The Secret Witness
There she came to him, out of the darkness. At the touch of her fingers he started, for he had not been expecting her from this direction, but the sound of her voice fell like the balm of her presence upon his spirit.
"Thank God," he gasped. "Marishka, I was afraid–"
"I came as soon as I could," she whispered rapidly in English. "It was difficult. I could make no excuses for leaving. I pleaded fatigue and went to my room. And when the opportunity offered, stole out through the garden."
"And your absence will not be discovered–?"
"Not until tomorrow—when, please the Holy Virgin, I shall be at Schönbrunn."
He took her in his arms and kissed her warmly, but he felt the restraint in her caress.
"Hugh, belovèd, let us wait upon duty for our own happiness. I cannot rest until I have told our dreadful secret. You have a motor car?"
"Come," he said. And taking her small valise with his own, he led the way to the spot where the machine was awaiting them. Marishka gave directions and in a few moments they were off. The danger of detection, once beyond the village, was slight, and their purpose to reach the railroad at Budweis and take a late train to Vienna was not difficult of accomplishment. The machine was none too good, but the road for the main part was excellent. Renwick's arm was about the girl, and they sat discussing their plans for the immediate future.
"You have no fear for what you are about to do?" he asked.
"What should I fear?" she said lightly. "I am only doing my duty."
"There will be difficulties, will there not?"
"Perhaps. But I shall succeed. Prince Montenuovo, the High Chamberlain of the Court will listen to me."
"But you will not tell him all."
"Not unless it is necessary. You, Hugh, will take me to him."
Renwick was silent for a moment.
"Marishka," he said at last, "we share a terrible duty, yours to Austria, and mine to England–"
"But mine—is it not the greater?" she pleaded. "You must not speak, Hugh, until I have given you permission."
Renwick folded his arms and gazed stolidly into the darkness.
"I must tell what I know to Sir Herbert," he said firmly. "You must not ask me to be silent."
He noticed the change in her voice as she replied, "Is my happiness so slight a thing that you can refuse the first request I make of you?"
He caught her hand to his lips.
"Marishka, you know–"
"My first request–"
"There is nothing in the world that I would not do for you. You would think little of me if I did not do my duty."
"And of your duty to me–? Is that nothing?"
Renwick smiled into the darkness. Had he been told six months ago that he would be bandying the interests of England against the plans of a pretty woman he would have laughed the idea to scorn.
"What do you wish me to do, Marishka?" he asked gently.
With a swift impulse, she threw her arms about his neck, whispering in his ear.
"O Hugh, I cannot bear that there should be a difference between us, today, the first of our fiançailles. It will perhaps make no great difference that you should tell what we have heard, for your country, thank the Holy Virgin, is at friendship with mine. If you would but wait until I give you permission."
"And if something happened to me in the meanwhile–?"
"Nothing can happen. No one at Konopisht can know. I am sure of that—sure."
Perhaps the moment of danger that had threatened their happiness had made each more considerate, and the two great secrets that they possessed, their own and the other more terrible one had strengthened the bond between them.
"I will wait until you have been to Schönbrunn," he decided.
"Until I give you permission," she insisted.
He kissed her. She believed it to be a promise and the tight pressure of her hand rewarded him. In that moment of rapprochement, the destinies of nations seemed a matter of little moment to them.
"You will marry me soon, Marishka?" he murmured.
"Perhaps," she whispered gently.
Morning brought the pair in a fiacre into the Schottenring, Marishka weary but resolute, Renwick somewhat dubious as to their appearance at this early hour alone in the streets of Vienna. But at his suggestion that they drive first to the house of Marishka's aunt and guardian, Baroness Racowitz, where some excuse could be made for the girl's unexpected visit, Marishka only shook her head and gave the town address of Prince Montenuovo, who, as she knew, was still in residence, the Emperor not being expected at Ischl until the middle of July. Nor would she permit Renwick to accompany her within the house, and so he sat alone in the humble fiacre for what seemed an interminable time, until a man in livery came down the steps and gave him a note in Marishka's hand.
"I have succeeded in getting an audience. Go to the Embassy and await word from me. Silence."
And so at last he drove away to his hotel, sure at least that for the present he had done his duty to Marishka. But this was no boy-and-girl matter. The lives of nations, perhaps, hung upon his decision. In a weak moment he had promised Marishka an impossible thing. He did not know what danger hung over him. If anything happened to him England might never know until it was too late. The vision of Marishka's pale face haunted him, but he decided to take no further chances, and locking himself in his own rooms, he wrote a long statement, in which he accurately recounted his experience in the garden the day before. This letter written, sealed, addressed, and given to a trusted servant to be delivered into the hands of the Ambassador at a given time, Renwick breathed a sigh of relief, then bathed, dressed, and waited.
It was not until some days later that he heard in detail of Marishka's visit to the Emperor. The High Chamberlain, aware of the visit of the Countess Strahni to Konopisht, and convinced of her earnestness and anxiety, had acted immediately. The Emperor fortunately was not ailing and the audience was obtained without difficulty. Franz Joseph at eighty-four, and burdened with more sorrows than those that fall to the lot of the average man, still found interest in the complaints and petitions of his subjects and had audience on certain days at Schönbrunn. It was this intimate touch with his people, kept through many years, which endeared him to his subjects, and stories of his paternal kindness were thus continually sent the length and breadth of the nation.
Marishka was shown into an antechamber in the Emperor's private suite where for what seemed an interminable time she sat and waited. At length her sponsor appeared and conducted her along a short corridor past several rooms to a white door which the Prince opened, and then stood aside as Marishka entered.
"The Countess Strahni," he announced.
Marishka, a little bewildered and frightened, advanced uncertainly, her eyes dazzled by the brilliant sunlight which streamed in at the south. As she hesitated, a voice near the furthest window spoke reassuringly.
"Come in, child," it said. "I am here."
She advanced with trembling knees, aware of an old man in a military blouse sitting in a large chair beyond a desk. The infirmities of age and suffering had bowed his shoulders and to Marishka the Emperor seemed smaller than when she had seen him last, smaller and very much older. There was a stillness about his person, a quality of resignation and quiescence that was almost statuesque. But his whiskers and mustache, carefully groomed, were brushed upward and outward from the rather heavy lip and chin, and had a military cut which comported well with the dignity of his appearance. His eyes, the right one much smaller than the left, were light gray in color, and as her own gaze caught them, very grave and kindly, like his voice, which as he spoke gave her every encouragement to be at her ease.
"You will pardon the infirmities of an old man and forgive me for not rising," he said gently. "Will you be seated, here, before me, where I may look at you?"
There was a pathetic touch of his old gallantry in the gesture which accompanied the words, and a bright flash of his eyes as Marishka came forward into the light and stood before him. Even today the Emperor was not immune from the charms of feminine beauty. Marishka did as she was bidden, sitting upon the edge of her chair before the old man, gazing at him again, without words to begin.
"His Highness has told me that you have something of importance to communicate," said the Emperor with a smile. "Your grandfather once did me a service. If there is anything that I may do–"
The quiet voice paused and she was conscious of the gaze of the gray eyes upon her in gentle inquiry.
"It is nothing that I want, Sire," she murmured haltingly. "It is something of the utmost importance that has occurred—at Konopisht—which I thought it necessary that you should know—something of the gravest moment to the State—to Austria—and to—to Your Majesty."
She paused breathless, finding speech difficult.
She saw his eyebrows upraised slightly and then contracted, while his gaze upon her grew concentrated.
"You may speak freely, child. There is no one here who hasn't the interests of my country at heart."
Marishka glanced around swiftly, her pulses throbbing. Prince Montenuovo stood beside the desk, immovable.
"Your Majesty," she almost whispered, "my information is of such a character–"
She paused again and felt the old man's gaze upon her in deeper interest and curiosity. There was a silence, but if he had had a momentary doubt of her, it was speedily dispelled, for his rather weary lips parted in a smile, as he turned to his Chamberlain. "If Your Highness will be pleased to await my call–"
Prince Montenuovo with a bow withdrew.
"Now, child," said the Emperor, bending slightly forward in his chair, "will you not tell me freely what has bothered you?"
"Your Majesty," said Marishka, plunging breathlessly into her subject, "I was stopping at Konopisht at the castle of the Archduke Franz. The Duchess of Hohenberg, formerly the Countess Chotek, was a friend of my mother's, and for many years our families have been intimate."
She saw the slight contraction of the heavy brows at the mention of Sophie Chotek's name, but she went on rapidly:
"Sire, when you know how long our families have been friendly, how kind Her Highness has been to me since the death of my father and mother, you will understand that what I am about to say—to reveal—is very painful to me. I could not speak, Sire, even now, unless the welfare of Austria and of Your Majesty were not more important to me than any personal considerations whatever."
As she paused painfully again, he encouraged her with a smile.
"Go on, child," he said.
"I was at the tennis court, playing with"—she paused and blushed prettily—"with a friend. The game finished, we—we went into the garden and sat upon the lawn in the shade of some foliage where it was cool. I did not know, Sire, nor did my companion, of the presence of royalty at Konopisht, and did not remember that I had been told not to go into the rose garden until it was too late."
"Too late?" he asked keenly.
"We were interested, talking, and not until the sound of footsteps upon the graveled walk near the arbor, did I realize how grave a violation of the hospitality of the Archduke had been committed. I should have fled, but, Sire, I could not. I was frightened. And so we stayed, hidden in the foliage by the arbor."
"So!" he broke in, his voice speaking the word with a rising inflection of intense interest. "It is well that you have come. I, too, know something of the visitors to the roses of Konopisht. The talk was not all of roses, nicht wahr?" he said quietly, with a little bitterness.
"No, Sire. The talk was not all of roses," said Marishka.
"Go on, then," he continued. "Spare me no word of what you heard or saw. Nothing."
And Marishka, composing herself with an effort, obeyed the command.
CHAPTER III
THE HABSBURG RAVEN
The Emperor heard her through until the end, with a word here, a sudden question there, the gravity of the girl's disclosures searing more painfully the deeply bitten lines at eye and brow. But he did not flinch. It seemed that grief and pain had already done their worst to that frail body. For whatever this Habsburg's failings, fear was not one of them. There was resolution too in the clenching of the freckled fist upon the chair arm and in his footsteps as he started up from his chair and walked the length of the room. Bowed though his shoulders were with the weight of his years, he was still a figure to respect—a personality. Marishka watched furtively, waiting for him to speak again as he strode back and forth, but his brows were deeply tangled in thought and his shoulders were more bent than ever. It almost seemed that he had forgotten her presence.
But at last he turned toward where Marishka, who had risen and was still standing, was awaiting his pleasure. He came straight toward her and extended his fingers. She sank to her knees to kiss them, but he caught her by the hand and restrained her.
"You have done well, Countess Strahni," he said quietly. "The men of your House have always been brave soldiers and good citizens, the women comely and loyal, and you, my child, have today done much to continue the honorable traditions of your family. Austria is, for you, as she is for us all, the Mother, whom God blesses in the loyalty of her children. As for those"—and his brows clouded—"who follow the devices of their own hearts, those who consider neither the family law nor the human law–" He paused, turned and sank into his chair, leaning forward again intently as the new thought struck him. "Who was your companion, Countess?"
Marishka flushed a little but said quietly,
"A gentleman—an Englishman–"
"So!" again the rising inflection, followed this time by a slight frown. "An Englishman!"
"A friend of mine, Sire," she went on with an access of dignity. "Herr Renwick, an attaché of the British Embassy–"
"Ah, I understand. He has told?"
"He has given me his promise to reveal nothing until I had been at Schönbrunn and then only with my permission."
"I see," said the Emperor with a frown. "He is discreet?"
"He has a reputation for discretion, Sire; I think he may be trusted."
"So," said the Emperor. "Where is he now?"
"I was to communicate with him later."
"Giving him permission to speak?"
"Yes, Sire."
"It is a pity," he muttered, as though meditating aloud. "We have washed enough linen in public. And this–" He turned abruptly toward her. "You have influence with this Herr Renwick?" he asked keenly.
Marishka was painfully embarrassed.
"A little, Sire, I think."
"You have served Austria well today, Countess Strahni. You can serve her again if you can prevent this Herr Renwick from communicating with Sir Herbert Southgate.... This is no concern of England's."
"I will do what I can, Sire. But the matter, it seemed, was of grave importance to Herr Renwick. He is an able diplomat and most intelligent."
The Emperor regarded her almost wistfully.
"It would be a pity," he said, "if Herr Renwick should be discredited at the Austrian court–"
"It would ruin him, Sire," said Marishka apprehensively; "if he tells what he knows, he would only be doing his duty."
"He must not tell, child," said the Emperor gravely. "This is Austria's secret and her sorrow. You realize that, do you not?"
Marishka bowed her head, painfully.
"Yes, Sire."
"You will promise me to do what you can?"
She looked into the face of this tired old man and a great pity for him swept over her.
"I will, Sire. I will ask him not to tell—demand it of him even if–"
She paused and hid her face in her hands, unable to say more, trying to hide the true nature of the sacrifice he was asking of her.
The Emperor understood and laid a kindly hand upon her shoulder.
"I understand, my daughter. I pray that no bitterness may come between you, on account of this. Responsibility comes to you early, and yet you cannot—must not shirk it."
"And if he refuses–?" she pleaded.
The wrinkled face broke into a smile, the gray eyes were bright in admiration.
"I am sure," he said gallantly, "that Herr Renwick could refuse you nothing. Were I younger–" He paused with a sigh and smiled again. "I am not sure even now that I am not a trifle jealous of this discreet Englishman of yours." And, then, aware of her intense embarrassment, "But I am sure that you will succeed."
"I shall try, Sire," she murmured.
And still he seemed loath to let her go, walking toward the window where he stood in the sunlight looking down upon the lovely gardens beneath him.
"Perhaps you did not know, Countess, that this visit to the roses of Konopisht has caused us some concern here in Vienna. Berchtold, who went yesterday to Konopisht, will, of course, discover nothing. The Duchess of Hohenberg is a very clever woman. You know her as a friend. If her loyalty to her friends is as sincere as her ambitions for her children, then you can surely have no cause for complaint. Friendship begets friendship, but those who love Austria may not serve other gods—or goddesses. You have considered these things, and however difficult the task—have chosen?"
"It has been bitter, Sire. I can never go back to Konopisht."
"I am sorry. A terrible lesson awaits Sophie Chotek. I have been sorely tried. As for the Archduke Franz—a reckoning—a reckoning–"
She saw the old man pause and start a pace back from the window, toward which he stared, wide-eyed and immovable. There, upon the sill of the window, a black bird had suddenly appeared and hopped awkwardly to and fro. It seemed perfectly at home, and not in the least frightened, peering into the room with its head cocked upon one side, a baleful purplish glitter in its eye.
In a flash Marishka remembered the legend which connects every misfortune of the House of Habsburg with the appearance of this bird of ill omen: the flight of ravens at Olmütz, the raven of the ill-fated Maximilian at Miramar, the raven of the Archduchess Maria Christina on the eve of her departure for her future kingdom of Spain, the raven which came to the Empress Elizabeth on the afternoon before the day of her assassination,—all these incidents so closely connected with the royal figure before her, passed quickly across her mind as they must have crossed that of the Emperor. He sank into his chair and she followed his gaze through the window again. The somber bird had gone.
Marishka stood in silence, not daring to move, aware of the terrible undercurrent of thought which must be racking the mind of her sovereign, this man of sorrows, who stood upon the brink of the grave and peace, and yet who must still live and suffer until the curse of the Countess Karolyi should be utterly fulfilled.
"Sire," she muttered after a moment, "can I–"
He stirred, and raised a pallid face to hers. It was quite composed now, but marked with a sadness inexpressible.
"You may leave me now, child. I am a little tired. If you will touch the bell upon the table–"
He paused as she did so, and a servant entered.
"You will tell Prince Montenuovo that the audience is concluded," he said.
Marishka fell upon her knees before him, and touched his fingers to her lips.
"May God bless Your Majesty," she murmured half-hysterically, scarcely knowing what she said, "and give you peace."
She was aware of his smile as she arose.
"Go, Countess," he said, "you have done well. Keep this secret at whatever the cost to yourself. Those who love Austria must now be prepared to suffer for her. My blessing, child."
She obeyed the gesture of his hand and followed the High Chamberlain into the outer corridor.
Marishka's first thought, upon emerging from the palace, was that she must find Hugh Renwick at once. A new idea of her duty had been born in her. The importance of keeping this secret of theirs from England had not seemed as obvious before her visit to Schönbrunn. The thought of her lover's possible refusal of her request now seemed appalling. As she remembered his sober face last night in the automobile, when this topic had caused her a moment of unhappiness, it seemed that his refusal to accede to her request was more than possible. She had liked Hugh Renwick because he was strong, honest, reliable, serious,—qualities she had not found abundant among the younger men of the ancient families of her country. She loved him now because, against many obstacles, he had at last carried her heart by storm. But she realized that the very qualities she had most admired in him were the very ones that would make her present task most difficult.
He had given his word not to reveal the secret to his Ambassador without her permission. That was his promise, given, she knew, grudgingly, and only because he felt for the moment that her duty took precedence over his own. But was it, after all, merely a question of precedence? And would he, now that he had kept his promise so far, insist upon doing his manifest duty to his own country? Fears assailed her that she might not be able to prevail. His love for her was untried. How far might she rely upon it in this inevitable conflict between them? And if he refused her!
The motor car of the Prince carried her to the apartments of the Baroness Racowitz, where, after a rapidly thought-out explanation of her sudden visit which seemed satisfactory, she wrote a note to Hugh Renwick, asking him to come at once to her, addressing it to his apartments in the Strohgasse and telling the servant if he was not at home to take it to the Embassy. This note dispatched, her mind somewhat more at ease, she joined the Baroness at luncheon.
Baroness Racowitz, her father's sister, was a woman of liberal views. Educated in England, she had absorbed some of the democratic spirit of the West, and so looked with favor upon the suit of the young Englishman who had won his way into Marishka's heart. Today, however, in spite of the confession which trembled upon her lips, Marishka remained silent. And the mere fact that she did not speak added conviction of the danger which threatened her happiness and Hugh Renwick's.
As the afternoon waned she grew apprehensive, and it was not until evening that he came. His appearance did little to reassure her.
"Your note did not reach me until a few moments ago," he began soberly. "I went upon a mission to the ministry which has kept me all day."
"I have been worried," she began nervously. "I went to Schönbrunn this morning–"
"I know it," he broke in quickly. "Otway, of the Embassy, saw you leaving in the Prince's car."
Something in his tone, in the avidity with which he had seized upon her phrase, warned her of the truth.
"Oh, Hugh," she cried, "you have already told!"
His voice sank a note lower, and its very earnestness seemed to make the barrier between them the greater. "This morning when I left you, I wrote a complete statement of what happened at Konopisht, and gave it to a servant with instructions to deliver it at the Embassy at a certain hour. When I tell you that I was bidden to the Ministry this afternoon, closely questioned and detained in violation of all precedent, you will understand that from my own point of view, I acted wisely."
"You mean–"
"I mean that larger forces than yours and mine have taken control of the situation."
"Then your message has been delivered?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I cannot believe it of you–" she said, staring at him in anguish.
He smiled gently.
"I have only done my duty–"
"Your duty!" she said bitterly. "And what of your duty to me? You promised–"
"Merely," he put in quickly, "that I would wait until you had been to Schönbrunn."
"No, no, you promised," she said, with rising anger. "It was my secret—not yours. I have never given you permission to reveal it."
"Nor having been to Schönbrunn would have given it now, Marishka," he said firmly.
"And knowing this, you use subterfuge, an unmanly recantation—break your promised word–"
"I have broken no promise, Marishka, listen–"
"Nothing that you can say–"
She rose, her face hidden in her hands. "Oh, you have done me a damage—irreparable! I too have promised–"