One circumstance puzzled me greatly.
My baggage had already been placed in the carriage which was to take me
to the station, and in descending the stairs to depart I passed the
sitting-room occupied by Vera. The door was ajar, and I was suddenly
prompted to enter to wish her a final adieu. Having opened the door
half-way I heard voices, which caused me to halt. Vera was seated upon
an ottoman, her elbows upon her knees in an attitude of dejection.
Before her, with his hands thrust deep in his capacious pockets, stood a
well-made athletic young fellow, who, though his back was burned towards
me, had the air of a military officer. Apparently he had assumed a
commanding demeanour, for he was bending over her, speaking rapidly in a
language I did not understand, while she was appealing to him to desist.
I had already bade her adieu, and as neither noticed me I passed down
the staircase and out into the street, the thick pile of the carpet
preventing my footsteps being heard.
In my drive to the station I was greatly perplexed over this incident,
wondering who the man could be. Evidently he was a Russian, and had
just arrived or was on the point of departing on a journey, for he wore
a long travelling ulster and soft felt hat. From Vera's dispirited
manner it appeared as if he were giving some directions which were
hateful to her, and which she was vainly resisting.
I somehow felt certain, too, that he had pronounced my name; and at
mention of it she shrank as if in fear. It seemed very much as if this
man, as well as her uncle, exercised some power over her, and during my
long night journey I tried to account for the stranger's presence.
After all, it might be nothing, I thought at last; and perhaps the
green-eyed monster had arisen within me and distorted, as it often does,
what would otherwise have seemed a very commonplace occurrence.
On the third evening after leaving Genoa I arrived at Charing Cross,
having travelled incessantly by the Mont Cenis route without breaking
the journey at Paris. It was impossible for me to go to Russia without
a passport, therefore I was compelled to return to London and obtain
one. At first I was troubled by this, the time of my arrival being
limited to three weeks; but afterwards, finding the journey from Italy
to the Russian capital was much more circuitous than from London, I made
the best of it, feeling certain I should be able to deliver the jewels
within the time stipulated by the woman who had enchanted me.
On my arrival I drove at once to my rooms and sought the rest of which I
was so sorely in need, afterwards setting about packing a few additional
necessaries for my journey. For three days, however, I was obliged to
remain in London before I could obtain my passport, and though impatient
to set out, I passed the time as best I could.
The evening of the second day I met Nugent at the Club.
He expressed the greatest surprise at meeting me, yet I did not inform
him of the journey I had undertaken, but led him to believe that my life
at Genoa had become unbearable after he had left, and that on the
following day I contemplated returning to Paris for a few weeks.
We dined together and afterwards went to the Alhambra, but only once did
he refer to Vera.
It was after the ballet, when we were taking cigarettes and coffee.
"By the way," he said suddenly, a mischievous smile lighting up his
genial face, "what progress did you make with _la belle_ Seroff? You
have not spoken of her."
I did not care to be questioned upon this matter, so appeared to treat
it as a joke.
"Ah?" I replied, "it was a mere flirtation. Why, really, Bob, old
chap, I believe you regarded that little affair seriously," I said,
laughing.
He raised his eyebrows slightly, saying, "You guessed aright. I thought
you were in love with her; but am glad to hear such is not the case."
"Why?" I asked, in surprise, for had he not hinted more than once that
she would make me a charming wife?
"No reason, no reason," he replied evasively; "simply because I've
altered the opinion I once held regarding her."
I requested no further explanation, for the bell was ringing, denoting
that the curtain had risen, and we returned to our stalls.
Could he have seen or heard anything to cause him to utter this vague
warning? I asked myself. No, surely not; yet it was strange, to say
the least.
Having obtained my passport properly vised by the Russian Consul, on the
evening following I entered a first-class compartment of the
Queenborough express at Victoria, and, settling myself, commenced the
initial stage of my long journey across Europe. As the train sped
onward through the Kentish hop-gardens, I sat watching the September sun
change from gold to purple, and eventually disappear behind the dark
night-clouds. Safely stowed away in my valise was the jewel-case; but I
had already devised a plan whereby it would escape the prying
_douaniers_--the same by which I had brought it from Italy unopened,
viz, to place it in the capacious pockets of my travelling coat, and
hang that garment upon my arm during the examination of the baggage.
I was alone in the carriage, but by reading the newspapers with which I
had provided myself, managed to wile away the two hours' journey to the
sea.
With relief I alighted at Queenborough Pier, and embarked upon the
Flushing steamer, for here I knew the sensation of loneliness would
quickly disappear. The whirr of the steam crane, hubbub and noise,
mingled with disconsolate comments in English and staccato sounds in
French, soon ceased, and very quickly the vessel had set her head
towards the Dutch coast.
At seven we landed, and an hour later I had commenced a several days'
journey by rail across the continent, the terrible monotony of which is
known only to those who have accomplished it. Cramped up in a
_coupe-lit_ for a day and night is sufficient to tire most persons, but
a continuance of that sort of thing is the reverse of enjoyable.
Both at Flushing and Kaldenkirchen I contrived to smuggle the jewels
through the _douane_, and with a honeymooning couple and a voluble old
Frenchman as fellow-passengers, I travelled onward through Duisburg,
Oberhausen, and Hanover, arriving at Berlin early on the third morning
after leaving London.
Here I decided to break the journey for a day, having traversed half the
distance, and after seeking repose at a hotel, strolled through the city
to stretch my legs. That evening I passed wandering alone through the
principal thoroughfares, and lounging in several beer gardens, returning
to the hotel shortly before midnight, and resuming my eastward journey
the following morning.
With scarcely any interesting scenery, it was a wearying monotony enough
throughout the day, but when night drew on and the shrieking of the
engine and whirl and rattle of wheels made sleep impossible, it was
absolutely unendurable. My French novel no longer interested me. I was
excessively fatigued, and as I lay my aching head upon the velvet
cushion of the narrow berth, watching the flickering oil-lamp, my
meditations reverted, as they constantly did, to the pleasant evenings
Vera and I had spent beside the Mediterranean. Thoughts of her for
whose sake I had undertaken this journey, of her strange position, and
of the service it was in my power to render her, acted as an incentive,
and caused the inconveniences and fatigue of travel to appear much less
than they would otherwise have been.
In a fortnight I hoped to have fulfilled my promise and return to her,
for this enforced separation I could tolerate no longer than was
absolutely necessary. Already I was eagerly looking forward to the time
when I should again be at her side, for was it not my duty to be near
and to protect her whom I loved?
What might not happen during my absence? I dreaded to think.
Evidently she was in the hands of an unscrupulous villain, and my
anxiety and hope was to marry her as soon as possible, and take her
under my own protection.
Like other men, I had had my flirtations, but this was my Grand Passion.
I loved Vera heart and soul, passionately and purely, and was
determined to make her my wife without delay. As I lay there I could
not help reflecting how little of real happiness I had known before we
met; how selfish and unsatisfactory my life had hitherto been, when my
motto was _Chacun pour soi, et Dieu pour nous tous_.
Now, all was changed. At last I had found the woman whom I believed was
predestined to become my wife; she who had fascinated me, who held me
for life or death.
Through the long night I thought only of her, puzzled over the secret of
the old man's influence; happy and content, nevertheless, in the
knowledge that ere long I should return to her, never to part.