CHAPTER XXVIII
WITH MARY AT MORWEN
"It's terrible, Maurice! If only I could have a line, even a wire, fromher, 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 thereare her clothes; why, she hadn't even a second gown with her. I believeshe's dead, Maurice; I do indeed!"
She began to cry softly, poor, dear little woman, and I did not knowwhat to say to comfort her. I dare not give her the slightest hint as towhat had befallen Anne, or of my own agony of mind concerning her; forthat would only have added to her distress. And I knew now why it wasimperative 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 hadhappened to her. And the clothes prove nothing; her father's a wealthyman, 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 atBerlin, and they're jaunting off on their travels together all right."
"I don't believe it!" she cried stormily. "Anne would have written tome again and again, rather than let me endure this suspense. And if oneletter went astray it's impossible that they all should. But you--Ican't understand you, Maurice! You're as unsympathetic as Jim, andyet--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 willalways be the one woman in the world for me, Mary, even if I never seeor hear of her again. But I'm not going to encourage you in all thisfutile worry, nor is Jim. He's not unsympathetic, really, but he knowshow 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 moreprecious to him than all the world."
She flushed hotly at that; I saw it, though I was careful not to lookdirectly at her.
"Yes, I--I know that," she said, almost in a whisper. "And I'll try notto worry, for his,--for all our sakes. You're right, you dear, kind oldboy; but--"
"We can do nothing," I went on. "Even if she is ill, or in danger, wecan do nothing till we have news of her. But she is in God's hands, aswe 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 arewrought by prayer than this world dreams of. Keep on praying--andtrusting--and the prayers will be answered."
She looked at me through her tears, lovingly, but with someastonishment.
"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; andwe were silent for a spell. But she understood me, for we both come fromthe same sturdy old Puritan stock; we were both born and reared in thefaith of our fathers; and in this period of doubt and danger andsuffering it was strange how the old teaching came back to me, the firmfixed belief in God "our refuge and strength, a very present help introuble." That faith had led our fathers to the New World, threecenturies ago, had sustained them from one generation to another, in theface of difficulties and dangers incalculable; had made of them a greatnation; and I knew it now for my most precious heritage.
"_I should utterly have fainted; but that I believe verily to see thegoodness of the Lord in the land of the living. O tarry thou the Lord'sleisure; be strong and He shall comfort thy heart; and put thou thytrust in the Lord._
"_Through God we will do great acts; and it is He that shall tread downour enemies._"
Half forgotten for so many years, but familiar enough in myboyhood,--when my father read a psalm aloud every morning beforebreakfast, and his wrath fell on any member of the household who wasabsent from "the reading,"--the old words recurred to me with a newsignificance in the long hours when I lay brooding over the mystery andperil which encompassed the girl I loved. They brought strength andassurance to my soul; they saved me from madness during that long periodof forced inaction that followed my collapse at the police court.
Mary, and Jim, too,--every one about me, in fact,--despaired of my lifefor many days, and now that I was again convalescent and they brought medown to the Cornish cottage, my strength returned very slowly; but allthe more surely since I was determined, as soon as possible, to go insearch of Anne, and I knew I could not undertake that quest with anyhope of success unless I was physically fit.
I had not divulged my intention to any one, nor did I mean to do so if Icould avoid it; certainly I would not allow Mary even to suspect mypurpose. At present I could make no plans, except that of course Ishould have to return to Russia under an assumed name; and as a furtherprecaution I took advantage of my illness to grow a beard and mustache.They had already got beyond the "stubby" and disreputable stage, andchanged 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 Ihoped for; though, naturally, I didn't let her know that.
Under any other circumstances I would have thoroughly enjoyed my staywith her and Jim at the cottage, a quaint, old-fashioned place, with abeautiful garden, sloping down to the edge of the cliffs, where I wascontent to sit for hours, watching the sea--calm and sapphire blue inthese August days--and striving to possess my soul in patience. In away I did enjoy the peace and quietude, the pure, delicious air; forthey were means to the ends I had in view,--my speedy recovery, and thebeginning 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 Jimwas off to the golf links.
I had known, all along, of course, that she was fretting about Anne; butI had managed, hitherto, to avoid any discussion of her silence, which,though more mysterious to Mary than to me, was not less distressing. AndI hoped fervently that she wouldn't resume the subject.
She didn't, for, to my immense relief, as I sat staring at the fuchsiahedge that screened the approach to the house, I saw a black clericalhat 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 wasback,--and I'm such a fright! Talk to him, Maurice, and say I'll be downdirectly."
She disappeared within the house just as the old-fashioned door-bellclanged sonorously.
A few seconds later a trim maid-servant--that same tall parlor-maid whohad once before come opportunely on the scene--tripped out, conducting ahandsome old gentleman, whom she announced as "the Reverend GeorgeTreherne."
I rose to greet him, of course.
"I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Treherne," I said, and he could not knowhow exceptionally truthful the conventional words were. "I mustintroduce myself--Maurice Wynn. My cousin, Mrs. Cayley, will be downdirectly; Jim--Mr. Cayley--is on the golf links. Won't you sitdown--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 ingeneral and Cornwall in particular. He'd been vicar of Morwen for overforty 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 assertedenthusiastically. "And there are some fine old houses about; youAmericans are always interested in our old English country seats, aren'tyou? Well, you must go to Pencarrow,--a gem of its kind. It belongs tothe Pendennis family, but--"
"Pendennis!" I exclaimed, sitting up in astonishment; "not AnthonyPendennis!"
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 youngman. But he has lived abroad for many years. Do you know him?"
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