The Witch of Prague Part 46

"Sleep on," she said again in a whisper scarcely audible to herself.

"Forget Unorna, if you cannot think of her mercifully and kindly. Sleep on, you have the right to rest, and I can never rest again. You have forgiven--forget, too, then, unless you can remember better things of me than I have deserved in your memory. Let her take her kingdom back. It was never mine--remember what you will, forget at least the wrong I did, and forgive the wrong you never knew--for you will know it surely some day. Ah, love--I love you so--dream but one dream, and let me think I take her place. She never loved you more than I, she never can. She would not have done what I have done. Dream only that I am Beatrice for this once. Then when you wake you will not think so cruelly of me. Oh, that I might be she--and you your loving self--that I might be she for one day in thought and word, in deed and voice, in face and soul! Dear love--you would never know it, yet I should know that you had had one loving thought for me. You would forget. It would not matter then to you, for you would have only dreamed, and I should have the certainty--for ever, to take with me always!"

As though the words carried a meaning with them to his sleeping senses, a look of supreme and almost heavenly happiness stole over his sleeping face. But Unorna could not see it. She had turned suddenly away, burying her face in her hands upon the back of her own chair.

"Are there no miracles left in Heaven?" she moaned, half whispering lest she should wake him. "Is there no miracle of deeds undone again and of forgiveness given--for me? G.o.d! G.o.d! That we should be for ever what we make ourselves!"

There were no tears in her eyes now, as there had been twice that night.

In her despair, that fountain of relief, shallow always and not apt to overflow, was dried up and scorched with pain. And, for the time at least, worse things were gone from her, though she suffered more. As though some portion of her pa.s.sionate wish had been fulfilled, she felt that she could never do again what she had done; she felt that she was truthful now as he was, and that she knew evil from good even as Beatrice knew it. The horror of her sins took new growth in her changed vision.

"Was I lost from the first beginning?" she asked pa.s.sionately. "Was I born to be all I am, and fore-destined to do all I have done? Was she born an angel and I a devil from h.e.l.l? What is it all? What is this life, and what is that other beyond it?"

Behind her, in his chair, the Wanderer still slept. Still his face wore the radiant look of joy that had so suddenly come into it as she turned away. He scarcely breathed, so calmly he slept. But Unorna did not raise her head nor look at him, and on the carpet near her feet Israel Kafka lay as still and as deeply unconscious as the Wanderer himself. By a strange destiny she sat there, between the two men in whom her whole life had been wrecked, and she alone was waking.

When she at last raised her eyes the dawn was breaking. Through the transparent roof of gla.s.s a cold gray light began to descend upon the warm, still brightness of the lamps. The shadows changed, the colours grew more cold, the dark nooks among the heavy foliage less black.

Israel Kafka's face was ghostly and livid--the Wanderer's had the alabaster transparency that comes upon some strong men in sleep. Still, neither stirred. Unorna turned from the one and looked upon the other.

For the first time she saw how he had changed, and wondered.

"How peacefully he sleeps!" she thought. "He is dreaming of her."

The dawn came stealing on, not soft and blus.h.i.+ng as in southern lands, but cold, resistless and grim as ancient fate; not the maiden herald of the sun with rose-tipped fingers and grey, liquid eyes, but hard, cruel, sullen, and less darkness following upon a greater and going before a dull, sunless and heavy day.

The door opened somewhat noisily and a brisk step fell upon the marble pavement. Unorna rose noiselessly to her feet and hastening along the open s.p.a.ce came face to face with Keyork Arabian. He stopped and looked up at her from beneath his heavy brows, with surprise and suspicion. She raised one finger to her lips.

"You here already?" he asked, obeying her gesture and speaking in a low voice.

"Hus.h.!.+ Hus.h.!.+" she whispered, not satisfied. "They are asleep. You will wake them."

Keyork came forward. He could move quietly enough when he chose. He glanced at the Wanderer.

"He looks comfortable enough," he whispered, half contemptuously.

Then he bent down over Israel Kafka and carefully examined his face. To him the ghastly pallor meant nothing. It was but the natural result of excessive exhaustion.

"Put him into a lethargy," said he under his breath, but with authority in his manner.

Unorna shook her head. Keyork's small eyes brightened angrily.

"Do it," he said. "What is this caprice? Are you mad? I want to take his temperature without waking him."

Unorna folded her arms.

"Do you want him to suffer more?" asked Keyork with a diabolical smile.

"If so I will wake him by all means; I am always at your service, you know."

"Will he suffer, if he wakes naturally?"

"Horribly--in the head."

Unorna knelt down and let her hand rest a few seconds on Kafka's brow.

The features, drawn with pain, immediately relaxed.

"You have hypnotised the one," grumbled Keyork as he bent down again. "I cannot imagine why you should object to doing the same for the other."

"The other?" Unorna repeated in surprise.

"Our friend there, in the arm chair."

"It is not true. He fell asleep of himself."

Keyork smiled again, incredulously this time. He had already applied his pocket-thermometer and looked at his watch. Unorna had risen to her feet, disdaining to defend herself against the imputation expressed in his face. Some minutes pa.s.sed in silence.

"He has no fever," said Keyork looking at the little instrument. "I will call the Individual and we will take him away."

"Where?"

"To his lodging, of course. Where else?" He turned and went towards the door.

In a moment, Unorna was kneeling again by Kafka's side, her hand upon his forehead, her lips close to his ear.

"This is the last time that I will use my power on you or upon any one,"

she said quickly, for the time was short. "Obey me, as you must. Do you understand me? Will you obey?"

"Yes," came the faint answer as from very far off.

"You will wake two hours from now. You will not forget all that has happened, but you will never love me again. I forbid you ever to love me again! Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"You will only forget that I have told you this, though you will obey.

You will see me again, and if you can forgive me of your own free will, forgive me then. That must be of your own free will. Wake in two hours of yourself, without pain or sickness."

Again she touched his forehead and then sprang to her feet. Keyork was coming back with his dumb servant. At a sign, the Individual lifted Kafka from the floor, taking from him the Wanderer's furs and wrapping him in others which Keyork had brought. The strong man walked away with his burden as though he were carrying a child. Keyork Arabian lingered a moment.

"What made you come back so early?" he asked.

"I will not tell you," she answered, drawing back.

"No? Well, I am not curious. You have an excellent opportunity now."

"An opportunity?" Unorna repeated with a cold interrogative.

"Excellent," said the little man, standing on tiptoe to reach her ear, for she would not bend her head. "You have only to whisper into his ear that you are Beatrice and he will believe you for the rest of his life."

"Go!" said Unorna.

Though the word was not spoken above her breath it was fierce and commanding. Keyork Arabian smiled in an evil way, shrugged his shoulders and left her.