Читать книгу The Golden Bough - George Gibbs - Страница 10

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Philip Rowland slept heavily until broad daylight when the sun pierced his window and cast a cheerful golden lozenge upon the white-washed wall above his iron bed. He stretched his arms luxuriously and as the events of the previous night came to him, rose and looked out of the window. A clamor of birds among the gilded tree-tops, long violet shadows along the dewy garden, and there on a bench upon the mound of earth which had perplexed him last night, a solitary black figure, quiescent but watchful. It was not Ivanitch or Tanya, but one that he had not seen before, for the figure wore no cowl and the head was clearly visible. So they had kept watch all night! The American laughed outright. The things that had seemed weird and even uncanny in the darkness were by the broad light of day little short of arrant nonsense. Mediæval flummery such as this in the fair sunlight of the summer morning! It was amateurish, sophomoric, and hardly worthy of the psychos of the intellectual mystic in the Prince Albert coat. Tanya, too--a dealer in magic and spells? He smiled to himself as he turned from the window. He knew women--they had a talent for the dramatic. But he wouldn't acknowledge even to himself that he was disappointed in Tanya. He wanted to keep last night's vision of her as a thing apart. She was his Goddess of Liberty. Whatever her share in this mumbo-jumbo business, she herself was never to be tawdry.

He was softly whistling "Tipperary" as he unbolted his door and peered out into the silent corridor. There upon a chair beside his door was the clothing that Tanya had promised him, a suit of dark clothes--not a Prince Albert, he was joyed to discover--underwear, a shirt and--blessings upon blessings--scissors and a razor! She had forgotten nothing. There is a delight in cleanliness that only the cleanly who have become filthy can ever really know. But this escaped prisoner found a secret pleasure in the fact that he was now to become Philip Rowland, gentleman, a person once known on Broadway and Fifth Avenue for the taste of his sartorial embellishments.

He bathed again, shaved and dressed in the clothing (which fitted him atrociously) and went down the stairs into the room through which he had passed last night. There was no one about and the door into the kitchen was closed, though an appetizing odor of coffee pervaded the air. He glanced at the books upon the table, a few novels, Turgeniev, Dostoievsky in French, some Russian newspapers and a miscellaneous lot of German and French socialistic periodicals. Socialism--of course--the veneer that might cover a rougher grain beneath.

But the most extraordinary object in the room, one which the visitor had not noticed last night, was a piece of ancient sculpture upon a pedestal in a corner of the room, a double-headed bust, one face young and beardless with shut lips and a steadfast gaze, the other older with wrinkled brows, a wild, anxious look in the eyes and a mouth open as though in horror. Around the neck of the double-head a garland of what seemed to be oak-leaves was carved into the stone and upon the pedestal, the inscription REX NEMORENSIS. That the sculpture was of a great antiquity was indicated by its worn surfaces and discolorations, and Rowland paused, studying it attentively, lost in speculation as to what if any connection this curious work of ancient art could have with the mystery of this house. Nemi--Ivanitch had mentioned it last night. REX NEMORENSIS--King of the Wood. But what was the symbolism of the two heads--the young man and the old, the young one, eager and fearless, the other old, anxious and terrified. Nemi!

Where had he come upon the name before? It seemed to echo to him out of the past. Nemi! A name out of a legend, written as though with fire against the darkness of a childish nightmare and then extinguished. A name of something beautiful and something unhappy, something dreadful and something fascinating--the name of a blessing or of a curse! He shrugged at last, winked cheerfully at the hideous face on the pedestal, and gave the problem up. Then, turning, he sauntered toward a door which seemed to lead to the front of the garden, but before he reached it a voice came from over his shoulder, and turning quickly, he saw the girl Tanya, standing on the stairway giving him good morning. Her black robes had been discarded and she was dressed quite simply in a white morning frock which accentuated the lines of the strong slender figure and answered some of the questions that her sober garb had denied him. She was young, resilient, full of the joys of the awakened day, and wonderfully good to look at. The two of them stood for a moment staring at each other as though they had never seen each other before, Rowland's eyes full of admiration which he made no effort to conceal.

It was Tanya who first spoke.

"You are so different, Monsieur Rowlan', that I wasn't quite sure----" she laughed. "If I hadn't known the clothes----"

"And you, Mademoiselle." He paused seeking a word. "You--are the morning."

"Did you sleep well?"

"Like the dead. I was not disturbed." He smiled significantly, but she seemed not to notice, as she crossed to the door of the kitchen and ordered the coffee. And in a moment they were sitting at a table in an adjoining room where the shock-headed man brought the urn from the kitchen and a tray upon which were eggs, butter and petits pains. Rowland studied the man carefully and noted a sharp look from the fellow as their glances crossed. But in a mirror opposite him he saw the man pause as he went out and turn and stare at him with so malevolent a look that the American recalled quite vividly his impressions of the night before. He was not wanted here. Whatever the affairs of this place it was obvious that to all except the girl Tanya, Rowland was de trop. As he ate he found his curiosity as to the strange actions of the men of Nemi gathering impetus. They were like a lot of Boches having a morning "hate." However hospitable the girl, it was clear that they resented his presence, and from a window, even as he sat, he could see the ridiculous black figure of the third man mounting guard over the absurd tree at the other side of the garden. But Rowland grinned and drank of his coffee, sure now that the eyes of Tanya Korasov had something on all those of a Winter Garden chorus rolled into two. But they weren't bold eyes like some others he had known. They appraised him frankly but without the least timidity. She had given him her friendship last night and until he went on his way he was her guest to whom the hospitality of the house was open.

"Monsieur Ivanitch," she said after a moment, and with as he fancied a slight air of constraint, "begs that you will excuse him, as he will take his coffee upstairs."

"Of course. I hope that I haven't interfered----"

"It doesn't matter," she put in quickly. "Something happened which disturbed him. He is overworked and often distraught with nerves."

"I'm sorry."

"He is accustomed to being much alone," she added with an abstracted air.

"I won't bother him much longer. I'll be off in a moment. But I regret to go without knowing something more of you, Mademoiselle. Your kindness in spite of the hostility of Monsieur Ivanitch, your fear for my safety last night----"

"I--I merely thought that--that if you bolted your door you would be able to pass a night of rest."

Her manner was not altogether convincing. He looked at her soberly and went on softly.

"I'm not a meddler by nature, Mademoiselle," he continued, "but I do confess to a devouring curiosity. The organization to which you belong is secret. I can perhaps guess some of its purposes, but the mystery which I have met on every hand----"

"I can tell you nothing," she said, her eyes averted.

"Not even that what you do is not distasteful to you?"

She lowered her voice a note.

"I'm not unhappy," she said slowly.

"Nor contented. There is a danger in the air, a nameless danger which if it does not threaten you, menaces those about you."

"Danger!" she said quickly. "What does that matter to me, when Russia, when all Europe is bleeding to death. I fear nothing----"

"Not even an escaping slave?"

The words uttered quickly, almost at random, had a most startling effect upon her. She drew back quickly from the table and then leaned forward, whispering.

"Sh----! You knew----?" she asked.

"You came here----" she paused and was silent again.

"Was it not that phrase which so profoundly affected Monsieur Ivanitch?" he asked.

She made no reply.

He rose from the table and straightened.

"You wish me to go, Mademoiselle?" he asked.

She hesitated a moment and then with a gasp,

"Yes. You must go--at once."

He shrugged, smiled and turned away. It was too bad.

"Of course I have no right to question you. But I should like to put myself at your command for any service----"

"You can do nothing. Only go, Monsieur."

He looked at her eagerly. There was a change in her manner. She too had at last turned against him. It seemed that she had grown a shade paler, and he saw her eyes staring in a startled way as at some object behind him.

Instinctively he turned. The door into the kitchen was partly open and half through the aperture, distorted with some strange agony, was the face of Kirylo Ivanitch. In the fleeting moment before the Russian emerged it seemed to Rowland that this was the exact expression on the face of the anguished half of the double-bust in the adjoining room, the face of the older man in terror and fury. But he had to admit that in the flesh and blood it was far more convincing.

Ivanitch now thrust the door open with a bang and stood, his arms, long like an ape's, hanging to the knees of his trouser legs at which the bony fingers plucked unpleasantly.

He did not speak to Rowland, though his gaze never left his face, but he muttered something hoarsely in Russian to Tanya--an angry phrase, the tone of which sent the hot blood flying to Phil Rowland's temples. He did not know what she replied, but her voice was pitched low and had a note of contrition that still further inflamed him. Last night he had thought Ivanitch merely an eccentric zealot unnerved by too much work. Now he seemed surely mad, a maniac not far from the verge of violence.

The Russian took a pace forward toward the American who stood his ground, conscious of a rising anger at the inhospitality and a growing desire to see the thing through, whatever happened. But a glance at Tanya found her gaze fixed on him with a look so earnestly appealing, that he suppressed the hot words that had risen to his tongue.

"I am sorry, Monsieur Ivanitch," he said coolly, taking refuge in the formal French phrase, "to have so far strained the hospitality of Nemi----"

"Go then--" growled the Russian, pointing toward the door.

The voice was brutal, harsh, inhuman and challenged all that was intemperate in Rowland, aroused again the reckless venturing spirit that had sent him forth to deal with the primitive forces of evil. He leaned forward toward the distorted face, his arms akimbo, and stared the Russian in the eyes.

And then a strange thing happened. The blaze in the Russian's eyes was suddenly extinguished. It was as though a film had passed over them, leaving them pale, like a burnt out cinder. His jaw fell too, his arms flapped aimlessly a moment and then fell to his sides as he retreated through the open door into the kitchen.

"Go!" he whispered querulously, as though his voice too had been burnt out. "Go!"

As the man disappeared, Rowland relaxed and turned toward Tanya with a shrug.

"A madman!" he muttered. "You can't stay here, Mademoiselle Korasov."

"It's nothing," she said breathlessly. "When you are gone, he will recover. You must go now, Monsieur. Hurry, or harm will come----"

"To you?" eagerly.

"To you, Monsieur."

"I'm not frightened," he said with a grin.

"I know. But you must go at once. Here. This way. The gate is in the garden wall." And she opened the door and stood aside to let him pass. He took up the cap she had provided for him and paused a moment to offer her his hand.

"I thank you again, Mademoiselle."

She touched his fingers lightly but he caught her own and held them a moment.

"Good-by," he said gently.

"God bless and preserve you, Monsieur Rowlan'," she whispered.

He stepped out into the garden, the girl just behind him indicating the gate in the wall about fifty yards distant, the only exit from the enclosure. But as he emerged from the shadow of the house and turned up the path toward the gate a loud whistle sounded from the direction of the daïs, where the monkish figure that had been on guard rose suddenly, like a raven interrupted at a meal, flapping its wings and screaming discordantly. To his left in the wall of the house, doors flew open noisily and men emerged, Ivanitch, the shock-headed man, and another. They did not come toward Rowland but moved abreast of him as he went up the garden path, silent, watchful, keeping pace with him, like men in open order advancing in skirmish-line, Ivanitch nearest him, not more than three paces distant, Ivanitch the fantastic, Ivanitch the impossible. Rowland eyed him curiously. His face was moist with perspiration and the wisp of black hair was glued to his white forehead. His eyes no longer blazed for they were invisible under the dark thatch of his bent brows, but his figure and gait gave every token of the strange terror that had suddenly swept over him in the middle of their conversation last night.

Rowland grinned at him cheerfully. They dreaded him, these four men, dreaded and feared him, but Ivanitch dreaded and feared him most. The situation was comic. Rowland increased his pace; they increased theirs. He paused; they stopped. It was like a game, Rowland went on again. He was the "guide," it seemed, of this strange awkward squad. But as he neared the turn in the path which led to the gate, the shock-headed man went forward in the direction of the daïs while Ivanitch came a pace closer, bent forward, his long arms hanging, still watching him eagerly. The creature was menacing. The distance to the gate was now short, but the idea of turning his back to this madman, who might spring upon him from behind, was most unpleasant. So Rowland stopped and faced him, catching a glimpse of Tanya Korasov who had followed them and stood nearby, listening and watching, aware of the hazardous moment.

"It is a pleasant morning, Monsieur Ivanitch," said Rowland coolly.

"The gate--is yonder," croaked the Russian. "Go!"

"All in good time," said Rowland. "But I've something to say first."

The Russian's thin lips worked but he said nothing, though his fingers twitched against his legs.

"I thank you for your hospitality--such as it is. But you don't like me, Monsieur. Our sentiments are reciprocal. Your attitude even now is most unpleasant--not to say offensive. Were it not for Mademoiselle, I should have lost my temper long ago."

"Go----! Go----!" cried the Russian chokingly. He seemed trembling on the brink of some nervous paroxysm.

"When I'm ready. In the meanwhile, listen----"

"What have I to do with you?"

"You know best about that," said Rowland coolly, aware of a new desire to probe the mystery if he could.

The eyes of Ivanitch, paling as though they could not endure the sunlight, stared wildly as he raised his haggard face.

"You have known from--from the beginning?" muttered Ivanitch.

"Yes, yes," cried Rowland eagerly.

"It is not true, Kirylo Ivanitch," he heard the girl Tanya crying. "He knew nothing. He knows nothing now." And then, appealingly to Rowland, "Oh, go, Monsieur. Please go, at once."

But Ivanitch was oblivious.

"Destiny!" he muttered wildly. "The Visconti----!"

Rowland started back.

"Visconti!" he repeated. It was the family name of his own mother.

Ivanitch wagged his great head from side to side, his fists clasping and unclasping in the throes of some mad indecision. And then he came for Rowland, head down, his long arms groping. The American heard the girl's scream and the shouts of the other men as he sprang aside to elude the rush, but Ivanitch was quick and in a moment they were locked in struggle.

Rowland was tall, wiry and agile, but privation had sapped some of his strength and the grip of the Russian around his body bore him backward up the lawn, along the wall where they both tripped over a projecting root and fell to the ground, Ivanitch uppermost. The fall stunned Rowland, but he managed to get a hand on the Russian's throat and clutched with the strength of desperation. A madman! Once in a German trench he had fought with such another, but there were weapons there, and fortune had favored him. But his fingers seemed to meet in the throat of the fanatic and the grip around his own body relaxed as, with an effort, he threw the man away from him and rolled clear. As he sprang to his feet he was aware of the other men attacking him. There was a sound of shots and the familiar acrid smell of powder, but he felt no pain and as the shock-headed fellow came at him, a short arm blow under the chin sent him reeling against a tree where he crumpled and fell.

As he turned again to meet Ivanitch he had a vision of Tanya with arm upraised and heard her clear voice above the tumult.

"Picard! Issad! Stop! I command you!" And then, "Kirylo! Monsieur Rowlan'! It is madness."

Madness it was, but none of Phil Rowland's choosing. They had fought to a point just below the mound of earth on which he had first seen Tanya by the tree and it was at the foot of the steps that Ivanitch again rushed at him. Rowland's blow staggered him but he came on furiously, and as the arm of the Russian went high over his head, the American caught the glint of sunlight on a weapon and threw up his arm, catching the force of the blow upon his elbow. But he felt a stinging pain in his shoulder and clutched the man's arm as he raised it to strike again. Up the slope of the mound they struggled, breathlessly intent, the one to murder, the other to save himself. Rowland fought coolly now, grimly, smiling as a soldier of the Legion must, aware that only as long as the threatening right arm of the Russian was pinioned was he safe from the treacherous knife. But it was right arm against left and too close to strike. Rowland avoided the stone bench toward which the Russian had forced him, and twisting suddenly freed his right arm and struck the Russian a fearful blow in the body. He felt the arm of Ivanitch relax and in a second had torn the weapon from his clasp and sent it flying into the bushes. Ivanitch came at him again--and again Rowland struck--each time with greater precision. Ivanitch rushed him against the tree, a branch of which was torn off in Rowland's hand.

The American caught the glint of sunlight on a weapon.

He heard a cry behind him and a whimper as of an animal in pain from Ivanitch. "The Bough!" he cried. "The Bough!" But as he came on again, Rowland stepped aside and hit him as he passed. The Russian staggered sideways, his head striking the stone bench, rolled down the slope of the mound and lay still.

The American slowly straightened and glanced around him. A sudden silence had fallen. At the foot of the steps stood Tanya Korasov, a revolver in her hand and beside her the scarecrow in black, and the two others, inert, horrified. Rowland breathing hard from his exertions stared stupidly at the misshapen bundle of clothing at the foot of the slope and then down at the branch of the tree which he still held in his hand.

"The Bough!" the shock-headed man muttered in an awed whisper, "the Golden Bough!"

Rowland raised the branch of the tree, looked at it curiously and then dropped it to the ground.

"You saw?----" he gasped to the motionless group below. "You saw? He attacked me. It was self-defense. It was not my fault."

Tanya Korasov had rushed to the sprawling figure in the Prince Albert coat, lifted its head, and then recoiled in horror, her face hidden in her hands.

"You saw," Rowland repeated as he came toward them, "all of you--it was self-defense."

They drew back as he came down the steps but made no effort to molest him.

"The Golden Bough!" the shock-headed man said again. And another, "It is broken."

It was no time for such gibberish. Rowland turned them a scornful shoulder and went over to the girl beside the motionless black figure.

To the question in his eyes the girl's eyes replied.

"He is--dead," she whispered.

And then looked up at Rowland, gaze wide and lips parted.

"And you----"

If there was horror, there was no reproach in her tone. Her attitude was more one of consternation and surprise.

"And you,--Monsieur Rowlan'," she whispered in an awed tone. "It is you who are----"

And then she stopped as though frozen suddenly into immobility and silence.