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 toknow anything about it," I added hastily, for I heard Mary's voicespeaking 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 forasking."
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 hearany news you can give me concerning my old friend. Perhaps you couldcome 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 doesso 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 mustcertainly have been puzzled by my manner and my requests, he concealedthe fact admirably, and steered clear of any reference to Pencarrow orits owner; though, of course, he talked a lot about his belovedCornwall while we had tea.
"He's charming!" Mary declared, after he had gone. "Though why a manlike that should be a bachelor beats me, when there are such hordes ofnice women in England who would get married if they could, only therearen'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 norepose about Jane! Margaret Haynes, now; she looks early Victorian,though she can't be much over thirty. She'd just suit him,--and thatnice old vicarage. I'll write and ask her to come down for a week ortwo,--right now! What do you think, Maurice?"
"That you're the most inveterate little matchmaker in the world. Whycan't you leave the poor old man in peace?" I answered, secretlyrelieved that she had, for the moment, forgotten her anxiety about Anne.
She laughed.
"Bachelorhood isn't peace; it's desolation!" she declared. "I'm surehe's lonely in that big house. What was that he said about expecting youto-night?"
"I'm going to call round after dinner and get hold of some facts onCornish 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 flashedto my mind that he might be able to give me some clue to the mysterythat enveloped Anne and her father; and that might help me to shape myplans.
I would, of course, have to tell him the reason for my inquiries, andconvince him that they were not prompted by mere curiosity. I was filledwith a queer sense of suppressed excitement as I walked briskly up thesteep lane and through the churchyard,--ghostly looking in themoonlight,--which was the shortest way to the vicarage, a picturesqueold house that Mary and I had already viewed from the outside, andjudged 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 logfire, blazing cheerily in the great open fireplace, I felt as if I'dbeen transported back to the seventeenth century. The only anachronismswere my host's costume and my own, and the box of cigars on the tablebeside 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 WestCountry, here by the sea at any rate, when a fire isn't a comfort aftersunset; a companion, too, for a lonely man, eh? It's very good of you tocome round to-night, Mr. Wynn. I have very few visitors, as you mayimagine. 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 allabout it, Mr. Treherne; and in return I ask you to give me every bit ofinformation 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 allusionto Anne's connection with Cassavetti's murder. That, I was determined, Iwould never mention to any living soul; determined also to deny itpointblank if any one should suggest it to me.
He listened with absorbed interest, and without any comment; onlyinterposing a question now and then.
"It is astounding!" he said gravely at last. "And so that poor child hasbeen drawn into the whirlpool of Russian politics, as her mother wasbefore her,--to perish as she did!"
"Her mother?" I asked.
"Yes, did she--Anne Pendennis--never tell you, or your cousin, hermother's history?"
"Never. I doubt if she knew it herself. She cannot remember her motherat all; only an old nurse who died some years ago. Do you know hermother's history, sir?"
"Partly; I'll tell you all I do know, Mr. Wynn,--confidence forconfidence, as you said just now. She was a Polish lady,--the CountessAnna Vassilitzi; I think that was the name, though after her marriageshe 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 Russianaggression; but I believe that, at the time when Anthony met and fell inlove with her,--not long before the assassination of the Tzar Alexanderthe Second,--the brother and sister at least were in considerable favorat the Russian Court; though whether they used their position there forthe purpose of furthering the political intrigues in which, astranspired later, they were both involved, I really cannot say. I fearit is very probable.
"I remember well the distress of Mr. and Mrs. Pendennis,--Anthony'sparents,--when he wrote and announced his engagement to the youngcountess. He was their only child, and they had all the old-fashionedEnglish prejudice against 'foreigners' of every description. Still theydid not withhold their consent; it would have been useless to do so, forAnthony was of age, and had ample means of his own. He did not bring hiswife home, however, after their marriage; they remained in Russia fornearly a year, but at last, soon after the murder of the Tzar, they cameto England,--to Pencarrow.
"They did not stay many weeks; but during that period I saw a good dealof them. Anthony and I had always been good friends, though he wasseveral years my junior, and we were of entirely different temperaments;his was, and is, I have no doubt, a restless, romantic disposition. Hispeople ought to have made a soldier or sailor of him, instead ofexpecting 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 hecould see something pictured therein, something that brought a strangewistfulness to his fine old face.
"She was the loveliest and most charming woman I've ever seen!" heresumed emphatically. "As witty as she was beautiful; a graciouswit,--not the wit that wounds, no, no! 'A perfect woman noblyplanned'--that was Anna Pendennis; to see her, to know her, was to loveher! Did I say just now that she misused her influence at the RussianCourt in the attempt to further what she believed to be a right and holycause--the cause of freedom for an oppressed people? God forgive me if Idid! At least she had no share in the diabolical plot that succeeded alltoo well,--the assassination of the only broad-minded and humaneautocrat Russia has ever known. I'm a man of peace, sir, but I'dhorsewhip any man who dared to say to my face that Anna Pendennis was awoman 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 mustbe very like her mother!"
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