Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  It was plain that I could not hope for a bed. I saw that at best I must spend the night by the fire — if by luck I could retain my place; and accordingly I did not hurry over my meal. The shrill squeak of the fiddle, the thunder of the dancers’ feet, and now and again a drunken chorus, blew into our room and mingled with the clatter of knives and trenchers and the bawling of hungry guests.

  To spend the evening in such a pandemonium, reeking with the smell of cooking and dim as a witch’s cauldron with the steam of damp clothes, was no pleasant prospect even to me, inured to the place and warm and dry; but I could imagine that in the eyes of those who looked in for the first time the scene was one to raise the gorge. And presently, glancing up by chance, I saw, gazing in from the doorway, a small white face and a pair of frightened, dilated eyes that brought this home to me.

  The sight did more. It went far to assure me that the girl whom I saw trembling on the threshold was Norma Mackay. I no longer felt any but the smallest doubt. As she and the queer misshapen creature who held her by the arm hung a moment gazing in, I had a clear view of her; and dishevelled, draggled, travel-stained, piteous to look on as she was, I swore that I could not be mistaken.

  If she was not the girl of the portrait, if she was not the Grand Duchess’s governess, then it was the most remarkable case of a “double” that I had ever encountered. And convinced of this I looked with the greater curiosity at her companion; perhaps I might find in him the answer to the riddle of her presence.

  If so, it was a dark riddle and an ugly answer. For I found him as remarkable, he impressed me as deeply, though in a different way, as the girl. In age he was neither man nor boy; in frame he was short, squat, powerful, a dwarf or nearly a dwarf; in face low-browed, heavy-jowled, brutish, with no more soul in his countenance, no more intelligence in his wolfish eyes, than one might find in the lowest animal.

  He was indeed an animal and no more; nor had I ever seen a countenance which repelled me more strongly. To see him holding that hapless girl by the arm, to see him dragging her forward, even to see him in her company, was a shock to the sensibilities. It was to picture with shame the yoking of a Una with a satyr.

  How could, how could, I asked myself, the father and mother have left them together? Cousins? No, never! Never! Impossible! But more, these were no father, no mother — I was sure of it. Whatever the mystery, whatever the chain of wickedness or folly, that had made this girl one with them, I was clear on that.

  The girl — or every instinct that spoke in me was false — was Norma Mackay; Norma Mackay who should at this moment be in the Grand Ducal Schloss at Zerbst! Then dark and deep-woven indeed must be the web that had snared her and made her the tool and companion of these dubious — ay, and more than dubious — persons!

  I do not think that I am emotional, for in acquiring the savoir faire we lose in my line the coeur sensible. But I own that it was with something approaching horror that I viewed the scene that ensued, though the company — for the Germans who make a religion of sentiment keep it like other religions, for the closet — appeared to see only the risible side of it.

  The lout — I remembered that I had heard the woman call him Karl — had not advanced more than a pace into the room before he caught sight of the fire. He was cold and I suppose that to him with an animal love of warmth it presented an irresistible attraction, for in a trice he headed for it, recklessly elbowing and jostling all who came in his way, and dragging the unfortunate girl after him.

  The movement promised to land him cheek by jowl with me; but others as well as I discerned this, and before he had butted a road half-way down the room the man Waechter rose and intercepted him, seized him roughly by the arm, argued angrily with him — not, I fancied, without a warning glance in my direction.

  But Master Karl was no more to be turned from his object than a thirsty ox making for water. He gibbered something, shaking his head like an enraged bull, flung off the detaining hand, and heedless of the jeers and laughter that attended his progress, broke away, still dragging the girl after him by the wrist.

  He reached the hearth and, now no more than a yard or two from me, thrust himself almost into the blaze. Extending first one hand to the heat and then the other, he kept up a hoarse, inarticulate murmur which I suppose expressed his content. But I noticed that he still kept his grip on the girl, who was thus forced to stand, exposed to the gibes and reproaches which his queer aspect and his blind rush had provoked.

  His first craving satisfied, he thrust himself by force on to the end of the bench opposite me — the table held but four. This left the girl still on her feet; and more in pity than in mischief, though I knew very well that it would annoy my late companions, I rose and signed to her to take my place. The clown had sense enough to gather what I meant, and growling he released her arm.

  The poor child, without raising her eyes, slid into the seat, while I moved with my plate to an upturned log that stood within the hood of the chimney. I was still within two feet of her.

  I think she was going to thank me, but the dwarf snarled “Stille! Stille!” and with a savage glare reduced her to silence. Then without a moment’s pause and regardless of his company he began to hammer the table and bawl for food.

  I longed to take the savage by the shoulders and throw him out; nor was I alone in this. The man whom he had crowded up the bench was a weakling unable to resent it, but the next on the seat, who had been nearly pushed from it, and who was of a stouter build, reached out behind, grasped the lad by the collar and shook him. “Silence, you dirty dog!” he said. “Or I’ll teach you manners! Have done and wait your turn. And push no more, stupid, or I’ll pitch you into the fire!”

  Karl glared at him, but cowed by his address, ceased to beat the table. I caught the eye of a crimson-faced old crone who was superintending the cooking, and I passed a quarter-thaler to her. “Give the girl something,” I muttered. “She is famishing.”

  The woman nodded, took a wooden trencher from a pile, filled it and set it before the girl, Instantly the lad seized it, and took it to himself. But the old cook was equal to the occasion. She brought her great leaden spoon down on his head with a crack that was heard half a dozen yards away. “Have done, and wait your turn, ogre!” she cried, and returned the platter to the girl. “Or I’ll hit you harder next time! They never paid a penny for your manners!”

  He began to whimper and “Give him something,” I said, “or we shall have no peace, Frau.”

  “I’d like to give him the spoon down his throat!” she said. But she did as I suggested, and he fell to, wolfing the food like the wild beast he was. Germans are at all times queer feeders, but such an eater as this I had never seen.

  I seized the opportunity, and as unobtrusively as I could, I scrutinized the girl. She was in piteous case. She was wet and mud-stained to the waist by her walk, her hat was awry, her hair hung in wisps on cheeks blanched to the hue of paper. Her teeth chattered and her hands shook so that she could with difficulty raise the food to her mouth. For all this, fatigue and exposure might account.

  But not for the stony expression, the look of despair, that pinched and distorted her features and for the time so robbed them of beauty that once again my mind veered about and I doubted. Was she, after all, Norma Mackay? Could the girl of the portrait have fallen to this? Or was I, haunted by a face, permitting a chance likeness to deceive me?

  I could not say — at the moment. I could not be sure, now that I looked closely at her.

  But at any rate, and whoever she was, it was a most unhappy girl that I saw before me, of that I was convinced; a girl whose lot, were it only in being the thrall and companion of this half-witted savage, appealed to every chivalrous, nay, every manly instinct. Whatever her sin or her folly, whatever the circumstances which had brought her to this pass, it was impossible to view her without pity, as it was impossible to look on the degraded creature opposite without desiring to rescue her from him.

  I judged that in her mi
sery she was almost unconscious of the present, or of the scene about her; she kept her eyes on her plate, and once only I fancied that she shot a terrified glance in my direction — but so swiftly that I was not sure of it. And once when her trembling hand allowed her knife to fall to the ground, and I silently replaced it, her bloodless lips moved, but without sound.

  I was hot with indignation, yet I did not lose sight of prudence, and I reflected. What could I do? Could I do anything? Were I once convinced that the girl was the missing Mackay, I might interfere, stranger and foreigner as I was. Gratitude, indeed, to the Duchess f; enjoined it. But what if she were not? What if those two, louche and suspect as they were, were in truth her father and mother? Then to interfere would not only be useless, but would expose me to most unwelcome ridicule. After all, I might be letting my sympathy run away with me.

  I was still thinking — and it may be that the girl was thinking also; for on a sudden she rose and as if anxious to warm herself she turned to the fire and held out her hands. She did not look at me, though I was now abreast of her, but her lips moved. “Oh, help me!” she whispered. “ Oh, I am frightened! I am frightened!”

  The words were so low that I barely heard them, and for certain no one else could hear them. But the lad’s suspicions were aroused by her movement, and he stretched out a huge hairy hand, gripped her delicate shoulder and pushed her back into her seat. As he did this, I noticed that not only was his hand abnormally large, but his arm was of unusual length. “Eat!” he growled. “Eat! That is your business!” he snarled.

  “Oh, I am frightened! I am frightened!” The words, low as she had breathed them, vibrated in my ears. I felt that after this I had no choice. I must help her, Mackay or no Mackay, if I got the opportunity. I must help her even at the risk of ridicule, and even though the effort diverted me from my legitimate task! But how? How could I help her?

  One thing only was plain. I must know more, I must know all. I must learn the circumstances that had brought her to this pass, and to do that I must gain speech with her. Meantime I shot a wary glance at the Waechters, man and woman, and I was not surprised to see that they were watching me. I surmised that my proximity to the girl was the cause of this, and it was no more than I expected when a moment later the two rose from their seats and came towards us.

  CHAPTER XVI

  A SCRAP OF LINEN

  THEY aimed for the farther side of the small table which stood at my elbow, and though I was sure that there was no one in the room of whose presence they were more sensible than of mine, they were careful to avert their eyes from me. The man laid his hand on Karl’s shoulder, and shook him to attract his attention — shook him, I could see, in ill-suppressed irritation. “ Come, you’ve eaten enough,” he said. “Come! Do you hear, lad? We make arrangements for the night.”

  But Karl only acknowledged his grasp by twitching his shoulder free, and when the man repeated his words, “ Nein! Nein!” he replied, and went on guzzling, his face almost in his platter.

  “Then do you come, Walburga,” the woman said.

  The girl prepared to obey, but Karl, without raising his head, stretched out his hand, gripped her arm, and held her down. “Nein! Nein!” he growled. “Let be! We are warm here! Warm!”

  “But she must come,” the woman persisted. “Now, Walburga, come!” And more sharply, “Do you hear, child? We are waiting for you.” She tried to speak calmly, but her voice was hard.

  Again the girl would have obeyed and risen. But the lad dragged her down. “She’s not to go,” he snarled. “She’s mine, mine! She’s not to go.” He shot an upward glance at them, his teeth bared. He was like an ill-tempered dog about to bite.

  I suspect that the two could have willingly struck him for his ill-timed perverseness, but unable to reason with him in the presence of others they were helpless. They tried another line. “They are dancing in the other room,” said the woman. “Bring Walburga and she will dance with you.” This time he rose to the bait. “Ho, dance?” he chuckled. “Ay, we’ll dance! We’ll dance, when I have eaten. And then we’ll come back to the fire. The good, warm fire!”

  “Well, you had better be quick,” the woman rejoined, “or the fiddlers will be gone and you’ll lose your fun, Karl.”

  I was sure that their aim was to remove the girl and avert the risk of my speaking to her. But for a while it seemed as if they were not to succeed. The boor continued to gorge himself, eating more like an animal than ever. Still the idea of dancing had found an entry to his mind, and at last, as abruptly as he did everything, he dropped his spoon, mumbled “We’ll dance! Ho! Ho! We’ll dance!” and struggled to his feet.

  He jerked the girl to hers, but uncouth in this as in all things he lost his balance, and as he turned he came near to falling over the bench. He saved himself, but the sprawl with which he did so carried him and his unfortunate companion half way across the hearth. Thence, regardless of the abuse of those whom he jostled and elbowed, he ploughed a blind way to the door, dragging the girl behind him and followed by the curses of some and the laughter of others.

  It was an exhibition which I was sure that the man and woman would have been glad to avoid, but they had at least succeeded in their object. They had broken up the party, and affecting to see only the comic side, they joined in the laugh and presently followed the couple at their leisure.

  So did I — after a brief delay. An idea had occurred to me, and though I abhorred the publicity it must entail — for I have no more liking than another for cutting an absurd figure — I made my way to the threshold of the room in which the peasants were jigging. A crowd was already gathered about the door, and their jeers and laughter prepared me for the kind of farce that was going forward in the room, which was lit by smoky pine-knots fixed in iron rings on the wall.

  A farce, indeed, for those who looked only at the leading actor; but something very different for such as had eyes for the second performer. The wild antics of the misshapen, half-witted lad, his extravagant leaps and clumsy gestures as he whirled his partner up and down the floor, from which the other dancers had withdrawn, were warrant enough for the laughter of the herd. But a glance at the girl’s white face, to which not even this humiliation brought a blush, the sight of her hopeless eyes and her passive acquiescence, killed in me even the inclination to smile.

  The peasants might cling to one another in their coarse glee, the fiddlers might bend themselves double, and the better sort turn from the door with a sneer, but under the comic mask I read a tragedy; and when the lout, exhausted at length by his exertions, flung himself breathless against the wall and amid a last uproarious gust of applause mopped his crimson face, I thrust my way through the crowd and crossed the floor towards him.

  There was not one person there for whose opinion I cared a penny piece. And yet, so little do we like to incur the ridicule even of those whom we despise, I have seldom done a harder thing. I bowed gravely before the deformed lad.

  “If your partner will condescend to honour me with a turn,” I said, “while you are resting?”

  He scowled at me, surprised and suspicious. “What is it?” he muttered.

  “Perhaps your partner will dance a turn with me now?” I repeated, seeing out of the corner of my eye that the man and woman, forestalled by my action, were still out of hearing. “While you are resting?”

  But “Nein! Nein!” he replied, glaring at me, more monster-like than ever. “She will not.”

  “Still,” I said politely, striving to ingratiate myself, “we shared a table, mein Herr, and having supped together—”

  For answer he snarled at me in his mongrel-like fashion, and seizing the girl by waist and shoulders whirled her roughly away. A burst of jeers and applause greeted this fresh grotesquerie, and baffled and defeated, liking little my conspicuous position in the middle of the floor, I fell back and effaced myself amid the group by the door.

  Here I found myself elbow to elbow with the Waechters. But for the moment they took no h
eed of me, nor I of them. I did not despair and I waited. Something might yet fall out to favour me.

  It did. The creature brought his dance — if a dance it could be called — to a close by a bound which landed him all arms and legs amid those about me, whom he scattered every way. Before he had regained his balance I attacked him anew. “Now, perhaps,” I said, “if the young lady is not tired she will honour me with a turn?”

  He squinted at me, panting, and for the moment unable to speak; in the end he would no doubt have refused. But the choice was not left to him. The woman had foreseen my action, and touching me on the shoulder to compel my attention, she spoke for him. “What is it, mein Hen?” she asked.

  “I thought that perhaps your daughter would—”

  “Dance with you?”

  “Precisely, Frau Waechter,” I said with a bow, “if she will so honour me.”

  “Walburga is German,” she retorted. “She does not dance with Englishmen.”

  The reply was as good as a slap in the face, and before I could recover from my surprise the woman had turned her shoulder to me, drawn Karl and the girl through the doorway, and the four were moving back to the common room.

  I did not follow, partly because I had no mind to involve myself further — I had done all that I could; and partly because the woman’s words had cast light, whether she intended it or not, into a dark place. These people knew me then; they knew more of me than she had disclosed in the carriage and more than I could explain. That was clear, and perplexed as well as angry I stared after them. And well it was that I did so, for as I stared I saw something.

  A little thing, a morsel of white stuff that for a moment rolled across the dirty floor of the passage, dragged by the hem of a skirt, and then, released, lay abandoned on the threshold of the opposite room. If either of the four had looked back it must have been seen, but they did not turn, and I stepped after them and picked the thing up. It was a tiny square of fine linen, not over fresh, crumpled and damp — a woman’s handkerchief.