Vistula; "no, I am not in pain. I was thinking."
The nurse held a draught to his lips. Carter resolutely put it to one
side. "Wait," he commanded, "I must know how I came here, or I will not
rest with a thousand soporifics."
"Mr. Saunderson picked you up just as you were drowning in the Vistula.
You have been ill ever since--delirious."
"Good old Billy," he said in gratitude, then turned a silent inquiry on
the nurse. She saw the awful heart-hunger in his eyes and, had she
followed her impulse, would have thrown a sisterly arm about him in
solace, so compelling was the look, so hopeless its message. "Was
any--was any one saved with me?" he ventured. "Did any one come with me
here? On the boat? For God's sake, nurse, tell me." His quivering life
seemed hanging in the balance. The magnitude of his gravity filled the
woman with sudden apprehension. She feared equally to tell him or refuse
him.
"I was not there, Mr. Carter. I cannot tell," she compromised. "Mr.
Saunderson will make his usual call this afternoon. You can ask him; he
will doubtless tell you." Partially reassured by this, Carter fell
asleep.
When he awoke he felt much stronger. The nurse was standing at the
bedside smiling down at him.
"Mr. Saunderson is waiting in the library. If I let him come in to see
you, will you be good?"
Carter readily promised, as he would have anything just then, at the
opportunity of resolving his doubts. Saunderson was ushered in quietly;
when he bent over the patient, the latter wrenched the proffered hand
with hysterical strength.
"See here, Carter, this won't do," said his caller, making a wry face;
"I believe that you have been shamming these two months."
"Two months?" Carter sat upright. "Have I been laid up that long?"
"To the very day," said Saunderson, smiling.
"Tell me, Billy, how you came to be out there. I want to thank you for
saving my life, though I don't know yet whether you have done a wise or
a foolish thing."
"So? How soon can you let me know? Dorothy says it's the only sensible,
useful thing I've ever done. You always were a favorite of Mrs.
Saunderson, you know."
"It's a serious matter, Billy, so I want the truth for what I'm going to
ask you. Give it to me straight from the shoulder and don't mince
matters. Promise?"
"I must confess, Cal, I don't see what you're driving at, but I suppose
it's all right. Yes, I promise. Now, fire away. Wait a minute. Perhaps
I'd better lead off with how I got there. You've been pretty loose up
here, you know," he touched his forehead by way of illustration.
"Perhaps I may save you the worry of framing up questions--my account
may cover everything."
"Did I talk much--rot?" asked Carter.
"Yes, rather. Calling all the time for Trusia--said Carrick was a
King--and lots more of the same kind. Who was Trusia?"
"The Duchess of Schallberg." Carter's reply was unnaturally grave and
his face solemn and tense. "Tell me, Billy," he requested quietly,
"when I sank--was there any one with me?"
"It might have been a bundle of rags--it might have been a man or a
woman, I rather thought it was a woman. What did you do, Cal, run off
with some Cossack's wife?"
"It was Her Grace."
"The deuce it was!" exclaimed Saunderson.
Carter bent forward until their faces were close. "Oh, Billy," he begged
piteously, "don't tell me you let her drown! Don't tell me she is dead!
Don't----"
"I didn't. She isn't," said Saunderson with more care for denial than
lucidity. He laid a restraining, friendly hand on Carter's shoulder.
"You saved her too, then?" The thin talon-like hand clutched Billy's
like a vise.
"No," answered Saunderson reluctantly, beginning to see how matters
stood.
"Where is she then?" was the eager question.
"See here, Cal, you haven't given me a chance to tell you how I came to
be there. I'm just aching for the opportunity too. You don't know it,
but I had a bet with Jackson that you'd go over there when the matter
became known to you. Naturally I took more than a casual interest in
Krovitch after that. Reports got disturbing, so I ran the _Bronx_ over
to sort of hang around until needed. To be perfectly frank, I was
looking for you. When the skipper called me that morning and said some
one was swimming for the boat I took a long guess that it was you. The
first time you sank the launch was almost on top of you. We pulled you
out of the very claws of a Cossack."
"But the girl?--But Her Grace of Schallberg?" It was pitiable how abject
a strong man could become.
"If that was the Duchess of Schallberg, Cal, a second Russian picked her
up, apparently unconscious, and made off with her--toward the Austrian
shore. Just why he went that way no one seemed to know. His comrades
fired after them. No, don't start; no one hit. Bum shots, those
Asiatics."
Seeing the terrible pressure under which Carter was laboring, the nurse
came forward at this juncture and sent Saunderson away. For some
unaccountable reason Carter could not force the conviction on himself
that serious evil had befallen Trusia. Hope departs only with life.
Paradoxical as it may seem, he worried not about her safety, but about
the dangers which, without his aid, she could overcome only with great
difficulty. Such is the egotism of love. He reverted anxiously to the
story of her questionable rescue. Who could the Cossack have been--why
hadn't he returned to his comrades? Why,--why,--why? Question followed
question, like the alarm bells at a fire. At last he wearily fell
asleep.
He opened his eyes the second time to find the day was gathering
darkness from the corners and niches of the room.
"Nurse," he called. In an instant, silent as the gloaming, she
approached the bed. "Might I have my mail? It must have been
accumulating for months."
"You must not read," she said firmly.
"Then read for me," he urged.
Wise as any daughter of Eve, she selected intuitively that one letter
which she knew would satisfy him so that he would forget there were
others. It bore the post-mark "Wien."
"Here is one from Vienna," she explained, "shall I read that?"
"Yes, yes," he acceded, tingling with anticipation. She tore off the
edge with feminine precision. "Who wrote it?" he queried, unable to
await its perusal. He was partly up now, leaning forward on his elbow,
his white face gleaming through the dusk. The green shade of the lamp
accentuated his pallor.
"It is signed 'Sobieska,'" she replied, after turning to the
subscription.
"Oh," he said in evident disappointment, and sank back on the pillow.
"Here's what he says:
"MY DEAR MAJOR CARTER:
"When Her Grace, under your escort, left us on the road to the
charcoal burner's we had a desperate fight. Muhlen-Sarkey, after
giving a good account of himself, fell like the noble gentleman he
was and jested with death. Zulka was killed in a three-to-one
fight. Delmotte fell badly wounded but not seriously. Casimir and
the rest were killed. A cut over the head rendered me unconscious
and I fell across Delmotte. Supposing that we were dead, anxious
for repairs themselves, the Russians did not disturb us. About dusk
I came to and aided Delmotte across the frontier. I returned,
determined to reinforce you and Her Grace if I could catch up with
you, for I had found out how things were at your first
stopping-place.
"Carefully following the path to the ferry, imagine my surprise at
espying a man running rapidly along the same path but toward me.
The mutual discovery was simultaneous. It was Josef. He, quicker
than I could, drew his revolver. By dodging behind trees, however,
I got past him. Had I not had a more sacred duty to Her Grace just
then, I should have risked all for the pleasure of killing that
snake. After this rencounter, I proceeded more carefully until I
reached the cabin in the clearing. Here I found the bodies of two
Russian Cossacks, dead apparently from the night before. Both had
been killed by the sword. Your work, as I surmised. One was a
lieutenant. I appropriated his uniform as a safeguard in case I met
other interruptions. His horse was luckily tethered in the woods.
Thanking my good fortune, I mounted and pushed on.
"I soon was to be enlightened as to the dangers of your flight;
though in sympathy with the quarry I was running with the hunters.
"Stimulated by a large reward, offered by their commandant at
Schallberg, the country was overrun by Russians searching for the
Lady Trusia. I constantly met them. Being very ignorant fellows,
they took me for what I seemed to be. By working on their credulity
I got each party that I met to believe that I had private
information as to the whereabouts of the fugitives whom I had been
despatched to capture by the commanding officer himself. Of course
forbidding them to follow me, they all trailed after me. Supposing
that you had followed the bypath, I plunged right through the most
trackless part of the wilderness, to keep the pursuit as far from
you as possible. What my fate would be when they discovered I had
cheated them, I didn't stop to weigh; if I knew Her Grace was safe,
I could but die.
"Imagine my despair when, on reaching the Vistula, I found I had
actually led the pursuit right upon you. At first I considered the
advisability of selling my life then and there, carrying down as
many as possible in death with me, but I saw that my sword could
not account for enough to scare off the pursuit. When you took to
the water, I apparently joined the chase. By your side, in the
water, I would have a better chance. I helped Her Grace to escape.
Was sorry to leave you, but my first duty was to save her. You were
not wholly neglected either. I saw you pulled aboard a yacht,
which, not seeing my desperate signals, took its course at once
toward the mouth of the river.
"Her Grace is safe. I have offered her the poor protection of my
impoverished name, only to learn that she loves you. I assure you
that since I learned this, no sister could receive tenderer
treatment. I congratulate you. Come at once. Frankly, my scanty
funds will be exhausted in three weeks' time. It is impossible to
get employment here."
There followed some friendly phrases, their address in Vienna, and the
subscription.
"What is the date of the letter?" Carter asked apprehensively.
"June second," came the quiet reply.
"And to-day is----"
"July seventeenth."
"What has become of them?" he groaned. "What can they think of me? A
messenger boy, nurse, at once. Are you paralyzed?"
XXVIII
A RE-UNION
Four short months before, Carter and Carrick had set out for Krovitch.
It did not seem possible that so many conclusive, completed events could
have transpired in that limited time. It seemed more like some whirlwind
dream to the man who, pale and wan, sat in the reading-room of the
Racquet Club gazing indolently at the passing throng outside the club
windows. It was Calvert Carter, of course, who so reasoned.
Carrick was dead, he continued in his reflections. Of a certainty this
had been a grievous blow, but even this was overshadowed by the doubt as
to the whereabouts of his beloved Trusia.
"Four months ago," he said aloud in his surprise, "the same man sat in
this same club, before this same window, and"--he paused, while his hand
ran along the arm of the chair as he glanced down at it,--"in this very
chair. He fretted because life could not give him enough of excitement
and contest--could not give him love. Well, to show him that her
resources were boundless, Life gave him all he wanted--then took back
her gifts." Relapsing into silence again with a heavy sigh, he
contemplated the strange warp of destiny.
Trusia, his beloved Trusia,--where was she? Wealth had not been spared,
nor time, in a hitherto fruitless effort to locate her. On this, his
first excursion from the sick-room, he was already planning to take up
the search himself--to scour Europe until he found her. Yet some
instinct, stronger than he dared admit, warned him that she was closer
to him where he now sat.
Puzzled, he gazed out the window, hoping that the panorama of the moving
crowds would ease his worried mind. A man's face detached itself from
the encircling throng, catching and holding Carter's attention. He
leaned eagerly forward, why, he could not have explained. At this, the
man, also turned and looked. An impartial observer of both would have
said that these two were in doubt as to whether they recognized each
other. The man on the sidewalk, while clean, was rather seedy-looking
and apparently a foreigner. His face was drawn and hollow as though
privation had sculptured there. His beard was full and streaked with
gray. His eyes alternately burned with the fires of inward visions and
dulled with disappointment at hopes destroyed. Carter arose and went
closer to the window, with steps still unsteady in his convalescence.
The stranger had passed, but, noting Carter's action, repassed,
evidently as much at loss as the man inside. To him, too, there was
something strangely familiar about the thin, pale face, the languid,
hopeless air, of the man in the club window,--but they were not the
attributes of the man he remembered. Nor was this shade the vigorous
friend he had known so short a while before.
Carter walked deliberately out to the street and extended his hand to
the passer-by who had so strangely moved him. Recognition was complete.
"It is you, at last, Sobieska," he said as the thin hand of the
Krovitzer closed over his own. A smile lighted up the half-veiled eyes,
he read in the American's soul that word of their distress had come too
late.
"Come into the club," Carter urged him. Sobieska smiled grimly as he
glanced down at his shabby garments. Carter understood.
"Let's walk out to the Park," suggested the Krovitzer. "I have something
to tell you that I know you are anxious to hear. Wait, though, until we
get out of the crowd. You don't want Fifth Avenue as an audience, do
you?" he asked as he noted the quick joy which lit Carter's face.
"Just one question," Calvert begged. "Is she well?"
"Yes," replied the Krovitzer, confining himself to the naked assent.
Then, pitying the man who had been so wofully shaken since their parting
in Krovitch, he opened the gate of Pity a bit and added, "She is in New
York."
Carter stopped short in the street and turned to read in the other's
eyes whether this promised miracle was true or false. He reached out and
caught Sobieska's hand and wrung it with the fervor he would fain have
loosed in a cheer.
"Thank God," he said vehemently. "Are we going to her, now?"
Sobieska nodded an affirmative.
"Is it far?"
"Not over two miles."
"And you intend to walk? Great Scott, man, do you think I have lead in
my veins instead of blood?"
"No, Carter, but remember that I have no longer money at my command.
Poverty has taught me strange tricks of economy. Pride would not let me
think of asking you if you preferred riding."
"You might have known," said Carter reproachfully, "that every cent I
have would be at your disposal for such an errand."
His companion nodded his head wearily. Was the fellow not satisfied, he
thought? It meant that he was being led to the woman that he, Sobieska,
loved with fervor equal to Carter's. Why should he hasten the minute
that would place her in the American's arms? Ah, well, Trusia loved him.
That must suffice. They entered a cab which had drawn up in answer to
Carter's hail.
"I will not apologize for our lodgings," said Sobieska, as he gave a
cheap East Side locality to the driver as their destination. "Thousands
of my countrymen have no better."
As the cab rattled along, he gave the details of their varied
vicissitudes and the determined faith of Trusia in Carter, culminating
in her insistence that they come to New York to find him. "Some woman
instinct told her that you had not received my letter and she feared
that some calamity had befallen you that nothing but her coming would
dispel." By the work of his hands and the sweat of his brow he had
finally been able to secure their passage on an ocean steamship.
"We arrived two weeks ago to-morrow," said the Krovitzer. "Twice I
called at your house, three times at your club. They supposed I was some
beggar, no doubt, and never gave you my messages. Having no money over
actual necessities for either telephones or postage stamps, I took the
poor man's way of communicating with you while I sought work--waited
till I could see you. In fact, Carter, to be perfectly frank, I did not
know but that our altered circumstances might influence you as it has
some other acquaintances I have appealed to."
"That is unjust, Sobieska," said Carter.
"I should have known better," answered Sobieska apologetically, "but,
Carter, we have had some pretty hard knocks. You were silent to my
letter--how could I guess you were ill? I was rebuffed at both your
house and club. A sensitive man might well read your acquiescence in
such treatment. Will you accept my apology? Here we are," he added, as
the cab drew up to the curb.
"Don't apologize," said Carter, shaking him by the hand, while his eyes
hungrily devoured the front of the tenement with avidity that sought for
some sign of Trusia. "Is this the place?" The grimy pile was sanctified
in his eyes as it sheltered the woman to whom he had given his whole
heart.
Trembling like an eager child, after dismissing the cabby, he scrambled
breathlessly after his guide up steep and dirty stairs to the third
floor, past passages and open doors, which showed more than one family
huddled together in single apartments.
"She does not live as these?" he asked with repugnance.
"No," said his companion, regarding a group with unconcealed
compassion, "I was fortunate enough to secure a separate room for her,
poor as it is." But the man nobly concealed the price he had had to pay,
to be content to sleep upon a straw mattress in a sub-cellar--nor did
Trusia know what sacrifices her former minister was making for her
meagre comforts.
The door of an apartment stood open at the end of the next turn in the
entry. Both men, hushed by conflicting emotions, stood regarding the
scene before them.
At a window, her face a trifle thinner, more _spirituelle_, because of
her heartaches, sat Trusia. The light, touching the edges of her hair,
glinted into an iridescent halo about her face. Across her knees lay a
little child. Its mother, with anxious, peasant face, was bending over
its ailing form, while the large, whole-souled regard which Trusia bent
upon the tiny form made a picture of a modern Madonna.
Then, the air whispered its tidings to her soul. She glanced up and saw
Carter standing in the passageway. Gently placing the infant in the
maternal arms held out for it, she arose and without a spoken word came
to him; came so close that there was nothing for him to do but to take
her tenderly in his arms. Assured of their right, her hands lay on his
shoulders, while her eyes sought out his soul.
Then, careless whether the whole world looked on or not, their lips met
gently, lingeringly.
"Though all thrones have fallen," she sighed blissfully, "you are still
my King."
"Trusia, my Trusia," he said, while Sobieska fled silently from their
view.
FINALE