SCHLOSS SZOLNOK
The night and day which followed the terrible events in the house of the
Beg of Rataj were like an evil dream to Marishka Strahni. She slept, she
awoke, always to be hurried on by her relentless captors, too ill to
offer resistance or any effort to delay them. Hugh Renwick was dead. All
the other direful assurances as to her own fate were as nothing beside
that dreadful fact. And Goritz--the man who sat beside her--Hugh's
murderer! Fear--loathing--she seemed even too weak and ill for these,
lying for the first part of their long journey, inert and helpless. The
man beside her watched her furtively from time to time, venturing
attention and solicitude for her comfort, but she did not reply to his
questions or even look at him. At the house of Selim Ali she recovered
some of her strength, and again upon the following night, at a small inn
not far from the Serbian border, she fell into a deep sleep of
exhaustion, from which she was aroused with difficulty. The machine was
stopped frequently, and its occupants were questioned, but in each case
Captain Goritz produced papers from his pocket, which let them pass.
They were now well within the borders of Hungary, and as the girl grew
stronger, courage came, and with it the thought of escape. But in spite
of her apparent helplessness she was aware that her captors were
watching her carefully, permitting no conversation with anyone, locking
the doors of the rooms in which she slept, at the houses where they
stopped, and taking turns at keeping guard outside. But their very
precautions gave her an appreciation of the risks that they ran. She was
a prisoner in her own country. All those she passed upon the road were
her friends. She had only to make her identity known, and the object of
her captors, to gain her freedom. She was somewhere in eastern Hungary,
but just where she did not know. The chauffeur spoke the language
fluently, and Marishka's ignorance of it made her task more difficult.
But one night at an inn in a small village, she found a girl who spoke
German, and in a moment when the attention of her guards was relaxed,
she managed to make the girl understand, promising her a sum of money if
she would summon the police of the town, to whom Marishka would tell her
story. The girl agreed, and in the early morning just as the machine
came around to the door Goritz found himself confronted by two men in
uniform.
Marishka, who had been waiting, trembling, in her room above, came
running down the stairs and threw herself upon their mercy, telling her
story and begging their intercession.
But even as she spoke she realized that the very wildness of her
narrative was against its verity in the minds of these rustic policemen.
"It is an extraordinary tale," said the elder man, "and one which of
course must be investigated--an abduction!"
"If you will permit me," said Goritz smiling calmly. "This lady is my
wife. I am taking her to the north for the baths. As you observe, she
is the subject of delusions----"
"It is not true," cried Marishka despairingly. "I beseech you to
listen--to investigate----"
"I regret," said Goritz, with a glance at his watch, "that I have no
time to delay. I am Lieutenant von Arnstorf of the Fifteenth Army Corps,
bearing a safe conduct from General von Hoetzendorf, which all police
officers of the Empire are constrained to respect. Read for yourself."
And he handed them the magic paper which already had done him such
service. The men read it through with respect and not a little awe,
bestowing at the last a pitying glance upon Marishka, which too well
indicated their delicacy in interfering in the affairs of one in such
authority.
"And you will not summon the mayor? What I tell is the truth. In the
name of the Holy Virgin, I swear it."
One of the men crossed himself and turned away. Goritz had already laid
his fingers firmly upon her arm and guided her toward the machine.
"Come, Anna," he said in a sober, soothing tone, "all will be well--all
will be well."
And so Marishka, with one last despairing glance in the direction of the
two officers, permitted herself to be handed into the machine by Captain
Goritz who, before the automobile departed, handed a piece of money to
the girl who had done Marishka this service. The last glimpse that
Marishka had of the police officers showed them standing side by side,
their fingers at their caps. Her case was hopeless. She had no friend,
it seemed, in all Hungary, and she abandoned herself to the depths of
her despair. How could she have expected to cope with such a man as
this?
Goritz said nothing to her of warning or of reproach, but in the same
afternoon, after drinking a cup of coffee which he urged upon her, she
became drowsy and slept.
She awoke in a large room with walls of panelled wood, and a groined
ceiling. She lay upon a huge bed, raised high above the floor, over the
head of which was a faded yellow silken hanging. Her surroundings
puzzled her, but she seemed to have no desire to learn the meaning of it
all, lying as one barely alive, gazing half conscious toward the narrow
Gothic window near by, through which she had a glimpse of mountains and
blue sky. But the sunlight which fell in patches upon the Turkey rug
dazzled her aching eyes, and she closed them painfully. She felt
wretchedly ill. Her throat was parched, and her body was so weak that
even to move her hand had been an effort. She slept again, woke and
slept again, aware now, even in her stupor, of someone moving near her
in the room. At last with all the will-power left at her command, she
opened wide her eyes and raised herself upon an elbow. It was night, but
lamps upon two tables shed a generous glow.
As she moved, a figure that had sat near the foot of the bed, rose and
came toward her. It was a very old woman with a wrinkled face and the
inturned lips of the toothless. But her face was kindly, and her voice
when she spoke had in it a note of commiseration.
"The Excellency is feeling stronger?" she asked.
"I--I do not know," said Marishka painfully struggling to make her lips
enunciate. "I--I still feel ill. What is this place?"
"Schloss Szolnok, Excellency, in the Carpathians." She laid her rough
hand over Marishka's. "You have some fever. I will get medicine."
"A--a glass of water----"
"At once." The woman moved away into the shadows and Marishka tried to
focus her eyes upon the objects in the room--large chests of drawers,
and tables, a cheval glass, a _prie-dieu_, a carved escritoire with
ormolu mountings, a French dressing table, portraits let into the
panelling, massive oaken chairs, well upholstered--a room of some
grandeur. Schloss Szolnok? What mattered it where she was? Death at
Schloss Szolnok could be no worse than death elsewhere. Weakness
overpowered her, and she sank back into her pillow, aware of her
throbbing temples and a terrible pain that racked her breast. Death.
Hugh, too. He was calling to her. She would come. Hugh! With his name
upon her lips she sank again into unconsciousness.
For weeks, the very weeks that Hugh Renwick lay in the Landes Hospital,
Marishka lay upon the tall bed in the great room at Schloss Szolnok,
struggling slowly back to life from the clutches of pneumonia. There was
a doctor brought from Mezo Laborcz, who stayed in the castle for a week
until the danger point had passed, and then came every few days until
the patient was well upon the road to recovery. Marishka did not learn
of this until much later when, convalescent, she sat by the window,
looking out over the sunlit mountains beyond the gorge, and then in
wonder and something of disappointment that Goritz had not permitted her
to die. And when the old woman, who bore the name of Ena, related that
the Herr Hauptmann had himself driven the automobile which brought the
doctor in the dead of night to Szolnok, the wonder grew. Marishka had
learned to think of Goritz as one interested only in her death or
imprisonment, and after Sarajevo she had even believed that her life
while in his keeping had hung by a hair. He had killed Hugh, brought her
into this far country against her will, had even drugged her that he
might avoid a repetition of her attempt at escape. And now he was
sparing no pains to bring her back to health, daily sending her messages
of good will and good wishes, with flowers from the garden in the
courtyard, which, as Ena had reported, he had plucked with his own hand.
It was monstrous!
A few mornings ago he had written her a note saying that he awaited her
pleasure, craving the indulgence of a visit at the earliest moment that
she should care to see him. Marishka, much to Ena's chagrin, had sent no
reply. The very thought of kindness from such a man as Goritz--a
kindness which was to pay for Hugh's death and her favor, made a mockery
of all the beauties of giving--a mockery, too, of her acceptance of
them, whether tacitly or otherwise. A man who could kill without
scruple, a woman-baiter, courteous that he might be cruel, tolerant that
he might torment! By torture of her spirit and of her body he had
brought her near death that he might gain the flavor of saving her from
it.
He was of a breed of being with which her experience was unfamiliar. The
note of sentiment in his notes, while it amazed, bewildered and
frightened her a little. She was completely in the man's power. What was
Schloss Szolnok? Who was its owner? Ena would not talk; she had
received instructions. Before her windows was spread a wonderful vista
of mountains and ravines, which changed hourly in color, from the
opalescent tints of the dawn, through the garish spectrum of daylight to
the deep purple shadows of the sunset, to the crepuscular opalescence
again. Under any other conditions, she would have been content to sit
and muse alone with her grief--and Hugh. He was constantly present in
her thoughts. It was as though his spirit hovered near. She seemed to
hear him speak, to feel the touch of his hand upon her brow, soothing
her anguish, praying her to wait and be patient. Sometimes the
impression of his presence beside her was so poignant that she started
up from her chair and looked around the vast room, as though expecting
him to appear in the spirit beside her. And then realizing that the
illusions were born of her weakness, she would sink back exhausted, and
resume her gaze upon the restful distance.
Ena, her nurse, was very kind to her, leaving nothing undone for her
comfort, sitting most of the while beside her, and prattling of her own
youth and the Fatherland. And so, sure of the woman's growing interest
and affection, she slowly revealed the story of Konopisht Garden, her
share in it, and the events that had followed. Marishka could see that
the woman was greatly impressed by the story which lost no conviction
from the pallid lips which told it. And of her own volition, that night,
Ena promised the girl to reveal no word of her confidences, and gave
unreservedly the outward signs of her friendship for the tender creature
committed to her care. She had believed that the kindness of the Herr
Hauptmann had meant the beginnings of a romance. But she understood,
and aware of the sadness of the sick woman's thoughts, did what she
could to delay a meeting which she knew must be painful.
In reply to Marishka's questions, now, she was less reticent, and told
of the long years at Schloss Szolnok under the Barons Neudeck, father
and son, of the coming of Herr Hauptmann Goritz, and of the threat which
had hung over them for three years since the dreadful night when her
young master had been killed. There had been no heirs to the estate and
no one knew to whom the half-ruined Schloss belonged, but each month
money had arrived from Germany, and so she and Wilhelm Strohmeyer, her
man, and two other servants under orders from Germany, had remained. She
had lived here almost all her life. The people in the village a mile
away were the nearest human folk, and Baron Neudeck had not endeared
himself to them, for once he had beaten a farmer who had questioned the
Excellency's right to shoot upon his land. And so the country people
passed aside and did not venture up the mountain road which indeed had
become overgrown with verdure. And for their part the servants were
contented to stay alone. It was very quiet, but as good a place to die
in as any other.
Marishka listened calmly, trying to weave the complete story and Captain
Goritz's part in it. Whether Schloss Szolnok was or was not the property
of the German government--and it seemed probable that it would have been
confiscated upon the discovery of Baron Neudeck's treachery--the fact
was clear that Goritz was now its occupant and master. She had not dared
to wonder what was still in store for her at the hands of Captain
Goritz, and had lived from day to day in the hope that something might
happen which would end her imprisonment and martyrdom. She heard nothing
from the outside, and Ena, who had long ago given up the world, was in
no position to inform her.
But as she gained her strength, Marishka knew that she could not longer
deny herself to Captain Goritz. The mirror showed her that her face,
while thin and wan, was still comely. Wisdom warned her that however
much she loathed the man, every hope of liberty hung upon his favor. And
so she gained courage to look about her and to plan some means of
outwitting him or some mode of escape from durance. The latter
alternative seemed hopeless, for it seemed that the castle was built
upon a lonely crag, its heavy walls, which dated from feudal times,
imbedded in the solid rock. From her bedroom window, below the
buttressed stone, were precipitous cliffs which fell sheer and straight
to the rocky bed of the stream which rushed through the ravine two
hundred meters below. But there would be other modes of egress, and so,
feeling that her strength was now equal to the task, she determined to
go forth and test the cordon which constrained her. One morning,
therefore, she called Ena's attention to her pallid face and suggested
the sunlight of the garden as a means to restoration. The woman was
delighted, and attired in a costume of soft white silk crepe, which she
had fashioned in her convalescence from some posthumous finery that Ena
had discovered, Marishka walked forth of her room down a stone stairway
into the great hall of the castle; and so into the ancient courtyard
where the flower garden was. She had expected Captain Goritz to join
her, and in this surmise she was not mistaken, for she had culled an
armful of blossoms which she sent to her room by Ena when the German
appeared. She heard his voice behind her, even before she had summoned
courage for the interview.
"My compliments upon your appearance, Countess," he said soberly. "I
hope that you find yourself well upon the road to recovery."
"Thanks," she replied in a stifled tone. "I am feeling much stronger."
"It has been a very pitiful experience for you--one which has caused me
many qualms of conscience," he muttered, "but I have tried to atone and
would beg you to believe that all my happiness for the future depends
upon your forgiveness."
"I can--never forgive--never----" said Marishka, her throat closing
painfully. "I hoped to die," she sighed, "but even that you denied me."
"I have only done my duty--my duty, Countess--a sweeter duty than that
which urged me to Vienna--to undo the wrong that I have done you, to
bring again the roses into your cheeks."
She waved her hand in deprecation. "For your courtesy, for the kindness
of your servants, I thank you. But for what you are yourself--only the
God that made you can understand--can forgive--that."
He straightened a moment and then slowly leaned against the wall beside
her, his chin cupped in his hand.
"You are cruel----"
"I am truthful. Anything else from me to you would be beneath my
womanhood. I would kill you if I had the strength or if I dared." She
gave a bitter laugh. "It is at least something, that we understand each
other."
He paused a long moment before replying.
And then, "_Do_ we understand each other? I hope that you will permit me
to speak a few words in extenuation of a person you have never known--of
Leo Goritz, the man."
"A man who makes war upon a woman--who uses violence to compel
obedience----"
"A woman--but an enemy to my country. Between my duty to Germany and my
own inclinations, I had no choice. I was an instrument of the State,
pitiless, exact and exacting. You have spoken the truth. So shall I. Had
my duty to Germany required it of me, I should have killed you with my
own hand--even if you had been my sister."
She gazed at him with alien eyes.
"It is monstrous! I would to God you had."
He bowed.
"That is merely my official conception of my obligation to the
Fatherland," he said quietly.
She still gazed at him unbelieving, but he met her glance squarely.
"You need not believe me unless you choose, but I speak the truth. My
orders were to bring you safely into Germany, or to--to eliminate you.
Perhaps you will understand now my difficulties in keeping you
unscathed."
"My death would have relieved you of that responsibility. It would have
been so easy to have let me die----"
"I could not!" He bent his head over his folded arms. "I could not," he
repeated. And then, after a silence, "Countess Strahni, I beg that you
will consider that I have succeeded so far in saving you from personal
danger."
"And yet you used me as a shield to save yourself from the bullets of
the man you killed----" She broke off, laughing bitterly.
"He would not fire. I knew it. He was a fool to give me the chance. I
took it. There was nothing else----"
"It was murder. And you----"
She glanced at him once and then turning away, hid her head in her arm.
"O God!" she whispered, as though to herself. "How I loathe you!"
Though the words were not even meant for him to hear, he did not miss
them.
"That is your privilege," he said after a moment, "and mine--to--to
adore you," he said in deep accents.
Slowly she lowered her hands and gazed at him with eyes that though they
looked, seemed to see not.
"You--_you_--! You care for _me_!" She dropped her hands to her sides,
and then with a voice that sought steadiness in its contempt, "What
object has the Fatherland to gain by this new hypocrisy, Herr Goritz?"
He stood stock still, making no effort to approach her.
"I think you do me some injustice," he said.
"Injustice!" she said coldly. "_I_ do _you_ injustice? I think you
forget."
"If you will permit--it is only fair at least that you should listen.
Even if what I say does not interest you."
She waved a hand in a gesture of deprecation--but he went on rapidly in
spite of her protest, with an air of pride, which somehow robbed the
confession of its sincerity.
"Your words have been cruel, Countess, but the cruelest were those in
which you attribute the highest motive of my life to the baseness of
hypocrisy. I have done many wrongs, broken many oaths, sinned many
sins--in the interests of my country--the service of which has been the
only aim of my existence. I have been entrusted by the Emperor himself
with missions which would have tested the courage of any man, and I have
not failed. That is my pride--the glory of my manhood, for the means of
accomplishment no matter how unworthy, are unimportant compared with the
great mission of the Germanic race in the betterment of humanity."
"I fail to see, Herr Hauptmann, how----"
He commanded her silence with an abrupt gesture.
"If you will be pleased to bear with me a little longer. _Bitte._ I
shall not be very long. I merely wanted you to understand how my whole
life has been devoted to the great uses of the State, with the most
unselfish motives. I have been not a human sentient being, but a highly
specialized physical organism to which any wish, any emotion, unless of
service to the state, was forbidden. Charity, kindness, altruism, all
the gentler emotions--I foreswore them. I relinquished friendship. I
became a pariah, an outcast, save to those few beings from whom I took
my orders, and to them I was merely the piece of machinery which always
accomplished its tasks. I have had no happiness, no friendships, no
affection, but I am the most famous secret agent in Germany. A somber
picture, is it not?"
He paused and shrugged expressively. And then his voice lowered a note.
"Perhaps you will believe me when I say that my whole existence is a
living lie. Ah, yes, you think that. It is a lie, Countess, because no
human being can defy the living God that is within him. He cannot
forever quell the aspirations of the spirit. The spark is always alight.
Sometimes it glows and fades, but sometimes a worthy motive sets it on
fire. It is that spark which has survived in me, Countess Strahni, in
spite of my efforts--my desires even--to deny its existence. Your
illness----"
"Herr Hauptmann, I beg of you----"
"No. You cannot deny me. I nursed you, there--brought you back to life.
Ah, you did not know. I brought a doctor at the hazard of the discovery
of my hiding place. Charity came, love----"
"Herr Hauptmann, I forbid you," whispered Marishka chokingly, wondering
now why she had listened to him for so long. "I must go--go to my room."
Goritz straightened and stood aside.
"You need not fear me, Countess," he said. "You see?" he added quickly.
"I do not touch you."
Marishka moved a few paces away and then turned to look at him. He stood
erect, smiling at her, his cap in his hand.
"I--I must go to my room, Herr Hauptmann," she murmured haltingly. "I--I
am yet--far from strong."
"I am sorry. I pray that you will feel stronger in the morning. Adieu!"
"Adieu----" she murmured, and hurried through the stone portal, aware of
the gaze of those dark, slightly oblique eyes which had puzzled, then
fascinated--then frightened her.