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 aimé de la plus belle—” Ahmed Mirka’s handsome attaché, 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 attaché — 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 Naïa 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 Chargé 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 negligée, 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 Naïa, 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.
Your little Gayfield friend grown up, Ruhannah Carew.
This letter he finally did answer, not voluminously, but with all cordiality. And, in a few days, forgot about it and about the girl to whom it was written. And there was nothing more from her until early summer.
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.
Yours very sincerely,
Ruhannah Carew.
* * * * *
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!
Yours,
Naïa.
* * * * *
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.
Naïa.
* * * * *
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.
CHAPTER XIV
A JOURNEY BEGINS
It was a five-hour trip. He dined aboard the train with little desire for food, the July evening being oppressive, and a thunder storm brewing over the Hudson. It burst in the vicinity of Fishkill with a lively display of lightning, deluging the Catskills with rain. And when he changed to a train on the Mohawk division the cooler air was agreeably noticeable.
He changed trains again at Orangeville, and here the night breeze was delightful and the scent of rain-soaked meadows came through the open car window.
It was nearly ten o’clock and already, ahead, he caught sight of the lights of Neeland’s Mills. Always the homecoming was a keen delight to him; and now, as he stepped off the train, the old familiar odours were in his nostrils — the unique composite perfume of the native place which never can be duplicated elsewhere.
All the sweet and aromatic and homely smells of earth and land and water came to him with his first deep-drawn breath. The rank growth of wild flowers and weeds were part of it — the flat atmosphere of the mill pond, always redolent of water weed and lily pads, tinctured it; distant fields of buckwheat added heavier perfume.
Neither in the quaint brick feed mill nor in the lumber mill were there any lights, but in his own home, almost buried among tall trees and vines, the light streamed from the sitting-room windows.
From the dark yard two or three dogs barked at him, then barked again in a different key, voicing an excited welcome; and he opened the picket gate and went up the path surrounded by demonstrative setters and pointers, leaping and wagging about
him and making a vast amount of noise on the vine-covered verandah as he opened the door, let himself into the house, and shut them out.
“Hello, dad!” he said, crossing swiftly to where his father sat by the reading lamp.
Their powerful grip lingered. Old Dick Neeland, ruddy, white-haired, straight as a pine, stood up in his old slippers and quilted smoking coat, his brier pipe poised in his left hand.
“Splendid, Jim. I’ve been thinking about you this evening.” He might have added that there were few moments when his son was not in his thoughts.
“Are you all right, dad?”
“Absolutely. You are, too, I see.”
They seated themselves.
“Hungry, Jim?”
“No; I dined aboard.”
“You didn’t telegraph me.”
“No; I came at short notice.”
“Can’t you stay?”
“Dad, I have a drawing-room reserved for the midnight tonight, and I am sailing on the Volhynia tomorrow at nine in the morning!”
“God bless me! Why, Jim?”
“Dad, I’ll tell you all I know about it.”
His father sat with brier pipe suspended and keen blue eyes fixed on his son, while the son told everything he knew about the reason for his flying trip to Paris.
“You see how it is, don’t you, dad?” he ended. “The Princess has been a good and loyal friend to me. She has used her influence; I have met, through her, the people I ought to know, and they have given me work to do. I’m in her debt; I’m under real obligation to her. And I’ve got to go, that’s all.”
Old Dick Neeland’s clear eyes of a sportsman continued to study his son’s face.
“Yes, you’ve got to go,” he said. He smoked for a few moments, then: “What the devil does it mean, anyway? Have you any notion, Jim?”
“No, I haven’t. There seems to be some military papers in this box that is mentioned. Evidently they are of value to somebody. Evidently other people have got wind of that fact and desire to obtain them for themselves. It almost seems as though something is brewing over there — trouble of some sort between Germany and some other nation. But I haven’t heard of anything.”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 817