DARKNESS
Papasian, the priest, found little difficulty in procuring a passport
for Armenouhi to return to Ak Hissar; it is only when an Armenian would
travel from the interior to the capital that the government raises its
inexplicable objections. Early the second morning after Vartouhi’s
funeral, when for a moment the pasha’s spy seemed to be absent from
his place of duty, Armenouhi left the priest’s house and started for
her old home. Frequently she glanced about to see if she was being
followed. Observing nothing to arouse her suspicion, she thought she
had at last made her escape from Hassan. But to leave no clew by which
he might trace her to her destination, she purchased a ticket to Eski
Shehir, a junction far beyond Ak Hissar, where travelers to the distant
interior pass the night.
It was shortly after noon when the train stopped at Ak Hissar, and she
alighted and passed through the gate to the village. Even here five
years had wrought changes. Adobe houses for the railroad employees had
sprung up near the station, and the ruins of the old white castle, long
used as a quarry, had entirely disappeared. The well still provided the
village with water, but the big plane tree which formerly shaded it was
no more. On the sacred spot where the little church once stood was a
larger building, its lofty minaret towering above the roof with an air
of mocking triumph. Only the old narrow street was familiar, though the
faces were strange. Stranger still seemed her grandfather’s shop; for
it was closed and securely fastened with iron bars. She approached the
old home that had filled her thoughts and dreams during all the years
of her absence, and it too had a strange appearance of dilapidation.
With beating heart, she entered the half open doorway and was asked by
an aged female servant, a stranger to her, what she wished.
“Is Dicran here?” she asked almost in a whisper.
The old servant merely pointed to a door.
The silence was oppressive. Armenouhi hesitated and then slowly pushed
the door open. There on the bed, just where she had left him five years
before, lay her grandfather, but how changed! His great strong body had
wasted away until only its frame remained; his long white beard was
unkempt and scraggy; his once rugged cheeks were hollow; and his glassy
eyes stared vacantly toward her.
“Don’t you know me, Dede?” and her voice choked as she bent over him.
Slightly raising himself that he might see better, a sign of
recognition came to his eyes.
“Armenouhi!” he said in a husky, almost inaudible voice.
She bent down and tenderly kissed his forehead, and sitting by the
bedside, caressed his hand. He was too weak to talk much, but a strange
new light of joy, shining in his eyes, gave expression to his thoughts.
“Why did you come?”
“Just to see you, Dede,” was her answer, for she was unwilling to
grieve him with the truth. “Where is Vassinag?” she asked, hoping to
turn his thoughts from the questions she feared he might ask.
Closing his eyes as if unable to answer, the old man remained silent.
Armenouhi rested her hand on his forehead. Presently his eyes opened.
“She has gone. She is with her mother.”
Armenouhi understood; poor Vassinag was dead.
Little life remained in the old man, too, and that little was rapidly
ebbing away. Armenouhi watched over him day and night to make his last
moments comfortable. How glad she was that she had come in time to
see him once more! and in her great love for him she forgot her own
troubles. Now and then the simple village physician came, but Dicran
was already beyond the aid even of the most skillful. He grew rapidly
weaker, and ten days after Armenouhi’s arrival his body was laid to
rest in the little cemetery behind the village.
Armenouhi stood at the open grave weeping as if her heart would break.
Her Dede was gone, and she was comfortless. The priest was performing
the last rites, annointing the body with oil, and sprinkling earth upon
it, to consign it to the dust from which it came. Unable longer to look
at the silent form, Armenouhi raised her tear-filled eyes. Directly
before her, on the opposite side of the grave, and steadily watching
her with a mocking look of triumph, stood the spy. Her heart seemed to
stop beating. She took one long last look at the half covered body of
the dead, and then seizing the arm of the old servant, hastened home.
From the doorway of the now vacant house she looked back. The spy was
following. With her last strength, she hurriedly closed the door and
fastened it with the heavy iron bolt, and then half threw herself, half
fell, on her grandfather’s empty bed.
How dark and dreary the world seemed! Dede, her protector, was no more;
her aunt was dead; Vassinag was dead; Takvor was beyond her reach; the
spy from whom she had escaped had again found her, and now, alone and
unprotected, she would soon be dragged away. Why could she not die and
end it all? Nobody would mourn her, except Takvor; and after these
five long years perhaps he would no longer miss her. Darkness came;
and still longing for the end, she remained motionless on the bed; at
midnight relief seemed no nearer, and she was still awake and thinking.
Must she not attempt to escape by flight before the morrow, when the
spy would come with soldiers to carry her away? Yet where could she
go? Even had she a place of shelter, or a friend to protect her, she
would soon be found and forced into Hassan’s harem. She was glad that
Dicran was dead, for now he could never know her sorrow. How her heart
ached! If the long line of proud Armenian kings of whom Dede had often
spoken could but now behold her, their last descendant! but they could
not; they were dead; their country was dead; their people were dying;
and if only she too might die! When it was nearly daylight, sleep came
mercifully to her.
At midday she awoke with a start, and bewildered, sat staring vacantly
about her. Suddenly the agonizing thoughts of the night returned, and
in despair she again fell back on the pillow. Courage usually comes
with rest and food, and so it was with Armenouhi. After drinking
the coffee which the servant had brought her, she arose with the
determination of forming some plan of action. Presently her eyes fell
on the stone in the middle of the floor, beneath which Dicran used
to conceal his papers and money. She pried it up and opened the iron
box. It was empty. Lifting the box from the hole, she opened the one
beneath. It contained a few worthless papers and three gold liras
wrapped in a faded cloth, all that remained of a fortune acquired in
a lifetime of strenuous work and careful saving. Three liras stood
between her and starvation, and she shuddered to think what would
become of her when they were gone. But such thoughts were useless, for
long before that she would be in the pasha’s harem.
The whistle of the approaching train from Constantinople startled her,
for the pasha himself might be coming. While timidly crouching in a
corner of the room, she heard a rapid step approaching the house, and a
hurried knock at the door. A thrill of terror shook her weakened body.
She heard the ancient servant slowly shuffle across the hall and open
the door, and then caught the words, “She is in that room.” Now the
steps were in the hall by her door. How she trembled! She covered her
face with her hands, giving no answer to the repeated knocking. The
latch was raised, and the door was pushed open.