"Escape of the gallant Mars," were the words that seized my eyes as I
opened the front door of "The Haven" to snatch the morning papers. Rain
was pouring down, but I halted in the porch to read, oblivious of the
rivulet that streamed over my hair. "Mars, the elusive" had been true to
his name once more. It was an almost miraculous story, or would have
seemed so in less stirring times than these, which are teaching us that
brave men can do anything they set their minds to do. Mars, with a few
English prisoners, and some Russians from General Rennenkampf's force
captured in East Prussia, had been sent to work in the fields outside a
little German town in Alsace. Several of these, among them Mars, had
been wounded and in hospital together, but were turned out as cured the
moment they were strong enough to wield a scythe. Led by Mars, a young
Russian officer and a private in a Highland regiment had escaped from
the gang of prisoners by crawling for a long distance through tall ranks
of grain. They had hidden themselves among the stacks, and at night had
continued their progress in the direction--they hoped--of the French
frontier. Next morning they were given shelter by a farmer's wife whose
sympathies were with France. She provided them with disguises, but they
ventured to move only at night. At the end of four nights' travel they
came upon French soldiers advancing into Alsace, and made themselves
known, but not until they had been fired on as spies. Mars and the
Russian had both been wounded, and were in a French field hospital at
the time the newspaper account of their adventures went to press.
Neither were badly hurt, but they were extremely weak from lack of food
and loss of blood, to say nothing of old wounds scarcely healed when
they had started on their dash for freedom. The Russian officer (said to
be a nephew of Prince Sanzanow, Russia's ambassador to England)
considered that he owed his life to the aviator; and it was believed
that when the two were able to move they would be brought to a private
convalescent home in London, financed by the Russian ambassadress and
other great ladies.
I was so happy for the rest of the day that, as I could tell no one what
was in my heart, I sang to myself, under my breath, "It's a long, long
way to Tipperary." Eagle was alive and safe after all my black fears,
and I felt sure that if he came to England I should meet him. He could
not say now that he had done nothing "worth while." I thought, too, that
he would see the time had come at last to let the world know that
"Monsieur Mars" and Captain Eagleston March were one. I longed for the
day of revelation. It seemed to me that it would be a great day. I could
hardly wait for it to arrive; but a fortnight passed and the papers had
no more to say of "Mars, the elusive."
Meanwhile, the world had been busily making history for its future
generations, and momentous things had been happening to almost every one
I knew, except myself and my own immediate circle. Since I had first met
Milly at Diana's many weeks ago, and had been shown the letter from
Stefan, he had actually arrived in England from Archangel, whence gossip
said two hundred and fifty thousand other Russians had been mysteriously
shipped to north Britain. Alas for romance! those Russian hordes were
imaginary, but there was no doubt that Milly Dalziel's Russian had
appeared in flesh and blood--though with only enough of either to keep
body and soul together. They had been married a few days after Count
Stefan Stefanovitch had arrived--a picturesque wedding performed with
all formalities by a Russian priest, while the bridegroom lay propped up
in bed, in that suite at the Savoy of which Mrs. Dalziel had talked, no
guests present except the bride's mother and father (Tony Senior having
obediently dashed across the ocean) and the Russian ambassador with his
wife.
At the time I was not unselfish enough to interest myself profoundly in
Milly's marriage, for my mind was filled with thoughts of Eagle March,
and I could not forget how Milly, snubbed by him for her own good, had
let her supposed love for Eagle turn into bitter spite. I didn't believe
that a girl who had so lately cared for a man like Eagle March could
really have been caught in a rebound of heart by Stefan Stefanovitch. I
had seen Stefan no more than once or twice, when he was military attaché
at the Russian Embassy, but that was often enough for me to know some of
his limitations. In looks and manner he compared poorly with Eagle, to
my mind. I was inclined to think that without his counthood Milly would
have had no use for him, or he for her without her money. This spoilt
the romance of the affair in my eyes, and I had no premonition of what
Milly's Russian relationships were soon to mean for me.
When she had been married a little more than a fortnight and before any
further news had come out concerning the "Elusive Mars" and his
companion, I was told one day by Miss Jane that I was called for at the
telephone. I left a roomful of baby Belgians, for whom I was playing
nursemaid, to run to the 'phone, and was stabbed with disappointment to
hear Diana's voice. You see, every rap of the postman, every b-b-bur-r-r
of the telephone bell, _might_ mean the longed-for message from Eagle
which always I hoped for, even expected!
"Hello, Peggy!" said Di. "I've got a piece of good news for you."
My heart gave a silly leap and then sat down again; because she would be
the last person in the world to give me news of Eagle March.
"What is it?" I asked, without interest.
"Princess Sanzanow hasn't forgotten you, and sends you a special
message."
(Princess Sanzanow is the wife of the Russian ambassador.)
"She's giving quite an informal dinner," Di went on, "getting it up
almost on the spur of the moment, because the doctor says that Stefan is
well enough to go out, and the affair is really for him and Milly. I
don't think there'll be many there except ourselves, for the princess is
asking every one verbally. That's why she sends you a message instead of
a card. It is to say that she has always admired 'la petite Lady Peggy,'
and now more than ever. I happened to tell her about your Liége
experience, and your work for the Belgians. She particularly wants me to
bring you to dinner with her and the prince to-morrow night. You'll
come, of course?"
"Oh, I don't know if I can!" I hesitated. "There's so much to do here,
and, anyhow, I haven't a frock. Miss Jane and Miss Emma bought me lots
of nice things when they bought their own, for, of course, they lost
their luggage, too. But we never so much as thought of evening dresses.
I'd forgotten their existence!"
"But you _must_ go," Di persisted. "The trunk you stored at Norfolk
Street for Ballyconal has been brought here with Father's and Kitty's
things. Celestine can take the measurements of some frock or other
you've packed away there, and I'll go out and choose a pretty model
gown, ready to wear, for a present to you. Shoes and gloves you can get
yourself, I suppose? If you'll come here early to dress, Celestine can
take tucks and change hooks in next to no time, if necessary. I accepted
for you; and it will be horribly rude to the Princess if you refuse now,
for no reason at all."
* * * * *
I could have found or invented a reason, if I hadn't remembered in a
sudden flash that Monsieur Mars' companion in flight was supposed to be
a nephew of Prince Sanzanow. If I went to the Embassy I might hear news.
I was willing to do almost anything for that hope, even to dressing at
Sidney Vandyke's house, and continuing the armed truce in his automobile
to our destination. But I drew the line at accepting a frock bought with
his money.
"Why, yes, I'd forgotten the trunk I packed up with winter things for
Ballyconal," I answered. "There's that white chiffon velvet gown, made
over from yours, which I wore in New York last spring before the weather
turned hot. Do you remember? It will do beautifully for to-morrow night.
I'm sure it's as good as ever, so you needn't buy me anything; many
thanks. And I'm so glad you spoke of the trunk. I'll have it brought up
here afterward. It's small and won't take up much room. There are lots
of things in it I can spare for our Belgian women."
"Very well, as you like," said Di. "That white velvet was quite nice,
and will be all right if it is not full of beggar's creases. You can
have the little trunk put on the luggage carrier of the car to-morrow
night when we send you back to Fitzjohn's Avenue. It will save the
trouble of getting Carter Paterson or some one else to call here for it.
And that reminds me: one of the things I wanted to say to you was this:
you were asking Bally if he had any old clothes to spare you for your
Belgian women's husbands. Well, Kitty has found a few, but there are a
whole heap of Sidney's things you can have if you want them. Masses of
luggage have just arrived from America: boxes of books and rugs, and
trunks full of clothing packed up and sent after him by his
soldier-servant when Sid definitely decided to resign and live over
here. All the clothes are a bit out of date now, or Sidney thinks so,
and there are some army things he never wants to see any more. Anyhow,
he has collected quantities of new clothes, and if you would like the
American things for your men protégés, you're welcome to them."
It went against the grain with me to accept even this favour from the
enemy; but I reflected hastily that I had no right to refuse what would
do good to others. After all, it was nothing to me, and Sidney could not
help realizing that, if he heard of the transaction. I thanked Di again,
and said I should be glad of anything she had to give, as the
destitution among the men of the Belgian refugees was as pitiful as
among the women. "We shall be thankful to get the collection out of the
house," answered Diana. "Sid's man unpacked the boxes and, of course,
was free to choose what he wanted for himself, but he's such a little
monkey, none of the clothes would fit him. I remembered you and your
poor people, which I _do_ think was rather sweet of me, as I have such
crowds of things to do every moment; so I told Sykes to spread the lot
out in that empty room we haven't furnished yet, directly over mine. I
mean to have it turned into a kind of 'den' for Sid, so the sooner we
can sweep away the boxes and mess generally, the better. Suppose you
look in after the dinner at the Embassy to-morrow night, and pick out
what you fancy. Sykes can dump everything into an empty trunk for you,
and it can be put with yours on the back of the Grayles-Grice for you to
cart off to Hampstead."
I knew that if I wished to make sure of the booty, I had better take Di
at her word, for as likely as not she would change her mind in a day or
two, and offer the things to somebody else. I replied that I thought her
plan a very good one, and I would carry it out exactly as she proposed.
The next evening I went early to Park Lane, in order to unearth the
white velvet frock from the old trunk packed for Ireland, and dress
myself in it when it was found. Talking to Kitty and Di delayed me for a
few minutes, however, so that I had no time to waste when I ran up to
the shuttered room where my little trunk, as well as Sidney's things
from America, were in temporary storage. No one could be spared to help
me, as Di's maid and Kitty's had already begun to lay out their
mistresses' things for dinner. But I have been used all my life to
looking after myself. I didn't in the least mind grubbing on my knees to
unlock the box, finding the dress I wanted, and unwrapping it from
layers of tissue paper. As I stood up to shake the frock, and examine
anxiously as to its condition by the light of the electric lamp, which I
had switched on for the purpose, I saw many suits of Sidney Vandyke's
clothes neatly folded by Sykes, his valet, and piled on tables and
boxes.
It was too late then to look at the things before dressing, but I cast
an appraising glance in their direction, and my eyes lit upon what
seemed to be a khaki uniform, bundled ignominiously between a suit of
evening clothes and a crimson dressing-gown.
"Fancy his not having sentiment enough to keep his army things!" I
thought scornfully. "But, of course, he was never a real soldier at
heart, or he wouldn't have resigned, at his age, to be lazy and please
Diana! How different from----" But I wouldn't let myself even _think_
Eagle's name in that connection.
Fortunately I had packed away the white chiffon velvet with unusual care
(for me), and there were few creases in the soft folds which wouldn't
disappear eventually when I had put the frock on. As I dressed in a far
corner of Di's room (well out of her way and that of her maid,
Celestine, and managing my toilet operations as best I could with a
small hand glass) my thoughts would fly back to that old khaki uniform
upstairs. I wondered if it were one Sidney had worn in camp in Texas
days when his jealous rage was piling up against Eagle. It seemed to me
that there must be an evil influence hanging about those clothes of his;
and I was still thinking this when Major Vandyke, Father, Diana, and
Kitty and I were bunched together, a rather silent party, in Di's big,
roomy town car, spinning from Park Lane to the Russian Embassy with
Kitchener's "night lights" fanning long white arms across the sky of
unnaturally darkened London.
As it was supposed to be a small, informal dinner, we arrived promptly
on the hour; and when Princess Sanzanow--a beautiful, tall woman, with
the mysterious, sad eyes of the Slav people--had greeted us, she said
that four of her guests had still to arrive: Count and Countess
Stefanovitch, and two others whose presence was to be the surprise of
the evening. "I will tell you only _this_," she laughed, in her pretty
English, when Di pretended to be wildly curious; "like Stefan they have
both come back from the front, and they are the most exciting heroes! I
won't dream of spoiling my great _coup_ by letting you guess their names
until they are announced; but this you shall know, dear Lady Diana: my
two 'surprises' are to have the honour of taking you and our bride in to
dinner. All the other women will be envying you both."
Di was pleased and interested. She realized that our hostess meant to
pay her, as well as Milly, a great compliment; for those "other women"
of whom the princess spoke were important socially, and charming in
themselves. What she had called a "small, informal dinner" would be made
up of twenty-two guests; and the informality would consist in the
innovation of having small tables.
The princess introduced me to a very young youth, her son, who had been
away at Eton when I had visited at the embassy before. He began at once
to air his grievance of lacking a year of the age when a man can be
allowed to serve his country; and I was sympathizing with him because he
was not fighting when Milly and her husband were announced. She was
looking prettier than I had ever seen her, with quite new airs and
graces of a married woman and a countess; and Stefan, though extremely
plain of face and insignificant of figure, was interesting because of
his experiences, his limp, and his right arm in a black silk sling.
Milly seemed to think that she and her husband were the guests of the
evening and apologized in a high voice for being late, but the princess
reassured her.
"We have still two more to come. Our two surprises," and she was going
on to excite Milly's curiosity as she had Diana's, when the magnificent
Russian butler, who looked as if he had stepped from some medieval
picture, cried aloud two names:
"Major Baron Skobeleff; Captain March."