‘You looked dreadfully ill for a moment,’ Margaret said in a tone of concern. ‘Won’t you let me send for something? Tea? Or something iced? I’m sure you have had nothing to eat or drink for hours! How disgracefully thoughtless of me!’
She was just going to ring, but her friend stopped her.
‘No — please!’ she cried. ‘I’m all right, indeed I am. The room is a little warm, I think, and I’ve been shut up in that stuffy train for thirty hours. Have you written your telegram? I’ll put on my hat at once, and take it for you. The little walk will do me good. Where is the telegraph? But they can tell me downstairs. Don’t bother! Walking always brings me round, no matter what has happened!’
“‘What has happened?’ she cried. ‘Are you ill, dear?’”
She spoke nervously, in disjointed phrases, in a way not like herself, for there was generally an air of easy calm in all she did, as if nothing really mattered in the least, save when she was deeply interested; and hardly anything interested her now except what she had made her work. In all that belonged to that, she was energetic, direct, and quick.
Margaret was sure that something was wrong, but let her go, since she insisted, and Lady Maud folded the written message and went to the door. Just as she was going to turn the handle Margaret spoke to her.
‘If I have no answer to that by to-morrow afternoon I shall accept Mr. Van Torp’s invitation.’
‘I hope you will go,’ Lady Maud said with sudden decision, ‘for if you do, I can go with you, and I’m dying to see the new yacht!’
Margaret looked at her in surprise, for it was only a little while since she had seemed much less ready to join the party, and only willing to do so, if at all, in order to please her friend. She saw Margaret’s expression.
‘Yes,’ she said, as if in explanation, ‘I’ve been thinking it over in the last few minutes, and I want very much to go with you all. I shall be back in less than an hour.’
‘An hour?’
‘Say half an hour. I want a good walk.’
She opened the door quickly and passed out, shutting it almost noiselessly after her; she was a very graceful woman and moved easily, whether in small spaces or large. In all her life she had probably never overturned a chair with her skirt, as Margaret had done twice within ten minutes. She had not Baraka’s gliding movement, the virginal step of the girl of primeval race; hers was rather the careless, swaying walk of a thoroughbred in good training, long-limbed and deep-breathed, and swift at need, but indolently easy when no call was made upon her strength. She and Baraka and the young Primadonna represented well three of the possible types of beauty, very different from each other; so widely different that perhaps no two of them would be likely to appeal to one man, as mere feminine beauty, at the same period of his life.
Straight and tall in her mourning, Lady Maud went down the stairs of the hotel. As she was going out the hall porter raised his cap, and she stopped a moment and asked him which was the nearest way to the telegraph office. He stood on the doorstep and pointed in the direction she was to follow as he answered her question.
‘Can you tell me,’ she asked, ‘whose motor car it was that passed about ten minutes ago, and made so much noise?’
‘Count Kralinsky’s, my lady,’ the porter answered; for he spoke good English, and had the true hotel porter’s respect for the British aristocracy abroad.
‘He was the gentleman with the big fair beard, I suppose? Yes, thank you.’
She went out into the dull street, with its monotonous houses, all two stories high, and she soon found the telegraph office and sent Margaret’s duplicate message. She had not glanced at it, but the clerk asked her questions about words that were not quite clearly written, and she was obliged to read it through. It occurred to her that it was couched in extremely peremptory terms, even for an offended bride-elect; but that was none of her business.
When the clerk had understood, she walked up the hill to the Festival Theatre. It all looked very dull and heavy, being an off-day, and as she was not a Wagnerian it meant absolutely nothing to her. She was disappointed in the whole town, so far as she had expected anything of it, for she had pictured it as being either grand in its way, or picturesque, or at least charming; and it was not. Her British soul stuck up its nose in the general atmosphere of beer and sausage, which she instantly perceived rather than saw; and the Teutonism of everything, from the appearance of the Festival Theatre itself to the wooden faces of the policemen, and the round pink cheeks of the few children she met, roused antagonism in her from the first. She went on a little farther, and then turned back and descended the hill, always at the same even, easy pace, for she was rarely aware of any change of grade when she walked alone.
But by degrees her expression had altered since she had left the telegraph office, and she looked profoundly preoccupied, as if she were revolving a very complicated question in her mind, which disliked complications; and there was now and then a flash of displeased wonder in her face, when she opened her eyes quite wide and shut them, and opened them again, as if to make sure that she was quite awake.
She went on, not knowing whither and not caring, always at the same even pace, and hardly noticing the people who passed her, of whom a good many were in two-horse cabs, some in queer little German motors, and a few on foot; and still she thought, and wondered, and tried to understand, but could not. At all events, she was glad to be alone; she was glad not to have even Van Torp with her, who was by far the most congenial person she knew; for he had the rare good gift of silence, and used it very often, and when he talked she liked his odd speech, his unusual expressions, even his Western accent; she liked him for his simple, unswerving friendship, and for his kind heart — though the world would have screamed with laughter at the idea; and more than all, she liked him for himself, and because she knew certainly that neither he nor she could possibly, under any circumstances, grow to like each other in any other way.
But she did not wish that he were walking beside her now, and she was quite indifferent to the fact that time was passing, and that Margaret was beginning to wonder where in the world she was.
‘My dear child,’ Mrs. Rushmore said, when the Primadonna expressed her surprise, ‘those English people are all alike, when they are once out on a road by themselves. They must take a long walk. I am quite sure that at this moment Countess Leven is miles from here — miles, Margaret. Do you understand me? I tell you she is walking mile upon mile. All English people do. You are only half English after all, my dear, but I have known you to walk a long distance alone, for no good reason that I could see.’
‘It’s good for the voice if you don’t overdo it,’ Margaret observed.
‘Yes. But Countess Leven does not sing, my dear. You forget that. Why should she walk mile upon mile like that? And I know Mr. Van Torp is not with her, for Justine told me a quarter of an hour ago that she heard him tell his man to bring him some hot water. So he is at home, you see. Margaret, what do you suppose Mr. Van Torp wants hot water for at this extraordinary hour?’
‘I really don’t know,’ Margaret answered, sipping her tea rather gloomily, for she was thinking of the telegram she had given Lady Maud to send.
‘You don’t think Mr. Van Torp drinks, do you, my dear?’ inquired Mrs. Rushmore.
‘Hot water? Some people do. It’s good for the digestion.’
‘No, you purposely misunderstand me. I mean that he makes use of it for — for the purpose of mixing alcoholic beverages alone in his room.’
Margaret laughed.
‘Never! If there’s a perfectly sober man living, it is he!’
‘I am glad to hear you say so, my dear. Because, if I thought he had habits, nothing would induce me to go on board his yacht. Nothing, Margaret! Not all his millions! Do you understand me? Margaret, dear, if you do not mind very much, I think we had better not accept his invitation after all, though I am sure it is well meant.’
‘You’re very much mistaken if you th
ink he drinks,’ Margaret said, still inclined to laugh.
‘Well, my dear,’ returned Mrs. Rushmore, ‘I don’t know. Justine certainly heard him tell his man to bring him some hot water a quarter of an hour ago. Perhaps it may have been twenty minutes. It is a very extraordinary hour to ask for such a thing, I am sure.’
Margaret suggested that Mr. Van Torp might possibly have a fancy to wash his hands in hot water at that unusual time of day, and Mrs. Rushmore seemed temporarily satisfied, for apparently she had not thought of this explanation.
‘Margaret,’ she said solemnly, ‘if you feel that you can put your hand into the fire for Mr. Van Torp’s habits, I will go with you on his yacht. Not otherwise, my dear.’
The Primadonna laughed, and at last Mrs. Rushmore herself smiled, for she was not without a sense of humour.
‘I cannot help it, my dear,’ she said. ‘You must not laugh at me if I am nervous about such things; nervous, you understand, not unreasonable. But since you are prepared to take all the responsibility I will go with you, my child. I cannot even say it is a sacrifice on my part, for I am an excellent sailor, as you know, and very fond of the sea. In my young days my dear husband used to have a nice cat-boat at Newport, and he always took me with him. He used to say that I steered quite nicely.’
The vision of Mrs. Rushmore steering a Newport cat-boat was quite new to Margaret, and her lips parted in surprise.
‘Oh, yes, my child, we were very fond of sailing in those days,’ continued the elderly lady, pleased with her recollections. ‘I often got quite wet, I assure you, but I remember catching cold only once. I think it rained that day. My dear husband, I recollect, asked me to name the boat when he bought it, and so I called it the Sea-Mew.’
‘The Sea-Mew?’ Margaret was mystified.
‘Yes. It was a cat-boat, my dear. Cats often mew. You understand, of course. It was not very funny, perhaps, but I remember that my dear husband laughed, and liked the name.’
Margaret was laughing softly too.
‘I think it’s awfully good, you know,’ she said. ‘You needn’t say it’s not funny, for it’s a very creditable little joke. Do you think you could steer a boat now? I’m sure I could never learn! Everything about sailing and ships is an utter mystery to me.’
‘I daresay I could steer a cat-boat,’ said Mrs. Rushmore calmly. ‘I am sure I could keep a row-boat straight. Let me see — there’s a thing you move — —’
‘The rudder?’ suggested Margaret.
‘No, my dear. It’s not the rudder, nor the boom, nor the centre-board — how all the names come back to me! Yes, it is the tiller. That is the name. When you know which way to move the tiller, it is quite easy to steer.’
‘I fancy so,’ said Margaret gravely.
‘Most people move it the wrong way when they begin,’ continued the good lady. ‘You see “port” means “left” and “starboard” means “right.” But when you turn the tiller to the left the boat goes to the right. Do you understand?’
‘It seems all wrong,’ observed Margaret, ‘but I suppose you know.’
‘Yes. In the same way, when you turn the tiller to the right the boat goes to the left. The great thing is to remember that. It is the same way with “weather” and “lee.” I could show you if we were in a boat.
‘I haven’t a doubt of it,’ Margaret said. ‘You’re perfectly amazing! I believe you are a regular sailor.’
‘Oh, no,’ protested Mrs. Rushmore modestly; ‘but indeed I often took the cat-boat out alone, now that I think of it. I used to raise the sail alone — I mean, I hoisted it. “Hoist” — that is the proper word, I remember. I was quite strong in those days.’
‘Really, you are most extraordinary!’ Margaret was genuinely surprised. ‘You’ll astonish Mr. Van Torp when he hears your nautical language on the yacht! Fancy your knowing all about sailing! I knew you could swim, for we’ve often been in together at Biarritz — but sailing! Why did you never tell me?’
‘Shall we keep some tea for Countess Leven?’ asked Mrs. Rushmore, changing the subject. ‘I fear it will get quite cold. Those English people never know when to stop walking. I cannot understand what they can see in it. Perhaps you will kindly touch the bell, my dear, and I will send the tea away. It can be brought fresh for her when she comes. Thank you, Margaret. But she will not come in till it is just time to dress for dinner. Mark my words, my child, the Countess will be late for dinner. All English people are. Have you heard from Monsieur Logotheti to-day?’
‘Not to-day,’ Margaret answered, repressing a little start, for she was as near to being nervous as she ever was, and she was thinking of him just then, and the question had come suddenly.
‘I think it is time you heard from him,’ said Mrs. Rushmore, her natural severity asserting itself. ‘I should think that after those very strange stories in the papers he would write to you and explain, or come himself. By the bye, perhaps you will kindly pass me the Herald, my dear. What did you once tell me was the name of his yacht?’
‘The Erinna,’ Margaret answered, handing Mrs. Rushmore the sheet.
‘Exactly! I think that means the “Fury.”’
‘He told me it was the name of a Greek poetess,’ Margaret observed.
‘On account of her temper, I suppose,’ answered the good lady absently, for she was looking up and down the columns in search of something she had already seen. ‘Here it is!’ she said. ‘It is under the yachting news. “Cape Finisterre. Passed at 4 P.M., going south, steam yacht Erinna, with owner and party on board. All well.” My dear child, it is quite clear that if this is Monsieur Logotheti’s yacht, he is going to Gibraltar.’
‘I don’t know anything about geography,’ Margaret said, and her wrath, which had been smouldering sullenly for days, began to glow again.
‘Margaret,’ said Mrs. Rushmore, ‘you surprise me! You were very well taught — —’
But the Primadonna did not hear the long tirade of mild reproof that followed. She knew well enough where Gibraltar was, and that Logotheti was going all the way round to the Mediterranean on his yacht with some one for company, and that the voyage was a long one. After what Lady Maud had said, there was not the least doubt in her mind as to his companion, who could be no one but Baraka. He had been told that he was not wanted at Bayreuth, and he was celebrating the sunset of his bachelor life in his own way. That was clear. If he received the telegram that had just been sent to him, he would get it at Gibraltar, should he stop there, and as for answering it before Margaret left Bayreuth, she was inclined to make such a thing impossible by going away the next morning, if not that very night.
Her angry reflexions and Mrs. Rushmore’s lecture on the importance of geography in education were interrupted by the discreet entrance of Mr. Van Torp, who was announced and ushered to the door by Justine in a grand French manner. On the threshold, however, he stood still and asked if he might come in; being pressed to do so, he yielded, advanced, and sat down between the two ladies.
‘Mr. Van Torp,’ said Mrs. Rushmore, ‘I insist upon knowing what has become of Countess Leven.’
‘I don’t know, Mrs. Rushmore,’ answered the millionaire, slowly rubbing his hands. ‘I haven’t spoken to her since I brought her from the station. I daresay she’s all right. She’s most probably gone to take a walk. She often does in the country, I know — her father’s country seat is next to mine, Mrs. Rushmore. I hope you’ll pay me a visit some day. Why, yes, Lady Maud sometimes goes off alone and walks miles and miles.’
‘There, Margaret,’ said Mrs. Rushmore triumphantly, ‘what did I tell you? Mr. Van Torp says the Countess often walks for miles and miles.’
‘Why, certainly,’ said Mr. Van Torp, ‘though I’m bound to say she’s just as fond of horseback. Her friends generally call her Lady Maud, Mrs. Rushmore. Perhaps you won’t mind my telling you, as she prefers it a good deal herself. You see, I’ve had the pleasure of knowing her several years, so I daresay you’ll forgive me for mentioning it.’<
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‘I think it is quite kind of you, on the contrary,’ answered Mrs. Rushmore. ‘Margaret, why did you never tell me of this? Had you any reason for not telling me?’
‘I don’t think I noticed what you called her,’ Margaret answered patiently.
‘Because if you had any reason,’ said Mrs. Rushmore, following her own thoughts, ‘I insist upon knowing what it was.’
‘Well, now, I’ll tell you,’ rejoined Mr. Van Torp, to save Margaret the trouble of answering the futile little speech, ‘her husband didn’t treat her very well. There’s not a purer woman in the six continents, Mrs. Rushmore, but he tried to divorce her, because he’d lost his money, if he ever had any, and she has none, and he wanted to marry an heiress. However, they automobilised him, or something, in St. Petersburg last June.’
‘Auto — what did you say?’ inquired Mrs. Rushmore.
‘Killed by an automobile,’ explained Mr. Van Torp gravely. ‘But now I come to think, it wasn’t that. He got blown up by a bomb meant for a better man. It was quite instantaneous, I recollect. His head disappeared suddenly, and the greater part of him was scattered around, but they found his pocket-book with his cards and things, so they knew who it was. It was driven through somebody else’s hat on the other side of the street, wasn’t it, Miss Donne? Things must have been quite lively just then, where it happened. I supposed you knew.’
Mrs. Rushmore explained that she had never heard any details.
‘Besides,’ said Mr. Van Torp, in answer, though not quite relevantly, ‘everybody always calls her “Lady Maud” instead of “Countess Leven,” which she has on her cards.’
‘She would naturally use the higher title,’ observed Mrs. Rushmore reverently.
‘Well, now, about that,’ objected Mr. Van Torp, ‘I’m bound to say I think the daughter of an English earl as good as a Russian count, anywhere west of Siberia. I don’t know how they figure those things out at courts when they have to balance ’em up for seats at a dinner-party, of course. It’s just my impression, that’s all, as a business man. He’s dead anyway, and one needn’t make personal remarks about dead men. All the same, it was a happy release for Lady Maud, and I doubt if she sits up all night mourning for him. Have you been out this afternoon, Miss Donne?’
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 1249