I saw no more before the lad climbed on, and I followed; but the higher we mounted and the farther we penetrated into the bowels of this gloomy building, the more suspicious I grew, and the more closely I gripped my weapons. Indeed, I would gladly have stood — or gone back.
But having come so far, I had not the courage to withdraw — nor, indeed, the heart when I thought of the girl! And two more turns round the newel post, which generations of hands had so rubbed that it shone like marble in the lanthorn-light, brought us to the second floor.
“This way,” growled the lad, “and look to your feet, mein Herr,” and without a glance at me he plunged away across the loose heaving floor, the lanthorn swaying in his hand and now casting its light on the dusty boards that leapt under our tread, now revealing the beams and struts of the vast wagon-roof that sloped above us.
Half-heartedly I trailed behind him, and soon discerned that he was making for a corner whence there jutted out a room, counting-house, or what not, that at some time or other had been boarded off from the great chamber.
Holding his lanthorn up to the crazy-looking door, he turned the key in the lock. The door appeared to stick a little, but he dragged it open and stood aside. “She’s here,” he growled. “Mind your head. In the inner place.”
My eyes, peering in, passed through a second, an open doorway at some paces in front of me, and on a lower level. Framed in this doorway I saw a small bare table, on the table a tallow-candle standing in the neck of a bottle, and in the circle of light which this cast — the girl! Nay, not the girl, but a small, dishevelled head cast forward, the face invisible and buried in the arms that lay outstretched on the table.
So much I saw, made visible by the feeble light of the candle and framed in darkness — so much, and I stepped eagerly forward, caution, Karl, the loneliness of the place all forgotten. I stepped, or rather I plunged, forward, for the two steps that should have descended to the lower floor were not there, and it was much that in my fall I did not break my leg. (Sword)
As I staggered, striving with a cry of pain to keep my feet, I heard a hoot of triumph. The door was slammed to the post with a force that shook the wooden partition, and behind me I heard the key grate in the lock.
CHAPTER XXII
THE TRUTH AT LAST
THE moment that I recovered from the shock of my abrupt descent, I turned about and a spate of rage flung me like a leaf against the closed door. I beat on it with my hands; I shouted threats and curses. I was not sure that the half-witted lout had hastened my descent by thrusting the door against me, but that was my impression, and it added hugely to my passion.
I felt no fear, for I was well armed; but in my anger at the trick played upon me I thought only of vengeance, and forgot for a space not only the girl’s presence and the scene that I had viewed through the open door, but all except that this misshapen oaf had dared to trick and strike me!
“Open the door!” I stormed. “Open the door, do you hear? Or I will shoot the lock off!”
The only answer was a crow of triumph, that, more than once repeated, grew fainter in the distance. I heard the lad’s clumsy feet execute a dance on the hollow boards as he retreated across the floor.
“Come back!” I cried in a frenzy of anger, “Do you hear? Come back! Or I will—”
But on that word even the sound of footsteps died away. The dwarf had reached the stairs. And then — I suppose that all this had taken but half a minute, though it seemed to me an age — then at last, panting with anger and my exertions, I desisted, and turned myself about.
And, facing now as I had faced when I entered, I became again aware of the open doorway and the inner room — of the room and the table and the candle burning starkly in the bottle-neck — and the girl! Only there was now this change in the group.
The girl had risen; with her hands resting on the table she was leaning towards me, not, as it seemed to me, in hope or expectation, or even in wonder, but motionless, silent, staring, as if nothing had any longer the power to surprise or appal her.
She did not, she told me afterwards, recognize me at once. The candle was between us; I stood beyond the scope of its rays in the gloom of the outer room. And though I discerned no sign of it at the time, later she confessed that my sudden entrance and fierce outburst did make more instant and poignant that fear of death which tormented her every hour, and almost her every breath.
But if she did not know me, I knew her, and in a trice the whole colour of my mind was altered. Anger died in me and passion, and in place of them I felt not so much pity — strange to say — as an immense, a burning curiosity. She was here — she was here at last, and in my power, this mysterious, fugitive, evanescent girl, whom I had traced, whom I had followed, who had so long and so completely filled my thoughts!
She was here; I held her! And the time would come no doubt when I should pity her. But first — first I must hear her story, I must understand! I must learn, above all things, the answer to that riddle, that enigma which had so long and so entirely baffled me.
I went forward into the light, and as this fell upon me I saw recognition leap into her eyes, but with it not the thankfulness, not the relief that I anticipated. On the contrary, the girl raised her hands and beat them helplessly on the table. As she did so she sank into her seat, and “You, too! They have taken you, too!” she cried, with a gesture of despair.
“No!” I answered, anxious only, and as quickly as possible to reassure her, for I saw at once how terribly overwrought she was. “No! They have not taken me! Have no fear, Fraulein! I am here to rescue you. I am here to remove you.”
“But how?” she whispered. “How? How do you come here?” She stared at me as at a spectre.
“The lad brought me.”
“To — to see me?”
“Yes, to see you. They have offered to release you, Fraulein — for a bribe! I have brought them what is necessary, and in a minute or two they will be here to meet me and complete the matter. And you will be free.”
I looked to see her face brighten at last and relief leap into her eyes. But no, she only glanced fearfully over her shoulder. “No!” she whispered, and a shudder shook her from head to foot. “They will never let me go! Never! Never! Nor you, sir, when we have talked together. They dare not. They cannot. They will take your money, but they will not let us go. They will never let us go. I know” — lowering her voice and with another swift look behind her—” I know too much! Too much for them ever to let me go. They will never let me go — alive!”
And so tragic was her tone, so real her terror, that I caught something of it and for a moment felt my heart sink. What if she were right? What if — but again curiosity won the upper hand, and with one sentence I aimed for the heart of the mystery. “You are Fraulein Mackay?” I cried. “Of the Grand Duke’s household at Zerbst?”
She looked at me with eyes too large for her wan face. “ I was,” she muttered, plucking at the fringe of her bodice “I was!” And I noticed that she would not, or dared not, speak above a whisper, while her eyes, very homes of fear, never ceased to rove the room.
“I was,” she repeated shuddering, “in another life. What I am now, God knows. God knows. And even that” — an ugly spasm distorting her features—” I shall not be long! Oh, not long! Not many hours! Tonight — to-night may end it. Or” — plucking again at her bodice—” to-morrow night! To-morrow night!”
Never, never had I imagined terror so poignant as that which I read at that moment in her face — a terror that for a time robbed that face of all beauty. She was indeed, and apart from this, a piteous sight. Her hair, which when I had first seen her had been piled in graceful waving curls on the crown of her head, hung down her neck in draggled wisps, dusky and dull.
Her dress, travel-stained and torn in places, sat on her awry and neglected, while dark shadows — under eyes that did not seem to have known sleep for a week — marred her features and rendered them almost ugly. I could see that if I had
indeed come in time to save her, I had come but just in time; another night, another day, and her mind, if not her body, must have failed.
But why? Why? More insistently than ever the question pressed upon my mind. Why? What was the hold, the deadly hold that these wretches had gained upon the girl?
However, the first thing, the urgent thing was to reassure her, and—” Neither to-night, nor to-morrow night,” I said stoutly, “will any harm come to you, Fraulein, now that I am with you. Take courage! Understand, be sure, that you are saved. You are no longer alone; no longer unprotected. I am here, and be sure I shall not leave you until you are in safety. Yet first — first let me know my ground. Try, Fraulein, to tell me why you are here; why you are with these wretches. These Waechters?”
“Tell you?” she whispered. “If I tell you” — again her eyes flitted round the room with a movement that I am sure had become habitual—” I doom you, too. You, too! To know what I know — is to die! To die!”
“But all that is past — past and over,” I urged earnestly, for I really feared for her mind. “We are together, the Waechters themselves have brought us together. And whether you tell me or no, they will assume that you have told me. Besides, when they come, it will be only to release you. Willing or unwilling, they will be forced to do so. I am not defenceless; I am more than a match for them. See, I am armed. I am well armed. I am surely a match for them. You have nothing to fear now! Nothing!”
But cheerfully, confidently as I spoke, no spark of hope awoke in her eyes. She shook her head. “They are too cunning,” she muttered. “Oh, too cunning — too cunning! They have the cunning of the devil! They are listening to us now.”
Fear, it is often said, is infectious, and I am free to own that for a moment her words and the tone in which she uttered them shook me. And then I knew so little of the place; there were so many shadowy comers, the light of the miserable candle spread to so short a distance, the darkness of the empty, far-stretching chamber outside so weighed on the mind!
But for her sake I maintained my air of confidence. I continued to urge her and reassure her; and seeing presently that there was food on the table, and beside it a cup of milk, I induced her to swallow something, though every mouthful seemed to choke her. And by and by, though the colour did not return to her face, nor hope to her eyes, she began to draw some courage from my words and my presence.
And, continually urged to explain, she began at last, but with painful effort, to tell her story; though not until I had again and again at her prayer tried the door, and had made as sure as I could by listening that there was no one within hearing Even so, she could not, or would not, speak above a whisper, so that it was a strange and an eerie experience — one of the strangest of my life — to listen, in the silence of that vast building and by the light of that solitary candle, to the hissing whisper that poured into my ear her amazing story. Twice she was forced to pause, overcome by her feelings, and twice she had to drink before she could go on.
Once, too, half way through the tale, she rose with starting, terrified eyes and pointed to the door; but I persuaded her, though my own flesh was creeping, that the alarm was baseless. And so, three-quarters of an hour after she had begun to speak, in a silence that might be felt, she whispered the last syllable in my ear.
“It was at Wittenberg it began to close about me,” thus with a shudder she opened, her eyes on the door, her hand clutching my wrist. “I halted a night there — I was on my way to my sick father at Altona. I wanted a partner to share the expense of a landschute, and Fate fave me — God knows in what a dark hour — that woman. did not like her. I saw that she was not of the — the kind that I had been used to.
“But she made herself civil to me; she seemed for some reason to value my company. And when we reached Berlin, and should have parted, she proposed that we should go on together, after resting a day. It suited my purse. A companion whom I had expected failed to appear, and — and in a miserable hour I consented and went on with her.
“And she still flattered me, but — but things began to go wrong. As far as Berlin we had travelled quickly, easily; now we lingered. Little things, accidents, delayed us, and presently I began to — to fancy that she was on the look-out for someone who — who was travelling behind us, you understand. She was always looking back — looking out — and once I hinted at this. Then her temper flashed out; she was rude and terrified me, and if I had been wise I should have parted from her then.
“Ah, God, that I had! That I had! But she smoothed it over, she fawned on me, and though I now distrusted her, I thought it foolish to quarrel with her when we had so short a distance to go. I know now; she has told me with scorn that she used me for a mask, that up to that point all she had in her mind was the value of a — of a respectable companion, of one whose presence might cover her manoeuvres and render her less notable where she stayed.
“But we travelled so slowly that when we should have arrived at Perleberg we were only at Kyritz, where the inn was crowded with people, many of them rough and noisy. We had to eat among them in the common room, and I was not comfortable. But my companion — little, ah, little did I know what it meant at the time — contrived to get seats for us at a small table with two travellers — of the better sort.
“One was tall and foreign-looking, and seemed to be ill, for he supped in his cloak, which was enough to mark him out from those about us. However, he proved only a misery to me, for the woman put herself forward to gain his notice, and I felt this the more as he gave her back only short answers; still, this lasted but a short time, for before the meal was over, upset by something which arose between him and his companion — some note that was delivered to him — he left the table.
“I saw him at the door next morning — he left a little before us; and, ah, God! I was to see him but once more, yet never, never, shall I forget him, never will his face be wiped from my memory.”
She paused in irrepressible agitation, but presently she resumed. “We arrived at this place, Perleberg, an hour before sunset. I should have gone to the Golden Crown — I had been recommended to it — but the woman overbore me. She insisted on going to the — the German Coffee House I think it was called, and I was hardly across the threshold before I regretted my weakness. For here, again, the house was crowded; there was a ball going on.”
I nodded. “Yes,” I said, my heart beginning to beat more quickly. “I know.” I began dimly to foresee things.
“Yes” — dully—” a ball and a band playing, so that the house was full of noise and the passages of dancers, and of all manner of people, servants and townsfolk. It was with difficulty that they found us two rooms on the second floor, and I was glad to take refuge in mine, for I was frightened by the confusion.
“My companion said that she had friends to see, and I was glad of it. Relieved by her absence, I asked the chambermaid to bring me supper in my room, and when I had eaten I locked my door — it was not yet nine — and I went to bed.
“I was tired, and I fancied that I had but to lie down to sleep. But it was not so. The strains of the band came up to my room and pulsed in my head, the evening was hot, and, after tossing and turning for a time, I rose in despair and groped my way to the window. I drew aside the curtain and opened the casement.
“The night air soothed me and — God knows what miserable fate was upon me — I remained for a time at the window, now looking at the stars, which were beginning to shine, and now at the gable of a building which faced me. How long I stood there I do not know, but presently a light shone out of a sudden, outlining a window in the gable, and through it I saw a man with a lanthorn in his hand and his back towards me, closing the door of the room.
“I watched the man; he seemed to be striving to secure the door, but almost at once he gave up the attempt, came quickly to the window, and dashed it open. He looked down; then, as if something alarmed him, he glanced back into the room. I heard him utter an exclamation; again he looked below, then, rai
sing his eyes, he saw me — no doubt the light he held fell on me. In a moment he thrust his hand into his breast, drew something from it, and flung it through my window.
“‘Take it — Danish Embassy — Berlin!’ he cried. ‘You will be rewarded.’
“The thing fell on the floor behind me, and at another time I do not know what I should have said or done. But that happened the next moment which” — she paused, struggling vainly with her emotion—” which I would to God, which I would give the world to forget, which comes back to me in my dreams. The door of the room opposite was burst open, two men rushed in upon the man, I saw him draw a pistol — but too late! The men flung themselves upon him, I saw an uplifted hand, a knife; I saw the blood spurt from his breast!
“I saw him stagger back, his arms raised — stagger out of sight! Then I shrieked! I shrieked again and again, and I turned and tried blindly to reach the door — I tried to give the alarm. But the band below was playing, the room shook with the dancing, my cries were unheard. And before I reached the door I tripped over something, and I fell and swooned. Oh, poor creature that I was,” she cried, wringing her hands, “for that was my only chance!”
Sobs shook her, choked her, and for a time she could not continue. Nor at the moment did I urge her to continue. My own thoughts lay too heavy on me — my own horror. At last: “He wore a cloak?” I said, hoarsely. “A fur cloak, didn’t he? The man whom they murdered? He was the same whom you had seen — at Kyritz?”
She nodded, still unable to speak. But by and by, regaining some control of herself, and the worst told: “Yes, at Kyritz,” she whispered. “Yes, I think so. I am sure of it. But at the time I could think of nothing — nothing but — but the blood! The blood! Oh” — covering her face and trembling convulsively—” it was horrible! Horrible!
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 704