A TRAP.
The week’s stay at the Han was drawing to a close. Twice the train
from “Europe” had deposited its passengers at the station, and they
had been sent on by road, as those of the wrecked train had been, to
rejoin the line on the other side of the river. Gangs of navvies were
at work on the repairs to the bridge, and the passage of
construction-trains kept the station staff busy. Maurice and Wylie had
extricated as much as possible of their possessions and those of the
girls from the pile of damaged and partially plundered luggage (for
the navvies had enjoyed first choice) rescued from among the
_débris_, and the village carpenter found himself overworked, or so
he asserted, with orders for making new boxes and repairing others.
The party at the inn had been increased by the addition of Haji Ahmad,
a trusted Roumi servant of Wylie’s friend Captain Palmer, who had been
sent to make himself generally useful, which he did. Poor Mrs Smith
had been buried in the neglected churchyard, a ragged and dirty priest
hurrying through a service which seemed little more intelligible to
himself than to the three English who listened, and displaying an
indecent keenness as to the fees due to him.
“Eirene,” said Zoe, on the fifth day of their stay, “Maurice wanted me
to ask you what you would like put on the tombstone. He has found a
man who can carve letters, and he would like to make sure that it is
properly done before we leave.”
“‘Evdotia Vladimirovna’--nothing else,” replied Eirene, after a
moment’s reflection. “Some day I shall build a memorial church here,
to commemorate her fidelity, but it is not the time for that yet.”
Zoe wondered silently whether the poor lady might not have preferred a
peaceful life to this honoured death, and Eirene caught her look. “You
know that she was not really my aunt?” she said doubtfully.
“I have thought it might be so,” returned Zoe.
“She was my mother’s--companion,” said Eirene, hesitating over the
word, “and then she was one of my governesses. I was obliged to tell
her what I meant to do, and she could not let me come alone. I said I
should go without her, but of course I could not have done it. I knew
she would come sooner than that. And I told her what to do, and she
really tried to do it. You don’t know how cunningly I laid my plans!”
with sudden enthusiasm. “I made use of my father’s steward to take
passages to America for us from Havre, and get American passports for
us as Mrs Silas Lapham and Miss Philadelphia Lapham, and to transfer
money in that name to a bank in New York. He is a Jew, and I knew that
however heavily I bribed him to silence, he would betray me if he
found himself in danger, so I let him think he was wholly in my
confidence, and yet I never trusted him at all. Through an English
merchant with whom my father had dealings, I got these English
passports, and then all was clear. We had been staying at a French
watering-place, and we left it in our proper characters and embarked
on the Nord Express. Our maids went on unsuspiciously with the luggage
to--where we used to live, but Evdotia Vladimirovna and I had left the
train at the first stopping-place and returned to Paris. A duplicate
set of luggage was sent through to Havre in the name of Lapham, to
make further confusion, while we, with entirely different luggage,
took tickets for the Orient Express as Mrs and Miss Smith. I knew that
if Levinssohn betrayed us, he could only direct pursuit to Havre,
where the false luggage would be stopped; but it would be some days
before they would suspect we were not coming that way at all, and by
that time our traces in Paris would be lost. I was foolish in being so
frightened at Vindobona, for it was most unlikely that my precautions
should have failed, but it was terrible to think that after such a
bold stroke I might be dragged back.”
“Well, I only hope you had a good reason for it all,” was Zoe’s
unsympathetic rejoinder. Eirene looked offended.
“Arrangements were proposed for me which I could not possibly accept,”
she said, with much dignity. “My reasons were absolutely valid, as you
will acknowledge if I ever explain them to you. I should like to
justify myself by doing so now, but it is out of the question,
unless---- Zoe,” she broke off suddenly, “it occurs to me sometimes
that you and Maurice may not be what you seem. You also--I mean, you
yourselves--may be travelling _incognito_. If it was so----?”
The possibilities of the situation flew through Zoe’s mind as Eirene’s
voice ceased. If she were to make a bargain--to exchange her secret
for Eirene’s? But the secret was not hers alone, but Maurice’s, and
Wylie was still in ignorance of it. Besides, what if Eirene were
really the spy she had at first imagined her, and this was a bold bid
on her part for success in her nefarious schemes? Zoe’s decision was
taken in an instant. “You mustn’t be so fanciful,” she said. “Maurice
and I have lived the most unromantic life you can imagine. He is
really an English country gentleman, as he has told you. We do really
live in a nice, square, ugly, old Georgian house, with good grounds.
When we are ambitious we call them the park. We have a good many
tenants, who are a continual bother through wanting things done for
them and not paying their rents. We are exactly like our neighbours,
except that we have both been to college.” A prudential instinct, for
which she commended herself, restrained her from mentioning the Gold
Medal, though she had already exulted in Wylie’s undisguised
astonishment when he was made acquainted with Maurice’s poetical fame.
Eirene sighed. “I am so sorry,” she said. “I had fancied---- There is
something so striking about your brother--a mingling of strength and
gentleness and carelessness--no, that is the wrong word; _insouciance_
is what I mean--that I could not help hoping he was really noble.”
The temptation to reveal the truth was so overwhelming that Zoe took
refuge in a highly moral tone. “You have such a horribly snobbish way
of looking at things,” she said severely, “thinking whether people are
noble instead of whether they are nice. Maurice and Captain Wylie are
English gentlemen, and an English gentleman is the equal of any one in
the world.”
“And an English lady?” demanded Eirene smartly.
“Superior to any one in the world, I should think, judging by the way
in which foreign royalties employ English governesses,” retorted Zoe.
“I had an English governess,” said Eirene, closing her eyes languidly.
“She was very highly connected, she said so; and she believed that one
of the foresters--gamekeepers, you say?--was in love with her. She
used to drop her handkerchief for him to pick up.”
“Poor thing! No doubt she wanted some consolation--or perhaps she was
going crazy,” said Zoe. “I expect you led her a life.”
“You consider me very unamiable?” asked Eirene curiously. “Tell me,
then; what do you think of me, honestly?”
“I don’t think you are unamiable really, but you seem to think of no
one but yourself, and you are always thinking of yourself. You told me
to say what I thought.”
“I know; I suppose it is true. You consider me selfish. Well, I will
try to improve. And to begin, I beg you will go to Maurice and ask him
from me to take you for a long walk. I have kept you too much with
me.”
“Oh, nonsense!” said Zoe, laughing; “it’s very nice here. I’m not
going to leave you all alone.”
“I insist that you go. And don’t fear my being dull. I have much to
do, for I must mend my skirt before I put it on to-morrow. Pray leave
me your workbox.”
“Why, I never noticed it,” said Zoe, turning to the skirt as it hung
on the wall. Five or six inches of braid were hanging in a loop. “But
I’ll do it for you in a minute.”
“No,” said Eirene stiffly, “you are not my maid.”
“Then we’ll do it together, if you are so proud. But you can’t work
with one hand in a sling.”
“It is only the left, and it will suffice to hold the work,” persisted
Eirene. “Go!” she cried, with sudden anger. “I will not have you
criticising my untidy stitches. I will do it by myself, if it takes me
till dark.”
Shrugging her shoulders, Zoe took her hat and left the room. When she
returned at dusk, after a glorious walk through the hills, Eirene had
accomplished her task, and was trying the skirt on. Zoe looked at it
in surprise.
“Why, how funny it looks!” she said. “You must have puckered it
dreadfully. It sticks out in such a queer way above the hem. Let me
pull it down.”
She knelt to try and twitch the folds into place, but Eirene pulled
them away pettishly.
“How tiresome you are, Zoe! It will look all right. I have put in some
weights to keep it down better. If you don’t call attention to it,
nobody will notice, and it will fall perfectly when I have worn it a
day or two.”
“Well, I must say I don’t admire your tailoring,” said Zoe, rising
from her knees. “You must have put in too many weights. Your tailor
would simply break his heart if he saw that skirt. I believe I could
have done it better, though I don’t profess to be great at sewing.”
“I have arranged it as I like it,” said Eirene, with so much dignity
that her companion dropped the subject, though the ill-hung skirt was
an eyesore to her all the next day, when Eirene came downstairs and
was escorted on a short walk through the village. On the following day
they left the Han to resume their interrupted journey, but intending
to spend a night at the station on the other side of the river, lest
Eirene should be over-tired by the long drive. They took only their
hand-luggage with them in the carriage, leaving the larger boxes to
follow with those of the passengers who would be due to join the train
the next morning. The whole population of the village seemed to have
turned out to see them start, from the priest to the most slipshod
drudge at the inn, and Zoe flattered herself that they presented an
imposing appearance, with Haji Ahmad, armed to the teeth, on the box
beside the driver. The carriage itself, a nondescript vehicle of the
victoria species, stood much in need of a visit to the coachbuilder’s,
but it was large enough to allow of Eirene’s being made comfortable
with cushions, and Wylie gave it as his mature opinion that, with
reasonable care on the driver’s part, it ought to hold out until the
end of the day. The road did not lead through the dark forests of
evergreen oak, but through much more cheerful beechwoods, and the
scenery was less savage than that in the river-gorge. It was just like
a picnic, Zoe declared, and she only wished they could finish their
journey to Therma in this way instead of by train.
About noon they stopped to change horses, and ate their lunch in a
rickety shelter of poles and vines attached in lean-to fashion to the
post-station. A little beyond this the road divided, presenting a
fairly steep ascent on the right, and a more gradual descent on the
left. The driver took the road to the right without hesitation, and
Maurice and Wylie and Haji Ahmad got out to make it easier for the
horses. Maurice walked by the side of the carriage, chatting with the
girls, but Wylie and the servant fell behind, and it seemed to Zoe
that they were talking earnestly. When the top of the hill was
reached, showing a prospect of further hills, the road through which
was barely distinguishable, Wylie went forward and spoke sharply to
the driver, using a jargon of his own invention of broken Thracian
helped out with Roumi and Arabic words, in which he had managed to
make himself understood at the Han. The driver answered at first only
by a broad stare and a look of bewilderment, but presently his face
cleared, and he poured forth a torrent of words, gesticulating
vehemently with his whip. The explanation he offered seemed to satisfy
Wylie, though Haji Ahmad still looked uneasy as he climbed to his
place. As soon as Wylie was in the carriage again, Zoe asked him what
had passed.
“Haji Ahmad thought we were taking the wrong road,” he answered
lightly, “but the driver says this is shorter than the other, and the
landlord told him to take it in order to make the journey as short as
possible for your sister.”
“But it is much rougher,” objected Zoe.
“So I told him, but he says that he had not allowed for our stopping
for lunch, and that to go back down that long hill would lose so much
time that we shouldn’t get in till after dark, which would be no joke
on these roads. I don’t think there’s any fear of his losing himself.
As he says, it’s obvious that both roads lead to the river and the
Roman bridge, though this one goes across the hill and the other goes
round it.”
Maurice and Eirene had scarcely noticed what had been said, and under
cover of their talk and laughter Zoe ventured to ask, “But what if he
did lead us wrong?”
“I’m afraid I should be guilty of conniving at Roumi oppression, and
leave him to Haji Ahmad to deal with,” said Wylie, laughing. They went
on into the hills, the track becoming rougher as they advanced, until
Maurice wedged Eirene in with all the luggage of the party, that she
might not be thrown out. Zoe heard Wylie muttering maledictions on the
driver under his breath, and saw him casting glances alternately at
the sun and the way they had come, evidently calculating whether there
was time even now to retrace their steps. The driver was obviously
anxious to escape as soon as possible from the resentment of his
passengers, who were being rattled about like peas in a pod, for he
was driving furiously, making the dilapidated carriage bound from
hillock to hollow. Zoe looked across at Wylie, and, raising her voice,
asked if he could not tell the man to go more quietly; but before he
could turn his head, the driver had disappeared suddenly from her
view. Something whirred over the carriage, sweeping Haji Ahmad from
the box to the ground with a clatter of weapons, and the driver was in
his place again as if by magic, pulling up his horses frantically in
obedience to hoarse shouts in front. He must have ducked to avoid a
rope fastened across the road, was Zoe’s last coherent thought. The
carriage stopped violently, half across the track, and events came
with a rush. Zoe saw Maurice and Wylie spring up from their seats, saw
Maurice felled with the butt-end of a gun, and Wylie raging, furiously
helpless, in a noose which the driver had dexterously thrown over him,
pinioning his arms to his sides. Huge, hairy hands seized her and
Eirene, dragged them out and flung them roughly on the ground, while
fierce voices cursed them by saints with uncouth names. A wild
struggle was going on, and the two prostrate girls were undoubtedly in
the way, so that they were trampled upon impartially by both sides.
Zoe had an awful glimpse of Haji Ahmad, his face streaming with blood,
fighting desperately for his life, before she succeeded in dragging
herself out of the fray, to find Maurice flung aside stunned and
bleeding, and Eirene, who had fallen on her wounded arm, moaning
faintly. The mob of ruffians in dirty white kilts who were yelling and
struggling round the carriage paid no attention to her, and she crept
towards the other two.
“Don’t look that way--don’t!” cried Wylie, breaking out of the crowd
and thrusting himself between her and them--a ludicrous figure enough,
with torn coat, no hat, and arms bound tightly behind him. “That’s all
right,” as she lifted Maurice’s head. “There’s a flask in my pocket if
you can get at it. Buck up, Miss Eirene! Don’t let these fellows hear
an English girl making that noise.”
“I am not English!” cried Eirene, sitting up indignantly. “At least, I
mean---- Oh, what are they doing?” as a single awful cry of agony came
from the centre of the throng of robbers, and made Zoe almost drop the
flask.
“Don’t look, don’t look!” entreated Wylie. “That’s it, Miss Smith, try
and get a drop into his mouth. Now, Miss Eirene”--sharply--“can’t you
unfasten your brother’s collar, and hold up his head?”
“I’ll do it,” said Zoe, as Eirene touched Maurice’s tie delicately;
“you take the flask. Oh!” stopping short with trembling fingers, as a
second and feebler cry was heard.
“It’s over now, at any rate,” said Wylie, setting his lips. “Get your
brother’s head tied up quickly, before these fiends have time to
remember us. Each man is bound to give the poor wretch a stab, dead
though he may be.”
“Is it Haji Ahmad?” asked Zoe faintly, as she folded her handkerchief
into a pad.
“Yes. A Roumi need expect no mercy from these fellows. Take my
handkerchief for a bandage; it’s larger than yours. Oh, good heavens!
have you no knife or scissors that you could cut this rope with, and
give me a chance to stand up to them when they turn round?”
“In the carriage?” suggested Zoe, measuring the distance with her eye.
“Oh, Maurice has a knife, of course.”
“Leave it, leave it!” he cried quickly; “they’re coming. Stand up if
you can, Smith,” as Maurice opened his eyes feebly. “No, it’s no good.
Keep quiet.”
He stood before the girls, and it seemed to Zoe that the advancing
robbers quailed when they met his eye, and shuffled their
blood-stained yataghans out of sight, as though suddenly conscious of
the awful mass on the ground behind them.
“Can any of you speak English?” he cried.
“Me--a leetle,” said a small, slim man, pushing his way to the front.
“What do you want with us?”
“We take all you got, zen get moch money for you,” was the reply,
given with an ingratiating grin.
“So I thought. Well, I have this to say to you. You can pillage my
friend and me if you like, but you won’t lay a finger upon the ladies.
They will turn out their pockets and show you what they’ve got, and
you can take what you want.”
The interpreter turned to his friends, apparently not sorry to escape
from Wylie’s glance, and explained the terms to them. Absurd though it
seemed, the will of the bound and defenceless prisoner prevailed above
the murmurs that arose, and the interpreter undertook, on behalf of
the chief of the band, that the girls should not be searched if Wylie
would swear on the Evangelists that they had given up everything.
“Turn out your pockets, quickly,” he said to them, as two of the men
seized him, and two others dragged Maurice to his feet and propped him
against a tree.
“I won’t!” cried Eirene, her eyes flaming.
“Nonsense! you must. Didn’t you hear me promise for you?” He spoke
with difficulty, trying to turn round while his captors thrust and
pulled him about.
“I don’t care. I never gave you leave to make promises for me. If they
touch me, I’ll kill them.”
What she held in her hand neither Zoe nor Wylie could see, but the
brigands were clamouring and the interpreter insistent.
“Let me talk to her,” cried Wylie, wrenching himself, with his collar
loose and his coat hanging by one sleeve, from the hands that held
him. “Look here, Miss Eirene, you must. You are not going to expose
your sister to the risk of being searched by these fellows?”
“She can do as she likes. I won’t be searched, and I will give up
nothing.”
“Smith, make your sister behave rationally. She will have all our
blood on her head in a minute.” Maurice, held up by the two men who
were searching him, made an effort to speak, but in vain, and Eirene
turned her back on him. One of the brigands seized Zoe by the arm, and
Wylie grew desperate.
“For the last time, turn out your pockets!” he said low and fiercely
to Eirene. “If you don’t, I swear to you, on my word and honour, I’ll
get my hands loosed and do it myself.”
Eirene was cowed. A muttered “Your honour!” passed her lips, but
slowly and reluctantly she extracted from all the many pockets with
which the Vindobona tailor had provided her such spoils as struck the
brigands dumb with awe and astonishment, while Zoe looked on
stupefied. Nearly all the jewellery Eirene had exhibited in the train
seemed to be secreted about her person--pearls, rubies, emeralds,
everything except the quaint enamelled plaques which she had said she
prized most of all. There could be no doubt that before parting with
her jewel-case she had removed all its most valuable contents.
“Is that all?” asked Wylie sternly, and she drew a bracelet from under
her sleeve, and hurled it passionately on the heap at her feet.
“That is everything,” she said defiantly. “And I wish you and your
friends joy of it. Of course I knew from the first that you were in
league with them.”
“Now it is your turn,” said Wylie to Zoe, and she added to the heap a
collection which filled the brigands with indignation, noticing as she
did so that Eirene’s bracelet bore an eagle upon it--a design which
seemed in some way familiar. A shabby purse moderately filled, two
note-books, one very small, and the other large enough to require a
special pocket for its accommodation, and a serviceable
pencil-case--these were all that the robbers cared to appropriate of
her possessions, but Maurice and Wylie were despoiled of everything
their pockets contained.