He choked before he replied. “What boy? I tell you I know nothing. You are all mad.”
“I mean David Warcliff. The others are free now, and he must be free tonight. Free, and in his right mind, as when you carried him off. Surely you understand.”
There was no answer.
“That is all I ask. It is such a little thing. Then we will go away.”
I broke in. “Our offer holds. Do as she asks, and we will never open our mouths about tonight’s work.”
He was not listening to me, nor was she. It was a duel between the two of them, and as she looked at him, his face seemed to grow more dogged and stone-like. If ever he had felt hatred it was for this woman, for it was a conflict between two opposite poles of life, two worlds eternally at war.
“I tell you I know nothing of the brat …”
She stopped him with lifted hand. “Oh, do not let us waste time, please. It is far too late for arguing. If you do what I ask we will go away, and you will never be troubled with us again. I promise—we all promise. If you do not, of course we must ruin you.”
I think it was the confidence in her tone which stung him.
“I refuse,” he almost screamed. “I do not know what you mean … I defy you. … You can proclaim your lies to the world. … You will not crush me. I am too strong for you.”
There was no mistaking the finality of that defiance. I thought it put the lid on everything. We could blast the fellow’s reputation no doubt, and win victory; but we had failed, for we were left with that poor little mindless waif. Mary’s face did not change.
“If you refuse, I must try another way”; her voice was as gentle as a mother’s. “I must give David Warcliff back to his father. … Dick,” she turned to me, “will you light the fire.”
I obeyed, not knowing what she meant, and in a minute the dry faggots were roaring up the chimney, lighting up our five faces and the mazed child in the chair.
“You have destroyed a soul,” she said, “and you refuse to repair the wrong. I am going to destroy your body, and nothing will ever repair it.”
Then I saw her meaning, and both Sandy and I cried out. Neither of us had led the kind of life which makes a man squeamish, but this was too much for us. But our protests died half-born, after one glance at Mary’s face. She was my own wedded wife, but in that moment I could no more have opposed her than could the poor bemused child. Her spirit seemed to transcend us all and radiate an inexorable command. She stood easily and gracefully, a figure of motherhood and pity rather than of awe. But all the same I did not recognise her; it was a stranger that stood there, a stern goddess that wielded the lightnings. Beyond doubt she meant every word she said, and her quiet voice seemed to deliver judgment as aloof and impersonal as Fate. I could see creeping over Medina’s sullenness the shadow of terror.
“You are a desperate man,” she was saying. “But I am far more desperate. There is nothing on earth that can stand between me and the saving of this child. You know that, don’t you? A body for a soul—a soul for a body—which shall it be?”
The light was reflected from the steel fire-irons, and Medina saw it and shivered.
“You may live a long time, but you will have to live in seclusion. No woman will ever cast eyes on you except to shudder. People will point at you and say ‘There goes the man who was maimed by a woman—because of the soul of a child.’ You will carry your story written on your face for the world to read and laugh and revile.”
She had got at the central nerve of his vanity, for I think that he was ambitious less of achievement than of the personal glory that attends it. I dared not look at her, but I could look at him, and I saw all the passions of hell chase each other over his face. He tried to speak, but only choked. He seemed to bend his whole soul to look at her, and to shiver at what he saw.
She turned her head to glance at the clock on the mantelpiece.
“You must decide before the quarter strikes,” she said. “After that there will be no place for repentance. A body for a soul—a soul for a body.”
Then from her black silk reticule she took a little oddly-shaped green bottle. She held it in her hand as if it had been a jewel, and I gulped in horror.
“This is the elixir of death—of death in life, Mr. Medina. It makes comeliness a mockery. It will burn flesh and bone into shapes of hideousness, but it does not kill. Oh no—it does not kill. A body for a soul—a soul for a body.”
It was that, I think, which finished him. The threefold chime which announced the quarter had begun when out of his dry throat came a sound like a clucking hen’s. “I agree,” a voice croaked, seeming to come from without, so queer and far away it was.
“Thank you,” she said, as if someone had opened a door for her. “Dick, will you please make Mr. Medina more comfortable. …”
The fire was not replenished, so the quick-burning faggots soon died down. Again the room was shadowy, except for the single lamp that glowed behind Medina’s head.
I cannot describe that last scene, for I do not think my sight was clear, and I know that my head was spinning. The child sat on Mary’s lap, with its eyes held by the glow of light. “You are Gerda … you are sleepy … now you sleep”—I did not heed the patter, for I was trying
