The Zeppelin Destroyer/Chapter XIII

by William Le Queux

 

CHAPTER XIII

THE LEOPARD'S EYES

For a few moments I stood dumbfounded.

I could scarcely believe my own eyes. The figure before me was pale-faced and wan. She wore an old blue felt hat with wide brim which was most unbecoming, a faded jersey that had once been dark mauve, and an old black skirt, while her boots were cracked and bulging, and she was without gloves.

She smiled at me inanely, as she came across the room and Theed closed the door after her.

'Roseye!' I gasped. 'Whatever does this mean?'

'Is it really you!' cried Teddy, equally amazed.

'It is,' she replied in a low, very weary voice.

I saw that she appeared exhausted, for she clutched at the edge of the table, so I led her gently to my chair wherein she sank inertly, with a deep sigh.

'Roseye,' I said. 'Where have you been?'

She turned her gaze upon the fire. Her face remained hard-set. The expression upon her white countenance was one of tragedy.

Her chest heaved and fell, and I saw that her ungloved hands, grasping the arms of the chair, were trembling.

'You are cold!' I cried. And dashing to the cupboard I got out some brandy and a siphon.

She sipped a few drops from the glass I offered her, smiling in grateful acknowledgment.

Then, as I stood upon the hearthrug facing her, I repeated my question:

'Tell us, Roseye. Where have you been?'

In her great blue eyes I noticed a strange, vacant expression; a look such as I had never seen there before. She only shook her head mournfully.

'What has happened?' I inquired, bending and placing my hand tenderly upon her shoulder.

But, with a sudden movement, she buried her face in her small hands and burst into a torrent of tears.

'Don't ask me!' she sobbed. 'Don't ask me, Claude!'

'Look here, old chap,' exclaimed Teddy, who was quite as mystified as myself. 'I'll come back later on. That Miss Lethmere is safe is, after all, the one great consolation.'

And, rising, my friend discreetly left the room.

When he had gone I fell upon my knees before my rediscovered love and, taking her cold hands in mine, covered them with hot, fervent kisses, saying:

'Never mind, darling. You are safe again—and with me!'

All my efforts to calm her, however, proved unavailing, for she still sobbed bitterly—the reaction, no doubt, of finding herself again beside me. With women, in circumstances of great strain, it is the feminine privilege to relieve themselves by emotion.

'Speak!' I urged of her. 'Tell me where you've been, darling?'

But she only shook her head and, still convulsed by sobs, sat there inert and heedless of all about her.

As I knelt in silence, the quiet of my room remained unbroken save for the low ticking of the clock, and the soft sobs of the woman I so dearly loved.

Tenderly I took my own handkerchief and wiped those tears from her white, hard-set face. Then, for the first time, I saw that her left eyebrow showed a dark red scar. It had not been there on the last occasion when we had been together.

That mark upon her brow set me wondering.

Across her forehead she drew her hand wearily, as at last she sat forward in her chair, an action as though to clear her confused and troubled brain.

'Let me take off your hat,' I said and, with a man's clumsiness, removed the old felt hat from her head.

As I did so her wealth of soft hair, which I saw had been sadly neglected, fell unkempt about her shoulders.

'That—that woman!' she suddenly ejaculated, half starting from her seat. 'Ah! that woman!' she cried.

'What woman, dear?' I asked, much mystified at her words.

'That woman—that awful woman!' she shouted. 'Ah! send her away—save me from her—Oh! save me. Look!'

And she pointed straight before her at some phantom which she had conjured up in her imagination.

At once I realized that she was hysterical, and that some hideous ghost of her past adventure had arisen before her.

'Calm yourself, darling,' I urged softly, my arm around her waist. 'There is no one here. You are alone—alone with me—Claude!'

'Claude!' she echoed, turning toward me and gazing blankly into my eyes with an expression which lacked recognition. 'Oh—yes!' she added in a tone of surprise. 'Why—yes—Claude! Is it you—really you?'

'Yes. I am Claude—and you are alone with me,' I said in great apprehension, for I feared lest she might be demented. No doubt she had been through some terrible experiences since last I had clasped her hand.

Again she sighed deeply. For the next few moments she gazed into my eyes in silence. Their stony stare thrilled and awed me. At last a very faint smile played about her lips, and she exclaimed:

'Oh, yes! How awfully silly of me, Claude! How very foolish. Forgive me, won't you?'

'Forgive you, darling! Why, of course,' I said, pressing her closely to me.

'But—but that terrible woman!' she cried, still terrified. 'You won't let her come near me again—will you?'

'No. She shan't. I'm with you, and will protect you, darling. Trust in me.'

'Ah!' she sighed. 'It was awful. How—how I've lived through it I don't know.'

'Through what?' I asked, eager to induce her to tell her story.

'No,' she answered. 'You—you would never believe me!—you would never understand! Oh! that woman! Look!' and in terror she raised her finger and pointed again straight before her. 'Look! Don't you see her! She's fixed her eyes upon me—those awful leopard's eyes!'

'There's nobody here, Roseye,' I assured her. 'You're alone with me.'

'Alone! Why, no. She's there—see straight over there!' cried my love, her face distorted by wild terror. 'Ah! she's coming nearer!' she shrieked, again covering her face with her hands, as though to shut out the imaginary face.

'Ugh!' she shuddered. 'Don't let her touch me! Don't let her touch me! Don't, Claude—for Heaven's sake, I beg of you. That woman—that awful woman with the leopard's eyes!'

'Come, come,' I said, rather severely. 'You must not give way to these hallucinations, Roseye. There's nobody here, I assure you. It's all——'

'But she is here!' she shrieked. 'You can't deceive me; She's here—with us. Perhaps you can't see her—but I can. Oh! those horrible eyes—the fiend! Ah! what I have suffered!'

I did not reply. I was at a loss how to act. Sight of my beloved betraying such abject terror unnerved me.

Too well did I recollect the story of the railway signalman near Welwyn, how, when the night-express came out of the tunnel tearing north from London, he had distinctly seen two women struggling. One was in the grasp of the other.

Was this the woman whom Roseye believed was present in my room—the mysterious Woman with the Leopard's Eyes?

I crossed to the window, and standing at the spot where at my love declared she could see the mysterious female by which she seemed haunted, said:

'Now, look, dear! There is nobody here.'

'There is!' she persisted. 'She's there just behind you. Mind! She intends to do you harm! Yes,' she added. 'I saw her at Hendon. I remember most distinctly! She knows you—and she means to do you harm!'

I returned to her side, frantic at my inability to convince her that all was her imagination.

There was no doubt that, deeply impressed upon her memory, was some recollection of terrifying events in which a mysterious woman had played a leading part.

As I looked at that blank, yet horrified expression upon her pale, sweet face I became more than ever convinced that she had been held beneath the thraldom of some woman of evil intent—that woman whom she described as possessing the crafty eyes of a leopard.

For a full half-hour I argued with her, endeavouring to calm her but, unfortunately, to little avail. Presently, however, her expression altered, she grew less agitated, until at last, as I sat holding her in my arms, I kissed her fondly upon the lips, and again begged:

'Do tell me, my darling, where you have been all this long time? I've searched for you everywhere.'

'I—I don't know,' was her blank reply. 'I can't tell you.'

'But surely you recollect something?' I urged eagerly. 'Those are not your own clothes that you are wearing. Where did you get them from?'

She looked quickly down at her jersey and at her skirt, and then raised her eyes to me in dismay. Apparently, for the first time, she now realized that she was dressed in some one else's clothes.

'That's curious!' she exclaimed, as though speaking to herself. 'That's very curious. That hat is not mine, either!'

'No, it isn't,' I said, handing it to her to examine, which she did critically.

Then, placing her hands idly upon her knees, she remained for a long time with brows knit in silence, apparently trying to recall the past.

'You lost your chatelaine—the one I gave you,' I said, hoping that the fact might, in some way, stir the chords of her blunted memory.

'My chatelaine!' she repeated, looking at me vacantly.

'Yes. You lost your purse and money, and other things,' I said. 'I think you must have lost it from a train.'

Suddenly she raised her face again to mine, and asked in a half-dazed kind of way:

'Are you—are you Claude?'

'Yes,' I replied. 'Surely you remember me!'

'Oh—yes! But—oh! my head—my poor head!' and she placed her hands to her temples and drew a long breath.

'Cannot you recollect—do try and tell me something. Try and describe to me what occurred after you left home. What happened to you?’

She shook her head sadly.

'I can't tell you,' she said at last, speaking quite rationally. 'I really can't.'

'But you must recollect something, dear?' I asked. 'Your chatelaine was found dropped from a train on the line near Welwyn station, on the Great Northern Railway.'

'On the railway?' she repeated slowly. 'Ah!'

'That brings back something to your memory, dearest, does it not?' I inquired anxiously, for I now felt convinced that she remembered something regarding her loss.

'Yes—but—but—well, I can't tell you about it, Claude.'

'You can't, dearest—or do you mean that you decline to tell me! Which?'

For a few moments she was again silent. Her blank white face bad become almost as its own self, with that sweet, calm smile I had known so well.

'I must decline to tell you,' she slowly answered at last. 'I'm sorry—but I—I only ask your forgiveness, Claude.'

'What is there for me to forgive?' I cried dismayed. 'You disappeared. Everybody feared foul play—and——'

'There was foul play!' she interrupted in a hoarse voice.

'By whom?'

'By somebody.'

'You know who were your enemies?' I asked quickly. 'You must know, indeed.'

She nodded in the affirmative, her eyes once more downcast, as though fearing to meet my gaze.

'Cannot you name them—cannot you denounce them, darling? It is your duty,' I said in a low, persuasive tone. 'Reveal the truth to me, Claude.'

'No, never!' was her plain and instant reply.

'Why not?'

'There are reasons.'

'What reasons?'

'Reasons of my own. Strong reasons.'

'And may I not know them?' I asked with some resentment.

'No, Claude—I can never reveal the truth—not even to you.' She was now quite her old self.

'But I thought we trusted each other blindly and implicitly,' I protested. 'You surely know how deeply and fondly I love you, my darling.'

'Exactly,' she exclaimed, with one of those sweet and winning smiles of hers. 'That's just my point. If you love me as you declare—and I believe you do—then you will trust me, and you will, when I assure you that I cannot tell you what has happened, refrain from further questioning me.'

Her argument was, certainly, one to which I could not very well reply. It was a curious argument, and aroused suspicion within me.

She had now grown quite calm, and I could plainly see that she had at last recalled the past, yet she did not intend to make any statement whatever regarding it.

Why? This disinclination to reveal to me the slightest fact was, in itself, most extraordinary. I then found myself reflecting upon the discovery of that secret memorandum in her card-case, and the allegation made against her by the red-tabbed Intelligence officer.

I was on the point of telling her what had been discovered—the purport of the cipher message and the suspicion which rested upon her. Yet, would that induce her to be frank and tell me the truth? I decided that it would not, therefore I said nothing. Instead, I remarked in a low, sympathetic voice:

'I really think, darling, that it is due to me—to your people also—that you should tell us the truth of what happened to you, and of the identity of your enemies.'

'I have already told you, Claude,' was her quiet response. 'If you really love me, then you should at least trust me.'

'I do trust you, darling!' I protested quickly. 'You surely know that! You are in possession of all the secrets of our invention, and——'

'Ah! the invention—the invention!' she cried and, as she suddenly recollected it, her whole manner instantly changed.

She started from her chair crying: 'Yes—yes! Now I remember! I remember! It was awful—terrible—ugh! Ah! my poor brain!' and again she drew her hand across her brow. 'My poor head!'

She paused but, next second, she turned to me, exclaiming in a tone quite unusual to her:

'No! I shall tell you nothing—I shall say nothing! I do not want to remember—I pray only to forget—yes, to forget all—everything. It is too horrible! Too cruel!' and I saw that my reference to our secret apparatus had stirred another chord in her memory—one that caused her both fierce anger and bitter remorse.

That fact, in itself, revealed to me quite plainly that her tragic experiences, whatever they might have been, had some curious connexion with our invention for the destruction of Zeppelins. Thus, arguing with myself further, I became more than ever convinced that she, in all her innocence, had fallen defenceless into the unscrupulous grip of the terrible but relentless Invisible Hand.

Why did she so persistently withhold from me the truth? What more natural than, knowing the identity of her enemies, she should seek to denounce and justly punish them? Now she was back at my side she surely could not fear them!

Certainly her demeanour was most mysterious, and I stood there, facing her, utterly bewildered. The expression in her dear face was quite uncanny.

Once again I begged her to tell me something—however slight—regarding what had occurred to her. I told her of our tireless search; of the eager hue and cry; of the publication of her portrait, and of the offered reward for any information.

'Ah!' she replied, with a strange, faint smile, as though of triumph almost. 'All that was to no effect. The precautions taken were far too complete. Nobody could have found me—for I was in a living grave.'

'Yes,' I said, hoping that she would reveal to me something more, however vague. 'Tell me about it, darling. Do, Roseye.'

'Tell you!' she echoed with angry resentment, putting me from her firmly and staring at me. 'No, never!' Then a second later she turned towards the curtained window and shrieked:

'Ah! look!—that accursed woman again! Why do you allow her to come here—if you love me, Claude!'

'She is not here,' I declared firmly. 'It is all your silly imagination!'

'She is!' cried my love wildly. 'You are lying to me! She's there! Over there! Kill her—Claude—or she will kill you—ah! that Woman with the Leopard's Eyes!'