“If he had been able to do that, surely he or she would have communicated with your cousin, Mrs. Cayley?” he asked, speaking the thought that was in my own mind.
“That’s so; still there’s no use in conjecturing. You’ll not let my cousin get even a hint of what I’ve told you, Mr. Treherne? If she finds out that Pencarrow belongs to Mr. Pendennis, she’ll surely cross-question you about him, and Mary’s so sharp that she’ll see at once you’re concealing something from her, if you’re not very discreet.”
“Thanks for the warning. I promise you that I’ll be very discreet, Mr. Wynn,” he assured me. “Dear me—dear me, it seems incredible that such things should be!”
It did seem incredible, there in that peaceful old-world room, with never a sound to break the silence but the lazy murmur of the waves, far below; heard faintly but distinctly,—a weird, monotonous, never ceasing undersong.
We parted cordially; he came right out to the porch, and I was afraid he might offer to walk some of the way with me. I wanted to be alone to try and fix things up in my mind; for though the history of Anne’s parentage gave me a clue to her motives, there was much that still perplexed me.
Why had she always told Mary that she knew nothing of Russia,—had never been there? Well, doubtless that was partly for Mary’s own sake, to spare her anxiety, and partly because of the vital necessity for secrecy; but a mere evasion would have served as well as the direct assertion,—I hated to call it a lie even in my own mind! And why, oh why had she not trusted me, let me serve her; for she knew, she must have known—that I asked for nothing better than that!
But I could come to no conclusion whatever as I leaned against the churchyard wall, gazing out over the sea, dark and mysterious save where the moonlight made a silver track across the calm surface. As well try to fathom the secret of the sea as the mystery that enshrouded Anne Pendennis!
On one point only I was more resolved than ever,—to return to Russia at the earliest possible moment.