CHAPTER XIII
LETTERS FROM A LITTLE GIRL
Neeland had several letters from Ruhannah Carew that autumn andwinter. The first one was written a few weeks after her arrival inParis:
* * * * *
Dear Mr. Neeland:
Please forgive me for writing to you, but I am homesick.
I have written every week to mother and have made my letters read asthough I were still married, because it would almost kill her if sheknew the truth.
Some day I shall have to tell her, but not yet. Could you tell me howyou 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 andher 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 broodingover my terrible fall. I know it is immoral to say so, but I did notwant to live any longer, truly I didn't. I even asked to be taken. Iam sorry now that I prayed that way.
Well, I have passed through the most awful part of my life, I think. Ifeel strange and different, as though I had been very sick, and haddied, 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 neverhave it. Girls dream many foolish things about the future. They havesuch dear, silly hopes.
All dreams are ended for me; all that remains in life for me is towork very hard so that I can learn to support myself and my parents. Ishould like to make a great deal of money so that when I die I canleave it to charity. I desire to be remembered for my good works. Butof course I shall first have to learn how to take care of myself andmother and father before I can aid the poor. I often think of becominga nun and going out to nurse lepers. Only I don't know where there areany. Do you?
Paris is very large and a sort of silvery grey colour, full of treeswith yellowing leaves--but Oh, it is _so_ lonely, Mr. Neeland! I amdetermined not to cry every day, but it is quite difficult not to. Andthen there are so many, many people, and they all talk French! Theytalk very fast, too, even the little children.
This seems such an ungrateful letter to write you, who were so goodand kind to me in my dreadful hour of trial and disgrace. I am afraidyou won't understand how full of gratitude I am, to you and to thePrincess Mistchenka.
I have the prettiest little bedroom in her house. There is a pinkshade on my night lamp. She insisted that I go home with her, and Ihad to, because I didn't know where else to go, and she wouldn't tellme. In fact, I can't go anywhere or find any place because I speak noFrench at all. It's humiliating, isn't it, for even the very littlechildren speak French in Paris.
But I have begun to learn; a cheerful old lady comes for an hour everyday to teach me. Only it is very hard for me, because she speaks noEnglish and I am forbidden to utter one word of my own language. Andso far I understand nothing that she says, which makes me more lonelythan I ever was in all my life. But sometimes it is so absurd that weboth laugh.
I am to study drawing and painting at a studio for women. The kindPrincess 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, butthe Princess Mistchenka, who has asked me to let her take charge of mymoney and my expenses, says that I can easily afford it. She knows, ofcourse, what things cost, and what I am able to afford; and I trusther willingly because she is so dear and sweet to me, but I am alittle frightened at the dresses she is having made for me. They_can't_ be inexpensive!--Such lovely clothes and shoes and hats--andother things about which I never even heard in Brookhollow.
I ought to be happy, Mr. Neeland, but everything is so new andstrange--even Sunday is not restful; and how different is Notre Damede Paris and Saint Eustache from our church at Gayfield! The higharches and jewelled windows and the candles and the dull roar of theorgan drove from my mind those quiet and solemn thoughts of God whichalways filled my mind so naturally and peacefully in our church athome. I couldn't think of Him; I couldn't even try to pray; it was asthough an ocean were rolling and thundering over me where I laydrowned 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!_"--whichcounts _two_, doesn't it?--or three in all.
It has made me feel better to write to you. I hope you will not thinkit a presumption.
And now I shall say thank you for your great kindness to me in yourstudio on that most frightful night of my life. It is one of thosethings that a girl can never, never forget--your aid in my hour ofneed. Through all my shame and distress it was your help thatsustained me; for I was so stunned by my disgrace that I even forgotGod himself.
But I _will_ prove that I am thankful to Him, and worthy of yourgoodness to me; I _will_ profit by this dreadful humiliation anddevote my life to a more worthy and lofty purpose than merely gettingmarried just because a man asked me so persistently and I was tooyoung and ignorant to continue saying no! Also, I _did_ want to studyart. How stupid, how immoral I was!
And now nobody would ever want to marry me again after this--and alsoit's against the law, I imagine. But I don't care; I never, neverdesire to marry another man. All I want is to learn how to supportmyself by art; and some day perhaps I shall forget what has happenedto 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 thisworld of sorrow, believe me your grateful friend,
Rue Carew.
* * * * *
Every naive and laboured line of the stilted letter touched and amusedand also flattered Neeland; for no young man is entirely insensible toa young girl's gratitude. An agreeable warmth suffused him; it pleasedhim to remember that he had been associated in the moral and socialrehabilitation of Rue Carew.
He meant to write her some kind, encouraging advice; he had everyintention of answering her letter. But in New York young men are verybusy; or think they are. For youth days dawn and vanish in the spaceof a fire-fly's lingering flash; and the moments swarm by like aflight of distracted golden butterflies; and a young man is ever attheir heels in breathless chase with as much chance of catching upwith the elusive moment as a squirrel has of outstripping the wheel inwhich he whirls.
So he neglected to reply--waited a little too long. Because, while herchildish letter still remained unanswered, came a note from thePrincess Mistchenka, enclosing a tremulous line from Rue:
* * * * *
_Mon cher_ James:
Doubtless you have already heard of the sad death of Ruhannah'sparents--within a few hours of each other--both stricken withpneumonia within the same week. The local minister cabled her as Mrs.Brandes in my care. Then he wrote to the child; the letter has justarrived.
My poor little _protegee_ is prostrated--talks wildly of going back atonce. But to what purpose now, _mon ami_? Her loved ones will havebeen in their graves for days before Ruhannah could arrive.
No; I shall keep her here. She is young; she shall be kept busy everyinstant of the day. That is the only antidote for grief; youth andtime its only cure.
Please write to the Baptist minister at Gayfield, James, and find outwhat is to be done; and have it done. Judge Gary, at Orangeville, hadcharge of the Reverend Mr. Carew's affairs. Let him send the necessarypapers to Ruhannah here. I enclose a paper which she has executed,conferring power of attorney. If a guardian is to be appointed, Ishall take steps to qualify through the good offices of LejeuneBrothers, the international lawyers whom I have put into communicationwith Judge Gary through the New York representatives of the firm.
There are bound to be complications, I fear, in regard to this mockmarriage o
f hers. I have consulted my attorneys here and they are notvery certain that the ceremony was not genuine enough to requirefurther legal steps to free her entirely. A suit for annulment ispossible.
Please have the house at Brookhollow locked up and keep the keys inyour possession for the present. Judge Gary will have the keys sent toyou.
James, dear, I am very deeply indebted to you for giving to me mylittle friend, Ruhannah Carew. Now, I wish to make her entirely mineby law until the inevitable day arrives when some man shall take herfrom me.
Write to her, James; don't be selfish.
Yours always, Naia.
* * * * *
The line enclosed from Ruhannah touched him deeply:
* * * * *
I cannot speak of it yet. Please, when you go to Brookhollow, haveflowers planted. You know where our plot is. Have it made pretty forthem.
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 hisletter was finished and mailed, and he could turn his thoughts intoother and gayer channels.
To this letter she replied, thanking him for what he had written andfor 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. Thenfollowed a simple report of her quiet and studious daily life in thehome of the Princess Mistchenka; of her progress in her studies; ofher hopes that in due time she might become sufficiently educated totake care of herself.
It was a slightly dull, laboured, almost emotionless letter. Alwayswilling to shirk correspondence, he persuaded himself that the lettercalled for no immediate answer. After all, it was not to be expectedthat a very young girl whom a man had met only twice in his life couldhold his interest very long, when absent. However, he meant to writeher again; thought of doing so several times during the next twelvemonths.
It was a year before another letter came from her. And, reading it, hewas a little surprised to discover how rapidly immaturity can matureunder the shock of circumstances and exotic conditions which tendtoward forced growth.
* * * * *
Mon cher ami:
I was silly enough to hope you might write to me. But I suppose youhave far more interesting and important matters to occupy you.
Still, don't you sometimes remember the girl you drove home with in asleigh one winter night, ages ago? Don't you sometimes think of thegirl who came creeping upstairs, half dead, to your studio door? Anddon't you sometimes wonder what has become of her?
Why is it that a girl is always more loyal to past memories than aman ever is? Don't answer that it is because she has less to occupyher than a man has. You have no idea how busy I have been during thislong year in which you have forgotten me.
Among other things I have been busy growing. I am taller by two inchesthan when last I saw you. Please be impressed by my five feet eightinches.
Also, I am happy. The greatest happiness in the world is to have theopportunity to learn about that same world.
I am happy because I now have that opportunity. During these manymonths since I wrote to you I have learned a little French; I readsome, write some, understand pretty well, and speak a little. What apleasure, _mon ami_!
Piano and vocal music, too, occupy me; I love both, and I am toldencouraging things. But best and most delightful of all I am learningto draw and compose and paint from life in the Academie Julian! Thinkof 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 ofdespair and I presently soar up out of those depressing depths intointoxicating altitudes of aspiration and self-confidence.
You yourself know how it is, of course. At the criticism today I waslifted to the seventh heaven. "_Pas mal_," he said; "_continuez,mademoiselle_." Which is wonderful for him. Also my weekly sketch waschosen from among all the others, and I was given number one. Thatmeans my choice of _tabourets_ on Monday morning, _voyez vous_? So doyou wonder that I came home with Suzanne, walking on air, and that assoon as _dejeuner_ was finished I flew in here to write to you aboutit?
Suzanne is our maid--the maid of Princess Naia, of course--who walksto and from school with me. I didn't wish her to follow me about atfirst, but the Princess insisted, and I'm resigned to it now.
The Princess Mistchenka is such a darling! I owe her more than I oweanybody except mother and father. She simply took me as I was, ayoung, stupid, ignorant, awkward country girl with no experience, no_savoir-faire_, no clothes, and even no knowledge of how to wearthem; and she is trying to make out of me a fairly intelligent andpresentable human being who will not offend her by _gaucheries_ whenwith her, and who will not disgrace her when in the circle of herfriends.
Oh, of course I still make a _faux pas_ now and then, _mon ami_; thereare dreadful pitfalls in the French language into which I have fallenmore than once. And at times I have almost died of mortification. Buteverybody is so amiable and patient, so polite, so gay about mymistakes. I am beginning to love the French. And I am learning somuch! I had no idea what a capacity I had for learning things. Butthen, with Princess Naia, and with my kind and patient teachers and mygolden opportunities, even a very stupid girl must learn _something_.And I am not really very stupid; I've discovered that. On thecontrary, I really seem to learn quite rapidly; and all that annoys meis that there is so much to learn and the days are not long enough, soanxious am I, so ambitious, so determined to get out of this wonderfulopportunity everything I possibly can extract.
I have lived in these few months more years than my own age adds up! Iam growing old and wise very fast. Please hasten to write to me beforeI have grown so old that you would not recognize me if you met me.
Your friend, Ruhannah.
* * * * *
The letter flattered him. He was rather glad he had once kissed thegirl who could write such a letter.
He happened to be engaged, at that time, in drawing severalillustrations for a paper called the _Midweek Magazine_. There was aheroine, of course, in the story he was illustrating. And, frommemory, and in spite of the model posing for him, he made the facelike the face of Ruhannah Carew.
But the days passed, and he did not reply to her letter. Then therecame still another letter from her:
Why don't you write me just one line? Have you _really_ forgotten me?You'd like me if you knew me now, I think. I am really quite grown up.And I am _so_ happy!
The Princess is simply adorable. Always we are busy, Princess Naia andI; and now, since I have laid aside mourning, we go to concerts; we goto plays; we have been six times to the opera, and as many more to theTheatre Francais; we have been to the Louvre and the Luxembourg manytimes; to St. Cloud, Versailles, Fontainebleau.
Always, when my studies are over, we do something interesting; and Iam beginning to know Paris, and to care for it with real affection; tofeel 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 seemsvery, very far away, it troubles me a little to find that I am notnearly so homesick as I think I ought to be. But I think it must belike seasickness; it is too frightful to last.
The Princess Mistchenka has nursed me through the worst. All I can sayis that she is very wonderful.
On her day, which is Thursday, her pretty _salon_
is thronged. Atfirst I was too shy and embarrassed to be anything but frightened andself-conscious and very miserable when I sat beside her on herThursdays. Besides, I was in mourning and did not appear on formaloccasions.
Now it is different; I take my place beside her; I am notself-conscious; I am interested; I find pleasure in knowing people whoare so courteous, so considerate, so gay and entertaining.
Everybody is agreeable and gay, and I am sorry that I miss so muchthat 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 andprovincial, that I could not bear to have anybody kiss my hand and payme compliments. I've made a lot of other mistakes, too, but I nevermake the same mistake twice.
So many interesting men come to our Thursdays; and some women. Iprefer the men, I think. There is one old French General who is adear; and there are young officers, too; and yesterday two cabinetministers 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 beautifullygowned. Some have titles. But all seem to be a little too much madeup. I don't know any of them except formally. But I feel that I knowsome of the men better--especially the old General and a youngmilitary attache of the Russian Embassy, whom everybody likes andpets, and whom everybody calls Prince Erlik--such a handsome boy! Andhis real name is Alak, and I think he is very much in love withPrincess 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 Trebizondmany years ago. While there he came into possession of a curious seachest belonging to a German named Conrad Wilner, who was killed in ariot near Gallipoli.
In this chest were, and still are, two very interesting things--an oldbronze Chinese figure which I used to play with when I was a child. Itwas called the Yellow Devil; and a native Chinese missionary once readfor us the inscription on the figure which identified it as a Mongoldemon called Erlik, the Prince of Darkness.
The other object of interest in the box was the manuscript diary keptby this Herr Wilner to within a few moments of his death. This I haveoften heard read aloud by my father, but I forget much of it now, andI never understood it all, because I was too young. Now, here is thecurious thing about it all. The first time you spoke to me of thePrincess Naia Mistchenka, I had a hazy idea that her name seemedfamiliar to me. And ever since I have known her, now and then I foundmyself trying to recollect where I had heard that name, even before Iheard it from you.
Suddenly, one evening about a week ago, it came to me that I had heardboth the names, Naia and Mistchenka, when I was a child. Also the nameErlik. The two former names occur in Herr Wilner's diary; the latterI heard from the Chinese missionary years ago; and that is why theyseemed so familiar to me.
It is so long since I have read the diary that I can't remember thestory in which the names Naia and Mistchenka are concerned. As Irecollect, 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 weekago there were a few people dining here with us--among others an oldTurkish 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 init.
Anyway, he happened to speak of Trebizond; and, naturally, I said thatmy father had been a missionary there many years ago.
As this seemed to interest him, and because he questioned me, I toldhim my father's name and all that I knew in regard to his career as amissionary in the Trebizond district. And, somehow--I don't exactlyrecollect how it came about--I spoke of Herr Wilner, and his death atGallipoli, and how his effects came into my father's possession.
And because the old, sleepy-eyed Admiral seemed so interested andamused, I told him about Herr Wilner's box and his diary and the plansand 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 tellingMurad Pasha to wake him up so completely and to keep him so amused. SoI merely said that I had been telling the Admiral about my childhoodin Brookhollow.
Naturally neither she nor I thought about the incident any further.Murad did not come again; but a few days later the Turkish Charged'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 Englishwhether I were not the daughter of the Reverend Wilbour Carew who oncewas in charge of the American Mission near Trebizond. I was sosurprised at the question; but I answered yes, remembering that Muradmust have mentioned me to him.
He continued to ask me about my father, and spoke of his efforts toestablish a girls' school, first at Brusa, then at Tchardak, andfinally near Gallipoli. I told him I had often heard my father speakof these matters with my mother, but that I was too young to rememberanything about my own life in Turkey.
All the while we were conversing, I noticed that the Princess keptlooking across the table at us as though some chance word hadattracted her attention.
After dinner, when the gentlemen had retired to the smoking room, thePrincess took me aside and made me repeat everything that Ahmed Mirkahad 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 saferto be reticent and let him do the talking; and that almost every scrapof conversation with him was mentally noted and later transcribed forthe edification of the Turkish Secret Service.
I thought this very humorous; but going into the little _salon_ wherethe piano was and where the music was kept, while I was looking for anold song by Messager, from "La Basoche," called "Je suis aime de laplus belle--" Ahmed Mirka's handsome attache, Colonel Izzet Bey, cameup to where I was rummaging in the music cabinet.
He talked nonsense in French and in English for a while, but somehowthe conversation led again toward my father and the girls' school atGallipoli which had been attacked and burned by a mob during the firstmonth after it had been opened, and where the German, Herr Wilner, hadbeen killed.
"Monsieur, your reverend father, must surely have told you storiesabout the destruction of the Gallipoli school, mademoiselle," heinsisted.
"Yes. It happened a year before the mission at Trebizond was destroyedby the Turks." I said maliciously.
"So I have heard. What a pity! Our Osmanli--our peasantry are sostupid! And it was such a fine school. A German engineer was killedthere, 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--atGallipoli."
"Yes; my father said that Herr Wilner was the only man hurt. He wentout 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 withstones."
"Exactly." He spread his beautifully jewelled hands deprecatingly andseemed greatly grieved.
"And Herr Wilner's--property?" he inquired. "Did you ever hear whatbecame 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 personalproperty was destroyed when the school and compound burned. Do youhappen to know just what was saved, mademoiselle?"
Of course I immediately thought of the bronze demon, the box ofinstruments, and the photographs and papers at home with which I usedto play as a child. I remembered my father had said that these thingswere taken on board the _Oneida_ when he, my mother, and I wererescued by marines and sailors from our guard vessel which camethrough 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 alsoremembered what the Princess had just told me about giving anyinformation to Ahmed Pasha. So I merely opened my eyes very innocentlyand gazed at Co
lonel Izzet and shook my head as though I did notunderstand 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 shehad surprised him in mischief and was not angry, only amused. And whenColonel Izzet bowed, I saw how red his face had grown--as red as hisfez.
The Princess laughed and said in French: "That is the differencebetween professional and amateur--between Nizam and Redif--betweenAhmed Pasha and our esteemed but very youthful attache--who has muchyet 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 cameinto my bedroom and asked me some questions, and I told her about thebox of instruments and the diary, and the slippery linen paperscovered with drawings and German writing, with which I used to play.
She said never to mention them to anybody, and that I should neverpermit anybody to examine those military papers, because it might beharmful to America.
How odd and how thrilling! I am most curious to know what all thismeans. It seems like an exciting story just beginning, and I wonderwhat such a girl as I has to do with secrets which concern the TurkishCharge in Paris.
Don't you think it promises to be romantic? Do you suppose it hasanything to do with spies and diplomacy and kings and thrones, andterrible military secrets? One hears a great deal about the embassieshere being hotbeds of political intrigue. And of course France isalways thinking of Alsace and Lorraine, and there is an ever-presentdanger of war in Europe.
Mr. Neeland, it thrills me to pretend to myself that I am actuallyliving in the plot of a romance full of mystery and diplomacy anddangerous possibilities. I _hope_ something will develop, as somethingalways does in novels.
And alas, my imagination, which always has been vivid, needed almostnothing to blaze into flame. It is on fire now; I dream of courts andarmies, and ambassadors, and spies; I construct stories in which I amthe heroine always--sometimes the interesting and temporary victim ofwicked plots; sometimes the all-powerful, dauntless, and adroitchampion of honour and righteousness against treachery and evil!
Did you ever suppose that I still could remain such a very littlegirl? But I fear that I shall never outgrow my imagination. And itneeds almost nothing to set me dreaming out stories or drawingpictures of castles and princes and swans and fairies. And even thisletter seems a part of some breathlessly interesting plot which I amnot only creating but actually a living part of and destined to actin.
Do you want a part in it? Shall I include you? Rather late to ask yourpermission, for I have already included you. And, somehow, I think theYellow Devil ought to be included, too.
Please write to me, just once. But don't speak of the papers whichfather 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 willunhook me and I shall put on such a pretty negligee, and then curl upin bed, turn on my reading light with the pink shade, and continue toread the new novel recommended to me by Princess Naia, called "LeCrime de Sylvestre Bonnard." It is a perfectly darling story, andAnatole France, who wrote it, must be a darling, too. The Princessknows him and promises that he shall dine with us some day. I expectto 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 allcordiality. And, in a few days, forgot about it and about the girl towhom it was written. And there was nothing more from her until earlysummer.
Then came the last of her letters--an entirely mature missive, firm inwriting, decisive, concise, self-possessed, eloquent with anindefinite something which betrayed a calmly ordered mind alreadybeing moulded by discipline _mondaine_:
* * * * *
My dear Mr. Neeland:
I had your very kind and charming letter in reply to mine written lastJanuary. My neglect to answer it, during all these months, involvesme in explanations which, if you like, are perhaps due you. But if yourequire them at all, I had rather surrender them to you personallywhen we meet.
Possibly that encounter, so happily anticipated on my part, may occursooner than you believe likely. I permit myself to hope so. The notewhich I enclose to you from the lady whom I love very dearly shouldexplain why I venture to entertain a hope that you and I are to seeeach other again in the near future.
As you were kind enough to inquire about myself and what you describeso flatteringly as my "amazing progress in artistic and worldlywisdom," 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 verycertain I shall do no more with vocal and instrumental music than toplay and sing acceptably for such kind and uncritical friends as donot demand much of an amateur. Without any unusual gifts, with arather sensitive ear, and with a very slightly cultivated andperfectly childish voice--please do not expect anything from me toplease you.
In French I am already becoming fluent. You see, except for certainlessons in it, I have scarcely heard a word of English since I camehere; the Princess will not use it to me nor permit its use by me. Andtherefore, my ear being a musical one and rather accurate, I find--nowthat 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 acultivated English woman; and in consequence I have been learning toenlarge a very meagre vocabulary, and have begun to appreciatepossibilities in my own language of which I never dreamed.
About my personal appearance--as long as you ask me--I think perhapsthat, were I less thin, I might be rather pretty. Dress makes such avast difference in a plain girl. Also, intelligent care of one'sperson improves mediocrity. Of course everybody says such graciousthings to a girl over here that it would not do to accept any prettycompliment very literally. But I really believe that you might thinkme rather nice to look at.
As for the future, the truth is that I feel much encouraged. I madesome drawings in wash and in pen and ink--just ideas of mine. AndMonsieur Bonvard, who is editor of _The Grey Cat_--a very cleverweekly--has accepted them and has paid me twenty-five francs each forthem! I was so astonished that I could not believe it. One has beenreproduced in last week's paper. I have cut it out and pasted it in myscrapbook.
I think, take it all in all, that seeing my first illustrationsprinted has given me greater joy than I shall ever again experience onearth.
My daily intercourse with the Princess Mistchenka continues to comfortme, inspire me, and fill me with determination so to educate myselfthat when the time comes I shall be ready and able to support myselfwith pen and pencil.
And now I must bring my letter to its end. The prospect of seeing youvery soon is agreeable beyond words. You have been very kind to me. Ido 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 delightfulfriendship?
When you first returned to America from Paris I found it possible todo for
you a few favours in the way of making you known to certaineditors. It was, I assure you, merely because I liked you and believedin your work, not because I ever expected to ask from you any favourin return.
Now, Fate has thrown an odd combination from her dice-box; and Destinyhas veiled herself so impenetrably that nobody can read that awfulvisage to guess what thoughts possess her.
You, in America, have heard of the murder of the Austrian Archduke, ofcourse. But--have you, in America, any idea what the consequences ofthat 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 metalwhich looks like silver, lock the box, take it to New York, place itin a safe deposit vault until you can sail for Paris on the firststeamer that leaves New York?
Will you do this--get the box I have described and bring it to meyourself on the first steamer that sails?
And, Jim, keep your eye on the box. Don't trust anybody near it. Ruesays that, as she recollects, the box is about the size and shape of asuitcase and that it has a canvas and leather cover with a handlewhich buttons over it.
Therefore, you can carry it yourself exactly as though it were yoursuitcase, 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 yourwork 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 welfareof 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 thesingle word, "White."
If you have sufficient funds, and are willing to bring the box to meyourself, cable the word, "Blue."
In case that you undertake this business for me, be careful of thecontents of the box. Let nobody see it open. Be certain that thecontents are absolutely secure. I dare not tell you how vitallyimportant to civilisation these papers already are--how much they maymean to the world; what powers of evil they might encourage if in anyway they fall into other hands than the right ones.
Jim, I have seldom taken a very serious tone with you since we haveknown each other. I am very serious now. And if our friendship meansanything to you, prove it!
Yours, Naia.
* * * * *
As he sat there in his studio, perplexed, amazed, annoyed, yetcurious, trying to think out what he ought to do--what, in fact, mustbe done somehow or other--there came a ring at his door bell. Amessenger with a cable despatch stood there; Neeland signed, tore openthe envelope, and read:
* * * * *
Please go at once to Brookhollow and secure an olive-wood box boundwith silver, containing military maps, plans, photographs, and paperswritten in German, property of Ruhannah Carew. Lose no time, I imploreyou, as an attempt to rob the house and steal the papers is likely.Beware of anybody resembling a German. Have written, but beg you notto wait for letter.
Naia.
* * * * *
Twice he reread the cablegram. Then, with a half-bewildered,half-disgusted glance around at his studio, his belongings, theunfinished work on his easel, he went to the telephone.
It being July he had little difficulty in reserving a good stateroomon the Cunarder _Volhynia_, sailing the following day. Then, summoningthe janitor, he packed a steamer trunk and gave order to have it takenaboard that evening.
On his way downtown to his bank he stopped at a telegraph and cableoffice and sent a cable message to the Princess Mistchenka. The textconsisted of only one word: "Blue."
He departed for Gayfield on the five o'clock afternoon train, carryingwith him a suitcase and an automatic pistol in his breast pocket.