in his wisdom, that he advised you to come to me?”

  “Possibly. In his belief in you, at least.”

  “And that may be madness?” She was gaining courage.

  “Or wisdom — if I am mad. He believes in you. That is certain.”

  “He has no beliefs. Have you known him long, and do not know that? With him there is nothing between knowledge and ignorance.”

  “And he knows, of course, by experience what you can do and what you cannot do?”

  “By very long experience, as I know him.”

  “Neither your gifts nor his knowledge of them can change dreams to facts.”

  Unorna smiled again.

  “You can produce a dream — noth
ing more,” continued the Wanderer, drawn at last into argument. “I, too, know something of these things. The wisdom of the Egyptians is not wholly lost yet. You may possess some of it, as well as the undeveloped power which could put all their magic within your reach if you knew how to use it. Yet a dream is a dream.”

  “Philosophers have disputed that,” answered Unorna. “I am no philosopher, but I can overthrow the results of all their disputations.”

  “You can do this. If I resign my will into your keeping you can cause me to dream. You can call up vividly before me the remembered and unremembered sights of my life. You can make me see clearly the sights impressed upon your own memory. You might do that, and yet you could be showing me nothing which I do not see now before me — of those things which I care to see.”

  “But suppose that you were wrong, and that I had no dream to show you, but a reality?”

  She spoke the words very earnestly, gazing into his eyes at last without fear. Something in her tone struck him and fixed his attention.

  “There is no sleep needed to see realities,” he said.

  “I did not say that there was. I only asked you to come with me to the place where she is.”

  The Wanderer started slightly and forgot all the instinct of opposition to her which he had felt so strongly before.

  “Do you mean that you know — that you can take me to her — —” he could not find words. A strange, overmastering astonishment took possession of him, and with it came wild hope and the wilder longing to reach its realisation instantly.

  “What else could I have meant? What else did I say?” Her eyes were beginning to glitter in the gathering dusk.

  The Wanderer no longer avoided their look, but he passed his hand over his brow, as though dazed.