He had returned from a disturbing interview with the Austrian ministers
responsible for considering his proposals. He was passing the hotel
desk, when it occurred to him that some one might have left a message.
On inquiry two were handed out to him, one a telegram, the other a
letter. Ripping open the telegram, a glance told him it was in German
and had been dispatched from Budapest. He had slipped it into his
pocket, thinking, “I'll have to get Santa to translate that,” when he
unfolded it again to see by whom it had been sent. The sender's name was
a single word, “Anna.”
His heart gave a bound. She was near to him! He could see her again
within a handful of hours. For a moment nothing else seemed to
matter--neither Santa's safety, nor the agony of hunger by which he
was surrounded. His blood ran hot with yearning. How had she reached
Budapest so quickly? What was her object? To have accomplished the
journey she must have set out from England ahead of him or else have
left on the same day, traveling by the alternative route via Belgium.
While he had been journeying in the company of Santa, going through the
mummery of pretending he was married, Anna had been paralleling his
footsteps. Was Varensky with her? But if she were alone...
Mechanically, as he entered the elevator, he slit the flap of the
letter. It had evidently been left personally, for it bore no postmark
and was hastily scrawled on the stationery of the hotel. The hand was
unknown to him. The note read:
“_Yesterday you avoided me. I have told her everything. I am more sure
than ever you ought to send her back. I must leave you now for a little
while. When we meet again, I hope it will be as friends_.
“_Lajos_.”
At last they had got rid of him! But what was it he had told her? And
what made him so sure that they would meet again? The man wrote as if he
were confident that he could lay his hands on them at any moment.
Stepping out of the elevator, Hindwood made directly for Santa's room.
He recalled it vaguely as he had seen it the night before, with its
Empire furniture, painted cupids, silken hangings, and tall mirrors--its
knowing air of having been the illicit nest of innumerable short-lived
love-affairs. Its gaudy luxury, so glaringly in contrast with the
embittered need of the outside world, had stirred his anger. In reply
to his knock, her hoarse voice bade him enter. Before he was across the
threshold, he was aware of the intoxicating fragrance of roses.
Just inside the room, frowning with bewilderment, he halted. There were
stacks of them--sheaves of them everywhere. They were scattered on the
floor. They were arranged in vases. They lay strewn about in boxes. They
were of all shades and varieties.
“What's the meaning?”
She beckoned to him to join her at the tall window against which she was
standing.
“We missed this last night.” She pointed.
Following her direction, he saw that the window looked down obliquely
on the imposing architecture of the Opera House. The mellow October
sunlight drifted softly across gray roofs and fell in an orange splash
into the deep fissure of the street below. Along the pavements the
tide of traffic wandered nervelessly. On a neighboring ledge, two plump
pigeons were engaged in an ardent courtship.
“What did we miss? I see nothing.”
Then he noticed the panting of her bosom and that her expression was
tender with tremulous emotion.
Drawing her fine fingers across her eyes, she shuddered. “Stupid of me!
I forgot; they would bring back nothing to you--the scent of the roses
and then the Opera House, looking the same as ever. I've been dreaming
of other mornings, when I woke after nights of triumph. Perhaps it was
this room that set me remembering. It's not the first time I've slept in
it.” As she caught his eyes reading her memories, she flushed guiltily.
“Yes, in those days I was never lonely.”
“But the roses!” he reminded her impatiently. “How did you get them? At
the price things cost in Vienna, some one must have spent a fortune.”
She placed a hand on his arm appealingly. “Don't begrudge me. He must
have known. I think he did it for my burial.”
Her words sent a chill through him. He shifted his weight uncomfortably.
“We're in too tight a corner to waste energy on sentiment. If we're
going to make a fight for it, we've got to keep our heads clear. Who
gave them to you?”
She pressed her forehead against the warm pane. The gold of the world
outside cast a sheen of gold on her profile. Her unwanted loveliness
hurt him. It reproached him. It recalled to him the ache of his old
desire in the days before he had known that he could have her. And now
that he could have her for the asking....
“Captain Lajos gave them to me. They've been arriving ever since we
parted. He waited till you'd gone; then he came to me. He came to tell
me why he'd followed me. He was persuaded I was your mistress. This
morning he did something noble--very noble for a man of his sort to a
woman of mine; he begged me to become his wife.”
“Without knowing anything about you? He must be mad.”
“Don't say that.” She closed her eyes painfully. “I shan't trouble you
or any one much longer. I shall soon be so still. When one's sure of
that, it's good to be loved just once again, even though--” She turned
slowly and faced him. “I don't need to tell you who it is that I love
truly. This man--he's nothing. No man ever will---- You see I've lived
for men and admiration--for things like--” She pointed to the roses.
“It's new to me to be neglected. So it's comforting to know that a man
can still desire me, even though I'd rather kill myself than go with
him.”
He broke the silence that had settled between them. “You mustn't talk
like this. You've years of life before you. I'll get you away safely.”
She smiled. “No.” Then she changed the subject. “What happened to you?”
“You mean at my conference?” He seated himself beside her
dressing-table. “The worst that could have happened--nothing. Some
change has taken place for which I can't account. When I sent my
suggestions from America, they were hailed with enthusiasm. I was a
saviour--everything that's splendid and extravagant. But now---- The
Government's paralyzed. It isn't a Government; it's a passenger. 'You've
let us starve too long. It doesn't matter now--' that's what I was told
this morning. The ministers with whom I consulted spoke as if they were
sitting on the edge of a volcano, waiting to be blown up. They're so
sure that an eruption's inevitable that they don't consider it worth
while to make an effort to save themselves. I couldn't rouse them. When
I pressed them for the cause of their lethargy, they prophesied a new
war, in very much the same words as Captain Lajos--a war in which the
well-fed are to be pillaged by the starving.”
“But did you tell them that you could ship food into Austria at once?”
“I told them. I assured them that I could put Austria back on her feet
in twelve months. I offered to provision her and to supply coal for her
factories, if they'd give me control of the railroads and a per capita
percentage on the total increase of national industry. 'Provision us
with pleasure' was their attitude; 'we'll raise no official objection.'
'Very kind of you,' I replied; 'but where do I come in. I'm no
philanthropist.'” He brought his fist down with a bang on the
dressing-table. “There's a nigger in the wood-pile. Upon my soul, I
believe those fellows are determined that I shan't prevent their nation
from dying. If I shipped them the food as a gift, they'd burn it.”
She came over from the window and stood gazing down at him. “You're
right. They would if they dared. Can't you guess?”
“I can't. Their currency's hardly worth the paper it's printed on.
People are dropping dead in the streets--I saw them. Their gaols are
packed with children turned criminals through hunger. There'll be no
crops next year; the grain's consumed that should have been saved for
the sowing. They've butchered all their live-stock. The brains of the
country are in exile. The intellectual classes have been wiped out. And
here I come with my offer to save them, and they reject it. Without the
help of some outside force like myself, things can only go from bad to
worse.”
“Precisely.”
He glanced up, irritated by the promptitude of her agreement.
“Precisely! Why do you say that?”
“It's what they want--things to go from bad to worse. The worse things
get, the more certain they are of revolution. They're afraid your food
would postpone it.”
“Afraid! Why on earth?”
“Because they hope to snatch more out of the catastrophe of revolution
than you can offer them. These ministers with whom you've been dealing
are the tools of the exiled monarchists. They belong to the party in all
countries which made the last war possible and all wars before it.
What do they care for the people? They never have cared. Let the brutes
starve,' they say, 'if it suits our purpose. We can always breed more.'
They regard the people as their serfs, to be fooled with patriotism when
danger threatens and to be kept in chains to toil for them when peace
has been restored. If the people go hungry long enough, they'll reason
that the loss of their kings is the cause. They'll rise up and recall
them. They'll start to die for them afresh. It'll happen in all the
outcast countries. In the wholesale scramble, it'll be every nation for
itself. The strong will struggle to expand their frontiers, and the
weak will go to the wall. The deluge of blood--” She sank to her knees,
seizing his hands imploringly. “If you'll sacrifice your stores of food,
you can stop it.”
“But if I do that, without guaranties, I'm bankrupt. I get nothing.”
“You'll get more than I got when, to accomplish the same purpose, I
murdered Prince Rogovich. I'll get the scaffold. You'll earn the thanks
of humanity. You'll go down to the ages....”
He could see only the wide greyness of her eyes, pleading, coercing,
unbalancing his judgment.
He jumped to his feet, shaking off their spell. “I'm no dreamer--no
Varensky,” he said gruffly. “I have to make a profit.” Then, defending
himself from her unspoken accusation, “We're only guessing. We have
no facts. There are other famished countries--Hungary and Poland. What
Austria refuses, they may accept.” He dug his hand into his pocket.
“That reminds me. Here's a telegram from Budapest. I can't understand
it. It's in German.”
She was crouched on the floor. As he stooped to give it to her, she
caught sight of the signature.
“From Anna. Varensky must be with her. Then the crisis is nearer than I
thought.”
“Read it. Tell me what it says,” he urged.
She looked up palely, wilted with disappointment. “'_Come at once. I
need you_.' That's all.”
“Does she give no address?”
“She wouldn't risk it. I know where to find her.”
“Then we'll start--”
“But what about--?”
He did not hear her. The blood was hammering in his temples. He left her
forgotten, seated among her roses. The music of a wild exultation was
maddening his heart.