The Black Cross | Page 9

indifferent. "Sit down, Madame."
The woman shrank back against the door and her hand fled to the bolt as if seeking support. "No--no!" she murmured. "You don't understand. It's not for--not money! I'm in trouble, danger. Don't you see? I must flee from Russia--now, at once. You are going to Germany alone, to-morrow night. Take me with you--take me with--you!"
An irritated look came over Velasco's face. Was the creature mad? "That is nonsense," he said, "I can't take any one with me, and I wouldn't if I could. Besides there is only one passport."
The woman put her hand to her breast. It was throbbing madly under the cloak. "You could take--your--wife," she whispered, "Your wife. No one would suspect."
"Really, my dear Madame!"
Velasco yawned behind his palm. "What you say is simply absurd. I tell you I have no wife."
She stretched out her hands to him: "You are a Pole, a Pole!" Her voice rose passionately. "Surely you have suffered; you hate Russia, this cruel, wicked, tyrannous government. Your sympathy is with us, the people, the Liberals, who are trying--oh, I tell you--I must go, at once! After tomorrow it is death, don't you understand,--death? What is it to you, the matter of another passport? You are Velasco?--Every one knows that name, every one. Your wife goes with you to Germany. Oh, take me--take me--I beseech you."
The Violinist stared down at the hooded face. Her voice was tense and vibrating like the tones of an instrument. It moved him strangely. He felt a curious numbness in his throat and a wave passed over him like a chill. She went on, her hands wrung together under the cloak:
"It isn't much I ask. The journey together--at the frontier we part--part forever. The marriage, oh listen--that is nothing, a ceremony, a farce, just a certificate to show the police--the police--"
Her voice died away in a whisper, broken, panting. She fell back against the door, bracing herself against it, gazing up into his eyes.
Velasco stood motionless for a moment; then he turned on his heel and strode over to the fire-place, staring down into the coals. The sight of that bent and shrinking figure, a woman, old and feeble, trembling like a creature hunted, unmanned him.
"I can't do it," he said slowly, "Don't ask me. I am a musician. I have no interest in politics. There is too much risk. I can't, Madame, I can't."
He felt her coming towards him. The flutter of her cloak, it touched him, and her step was light, like a bird limping.
"You read it?" she whispered, "I saw you at the Mariínski; and there--there are the violets on the table, by the violin. Have you forgotten?"
Velasco started: "Who are you?" he exclaimed. "Not Kaya!" He wheeled around and faced her savagely: "You Kaya, never! Was it you who threw the violets--you?"
His dark eyes measured the shrinking form, bent and crippled, shrouded; and he cried out in his disappointment like a peevish boy: "I thought it was she--she! Kaya was young, fair, her face was like a flower; her hair was like gold; her lips were parted, arched and sweet; her eyes--You, you are not Kaya!--Never!"
His voice was angry and full of scorn: "It was all a dream, a mistake. Go--out of my sight; begone! I'll have nothing to do with anarchists."
He snatched the violets from the table and flung them on the hearth: "Begone, or I'll call the police." He was in a tempest of rage. His disappointment rose in his throat and choked him.
The old woman shrank back from him step by step. He followed threateningly:
"Begone, you beggar."
His heart beat unpleasantly. Devil take the old woman! Impostor! She was old and ugly as sin. He was sleepy and weary. Why had he taken the violets; why had he read the note? If the girl were not Kaya, then who--who?
"Come," he cried sharply, "Be off!"
Suddenly the woman buried her head in her hands. She began to sob in long drawn breaths; they shook her form. She fell back against the Erard, trembling and sobbing.
Velasco stared down at her. His anger left him like a flash and his heart softened. Poor thing, poor creature! She was old and feeble, and crippled. He had forgotten. He had only thought of her, Kaya, the girl with the flower-like face. He shook himself, as if out of a dream, and his hand patted the woman's shoulder soothingly. His voice lost its sharpness.
"Don't," he said, "Don't cry like that, my dear Madame--no, don't! It will be all right. I was hasty. Don't mind what I said,--don't--no!"
She dashed his hand from her shoulder and broke into passionate weeping: "You play like a god," she cried, "but you are not; you are a brute. You have no heart. It is your violin that has the heart. Don't touch