Mrs. Warren's Daughter Part 27

"_Dear_ Bertie! You can't be gladder to see me than I am you. I greet you with all my heart. But you must be aware that in coming here like this you--" her words stuck in her throat--she knew not what to say lest she might incriminate him farther--

A police officer broke in on her embarra.s.sment and said in German: "Es ist genug--You recognize him, Madame? He was arrested this morning at the Hotel Imperial, enquiring for you. Meantime, you also are under arrest. Please follow that officer."

"May I communicate with my friends?" said Vivie, with a dry tongue in a dry mouth.

"Who are your friends?"

"Grafin von Stachelberg, at the Hopital de St. Pierre; le Pasteur Walcker, Rue Haute, 33--"

"I will let them know that you are arrested on a charge of high treason--in league with an English spy," he hissed.

Then Vivie was pushed out of the room and Bertie was seized by two policemen--

They did not meet again for three days. It was a Sat.u.r.day, and a police agent came into the improvised cell where Vivie was confined--who had never taken off her clothes since her arrest and had pa.s.sed three days of such mental distress as she had never known, unable to sleep on the bug-infested pallet, unable to eat a morsel of the filthy food--and invited her to follow him. "By the grace of the military governor of the prison of Saint-Gilles"--he said this in French as she understood German imperfectly--"you are permitted to proceed there to take farewell of your English friend, the prisoner A-dams, who has been condemned to death."

Bertie had been tried by court-martial in the Senate, on the Friday.

He followed all the proceedings in a dazed condition. Everything was carried on in German, but the parts that most concerned him were grotesquely translated by a ferocious-looking interpreter, who likewise turned Bertie's stupid, involved, self-condemnatory answers into German--no doubt very incorrectly. Bertie however protested, over and over again, that Miss Warren knew _nothing_ of his projects, and that his only object in posing as an American and travelling with false pa.s.sports was to rescue Miss Warren from Brussels and enable her to pa.s.s into Holland, "or get out of the country _some_ 'ow." As to the Emperor, and taking his life--"why lor' bless you, _I_ don't want to take _any one's_ life. I 'ate war, more than ever after all I've seen of it. Upon my honour, gentlemen, all I want is Miss Warren." Here one member of the court made a facetious remark in German to a colleague who sn.i.g.g.e.red, while, with his insolent light blue eyes, he surveyed Bertie's honest, earnest face, thin and hollowed with privations and fatigue....

He was perfunctorily defended by a languid Belgian barrister, tired of the invidious role of mechanical pleading for the lives of prisoners, especially where, as in this case, they were foredoomed, and eloquence was waste of breath, and even got you disliked by the impatient ogres, thirsty for the blood of an English man or woman.... "Du reste," he said to a colleague, "agissait-il d'un Belge, mon cher, tu sais que l'on se sentirait force a risquer le deplaisir de ces ogres: tandis que, pour un pauvre bougre d'Anglais...? Et qu'ont-ils fait pour nous, les Anglais? Nous avons tache de leur boucher le trou a Liege--et--il--nous--ont--abandonne.

Enfin--allons boire un coup--"

Verdict: as translated by the ferocious interpreter:--

"Ze Court faind you Geeltee. You are condemned to Dess, and you will be shot on Monday."

In the prison of Saint-Gilles--as I believe elsewhere in Belgium--though there might be a military governor in control who was a German, the general direction remained in the hands of the Belgian staff which was there when the German occupation began.

These Belgian directors and their subordinates were as kind and humane to the prisoners under their charge as the Germans were the reverse. Everything was done at Saint-Gilles to alleviate the mental agony of the condemned-to-death. The German courts tried to prolong and enhance the agony as much as possible, by sentencing the prisoners three days, six days, a week before the time of execution (though for fear of a reprieve this sentence was not immediately published) and letting them know that they had just so many days or hours to live: consequently most of them wasted away in prison with mind-agony, inability to sleep or eat; and even opiates or soporifics administered surrept.i.tiously by the Belgian prison doctors were but slight alleviations.

Bertie when first placed in his cell at Saint-Gilles asked for pen, ink, and paper. They were supplied to him. He was allowed to keep on the electric light all night, and he distracted his mind--with some dreadful intervals of horror at his fate--by trying to set forth on paper for Vivie to read an explanation and an account of his adventures. He intended to wind up with an appeal for his wife and children.

Vivie never quite knew how Bertie had managed to cross the War zone from France into Belgium, and reach Brussels without being arrested.

When they met in prison they had so little time to discuss such details, in face of the one awful fact that he was there, and was in all probability going to die in two days. But from this incomplete, tear-stained scribble that he left behind and from the answers he gave to her few questions, she gathered that the story of his quest was something like this:--

He had planned an attempt to reach her in Brussels or wherever she might be, from the autumn of 1914 onwards. The most practicable way of doing so seemed to be to pa.s.s as an American engaged in Belgian relief work, in the distribution of food. Direct attempts to be enrolled for such work proved fruitless, only caused suspicion; so he lay low. In course of time he made the acquaintance of one of those American agents of Mr. Hoover--a tousle-haired, hatless, happy-go-lucky, lawless individual, who made mock of laws, rules, precedents, and regulations. He concealed under a dry, taciturn, unemotional manner an intense hatred of the Germans. But he was either himself of enormous wealth or he had access to unlimited national funds. He spent money like water to carry out his relief work and was lavishly generous to German soldiers or civilians if thereby he might save time and set aside impediments. He took a strong liking to Bertie, though he showed it little outwardly. The latter probably in his navete and directness unveiled his full purpose to this gum-chewing, grey-eyed American. When the news of Mrs. Warren's death had reached Bertie through a circuitous course--Praed-Honoria-Rossiter--he had modified his scheme and at the same time had become still more ardent about carrying it into execution. In fact he felt that Mrs. Warren's death was opportune, as with her still living and impossible to include in a flight, Vivie would probably have refused to come away.

Therefore in the summer of 1916, he asked his American friend to obtain two American pa.s.sports, one for himself and one for "his wife, Mrs. Violet Adams." Mr. Praed had sent him a credit for Five hundred pounds in case he could get it conveyed to Vivie. Bertie turned the credit into American bank notes. This money would help him to reach Brussels and once there, if Vivie would consent to pa.s.s as his wife, he might convey her out of Belgium into Holland, as two Americans working under the Relief Committee.

It had been excessively difficult and dangerous crossing the War zone and getting into occupied Belgium. There was some hint in his talk of an Alsatian spy who helped him at this stage, one of those "sanspatries" who spied impartially for both sides and sold any one they could sell (Fortunately after the Armistice most of these Judases were caught and shot). The spy had probably at first blackmailed him when he was in Belgium--which is why of the Five hundred pounds in dollar notes there only remained about a third in his possession when he reached Brussels--and then denounced him to the authorities, for a reward.

But his main misfortune lay in the long delay before he reached Brussels. During that time, the entire American diplomatic and consular staff was leaving Belgium; and the Emperor was arriving more or less secretly in Brussels (it was said in the hope that a personal talk with Brand Whitlock might stave off the American declaration of war).

Bertie on his arrival dared not to go to the American legation for fear of being found out and disavowed. So he had asked his way in very "English" French, and wearing the semi-military uniform of an American Relief officer--to the Hotel "Edward-Sett," where he supposed Vivie would be or could be heard of. When he reached the Hotel Imperial and asked for "Miss Warren," he had been at once arrested. Indeed probably his steps had been followed all the way from the railway station to the door of the hotel by a plain-clothes German policeman. The Germans were convinced just then that many Englishmen and some American cranks were out to a.s.sa.s.sinate the Kaiser. They took Bertie's appearance at the door of the Hotel Imperial as a proof of his intention. They considered him to have been caught red-handed, especially as he had a revolver concealed on his person and was obviously travelling with false pa.s.sports.

"Ah, Bertie," said Vivie, when they first met in his cell at Saint-Gilles prison. "If _only_ I had not led you into this! I am mad with myself..."

"Are you, miss? But 'oo could 'a foreseen this war would come along!

We thought all we 'ad to fight was the Police and the 'Ome Office to get the Vote. And _then_, you'd 'a bin able to come out into the open and practise as a barrister--and me, again, as your clerk. It was our d.a.m.ned Government that made you go abroad and get locked up 'ere. And once I realized you couldn't get away, thinks I to meself, _I'll_ find a way..."

It was here that Vivie began questioning him as to how he had reached Brussels from the War zone; and as, towards the end of his story--some of which he said she would find he had written down in case they wouldn't let him see her--the reference to the Emperor came in, she sprang up and tried the door of the cell. It was fastened without, but a face covered the small, square opening through which prisoners were watched; and a rough voice asked her what she wanted. It was the German police agent or spy, who, perched on a stool outside, next this small window, was there to listen to all they said. As they naturally spoke in English and the rough creature only knew "G.o.d-dam," and a few unrepeatable words, he was not much the wiser for his vigil.

"I want--I _must_ see the Director," said Vivie.

Presently the Director came.

"Oh, sir," said Vivie, "give me paper and an envelope, I _implore_ you. There is pen and ink here and I will write a letter to the Emperor, a pet.i.tion. I will tell him briefly the true story of this poor young man; and _then_, if you will only forward it he may grant a reprieve."

The Director said he would do his best. After all, you never knew; and the Kaiser, though he said he hated them always, had a greater regard for the English than for any other nation. As he glanced from Vivie and her face of agonized appeal to the steadfast gaze which Bertie fixed on her, as on some fairy G.o.dmother, his own eyes filled with tears--as indeed they did many, many times over the tragic scenes of the German Terror.

Another request. Could Vivie see or communicate with Grafin von Stachelberg?--with Pasteur Walcker?

Here the police agent intervened--"Nothing of the kind! You're not going to hold a salon here. Far too many concessions already. Much more fuss and trouble, and I shall take you back to the Kommandantur and report. Write your letter to the All Highest, who may deign to receive it. As to Pastor Walcker, he shall come to-morrow, Sunday, to prepare the Englishman for his death, on Monday--"

Vivie wrote her letter--probably in very incoherent language. It was handed to the German police agent. He smiled sardonically as he took it in his h.o.r.n.y hand with its dirty broken nails. The Governor General disliked these appeals to the All Highest. Indeed, in most cases executions that were intended to take place were only announced at the same time as the condemnation, to obviate the worry of these appeals. Besides, he knew the Emperor had left that morning for Charleville, after having bestowed several decorations on the police officials who told him they had just frustrated an English plot for his a.s.sa.s.sination.

Vivie and Bertie were at length alone, for the police agent was bored, couldn't understand their talk, and gave himself an afternoon off. In this prison of Saint-Gilles, the cells were in many ways superior to those of English prisons. They were well lit through a long window, not so high up but that by standing on a chair you could look out on the prison garden. Through this window the rays of the sun could penetrate into and light up the cell. There was no unpleasant smell--one of the horrors of Holloway. The floor was a polished parquet. The bed was comfortable. There was a table, even a book-shelf. The toilet arrangements were in no way repulsive or obvious.

Vivie insisted on Bertie lying down on the bed; she would sit on the chair by his side. He must be so exhausted....

"And what about _you_, miss? I'll lay you ain't slept these last three nights. _What_ a mess I've made of the 'ole thing!"

"Bertie! _Why_ did you do this? _Why_ did you risk your life to come here; _oh why, oh why_?" wailed Vivie.

"Because I loved you, because I've always loved you, better'n any one else on earth--since I was a boy of fourteen and you spoke so kind to me and encouraged me to get on and improve myself; and giv'

me books, and encouraged me about me cricket. I suppose I'm going to die, so I ain't got any shame about tellin' you all this. Though if I thought I was goin' to live, I'd cut my tongue out sooner'n offend you--Oh,"--he gave a kind of groan--"When the news come about Mrs.

Warren bein' dead an' you p'raps without money and at the mercy of these Germans ... well!--all I wonder at is I didn't steal an airyplane, and come in that. I tell you I had to exercise great self-control to stay week after week fiddling with the food distribution and pretendin' to be an American....

"Well! There it is! We must all die sooner or later. It's a wonder I ain't dead already. I've bin in some tight places since I come out for the Y.M.C.A....

"And talkin' about the Y.M.C.A., miss, I do _beg_ of you, if you get out of this--an' I'm sure you will--they'll never kill _you_," said Bertie adoringly, looking up at the grave, beautiful face that bent over him--"I do _beg_ of you to make matters right with the Y.M.C.A. I ain't taken away one penny of their money--I served 'em faithfully up to the last day before I saw my chance of hooking it across the lines--They must think me dead--and so must poor Nance, my wife. For I haven't dared to write to any one since I've bin in Belgium. But I did send her a line 'fore I started, sayin', 'Don't be surprised if you get no letter from me for some time. I'll turn up all right, you bet your boots--'

"That may 'ave kept 'er 'opin'. An' soon you'll be able to let 'er know. Who can say? _I_ dunno! But Peace, you'd think, must come soon--Seems like our poor old world is comin' to an end, don't it?

_What_ times we've 'ad--if you don't mind me puttin' it like that! I remember when I had to be awful careful always to say 'Sir' to you, and 'Mr. David' or 'Mr. Williams'"--and a roguish look, a gleam of merriment came into Bertie's eyes, and he laughed a laugh that was half sob. "If you was to write your life, no one 'ud believe it, miss. It licks any novel I ever read--and I've read a tidy few, looking after the Y.M.C.A. libraries....

"My! But you was wonderful as a pleader in the courts! I used sometimes to reg'lar cry when I heard you takin' up the case of some poor girl as 'ad bin deserted by 'er feller, and killed 'er baby.

'Tricks of the trade,' says some other barrister's clerk, sneerin'

because you wasn't 'is boss. An' then I'd punch 'is 'ead.... An' I don't reckon myself a soft-'earted feller as a rule.... Reklect that s.h.i.+llito Case--?"

"_Don't_, Bertie! _Don't_ say such things in praise of me. I'm not _worth_ such love. I'm just an arrogant, vain, quarrelsome woman....

Look how many people I've deceived, what little good I've really done in the world--"

"Rub--bis.h.!.+ You done good wherever you went ... to my pore mother--wonder, by the bye, what _she_ thinks and 'ow _she's_ gettin' on? Sons are awful ungrateful and forgettin'. What with you--and Nance--and the little 'uns, I ain't scarcely give a thought to poor mother. But you'll let her know, won't you, miss?...

"Think 'ow good you was to your old father down in Wales, 'im as you called your father--an' 'oo's to say 'e wasn't? You never know....

Miss Warren! what a pity it is you never married. There's lots was sweet on you, I'll bet. Yet I remember I used to 'ate the idea of your doin' so, and was glad you dressed up as a man, an' took 'em all in.... I may tell you all, miss, now I'm goin' to die, day after to-morrow. My poor Nance! She see there was some one that always occupied my mind, and she used to get jealous-like, at times. But never did I let on it was you. Why I wouldn't even 'av said it to myself--I respected you more than--than--"