The Dead Are Silent | Page 5

she asked herself, and her brain
reeled. "What am I waiting for? The people who might come? They

don't need me. They will come, and they will ask questions--and I--why
am I here? They will ask who I am--what shall I answer? I will not
answer them--I will not say a word--they cannot compel me to talk."
The sound of voices came from the distance.
"Already?" she thought, listening in terror. The voices came from the
bridge. It could not be the men the driver was bringing with him. But
whoever it was would see the light--and they must not see it, for then
she would be discovered. She overturned the lantern with her foot, and
the light went out. She stood in utter darkness. She could see
nothing--not even him. The pile of % stones shone dimly. The voices
came nearer. She trembled from head to foot; they must not find her
here. That was the only thing of real importance in all the wide
world--that no one should find her here. She would be lost if they knew
that this--this corpse--was her lover. She clasps her hands convulsively,
praying that the people, whoever they were, might pass by on the
farther side of the road, and not see her. She listens breathless. Yes,
they are there, on the other side--women, two women, or perhaps three.
What are they talking about? They have seen the carriage, they speak of
it--she can distinguish words. "A carriage upset--" What else do they
say? She cannot understand--they walk on--they have passed
her--Ah--thanks--thanks to Heaven!--And now? What now? Oh, why
isn't she dead, as he is? He is to be envied; there is no more danger, no
more fear for him. But so much--so much for her to tremble for. She
shivers at the thought of being found here, of being asked, "Who are
you?" She will have to go to the police station, and all the world will
know about it--her husband--her child. She cannot understand why she
has stood there motionless so long. She need not stay here--she can do
no good here--and she is only courting disaster for herself. She makes a
step forward--Careful! the ditch is here--she crosses it--how wet it
is--two paces more and she is in the middle of the street. She halts a
moment, looks straight ahead, and can finally distinguish the gray line
of the road leading onward into darkness. There--over there--lies the
city. She cannot see it, but she knows the way. She turns once more. It
does not seem so dark now. She can see the carriage and the horses
quite distinctly--and, looking hard, she seems to see the outline of a

human body on the ground. Her eyes open wide. Something seems to
clutch at her and hold her here--it is he--she feels his power to keep her
with him. With an effort she frees herself. Then she perceives that it
was the soft mud of the road that held her. And she walks
onward--faster--faster--her pace quickens to a run. Only to be away
from here, to be back in the light--in the noise--among men. She runs
along the street, raising her skirt high, that her steps may not be
hindered. The wind is behind her, and seems to push her along. She
does not know what it is she flees from. Is it the pale man back there by
the ditch? No, now she knows, she flees the living, not the dead, the
living, who will soon be there, and who will look for her. What will
they think? Will they follow her? But they cannot catch up with her
now, she is so far away, she is nearing the bridge, there is danger. No
one can know who she was, no one can possibly imagine who the
woman was who drove down through the country road with the dead
man. The driver does not know her; he would not recognize her if he
should ever see her again. They will not take the trouble to find out
who she is. Who cares? It was wise of her not to stay--and it was not
cowardly either. Franz himself would say it was wise. She must go
home; she has a husband, a child; she would be lost if any one should
see her there with her dead lover. There is the bridge; the street seems
lighter--she hears the water beneath her. She stands there, where they
stood together, arm in arm--when was it? How many hours ago? It
cannot be long since then. And yet--perhaps she lay unconscious long,
and it is midnight now, or near morning, and they have missed her at
home. Oh, no--it is not possible. She knows that she was not
unconscious, she remembers everything clearly. She runs across