STILL ON THE ROAD
"Will you never learn wisdom?" demanded Mishka, when, after a few
minutes, he returned. "Why could you not rest here in safety?"
"Because I wanted to walk some of my stiffness off," I replied coolly.
"I had quite a good time, and met an old acquaintance."
"Who gave you much interesting news?" he asked, with a sardonic
inflection of his deep voice that made me guess Yossof had told him what
passed at our interview.
"Why, no; I can't say that he did that," I confessed. Already I realized
that I had learned absolutely nothing from the Jew save the new
password, and the fact that he was, or soon would be, in direct
communication with Anne.
Mishka gave an approving grunt.
"There are some who might learn discretion from Yossof," he remarked
sententiously.
"Just so. But who is he, anyhow? He might be 'the wandering Jew'
himself, from the mysterious way he seems to get around the world."
"Who and what he is? That I cannot tell you, for I do not know, or seek
to know, since it is no business of mine. I go to bed; for we must start
betimes in the morning."
Not another word did he speak, beyond a surly "good night;" but, though
I followed his example and got into bed, with my revolver laid handily
on the bolster as he had placed his, hours passed before sleep came to
me. I lay listening to Mishka's snores,--he was a noisy sleeper,--and
thinking of Anne; thinking of that one blissful month in London when I
saw her nearly every day.
How vividly I remembered our first meeting, less than five months back,
though the events of a lifetime seemed to have occurred since then. It
was the evening of my return from South Africa; and I went, of course,
to dine at Chelsea, feeling only a mild curiosity to see this old
school-fellow of Mary's, whose praises she sang so enthusiastically.
"She was always the prettiest and smartest girl in the school, but now
she's just the loveliest creature you ever saw," Mary had declared; and
though I wasn't rude enough to say so, I guessed I was not likely to
endorse that verdict.
But when I saw Anne my scepticism vanished. I think I loved her from
that first moment, when she came sweeping into Mary's drawing-room in a
gown of some gauzy brown stuff, almost the color of her glorious hair,
with a bunch of white lilies at her bosom. She greeted me with a frank
friendliness that was much more like an American than an English girl;
indeed, even then, I never thought of her as English. She was, as her
father had told his friend Treherne he meant her to be, "cosmopolitan to
her finger-tips." She even spoke English with a curious precision and
deliberation, as one speaks a language one knows perfectly, but does not
use familiarly. She once confided to me that she always "thought" either
in French or German, preferably French.
Strange that neither Mary nor I ever imagined there was any mystery in
her life; ever guessed how much lay behind her frank allusions to her
father, and the nomadic existence they had led. I wondered, for the
thousandth time, how it was that Jim first suspected her of concealing
something. How angry I was at him when he hinted his suspicions; and yet
he had hit on the exact truth! I knew now that her visit to Mary was not
what it had seemed,--but that she had seized upon the opportunity
presented by the invitation to snatch a brief interval of peace, and
comparative safety. If she had happened to encounter Cassavetti earlier,
doubtless her visit would have terminated then. Yes, that must be the
explanation; and how splendidly she had played her dangerous part!
I hated to think of all the duplicity that part entailed; I would not
think of it. The part was thrust on her, from her birth, by her
upbringing, and if she played it gallantly, fearlessly, resourcefully,
the more honor to her. But it was a bitter thought that Fortune should
have thrust all this upon her!
As I lay there in that frowzy room, staring at a shaft of moonlight that
came through a chink in the shutters, making a bar of light in the
darkness like a great, unsheathed sword, her face was ever before my
mind's eyes, vividly as if she were indeed present,--the lovely mobile
face, "growing and fading and growing before me without a sound," now
sparkling with mirth, now haughty as that of a petulant young queen
towards a disfavored courtier. Mary used to call her "dear Lady Disdain"
when she was in that mood. Again, it appeared pale and set as I had seen
it last, the wide brilliant eyes flashing indignant defiance at her
accusers; but more often with the strange, softened, wistful expression
it had worn when we stood together under the portico of the Cecil on
that fatal night; and when she waved me good-bye at Charing Cross.
In those moments one phase of her complex nature had been uppermost; and
in those moments she loved me,--me, Maurice Wynn, not Loris Solovieff,
or any other!
I would not have relinquished that belief to save my soul; although I
knew well that the mood was necessarily a transient one. She had devoted
her beauty, her talents, her splendid courage, her very life, to a
hopeless cause. She was as a queen, whose realm is beset with dangers
and difficulties, and who therefore can spare little or no thought for
aught save affairs of state; and I was as the page who loved her, and
whom she might have loved in return if she had been but a simple
gentlewoman. Once more I told myself that I would be content if I could
only play the page's part, and serve her in life and death, "_a la vie
et a la mort_" as the new password ran; but how was I even to begin
doing that?
An unanswerable question! I must just go on blindly, as Fate led me; and
Fate at this moment was prosaically represented by Mishka. Great Scott,
how he snored!
We were astir early; I seemed to have just fallen asleep when Mishka
roused me and announced that breakfast was waiting, and the horses
ready.
We rode swiftly, and for the most part in silence, as my companion was
even less communicative than usual. I noticed, as we drew near to
Zostrov, a change for the better in the aspect of the country and the
people. The last twenty versts was over an excellent road, while the
streets of the village where we found our change of horses waiting, and
of two others beyond, were comparatively clean and well-kept, with
sidewalks laid with wooden blocks. The huts were more weather-tight and
comfortable,--outside at any rate. The land was better cultivated, too,
and the _moujiks_, though most of them scowled evilly at us, looked
better fed and better clothed than any we had seen before. They all wore
high boots,--a sure sign of prosperity. Yesterday boots were the
exception, and most of the people, both men and women, were shod with a
kind of moccasin made of plaited grass, and had their limbs swathed in
ragged strips of cloth kept clumsily in place with grass-string.
"It is his doing," Mishka condescended to explain. "His and my father's.
He gives the word and the money, and my father and those under him do
the rest. They try to teach these lazy swine to work for their own
sakes,--to make the best of their land; it is to further that end that
all the new gear is coming. They will have the use of it--these
pigs--for nothing. They will not even give thanks; rather will they turn
and bite the hand that helps them; that tries to raise them out of the
mud in which they wallow!"
He spat vigorously, as a kind of corollary to his remarks.
As he spoke we were skirting a little pine wood just beyond the village,
and a few yards further the road wound clear of the trees and out across
an open plain, in the centre of which rose a huge, square building of
gray stone, crowned with a cupola that gleamed red in the rays of the
setting sun.
"The castle!" Mishka grunted.
"It looks more like a prison!" I exclaimed involuntarily. It was a grim,
sinister-looking pile, even with the sun upon it.
Mishka did not answer immediately. There was a clatter and jingle behind
us, and out of the wood rode a company of horsemen, all in uniform. Two
rode ahead of the rest, one of them the Grand Duke himself.
Mishka reined up at the roadside, and sat at the salute, and I followed
his example.
The Duke did not even glance in our direction as he passed, though he
acknowledged our salute in soldierly fashion.
We wheeled our horses and followed well in the rear of the imposing
escort,--a whole troop of cavalry.
"You are right," Mishka said, in a husky growl, that with him
represented a whisper. "It is a prison, and yonder goes the prisoner.
You will do well to remember that in your dealings with him, Herr
Gould."