LETTERS FROM A LITTLE GIRL
Neeland had several letters from Ruhannah Carew that autumn and
winter. The first one was written a few weeks after her arrival in
Paris:
* * * * *
Dear Mr. Neeland:
Please forgive me for writing to you, but I am homesick.
I have written every week to mother and have made my letters read as
though I were still married, because it would almost kill her if she
knew the truth.
Some day I shall have to tell her, but not yet. Could you tell me how
you think the news ought to be broken to her and father?
_That man_ was not on the steamer. I was quite ill crossing the ocean.
But the last two days I went on deck with the Princess Mistchenka and
her maid, and I enjoyed the sea.
The Princess has been so friendly. I should have died, I think,
without her, what with my seasickness and homesickness, and brooding
over my terrible fall. I know it is immoral to say so, but I did not
want to live any longer, truly I didn't. I even asked to be taken. I
am sorry now that I prayed that way.
Well, I have passed through the most awful part of my life, I think. I
feel strange and different, as though I had been very sick, and had
died, and as though it were another girl sitting here writing to you,
and not the girl who was in your studio last August.
I had always expected happiness some day. Now I know I shall never
have it. Girls dream many foolish things about the future. They have
such dear, silly hopes.
All dreams are ended for me; all that remains in life for me is to
work very hard so that I can learn to support myself and my parents. I
should like to make a great deal of money so that when I die I can
leave it to charity. I desire to be remembered for my good works. But
of course I shall first have to learn how to take care of myself and
mother and father before I can aid the poor. I often think of becoming
a nun and going out to nurse lepers. Only I don't know where there are
any. Do you?
Paris is very large and a sort of silvery grey colour, full of trees
with yellowing leaves--but Oh, it is _so_ lonely, Mr. Neeland! I am
determined not to cry every day, but it is quite difficult not to. And
then there are so many, many people, and they all talk French! They
talk very fast, too, even the little children.
This seems such an ungrateful letter to write you, who were so good
and kind to me in my dreadful hour of trial and disgrace. I am afraid
you won't understand how full of gratitude I am, to you and to the
Princess Mistchenka.
I have the prettiest little bedroom in her house. There is a pink
shade on my night lamp. She insisted that I go home with her, and I
had to, because I didn't know where else to go, and she wouldn't tell
me. In fact, I can't go anywhere or find any place because I speak no
French at all. It's humiliating, isn't it, for even the very little
children speak French in Paris.
But I have begun to learn; a cheerful old lady comes for an hour every
day to teach me. Only it is very hard for me, because she speaks no
English and I am forbidden to utter one word of my own language. And
so far I understand nothing that she says, which makes me more lonely
than I ever was in all my life. But sometimes it is so absurd that we
both laugh.
I am to study drawing and painting at a studio for women. The kind
Princess has arranged it. I am also to study piano and voice culture.
This I did not suppose would be possible with the money I have, but
the Princess Mistchenka, who has asked me to let her take charge of my
money and my expenses, says that I can easily afford it. She knows, of
course, what things cost, and what I am able to afford; and I trust
her willingly because she is so dear and sweet to me, but I am a
little frightened at the dresses she is having made for me. They
_can't_ be inexpensive!--Such lovely clothes and shoes and hats--and
other things about which I never even heard in Brookhollow.
I ought to be happy, Mr. Neeland, but everything is so new and
strange--even Sunday is not restful; and how different is Nôtre Dame
de Paris and Saint Eustache from our church at Gayfield! The high
arches and jewelled windows and the candles and the dull roar of the
organ drove from my mind those quiet and solemn thoughts of God which
always filled my mind so naturally and peacefully in our church at
home. I couldn't think of Him; I couldn't even try to pray; it was as
though an ocean were rolling and thundering over me where I lay
drowned in a most deep place.
Well, I must close, because _déjeuner_ is ready--you see I know _one_
French word, after all! And one other--"_Bonjour, monsieur!_"--which
counts _two_, doesn't it?--or three in all.
It has made me feel better to write to you. I hope you will not think
it a presumption.
And now I shall say thank you for your great kindness to me in your
studio on that most frightful night of my life. It is one of those
things that a girl can never, never forget--your aid in my hour of
need. Through all my shame and distress it was your help that
sustained me; for I was so stunned by my disgrace that I even forgot
God himself.
But I _will_ prove that I am thankful to Him, and worthy of your
goodness to me; I _will_ profit by this dreadful humiliation and
devote my life to a more worthy and lofty purpose than merely getting
married just because a man asked me so persistently and I was too
young and ignorant to continue saying no! Also, I _did_ want to study
art. How stupid, how immoral I was!
And now nobody would ever want to marry me again after this--and also
it's against the law, I imagine. But I don't care; I never, never
desire to marry another man. All I want is to learn how to support
myself by art; and some day perhaps I shall forget what has happened
to me and perhaps find a little pleasure in life when I am very old.
With every wish and prayer for your happiness and success in this
world of sorrow, believe me your grateful friend,
Rue Carew.
* * * * *
Every naïve and laboured line of the stilted letter touched and amused
and also flattered Neeland; for no young man is entirely insensible to
a young girl's gratitude. An agreeable warmth suffused him; it pleased
him to remember that he had been associated in the moral and social
rehabilitation of Rue Carew.
He meant to write her some kind, encouraging advice; he had every
intention of answering her letter. But in New York young men are very
busy; or think they are. For youth days dawn and vanish in the space
of a fire-fly's lingering flash; and the moments swarm by like a
flight of distracted golden butterflies; and a young man is ever at
their heels in breathless chase with as much chance of catching up
with the elusive moment as a squirrel has of outstripping the wheel in
which he whirls.
So he neglected to reply--waited a little too long. Because, while her
childish letter still remained unanswered, came a note from the
Princess Mistchenka, enclosing a tremulous line from Rue:
* * * * *
_Mon cher_ James:
Doubtless you have already heard of the sad death of Ruhannah's
parents--within a few hours of each other--both stricken with
pneumonia within the same week. The local minister cabled her as Mrs.
Brandes in my care. Then he wrote to the child; the letter has just
arrived.
My poor little _protégée_ is prostrated--talks wildly of going back at
once. But to what purpose now, _mon ami_? Her loved ones will have
been in their graves for days before Ruhannah could arrive.
No; I shall keep her here. She is young; she shall be kept busy every
instant of the day. That is the only antidote for grief; youth and
time its only cure.
Please write to the Baptist minister at Gayfield, James, and find out
what is to be done; and have it done. Judge Gary, at Orangeville, had
charge of the Reverend Mr. Carew's affairs. Let him send the necessary
papers to Ruhannah here. I enclose a paper which she has executed,
conferring power of attorney. If a guardian is to be appointed, I
shall take steps to qualify through the good offices of Lejeune
Brothers, the international lawyers whom I have put into communication
with Judge Gary through the New York representatives of the firm.
There are bound to be complications, I fear, in regard to this mock
marriage of hers. I have consulted my attorneys here and they are not
very certain that the ceremony was not genuine enough to require
further legal steps to free her entirely. A suit for annulment is
possible.
Please have the house at Brookhollow locked up and keep the keys in
your possession for the present. Judge Gary will have the keys sent to
you.
James, dear, I am very deeply indebted to you for giving to me my
little friend, Ruhannah Carew. Now, I wish to make her entirely mine
by law until the inevitable day arrives when some man shall take her
from me.
Write to her, James; don't be selfish.
Yours always,
Naïa.
* * * * *
The line enclosed from Ruhannah touched him deeply:
* * * * *
I cannot speak of it yet. Please, when you go to Brookhollow, have
flowers planted. You know where our plot is. Have it made pretty for
them.
Rue.
* * * * *
He wrote at once exactly the sort of letter that an impulsive,
warm-hearted young man might take time to write to a bereaved friend.
He was genuinely grieved and sorry for her, but he was glad when his
letter was finished and mailed, and he could turn his thoughts into
other and gayer channels.
To this letter she replied, thanking him for what he had written and
for what he had done to make the plot in the local cemetery "pretty."
She asked him to keep the keys to the house in Brookhollow. Then
followed a simple report of her quiet and studious daily life in the
home of the Princess Mistchenka; of her progress in her studies; of
her hopes that in due time she might become sufficiently educated to
take care of herself.
It was a slightly dull, laboured, almost emotionless letter. Always
willing to shirk correspondence, he persuaded himself that the letter
called for no immediate answer. After all, it was not to be expected
that a very young girl whom a man had met only twice in his life could
hold his interest very long, when absent. However, he meant to write
her again; thought of doing so several times during the next twelve
months.
It was a year before another letter came from her. And, reading it, he
was a little surprised to discover how rapidly immaturity can mature
under the shock of circumstances and exotic conditions which tend
toward forced growth.
* * * * *
Mon cher ami:
I was silly enough to hope you might write to me. But I suppose you
have far more interesting and important matters to occupy you.
Still, don't you sometimes remember the girl you drove home with in a
sleigh one winter night, ages ago? Don't you sometimes think of the
girl who came creeping upstairs, half dead, to your studio door? And
don't you sometimes wonder what has become of her?
Why is it that a girl is always more loyal to past memories than a
man ever is? Don't answer that it is because she has less to occupy
her than a man has. You have no idea how busy I have been during this
long year in which you have forgotten me.
Among other things I have been busy growing. I am taller by two inches
than when last I saw you. Please be impressed by my five feet eight
inches.
Also, I am happy. The greatest happiness in the world is to have the
opportunity to learn about that same world.
I am happy because I now have that opportunity. During these many
months since I wrote to you I have learned a little French; I read
some, write some, understand pretty well, and speak a little. What a
pleasure, _mon ami_!
Piano and vocal music, too, occupy me; I love both, and I am told
encouraging things. But best and most delightful of all I am learning
to draw and compose and paint from life in the Académie Julian! Think
of it! It is difficult, it is absorbing, it requires energy,
persistence, self-denial; but it is fascinating, satisfying,
glorious.
Also, it is very trying, _mon ami_; and I descend into depths of
despair and I presently soar up out of those depressing depths into
intoxicating altitudes of aspiration and self-confidence.
You yourself know how it is, of course. At the criticism today I was
lifted to the seventh heaven. "_Pas mal_," he said; "_continuez,
mademoiselle_." Which is wonderful for him. Also my weekly sketch was
chosen from among all the others, and I was given number one. That
means my choice of _tabourets_ on Monday morning, _voyez vous_? So do
you wonder that I came home with Suzanne, walking on air, and that as
soon as _déjeuner_ was finished I flew in here to write to you about
it?
Suzanne is our maid--the maid of Princess Naïa, of course--who walks
to and from school with me. I didn't wish her to follow me about at
first, but the Princess insisted, and I'm resigned to it now.
The Princess Mistchenka is such a darling! I owe her more than I owe
anybody except mother and father. She simply took me as I was, a
young, stupid, ignorant, awkward country girl with no experience, no
_savoir-faire_, no clothes, and even no knowledge of how to wear
them; and she is trying to make out of me a fairly intelligent and
presentable human being who will not offend her by _gaucheries_ when
with her, and who will not disgrace her when in the circle of her
friends.
Oh, of course I still make a _faux pas_ now and then, _mon ami_; there
are dreadful pitfalls in the French language into which I have fallen
more than once. And at times I have almost died of mortification. But
everybody is so amiable and patient, so polite, so gay about my
mistakes. I am beginning to love the French. And I am learning so
much! I had no idea what a capacity I had for learning things. But
then, with Princess Naïa, and with my kind and patient teachers and my
golden opportunities, even a very stupid girl must learn _something_.
And I am not really very stupid; I've discovered that. On the
contrary, I really seem to learn quite rapidly; and all that annoys me
is that there is so much to learn and the days are not long enough, so
anxious am I, so ambitious, so determined to get out of this wonderful
opportunity everything I possibly can extract.
I have lived in these few months more years than my own age adds up! I
am growing old and wise very fast. Please hasten to write to me before
I have grown so old that you would not recognize me if you met me.
Your friend,
Ruhannah.
* * * * *
The letter flattered him. He was rather glad he had once kissed the
girl who could write such a letter.
He happened to be engaged, at that time, in drawing several
illustrations for a paper called the _Midweek Magazine_. There was a
heroine, of course, in the story he was illustrating. And, from
memory, and in spite of the model posing for him, he made the face
like the face of Ruhannah Carew.
But the days passed, and he did not reply to her letter. Then there
came still another letter from her:
Why don't you write me just one line? Have you _really_ forgotten me?
You'd like me if you knew me now, I think. I am really quite grown up.
And I am _so_ happy!
The Princess is simply adorable. Always we are busy, Princess Naïa and
I; and now, since I have laid aside mourning, we go to concerts; we go
to plays; we have been six times to the opera, and as many more to the
Théâtre Français; we have been to the Louvre and the Luxembourg many
times; to St. Cloud, Versailles, Fontainebleau.
Always, when my studies are over, we do something interesting; and I
am beginning to know Paris, and to care for it with real affection; to
feel secure and happy and at home in this dear, glittering,
silvery-grey city--full of naked trees and bridges and palaces. And,
sometimes when I feel homesick, and lonely, and when Brookhollow seems
very, very far away, it troubles me a little to find that I am not
nearly so homesick as I think I ought to be. But I think it must be
like seasickness; it is too frightful to last.
The Princess Mistchenka has nursed me through the worst. All I can say
is that she is very wonderful.
On her day, which is Thursday, her pretty _salon_ is thronged. At
first I was too shy and embarrassed to be anything but frightened and
self-conscious and very miserable when I sat beside her on her
Thursdays. Besides, I was in mourning and did not appear on formal
occasions.
Now it is different; I take my place beside her; I am not
self-conscious; I am interested; I find pleasure in knowing people who
are so courteous, so considerate, so gay and entertaining.
Everybody is agreeable and gay, and I am sorry that I miss so much
that is witty in what is said; but I am learning French very rapidly.
The men are polite to me! At first I was so _gauche_, so stupid and
provincial, that I could not bear to have anybody kiss my hand and pay
me compliments. I've made a lot of other mistakes, too, but I never
make the same mistake twice.
So many interesting men come to our Thursdays; and some women. I
prefer the men, I think. There is one old French General who is a
dear; and there are young officers, too; and yesterday two cabinet
ministers and several people from the British and Russian embassies.
And the Turkish Chargé, whom I dislike.
The women seem to be agreeable, and they all are most beautifully
gowned. Some have titles. But all seem to be a little too much made
up. I don't know any of them except formally. But I feel that I know
some of the men better--especially the old General and a young
military attaché of the Russian Embassy, whom everybody likes and
pets, and whom everybody calls Prince Erlik--such a handsome boy! And
his real name is Alak, and I think he is very much in love with
Princess Naïa.
Now, something very odd has happened which I wish to tell you about.
My father, as you know, was missionary in the Vilayet of Trebizond
many years ago. While there he came into possession of a curious sea
chest belonging to a German named Conrad Wilner, who was killed in a
riot near Gallipoli.
In this chest were, and still are, two very interesting things--an old
bronze Chinese figure which I used to play with when I was a child. It
was called the Yellow Devil; and a native Chinese missionary once read
for us the inscription on the figure which identified it as a Mongol
demon called Erlik, the Prince of Darkness.
The other object of interest in the box was the manuscript diary kept
by this Herr Wilner to within a few moments of his death. This I have
often heard read aloud by my father, but I forget much of it now, and
I never understood it all, because I was too young. Now, here is the
curious thing about it all. The first time you spoke to me of the
Princess Naïa Mistchenka, I had a hazy idea that her name seemed
familiar to me. And ever since I have known her, now and then I found
myself trying to recollect where I had heard that name, even before I
heard it from you.
Suddenly, one evening about a week ago, it came to me that I had heard
both the names, Naïa and Mistchenka, when I was a child. Also the name
Erlik. The two former names occur in Herr Wilner's diary; the latter
I heard from the Chinese missionary years ago; and that is why they
seemed so familiar to me.
It is so long since I have read the diary that I can't remember the
story in which the names Naïa and Mistchenka are concerned. As I
recollect, it was a tragic story that used to thrill me.
At any rate, I didn't speak of this to Princess Naïa; but about a week
ago there were a few people dining here with us--among others an old
Turkish Admiral, Murad Pasha, who took me out. And as soon as I heard
_his_ name I thought of that diary; and I am sure it was mentioned in
it.
Anyway, he happened to speak of Trebizond; and, naturally, I said that
my father had been a missionary there many years ago.
As this seemed to interest him, and because he questioned me, I told
him my father's name and all that I knew in regard to his career as a
missionary in the Trebizond district. And, somehow--I don't exactly
recollect how it came about--I spoke of Herr Wilner, and his death at
Gallipoli, and how his effects came into my father's possession.
And because the old, sleepy-eyed Admiral seemed so interested and
amused, I told him about Herr Wilner's box and his diary and the plans
and maps and photographs with which I used to play as a little child.
After dinner, Princess Naïa asked me what it was I had been telling
Murad Pasha to wake him up so completely and to keep him so amused. So
I merely said that I had been telling the Admiral about my childhood
in Brookhollow.
Naturally neither she nor I thought about the incident any further.
Murad did not come again; but a few days later the Turkish Chargé
d'Affaires was present at a very large dinner given by Princess Naïa.
And two curious conversations occurred at that dinner:
The Turkish Chargé suddenly turned to me and asked me in English
whether I were not the daughter of the Reverend Wilbour Carew who once
was in charge of the American Mission near Trebizond. I was so
surprised at the question; but I answered yes, remembering that Murad
must have mentioned me to him.
He continued to ask me about my father, and spoke of his efforts to
establish a girls' school, first at Brusa, then at Tchardak, and
finally near Gallipoli. I told him I had often heard my father speak
of these matters with my mother, but that I was too young to remember
anything about my own life in Turkey.
All the while we were conversing, I noticed that the Princess kept
looking across the table at us as though some chance word had
attracted her attention.
After dinner, when the gentlemen had retired to the smoking room, the
Princess took me aside and made me repeat everything that Ahmed Mirka
had asked me.
I told her. She said that the Turkish Chargé was an old busybody,
always sniffing about for all sorts of information; that it was safer
to be reticent and let him do the talking; and that almost every scrap
of conversation with him was mentally noted and later transcribed for
the edification of the Turkish Secret Service.
I thought this very humorous; but going into the little _salon_ where
the piano was and where the music was kept, while I was looking for an
old song by Messager, from "La Basoche," called "Je suis aimé de la
plus belle--" Ahmed Mirka's handsome attaché, Colonel Izzet Bey, came
up to where I was rummaging in the music cabinet.
He talked nonsense in French and in English for a while, but somehow
the conversation led again toward my father and the girls' school at
Gallipoli which had been attacked and burned by a mob during the first
month after it had been opened, and where the German, Herr Wilner, had
been killed.
"Monsieur, your reverend father, must surely have told you stories
about the destruction of the Gallipoli school, mademoiselle," he
insisted.
"Yes. It happened a year before the mission at Trebizond was destroyed
by the Turks." I said maliciously.
"So I have heard. What a pity! Our Osmanli--our peasantry are so
stupid! And it was such a fine school. A German engineer was killed
there, I believe."
"Yes, my father said so."
"A certain Herr Conrad Wilner, was it not?"
"Yes. How did you hear of him, Colonel Izzet?"
"It was known in Stamboul. He perished by mistake, I believe--at
Gallipoli."
"Yes; my father said that Herr Wilner was the only man hurt. He went
out all alone into the mob and began to cut them with his riding whip.
My father tried to save him, but they killed Herr Wilner with
stones."
"Exactly." He spread his beautifully jewelled hands deprecatingly and
seemed greatly grieved.
"And Herr Wilner's--property?" he inquired. "Did you ever hear what
became of it?"
"Oh, yes," I said. "My father took charge of it."
"Oh! It was supposed at the time that all of Herr Wilner's personal
property was destroyed when the school and compound burned. Do you
happen to know just what was saved, mademoiselle?"
Of course I immediately thought of the bronze demon, the box of
instruments, and the photographs and papers at home with which I used
to play as a child. I remembered my father had said that these things
were taken on board the _Oneida_ when he, my mother, and I were
rescued by marines and sailors from our guard vessel which came
through the Bosporus to the Black Sea, and which escorted us to the
_Oneida_. And I was just going to tell this to Izzet Bey when I also
remembered what the Princess had just told me about giving any
information to Ahmed Pasha. So I merely opened my eyes very innocently
and gazed at Colonel Izzet and shook my head as though I did not
understand his question.
The next instant the Princess came in to see what I was about so long,
and she looked at Izzet Bey with a funny sort of smile, as though she
had surprised him in mischief and was not angry, only amused. And when
Colonel Izzet bowed, I saw how red his face had grown--as red as his
fez.
The Princess laughed and said in French: "That is the difference
between professional and amateur--between Nizam and Redif--between
Ahmed Pasha and our esteemed but very youthful attaché--who has much
yet to learn about that endless war called Peace!"
I didn't know what she meant, but Izzet Bey turned a bright scarlet,
bowed again, and returned to the smoking room.
And that night, while Suzanne was unhooking me, Princess Naïa came
into my bedroom and asked me some questions, and I told her about the
box of instruments and the diary, and the slippery linen papers
covered with drawings and German writing, with which I used to play.
She said never to mention them to anybody, and that I should never
permit anybody to examine those military papers, because it might be
harmful to America.
How odd and how thrilling! I am most curious to know what all this
means. It seems like an exciting story just beginning, and I wonder
what such a girl as I has to do with secrets which concern the Turkish
Chargé in Paris.
Don't you think it promises to be romantic? Do you suppose it has
anything to do with spies and diplomacy and kings and thrones, and
terrible military secrets? One hears a great deal about the embassies
here being hotbeds of political intrigue. And of course France is
always thinking of Alsace and Lorraine, and there is an ever-present
danger of war in Europe.
Mr. Neeland, it thrills me to pretend to myself that I am actually
living in the plot of a romance full of mystery and diplomacy and
dangerous possibilities. I _hope_ something will develop, as something
always does in novels.
And alas, my imagination, which always has been vivid, needed almost
nothing to blaze into flame. It is on fire now; I dream of courts and
armies, and ambassadors, and spies; I construct stories in which I am
the heroine always--sometimes the interesting and temporary victim of
wicked plots; sometimes the all-powerful, dauntless, and adroit
champion of honour and righteousness against treachery and evil!
Did you ever suppose that I still could remain such a very little
girl? But I fear that I shall never outgrow my imagination. And it
needs almost nothing to set me dreaming out stories or drawing
pictures of castles and princes and swans and fairies. And even this
letter seems a part of some breathlessly interesting plot which I am
not only creating but actually a living part of and destined to act
in.
Do you want a part in it? Shall I include you? Rather late to ask your
permission, for I have already included you. And, somehow, I think the
Yellow Devil ought to be included, too.
Please write to me, just once. But don't speak of the papers which
father had, and don't mention Herr Conrad Wilner's box if you write.
The Princess says your letter might be stolen.
I am very happy. It is rather cold tonight, and presently Suzanne will
unhook me and I shall put on such a pretty negligée, and then curl up
in bed, turn on my reading light with the pink shade, and continue to
read the new novel recommended to me by Princess Naïa, called "Le
Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard." It is a perfectly darling story, and
Anatole France, who wrote it, must be a darling, too. The Princess
knows him and promises that he shall dine with us some day. I expect
to fall in love with him immediately.
Good night, dear Mr. Neeland. I _hope_ you will write to me.
Your little Gayfield friend grown up,
Ruhannah Carew.
This letter he finally did answer, not voluminously, but with all
cordiality. And, in a few days, forgot about it and about the girl to
whom it was written. And there was nothing more from her until early
summer.
Then came the last of her letters--an entirely mature missive, firm in
writing, decisive, concise, self-possessed, eloquent with an
indefinite something which betrayed a calmly ordered mind already
being moulded by discipline _mondaine_:
* * * * *
My dear Mr. Neeland:
I had your very kind and charming letter in reply to mine written last
January. My neglect to answer it, during all these months, involves
me in explanations which, if you like, are perhaps due you. But if you
require them at all, I had rather surrender them to you personally
when we meet.
Possibly that encounter, so happily anticipated on my part, may occur
sooner than you believe likely. I permit myself to hope so. The note
which I enclose to you from the lady whom I love very dearly should
explain why I venture to entertain a hope that you and I are to see
each other again in the near future.
As you were kind enough to inquire about myself and what you describe
so flatteringly as my "amazing progress in artistic and worldly
wisdom," I venture to reply to your questions in order:
They seem to be pleased with me at the school. I have a life-drawing
"on the wall," a composition sketch, and a "_concours_" study in oil.
That I have not burst to atoms with pride is a miracle inexplicable.
I have been told that my progress at the piano is fair. But I am very
certain I shall do no more with vocal and instrumental music than to
play and sing acceptably for such kind and uncritical friends as do
not demand much of an amateur. Without any unusual gifts, with a
rather sensitive ear, and with a very slightly cultivated and
perfectly childish voice--please do not expect anything from me to
please you.
In French I am already becoming fluent. You see, except for certain
lessons in it, I have scarcely heard a word of English since I came
here; the Princess will not use it to me nor permit its use by me. And
therefore, my ear being a musical one and rather accurate, I find--now
that I look back upon my abysmal ignorance--a very decided progress.
Also let me admit to you--and I have already done so, I see--that,
since I have been here, I have had daily lessons in English with a
cultivated English woman; and in consequence I have been learning to
enlarge a very meagre vocabulary, and have begun to appreciate
possibilities in my own language of which I never dreamed.
About my personal appearance--as long as you ask me--I think perhaps
that, were I less thin, I might be rather pretty. Dress makes such a
vast difference in a plain girl. Also, intelligent care of one's
person improves mediocrity. Of course everybody says such gracious
things to a girl over here that it would not do to accept any pretty
compliment very literally. But I really believe that you might think
me rather nice to look at.
As for the future, the truth is that I feel much encouraged. I made
some drawings in wash and in pen and ink--just ideas of mine. And
Monsieur Bonvard, who is editor of _The Grey Cat_--a very clever
weekly--has accepted them and has paid me twenty-five francs each for
them! I was so astonished that I could not believe it. One has been
reproduced in last week's paper. I have cut it out and pasted it in my
scrapbook.
I think, take it all in all, that seeing my first illustrations
printed has given me greater joy than I shall ever again experience on
earth.
My daily intercourse with the Princess Mistchenka continues to comfort
me, inspire me, and fill me with determination so to educate myself
that when the time comes I shall be ready and able to support myself
with pen and pencil.
And now I must bring my letter to its end. The prospect of seeing you
very soon is agreeable beyond words. You have been very kind to me. I
do not forget it.
Yours very sincerely,
Ruhannah Carew.
* * * * *
The enclosure was a note from the Princess Mistchenka:
* * * * *
Dear Jim:
If in the past it has been my good fortune to add anything to yours,
may I now invoke in you the memory of our very frank and delightful
friendship?
When you first returned to America from Paris I found it possible to
do for you a few favours in the way of making you known to certain
editors. It was, I assure you, merely because I liked you and believed
in your work, not because I ever expected to ask from you any favour
in return.
Now, Fate has thrown an odd combination from her dice-box; and Destiny
has veiled herself so impenetrably that nobody can read that awful
visage to guess what thoughts possess her.
You, in America, have heard of the murder of the Austrian Archduke, of
course. But--have you, in America, any idea what the consequences of
that murder may lead to?
Enough of that. Now for the favour I ask.
Will you go _at once_ to Brookhollow, go to Ruhannah's house, open it,
take from it a chest made of olive wood and bound with some metal
which looks like silver, lock the box, take it to New York, place it
in a safe deposit vault until you can sail for Paris on the first
steamer that leaves New York?
Will you do this--get the box I have described and bring it to me
yourself on the first steamer that sails?
And, Jim, keep your eye on the box. Don't trust anybody near it. Rue
says that, as she recollects, the box is about the size and shape of a
suitcase and that it has a canvas and leather cover with a handle
which buttons over it.
Therefore, you can carry it yourself exactly as though it were your
suitcase, keep it with you in the train and on shipboard.
Will you do this, Jim? It is much to ask of you. I break in upon your
work and cause you great inconvenience and trouble and expense.
But--will you do it for me?
Much depends upon your doing this. I think that possibly the welfare
of your own country might depend on your doing this for me.
If you find yourself embarrassed financially, cable me just one word,
"Black," and I shall arrange matters through a New York bank.
If you feel that you do not care to do me this favour, cable the
single word, "White."
If you have sufficient funds, and are willing to bring the box to me
yourself, cable the word, "Blue."
In case that you undertake this business for me, be careful of the
contents of the box. Let nobody see it open. Be certain that the
contents are absolutely secure. I dare not tell you how vitally
important to civilisation these papers already are--how much they may
mean to the world; what powers of evil they might encourage if in any
way they fall into other hands than the right ones.
Jim, I have seldom taken a very serious tone with you since we have
known each other. I am very serious now. And if our friendship means
anything to you, prove it!
Yours,
Naïa.
* * * * *
As he sat there in his studio, perplexed, amazed, annoyed, yet
curious, trying to think out what he ought to do--what, in fact, must
be done somehow or other--there came a ring at his door bell. A
messenger with a cable despatch stood there; Neeland signed, tore open
the envelope, and read:
* * * * *
Please go at once to Brookhollow and secure an olive-wood box bound
with silver, containing military maps, plans, photographs, and papers
written in German, property of Ruhannah Carew. Lose no time, I implore
you, as an attempt to rob the house and steal the papers is likely.
Beware of anybody resembling a German. Have written, but beg you not
to wait for letter.
Naïa.
* * * * *
Twice he reread the cablegram. Then, with a half-bewildered,
half-disgusted glance around at his studio, his belongings, the
unfinished work on his easel, he went to the telephone.
It being July he had little difficulty in reserving a good stateroom
on the Cunarder _Volhynia_, sailing the following day. Then, summoning
the janitor, he packed a steamer trunk and gave order to have it taken
aboard that evening.
On his way downtown to his bank he stopped at a telegraph and cable
office and sent a cable message to the Princess Mistchenka. The text
consisted of only one word: "Blue."
He departed for Gayfield on the five o'clock afternoon train, carrying
with him a suitcase and an automatic pistol in his breast pocket.