Part 20 (1/2)
”You forget that I am an old traveller,” she said, ”and not likely to be fatigued by such a short journey. You have some reason, however, for asking the question. What is it?”
”I will tell you,” I answered. ”I have been thinking that it would not be altogether safe for us to remain in Berlin. It is quite certain that, as soon as he discovers that we are gone, Pharos will make inquiries, and find out what trains left Prague in the early morning. He will then put two and two together, after his own diabolical fas.h.i.+on, and as likely as not he will be here in search of us to-morrow morning, if not sooner.”
”In that case, what do you propose doing?” she asked.
”I propose, if you are not too tired, to leave here by the express at half-past seven,” I replied, ”and travel as far as Wittenberge, which place we should reach by half-past ten. We can manage it very easily. I will telegraph for rooms, and to-morrow morning early we can continue our journey to Hamburg, where we shall have no difficulty in obtaining a steamer for London. Pharos would never think of looking for us in a small place like Wittenberge, and we should be on board the steamer and _en route_ to England by this time to-morrow evening.”
”I can be ready as soon as you like,” she answered bravely, ”but before we start you must give me time to reward Herr Schuncke for his kindness to us.”
A few moments later our host entered the room. I was about to pay for our meal, when Valerie stopped me.
”You must do nothing of the kind,” she said; ”remember, you are my guest. Surely you would not deprive me of one of the greatest pleasures I have had for a long time?”
”You shall pay with all my heart,” I answered, ”but not with Pharos'
money.”
”I never thought of that,” she replied, and her beautiful face flushed crimson. ”No, no, you are quite right. I could not entertain you with his money. But what am I to do? I have no other.”
”In that case you must permit me to be your banker,” I answered, and with that I pulled from my pocket a handful of German coins.
Herr Schuncke at first refused to take anything, but when Valerie declared that if he did not do so she would not play to him, he reluctantly consented, vowing at the same time that he would not accept it himself, but would bestow it upon Ludwig. Then Valerie went to the violin-case, which I had placed upon a side table, and taking her precious instrument from it--the only legacy she had received from her father--tuned it, and stood up to play. As Valerie informed me later, the old man, though one would scarcely have imagined it from his commonplace exterior, was a pa.s.sionate devotee of the beautiful art, and now he stood, leaning against the wall, his fat hands clasped before him, and his upturned face expressive of the most celestial enjoyment.
Nor had Valerie, to my thinking, ever done herself greater justice. She had escaped from a life of misery that had been to her a living death, and her whole being was in consequence radiant with happiness; this was reflected in her playing. Nor was the effect she produced limited to Herr Schuncke. Under the influence of her music I found myself building castles in the air, and upon such firm foundations, too, that for the moment it seemed no wind would ever be strong enough to blow them down.
When she ceased I woke as from a happy dream; Schuncke uttered a long sigh, as much as to say, ”It will be many years before I shall hear anything like that again,” and then it was time to go. The landlord accompanied us into the street and called a cab. As it pulled up beside the pavement a cripple pa.s.sed, making his way slowly along with the a.s.sistance of a pair of crutches. Valerie stopped him.
”My poor fellow,” she said, handing him the purse containing the money with which, ten minutes before, she had thought of paying for our dinner, ”there is a little present which I hope may bring you more happiness than it has done me. Take it.”
The man did so, scarcely able to contain his surprise, and when he had examined the contents burst into a flood of thanks.
”Hush,” she said, ”you must not thank me. You do not know what you are saying.” Then turning to Schuncke, she held out her hand. ”Good-bye,”
she said, ”and thank you for your kindness. I know that you will say nothing about having seen us.”
”You need have no fear on that score,” he said. ”Pharos shall hear nothing from me, I can promise you that. Farewell, Fraulein, and may your life be a happy one.”
I said good-bye to him, and then took my place in the vehicle beside Valerie. A quarter of an hour later we were on our way to Wittenberge, and Berlin, like Prague, was only a memory. Before leaving the station I had purchased an armful of papers, ill.u.s.trated and otherwise, for Valerie's amus.e.m.e.nt. Though she professed to have no desire to read them, but to prefer sitting by my side, holding my hand, and talking of the happy days we hoped and trusted were before us, she found time, as the journey progressed, to skim their contents. Seeing her do this brought the previous evening to my remembrance, and I inquired what further news there was of the terrible pestilence which Pharos had declared to be raging in eastern Europe.
”I am afraid it is growing worse instead of better,” she answered, when she had consulted the paper. ”The latest telegram declares that there have been upward of a thousand fresh cases in Turkey alone within the past twenty-four hours, that it has spread along the Black Sea as far as Odessa, and north as far as Kiev. Five cases are reported from Vienna; and, stay, here is a still later telegram in which it says”--she paused, and a look of horror came into her face, ”Can this be true?--it says that the pestilence has broken out in Prague, and that the Count de Schelyani, who, you remember, was so kind and attentive to us last night at the palace, was seized this morning, and at the time this telegram was despatched was lying in a critical condition.”
”That is bad news indeed,” I said. ”Not only for Austria but also for us.”
”How for us?” she asked.
”Because it will make Pharos move out of Prague,” I replied. ”When he spoke to me yesterday of the way in which this disease was gaining ground in Europe he seemed visibly frightened, and stated that as soon as it came too near he should at once leave the city. We have had one exhibition of his cowardice, and you may be sure he will be off now as fast as trains can take him. It must be our business to take care that his direction and ours are not the same.”
”But how are we to tell in which direction he will travel?” asked Valerie, whose face had suddenly grown bloodless in its pallor.
”We must take our chance of that,” I answered. ”My princ.i.p.al hope is that knowing, as he does, the whereabouts of the yacht he will make for her, board her, and depart for mid-ocean to wait there until all danger is pa.s.sed. For my own part I am willing to own that I do not like the look of things at all. I shall not feel safe until I have got you safely into England, and that little silver streak of sea is between us and the Continent.”
”You _do_ love me, Cyril, do you not?” she inquired, slipping her little hand into mine, and looking into my face with those eyes that seemed to grow more beautiful with every day I looked into them. ”I could not live without your love now.”
”G.o.d grant you may never be asked to do so,” I answered; ”I love you, dearest, as I believe man never loved woman before, and, come what may, nothing shall separate us. Surely even death itself could not be so cruel. But why do you talk in this dismal strain? The miles are slipping behind us; Pharos, let us hope, is banished from our lives for ever; we are together, and as soon as we reach London, we shall be man and wife.
No, no, you must not be afraid, Valerie.”