The Golden Bough. Gibbs George

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ I am sure. He works too hard, all day, and most of the night. You would understand, if you knew his problems, his suspicions, his labors."

      "I'm still willing to go, Mademoiselle, if Monsieur still desires it-" said Rowland easily.

      For a moment they had been lost in each other. A gasp from the direction of the fireplace, and as they turned, Kirylo Ivanitch fled past them silently and out into the darkness of the night. The look the American sent after him gave the girl a true vision of what was passing in his mind.

      "You think that he is mad," she said soberly. "It is not so. An obsession-" she paused abruptly as though the words had been stifled upon her lips and shrugged lightly. "I can tell you nothing-but on this I am resolved. You shall not be sent forth tonight or taken tomorrow when France, my country's ally, needs you yonder."

      He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. And then, with a joyous smile:

      "I shall fight the better for the memory of this hour. Whatever your mission here, Mademoiselle, God grant you success in it. And for the part of one soul which passes yours like a ship in the night, I pray that we may meet again."

      "It shall be so, perhaps," she said easily, though she flushed at the warmth of his words.

      "When a razor and a bath shall have made me once more a gentleman," he added with a laugh.

      "Perhaps that may be tomorrow?" she returned gaily.

      The roguish smile that had died still-born upon her lips, there, earlier, in the garden, came suddenly upon the sweetness of her lips and gave them new lines of loveliness, which made him glad that she had saved it for the light where he might see.

      She noted the look of admiration in his dark eyes, and turned quickly away, taking up a candle from the table.

      "Until tomorrow, then, Monsieur," she said decisively. "For now you shall go to bed."

      "I am no longer tired."

      But she was already moving toward the stairway to the upper floors.

      "If you will follow me-" she said calmly, and led the way up the stairs, her soft black robe caressing her slender ankles.

      A lamp set in a bracket burned dimly upon the second floor, and he followed her heavily down the high, echoing corridor. A large hall, scantily furnished, dim and mysterious with many doors to right and left, a house, it seemed, more like a hotel than a villa, and more like a monastery than either. The girl led the way and opened at last a door near the end of the corridor, entering the room and setting the candle upon a table. In the flickering light which cast its shadows upward along her face she seemed to have taken again the character of the Priestess, the Shade of the garden, with the cowl and robe of mystery. Her expression too seemed to have grown more serious, though the golden nimbus of light was again entwined about her ruddy hair.

      "Good night, Monsieur Rowlan'," she said gently. "Tomorrow morning you will find a change of clothing upon the chair outside the door. Sleep safely. If you fear-" she paused.

      "Fear?" he asked. "Of what?"

      "I forgot that you are a soldier. But when I go out, nevertheless, you shall bolt this door upon the inside." And as he turned to her in inquiry, "No. You must ask no questions, but only obey."

      His smile met with no response. And so he shrugged and bowed.

      "It shall be as you desire, Mademoiselle."

      And without a word, she was gone.

      He listened for a moment to the light tap of her footfalls down the corridor until he heard them no more, when he closed the heavy door, bolted it and sank upon the small iron bed while he tried to ponder a solution of the events of the evening.

      Out of the train of vague occurrences stood clearly the wholesome friendly figure of this girl, Tanya Korasov. Her robes, her cowl, the vestments of her strange association with the fanatic Kirylo Ivanitch, seemed only to bring her sanity, youth and kindliness into stronger relief. That she was a member of some secret association of which her compatriot was the head seemed more or less obvious, but what was the personal relationship between them? The man had intellectual power and doubtless held his sway as the official director of some sort of propaganda for the freedom of Russia, but his deference to the wishes of the girl made it also evident that she too was high in his councils. His niece? His cousin? Or was their relation something nearer, something-? Impossible. The man was fifty, the girl young enough to be his daughter. A relationship purely intellectual, more deeply welded by the bonds of a cognate purpose. But what of the robes, the vigils, the daïs in the garden, the strange dialogue about the escaping slave which seemed to have so large a part in determining his own status as a guest in this house of mystery? What was IT? And what the danger suggested by the final injunction of the girl to bolt the door of his bedroom? From whom? Ivanitch? From the shock-headed youth in the kitchen who had stared at him so curiously? Or from others whom he had not seen?

      He gave up the problem and slowly removed his boots and tattered clothing which he tossed with some disgust into a corner. The order of the room reproached him, and tired as he was, he cleansed himself to be worthy of the immaculate linen, then blew out the light and with a sigh of delight at the luxury of sheets, he crawled into bed and tried to relax. He had thought of this moment for weeks, and how he would sleep if he was ever again offered a bed, but now strangely enough, his muscles twitched and his eyes remained open, staring into the obscurity.

      Tanya! That was a pretty name-Tatyana probably. There was a fairy princess of that name who came to him suddenly from out of the mists of childhood-a princess with a filmy veil, a diadem upon her forehead and a magic white wand which accomplished the impossible. She was pure, she was beautiful and had happened long ago, before-before his rather variegated career across two continents. This new Tanya was a part of the night, a gracious kindly shade with a ruddy diadem and a roguish smile, which set aside the symbols of her strange servitude. He smiled as he thought of her and closed his lids again, but they flew open as though actuated by hidden springs.

      He was aware of some movement in the house about him, the soft pad of footsteps in the corridor outside which went along a few paces and then seemed to pause just at his door. Then a murmur as though of voices in a low tone. Once he fancied the knob of his door was tried by a stealthy hand. So sure was he of this that he got out of bed and without striking a light, examined the bolt to reassure himself that the door was firmly fastened.

      Then he smiled to himself and went noiselessly back to bed. The soldier Rowland was merely aware of a devouring curiosity. But presently the demands of his weary muscles vanquished even this, and he slept.

      He awoke suddenly, as he had often done in the dugouts at the warning of the sentry, and started upright in bed, listening. The softness of the sheets perplexed him, and it was a moment before he realized where he was. No sound but the murmur of insects outside the house and the sighing of a breeze. What had awakened him? Noiselessly he got up and tried the bolt of the door. It was fastened. Then he stole cautiously to the window, and peered down into the garden.

      By the star-light, he could dimly see the lawn, the path and the daïs beyond where he had first seen Tanya. His eyes, trained like a cat's to the darkness, during his weeks of night traveling, pierced slowly into every part of the obscurity beneath the trees. Something was moving there near the mound of earth, a dark figure with a cowled head and a robe. The figure moved forward slowly a few steps, peering from right to left and then darted suddenly around to the other side of the daïs, but always eager and watchful, near the mound of earth. Rowland seemed to identify the figure by its broad bent shoulders and shuffling walk as Kirylo Ivanitch. As the American watched, he saw the Russian turn and walk slowly toward the house. СКАЧАТЬ