The Witch of Prague

F >> F. Marion Crawford >> The Witch of Prague


"I had it in my hand last night," she said in a breaking voice. True,
once more.

"What is it, darling? Are you crying? This is no day for tears."

"I little thought that I should have yourself to-day," she tried to say.

Then the tears came, tears of shame, big, hot, slow. They fell upon his
hand. She was weeping for joy, he thought. What else could any man think
in such a case? He drew her to him, and pressed her cheek with his hand
as her head nestled on his shoulder.

"When you put this ring on my finger, dear--so long ago----"

She sobbed aloud.

"No, darling--no, dear heart," he said, comforting her, "you must not
cry--that long ago is over now and gone for ever. Do you remember that
day, sweetheart, in the broad spring sun upon the terrace among the
lemon trees. No, dear--your tears hurt me always, even when they are
shed in happiness--no, dear, no. Rest there, let me dry your dear
eyes--so and so. Again? For ever, if you will. While you have tears,
I have kisses to dry them--it was so then, on that very day. I can
remember. I can see it all--and you. You have not changed, love, in all
those years, more than a blossom changes in one hour of a summer's day!
You took this ring and put it on my finger. Do you remember what I said?
I know the very words. I promised you--it needed no promise either--that
it should never leave its place until you took it back--and you--how
well I remember your face--you said that you would take it from my hand
some day, when all was well, when you should be free to give me another
in its stead, and to take one in return. I have kept my word, beloved.
Keep yours--I have brought you back the ring. Take it, sweetheart. It
is heavy with the burden of lonely years. Take it and give me that other
which I claim."

She did not speak, for she was fighting down the choking sobs,
struggling to keep back the burning drops that scalded her cheeks,
striving to gather strength for the weight of a greater shame. Lie, or
lose all, the voice said.

Very slowly she raised her head. She knew that his hand was close to
hers, held there that she might fulfil Beatrice's promise. Was she not
free? Could she not give him what he asked? No matter how--she tried to
say it to herself and could not. She felt his breath upon her hair. He
was waiting. If she did not act soon or speak he would wonder what held
her back--wonder--suspicion next and then? She put out her hand to touch
his fingers, half blinded, groping as though she could not see. He made
it easy for her. He fancied she was trembling, as she was weeping, with
the joy of it all.

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 pass 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 flashing 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 God'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 passing 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, passive, 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 passed the entrance and the
passage 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 massive head raised upon a
silken pillow, the vast limbs just outlined beneath the snow-white robe,
the hoary 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 God 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."

"And see them meet!"

She covered her face with her hands, and one short moan escaped her
lips.

"May I not die?" she cried despairingly. "May I not die--for him--for
her, for both? Would that not be enough? Would they not meet? Would they
not then be free?"

"Do you love him still?"

"With all my broken heart----"

"Then do not leave his happiness to chance alone, but go at once. There
is one little act of Heaven's work still in your power. Make it all
yours."

His great hands rested on her shoulders and his eyes looked down to
hers.

"Is it so bitter to do right?" he asked.

"It is very bitter," she answered.

Very slowly she turned, and as she moved he went beside her, gently
urging her and seeming to support her. Slowly, through vestibule
and passage, they went on and entered together the great hall of the
flowers. The Wanderer was there alone.

He uttered a short cry and sprang to meet her, but stepped back in awe
of the great white-robed figure that towered by her side.

"Beatrice!" he cried, as they passed.

"I am not Beatrice," she answered, her downcast eyes not raised to look
at him, moving still forward under the gentle guidance of the giant's
hand.

"Not Beatrice--no--you are not she--you are Unorna! Have I dreamed all
this?"

She had passed him now, and still she would not turn her head. But her
voice came back to him as she walked on.

"You have dreamed what will very soon be true," she said. "Wait here,
and Beatrice will soon be with you."

"I know that I am mad," the Wanderer cried, making one step to follow
her, then stopping short. Unorna was already at the door. The ancient
sleeper laid one hand upon her head.

"You will do it now," he said.

"I will do it--to the end," she answered. "Thank God that I have made
you live to tell me how."

So she went out, alone, to undo what she had done so evilly well.

The old man turned and went towards the Wanderer, who stood still in the
middle of the hall, confused, not knowing whether he had dreamed or was
really mad.

"What man are you?" he asked, as the white-robed figure approached.

"A man, as you are, for I was once young--not as you are, for I am very
old, and yet like you, for I am young again."

"You speak in riddles. What are you doing here, and where have you sent
Unorna?"

"When I was old, in that long time between, she took me in, and I have
slept beneath her roof these many years. She came to me to-day. She told
me all her story and all yours, waking me from my sleep, and asking me
what she should do. And she is gone to do that thing of which I told
her. Wait and you will see. She loves you well."

"And you would help her to get my love, as she had tried to get it
before?" the Wanderer asked with rising anger. "What am I to you, or you
to me, that you would meddle in my life?"

"You to me? Nothing. A man."

"Therefore an enemy--and you would help Unorna--let me go! This home is
cursed. I will not stay in it." The hoary giant took his arm, and the
Wanderer started at the weight and strength of the touch.

"You shall bless this house before you leave it. In this place, here
where you stand, you shall find the happiness you have sought through
all the years."

"In Unorna?" the question was asked scornfully.

"By Unorna."

"I do not believe you. You are mad, as I am. Would you play the
prophet?"

The door opened in the distance, and from behind the screen of plants
Keyork Arabian came forward into the hall, his small eyes bright, his
ivory face set and expressionless, his long beard waving in the swing of
his walk. The Wanderer saw him first and called to him.

"Keyork--come here!" he said. "Who is this man?"

For a moment Keyork seemed speechless with amazement. But it was anger
that choked his words. Then he came on quickly.

"Who waked him?" he cried in fury. "What is this? Why is he here?"

"Unorna waked me," answered the ancient sleeper very calmly.

"Unorna? Again? The curse of The Three Black Angels on her! Mad again?
Sleep, go back! It is not ready yet, and you will die, and I shall lose
it all--all--all! Oh, she shall pay for this with her soul in hell!"

He threw himself upon the giant, in an insane frenzy, clasping his arms
round the huge limbs and trying to force him backwards.

"Go! go!" he cried frantically. "It may not be too late! You may yet
sleep and live! Oh, my Experiment, my great Experiment! All lost----"

"What is this madness?" asked the Wanderer. "You cannot carry him, and
he will not go. Let him alone."

"Madness?" yelled Keyork, turning on him. "You are the madman, you the
fool, who cannot understand! Help me to move him--you are strong and
young--together we can take him back--he may yet sleep and live--he must
and shall! I say it! Lay your hands on him--you will not help me? Then I
will curse you till you do----"

"Poor Keyork!" exclaimed the Wanderer, half pitying him. "Your big
thoughts have cracked your little brain at last."

"Poor Keyork? You call me poor Keyork? You boy! You puppet! You ball,
that we have bandied to and fro, half sleeping, half awake! It drives me
mad to see you standing there, scoffing instead of helping me!"

"You are past my help, I fear."

"Will you not move? Are you dead already, standing on your feet and
staring at me?"

Again Keyork threw himself upon the huge old man, and stamped and
struggled and tried to move him backwards. He might as well have spent
his strength against a rock. Breathless but furious still, he desisted
at last, too much beside himself to see that he whose sudden death he
feared was stronger than he, because the great experiment had succeeded
far beyond all hope.

"Unorna has done this!" he cried, beating his forehead in impotent rage.
"Unorna has ruined me, and all,--and everything--so she has paid me for
my help! Trust a woman when she loves? Trust angels to curse God, or
Hell to save a sinner! But she shall pay, too--I have her still. Why do
you stare at me? Wait, fool! You shall be happy now. What are you to me
that I should even hate you? You shall have what you want. I will bring
you the woman you love, the Beatrice you have seen in dreams--and then
Unorna's heart will break and she will die, and her soul--her soul----"

Keyork broke into a peal of laughter, deep, rolling, diabolical in its
despairing, frantic mirth. He was still laughing as he reached the door.

"Her soul, her soul!" they heard him cry, between one burst and another
as he went out, and from the echoing vestibule, and from the staircase
beyond, the great laughter rolled back to them when they were left
alone.

"What is it all? I cannot understand," the Wanderer said, looking up to
the grand calm face.

"It is not always given to evil to do good, even for evil's sake," said
the old man. "The thing that he would is done already. The wound that he
would make is already bleeding; the heart he is gone to break is broken;
the soul that he would torture is beyond all his torments."

"Is Unorna dead?" the Wanderer asked, turning, he knew now why, with a
sort of reverence to his companion.

"She is not dead."

Unorna waited in the parlour of the convent. Then Beatrice came in, and
stood before her. Neither feared the other, and each looked into the
other's eyes.

"I have come to undo what I have done," Unorna said, not waiting for the
cold inquiry which she knew would come if she were silent.

"That will be hard, indeed," Beatrice answered.

"Yes. It is very hard. Make it still harder if you can, I could still do
it."

"And do you think I will believe you, or trust you?" asked the dark
woman.

"I know that you will when you know how I have loved him."

"Have you come here to tell me of your love?"

"Yes. And when I have told you, you will forgive me."

"I am no saint," said Beatrice, coldly. "I do not find forgiveness in
such abundance as you need."

"You will find it for me. You are not bad, as I am, but you can
understand what I have done, nevertheless, for you know what you
yourself would do for the sake of him we love. No--do not be angry with
me yet--I love him and I tell you so--that you may understand."

"At that price, I would rather not have the understanding. I do not care
to hear you say it. It is not good to hear."

"Yet, if I did not love him as I do, I should not be here, of my own
free will, to take you to him. I came for that."

"I do not believe you," Beatrice answered in tones like ice.

"And yet you will, and very soon. Whether you forgive or not--that is
another matter. I cannot ask it. God knows how much easier it would have
been to die than to come here. But if I were dead you might never have
found him, nor he you, though you are so very near together. Do you
think it is easier for me to come to you, whom he loves, than it is for
you to hear me say I love him, when I come to give him to you? If you
had found it all, not as it is, but otherwise--if you had found that in
these years he had known me and loved me, as he once loved you, if he
turned from you coldly and bid you forget him, because he would be happy
with me, and because he had utterly forgotten you--would it be easy for
you to give him up?"

"He loved me then--he loves me still," Beatrice said. "It is another
case."

"A much more bitter case. Even then you would have the memory of his
love, which I can never have--in true reality, though I have much to
remember, in his dreams of you."

Beatrice started a little, and her brow grew dark and angry.

"Then you have tried to get what was not yours by your bad powers!" she
cried. "And you have made him sleep--and dream--what?"

"Of you."

"And he talked of love?"

"Of love for you."

"To you?"

"To me."

"And dreamed that you were I? That too?"

"That I was you."

"Is there more to tell?" Beatrice asked, growing white. "He kissed you
in that dream of his--do not tell me he did that--no, tell me--tell me
all!"

"He kissed the thing he saw, believing the lips yours."

"More--more--is it not done yet? Can you sting again? What else?"

"Nothing--save that last night I tried to kill you, body and soul."

"And why did you not kill me?"

"Because you woke. Then the nun saved you. If she had not come, you
would have slept again, and slept for ever. And I would have let his
dreams last, and made it last--for him, I should have been the only
Beatrice."

"You have done all this, and you ask me to forgive you?"

"I ask nothing. If you will not go to him, I will bring him to you--"

Beatrice turned away and walked across the room.

"Loved her," she said aloud, "and talked to her of love, and kissed--"
She stopped suddenly. Then she came back again with swift steps and
grasped Unorna's arm fiercely.

"Tell me more still--this dream has lasted long--you are man and wife!"

"We might have been. He would still have thought me you, for months
and years. He would have had me take from his finger that ring you put
there. I tried--I tell you the whole truth--but I could not. I saw you
there beside me and you held my hand. I broke away and left him."

"Left him of your free will?"

"I could not lie again. It was too much. He would have broken a promise
if I had stayed. I love him--so I left him."

"Is all this true?"

"Every word."

"Swear it to me."

"How can I? By what shall I swear to you? Heaven itself would laugh at
any oath of mine. With my life I will answer for every word. With my
soul--no--it is not mine to answer with. Will you have my life? My last
breath shall tell you that I tell the truth. The dying do not lie."

"You tell me that you love that man. You tell me that you made him think
in dreams that he loved you. You tell me that you might be man and wife.
And you ask me to believe that you turned back from such happiness
as would make an angel sin? If you had done this--but it is not
possible--no woman could! His words in your ear, and yet turn back? His
lips on yours, and leave him? Who could do that?"

"One who loves him."

"What made you do it?"

"Love."

"No--fear--nothing else----"

"Fear? And what have I to fear? My body is beyond the fear of death, as
my soul is beyond the hope of life. If it were to be done again I should
be weak. I know I should. If you could know half of what the doing cost!
But let that alone. I did it, and he is waiting for you. Will you come?"

"If I only knew it to be true----"

"How hard you make it. Yet, it was hard enough."

Beatrice touched her arm, more gently than before, and gazed into her
eyes.

"If I could believe it all I would not make it hard. I would forgive
you--and you would deserve better than that, better than anything that
is mine to give."

"I deserve nothing and ask nothing. If you will come, you will see, and,
seeing, you will believe. And if you then forgive--well then, you will
have done far more than I could do."

"I would forgive you freely----"

"Are you afraid to go with me?"

"No. I am afraid of something worse. You have put something here--a
hope----"

"A hope? Then you believe. There is no hope without a little belief in
it. Will you come?"

"To him?"

"To him."

"It can but be untrue," said Beatrice, still hesitating. "I can but go.
What of him!" she asked suddenly. "If he were living--would you take me
to him? Could you?"

She turned very pale, and her eyes stared madly at Unorna.

"If he were dead," Unorna answered, "I should not be here."

Something in her tone and look moved Beatrice's heart at last.

"I will go with you," she said. "And if I find him--and if all is well
with him--then God in Heaven repay you, for you have been braver than
the bravest I ever knew."