He tried to lift her head, but she held it obstinately down.
“Have I pained you, Beatrice?” he asked, forgetting to call her by the other name that was so new to him.
“No — oh, no!” she exclaimed without looking up.
“What is it then?”
“Nothing — it is nothing — no, I will not look at you — I am ashamed.” That at least was true.
“Ashamed, dear heart! Of what?”
He had seen her face in spite of herself. Lie, or lose all, said a voice within.
“Ashamed of being glad that — that I am free,” she stammered, struggling on the very verge of the precipice.
“You may be glad of that, and yet be very sorry he is dead,” the Wanderer said, stroking her hair.
It was true, and seemed quite simple. She wondered that she had not thought of that. Yet she felt that the man she loved, in all his nobility and honesty, was playing the tempter to her, though he could not know it. Deeper and deeper she sank, yet ever more conscious that she was sinking. Before him she felt no longer as loving woman to loving man — she was beginning to feel as a guilty prisoner before his judge.
He thought to turn the subject to a lighter strain. By chance he glanced at his own hand.
“Do you know this ring?” he asked, holding it before her, with a smile.
“Indeed, I know it,” she answered, trembling again.
“You gave it to me, love, do you remember? And I gave you a likeness of myself, because you asked for it, though I would rather have given you something better. Have you it still?”
She was silent. Something was rising in her throat. Then she choked it down.
“I had it in my hand last night,” she said in a breaking voice. True, once more.
“What is it, darling? Are you crying? This is no day for tears.”
“I little thought that I should have yourself to-day,” she tried to say.
Then the tears came, tears of shame, big, hot, slow. They fell upon his hand. She was weeping for joy, he thought. What else could any man think in such a case? He drew her to him, and pressed her cheek with his hand as her head nestled on his shoulder.
“When you put this ring on my finger, dear — so long ago — —”
She sobbed aloud.
“No, darling — no, dear heart,” he said, comforting her, “you must not cry — that long ago is over now and gone for ever. Do you remember that day, sweetheart, in the broad spring sun upon the terrace among the lemon trees. No, dear — your tears hurt me always, even when they are shed in happiness — no, dear, no. Rest there, let me dry your dear eyes — so and so. Again? For ever, if you will. While you have tears, I have kisses to dry them — it was so then, on that very day. I can remember. I can see it all — and you. You have not changed, love, in all those years, more than a blossom changes in one hour of a summer’s day! You took this ring and put it on my finger. Do you remember what I said? I know the very words. I promised you — it needed no promise either — that it should never leave its place until you took it back — and you — how well I remember your face — you said that you would take it from my hand some day, when all was well, when you should be free to give me another in its stead, and to take one in return. I have kept my word, beloved. Keep yours — I have brought you back the ring. Take it, sweetheart. It is heavy with the burden of lonely years. Take it and give me that other which I claim.”
She did not speak, for she was fighting down the choking sobs, struggling to keep back the burning drops that scalded her cheeks, striving to gather strength for the weight of a greater shame. Lie, or lose all, the voice said.
Very slowly she raised her head. She knew that his hand was close to hers, held there that she might fulfil Beatrice’s promise. Was she not free? Could she not give him what he asked? No matter how — she tried to say it to herself and could not. She felt his breath upon her hair. He was waiting. If she did not act soon or speak he would wonder what held her back — wonder — suspicion next and then? She put out her hand to touch his fingers, half blinded, groping as though she could not see. He made it easy for her. He fancied she was trembling, as she was weeping, with the joy of it all.
She felt the ring, though she dared not look at it. She drew it a little and felt that it would come off easily. She felt the fingers she loved so well, straight, strong and nervous, and she touched them lovingly. The ring was not tight, it would pass easily over the joint that alone kept it in its place.
“Take it, beloved,” he said. “It has waited long enough.”
He was beginning to wonder at her hesitation as she knew he would. After wonder would come suspicion — and then? Very slowly — it was just upon the joint of his finger now. Should she do it? What would happen? He would have broken his vow — unwittingly. How quickly and gladly Beatrice would have taken it. What would she say, if they lived and met — why should they not meet? Would the spell endure that shock — who would Beatrice be then? The woman who had given him this ring? Or another, whom he would no longer know? But she must be quick. He was waiting and Beatrice would not have made him wait.
Her hand was like stone, numb, motionless, immovable, as though some unseen being had taken it in an iron grasp and held it there, in mid-air, just touching his. Yes — no — yes — she could not move — a hand was clasped upon her wrist, a hand smaller than his, but strong as fate, fixed in its grip as an iron vice.
Unorna felt a cold breath, that was not his, upon her forehead, and she felt as though her heavy hair were rising of itself upon her head. She knew that horror, for she had been overtaken by it once before. She was not afraid, but she knew what it was. There was a shadow, too, and a dark woman, tall, queenly, with deep flashing eyes was standing beside her. She knew, before she looked; she looked, and it was there. Her own face was whiter than that other woman’s.
“Have you come already?” she asked of the shadow, in a low despairing tone.
“Beatrice — what has happened?” cried the Wanderer. To him, she seemed to be speaking to the empty air and her white face startled him.
“Yes,” she said, staring still, in the same hopeless voice. “It is Beatrice. She has come for you.”
“Beatrice — beloved — do not speak like that! For God’s sake — what do you see? There is nothing there.”
“Beatrice is there. I am Unorna.”
“Unorna, Beatrice — have we not said it should be all the same! Sweetheart — look at me! Rest here — shut those dear eyes of yours. It is gone now whatever it was — you are tired, dear — you must rest.”
Her eyes closed and her head sank. It was gone, as he said, and she knew what it had been — a mere vision called up by her own over-tortured brain. Keyork Arabian had a name for it.
Frightened by your own nerves, laughed the voice, when, if you had not been a coward, you might have faced it down and lied again, and all would have been well. But you shall have another chance, and lying is very easy, even when the nerves are over-wrought. You will do better the next time.
The voice was like Keyork Arabian’s. Unstrung, almost forgetting all, she wondered vaguely at the sound, for it was a real sound and a real voice to her. Was her soul his, indeed, and was he drawing it on slowly, surely to the end? Had he been behind her last night? Had he left an hour’s liberty only to come back again and take at last what was his?
There is time yet, you have not lost him, for he thinks you mad. The voice spoke once more.
And at the same moment the strong dear arms were again around her, again her head was on that restful shoulder of his, again her pale face was turned up to his, and kisses were raining on her tired eyes, while broken words of love and tenderness made music through the tempest.
Again the vast temptation rose. How could he ever know? Who was to undeceive him, if he was not yet undeceived? Who should ever make him understand the truth so long as the spell lasted? Why not then take what was given her, and when the end came, if it came, then tell all bold
ly? Even then, he would not understand. Had he understood last night, when she had confessed all that she had done before? He had not believed one word of it, except that she loved him. Could she make him believe it now, when he was clasping her so fiercely to his breast, half mad with love for her himself?
So easy, too. She had but to forget that passing vision, to put her arms about his neck, to give kiss for kiss, and loving word for loving word. Not even that. She had but to lie there, passive, silent if she could not speak, and it would be still the same. No power on earth could undo what she had done, unless she willed it. Neither man nor woman could make his clasping hands let go of her and give her up.
Be still and wait, whispered the voice, you have lost nothing yet.
But Unorna would not. She had spoken and acted her last lie. It was over.
CHAPTER XXVII
UNORNA STRUGGLED FOR a moment. The Wanderer did not understand, but loosed his arms, so that she was free. She rose to her feet and stood before him.
“You have dreamed all this,” she said. “I am not Beatrice.”
“Dreamed? Not Beatrice?” she heard him cry in his bewilderment.
Something more he said, but she could not catch the words. She was already gone, through the labyrinth of the many plants, to the door through which twelve hours earlier she had fled from Israel Kafka. She ran the faster as she left him behind. She passed the entrance and the passage and the vestibule beyond, not thinking whither she was going, or not caring. She found herself in that large, well-lighted room in which the ancient sleeper lay alone. Perhaps her instinct led her there as to a retreat safer even than her own chamber. She knew that if she would there was something there which she could use.
She sank into a chair and covered her face, trembling from head to foot. For many minutes after that she could neither see nor hear — she would hardly have felt a wound or a blow. And yet she knew that she meant to end her life, since all that made it life was ended.
After a time, her hands fell in a despairing gesture upon her knees and she stared about the room. Her eyes rested on the sleeper, then upon his couch, lying as a prophet in state, the massive head raised upon a silken pillow, the vast limbs just outlined beneath the snow-white robe, the hoary beard flowing down over the great breast that slowly rose and fell.
To her there was a dreadful irony in that useless life, prolonged in sleep beyond the limits of human age. Yet she had thought it worth the labour and care and endless watchfulness it had cost for years. And now her own, strong, young and fresh, seemed not only useless but fit only to be cut off and cast away, as an existence that offended God and man and most of all herself.
But if she died then, there, in that secret chamber where she and her companion had sought the secret of life for years, if she died now — how would all end? Was it an expiation — or a flight? Would one short moment of half-conscious suffering pay half her debt?
She stared at the old man’s face with wide, despairing eyes. Many a time, unknown to Keyork and once to his knowledge, she had roused the sleeper to speak, and on the whole he had spoken truly, wisely, and well. She lacked neither the less courage to die, nor the greater to live. She longed but to hear one honest word, not of hope, but of encouragement, but one word in contrast to those hideous whispered promptings that had come to her in Keyork Arabian’s voice. How could she trust herself alone? Her evil deeds were many — so many, that, although she had turned at last against them, she could not tell where to strike.
“If you would only tell me!” she cried leaning over the unconscious head. “If you would only help me. You are so old that you must be wise, and if so very wise, then you are good! Wake, but this once, and tell me what is right!”
The deep eyes opened and looked up to hers. The great limbs stirred, the bony hands unclasped. There was something awe-inspiring in the ancient strength renewed and filled with a new life.
“Who calls me?” asked the clear, deep voice.
“I, Unorna — —”
“What do you ask of me?”
He had risen from his couch and stood before her, towering far above her head. Even the Wanderer would have seemed but of common stature beside this man of other years, of a forgotten generation, who now stood erect and filled with a mysterious youth.
“Tell me what I should do — —”
“Tell me what you have done.”
Then in one great confession, with bowed head and folded hands, she poured out the story of her life.
“And I am lost!” she cried at last. “One holds my soul, and one my heart! May not my body die? Oh, say that it is right — that I may die!”
“Die? Die — when you may yet undo?”
“Undo?”
“Undo and do. Undo the wrong and do the right.”
“I cannot. The wrong is past undoing — and I am past doing right.”
“Do not blaspheme — go! Do it.”
“What?”
“Call her — that other woman — Beatrice. Bring her to him, and him to her.”
“And see them meet!”
She covered her face with her hands, and one short moan escaped her lips.
“May I not die?” she cried despairingly. “May I not die — for him — for her, for both? Would that not be enough? Would they not meet? Would they not then be free?”
“Do you love him still?”
“With all my broken heart — —”
“Then do not leave his happiness to chance alone, but go at once. There is one little act of Heaven’s work still in your power. Make it all yours.”
His great hands rested on her shoulders and his eyes looked down to hers.
“Is it so bitter to do right?” he asked.
“It is very bitter,” she answered.
Very slowly she turned, and as she moved he went beside her, gently urging her and seeming to support her. Slowly, through vestibule and passage, they went on and entered together the great hall of the flowers. The Wanderer was there alone.
He uttered a short cry and sprang to meet her, but stepped back in awe of the great white-robed figure that towered by her side.
“Beatrice!” he cried, as they passed.
“I am not Beatrice,” she answered, her downcast eyes not raised to look at him, moving still forward under the gentle guidance of the giant’s hand.
“Not Beatrice — no — you are not she — you are Unorna! Have I dreamed all this?”
She had passed him now, and still she would not turn her head. But her voice came back to him as she walked on.
“You have dreamed what will very soon be true,” she said. “Wait here, and Beatrice will soon be with you.”
“I know that I am mad,” the Wanderer cried, making one step to follow her, then stopping short. Unorna was already at the door. The ancient sleeper laid one hand upon her head.
“You will do it now,” he said.
“I will do it — to the end,” she answered. “Thank God that I have made you live to tell me how.”
So she went out, alone, to undo what she had done so evilly well.
The old man turned and went towards the Wanderer, who stood still in the middle of the hall, confused, not knowing whether he had dreamed or was really mad.
“What man are you?” he asked, as the white-robed figure approached.
“A man, as you are, for I was once young — not as you are, for I am very old, and yet like you, for I am young again.”
“You speak in riddles. What are you doing here, and where have you sent Unorna?”
“When I was old, in that long time between, she took me in, and I have slept beneath her roof these many years. She came to me to-day. She told me all her story and all yours, waking me from my sleep, and asking me what she should do. And she is gone to do that thing of which I told her. Wait and you will see. She loves you well.”
“And you would help her to get my love, as she had tried to get it before?” the Wanderer asked with rising anger. “What am I t
o you, or you to me, that you would meddle in my life?”
“You to me? Nothing. A man.”
“Therefore an enemy — and you would help Unorna — let me go! This home is cursed. I will not stay in it.” The hoary giant took his arm, and the Wanderer started at the weight and strength of the touch.
“You shall bless this house before you leave it. In this place, here where you stand, you shall find the happiness you have sought through all the years.”
“In Unorna?” the question was asked scornfully.
“By Unorna.”
“I do not believe you. You are mad, as I am. Would you play the prophet?”
The door opened in the distance, and from behind the screen of plants Keyork Arabian came forward into the hall, his small eyes bright, his ivory face set and expressionless, his long beard waving in the swing of his walk. The Wanderer saw him first and called to him.
“Keyork — come here!” he said. “Who is this man?”
For a moment Keyork seemed speechless with amazement. But it was anger that choked his words. Then he came on quickly.
“Who waked him?” he cried in fury. “What is this? Why is he here?”
“Unorna waked me,” answered the ancient sleeper very calmly.
“Unorna? Again? The curse of The Three Black Angels on her! Mad again? Sleep, go back! It is not ready yet, and you will die, and I shall lose it all — all — all! Oh, she shall pay for this with her soul in hell!”
He threw himself upon the giant, in an insane frenzy, clasping his arms round the huge limbs and trying to force him backwards.
“Go! go!” he cried frantically. “It may not be too late! You may yet sleep and live! Oh, my Experiment, my great Experiment! All lost — —”
“What is this madness?” asked the Wanderer. “You cannot carry him, and he will not go. Let him alone.”
“Madness?” yelled Keyork, turning on him. “You are the madman, you the fool, who cannot understand! Help me to move him — you are strong and young — together we can take him back — he may yet sleep and live — he must and shall! I say it! Lay your hands on him — you will not help me? Then I will curse you till you do — —”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 488
