She bent once more over her embroidery.
“Humours are the prerogative of my sex,” she said.
“I set you apart from it.”
“Is that why you cannot trust me even a little?”
The gentle reproach made me hot with shame. I had no words to answer it. Then she laughed again, bending closer over her frame, in a low joyous note that gradually rose and trilled out sweet as music from a thrush.
“And so,” she said, “you came all trim and spruce in your fine new clothes to show me what my discourtesy had lost me! What a child you are! And yet,” she rose suddenly, her whole face changing, “and yet, are you a child? Would God I knew!” She ended with a passionate cry, clasping her hands together upon her breast; but before I could make head or tail of her meaning she was half-way through another mood. “Ah!” she cried, “you have brought my courtesy back with you.” I had not noticed until then that I still held the crust in my hand. “You shall swallow it as a penance.”
“Madame!” I laughed.
“Hush! you shall eat it. Yes, yes!” with a pretty imperious stamp of the foot. “Now! Before you speak a word!”
I obeyed her, but with some difficulty, for the crust was very dry.
“You see,” she said, “courtesy is not always so tasteful a morsel. It sticks in the throat at times;” and crossing to a sideboard, she filled a goblet from a decanter of canary and brought it to me.
“You will pledge me first,” I entreated.
Her face grew serious, and she balanced the cup doubtfully in her hand.
“Of a truth,” she said, “of a truth I will.” She raised it slowly to her lips; but at that moment the door opened.
“Oh!” cried Mademoiselle Durette, with a start of surprise, “I fancied that Mr. Buckler had gone,” and she was for whipping out of the room again, but Ilga called to her. The astonishment of the Frenchwoman made one point clear to me concerning which I felt some curiosity. I mean that ’twas not she who had set the hall-door open for my return.
“Clemence!” said the Countess, setting down the wine untasted, as I noticed with regret, “will you bid Otto come to me? I ransacked Mr. Buckler’s rooms, and it is only fair that I should show him my poor treasures in return.”
She handed a key to Otto, and bade him unlock a Japan cabinet which stood in a corner. He drew out a tray heaped up with curiosities, medals and trinkets, and bringing it over, laid it on a table in the window.
“I have bought them all since I came to London. You shall tell me whether I have been robbed.”
“You come to the worst appraiser in the world,” said I, “for these ornaments tell me nothing of their value though much of your industry.”
“I have a great love for these trifles,” said she, though her action seemed to belie her words, for she tossed and rattled them hither and thither upon the tray with rapid jerks of her fingers which would have made a virtuoso shiver. “They hint so much of bygone times, and tell so provokingly little.”
“Their example, at all events, affords a lesson in discretion,” I laughed.
“Which our poor sex is too trustful to learn, and yours too distrustful to forget.”
There was a certain accent of appeal in her voice, very tender and sweet, as though she knew my story and was ready to forgive it. Had we been alone I believe that I should have blurted the whole truth out; only Otto Krax stood before me on the opposite side of the table, Mademoiselle Durette was seated in the room behind.
Ilga had ceased to sort the articles, and now began to point out particular trinkets, describing their purposes and antiquity and the shops where she had discovered them. But I paid small heed to her words; that question — did she know? — pressed too urgently upon my thoughts. A glance at the stolid indifference of Otto Krax served to reassure me. Through him alone could suspicion have come, and I felt certain that he had as yet not recognised me.
Besides, I reflected, had she known, it was hardly in nature that she should have spoken so gently. I dismissed the suspicion from my mind, and turned me again to the inspection of the tray.
Just below my eyes lay a miniature of a girl, painted very delicately upon a thin oval slip of ivory. The face was dark in complexion, with black hair, the nose a trifle tip-tilted, and the lips full and red, but altogether a face very alluring and handsome. I was most struck, however, with the freshness of the colours; amongst those old curios the portrait shone like a gem. I took it up, and as I did so, Otto Krax leaned forward.
“Otto!” said Ilga sharply, “you stand between Mr. Buckler and the light.”
The servant moved obediently from the window.
“This,” said I, “hath less appearance of antiquity than the rest of your purchases.”
“It was given to me,” she replied. “The face is beautiful?”
Now it had been my custom of late to consider a face beautiful or not in proportion to its resemblance to that of Countess Lukstein. So I looked carefully at the miniature, and thence to Ilga. She was gazing closely at me with parted lips, and an odd intentness in her expression. I noticed this the more particularly, for that her eyes, which were violet in their natural hue, had a trick of growing dark when she was excited or absorbed.
“Why!” I exclaimed, in surprise. “One might think you fancy me acquainted with the lady.”
“Well,” she replied, laying a hand upon her heart, “what if I did — fancy that?” She stressed the word “fancy” with something of a sneer.
“Nay,” said I, “the face is strange to me.”
“Are you sure?” she asked. “Look again! Look again, Mr. Buckler!”
Disturbed by this recurrence of her irony, I fixed my eyes, as she bade me, upon the picture, and strangely enough, upon a closer scrutiny I began gradually to recognise it; but in so vague and dim a fashion, that whether the familiarity lay in the contour of the lineaments or merely in the expression, I could by no effort of memory determine.
“Well?” she asked, with a smile which had nothing amiable or pleasant in it. “What say you now?”
“Madame,” I returned, completely at a loss, “in truth I know not what to say. It may be that I have seen the original. Indeed, I must think that is the case — —”
“Ah!” she cried, interrupting me as one who convicts an opponent after much debate, and then, in a hurried correction: “so at least I was informed.”
“Then tell me who informed you!” I said earnestly, for I commenced to consider this miniature as the cause of her recent resentment and scorn. “For I have only seen this face — somewhere — for a moment. Of one thing I am sure. I have never had speech with it.”
“Never?” she asked, in the same ironical tone. “Look yet a third time, Mr. Buckler! For your memory improves with each inspection.”
She suddenly broke off, and “Otto!” she cried sternly — it was almost a shout.
The fellow was standing just behind my shoulder, and I swung round and eyed him. He came a step forward, questioning his mistress with a look.
“Replace the tray in the cabinet!”
I kept the miniature in my hand, glancing ever from it to the Countess and back again in pure wonder and conjecture.
“Madame,” I said firmly, “I have never had speech with the lady of this picture.”
She looked into my eyes as though she would read my soul.
“It is God’s truth!”
She signed a dismissal to Otto. Clemence Durette rose and followed the servant, and I thought that I had never fallen in with any one who showed such tact and discretion in the matter of leaving a room.
The Countess remained stock-still, facing me.
“And yet I have been told,” she said, nodding her head with each word, “that she was very dear to you.”
“Then,” I replied hotly, “you were told a lie, a miserable calumny. I understand! ’Tis that that has poisoned your kind thoughts of me.”
She turned away with a slight shrug of the shoulders.<
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“Oh, believe that!” I exclaimed, falling upon a knee and holding her by the hem of her dress. “You must believe it! I have told you what my life has been. Look at the picture yourself!” and I forced it into her hands. “What do you read there? Vanity and the love of conquest. Gaze into the eyes! What do they bespeak? Boldness that comes from the habit of conquest. Is it likely that such a woman would busy her head about an awkward, retiring student?”
“I am not so sure,” she replied thoughtfully, though she seemed to relent a little at my vehemence; “women are capricious. You yourself have been complaining this morning of their caprice. And it might be that — I can imagine it — and for that very reason.”
“Oh, compare us!” I cried. “Compare the painted figure there with me! You must see it is impossible.”
She laid a hand upon each of my shoulders as I knelt, and bent over me, staring into my eyes.
“I have been told,” said she, “that the lady was so dear to you that for her sake you fought and killed your rival in love.”
“You have been told that?” I answered, in sheer incredulity; and then a flame of rage against my traducer kindling in my heart, I sprang to my feet.
“Who told you?”
“I may not disclose his name.”
“But you shall,” said I, stepping in front of her. “You shall tell me! He has lied to you foully, and you owe him therefore no consideration or respect. He has lied concerning me. I have a clear right to know his name, that I may convince you of the lie, and reckon with him for his slander. Confront us both, and yourself be present as the judge!”
Of a sudden she held out her hand to me.
“Your sincerity convinces me. I need no other proof, and I crave your pardon for my suspicion.”
I looked into her face, amazed at the sudden change. But there was no mistaking her conviction or the joy which it occasioned her. I saw a light in her eyes, dancing and sparkling, which I had never envisaged before, and which filled me with exquisite happiness.
“Still,” I said, as I took her hand, “I would fain prove my words to you.”
“Can you not trust me at all?”
She had a wonderful knack of putting me in the wrong when I was on the side of the right, and before I could find a suitable reply she slipped out of my grasp, and crossing the room, took in her hand the cup of wine.
“Now,” said she, “I will pledge you, Mr. Buckler;” which she did very prettily, and handed the cup to me. As I raised it to my lips, however, an idea occurred to me.
“It is you who refuse to pledge me,” she said.
“Nay, nay,” said I, and I drained the cup. “But I have just guessed who my traducer is.”
She looked perplexed for a moment.
“You have guessed who — —” she began, in an accent of wonder.
“Who gave you the picture,” I explained.
She stared at me in pure astonishment.
“You can hardly have guessed accurately, then,” she remarked.
“Surely,” said I, “it needs no magician to discover the giver. I know but one man in London who can hope to gain aught by slandering me to you.”
Ilga gave a start of alarm. It seemed almost as though I were telling her news, as though she did not know herself who gave her the picture; and for the rest of my visit she appeared absent and anxious. This was particularly mortifying to me, since I thought the occasion too apt to be lost, and I was minded to open my heart to her. Indeed, I began the preface of a love-speech in spite of her preoccupation, but sticking for lack of encouragement after half-a-dozen words or so, I perceived that she was not even listening to what I said. Consequently I took my leave with some irritation, marvelling at the flighty waywardness of a woman’s thoughts, and rather inclined to believe that the properest age for a man to marry was his ninetieth year, for then he might perchance have sufficient experience to understand some portion of his wife’s behaviour and whimsies.
My mortification was not of a lasting kind, for Ilga came out on to the landing while I was still descending the stairs.
“You do not know who gave me the picture,” she said, entreating me; and she came down two of the steps.
“It would be exceeding strange if I did not,” said I, stopping.
“You would seek him out and — —” she began.
“I had that in my mind,” said I, mounting two of the steps.
“Then you do not know him. Say you do not! There could be but one result, and I fear it.”
A knock on the outer door rang through the hall; this time we took two steps up and down simultaneously.
“Swords!” she continued, “for you would fight?”
I nodded.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “swords are no true ordeal. Skill — it is skill, not justice, which directs the thrust.”
I fancied that I comprehended the cause of her fear, and I laughed cheerfully.
“I have few good qualities,” said I, “but amongst those few you may reckon some proficiency with the sword.” I ascended two steps.
“So,” she replied, with an indefinable change of tone, “you are skilled in the exercise?” But she stood where she was.
Otto Krax came from the inner part of the house and crossed to the door.
“It is my one qualification for a courtier.”
Since Ilga had omitted to take the two steps down, I deemed it right to take four steps up.
She resumed her tone of entreaty.
“But chance may outwit skill; does — often.”
We heard the chain rattle on the door as Krax unfastened it. Ilga bent forward hurriedly.
“You do not know the man!” and in a whisper she added: “For my sake — you do not!”
There were only four steps between us. I took them all in one spring.
“For your sake, is it?” and I caught her hand.
“Hush!” she said, disengaging herself. Marston’s voice sounded in the entrance. “You do not know! Oh, you do not!” she beseeched in shaking tones. Then she drew back quickly, and leaned against the balustrade. I looked downwards. Otto was ushering in Marston, and the pair stood at the foot of the staircase. I glanced back at the Countess. There were tears in her eyes.
“Madame!” said I, “I have forgotten his name.”
With a bow, I walked down the steps as Marston mounted them.
“’Tis a fine day,” says I, coming to a halt when we were level.
“Is it?” says he, continuing the ascent.
“It seems to me wonderfully bright and clear,” said the Countess from the head of the stairs.
CHAPTER XII.
LADY TRACY.
OUTSIDE THE HOUSE I came face to face with the original of the miniature. So startled and surprised was I by her unexpected appearance that I could not repress an exclamation, and she turned her eyes full upon me. She was seated upon a horse, while a mounted groom behind her held the bridle of a third horse, saddled, but riderless. ’Twas evident that she had come to the house in Marston’s company, and now waited his return. My conviction that Marston had handed the miniature to Ilga was, I thought, confirmed beyond possibility of doubt, and I scanned her face with more eagerness than courtesy, hoping to discover by those means a clue to her identity. For a moment or so she returned my stare without giving a sign of recognition, and then she turned her head away. It was clear, at all events, that she had no knowledge or remembrance of me, and though her lips curved with a gratified smile, and she glanced occasionally in my direction from the tail of her eye, I could not doubt that she considered my exclamation as merely a stranger’s spontaneous tribute to her looks.
Indeed, the more closely I regarded her, the less certain did I myself become that I had ever set eyes on her before. I was sensible of a vague familiarity in her appearance, but I was not certain but what I ought to attribute it to my long examination of her likeness. However, since Providence had brought us thus opportunely together, I was minded to use the occas
ion in order to resolve my perplexities, and advancing towards her:
“Madam,” I said, “you will, I trust, pardon my lack of ceremony when I assure you that it is no small matter which leads me to address you. I only ask of you the answer to a simple question. Have we met before to-day?”
“The excuse is not very adroit,” she replied, with a coquettish laugh, “for it implies that you are more like to live in my memory than I in yours.”
“Believe me!” said I eagerly, “the question is no excuse, but one of some moment to me. I should not have had the courage to thrust myself wantonly upon your attention, even had I felt — —”
I broke off suddenly and stopped, since I saw a frown overspread her face, and feared to miss the answer to my question.
“Well! Even had you felt the wish. That is your meaning, is it not? Why not frankly complete the sentence? I hear the sentiment so seldom, that of a truth I relish it for its rarity.”
She gave an indignant toss of her head, and looked away from me, running her fingers through the mane of her horse. I understood that flattery alone would serve my turn with her, and I answered boldly:
“You are right, madam. You supply the words my tongue checked at, but not the reason which prompted them. In the old days, when a poor mortal intruded upon a goddess, he paid for his presumption with all the pangs of despair, and I feared that the experience might not be obsolete.”
She appeared a trifle mollified by my adulation, and replied archly, making play with her eyebrows:
“’Tis a pretty interpretation to put upon the words, but the words came first, I fear, and suggested the explanation.”
“You should not blame me for the words, but rather yourself. An awkward speech, madam, implies startled senses, and so should be reckoned a more genuine compliment than the most nicely-ordered eulogy.”
“That makes your peace,” said she, much to my relief, for this work of gallantry was ever discomforting to me, my flatteries being of the heaviest and causing me no small labour in the making. “That makes your peace. I accept the explanation.”
“And will answer the question?” said I, returning to the charge.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 201