Part 32

There were other living people in the room. Bertram heard a faint stir above the stove where, on the shelf above, Russians sleep in winter. A woman lay there with a little girl. They raised their heads feebly, and let them drop again. They were nearly dead, it seemed. At the far end of the room, on the window seat, with his head back against the framework, was a young lad—eighteen, perhaps—with a fair, handsome face, and blue eyes. He did not move his body, or alter the position of his head, but his eyes stared at the strangers in his father’s house. He was still alive, but too weak to raise a hand or stir a limb.

Jemmy Hart bent down to the man, and spoke to him. For a time he was silent, and seemed to have lost the gift of speech. But presently he spoke some words in a whisper.

Jemmy translated them.

“He says death has been long in coming. They have been waiting like this, day after day, and still live.”

The peasant who had been their guide spoke to Jemmy, who told the others.

“This man was rich once. He owned many fields and a herd of cattle. The drought burnt his harvest up, and all his cattle died. He sold his clothes for food. He has nothing in the world. There are many like him.”

“For Christ’s sake,” said Bertram, “give him this!”

He handed Jemmy all his money—a great wad of roubles.

The old man stared at it, and muttered something.

“What does he say?”

“He says money is no good. There’s nothing to buy.”

The peasant guide spoke again.

“This man says it’s true,” said Jemmy. “Money is no good in this village, because there’s nothing to sell, and nothing to buy. It’s the same in Tetuishi, and that’s the farthest any one can go without horses. Your money is just waste paper, old lad.”

Bertram was pale to the lips.

Then there was nothing to be done for these people. No power on earth could help them. They were waiting for Death to cross the threshold, as their kindest visitor, and Death tarried.

They went into other villages, and it was the same. The women clamoured about them, believing they had come from some great power, with rescue, and they had none at that time, though later they would get food to the children, or to some of them. Young girls, beautiful as all the peasant girls in the Volga valley, lay dying in cottages and barns. Lads on the threshold of youth’s adventure, waited patiently and quietly for death, with those who were old enough to die. The children did not even wail in their hunger, but crawled about the floors with swollen heads and grave wondering eyes. In some of the barns where once rich stores of grain had been, now lay unburied bodies. . . .

“I can’t stand much more of this,” said Bertram. “War is a merry game to famine!”

That night, on the vermin-haunted ship, he could not eat, but saved some bread and cheese for people he would meet on the morrow, in other villages further down the river.

“Nothing but an enormous act of world charity will save these people,” said Dr. Weekes.

“I’m afraid it won’t happen,” said Bertram. “People are fed up with tragedy. The war deadened them. All the appeals for devastated Europe—Austria, Hungary, Poland, Armenia—have led to reaction and boredom. Russia comes too late in the day.”

“Charity will use its hatred of Bolshevism to close its heart-springs to the Russian people,” said Dr. Weekes. “They’ll say, ‘Why in Hell should we help Soviet Russia to feed its Red Army’?”

“And charity isn’t enough,” said Jemmy Hart. “Not the private charity of dear old ladies. The nations of the world must save Russia—and mighty quick, or it will be too late for the people we saw to-day.”

“And those we shall see to-morrow,” said Bertram.

They sat up late in the saloon, on the table, with their legs up to avoid the crawling things.

“What’s going to happen to this sad and bad old Europe?” asked Jemmy Hart.

For hours they discussed his question.

Dr. Weekes had a fine and spiritual outlook on life. He deplored the attitude of his own country, which he accused of selfish indifference to humanity.

“We’re betraying Christ,” he said. “We’re the Pharisees of the world. ‘Thank God that we are not as these men are—publicans and sinners.’ We’re up to the neck in self-righteousness. We came into the war a damned sight too late to suffer the agony of those who fought first and longest. We cleared out of Europe a damned sight too quick. Back to Big Business. A hundred-per-cent Americanism. God! I’m ashamed of my own folk!”

Jemmy Hart would have none of it.

“We’re the Tom Tiddler’s ground of all the beggars of Europe. We fill the hat every time. I guess we’ll stuff food into Russia, while swearing by all our gods that Europe can go to hell.”

“Russia is the key of world peace and economic recovery,” said Dr. Weekes. “These people must be saved, for our sake as well as theirs. We want them to buy our goods. We want their grain and oil and minerals and timber and flour. There won’t always be drought in Russia.”

“What about the Red Army?” asked Jemmy Hart. “As long as it stands to arms, Poland stays mobilised. As long as it threatens Poland, France presses Germany for the last gold mark, because France pays Poland.”

“Precisely that,” said Dr. Weekes. “The nations must present an ultimatum to Soviet Russia. ‘We’ll feed your people, make your trains run, re-start your industries, in return for certain conditions which we impose. Down with the Red Army. No propaganda. Recognition of pre-war debts. That or nothing.’”

“Would Lenin accept?” asked Bertram.

Dr. Weekes nodded.

“He knows the game’s up. He _must_ accept to save his people. But we must act together, or he will drive wedges between us and play Germany against France.”

So they talked. But in their silences they thought of the peasants who were dying in the snow-bound villages beyond the river banks.

Day after day they went down the river, tying up at landing stages, driving over the snow-fields, going into the land of Famine, until Bertram said, “I’ve seen enough. The horror is getting on my nerves.”

“I agree,” said Dr. Weekes. “We have enough to report. Mine will go to the A. R. A. Yours to the world. With Jemmy Hart’s. Your opportunity is greater than mine. If you write the things we have seen, you’ll make men and angels weep.”

“If I write what I feel,” said Bertram, “it will make them sick.”

“If I write what I know,” said Jemmy Hart, “my best friends will denounce me as a Bolshevist!”

It was in the city of Samara, crowded with refugees, abandoned children, typhus-stricken families, and starving peasants, that Bertram wrote the Truth about the Famine.

Every word he wrote was an appeal to the world for mercy and pity on behalf of these people. As his pen travelled over the white pages of his writing blocks, he had before his eyes the vision of women wailing over their starving children, of straw-bearded peasants with the agony of death in their patient eyes, of boys and girls he had seen lying down to die in each other’s arms. He wrote with a Biblical simplicity, but Dr. Weekes who read what he wrote, wept frankly and unashamed, and said, “It’s God’s truth, Pollard! You’ll make the English-speaking peoples see the things you have seen, and feel the touch of the pity that’s in your heart. I envy you your gift of words.”

The boat was ice-bound at Samara, and it was by train that Bertram went back with Dr. Weekes to Moscow, with all his narrative. It was a four days’ journey, and like the Russian journeys he had made, filthy and fatiguing. During those four days and nights he thought always in his waking hours of that lady, Nadia, to whom he was returning after his work for the people she loved. Through all this time, indeed, on the Volga and in the villages, her words were with him, her spiritual comradeship gave him courage and endurance, the gift of her love lightened even the darkness of all that horror. He was going back to the best woman he had ever known, utterly unselfish, “saintly” in a gay and beautiful way, yet human and gracious as one of Shakespeare’s women. She would be his companion along the lonely road. She would keep his courage to the sticking point. She would be, perhaps, the mother of his children. The image of Joyce was fading from his mind. She belonged to a different age, and a different world—a thousand years ago, a million miles away. He could think of Joyce now without a pang, without anger, even, and without jealousy. He was sorry about Kenneth Murless. It was hard on Joyce that Kenneth had died. Not a bad chap, after all! A gentleman in the old meaning of the word. With Nadia as his mate, he could wish Joyce all happiness. That pretty child! That spoilt darling of an ancient caste, now passing into history with other ghosts!

With Nadia he would walk in the middle of the road, as he had tried to walk with Joyce. No longer was he lonely.

* * * * *

It was the Colonel with his young “puu” who met them at the station in Moscow. Sims was there too, and some of the other boys.

“Glad to see you back,” said the Colonel. “It seems an age since you went. Thought you might have turned Bolsheviks and gone to rule the Far Eastern Republic!”

“Any news?” asked Dr. Weekes.

The Colonel pondered.

“Devilish little. Odd bits. There’s a Treaty of Peace between England and Ireland.”

“Thank God for that,” said Bertram.

“Upper Silesia has been divided by the League of Nations. The Germans are howling in agony.”

“I guessed they would,” said Dr. Weekes. “Any local news?”

The Colonel pondered again.

“Sims left his heart behind him in Kazan, with that Persian _prima donna_. Sad business!”

“A libel, sir!” said Sims.

The Colonel thought again, and a grave look, not of mockery, came into his face.

“One tragic thing that makes us all sad. Our Russian Princess—you remember her?—Nadia—died a week ago. Typhus. A most devoted and beautiful young lady. I hate to think of it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Dr. Weekes, in a low voice.

Bertram said nothing.

He walked alone again.

LX

He did not stay long in Moscow. He took the train to Riga, and posted his articles across the Russian frontier. Then he went on to Berlin, with a “wire” in advance to Christy.

Christy met him at the station, and not only Christy, but Janet Welford.

“Sir Faithful!” she cried, using her old nickname for him. “By my halidom, but I’m glad to see you! After all this age of time.”

She took his hands, and gave him her cheek to kiss. Then a grave look came into her eyes, and the merriment died out.

“You’re not looking too well. Anything wrong with you, friend?”

“A bit chippy, that’s all,” said Bertram. “But enormously glad to see you again. Have you fixed it up with Christy?”

She blushed and laughed.

“We’ve made a kind of contract, subject to alteration.”

She took his arm, and spoke gravely again.

“You’re ill, my dear.”

“It’s nothing,” he said. “A chill!”

It was more than a chill. It was typhus. That night they put him to bed, fever-stricken. The vermin of the Volga had done their work. Janet Welford sat with him in a room that Christy had hired, and several times he spoke her name, without knowing she was near. Once he spoke another name which she had never heard before. “Nadia”—it sounded like that. But in his delirium he talked incessantly of Joyce. The image of the girl who had been his wife came back to him. They were married again. All else was blotted out.

“Joyce, darling! How beautiful you are! The ideal beauty! That was old Christy’s phrase. Joyce! . . . Joyce. . . . Is breakfast ready? What a kid you are! Why, Joyce, sweetheart, aren’t you ready yet? I’ve been waiting for you. I’m always lonely without you. Even for a second. Joyce . . . Joyce . . . Joyce. . . .”

Janet Welford bent over him.

He looked so young in his fever, with flushed cheeks and tousled hair. A boy again.

“Loyalty,” he said. “I’m nothing without loyalty, Joyce. It’s all yours.” He seemed to be arguing with her, trying to make her understand.

“The middle of the road. That’s where I am. Between the extremes, Joyce. A damned lonely place.”

A German doctor came with Christy.

“It is very dangerous,” he said. “This is Russian typhus. He must be removed to a hospital. In the morning. The authorities insist on it in cases of infectious fevers. To-night I will send you a nurse.”

“No,” said Janet Welford. “I’m nursing him to-night.”

“At the risk of your own life, _gnädiges Fräulein_.

“I’ll take the risk, doctor.”

Christy was anxious, helpless, gloomy.

“Turn and turn about,” he said. “I’ll take the night watch, my dear.”

“No,” she said again, “this is my work. Lie down till the morning, and be good.”

Early in the morning she came out of Bertram’s room.

“He keeps calling for Joyce. She ought to know. Can you send her a telegram?”

“Holme Ottery,” said Christy. “That ought to find her. But she doesn’t deserve it.”

“No woman deserves such love as his,” said Janet; and Christy saw that she had tears in her eyes. He knew that he was only second in her heart, and that Bertram held first place. She made no secret of it, and spoke frankly to him.

“I love every hair of his head, my dear. You won’t be angry when I tell you that?”

“Not angry,” said Christy, “nor jealous. I have your friendship, and it’s good enough.”

“My friendship for ever,” she said, “and more loyal because you know about this boy, and understand.”

“Need you send for Joyce?” he asked. “Perhaps if he gets well—”

She shook her head, and knew what he meant to say, and did not dare to say.

“No. That would be a dirty kind of trick, and I’ve kept clean, so far. All through the night he has kept calling for Joyce. She’s still in possession of him, and I’ve no claim.”

“In London,” said Christy, “he had to cut and run from you.”

He was arguing against his own hopes and chance.

“Yes,” said Janet, “I could have had him then. But it would have been stealing. Breaking his loyalty. I’m not like that.”

“He’s been too damned loyal,” said Christy. “My lady Joyce chucked him as she would a broken toy. Why send for her? Perhaps she won’t come, anyhow. The little bitch!”

“We’ll give her the chance,” said Janet, and she wrote out the telegram.

“We’ll play the game, for Bertram’s sake,” she said later. “It may be the last thing we can do for him. Another visitor may come before his wife gets here.”

“Is it as bad as that?” he asked.

“You know what typhus means. It burns quick. Oh, my dear, I think my love is dying!”

She wept a little, and Christy leaned over her and put his hand on her shoulder and said, “Courage!” She took hold of his hand and held it tight.

“Old Plesiosaurus! You’re a good friend in distress.”

“But not a lucky lover!” he answered gloomily.

“When we set up house together,” she said, “you’ll marvel at your luck!”

She laughed in her old gay way, even though her eyes were still wet with tears, and Christy was comforted by the promise of her words, and worshipful before this woman whose spirit was so honest and so kind. Her love for Bertram made no difference to him. Her comradeship was gift enough.

Together they went each day to the hospital where Bertram lay. The German doctors would not let them go into his ward, because of infection, and their reports were not comforting.

“_Sehr krank! . . . Gross gefähr. . . . Es geht nicht wohl._”

Bertram was very ill. He was in great danger. It was not going well with him.

It was Janet who remembered that Bertram had a sister in Berlin—the beautiful Dorothy, now Frau von Arenburg. A note from her brought Dorothy and her husband to Christy’s room, infinitely distressed by the grave news. They haunted the hospital and Von Arenburg interviewed the doctors, and in his rather Prussian way impressed them with “the enormous importance” of Bertram’s recovery to the friendly relations between England and Germany.

Anna von Wegener sent immense bouquets of hot-house flowers which were never allowed to enter the sick man’s room, and other German ladies whom Bertram had met at his sister’s house were prodigal with fruit and flowers. But Bertram, lying there in delirium, knew none of this kindly remembrance from those whom he had called “the Enemy.”

“It is the crisis,” said the German doctors one day. “If he lives through the night—”

“Let’s pray a bit,” said Janet to her friend. “We’re both infidels, but God will understand.”

“I don’t believe in prayer,” said Christy. “I’m a blasphemer and a heretic.”

“So is all humanity,” said Janet. “But in time of trouble we cry out to God, in spite of disbelief.”

“It’s our cowardice,” said Christy. “It’s the dark of the mind. The primitive savage before the Ju-ju of his fears and hopes.”

“Children crying for help to the Eternal Father,” said Janet. “Something like that, though I can’t get the hang of it.”

They went together into a church somewhere off the Wilhelmstrasse, and kneeling side by side, Christy and Janet bent their heads and stayed in the silence and the gloom before an altar with twinkling lights, and in their queer way prayed to the Unknown God for Bertram, their friend.

“What was your prayer?” asked Janet, when they came out.

Christy smiled.

“Not much of a one. I said, ‘Oh, God, where in God’s name are you? Why have you made such a mess of this bloody old world?’ Then I kept on saying, ‘Oh, God! Oh, God!’ until my mind went into a kind of coma, very restful.”

“Fine,” said Janet. “A real confession of faith.”

“What was your prayer?” asked Christy.

Janet could hardly remember her prayer. She had offered her heart to the Unknown God, and said many times, “Dear God!” and then, “Dear Bertram!”

“We’re weakening,” said Christy. “This is nonsense. It’s a disgrace to the intellect.”

“No,” said Janet, “I’m strengthened. I believe God will like this little visit. I believe it’s a good thing to do.”

“Anyhow, it won’t do God or Bertram any harm,” said Christy.

He spoke in his sardonic way, but he, too, felt strangely comforted and puzzled at the meaning of it.

When they went back to the apartment house where Christy had rooms, they found Joyce there waiting for them. Neither of them had seen her before, and by a glance they tried to take the measure of this girl who was Bertram’s wife. She was very pale, and looked ill, but wonderfully young and elegant, and exquisite.

“How is my husband?” she asked, and that word “husband” seemed strange on her lips, because of her youthful girlish look.

Janet told her that he was pretty bad.

“It was good of you to wire to me,” Joyce said. “I am deeply grateful to you.”

“He called to you many times on the night he was first so ill,” said Janet.

A little mist came into Joyce’s eyes.

“I don’t deserve his remembrance. I’ve been rotten to him,” she said, humbly, and that humility and that confession softened their hearts towards her.

“He’s been very loyal to you,” said Janet. “‘Sir Faithful,’ his friends call him.”

“I was disloyal,” said Joyce. “Perhaps he told you?”

She looked at Janet Welford, and her face flamed with colour. Perhaps in some way she guessed that Janet had been Bertram’s best friend.

Janet nodded.

“Things happen like that. Perhaps they can’t be helped. It’s good if one gets a chance to patch things up. Life’s mostly patchwork.”

“When can I see him?”

She saw him that night. His fever had left him—“Our prayers!” said Janet—and the German doctors allowed Joyce to sit for a little while by his bedside. He was sleeping when she went into the ward where he lay alone, but presently he awoke and opened his eyes, and looked at her.

“Hullo, Joyce,” he said, in a kind of whisper. “I’m not dreaming again, am I?”

“I’ve come back,” she answered, and she put her arms about him and wept, so that her tears fell on his face.

He was silent for a little, while looking at her with a faint smile.

“Do you mean back for always?” he asked presently. “As man and wife?”

“If you’ll have me,” she said. “Do you forgive me, Bertram, for all my beastliness?”

He took her hand, and stroked the back of it with his finger-tips.

“How beautiful you are!” he said.

“Do you forgive me, dear heart?” she asked again.

“Hush,” he said. “There’s nothing to forgive. We were both kids.”

A little later he spoke again.

“I am sorry about Kenneth. Very rough on him and you.”

She bowed her head, and was very white.

“It was best like that. It has let me come back.”

“I knew a girl who died—in Russia—” said Bertram. “One day I’ll tell you. Not now. How’s England and Holme Ottery?”

“England’s still there. Holme Ottery’s sold. I’ve a little house close by. We’ll go back and live there. It’s ready for our home-coming.”

“Home-coming!” said Bertram. “How good that sounds! I’ve been wandering alone since you left me, Joyce. Always damned lonely.”

“I’m with you now,” said Joyce. “Body and soul, Bertram. The past is dead, and I’m changed.”

He put his arms about her, and drew down her head until it lay upon his breast.

“Let’s begin again,” he said. “We’re young enough.”

THE END

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed.

Inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained.