"Have you a right to ask, Ivor?" she answered, coldly. "How can you be so foolish as to heed a bit of incomplete gossip, blown to us from the lips of Countess Vera, light as feather-down, and without beginning or end, as are most of the Countess's scandals?"
"You may laugh at me if it pleases you," replied the young man, brusquely; "but I will have my answer. Is it true?"
"Willhave—and to me!" cried out Mademoiselle Naundorff, hasty anger in her voice, then laughing a little. "You deserve to be punished for your temerity. What—since you will have it so, Ivor—what if to oblige you I admit that perhaps when Count Mellikoff returns, if I see my way to it, and am not toobornéeor fatigued, I may—what is the happy phrase?—bestow my hand upon him. There, you have your answer, sir."
She leant back again against the cushions, and scrutinised him through her half-closed eyelids. Ivor's face was white with passion; his blue eyes seemed made of steel, so hard and brilliant was their lustre. He did not move from his position, or take his gaze from her face, and when he spoke it was with no outburst of anger or eloquence, but in the same repressed low voice.
"Then I warn you, Olga, let him take heed, for you shall never give to him what I know you would refuse to me. Should he dare to boast of you as won by him, I will make him eat his own words, even though it be with a knife of steel."
Olga shuddered involuntarily, but controlling herself quickly, said quietly, with a little laugh: "You speak at random, my poor Ivor; what wish of yours have I disregarded, or what request left unfulfilled? Is there anything more I can do for you?"
But Tolskoi was not to be put off with light words or meaningless phrases; his face did not relax, nor a softer expression come to his eyes, at her bantering words, though he spoke somewhat less harshly.
"Yes, you can give me one thing more; you can give me your promise never to marry Vladimir Mellikoff without my consent. Will you promise me this, Olga?"
Mdlle. Naundorff was now, however, thoroughly roused; she sprang to her feet and drew up her tall figure to its full height, while the proud lines of her face became prouder and more imperious, and her voice vibrated with suppressed anger, though her tones fell calm and cold.
"Certainly not, Monsieur Tolskoi; you presume too far on good fellowship. I make no promise to you, or any one, that shall control my free actions; what you ask is preposterous, Ivor, preposterous."
"Then I will kill him," said Tolskoi, quite calmly, and without any extraordinary vehemence in his voice or manner; "I will kill him."
And as Olga drew back, startled at his unexpected reply, he bent forward and caught her hand in his.
"Remember what I say, Olga; if he presumes to think that he has won you, or dares to say so, or if I learn in any way that you are his promised wife, I will kill him. He shall not possess what I would give my life to gain, and what you know would be refused me."
Then he dropped her hand, and before Olga could recover from her surprise, had passed down the longsalon, and through the openportièresinto the great corridor that led to the palace court-yard.
Olga remained for some moments dazed and astonished, trying in vain to reconcile the Ivor of the past with the Ivor of the moment, wondering vaguely at his strange words and altered aspect. She had known for some months that he made no secret of his devotion to her, but he had always urged his admiration upon her in such a happy half-bantering fashion, she only regarded it as a boy's ardour, nor took him more seriously than his youthful face and careless manner demanded.
He had, indeed, once hinted at a deeper feeling, but she had laughed and told him not to burn his fingers with fire, and he, after a moment's annoyance, had laughed with her, and returned to his old openly expressed adoration.
But now, within this last half-hour, she had seen below the surface of that gay exterior, and she drew back half alarmed, half fascinated at what she beheld there. And although she had had her eyes opened to the other side of Ivor's nature, she had ruled and controlled men too long, seen them become her willing and abject slaves at a mere smile or word too often, to give much weight to Tolskoi's threat; it amused her rather than terrified her.
"Poor Ivor," she mused; "how very melodramatic, and how youthful! I must get you into better training, Ivor, or we shall have you really committing some foolish escapade, and mixing my name up in it, in a way I should not care for."
Then she turned from the window, and as she did so came her summons to the Empress, and hastening to obey the command she forgot Ivor entirely, or remembered him only to say half vexedly: "After all he told me nothing about Count Stevan's murder. Oh, tiresome Ivor!" And thus she dismissed him, and all other annoying subjects, with but scant courtesy.
When Count Vladimir Mellikoff drew back theportièresthat shrouded the doors of the large drawing-room at the Folly, he came face to face with Miss Rosalie James, and for a full moment these two gazed at each other in a silence that might have been born either of unexpectedness, or preconcerted arrangement.
Count Mellikoff never allowed ordinary emotions to be visible in his face; he had that absolute control of feature and muscle which only long training and an inflexible will can effect. It is seldom one comes across such a countenance, over which no appreciable change ever passes, and upon which the passions leave no reflex, not even the slightest shadow, such as troubles a pool when a cloud passes overhead, that is gone even as one watches its approach. Such a countenance betokens one of two temperaments: a nature too weak and vacuous to feel or comprehend any master passion, and which from very inanition becomes irresponsive, or one so strong and so intense as to fear its own capabilities, and therefore strives to conceal all outward expression, lest its lightest emotion might exhibit something more than the usual conventionalities.
Of the latter type was Vladimir Mellikoff. From his boyhood he had taught himself the value of repression, and in it had found his greatest power. He had learned to so utterly subdue all outward expression of the passion that at the moment might be consuming him, as to remain absolutely passive under the most trying circumstances, and so to control his every feature, that not one muscle, not so much as the trembling of his lips or the lifting of his eyebrows, ever betrayed him, when it was his will that they should not.
And yet, perhaps, the greatest charm that he possessed was the sudden and unexpected brilliancy or softness which he at times allowed his countenance to assume; then all the harsh, decisive lines faded from about his mouth and eyes, the stern rigidity of chin and brow relaxed, the gravity of the dark eyes, in their deep settings, grew tender, and the expression of melancholy harshness melted beneath the sweetness of his smile.
Olga Naundorff, who knew him so well, had seen this change in him more often than any one, yet even to her it was always new and startling, and filled her with a certain feeling of amazement, not unmixed with pity. For to Olga, the beautiful, as to her Imperial ancestress, men and men's passions were but playthings of the hour, and should, like all mechanical toys, be perfectly regulated by ingenious clockwork, warranted never to get out of order, and never to carry their cleverness beyond certain boundaries. If any one of her puppets over-stepped these, and showed signs of unconventional or barbaric passion, she lifted her dark brows in astonishment, raised her proud head a trifle more haughtily, and with superb disdain reduced the poor bungler to his proper state of imbecility, and then passed him by ever after with an intensity of quiet scorn, that killed by slow but sure degrees.
To her mind all passion was vulgar, and to be vulgar was to write one's self down a fool; fools had no place in her world. They might be of use in some other part of the globe, that was not her affair; to her they were bores, and bores, as we all know, are obnoxious pests; away with them, let them be anathema. Life is too short to expend any portion of it on emotions that ruin the digestion and spoil the most perfect complexion.
For one entire moment Miss James and Count Vladimir looked full in one another's faces, and in that moment each pair of dark eyes read something in the other that caused them both to sink simultaneously, while over the girl's cheeks a faint dull red rose and faded.
The half smile, mocking yet satisfied, that had come to Count Mellikoff's lips as he picked up the bit of lace and muslin from beside Patricia's chair, still lingered, and now it deepened somewhat, as with a bow he stepped back, holding aside the heavy draperies, and by an almost imperceptible gesture commanded Miss James to enter. She obeyed him, and as the thick plush curtains fell behind her with a dull rustle, they seemed to her excited fancy to shut her out for ever from the gaiety and freedom of the life she had quitted only a moment ago, even as they shut her within the deserted drawing-room, with Vladimir Mellikoff as her only companion.
She laughed nervously and put her hand up to her throat as she did so, trying in vain to shake off the absurd superstitious feeling that was creeping over her, and that seemed to enfold all her senses and render her acquiescent and obedient to the will of this tall dark man, who stood before her, and whose distinguished face, with its burning eyes and compressed lips, fascinated her, as the serpent fascinates the dove. She could even think of this simile, and in her heart laugh at it, but she could not shake off, or overcome the fact of his mesmeric influence upon her.
Count Mellikoff drew a lowcauseusetowards her, and with grave politeness begged her to be seated. She sank down upon it with passive obedience, and folding her hands on her knees looked up at him; she held amarquisefan of ostrich plumes, these trembled somewhat; it was the only sign of emotion that escaped her.
Vladimir turned from her and walked the length of the drawing-room, standing for a moment at the entrance to the conservatory, where lived the golden-hued Maréchal Niel roses; their pungent yet faint perfume permeating the atmosphere, while their heavy heads drooped with the burden of their own loveliness, half hidden in the tender green of their leaves.
As he walked away from her, Rosalie roused herself from the strange lethargy that had subdued her; she threw back her head, her breath came quickly, a flush crept up and stained the olive pallor of her cheeks; she opened her hands, throwing them out with an impatient gesture, and themarquisefan fell noiselessly at her feet, the waving feathers making a light breeze as they fluttered down that touched her face and lifted the laces of her low corsage.
The over-strained tension of her nerves gave way; she could have cried for very relief and joy as she felt the spell of his presence failing at the return of her powerful will. She watched him eagerly and saw him enter the rose house; as his dark figure vanished in the interior gloom she jumped up quickly, threw up her arms, and drew a long deep breath; took a step or two forward, and noticing the fallen fan stooped to pick it up, then turned to leave the room by a side entrance. As she did so Vladimir Mellikoff stood before her, holding a golden-hued rose between his fingers.
She started back, she was almost terrified by his sudden reappearance; she had not heard his approach, his footsteps were noiseless on the heavy carpet; she imagined him safe in the alleys of the conservatory, and her escape from him but the effort of a moment. She had but stooped to recover her fan, and lo, there he stood, tall and commanding and smiling, before her. She gazed at him questioningly, and again, as her glance met his inscrutable dark eyes, she recalled the old fable of the serpent and the dove. She sank down upon thecauseusetrembling.
"Mademoiselle," Count Vladimir's courteous, cool tones were saying, "will you honour me by the acceptance of this rose? The royal flower,par excellence, over all other flowers, as one of your own English writers, John Ruskin, says. If I may be permitted to suggest so bold an idea, it will enhance, and be enhanced, by a place in your corsage."
He held out the flower, smiling as he did so, and she took it mechanically, and fastened it amidst the black laces that draped her shoulders and bosom; it dropped its golden head lovingly upon them, while its perfume rose and fell with the pulsations of her heart.
Vladimir drew a chair opposite to her and sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and his keen eyes noting each fluctuating expression of her face, each flutter of the laces above her unquiet breast, each nervous movement of her hands in their long, loose Suède coverings. He had a dangerous game to play, and upon his success or defeat depended his winning or losing Olga. As her name crossed his mind, though not spoken by his lips, he was shaken by a sudden passion of love and desire; he recalled her proud, pale beauty, the blue of her eyes, "blue as the violets of his own Novgorod," the golden sheen of her hair, her lissom figure, and her cold haughty smile.
Hewouldwin her, or he would die; and what mattered any other woman's life if he could but appear worthy in her eyes? What had the chief said? "You must use a woman's weapons—finesse, deceit, distrust—when you make war upon a woman." Well, and so he would; it should go hard with him if he could not fit himself out in a woman's armour, and not reveal where the breast-plate failed to meet, or the helmet bound his forehead too tightly. One must put up with such little inconveniences when one adapts oneself to the warfare of the weaker sex.
"Above all, distrust the women of the great world, they are our cleverest enemies;" that had been another of Patouchki's axioms; and he did distrust this pale, dark-eyed, slight American girl with every fibre of his mind, and read her through and through; her shallow cleverness, her dwarfed ambitions, her stunted love, that was not so much love as a mixture of baffled pride and jealousy, and desire of conquest. She could be useful to him; he had decided that within the dinner-hour, when he caught her suspicious glances, cast first at Philip Tremain, as he sat on Mrs. Newbold's left, and then at Miss Hildreth, who, radiant and handsome, was eating olives, and mystifying George Newbold, on whose right hand she was placed. He had read Miss James's secret then and there, and resolved that it should be useful to him, and that she should be the tool in his master-hand wherewith to work.
Rosalie in due course had been presented to him, and she had not failed to notice and feel flattered by his attentions to her. She was smarting under Mr. Tremain's too apparent indifference, and Patricia's too evident power. She longed to strike both the one and the other, to tear off the masks from their serenely smiling faces, and hold them up to the scorn and derision of their world.
"I hate them both," she murmured between her teeth. "I hate him because he loves her still, and I hate her because she is so beautiful and so victorious. I know there is some secret well hidden behind that lovely face, and oh, what would I not give to find it out and reveal it!"
It was at this moment that George Newbold's lazy voice interrupted her thoughts, and looking up she saw him leaning towards her with the distinguished appearing foreigner beside him. Mr. Newbold mumbled out two names and left them, and Rosalie glancing up again met the Count's steady dark eyes fixed upon her, and knew with sudden certainty that he had read her face only too well; how much more that lay beneath the surface of her outward seeming not even she could tell!
They stood quite silent for several moments, and during that time she felt imperceptibly at first, and then more and more certainly, his influence and power growing upon her; she acknowledged the intensity of his glance without daring to meet it, and could have cried for rage at her own inability to throw off the fascination he exercised over her. When he spoke it was upon a commonplace topic, and she drew a sigh of relief when, after a brief conversation, he bowed and left her, even though conscious of a vague regret that he should go from her.
During the evening she had many times felt his eyes seek her out and rest for a moment on her face, and at each such occurrence the blood had rushed to her cheeks, and she had trembled, though not with cold. He had stood a long time talking with Mr. Tremain, and she had watched them with a half-formed anticipation of some coming and unexpected catastrophe, and then, when she turned and sought to leave the room, she heard a quiet voice say, "Permit me," the door was opened for her, and as she expressed her thanks Count Vladimir bowed, and returned to his place beside Philip. And now they were once more together and alone, and she was again conscious of an ever-increasing apprehension; the prescience of some coming evil in which they were both to bear a part, and yet which she was powerless to avert.
"Mademoiselle," said Count Vladimir, bending a little more forward and looking up at her from under his dark brows, "I am about to do something which under ordinary circumstances and with an ordinary audience would be considered not only indiscreet but unconventional. If I misjudge my opportunity and my audience and offend you by putting you outside the pale of weak worshippers of conventional cult, pray say so at once, and I will humbly beg your pardon and withdraw."
For answer she drew her fingers once or twice across the feathers of her fan, and let her eyes travel slowly up from that pretty toy to his face, taking in as they did so the smallest detail of his appearance, from the thin long-fingered hands, that hung down so quietly between his knees, the dead gold of the one ring he wore with its blazing ruby, to the tiny red rosette of an officer of the Legion of Honour that decorated his correct evening costume. As she raised her eyes still higher they met his, and for an infinitesimal space of time held hers captive; then she dropped them again, and sinking back against the cushions of her chair, raised the feather fan until it rested against her lips. Her voice was quiet when she replied, though a fine ear might have caught a suspicion of fear in it:
"You flatter me, Count Mellikoff; to be considered above one's world in virtue or in vice is always a distinction, if not always an honour. Pray in what indiscretion can I be of help to you?"
"I will tell you frankly, mademoiselle, that I am visiting this country for two purposes and in two characters. It has struck me that as one part of my work is that of reparation, a woman of my own world, of quick perceptions, nice judgment, and unerring instinct might, and could, materially assist me in my self-imposed task. I know the generosity of women, and I know how quick they are to respond to any tale of wrong or outrage; perhaps it is the very conventionalities of their lives which hedge them in, from birth to marriage, that increases their spontaneous desire to see wrongs righted, and the criminal brought to justice. I do not know, that is a question of analysis into which I cannot enter; I may have my theories, but need not bore you with them. The result of the present system is made plain to me by the women of my own country, where no rule or restriction is ever relaxed on any pretence, and where the world and the world's dogmas are worshipped with a blind and absolute faith. And yet, mademoiselle, even there I have known the fairest and highest born women, when occasion required, shake off the chains of custom and stand forth boldly in defence of right and justice."
"That, Count Mellikoff, it seems to me any woman would do, no matter what her nationality, if the object of her enthusiasm was worthy in her eyes. It is not to an American girl that you should plead for liberty of thought and action, since we have grown up upon the very soil that once was baptized in blood, shed by our forefathers to gain this very freedom of opinion."
"It is a grand country," replied Vladimir, slowly, and without banter or sarcasm in his tone, "I admire it already, though as yet but a stranger, and it is for that very reason that I shrink from one part of my task. Mademoiselle, when one has been courteously received, and hospitably entertained, one hesitates to strike a blow at those who have so trusted one. The Arabs read us a lesson in moral ethics, which we children of a latter-day civilisation would do well to follow. He who breaks bread with the child of the desert is ever after protected by him and his tribe. Not so with us, treachery is our watchword, ingratitude our pass key."
He spoke somewhat bitterly, though without changing his position or expression, and Miss James, as she looked searchingly at him, could discover no corresponding reflexion of words in face or eyes.
"Has your experience been of such a character?" she asked, a little abruptly.
"Both my experience and actions will bear me out in my asseverations," he replied; and then in rather a lighter tone he continued: "It is rather the fault of our nineteenth century progress, mademoiselle, that we have neither time nor inclination for the old-fashioned courtesies and amenities of our grandsires' days; we make boast of our honesty and truth, it is true, and we are brutal often in enforcing these virtues; we cry out against and disclaim the gentler methods, and say with satisfied arrogance that fine phrases have no truth, polite aphorisms no depth; well, perhaps we are right, but for my part I prefer a well-turned and politely-worded lie, knowing it to be such, than the brute force of to-day's truthfulness. Honesty and honour have such elastic definitions, it is difficult to know where the one degenerates into mendacity, or the other becomes contention.
"Let us, however, leave useless analysis, mademoiselle, and with your permission, I will become personal. I am selfish in doing so, because I desire to interest you in myself and my work."
He drew back a little as he spoke, and lifted his arms from his knees, bringing his face more on a level with hers. Rosalie watched him with the same indefinable interest and fascination that had first subdued her. She did not speak, but her eyes sought his and rested there, and the heavy golden flower upon her bosom rose and sank hurriedly.
"Have I your permission, mademoiselle?" he asked.
She bowed her head, making an affirmative gesture with her hand; the feather fan lay still upon her lap.
"You have heard," he began, "that I am here in two characters. I come in the ordinary way to visit a great country, for which my own land has always entertained a friendly feeling; I come to inspect her institutions, her educational universities, her great cities, her fine rivers; I come to admire and to learn, and to carry back with me pleasant recollections of a too-hospitable and charming people. That is I, in my proper aspect, without disguise or concealment; but that is not my first object, or my real errand. Mademoiselle, I come to seek, to trace, to find—a woman. One who has flown to your country for protection, to escape the penalty of crime; who is a fugitive from justice, and who thinks, poor fool! thus to avoid the power and the vengeance of Russia. Mademoiselle, it is in this work I ask your assistance."
As he spoke, Miss James had risen to her feet, and now stood before him, her face blanched and haggard, her eyes glowing dark and angry, her breath coming quick and short; her arms hung straight down by her sides, the loose gloves falling about the thin wrists and leaving bare the slender arms; the feather fan lay unheeded at her feet.
"Why do you askme, Count Mellikoff?" she cried, in a strained, harsh voice, her eyes never leaving his face. "Why do you ask me to help you to track a woman, to hunt a fugitive, a poor, wretched, heart-broken fugitive, no doubt flying for her life from your cruel country and its cruel laws? What do you see in me that makes you think I will lend myself to your mad schemes? What am I that you should so count upon my co-operation?"
She stopped, and Vladimir, who had also risen and stood facing her, cool and unmoved, bent down and, lifting up themarquisefan, handed it to her with a bow before he replied. When he spoke his voice was keen and sharp, his words cutting and cruel.
"What do I see in you, mademoiselle? Nay, let me rather answer your question by a line from an English poet:
'I see—a woman scorned——'
'I see—a woman scorned——'
How does the couplet end?"
But Miss James made him no reply, her hands closed vehemently on the fan she held; under their pressure the frail pearl sticks snapped in two and fell apart. She looked at him fixedly; the crimson blood had rushed in a torrent to her face, and the red stain lingered there. Suddenly she faltered, trembled, swayed a little, and sinking down upon the lowcauseuse, covered her face with her hands and burst into long-drawn sobs and tears.
It was late that night before Miss James sought her own room; as she passed out of the drawing-room Count Vladimir held back the heavyportièreswith respectful attention, bending his head in salutation as she went by him.
Behind her, on the velvet carpet, lay the strewn petals of a golden-hued rose, about whose torn beauty a subtle fragrance still lingered, and the broken pearl sticks of amarquisefeather fan.
Mr. Tremain had allowed George Newbold to take him away from Count Mellikoff without any great regret on his part. He acknowledged himself interested in the man and in his conversation, and at first as he listened had almost persuaded himself that his instinctive prejudice against him was ill-founded and narrow.
But as the Count continued in a perfectly passionless voice and with what seemed to Philip a grim satisfaction, his circumstantial revelations regarding Russia's power, and Russia's definition as to what constituted fatherly protection, he felt all his original doubts reawaken; and then he had caught that momentary, searching, comprehensive malevolent expression which crept over Vladimir's face, though but for a brief second, and this had strengthened him in his dislike and suspicion.
Therefore he was glad of any excuse to leave him and return to the more commonplace, if frivolous, topics of the ladies.
In the silence and security of his own room he had promised himself a somewhat more satisfactory interview with Mdlle. Lamien than had been his portion since the accident, and with this object in view had shaken himself out of his half-mesmeric condition, and deserted the hermitage of his cynical reflections.
But this was destined to be an evening of disappointments, beginning with Patricia's frigid reception of him, and culminating in the non-appearance of Mdlle. Lamien, either at dinner or afterwards in the drawing-room. He had watched in vain for the tall dark figure, with the falling laces half concealing the pale face and white hair, to come gliding in unnoticed, and take the accustomed place within the arched chimney-recess, the slender hands, clasped loosely together, resting on the black dress, the passionless repose of attitude marking a mind far away from the gay surroundings of the Folly.
He grew impatient at her absence, for Philip was of that temperament which, finding most things—men, women, and opportunity—come at his bidding, resented the smallest deviation from this rule, and chafed inwardly at so flagrant a dereliction to his will. He desired to see Mdlle. Lamien in Patricia's presence, and with the cool analysis of criticism, contrast her feature by feature, attribute by attribute, with that brilliant woman of the world. It had never entered into his reasoning that Mdlle. Lamien might frustrate his plans by the simple device of remaining invisible. He had perhaps imagined her presence compulsory, and since he had decided that she was to be the object of his evening's pleasure or amusement, he felt doubly defrauded by her absence.
Had Mdlle. Lamien desired to feed the flame of the something more than interest already lighted in Mr. Tremain's mind concerning her, she could not have chosen a surer method. He was piqued and chagrined at her evident indifference. It was many years since any advances on his part had been met by steady rebuff. He had sustained his character of conquering hero by the very rarity of his attentions, and it gave his sensibilities something of a moral shock to find himself distanced by this cold indifferent woman, whose very position made his interest in her the more anomalous.
It was ten years ago that Patricia had flouted and dismissed him. Was he to experience like treatment at Mdlle. Lamien's hands? For though Mr. Tremain had so far scarcely admitted the nature of the interest that Mimi's governess inspired in him, he was yet candid enough to give it a somewhat warmer title than mere curiosity in the study of a new character.
Patricia had distinctly repulsed him, though he had met her with the old love ready to reawaken at the first sign of desire on her part. Very well then, let Patricia see that he too was heart-whole and as indifferent to her as she to him. And then Mdlle. Lamien had failed to work up to his cue, and Philip felt his sharpest weapon was thus taken from him, while Patricia triumphed in her insolence and beauty.
The theatricals were to take place in thebijougem of a theatre which George Newbold had had put up to please Esther, in the first year of their marriage. It was a perfect model in miniature ofLa Scala, at Milan, hung throughout with the softest shade of rose silk, a daring innovation of Esther's, which rather outvied the classic columns and severe arches, but which added a charming air of comfort and luxury, and was as Dick Darling said, "quite far and away the most fetching thing for the complexion."
The stage was fitted completely with all possible and impossible "properties," and opened at the back into the other end of the rose-house, the opposite door of which led into the drawing-room. It was indeed a royal playhouse, and acting upon its boards became a luxurious fine art.
When Mr. Tremain entered the auditorium, he found the first two rows of stalls half filled by the house guests; Patricia had betaken herself and her train of admirers to one of the boxes, where she sat radiant and lovely, the soft rose colouring of the hangings casting a delicious tint upon her fair face and upon the shimmering surface of her dress. Philip was at once conscious of her presence, but passed her by apparently unnoticed, and made his way to the front row, where sat Esther Newbold and Dick Darling, with an emptyfauteuilbeside the former.
Into this Mr. Tremain slipped carelessly, and with the familiarity of good-fellowship, lifted the great bouquet of roses and hyacinths that lay unheeded on Esther's lap. Dick Darling leant over and nodded her brown head at him, while Mrs. Newbold gave him one of her sweet smiles, but laid her fingers on her lips in token of silence, forBox and Coxheld the stage, and Miss James was entering into the spirit of Mrs. Bouncer with averveand sprightliness, seemingly incompatible with her usual irresponsive superciliousness.
The absurd farce played itself out amidst the chilling reproofs of Mr. Robinson, and the plaudits of the spectators, until at last the curtain dropped upon the final scene. Philip turned then to Mrs. Newbold, and restoring her flowers to her, said:
"A proposof nothing, Esther, whose exquisite taste is one supposed to praise in the arrangement of your posy?"
"Ah," said Mrs. Newbold, smiling again, and touching the great jacqueminots caressingly with her fingers, "I am very proud of my bouquet, and I will give you three guesses, Philip, at the donor's name."
"Yes," broke in Dick Darling, quickly, "and I'll bet you three to five you don't guess it!"
"Those are very certain odds, Miss Dick," replied Mr. Tremain, laughing, "considering that never in the course of my long and varied experience have I been known to elucidate the simplest rebus. Even 'when is a door not a door?' is beyond my mental powers; how then can I be expected to divine who is the latest slave to Mrs. Newbold's charms? I must say however, I consider George a very amiable young man."
"So do I," laughed Esther. "Now could a wife say more? But your three guesses, Mr. Tremain."
"Miss Darling must put up the stakes first," answered Philip, "I am not going to bring my powerful legal mind to bear on this problem without first seeing the stakes. Now then, Miss Dick, out with them."
"Oh, but I have positively nothing," cried Dick Darling, her face flushed and eager. "What could I possibly have worth Mr. Tremain's 'cheese'?"
"My dear Dick!" exclaimed Esther, "you really must get out a dictionary of your own terms; your expressions, I am sure, are nowhere to be found in Lindley Murray."
"Poor old duffer!" replied the incorrigible Dick, "I hope not indeed. I guess some of them would make his hair curl, even in the cold cold grave."
Philip laughed, and Esther tried to look scandalised, but failed utterly; and then Mr. Tremain said, bending slightly forward:
"You might put up that tantalising little note, Miss Dick, that is half stowed away in your laces. I am perfectly sure it contains 'some scandal of Queen Elizabeth,' which would amply repay me for my unwonted efforts, if I win it. Its very colour betrays it; whoever heard of a pinkbillet-douxthat was not redolent of intrigue? The more bashful the colour, the more gigantic the scandal."
"What, this?" replied Dick, taking out a small square envelope, rose-tinted and crested. "Oh, no, this would not be worth your powder; it's only a note from Mdlle. Lamien, and doesn't contain a cent's worth of intrigue, Mr. Tremain."
"Then its looks belie it," said Philip, "for it fills me with apprehension. Let me look at it, Miss Dick, perhaps its tangible presence may allay my terrors."
But Dick only shook her head, and held the little note still further away.
"No, no," she cried, "it's not for you, Mr. Tremain, and I'm not going to give you even so much as a 'glim' at it." Saying this, she put it back in her dress, and smiled at Philip provokingly.
"I will put up this," she exclaimed, holding out her arm, on which a ruby and diamond butterfly sparkled in a bangle setting; "and I am sure it's simply angelic of me, for this is my one and only piece of bang-up jewellery; all real and no imitation, worth double the money. Now, Mr. Tremain, three guesses out of five; and oh, ye gods, protect my cherished bauble!"
She swung the pretty ornament between her finger and thumb, and the light from the wax-candles in the girandoles caught at it eagerly, as it shot forth rays tipped with rainbow gleams.
Mr. Tremain sat back with a mock air and sigh of fatigue, and the two women watched him interestedly; Esther with a little smile of amusement on her softly-tinted face, and Dick with a frown of anxiety knitting her forehead.
"Let me consider," said Philip, reflectively, putting the tips of his fingers together somewhat awkwardly on account of his sling, and contemplating them attentively, "only three random shots at three-score recognised admirers! Long odds in your favour, Miss Dick. Now had I but the language of flowers at my tongue's end, I might be able to make such conjunctions with the unwritten but supposable affinities, as to read at once the hidden meaning in the subtle juxtaposition of jacque roses and hyacinths. Question: Did the donor know any more about their meanings than I do?"
"I can supply you with posy lore, Mr. Tremain," broke in Mrs. Newbold, "if that will be of any assistance. Know then that the red red rose expresses love, the hyacinth sport or play."
"Ah, the one is contradictory of the other," replied Philip. "Your nameless admirer, Esther, could scarcely be guilty of so bold a play upon definitions as to make game of his love by his flowers. Rather let us suppose him ignorant of any deeper knowledge than their price."
"I think that an equally impertinent suggestion," answered Mrs. Newbold. "A man should never count the cost where a woman is concerned."
"Granted, my dear Esther; in theory you are absolutely right, in practice you are lamentably wrong. But I see wrath mantling on Miss Dick's brow, and scorn flashing from her eyes at our persiflage; let me appease her and make a desperate plunge into the depths of incertitude. And first of all, to be courteous and French, I throw away deliberately one chance in suggesting that it may have beenM. le mariwho sent the flowers? Ah, no, believe me, I did not need your silent denial, Esther, to be assured of my mistake; that would be far too commonplace andbourgeoisa reading for our ethics of this nineteenth century. The lover sinks such attentions in the husband, and is better employed in sending flowers to some other man's wife, rather than to his own."
"How very cynical you can be, Philip," exclaimed Mrs. Newbold, turning her blue eyes full upon him. "I am sure George often gives me flowers; why, these very buds I am wearing are his gift," and she touched some half-open blossoms that formed herbouquet de corsage.
"That was very gallant of George," replied Mr. Tremain, gravely, "especially as he had the arduous task of gathering them from his own rosery, and the virtuous satisfaction of knowing that they cost him far more than the roses of your posy cost the other fellow. Well, let me try again. Was it Freddy Slade? I have noticed that innocent youth casting furtive glances in your direction, Mrs. Esther, too often of late. It is possible that his ardour may have over-stepped his prudence and his income, and your jacques been the result."
"Wrong again, Mr. Tremain," cried Dick Darling; "oh, I do hope, with all my soul, you may miss each time."
"Considering that I have but one chance more, that is rather ungenerous, Miss Dick. I should not have believed so rancorous a spirit dwelt within your breast. To wish to further humiliate a two-thirds vanquished foe!"
"But I don't want to lose my bangle, you see," said Dick, naïvely, at which remark both Mr. Tremain and Esther laughed, and the former continued:
"Well, here goes my last and only try for your pretty bauble, Miss Dick. Was it Sir Piers Tracey? To be sure it is not quite in his line, and I never saw an Englishman yet who appreciated an American woman's love of flowers, still it might have been Sir Piers, and in that case George could not even try to appear jealous."
"Poor dear Sir Piers!" laughed Esther, "the idea of his sending any one flowers! He's old enough to be one's grandfather!"
"I don't know that that makes him ineligible," answered Mr. Tremain, "I dare say 'old Q.' and Beau Brummel showered roses upon the youthful Esthers of their decrepitude; it isn't age, my dear Mrs. Esther, that counts in such things, it's temperament."
"Well, in any case I am glad you have not won my bangle," cried Dick Darling, as she slipped it over her dimpled wrist. "I always make it a point to pay up my debts of honour on the spot, I can't bear a 'Welcher,' so you would have been obliged to take my ruby fly, had you been successful, Mr. Tremain, and that would have been death to me, simply death."
"With such an alternative, Miss Dick," replied Philip, with increased gravity, and bowing across Esther, "I am devoutly thankful to have lost, for to have been the indirect cause of your untimely decease, would have branded me for ever in my own eyes!"
Then Mrs. Newbold said time was up, and she must go; theLadies' Battlewould be called in five minutes, and she was wanted behind the scenes; was Mr. Tremain going through with his rôle?
But Philip begged off on account of his still lame wrist which he wore bandaged and in a sling; it would be quite effort enough to act when the real representation took place, Mr. Robinson could read his lines and he would imbibe valuable hints from his superior method. Was Mdlle. Lamien to take the Countess d'Autreval's part?
"No," replied Esther, fingering her roses a trifle nervously, and looking at him from under her eyelids, "Miss Hildreth has elected to act her own rôle at the rehearsal, consequently Mdlle. Lamien's services will not be required. Ah, Patricia has already left her box, I must go," she added, hastily; and with a hurried gesture she walked towards a side exit, her pale pink draperies sweeping after her, and making a littlefrou-frouwith their silks and laces.
Mr. Tremain reseated himself, changing hisfauteuilfor the one Esther had vacated next to Miss Darling. He leant back negligently and turning his face towards that young lady said carelessly:
"Since we neither of us appear on the boards, Miss Dick, let us console one another off them. By the way, where is Miss James? I did not see her come into the theatre after her very capital bit of acting."
"Oh, I don't know," answered Miss Darling, with a shrug of her shoulders. "I suppose she is improving her mind somewhere, at the expense of some one. To speak frankly, Mr. Tremain, Rosalie and I are bad friends just now, and I give her as wide a berth as possible."
"Oh, indeed," answered Philip, rather bored, and not at all understanding that he was the cause of this bad friendship, since Dick, reading Rosalie's schemes and wishes, had denounced them hotly; and Miss James, with the remembrance of Perkins's slighting remarks still fresh, had replied with equal vigour; and so the breach widened between them day by day.
Dick sat silent for several moments, the colour coming and going in her cheeks; she was a very chivalrous little girl, and her whole heart had gone out in unreasoning admiration to Patricia, when first she saw her; her beauty, her brilliancy, her sparkling vivacity making an absolute captive of the maiden, who, as she looked at her, felt all her own shortcomings rise up and confront her in formidable array.
She had heard the story of Philip's and Patricia's engagement, and its unhappy termination, and she had secretly admired him, in her own mind, for a long time, and had felt Patricia's reception of him as a personal injury, which she longed to put right by a few judicious words. She felt sure they would be judicious because they would be honest. Now if he would only name Patricia, only ask some question, no matter how trivial, that she might introduce this one absorbing subject.
But Mr. Tremain, with that perverted obstinacy so often displayed, which consists in saying the wrong thing at the right moment, when he did speak, propounded a question so diametrically opposite to Dick Darling's thoughts that that young lady was actually taken aback, and stared at him blankly for a full second without answering. And yet Philip had only inquired if Miss Dick could say why Mdlle. Lamien had not appeared that evening? It was a simple enough question, but Miss Darling seemed incapable of replying to it, so he spoke again.
"My dear Miss Dick, what have I said? You look as though you had either not heard, or not understood me. Pray let me repeat myself. Can you tell me why Mdlle. Lamien has absented herself all this evening?"
Miss Darling by this time had come back from her vain imaginings, and answered him readily enough.
"Oh, I beg your pardon; I guess I must have been 'in Japan' when you first spoke. Why hasn't Mdlle. Lamien come down this evening? For a very simple reason: she has gone away."
"Gone away!" echoed Philip. "But I saw her late this afternoon in the corridor." He did not add, andheardher; since, if Esther Newbold spoke truly, it was she who had startled him by her sad, monotonous song, and her voice that had an echo of Patty's in its notes.
"Oh, no doubt," replied Miss Darling, "she only went away while we were at dinner; I heard the wheels of the dog-cart just as we had eaten our way up to thesuprême de volaille."
"Is she to be gone long?" asked Philip, conscious and yet astonished at the feeling of loss this news created in him.
"I really don't know," replied Dick, looking a little surprised. "She left this note for me," taking out the pink envelope from its hiding-place and showing it to him. He bent forward eagerly to scan it as it lay on her outstretched palm, the superscription hidden, the reverse side lying uppermost. On this he saw impressed a tiny coronet and a twisted cypher, "A. de L."
"It only tells me about some fancy work she undertook for me," continued Dick, drawing back her hand with the note, "and thanks me rather over much for my 'unvarying kindness.' She might stow that," she concluded, with a grimace.
But Mr. Tremain had eyes and thoughts only for the little note, and its dainty, aristocratic heraldry.
"Is she a titledémigréein disguise?" he asked, pointing to the monogram and coronet; then, with an effort, as he became aware of Miss Darling's surprised looks, and speaking more lightly: "This grows exciting, Miss Dick; who knows?—we may have the elements of a three volume novel ready to our hands, yet lose them all by blundering. What do you know about Mdlle. Lamien?"
"Only what Esther has told us all, which you heard, I think. As to her being titled, if you think this indicates it," pointing to the embellishments on the pink note, "why you know, they go for nothing. It may be only a blind, or it may be that Mdlle. Lamien prefers to write on other people's note-paper. I don't think it's very conclusive evidence one way or the other."
And Miss Darling got up with almost an impatient air.
"I am going to change my seat," she said, "I want to go further back, where I can better see and admire Miss Hildreth. But before I go, Mr. Tremain, I will tell you who sent Esther the roses, it was Mdlle. Lamien; a sentimental and too extravagant outburst of gush on her part, wasn't it?"
Too surprised to reply, Mr. Tremain made way for Miss Darling, escorting her to a back row, where George Newbold received her withempressement, and Jack Howard with unqualified relief.
"Give you my word," he whispered in her ear, "I have been bored to death, Miss Dick; so glad to have you back again!"
But Miss Darling proved very poor company, and Jack Howard for once voted her tiresome.
"Stupid blind mole!" declared Dick to herself, as Philip made his bow and left her. "Can't he see how lovely Patricia has grown, that he must run after that pale Russian woman? Oh, what idiots men are!" and Miss Darling consoled herself by reducing poor Jack to the verge of despair by her sharp retorts and acrid replies.
Quite late in the evening, after the rehearsal was over, and the little theatre empty, Count Vladimir opened the double doors and stepped within Melpomene's deserted temple. The lights had not yet been put out, and the stage scenery stood unchanged from the last act; an air of late occupancy, and a memory of brilliant accessories, of fair women in their sheen of jewels and gleam of satins still lingered, to which the empty seats and deserted stage pointed the moral of all transitory glory.
Vladimir stood for a moment contemplating the scene, a fine smile curving his lips, the light of recent conquest lingering in his eyes.
"I am too late," he murmured; "the drama is played out seemingly, the actors fled. Ah, well, I can afford to wait."
Then he went forward a few steps, and as he did so his quick eye evidently detected something unexpected, for he made his way definitely towards the back row of stalls, stooping when he came to the last but one, and lifted from the carpet a folded square of paper. He held it up to the light; it was an envelope, pink in hue, and embellished on the smooth satin surface by a tiny coronet and a twisted cypher. It was Dick Darling's rose-colouredbillet-doux.
Vladimir Mellikoff made no movement of surprise or triumph, but as he took out his black note-book and laid the envelope safely within its pages, the smile deepened on his lips and in his eyes. He turned and walked swiftly away, letting the double doors close noiselessly behind him.
The little theatre was once more deserted; the wax-lights flickered in the still air; the rose silk draperies stirred slightly as a passing breath of soft spring wind floated in from the rose house, bringing a wave of perfume from the golden blossoms over which it had lingered in its passage. The mimic comedy was played out, the actors had abandoned their rôles; only real life and its human tragedy remained uncompleted, across which none but the Divine hand dare write the wordfinis.
Mr. Tremain, after leaving Miss Darling in the safe custody of George Newbold, walked hastily out of the theatre by a side entrance, and making his way along a narrow and dimly lighted corridor, came to a small door opening on to an outside terrace which ran beneath the library windows, and from which a flight of steps led to the large flower garden—Esther Newbold's particular hobby.
He stepped out on to the terrace, shutting the door behind him, and drawing a deep breath of relief at being once more alone. It was a charming night; the cool fresh west wind swept by him in fitful gusts, touched with a warmer breath of the south, and laden with all the mystery of the thousands of miles it had travelled ere it reached this fair spot of God's creation. It could not linger to unfold its burden of knowledge; it could but flutter its dark soft wings and pass on in the orbit of its destiny, leaving its mystery unsolved, its secrets unrevealed, and murmuring ever as it went, sweeping up amidst the tall, waving trees, or bending low to caress the sleeping flowers, telling its message always and ever—its message of the passing of Time, of the coming of Eternity.