The Black Cross Part 28

Kaya stole across the stage swiftly on tiptoe, threading her way through the scenery that was standing in rows, one behind the other, in readiness for the performance that night, and disappeared into the wings. It was dusty there and deserted. An occasional stage-hand hurried by in the distance bent on some errand, and from the back came the sound of hammering. The chorus was singing forte now, and the sound filled the uttermost corner, drowning the noise of the hammer.

Kaya stood still for a moment, clinching her hands: "My G.o.d," she said, "I have tried the last and it has failed! The end of the week!"

she laughed to herself bitterly. "I know what that means. Helmanoff used to get rid of new pupils that way: 'You will hear,' he would say; but they never heard."

She took a coin out of her dress and looked at it. "The gypsies' wages are gone," she said, "Only this left to pay for my roof and my bed!"

She laughed again and glanced about her stealthily as if fearful of being seen, or tracked. Then she began to breathe quickly:

"_Without weakness_," she said, "_without hesitation, or mercy, by mine own hands if needs be_. I have done it to another: I will do it again--to myself. Atone, atone--wipe out the stain! A life for a life! That is right." She swayed and caught one of the scenes for support. "That is--just! G.o.d, how my throat burns, and my head, it is dizzy--and my eyes have gone blind! Ah, it is pa.s.sing--pa.s.sing! Now I can see. I can--walk!"

She clung to the scenery for another second, and then pushed it away and moved to the door, staggering a little like one who is drugged.

It was evening. The rain had ceased, and the moon rose full and pale with a halo about it. In the distance clouds were gathering, and the waters under the mill were speckled with light.

Kaya sat by the window, leaning on the sill with her arms and gazing down at the wheel: "It is deep there," she said, "A moment of falling through the air--a splash, and it will be over. I am not--afraid."

She shuddered a little, and her eyes were fixed on the flashes of silver as if fascinated. She could not tear them away. "How black it is under the wheel!" she murmured, "If I fell on the spokes--" Then she shuddered again.

"Perhaps I shall not die," she said, "Perhaps I shall live and be crippled, with my body broken. Oh, G.o.d--to live like that! I must--I must aim for the pool beyond, where the water lies deep and the moonlight freckles the--surface."

Then she dropped her head on her arms and the words came again: "I have tried my best, Velasco, but the heart is gone out of me. Don't be angry and call me a coward. I tried--but I am weak now and I am afraid. My voice is gone, and there is so little for a woman to do. I tried everything, Velasco, but my strength--is--failing. If I could walk, I would go to you and say good-bye; but I don't know where you are. They say you have gone and I don't know where."

She leaned a little further forward on the sill, still hiding her eyes.

"He won't know," she whispered under her breath, "He will never know.

Velasco! Velasco--good-bye."

Her body lay across the sill now, and she opened her heavy lids and gazed downwards, half eagerly, half fearfully. The water was dark and the moon-light on the surface glittered. The wheel was below, huge and gaunt like a spectre; silent, with its spokes dipping into the pool.

CHAPTER XVI

"Fraulein, Fraulein--open the door! There is a gentleman here who would speak with you!--Fraulein!"

The blows redoubled on the stout oak, growing louder and more persistent. "Fraulein! It is very strange, Herr Kapellmeister. I saw her go in with my own eyes, some two hours back, and she has not come out, for I was below in the mill with my pipe and my beer, sitting in the very doorway itself, and no flutter of petticoats pa.s.sed me, or I should have heard."

The old miller rubbed his wizen cheeks and smoothed the wisps of hair on his chin, nervously as a young man does his mustache.

"Na--!" said the Kapellmeister. "It is late and she may be asleep. I came after rehearsal and it must be nine, or past. Knock louder!"

The miller struck the oak again with his fist, calling out; and then they both listened. "There is no light through the key-hole," said the miller, peeping, "only the moon-rays which lie on the floor, and when I hark with my hand to my ear, I hear no sound but the water splas.h.i.+ng."

The Kapellmeister paced the narrow corridor impatiently.

"Donnerwetter!" he exclaimed, "The matter is important, or I shouldn't have come. I must have an answer to-night. Try the door, and if it is unlocked, open it and shout. You have a voice like a saw; it would raise the dead."

The miller put his hand to the latch and it yielded: "Fraulein--!" The garret was in shadow, and across the floor lay the moonbeams glittering; the cas.e.m.e.nt was open, and the geraniums were outlined dark against the sky, their colour dimmed.

"There is something in the window!" said the miller, peering; and the door opened wider. "There is something black across the sill; it is lying over the geraniums and crus.h.i.+ng them, and it looks like a woman!

Jesus--Maria!"

He took a step forward, staring: "It is the Fraulein, and she is--"

"Get out of the way, you fool!" cried the Kapellmeister sharply, and he pushed the man back and strode forward: "The child has fainted! She lies here with her head on her arms, and her cheek is white as the moon itself."

He lifted her gently and put his arm under her shoulders, supporting her: "Get some Kirsch at once," he cried to the miller, "Stop gaping, man! She's not dead I tell you--her heart flutters and the pulse in her wrist is throbbing!" He slipped his hand in his pocket, and tossed the miller a gulden. "Now run," he said, "run as if the devil were after you. The Rathskeller is only a square away! Brandy and food--food, do you hear?"

The old man caught the gulden greedily between his fingers, and examined it for a moment, weighing it. "I will go," he mumbled, "certainly I will go. Kirsch--you say, sir, and bread perhaps?"

"Be off, you fool!"

The Kapellmeister watched the door grimly as it shut behind the miller, and then he glanced about the garret. "Poor," he said, "Humph! A place for a beggar!" His eyes roved from the pallet in the corner to the pitcher and the basin, the clothes on the pegs, the cobwebs hanging, the geraniums crushed on the sill.

Then he lifted the girl's head and held it between his hands, looking down at her face, supporting her in his arms. The lashes lay heavy on her cheeks and the tendrils of hair, curly and golden, lay on her neck and her forehead. Her throat was bare; it was white and full. The Kapellmeister held her gently and a film came over his eyes as he gazed:

"How young she is!" he murmured, "like some beautiful boy. Her chin is firm--there is will power there. Her brows are intelligent; her whole personality is one of feeling and temperament. It is a face in a thousand. What is her name, her history? How has she suffered? Why is she alone? There are lines of pain about the mouth--the eyes!"

He raised her suddenly in his arms and started to his feet; and as he did so, she opened her lids slowly and gazed at him. "Velasco--" she murmured.

Her voice was low and feeble, and the Kapellmeister bent his head lower: "What is it, child?" he said, "I can't hear you. In a moment you will have some brandy in your throat and that will rouse you. I will carry you now to that pallet over yonder, a poor place, no doubt, and hard as a board."

He strode across the floor and laid the girl gently on the bed, smoothing the pillow, and covering her lightly with the blanket. Kaya opened her eyes again, and put out her hands as if seeking someone.

"I was falling," she said, "Why did you bring me back?"

The Kapellmeister sat down by the edge of the bed and began to whistle softly; he whistled a theme once, and then he repeated it a semi-tone higher. "I suspected as much," he said, "Was it because you had no money?"

Kaya turned her face away.

"Were you starving?--Tschut! You needn't answer. Your eyes show it.

I might have seen for myself this morning, if I had not been in a temper with the chorus, and my mind absorbed in other matters. Be still now, here is the miller--the dotard!"

The Kapellmeister went over to the door, and took from the old man a small flask and a newspaper wrapping some rolls. "So," he said grimly, "Now go, and keep the rest of the gulden for yourself. No thanks!

Pischt--be off! Go back to your doorway and finish your beer, do you hear me? I will look after the Fraulein; she is conscious now, and I have business with her." He motioned the old man back from the door and closed it behind him; then he returned to the pallet. "I'm not much of a nurse," he said, "You will have to put up with some awkwardness, child; but there--raise your head a little, so--and lean on my shoulder! Now drink!"

Kaya swallowed a few drops of the brandy. "That is enough," she said faintly.

"No.--Drink!"

He held the gla.s.s to her lips, and she obeyed him, for his hands were strong and his eyes compelled her. Then he broke the roll, and dipped it into the brandy, and fed her piece by piece. When she tried to resist him, he said "Eat, child--eat! Do as I tell you--eat!" and held it to her mouth until she yielded.

She thought of Velasco and how he had fed her in the studio, and the pulse in her wrist beat quicker. When she had finished the roll, he put down the gla.s.s and the newspaper, and she felt his eyes searching hers, keen and sharp, two daggers, as if they would pierce through her secret.

"Don't speak," he said curtly, "Listen to me and answer my questions: Why were you discouraged? I told you this morning you would hear from me; why didn't you wait?"

The tears rose slowly into Kaya's eyes, and she hid her face in the pillow.

"You didn't believe me," said the Kapellmeister, "but you see I was better than my word--I have come myself. Why do you suppose I have come?"

She lay silent.