A WHITE SCAR
Two days later, in the afternoon.
"Grumbach," said Carmichael, "what the deuce were you looking at the
other night, with those opera-glasses?"
"At the ball?" Grumbach pressed down the ash in his pipe and brushed his
thumb on his sleeve. "I was looking into the past."
"With a pair of opera-glasses?"
"Yes." Grumbach was perfectly serious.
"Oh, pshaw! You were following her highness with them. I want to know
why."
"She is beautiful."
"You made a promise to me not long ago."
"I did?" non-committally.
"Yes. Soon I shall be shaking the dust of Dreiberg, and I want to know
beforehand what this Chinese puzzle is. What did you do that compelled
your flight from Ehrenstein?"
Grumbach's pipe hung pendulent in his hand. He swung it to and fro
absently.
"I am waiting. Remember, you are an American citizen, for all that you
were born here. If anything should happen to you, I must know the whole
story in order to help you. You know that you may trust me."
"It isn't that, Captain. I have grown to like you in these few days."
"What has that to do with it?" impatiently.
"Nothing, perhaps. Only, if I tell you, you will not be my friend."
"Nonsense! What you did sixteen years ago doesn't matter now. It is
enough for me that you fought in my regiment, and that you were a brave
soldier."
"Those opera-glasses; it was an idea. Well, since you will know. I was a
gardener's boy. I worked under my brother Hermann. I used to ask the
nurse, who had charge of her serene highness, where she would go each
day. Then I'd cut flowers and meet them on the road somewhere and give
the bouquet to the child. There was never any escort; a footman and a
driver. The little one was always greatly pleased, and she would call
me Hans. I was in love those days." Grumbach laughed with bitterness.
"Yes, even I. Her name was Tekla, and she was a jade. I wanted to run
away, but I had no money. I had already secured a passport; no matter
how. It was the first affair, and I was desperately hurt. One day a
Gipsy came to me. I shall always know him by the yellow spot in one of
his black eyes. I was given a thousand crowns to tell him which road her
highness was to be driven over the next day. As I said, I was mad with
love. Why a Gipsy should want to know where her highness was going to
ride was of no consequence to me. I told him. I was to get the money the
same night. It was thus that her highness was stolen; it was thus that I
became accessory before the fact, as the lawyers say. Flight with a band
of Magyar Gipsies; weary days in the mountains, with detachments of
troops scouring the whole duchy. Finally I escaped. A fortune was
offered for the immediate return of the child. At the time I believed
that it was an abduction for ransom. But no one ever came forward for
the reward. There was a price on my head when it was known that I had
fled." Grumbach stared into his pipe without seeing anything.
"And no one ever came for the reward? That is strange. Was immunity
promised?" asked Carmichael.
"It was inferred, but not literally promised."
"Fear kept them away."
"Perhaps. And there is Arnsberg."
"Was he guilty?"
"I never saw _his_ hand anywhere."
"So this is the story! Well, when a man's in love he is, more or less,
in the clutch of temporary insanity." Carmichael's tone wasn't exactly
cheery.
"Insanity! Then you do not judge me harshly?"
"No, Hans. I've a wild streak in me also. But what I can't understand is
why you return and put your head in the lion's mouth. The police will
stumble on something. I tell you frankly that if you are arrested I
could do little or nothing for you. The United States protects only
harmless political outcasts. Yours is a crime such as nullifies your
citizenship, and any government would be compelled, according to the
terms of treaty, to send you back here, if the demand was made for your
extradition."
"I know all that," Grumbach replied, dumping the ash into his palm and
casting it into the paper-basket.
"I suppose that when conscience drives we must go on. But the princess
has been found. The best thing you can do is to put your passports into
immediate use and return to the States. You can do no good here."
"Maybe." Grumbach refilled his pipe, lighted it, and without saying more
went out and down into the street.
Carmichael watched him through the window. Cloud after cloud of smoke
ran wavering behind the exile. He was smoking like one deeply perturbed.
"He's a queer codger, and it's a queer story. I don't believe I have
heard it all, either. What was he really hunting for with those glasses?
I give it up."
He was not angry with Grumbach; rather he seemed to be drawn to him more
closely than ever. Mad with love. That was the phrase. He conned it over
and over; mad with love. That excused many things. How strangely the
chess-men were moved! Had Grumbach not assisted in the abduction, her
highness would in all probability have grown up as other princesses,
artificial, cold, reserved, seldom touched by the fires of animated
thought or action. In fact, had things been otherwise, he never would
have ridden with her highness in the freshness of the morning--or fallen
in love with her. By rights he ought to curse Grumbach; but for him he
would still be captain of his heart. Mad with love! There was no doubt
of it. And the phrase rang in his ear for some time.
Grumbach was indeed perturbed, and this sensation was the result of what
he had _not_ told his friend. _Gott!_ What was going on? He hadn't the
least idea where his footsteps were leading him. He went on, his teeth
set strongly on the horn mouthpiece of his pipe, his hands jammed in his
pockets. And after a time he woke. He was in the Adlergasse. And of all
that happy, noisy family, only he and Hermann left! In one of the open
doorways, for it was warm, a final caress of vanishing summer, he saw a
fat, youngish woman knitting woolen hose. Two or three children
sprawled about her knees. There was that petulance of lip and forehead
which marked the dissatisfaction of the coquette married.
"Tekla!" Grumbach murmured.
He was not conscious that he had paused, but the woman was. She eyed him
with the mild indifference of the bovine. Then she dropped her glance
and the shining needles clicked afresh. Grumbach forced his step onward.
And for this! He laughed discordantly. The woman looked up again
wonderingly. Now, why should this stranger laugh all by himself like
that?
Hans saw the sign of the Black Eagle, and directed his steps
thitherward. He sat down and ordered a beer, drinking it quickly. He
repeated the order, but he did not touch the second glass. He threw back
the lid and stared at the creamy froth as a seer stares at his ball of
crystal. Carmichael was right; he was a doddering fool. What was done
was done, and a thousand consciences would not right it. And what right
had conscience to drag him back to Ehrenstein, where he had known the
bitterest and happiest moments of his life? And yet, rail as he might at
this invisible restraint called conscience, he saw God's direction in
this return. Only _he_, Hans Grumbach, knew and one other. And that
other, who?
Fat, Tekla was fat; and he had treasured the fair picture of her youth
these long years! Well, there was an end to that. Little fat Tekla, to
have nearly overturned a duchy, and never a bit the wiser! And then Hans
became aware of voices close at hand, for he sat near the bar.
"Yes, Fräu, he is at work in the grand duke's vineyards. And think, the
first day he picked nine baskets."
"That is good. But I know many a one who can pick their twelve. And you
are to be married when the vintage is done? You will make a fine wife,
Gretchen."
"And he, a fine husband."
"And you will bring him a dowry, too. But his own people; what does he
say of them?"
"He has no parents; only an uncle, who doesn't count. We shall live with
grandmother and pay her rent."
"And you are wearing a new dress," admiringly.
Gretchen preened herself. Hans dropped the lid of his stein and pushed
it away. His heart always warmed at the sight of this goose-girl. So she
had a dowry and was going to be married? He felt of his wallet, and a
kindly thought came into being. He counted down the small change for the
beer, slid back his chair, and sauntered to the bar. Gretchen recognized
him, and the recognition brought a smile to her face.
"Good day to you, Herr," was her greeting.
"When is the wedding?"
Gretchen blushed.
"I should like to come to it."
"You will be welcome, Herr."
"And may I bring along a little present?"
"If it so please you. I must be going," she added to Fräu Bauer.
"May I walk along with you?" asked Hans.
"If you wish," diffidently.
So Grumbach walked with her to the Krumerweg, and he asked her many
questions, and some of her answers surprised him.
"Never knew father or mother?"
"No, Herr. I am only a foundling who fell into kind hands. This is where
I live."
"And if I should ask to come in?"
"But I shall be too busy to talk. This is bread-day," evasively.
"I promise to sit very quiet in a chair."
Her laughter rippled; she was always close to that expression. "You are
a funny man. Come in, then; but mind, you will be dusty with flour when
you leave."
"I will undertake that risk," he replied, with a seriousness not in tune
with the comedy of the situation.
Into the kitchen she led him. She was moved with curiosity. Why should
any man wish to see a woman knead bread?
"Sit there, Herr." And she pointed to a stool at the left of the table.
The sunlight came in through the window, and an aureola appeared above
her beautiful head. "Have you never seen a woman knead flour?"
"Not for many years," said Hans, thinking of his mother.
Gretchen deliberately rolled up her sleeves and began work.
There are three things which human growth never changes: the lines in
the hand, the shape of the ear, and scars. The head grows, and the
general features enlarge to their predestined mold, but these three
things remain. Upon Gretchen's left arm, otherwise perfection, there was
a white scar, rough and uneven, more like an ancient burn than anything
else. Grumbach's eyes rested upon the scar and became fixed.
"Where did you get that?" he asked. He spoke with a strange calm.
"The scar? I do not remember. Grandmother says that when I was little I
must have been burned."
"_Gott!_"
"What did you say, Herr?"
"Nothing. You can't remember? Think!" tensely now.
"What's all this nonsense about?" she cried, with a nervous laugh. "It's
only a scar."
She went on with the kneading. She patted the dough into four squares.
These she placed on the oven-stove. She wiped her hands on a cloth for
that purpose, and sighed contentedly.
"There! It's a fine mystery, isn't it?"
"Yes." But Grumbach was shaking as with ague.
"What is the matter, Herr?" with concern.
"I grow dizzy like this sometimes. It doesn't amount to anything."
Gretchen turned down her sleeves. "You must go now, for I have other
work."
"And so have I, Gretchen."
He gained the street, but how he never knew. He floated. Objects near at
hand were shadowy and unusual. A great calm suddenly winged down upon
him, and the world became clear, clear as his purpose, his courage, his
duty. They might shoot or hang him, as they saw fit; this would not
deter him. It might be truthfully said that he blundered back to the
Grand Hotel. He must lay the whole matter before Carmichael. There lay
his one hope. Carmichael should be his ambassador. But, God in Heaven,
where should he begin? How?
The Gipsy, standing in the center of the walk, did not see Grumbach, for
he was looking toward the palaces, a kind of whimsical mockery in his
dark eyes. Grumbach, even more oblivious, crashed into him.
Grumbach stammered an apology, and the other replied in his peculiar
dialect that no harm had been done. The jar, however, had roused Hans
out of his tragic musings. There was a glint of yellow in the Gipsy's
eye, a flaw in the iris. Hans gave a cry.
"You? I find you at this moment, of all others?"
The Gipsy retreated. "I do not know you. It is a mistake."
"But I know you," whispered Hans. "And you will know me when I tell you
that I am the gardener's boy you ruined some sixteen years ago!"