Image provided by: University of Nebraska-Lincoln Libraries, Lincoln, NE
About The McCook tribune. (McCook, Neb.) 1886-1936 | View Entire Issue (June 16, 1893)
Author VHr. laaaca" '©■»' CHAPTER XIX—Continued. “We were talking together, this woman and I. She looked at me—she wa-. angry—and then I fainted, or fell asleep, I cannot tell which. I awoke in the dark to find mvself lying on the altar here. Then she took hold of me and tried to make me sleep again. But I would not. Let her ex plain, herself, what she has done, and why she brought me here!” Sister Paul turned to Unorna and met the full glare of her eatliko eyes with her own calm, half-heavenly look of innocence. “What have you done Unorna? What have you done?” she asked very sadly. But Unorna did not answer. She only looked at the nun more fixedly and savagely. “Sleep!” said Unorna, putting up her hand. “Sleep, I command you!” But Sister Paul’s eyes did not waver. A sad smile played for a mo ment upon her waxen features. “You have no power over me—for your power is not of good.” she said, slowly and softly. Then she quietly turned to Beatrice and took her hand. “Come with me, my daughter.” I have a light and will take you to a place where you will be safe. She will not trouble you any more to night. Say a prayer, my child, and do not be afraid.” “I am not afraid,” said Beatrice. “But where is she?” she asked sud denly. Unorna had glided away while they were speaking. Sister Paul held the lamp high and looked in all dir ections. Then she heard the heavy door of the sacristy swing upon its hinges and strike with a soft thud against the small leathern cushion. Both women followed her, but as they opened the door again a blast of cold air almost extinguished the lamp. The night wind was blowing in from the street. “She is gone out,” said Sister Paul. • Alone and at this hour—Heaven help her!” It was as she said. Unorna had escaped. _ CHAPTER XX. After leaving Unorna at the con vent, the Wanderer had not hesitated as to the course he should pursue. Meanwhile, she was in danger. She had aroused the violent and deadly resentment of Israel Kafka, a man who, if not positively insane, as Ke york Arabian had hinted, was by no means in a normal state of mind or body; a man beside himself with love and anger, and absolutely reckless of life for the time being; a man who, for the security of all concerned, must be at least temporarily confined in a place of safety, until a proper treat ment and the lapse of a certain length of time should bring him to his senses. There were two reasons which de termined the Wanderer to turn to Ke york Arabian for assistance,besides his wish to see the bad business end quickly and without publicity. Ke york, so far as the Wanderer was aware, was himself treating Israel Kafka’s case, and would; therefore, know what to do, if any one knew at all. Secondly, it was clear from the message which Unorna had left with the porter of her own house that she expected Keyork to come at any moment. He was, then, in immediate danger of be ing brought face to face with Israel Kafka without having received the least warning of his present condition, and it was impossible to say what the infuriated youth might do at such a moment. He had been shut up, caught in his own trap, as it were, for some time, and his anger and madness might reasonably be supposed to have been aggravated rather than cooled by his unexpected confinement. The VY anderer drove to Keyork Arabian's house, and, leaving his car riage to wait in case of need, ascended the stairs and knocked at the door. “My dear friend!” Keyork exclaimed in his richest and deepest voice, as he recognized the YY'anderer. “Come in. I am delighted to see you. You will join me at supper. This is good in deed!” He took his visitor by the arm and led him in. Upon one of the tables stood a round brass platter covered, so far as it was visible, with arabic in scriptions, and highly polished—one of those commonly used all over the East at the present day for the same purpose. Upon this were placed at landom several silver bowls, mere hemispheres, without feet, remaining in a convenient position by their own weight. One of these contained snowy rice, in that perfectly dry but tender state dear to the taste of Ori entals; in another there was a savory, steaming mess of tender capon, chopped in pieces with spices and aromatic herbs; a third contained a pure white curd of milk, and a fourth was heaped up with rare fruits. A flagon of Bohemian glass, clear and bright as rock crystal and covered with very beautiful traceries of black and gold, with a drinking vessel of the same design, stood upon the table beside the platter. “Hy simple meal,” said Keyork, spreading out his hands and smiling Q-flClDiaa* HRQMflN SlflGER'stn pleasantly. “You will share it witk me. There will be enough for two. “So far as that is concerned, I should say so,” the Wanderer an swered with a smile. ■ ‘Hut my busi ness is rather urgent.” Suddenly he saw that there was s third person in the room, and glanced at Keyork in surprise. “I want to speak a few words with you, alone,” he said. “I would not trouble you. but—” “Not in the least, not in the' least, my dear friend!” asservated Keyork. motioning him to a chair beside the board. “But we are not alone,” observed the Wanderer, still standing and look ing at the stranger. Keyork saw the glance and understood. He broke into peals of laughter. “That!" ho exclaimed presently. “That is only the Individual. He will not disturb us. Pray be seated.” “I assure you that my business is very private—” the Wanderer ob jected. “Quite so—of course. But thtre is nothing to fear. The Individual is my servant—a most excellent creat ure, who has been with me for many years. He cooks for me, cleans the specimens and takes care of me in all ways. A most reliable man, I assure you. “Of course,” the Wanderer said, “if you can answer for his discre tion—” The Individual was standing at a little distance irom the table, observ ing the two men intently but respect fully with his keen little black eyes. The rest of his square, dark face ex pressed nothing; he had perfectly straight jet black hair which hung evenly all around his head and flat against his cheeks. He was dressed entirely in a black robe of the nature of a kaftan, gathered closely around his waist by a black girdle and fitting tightly over his stalwart shoulders. “His discretion is beyond all doubt,” Keyork answered, “and for the best of all reasons. He is totally deaf and dumb and absolutely illiterate. I bought him years ago in Astrakhan, of a Russian friend. He is very clever with his fingers. It is he who stole for me the Malayan lady’s head over there, after sue was executed. And now, my dear friend, let us have sup per. There were neither plates nor knives nor forks upon the table, and at a sign from Keyork the Individual retired to procure those Western incumbrances to eating. The Individual returned, bringing ivith other things, a drink ing glass for the Wanderer. Keyork filled it, and then filled his own. As he raised his glass to his lips his eyes twinkled. “To Keyork's long life and happi ness,” he said, calmly, and then sipped the wine. “And now for your story,” he added, brushing the brown drops from his white mustache. The effect of the announcement upon Keyork was so extraordinary that the Wanderer started, not being prepared for any manifestation of what seemed to be the deepest emo tion. “Unorna is quite safe,” the Wan derer hastened to say. “Safe—where?” shouted the little man, his hands already on his furs. The Individual, too. had sprung across the room like a cat, and was helping him. “In a convent. I took her there and saw the gates close behind her.” “You have saved my life—the curse of the three black angels on you for not saying so first!” he cried, in an agony of eestacy. “Preserver! What can 1 do for you— savior of my ex istence, how can I repay you! You shall live forever, as I will, you shall have all my secrets, the gold 'spider shall spin her w*b in your dwelling, the part of fortune shall shine on your path, it shall rain jewels on your roof, and. your winter shall have snows of pearls—you shall——” “Good heavens! Keyork,” inter rupted the Wanderer. “Are you mad?” “Had? The matter? 1 love you! I worship you! I adore you! You have saved her life, and you have saved mine.” “Be sensible, Keyork. Unorna is quite safe—” The rest of his speech was drowned in ar.otncr shout from the gnome, end ing {in a portentous peal of laughter. He had taken his glass again and wf.s toasting himself. “To Keyork, to his long life, to his happiness.” The wine seemed to steady him and he sat down again in his place. “Come,” he said. “Let us eat first. I have an amazing appetite, arfd Israel Kafka can wait.” “Do you think eo? Ik-it safe?” the Wanderer asked. • ‘Perfectly, ” rettnweftKeyork, grow ing quite calm again. “The locks are very good on those doors. I saw to them myself.” “But some one else—” “There is no some one else.” inter rupted the sage, sharply. “Only three persons can enter the house with out question—you. I and Kafka. You and I are here, and Kafka is there al ready.” He had helped his friend and began I eating. Somewhat reassured, tht Wanderer followed his example. ••It just occurs tome,” said Keyork. fixing his keen eyes on his compan ion’s face, “that you have told me ab solutely nothing, except that Kafka i* mad and that Unorna is .-afe.” ••Those are the most important points,” observed the Wanderer. “Precisely. But I am sure that you will not think me indiscreet if 1 wish to know a little more.” The Wanderer saw that some ex planation was nece.-s try, and he de termined to give onejn as few words as possible. “Unorra and I had strolled into tht Jewish cemttery,” lie said. “Whits we were talking there, Israel Kafka suddenly came upon us and spoko and acted very wildly. He is madly in lovo with her. She beeame very an gry and would not let me interfere. Then by way of punishment for his in. trusion I suppose, she hypnotized him and made him believe that lie was Si mon Abe'es, and brought the whole 6! the poor boy’s lire so vividly before me, as I listened, that I actually seemed to sej the scenes. I was quite unable to stop her or to move from where I stood, though I was quite awake. But I realized what was go ing on, and I was disgusted at her cruel'y to the unfortunate man. He tainted at the end but when he came to himself lie seemed to remem ber nothing. I took him home and Unorna went away herself. Then lie questioned me so closely as to what had happened that 1 was weg.k enough to tell him the truth. Of course, as a fervent Hebrew, which ho seemed to be, he did not relish the idea of having played the Christian martyr for Unorna’s amusement, and amidst the grave of his own people, lie there and then impressed mo that he in tended to take Unorna’# life with out delay. but insisted that I should warn her of her danger, saying that he would not be a common mur derer. Seeing that he was mad and in earnest, I went to her. There was some delay, which proved fortunate, as it turned out, for wo left by the small door just as he was entering from the other end. We locked it be hind us, and. going around by the passages, iocked the other door upon him also, so that he was caught in a trap. And there he is, unless some one lias let him out.” “And then you took Unorna to the convent?” ‘•I took her to the convent, promis ing to come to her when she should send for me. Then I saw that I must consult you before doing anything more. It will not do to make a scan dal of the matter.” ■•No,” answered Keyork, thought fully, “it will not do.” i’he Wanderer had told his story with perfect truth and yet in a way which entirely concealed the very im portant part Unorna’s passion for him had played in the sequence of events. “There will be no difficulty in se curing Kafka,” Keyork said. “The real question is, what shall we do with him? lie is very much in the way at present, and he must be disposed of at once, or we shall have more trouble. How infinitely more to the purpose it would have been if he had wisely de termined to cut his own throat instead of Unorna’s!” “I will only say one thing,” said the Wanderer, “and then I will leave the direction to you. The poor fellow has been driven mad by Unorna’s ca price and cruelty. I am determined that he shall not be made to suffer gratuitously anything more.” “Do you think Unorna was inten tionally cruel to him? She has not a cruel nature.” “You would have changed your mind, if you had seen her this after uoon. I will not allow Kafka to be ill treated.” “No, no! of course not!” Keyork an swered with eager assent; “but it may be necessary to use whatever means are most sure and certain.” “I shall not quarrel with your means,” the Wanderer said quietly, “provided that there is no unneces sary brutality.” ‘■Certainly, certainly!” said the other, eying with curiosity the man who spoke so confidently of taking out of Keyork Arabian's grasp whatever had once found its way into it. “He shall be treated with every consideration,” the Wanderer contin ued. “Of course, if he is very violent, we shall have to use force.” “To avoid an enormous scandal things must be done very quietly,”, said Keyork. “I cannot see anything to be done, then, unless we bring him here.” saitl the Wanderer, falling into the trap from sheer perplexity. What Key ork said was undeniably true. “He would be a nuisance in the house,” answered the sage. “Not but that the Individual would make a capital keeper. He is as gentle as he is strong, and as quick as a tiger cat.” “So far as that is concerned,” said the Wanderer coolly, “I could take charge of him myself.” “You do not trust me,” said the other with a sharp glance. “My dear Keyork, we are old ac quaintances. and I trust you implicit ly to do whatever you have predeter mined to do for the advantage of your studies, unless some one interferes with you. Before I could deliver him into your hands I would require of you a contract to give him hack unhurt— a contract of the kind you would con sider binding.” Keyork Arabian wondered whether Dnorna, in the recklessness of her passion, had betrayed the nature of the experiment. CHAPTER XXI. More than an hour had elapsod since the Wanderer and Unorna had finally turned the key upon Israel Kafka, leaving him to his own reflec tions. During the first moments he made desperate efforts to get out of the conservatory, throwing him self with all his weight and strength against the doors and thrusting the point of his long knife into the aperture of the locks. Then seeing that every attempt wat fruitless, he desisted,and sat down, in a state of complete exhaustion. A re action began to set in after the furious excitement of the afternoon, and he felt at once that it was impossible foi him to make another step or raise hit arm to strike. A man lo-s sound originally in bodily construction would have broken down sooner, and it was a proof of Israel Ka fka's extraordinary vigor and energy that ho oi l not lose his senses in a deleriom fevi r at the moment when he felt that his stron.th could bear no further strain. But his thoughts, such as they were, did not lack clearness lie saw that his opportunity was gone, and he be gan to think of the future, wondering what would take place next. Assur edly, when ho had come to I'norna’s house with the iixed detormina ion to take her life, the last tiling that he had expected had been to be taken prisoner and left to his own medita tions. It was clear that the Wan derer’s warning had been conveyed without loss of time, and had saved Unorna from her immediate fate. Nevertheless, he did not regret hav ing given her the opportunity of de fending herself, lie had not meant that there should be any secret about the deed, for lie was ready to sacrifice his own life in executing it. Yet he was not altogether He had neither Unorna’s inflM In difference to physical danger, nor the Wanderer’s calm superiority to fear. He would not have made a good sol dier, and he could not have faced another man’s pistol at tifteen paces without experiencing a mental and bodily commotion not unlike terror, which he might or might not have concealed from others, but which would in any case have been painfnlly apparent to himself. ihe key turned in the lock and the bolt was slipped back. Instantly Israel Kafka’s energy returned. He rose quickly and hid himself in the shrubbery in a position from which he could observe the door. We had seen Unorna enter before, and had, of course, heard her cry before the Wan derer had carried her away] and he had believed that she had wished to face him, either with the intention of throwing herself upon his mercy or in the hope of dominating him with her eyes, as she had so often done before. The Wanderer entered first, tall, stately, indifferent, the quick glance of his deep eyes alone betraying that he was looking for some one. Next came Keyork Arabian, muffled still in his furs, turning his head sharply from side to side in the midst of the sable collar that half buried it, and evi dently nervous. Last of all, the Indi vidual, who had divested himself of his outer coat and whose powerful proportions did not escape Israel Kafka’s observations. It was clear that if there was a struggle it could have but one issue. With cat-like tread he glided along in the shadows of the foliage until he could see the door. From the en trance an open way was left in a straight line towards the middle of the hall, down which his pursuers were still slowly walking. He must cross an open space in the line of their vision in order to get out, and he calculated the distance to be traversed, while listening to their movements, until ho felt sure that they were so far from the door as not to be able to reach him. Then he made his attempt, darting across the smooth pavement with his knife in his hand. There was no one in the way. Then came a violent shock, and he was held as in a vice, so tightly that he could not believe himself in the arms of a human being. His captors had anticipated that he would try to escape, and bad posted the Individual in the shadow of a tree near the door way. “It is of no use to resist,” said the Wanderer, quietly. “We are too strong for you.” Kafka said nothing, but his blood shot eyes glared up angrily at the tall man’s face. “He looks dangerous, and he still has that thing in his hand,” said Ke york Arabian. “I think I will give him ether at once while the Individ ual holds him. Perhaps you could do it?” “You will do nothing of the kind,” the Wanderer answered. “What a coward you are, Keyork!” he added, contemptuously. Going to Ivalfa’s side, he took him by the wrist of the hand which held the knife. But Kalfa still clutched it grimly. “You had better give it up,” he said. Kafka shook his head angrily and set his teeth, but the Wanderer un clasped the fingers by quiet force and took the weapon away. He handed it to Keyork, who breathed a sigh of re lief as he looked at it, smiling at last, and holding his head on one side. “To think,” he soliloquized, “that an inch of such pretty stuff as Da mascus steel, in tfte right place, can draw the sharp red line between time and eternity!” He put the knife tenderly away in the bosom of his fur coat. His whole manner changed and he came forward with his usual almost jaunty step. Released at last from the Individual’s iron grasp, Israel Kafka staggered a little. The Wanderer took him kindly by the arm, supporting his steps and leading him to a seat. Kafka glanced suspiciously at him and at the other two, but seemed unable to make any further effort and sank back with a low groan. His face grew pale and his eyelids dropped. “Get some wine—something to re store him,” the Wanderer said. Keyork looked at the Moravian erlt ically for a moment. ••I told you that I would kill her— md 1 will,” said Israel Kafka, faintly hut distinctly. “You will not kill her,” answered his companion. ‘Twill prevent you from attempting it, and as soon as you are well you will see the absurdity of the idea.” Israel Kafka made an impatient gesture, feenle, but sufficiently ex pr. ssive. Then all at once his limbs relaxed and his head fell forward on his breast. The Wanderer started to his feet and moved him into a more comfortable position. There were one or two quickly drawn breaths and the breathing ceased altogether. At that moment Keyork returned, carry ing a bottle and a glass. “It is too late.” said the Wanderer, gravely. “Israel Kafka is dead.” “I hate men who make statements about things they do not understand,” Keyork said viciously, looking up as he spoke, but without any expression of satisfaction. “He is no more dead than you are—the greater pity!” The Wanderer drew a long breath of relief as he helped Keyork to make the necessary arrangements. •How long will it last?” he in quired. “How can 1 tell?” returned Keyork, sharply. “Have you never heard of a syncope? Do you know nothing about anything?” He had produced a bottle containing some very strong salt and was apply ing it to the unconscious man's nos trils. The Wanderer paid no atten tion to his irritable temper and stood looking on. A long time passed and yet the Moravian gave no further signs of consciousness. “It is clear be cannot stay hore if he is to be seriously ill,” the Wander er said. “And it is equally clear that he can not be taken away,” retorted Keyork. Now, Keyork Arabian had no in terest in allowing Israel Kafka to die, though the Wanderer half believed that he had, though he could not imagine what that interest might be. The Wanderer bent down and saw that the eyelids were quivering and that the face was less deathly livid than before. Then the eyes opened and stared dreamily at the glass roof. “And I will,” said the faint, weak voice, as though completing a sen tence. “I think not,” observed Keyork, as though answering. “The people who do what they they mean to do are not always talking about will.” But Kafka had closed his eyes again. This time, however, his breathing was apparent and he was evidently returning to a conscious state. “Do you think we can take him home to-night?” inquired the Wan derer. “I think not,” he replied. “There is nothing to be done but to keep him quiet. Good-night. I am tired of all this nonsense, and I do not mean to lose my night’s rest for all the Israels in Jewry—or all the Jews in Israel. You can stay with him if you please.” He did not dare to take upon him self the responsibility of calling some one to help him and of removing the Moravian in his present condition. The man was still very weak and either altogether unconscious or sleep ing the sleep of exhaustion. The weather, too, was bitterly cold and the exposure to the night air might bring on immediate and fatal conse quences. lie examined Kafka closely and came to the conclusion that ho was really asleep. To wake him would be absolutely cruel as well as dangerous. He looked kindly at the weary face and then began to walk up and down between the plants, coming back at the end of every turn to look again and assure himself that no change had taken place. Keyork’s precautions were in reality useless, and they merely illustrate the ruthlessly selfish character of the man. The Wanderer would in all probability neither have attempted to leave the house with Kafka that night nor to communicate with the servants, even if he had been left free to do either and if no one had disturbed him in his watch. He was disturbed, however, and very unexpectedly, between 1:30 and 1:4o in the morning. More than once he had remained seated for a long time, but his eyes were growing heavy and he roused himself and walked again until he was thoroughly awake. W hen the door was suddenly opened he stood still in his walk and faced it. He hardly recognized Unorna in the pale, disheveled woman with circled eyes who came toward him under the bright light. She, too, stood still when she saw him, starting suddenly. She seemed to be very cold, for she shiv ered visibly and her teeth were chat tering. Without the least protection against the bitter night-air she had fled, bareheaded and cloakless, through the open streets from the church to her home. “You here!” she exclaimed, in an unsteady voice. “Yes, I am still here,” answered the Wanderer. “But I hardly ex pected you to come back to-night,” he added. “And Israel Kafka?” she asked, al most timidly. “He is there—asleep.” “He is very ill,” She said, almost under her breath. “Tell me what has happened?” It was like a dream to her, The tremendous excitement of what had happened in the convent had cut her off from the realization of what had gone before. As the new development of the sit uation presented itself, the color again rose to her cheeks. Tho warmth of the conservatory, too, dis pelled the chill that had penetrated her, and the familiar odors of the flowers contributed to restore the loet equilibrium of mind and body. "Tell mo what has happenod." she said again. "And for what, reason do you sup pose that Koyork shut you in?” she asked. "I do not.know,” the Wanderer an swered. "I do n<»[, trust him, though I have known him so long.” "It was mere selfishness.” said Unorna. scornfully. "I know him better than you do. He was afraid you would disturb him again in the night,” The Wanderer said nothing, won dering how any man could bo so elaborately thoughtful of his own comfort. "There is no help for it,” Unorna said, "we must watch together.” "I see no other way,” the Wan derer answered, indifferently. You did not believe all I told you this evening?” said Unorna, softly, with an interrogation in her voice. "No,” the Wanderer answered, quietly. "I did not.” "I am glad of that—I was mad when I spoke.” CHAPTER XXII. The Wanderer was not inclined to deny the statement, which accorded well enough with his total disbelief of the story Unorna had told him. Hut he did not answer her immediately, for ho found himself in a very difficult position. After Unorna hud spoken, the Wan derer therefore held his peace. lie inclined eis head a little, as though to admit that her plea of madness might not be wholly imaginary, but be said nothing. He sat looking at Israel Kafka’s sleeping face and outstretched form. “Yes,” she said, “I wasmad. You cannot understand it. I dare say you cannot even understand how I can speak of it now, and yet I cannot help speaking.” “Unorna,” he said, gravely, “re member that you are leaving me no choice. I cannot leave you alone with that poor fellow, and so whatever you wish to say I must hear.” “You are not so hard with me as you were,” she said, thoughtfully, after a moment’s hesitation, and there was a touch of gratitude in her voice. “It is not forme to be hard, as you call it,” ho said quietly. There was a scarcely perceptible smile on his face, brought there not by any feeling of satisfaction, but by his sense of his own almost laughable perplexity, lie saw that he was very near being driven to the ridiculous necessity of giving her some advice of the parental kind. “It is not for me, either, to talk to you of what you have done to Israel Kafka to-day,” he continued. “ Uo not oblige me to say anything about it. It will be much safer. You know it all better than I do, and you understand your own reasons as 1 never can. If you are sorry for him now, so much the better —you will not hurt him any more if you can help it. If you will say that much about the future I shall be very glad, I confess.” “Do you think there is anything which I will not do—if you ask it?” Unorna asked very earnestly. “I do not know,” the Wanderer answered, trying to seem to ignore the meaning conveyed by her tone. “Some things are harder to do than others—” . “Ask me the hardest!” she ex claimed. “Ask mo lo tell you the whole truth—” “No,” he said, firmly, in the hope of checking an outburst of passionate speech. “What you have thought and done is no concern of mine.” “I could tell you—if you would let me-” “Do not tefl me,” ho interrupted. “I repeat that I do not wish to know.” “Shall we be friends again?” Unorna asked a second time, in a low tone. “Shall we go back to the be ginning?” “I do not see how that is possible,” he answered, slowly. “You might have spared me that!” she said, turning her face away. A few hours earlier his answer would have brought fire to her eyes and anger to her voice. But a real change had come over her, not last ing, perhaps, but strong in its im mediate e fleets. “Not even a little friendship left?” she said, breaking the silence that followed. ‘T cannot change myself, he an swered, almost wishing that he could. “I ought, perhaps, ” he added, as though speaking to himself. “1 have done enough harm as it is.” “Harm? To whom?” She looked round suddenly and saw the moisture in his eye. “To him,” he replied, glancing at Kafka, “and to you. You loved him once. I have ruined his life.” “Loved him? No—I never loved him.” She shook her head, wonder ing whether she spoke the truth. “You must have made him think so.1, “I? No—he is mad.” Uut she shrunk before his honest look and suddenly broke down. “No—I will not lie to you—you are too true—yes. I loved him, or thought I did. until you came, and I saw that there was no one-” (to be continued. ) Uirpart of the Silk Worm, The thread of the silk worm is so small that an average of forty-two of them are twisted together to form a thread of common sewing silk: that of the spider is many diameters smaller. Two drachms of spider web by weight would, if stretched into a straight line, reach from London, En gland, to Edinburgh. Scotland, a di* tance of over 400 miles. The value of diamonds and other precious stones imported into thia. country in a single year is set at about 118,000,000.
