Part 14

“Everything.” The Captain's face darkened with earnestness. “What I'm trying to tell you is that you're taking your wife into danger. Every man who can afford it, in the countries to which you're going, is hurrying his women-folk to France, England, Spain, America--anywhere westward for safety. They can feel the storm rising, the deluge of catastrophe that can't be held back much longer. When it bursts, it'll tear everything established from its moorings and sweep across Europe in a wave of savagery.”

“And this deluge that you speak of--what had Prince Rogovich to do with it?”

“He was keeping it from bursting.”

Hindwood smiled. “Alone?”

“No man's single strength could accomplish that. He was one of the most powerful of the resisting forces. When society's tottering, it's the little added strain that upsets the equilibrium. Remember how the last war started, with an obscure assassination.”

Hindwood crossed his knees and dug himself back into the cushions. “Your information, to say the least of it, is strangely melodramatic. If I understand you aright, you're urging me to discontinue my journey. Can't you be more explicit?”

“I can.” The Captain betrayed a hint of temper. “I suppose I shall have to if I'm to convince you. The stability of the whole of Central and Eastern Europe has been upset by the repartitioning of the Peace Treaty. The situation as it exists to-day is intolerable. The ruin which the war commenced has been completed by the pacification. The old social order has been overthrown; in its place we have a dozen rash experiments. In Russia, instead of the Czar, we have Bolshevism. In what was once the Austro-Hungarian Empire we have a series of Republics, which are nothing more than old racial hatreds entrenched behind newly created frontiers. In Poland, which was prisoner to three nations for two centuries, we have a released convict, vengeful with a sense of past injustice. Instead of reconstruction, we have disorganization. Trade is at a standstill. Money is valueless. Confidence is gone. Poverty has made a clean sweep of class distinctions. Mob-rule has usurped the rights of authority. Like a lean wolf, famine gallops through the desolation in ever widening circles.”

“But Prince Rogovich?” Hindwood recalled him. “What had he to do with it?”

“He was the leader of the monarchist party in Europe--the organizer of a secret movement to set up again the thrones which war has toppled. Incidentally he was to have established a new throne for himself in Poland. Behind him he had the landowning classes and the old aristocracy, which the new regime of haphazard democracy has beggared. He was biding his time till the crisis should become sufficiently acute for him to strike his blow. He had his armies ready. All he lacked was munitions. The floating of the loan in America completed his program.”

“But you said that the fact that he was returning in triumph was known only to a few. If only a few knew it, why should his death have caused this sudden exodus of women on trains running westward?”

“For two reasons: because he was the recognized strong man of the buffer states which lie between Russian anarchy and civilization; and because the crisis of starvation, for which he had been waiting, is now in sight. While Bolshevism was making its drives against Poland, Central Europe was compelled to hold together. Now that Bolshevism is crumbling, that compulsion is relaxed. All the way from Siberia to the frontiers of Germany millions are perishing from lack of food. Presently the Russian millions will commence to march westward to the lands of plenty. They'll march like Death, swinging his scythe. They'll sweep on like a pestilence. They'll lope like gaunt wolves, savage and relentless. The starving peoples of Central Europe, who would once have resisted them, will join them. Prince Rogovich, had he lived, could have prevented them.”

“How?” It was Santa.

“He would have declared a new war, with the return to monarchy as his battle-cry. He had his nucleus armies in readiness; they would have sprung from their hiding-places overnight. There would have been a tremendous rally to him as the only man unscrupulous enough to handle the situation. He would have made his bargain with the Allies.”

“And then?”

“He would have trained his guns on the lean hordes of Russia and would have blown them back across their borders.”

Again Santa spoke. Her voice came low and haltingly. “He would have made the world pass through the fires of Moloch for a second time. The person who murdered him must have known it.”

Hindwood turned to her. There was a startled expression in his eyes. He was quite certain she had known it. He was seeing the real Santa for the first time. She was a Charlotte Corday, who had dipped her hands in blood that she might prevent a more colossal crime.

“I begin to see,” he muttered.

The Captain took the words as addressed to himself. “I'm glad you do. It must be obvious to you now that where you're going is no place for a woman. If you'll accept my advice, you'll turn back at the next stopping-place.”

“Impossible.” Hindwood recalled himself to the part he was playing. “You're a soldier; you'd be ashamed to run away at the first hint of danger. In a sense I also am a soldier, a soldier of business. I, too, have my marching orders and my duty.”

“Then if you won't turn back yourself, send Mrs. Hindwood back.” The man's voice shook. “You're taking her to almost certain death. She's too beautiful--I beg it of you.”

To his amazement Hindwood found himself liking the stranger. “My wife's beauty has no bearing on the problem. We're exceedingly grateful to you, Captain Lajos; but to act on your warning--it's out of the question.”

The Captain shot him a dark look, then let his gaze rest on Santa. When she kept her eyes averted, he pretended to lose interest in the subject. The train was slowing down. He cleared the pane with his glove.

“It's the frontier.”

Hindwood rose and hurriedly commenced to gather together his belongings. Sitting perfectly still with an air of quiet criticism, the Captain watched him. When the last bag had been strapped and made ready for removal, “Why are you doing that?” he inquired.

“The German Customs. I suppose we'll have to get out and go through the old jog-trot of being inspected.”

“You don't need to; you can have it done here. Excuse me, if I seem officious. I was immediately behind you at Calais and couldn't help noticing that your passports are the same as mine--diplomatic. The advantage of a diplomatic passport in crossing frontiers is that the officials have to come to you.”

“I didn't know. If that's the case--”

He resumed his seat with a sickening sensation. The Captain's presence was stifling him. He longed to escape, if it were only for five minutes. He felt choked with lies. It seemed impossible that the Captain should not be aware of the atmosphere of falsehood.

Passengers were already filing down the corridor and being herded by soldiers on the platform. As carriages were emptied, doors were locked and sealed. Evidently nothing was to be left to chance; while the passengers were held prisoners in the waiting-rooms, the train was to be searched from end to end. To a guilty conscience there was something exceedingly intimidating about this military display of thoroughness.

The _wagon-lits_ conductor looked into the compartment. Seeing the three of them seated there, he burst into a frantic protest. Captain Lajos annihilated him with the ferocity of his explanation. When the conductor had retreated, the Captain turned to Hindwood.

“Like most of your compatriots, I see you're not strong on languages. If I can be of use to you, I'll act as your interpreter.”

“My wife is--” Then he remembered that he knew nothing of Santa's linguistic attainments. “You're very thoughtful of our comfort,” he substituted.

Guttural voices sounded. Two crop-headed ex-drill-sergeants presented themselves. Without waste of words they rasped out a peremptory order.

“They want to see your passports,” the Captain interpreted.

While the passports were being examined, there was silence. Again questions were asked and again the Captain interpreted.

“Are you carrying fire-arms?”

“Have you any contraband?”

“Do you intend to stay in Germany?”

There was a pause. The passports were folded and on the point of being returned when another unintelligible conversation started.

The Captain smiled. “They're punctilious. As a matter of form, they want to hear you assert that you're the Philip Hindwood to whom this passport was issued.”

“Most certainly. They can prove that by comparing my face with the attached photograph.”

The Captain turned to Santa with the utmost suavity. “And that you're the Edith Jones, Mr. Hindwood's secretary.”

Having exploded his bomb, he rose. For a moment he seemed to hesitate as to whether he should expose them. Then, making a stiff bow, he murmured, “That's all.”

Directly he had departed, Hindwood locked the door behind him. “He shall ferret out no more of our secrets.”

From then on, they traveled in a state of siege. Several times they thought they heard a tapping. Whether it was the Captain's, they did not allow themselves to discover. They opened to no one whom they had not summoned.

VII

Soon after the train restarted, Santa rested her hand on his arm. “You think better of me now. I'm so tired, I should cry if you spoke to me. Let me sleep on your couch. I'm afraid to be alone.”

He covered her with his rug and did his best to make her comfortable. She was utterly exhausted. In a few minutes her eyes closed and she was breathing gently.

Several hours elapsed. She was still sleeping. He was glad not to have to talk. His mind was filled with a tremendous picture: “There was a certain rich man, which was clothed in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day. And there was a certain beggar named Lazarus, which was laid at his gate full of sores.”

He saw the world that he was leaving, self-satisfied, callous, well-nourished. He saw the world to which he was going, out of which he had planned to make a profit--a world picked clean by the crime of war and peopled by living skeletons. When its pain had passed beyond endurance, the outcast world would attack the world which was comfortable. It would come crawling like a beggar to a rich man's door. When it found the door barred, it would go mad. It had nothing to lose by violence. With its bare hands it would storm the dwelling.

How would the comfortable world defend itself? The Captain said with cannon. From a safe distance it would blow the empty bellies into nothingness. But bread was cheaper than high explosives. Why not fill the empty bellies instead of shattering them?

He recalled the fields round Amiens, starred with miniature forests of stiff, protesting crosses. Why had those crosses been planted if it had not been to teach the living world to share?

A barricade of bread could prevent further bloodshed. It always could have prevented it. The gray tide of wolf-men could be halted by a barricade of bread. Strange that no one had ever thought of it! There had never been a war that a barricade of bread could not have halted. Back and forth across the Atlantic his food-ships were plying. In Holland his warehouses were bulging--

He glanced at the sleeping face of Santa--sweet and sad as an avenging angel's. Her solution of injustice was simple: to slay the wrong-doer before he could do his wrong. It was her own suffering that had taught her this cruel mercy. If she, a half-caste, disinherited at birth, could so risk her soul's salvation for humanity--

He drew himself up sharply. He was turning visionary. At this rate he would end as a second Varensky. All his plans for capturing power would be thwarted. He had seen nothing as yet that would corroborate the Captain's disastrous prophecies.

At Stuttgart he watched the Captain receive another telegram. If the man had lied to him, what was his purpose? How much did he know? How much did he infer? Had his discovery that they were not married been an accident or had he led up to it by strategy? When Vienna was reached, it would be necessary to throw' him off their track.

They were winding through blue valleys of the Bavarian Tyrol, steeped in the contentment of autumnal sunshine. Like eagles' nests, built high above pine-forests, he caught glimpses of _chalets_ perched on narrow ledges. Here and there they passed villages, mere clusters of dolls' houses, childish and make-believe as memories of fairyland. He began to smile at his mood of pessimism. Were Santa to waken, she would refute the Captain's bogey stories. He bent over her, tempted to rouse her. At last he shook her shoulder.

“Santa, don't be frightened. I want to ask you a question. What the Captain said wasn't true?”

She gazed up at him bewildered, dreams still in her eyes; then turned her face drowsily back to the pillow. “What wasn't true? I don't understand.”

“The part about Prince Rogovich and blowing those starving wretches back with cannon.”

She settled herself wearily. “I'm so terribly tired. I don't want to be reminded.” And then, “It was why I killed him; so that he shouldn't.”

VIII

Darkness had long since gathered when they crossed the starvation-line into Austria. Perhaps it was no more than imagination, but he immediately became conscious of a vague depression. Glancing through the misty panes, he espied no signs of life--only bare fields, pollarded trees like gallows, and the sullen profiles of shrouded houses. No trains flashed by, going in the opposite direction. Wayside stations were shuttered. Night was a stagnant tank. In the all-pervading silence the sound of their own going was the only clamor.

It was not until they were nearing Vienna that any lights broke the monotony of the blackness--even these, like lanterns of lonely grave-diggers, were faint and rare. Shadowy apartment-houses and rotting factories looked less like habitations than monstrous sepulchers. It was difficult to believe that this pulseless carcass had once been the Bacchante among modern metropolises--that even at this moment memories of its rhythm were setting the feet of happier streets to music. He caught the vision of other cities after nightfall; New York, a tall white virgin, sheathed in jewels; London, a grimy smith, striking sparks from a giant anvil; Paris, a wanton goddess, smiling through the dusk, her face lit up by fire-fly constellations. How impossible it would be to approach any one of them without becoming aware of its presence! Yet a man might easily travel through Vienna without suspecting that it lay cowering behind the darkness.

It was after midnight when the train halted in the empty cathedral of the Bahnhof. Directly the doors were opened, lean men poured into the compartments, whining for the privilege of handling the baggage. Hindwood delayed until he had allowed the Captain sufficient time to make his exit, then he thought it safe to assist Santa to the platform. Once again, despite the lateness of the hour, it was necessary to go through tedious formalities. The question asked most pressingly, as at the German frontier, was whether they were possessed of fire-arms.

At last they were free to go in search of beds. As they stepped into the station-yard, they got their first glimpse of Austria's destitution. Huddled against the walls was a collection of human derelicts which seemed more in keeping with Dante's “Inferno” than the city which had set the world waltzing to _The Merry Widow_. They were of all conditions and ages, from grandparents to toddling children, from artisans to aristocrats. In the scant light they lifted up greenish faces which snarled, while their extended hands demanded charity. The police beat them back, like huntsmen separating hounds from their quarry. They retreated whimpering into the shadows.

From the line of worn-out vehicles which were waiting, Hindwood selected a creaking taxi. Having seen Santa seat herself, he ordered the man to drive to the Hotel Bristol.

“Pretty awful,” he groaned, as he sank back against the musty cushions.

She stifled a sob. “It was nothing. It's worse than that.”

He spoke again. “I didn't see the Captain. I think we're rid of him.”

“I wouldn't be optimistic.”

Down the long, deserted Mariahilfer Strasse they bumped and rattled. It was ungarnished and forbidding as an empty house. The few people whom they met scuffled out of sight at sound of intrusion, looking less like human beings than vermin. Over all there hung a sense of evil, as though a crime lay undiscovered behind the silence.

As they turned into the Ring, which circles the inner city, Santa woke into animation. Leaning from the window, she pointed. “Do you see that huge pile like a palace, with all the statues and the steps going up to it? That's the Opera House. I danced there once at the command of the Emperor.”

“Then you're known here?” He clutched her hand.

She shook her head sadly. “I was the toast of Europe then. Whereas to-day---- It makes a difference.”

In the Kârtner-Ring they drew up before a blazing entrance. Laughing people were passing in and out, women muffled in costly wraps, accompanied by men in evening-attire.

“What's this?” The change was so sudden that it shook his sense of reality. “This doesn't look like--”

She placed her lips close to his ear as she alighted.

“It looks like asking for revolution. 'After me, the deluge'--you remember? The men aren't Austrians. They're foreign vultures here to snatch bargains--human bargains as well. But the women--”

Inside the doors of the hotel every reminder of famine had been blotted out. Its white marble halls and stairways were richly carpeted. Its furnishings in gilt and satin had been carried out with the utmost lavishness. The costal of its chandeliers glittered with a dazzling intensity. From the restaurant drifted the wild gayety of a gipsy orchestra, enfever-ing the atmosphere with the yearning of elusive romance. Whispering to the beat of the music came the glide of dancing footsteps. Flunkeys with powdered heads, tricked out in plush breeches like marionettes, hurried to and fro on all-absorbing errands.

After Santa had been shown to her ornate room, he stepped out into the gloomy street to assure himself. It was all true, in spite of the lie which he had witnessed. The pinched faces were still there, and the enfeebled bodies crawling through the shadows.

As he reentered the white glare which shone from the hotel, he glanced back with a sense of impending ruin. For a second time his mind was filled with a tremendous picture: “And there was a certain rich man and a beggar named Lazarus, which was laid at his gate, desiring to be fed. Moreover, the dogs came and licked his sores.”

He caught the vision of his food-ships piling up stores in Holland. At the thought, as he crept between the sheets in his comfortable bed, he sickened.

IX

He had returned from a disturbing interview with the Austrian ministers responsible for considering his proposals. He was passing the hotel desk, when it occurred to him that some one might have left a message. On inquiry two were handed out to him, one a telegram, the other a letter. Ripping open the telegram, a glance told him it was in German and had been dispatched from Budapest. He had slipped it into his pocket, thinking, “I'll have to get Santa to translate that,” when he unfolded it again to see by whom it had been sent. The sender's name was a single word, “Anna.”

His heart gave a bound. She was near to him! He could see her again within a handful of hours. For a moment nothing else seemed to matter--neither Santa's safety, nor the agony of hunger by which he was surrounded. His blood ran hot with yearning. How had she reached Budapest so quickly? What was her object? To have accomplished the journey she must have set out from England ahead of him or else have left on the same day, traveling by the alternative route via Belgium. While he had been journeying in the company of Santa, going through the mummery of pretending he was married, Anna had been paralleling his footsteps. Was Varensky with her? But if she were alone...

Mechanically, as he entered the elevator, he slit the flap of the letter. It had evidently been left personally, for it bore no postmark and was hastily scrawled on the stationery of the hotel. The hand was unknown to him. The note read:

“_Yesterday you avoided me. I have told her everything. I am more sure than ever you ought to send her back. I must leave you now for a little while. When we meet again, I hope it will be as friends_.

“_Lajos_.”

At last they had got rid of him! But what was it he had told her? And what made him so sure that they would meet again? The man wrote as if he were confident that he could lay his hands on them at any moment.

Stepping out of the elevator, Hindwood made directly for Santa's room. He recalled it vaguely as he had seen it the night before, with its Empire furniture, painted cupids, silken hangings, and tall mirrors--its knowing air of having been the illicit nest of innumerable short-lived love-affairs. Its gaudy luxury, so glaringly in contrast with the embittered need of the outside world, had stirred his anger. In reply to his knock, her hoarse voice bade him enter. Before he was across the threshold, he was aware of the intoxicating fragrance of roses.

Just inside the room, frowning with bewilderment, he halted. There were stacks of them--sheaves of them everywhere. They were scattered on the floor. They were arranged in vases. They lay strewn about in boxes. They were of all shades and varieties.

“What's the meaning?”

She beckoned to him to join her at the tall window against which she was standing.

“We missed this last night.” She pointed.

Following her direction, he saw that the window looked down obliquely on the imposing architecture of the Opera House. The mellow October sunlight drifted softly across gray roofs and fell in an orange splash into the deep fissure of the street below. Along the pavements the tide of traffic wandered nervelessly. On a neighboring ledge, two plump pigeons were engaged in an ardent courtship.

“What did we miss? I see nothing.”

Then he noticed the panting of her bosom and that her expression was tender with tremulous emotion.

Drawing her fine fingers across her eyes, she shuddered. “Stupid of me! I forgot; they would bring back nothing to you--the scent of the roses and then the Opera House, looking the same as ever. I've been dreaming of other mornings, when I woke after nights of triumph. Perhaps it was this room that set me remembering. It's not the first time I've slept in it.” As she caught his eyes reading her memories, she flushed guiltily. “Yes, in those days I was never lonely.”

“But the roses!” he reminded her impatiently. “How did you get them? At the price things cost in Vienna, some one must have spent a fortune.”

She placed a hand on his arm appealingly. “Don't begrudge me. He must have known. I think he did it for my burial.”

Her words sent a chill through him. He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “We're in too tight a corner to waste energy on sentiment. If we're going to make a fight for it, we've got to keep our heads clear. Who gave them to you?”

She pressed her forehead against the warm pane. The gold of the world outside cast a sheen of gold on her profile. Her unwanted loveliness hurt him. It reproached him. It recalled to him the ache of his old desire in the days before he had known that he could have her. And now that he could have her for the asking....