Home > Authors Index > Robert W. Chambers > Dark Star > This page
The Dark Star, a novel by Robert W. Chambers |
||
Chapter 13. Letters From A Little Girl |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER XIII. 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:
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 Notre 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 _dejeuner_ 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 naive 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 _protegee_ 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.
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 Academie 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 _dejeuner_ was finished I flew in here to write to you about it? Suzanne is our maid--the maid of Princess Naia, 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 Naia, 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.
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:
The Princess is simply adorable. Always we are busy, Princess Naia 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 Theatre Francais; 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 Charge, 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 attache 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 Naia. 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 Naia 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, Naia 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 Naia 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 Naia; 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 Naia 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 Charge d'Affaires was present at a very large dinner given by Princess Naia. And two curious conversations occurred at that dinner: The Turkish Charge 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 Charge 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 aime de la plus belle--" Ahmed Mirka's handsome attache, 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 attache--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 Naia 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 Charge 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 negligee, 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 Naia, 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.
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.
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!
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. Naia. * * * * * 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. _ |
||