George Gibbs - The Secret Witness

The Countess Marishka was fleet of foot. She was straight and slender and she set a pace for Renwick along the tortuous paths in the rose gardens of the Archduke which soon had her pursuer gasping. She ran like a boy, her dark hair falling about her ears, her draperies like Nike's in the wind, her cheeks and eyes glowing, a pretty quarry indeed and well worthy of so arduous a pursuit. For Renwick was not to be denied and as the girl turned into the path which led to the thatched arbor, he saw that she was breathing hard and the half-timorous laugh she threw over her shoulder at him only spurred him on to new endeavor. He reached the hedge as she disappeared, but his instinct was unerring and he leaped through the swaying branches just in time to see the hem of her skirt in the foliage on the other side and plunging through caught her in his arms just as she sank, laughing breathlessly, to the spangled shadows of the turf beyond.

"Marishka," he cried joyously, "did you mean it?"

But she wouldn't reply.

"You said that if I caught you–"

"The race—isn't always—to the swift—" she protested falteringly in her pretty broken English.

"Your promise–"

"I made no promise."

"You'll make it now, the one I've waited for—for weeks—Marishka. Lift up your head."

"No, no," she stammered.

"Then I–"

Renwick caught her in his arms again and turned her chin upward. Her eyes were closed, but as their lips met her figure relaxed in his arms and her head sank upon his shoulder.

"You run very fast, Herr Renwick," she whispered.

"You'll marry me, Marishka?"

"Who shall say?" she evaded.

"Your own lips. You've given them to me–"

"No, no. You have taken them–"

"It is all the same. They are mine." And Renwick took them again.

"Oh," she gasped, "you are so persistent—you English. You always wish to have your own way."

He laughed happily.

"Would you have me otherwise? My way and your way, Marishka, they go together. You wish it so, do you not?"

She was silent a while, the wild spirit in her slowly submissive, and at last a smile moved her lips, her dark eyes were upturned to his and she murmured a little proudly:

"It is a saying among the women of the House of Strahni that where the lips are given the heart must follow."

"Your heart, Marishka! Mine, for many weeks. I know it. It is the lips which have followed."

"What matters it now, belovèd," she sighed, "since you have them both?"

Renwick smiled.

"Nothing. I only wondered why you've kept me dangling so long."

She was silent a moment.

"I—I have been afraid."

"Of what?"

"I do not know. It is the Tzigane in my blood which reads into the future–"

She paused and he laughed gayly.

"Because I am a foreigner–"

"I have not always loved the English. I have thought them cold, different from my people."

He kissed her again.

"And I could let you believe me that!"

She laughed. "Oh, no.... But you have shown me enough." And, pushing him gently away, "I am convinced, mon ami ...."

"As if you couldn't have read it in my eyes–"

"Alas! One reads—and one runs–"

"You couldn't escape me. It was written."

"Yes," she said dreamily, "I believe that now." And then, "But if anything should come between us–"

"What, Marishka?" he smiled.

"I don't know. I have always thought that love would not come to me without bitterness."

"What bitterness, liebchen ?"

She settled softly closer to him and shrugged lightly. "How should I know?"

He smiled at her proudly and caught her brown hand to his lips.

"You are dyed in the illusions of your race,—mystery—fatalism. They become you well. But here among the roses of Konopisht there is no room in my heart or yours for anything but happiness. See how they nod to each other in the sunlight, Marishka. Like us, they love and are loved. June comes to Bohemia but once a year—or to us. Let us bloom in the sunlight like them—happy—happy–"

"Blood red, the roses," she said pensively. "The white ones please me better. But they are so few. The Archduke likes the red ones best. What is the verse?

"What matter Cæsar or Kaiser to us, Marishka? Our own kingdom–"

"Yes, yes," she sighed. "And I am happy in it. You know it, nicht wahr ?"

Silence, except for the drowsy hum of the bees and the songs of the birds. No fatalism is long proof against the call of love and June. Marishka was content that her flight had ended in capture and sat dreamily gazing at the white clouds floating overhead while she listened to the voice at her ear, replying to it in monosyllables, the language of acquiescence and content. The moments passed. Konopisht was no longer a garden. Enchanted their bower and even the red roses forgotten.

Suddenly the girl started upright to her knees, and peered wide-eyed through an opening in the foliage.

"What is it, Marishka?"

She put a finger to her lips in token of silence, and Renwick followed her gaze down the graveled path which led toward the arbor. As under-secretary of the British Embassy in Vienna, he had been trained to guard his emotions against surprises, but the sight of the three figures which were approaching them down the path left him bereft for the moment of all initiative. In the center walked the Archduke, pulling deliberately at his heavy dark mustaches while he listened to the figure upon his right, a man of medium stature, who wore a hunting suit and a jäger hat with a feather in it. He carried his left hand, concealing a defect of his arm, in the pocket of his shooting jacket, while with his free right hand he swung an ebony cane. His mustaches were turned straight upward from the corners of his mouth and the aggressive chin shot outward as he glanced right and left, talking meanwhile with his companions. The third figure was very tall, topping even the Archduke, who was by no means small of stature, by at least six inches; his hair, or as much of it as could be seen beneath the soft hat, was gray, and a long beard, almost white in the patches at either side of the chin, descended in two long points half of the way to his waist.

Renwick recognized the visitors at once, and turned toward his startled companion, his own mind as to the propriety of his situation at once made up.

"Marishka," he whispered, "we must go."

"It is too late," she murmured. "They would see us."

"And what does that matter?"

"I forgot," she breathed helplessly. "I was told I was not to come today into the rose garden. I wondered why. Sh–! Sit still. Crouch lower. Perhaps they will pass on and then–"

Renwick obeyed somewhat dubiously and sank, scarcely daring to breathe, beneath the thick foliage beside the arbor which concealed his companion. She seized his hand and he felt her fingers trembling in his own, but he pressed them gently—aware that the tremors of the girl's fingers as the footsteps approached the arbor were being unpleasantly communicated to his own. The breach of hospitality to the household of the Archduke, upon whose land he was, was as nothing beside the breach of etiquette to the Empire by his Chief. Renwick's nerves were good but he trembled with Marishka. The friendship of nations depended upon the security of his concealment—more than that—and less than that—his own fate and the girl's. And so Renwick crouched beside her and silently prayed in English, a language he thought more fitted to the desperate nature of his desires, that the three figures would pass on to another part of the garden, that they, the luckless lovers, might flee to the abandoned tennis court in innocence and peace.