Gibbs George
The Secret Witness
CHAPTER XXIV
PRISONER AND CAPTIVE
It was with mingled feelings that Marishka found the sanctuary of her sleeping room. Her abhorrence of Goritz as the murderer of Hugh Renwick was uppermost in her breast, her fear of him as her captor of scarcely less import, but his tumultuous plea for her forgiveness and his strange avowal had given her food for thought. Such a rapid volte-face was beyond credence. This man had watched by her bedside, nursed her during the week that she had lain unconscious. Her cheeks burned hot at the thought of the situation, and quickly she questioned Ena who at last reluctantly admitted the truth. Herr Hauptmann Goritz had sat many nights by the bedside while she, Ena, had slept so as to be fresh for the day to follow. He had commanded her silence, and Ena had obeyed. She hoped that the Excellency would understand.
Marishka nodded and sent her from the room, for she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. He had watched by her sickbed, carrying out the orders of the doctor while she had lain unconscious—Goritz, the master craftsman of duplicity—Goritz, the insensible! What did it mean? Had the man spoken the truth? Was he—? Love to such a man as Goritz! It was impossible.
He had always been courteous and considerate, but there was a new note in his voice which rang strangely. Another lie—another hypocrisy? And yet the very frankness of his admission with regard to her safety for a moment disarmed her. He would have killed her—"eliminated" her—had the necessities of his duty demanded it of him. And yet he had confessed his love for her. What was the meaning of the paradox? Had he something to gain by her favor? Had a change taken place in their situation? A chance phrase had revealed the fact that there was now a danger of the revelation of this hiding place. They had been pursued—what had balked him in the continuance of their flight into Germany? Meditation only served to enhance the mystery, and she emerged from an hour of thought over the scene in the courtyard with no very clear idea of what the future had in store for her, sure only of one thing—that she must not hang importance upon the words of this man, who had already proved himself a deadly enemy to her happiness. He had hired assassins to kill Hugh, and when they had failed, had accomplished his purpose by a vile expedient.
Love! She knew what love was. She closed her eyes and buried her face in her arms in wordless, silent grief for the man to whom she had given all that was best and noblest of her—Hugh! But she could not weep. It seemed as though, long since, the fountains of her misery were dry. For a long while she crouched in the window, motionless, and when at last she raised her head and gazed out down the shimmering vista of the gorge, it was with a look of new resolution and intelligence. She must escape. Every iota of cleverness must be given to find a way out of Schloss Szolnok. What if, in spite of all, the things that Leo Goritz had confessed were true! She doubted it and yet—if he loved her—! Here was a woman's revenge, to bait, to charm, to spurn; and then to outwit him! A test of the sincerity of his professions, and of her own feminine art—a dangerous game which she had once before thought of playing, until his cruelty had atrophied all impulse.
But now! If he really cared—her power would grow with the venture, her own safety the pledge of his purity—a dangerous game, indeed, here alone upon this crag in the mountains, but if he were sincere, she was armed with a flaming sword to defend—to destroy! If—? She would not trust him, but she would fight him with the weapons she had. Her lips closed in a thin line, and a glint as of polished metal came into her eyes as the scene in the house of the Beg of Rataj shut out the lovely landscape before her. To destroy—to fan the spark to flame that she might extinguish it; to corrode the spirit with the biting acid of contempt; to envenom the soul—newly born, perhaps—to the sweeter uses of beneficence, and then escape! If he cared!
And if he did not care—if, as she really believed, he lied to gain an end....
This was the thought of him that obsessed her. A liar, always. Why not now? Men of his kind were unusual to women of hers, but even in the midst of his confession—as near self-abasement as a man of his type could come, the note of egotism rang clear above the graceful phrases—too graceful to be anything but manufactured in that clear inventive brain of his.
She paced the floor, thinking deeply, and at last stopped by the window and sought again the counsel of the eternal hills. After a while she turned again into the room and peered into a mirror, seeking in her face the answer to the riddle. It was pale, resolute, but it was not ugly.
She planned her campaign with the calm forethought of a general who picks out his own battlefield, disposing his forces to the best advantage, for attack or for repulse, for victory, or defeat. She must mask her approach, conceal her intentions, and develop slowly the real strength of her position. There was much that she wished to learn as to Schloss Szolnok, and its security from those who sought to intercept them, much in regard to the plans of her captor for the future, but she knew that she must act with caution and skill, if she hoped to escape.
Goritz had previously expressed a wish that when she grew strong enough to leave her bedroom, she would join him at dinner, which she heard was served in one end of the great Hall, but she decided that the first skirmish should take place in a situation of her own choosing. And so after dusk, the moon coming out, she went again upon the terrace where she leaned upon the wall of the bastion and looked down with an air of self-sought seclusion, upon the mists of the valley.
Goritz was not long in joining her. She heard his footsteps as he approached but did not give any sign or acknowledgment of his presence.
"May I talk with you, Countess Strahni?" he asked easily.
Her shrug, under her cloak, was hardly perceptible.
"Since you have already done so it seems that my own wishes do not matter," she said coolly.
"I have no wish to intrude."
Marishka laughed. "I can go in–" She drew her wrap more closely about her throat and straightened.
"I hope that you will not do that," he said.
"Is there anything you wished to speak to me about—? That is—er—anything of importance?"
Goritz looked past her toward the profile of the distant mountain, and smiled.
"I thought that you might be interested to learn something of my reasons for stopping here."
"The insect in the web of the spider has little emotion left for curiosity."
"The spider! I have always admired your courage, Countess."
"I can die but once."
"Perhaps you may care to know that you are not in the slightest danger of death."
"Thanks," she said coolly. "Your kindness is overwhelming. Or is my—'elimination' no longer essential?"
The more flippant her tone, the more somber Goritz became.
"My purposes, Countess Strahni, I think, you no longer have any reason to doubt. You are quite safe at Schloss Szolnok–"
"So is the insect in the web—from all other insects but the spider." She turned away. "You cannot blame me, Herr Hauptmann, if I judge of the future by the past."
"I would waste words to make further explanations which are so little understood, but there are matters of interest to you."
"Ah."
"You have been ill. Many things have happened. You would like to hear?"
"I am listening."
"It is the trifles of the world which make or prevent its greatest disasters. The man with the lantern at the bridgehead at Brod did not know that he held the destiny of Europe in his hand. And yet, this is the truth. Had he permitted us to pass unquestioned we should have reached Sarajevo in time to prevent the greatest cataclysm of all the ages."
Marishka turned toward him, her interest now fully aroused.
"What do you mean?"
"War, Countess Strahni—the most bloody—terrible—in the history of the world—the event that I have striven all my life to prevent. All of Europe is ablaze. Millions of men are marching—battles have already been fought–"
"Horrible? I cannot believe–"
"It is the truth. It followed swiftly upon the assassination at Sarajevo–"
"Serbia!"
"Serbia first—then Russia—Germany—Belgium—France—England, too–"
"You are speaking the truth?"
"I swear it."
"And Austria?"
"Germany and Austria—against a ring of enemies bent on exterminating us–"
"England—?"
And while with eager ears she listened, he told her the history of the long weeks, now growing into months, in which she had been hidden from the world—including the defeat of the Austrians by the Serbians along the Drina, and the advance of the Russians in East Prussia and Galicia.
She heard him through until the end, questioning eagerly, then aware of the dreadful significance of his news, forgetting for the moment her own animosities, her own questionable position in the greater peril of her country—and his. His country and hers at war against the world!
"Russia has won victories against Austria—in Galicia?" she urged.
"Yes—the Cossacks already are approaching Lemberg–"
"Lemberg!"
"They are less than two hundred kilometers from us at the present moment."
"And will they come—here?"
"I hope not," he said with a slow smile. "But Schloss Szolnok is hardly equipped to resist a siege of modern ordnance."
"And you—why are you here?"
The ingenuousness of her impetuous question seemed to amuse him.
"I?" he said. "I am here because—well, because you—because I had no other place to go."
"Will you explain?"
"I see no reason why I should not. I chose the place as a temporary refuge from pursuit. Your illness marred my plans. The war continues to mar them."
"How?"
He smiled.
"The insect has curiosity, then? Schloss Szolnok has proved safe. I have no desire to take unnecessary risks."
"You were pursued?"
He nodded. "Yes. And I managed to get away—here, but the other end of this pass is now strongly guarded. I could have gone through when I first came, but you were very ill. You would probably have died if I had gone on. Now it is too late. You see," he said with a shrug, "I am quite cheerful about it."
She turned and examined him with an air of timidity.
"You mean that—that to save my life you—you have sacrificed all hope of winning through to Germany?"
"With you, yes—for the present," he smiled.
She turned away and leaned upon the wall.
"I—I think that I—I have done you some injustice, Herr Hauptmann," she murmured with an effort.
"Thank you."
"But I cannot understand. The papers which passed you through Hungary—signed by General Von Hoetzendorf–"
"Unfortunately are of no further service. An order for my arrest has been issued in Vienna."
"Your arrest? For taking me?"
"For many things–" And he shrugged.
"What do you propose to do?"
"Remain here for the present," he said slowly. "It is doubtful if anyone would think of seeking us here. The Schloss has an evil name along the countryside. None of the peasants dares to come within a league of the place."
"And I—?" she asked.
"It seems, Countess Strahni," he said slowly, smiling at her, "that our positions are now reversed—you the captor—I the prisoner. And yet, as you see," with a shrug, "I am making no effort to escape. You have led captivity captive."
His phrases were too well spoken, and the look in his eyes disturbed her.
"You—you wish me to understand that I am free to go–"
"Hardly that," he interrupted with a short laugh. "Only this morning you said that you would kill me if you dared. I do not relish the notion of being delivered into the hands of the police."
"You think that I would do that?" she questioned.
"Wouldn't you?"
"I don't know. I–"
"I am sure of it. I am no longer under any illusions with regard to your sentiments toward myself. This morning I uncovered my heart to you—and you plunged a dagger into it. It was too much—beyond my deserts. I am no man for a woman to spit upon, Countess Strahni. You are still a prisoner—as completely under my power as though you and I were the last people left upon the earth."
His tone was mild, but there was a depth of meaning under it.
"I—I can scarcely be unaware of it," she murmured. "What are you going to do with me?"
"For the present we shall stay here—until an opportunity presents–"
"For escape?"
"I could go alone tonight—and reach Germany—without you. That is not my purpose."
"Then you propose to take me with you?"
"When the coast is clear—yes."
"And if the coast should not be clear?"
"I shall remain."
The situation was as she had supposed, but his motive—the real motive! She drew the wrap more closely around her throat and turned away from him again. To escape from him! That was the only thing she could think of now. Upon the road, his attitude of firm consideration, his cool insistence upon compliance with his wishes, had not been nearly so ominous as the personal note which he had injected into their relations. He frightened her now. But to escape? She was watched, she was sure, for in the afternoon, while the drawbridge was lowered, she had made out the figure of a man on guard at the end of the causeway. But while her conversation with Goritz dismayed her, she studied him keenly, trying to read him by what he did not say.
She smiled at him impudently.
"And suppose I attempted to escape?" she asked.
"You would fail. There is but one exit from Szolnok—the drawbridge—and that is continually guarded."
"You have ordered your men to shoot me?"
"No—but you will not pass."
"I see. Your contrition does not go as far as that."
"Not beyond the walls of Schloss Szolnok," he said coolly.
"And you ask me to believe in the integrity of your motives? What was the use, Herr Hauptmann? I could understand duplicity to me in the performance of a duty, but to practice your machine-made emotions upon my simplicity—! I could hardly forgive you that."
He kept himself well in hand and even smiled again.
"You wrong me, Countess Strahni. I have spoken the truth."
"You cannot deny me the privilege of doubting you," she replied.
"What further proof would you have me give you that I am honest in my love for you?"
She pointed past the drawbridge along the causeway toward the valley below.
"Permit me to go—there—alone—tonight."
He laughed quietly.
"Alone? I do not know what danger may lurk in the valley. The fact that I wish to keep you here—is a better proof of my tenderness."
She turned away from him and leaned upon the wall. But to him at least she did not show fear.
"We cannot remain here indefinitely," she said coolly.
"Are you not comfortable? Is not everything provided for you? It has been my pride to make your convalescence agreeable in all ways," he said, leaning a little nearer to her. "I have tried to atone for the discomforts of your journey. Was it not my solicitude for your health which balked my own plans? You have questioned the truth of my professions, but you cannot deny the evidences of your safety."
Marishka was thinking quickly. Much as she abhorred the man, she realized that, if she were to have any chance of success she must meet him with weapons stronger than his own. And so she turned to him with a smile which concealed her growing terror.
"Herr Hauptmann, I do not wish you to think that I am ungrateful for the many indulgences that you have shown me. Your position has been a difficult one. But from the beginning we have been enemies–"
"Before the outbreak of the war—but allies now–"
"Not if you persist in your plan to carry me to Germany."
He asked her permission to smoke, and when she had granted it he went on coolly.
"Perhaps something may happen to prevent the execution of my plan," he said.
"What?" she stammered.
He searched her face eagerly for a moment.
"You may be sure, Countess Strahni," he said in a half-whisper, "that it is very painful to me that you should think of me as an enemy. Enemy I am not. It is my duty to take you to Germany, but it is very painful to me to do anything which makes you unhappy. Here, safe from detection, I am still doing my duty. And in remaining here you, too, are safe. Will you not try to be contented—to endure my society just for a little while? I want to show you that I can be as other men–"
She laughed to hide her fears.
"All men are alike where a woman is concerned—"
"Will you try? I will be your slave—your servant. Within the castle you may come and go as you please. No one shall approach you without your permission. You see, I am not an exacting jailer. All I ask is the hope of your friendship, a glimpse of your returning smile, and such companionship as you care to give me. It is not much. Do I not deserve it? Bitte, think a little."
Marishka gasped and fought the impulse to run from him, for his face was very near her shoulder, his voice very close to her ear.
"I—I think that—we may be friends," she murmured.
"Will you give me your hand, Countess Strahni?"
She extended it slowly and he bowed over it, pressing it to his lips.
She found her excuse in a cough, a vestige of her illness which she summoned to her rescue.
"It—it is getting late, Herr Hauptmann," she said. "I must be going in. The night air–"
"By all means." He accompanied her to the portal of the hall and then she left him.
That night Marishka did not sleep, and the next day, pleading fatigue, remained in her bedroom, trying to muster up the courage to go forth and meet Goritz at this tragic game of his own choosing. That she had stirred some sort of an emotion in the man was not to be doubted. She read it in his eyes, in the touch of his fingers, and in the resonant tones of his voice, but she read too, the sense of his power, the confidence of his egotism to which all things were possible. And much as she wished to believe the testimony of his flashes of tenderness, the hazard of her position stared her in the face. But she knew that with such a man she must play a game of subtlety and courage. And so she resolved to meet him frequently, testing every feminine device to win him to her service which would obliterate all things but her own wishes, and present at last an opportunity for her escape.
In the week that followed she walked out with him across the causeway into the mountain road, visiting Szolnok farm and climbing the hills adjacent to the castle, but she saw no one except the German farmers, and it seemed indeed as though the gorge was taboo to all human beings. Goritz made love to her, of course, but she laughed him off, gaining a new confidence as the days of their companionship increased. Slowly, with infinite patience, with infinite self-control, she established a relationship which baffled him, a foil for each of his moods, a parry for each attack. With a smile on her lips which masked the lie, she told him that Hugh Renwick had been nothing to her.
And Goritz told her of the women he had met in the performance of his duty from London to Constantinople, women of the secret service of England, France, Russia, who had set their wits to match his. Some of them were ugly and clever, some were stupid and beautiful, but they had all been dangerous. He had passed them by. No woman in the world that he had ever known had had the nobility of spirit, the courage, the self-abnegation of the Countess Strahni.
It was in these moods of adulation and self-revelation that Marishka found him most difficult. But she managed to keep him at arm's length by the mere insistence of her spirituality which accepted his friendship upon its face value, telling him that she forgave the past, and vaguely suggesting hope for the future. With that he had to be content, though at times he was dangerously near rebellion. She promised him many things but denied him her lips, hoping day by day for the rescue which came not, and praying night after night that the God who watched over her would forgive her for her duplicity and for the hatred of him that was in her heart.
But there came a day when the walks beyond the causeway ceased, and from the window of her bedroom she learned the reason. Far, far below her in the valley along the road which wound through the Pass, she saw the figures of marching men. Austrian soldiers! What did their presence mean? They were going toward the other end of the pass—thousands of them. Had the Russians crossed Galicia? That night there were no lights in the side of the castle toward the gorge save the candle in her room, which was screened by heavy hangings. And when at dinner she questioned Goritz he gave her the briefest of replies. The Cossacks were coming? Perhaps, but they would not take Dukla Pass. He warned her not to show her figure at the castle windows or above the wall of the rampart, and she obeyed.
For several days Goritz disappeared, and she gained a breathing space to think over her position. She ventured out many times into the courtyard in the hope of finding an opportunity to elude her guard, but each time she approached the drawbridge she saw the chauffeur Karl seated in the shadow of the wall, smoking his pipe. And so she knew that any attempt to pass him would be impossible.
At the end of the fourth day, Captain Goritz joined her at the supper table. He had now discarded his Austrian uniform and wore a rough suit of working clothes, similar to the peasant costume which Ena's husband wore. He greeted her gladly, but she asked him no questions as to his absence, upon her guard as she always was against the unknown quality in the man, which held her in constant anxiety. But after he had eaten, the cloud which had hung over him seemed to pass, and he leaned forward, smiling at her across the table.
"You have been obedient?" he asked.
"What else is left for me?" she smiled. "I have wondered where you were."
"Ah," he laughed, "you missed me? That is good. You wondered what would happen to you if I did not come back." He laughed as he lighted his cigarette. "I am not so easily to be lost, I assure you. I have been through Dukla Pass."
"Many soldiers have gone through the pass today—many this morning—many more this afternoon."
"Yes, I saw them."
"And the Russians?"
He was silent for a while, and then spoke very quietly. "They are coming."
She made no sound and seemed to be frozen into immobility by the import of the information.
"The Austrians have fortified the other end of the Pass, but it is said that the Russians are in great numbers, sweeping everything before them–"
"Przemysl—! Lemberg—!"
"Lemberg has fallen. The fate of Przemysl hangs in the balance." He shrugged. "Tomorrow, perhaps, may see the Cossacks at Dukla Pass."
"And then–"
"I do not wish to alarm you," he said gently. "Six hundred years have passed over Schloss Szolnok, and it still stands. I am not going to run away."
"But you can do nothing—against so many."
"They will not bother us, I think. The Austrians, you see, have passed us by. They are taking all their artillery to Javorina and Jägerhorn and mounting them upon the old emplacements of the ruins. The defense will be made there where the gorge is narrower."
"But if they should come—here—the Cossacks—!" she whispered fearfully.
He laughed easily. "Ah, Countess, I am not a half-bad jailer, after all?"
"The Cossacks!" she repeated.
"They shall not come here."
"What can you do?"
"The place is impregnable—sheer cliffs upon all sides—the causeway two hundred meters long. I could pick them off one by one from the top of the keep. With the drawbridge up, we are as safe as though we were in Vienna."
"But their artillery?"
"They will not think us worth their while. In the armory there are six repeating hunting rifles and four shotguns, ammunition plentiful–" He broke off and, rising, came over and stood beside her. "But we will not think of unpleasant possibilities. It has been so long since I have seen you—too long."
She let him take her hand and press it to his lips, but tonight that condescension did not seem to be enough. He fell to one knee beside her and would have put his arm about her waist if she had not risen and struggled away from him.
"You forget, Herr Hauptmann, the dependence of my position here—alone with you. Whatever our personal relations, a delicacy for my feelings must warn you–"
"Marishka!" he broke in. "What does a man who loves as I do, care for the conventions of the sham world you and I have left so far behind. I adore you. And you flout me."
"For shame! Would you care for me if I were a woman without delicacy or dignity? I beg of you–"
But he had held her by the hand and would not release her.
"I adore you—and you flout me—that is all that I know. Your indifference maddens me. Perhaps I am not as other men, and must not be judged by other standards than my own which are sufficient for myself as they should be sufficient for you. You know that I—I worship you—that by staying here I have forgotten my duty to my country at a time when I am most needed. Does that mean nothing to you? Can you be callous to a love like mine which lives only in your happiness and hangs upon your pleasure? I worship you, Marishka. Just one kiss, to tell me that you care for me a little. I will be content–"
She struggled in his grasp, her fear of him lending her more strength. Her lips—? Hugh's! Never—never—as God witnessed.
"One kiss, Marishka–"
She struggled free and struck him with her clenched fist furiously, full in the face, and then ran to the window, as he released her, breathing hard, trembling, but full of defiance. The suddenness of the affair and its culmination had driven them both dumb, Marishka with terror, Goritz with chagrin at his mistake and anger at her temerity. He touched his face with the fingers of one hand and stared at her with eyes that burned with black fire in the pallor of his face.
"You have struck me," he muttered. And then, with a shrug, "That was not a love tap, Countess Strahni."
She could not speak for very terror of the consequences of the encounter, but stood watching him narrowly, one hand upon the window-ledge beside her.
"Well," he asked presently, "are you dumb?"
"You—you insulted me," she gasped.
"Whatever I have done, you have repaid me," he muttered.
She glanced out of the window into the black void beneath.
"I—I am not afraid to die, Herr Goritz," she said.
He caught the meaning of her glance and her poise by the window-ledge, and their significance sobered him instantly. He drew back from her two or three paces and leaned heavily against an oaken chair.
"Am I so repellent to you as that?" he whispered.
"My lips—are mine," she said proudly. "I give them willingly or not at all."
His gaze flickered and fell before the high resolve that he read in her face. And her courage enthralled him.
"Herr Gott!" he muttered, "you have never been so beautiful as now, Marishka!"
She did not reply or move, but only watched him steadily.
He paced the floor stiffly, his hands behind him, struggling for his self-control. And the better instinct in him, the part of him that had made life possible for Marishka at Schloss Szolnok, was slowly triumphant.
"A kiss means much or little," he said quietly at last. "To me, the consecration of a love which has leaped the bounds of mere platitude. A woman of your training perhaps cannot grasp the honesty of my unconvention. I have meant you no harm. But that you should have misunderstood—!"
"One thing only I understand—that you have violated the hospitality of Schloss Szolnok."
"I beg of you–"
"It is true. Was your kindness, your courtesy, your consideration, but the means to this end? I can never believe in you again."
"Do you mean that?"
"I do–"
"It is a pity."
"It is the truth. Fear and affection cannot survive together."
"Fear?"
"I can never trust you again. Let me go—I beg that you will excuse me."
He bowed. "If that is your wish–" and turned and walked to the window opposite, while Marishka found her way up the stairs and so to her room where she lay upon her bed fully dressed, in a high state of nervous excitement.
