A STRANGE REVELATION.
Week after week of the dreary winter passed, and Karl Zikoff still went
through the dull routine of his life as a music-teacher. But little
progress was made that he could see in the investigation that was to
clear his name from the infamous stain that rested upon it.
He received occasional letters from Leonard, written in German, urging
him to remain contented and hopeful, and assuring him that Mr. Stark
was shrewd, discreet, and sure (although of necessity slow) in his
operations. But he was kept in ignorance of what these operations
were, and the absence of any visible results tended to imbue him with
a feeling of despondency. The passive, inactive part he was filling,
was aggravating to his restless, nervous spirit. And the new motive
for making clear his innocence grew in strength every day, and made
him impatient and miserable.
He had been in Dalton about five months, when one afternoon in March he
made one of his accustomed professional visits to Florence Darley.
These visits always filled him with ecstasy, strangely mingled with
despondency. To be near her, to talk with her, to feel the intimate
confidence that naturally arose in their relations of teacher and pupil,
created in him a stimulation of hope that oftentimes soared above and
almost put out of sight, for the time being, his trouble. On this day,
an unusual depression had been followed, when he came into her presence,
by a proportional though unnatural buoyancy.
He was cheerful and fairly eloquent over the lessons, for Florence
Darley was one of those responsive, appreciative pupils, who are the
true teacher’s delight. The classical gems which he offered her she
seized with avidity, and studied them under his direction, as such
music should be studied.
He had given the last hints toward an intelligent study of the lesson
under consideration, when she arose from the piano-stool and requested
him to play for her, as was often the case.
He sat himself at the instrument and considered for a moment before
touching the keys.
Then, with a look in his eyes that seemed to tell of forgetfulness
of all present trouble, of a view into regions of light and bliss
unalloyed, he began to play. Soft, mellow chords and witching harmonic
changes broke on the ear, and mingled with the murmuring sound was a
melody of surpassing beauty, coming to the listener like a dream or a
revelation. It was a tale of intense passion, timorously yet
beseechingly told.
“Exquisite!” murmured Florence, in a low voice, as the last chord died
away.
“It is the _Liebeslied_ of Henselt――‘love song’ you call it in English,”
he said, turning toward her and gazing intently into her face. “Oh,
Florence, it is a wonderful story, told in a marvelous language. It
breathes the tale of my secret――my precious, cherished secret――that
cannot be spoken in words! In music only may it be confessed――in music
only may be revealed to you the――――”
A sudden pallor overspread his face, a spasm of pain distorted his
features, as he abruptly ceased speaking.
He bethought himself, in the midst of his wild outpourings, of the
burden under which he rested, and with a twinge of pain and misery
checked his flow of speech.
A moment of silence――a brief struggle――and he resumed calmly, though in
a voice not entirely firm:
“Yes, it is _seh huebsch_――very pretty. So you like it. Vell, you shall
blay it. At anoder lesson I vill give it you. Good-day, _Fraulein_.”
He strode rapidly from the room, and Florence, listening to his
retreating footsteps, blushed vividly. For many minutes she stood by
the piano just as he had left her, her head bowed in a subdued manner,
and her thoughts communing with themselves in a wild tumult. One
contemplating her then and there would have guessed that her heart
followed Karl Zikoff――that had he thrown himself at her feet she would
not have spurned him.
Karl, on reaching the hall, seized his hat and rushed into the open air.
It was chilly and damp without; not cold enough to freeze, penetrating
and deadening to the blood. Large, soggy snow-flakes fell, and melted
as soon as they touched the wet ground. The sky was of a leaden hue,
and the atmosphere forbidding and uncomfortable.
Shivering, and drawing his coat closely over his breast, Karl hastened
down the road and into Dalton. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes
glittered unnaturally, and on his face was an expression of reckless
despair.
His rapid gait soon brought him to the stairs that led to his
teaching-room. Ascending in mad haste, he entered, and closed the door
behind him with a fling. Then he threw himself into a chair, pressed
his hands to his head, and endeavored to collect his chaotic thoughts.
“This must not go on. Something shall be done. I will play this passive
part no longer. For unless the end comes soon I shall go mad. If all
is to be in vain, if justice is never to prevail, the sooner I know
it, and leave Dalton, the better. To remain here, where my true name
is regarded with horror, to live in continual temptation, and on the
very verge of self-exposure, is unbearable. Oh, Florence, you do not
know the awful barrier that separates us! I shall never offer you a
false or dishonored name; and may the Father above help me to keep this
resolution! Yes, I will _act_! I will dog Geoffrey Haywood’s footsteps;
I will penetrate the secret of Rocky Beach to its innermost detail. And
I will begin operations to-night!”
He arose and walked about the room. He now became conscious of a
feeling of strange languor. A numbness and dull pain seized his limbs
and extended to his head. He was conscious that there was an unnatural
heat on his brow, and that his pulse was bounding at a rapid rate. Was
he going to be ill? He contemplated this possibility with alarm, and
with a rebellious feeling.
Suddenly there came a knock at the door. Karl started in surprise, but,
recollecting himself, muttered:
“It is Kate Heath. She was to have taken a lesson at this time, but I
had hoped something would keep her away. It would be better for her――I
hope what I suspect is not true. Come in!” he called out, almost
savagely.
Kate Heath entered. She gave a flitting glance at Karl, walked to the
piano, and then looked at him more deliberately.
“You are not well,” she exclaimed, with a flush on her cheeks and an
expression of anxious interest.
“Yes, I am,” he replied, shortly.
“Oh, but I am sure you are not. Your face is flushed and your eyes look
feverish.”
“Never mind my eyes,” he replied, going to the piano and opening her
book. “This is your lesson, I believe.”
She looked chagrined and hurt, but proceeded to play at this very
decided hint. She secretly took notice of one thing, however. Karl’s
few words were spoken in good English, unimpaired by his habitual
German accent. This phenomenon had occurred once or twice before, and
had not been lost upon her.
After playing a few bars, she suddenly stopped and said:
“Mr. Zikoff, I have long been wanting to tell you of something――to make
a confession, and ask you whether a certain act I committed was right
or wrong.”
“Miss Heath, why should you ask me to pronounce judgment on your acts?”
“Please let me tell my story,” she said, imperatively; and then, with
mildness, “I have confidence in you――I value your good opinion more
than――I value it very highly. It is about Carlos Conrad――――”
“Who?”
Karl sprang to his feet.
“Carlos Conrad,” she repeated, with a curious smile of satisfaction,
mingled with tenderness, “the young man who was suspected of murdering
Colonel William Conrad. You have heard that he escaped?”
“Yes,” replied Karl, through whose brain had rushed a torrent of wild
thoughts, and who had quickly and resolutely reduced himself to a state
of calmness. “Yes,” he said, “but vat care I for that?”
The Teutonic twang was very decided and broad now.
“Perhaps you care nothing for it,” she replied, dreamily, “but he was
innocent, I believe, and was to be pitied for all that he endured. On
the night of the murder he stopped at our house. He had lost his way,
and was wet and cold. He was determined to go on in the darkness; the
night was very dark, for there had just been a terrible rain-storm; but
we prevailed on him to stay, and made him dry and warm. How I pitied
him! He looked so sad and desperate. I can never forget his face.”
Karl thought there was a tinge of significancy in the tone of this last
remark, but he maintained a stolid exterior.
“He left us at daybreak,” continued Kate, “and was arrested as soon as
he reached Dalton. There was strong evidence against him, but I never
believed him guilty. At the examination it was decided to send him to
the jail at Hillsdale to be tried in court. But they never got him to
the jail.”
“I haf understand all dat,” said Karl. “De young man shump from de car
window, or somet’ings?”
“No, the young man did not jump from the car window,” replied Kate,
calmly. “He would be a fool to do that, when other and easier means of
escape were offered him.”
“Other means!” echoed Karl, in dull wonderment at the girl’s recital.
“Yes; a New York detective――――”
“Ah!” cried Karl, “I thought no one knew of that?”
“Of what? What have I told?”
“I thought,” said Karl, in confusion, “dat it vas von grand secret how
de young man got avay?”
“And so it was. But the secret is in my possession. Would you like to
hear about it?”
“I care not’ings for him,” said Karl, coolly.
“Consider a moment. Wouldn’t you like to hear something about that New
York detective?”
“Oh, if you like to tell, I listen. Go on.”
With a furtive smile Kate proceeded:
“An officer named Johnson had Carlos Conrad in charge, and at the
depot they met the New York detective. He slyly put a package in the
prisoner’s pocket――why do you start so?――and afterward engaged in
conversation with Johnson. After some friendly words they stepped up
to the bar to drink. The detective drugged his own whisky, and then,
under the pretense that he had by mistake poured out the wrong liquor,
induced Johnson to change with him. So Johnson drank the drugged whisky.
What is the matter?”
“Nothing,” replied Karl, who with blanched face was listening intently.
“The plan was for Officer Johnson to fall asleep on the cars, and then
for Carlos Conrad to make sure of his not awakening by the application
of chloroform. The chloroform was in the package that had been placed
in his pocket. There was also a pair of steel cutting-nippers, with
which he was to free himself, he being fastened to the officer by
handcuffs. A note accompanied the package, directing him how to go to
work. It is ♦supposed that he profited by the opportunity thus offered
him, for when Officer Johnson reached Hillsdale his prisoner was gone,
and has never been heard of since.”
“Yes?” gasped Karl, in a cold sweat of apprehension.
His agitation did not permit him to observe the excitement under which
Kate Heath was laboring. Her face was suffused with a crimson blush,
and her eyes glittered brilliantly.
“Would you like to know who this detective was?” she whispered.
“Do you know?”
“Yes, I know. He is by your side now.”
“WHAT! You do not mean to say――it cannot be――it is impossible that it
was you!”
“It is not impossible; it is true. It was I.”
In a wild wonder of frenzy Karl, who had risen to his feet, grasped
the edge of the piano so tightly that every drop of blood was forced
back from his fingers. An awful look was on his face, for he was seized
with a conviction the realization of which he shrank from. In a last
despairing effort to maintain his assumed character, he asked:
“Vy do you tell me of dis, young lady?”
“Because,” she said, slowly, and as if afraid to proceed.
“Because”――speaking with sudden resolve, yet with plaintive humility,
and at the same time covering her face with her hands and half averting
her bowed head, “I love you, Carlos Conrad!”