The Witch of Prague Part 53

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 pa.s.s 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d'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 boldly?

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 pa.s.sing 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, pa.s.sive, 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 pa.s.sed the entrance and the pa.s.sage 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 ma.s.sive head raised upon a silken pillow, the vast limbs just outlined beneath the snow-white robe, the h.o.a.ry 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 G.o.d 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."