The gardens at Wrayth were famous. The natural beauty of their position and the endless care of generations of loving mistresses had left them a monument of what nature can be trained into by human skill. They had also in the eighteenth century by some happy chance escaped the hand of Capability Brown. And instead of pulling about and altering the taste of the predecessor the successive owners had used fresh ground for their fancies. Thus the English rose-garden and the Dutch-clipped yews of William-and-Mary's time were as intact as the Italian parterre.
But November is not the time to judge of gardens, and Tristram wished the sun would come out. He waited for his bride at the foot of the Adam staircase, and, at eleven, she came down. He watched her as she put one slender foot before the other in her descent, he had not noticed before how ridiculously inadequate they were—just little bits of baby feet, even in her thick walking-boots. She certainly knew how to dress—and adapt herself to the customs of a country. Her short, serge frock and astrakhan coat and cap were just the things for the occasion; and she looked so attractive and chic, with her hands in her monster muff, he began to have that pain again of longing for her, so he said icily:
"The sky is gray and horrid. You must not judge of things as you will see them to-day; it is all really rather nice in the summer."
"I am sure it is," she answered meekly, and then could not think of anything else to say, so they walked on in silence through the courtyard and round under a deep, arched doorway in the Norman wall to the southern side of the Adam erection, with its pillars making the centerpiece. The beautiful garden stretched in front of them. This particular part was said to have been laid out from plans of Le Notre, brought there by that French Lady Tancred who had been the friend of Louis XIV. There were traces of her all over the house—Zara found afterwards. It was a most splendid and stately scene even in the dull November gloom, with the groups of statuary, and thetapis vert, and the general look of Versailles. The vista was immense. She could see far beyond, down an incline, through a long clearing in the park, far away to the tower of Wrayth church.
"How beautiful it all is!" she said, with bated breath, and clasped her hands in her muff. "And how wonderful to have the knowledge that your family has been here always, and these splendid things are their creation. I understand that you must be a very proud man."
This was almost the longest speech he had ever heard her make, in ordinary conversation—the first one that contained any of her thoughts. He looked at her startled for a moment, but his resolutions of the night before and his mood of suspicion caused him to remain unmoved. He was numb with the pain of being melted one moment with hope and frozen again the next; it had come to a pass now that he would not let himself respond. She could almost have been as gracious as she pleased, out in this cold, damp air, and he would have remained aloof.
"Yes, I suppose I am a proud man," he said, "but it is not much good to me; one becomes a cynic, as one grows older."
Then with casual indifference he began to explain to her all about the gardens and their dates, as they walked along, just as though he were rather bored but acting cicerone to an ordinary guest, and Zara's heart sank lower and lower, and she could not keep up her little plan to be gentle and sympathetic; she could not do more than say just "Yes," and "No." Presently they came through a door to the hothouses, and she had to be introduced to the head gardener, a Scotchman, and express her admiration of everything, and eat some wonderful grapes; and here Tristram again "played the game," and chaffed, and was gay. And so they went out, and through a clipped, covered walk to another door in a wall, which opened on the west side—the very old part of the house—and suddenly she saw the Italian parterre. Each view as she came upon it she tried to identify with what she had seen in the pictures inCountry Life, but things look so different in reality, with the atmospheric effects, to the cold gray of a print. Only there was no mistake about this—the Italian parterre; and a sudden tightness grew round her heart, and she thought of Mirko and the day she had last seen him. And Tristram was startled into looking at her by a sudden catching of her breath, and to his amazement he perceived that her face was full of pain, as though she had revisited some scene connected with sorrowful memories. There was even a slight drawing back in her attitude, as if she feared to go on, and meet some ghost. What could it be? Then the malevolent sprite who was near him just now whispered: "It is an Italian garden, she has seen such before in other lands; perhaps the man is an Italian—he looks dark enough." So instead of feeling solicitous and gentle with whatever caused her pain—for his manners were usually extremely courteous, however cold—he said almost roughly:
"This seems to make you think of something! Well, let us get on and get it over, and then you can go in!"
He would be no sympathetic companion for her sentimental musings—over another man!
Her lips quivered for a moment, and he saw that he had struck home, and was glad, and grew more furious as he strode along. He would like to hurt her again if he could, for jealousy can turn an angel into a cruel fiend. They walked on in silence, and a look almost of fear crept into her tragic eyes. She dreaded so to come upon Pan and his pipes. Yes, as they descended the stone steps, there he was in the far distance with his back to them, forever playing his weird music for the delight of all growing things.
She forgot Tristram, forgot she was passionately preoccupied with him and passionately in love, forgot even that she was not alone. She saw the firelight again, and the pitiful, little figure of her poor, little brother as he poured over the picture, pointing with his sensitive forefinger to Pan's shape. She could hear his high, childish voice say: "See, Chérisette, he, too, is not made as other people are! Look, and he plays music, also. When I am withMamanand you walk there you must remember that this is me!"
And Tristram, watching her, knew not what to think. For her face had become more purely white than usual, and her dark eyes were swimming with tears.
God! how she must have loved this man! In wild rage he stalked beside her until they came quite close to the statue in the center of the star, surrounded by its pergola of pillars, which in the summer were gay with climbing roses.
Then he stepped forward, with a sharp exclamation of annoyance, for the pipes of Pan had been broken and lay there on the ground.
Who had done this thing?
When Zara saw the mutilation she gave a piteous cry; to her, to the mystic part of her strange nature, this was an omen. Pan's music was gone, and Mirko, too, would play no more.
With a wail like a wounded animal's she slipped down on the stone bench, and, burying her face in her muff, the tension of soul of all these days broke down, and she wept bitter, anguishing tears.
Tristram was dumbfounded. He knew not what to do. Whatever was the cause, it now hurt him horribly to see her weep—weep like this—as if with broken heart.
For her suffering was caused by remembrance—remembrance that, absorbed in her own concerns and heart-burnings over her love, she had forgotten the little one lately; and he was far away and might now be ill, and even dead.
She sobbed and sobbed and clasped her hands, and Tristram could not bear it any longer.
"Zara!" he said, distractedly. "For God's sake do not cry like this! What is it? Can I not help you—Zara?" And he sat down beside her and put his arm round her, and tried to draw her to him—he must comfort her whatever caused her pain.
But she started up and ran from him; he was the cause of her forgetfulness.
'Zara!' he said distractedly.... 'Can I not help you?'"'Zara!' he said distractedly.... 'Can I not help you?'"
"Do not!" she cried passionately, that southern dramatic part of her nature coming out, here in her abandon of self-control. "Is it not enough for me to know that it is you and thoughts of you which have caused me to forget him!—Go! I must be alone!"—and like a fawn she fled down one of the paths, and beyond a great yew hedge, and so disappeared from view.
And Tristram sat on the stone bench, too stunned to move.
This was a confession from her, then—he realized, when his power came back to him. It was no longer surmise and suspicion—there was some one else. Some one to whom she owed—love. And he had caused her to forget him! And this thought made him stop his chain of reasoning abruptly. For what did that mean? Had he then, after all, somehow made her feel—made her think of him? Was this the secret in her strange mysterious face that drew him and puzzled him always? Was there some war going on in her heart?
But the comforting idea which he had momentarily obtained from that inference of her words went from him as he pondered, for nothing proved that her thoughts of him had been of love.
So, alternately trying to reason the thing out, and growing wild with passion and suspicion and pain, he at last went back to the house expecting he would have to go through the ordeal of luncheon alone; but as the silver gong sounded she came slowly down the stairs.
And except that she was very pale and blue circles surrounded her heavy eyes, her face wore a mask, and she was perfectly calm.
She made no apology, nor allusion to her outburst; she treated the incident as though it had never been! She held a letter in her hand, which had come by the second post while they were out. It was written by her uncle from London, the night before, and contained his joyous news.
Tristram looked at her and was again dumbfounded. She was certainly a most extraordinary woman. And some of his rage died down and he decided he would not, after all, demand an explanation of her now; he would let the whole, hideous rejoicings be finished first and then, in London, he would sternly investigate the truth. And not the least part of his pain was the haunting uncertainty as to what her words could mean, as regarded himself. If by some wonderful chance it were some passion in the past and she now loved him, he feared he could forgive her—he feared even his pride would not hold out over the mad happiness it would be to feel her unresisting and loving, lying in his arms!
So with stormy eyes and forced smiles the pair sat down to luncheon, and Zara handed him the epistle she carried in her hand. It ran:
"MY DEAR NIECE:"I have to inform you of a piece of news that is a great gratification to myself, and I trust will cause you, too, some pleasure."Lady Ethelrida Montfitchet has done me the honor to accept my proposal for her hand, and the Duke, her father, has kindly given his hearty consent to my marriage with his daughter, which is to take place as soon as things can be arranged with suitability. I hope you and Tristram will arrive in time to accompany me to dinner at Glastonbury House on Friday evening, when you can congratulate my beloved fiancé, who holds you in affectionate regard."I am, my dear niece, always your devoted uncle,"FRANCIS MARKRUTE."
"MY DEAR NIECE:
"I have to inform you of a piece of news that is a great gratification to myself, and I trust will cause you, too, some pleasure.
"Lady Ethelrida Montfitchet has done me the honor to accept my proposal for her hand, and the Duke, her father, has kindly given his hearty consent to my marriage with his daughter, which is to take place as soon as things can be arranged with suitability. I hope you and Tristram will arrive in time to accompany me to dinner at Glastonbury House on Friday evening, when you can congratulate my beloved fiancé, who holds you in affectionate regard."I am, my dear niece, always your devoted uncle,
"FRANCIS MARKRUTE."
When Tristram finished reading he exclaimed:
"Good Lord!" For, quite absorbed in his own affairs, he had never even noticed the financier's peregrinations! Then as he looked at the letter again he said meditatively:
"I expect they will be awfully happy—Ethelrida is such an unselfish, sensible, darling girl—"
And it hurt Zara even in her present mood, for she felt the contrast to herself in his unconscious tone.
"My uncle never does anything without having calculated it will turn out perfectly," she said bitterly—"only sometimes it can happen that he plays with the wrong pawns."
And Tristram wondered what she meant. He and she had certainly been pawns in one of the Markrute games, and now he began to see this object, just as Zara had done. Then the thought came to him.—Why should he not now ask her straight out—why she had married him? It was not from any desire for himself, nor his position, he knew that: but for what?
So, the moment the servants went out of the room to get the coffee—after a desultory conversation about the engagement until then, he said coldly:
"You told me on Monday that you now know the reason I had married you: may I ask you why did you marry me?"
She clasped her hands convulsively. This brought it all back—her poor little brother—and she was not free yet from her promise to her uncle: she never failed to keep her word.
A look of deep, tragic earnestness grew in her pools of ink, and she said to him, with a strange sob in her voice:
"Believe me I had a strong reason, but I cannot tell it to you now."
And the servants reentered the room at the moment, so he could not ask her why: it broke the current.
But what an unexpected inference she always put into affairs! What was the mystery? He was thrilled with suspicious, terrible interest. But of one thing he felt sure—Francis Markrute did not really know.
And in spite of his chain of reasoning about this probable lover some doubt about it haunted him always; her air was so pure—her mien so proud.
And while the servants were handing the coffee and still there Zara rose, and, making the excuse that she must write to her uncle at once, left the room to avoid further questioning. Then Tristram leant his head upon his hands and tried to think.
He was in a maze—and there seemed no way out. If he went to her now and demanded to have everything explained he might have some awful confirmation of his suspicions, and then how could they go through to-morrow—and the town's address? Of all things he had no right—just because of his wild passion in marrying this foreign woman—he had no right to bring disgrace and scandal upon his untarnished name: "noblesse oblige" was the motto graven on his soul. No, he must bear it until Friday night after the Glastonbury House dinner. Then he would face her and demand the truth.
And Zara under the wing of Mrs. Anglin made a thorough tour of the beautiful, old house. She saw its ancient arras hangings, and panellings of carved oak, and heard all the traditions, and looked at the portraits—many so wonderfully like Tristram, for they were a strong, virile race—and her heart ached, and swelled with pride, alternately. And, last of all, she stood under the portrait that had been painted by Sargent, of her husband at his coming of age, and that master of art had given him, on the canvas, his very soul. There he stood, in a scarlet hunt-coat—debonair, and strong, and true—with all the promise of a noble, useful life in his dear, blue eyes. And suddenly this proud woman put her hand to her throat to check the sob that rose there; and then, again, out of the mist of her tears she saw Pan and his broken pipes.
Tristram passed the afternoon outdoors, inspecting the stables, and among his own favorite haunts, and then rushed in, too late for tea and only just in time to catch the post. He wrote a letter to Ethelrida, and his uncle-in-law that was to be. How ridiculous that sounded! He would be his uncle and Zara's cousin now, by marriage! Then, when he thought of this dear Ethelrida whom he had loved more than his own young sisters, he hurriedly wrote out, as well, a telegram of affection and congratulation which he handed to Michelham as he came in to get the letters—and the old man left the room. Then Tristram remembered that he had addressed the telegram to Montfitchet, and Ethelrida would, of course, he now recollected, be at Glastonbury House, as she was coming up that day—so he went to the door and called out:
"Michelham, bring me back the telegram."
And the grave servant, who was collecting all the other letters from the post-box in the hall, returned and placed beside his master on the table a blue envelope. There were always big blue envelopes, for the sending of telegrams, on all the writing tables at Wrayth.
Tristram hurriedly wrote out another and handed it, and the servant finally left the room. Then he absently pulled out his original one and glanced at it before tearing it up; and before he realized what he did his eye caught: "To Count Mimo Sykypri"—he did not read the address—"Immediately, to-morrow, wire me your news. Chérisette."
And ere his rage burst in a terrible oath he noticed that stamps were enclosed. Then he threw the paper with violence into the fire!
There was not any more doubt nor speculation; a woman did not sign herself "Chérisette"—"little darling"—except to a lover! Chérisette! He was so mad with rage that if she had come into the room at that moment he would have strangled her, there and then.
He forgot that it was time to dress for dinner—forgot everything but his overmastering fury. He paced up and down the room, and then after a while, as ever, his balance returned. The law could give him no redress yet: she certainly had not been unfaithful to him in their brief married life, and the law recks little of sins committed before the tie. Nothing could come now of going to her and reproaching her—only a public scandal and disgrace. No, he must play his part until he could consult with Francis Markrute, learn all the truth, and then concoct some plan. Out of all the awful ruin of his life he could at least save his name. And after some concentrated moments of agony he mastered himself at last sufficiently to go to his room and dress for dinner.
But Count Mimo Sykypri would get no telegram that night!
The idea that there could be any scandalous interpretations put upon any of her actions or words never even entered Zara's brain; so innocently unconscious was she of herself and her doings that that possible aspect of the case never struck her. She was the last type of person to make a mystery or in any way play a part. The small subtly-created situations and hidden darknesses and mysterious appearances which delighted the puny soul of Laura Highford were miles beneath her feet. If she had even faintly dreamed that some doubts were troubling Tristram she would have plainly told him the whole story and chanced her uncle's wrath. But she had not the slightest idea of it. She only knew that Tristram was stern and cold, and showed his disdain of her, and that even though she had made up her mind to be gentle and try to win him back with friendship, it was almost impossible. She looked upon his increased, icy contempt of her at dinner as a protest at her outburst of tears during the day.
So the meal was got through, and the moment the coffee was brought he gulped it down, and then rose: he could not stand being alone with her for a moment.
She was looking so beautiful, and so meek, and so tragic, he could not contain the mixed emotions he felt. He only knew if he had to bear them another minute he should go mad. So, hardly with sufficient politeness he said:
"I have some important documents to look over; I will wish you good night." And he hurried her from the room and went on to his own sitting-room in the other part of the house. And Zara, quite crushed with her anxiety and sorrow about Mirko, and passionately unhappy at Tristram's treatment of her, once more returned to her lonely room. And here she dismissed her maid, and remained looking out on the night. The mist had gone and some pure, fair stars shone out.
Was that whereMamanwas—up there? And was Mirko going to her soon, away out of this cruel world of sorrow and pain? As he had once said, surely there, there would be room for them both.
But Zara was no morbidly sentimental person, the strong blood ran in her veins, and she knew she must face her life and be true to herself, whatever else might betide. So after a while the night airs soothed her, and she said her prayers and went to bed.
But Tristram, her lord, paced the floor of his room until almost dawn.
The next day passed in the same kind of way, only, it was nearly all in public, with local festivities again; and both of the pair played their parts well, as they were now experienced actors, and only one incident marked the pain of this Thursday out from the pains of the other days. It was in the schoolhouse at Wrayth, where the buxom girl who had been assistant mistress, and had married, a year before, brought her first-born son to show the lord and lady—as he had been born on their wedding day, just a fortnight ago! She was pale and wan, but so ecstatically proud and happy looking; and Tristram at once said, they—he and Zara—must be the god-parents of her boy; and Zara held the crimson, crumpled atom for a moment, and then looked up and met her husband's eyes, and saw that they had filled with tears. And she returned the creature to its mother—but she could not speak, for a moment.
And finally they had come home again—home to Wrayth—and no more unhappy pair of young, healthy people lived on earth.
Zara could hardly contain her impatience to see if a telegram for her from Mimo had come in her absence. Tristram saw her look of anxiety and strain, and smiled grimly to himself. She would get no answering telegram from her lover that day!
And, worn out with the whole thing, Zara turned to him and asked if it would matter or look unusual if she said—what was true—that she was so fatigued she would like to go to bed and not have to come down to dinner.
"I will not do so, if it would not be in the game," she said.
And he answered, shortly:
"The game is over, to-night: do as you please."
So she went off sadly, and did not see him again until they were ready to start in the morning—the Friday morning, which Tristram called the beginning of the end!
He had arranged that they should go by train, and not motor up, as he usually did because he loved motoring; but the misery of being so close to her, even now when he hoped he loathed and despised her, was too great to chance. So, early after lunch, they started, and would be at Park Lane after five. No telegram had come for Zara—Mimo must be away—but, in any case, it indicated nothing unusual was happening, unless he had been called to Bournemouth by Mirko himself and had left hurriedly. This idea so tortured her that by the time she got to London she could not bear it, and felt she must go to Neville Street and see. But how to get away?
Francis Markrute was waiting for them in the library, and seemed so full of the exuberance of happiness that she could not rush off until she had poured out and pretended to enjoy a lengthy tea.
And the change in the reserved man struck them both. He seemed years younger, and full of the milk of human kindness. And Tristram thought of himself on the day he had gone to Victoria to meet Zara, when she had come from Paris, and he had given a beggar half a sovereign, from sheer joy of life.
For happiness and wine open men's hearts. He would not attempt to speak about his own troubles until the morning: it was only fair to leave the elderly lover without cares until after the dinner at Glastonbury House.
At last Zara was able to creep away. She watched her chance, and, with the cunning of desperation, finding the hall momentarily empty, stealthily stole out of the front door. But it was after half-past six o'clock, and they were dining at Glastonbury House, St. James's Square, at eight.
She got into a taxi quickly, finding one in Grosvenor Street because she was afraid to wait to look in Park Lane, in case, by chance, she should be observed; and at last she reached the Neville Street lodging, and rang the noisy bell.
The slatternly little servant said that the gentleman was "hout," but would the lady come in and wait? He would not be long, as he had said "as how he was only going to take a telegram."
Zara entered at once. A telegram!—perhaps for her—Yes, surely for her. Mimo had no one else, she knew, to telegraph to. She went up to the dingy attic studio. The fire was almost out, and the little maid lit one candle and placed it upon a table. It was very cold on this damp November day. The place struck her as piteously poor, after the grandeur from which she had come. Dear, foolish, generous Mimo! She must do something for him—and would plan how. The room had the air of scrupulous cleanness which his things always wore, and there was the "Apache" picture waiting for her to take, in a new gold frame; and the "London Fog" seemed to be advanced, too; he had evidently worked at it late, because his palette and brushes, still wet, were on a box beside it, and on a chair near was his violin. He was no born musician like Mirko, but played very well. The palette and brushes showed he must have put them hurriedly down. What for? Why? Had some message come for him? Had he heard news? And a chill feeling gripped her heart. She looked about to see if Mirko had written a letter, or one of his funny little postcards? No, there was nothing—nothing she had not seen except, yes, just this one on a picture of the town. Only a few words: "Thank Chérisette for her letter, Agatha istrès jolie, but does not understand the violin, and wants to play it herself. And heavens! the noise!" How he managed to post these cards was always a mystery; they were marked with the mark of doubling up twice, so it showed he concealed them somewhere and perhaps popped them into a pillar-box, when out for a walk. This one was dated two days ago. Could anything have happened since? She burned with impatience for Mimo to come in.
A cheap, little clock struck seven. Where could he be? The minutes seemed to drag into an eternity. All sorts of possibilities struck her, and then she controlled herself and became calm.
There was a large photograph of her mother, which Mimo had colored really well. It was in a silver frame upon the mantelpiece, and she gazed and gazed at that, and whispered aloud in the gloomy room:
"Maman, adorée!Take care of your little one now, even if he must come to you soon."
And beside this there was another, of Mimo, taken at the same time, when Zara and her mother had gone to the Emperor's palace in that far land. How wonderfully handsome he was then, and even still!—and how the air ofinsouciancesuited him, in that splendid white and gold uniform. But Mimo looked always a gentleman, even in his shabbiest coat.
And now that she knew what the passion of love meant herself, she better understood how her mother had loved. She had never judged her mother, it was not in her nature to judge any one; underneath the case of steel which her bitter life had wrought her, Zara's heart was as tender as an angel's.
Then she thought of the words in the Second Commandment: "And the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children." Had they sinned, then? And if so how terribly cruel such Commandments were—to make the innocent children suffer. Mirko and she were certainly paying some price. But the God thatMamanhad gone to and loved and told her children of, was not really cruel, and some day perhaps she—Zara—would come into peace on earth. And Mirko? Mirko would be up there, happy and safe withMaman.
The cheap clock showed nearly half-past seven. She could not wait another moment, and also she reasoned if Mimo were sending her a telegram it would be to Park Lane. He knew she was coming up; she would get it there on her return, so she scribbled a line to Count Sykypri, and told him she had been—and why—and that she must hear at once, and then she left and hurried back to her uncle's house. And when she got there it was twenty minutes to eight.
Her maid had been dreadfully worried, as she had given no orders as to what she would wear—but Henriette, being a person of intelligence, had put out what she thought best,—only she could not prevent her anxiety and impatience from causing her to go on to the landing, and hang over the stairs at every noise; and Tristram, coming out of his room already dressed, found her there—and asked her what she was doing.
"I wait forMiladi,Milor, she have not come in," Henriette said. "And I so fearMiladiwill be late."
Tristram felt his heart stop beating for a second—strong man as he was.Miladihad not come in!—But as they spoke, he perceived her on the landing below, hurrying up—she had not waited to get the lift—and he went down to meet her, while Henriette returned to her room.
"Where have you been?" he demanded, with a pale, stern face. He was too angry and suspicious to let her pass in silence, and he noticed her cheeks were flushed with nervous excitement and that she was out of breath; and no wonder, for she had run up the stairs.
"I cannot wait to tell you now," she panted. "And what right have you to speak to me so? Let me pass, or I shall be late."
"I do not care if you are late, or no. You shall answer me!" he said furiously, barring the way. "You bear my name, at all events, and I have a right because of that to know."
"Your name?" she said, vaguely, and then for the first time she grasped that there was some insulting doubt of her in his words.
She cast upon him a look of withering scorn, and, with the air of an empress commanding an insubordinate guard, she flashed:
"Let me pass at once!"
But Tristram did not move, and for a second they glared at one another, and she took a step forward as if to force her way. Then he angrily seized her in his arms. But at that moment Francis Markrute came out of his room and Tristram let her go—panting. He could not make a scene, and she went on, with her head set haughtily, to her room.
"I see you have been quarreling again," her uncle said, rather irritably: and then he laughed as he went down.
"I expect she will be late," he continued; "well, if she is not in the hall at five minutes to eight, I shall go on."
And Tristram sat down upon the deep sofa on the broad landing outside her room, and waited: the concentrated essence of all the rage and pain he had yet suffered seemed to be now in his heart.
But what had it meant—that look of superb scorn? She had no mien of a guilty person.
At six minutes to eight she opened the door, and came out. She had simply flown into her clothes, in ten minutes! Her eyes were still black as night with resentment, and her bosom rose and fell, while in her white cheeks two scarlet spots flamed.
"I am ready," she said, haughtily, "let us go," and not waiting for her husband she swept on down the stairs, exactly as her uncle opened the library door.
"Well done, my punctual niece!" he cried genially. "You are a woman of your word."
"In all things," she answered, fiercely, and went towards the door, where the electric brougham waited.
And both men as they followed her wondered what she could mean.
The dinner for Ethelrida's betrothal resembled in no way the one for Zara and Tristram; for, except in those two hearts there was no bitter strain, and the fiancés in this case were radiantly happy, which they could not conceal, and did not try to.
The Dowager Lady Tancred arrived a few minutes after the party of three, and Zara heard her mother-in-law gasp, as she said, "Tristram, my dear boy!" and then she controlled the astonishment in her voice, and went on more ordinarily, but still a little anxiously, "I hope you are very well?"
So he was changed then—to the eye of one who had not seen him since the wedding—and Zara glanced at him critically, and saw that—yes, he was, indeed, changed. His face was perfectly set and stern, and he looked older. It was no wonder his mother should be surprised.
Then Lady Tancred turned to Zara and kissed her. "Welcome back, my dear daughter," she said. And Zara tried to answer something pleasant: above all things, this proud lady who had so tenderly given her son's happiness into her keeping must not guess how much there was amiss.
But Lady Tancred was no simpleton—she saw immediately that her son must have gone through much suffering and strain. What was the matter? It tore her heart, but she knew him too well to say anything to him about it.
So she continued to talk agreeably to them, and Tristram made a great effort, and chaffed her, and became gay. And soon they went in to dinner. And Lady Tancred sat on Francis Markrute's other side, and tried to overcome her prejudice against him. If Ethelrida loved him so much he must be really nice. And Zara sat on one side of the old Duke, and Lady Anningford on the other, and on her other side was Young Billy who was now in an idiotic state of calf love for her—to the amusement of every one. So, with much gayety and chaff the repast came to an end, and the ladies, who were all old friends—no strangers now among them—disposed themselves in happy groups about one of the drawing-rooms, while they sipped their coffee.
Ethelrida drew Zara aside to talk to her alone.
"Zara," she said, taking her soft, white hand, "I am so awfully happy with my dear love that I want you to be so, too. Dearest Zara, won't you be friends with me, now—real friends?"
And Zara, won by her gentleness, pressed Ethelrida's hand with her other hand.
"I am so glad, nothing my uncle could have done would have given me so much pleasure," she said, with a break in her voice. "Yes, indeed, I will be friends with you, dear Ethelrida. I am so glad—and touched—that you should care to have me as your friend." Then Ethelrida bent forward and kissed her. "When one is as happy as I am," she said, "it makes one feel good, as if one wanted to do all the kind things and take away all sorrow out of the world. I have thought sometimes, Zara dear, that you did not look as happy as—as—I would like you to look."
Happy! the mockery of the word!
"Ethelrida," Zara whispered hurriedly—"don't—don't ask me anything about it, please, dear. No one can help me. I must come through with it alone—but you of Tristram's own family, and especially you whom he loves so much, I don't want you ever to misjudge me. You think perhaps I have made him unhappy. Oh, if you only knew it all!—Yes, I have. And I did not know, nor understand. I would die for him now, if I could, but it is too late; we can only play the game!"
"Zara, do not say this!" said Ethelrida, much distressed. "What can it be that should come between such beautiful people as you? And Tristram adores you, Zara dear."
"He did love me—once," Zara answered sadly, "but not now. He would like never to have to see me again. Please do not let us talk of it; please—I can't bear any more."
And Ethelrida, watching her face anxiously, saw that it wore a hopeless, hunted look, as though some agonizing trouble and anxiety brooded over her. And poor Zara could say nothing of her other anxiety, for now that Ethelrida was engaged to her uncle her lips, about her own sorrow concerning her little brother, must be more than ever sealed. Perhaps—she did not know much of the English point of view yet—perhaps if the Duke knew that there was some disgrace in the background of the family he might forbid the marriage, and then she would be spoiling this sweet Ethelrida's life.
And Ethelrida's fine senses told her there was no use pressing the matter further, whatever the trouble was this was not the moment to interfere; so she turned the conversation to lighter things, and, finally, talked about her own wedding, and so the time passed.
The Dowager Lady Tancred was too proud to ask any one any questions, although she talked alone with Lady Anningford and could easily have done so: the only person she mentioned her anxiety to was her brother, the Duke, when, later, she spoke a few words with him alone.
"Tristram looks haggard and very unhappy, Glastonbury," she said simply, "have you anything to tell me about it?"
"My dear Jane," replied the Duke, "it is the greatest puzzle in the world; no one can account for it. I gave him some sound advice at Montfitchet, when I saw things were so strained, and I don't believe he has taken it, by the look of them to-night. These young, modern people are so unnaturally cold, though I did hear they had got through the rejoicings, in fine style."
"It troubles me very much, Glastonbury—to go abroad and leave him looking like that. Is it her fault? Or what—do you think?"
"'Pon my soul, I can't say—even the Crow could not unravel the mystery. Laura Highford was at Montfitchet—confound her—would come; can she have had anything to do with it, I wonder?"
Then they were interrupted and no more could be said, and finally the party broke up, with the poor mother's feeling of anxiety unassuaged. Tristram and Zara were to lunch with her to-morrow, to say good-bye, and then she was going to Paris—by the afternoon train.
And Francis Markrute staying on to smoke a cigar with the Duke, and, presumably, to say a snatched good night to his fiancé, Tristram was left to take Zara home alone.
Now would come the moment of the explanation! But she outwitted him, for they no sooner got into the brougham and he had just begun to speak than she leaned back and interrupted him:
"You insinuated something on the stairs this evening, the vileness of which I hardly understood at first; I warn you I will hear no more upon the subject!" and then her voice broke suddenly and she said, passionately and yet with a pitiful note, "Ah! I am suffering so to-night, please—please don't speak to me—leave me alone."
And Tristram was silenced. Whatever it was that soon she must explain, he could not torture her to-night, and, in spite of his anger and suspicions and pain, it hurt him to see her, when the lights flashed in upon them, huddled up in the corner—her eyes like a wounded deer's.
"Zara!" he said at last—quite gently, "what is this, awful shadow that is hanging over you?—If you will only tell me—" But at that moment they arrived at the door, which was immediately opened, and she walked in and then to the lift without answering, and entering, closed the door. For what could she say?
She could bear things no longer. Tristram evidently saw she had some secret trouble, she would get her uncle to release her from her promise, as far as her husband was concerned at least,—she hated mysteries, and if it had annoyed him for her to be out late she would tell him the truth—and about Mirko, and everything.
Evidently he had been very much annoyed at that, but this was the first time he had even suggested he had noticed she was troubled about anything, except that day in the garden at Wrayth. Her motives were so perfectly innocent that not the faintest idea even yet dawned upon her that anything she had ever done could even look suspicious. Tristram was angry with her because she was late, and had insinuated something out of jealousy; men were always jealous, she knew, even if they were perfectly indifferent to a woman. What really troubled her terribly to-night Was the telegram she found in her room. She had told the maid to put it there when it came. It was from Mimo, saying Mirko was feverish again—really ill, he feared, this time.
So poor Zara spent a night of anguish and prayer, little knowing what the morrow was to bring.
And Tristram went out again to the Turf, and tried to divert his mind away from his troubles. There was no use in speculating any further, he must wait for an explanation which he would not consent to put off beyond the next morning.
So at last the day of a pitiful tragedy dawned.
Zara got up and dressed early. She must be ready to go out to try and see Mimo, the moment she could slip away after breakfast, so she came down with her hat on: she wanted to speak to her uncle alone, and Tristram, she thought, would not be there so early—only nine o'clock.
"This is energetic, my niece!" Francis Markrute said, but she hardly answered him, and as soon as Turner and the footman had left the room she began at once:
"Tristram was very angry with me last night because I was out late. I had gone to obtain news of Mirko, I am very anxious about him and I could give Tristram no explanation. I ask you to relieve me from my promise not to tell him—about things."
The financier frowned. This was a most unfortunate moment to revive the family skeleton, but he was a very just man and he saw, directly, that suspicion of any sort was too serious a thing to arouse in Tristram's mind.
"Very well," he said, "tell him what you think best. He looks desperately unhappy—you both do—are you keeping him at arm's length all this time, Zara? Because if so, my child, you will lose him, I warn you. You cannot treat a man of his spirit like that; he will leave you if you do."
"I do not want to keep him at arm's length; he is there of his own will. I told you at Montfitchet everything is too late—"
Then the butler entered the room: "Some one wishes to speak to your ladyship on the telephone, immediately," he said.
And Zara forgot her usual dignity as she almost rushed across the hall to the library, to talk:—it was Mimo, of course, so her presence of mind came to her and as the butler held the door for her she said, "Call a taxi at once."
She took the receiver up, and it was, indeed, Mimo's voice—and in terrible distress.
It appeared from his almost incoherent utterances that little Agatha had teased Mirko and finally broken his violin. And that this had so excited him, in his feverish state, that it had driven him almost mad, and he had waited until all the household, including the nurse, were asleep, and, with superhuman cunning, crept from his bed and dressed himself, and had taken the money which his Chérisette had given him for an emergency that day in the Park, and which he had always kept hidden in his desk; and he had then stolen out and gone to the station—all in the night, alone, the poor, poor lamb!—and there he had waited until the Weymouth night mail had come through, and had bought a ticket, and got in, and come to London to find his father—with the broken violin wrapped in its green baize cover. And all the while coughing—coughing enough to kill him! And he had arrived with just enough money to pay a cab, and had come at about five o'clock and could hardly wake the house to be let in; and he, Mimo, had heard the noise and come down, and there found the little angel, and brought him in, and warmed him in his bed. And he had waited to boil him some hot milk before he could come to the public telephone near, to call her up. Oh! but he was very ill—very, very ill—and could she come at once—but oh!—at once!
And Tristram, entering the room at that moment, saw her agonized face and heard her say, "Yes, yes, dear Mimo, I will come now!" and before he could realize what she was doing she brushed past him and rushed from the room, and across the hall and down to the waiting taxicab into which she sprang, and told the man where to go, with her head out of the window, as he turned into Grosvenor Street.
The name "Mimo" drove Tristram mad again. He stood for a moment, deciding what to do, then he seized his coat and hat and rushed out after her, to the amazement of the dignified servants. Here he hailed another taxi, but hers was just out of sight down to Park Street, when he got into his.
"Follow that taxi!" he said to the driver, "that green one in front of you—I will give you a sovereign if you never lose sight of it."
So the chase began! He must see where she would go! "Mimo!" the "Count Sykypri" she had telegraphed to—and she had the effrontery to talk to her lover, in her uncle's house! Tristram was so beside himself with rage he knew if he found them meeting at the end he would kill her. His taxi followed the green one, keeping it always in view, right on to Oxford Street, then Regent Street, then Mortimer Street. Was she going to Euston Station? Another of those meetings perhaps in a waiting-room, that Laura had already described! Unutterable disgust as well as blind fury filled him. He was too overcome with passion to reason with himself even. No, it was not Euston—they were turning into the Tottenham Court Road—and so into a side street. And here a back tire on his taxi went, with a loud report, and the driver came to a stop. And, almost foaming with rage, Tristram saw the green taxi disappear round the further corner of a mean street, and he knew it would be lost to view before he could overtake it: there was none other in sight. He flung the man some money and almost ran down the road—and, yes, when he turned the corner he could see the green taxi in the far distance; it was stopping at a door. He had caught her then, after all! He could afford to go slowly now. She had entered the house some five or ten minutes before he got there. He began making up his mind.
It was evidently a most disreputable neighborhood. A sickening, nauseating revulsion crept over him: Zara—the beautiful, refined Zara—to be willing to meet a lover here! The brute was probably ill, and that was why she had looked so distressed. He walked up and down rapidly twice, and then he crossed the road and rang the bell; the taxi was still at the door. It was opened almost immediately by the little, dirty maid—very dirty in the early morning like this.
He controlled his voice and asked politely to be taken to the lady who had just gone in. With a snivel of tears Jenny asked him to follow her, and, while she was mounting in front of him, she turned and said: "It ain't no good, doctor, I ken tell yer; my mother was took just like that, and after she'd once broke the vessel she didn't live a hour." And by this time they had reached the attic door which, without knocking Jenny opened a little, and, with another snivel, announced, "The doctor, missis."
And Tristram entered the room.