“Well, she saw you long ere that; she saw you the moment she entered the box, before I pointed her out to you. For she looked straight in your direction and spoke to the Frenchwoman, nodding towards you.”
“No, it is impossible!” I replied. I recollected how her hand had fallen upon mine, and the musical sound of her words— “the occasion may come, too.” “There is no trace of the coquette about her. This must be a mistake.”
“It is you who are making it. Add her behaviour now,” he waved his hand to the window, “to what I have told you! See how the incidents fit together. Yesterday she finds out your room commands the Park, to-day she walks in Marston’s company underneath the window, and backwards and forwards, mark that! never moving out of range. ’Tis all part of one purpose.”
“But what purpose?” I cried passionately. “What purpose could she serve?”
“The devil knows!” he replied, with a shrug of his shoulders. “It is of a woman we are speaking — you forget that.”
I flung open the window noisily, in a desire to attract their attention and observe how the Countess would take our discovery of her interview. But she paid not the slightest heed to the sound. Elmscott made a sudden dash to the door.
“Culverton!” he cried over the baluster.
I tried to check him, for I had no wish that Culverton’s meddlesome fingers should pry into the matter. I was too late, however; he entered the room, and Elmscott drew him to the open window.
“Burn me, but ’tis the oddest thing!” he smirked.
For a minute or so we stood watching the couple in silence. Then the Countess dropped her fan, and as Marston stooped to pick it up she shot one quick glance towards us. Her companion handed her the fan, and they resumed the promenade. But they took no more than half a turn before the Countess signalled to the porters, and getting into the chair, was carried off. Marston waited until she was out of sight, with his hat in his hand, and then cocking it jauntily on his head, marched off in the opposite direction. The satisfaction of his manner made my blood boil with rage.
“The conceited ass!” I cried, stamping my feet.
“She heard the window open after all,” said Elmscott.
As for Culverton, he tittered the more.
“The oddest thing!” he repeated. “The very oddest thing! Strike me purple if I know what to make of the delightful creature!”
“’Tis as plain as my hand,” replied Elmscott roughly. “No sooner did she perceive that you were watching her than she gave Marston his congé. He had done his work, and she had no further use for him. She is a woman — there’s the top and bottom of it. A couple of men to frown at each other and grimace prettily to her! Her vanity demands no less. She is like one of our Indian planters who value their wealth by the number of their slaves; so she her beauty.”
“Nay,” interposed the fop. “If that were the whole business, one would hear less concerning Mr. Buckler from her rapturous lips. But rat me if she ever talks about any one else.”
“Do you mean that?” I asked eagerly.
“Oh, most inquisitive, on my honour! In truth, your name is growing plaguy wearisome to me. Why, but the other night, when she selected me to lead her to her carriage at the theatre, ’twas but to question me concerning you, and whether you gambled, and the horse of mine you rode, and what not. And there was I with a thousand tender nothings to whisper in her ear, and pink me if I could get one of ’em out!”
“Then I give the riddle up,” rejoined Elmscott, though I would fain have heard more of this strain from Culverton. “I make neither head nor tail of the business, unless, Morrice, she would bring you on by a little wholesome jealousy.” He looked at me shrewdly, and continued: “You are a timid wooer, I fancy. Why not go to her boldly? Tell her you are going away, and have had enough of her tricks! ’Twould bring your suit to a climax.”
“One way or another,” said I doubtfully.
“If Mr. Buckler would take the advice of one who has had some small experience of ladies’ whims,” interposed Culverton, “and some participation in their favours, he would buy some new clothes.”
“These are new,” I said. “I followed your advice before, and bought enough to stock a shop.”
“But of such a desperate colour,” he replied. “Lard, Mr. Buckler, you go dressed like a mute at a funeral! The ladies loathe it; stap me, but they loathe it! A scarlet coat, like our friend wears, a full periwig, an embroidered stocking, makes deeper inroads into their affections than a year’s tedious love-making. The dear creatures’ hearts, Mr. Buckler, are in their eyes.”
With that the subject of Countess Lukstein dropped. For Culverton, once started upon his favourite topic, launched forth into a complete philosophy of clothes. The colour of each garment, according to him, had a particular effect upon the sex; the adjustment of each ribbon conveyed a particular meaning. He had, indeed, ingeniously classified the various coats, hats, breeches, vests, periwigs, ruffles, cravats and the other appurtenances of a gentleman’s wardrobe, with the modes of wearing them, as expressions of feeling and emotion. The larger and more dominant emotions were voiced in the clothes, the delicate and subtler shades of feeling in the disposition of ornaments. In short, ’twould be a very profitable philosophy for a race which had neither tongues to speak nor faces and limbs to act their meaning.
This incident, as I have said, determined me upon a compromise, for it set my heart aflame with jealousy. I had not taken Marston into my calculations before; now I reflected that if I retired to the North, I should be leaving a free field for him, and that I was obstinately minded I would not do. On the other hand, however, this promenade in front of my windows, whether undertaken of set purpose or from sheer carelessness, seemed to show that after all I had no stable footing in Ilga’s esteem, and I feared that if I disclosed to her the deception which I had used towards her, there could be but one result and consequence.
I determined then to forward my suit with what ardour and haste I might, and to unbosom myself of my fault in the very hour that I pleaded my love.
The Countess, however, gave me no heart or occasion for the work. Her manner towards me changed completely of a sudden, and where I had previously met with smiles and kindly words, I got now disdainful looks and biting speeches. She would ridicule my conversation, my person, and my bearing, and that, too, before a room full of people, so that I was filled with the deepest shame; or again, she would shrink from me with all the appearances of aversion. Mademoiselle Durette, it is true, sought to lighten my suffering. “It is ever Love’s way to blow hot and cold,” she would whisper in my ear. But I thought that she spoke only out of compassion. For ’twas the cold wind which continually blew on me.
At times, indeed, though very rarely, she would resume her old familiarity, but there was a note of effort in her voice as though she subdued herself to a distasteful practice, and something hysterical in her merriment; and as like as not, she would break off in the middle of a kindly sentence and load me with the extremity of scorn.
Moreover, Marston was perpetually at her side, and in his company she made more than one return to the Park; so that at last, being fallen into a most tormenting despair, I made shift to follow Elmscott’s advice, and called at her lodging one morning to inform her that I intended setting my face homewards that very afternoon.
CHAPTER XI.
THE COUNTESS EXPLAINS, AND SHOWS ME A PICTURE.
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. Wi
th 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 m
an’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 only my life? 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.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 200