Evening Republican, Volume 21, Number 158, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 July 1917 — Who Was She [ARTICLE]

Who Was She

We were twelve hours out from HonqJjilu when I first met her. The Empress carried few first-class passengers this voyage and I flattered myself that already I knew by sight all those in whose company I would be for the next few days. Therefore, when I came on deck after dinner, I was somewhat surprised to find a stranger in the deck chair next to mine. I felt sure that chair had been vacant during the day. As I took my seat, the lady looked up. In the bright moonlight I could see her face plainly. It was a face that was beautiful and yet not beautiful. It was one that, according to the eternal fitness of things, should be a queen’s; there was so much sweetness and graciousness in her face and bearing, yet a dignity that made you unconsciously do her homage. Her expression was that of one who has loved and lost and suffered many things, yet not lost her faith in God and man. Her hair was silvery, but her age might have been anywhere between thirty, and fifty.

Presently the lady spoke to me, and her voice, though Tow and sweet, struck a chill through me. I gathered from what she said in the ensuing conversation, that she was a traveler both for pleasure and business. She was certainly a woman of education and refinement. Of her nationality she said nothing; in fact, she seemed to avoid that subject. But though she spoke excellent English, I decided she must be Russian or possibly French. We talked for a long time, but in the midst of an interesting story she was telling me, she broke off suddenly. Murmuring an apology, she left me. Then, by straining my eyes, I read the card on her chair. It simply said Countess Elaine. During the whole voyage (except the day of landing), I saw the Countess only at night and then after seven o’clock. Always I found her In her chair when I went to mine after dinner; and always she left me at exactly eleven o’clock. Once when I ventured to remark that I never saw her at dinner, she became so silent that I wondered if I had offended her. Then came the last night of the voyage. The next afternoon we would arrive at San Francisco, so this last night was given over to a farewell dance and entertainment. I cared little for such things, and besides, I wanted a last talk with the countess. We had become very good friends and had discovered many Interests in common. But tonight she was unusually silent. At eleven o’clock she rose and for several moments stood looking out to sea. Then she turned to me and said:

“Tonight we part; tomorrow I will see you again before you land, but after that we will never meet again In thia world. I have never been happy before and I thank you for making me forget. Will you not accept this memento of the most miserable of women!" And then, not waiting for an answer, she hurried away. I almost thought she vanished. When I rose, something fell from my lap. It was a small Ivory box. In my stateroom I opened It and found in it a little silver ring In the design of a scorpion. Its tall was colled around Its head and In the open jaws was a small sardonyx. Folded inside the box was a yellow btt of paper on which was written In a wavering hand: “Dear Miss Arsdale—Will you please wear this ring on your left little Anger and never take it off? I cannot tell you more, but believe me, you will never regret It. Your sincere friend, Elaine.** The next afternoon when a steward came to take my suitcases ashore, my curiosity got the better of my good manners and I made inquiries concerning the countess. The man was amazed and assured me that no such passenger was booked or aboard. Not even my minute description of her could shake his declarations. Madame could ask the purser. But madam did not wish to. Going down the gang plank, I caught a glimpse of her in the crowd below me. She turned and smiled up at me and then disappeared among the people. I have never seen her since.

Two days later I was sitting in a booth of a Broadway chocolate shop in Los Angeles. In a booth opposite mine sat a young man who looked like a moving picture count. In spite of his Apparent efforts to seem composed, he was evidently excited. As he was watching me closely, I thought I might be an object of Interest to him. Perhaps he suspected me of being a smuggler or a lady burglar, and I mentally lectured him for reading dime novels. At first it amused me, but when he finally got up and came to my booth, I felt decidedly cross. ! “Miss Florence Arsdale,” he said in a low voice, and In spite of my irritation, Fstarted to hear my name thus familiarly spoken by a perfect strangar, “when you landed in San Francisco two days ago, you had a letter. I do Imow you have it yet, as the man it is CM has not come yet This letter con-

tains a state secret, though I am sure mademoiselle does not know it. If you Win but give it to me, you will most likely prevent a break between two powerful and friendly nations. And if you will not, I will use force. My card!” I put out my ungloved left hand to pick up the card he tossed on the table. A sound made me look up. The young man was clutching the table with both hands and he was staring at my hands. His face was chalky and his expression was mingled fear and awe. “The Countess Elaine!” he gasped, and ran from the place as though pursued by the evil one himself. That evening I gave the letter to Mr. Forsythe. (I may mention here that the letter in question was simply an introduction, In a business way, to Mr. Forsythe. The writer was an American gentleman, now living in Honolulu, w’hom I had known for years in a business way.) Mr. Forsythe told me that the young man I had seen in the chocolate shop,. Count Carov, was the leader of a band of young noble Russian revolutionists. They were anxious to get into their hands the private correspondence of certain persons, hoping to further their schemes—by blackmail. My odd ring had certainly saved me an unpleasant experience, but how, we could not imagine. Mr. Forsythe had never heard of the countess. We made several guesses, but finally gave it up. But still, every now and then, I ask myself. “Who was the Countess Elaine?” — Robena Francis in Los Angeles Times.