The Secret Witness, George Gibbs [world of reading TXT] 📗

with all the will-power left at her command, she opened wide her eyes and raised herself upon an elbow. It was night, but lamps upon two tables shed a generous glow.

As she moved, a figure that had sat near the foot of the bed, rose and came toward her. It was a very old woman with a wrinkled face and the inturned lips of the toothless. But her face was kindly, and her voice when she spoke had in it a note of commiseration.

"The Excellency is feeling stronger?" she asked.

"I—I do not know," said Marishka painfully struggling to make her lips enunciate. "I—I still feel ill. What is this place?"

"Schloss Szolnok, Excellency, in the Carpathians." She laid her rough hand over Marishka's. "You have some fever. I will get medicine."

"A—a glass of water——"

"At once." The woman moved away into the shadows and Marishka tried to focus her eyes upon the objects in the room—large chests of drawers, and tables, a cheval glass, a prie-dieu, a carved escritoire with ormolu mountings, a French dressing table, portraits let into the panelling, massive oaken chairs, well upholstered—a room of some grandeur. Schloss Szolnok? What mattered it where she was? Death at Schloss Szolnok could be no worse than death elsewhere. Weakness overpowered her, and she sank back into her pillow, aware of her throbbing temples and a terrible pain that racked her breast. Death. Hugh, too. He was calling to her. She would come. Hugh! With his name upon her lips she sank again into unconsciousness.

For weeks, the very weeks that Hugh Renwick lay in the Landes Hospital, Marishka lay upon the tall bed in the great room at Schloss Szolnok, struggling slowly back to life from the clutches of pneumonia. There was a doctor brought from Mezo Laborcz, who stayed in the castle for a week until the danger point had passed, and then came every few days until the patient was well upon the road to recovery. Marishka did not learn of this until much later when, convalescent, she sat by the window, looking out over the sunlit mountains beyond the gorge, and then in wonder and something of disappointment that Goritz had not permitted her to die. And when the old woman, who bore the name of Ena, related that the Herr Hauptmann had himself driven the automobile which brought the doctor in the dead of night to Szolnok, the wonder grew. Marishka had learned to think of Goritz as one interested only in her death or imprisonment, and after Sarajevo she had even believed that her life while in his keeping had hung by a hair. He had killed Hugh, brought her into this far country against her will, had even drugged her that he might avoid a repetition of her attempt at escape. And now he was sparing no pains to bring her back to health, daily sending her messages of good will and good wishes, with flowers from the garden in the courtyard, which, as Ena had reported, he had plucked with his own hand. It was monstrous!

A few mornings ago he had written her a note saying that he awaited her pleasure, craving the indulgence of a visit at the earliest moment that she should care to see him. Marishka, much to Ena's chagrin, had sent no reply. The very thought of kindness from such a man as Goritz—a kindness which was to pay for Hugh's death and her favor, made a mockery of all the beauties of giving—a mockery, too, of her acceptance of them, whether tacitly or otherwise. A man who could kill without scruple, a woman-baiter, courteous that he might be cruel, tolerant that he might torment! By torture of her spirit and of her body he had brought her near death that he might gain the flavor of saving her from it.

He was of a breed of being with which her experience was unfamiliar. The note of sentiment in his notes, while it amazed, bewildered and frightened her a little. She was completely in the man's power. What was Schloss Szolnok? Who was its owner? Ena would not talk; she had received instructions. Before her windows was spread a wonderful vista of mountains and ravines, which changed hourly in color, from the opalescent tints of the dawn, through the garish spectrum of daylight to the deep purple shadows of the sunset, to the crepuscular opalescence again. Under any other conditions, she would have been content to sit and muse alone with her grief—and Hugh. He was constantly present in her thoughts. It was as though his spirit hovered near. She seemed to hear him speak, to feel the touch of his hand upon her brow, soothing her anguish, praying her to wait and be patient. Sometimes the impression of his presence beside her was so poignant that she started up from her chair and looked around the vast room, as though expecting him to appear in the spirit beside her. And then realizing that the illusions were born of her weakness, she would sink back exhausted, and resume her gaze upon the restful distance.

Ena, her nurse, was very kind to her, leaving nothing undone for her comfort, sitting most of the while beside her, and prattling of her own youth and the Fatherland. And so, sure of the woman's growing interest and affection, she slowly revealed the story of Konopisht Garden, her share in it, and the events that had followed. Marishka could see that the woman was greatly impressed by the story which lost no conviction from the pallid lips which told it. And of her own volition, that night, Ena promised the girl to reveal no word of her confidences, and gave unreservedly the outward signs of her friendship for the tender creature committed to her care. She had believed that the kindness of the Herr Hauptmann had meant the beginnings of a romance. But she understood, and aware of the sadness of the sick woman's thoughts, did what she could to delay a meeting which she knew must be painful.

In reply to Marishka's questions, now, she was less reticent, and told of the long years at Schloss Szolnok under the Barons Neudeck, father and son, of the coming of Herr Hauptmann Goritz, and of the threat which had hung over them for three years since the dreadful night when her young master had been killed. There had been no heirs to the estate and no one knew to whom the half-ruined Schloss belonged, but each month money had arrived from Germany, and so she and Wilhelm Strohmeyer, her man, and two other servants under orders from Germany, had remained. She had lived here almost all her life. The people in the village a mile away were the nearest human folk, and Baron Neudeck had not endeared himself to them, for once he had beaten a farmer who had questioned the Excellency's right to shoot upon his land. And so the country people passed aside and did not venture up the mountain road which indeed had become overgrown with verdure. And for their part the servants were contented to stay alone. It was very quiet, but as good a place to die in as any other.

Marishka listened calmly, trying to weave the complete story and Captain Goritz's part in it. Whether Schloss Szolnok was or was not the property of the German government—and it seemed probable that it would have been confiscated upon the discovery of Baron Neudeck's treachery—the fact was clear that Goritz was now its occupant and master. She had not dared to wonder what was still in store for her at the hands of Captain Goritz, and had lived from day to day in the hope that something might happen which would end her imprisonment and martyrdom. She heard nothing from the outside, and Ena, who had long ago given up the world, was in no position to inform her.

But as she gained her strength, Marishka knew that she could not longer deny herself to Captain Goritz. The mirror showed her that her face, while thin and wan, was still comely. Wisdom warned her that however much she loathed the man, every hope of liberty hung upon his favor. And so she gained courage to look about her and to plan some means of outwitting him or some mode of escape from durance. The latter alternative seemed hopeless, for it seemed that the castle was built upon a lonely crag, its heavy walls, which dated from feudal times, imbedded in the solid rock. From her bedroom window, below the buttressed stone, were precipitous cliffs which fell sheer and straight to the rocky bed of the stream which rushed through the ravine two hundred meters below. But there would be other modes of egress, and so, feeling that her strength was now equal to the task, she determined to go forth and test the cordon which constrained her. One morning, therefore, she called Ena's attention to her pallid face and suggested the sunlight of the garden as a means to restoration. The woman was delighted, and attired in a costume of soft white silk crepe, which she had fashioned in her convalescence from some posthumous finery that Ena had discovered, Marishka walked forth of her room down a stone stairway into the great hall of the castle; and so into the ancient courtyard where the flower garden was. She had expected Captain Goritz to join her, and in this surmise she was not mistaken, for she had culled an armful of blossoms which she sent to her room by Ena when the German appeared. She heard his voice behind her, even before she had summoned courage for the interview.

"My compliments upon your appearance, Countess," he said soberly. "I hope that you find yourself well upon the road to recovery."

"Thanks," she replied in a stifled tone. "I am feeling much stronger."

"It has been a very pitiful experience for you—one which has caused me many qualms of conscience," he muttered, "but I have tried to atone and would beg you to believe that all my happiness for the future depends upon your forgiveness."

"I can—never forgive—never——" said Marishka, her throat closing painfully. "I hoped to die," she sighed, "but even that you denied me."

"I have only done my duty—my duty, Countess—a sweeter duty than that which urged me to Vienna—to undo the wrong that I have done you, to bring again the roses into your cheeks."

She waved her hand in deprecation. "For your courtesy, for the kindness of your servants, I thank you. But for what you are yourself—only the God that made you can understand—can forgive—that."

He straightened a moment and then slowly leaned against the wall beside her, his chin cupped in his hand.

"You are cruel——"

"I am truthful. Anything else from me to you would be beneath my womanhood. I would kill you if I had the strength or if I dared." She gave a bitter laugh. "It is at least something, that we understand each other."

He paused a long moment before replying.

And then, "Do we understand each other? I hope that you will permit me to speak a few words in extenuation of a person you have never known—of Leo Goritz, the man."

"A man who makes war upon a woman—who uses violence to compel obedience——"

"A woman—but an enemy to my country. Between my duty to Germany and my own inclinations, I had no choice. I was an instrument of the State, pitiless, exact and exacting. You have spoken the truth. So shall I. Had my duty to Germany required it of me, I should have killed you with my own hand—even if you had been my sister."

She gazed at him with alien eyes.

"It is monstrous! I would to God you had."

He bowed.

"That is merely my official conception of my obligation to the Fatherland," he said quietly.

She still gazed at him unbelieving, but he met her glance squarely.

"You need not believe me unless you choose, but I speak the truth.