WITH MARY AT MORWEN
"It's terrible, Maurice! If only I could have a line, even a wire, from
her, or her father, just to say she was alive, I wouldn't mind so much."
"She may have written and the letter got lost in transit," I suggested.
"Then why didn't she write again, or wire?" persisted Mary. "And there
are her clothes; why, she hadn't even a second gown with her. I believe
she's dead, Maurice; I do indeed!"
She began to cry softly, poor, dear little woman, and I did not know
what to say to comfort her. I dare not give her the slightest hint as to
what had befallen Anne, or of my own agony of mind concerning her; for
that would only have added to her distress. And I knew now why it was
imperative that she should be spared any extra worry, and, if possible,
be reassured about her friend.
"Nonsense!" I exclaimed. "You'd have heard soon enough if anything had
happened to her. And the clothes prove nothing; her father's a wealthy
man, and, when she found the things didn't arrive, she'd just buy more.
Depend upon it, her father went to meet her when he left the hotel at
Berlin, and they're jaunting off on their travels together all right."
"I don't believe it!" she cried stormily. "Anne would have written to
me again and again, rather than let me endure this suspense. And if one
letter went astray it's impossible that they all should. But you--I
can't understand you, Maurice! You're as unsympathetic as Jim, and
yet--I thought--I was sure--you loved her!"
This was almost more than I could stand.
"God knows I do love her!" I said as steadily as I could. "She will
always be the one woman in the world for me, Mary, even if I never see
or hear of her again. But I'm not going to encourage you in all this
futile worry, nor is Jim. He's not unsympathetic, really, but he knows
how bad it is for you, as you ought to know, too. Anne's your friend,
and you love her dearly--but--remember, you're Jim's wife, and more
precious to him than all the world."
She flushed hotly at that; I saw it, though I was careful not to look
directly at her.
"Yes, I--I know that," she said, almost in a whisper. "And I'll try not
to worry, for his,--for all our sakes. You're right, you dear, kind old
boy; but--"
"We can do nothing," I went on. "Even if she is ill, or in danger, we
can do nothing till we have news of her. But she is in God's hands, as
we all are, little woman."
"I do pray for her, Maurice," she avowed piteously. "But--but--"
"That's all you can do, dear, but it is much also. More things are
wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. Keep on praying--and
trusting--and the prayers will be answered."
She looked at me through her tears, lovingly, but with some
astonishment.
"Why, Maurice, I've never heard you talk like that before."
"I couldn't have said it to any one but you, dear," I said gruffly; and
we were silent for a spell. But she understood me, for we both come from
the same sturdy old Puritan stock; we were both born and reared in the
faith of our fathers; and in this period of doubt and danger and
suffering it was strange how the old teaching came back to me, the firm
fixed belief in God "our refuge and strength, a very present help in
trouble." That faith had led our fathers to the New World, three
centuries ago, had sustained them from one generation to another, in the
face of difficulties and dangers incalculable; had made of them a great
nation; and I knew it now for my most precious heritage.
"_I should utterly have fainted; but that I believe verily to see the
goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. O tarry thou the Lord's
leisure; be strong and He shall comfort thy heart; and put thou thy
trust in the Lord._
"_Through God we will do great acts; and it is He that shall tread down
our enemies._"
Half forgotten for so many years, but familiar enough in my
boyhood,--when my father read a psalm aloud every morning before
breakfast, and his wrath fell on any member of the household who was
absent from "the reading,"--the old words recurred to me with a new
significance in the long hours when I lay brooding over the mystery and
peril which encompassed the girl I loved. They brought strength and
assurance to my soul; they saved me from madness during that long period
of forced inaction that followed my collapse at the police court.
Mary, and Jim, too,--every one about me, in fact,--despaired of my life
for many days, and now that I was again convalescent and they brought me
down to the Cornish cottage, my strength returned very slowly; but all
the more surely since I was determined, as soon as possible, to go in
search of Anne, and I knew I could not undertake that quest with any
hope of success unless I was physically fit.
I had not divulged my intention to any one, nor did I mean to do so if I
could avoid it; certainly I would not allow Mary even to suspect my
purpose. At present I could make no plans, except that of course I
should have to return to Russia under an assumed name; and as a further
precaution I took advantage of my illness to grow a beard and mustache.
They had already got beyond the "stubby" and disreputable stage, and
changed my appearance marvellously.
Mary objected strenuously to the innovation, and declared it made me
"look like a middle-aged foreigner," which was precisely the effect I
hoped for; though, naturally, I didn't let her know that.
Under any other circumstances I would have thoroughly enjoyed my stay
with her and Jim at the cottage, a quaint, old-fashioned place, with a
beautiful garden, sloping down to the edge of the cliffs, where I was
content to sit for hours, watching the sea--calm and sapphire blue in
these August days--and striving to possess my soul in patience. In a
way I did enjoy the peace and quietude, the pure, delicious air; for
they were means to the ends I had in view,--my speedy recovery, and the
beginning of the quest which I must start as soon as possible.
We were sitting in the garden now,--Mary and I alone for once, for Jim
was off to the golf links.
I had known, all along, of course, that she was fretting about Anne; but
I had managed, hitherto, to avoid any discussion of her silence, which,
though more mysterious to Mary than to me, was not less distressing. And
I hoped fervently that she wouldn't resume the subject.
She didn't, for, to my immense relief, as I sat staring at the fuchsia
hedge that screened the approach to the house, I saw a black clerical
hat bobbing along, and got a glimpse of a red face.
"There's a parson coming here," I remarked inanely, and Mary started up,
mopping her eyes with her ridiculous little handkerchief.
"Goodness! It must be the vicar coming to call,--I heard he was
back,--and I'm such a fright! Talk to him, Maurice, and say I'll be down
directly."
She disappeared within the house just as the old-fashioned door-bell
clanged sonorously.
A few seconds later a trim maid-servant--that same tall parlor-maid who
had once before come opportunely on the scene--tripped out, conducting a
handsome old gentleman, whom she announced as "the Reverend George
Treherne."
I rose to greet him, of course.
"I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Treherne," I said, and he could not know
how exceptionally truthful the conventional words were. "I must
introduce myself--Maurice Wynn. My cousin, Mrs. Cayley, will be down
directly; Jim--Mr. Cayley--is on the golf links. Won't you sit
down--right here?"
I politely pulled forward the most comfortable of the wicker chairs.
"Thanks. You're an American, Mr. Wynn?" he asked.
"That's so," I said, wondering how he guessed it so soon.
We got on famously while we waited for Mary, chatting about England in
general and Cornwall in particular. He'd been vicar of Morwen for over
forty years.
I had to confess that I'd not seen much of the neighborhood at present,
though I hoped to do so now I was better.
"It's the loveliest corner in England, sir!" he asserted
enthusiastically. "And there are some fine old houses about; you
Americans are always interested in our old English country seats, aren't
you? Well, you must go to Pencarrow,--a gem of its kind. It belongs to
the Pendennis family, but--"
"Pendennis!" I exclaimed, sitting up in astonishment; "not Anthony
Pendennis!"
He looked at me as if he thought I'd suddenly taken leave of my senses.
"Yes, Anthony Pendennis is the present owner; I knew him well as a young
man. But he has lived abroad for many years. Do you know him?"