CHAPTER VII
Topham never remembered how he got through the next hour. He went from place to place with Risdon, talked and laughed, met men—some of them famous men, too—but he did it all mechanically. His thoughts were with the girl whom he had seen in the automobile—the girl with whom he had crossed from New York—the girl who had told him her name was Elsa Ferreira—the girl who had warned him to be careful. Clearly she was one of the conspirators against himself, but he did not care. He had given the letter safely to Risdon and was free to act for himself for twenty-four hours—till it was time to leave Berlin.
When at last the hour for luncheon was at hand and he could leave Risdon on a plea that he must hurry back to the embassy, he did so with an alacrity which he feared the reporter would detect.
Once alone he lost no time in making his way to the ornate stone pile that Risdon had pointed out to him as the home of the Count and Countess of Ouro Preto.
Scarcely could he control himself while he waited for a reply to the card he sent up. It seemed to him incredible that it had been only that morning that he had parted from Elsa—he thought of her as Elsa—at the steamer. It seemed weeks even since he had gazed into her eyes across the traffic that thronged the street.
By and by a man came down the stairs. Topham recognized him as his Spanish-American acquaintance of the cigarette episode and grinned. “They’re all in it,” he observed. “But I don’t care. I don’t care a continental damn.”
He turned as a trim maid servant came running down the stairs, and bowed before him.
“The wohlgebornen Grafin will receive the Herr Lieutenant Topham,” she said. “Be pleased to walk up!”
Topham did so without delay.
As he entered her apartment the countess rose, and for an instant the two stared at each other. Curiosity was in that gaze, for those two had learned much about each other since they had parted. Defiance was in it, for both felt instinctively that their wills were to clash and both were ready for the encounter; fascination—or something strangely akin to fascination—was in it.The pause was that of two fencers who hesitate before they cross swords. It was for a second only, then the countess swept forward and held out her hand. “Mr. Topham?” she murmured. “I am glad to see you.”
Topham bowed as he took the hand in his. She wore a wonderful gown of clinging silk against which her dark beauty scintilated star-like. He could not speak. Her loveliness and what it meant—must mean—to him in the future took his breath away and held him for the moment dumb.
“But you ought not to have come!” she went on, slowly, when he did not speak.
Topham shook his head. “You knew I would come,” he declared, meaningly.
The countess flushed, and Topham pushed the fight. “Did you not know it?” he demanded.
Changing emotion swept across the countess’s mobile face. Surprise, indignation, panic succeeded each other and at last gave place to an expression hard to define. She flushed, trembled slightly; and her eyes dropped before those of the man who still held her hand.
“Yes!” she breathed. “Yes! I knew.”
“Ahem!” An elderly lady had risen and came forward and seemed somewhat amazed by thescene. “Ahem! Ahem!” she coughed, and then more violently, “Ahem!”
The countess started. One would have said that she had forgotten her companion, which was singular for a girl brought up under the duenna system, however much she might have emancipated herself. Then she turned. “You know the Baroness Ostersacken, Mr. Topham,” she said.
Topham bowed. “Yes!” he said. “I know.”
“Ach! Gott!” The baroness seemed confused. “You are welcome, Herr Topham,” she declared. “Will you not be seated?”
The countess led the way to a window beside which two chairs were placed, while the baroness, waddling back to the seat some distance away, from which she had risen, picked up some fancy work.
The countess sat down and indicated the chair by her side. “Sit down, Mr. Topham,” she invited.
But Topham stood motionless, hand on the back of the chair, looking at her.
The sun streamed golden through the great window, a stray beam lighting on her hair, transformed its dark mass into iridescent fire. A potted palm swept her shoulders with its delicate fronds.From the street below came up the tramp of men, the rattle of wagons, the jingle of a tram car.
Abruptly Topham spoke. “Please send the baroness away!” he directed, serenely.
Again the countess’ face flamed. She rose half way from her chair; then sat down again, trembling.
“Senor!” she faltered, returning instinctively to her mother tongue. “What mean you? I—I can not receive you without a duenna. It—it is impossible.”
“Not to you! To others, perhaps! Send her away—please.”
“But it is impos—” She rose. “Baroness,” she said, “would you mind looking for a letter from Herrman that I left in the bottom of my escritoire?”
The baroness rose. Her expression was inscrutable. Perhaps she was already so much surprised that her features, incapable of expressing her amazement, had reverted to their former placidity—a placidity from which nothing was likely soon to stir them. “Yes! Yes!” she murmured. “Yes! Yes! Mein Gott!”
When she had disappeared through the door at the end of the room the countess turned to Topham.“Now, senor,” she said, with more spirit than she had shown since the American’s arrival. “I have obeyed your orders and sent away my duenna. True, she is only in the next room, but still we are alone. What have you to say to me to warrant such a demand?”
“You know.” Topham’s voice was not quite so steady. “Senorita,” he went on. “Let me tell you something of myself. I belong to an old Virginia family—one of the F. F. Vs., as they call us derisively. My people have lived in Virginia for nearly three hundred years, and nearly every one of them had a romance. My great grandparents eloped; my grandfather married my grandmother the day after he met her; my father wanted to marry my mother at first sight of her, but was compelled to wait a year—till he was nineteen. I understand that your heritage is similar; that your father stole your mother from the duke’s palace. Finally”—He paused and leaned forward.
“When I parted from you this morning I thought I could wait. I meant to see you again, but I thought—. But I was wrong. I can not leave you without speaking! When I saw you on the street I knew that I could not. Love has come to me suddenly, as it comes to all the menof my race—suddenly but for all time. I have played at love-making before. I did not know what love was. I thought—Good God! How could I have thought as I did? How could any man mistake water for wine, moonshine for sunshine?”
Very slowly and deliberately, he took the countess’ face between his palms and looked down at her. “Look at me, Elsa,” he said.
Slowly she lifted her starry eyes to his. He bent forward and their lips met. “That makes you mine,” he said slowly.
The countess said not a word, but she slipped slowly into his arms and nestled against his broad bosom. It was preposterous, ridiculous, incredible—this love-making; it was “so very American”, but—but—what the countess really thought about it would be hard to tell. Whether she was as mad as Topham or whether there was a purpose in her madness did not appear.
Topham tilted her perfect chin upward. “Doesn’t it?” he asked, with a shade of anxiety in his voice. “You love me? You will marry me—soon?”
Gently the countess freed herself; then she stood up and faced him. “Yes!” she said. “I love you, and I will marry you or no other man,” Shestepped closer to him, and reaching up, placed both hands upon his shoulders and kissed him on the mouth. “Yes!” she repeated. “I will marry you—but not soon.”
“Why not? I am under orders. I must leave Berlin tonight. Will you come with me—or shall I resign from the Navy and stay with you?”
“Neither! I can not marry you—now. No! That is not true! I can, but I will not. I dare not.”
“Dare not! Who prevents—
“Honor!”
“Honor? Whose honor? yours?”
“No. Your own. What is mine? What is any woman’s when she loves? And I do love. Do you understand? From the moment I saw you I loved you? I fought against it. I may not love any man—now; least of all, you. I am dangerous to you—dangerous! That is why I lied to you. That is why I told you that I was going to stop in Hamburg instead of coming to Berlin. It was by a mere chance that you saw me on the street. But I love you. I have never loved any man before nor will again. No other man has ever touched my lips. Do you believe me? No—don’t answer. I know that you do. I love you, and I am carefulof your honor—more careful that I would be of my own. Therefore, I will not marry you—soon.”
Very straight she stood against the background of palms. Topham, slow of thought as he was, felt vaguely that she had stood thus rigid through life that bent around her. But he was determined, too. Stubbornness rose within him.
But before he could speak, she flung up her hand. “No! Don’t say it!” she begged. “Don’t compel me to yield. You could do it. No other man ever bent me; but you—you could break me. But it is best not to do it. Believe me, you will be sorry if—
“Look you, senor! For years I have lived for but one thing, and that thing is close to my hand. Yet I would give it up for you and count it gain to do so if others were not involved—others who rely on me—others to whom I have passed my word. And yet, I will give it up—if you ask me. What is a woman’s word, after all? Shall I give it up?”
Topham shook his head. “Not if you have passed your word. My wife’s word is mine!” he answered, with splendid egotism.
The countess smiled—but tenderly. Perhaps she noticed the egotism and was proud of it.
“Then,” she said. “I can not marry you soon. It will take a full year to redeem my word; and until that is done I can not marry you. Perhaps”—her voice broke—“perhaps you will not want to marry me then. But God rules and I can not think he has brought you to me merely to take you away again.”
She paused and clasped her hands above her heart. “You must not even see me during that year,” she went on, painfully. “No! Believe me! I know best. It must be! Go to your ship and come back in a year—if you will. I, too, am going away soon. When the year is up, or sooner, if it be possible, I will let you know where I am. Then, if you care to come to me—”
“Come? I would—”
“Be not too sure. A year is a long time. No! I do not doubt you. But—but—Kiss me once more, Walter! On the lips! Kiss me! And then leave me, for this is good-by.”