The Mission of Poubalov, Page 3

  CHAPTER III.

  AN IMPERFECT VISION.

  Ivan Strobel had been a lodger in Mrs. White's house for more than twoyears. During the greater part of that period he had been the onlylodger, and from the beginning his relations with his landlady hadbeen more as if he were a friend of the family than merely a tenant.His evenings were not infrequently spent in Mrs. White's sitting-room,where his strongly domestic nature found some comfort in reading aloudto the old lady and her daughter, or in playing cards, or in tellingthem stories of European life. Sometimes his friends would call, andfind him there instead of in his own room, and more than once he hadbeen the target for good-humored chaffing relative to his supposedfondness for the landlady's daughter.

  On such occasions Strobel laughed lightly, as if it were out of thequestion that anybody should seriously harbor a supposition that he wasin love with Lizzie. That was in the comparatively early days of hisresidence there; and one afternoon, about a year before his eventfulwedding morning, Ralph Harmon and Paul Palovna called together andfound him in his own quarters, serving Russian tea to Mrs. White andher daughter. He was evidently delighted to see his friends, and hepromptly set glasses of the fragrant, hot beverage before them. Mrs.White was enthusiastic in her praise of the tea, as well she might be,for Russians are past-masters in the art of tea-brewing, and Ivan wasone of the most skillful; and she slyly intimated that the woman whowould have the first place in his future household would do well toplace him in charge of the kitchen.

  Ivan smiled and blushed as if pleased at the allusion, and while hisfriends commended the idea with noisy laughter, Miss Lizzie sat silent,sipping her tea with downcast eyes. Shortly afterward the ladieswithdrew, and Palovna immediately began to tease Strobel about Lizzie.

  "On my word, Ivan," he cried, "you begin very badly. If you show herwhat a fine hand you have for kitchen-work, you'll never have any timeto yourself after you're married. It's a fine thing to serve tea toyour friends when you're a bachelor, but fancy a man setting the kettleto boil for his wife! Great Scott! what a picture!"

  Both visitors laughed heartily, but Strobel, with a grave smile, heldup one hand deprecatingly.

  "I don't mind your raillery in the least," he said, "but it doesinjustice to the young lady who is the innocent subject of it ratherthan myself. I'm glad you came in as you did, for I have something totell you, and, in fact, it was to tell Mrs. White and Lizzie the samething that I invited them to take tea with me. I am engaged to MissHilman."

  "I'm mighty glad to hear it, and I congratulate you," exclaimed Ralph,jumping up and grasping Ivan by the hand.

  "And I, too," said Paul, not less sincerely; "pardon my joking. Ihadn't suspected that the wind blew from that direction. When is it tobe?"

  Then Strobel told them about his plans, and from that day until thisminute, when Paul stood by the weeping landlady, with her daughter'sincoherent letter in his hand, he had never associated Ivan andLizzie in any other way than as ordinary friends. When, earlier inthe afternoon, Mrs. White had said something that seemed to suggestthe possibility that they had gone away together, Paul's indignationhad been aroused, and it was with an effort that he had mastered histongue, which fairly burned to deny such an outrageous assumption. Hehad dismissed the thought later, with the conviction that Mrs. Whitecould not have realized the true significance of her words.

  Now, utterly at a loss to account for his friends' absence, he wascompelled to face any suggestion that arose and make the best of it.

  "There is at least some comfort in this, Mrs. White," he said,unsteadily; "you know that your daughter is alive, and she says she maywrite to you. She would not have written this had she meant to hideherself completely from you."

  The mother's anguish was not to be tempered with this argument. Thepoignant fact remained that her daughter had gone away, deserted herhome, and neglected deliberately to take her mother into her confidence.

  "How could she?" moaned Mrs. White; "why, oh, why has she done this?"

  Paul had hard questions to ask, hard for him as well as for her.

  "Mrs. White," he said, "you have shown me Lizzie's letter; will you letme help you if I can?"

  "Yes, yes!" she answered eagerly, raising her tearful eyes. The veryproffer of sympathy and assistance helped to restore her to some degreeof composure, and she opened the door to the sitting-room. "I forgotwhere we were," she said apologetically; "please come in and sit down."

  Paul complied, and, still with the letter in his hand, began: "I shallhave to ask questions that would be impertinent if you had not saidthat I might try to help you. Do you--was Lizzie engaged?"

  "Oh, no!" replied Mrs. White, with a little gasp; "what made you thinkso?"

  "I don't think so, and what I really tried to ask was whether she werein love with anybody?"

  Mrs. White looked doubtfully at him. Her eyes were dry now, and shetoyed nervously with her apron.

  "My daughter didn't tell me she was going away," she answered slowlyafter a minute; "if she wouldn't tell me that, how should you expectthat she would speak to me of her love--if she did love anybody?"

  Paul was somewhat nettled at this apparent effort to juggle with hisquestion. The situation seemed to him too serious to admit of anythingbut the most complete frankness.

  "I don't ask how you know, or why you don't, Mrs. White," he said asgently as he could; "I simply asked for a statement of fact."

  The landlady looked down at the floor, evidently trying to frame ananswer. Paul would have dropped the matter right there, disgusted ather reticence if not her indirection, had he not been determined tolearn everything possible that might throw light upon the fate of hisfriends. So he began on another tack.

  "Weren't you invited to Strobel's wedding, Mrs. White?" he asked.

  "Yes," she replied promptly, not suspecting the ultimate aim of thequestion; "both of us received invitations."

  "Why didn't you go?"

  "Lizzie didn't want to go. She said weddings always made her feelsolemn, and I didn't want to go without her."

  "Wasn't there a deeper reason, Mrs. White, for your daughter'sreluctance to go to Ivan Strobel's wedding?"

  "I don't know what you mean, Mr. Palovna," said the landlady, glancingat him and averting her eyes.

  Paul wanted to tell her that she was trying to dodge him, but hecontrolled himself and said:

  "I mean that in my opinion your daughter was hopelessly in love withIvan."

  This statement did not provoke the storm that Paul had expected. Mrs.White's reserve had prepared him for an outburst of denials, indignanttears and the like, but the old lady sat very still, her hands claspedupon her lap, and after a little silence she spoke dreamily:

  "Lizzie never told me, but I guessed as much long ago, poor, dear girl!"

  Paul's heart sank as he felt his fears growing to conviction that theflight of Lizzie White was closely connected with the disappearance ofIvan Strobel. He was not disloyal to his friend even in his thoughts;he kept insisting to himself that Ivan was not the man to play allhis friends double, but even as he rebelled against this possibleexplanation of the matter, reason interposed its stern voice to saythat if, after all, Strobel had discovered that he loved Lizzie and notClara, this was the probable course he would take to avoid facing thecomments and criticisms of his friends; and although he repelled theexplanation with all his will, he nevertheless felt a dreadful sense ofdoubt.

  "Mrs. White," he said gravely, "have you any reason to think thatStrobel and your daughter went away together?"

  The landlady started as if she had been shot.

  "Of course not!" she cried; "how could you think such a thing? Whyshould you insult my poor child----" and she broke down and sobbedbitterly.

  Palovna was miserable. He saw that he had utterly misinterpretedMrs. White's reluctance in answering his questions; that, far fromsuspecting that Lizzie's departure might be an elopement with Ivan, shehad instinctively tried to guard her daughter's secret.

  "I
am exceedingly sorry that I have hurt you," said Paul, contritely,"I don't think, cannot think that they have gone together; but, yousee, I am in such a maze of anxiety about Strobel, everything is sostrange and uncertain, that I--I hardly knew what I said."

  He paused, and Mrs. White, still sobbing, uttered some words of whichthe only one he understood was "cruel," and he promptly accepted it asapplied to himself.

  "I can only repeat that I am sorry," he said. "Here is your letter. Ifear I can be of no help to you unless you want me to take some messagefor you."

  "No--you cannot do anything now--I know you didn't mean it. Please comeagain to-morrow--when I can think--please, Mr. Palovna."

  So Paul left the house, wondering whether Mrs. White felt any unhappierthan himself.

  He turned into Pemberton Square, and went as far as the door to policeheadquarters, halted abruptly and turned away. He could not be the oneto fasten a suspicion of such a character upon his missing friend. Ifit were true that he had eloped, that ugly fact would be establishedsoon enough without his giving any hints to the police detectives whowere assigned to hunt for Ivan.

  The doctor had ordered Clara Hilman to bed, and under the firstprostration of the blow she had willingly obeyed; but as evening cameon and her mind cleared, she felt stronger, and at supper time shearose and dressed. She did not go down to the dining-room, and Louisebrought delicacies to her chamber. She wished that Ralph and Paulwould return, for she felt that she could talk with them now, and shelonged intensely for any word, however insignificant, concerning herlover's movements. Louise sat with her, making well-intended effortsto distract her attention from the subject that was so terriblyengrossing, and offering the comfort of hopeful assurances when it wasevident that Clara could think of nothing else.

  The fact was that Louise disturbed Clara. Her thoughts were fixedin their own channel, and so obstinately clung there that it grewwearisome to attend to the interruptions that Louise was constantlymaking. So Clara said at last:

  "I think, dear, if you will forgive me, I would like to be alone alittle while. I will call if I want anything."

  "To be sure, Clara," responded Louise, rising at once and putting herarms affectionately around her cousin; "I will go to my own room, andwill come the minute you need me. Shall I get you anything to read?"

  "No, I cannot do anything but think, and I must think. Don't bealarmed. I am not going to let myself become ill."

  There was a faint, sweet smile upon her sad lips as she spoke, and,left to herself, she sat leaning slightly forward, her chin upon onehand, the other clinched upon her lap, gazing intently at the wallwhich she saw not. In its place was the carriage in front of Mrs.White's house, and as she watched it she saw the house door open andIvan, her Ivan, come forth. She saw him turn to say good-by to thekind-hearted landlady, saw the happy smile upon his face, saw him enterthe carriage, saw it start slowly away.

  This much of her lover's wedding journey was as clearly before her asif it were now occurring, and she were at a window in the house acrossthe way from Mrs. White's in Ashburton Place. Her nerves strained totheir utmost tension, she tried to follow the carriage. She could seethat it turned into Somerset Street, but when it seemed to be at Beaconshe could not tell which way it went. That it was still moving wasapparent, but there was a confusion of vehicles and persons, streetsand buildings, there was a pause--somewhere--was Ivan getting out? Wasthat he taking another carriage? Oh! why was not Paul here to tell herjust what happened at this point, wherever it was? Why had she notheard his report when he was there to make it?

  Suddenly the confusion gave way, and the familiar wall was before her,but still she saw it not. Now she was listening. Did she hear herlover's name? Was it spoken in anger? It must be! it must be! Theywere speaking of him; who were they? In this house? where else if sheheard it? Could it be that she had heard nothing? To her ear there wasno tangible sound save the ticking of the clock on the mantel. Claraarose and crossed the room, staggering with weakness, and placed herhand upon the door. One instant she waited as if in doubt, and then sheopened it very softly. Yes! there were voices below; they were in thelibrary; that was her uncle speaking. Had she a right to listen? Shestole to the head of the stairs and looked down. The library door wasclosed. The voice was an unintelligible murmur, nothing more.

  Down the stairs she crept and came to the library door.

  "Are you money-mad?" It was her uncle who spoke. "Don't you know thatit hasn't come, that such a thing can't be effected in a moment?"

  "And I tell you, Mat Pembroke," said a harsh voice, "that you'vegot----"

  The voice suddenly stopped, and the speaker, the infirm old man whohad arrived late at the church while the wedding party was waiting inthe vestibule, half rose from his big chair and pointed with a bony,trembling hand over Mr. Pembroke's shoulder.

  Mr. Pembroke turned about and saw Clara Hilman with wide-open eyes andpale face standing just within the doorway.

  "Forgive me, uncle," she said in a voice scarce above a whisper; "Ithought you were speaking of Ivan, and I--I came down to say that I amgoing to find him."

  She swayed slightly as she finished, and Mr. Pembroke ran forward andtook her in his arms.