CHAPTER LI
THE REAL ANNE
"It's incredible!" I exclaimed.
"Well, it's true, anyhow!" Jim asserted. "And I don't see myself wherethe incredibility comes in."
"You say that Mr. Pendennis wrote from Berlin not a week after I leftEngland, and that he and Anne--_Anne_--are at this moment staying withyou in Chelsea? When I've been constantly with her,--saw her murdered inthe streets of Warsaw!"
"That must have been the other woman,--the woman of the portrait,whoever she may be. No one seems to know, not even Pendennis. We'vediscussed it several times,--not before Anne. We don't think it wise toremind her of that Russian episode; it upsets her too much; for she'snot at all the thing even yet, poor girl."
He seemed quite to have changed his mental attitude towards Anne, andspoke of her as kindly as if she had been Mary's sister.
"It's another case of mistaken identity based on an extraordinarylikeness," he continued. "There have been many such,--more in fact thanin fiction. Look at the Bancrofts and their 'doubles,' for instance, apair of them, husband and wife, who passed themselves off as Sir Squireand Lady Bancroft innumerable times a few years back, and were neverdiscovered. And yet, though it mightn't be difficult for a cleverimpersonator to make up like Bancroft, it seems incredible that he couldfind a woman who could pose successfully as the incomparable MarieWilton. You should have seen her in her prime, my boy--the mostfascinating little creature imaginable, and the plainest, if you onlylooked at her features! It must have been a jolly sight harder torepresent her, than if she'd been a merely beautiful woman, like Anne.She's an uncommon type here in England, but not on the Continent. Idon't suppose it would be difficult to find half a dozen who wouldanswer to the same description,--if one only knew where to look for'em."
"It wasn't the resemblance of a type,--eyes and hair and thatsort of thing,"--I said slowly; "the voice, the manner, the soul;why--_she_--knew me, recognized me even with my beard--spoke ofMary--"
"She must have been an astonishingly clever woman, poor soul! And onewho knew a lot more about Anne than Anne and her father know of her.Well, you'd soon be able to exchange notes with Pendennis himself, andperhaps you'll hit on a solution of the mystery between you. What'sthat?"
I had pulled out the miniature and now handed it to him. He examined itintently under the bright light of the little acetylene lamp inside thebrougham.
"This is another portrait of her? You're right,--there's a marvellouslikeness. I'd have sworn it was Anne, though the hair is differentnow. It was cut short in her illness,--Anne's illness, I mean, ofcourse,--and now it's a regular touzle of curls. Here, put it up. Iwouldn't say anything about it to Anne, if I were you,--not at present."
The carriage stopped, and as I stumbled out and along the flagged way,the front door was flung open, and in a blaze of light I saw Mary, and,a little behind her,--Anne herself.
I'm afraid I was very rude to Mary in that first confused moment ofmeetings and greetings. I think I gave her a perfunctory kiss inpassing, but it was Anne on whom my eyes were fixed,--Anne who--wonderof wonders--was in my arms the next moment. What did it matter to usthat there were others standing around? She was alive, and she loved meas I loved her; I read that in her eyes as they met mine; and nothingelse in the world was of any consequence.
"You went back to Russia in search of me! I was quite sure of it in mymind, though Mary declared you were off on another special correspondentaffair for Lord Southbourne, and he said the same; he's rather a niceman, isn't he, and Lady Southbourne's a dear! But I knew somehow hewasn't speaking the truth. And you've been in the wars, you poor boy!Why, your hair is as gray as father's; and how _did_ you get that woundon your forehead?"
"I've had some lively times one way and another, dear; but never mindabout that now," I said. We were sitting together by the fire in thedrawing-room, after dinner, alone,--for Mary had effaced herself likethe considerate little woman she is; probably she had joined Jim andPendennis in the smoking-room, that was also Jim's sanctum.
"Tell me about yourself. How did you get to Petersburg? It was you?"
"Yes; but I can't remember even now how I got there," she answered,frowning at the fire, and biting her underlip. A queer thrill ranthrough me as I watched her; she was so like that other.
"I got into the train at Calais, and I suppose I fell asleep; I was verytired after the dinner at the Cecil and Mrs. Sutherland's party. Therewere two other people in the same carriage,--a man and a woman. That'sthe last thing I can recollect clearly until I found myself again in arailway carriage. I've a confused notion of being on board ship inbetween; but it was all like a dream, until I suddenly saw you, andcalled out to you; I was in an open carriage then, driving through astrange city that I know now was Petersburg. I was taken to a housewhere several horrid men--quite superior sort of men in a way, but theyseemed as if they hated me, and I couldn't think why--asked me a lot ofquestions. At first they spoke in a language I didn't understand at all,but afterwards in French; and then I found they wanted to know aboutthat Mr. Cassavetti; they called him by another name, too--"
"Selinski," I said.
"Yes, that was it; though I haven't been able to remember it. Theywouldn't believe me when I said I'd only met him quite casually atdinner, the night before I was kidnapped,--for I really was kidnapped,Maurice--and that I knew nothing whatever about him. They kept me in adark cell for hours, till I was half-crazy with anger and terror; andthen they brought me out, and I saw you, and father; and the next thingI knew I was in bed in an hotel we've often stayed at, in Berlin. Fathertries to persuade me that I imagined the whole thing; but I didn't; nowdid I, Maurice? And what does it all mean?"
"It was all a mistake. You were taken for some one else; some one whomyou resemble very closely."
"That's just what I thought; though father won't believe it; or hepretends he won't; but I am sure he knows something that he will nottell me. But there's another thing,--that dreadful man Cassavetti.Perhaps I oughtn't to call him that, as he's dead; I only heard aboutthe murder a little while ago, and then almost by accident. Maud Verekertold me; do you know her?"
"That frivolous little chatterbox; yes, I've met her, though I'dforgotten her name."
"She told me all about it one day. Mary and Jim had never said a word;they seemed to be in a conspiracy of silence! But when I heard it I wasterribly upset. Think of any one suspecting you of murdering him,Maurice,--just because he lived on the floor above you, and you happenedto find him. You poor boy, what dreadful troubles you have beenthrough!"
There was an interlude here; we had a good many such interludes, buteven when my arm was round her, when my lips pressed hers, I couldscarcely realize that I was awake and sane.
"It was just as well they did suspect me, darling," I said after awhile, "or I most certainly shouldn't have been here now."
She nestled closer to me, with a little sob.
"Oh, Maurice, Maurice! I can't believe that you're safe here again,after all! And I feel that I was to blame for it all--"
"You? Why, how's that, sweetheart?"
"Because I flirted with that Cassavetti--at the dinner, don't youremember? That seemed to be the beginning of everything! I was so crosswith you, and he--he puzzled and interested me, though I felt frightenedjust at the last when I gave him that flower. Maurice, did he take mefor the other girl? And was there any meaning attached to the flower?"
"Yes, the flower was a symbol; it meant a great deal,--among otherthings the fact that you gave it to him made him quite sure youwere--the person he mistook you for. You are marvellously like her--"
"Then you--you have met her also? Who is she? Where is she?"
"She is dead; and I don't know for certain who she was; until Jim met meto-night I believed that she was--you!"
"Were we so like as that?" she breathed. "Why, she might have been mysister, but I never had one; my mother died when I was born, you know!Tell me about her, Maurice."
"I can't, dear; except tha
t she was as brave as she was beautiful; andher life was one long tragedy. But I'll show you her portrait."
She gave a little cry of astonishment as I handed her the miniature; thediamond setting flashed under the softly shaded electric light.
"Oh, how lovely! But--why, she's far more beautiful than I am, or evershall be! Did she give you this, Maurice?"
There was a queer note in her voice as she put the question; it soundedalmost like a touch of jealousy.
"No; her husband gave it to me,--after she died," I said sadly.
"Her husband! She was married, then. Who was he?"
"A man worthy of her; but I'd rather not talk about them,--not just atpresent; it's too painful."
"Oh, Maurice, I'm so sorry," she murmured in swift penitence; and to mygreat relief she questioned me no more for that evening.
But I told the whole story, so far as I knew it, to Pendennis and Jim,after the rest of the household had gone to bed; and we sat till thesmall hours, comparing notes and discussing the whole matter, whichstill presented many perplexing points.
I omitted nothing; I said how I had seen Anne--as I believed then anduntil this day--in that boat on the Thames; how I had suspected,--feltcertain,--that she had been to Cassavetti's rooms that night, and wascognizant of his murder; what I had learned from Mr. Treherne, down inCornwall, and everything of importance that had happened since.
Jim punctuated the story with exclamations and comments, but AnthonyPendennis listened almost in silence, though when I came to the partabout the mad woman from Siberia, who had died at the hunting-lodge, andwho was spoken of as the Countess Vassilitzi, he started, and made aqueer sound, like a groan, though he signed to me to continue. I wasglad afterwards that I hadn't described what she looked like. He was agrave, stern man, wonderfully self-possessed.
"It is a strange story," he said, when I had finished. "A mysteriousone."
"Do you hold the key to the mystery?" I asked him pointblank.
"No, though I can shed a little light on it; a very little, and I feareven that will only make the rest more obscure. But it is only rightthat I should give you confidence for confidence, Mr. Wynn; since youhave suffered so much through your love for my daughter,--and throughthe machinations of this unhappy woman who certainly impersonatedher,--for her own purposes."
I winced at that. Although I knew now that "the unhappy woman" was notshe whom I loved, it hurt me to hear her spoken of in that stern,condemnatory way; but I let it pass. I wanted to hear his version.
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