ENGLAND ONCE MORE
I started up at that.
"Fraulein Pendennis!" I gasped. "You know her?"
"I should do so, after nursing her through such an illness,--and so
short a time since!"
"But,--when did you nurse her,--where?"
"Why, here; not in this room, but in the hotel. It is three--no, nearer
four months since; she also was taken ill on her way from Russia. There
is a strange coincidence! But hers was a much more severe illness. We
did not think she could possibly recover; and for weeks we feared for
her brain. She had suffered some great shock; though the Herr, her
father, would not say what it was--"
She looked at me interrogatively; but I had no mind to satisfy her
curiosity, though I guessed at once what the "shock" must have been, and
that Anne had broken down after the strain of that night in the forest
near Petersburg and all that had gone before it. She had never referred
to this illness; that was so like her. Anything that concerned herself,
personally, she always regarded as insignificant, but I thought now that
it had a good deal to do with her worn appearance.
"And Herr Pendennis, where is he?" I demanded next.
"I do not know; they left together, when the Fraulein was at last able
to travel. Ah, but they are devoted to each other, those two! It is
beautiful to see such affection in these days when young people so often
seem to despise their parents."
It was strange, very strange. The more I tried to puzzle things out, the
more hopeless the tangle appeared. Why had Pendennis allowed her to
return alone to Russia, especially after she had come through such a
severe illness? Of course he might be attached to some other branch of
the League, but it seemed unlikely that he would allow himself to be
separated from her, when he must have known that she would be surrounded
by greater perils than ever. I decided that I could say nothing to this
garrulous woman--kindly though she was--or to any other stranger. I
dreaded the time when I would have to tell Mary something at least of
the truth; though even to her I would never reveal the whole of it.
The manager came to my room presently, bringing my money and papers, and
the miniature, which he had taken charge of; lucky it was for me that I
had fallen into honest hands when I reached Berlin!
He addressed me as "Herr Gould" of course, and was full of curiosity to
know how I got through, and if things were as bad in Warsaw as the
newspapers reported. Berlin was full of Russian refugees; but he had not
met one from Warsaw.
"They say the Governor will issue no passports permitting Poles to leave
the city," he said. "But you are an American, which makes all the
difference."
"I guess so," I responded, wondering how Loris had managed to obtain
that passport, and if it would have served to get me through if I had
started from the city instead of making that long _detour_ to Kutno.
I assured my host that the state of affairs in the city of terror I had
left was indescribable, and I'd rather not discuss it. He seemed quite
disappointed, and with a queer flash of memory I recalled how the little
chattering woman--I forget her name--had been just as disappointed when
I didn't give details about Cassavetti's murder on that Sunday evening
in Mary's garden. There are a lot of people in this world who have an
insatiable appetite for horrors,--when they can get them at second-hand.
"They say it's like the days of the terror in the 'sixties' over
again,--tortures and shootings and knoutings; and that the Cossacks
stripped a woman and knouted her to death one day last week; did you
hear of that?"
"I tell you I don't mean to speak of anything that I've seen or heard!"
I said, feeling that I wanted to kick him. He apologized profusely, and
then made me wince again by referring to the miniature, with more
apologies for looking at it, when he thought it necessary to take
possession of it.
"But we know the so-amiable Fraulein and Herr Pendennis so well; they
have often stayed here," he explained. "And it is such a marvellous
likeness; painted quite recently too, since the illness from which the
Fraulein has so happily recovered!"
I muttered something vague, and managed to get rid of him on the plea
that I felt too bad to talk any more, which drew fresh apologies; but
when he had gone I examined the miniature more closely than I'd had an
opportunity of doing since Loris gave it me.
It was not recently painted, I was quite sure of that, and yet it
certainly did show her as I had known her during these last few weeks,
before death printed that terrible change on her face,--and not as she
was in London. But that must be my imagination; the artist had caught
her expression at a moment when she was grave and sad; no, not exactly
sad, for the lips and eyes were smiling,--a faint, wistful, inscrutable
smile like the smile of the Sphinx, as it gazes across the
desert--across the world, into space, and eternity.
As I gazed on the brave sweet face, the sordid misery that had enveloped
my soul ever since that awful moment when I saw her dead body borne
past, in the square, was lifted; and I knew that the last poignant agony
was the end of a long path of thorns that she had trodden unflinchingly,
with royal courage and endurance for weary months and years; that she
was at peace, purified by her love, by her suffering, from all taint of
earth.
"Dumb lies the world; the wild-yelling world with all its madness is
behind thee!"
* * * * *
I started for England next evening, and travelled right through. I sent
one wire to Jim from Berlin and another from Flushing,--where I found a
reply from him waiting me. "All well, meeting you."
That "all well" reassured me, for now that I had leisure to think, my
conscience told me how badly I'd treated him and Mary. It's true that
before I started from London with Mishka I wrote saying that I was off
on secret service and they must not expect to hear from me for a time,
but I should be all right. That was to smooth Mary down, for I knew what
she was,--dear little soul,--and I didn't want her to be fretting about
me. If she once got any notion of my real destination, she'd have
fretted herself into a fever. But if she hadn't guessed at the truth, I
might be able to evade telling her anything at all; perhaps I might
pitch a yarn about having been to Tibet, or Korea, for she would
certainly want to know something of the reason for my changed
appearance. I scarcely recognized myself when I looked at my reflection
in the bedroom mirror at Berlin. A haggard, unkempt ruffian,
gray-haired, and with hollow eyes staring out of a white face,
disfigured by a half-healed cut across the forehead. I certainly was a
miserable looking object, even when I'd had my hair cut and my beard
shaved, since I no longer needed it as a disguise. Mary had always
disliked that beard, but I doubted if she'd know me, even without it.
I landed at Queensboro' on a typical English November afternoon; raw and
dark, with a drizzle falling that threatened every moment to thicken
into a regular fog. There were very few passengers, and I thought at
first I was going to have the compartment to myself; but, at the last
moment, a man got in whom I recognized at once as Lord Southbourne. I
hadn't seen him on the boat; doubtless he'd secured a private stateroom.
He just glanced at me casually,--I had my fur cap well pulled
down,--settled himself in his corner, and started reading a London
paper,--one of his own among them. He'd brought a sheaf of them in with
him; though I'd contented myself with _The Courier_. It was pleasant to
see the familiar rag once more. I hadn't set eyes on a copy since I left
England.
I didn't speak to Southbourne, though; I don't quite know why, except
that I felt like a kind of Rip van Winkle, though I'd only been away a
little more than a couple of months. And somehow I dreaded that lazy but
penetrating stare of his, and the questions he would certainly fire off
at me. So I lay low and said nothing; keeping the paper well before my
face, till we stopped at Herne Hill for tickets to be taken. As the
train started again, he threw down his paper, and moved opposite me, and
held out his hand.
"Hello, Wynn!" he drawled. "Is it you or your ghost? Didn't you know me?
Or do you mean to cut me? Why, man alive, what's wrong?" he added, with
a quick change of tone. I'd only heard him speak like that once
before,--in the magistrate's room at the police court, after the murder
charge was dismissed.
"Nothing; except that we've had a beastly crossing," I answered, with a
poor attempt at jauntiness.
"Where have you come from,--Russia?" he demanded.
I nodded.
"H'm! So you went back, after all. I thought as much! Who's had your
copy?"
"I've sent none; I went on private business," I protested hotly. It
angered me that he should think me capable of going back on him.
"I oughtn't to have said that; I apologize," he said stiffly, still
staring at me intently. "But--what on earth have you been up to? More
prison experiences? Well, keep your own counsel, of course. I've kept it
for you,--as far as I knew it. Mrs. Cayley believes I've sent you off to
the ends of the earth; and I've been mendaciously assuring her that
you're all right,--though Miss Pendennis has had her doubts, and nearly
bowled me out, once or twice."
"Miss--_who_?" I shouted.
"Miss Pendennis, of course. Didn't you know she was staying with your
cousin again? A queer coincidence about that portrait! Hello, here we
are at Victoria. And there's Cayley!"