"Non ti scorda di me, non ti scorda di me!"
"Non ti scorda di me, non ti scorda di me!"
It was during this interval that Mr. Tremain, making his appearance in the Greenroom, found Miss Hildreth already there awaiting her first call. She was alone for the moment, and was standing with bent head and clasped hands, leaning against the tall carved chimney-screen that shielded the low burning logs on the hearth.
The long folds of her first costume, anégligéeof Wörth's conception, fell about her in a clinging amber sheen, across which the flots and draperies ofduchesselace fell in filmy cascades. Philip stopped involuntarily for a moment, and looked at her. Her marvellous loveliness struck him afresh, as, indeed, it had a habit of doing whenever he came upon her unawares. This attribute was indeed one of Miss Hildreth's chief charms; you forgot her actual loveliness when away from her, and were apt to criticise not only it, but her. It was a criticism, however, that fell to pieces at the first contact with her, and which left you only conscious of her beauty and her fascination. You could not analyse her when she smiled, or when her deep, tender, dark blue eyes looked full into your own.
Miss Hildreth had not heard Philip's entrance; and he thus had an opportunity of watching her undisturbed and unconscious. Despite the make-up of rouge and bismuth, put on so delicately as to be almost imperceptible, the face was at that moment a sad one. All the fire, and life, and spirit, had gone out of it, and in their places an expression of weariness and despondency had crept about the mouth and eyes, which was strangely pathetic because so at variance with Miss Hildreth's usual bearing. Even the attitude, half-listless, half-weary, bespoke a state of mental depression and dejection.
Philip, as he watched her, recalled Miss James's unequivocal suggestions, and almost against his will found himself speculating as to which episode out of those ten unknown years of her life she was lamenting at that moment. He had not been present at the tea hour, and therefore had missed Rosalie's well-turned opportunity; but even without that, Miss James had contrived to sow the seeds of distrust and suspicion in his mind.
He could not look upon Patricia now without the record of those long ten years arising between him and her; across whose closed pages what experiences might not be written! Even her beauty became a source of like animadversion; could any woman possessing such a face and form count thirty years off life's score and not have drunk deep, even to satiety, of the wine of passion, that turns even as one's lips touch the cup's brim into the waters of Lethe? Miss James was right; those ten years wherein Patricia had grown from girlhood to womanhood must hold some hidden memories, into which for his peace of mind it were best he did not look, and from whose influence, as from her personality, it were wisest for him to detach himself at once.
He would end his visit at the Folly in a day or so, and when he left it so would he leave behind all recollection and all knowledge of Patricia. He desired to know nothing of her immediate past, he would refuse to be interested in her present or her future. Only, before he bid a long good-bye to the Folly and its inmates, he must once more see Adèle Lamien; there was something to be said to her, and he must say it.
He moved slightly forward, and as he did so Patricia turned and looked up. In an instant the softer and sadder shadows passed from her face, her eyes regained their fire and light, the smile came back to her lips and chased away the dimples in cheek and chin, the soft evanescent bloom stole upward and renewed her youth and freshness as colour and contrast can alone do.
Mr. Tremain came towards her grave and unsmiling, and with something of the old dark anger on his face, that ten years ago had frightened her and deterred her from uttering the few words of reconciliation hovering on her lips; this anger was all the more pronounced because of his character costume of light livery. One does not naturally associate buckskin tops and a striped waistcoat with a countenance of gloomy disapproval.
Miss Hildreth took in the situation at a glance, and laughed out at him, one of her cold light mocking laughs, that angered Philip with its ring of insincerity.
"Well, my Knight of the Rueful Countenance," she exclaimed, "you look not only bored, but in a rage! Ah, my dear Philip, when will you learn how foolish andbanalea thing it is to expend your reserve emotions on trifles? We Americans are accused of being a race incapable of experiencing any grand passion, either in conception or realisation. Perhaps it is because after cultivating our sensibilities to the highest pitch we are content to expend them on trivialities. I remember a clever Englishman once telling me that we as a nation have no measurable idea of passion save in the abstract; we appreciate wit and humour, subtle argument, keen incisive reasoning, but as to the heights and depths of one terrible all-mastering, all-absorbing emotion, it is as a dead letter to us. Our highest expression of nervous force results in an exaggerated friendship, or a marriage of convenience; we are simply incapable of what the French callune grande passion."
She stopped with another little laugh, but Mr. Tremain made no reply, so with the slightest possible shrug of her shoulders she continued:
"For example—and pardon my using you as a peg upon which to hang my argument—to look at you at this moment one would declare that nothing less than a complete collapse of the entire social system could account for such an expression of abject wretchedness. How can one be supposed to know that it is the result of nothing more tragic than an ill-starched necktie, or a poor-fitting coat?"
Again she laughed, and Philip felt the blood surge up to his face at her taunting raillery.
"I should feel honoured at being considered worthy your mockery," he said, quickly, "only that this time I cannot plead guilty to the impeachment; my costume, even to its insignificant details, is, I beg to state, beyond reproach. I cannot complain even of a rumpled tie, or an uncomfortable coat."
She shrugged her shoulders indifferently. "You are fortunate and to be congratulated. Does not Madame de Rémusat tell us of the annoyance caused the great Napoleon by too tight arm-holes, and of Josephine's tears over the loss of one Cashmere, out of her two or three score? You see, my dear Philip, even the heroes of our immediate past were not above acknowledging their little weaknesses. Such items are the crumpled rose-leaves and parched peas of greatness. Dare we of a lesser mould scoff at them?"
She turned away from him as she spoke, leaving him with a decided feeling of having been taken at a disadvantage. His call followed almost immediately, so he had no time to reply; but the remembrance of her mockery remained with him, and added a touch of bitterness and reality to the situations of the play, in which he and she bore reversed relations to those of real life.
The drama selected by Esther Newbold,The Ladies' Battle, is too well-known and too great a favourite to require description. Perhaps of all drawing-room comedies it is the most pleasing and the most comprehensive. Those who have seen the foremost actresses of our day personate the young and beautiful Countess d'Autreval—who is not ashamed, though fully conscious, of her love for Henri de Flavigneul, and who bravely relinquishes it in favour of her girlish niece, Léonie de Villegontier—will remember what scope can be shown in the development of that character, whose fundamental attributes seem at first sight to be those of impulse and self-gratification.
The scenes moved on with magic smoothness and completeness, and gradually, as the interest grew and deepened, the audience began to realise that it was upon Miss Hildreth as the Countess, and Mr. Tremain as Henri, that the chief influence and importance of the play culminated. The undercurrent of suppressed antagonism that existed between them communicated itself to the onlookers with a subtle, yet potent power; while to those who could read the writing between the lines, the situations assumed a potential gravity and significance.
From the moment of the Countess's soliloquy, "Now to be more than woman," when, recognising her growing love for the young soldier, she consults her looking-glass as the oracle which is to encourage or dissuade her from entering the lists against Léonie, and then lays it down with the significant line, "Ah, it has deceived so many!" to her final act of renunciation, Patricia carried the house with her, and left no loophole for any anti-interest or climax.
Baby Leonard made a charming Léonie. Her innocent face and unsophisticated manner were a capital study and a clever following of nature; but it was on Patricia Hildreth that the sympathy and sentiment centred, and there arose almost a cry of disappointment when the curtain dropped finally upon Léonie's happiness, at the price of the nobler nature's self-sacrifice. Even her fellow actors felt her potency, and Philip most of all.
He caught her hand in his as she left the flies, and detained her one moment.
"Patty," he cried, "Patty, once more let me plead with you. Is it true, dear—are your words something more than allegory:
'Beneath the wreath and robe, the heart unseenOft throbs with anguish.'
'Beneath the wreath and robe, the heart unseenOft throbs with anguish.'
Are they true ofyourheart, Patty, Patty?"
But she checked him with her old impatient gesture, drawing away her hand from his close clasp, and laughing lightly, ironically.
"My dear Philip, too much simulating of passion has overturned your habitual self-control. Fancy quoting a couplet out of a modern drama by way of asking a question! But let me follow your lead and answer you from the epilogue:
'Men conquer all, but women conquer men.'"
'Men conquer all, but women conquer men.'"
Then she passed by him still laughing, and the echo of her laughter came back to him long after the last gleam of her silks and laces had disappeared from sight.
A grand ball completed the celebration of George Newbold's birthday, and those who were perforce the wall-flowers of the occasion noticed, not without comment, that Mr. Tremain kept sedulously away from Miss Hildreth, and that Patricia danced more often with the dark Russian stranger than with any other of Mrs. Newbold's black-coated contingent. Or, as the men put it afterwards in the smoking-room, that conceited, distinguished, red-ribboned foreigner devoted himself exclusively to the most beautiful woman of the evening, with occasional relapses to the plainest girl.
It was thus that Miss Hildreth and Rosalie James divided the honours, if such they could be called, of Count Vladimir Mellikoff's attentions.
True to his resolution, made more absolute than ever by Miss Hildreth's last openly displayed indifference, Mr. Tremain determined to leave the Folly on the first possible excuse. His visit had already prolonged itself far beyond its original limits, and in the departure of his friend Mainwaring, he saw a happy opportunity of effacing himself naturally and without too violent a wrench.
John Mainwaring had come down only for the theatricals, and nothing could be moreà proposthan for Philip to make hisadieuxwith him. As for Patricia, he entertained no softer sentiment towards her than that of distinct disapprobation. He felt it would be a relief to get himself away from her influence and from the spell of her beauty. Twice now she had repudiated him and the love he pleaded; what better proof of her thorough deterioration could any man ask for than this? Could any words have been more sharp than hers, or speak more openly of defiance and glad rejection? Apparently she retained not one tender recollection of the past, or the smallest desire to recur to it. She met him always with cool raillery, mocking aphorisms, or taunting satire; she was hard, brilliant, unresponsive as the diamonds she wore so regally, and to throw oneself upon her sympathies was to wilfully grasp at the glittering sheen of unreality, and be wounded because the substance slipped from one's hold.
Away from her and once more absorbed in the work of his profession, Mr. Tremain felt he could forget her and the past few days of unrest and disquietude. The calm monotony of his personal self-centred routine became a haven of rest in his eyes, to which he looked forward with impatience; forgetting that it is one's inner state of being that makes or mars the tranquillity of one's existence.
Accordingly Mr. Tremain ordered the packing of his portmanteaux, and made known his coming departure the next morning at the very late breakfast hour, at which feast Esther and a few of her guests appeared languid and fatigued, and instant in their demands for the strongest black coffee.
Philip observed with relief that Miss Hildreth was not among the number. Little Marianne was there, sitting by her mother's side, her fair child-face looking all the sweeter and fresher by contrast with the jadedbornéappearance of her elders. Vladimir Mellikoff was also among the missing; but Miss James was at her place, seemingly none the worse for her exertions of the evening before, her sallow countenance and dark eyes being untouched either by fatigue or inertia.
Mrs. Newbold received Philip's announcement with voluble expressions of protest.
"Oh, but indeed you must not go," she said, "we really cannot spare you; do reconsider." And she looked at him with an almost exaggerated expression of entreaty in her blue eyes.
"You are very flattering and very kind," replied Philip, avoiding her glance, and answering in conventional tones and words, "but really I must go, it is impossible I should stay longer. Mainwaring has brought me news of an important case, which has been advanced on the calendar, in which I am involved, and even if this were not the case, I could not, my dear Esther, desire to wear out so warm a welcome as yours."
But Mrs. Newbold did not rally to the implied compliment. She shook her head dubiously as she said:
"That is only afaçon de parler. I did not suppose, Philip, that you would ever descend to subterfuge."
At which Mr. Tremain laughed, and Miss James lifted her eyebrows in scarcely concealed superciliousness.
"One could almost be discourteous to Mr. Mainwaring, in thought, at least," continued Esther, regarding that dark-visaged young man with an expression that belied her smile.
To which he replied, with a half-shrug of his shoulders, that he considered himself fortunate in attracting any portion of Mrs. Newbold's attention. It was a satisfaction to be regarded actively by her, even though that activity took the form of animosity.
Esther bit her lip and was silenced; but George Newbold laughed, and remarked aside to Dick Darling thatthatwas a hit straight out from the shoulder.
Presently Marianne, who had been feeding the long-suffering Trim on deviled kidney scraps, and enjoying, with all the cruelty of childhood, his tears and squerms, lifted her golden head and innocent eyes, and startled the entire company by exclaiming, in her clear shrill treble:
"Mumsey, why does Mr. Val ask so many questions about my Lammy, and when is my Lammy coming back again?"
Esther, decidedly taken by surprise, turned quickly, and spoke with unaccustomed sharpness.
"Who are you talking about, Mimi? Who is Mr. Val? It really is extraordinary the amount of gossip you manage to imbibe from unknown sources."
"Mr. Val," replied little Mimi, with unabashed frankness, "Mr. Val is Mr. Val. I can't say all his name 'cause it's too long, so he said I was to call him Mr. Val. He came out in the garden when I was getting Popsey's buffday flowers, and he talked to me all about Lammy; and when I told him Lammy's very own name, his eyes got so black, and he said, 'When is she coming back?' and, of course, I didn't know. Miss James, she knows Mr. Val; she's always talkin' to him."
At which lucid and candid explanation Miss James felt the blood rush hotly to her cheeks, and Mr. Tremain, with kindly thought, turned attention from her by saying, quickly:
"It must be the Count, Mimi designates by that innocent abbreviation. With the frank socialism of childhood, she is no respecter of persons. 'Mr. Val' sounds just as important in her ears as Count Vladimir does in ours."
"She's a ridiculous little monkey," replied Esther, impatiently; and then the subject dropped, much to Philip's chagrin, as he desired to glean some further particulars concerning Mdlle. Lamien's probable return. Conversation languished after this, however, and one by one the women stole away to their bedrooms, there to sleep off the excitement and fatigue of the previous night.
It was arranged that Mr. Tremain and his friend should take the six o'clock evening boat, which would, as Freddy Slade remarked, land them in New York in ample time for a "refresher" prior to dinner at the club, at that magic hour when each small round table is daintily set out in fine linen and glittering silver, and surrounded by the best-known convives of clubdom.
"The pleasantest hour, by Jove, of the whole twenty-four," said Freddy, enthusiastically. "Upon my word, I quite envy you fellows the sensation you'll produce when you walk into the 'Union.' You will actually smell of the country, 'pastures green,' you know, and all that sort of thing."
For the better part of the day the house remained silent and deserted as far as the lower rooms were concerned, and luncheon, which was at all times a movable feast, became on this occasion a translated one, to be partaken of by the fairer sex within the privacy of their own apartments, and in the luxury ofdéshabilles.
Late in the afternoon Mr. Tremain made his way to Esther Newbold's boudoir, and knocking with assured familiarity, opened the door almost before the customary words of invitation. He found Mrs. Newbold alone, lounging far back in a "sleepy hollow" of a chair, with a tiny tea-service on a low, Japanese stool beside her. She welcomed him cordially and with a charming smile.
"Ah," she exclaimed, "is it you, Philip? I hope you have repented of your morning decision and have come to tell me so, and beg my forgiveness."
"For what?" asked he, wilfully dense.
"For saying you were going away, of course. Haven't you come to tell me you will not go after all?"
"No," said Philip, without any answering smile. "I have come, on the contrary, to bid you good-bye."
"You are unkind," exclaimed Mrs. Newbold, impetuously, "and—you are unwise. What, Philip, are you going to lay down your arms so tamely, and acknowledge yourself beaten by a woman?"
"It would seem so, my dear Esther, if flight means that I am vanquished. Will you give me some of your tea as a stirrup-cup?"
She answered him by pouring out the fragrant Pekoe and handing it to him in silence; the tears stood in her eyes and her mouth quivered a little. She sat still as Philip drank the tea, and then, when he had put down the empty cup and come back to his place beside her, she turned and spoke quickly, and with almost nervous impetuosity.
"Oh, Philip, I am sorry, grieved, inexpressibly grieved that you should go in this way. I had hoped so much for you—for her—yes, more for her—from the propinquity of these few days. And it has all come to nothing, and you are going away, and how can it be possible for you ever to come together, if you persistently let slip each opportunity of an understanding?"
She spoke with so much real earnestness, that Philip was greatly touched. It needed not the mention of Patricia's name to make plain to him who was the object of Esther's solicitude, and he could not but smile sadly as he thought how little worthy was she of Esther's tears and regrets. He bent towards her and took her hand in his.
"My dear little friend," he said, "the truest friend ever granted to an undeserving man, I beg you not to trouble yourself about me or my unfortunate affairs. Let me assure you that I am truly grateful to you for the opportunity you provided me with in which once more to seek and learn my fate. If the result, and my answer, has been but a double repetition of that of ten years ago, is that your fault? My dear Esther, I have looked upon my old love without prejudice or bias, and I have seen her stripped of all the thousand and one artifices that go to make up the woman of the world; we have stood face to face with nothing between us save the memory of the past, and I can say to you with all truth and earnestness, that I am not only glad, but thankful, that her answer to my appeal was what it was. Believe me, there could never be any solid happiness for us so long as the ten years of our separation lies between us like a gulf, dividing our past from our present. It is better as it is, dear Esther, it is better as it is."
He unloosed her hand, and, rising, walked hastily up and down the room. Mrs. Newbold was crying openly, scarcely wiping away the tears as they fell.
"Oh, Philip!" she pleaded, her voice pitiful and broken, "indeed, indeed, you judge her too harshly. Oh, can you not read her heart; are you so blind, so very blind, as not to see it is for you she cares, and you only? It is because she loves you that she strives to hide it all; that she laughs and jests, and is bitter, and mocking, and gay, and frivolous by turns, and never, never once reveals the real, passionate, throbbing woman's heart beneath these artifices. Oh, what can I say to open your eyes?"
"Say nothing," he replied, sternly, "it is best as it is. I am not one, Esther, as you know, to come lightly to a decision, especially one of such grave importance to me; but in this you cannot change me; nothing can alter my decision. You are blinded by your loyalty, you see her as you fain would see her, with the glamour of her beauty and her fascination surrounding her so closely you cannot perceive the real woman beneath. But I have beheld her as she is, cold, hard, brilliant, illusive, heartless; she is but the mocking personation of her old self; the outside tenement, beautiful, bewitching, but soulless and insincere. I told you when we spoke of this before that I would not willingly again become the plaything of a woman's vanity, and yet, so frail are man's resolves, I did again put my fate to the touch, and have again failed and lost. I am not likely to repeat my folly, Esther, when I can still hear the words of scorn with which she repudiated me, and flung back my love as not worthy her consideration."
"It is hopeless, then," cried Esther, imploringly.
"Yes," he replied, shortly, "it is hopeless, and I am glad that it is so."
When next he spoke, it was upon indifferent topics, and there was that in his face and voice which warned Esther against reopening the former subject. Before he left her he stood a moment, holding her hand, and looking down into her flushed and earnest face.
"Do not think me ungrateful," he said, with one of his rare, sweet smiles; "I have had my opportunity, it is my fault that I failed to utilise it to my advantage. After all, these things are arranged for us by a higher power than our own wills. To you, Esther, I can never feel aught but grateful, and you know whenever you need my poor services, they are yours without the asking."
"And hers, Philip, hers also," she pleaded, "you would not refuse your help to her, should she ever require it?"
"That is such an unlikely contingency, your question needs no reply," he answered, gravely; and bending his head until his lips touched the hand he held, he said, with simple gravity: "Good-bye, Esther, and God bless you."
And so he went away from her, and Mrs. Newbold, with the unreasoning instinct of her sex, felt she had never esteemed him so highly as now, when he refused the request she urged so ardently upon him.
Mr. Tremain, on leaving Mrs. Newbold's boudoir, made his way, without encountering any one, to the lower hall, turning instinctively from the billiard-room, from whence the sound of the cues against the balls, and an occasional exclamation proclaimed the occupation of the men.
In his present state of mind he felt no inclination to join them, or take part in the employment of the hour. His conversation with Esther had reawakened all the unrest and bitterness of his heart against Patricia. Looked at in any light, her conduct could not but appear heartless and unwomanly, and the remembrance of it—of her scornful eyes and smiling, mocking lips—rankled in his mind and added the one touch of vindictiveness that is so closely allied to revenge, as to be a difference in name only.
Mr. Tremain would have scouted any such paltry feeling as a desire for retaliation, and yet deep down in his heart there lay the half-developed germ. Could any vendetta strike her heart more surely than such an action on his part, as should prove to her how brittle were the bands she had woven, how impotent her power to hold captive the man she had scorned?
There remained yet an hour before the time of his departure, and Philip, more by instinct than design, turned towards the library, and, pushing back the noiselessportières, entered. The room was empty, and lay in the half-shadow of the quick coming evening. A touch of gold from the setting sun still lingered on the painted windows, touching to a deeper tone the blues and purples in the classic folds of Clio's drapery. One casement stood open, and the evening air floated in, fragrant with a thousand odours from Nature's laboratory; strong and subtle and all-powerful arose the keen scent of the musk plant, overcoming all lesser perfumes, and asserting with overwhelming insistence its supremacy. One long low ray of sunlight fell across the picture on the easel, lighting up with magic radiance the passionate languor of Io's face, and marking with stronger emphasis Jupiter's stern acceptation of her allurements.
Still following his instincts Mr. Tremain crossed the long room, and drawing back the curtains that separated the music-parlour from the library, stood for a moment uncertain as to his further action. The room was unlighted save for the same level rays of dying sunlight, and the piano that stood at the far end was thus lost in the quivering darkness.
Philip, even as he stood upon the threshold, and before his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, was conscious of the presence of some one within the room beside himself, and gradually as the obscurity became penetrable he made out a dark figure sitting before the silent instrument, with bowed head, about whose throat and face hung heavy, clinging folds of black lace. Simultaneously with his discernment of this presence, he recognised its personality, and as he did so felt alarmed and electrified by the sudden rush and tumult which took possession of his being. The blood leapt to his face, he felt it throb in his temples and pulse in his veins, as he realised without further assurance, and before the bowed head was lifted and the pale, cold face gleamed out of the sombre surroundings, that it was Adèle Lamien who sat there, and that he was unreasonably glad and sorry, repentant and rejoicing, that he should thus have one more interview with her before he should vanish out of her life, as Patricia had already passed from out of his.
He advanced slowly and stood before her. As he approached, she dropped her protecting hands and sat silent, immovable, her pale face—pale with the pallor of mental conflict—looking strange and unearthly amidst its setting of falling black draperies, the dark bruise upon her cheek growing livid in the half lights. Suddenly, she threw back her head and smiled upon him.
It was but the second time he had ever seen her smile, and as the radiance and glory broke over her face and flooded it for one brief moment, with a brightness and transient loveliness, he started, for something in that smile and face, some strange, subtle, illusive likeness to some one whom he knew, and yet whom he could not name, grew into existence with the fleeting radiance, and faded with it before he could grasp at the reality. It was but a mere shadow of a resemblance, gone as soon as discovered, without substance, without reason, and yet perceptible, even when most baffling.
So sudden had been her transformation, and so rapid the return to the old habitual quietude and repression of her countenance, Philip found himself wondering if, after all, he was not under a delusion, or that his eyes, dulled by the dim obscurity of the room, had not mistaken the temporary flashing and paling of a sunbeam for that evanescent light on cheek and brow.
He had remained standing and silent, during the brief moment that elapsed between his entrance and her recognition; he bent over her now, and speaking quietly, said:
"I am fortunate, Mdlle. Lamien, in finding you—and alone."
"You are very kind," she answered, in a low, repressed voice, a voice that had through all its repression a throb of passion. "Surely Mr. Tremain can find pleasanter and more amusing companions than I."
"None who can interest me so deeply, believe me," replied Philip, gravely. "You have returned, mademoiselle, the better, I trust, for your absence?"
"My absence?" she queried, a little surprised; then more quickly, "Ah, yes, my absence; it was but an affair of hours, a necessity, not a pleasure. All the same, I thank you. I am better for the change."
Philip had waited for some sign of invitation to remain, but as none came, he grew bolder, interpreting her silence as best pleased him, and drawing up a low arm-chair, took his place beside her, at such an angle as enabled him to watch her face without effort.
"You have been missed, mademoiselle, by more than one," he said, slowly; "your name has been often mentioned, even by those unknown to you."
"Indeed," she replied, more quickly than usual; "who has done me that honour?"
"I shall answer your question by another," said Philip; "Mdlle. Lamien, where and when have you known Count Vladimir Mellikoff? Who and what is he, that he should express his surprise and displeasure at your movements?"
She drew a long sigh, and turned her head away from him, as she answered slowly and in a low voice:
"Where and when have I known Count Vladimir Mellikoff? Who and what is he? My reply can be brief enough, Mr. Tremain, to both questions: I have never known Count Vladimir at any time, I have no idea who or what he is."
Her words were concise and to the point, but they failed to convince Philip of their absolute sincerity. He said nothing for a few moments, but the silence that fell between them was alive with suggestion; and Philip, as he watched her, felt the old inconsequent irrational influence of her personality creep over him, wrapping him about in a half-magnetic, half-willing subjection; and which, while recognising its power, he was unable to throw off.
It was she who broke the silence with an upward gesture of disdain, as she said:
"Why should we speak upon so worn out a theme as my existence, Mr. Tremain? There are none concerned in my past who would care to recognise me now." Then suddenly, and with a quick movement towards the piano: "Shall I play for you, Mr. Tremain?"
She did not wait for his reply, but struck at once a few low notes, a minor chord or two that swept across the dim half-lights, and seemed but an outcome of the twilight, and of the last faint golden rays fading moment by moment in the far western sky. Then a headlong rush and tumult of melody caught up the passion, and despair, and longing of a soul in bondage struggling to be free, beating against the bars, crying out in anguish, then sinking back into despondency, and with a final moan striking downwards to despair.
Mr. Tremain, as he listened, felt himself caught up in the rush and movement, and borne along with it, following her will and pleasure even as her white fingers flew over the ivory keys, striking them now with fiery impetuosity, now with caressing softness, and again with lingering tenderness. Her slight figure in its black dress was alive and sinuous, responding to each emotion; her pale face grew illumined beneath its weight of white hair and drooping laces that fell about it. She was the living incarnation of the music; and Philip, half spell-bound, half realising the potency of the spell, found himself repeating mentally, "the charm of woven paces and of waving hands." Was she a Vivien as well?
She ceased playing as he came and stood beside her, and in the hush that fell between them, the echo of light laughter floated to them from the rooms above. It was a discord, a false note in the intensity of the theme.
Philip bent towards her, almost touching the white hair with his lips; it was a moment of exquisite uncertainty. Then she struck the notes again, and a plaintive prelude stole out, while in a low voice, monotonous yet musical, that seemed but the continuation of the melody, she said rather than sang:
"I am a woman,Therefore I may notFly to him, cry to him,Bid him delay not.What though he part from me,Tearing my heart from me,Hurt without cure!"
"I am a woman,Therefore I may notFly to him, cry to him,Bid him delay not.What though he part from me,Tearing my heart from me,Hurt without cure!"
Her voice faltered, sank into silence, her hands fell from the keys and lay motionless upon her lap. Philip, to whom the first line of her song had come not as a surprise, but as an expected climax, bent forward eagerly. Once again he heard the mocking voice of his vision, once again the faint sweet perfume of violets stole upward, robbing him of the reality of the present, restoring to him the past with all its unfulfilled promise and its hope.
It was the passion of surprise, not of arrangement or premeditation, that held him, and that swaying him against his better self, made him speak from the emotion of the moment.
"Adèle," he said, his voice low and restrained. "Adèle, you have doubtless heard my story; you know that I have been the sport, the plaything of one woman's vanity for all the better years of my life; and yet I dare to offer you the heart she has scorned. Adèle, will you accept it? Will you restore my faith and belief in womanhood; that faith and trust which another woman has so nearly destroyed? Hush, wait one moment before you speak. Yes, I know I am almost a stranger to you, I have seen you but half-a-dozen times; you know but little of me, and that little is not of the best. And, I too, what do I know of you? Nothing, save what Esther was pleased to tell us all concerning you. I realise that your past is seared and crossed by sorrow and grief, but always, Adèle, always since first I saw you, you have haunted me, you have possessed me, you have laid me under a spell. Break that spell now by saying you will listen to me; by telling me that at last, however late in life, my faith, my belief, my trust shall not be given in vain."
He stopped, and she looking up quickly saw the flush of earnestness upon his face, the light of eagerness in his eyes. She let fall her glance, and a little smile—was it of triumph or of pity?—crept out about the mouth, that died ere he could catch its curves. She had listened to him apparently without surprise, and without betraying emotion of any kind; her voice fell dull and cold when she spoke.
"You proffer a strange request, Mr. Tremain, and one not easy of reply. Is it possible you can be in earnest? Have you not heard my story? Has not the whole of Madame Newbold's world become cognisant of its details? Do you not know that Adèle Lamien is a woman on whom rests the blight of suspicion, if not of guilt? A woman whose life has been one of no common misery. Do you realise what it means to be suspected of crime, branded as a fugitive, an outcast? Can you gauge the depths of misery contained in the words ruined and repudiated? Do you not know that one spot upon a woman's reputation, though incurred through no fault of her own, stamps her for ever in the eyes of your world. Can you, knowing all this, realising it, yet ask me to listen to your words of vehemence? You, Philip Tremain! Ah, do you not know I would give my very heart's happiness if I might so listen? No, no; that is not what I mean. You are mad, Mr. Tremain, mad with the desire born of a moment's passion."
"I am not mad, Adèle," he urged. "I ask you again to listen to me, and I tell you again that I neither care nor wish to know more of your past than you desire to tell me. Cannot we forget that, cannot I make for you a future that shall outlive your past? Nay, wait one moment, there is something more I must say. You know I have no fresh first devotion to offer you, I have not even a heart swept and garnished for your acceptancy. I did not wish to love you, I am not sure I love you even now; all I know is that you draw me to you with invisible chains; that you take from me all resistance, all desire to resist."
"Ah," she exclaimed, with infinite bitterness, "you speak as a man. We women do not so easily break the bonds that have held us for so long. Suppose I were to take you at your word, suppose I were to listen to you, to your own undoing? What would be the outcome of it? I, a woman, Adèle Lamien, who perchance has looked shame in the face, who may have swept the by-ways of wickedness with her skirts, I to demand of you this sacrifice, and for what? That you may hear my name spoken in whispers and with bated breath; that you may see me pointed at in scorn and derision; that never may you look at me, never see my face, without the bitter memory of my buried past rising up between us. No, this may not be; you have loved before, it is not love you feel now, it is resentment, disappointment, anger. Put by your fancy of the hour, Mr. Tremain, and let Adèle Lamien fade out of your life even as she has come into it, an accident only. Do you not remember the fable and fate of the poor Cigale?
'The grasshopper so blithe and gay,Sang the summer time away;Pinched and poor the spendthrift grew,When the keen north-easter blew.'
'The grasshopper so blithe and gay,Sang the summer time away;Pinched and poor the spendthrift grew,When the keen north-easter blew.'
I am that poor Cigale. I have had my summer time, and now it is winter; and you would fain make me believe that one can conjure up a second summer from out the ruins of autumn's blasts; nay, that is impossible alike for you as for me. Believe me, no good has ever come from a passion so suddenly developed, as this you plead now. You will live to thank me for my words, even if now, at this very moment, you are not confessing their justice."
She rose as she finished, and moved somewhat away from him. The darkness of the early May evening had crept up and about them unnoticed; she had become indistinct and unreal, a part of the shadows that surrounded her; and Mr. Tremain, as he listened to the low, even notes of her voice, felt the unreality of his position grow more and more defined.
He had been mad—mad with a moment's passion; and yet—and yet, what was this impalpable, intangible influence that drew him to her with invisible cords, even while he realised the wisdom of her words, and rejoiced in the freedom she forced back upon him?
The silence and the darkness increased; she became but a dim outline against the deeper tones of shadow, her pale face alone showing in the gloom.
"You scarcely give me a choice, Adèle," he said; "and yet how is it possible for me to accept your decision?"
His words were followed by a light laugh; a chord struck sharply, and then from out the obscurity came her voice again. But what was this change in it? What was this undertone of mocking raillery that sounded so familiar and yet so incongruous?
"Said I not truly, Mr. Tremain, you are mad to ask me to listen to you; and yet—ah, Philip—perhaps it would be wiser for us both could I but yield."
"Then listen, I entreat, Adèle," he cried, impetuously, "do not make your decision a final one; leave it open as a possibility for future consideration. Do not let me ask in vain; only say that you will think twice before you refuse me definitely. Do I ask too much?"
"Too much!" she echoed, and her voice sank to a whisper. "Is it too much to put the cup of water to the parched lips of a dying man, and bid him drink? Will he refuse, think you? Do you know how greatly you tempt me? Shall not you and I come to repent with bitterness this parleying with the inevitable? Well, then, since you will have it so, and since my will is weak—ah, so very weak—and fate is strong, it shall be as you wish. I will make no final decision. I will wait. Surely this should be triumph enough, even for me, to know that I have won you from the remembrance—nay, from the very presence of—Patricia Hildreth!"
At Patty's name thrust thus sharply and unexpectedly upon him, Philip started forward, impelled by the same unknown, unreasoning force that had held and controlled him throughout their interview, but he was too late. He was conscious of a light silken rustle, a low laugh, a hand laid for a moment on his, and then he was alone.
As Mdlle. Lamien drew theportièresbehind her, two figures crept back into the obscurity of the room beyond, and as she passed swiftly on and out into the hall, a whisper in a woman's voice echoed across the shadows:
"Are you satisfied—convinced? There is no mistake?"
"I am absolutely convinced, mademoiselle, there can be no mistake," answered a second, carefully modulated voice.
A moment later Miss James stole quietly out of the now dark library, followed by the sombre, gliding figure of Vladimir Mellikoff.
The party at the Folly had broken up at last, and, going the way of all things terrestrial, was already numbered among the pleasures of the have been.
Mrs. Newbold had flitted seaward with little Marianne, her husband, her maid, and a small army of dress-baskets and boxes. The golden glory of July held the gardens and woods, the terraces and parterres, in the spell of midsummer colouring; flinging abroad with generous hand its meed of sunshine, its wealth of fruit, its richness of blossom, its long hours of fullest beauty, when the intense blue heavens above, the smiling earth below, and the very atmosphere of soft delicious haze seemed to palpitate with their own tropical luxuriance.
Mrs. Newbold's island home never looked more enchanting or enchanted than in this "royal month," and yet it was just at this perfected time that stern fashion decreed she should leave it, and seek for pleasure and relaxation within the narrow limits and confined area of George Newbold's yacht. And Esther, with a courage worthy of a better cause, never dreamed of disputing fashion's mandate, but bore with heroic fortitude the thousand and one restrictions entailed upon her by existence in theDeerhound; for even in that most luxurious schooner her convenience had to suit itself to space.
And so, while theDeerhoundlay moored at Newport, and Mrs. Esther entertained and was entertained with almost royal splendour, and the long summer days were given up to feasting and amusement, and the long summer nights to dancing and intrigue, the Folly was deserted, its blinds close drawn, its hospitable doors locked and barred; and the roses came to perfection, and ran riot in their wantonness, showering their petals in such lavish prodigality that the garden paths lay strewn and heaped with the crimson and white of their livery.
Even as in ancient Rome a certain youthful emperor, satiated with every guise of amusement, worn out with pleasure and fulfilled desire, buried the companions of his licentiousness beneath an avalanche of rose-leaves, which, as they fell, became their grave-clothes and their pall.
And have we of to-day no likeness to this pagan Heliogabalus? Do not we bury the best-beloved of our past beneath a cere-cloth, formed of the sweet sentiments of forgetfulness; and, turning from their appealing eyes and sadly accusing faces, enter with fresh zest and renewed enthusiasm upon the untried excitements of the hour? Are we, after two thousand years of Christ's humanity, and the awful lessons of Gethsemane and Golgotha, so much less pagan?
Mrs. Newbold had taken Dick Darling with her in her flitting; she had come to have a very true affection for that somewhat crude young lady, for Esther possessed so much of the alchemist's power as to recognise pure gold when she found it; and also Miss Darling's outspoken admiration for Patricia Hildreth acted as a salve to her disappointed and fruitless projects.
To Dick herself the prospect of three weeks or a month at Newport on board the most perfectly appointed yacht of the squadron, with unlimited license to enjoy the passing hour to the full, was, in her own phraseology, "just too most awfully nailing!" She danced and she flirted, the latter in her own half-boyish fashion. She smoked everybody's cigarettes save her own. She won the ladies' single-handed lawn tennis tournament, and sported the prize—a jewelled racket and ball brooch—with frank delight in her own prowess. She drove Freddy Slade's tandem up and down Bellevue Avenue all one morning, and sailed Jack Howard's microscopic cutter out to the Narrows and back in the afternoon.
She was, indeed, as happy as the day was long; like Browning's 'Duchess,' "she loved whate'er she looked on, and her looks went everywhere." And then, oh, happy thought, were there not more worlds to conquer in the immediate future? Did not visions of New London, Shelter Island, Mount Desert, and the Isle of Shoales stretch out in endless perspective before her? What girl could dare to be otherwise than sublimely happy so long as the sea laughed, and the sun shone, and there were such beneficent factors in the scheme of life and Providence as horses, and dogs, and boats, to say nothing of men and boys, who were but the playthings of existence?
And through all those long, luxurious summer days, Mr. Tremain remained in town, returning a curt negative to all alluring invitations.
He had not seen Mrs. Newbold again after his momentous interview with Mademoiselle Lamien; indeed, he had left the Folly immediately after it, walking into New Brighton, and proving but a sorry companion to John Mainwaring, during their journey to New York.
To tell the truth, he felt himself to be somewhat of a traitor to Esther, in that he had permitted himself to become a traitor to the memory of Patricia. He could not quite forget or put from him Esther's earnest words, Esther's eyes filled with tears, and Esther's undeviating fidelity to the love of his youth; that love from which he had now deliberately and by his own act cut himself off for ever. He knew that to Esther he could only appear as the most weak and vacillating of men; his own words rang too clearly in his ears to allow him for one moment to doubt what her judgment upon his action would be.
There are two things no woman can excuse or palliate in a man: disaffection from herself where she has once been the first object of his devotion, or disaffection to an ideal which she has set up as a fetich, and to which unswerving fidelity is expected as a matter of right. Esther had set up in this position the old love of ten years ago that had existed between himself and Patricia; she had, so to speak, dug its dead body from out its unquiet grave, and breathing into it her own vitality and desire, had set herself to work to re-create answering sentiments in his heart. With the impetuosity of woman's nature, which considers no office so legitimately its own as that of binding up broken hearts, and reuniting broken troths, she endeavoured now to re-construct and rehabilitate this passion of his youth, never pausing to reflect upon his attitude in the case, or the probabilities of failure which amounted to certainties.
She had failed, it was true; but that is only half a failure that leaves matters at the point from which they started. There is always room for hope so long as certain premises remain unchanged. Philip was still unbound and unfettered, and Patricia was still Patricia Hildreth. Were not these sufficient foundations on which to build as fancy dictated?
Reflecting on this, and on his own position from Esther's point of view, Mr. Tremain could not but acknowledge that his proposal to Mdlle. Lamien, and their partial engagement, could only be regarded by Esther in the light of direst treachery. Any reasons he might bring to bear in defence of his present situation and the circumstances that had led up to it, would, he knew, be scoffed at and scouted by his staunch little friend. Of what use would it be for him to enter into the physiological side of the question? He could not hope to explain to her the vague, impersonal power that drove him on to this finale. Should he plead that he was not altogether a free agent, and advance in confirmation of this the subtle illusive resemblance of Mdlle. Lamien to another some one, equally shadowy and unreal, he would be met with an incredulous smile, and a suggestion that since he could urge no stronger reason than that of a chance likeness, why need he hesitate toexploiterhis delusion? Or why choose Adèle Lamien's negative unreality, in place of Patricia Hildreth's positive personality?
It would be vain also to remind Esther that not only had Patricia twice deliberately refused him in words, but by open raillery and covert mockery had emphasized those refusals, more times than his pride cared to count. No, Esther would be convinced by none of these things; it was worse than hopeless to expect it of her, and therefore worse than useless to appeal to her. In selecting Adèle Lamien for his future wife, he had cut himself adrift from his own life, and from the close sympathy and intimacy of those few friends whose affection had made existence worth living.
He realised perfectly that in thus choosing a woman upon whose past lay not only the blight of secrecy but the curse of suspicion, he made that past his own with all its weight of shame and sin, nay, perhaps, even of crime, at which she had so vaguely hinted. He knew now that in that moment of surprise and overmastering passion, when the spell of her music and her presence held him against his will, he had not reasoned, he had not considered. He had let the potency of the moment bear him away; he had, indeed, seen dimly what the outcome must inevitably be, and yet he had allowed himself to drift on with the current, and made no resistance.
His love, his pride, smarting and burning beneath the cool insolence of Patricia's scorn, hurried him on to such a declaration as should be final, and break for ever the bonds of those ten years that had held him so long, and galled him so intolerably. He would be free, and Patricia should see and recognise his freedom and own its justice, even though she laughed gaily and jested mockingly upon it.
It was indeed in this half defined and scarcely acknowledged retaliation, that he now found his chief solace, for the matter of his new engagement cannot be said to have contributed to his happiness. Still, if fate was so untoward as to eliminate all the higher degrees of perfection from his destiny, it was at least something gained to know that he retained the power of wounding one woman through another. It was not the greatest or grandest revenge, nay, it had something pitifully mean and ignoble about it; but it was revenge, and Philip was still human enough not to have mastered that divine perfection, which kisses the hand bearing the rod, and blesses the scourge even while the blows fall.
In the meantime he hugged his secret, and kept his unhappiness to himself; refused to mingle with his own kind, and rarely stirred from out his chambers, except for the daily walk to and from his office, and grew silent, morose, unapproachable.
The July days came and went with lingering, regretful steps; but they brought him no comfort. He grew to hate the long, bright, cruel hours, during which the sun shone so fiercely in the intense blue sky whose wide expanse was unsoftened by cloud or mist; even as he came to loathe the short midsummer nights, with the flooding moonlight and the radiant stars set in the vaulted firmament of God's glory.
No news and no word came to him from Mdlle. Lamien; he had neither seen nor heard from her since their unsatisfactory parting. He had waited expecting each day some expression from her, some recognition or repudiation of the promise that bound him; but each day brought him only disappointment, until at last, as the days grew into weeks, he ceased expecting and accepted his position almost with relief. He was ready and waiting whenever Mdlle. Lamien should signify her need of him; he would not lift a finger to break the slight chain that bound him, but neither would he by act or word rivet that chain closer.
Of Patricia he knew absolutely nothing; not even the echo of her name reached him. That most energetic of society chronicles,Town Optics, was never counted in his literature, though, had he known it, even that authority was silent concerning her movements. She had apparently dropped out of his life as completely as even he could desire; and, as he acknowledged with a bitter smile, she was not likely to vex or trouble him more, in the changed conditions of his future.
Ah, well, let her rest in peace! Patty, his wilful, loving, perverse little Patty, had been dead to him for ten long years.
But with the last week of July, Mr. Tremain aroused himself, and, throwing off his lethargy, hastily packed a light portmanteau and betook himself to a certain landing-stage down in the city's depths; and as the sun set in a harmony of gorgeous splendour over Bowling Green and Castle Garden, making a golden symbol of Trinity's tall spire, and flooding the city with transient beauty, he stood upon the deck of a small steamer, bound for the rocky shores of Maine, and, two days later, had vanished amidst the deep far-stretching pine forests of that eastern state, pitching his tent beside an outlet of wild Hemlock Lake, and lost completely to civilisation in the form of post, or telegraph, or daily paper.
Count Mellikoff had also on leaving the Folly betaken himself to New York, and re-established his locale in that quiet but eminently aristocratic hotel, which has for years been a sort of Mecca to European wanderers, who finding life on the plan of the ordinary huge American caravansary, too public anden évidence, have sought with thankfulness the more retired existence of this favoured resort.
Most people object to that process of public cleansing usually regarded as the attribute of vulgarity; but one need not be vulgar to object to consuming one's roast beef and port wine under the public eye. It is not a pleasant sensation to come to look upon one's self as only an atom in the great scheme of atable d'hôte; one loses one's identity at such times, and with the loss of identity goes also one's self-respect. If you wish to retain your dignity in your own eyes and in the eyes of your world, keep yourself to yourself; and, above all, do your eating and drinking in private. Nothing is so much desired as that which is difficult of attainment; and no man has so many dinner invitations as he who is known to be fastidious, as to whose table he will honour with his presence.
On the evening of the same day as that on which Mr. Tremain started off on his lonely wanderings, Count Mellikoff sat in a private apartment of his hotel busy over a variety of despatches and papers, heaped together on a writing-table.
The day had been very warm, and even with the approach of night the atmosphere became but little less intolerable. The windows were open, but the latticed blinds were let down, and through the crevices the moonlight fell in broken lines across the walls, the rays of the small lamp on the writing-table being too faint to outshine the moonbeams; the room, in consequence, had a half unreal appearance, through the mingled reflections of oil and moonlight.
A few blocks up Fifth Avenue, a barrel-organ was groaning out a popular melody, interrupted at intervals by a Strauss valse from the German band performing in Washington Square.
On the centre table stood a tray with a bottle of claret and Apollinaris water, and a glass bowl filled with cracked ice.
Despite the intensity of the temperature, Count Mellikoff was scrupulously dressed in evening costume, the gardenia in his button-hole showing white against his coat; beneath the flower the tiny red button of honour, that had so fascinated Miss James, stood out like a drop of blood.
With rapid, accustomed fingers, Count Vladimir opened one by one the letters and papers, scanning their contents with quick comprehension, and laying each document aside with accurate decision. As he came to the last, he put it down before him, and bending forward, touched a little gong that stood near his despatch-box; then he leant back in his chair and waited. A door leading to an inner room was partially open.
In the few seconds that intervened before his summons was answered, his face, seen now in the full light of the lamp, seemed to grow more pallid and anxious, the mouth beneath the straight moustache and beard grew hard, the eyes from out their shadowy caverns burned with a restless light, the cheeks appeared thinner, the forehead more pronounced, the hand as it rested on the table more nervous and attenuated, while the ruby in his ring glowed with an evil fire.
The sharp metallic echo had scarcely died away before the door leading to the other room was pulled noiselessly open, and a short dark figure emerged from the interior shadows, and came forward with a cringing, uncertain gait.
"Did the Excellenza ring?" the man asked in Italian, standing before the Count, and speaking in a voice that was both unctuous and false.
Mellikoff looked at him for an instant before replying, while a smile of infinite scorn and disgust curled his lips.
"Yes," he answered shortly, and in the same language, "I did ring; I require your most valuable services, Mattalini."
The Italian bowed, and rubbed his hands together.
"Si, si, Signor," he mumbled, "I am but your servant; you command, I obey."
Vladimir paid no attention to this protestation save for another of those slow, scornful smiles, neither of which escaped the Italian's notice.
"You will take this letter, Mattalini," Count Mellikoff continued, lifting a sealed packet and passing it across the table, "to M. Stubeloff, who is at present in this city. You will deliver it into his hands and bring me back a written reply—you understand, Mattalini—a written reply."
There was that in the Count's tone that caused the blood to leap hotly within the Italian's veins; but he only bowed the more obsequiously as he replied:
"Si, Signor, I comprehend. The M. Stubeloff is he who represents our father the Tsar in thisinfernoof a country; he makes a sojourn here.Bene, he shall receive your packet, Excellenza, from my own hand, and you shall have his Excellency's written response."
The man's voice was quiet and respectful enough; but Vladimir caught the sudden look of hatred that flashed up for one moment in his eyes, and knew that Mattalini was his secret enemy. As he turned away, Count Mellikoff spoke again:
"You will give directions below at the office, that should a lady ask for me she is to be shown up at once—at once; do you understand?"
"Si, Signor," replied the man, quietly; and then, with creeping step and drooping shoulders, he crossed the room, appearing for one moment in the moonbeams like the shadow of an evil spectre, and then vanishing as noiselessly as he had entered.
Once outside the room he stopped and drew a deep breath, lifting his bowed form, and, raising his right hand, shook the open palm and long fingers at the closed door.
"Curse him," he muttered, "curse him root and branch. May the evil eye never leave him now or hereafter, in life or death!" Then he turned and walked swiftly down the passage towards the stairs.
Count Mellikoff, left alone, leant back in his chair with a heavy sigh, passing his hand wearily across his eyes. The rival musicians had settled their difficulties by the withdrawal of the barrel-organ, and only the strains from the German band floated in, mellowed by distance. It was the "Blue Danube" they were playing, and unconsciously, Vladimir Mellikoff kept time to the pathos of the under theme with his thoughts. The look of anxiety deepened on his face, emphasized by the additional expression of sadness that crept into his eyes.
And, indeed, he had reason to be both sad and anxious; of late he had detected in Patouchki's letters and despatches a latent tone of distrust and suspicion, which he was quick to feel and to resent.
There were no more veiled allusions to his past ability and faithful services; no assurances of his proved fidelity to the Tsar; no commendation of the work already accomplished, such as had come rarely, to be sure, but yet with sufficient regularity in the earlier stages of his mission. Rather were there peremptory commands, undisguised admonitions, and barely concealed innuendoes of dissatisfaction and distrust on the part of the Chancellerie.
"Rest assured I shall be the last to misjudge or condemn you, Vladimir," had run the chief's last letter; "but it becomes me to warn you that there are others who take a less lenient view of your position than I do, and who will not scruple to use every indiscretion against you. He who serves Russia must be prepared to find her not only suspicious, but ungrateful; it is your high privilege, Vladimir, to be counted among the most loyal of her servitors; but even to you may come the bitter lesson, that trifling with her decrees is followed by swift and sure punishment. The sworn presence of the woman, Adèle Lamien, in Petersburg, to which Tolskoi has given his oath, but which, as yet, we have been unable to verify, greatly complicates your position, since the Chancellerie knows that it was to find her you undertook your present mission. If, in the month that elapsed between your arrival in the States and her alleged appearance here, you have allowed her to slip through your fingers, you know full well the judgment that will be passed upon you. Your telegrams of late have been vague and uncertain, your letters no more assuring. In the meantime, and up to this present moment, we have been unable to put our hands upon this woman; she has disappeared as mysteriously as she came. And since there is room for doubt in the matter, we prefer to give you the benefit of that doubt, at least for the present."
This had been the substance of Patouchki's communication, and Vladimir could not mistake its tone, even if its meaning had not been further enhanced by the arrival of the Italian, Mattalini, who came ostensibly as a bearer of despatches, and with a request, which was more of a command, that Count Mellikoff would kindly retain him in his service.
A bitter smile had come to Vladimir's lips as he read the letter of recommendation and looked at the candidate for his favour standing before him. Well might Ivor Tolskoi have said, that lying craft and duplicity were stamped on his every feature. Vladimir Mellikoff but confirmed these words when he said, half sadly to himself, as the man turned away:
"And has it come to this, my chief? Am I to be dogged and watched by such a paid miscreant as this Italian? Is he to be my 'double,' and am I to stand or fall according to his testimony? Oh, Russia, hard indeed are you as a task-mistress, heavy your yoke of iron, and bitter your recompense!"
It did not require any great perspicuity to read through the Chancellerie's design in sending Mattalini to be servant to Count Mellikoff; and, from the moment the sullen Italian entered his service, Vladimir felt his evil star had arisen, and his evil hour arrived.
That Tolskoi should have been the one to swear to the actual presence of Adèle Lamien, or Lallovich, in Petersburg, when he—Mellikoff—was hunting her down in America, troubled him but little. Firm in his own belief, and secure of his ultimate success, he paid small heed to a chance likeness that might easily have deceived so gay and volatile a young man as Ivor. Was it likely that he, Valdimir Mellikoff, an old and tried servant of the Tsar—old at least in experience if not in years—should be distanced and out-done by a yellow-haired youth still almost in his adolescence? Count Mellikoff smiled, and put the thought aside as valueless.
Much more disturbing and distressing was the scant news he received of his betrothed. Olga had written once or twice during the first two months of his self-imposed exile, and then suddenly her letters had ceased, and he could obtain no further news of her than what he could glean between the lines of the official telegrams in the daily newspapers. These were meagre in the extreme, only a bare mention now and then of the more important items of Russian politics, or her attitude on the Bulgarian question; but they at least told him that the Court was still at Petersburg, and therefore he knew Olga to be there also. With the beginning of the Russian summer she would accompany her Imperial mistress to Gatschina, or the baths, and then he felt he should indeed be separated from her.
Oh, for this weary time of probation to pass! This winning of one more honour, one more decoration, to lay at her feet; and then to claim his recompense, his prize, and with his first rapturous kiss upon her proud lips seal his fealty, and bid a final good-bye to worldly ambition and reward!
Immersed in such meditations, Count Mellikoff started nervously as a sharp rap on the door awoke him from his reverie; with the immediate self-command of long habit, he instantly controlled both face and voice, and calling out a "Come in," rose from his chair and walked to the middle of the room.
The door was thrown open with the words, "A lady to see you, sir," and then quickly closed. A slight figure dressed in black, and with a heavy veil drawn over the face, advanced towards him, and, as Vladimir came forward, a voice, high pitched despite its whispered words, said quickly:
"I have come, but I must beg you will not keep me long."
For answer Count Mellikoff bowed respectfully and pulled forward an easy chair.
"Let me ask you to be seated," he said in his suavest tones, "and pray remove your veil. I entreat, I insist; the evening is stifling."
Without a word his visitor sank down upon the chair, and mechanically unpinned and removed her thick veil; the face beneath the hard outline of the black hat looked hollow and aged, the dark eyes burned feverishly, the thin lips were colourless.
Even to the most superficial observer great and marked were the changes that a few weeks had wrought there; it bore but a faint and blurred resemblance to the face that Mr. Tremain had looked on, not unkindly, two short months ago at the Folly.
Count Mellikoff turned to the table, and pouring out a glass of claret, added the ice and Apollinaris with careful exactness, and brought it to his guest.
"You must drink this, mademoiselle," he said. "You are looking very exhausted.Ma foi, I cannot compliment you on the temperature of an American summer!"
She took the tumbler from him and drank the contents thirstily; as she put down the empty glass her ungloved hand came within the radius of the lamp-light. It looked shrunken and attenuated, the rings upon the thin fingers hung loosely and jangled one against the other. She sat back wearily, looking up at him with an eager, anxious expression.
"I must ask you not to keep me long," she said again, "I may be missed at any moment. It is important I should return as soon as possible."
Count Mellikoff drew a chair in front of her, and sitting down leant slightly forward, joining his hands together by the finger-tips. His position and gesture recalled another like occasion in which she and he were the chief actors; she shuddered violently and drew back from him involuntarily.
"Miss James," began Count Vladimir, in his cold, even tones, "I beg you will believe that I am fully alive to your disinterestedness in thus coming to me, and also to the risks you run in so doing. But, as I told you during our first conversation, in seeking your co-operation in my work I was well aware you would have to encounter much that must of necessity be disagreeable to you, since defying or breaking the canons of conventionality is always an unpleasant experience. You, however, elected to become my partner in this work—an honour of which I am deeply appreciative—and you were content to chance the consequences if you could but work out your own ends in furthering mine. Am I not correct in my statements?"
"Yes, yes, oh yes," she replied, hurriedly. "You are quite right, perfectly correct."
"I can assure you, mademoiselle," went on Count Vladimir, with a little smile, leaning somewhat more forward until the heavy, languorous scent of the gardenia seemed almost to stifle her, "that I have no desire to detain you longer than is absolutely necessary, though, were I to consult my pleasure, I would willingly lengthen the visit of one for whom I entertain such sentiments of respectful admiration. However, since we cannot consult inclination, let us proceed to duty. What news have you to give me of ourdramatis personæ? Let us commence with Philip Tremain."
At the mention of this name the girl's white face paled perceptibly, and her lips quivered. She loved Philip as well and as generously as it lay in her nature to love any one; and though he had passed her by, even when conscious of her love for him, it was none the less bitter to find herself in the position of a spy and informer against him.
Vladimir Mellikoff saw her hesitancy and read its meaning.
"It's not pleasant, I admit, mademoiselle," he said, "to be obliged to speak uncompromisingly of any one; especially must this be the case now and with you, when you recall Mr. Tremain's pronounced—friendship."
His jibe told. It was this very friendliness of Philip's attitude towards her against which she most revolted and beat her passion to tatters; she could better have borne his anger or hate, than his calm indifference of friendly interest.
"Mr. Tremain is no friend of mine," she said, sharply, and with a short, hard laugh; "his goings and comings are nothing to me, except in so far as they influenceher. I have fully admitted to you, Count Mellikoff, the reason why I shall be glad to see her humbled and exposed. I do not know why she should nourish, and flaunt her beauty in my face, when it lies in my power to tear the mask from her and reveal her real self to the world that flatters and adores her every whim and caprice."
"You have both reason and cause on your side, Miss James," replied Vladimir, quietly. "A woman scorned makes a dangerous enemy. But pardon me, if I remind you who it is that has placed the power of enmity within your reach."
"I have not forgotten," she answered, with almost sullen bitterness; "it is to you, Count Mellikoff, I owe my weapon of vengeance. I am not ungrateful."