It was a full week since I had last waited on my cruel mistress, and I hoped, though with no great confidence, that this intermission of my visits might temper and moderate her scorn. I had besides taken to heart Culverton's advice as well as that of my cousin. For I was in great trepidation lest she should take me at my word, and carelessly bid me adieu, and so caught eagerly at any hint that seemed likely to help me, however trivial it might be, and from whatever source it came.
Consequently I had had my own hair cropped, and had purchased a cumbersome full-bottomed peruke of the latest mode. With that on my head, and habited in a fine new brocaded coat of green velvet and lemon-coloured silk breeches and stockings, I went timidly to confront my destiny. How many times did I walk up and down before her house, or ever I could summon courage to knock! How many phrases and dignified reproaches did I con over and rehearse, yet never one that seemed other than offensive and ridiculous! What in truth emboldened me in the end to enter was a cloud of dust which a passing carriage caused to settle on my coat. If I hesitated much longer, I reflected, all my bravery would be wasted, and dusting myself carefully with my handkerchief, I mounted the steps. Otto Krax opened the door, and preceded me up the staircase.
But while we were still ascending the steps, Mademoiselle Durette came from the parlour which gave on to the landing.
"Very well, Otto," she said, "I will announce Mr. Buckler."
She waited until the man had descended the stairs, and then turned to me with a meaning smile.
"She is alone. Take her by surprise!"
With that she softly turned the handle of the door, and opened it just so far as would enable me to slip through. I heard the voice of Ilga singing sweetly in a low key, and my heart trembled and jumped within me, so that I hesitated on the threshold.
"I have no patience with you," said Mademoiselle Durette, in an exasperated whisper. "Cowards don't win when they go a-wooing. Haven't you learnt that? Ridicule her, if you like, as she does you--abuse her, do anything but gape like a stock-fish, with a white face as though all your blood had run down into the heels of your shoes!"
She pushed me as she spoke into the room, and noiselessly closed the door. The Countess was seated at a spinnet in the far corner of the room, and sang in her native tongue. The song, I gathered, was a plaint, and had a strange and outlandish melancholy, the voice now lifting into a wild, keening note, now sinking abruptly to a dreary monotone. It oppressed me with a peculiar sadness, making the singer seem very lonely and far-away; and I leaned silently against the wall, not daring to interrupt her. At last the notes began to quaver, the voice broke once and twice; she gave a little sob, and her head fell forward on her hands.
An inrush of pity swept all my diffidence away. I stepped hastily forward with outstretched hands. At the sound she sprang to her feet and faced me, the colour flaming in her cheeks.
"Madame," cried I, "if my intrusion lacks ceremony, believe me----"
But I got no further in my protestations. For with a sneer upon her lips and a biting accent of irony,
"So," she broke in, looking me over, "the crow has turned into a cockatoo." And she rang a bell which stood upon the spinnet. I stopped in confusion, and not knowing what to say or do, remained foolishly shifting from one foot to the other, the while Ilga watched me with a malicious pleasure. In a minute Otto Krax came to the door. "How comes it," she asked sternly, "that Mr. Buckler enters unannounced? Have I no servants?"
The fellow explained that Mademoiselle Durette had taken the duty to herself.
"Send Mademoiselle Durette to me!" said the Countess.
I was ready to sink through the floor with humiliation, and busied my wits in a search for a plausible excuse. I had not found one when the Frenchwoman appeared.
Countess Lukstein repeated her question.
Mademoiselle Burette was no readier than myself, and glanced with a frightened air from me to her mistress, and back again from her mistress to me. Remembering what she had said on the landing about my irresolution, I felt my shame doubled.
"Madame," I stammered out, "the fault is in no wise your companion's. The blame of it should fall on me."
"Oh!" said she, "really?" And turning to Mademoiselle Durette, she began to clap her hands. "I believe," she exclaimed in a mock excitement, "that Mr. Buckler is going to make me a present of a superb cockatoo. Clemence, you must buy a cage and a chain for its leg!"
Clemence stared in amazement, as well she might, and I, stung to a passion,
"Nay," I cried, and for once my voice rang firmly. "By the Lord, you count too readily upon Mr. Buckler's gift. Mr. Buckler has come to offer you no present, but to take his leave for good and all."
I made her a dignified bow and stepped towards the door.
"What do you mean?" she asked sharply.
"That I ride homewards this afternoon."
She shot a glance at Mademoiselle Durette, who slipped obediently out of the room.
"And why?" she asked, with an innocent assumption of surprise, coming towards me. "Why?"
"What, madame!" I replied, looking her straight in the face. "Surely your ingenuity can find a reason."
"My ingenuity?" She spoke in the same accent of wonderment. "My ingenuity? Mr. Buckler, you take a tone----" She came some paces nearer to me and asked very gently: "Am I to blame?"
The humility of the question, and a certain trembling of the lips that uttered it, well-nigh disarmed me; but I felt that did I answer her, did I venture the mildest reproach, I should give her my present advantage.
"No, no," I replied, with a show of indifference; "my own people need me."
She took another step, and spoke with lowered eyes. "Are there no people who need you here?"
I forgot my part.
"You mean----" I exclaimed impulsively, when a movement which she made brought me to a stop. For she drew back a step, and picking up her fan from a little table, began to pluck nervously at the feathers. Her action recalled to my mind her behaviour at the Duke's Theatre and Elmscott's commentary thereon.
"None that I know of," I resumed, "for even those whom I counted my friends find me undeserving of even common civility."
"Civility! Civility!" she cried out in scorn. "'Tis the very proof and attribute of indifference--the crust one tosses carelessly to the first-comer because it costs nothing."
"But I go fasting even for that crust."
"Not always," she replied softly, shooting a glance at me. "Not always, Mr. Buckler; and have you not found at times some butter on the bread?"
She smiled as she spoke, but I hardened my heart against her and vouchsafed no answer. For a little while she stood with her eyes upon the ground, and then:
"Oh, very well, very well!" she said petulantly, and turning away from me, flung the fan on to the table. The table was of polished mahogany, and the fan slid across its surface and dropped to the floor. I stepped forward, and knelt down to pick it up.
"What, Mr. Buckler!" she said bitterly, turning again to me, "you condescend to kneel. Surely it is not you; it must be some one else."
I thought that I had never heard sarcasm so unjust, for in truth kneeling to her had been my chief occupation this many a day, and I replied hotly, bethinking me of Marston and the episode which I had witnessed in the Park.
"Indeed, madame, and you may well think it strange, for have I not seen you drop your fan in order to deceive the man who picks it up?" With that I got to my feet and laid the fan on the table.
She flushed very red, and exclaimed hurriedly:
"All that can be explained."
"No doubt! no doubt!" I replied. "I have never doubted the subtlety of madame's invention."
She drew herself up with great pride, and bowed to me.
I walked to the door. As I opened it, I turned to take one last look at the face which I had so worshipped. It was very white; even the lips were bloodless, and oddly enough I noticed that she wore a loose white gown as on the occasion of our first meeting.
"Adieu," I said, and stepped behind the door.
From the other side of it her voice came to me quietly:
"Does this prove the sword to be lath or steel?"
I shut the door, and went slowly down the stairs, slowly and yet more slowly. For her last question drummed at my heart.
"Lath or steel?" Was I playing a man's part, or was I the mere bond-slave of a petty pride? "That can be explained," she had said. What if it could? Then the sword would be proved lath indeed! Just to salve my vanity I should have wasted my life--and onlymylife? I saw her lips trembling as the thought shot through me.
What if those walks with my rival beneath my window had been devised in some strange way for a test--a woman's test and touchstone to essay the metal of the sword, a test perhaps intelligible to a woman, though an enigma to me? If only I knew a woman whom I could consult!
My feet lagged more and more, but I reached the bottom of the stairs in the end. The hall was empty. I looked up towards the landing with a wild hope that she would come out and lean over the balustrade, as on the evening when Elmscott first brought me to the house. But there was no stir or movement from garret to cellar. I might have stood in the hall of the Sleeping Palace. From a high window the sunlight slanted athwart the cool gloom in a golden pillar, and a fly buzzed against the pane. I crossed the hall, and let myself out into the noonday. The door clanged behind me with a hollow rattle; it sounded to my hearing like the closing of the gates of a tomb, and I felt it was myself that lay dead behind it.
As I passed beneath the window, something hard dropped upon the crown of my hat, and bounced thence to the ground at my feet. I picked it up. It was a crust of bread. For a space I stood looking at it before I understood. Then I rushed back to the entrance. The door stood open, but the hall was empty and silent as when I left it. I sprang up the stairs, and in my haste missed my footing about halfway up, and rolled down some half-a-dozen steps. The crash of my fall echoed up the well of the staircase, and from behind the parlour door I heard some one laugh. I got on to my legs, and burst into the room.
Ilga was seated before a frame of embroidery very demure and busy. She paid no heed to me, keeping her head bent over her work until I had approached close to the frame. Then she looked up with her eyes sparkling.
"How dare you?" she asked, in a mock accent of injury.
"I don't know," I replied meekly.
She bent once more over her embroidery.
"Humours are the prerogative of my sex," she said.
"I set you apart from it."
"Is that why you cannot trust me even a little?"
The gentle reproach made me hot with shame. I had no words to answer it. Then she laughed again, bending closer over her frame, in a low joyous note that gradually rose and trilled out sweet as music from a thrush.
"And so," she said, "you came all trim and spruce in your fine new clothes to show me what my discourtesy had lost me! What a child you are! And yet," she rose suddenly, her whole face changing, "and yet, are you a child? Would God I knew!" She ended with a passionate cry, clasping her hands together upon her breast; but before I could make head or tail of her meaning she was half-way through another mood. "Ah!" she cried, "you have brought my courtesy back with you." I had not noticed until then that I still held the crust in my hand. "You shall swallow it as a penance."
"Madame!" I laughed.
"Hush! you shall eat it. Yes, yes!" with a pretty imperious stamp of the foot. "Now! Before you speak a word!"
I obeyed her, but with some difficulty, for the crust was very dry.
"You see," she said, "courtesy is not always so tasteful a morsel. It sticks in the throat at times;" and crossing to a sideboard, she filled a goblet from a decanter of canary and brought it to me.
"You will pledge me first," I entreated.
Her face grew serious, and she balanced the cup doubtfully in her hand.
"Of a truth," she said, "of a truth I will." She raised it slowly to her lips; but at that moment the door opened.
"Oh!" cried Mademoiselle Durette, with a start of surprise, "I fancied that Mr. Buckler had gone," and she was for whipping out of the room again, but Ilga called to her. The astonishment of the Frenchwoman made one point clear to me concerning which I felt some curiosity. I mean that 'twas not she who had set the hall-door open for my return.
"Clemence!" said the Countess, setting down the wine untasted, as I noticed with regret, "will you bid Otto come to me? I ransacked Mr. Buckler's rooms, and it is only fair that I should show him my poor treasures in return."
She handed a key to Otto, and bade him unlock a Japan cabinet which stood in a corner. He drew out a tray heaped up with curiosities, medals and trinkets, and bringing it over, laid it on a table in the window.
"I have bought them all since I came to London. You shall tell me whether I have been robbed."
"You come to the worst appraiser in the world," said I, "for these ornaments tell me nothing of their value though much of your industry."
"I have a great love for these trifles," said she, though her action seemed to belie her words, for she tossed and rattled them hither and thither upon the tray with rapid jerks of her fingers which would have made a virtuoso shiver. "They hint so much of bygone times, and tell so provokingly little."
"Their example, at all events, affords a lesson in discretion," I laughed.
"Which our poor sex is too trustful to learn, and yours too distrustful to forget."
There was a certain accent of appeal in her voice, very tender and sweet, as though she knew my story and was ready to forgive it. Had we been alone I believe that I should have blurted the whole truth out; only Otto Krax stood before me on the opposite side of the table, Mademoiselle Durette was seated in the room behind.
Ilga had ceased to sort the articles, and now began to point out particular trinkets, describing their purposes and antiquity and the shops where she had discovered them. But I paid small heed to her words; that question--did she know?--pressed too urgently upon my thoughts. A glance at the stolid indifference of Otto Krax served to reassure me. Through him alone could suspicion have come, and I felt certain that he had as yet not recognised me.
Besides, I reflected, had she known, it was hardly in nature that she should have spoken so gently. I dismissed the suspicion from my mind, and turned me again to the inspection of the tray.
Just below my eyes lay a miniature of a girl, painted very delicately upon a thin oval slip of ivory. The face was dark in complexion, with black hair, the nose a trifle tip-tilted, and the lips full and red, but altogether a face very alluring and handsome. I was most struck, however, with the freshness of the colours; amongst those old curios the portrait shone like a gem. I took it up, and as I did so, Otto Krax leaned forward.
"Otto!" said Ilga sharply, "you stand between Mr. Buckler and the light."
The servant moved obediently from the window.
"This," said I, "hath less appearance of antiquity than the rest of your purchases."
"It was given to me," she replied. "The face is beautiful?"
Now it had been my custom of late to consider a face beautiful or not in proportion to its resemblance to that of Countess Lukstein. So I looked carefully at the miniature, and thence to Ilga. She was gazing closely at me with parted lips, and an odd intentness in her expression. I noticed this the more particularly, for that her eyes, which were violet in their natural hue, had a trick of growing dark when she was excited or absorbed.
"Why!" I exclaimed, in surprise. "One might think you fancy me acquainted with the lady."
"Well," she replied, laying a hand upon her heart, "what if I did--fancy that?" She stressed the word "fancy" with something of a sneer.
"Nay," said I, "the face is strange to me."
"Are you sure?" she asked. "Look again! Look again, Mr. Buckler!"
Disturbed by this recurrence of her irony, I fixed my eyes, as she bade me, upon the picture, and strangely enough, upon a closer scrutiny I began gradually to recognise it; but in so vague and dim a fashion, that whether the familiarity lay in the contour of the lineaments or merely in the expression, I could by no effort of memory determine.
"Well?" she asked, with a smile which had nothing amiable or pleasant in it. "What say you now?"
"Madame," I returned, completely at a loss, "in truth I know not what to say. It may be that I have seen the original. Indeed, I must think that is the case----"
"Ah!" she cried, interrupting me as one who convicts an opponent after much debate, and then, in a hurried correction: "so at least I was informed."
"Then tell me who informed you!" I said earnestly, for I commenced to consider this miniature as the cause of her recent resentment and scorn. "For I have only seen this face--somewhere--for a moment. Of one thing I am sure. I have never had speech with it."
"Never?" she asked, in the same ironical tone. "Look yet a third time, Mr. Buckler! For your memory improves with each inspection."
She suddenly broke off, and "Otto!" she cried sternly--it was almost a shout.
The fellow was standing just behind my shoulder, and I swung round and eyed him. He came a step forward, questioning his mistress with a look.
"Replace the tray in the cabinet!"
I kept the miniature in my hand, glancing ever from it to the Countess and back again in pure wonder and conjecture.
"Madame," I said firmly, "I have never had speech with the lady of this picture."
She looked into my eyes as though she would read my soul.
"It is God's truth!"
She signed a dismissal to Otto. Clemence Durette rose and followed the servant, and I thought that I had never fallen in with any one who showed such tact and discretion in the matter of leaving a room.
The Countess remained stock-still, facing me.
"And yet I have been told," she said, nodding her head with each word, "that she was very dear to you."
"Then," I replied hotly, "you were told a lie, a miserable calumny. I understand! 'Tis that that has poisoned your kind thoughts of me."
She turned away with a slight shrug of the shoulders.
"Oh, believe that!" I exclaimed, falling upon a knee and holding her by the hem of her dress. "You must believe it! I have told you what my life has been. Look at the picture yourself!" and I forced it into her hands. "What do you read there? Vanity and the love of conquest. Gaze into the eyes! What do they bespeak? Boldness that comes from the habit of conquest. Is it likely that such a woman would busy her head about an awkward, retiring student?"
"I am not so sure," she replied thoughtfully, though she seemed to relent a little at my vehemence; "women are capricious. You yourself have been complaining this morning of their caprice. And it might be that--I can imagine it--and for that very reason."
"Oh, compare us!" I cried. "Compare the painted figure there with me! You must see it is impossible."
She laid a hand upon each of my shoulders as I knelt, and bent over me, staring into my eyes.
"I have been told," said she, "that the lady was so dear to you that for her sake you fought and killed your rival in love."
"You have been told that?" I answered, in sheer incredulity; and then a flame of rage against my traducer kindling in my heart, I sprang to my feet.
"Who told you?"
"I may not disclose his name."
"But you shall," said I, stepping in front of her. "You shall tell me! He has lied to you foully, and you owe him therefore no consideration or respect. He has lied concerning me. I have a clear right to know his name, that I may convince you of the lie, and reckon with him for his slander. Confront us both, and yourself be present as the judge!"
Of a sudden she held out her hand to me.
"Your sincerity convinces me. I need no other proof, and I crave your pardon for my suspicion."
I looked into her face, amazed at the sudden change. But there was no mistaking her conviction or the joy which it occasioned her. I saw a light in her eyes, dancing and sparkling, which I had never envisaged before, and which filled me with exquisite happiness.
"Still," I said, as I took her hand, "I would fain prove my words to you."
"Can you not trust me at all?"
She had a wonderful knack of putting me in the wrong when I was on the side of the right, and before I could find a suitable reply she slipped out of my grasp, and crossing the room, took in her hand the cup of wine.
"Now," said she, "I will pledge you, Mr. Buckler;" which she did very prettily, and handed the cup to me. As I raised it to my lips, however, an idea occurred to me.
"It is you who refuse to pledge me," she said.
"Nay, nay," said I, and I drained the cup. "But I have just guessed who my traducer is."
She looked perplexed for a moment.
"You have guessed who----" she began, in an accent of wonder.
"Who gave you the picture," I explained.
She stared at me in pure astonishment.
"You can hardly have guessed accurately, then," she remarked.
"Surely," said I, "it needs no magician to discover the giver. I know but one man in London who can hope to gain aught by slandering me to you."
Ilga gave a start of alarm. It seemed almost as though I were telling her news, as though she did not know herself who gave her the picture; and for the rest of my visit she appeared absent and anxious. This was particularly mortifying to me, since I thought the occasion too apt to be lost, and I was minded to open my heart to her. Indeed, I began the preface of a love-speech in spite of her preoccupation, but sticking for lack of encouragement after half-a-dozen words or so, I perceived that she was not even listening to what I said. Consequently I took my leave with some irritation, marvelling at the flighty waywardness of a woman's thoughts, and rather inclined to believe that the properest age for a man to marry was his ninetieth year, for then he might perchance have sufficient experience to understand some portion of his wife's behaviour and whimsies.
My mortification was not of a lasting kind, for Ilga came out on to the landing while I was still descending the stairs.
"You do not know who gave me the picture," she said, entreating me; and she came down two of the steps.
"It would be exceeding strange if I did not," said I, stopping.
"You would seek him out and----" she began.
"I had that in my mind," said I, mounting two of the steps.
"Then you do not know him. Say you do not! There could be but one result, and I fear it."
A knock on the outer door rang through the hall; this time we took two steps up and down simultaneously.
"Swords!" she continued, "for you would fight?"
I nodded.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "swords are no true ordeal. Skill--it is skill, not justice, which directs the thrust."
I fancied that I comprehended the cause of her fear, and I laughed cheerfully.
"I have few good qualities," said I, "but amongst those few you may reckon some proficiency with the sword." I ascended two steps.
"So," she replied, with an indefinable change of tone, "you are skilled in the exercise?" But she stood where she was.
Otto Krax came from the inner part of the house and crossed to the door.
"It is my one qualification for a courtier."
Since Ilga had omitted to take the two steps down, I deemed it right to take four steps up.
She resumed her tone of entreaty.
"But chance may outwit skill; does--often."
We heard the chain rattle on the door as Krax unfastened it. Ilga bent forward hurriedly.
"You do not know the man!" and in a whisper she added: "For my sake--you do not!"
There were only four steps between us. I took them all in one spring.
"For your sake, is it?" and I caught her hand.
"Hush!" she said, disengaging herself. Marston's voice sounded in the entrance. "You do not know! Oh, you do not!" she beseeched in shaking tones. Then she drew back quickly, and leaned against the balustrade. I looked downwards. Otto was ushering in Marston, and the pair stood at the foot of the staircase. I glanced back at the Countess. There were tears in her eyes.
"Madame!" said I, "I have forgotten his name."
With a bow, I walked down the steps as Marston mounted them.
"'Tis a fine day," says I, coming to a halt when we were level.
"Is it?" says he, continuing the ascent.
"It seems to me wonderfully bright and clear," said the Countess from the head of the stairs.
Outside the house I came face to face with the original of the miniature. So startled and surprised was I by her unexpected appearance that I could not repress an exclamation, and she turned her eyes full upon me. She was seated upon a horse, while a mounted groom behind her held the bridle of a third horse, saddled, but riderless. 'Twas evident that she had come to the house in Marston's company, and now waited his return. My conviction that Marston had handed the miniature to Ilga was, I thought, confirmed beyond possibility of doubt, and I scanned her face with more eagerness than courtesy, hoping to discover by those means a clue to her identity. For a moment or so she returned my stare without giving a sign of recognition, and then she turned her head away. It was clear, at all events, that she had no knowledge or remembrance of me, and though her lips curved with a gratified smile, and she glanced occasionally in my direction from the tail of her eye, I could not doubt that she considered my exclamation as merely a stranger's spontaneous tribute to her looks.
Indeed, the more closely I regarded her, the less certain did I myself become that I had ever set eyes on her before. I was sensible of a vague familiarity in her appearance, but I was not certain but what I ought to attribute it to my long examination of her likeness. However, since Providence had brought us thus opportunely together, I was minded to use the occasion in order to resolve my perplexities, and advancing towards her:
"Madam," I said, "you will, I trust, pardon my lack of ceremony when I assure you that it is no small matter which leads me to address you. I only ask of you the answer to a simple question. Have we met before to-day?"
"The excuse is not very adroit," she replied, with a coquettish laugh, "for it implies that you are more like to live in my memory than I in yours."
"Believe me!" said I eagerly, "the question is no excuse, but one of some moment to me. I should not have had the courage to thrust myself wantonly upon your attention, even had I felt----"
I broke off suddenly and stopped, since I saw a frown overspread her face, and feared to miss the answer to my question.
"Well! Even had you felt the wish. That is your meaning, is it not? Why not frankly complete the sentence? I hear the sentiment so seldom, that of a truth I relish it for its rarity."
She gave an indignant toss of her head, and looked away from me, running her fingers through the mane of her horse. I understood that flattery alone would serve my turn with her, and I answered boldly:
"You are right, madam. You supply the words my tongue checked at, but not the reason which prompted them. In the old days, when a poor mortal intruded upon a goddess, he paid for his presumption with all the pangs of despair, and I feared that the experience might not be obsolete."
She appeared a trifle mollified by my adulation, and replied archly, making play with her eyebrows:
"'Tis a pretty interpretation to put upon the words, but the words came first, I fear, and suggested the explanation."
"You should not blame me for the words, but rather yourself. An awkward speech, madam, implies startled senses, and so should be reckoned a more genuine compliment than the most nicely-ordered eulogy."
"That makes your peace," said she, much to my relief, for this work of gallantry was ever discomforting to me, my flatteries being of the heaviest and causing me no small labour in the making. "That makes your peace. I accept the explanation."
"And will answer the question?" said I, returning to the charge.
"You deserve no less," she assented. "But indeed, I have no recollection of your face, and so can speak with no greater certainty than yourself. Perchance your name might jog my memory."
"I am called Morrice Buckler," said I.
At that she started in her saddle and gathered up the reins as though intending to ride off.
"Then I can assure you on the point," she said hurriedly. "You and I have never met."
I was greatly astonished by this sudden action which she made. 'Twas as though she was frightened; and I knew no reason why any one should fear me, least of all a stranger. But what she did next astonished me far more; for she dropped the reins and looked me over curiously, saying with a little laugh:
"So you are Morrice Buckler. I gave you credit for horn-spectacles at the very least."
Something about her--was it her manner or her voice?--struck me as singularly familiar to me, and I exclaimed:
"Surely, surely, madam, it is true. Somewhere we have met."
"Nowhere," she answered, enjoying my mystification. "Have you ever been presented to Lady Tracy, wife of Sir William Tracy?"
"Not that I remember," said I, still more puzzled, "nor have I ever heard the name."
"Then you should be satisfied, for I am Lady Tracy."
"But you spoke of horn-spectacles. How comes it that you know so much concerning me?"
"Nay," she laughed. "You go too fast, Mr. Buckler. I know nothing concerning you save that some injustice has been done you. I was told of a homespun student, glum and musty as an old book, and I find instead a town-gallant point-de-vice, who will barter me compliments with the best of them."
"You got your knowledge, doubtless, from Hugh Marston," I replied, with a glance at the door; "and I only wonder the description was not more unflattering."
"I did not mean him," she said slowly. "For I did not even know that you were acquainted with"--she paused, and looked me straight in the face--"with my brother."
"Your brother!" I exclaimed. "Hugh Marston is your brother?" And I took a step towards her. Again I saw a passing look of apprehension in her face, but I did not stop to wonder at it then. I understood that the indefinable familiarity in her looks was due to the likeness which she bore her brother--a likeness consisting not so much of a distinct stamp of features as of an occasional and fleeting similarity of expression.
"I understand," said I, more to myself than to her.
She flushed very red in a way which was unaccountable, and broke in abruptly.
"So you see we have never seen one another before to-day. For the last year I have been travelling abroad with my husband, and only came to London unexpectedly this morning."
Her words revealed the whole plot to me, or so I thought. Secured from discovery by the pledge of secrecy which he had exacted from Ilga, Marston had shown this miniature of his absent sister, and invented a story which there was no one to disprove. Looking back upon the incident with the cooler reflection which a lapse of years induces, I marvel at the conviction with which I drew the inference. But although now I see clearly how incredible it was that a man of Marston's breeding and family should so villainously misuse the fair fame of one thus near to hand, at the time I measured his jealousy by the violence of my own, and was ready to believe that he would check at no barriers of pride and honour which stood between him and his intention. Events, moreover, seemed to jump most aptly with my conclusion.
So, full of my discovery of his plot, I said a second time, "I. understand;" and a second time she flushed unaccountably. I spoke the words with some bitterness and contempt, and she took them to refer to herself.
"You blame me," she began nervously, "for marrying so soon after Julian died. But it is unfair to judge quickly."
The speech was little short of a revelation to me. So busy had my thoughts been with my own affairs, that I had not realised this was in truth the woman who had been betrothed to Julian, and who had betrayed him to his shameful death. I looked at her for a moment, stunned by the knowledge. She was, as her portrait showed her to be, very pretty, with something of the petted child about her; of a trim and supple figure, and with wonderfully small hands. I remarked her hands especially, because her fingers were playing restlessly with the jewelled butt of her riding-whip; and I did not wonder at her power over men's hearts. A small, trembling hand laid in a man's great palm! In truth, it coaxes him out of very pity for its size. For my part, however, conscious of the evil which her treachery had done to Julian, ay, and to myself, too, I felt nothing but aversion for her, and, taking off my hat, I bowed to her silently. Just as I was turning away, an idea occurred to me. She knew nothing of her brother's plot to ruin me in Ilga's estimation. Why should I not use her to confound his designs?
"Lady Tracy," said I, returning to her side, "it is in your power to do me a service."
"Indeed?" she asked, her face clearing, and her manner changing to its former flippancy. "Is it the new fashion for ladies to render services to gentlemen? It used to be the other way about."
"As you have sure warrant for knowing," I added.
The look of fear which I had previously noticed sprang again into her eyes; now I appreciated the cause. She was afraid that I knew something of her share in Julian's death.
"It has been my great good fortune," she replied uneasily, "when I needed any small services, to meet with gentlemen who rendered them with readiness and forbearance."
She laid a little stress upon the last word, and I took a step closer to her.
"You cannot be aware, I think, who lodges in this house."
"I am not," she replied. "Why? Who lodges here?"
"Countess Lukstein."
She gave a little faltering cry, and turned white to the lips.
"You need have no fear," I continued. "I said Countess Lukstein, the wife, or rather, the widow. For a widow she has been this many a month."
"A widow!" she repeated. "A widow!" And she drew a long breath of relief, the colour returning to her cheeks. Then she turned defiantly on me. "And what, pray, is this Countess Lukstein to me?"
"God forbid that I should inquire into that!" said I sternly, and her eyes fell from my face. "Now, madam," I went on, "will you do me the favour I ask of you?"
"You ask it with such humility," she answered bitterly, "that I cannot find it in my heart to refuse you."
"I expected no less," I returned. "Let me assist you to dismount."
She drew quickly away.
"For what purpose? You would not take me to--to his wife."
"Even so!"
"Ah, not that! Not that! Mr. Buckler, I beseech you," she implored piteously, laying a trembling hand upon my shoulder. "I have not the courage."
"There is nothing to fear," I said, reassuring her. "Nothing whatsoever. Your brother is there. That guarantees no harm can come to you. But, besides, Countess Lukstein knows nothing of the affair. No one knows of it but you and I."
She still sat unconvinced upon her saddle.
"How is it you know, Mr. Buckler?" she asked, in a low tone.
"Julian told me," I answered, perceiving that I must needs go further than I intended if I meant to get my way. "Cannot you guess why? I said the Count was dead. I did not tell you how he died. He was killed in a duel."
She looked at me for a moment with a great wonder in her eyes.
"You!" she whispered. "You killed Count Lukstein?"
"It is the truth," I answered. "And the Countess knows so little of the affair that she is even ignorant of that."
"Are you sure?"
"Should I come here a-visiting, think you, if she knew?"
The words seemed somewhat to relieve her of apprehension, and she asked:
"To what end would you have me speak to her? What am I to say?"
"Simply that you and I have met by chance, for the first time this morning."
"Then she couples your name with mine," she exclaimed, in a fresh alarm. "Without ground or reason! Your name--for you killed him--with mine. Don't you see? She must suspect!"
"Nay," I answered. "It is the strangest accident which has led her to link us together in her thoughts. She can have no suspicion."
"Then how comes it that she couples us who are strangers?"
I saw no object in relating to her the device of her brother, or in disclosing my own passion for the Countess. Moreover, I bethought me that at any moment Marston might take his leave, and I was resolved that Lady Tracy should speak in his presence, since by that means he would be compelled to confirm her words. So I broke in abruptly upon her questioning.
"Lady Tracy, we are wasting time. You must be content with my assurances. 'Tis but a little service that I claim of you, and one that may haply repair in some slight measure the fatal consequences of your disloyalty."
She slipped her foot from the stirrup, and, without touching the hand I held out to assist her, sprang lightly to the ground. It may be that I spoke with more earnestness than I intended.
"What mean cowards love makes of men!" she said, looking at me scornfully.
The remark stung me sharply because I was fully sensible that I played but a despicable part in forcing her thus to bear testimony for me against her will, and I answered angrily:
"Surely your memory provides you with one instance to the contrary;" and I mounted the steps and knocked at the door.
Otto Krax answered my summons, and for once in his life he betrayed surprise. At the sight of Lady Tracy, he leaped backwards into the hall, and stared from her to me. Lady Tracy laid a hand within my arm, and the fingers tightened convulsively upon my sleeve; it seemed as though she were on the point of fainting. I bade the fellow, roughly, to wait upon his mistress, and inquire whether she would receive me, and a friend whom I was most anxious to present to her. With a curiosity very unusual, he asked of me my companion's name, that he might announce it. But since my design was to surprise Hugh Marston, I ordered him to deliver the message in the precise terms which I had used.
So changed indeed was the man from his ordinary polite impassivity, that he abruptly left us standing in the hall, and departed on his errand with no more ceremony than a minister's servant shows to the needy place-seekers at his master's levée. We stood, I remember particularly, in a line with the high window of which I have already spoken, and the full light of the noontide sun fell athwart our faces. I set the circumstance down here inasmuch as it helped to bring about a very strange result.
"Who is the man?" whispered Lady Tracy, in an agitated voice. "Does he know me?"
"Nay," said I, reassuring her. "It may be that he has seen you before, at Bristol, for he was Count Lukstein's servant. But it is hardly probable that the Count shared his secret with him. And the matter was a secret kept most studiously."
"But his manner? How account for that?"
"Simply enough," said I. "The person who slandered us to the Countess, gave her, as a warrant and proof, a miniature of you."
"A miniature!" she exclaimed, clinging to me in terror. "Oh, no! no!"
"Gott im Himmel!"
The guttural cry rang hoarsely from the top of the stairs. I looked up; Otto was leaning against the wall, his mouth open, his face working with excitement, and his eyes protruding from their sockets. I had just sufficient time to notice that, strangely enough, his gaze was directed at me, and not at the woman by my side, when I felt the hand slacken on my arm, and with a little weak sigh, Lady Tracy slipped to the floor in a swoon.
I stooped down, and lifting her with some difficulty, carried, or rather dragged her to a couch.
"Quick, booby!" I shouted to Otto. "Fetch one of the women and some water!"
My outcry brought Ilga onto the landing.
"What has befallen?" she asked, leaning over the rail.
"'Tis but a swoon," I replied; "nothing more. There is no cause for alarm."
"Poor creature!" she said tenderly, and came running down the stairs. "Let me look, Mr. Buckler. Ailments, you know, are a woman's province."
I was kneeling by the couch, supporting Lady Tracy's head upon my arm, and I drew aside, but without removing my arm. Ilga caught sight of her face, and stopped.
"Oh!" she cried, with a gasping intake of the breath; then she turned on me, her countenance flashing with a savage fury, and her voice so bitter and harsh that, had I closed my eyes, I could not have believed that it was she who spoke.
"So you lied! You lied to me! You tell me one hour that you have never had speech with her, the next I find her in your arms."
"Madame," I replied, withdrawing my arm hastily, "I told you the truth."
The head fell heavily forward upon my breast, and I sought to arrange the body full-length upon the couch.
"Nay," said the Countess. "Let the head rest there. It knows its proper place."
"I told you the truth; believe it or not as you please!" I repeated, exasperated by her cruel indifference to Lady Tracy. "I never so much as set eyes upon this lady before to-day. I know that now. For the first time in my life, I saw her when I left you but a few minutes ago. She was waiting on horseback at your steps, and I persuaded her to dismount and bear me out with you."
"A very likely plausible story," sneered Ilga. "And whom did your friend await at my steps?"
"Her brother," I replied shortly. "Hugh Marston."
"Her brother!" she exclaimed. "We'll even test the truth of that."
She ran quickly to the foot of the stairs, as though she would ascend them. But seeing Otto still posted agape half-way up, she stopped and called to him.
"Tell Mr. Marston that his sister lies in the hall in a dead faint!"
Otto recovered his wits, and went slowly up to the parlour, while the Countess eyed me triumphantly. But in a moment Marston came flying down the stairs; he flung himself on his knees beside his sister.
"Betty!" he cried aloud, and again, whispering it into her ear with a caressing reproach, "Betty!" He shook her gently by the shoulders, like one that wakes a child from sleep. "Is there no help, no doctor near?"
One of the Countess's women came forward and loosed the bodice of Lady Tracy's riding-habit at the throat, while another fetched a bottle of salts.
"It is the heat," they said. "She will soon recover."
Marston turned to me with a momentary friendliness.
"It was you who helped my sister. Thank you!" He spoke simply and with so genuine cordiality that I could not doubt his affection for Lady Tracy; and I wondered yet the more at the selfish use to which he had put her reputation.
After a while the remedies had their effect, and Lady Tracy opened her eyes. Ilga was standing in front of her a few paces off, her face set and cold, and I noticed that Lady Tracy shivered as their glances met.
"Send for a chair, Hugh!" she whispered, rising unsteadily to her feet.
"'Twere wiser for you to rest a little before you leave," said the Countess, but there was no kindliness in her voice to second the invitation, and she did not move a step towards her.
"I would not appear discourteous, madame," faltered Lady Tracy, "but I shall recover best at home."
"I will fetch a chair, Betty," said Marston, and made as though to go; but with a terrified "No, no!" Lady Tracy caught him by the coat and drew his arm about her waist, clasping her hand upon it to keep it there. 'Twas the frankest confession of fear that ever I chanced upon, and I marvelled not that Ilga smiled at it. However, she despatched Otto upon the errand, and presently Marston accompanied his sister to her home.
Ilga and myself were thus left standing in the hall, looking each at the other. I was determined not to speak, being greatly angered for that she had not believed me when I informed her Lady Tracy was Marston's sister, and I took up my hat and cane and marched with my nose in the air to the door. But she came softly behind me, and said in the gentlest tone of contrition:
"I seem to spend half my life in giving you offence and the other half in begging your pardon."
And contrasting her sweet patience with me against the cold dislike which she had evinced to Lady Tracy, I, poor fool, carried home with me the fancy yet more firmly rooted than before, that her antagonism to the original of the miniature was no more than the outcome of a woman's jealousy.