The Wanderer stood still before the door. In the freezing air, his
quick-drawn breath made fantastic wreaths of mist, white and full of
odd shapes as he watched the tiny clouds curling quickly into each other
before the blackened oak. Then he laid his hand boldly upon the chain of
the bell. He expected to hear the harsh jingling of cracked metal, but
he was surprised by the silvery clearness and musical quality of the
ringing tones which reached his ear. He was pleased, and unconsciously
took the pleasant infusion for a favourable omen. The heavy door swung
back almost immediately, and he was confronted by a tall porter in dark
green cloth and gold lacings, whose imposing appearance was made still
more striking by the magnificent fair beard which flowed down almost to
his waist. The man lifted his heavy cocked hat and held it low at
his side as he drew back to let the visitor enter. The latter had not
expected to be admitted thus without question, and paused under the
bright light which illuminated the arched entrance, intending to make
some inquiry of the porter. But the latter seemed to expect nothing of
the sort. He carefully closed the door, and then, bearing his hat in one
hand and his gold-headed staff in the other, he proceeded gravely to the
other end of the vaulted porch, opened a great glazed door and held it
back for the visitor to pass.
The Wanderer recognized that the farther he was allowed to penetrate
unhindered into the interior of the house, the nearer he should be to
the object of his search. He did not know where he was, nor what he
might find. For all that he knew, he might be in a club, in a great
banking-house, or in some semi-public institution of the nature of a
library, an academy or a conservatory of music. There are many such
establishments in Prague, though he was not acquainted with any in which
the internal arrangements so closely resembled those of a luxurious
private residence. But there was no time for hesitation, and he ascended
the broad staircase with a firm step, glancing at the rich tapestries
which covered the walls, at the polished surface of the marble steps
on either side of the heavy carpet, and at the elaborate and beautiful
iron-work of the hand-rail. As he mounted higher, he heard the quick
rapping of an electric signal above him, and he understood that the
porter had announced his coming. Reaching the landing, he was met by a
servant in black, as correct at all points as the porter himself, and
who bowed low as he held back the thick curtain which hung before the
entrance. Without a word the man followed the visitor into a high room
of irregular shape, which served as a vestibule, and stood waiting to
receive the guest’s furs, should it please him to lay them aside. To
pause now, and to enter into an explanation with a servant, would have
been to reject an opportunity which might never return. In such an
establishment, he was sure of finding himself before long in the
presence of some more or less intelligent person of his own class, of
whom he could make such inquiries as might enlighten him, and to whom he
could present such excuses for his intrusion as might seem most fitting
in so difficult a case. He let his sables fall into the hands of the
servant and followed the latter along a short passage.
The man introduced him into a spacious hall and closed the door, leaving
him to his own reflections. The place was very wide and high and without
windows, but the broad daylight descended abundantly from above through
the glazed roof and illuminated every corner. He would have taken the
room for a conservatory, for it contained a forest of tropical trees and
plants, and whole gardens of rare southern flowers. Tall letonias,
date palms, mimosas and rubber trees of many varieties stretched their
fantastic spikes and heavy leaves half-way up to the crystal ceiling;
giant ferns swept the polished marble floor with their soft embroideries
and dark green laces; Indian creepers, full of bright blossoms, made
screens and curtains of their intertwining foliage; orchids of every
hue and of every exotic species bloomed in thick banks along the walls.
Flowers less rare, violets and lilies of the valley, closely set and
luxuriant, grew in beds edged with moss around the roots of the larger
plants and in many open spaces. The air was very soft and warm, moist
and full of heavy odours as the still atmosphere of an island in
southern seas, and the silence was broken only by the light plash of
softly-falling water.
Having advanced a few steps from the door, the Wanderer stood still and
waited, supposing that the owner of the dwelling would be made aware
of a visitor’s presence and would soon appear. But no one came. Then
a gentle voice spoke from amidst the verdure, apparently from no great
distance.
“I am here,” it said.
He moved forward amidst the ferns and the tall plants, until he found
himself on the farther side of a thick network of creepers. Then he
paused, for he was in the presence of a woman, of her who dwelt among
the flowers. She was sitting before him, motionless and upright in a
high, carved chair, and so placed that the pointed leaves of the palm
which rose above her cast sharp, star-shaped shadows over the broad
folds of her white dress. One hand, as white, as cold, as heavily
perfect as the sculpture of a Praxiteles or a Phidias, rested with
drooping fingers on the arm of the chair. The other pressed the pages
of a great book which lay open on the lady’s knee. Her face was turned
toward the visitor, and her eyes examined his face; calmly and with no
surprise in them, but not without a look of interest. Their expression
was at once so unusual, so disquieting, and yet so inexplicably
attractive as to fascinate the Wanderer’s gaze. He did not remember that
he had ever seen a pair of eyes of distinctly different colours, the one
of a clear, cold gray, the other of a deep, warm brown, so dark as to
seem almost black, and he would not have believed that nature could so
far transgress the canons of her own art and yet preserve the appearance
of beauty. For the lady was beautiful, from the diadem of her red gold
hair to the proud curve of her fresh young lips; from her broad, pale
forehead, prominent and boldly modelled at the angles of the brows, to
the strong mouldings of the well-balanced chin, which gave evidence of
strength and resolution wherewith to carry out the promise of the high
aquiline features and of the wide and sensitive nostrils.
“Madame,” said the Wanderer, bending his head courteously and advancing
another step, “I can neither frame excuses for having entered your house
unbidden, nor hope to obtain indulgence for my intrusion, unless you are
willing in the first place to hear my short story. May I expect so much
kindness?”
He paused, and the lady looked at him fixedly and curiously. Without
taking her eyes from his face, and without speaking, she closed the book
she had held on her knee, and laid it beside her upon a low table. The
Wanderer did not avoid her gaze, for he had nothing to conceal, nor any
sense of timidity. He was an intruder upon the privacy of one whom he
did not know, but he was ready to explain his presence and to make such
amends as courtesy required, if he had given offence.
The heavy odours of the flowers filled his nostrils with an unknown,
luxurious delight, as he stood there, gazing into the lady’s eyes; he
fancied that a gentle breath of perfumed air was blowing softly over his
hair and face out of the motionless palms, and the faint plashing of the
hidden fountain was like an exquisite melody in his ears. It was good to
be in such a place, to look on such a woman, to breathe such odours, and
to hear such tuneful music. A dreamlike, half-mysterious satisfaction of
the senses dulled the keen self-knowledge of body and soul for one
short moment. In the stormy play of his troubled life there was a brief
interlude of peace. He tasted the fruit of the lotus, his lips were
moistened in the sweet waters of forgetfulness.
The lady spoke at last, and the spell left him, not broken, as by a
sudden shock, but losing its strong power by quick degrees until it was
wholly gone.
“I will answer your question by another,” said the lady. “Let your reply
be the plain truth. It will be better so.”
“Ask what you will. I have nothing to conceal.”
“Do you know who and what I am? Do you come here out of curiosity, in
the vain hope of knowing me, having heard of me from others?”
“Assuredly not.” A faint flush rose in the man’s pale and noble face.
“You have my word,” he said, in the tone of one who is sure of being
believed, “that I have never, to my knowledge, heard of your existence,
that I am ignorant even of your name--forgive my ignorance--and that I
entered this house, not knowing whose it might be, seeking and following
after one for whom I have searched the world, one dearly loved, long
lost, long sought.”
“It is enough. Be seated. I am Unorna.”
“Unorna?” repeated the Wanderer, with an unconscious question in his
voice, as though the name recalled some half-forgotten association.
“Unorna--yes. I have another name,” she added, with a shade of
bitterness, “but it is hardly mine. Tell me your story. You loved--you
lost--you seek--so much I know. What else?”
The Wanderer sighed.
“You have told in those few words the story of my life--the unfinished
story. A wanderer I was born, a wanderer I am, a wanderer I must ever
be, until at last I find her whom I seek. I knew her in a strange land,
far from my birthplace, in a city where I was known but to a few, and
I loved her. She loved me, too, and that against her father’s will. He
would not have his daughter wed with one not of her race; for he himself
had taken a wife among strangers, and while she was yet alive he had
repented of what he had done. But I would have overcome his reasons and
his arguments--she and I could have overcome them together, for he did
not hate me, he bore me no ill-will. We were almost friends when I last
took his hand. Then the hour of destiny came upon me. The air of that
city was treacherous and deadly. I had left her with her father, and my
heart was full of many things, and of words both spoken and unuttered. I
lingered upon an ancient bridge that spanned the river, and the sun went
down. Then the evil fever of the south laid hold upon me and
poisoned the blood in my veins, and stole the consciousness from my
understanding. Weeks passed away, and memory returned, with the strength
to speak. I learned that she I loved and her father were gone, and none
knew whither. I rose and left the accursed city, being at that time
scarce able to stand upright upon my feet. Finding no trace of those I
sought, I journeyed to their own country, for I knew where her father
held his lands. I had been ill many weeks and much time had passed, from
the day on which I had left her, until I was able to move from my bed.
When I reached the gates of her home, I was told that all had been
lately sold, and that others now dwelt within the walls. I inquired of
those new owners of the land, but neither they or any of all those whom
I questioned could tell me whither I should direct my search. The father
was a strange man, loving travel and change and movement, restless and
unsatisfied with the world, rich and free to make his own caprice his
guide through life; reticent he was, moreover, and thoughtful, not given
to speaking out his intentions. Those who administered his affairs in
his absence were honourable men, bound by his especial injunction not to
reveal his ever-varying plans. Many times, in my ceaseless search, I met
persons who had lately seen him and his daughter and spoken with them.
I was ever on their track, from hemisphere to hemisphere, from continent
to continent, from country to country, from city to city, often
believing myself close upon them, often learning suddenly that an ocean
lay between them and me. Was he eluding me, purposely, resolutely, or
was he unconscious of my desperate pursuit, being served by chance alone
and by his own restless temper? I do not know. At last, some one told me
that she was dead, speaking thoughtlessly, not knowing that I loved her.
He who told me had heard the news from another, who had received it on
hearsay from a third. None knew in what place her spirit had parted;
none knew by what manner of sickness she had died. Since then, I have
heard others say that she is not dead, that they have heard in their
turn from others that she yet lives. An hour ago, I knew not what to
think. To-day, I saw her in a crowded church. I heard her voice, though
I could not reach her in the throng, struggle how I would. I followed
her in haste, I lost her at one turning, I saw her before me at the
next. At last a figure, clothed as she had been clothed, entered your
house. Whether it was she I know not certainly, but I do know that in
the church I saw her. She cannot be within your dwelling without your
knowledge; if she be here--then I have found her, my journey is ended,
my wanderings have led me home at last. If she be not here, if I have
been mistaken, I entreat you to let me set eyes on that other whom I
mistook for her, to forgive then my mannerless intrusion and to let me
go.”
Unorna had listened with half-closed eyes, but with unfaltering
attention, watching the speaker’s face from beneath her drooping lids,
making no effort to read his thoughts, but weighing his words and
impressing every detail of his story upon her mind. When he had done
there was silence for a time, broken only by the plash and ripple of the
falling water.
“She is not here,” said Unorna at last. “You shall see for yourself.
There is indeed in this house a young girl to whom I am deeply attached,
who has grown up at my side and has always lived under my roof. She is
very pale and dark, and is dressed always in black.”
“Like her I saw.”
“You shall see her again. I will send for her.” Unorna pressed an ivory
key in the silver ball which lay beside her, attached to a thick cord of
white silk. “Ask Sletchna Axenia to come to me,” she said to the servant
who opened the door in the distance, out of sight behind the forest of
plants.
Amid less unusual surroundings the Wanderer would have rejected with
contempt the last remnants of his belief in the identity of Unorna’s
companion, with Beatrice. But, being where he was, he felt unable to
decide between the possible and the impossible, between what he might
reasonably expect and what lay beyond the bounds of reason itself.
The air he breathed was so loaded with rich exotic perfumes, the woman
before him was so little like other women, her strangely mismatched eyes
had for his own such a disquieting attraction, all that he saw and felt
and heard was so far removed from the commonplaces of daily life as to
make him feel that he himself was becoming a part of some other person’s
existence, that he was being gradually drawn away from his identity, and
was losing the power of thinking his own thoughts. He reasoned as
the shadows reason in dreamland, the boundaries of common probability
receded to an immeasurable distance, and he almost ceased to know where
reality ended and where imagination took up the sequence of events.
Who was this woman, who called herself Unorna? He tried to consider the
question, and to bring his intelligence to bear upon it. Was she a great
lady of Prague, rich, capricious, creating a mysterious existence for
herself, merely for her own good pleasure? Her language, her voice,
her evident refinement gave colour to the idea, which was in itself
attractive to a man who had long ceased to expect novelty in this
working-day world. He glanced at her face, musing and wondering,
inhaling the sweet, intoxicating odours of the flowers and listening to
the tinkling of the hidden fountain. Her eyes were gazing into his, and
again, as if by magic, the curtain of life’s stage was drawn together
in misty folds, shutting out the past, the present, and the future, the
fact, the doubt, and the hope, in an interval of perfect peace.
He was roused by the sound of a light footfall upon the marble pavement.
Unorna’s eyes were turned from his, and with something like a movement
of surprise he himself looked towards the new comer. A young girl was
standing under the shadow of a great letonia at a short distance from
him. She was very pale indeed, but not with that death-like, waxen
pallor which had chilled him when he had looked upon that other face.
There was a faint resemblance in the small, aquiline features, the dress
was black, and the figure of the girl before him was assuredly neither
much taller nor much shorter than that of the woman he loved and sought.
But the likeness went no further, and he knew that he had been utterly
mistaken.
Unorna exchanged a few indifferent words with Axenia and dismissed her.
“You have seen,” she said, when the young girl was gone. “Was it she who
entered the house just now?”
“Yes. I was misled by a mere resemblance. Forgive me for my
importunity--let me thank you most sincerely for your great kindness.”
He rose as he spoke.
“Do not go,” said Unorna, looking at him earnestly.
He stood still, silent, as though his attitude should explain itself,
and yet expecting that she would say something further. He felt that her
eyes were upon him, and he raised his own to meet the look frankly, as
was his wont. For the first time since he had entered her presence
he felt that there was more than a mere disquieting attraction in her
steady gaze; there was a strong, resistless fascination, from which he
had no power to withdraw himself. Almost unconsciously he resumed his
seat, still looking at her, while telling himself with a severe effort
that he would look but one instant longer and then turn away. Ten
seconds passed, twenty, half a minute, in total silence. He was
confused, disturbed, and yet wholly unable to shut out her penetrating
glance. His fast ebbing consciousness barely allowed him to wonder
whether he was weakened by the strong emotions he had felt in the
church, or by the first beginning of some unknown and unexpected malady.
He was utterly weak and unstrung. He could neither rise from his seat,
nor lift his hand, nor close the lids of his eyes. It was as though
an irresistible force were drawing him into the depths of a fathomless
whirlpool, down, down, by its endless giddy spirals, robbing him of a
portion of his consciousness at every gyration, so that he left behind
him at every instant something of his individuality, something of the
central faculty of self-recognition. He felt no pain, but he did
not feel that inexpressible delight of peace which already twice had
descended upon him. He experienced a rapid diminution of all perception,
of all feeling, of all intelligence. Thought, and the memory of thought,
ebbed from his brain and left it vacant, as the waters of a lock subside
when the gates are opened, leaving emptiness in their place.
Unorna’s eyes turned from him, and she raised her hand a moment, letting
it fall again upon her knee. Instantly the strong man was restored to
himself; his weakness vanished, his sight was clear, his intelligence
was awake. Instantly the certainty flashed upon him that Unorna
possessed the power of imposing the hypnotic sleep and had exercised
that gift upon him, unexpectedly and against his will. He would have
more willingly supposed that he had been the victim of a momentary
physical faintness, for the idea of having been thus subjected to the
influence of a woman, and of a woman whom he hardly knew, was repugnant
to him, and had in it something humiliating to his pride, or at least
to his vanity. But he could not escape the conviction forced upon him by
the circumstances.
“Do not go far, for I may yet help you,” said Unorna, quietly. “Let us
talk of this matter and consult what is best to be done. Will you accept
a woman’s help?”
“Readily. But I cannot accept her will as mine, nor resign my
consciousness into her keeping.”
“Not for the sake of seeing her whom you say you love?”
The Wanderer was silent, being yet undetermined how to act, and still
unsteadied by what he had experienced. But he was able to reason, and he
asked of his judgment what he should do, wondering what manner of woman
Unorna might prove to be, and whether she was anything more than one of
those who live and even enrich themselves by the exercise of the unusual
faculties of powers nature has given them. He had seen many of that
class, and he considered most of them to be but half fanatics, half
charlatans, worshipping in themselves as something almost divine that
which was but a physical power, or weakness, beyond their own limited
comprehension. Though a whole school of wise and thoughtful men had
already produced remarkable results and elicited astounding facts by
sifting the truth through a fine web of closely logical experiment,
it did not follow that either Unorna, or any other self-convinced,
self-taught operator could do more than grope blindly towards the light,
guided by intuition alone amongst the varied and misleading phenomena
of hypnotism. The thought of accepting the help of one who was probably,
like most of her kind, a deceiver of herself and therefore, and thereby,
of others, was an affront to the dignity of his distress, a desecration
of his love’s sanctity, a frivolous invasion of love’s holiest ground.
But, on the other hand, he was stimulated to catch at the veriest
shadows of possibility by the certainty that he was at last within the
same city with her he loved, and he knew that hypnotic subjects are
sometimes able to determine the abode of persons whom no one else can
find. To-morrow it might be too late. Even before to-day’s sun had set
Beatrice might be once more taken from him, snatched away to the ends
of the earth by her father’s ever-changing caprice. To lose a moment now
might be to lose all.
He was tempted to yield, to resign his will into Unorna’s hands, and his
sight to her leading, to let her bid him sleep and see the truth. But
then, with a sudden reaction of his individuality, he realized that
he had another course, surer, simpler, more dignified. Beatrice was in
Prague. It was little probable that she was permanently established in
the city, and in all likelihood she and her father were lodged in one of
the two or three great hotels. To be driven from the one to the other of
these would be but an affair of minutes. Failing information from this
source, there remained the registers of the Austrian police, whose
vigilance takes note of every stranger’s name and dwelling-place.
“I thank you,” he said. “If all my inquiries fail, and if you will let
me visit you once more to-day, I will then ask your help.”
“You are right,” Unorna answered.