CHAPTER XXVIII
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?”
CHAPTER XXIX
LIGHT ON THE PAST
“Yes, I’ve met him once, under very strange circumstances,” I answered. “I’d like to tell them to you; but not now. I don’t want my cousin to know anything about it,” I added hastily, for I heard Mary’s voice speaking to the maid, and knew she would be out in another minute.
“May I come and see you, Mr. Treherne? I’ve a very special reason for asking.”
He must have thought me a polite lunatic, but he said courteously:
“I shall be delighted to see you at the vicarage, Mr. Wynn, and to hear any news you can give me concerning my old friend. Perhaps you could come this evening?”
I accepted the invitation with alacrity.
“Thanks; that’s very good of you. I’ll come round after dinner, then. But please don’t mention the Pendennises to my cousin, unless she does so first. I’ll explain why, later.”
There was no time for more, as Mary reappeared.
A splendid old gentleman was the Rev. George Treherne. Although he must certainly have been puzzled by my manner and my requests, he concealed the fact admirably, and steered clear of any reference to Pencarrow or its owner; though, of course, he talked a lot about his beloved Cornwall while we had tea.
“He’s charming!” Mary declared, after he had gone. “Though why a man like that should be a bachelor beats me, when there are such hordes of nice women in England who would get married if they could, only there aren’t enough men to go round! I guess I’ll ask Jane Fraser.”
She paused meditatively, chin on hand.
“No, – Jane’s all right, but she’d just worry him to death; there’s no repose about Jane! Margaret Haynes, now; she looks early Victorian, though she can’t be much over thirty. She’d just suit him, – and that nice old vicarage. I’ll write and ask her to come down for a week or two, – right now! What do you think, Maurice?”
“That you’re the most inveterate little matchmaker in the world. Why can’t you leave the poor old man in peace?” I answered, secretly relieved that she had, for the moment, forgotten her anxiety about Anne.
She laughed.
“Bachelorhood isn’t peace; it’s desolation!” she declared. “I’m sure he’s lonely in that big house. What was that he said about expecting you to-night?”
“I’m going to call round after dinner and get hold of some facts on Cornish history,” I said evasively.
I hadn’t the faintest notion as to what I expected to learn from him, but the moment he had said he knew Anthony Pendennis the thought flashed to my mind that he might be able to give me some clue to the mystery that enveloped Anne and her father; and that might help me to shape my plans.
I would, of course, have to tell him the reason for my inquiries, and convince him that they were not prompted by mere curiosity. I was filled with a queer sense of suppressed excitement as I walked briskly up the steep lane and through the churchyard, – ghostly looking in the moonlight, – which was the shortest way to the vicarage, a picturesque old house that Mary and I had already viewed from the outside, and judged to be Jacobean in period. As I was shown into a low-ceiled room, panelled and furnished with black oak, where the vicar sat beside a log fire, blazing cheerily in the great open fireplace, I felt as if I’d been transported back to the seventeenth century. The only anachronisms were my host’s costume and my own, and the box of cigars on the table beside him, companioning a decanter of wine and a couple of tall, slender glasses that would have rejoiced a connoisseur’s heart.
Mr. Treherne welcomed me genially.
“You won’t find the fire too much? There are very few nights in our West Country, here by the sea at any rate, when a fire isn’t a comfort after sunset; a companion, too, for a lonely man, eh? It’s very good of you to come round to-night, Mr. Wynn. I have very few visitors, as you may imagine. And so you have met my old friend, Anthony Pendennis?”
I was thankful of the opening he afforded me, and answered promptly.
“Yes; but only once, and in an extraordinary way. I’ll tell you all about it, Mr. Treherne; and in return I ask you to give me every bit of information you may possess about him. I shall respect your confidence, as, I am sure, you will respect mine.”
“Most certainly I shall do that, Mr. Wynn,” he said with quiet emphasis, and forthwith I plunged into my story, refraining only from any allusion to Anne’s connection with Cassavetti’s murder. That, I was determined, I would never mention to any living soul; determined also to deny it pointblank if any one should suggest it to me.
He listened with absorbed interest, and without any comment; only interposing a question now and then.
“It is astounding!” he said gravely at last. “And so that poor child has been drawn into the whirlpool of Russian politics, as her mother was before her, – to perish as she did!”
“Her mother?” I asked.
“Yes, did she – Anne Pendennis – never tell you, or your cousin, her mother’s history?”
“Never. I doubt if she knew it herself. She cannot remember her mother at all; only an old nurse who died some years ago. Do you know her mother’s history, sir?”
“Partly; I’ll tell you all I do know, Mr. Wynn, – confidence for confidence, as you said just now. She was a Polish lady, – the Countess Anna Vassilitzi; I think that was the name, though after her marriage she dropped her title, and was known here in England merely as Mrs. Anthony Pendennis. Her father and brother were Polish noblemen, who, like so many others of their race and rank, had been ruined by Russian aggression; but I believe that, at the time when Anthony met and fell in love with her, – not long before the assassination of the Tzar Alexander the Second, – the brother and sister at least were in considerable favor at the Russian Court; though whether they used their position there for the purpose of furthering the political intrigues in which, as transpired later, they were both involved, I really cannot say. I fear it is very probable.
“I remember well the distress of Mr. and Mrs. Pendennis, – Anthony’s parents, – when he wrote and announced his engagement to the young countess. He was their only child, and they had all the old-fashioned English prejudice against ‘foreigners’ of every description. Still they did not withhold their consent; it would have been useless to do so, for Anthony was of age, and had ample means of his own. He did not bring his wife home, however, after their marriage; they remained in Russia for nearly a year, but at last, soon after the murder of the Tzar, they came to England, – to Pencarrow.
“They did not stay many weeks; but during that period I saw a good deal of them. Anthony and I had always been good friends, though he was several years my junior, and we were of entirely different temperaments; his was, and is, I have no doubt, a restless, romantic disposition. His people ought to have made a soldier or sailor of him, instead of expecting him to settle down to the humdrum life of a country gentleman! While as for his wife – ”
He paused and stared hard at the ruddy glow of the firelight, as if he could see something pictured therein, something that brought a strange wistfulness to his fine old face.
“She was the loveliest and most charming woman I’ve ever seen!” he resumed emphatically. “As witty as she was beautiful; a gracious wit, – not the wit that wounds, no, no! ‘A perfect woman nobly planned’ – that was Anna Pendennis; to see her, to know her, was to love her! Did I say just now that she misused her influence at the Russian Court in the attempt to further what she believed to be a right and holy cause – the cause of freedom for an oppressed people? God forgive me if I did! At least she had no share in the diabolical plot that succeeded all too well, – the assassination of the only broad-minded and humane autocrat Russia has ever known. I’m a man of peace, sir, but I’d horsewhip any man who dared to say to my face that Anna Pendennis was a woman who lent herself to that devilry, or any other of the kind – yes, I’d do that even now, after the lapse of twenty-five years!”
“I know,” I said huskily. “That’s just how I feel about Anne. She must be very like her mother!”
CHAPTER XXX
A BYGONE TRAGEDY
He sat so long silent after that outburst that I feared he might not be willing to tell me any more of what I was painfully eager to hear.
“Did she – the Countess Anna – die here, sir?” I asked at last.
He roused himself with a start.
“I beg your pardon; I had almost forgotten you were there,” he said apologetically. “Die here? No; better, far better for her if she had! Still, she was not happy here. The old people did not like her; did not try to like her; though I don’t know how they could have held out against her, for she did her best to conciliate them, to conform to their narrow ways, – except to the extent of coming to church with them. She was a devout Roman Catholic, and she explained to me once how the tenacity with which the Polish gentry held to their religious views was one more cause of offence against them in the eyes of the Russian bureaucracy and episcopacy. I don’t think Mrs. Pendennis – Anthony’s mother – ever forgave me for the view I took of this matter; she threatened to write to the bishop. She was a masterful old lady – and I believe she would have done it, too, if Anthony and his wife had remained in the neighborhood. But the friction became unbearable, and he took her away. I never saw her again; never again!
“They went to London for a time; and from there they both wrote to me. We corresponded frequently, and they invited me to go and stay with them, but I never went. Then – it was in the autumn of ’83 – they returned to Russia, and the letters were less frequent. They were nearly always from Anna; Anthony was never a good correspondent! I do not know even now whether he wrote to his parents, or they to him.
“I had had no news from Russia for some months, when Mr. Pendennis died suddenly; he had been ailing for a long time, but the end came quite unexpectedly. Anthony was telegraphed for and came as quickly as possible. I saw very little of him during his stay, a few days only, during which he had to get through a great amount of business; but I learned that his wife was in a delicate state of health, and he was desperately anxious about her. I fear he got very little sympathy from his mother, whose aversion for her daughter-in-law had increased, if that were possible, during their separation. Poor woman! Her rancour brought its own punishment! She and her son parted in anger, never to meet again. She only heard from him once, – about a month after he left, to return to Russia; and then he wrote briefly, brutally in a way, though I know he was half mad at the time.
“‘My wife is dead, though not in childbirth. If I had been with her, I could have saved her,’ he wrote. ‘You wished her dead, and now your wish is granted; but I also am dead to you. I shall never return to England; I shall never bring my child home to the house where her mother was an alien.’
“He has kept his word, as you know. He did not write to me at all; and it was years before I heard what had happened during his absence, and on his return. When he reached the frontier he was arrested and detained in prison for several days. Then, on consideration of the fact that he was a British subject – ”
“That doesn’t weigh for much in Russia to-day,” I interpolated.
“It did then. He was informed that his wife had been arrested as an accomplice in a Nihilist plot; that she had been condemned to transportation to Siberia, but had died before the sentence could be executed. Also that her infant, born a few days before her arrest, had been deported, with its nurse, and was probably awaiting him at Konigsberg. Finally he himself was conducted to the frontier again, and expelled from ‘Holy Russia.’ The one bit of comfort was the child, whom he found safe and sound under the care of the nurse, a German who had taken refuge with her kinsfolk in Konigsberg, and who confirmed the terrible story.
“I heard all this about ten years ago,” Treherne continued, “when by the purest chance I met Pendennis in Switzerland. I was weather-bound by a premature snowstorm for a couple of days, and among my fellow sufferers at the little hostelry were Anthony and his daughter.”
“Anne herself! What was she like?” I asked eagerly.
“A beautiful girl, – the image of her dead mother,” he answered slowly. “Or what her mother must have been at that age. She was then about – let me see – twelve or thirteen, but she seemed older; not what we call a precocious child, but womanly beyond her years, and devoted to her father, as he to her. I took him to task; tried to persuade him to come back to England, – to his own home, – if only for his daughter’s sake. But he would not listen to me.
“‘Anne shall be brought up as a citizeness of the world,’ he declared. ‘She shall never be subjected to the limitations of life in England.’
“I must say they seemed happy enough together!” he added with a sigh.
“Well, that is all I have to tell you, Mr. Wynn. From that day to this I have neither seen nor heard aught of Anthony Pendennis and his daughter; but I fear there is no doubt that he has allowed her – possibly even encouraged her – to become involved with some of these terrible secret societies, that do no good, but incalculable harm. Perhaps he may have inspired her with an insane idea of avenging her mother; and now she has shared her mother’s fate!”
“I will not believe that till I have proof positive,” I said slowly.
“But how can you get such proof?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet; but I’m going to seek it – to seek her!”
“You will return to Russia?”
“Why, yes; I meant to do that all along; whatever you might have told me would have made no difference to that determination!”
“But, my dear young man, you will be simply throwing your life away!” he remonstrated.
“I think not, and it’s not very valuable, anyway. I thank you for your story, sir; it helps me to understand things a bit, – Anne’s motive, and her father’s; and it gives me a little hope that they may have escaped, for the time, anyhow. He evidently knew the neighborhood well, or he couldn’t have turned up at that meeting; and if once he could get her safely back to Petersburg, he could claim protection for them both at the Embassy, though – ”
“If he had been able to do that, surely he or she would have communicated with your cousin, Mrs. Cayley?” he asked, speaking the thought that was in my own mind.
“That’s so; still there’s no use in conjecturing. You’ll not let my cousin get even a hint of what I’ve told you, Mr. Treherne? If she finds out that Pencarrow belongs to Mr. Pendennis, she’ll surely cross-question you about him, and Mary’s so sharp that she’ll see at once you’re concealing something from her, if you’re not very discreet.”
“Thanks for the warning. I promise you that I’ll be very discreet, Mr. Wynn,” he assured me. “Dear me – dear me, it seems incredible that such things should be!”
It did seem incredible, there in that peaceful old-world room, with never a sound to break the silence but the lazy murmur of the waves, far below; heard faintly but distinctly, – a weird, monotonous, never ceasing undersong.
We parted cordially; he came right out to the porch, and I was afraid he might offer to walk some of the way with me. I wanted to be alone to try and fix things up in my mind; for though the history of Anne’s parentage gave me a clue to her motives, there was much that still perplexed me.
Why had she always told Mary that she knew nothing of Russia, – had never been there? Well, doubtless that was partly for Mary’s own sake, to spare her anxiety, and partly because of the vital necessity for secrecy; but a mere evasion would have served as well as the direct assertion, – I hated to call it a lie even in my own mind! And why, oh why had she not trusted me, let me serve her; for she knew, she must have known – that I asked for nothing better than that!
But I could come to no conclusion whatever as I leaned against the churchyard wall, gazing out over the sea, dark and mysterious save where the moonlight made a silver track across the calm surface. As well try to fathom the secret of the sea as the mystery that enshrouded Anne Pendennis!
On one point only I was more resolved than ever, – to return to Russia at the earliest possible moment.