“What have I done?—Oh, what have I done?” wailed Fräulein, wringing her hands, and rocking herself back and forward in her distress. “My uncle had nothing to do with Gretel’s disappearance, I would swear he had not, but there are other things—he is a patriot.”
“You have done nothing wrong, my dear,” said Mrs. Douaine, gently, “and you may have done good. If anything you have said proves a help in finding our dear little girl, we shall love you, and be grateful to you all our lives.”
CHAPTER XIV
FOUND
How long she had lived in that dark, stifling little room and slept on that hard mattress on the floor, Gretel had no idea. Was it days, months or years? Sometimes she felt as if it must be years, but she had ceased to count time. She had almost ceased wondering whether she was ever going to be set free. At first she had lived in constant terror, but as time dragged on, and nothing happened, and as the close air and confinement began to tell more and more upon her, she had sunk into a kind of dull stupor, which made her indifferent to most things. Sometimes she would wake up with a sudden feeling of terror, and then for a little while she would be very miserable, thinking of Percy and Barbara, and how they must be suffering on her account, but as she grew physically weaker, even the thought of home and friends grew less painful, and she lay most of the time with closed eyes, thinking of nothing in particular, and only longing for a breath of fresh air, or a drink of cold water.
Several times each day Mrs. Becker appeared with food, from which she generally turned with loathing, but she was always glad of a drink of milk, and would occasionally take a few spoonfuls of soup. Mrs. Becker always looked worried, and as if she had been crying, but she never talked much, and was always careful to lock the door again when she went away. Sometimes Mr. Becker came and looked at her, but he never spoke. Once she had ventured to glance at his face, but its expression had frightened her so much that for hours afterwards she had shivered and moaned, in a renewal of all the old terrors of the beginning of her imprisonment.
Would they keep her there until she died? That was the one thought which occasionally pierced through her half-benumbed faculties. She was so weak and her head ached so, she did not think she would mind dying very much. Perhaps God would let her go to her father, and they would be happy again, as they used to be in the old studio days. How happy those days were, when Mrs. Lippheim and Fritz came to tea, and she was allowed to make the toast. But that was so long ago, and now Fritz was—was—her confused thoughts would wander off into a feverish dream, in which she and Stephen Cranston seemed to be dancing together, only mingled with the gay dance music she could always hear Ada Godfrey’s voice talking about loyalty to one’s country.
She had been dreaming a queer, confused dream, all about Ada and Stephen and Fritz Lippheim, when she was roused by the sound of Mrs. Becker’s voice, and opened her eyes to find the woman standing beside her with a cup of soup in her hand.
“You must take this,” Mrs. Becker said, in a tone of unusual decision. “My husband says you are to take it. He will be angry if you refuse.”
Gretel turned her face to the wall.