Count Mellikoff made a slight bow, and said: "And now as to this Mr. Tremain, where is he at present; and have you any further news of her?"
"Up to this morning, Mr. Tremain was not two miles distant from here," replied Miss James. "He had not left town since his last interview with—her, until this evening."
"And has he gone now?" inquired Vladimir, quickly, sitting upright in his chair. "This is news, indeed. Where has he gone?"
"That I cannot tell you, but certainly not to her. I called at his chambers ostensibly on an errand of charity, and the janitor told me he had left town suddenly. A little judicious questioning elicited the further details that he had taken but one small portmanteau, given his man a holiday, and ordered himself to be driven to a landing stage, too far down town for any boat to start from but an ocean or Sound steamer. He left no directions for the forwarding of his letters, and made no plan for returning. He has vanished from out our circle for the present, and I can give you no clue to his possible destination."
"It matters but very little," replied Vladimir. "When his presence is required, the orbit of his destiny will swing round to us again. We can dismiss him for the present, and be thankful he has so opportunely vanished into space. And of her, mademoiselle, of Adèle Lamien, as it is wisest still to call her, since even walls have ears?"
"You are over-prudent, Count Mellikoff, surely. Still, perhaps it is as well to keep up the farce to the end. Of Adèle Lamien's escape there is no fear. She is absolutely in our power; I know her every movement, her daily avocations; I can put my hand upon her at any moment. She is as unsuspicious and ignorant of the net closing so securely about her, as she is that in me she sees her deadliest foe. No, there can be no failure there; whatever else fails, I am sure of that revenge; that is," she added, suddenly, "ifyouare certain—if you are not deceived."
"No, I am not deceived," replied Count Mellikoff, slowly. "We shall not have much longer to remain inactive, mademoiselle; I do but attend a final telegram, and then the blow will fall."
"I hope so," answered the girl, bitterly; "and may it crush both him and her when it comes."
There was a moment's silence before Count Mellikoff spoke again; when he did, his voice had regained its lighter tones.
"And Madame Newbold and the charming Miss Dick," he asked; "what of them?"
"Still at Newport, on board theDeerhound; but they are to weigh anchor to-night for a longer cruise than any they have yet taken. After this evening it will be impossible to say when or where telegrams or letters could reach them." She stopped for a moment, and then said, abruptly: "And the warrant—you will have no difficulty about that?"
"I anticipate none. The first steps can, of course, be but preliminaries. There is no doubt of our securing an arrest, and that is our first move. With Mr. Tremain lost, so to speak, theDeerhoundand her passengers started on an uncertain cruise; and, New York an empty wilderness, there is nothing to interrupt the march of events, mademoiselle. We may look any day now, any hour, for the consummation of fate."
"I am glad," again replied the girl; "yes, I am glad. And now I must go; it grows late. Have you any further instructions to give me?"
She took out her veil as she spoke, and tied it closely over her face, listening earnestly meantime to Count Mellikoff's low and rapid utterances. He spoke quickly, but with decision, and she acquiesced by her absolute silence.
As he finished she rose, and drawing her thin black mantle closely about her, walked rapidly towards the door. Vladimir Mellikoff held it open for her, but she passed him without word or salutation.
Half-way down the narrow passage a man overtook her, and turned to glance at her as he passed. It was the Italian, Mattalini.
Later on that same evening, while Philip Tremain paced the deck of the out-going steamer with restless footsteps, and did battle with the conflicting emotions that raged within him, Patricia Hildreth, leaning on the arm of the most distinguished partner of the hour, floated languidly around to the strains of "Dreamland" waltzes, the most admired woman of all the bevy of fair women who filled the spacious drawing-rooms of the "Eversleigh" at Long Branch. Her draperies of lustrous silk were not more white than her fair face, nor were the jewels on her bosom more bright and cold, than was the blue fire of her eyes. Only her smile retained its old charm and sweetness, and belied the weariness that rested upon her brow.
She conferred distinction by her presence, and dispensed her favours with so royal a grace, the recipients of her bounty never stopped to weigh their value, or count their cost.
Ivor Tolskoi did not see Mdlle. Naundorff again for several weeks.
On leaving her at the private entrance of the Palace, he had walked away with Patouchki, towards the Chancellerie, where he was kept busily at work until late in the afternoon. He purposely avoided the Court circle in the evening, his presence not being officially demanded, for he felt he could not so soon again meet Olga's reproachful eyes, and pale suffering face; a longer interval must elapse before he could greet her in his accustomed manner.
The next day he heard of her sudden indisposition through that same Countess Vera, whose trivial words had first set alight the fire of vindictiveness in his heart. Ivor was a great favourite in all the Petersburgsalons, and his appearance in Countess Vera's drawing-rooms at the magic tea-hour was hailed with delight.
A considerable number of the best knownbeau-mondaineswere already gathered there, to whom the Countess—who was a pronounced follower of all customs English—was dispensing tea from out a most un-English-looking samovar. She welcomed Ivor with effusion, and bade him take the vacant chair beside her low gipsy-table, which with its dainty tea-cloth and royal Worcester tea-service, looked distinctly out of place in the large, formal, mirror-hung apartment.
"It is delightful to see you,mon cher," lisped the Countess in her high voice, looking at him languishingly; "it is ages, eternities, centuries, since you last honoured one of mythés anglaiswith your presence. Positively I believe you have not before seen my newest importation from that land of fogs and delights. Behold, this is my very last!" and she pointed gaily to the little table. "I assure you it is quite correct, quitecomme il faut, cloth and all. I have it direct from my dear friend, the Duchess of Hever; it is an exact copy of the one used by the Princess at Sandringham. The dear English! one quite grows to love them."
And the Countess clasped her hands together dramatically, letting them fall with effect upon her plush tea-gown; against the ruby folds the diamonds and rubies of her rings flashed triumphantly.
Tolskoi laughed, his full-hearted boyish laugh, as he took the English tea-cup she held out to him.
"You have the courage of your opinions, Countess," he said; "it is well you are protected by Imperial favour. I know some houses in Petersburg, where were such frank expressions of Anglo-mania indulged in, they would be followed by a swift and emphatic caution from the Chancellerie."
The Countess shrugged her shoulders.
"Ma foi, I am no politician, no intriguer. I am but a silly moth of fashion, I do not even pose as a butterfly; but it appeals to my sense ofbien-etreto be on good terms with England; and certainly it is more politic, since through our Grand Duchess, and our Tsarina, our dynasty is doubly allied with that country. But there, I see your eyes are wandering after your thoughts; I regret your disappointment,mon cher, for you will not see her here to-day."
Tolskoi acknowledged the raillery with another laugh. "Ah, Countess, you are the fairy of the story books! And why does not Mdlle. Naundorff honour yoursalonto-day?"
"Because she is indisposed," answered Countess Vera, looking up at him sharply; "she is obliged to keep her own apartments. I fear you took but poor care of the future Countess Mellikoff, monsieur, for she returned from the Petropavlovsk inspection looking like a ghost, and scarcely able to render her light services to the Tsarina, during the evening. Were the horrors of the Fortress so very pronounced,mon cher? You will have to answer to Count Vladimir, you know, if on his return he finds hisfiancéechanged. Already Petersburg rings with your openly displayed admiration for her cold beauty."
She laughed as she concluded, and got up slowly from her low chair. Ivor rose also.
"I shall be only too happy to answer any charge of Count Mellikoff's," he said, deliberately, "when he returns."
Then the Countess Vera glided away from him, and with a word here, a whisper there, a smile, a nod, a gesture, set afloat the rumour that society might look for another highly-spiced scandal, as soon as Count Mellikoff returned, for Ivor Tolskoi, not content with stealing away hisfiancée'sallegiance, intended to challenge him as well.
Wasn't it quite dreadful? Ah, yes, but very romantic! added the little Countess, to whom intrigue and scandal were as the breath of her nostrils.
The conversation now became general, and of course the favourite topic under discussion was the Imperial visit of yesterday to Petropavlovsk. Ivor found himself in constant requisition, and his ingenuity not a little put to the test in replying vaguely yet satisfactorily to the eager questions poured upon him.
All interest in the reunion had, however, flown for him directly he heard the cause of Olga Naundorff's non-appearance, and he managed as soon as possible to make hisadieuxto the Countess.
"Ah," said that little lady, lifting her eyebrows in mock despair. "So we are to lose you already! We cannot offer you a sufficient attraction,mon cher, to keep you in the absence of the Court favourite. Let me warn you again, Count Mellikoff is not a man to be trifled with."
"Nor am I," answered Ivor, incautiously; whereat the Countess Vera laughed.
"Ma foi," she said, "if you carry matters with so high a hand we shall have even a more dramaticesclandrethan the Stevan Lallovich affair. By the way, Ivor, what news is afloat concerning Count Vladimir, and his search for the missing woman? Oh, yes, you see it is no secret to me, the reason of his departurelà -bas."
With which vague and descriptive term and a gesture equally disdainful, the Countess indicated the broad continent of America. To her intelligence and imagination, it was but a land of semi-barbarians and savages, where existence was not worth the price of her smallest luxury.
Tolskoi replied with a little bow.
"Ah, Countess," he said, "who can hope to keep any secret from you, and indeed who would wish to do so? I believe Count Mellikoff is fully satisfied with his advance so far; it remains only for the Chancellerie to express an equal approbation."
Then he bent over the Countess's hand, and with a passing compliment, made his devoirs and left her. She stood for a moment looking after him thoughtfully.
"I would rather not be in Count Mellikoff's shoes," she said to herself, "should he not succeed. Ivor Tolskoi is not likely to prove a light enemy, and Ivor Tolskoi means to steal from him not only his sweetheart, but his reputation."
Then she laughed a little as she turned gaily back to her gipsy-table, and herthé à l'anglaise.
Meantime Tolskoi on leaving the Palace Vera, turned his steps towards the Boulevard de Cavalerio, in the direction of his own apartments. His brow was clouded and his lips stern as he walked along the gaily-lighted streets. Evening had already closed in, the long evening of a day late in March, and the boulevard was full of life and movement.
Ivor, however, took but little heed of his surroundings, the news he had just heard concerning Olga, disquieted him not a little, the more so as his love for her was very great, and he felt that he alone was answerable for her mental and physical illness. He would have spared her had it been possible for him to do so, and had he seen any other way out of his difficulties. His first great object was to win her away from Mellikoff, whom he knew to be his only serious rival, and to do this he was willing to descend to any subterfuge.
He knew her nature sufficiently well to be aware that nothing short of falsity to her, on Vladimir's part, would serve to break even the light bonds that held her to him. Mellikoff's greatest power lay in the protested claims of this his first and only love; and she, in listening to his protestations, had been more swayed by the sense of her undivided sovereignty over him, than by any feeling of affection.
His years and his honours gave him the right to pose as a man of fashion, whose experiences of a certain kind were but foregone conclusions; instead, however, of pleading this as a reason for his wish torangerhimself, he actually offered her a virgin heart, that had known no warmer mistress than ambition, until he met her, and fell captive beneath her smile and proud, cold loveliness.
The paradox of his life was unique, especially in Petersburg; and Olga had felt a thrill of pride when she looked upon Vladimir's stern face, and noted the many distinctions of honour that marked his Court dress, and realised that she, and she only, had won his love and his devotion. She was the first woman before whom he had bowed his head in haughty pleading. It was no mean triumph, even for Olga Naundorff, to win and rule him as an accepted suitor.
All this Tolskoi realised to the full, and as his passion grew and strengthened, he determined to hesitate at nothing—no duplicity, no falsehood—if by it he could awaken suspicion in her mind, and so gain time for the perfecting of his own ends. Mellikoff's prolonged absence, and the unexpected meeting with Adèle Lamien in St. Isaac's, gave him ample basis upon which to work, and furnished him with a plan of attack, with so much of possible truth in it as to carry instant conviction to Olga's mind.
Her heart had always remained untouched, even by Vladimir's devotion; she had not therefore, the divine instinct of love, by which to sift out the false from the true.
And of Ivor it may be said, he believed enough in his allegations to make their fulfilment an easy possibility; it was, however, quite outside his calculations that Olga, by a real or feigned illness, should effectually shut herself off from his personal influence; the more so, as in a few days he was obliged to leave Petersburg, for his own estates in the Ural provinces, and his absence would extend over several weeks. What security had he against adverse circumstances and influences, while separated from her? Was it not even possible that Mellikoff might return triumphant? In which case, of what avail would be his schemes and intrigues?
Fate, however, was against him, for he did not see Mdlle. Naundorff before his departure. He was often at the Palace, frequenting the Courtsalonwith sedulous regularity; but Olga never appeared, and he learned from the Countess Vera that she was still indisposed, "though not in danger of death," that little lady added, sharply, and with a meaning look at Ivor's downcast face.
It was early April, when Tolskoi reluctantly quitted Petersburg, and it was June before he returned.
The Court was still at the Winter Palace, for the winter season had been a long and cruel one, and even with the first days of June, summer advanced with but lagging footsteps, seemingly unwilling to awake the gay capital from its long frost-bitten sleep.
Political affairs also held the Emperor, whose presence in the metropolis was considered by his ministers to be a necessity; therefore, when Ivor shook off the dust of many days, travel and alighted from hiscoupéat the railway terminus, it was to see the familiar standard floating from the Winter Palace, and the tall lance-like spire of Petropavlovsk rising above the creeping waters of the Neva, and piercing the vivid blue of the sky beyond. The Troitski bridge and Boulevard-park were gay with passing traffic, and noisy with the cries of the flower vendors, whose trays and baskets overflowed with the blue violets of the Novgorod.
Tolskoi made his way at once to the Imperial Chancellerie, where he found Patouchki, as he had left him, seated at his desk and busy over what seemed to Ivor the identical despatches that had surrounded him two months ago. The only observable change in the chief'sentouragelay in the open windows, and the softness of the west wind, as it stirred the papers with a gentle touch, and yet that had a bitter chill even in its caresses.
Patouchki, he thought, looked worn and harassed; the sallowness of the flesh tints, the deeper lines about his forehead and mouth, spoke of days and nights of ceaseless occupation and anxiety; and to Ivor, fresh from the almost limitless freedom of his wide frontiers, spoke also of the despotic rule and iron obedience with which those who serve Russia, must accept Russia's dictates.
The chief looked up, and greeted him as though but a day's separation lay between them.
"Ah, Ivor," he said, "so you are come back. You are welcome."
Ivor thanked him and turned towards his own desk, where lay neatly piled together various documents and papers, anticipatory of his expected return. Several newly cut quills were in the pen-tray, and a fresh unstained pad was opened invitingly. An amused smile came to the young man's face; it was all so absurdly natural and familiar; his absence of weeks faded away and became visionary and unreal, in this crude matter-of-fact light of official routine.
What did it matter to Patouchki that he, Ivor, had but just come from those distant, far-reaching steppes, where the shy game and wild animals flew before his footsteps, and the miles of low stunted forest ended only with the horizon line, to meet which the cold grey sky appeared to curve in an almost perceptible arch.
Standing alone, amidst his vast possessions, surrounded by a limitless silence, Tolskoi had better understood than ever before the meaning of the word freedom, and the unfathomableness of that undefined yet distinct craving for something higher and greater, than this world gives, which is implanted in every human heart. That vain, vague stretching after the unattainable, the blue flower of the mountains, the edelweiss of the Alps, which grows only on the heights of sacrifice and abnegation, and which, like the precious stone set with the jewels of suffering, is only attainable "to him that overcometh." Great indeed is his reward, "and his joy no man taketh from him."
Ivor had carried with him during all his long return journey by road and rail, a recollection of this wider outlook, and it gave him therefore somewhat of a moral shock to find the world of Petersburg—his world—busily engaged just as he had left it, not only not recognising any spiritual change in him, but not even aware of any better or higher aims than those attainable by intrigue, and shameless pandering to the powers of the moment.
Although he had stood face to face with God and Nature, for one brief moment, what was that to them? Here, in Petersburg, neither the Almighty nor Nature, had part or lot in the fierce, unending struggle called life.
With a shrug of his shoulders Ivor took his accustomed place, and as he broke the first seal felt the better influences fall from him, and the old power reassert itself.
If, as we are told, each soul has its fatal moment of choice, on which depends its final development, this was that moment for Ivor Tolskoi, and in accepting the old life with that careless gesture and cynical smile, he put from him for ever the higher calling that might have been his, and set his feet in the downward path of deterioration.
After a short interval of silence, Patouchki turned towards him with his old imperiousness of manner, and said, abruptly:
"About this woman, Tolskoi, this Adèle Lamien, whom you avow you saw. So far we have been unable to obtain any trace of her here, or learn anything concerning her movements; while on the other hand Count Mellikoff sends repeated messages of confidence as to his assured success, and the infallibility of his approachingcoup de main. So after all, my dear Ivor, you must have been the victim of a delusion. It is impossible for Adèle Lamien to be in Petersburg without the Chancellerie's knowledge."
"I was not mistaken, chief," replied Ivor, quietly. "I saw Adèle Lallovich with my own eyes. Hers is not a face to be easily mistaken, and I would rather trust to my own instincts, than to Count Mellikoff's written assertions. Answer me one question, chief: has Vladimir Mellikoff ever, to your knowledge, seen Adèle Lallovich?"
"Really, Tolskoi, that is a strange question," answered Patouchki; "frankly, I have never had occasion to ask him. The woman's face was common property to all Petersburg, at one time, through the photographers, and considering how well Count Vladimir knew Stevan Lallovich, it is but natural to suppose his opportunities for seeing his mistress were numerous."
"Pardon me, chief, if I differ from you on one or two points," replied Ivor, with unwonted gravity. "In the first place, you must admit that Stevan Lallovich did not for some time regard Adèle Lamien in the light of a mistress. He married her, remember, according to the ceremonies of the Church of Rome, and it was not until his passion for her grew cold, that he sought Imperial interference. He kept her exclusively at his villa across the Neva, and so long as he upheld her position as his wife was over-scrupulous in his care of her. I have reason to believe that not one of Count Stevan's boon companions, even Vladimir Mellikoff, was ever admitted to her presence. The marriage was secret and kept so, and as long as the infatuation lasted Lallovich showed nothing but respect to her.Weknow how sudden was the Imperial ukase, and how little prepared she must have been for it, was shown by the tragic vengeance that overtook him. You understand then, chief, why I prefer to trust to my own instincts rather than to Count Mellikoff's assertions. I did once see Adèle Lallovich in her happier days, and I am not likely to mistake her face now, even though disfigured by shame and crime."
Patouchki had listened attentively to Tolskoi's remarks; he replied to them by a slight gesture and the words:
"Granted all that you say is true, Ivor, I fail to see how not knowing personally this unfortunate woman is any real disadvantage to Count Mellikoff. He has every facility for tracing her, and we know by experience that the last evidence to build upon in such a quest is personal appearance. It needs but the adjuncts of paint, powder, and a wig, to deceive even Lucifer himself. No, no, that troubles me but little; what is more of an anxiety is my inability to trace in any way the accomplice who first assisted Adèle Lamien out of Russia, and who now—placing credence upon your words—has accomplished her return. Could I but put my hand on that accomplice, I would soon unearth the criminal."
Ivor made no reply save by a significant smile, and the slightest possible shrug. Patouchki noticed both, and felt irritated at the implied dissension expressed by them.
"You have doubtless some theory to advance upon this also," he said, sharply; "perhaps you will have the goodness to impart it to me."
"I do not know if my deductions may be dignified by so specific a title as theory, chief," Ivor replied, imperturbably; "I was but working out a small sum of calculation, which is at your service. In December last, Stevan Lallovich was murdered, and the woman calling herself his wife—though a suspect, and closely watched as such—disappeared, vanished absolutely. In the following January, Count Mellikoff, at the request of the Chancellerie, undertook a mission of discovery in the United States, whither the woman, according to trustworthy evidence, was supposed to have flown. Two months elapse, and nothing is discovered or revealed; meantime, you receive satisfactory, if vague, reports from Count Mellikoff, and the Chancellerie is lulled to inaction for the time being. At the end of March, I meet Adèle Lallovich face to face in the heart of Petersburg, where she has arrived without the knowledge of the Chancellerie, or its agents. That is my problem, chief; now to its solution. The same powerful influence—whose word was law, whose will was coercion—that got this woman out of Russia at a critical moment, has again been successful in sending her back to Petersburg, at a time when suspicion was thrown off its guard, and when Petersburg was a safer hiding-place than New York. That is my theory, chief, so far as I have worked it out."
Patouchki did not speak for several moments. He sat looking straight before him, the furrows wrought by anxiety and care plainly visible on his sallow, stern, set face.
The shadow of Ivor's veiled meaning was not lost to his quick perceptions; but he put it from him as unworthy of debate, and turning again to the young man said, even more sternly than before:
"I would advise you to be careful, Ivor, in your own interests; it is best to say less than you know, still less than you suspect. To me you may speak freely, indeed, I desire you to do so; but beyond these walls, have a care. What further conclusions do you draw from your elaborate premises?"
Ivor, with a quick flush at the suggestion of sarcasm in Patouchki's voice, replied quietly:
"But one, and to you, chief, my deductions may seem both absurd and impossible. You will remember the circumstances of the murder, and you will, I am sure, concur with me, when I assert that to plan and accomplish such a crime could not have been the sole unaided work of a woman. There must have been a bolder and surer brain behind, one who had sufficient reason to make the perpetration of the murder serve as a double revenge. Very well then, granting such was the case, who would be better fitted or more competent to assist the accomplice in crime in her flight, than he who had helped her to her revenge? Self-preservation would render this shielding power compulsory, where she was concerned; for, once she fell into the hands of the Chancellerie, not her life only, but his, would be the forfeit. I have no doubt, chief, that he who helped Adèle Lallovich across our frontier, has conveyed her back again, and—for a reason."
Tolskoi, as he finished, walked slowly across the room and back again, halting beside Patouchki. The latter looked up at him with a strange drawn expression upon his face. There was complete silence for a few moments; when the chief spoke it was in a very different voice to his usual harsh tones.
"And you would suspect——"
"I suspect no one, chief," answered the young man, his blue eyes flashing coldly. "I would only suggest that it is a strange coincidence at least, that shortly after Count Mellikoff's arrival in America, Adèle Lallovich should reappear in Petersburg."
He said no more, but turning abruptly, walked back to his desk.
Patouchki sat immovable for a long time. Ivor's suggestion had fallen upon him with almost crushing certainty, while mingled with the sense of humiliation and irritation at being outwitted, was also the feeling of pain and sorrow that he, who had thus outwitted him, should be the one in whom he had most implicitly trusted.
Like Olga Naundorff, there appeared to him no room for doubt. Ivor's very appearance, his boyishinsoucianceand frank bearing, were but additional witnesses to that other's treachery. And yet, and yet, could it be true? Should he not do well to wait just a little longer before condemning the absent? Could he but find the woman, could he but put his hand upon her! Were she really in Petersburg now, what greater evidence of perfidy could he desire, with those damning proofs in the shape of recent despatches and cables lying now on his desk? He turned at last, and spoke with apparent effort.
"Tolskoi, your warning is understood. Find me the woman, here in Petersburg, and I shall then know how to act."
"I will find her," replied Ivor, with stern brevity; and, accepting Patouchki's words as a dismissal, he bowed and left the room.
Late that same evening Tolskoi made his appearance at the Palace, in the outersalon, where he found the usual gathering of officials anddames d'honneurwith their invited guests. His reception was a flattering one, and his return to thebeau-mondainecircles hailed with acclamation.
The heavy curtains to the innersalonwere closely drawn, indicative of the Tsar and Tsarina's desire to remain unmolested for the present. The evening was very warm, and most of the long windows stood open, the wind gently swaying the light draperies.
Beneath the casements the Neva crept by in slow rippling motion; the moonlight falling athwart its grey opaqueness, woke here and there sudden gleams of radiance. It struck also across the blank stone wall of the Trubetskoi bastion, accentuating its grim outlines, and, shooting far upwards, tipped the lance-like spire of Peter's Fortress with golden fire.
The Countess Vera was the first to welcome Tolskoi, smiling up at him, as she did so, and waving her great fan of scented lace to and fro languidly.
"Oh, are you returned,mon cher? What a pleasure! And what a surprise tosome one! Oh, yes, she is here, and quite ravishingly beautiful. For the moment she is with her Imperial Majesty. How hot it is,mon cher, and what a cruelty that the Court regards no one's convenience, save its own! One so longs to be flying westward."
"Is it so unsupportable?" replied Ivor in his clear youthful voice, looking very handsome and young as he bent down towards the miniature lady. "Upon my word, when I am near the Countess Vera, I lose all sensation but one of supreme well-being."
"Ah, flatterer!" cried the little Countess, tapping him lightly on the arm with her fan. "See, here she comes."
At that moment the velvet curtains at the far end of the grandsalonparted for a moment, to allow the egress of a tall slight figure, that moved down the room with an almost regal grace, and whose white draperies of soft lustreless silk swept after her in rhythmic curves.
It was Olga, and Ivor, as he beheld her after two months of separation, felt his heart leap up in glad response to her beauty.
Indeed, never had she looked more beautiful. The grand curves of her perfect figure, well defined by the low-cut bodice and falling laces of her dress, her head, carried with all its imperial haughty grace, crowned by the masses of her golden hair, her eyes so deep and wonderful beneath the dark level brows, the "pomegranate flower" of her mouth showing vividly against the colourless fairness of her complexion. She wore a sapphire and diamond ornament upon her neck, and the rare stones flashed and scintillated beneath her quick-coming breath.
Ivor stepped forward eagerly, his face flushed with the renewed ecstasy of her presence, and bending low before her, murmured some inaudible greeting. The Countess Vera watched them, a smile on her brilliant little face.
Olga drew back, with an almost imperceptible movement, and with a sudden dramatic gesture repelled, rather than welcomed, the young man. She had not seen him since that day when at his thinly veiled allusions, and suggestive words, all trust and belief in the truth and honesty of human nature died within her. In that brief hour's drive it seemed to her she had grown years older, and beyond that day she never looked.
With the melting of the snows of winter she had put from her whatever of softness or leniency belonged to her girlhood; with her womanhood she adopted the creed of her world, "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."
"Ah, Ivor," she exclaimed, controlling instantly both voice and manner, and holding out her hand in greeting, "so you have come back. What an eternity you have been away! Petersburg has been only half itself without you."
She smiled as she spoke, and the charm of her smile counterbalanced the indifference of her tones.
"Petersburg cannot have been so desolate without me, as I have been without Petersburg," answered Tolskoi, gaily. "Is one permitted, mademoiselle, to express one's admiration and pleasure in beholding you so radiant and so—happy?"
"One is permitted always to speak one's mind in this age of enlightenment," she replied, carelessly, though the meaning of Ivor's question had not escaped her.
"And what news do you bring with you?" she continued, a little hurriedly. "One is bored to extinction here, kept so late in town, and with such a dearth of novelty that counting flies upon the wall becomes an exciting pastime."
She had walked on as she spoke, separating herself from the Countess Vera by a slight farewell gesture; Ivor kept pace at her side. When they drew near one of the deep embrasured windows she stopped, and motioned Ivor to the low cushioned seat beneath. But he refused to avail himself of her invitation, preferring to stand at her side and look down upon her. She sank languidly back upon the velvet cushions.
In the music gallery, at one end of the greatsalon, the Household band were playing an arrangement of some of the wild, sad, national airs. The strains floated to them across the rippling current of light laughter and gay voices, like the under-chord of melancholy that runs always side by side with the happier melodies of life's theme.
Ivor was the first to speak, and, as he did so, Olga turned her head somewhat away from him.
"You ask me for news, mademoiselle; that is, indeed, somewhat singular. How can I bring you news from my wild province which should prove of interest to you? Let me rather ask that question. What do you hear from Count Mellikoff, mademoiselle, and how prospers his mission?"
She did not reply at once, and Tolskoi, watching her averted face, saw the jewels on her bosom rise with a sudden, quick, indrawn breath.
When she spoke it was with an almost exaggerated assumption of carelessness.
"I hear nothing of, or from Count Mellikoff." Then, after a moment's pause, "Are you more fortunate?"
"If you like to call it so. My latest intelligence is to the effect, that having been successful beyond his expectations, he looks forward to an immediate return, and to the reward he feels he has fairly earned."
"Ah!" she exclaimed, quickly, "you surprise me. And the woman—is she found?"
"According to Count Mellikoff's despatches he does not doubt his soon having her in his power," answered Ivor, slowly. "But as we know, mademoiselle, there is considerable truth in the old saying about the cup and the lip. Even Count Mellikoff may find himself mistaken."
"And you?" she asked, still with averted head, and in her assumed careless voice. "May not you be mistaken? It would seem that this—this woman—whom you say you saw, must after all, have been but a delusion of your too ready imagination, since Count Mellikoff is so certain of his success."
"No, I am not mistaken, mademoiselle," answered Ivor, gravely. "When Count Mellikoff returns victorious, it will be my turn to win distinction; and he who wins last wins best, you know. When that time comes, Olga,Ishall claim my reward, and you will give it to me."
"Your reward?" she questioned, turning her face towards him at last, and looking up straight into his eyes.
"Yes, my reward," he replied, "my reward, which will indeed have been hardly won."
He stooped and lifted her hand. "This hand, Olga, this little slender hand; that is what I shall claim, and that is what you will give to me."
She made him no answer, save to let her fingers lie passively in his. Presently he bent and kissed them, then quietly putting her hand down, he turned and walked from her.
When near the great doors he looked back. She was sitting as he had left her, passive and unmoved, with the shadows cast by the lightly swaying curtains half shielding her face, and the grey darkness of the starless sky for a background.
Her hand lay as he had put it down, motionless upon her lap.
It was September before Philip Tremain turned his face homeward again, leaving behind him the deep, silent forests, already donning their wonderful autumn tints, and the silent waveless lake on whose bosom his boat had so often lain motionless for hours, drifting slowly with the almost imperceptible movement of the tide; while he, stretched full length along its narrow planking, his arms folded beneath his head, watched with speculative eyes the clear blue of the heavens, the passing of the fleecy clouds, the sweeping up of the rain mists, the birth of the stars, the rising loveliness of the crescent moon.
He had sought these solitudes to find some specific against the unrest and discontent of his heart. He had flown from the haunts of men, craving the healing power of nature, trusting to find forgetfulness in her potent charm. He had come to the very fountain head of nature, hoping to forget Patricia, and behold, nowhere was she more present to him. Nowhere did the spell of her beauty, her contradictions, work such havoc to his peace of mind.
The very motion of the boat, the blue waters of the lake, the "breath of the pine woods," the low rapid flight of a bird across the sky, all reminded him of her, and brought her so vividly before him as to cause him defined physical pain.
It was not, however, as the Miss Hildreth of the present, that she appeared to him—the successful beauty, the indifferent woman of the world, the jesting advocate of to-day's hateful creeds—but rather as the Patty of ten years ago; the Patty of his first passion, the love of his adolescence, the clear-eyed, honest-hearted, bewitching, wilful Patty of his first devotion.
He had sought for forgetfulness, but he had not found it; and so, after a month spent in unsatisfying and unsatisfactory inter-communion, he repacked his portmanteau one glorious autumn morning, bid good-bye to his little skiff, and to the silent sympathy of the pine woods, cast a long regretful look over the deep blue lake, and turning his steps towards the inartistic railway station, five miles distant, by afternoon of the same day was crossing the tortuous streets of Boston, preparatory to ensconcing himself comfortably in a "Pullman Express" for New York.
He reached that city in due time, and was at once immersed in the rush and go of its restless life. The streets were all alight, the open windows of hotels and restaurants displaying brightly dressed groups within, to whom the chief aim of existence for the hour was apparently, the excellence of a favourite ice, or the proper quality of the champagnefrappé. Along the side-walks a varied crowd was constantly passing; shop-girls mostly, in large hats and pretty frocks, whose tired faces were flushed and eager, or pale and weary, according as they walked alone, or kept company with some smart young male assistant. Philip noticed with a half wonder, that each of these work-girls wore long gloves half-way up their arms, and that their low shoes were "dressy" to a degree, with patent tips and abnormally high heels, on which they limped along with heroic courage. The theatres were not out as yet; but Delmonico's and the Brunswick, were in the full swing of early evening traffic, and many were the envious glances cast by the weary pedestrians upon the more favoured few of fortune within those hospitable walls.
As Mr. Tremain let himself into his rooms with a pass key, he could not but feel how dreary and un-homelike was such a return. He had not telegraphed word of his arrival, and so found himself the sole occupant of the dark building; his servant and the care-taker were evidently enjoying life abroad this fine evening, and apparently the otherhabituésof the place were similarly employed.
He threw open the door of his sitting-room and entered; the room was in semi-darkness, the only light being a reflected one from the street lamps, and the moon which shone through the unsheltered windows. The furniture looked ghostly in the chintz over-coverings, and the faint gleam of gilded picture-frames and mirrors only added a further touch of unreality. On the writing-table he could just distinguish a pile of letters and newspapers—the accumulation of four weeks' absence; they seemed to him as the hand of civilisation, stretched out across the month of isolation and solitude, which separated him from the world of yesterday and to-day.
Striking a match he lit two of the wax candles in a small girandole; but they served only to make the darkness more apparent, and he was turning impatiently towards his bedroom, still holding the lighted taper, when the sound of quick hurrying feet, coming rapidly up the stone staircase, arrested his attention.
Why these particular sounds should at once arouse surprise and apprehension in his mind, he could not tell; many footsteps passed up and down the staircase in the course of the twenty-four hours, and as a rule he neither heard nor heeded them. But something in these quick agitated steps, with the tap of a light heel on each stair, disturbed him strangely.
The wax vesta burned down to his fingers and went out; and as the red spark vanished the footsteps halted, and Philip could distinctly hear the hurried respiration and quick-caught breath of some one just without his door. No sensation of fear or supernatural alarm overcame him, he stood quite still and waited; and as he thus stood counting these brief moments of suspense, he felt himself to be saying inwardly, that he was not at all surprised, it was only what he had expected—this night visitant—it was what he had come home for, the reason why he dared not linger longer beside the blue lake, in the depths of the keen-scented hemlock forest.
The hurried breathing grew more distinct; an uncertain hand was laid upon the handle of the scarcely closed outer door; there was the click of the catch being pushed hastily back; the rustle of a garment, the quick steps along the short passage, and then a figure detached itself from the enshrouding shadows and stood irresolute upon the threshold of the room.
A figure closely muffled in a long dark cloak, and a shadowy hat, beneath whose wide brim a white face flashed, and two eager eyes looked out, peering into the half lighted obscurity beyond.
It was but half a second the figure stood there, irresolute; then with a swift impulsive gesture it moved forward towards Philip, and as the light from the candles fell full upon the face, Mr. Tremain started, and then advanced quickly.
"Miss Dick!" he exclaimed. "You, and here!"
"Oh, yes," cried that young lady, still breathing very fast and speaking incoherently, her words rushing one on top of the other. "Oh, yes, it is I, and I am so glad to find you! I've been here twice already, each evening since we came back, and the door was always locked. To-night I saw the lights and thought at least I should hear something about you. Oh, Mr. Tremain, I am so glad you have come back at last!"
She stopped and looked at him appealingly, clasping and unclasping her fingers, with nervous impatience.
Philip was the least vain of men, but for one moment certainly a terrible thought did half form itself in his mind, as to the motive which had induced this most compromising visit. Was his little friend Miss Dick quite off her head, and was he in any way answerable for her aberration? The idea was not agreeable.
"My dear Miss Dick," he began, gravely, but she interrupted him.
"Oh, I thought you were never, never coming back again! That idiot of a care-taker and your fool of a servant, couldn't, or wouldn't, tell me anything about you. They only grinned discreetly behind their hands. Oh, what have you been doing to stay away like this, and never leave a scrap of an address behind you?"
"Good heavens!" thought Philip, "decidedly the poor girl is out of her mind, and if Tomkins, or Mrs. Barker have seen her like this, it will be all over town in a week, and her reputation nowhere."
"My dear Miss Dick," he said again, but Miss Darling evidently had no ears save for her own voice.
"It's perfectly dreadful—awful," she continued. "It has nearly broken my heart, and to think you should be away just when you were most needed, and Icouldn'tfind you. And it is so hot, too, and such a season to be shut up in New York. Oh, why didn't you come before? What made you go away at all? I told Esther I would never rest until I found you, because I knew you could do something. You have always been a good friend to me, Mr. Tremain, you won't refuse me, will you?"
The tears were in her bright brown eyes as she spoke, and Philip, roused out of his self-consciousness by the sight of her earnestness, found himself saying, impetuously:
"What is it I can do for you, Miss Dick? You know I won't refuse, whatever you may ask."
"Oh, then go, go at once! Why do you stand looking at me so stupidly?" she cried, impatiently. "Every moment is precious, and here you are wasting them by the dozen!" She stamped her foot. "Why don't you go?" she repeated.
Philip, made more and more bewildered, could only look at her in vacant surprise, a fact that had the effect of reducing Miss Darling to silence, out of sheer rage.
"Go?" he said, slowly, repeating her words mechanically. "Go?—but where am I to go?"
"Ah," she gasped, beating her hands together, "how stupid you are, how cold, how cruel! Where are you to go? Why—but no, stay, it will be better if you come with me. Will you come—at once, directly? Here is your hat," and she caught up that article of apparel from off the table, and held it out to him. "Oh, do make haste," she cried, "do come with me at once."
But Mr. Tremain was not to be carried off in so unceremonious a manner. He took the hat out of her hand and laid it back on the table, before he said very quietly:
"My dear Miss Dick, I will go with you to any place you may name; but first, I do beg of you, compose yourself a little, and tell me what it is you want me to do; who it is you want me to see?"
Miss Darling pulled herself together with an evident effort.
"I want you to go with me to Ludlow Street Jail," she said, speaking very slowly, "to see Patricia Hildreth."
Had a cannon ball dropped at his feet, or the foundations of the house given way beneath him, Mr. Tremain could not have experienced a more sudden or appalling shock. The words reached him, but it seemed as if they came from miles away. He saw the dark, alert figure standing before him, whose bright, dark eyes never left his face, whose nervously working hands were so suggestive; but it lost all identity to him. It was not Dick Darling who stood there, entreating him to make haste, not to delay; it was some phantom, some Nemesis from out the past, whose words and entreaties were as unreal as the shadows that came creeping out of the corners, revealing bit by bit the cunningly-concealed spectres.
"Come with you to Ludlow Street!" he gasped at last, "to see Patricia Hildreth. What do you mean?"
"Oh, I mean what I say," cried Dick, her voice high and strained; "it is quite true. She is there. She has been arrested."
"Arrested!" gasped Philip. "Arrested—Patricia!"
"Oh! yes, yes," sobbed Miss Darling, the tears running down her face. "She has been arrested, she is in prison—she will die. She is innocent. I know she is innocent, I know it."
"Arrested!" cried Philip again, unable to grasp more than this one direct fact, and quite unmindful of Dick's tears and protestations. "Arrested! And for what?"
"Oh, that is the most terrible thing of all," wept Dick. "It's so horrible I don't know how to tell you; she is arrested on a suspicion of murder."
"My God!" cried Philip. "What horrible mockery is this?"
"Oh, will you come, will you come?" implored Dick, wringing her hands. "Oh, only think, she is shut up there all alone. She has been in that hateful place for hours, for days, while we have all been away dancing, and flirting, and being happy and amused; and she has been alone—all alone—shut up in prison with no one to go to her, no one to help her. Oh, I could beat myself for never knowing, never dreaming of her trouble!"
"It is horrible," said Philip again, in the same low, inward voice in which he had spoken since Dick's first outburst. "It is infamous. Who has done this thing? Who has brought this charge?"
He spoke sternly, and looked at Dick with eyes that burned her very soul.
"The Russian Count," she answered slowly. "Vladimir Mellikoff."
Mr. Tremain made no reply. He turned abruptly away from her and walked over to the window, and stood there looking out into the night.
The street was a quiet one at all times, and now even a solitary passing footstep echoed far ahead in the absolute silence. But had it been mid-day, with its roar and rumble of traffic, Philip would have heeded it as little as he now heeded the stillness and desertion.
His mind was far away, busy with a thousand wild conjectures, a thousand improbable suggestions. The whole of the past ten years appeared to roll themselves out before him, full to overflowing with dark suspicions, unassailable doubts, maddening possibilities. The poison distilled by Miss James's smooth tongue had done its work; how could he tell what those past years might cover, what deed or crime be hidden in their protecting folds?
Ten years lay between him and the Patricia of his youth; was his faith in her so unshaken as to admit of no room for doubt? Ah, there lay the sting! He did doubt, and in that lay the keenest torture of this terrible moment. Indeed, as he thought of her mocking raillery, of her pronounced indifference, her assumed cynicism and misanthropy, he felt there was room for doubt, there was room for suspicion, there was room for condemnation. Would to God, that he could proclaim aloud a like faith in her innocence, a like belief in her unsullied past, a like valour in her defence, as did Miss Darling! Would to God he had but the memory of her—pure and untainted—as she was ten years ago in which to trust, and by which to fight for her!
For indeed, he knew it would come to that; he should fight for her, yes, inch by inch, even though the game was a losing one. He would give her of his best, he would bring to bear all his possessions of legal acumen, brilliant pleading, forensic argument; she should not fail or be beaten down, if his strength and his reputation counted for anything.
He had loved her—yes—and he loved her now; he knew it; better perhaps in her hour of humiliation than in that of her triumph; and for that love's sake he would spend and be spent in her behalf. And yet, ah yet, there must be ever and always resting between him and her that