At dessert I am going to hand one of the gold cups in which we are going to put a glass of some of the Duke’s original old Chartreuse, to the bridal pair, as if to drink their health; and then, when they have drunk it, I am going to be overcome at the mistake of having given them a love-potion, just as in the real story! You can’t tell–it may bring them together.”
“Queen Anne, you wonder!” said the Crow.
“It is such a deliciously incongruous idea, you see,” Lady Anningford went on. “All of us in long pre-mediaeval garments, with floating hair, and all of you in modern hunt coats! I should like to have seen Tristram in gold chain armor.”
The Crow grunted approval.
“Ethelrida is going to arrange that they go in to dinner together. She is going to say it will be their last chance before they get to _King Mark_. Won’t it all be perfect?”
“Well, I suppose you know best,” the Crow said, with his wise old head on one side. “But they are at a ticklish pass in their careers, I tell you. The balance might go either way. Don’t make it too hard for them, out of mistaken kindness.”
“You are tiresome, Crow!” retorted Lady Anningford. “I never can do a thing I think right without your warning me over it. Do leave it to me.”
So, thus admonished, Colonel Lowerby went on with his luncheon.
Zara’s eyes looked more stormy than ever, when her husband chanced to see them. He was sitting nearly opposite her, and he wondered what on earth she was thinking about. He was filled with a concentrated bitterness from the events of the morning. Her utter indifference over the Laura incident had galled him unbearably, although he told himself, as he had done before, the unconscionable fool he was to allow himself to go on being freshly wounded by each continued proof of her disdain of him. Why, when he knew a thing, should he not be prepared for it? He had a strong will; he _would_ overcome his emotion for her. He could, at least, make himself treat her, outwardly with the same apparent insolent indifference, as she treated him.
He made a firm resolve once again, he would not speak to her at all, any more than he had done the last three days in Paris. He would accept the position until the Wrayth rejoicings were over, and then he would certainly make arrangements to go and shoot lions, or travel, or something. There should be no further “perhaps” about it. Life, with the agonizing longing for her, seeing her daily and being denied, was more than could be borne.
There was something about Zara’s type, the white, exquisite beauty of her skin, her slenderly voluptuous shape, the stormy suggestion of hidden passion in her slumberous eyes, which had always aroused absolutely mad emotions in men. Tristram, who was a normal Englishman, self-contained and reserved, and too completely healthy to be highly-strung, felt undreamed-of sensations rise in him when he looked at her, which was as rarely as possible. He understood now what was meant by an obsession–all the states of love he had read of in French novels and dismissed as “tommyrot.” She did not only affect him with a thrilling physical passion. It was an obsession of the mind as well. He suffered acutely; as each day passed it seemed as if he could not bear any more, and the next always brought some further pain.
They had actually only been married for ten days! and it seemed an eternity of anguish to both of them, for different reasons.
Zara’s nature was trying to break through the iron bands of her life training. Once she had admitted to herself that she loved her husband, her suffering was as deep as his, only that she was more practiced in the art of suppressing all emotion. But it was no wonder that they both looked pale and stern, and quite unbridal.
The sportsmen started immediately after lunch again, and the ladies returned to their delightful work; and, when they all assembled for tea, everything was almost completed. Zara had been unable to resist the current of light-hearted gayety which was in the air, and now felt considerably better; so she allowed Lord Elterton to sit beside her after tea and pour homage at her feet, with the expression of an empress listening to an address of loyalty from some distant colony; and the Crow leant back in his chair and chuckled to himself, much to Lady Anningford’s annoyance.
“What in the world is it, Crow?” she said. “When you laugh like that, I always know some diabolically cynical idea is floating in your head, and it is not good for you. Tell me at once what you mean!”
But Colonel Lowerby refused to be drawn, and presently took Tristram off into the billiard-room.
It was arranged that all the men, even the husbands, were to go down into the great white drawing-room first, so that the ladies might have the pleasure of making an entrance _en bande_, to the delight of every one. And when this group of Englishmen, so smart in their scarlet hunt coats, were assembled at the end, by the fireplace, footmen opened the big double doors, and the groom of the chambers announced,
“Her Majesty, _Queen Guinevere_, and the Ladies of her Court.”
And Ethelrida advanced, her fair hair in two long plaits, with her mother’s all-round diamond crown upon her head, and clothed in some white brocade garment, arranged with a blue merino cloak, trimmed with ermine and silver. She looked perfectly regal, and as nearly beautiful as she had ever done; and to the admiring eyes of Francis Markrute, she seemed to outshine all the rest.
Then, their names called as they entered, came Enid and Elaine, each fair and sweet; and Vivien and Ettarre; then Lynette walking alone, with her saucy nose in the air and her flaxen curls spread out over her cream robe, a most bewitching sight.
Several paces behind her came the _Three Fair Queens_, all in wonderfully contrived garments, and misty, floating veils; and lastly, quite ten paces in the rear, walked _Isolt_, followed by her _Brangaine_. And when the group by the fireplace caught sight of her, they one and all drew in their breath.
For Zara had surpassed all expectations. The intense and blatant blue of her long clinging robe, which would have killed the charms of nine women out of ten, seemed to enhance the beauty of her pure white skin and marvelous hair. It fell like a red shining cloak all round her, kept in only by a thin fillet of gold, while her dark eyes gleamed with a new excitement. She had relaxed her dominion of herself, and was allowing the natural triumphant woman in her to have its day. For once in her life she forgot everything of sorrow and care, and permitted herself to rejoice in her own beauty and its effect upon the world before her.
“Jee-hoshaphat!” was the first articulate word that the company heard, from the hush which had fallen upon them; and then there was a chorus of general admiration, in which all the ladies had their share. And only the Crow happened to glance at Tristram, and saw that his face was white as death.
Then the two parties, about twenty people in all, began to arrive from the other houses, and delighted exclamations of surprise at the splendor of the impromptu fancy garments were heard all over the room, and soon dinner was announced, and they went in.
“My Lord Tristram,” Ethelrida had said to her cousin, “I beg of you to conduct to my festal board your own most beautiful _Lady Isolt_. Remember, on Monday you leave us for the realm of _King Mark_, so make the most of your time!” And she turned and led forward Zara, and placed her hand in his; she, and they all, were too preoccupied with excitement and joy to see the look of deep pain in his eyes.
He held his wife’s hand, until the procession started, and neither of them spoke a word. Zara, still exalted with the spirit of the night, felt only a wild excitement. She was glad he could see her beauty and her hair, and she raised her head and shook it back, as they started, with a provoking air.
But Tristram never spoke; and by the time they had reached the banqueting-hall, some of her exaltation died down, and she felt a chill.
Her hair was so very long and thick that she had to push it aside, to sit down, and in doing so a mesh flew out and touched his face; and the Crow, who was watching the whole drama intently, noticed that he shivered and, if possible, grew more pale. So he turned to his own servant, behind his chair, who with some of the other valets, was helping to wait, and whispered to him, “Go and see that Lord Tancred is handed brandy, at once, before the soup.”
And so the feast began.
On Zara’s other hand sat the Duke, and on Tristram’s, Brangaine–for so she and Ethelrida had arranged for their later plan; and after the brandy, which Tristram dimly wondered why he should have been handed, he pulled himself together, and tried to talk; and Zara busied herself with the Duke. She quite came out of her usual silence, and laughed, and looked so divinely attractive that the splendid old gentleman felt it all going to his head; and his thoughts wondered bluntly, how soon, if he were his nephew, he would take her away after dinner and make love to her all to himself! But these modern young fellows had not half the mettle that he had had!
So at last dessert-time came, with its toasts for the _Queen Guinevere_. And the bridal pair had spoken together never a word; and Lady Anningford, who was watching them, began to fear for the success of her plan. However, there was no use turning back now. So, amidst jests of all sorts in keeping with the spirit of Camelot and the Table Round, at last _Brangaine_ rose and, taking the gold cup in front of her, said,
“I, _Brangaine_, commissioned by her Lady Mother, to conduct the _Lady Isolt_ safely to _King Mark_, under the knightly protection of the _Lord Tristram_, do now propose to drink their health, and ye must all do likewise, Lords and Ladies of Arthur’s court.” And she sipped her own glass, while she handed the gold cup to the Duke, who passed it on to the pair; and Tristram, because all eyes were upon him, forced himself to continue the jest. So he rose and, taking Zara’s hand, while he bowed to the company, gave her the cup to drink, and then took it himself, while he drained the measure. And every one cried, amidst great excitement, “The health and happiness of _Tristram_ and _Isolt_!”
Then, when the tumult had subsided a little, _Brangaine_ gave a pretended shriek.
“Mercy me! I am undone!” she cried. “They have quaffed of the wrong cup! That gold goblet contained a love-potion distilled from rare plants by the Queen, and destined for the wedding wine of _Isolt_ and _King Mark_! And now the _Lord Tristram_ and she have drunk it together, by misadventure, and can never be parted more! Oh, misery me! What have I done!”
And amidst shouts of delighted laughter led by the Crow–in frozen silence, Tristram held his wife’s hand.
But after a second, the breeding in them both, as on their wedding evening before the waiters, again enabled them to continue the comedy; and they, too, laughed, and, with the Duke’s assistance, got through the rest of dinner, until they all rose and went out, two and two, the men leading their ladies by the hand, as they had come in.
And if the cup had indeed contained a potion distilled by the Irish sorceress Queen, the two victims could not have felt more passionately in love.
But Tristram’s pride won the day for him, for this one time, and not by a glance or a turn of his head did he let his bride see how wildly her superlative attraction had kindled the fire in his blood. And when the dancing began, he danced with every other lady first, and then went off into the smoking-room, and only just returned in time to be made to lead out his “_Isolt_” in a final quadrille–not a valse. No powers would have made him endure the temptation of a valse!
And even this much, the taking of her hand, her nearness, the sight of the exquisite curves of her slender figure, and her floating hair, caused him an anguish unspeakable, so that when the rest of the company had gone, and good nights were said, he went up to his room, changed his coat, and strode away alone, out into the night.
CHAPTER XXX
Every one was so sleepy and tired on Sunday morning, after their night at Arthur’s Court, that only Lady Ethelrida and Laura Highford, who had a pose of extreme piety always ready at hand, started with the Duke and Young Billy for church. Francis Markrute watched them go from his window, which looked upon the entrance, and he thought how stately and noble his fair lady looked; and he admired her disciplined attitude, no carousal being allowed to interfere with her duties. She was a rare and perfect specimen of her class.
His lady fair! For he had determined, if fate plainly gave him the indication, to risk asking her to-day to be his fair lady indeed. A man must know when to strike, if the iron is hot.
He had carefully prepared all the avenues; and had made himself of great importance to the Duke, allowing his masterly brain to be seen in glimpses, and convincing His Grace of his possible great usefulness to the party to which he belonged. He did not look for continued opposition in that quarter, once he should have assured himself that Lady Ethelrida loved him. That he loved her, with all the force of his self-contained nature, was beyond any doubt. Love, as a rule, recks little of the suitability of the object, when it attacks a heart; but in some few cases–that is the peculiar charm–Francis Markrute had waited until he was forty-six years old, firmly keeping to his ideal, until he found her, in a measure of perfection, of which even he had not dared to dream. His theory, which he had proved in his whole life, was that nothing is beyond the grasp of a man who is master of himself and his emotions. But even his iron nerves felt the tension of excitement, as luncheon drew to an end, and he knew in half an hour, when most of the company were safely disposed of, he should again find his way to his lady’s shrine.
Ethelrida did not look at him. She was her usual, charmingly-gracious self to her neighbors, solicitous of Tristram’s headache. He had only just appeared, and looked what he felt–a wreck. She was interested in some news in the Sunday papers, which had arrived; and in short, not a soul guessed how her gentle being was uplifted, and her tender heart beating with this, the first real emotion she had ever experienced.
Even the Crow, so thrilled with his interest in the bridal pair, had not scented anything unusual in his hostess’s attitude towards one of her guests.
“I think Mr. Markrute is awfully attractive, don’t you, Crow?” said Lady Anningford, as they started for their walk. To go to Lynton Heights after lunch on Sunday was almost an invariable custom at Montfitchet. “I can’t say what it is, but it is something subtle and extraordinary, like that in his niece–what do you think?”
Colonel Lowerby paused, struck from her words by the fact that he had been too preoccupied to have noticed this really interesting man.
“Why, ‘pon my soul–I haven’t thought!” he said, “but now you speak of it, I do think he is a remarkable chap.”
“He is so very quiet,” Lady Anningford went on, “and, whenever he speaks, it is something worth listening to; and if you get on any subject of books, he is a perfect encyclopaedia. He gives me the impression of all the forces of power and will, concentrated in a man. I wonder who he really is? Not that it matters a bit in these days. Do you think there is any Jew in him? It does not show in his type, but when foreigners are very rich there generally is.”
“Sure to be, as he is so intelligent,” the Crow growled. “If you notice, numbers of the English families who show brains have a touch of it in the background. So long as the touch is far enough away, I have no objection to it myself–prefer folks not to be fools.”
“I believe I have no prejudices at all,” said Lady Anningford. “If I like people, I don’t care what is in their blood.”
“It is all right till you scratch ’em. Then it comes out; but if, as I say, it is far enough back, the Jew will do the future Tancred race a power of good, to get the commercial common sense of it into them–knew Maurice Grey, her father, years ago, and he was just as indifferent to money and material things, as Tristram is himself. So the good will come from the Markrute side, we will hope.”
“I rather wonder, Crow–if there ever will be any more of the Tancred race. I thought last night we had a great failure, and that nothing will make that affair prosper. I don’t believe they ever see one another from one day to the next! It is extremely sad.”
“I told you they had come to a ticklish point in their careers,” the Crow permitted himself to remind his friend, “and, ‘pon my soul, I could not bet you one way or another how it will go. ‘I hae me doots,’ as the Scotchman said.”
Meanwhile, Ethelrida, on the plea of letters to write, had retired to her room; and there, as the clock struck a quarter past three, she awaited–what? She would not own to herself that it was her fate. She threw dust in her own eyes, and called it a pleasant talk!
She looked absurdly young for her twenty-six years, just a dainty slip of a patrician girl, as she sat there on her chintz sofa, with its fresh pattern of lilacs and tender green. Everything was in harmony, even to her soft violet cloth dress trimmed with fur.
And again as the hour for the trysting chimed, her lover that was to be, entered the room.
“This is perfectly divine,” he said, as he came in, while the roguish twinkle of a schoolboy, who has outwitted his mates sparkled in his fine eyes. “All those good people tramping for miles in the cold and damp, while we two sensible ones are going to enjoy a nice fire and a friendly chat.”
Thus he disarmed her nervousness, and gave her time.
“May I sit by you, my Lady Ethelrida?” he said; and as she smiled, he took his seat, but not too near her–nothing must be the least hurried or out of place.
So for about a quarter of an hour they talked of books–their favorites–hers, all so simple and chaste, his, of all kinds, so long as they showed style, and were masterpieces of taste and balance. Then, as a great piece of wood fell in the open grate and made a volley of sparks, he leaned forward a little and asked her if he might tell her that for which he had come, the history of a man.
The daylight was drawing in, and they had an hour before them.
“Yes,” said Ethelrida, “only let us make up the fire first, and only turn on that one soft light,” and she pointed to a big gray china owl who carried a simple shade of white painted with lilacs on his back. “Then we need not move again, because I want extremely to hear it–the history of a man.”
He obeyed her commands, and also drew the silk blinds.
“Now, indeed, we are happy; at least, I am,” he said.
Lady Ethelrida leant back on her muslin embroidered cushion and prepared herself to listen with a rapt face.
Francis Markrute stood by the fire for a while, and began from there:
“You must go right back with me to early days, Sweet Lady,” he said, “to a palace in a gloomy city and to an artiste–a ballet-dancer–but at the same time a great _musicienne_ and a good and beautiful woman, a woman with red, splendid hair, like my niece. There she lived in a palace in this city, away from the world with her two children; an Emperor was her lover and her children’s father; and they all four were happy as the day was long. The children were a boy and a girl, and presently they began to grow up, and the boy began to think about life and to reason things out with himself. He had, perhaps, inherited this faculty from his grandfather, on his mother’s side, who was a celebrated poet and philosopher and a Spanish Jew. So his mother, the beautiful dancer, was half Jewess, and, from her mother again, half Spanish noble; for this philosopher had eloped with the daughter of a Spanish grandee, and she was erased from the roll. I go back this far not to weary you, but that you may understand what forces in race had to do with the boy’s character. The daughter again of this pair became an artist and a dancer, and being a highly educated, as well as a superbly beautiful woman–a woman with all Zara’s charm and infinitely more chiseled features–she won the devoted love of the Emperor of the country in which they lived. I will not go into the moral aspect of the affair. A great love recks not of moral aspects. Sufficient to say, they were ideally happy while the beautiful dancer lived. She died when the boy was about fifteen, to his great and abiding grief. His sister, who was a year or two younger than he, was then all he had to love, because political and social reasons in that country made it very difficult, about this time, for him often to see his father, the Emperor.
“The boy was very carefully educated, and began early, as I have told you, to think for himself and to dream. He dreamed of things which might have been, had he been the heir and son of the Empress, instead of the child of her who seemed to him so much the greater lady and queen, his own mother, the dancer; and he came to see that dreams that are based upon regrets are useless and only a factor in the degradation, not the uplifting of a man. The boy grew to understand that from that sweet mother, even though the world called her an immoral woman, he had inherited something much more valuable to himself than the Imperial crown–the faculty of perception and balance, physical and moral, to which the family of the Emperor, his father, could lay no claim. From them, both he and his sister had inherited a stubborn, indomitable pride. You can see it, and have already remarked it, in Zara–that sister’s child.
“So when the boy grew to be about twenty, he determined to carve out a career for himself, to create a great fortune, and so make his own little kingdom, which should not be bound by any country or race. He had an English tutor–he had always had one–and in his studies of countries and peoples and their attributes, the English seemed to him to be much the finest race. They were saner, more understanding, more full of the sense of the fitness of things, and of the knowledge of life and how to live it wisely.
“So the boy, with no country, and no ingrained patriotism for the place of his birth, determined he, being free and of no nation, should, when he had made this fortune, migrate there, and endeavor to obtain a place among those proud people, whom he so admired in his heart. That was his goal, in all his years of hard work, during which time he grew to understand the value of individual character, regardless of nation or of creed; and so, when finally he did come to this country, it was not to seek, but to command.” And here Francis Markrute, master of vast wealth and the destinies of almost as many human souls as his father, the Emperor, had been, raised his head. And Lady Ethelrida, daughter of a hundred noble lords, knew her father, the Duke, was no prouder than he, the Spanish dancer’s son. And something in her fine spirit went out to him; and she, there in the firelight with the soft owl lamp silvering her hair, stretched out her hand to him; and he held it and kissed it tenderly, as he took his seat by her side.
“My sweet and holy one,” he said. “And so you understand!”
“Yes, yes!” said Ethelrida. “Oh, please go on”–and she leaned back against her pillow, but she did not seek to draw away her hand.
“There came a great grief, then, in the life of the boy who was now a grown man. His sister brought disgrace upon herself, and died under extremely distressful circumstances, into which I need not enter here; and for a while these things darkened and embittered his life.” He paused a moment, and gazed into the fire, a look of deep sorrow and regret on his sharply-cut face, and Ethelrida unconsciously allowed her slim fingers to tighten in his grasp. And when he felt this gentle sympathy, he stroked her hand.
“The man was very hard then, sweet lady,” he went on. “He regrets it now, deeply. The pure angel, who at this day rules his life, with her soft eyes of divine mercy and gentleness, has taught him many lessons; and it will be his everlasting regret that he was hard then. But it was a great deep wound to his pride, that quality which he had inherited from his father, and had not then completely checked and got in hand. Pride should be a factor for noble actions and a great spirit, but not for overbearance toward the failings of others. He knows that now. If this lady, whom he worships, should ever wish to learn the whole details of this time, he will tell her even at any cost to his pride, but for the moment let me get on to pleasanter things.”
And Ethelrida whispered, “Yes, yes,” so he continued:
“All his life from a boy’s to a man’s, this person we are speaking of had kept his ideal of the woman he should love. She must be fine and shapely, and noble and free; she must be tender and devoted, and gracious and good. But he passed all his early manhood and grew to middle age, before he even saw her shadow across his path. He looked up one night, eighteen months ago, at a court ball, and she passed him on the arm of a royal duke, and unconsciously brushed his coat with her soft dove’s wing; and he knew that it was she, after all those years, so he waited and planned, and met her once or twice; but fate did not let him advance very far, and so a scheme entered his head. His niece, the daughter of his dead sister, had also had a very unhappy life; and he thought she, too, should come among these English people, and find happiness with their level ways. She was beautiful and proud and good, so he planned the marriage between his niece and the cousin of the lady he worshiped, knowing by that he should be drawn nearer his star, and also pay the debt to his dead sister, by securing the happiness of her child; but primarily it was his desire to be nearer his own worshiped star, and thus it has all come about.” He paused, and looked full at her face, and saw that her sweet eyes were moist with some tender, happy tears. So he leaned forward, took her other hand, and kissed them both, placing the soft palms against his mouth for a second; then he whispered hoarsely, his voice at last trembling with the passionate emotion he felt:
“Ethelrida–darling–I love you with my soul–tell me, my sweet lady, will you be my wife?”
And the Lady Ethelrida did not answer, but allowed herself to be drawn into his arms.
And so in the firelight, with the watchful gray owl, the two rested blissfully content.
CHAPTER XXXI
When Lady Ethelrida came down to tea, her sweet face was prettily flushed, for she was quite unused to caresses and the kisses of a man. Her soft gray eyes were shining with a happiness of which she had not dreamed, and above all things, she was filled with the exquisite emotion of having a secret!–a secret of which even her dear friend Anne was ignorant–a blessed secret, just shared between her lover and herself. And Lady Anningford, who had no idea that she had spent the afternoon with the financier, but believed she had religiously written letters alone, wondered to herself what on earth made Ethelrida look so joyous and not the least fatigued, as most of the others were. She really got prettier, she thought, as she grew older, and was always the greatest dear in the whole world. But, to look as happy as that and have a face so flushed, was quite mysterious and required the opinion of the Crow!
So she dragged Colonel Lowerby off to a sofa, and began at once:
“Crow, do look at Ethelrida’s face! Did you ever see one so idiotically blissful, except when she has been kissed by the person she loves?”
“Well, how do you know that is not the case with our dear Ethelrida?” grunted the Crow. “She did not come out for a walk. You had better count up, and see who else stayed at home!”
So Lady Anningford began laughingly. The idea was too impossible, but she must reason it out.
“There was Lord Melton but Lady Melton stayed behind, too, and the Thornbys–all impossible. There was no one else except Tristram, who I know was in the smoking-room, with a fearful headache, and Mr. Markrute, who was with the Duke.”
“Was he with the Duke?” queried the Crow.
“Crow!” almost gasped Lady Anningford. “Do you mean to tell me that you think Ethelrida would have her face looking like that about a foreigner! My dear friend, you must have taken leave of your seven senses–” and then she paused, for several trifles came back to her recollection, connected with these two, which, now that the Crow had implanted a suspicion in her breast, began to assume considerable proportions.
Ethelrida had talked of most irrelevant matters always during their good-night chats, unless the subject happened to be Zara, and she had never once mentioned Mr. Markrute personally or given any opinion about him; and yet, as Anne had seen, they had often talked. There must be something in it, but that was not enough to account for Ethelrida’s face. A pale, rather purely colorless complexion like hers did not suddenly change to bright scarlet cheeks, without some practical means! And, as Anne very well knew, kisses were a very practical means! But her friend Ethelrida would never allow any man to kiss her, unless she had promised to marry him. Now, if it had been Lily Opie, she could not have been so sure, though she hoped she could be sure of any nice girl; but about Ethelrida she could take her oath. It followed, as Ethelrida had been quite pale at lunch and was not a person who went to sleep over fires, something extraordinary must have happened–but what?
“Crow, dear, I have never been so thrilled in my life,” she said, after her thoughts had come to this stage. “The lurid tragedy of the honeymoon pair cannot compare in interest to anything connected with my sweet Ethelrida, for me, so it is your duty to put that horribly wise, cynical brain of yours to work and unravel me this mystery. Look, here is Mr. Markrute coming in–let us watch his face!”
But, although they subjected the financier to the keenest good-natured scrutiny, he did not show a sign or give them any clue. He sat down quietly, and began talking casually to the group by the tea-table, while he methodically spread his bread and butter with blackberry jam. Such delicious schoolroom teas the company indulged in, at the hospitable tea-table of Montfitchet! He did not seem to be even addressing Ethelrida. What could it be?
“I believe we have made a mistake after all, Crow,” Lady Anningford said disappointedly. “Look–he is quite unmoved.”
The Crow gave one of his chuckles, while he answered slowly, between his sips of tea:
“A man doesn’t handle millions in the year, and twist and turn about half the governments of Europe, if he can’t keep his face from showing what he doesn’t mean you to see! Bless your dear heart, Mr. Francis Markrute is no infant!” and the chuckle went on.
“You may think yourself very wise, Crow, and so you are,” Lady Anningford retorted severely, “but you don’t know anything about love. When a man is in love, even if he were Machiavelli himself, it would be bound to show in his eye–if one looked long enough.”
“Then your plan, my dear Queen Anne, is to look,” the Crow said, smiling. “For my part, I want to see how the other pair have got on. They are my pets; and I don’t consider they have spent at all a suitable honeymoon Sunday afternoon–Tristram, with a headache in the smoking-room, and the bride, taking a walk and being made love to by Arthur Elterton, and Young Billy, alternately. The kid is as wild about her as Tristram himself, I believe!”
“Then you still think Tristram is in love with her, do you, Crow?” asked Anne, once more interested in her original thrill. “He did not show the smallest signs of it last night then, if so; and how he did not seize her in his arms and devour her there and then, with all that lovely hair down and her exquisite shape showing the outline so in that dress–I can’t think! He must be as cold as a stone, and I never thought him so before, did you?”
“No, and he isn’t either, I tell you what, my dear girl, there is something pretty grim keeping those two apart, I am sure. She is the kind of woman who arouses the fiercest passions; and Tristram is in the state that, if something were really to set alight his jealousy, he might kill her some day.”
“Crow–how terrible!” gasped Anne, and then seeing that her friend’s face was serious, and not chaffing, she, too, looked grave. “Then what on earth is to be done?” she asked.
“I don’t know, I have been thinking it over ever since I came in. I found him in the smoking-room, staring in front of him, not even pretending to read, and looking pretty white about the gills; and when he saw it was only me, and I asked him if his head were worse, and whether he had not better have a brandy and soda, he simply said: ‘No, thanks, the whole thing is a d—- rotten show.’ I’ve known him since he was a blessed baby you know, so he didn’t mind me for a minute. Then he recollected himself, and said, yes, he would have a drink; and when he poured it out, he only sipped it, and then forgot about it, jumped up, and blurted out he had some letters to write, so I left him. I am awfully sorry for the poor chap, I can tell you. If it is not fate, but some caprice of hers, she deserves a jolly good beating, for making him suffer like that.”
“Couldn’t you say something to her, Crow, dear? We are all so awfully fond of Tristram, and there does seem some tragedy hanging over them that ought to be stopped at once. Couldn’t you, Crow?”
But Colonel Lowerby shook his head.
“It is too confoundedly ticklish,” he grunted. “It might do some good, and it might just do the other thing. It is too dangerous to interfere.”
“Well, you have made me thoroughly uncomfortable,” Lady Anningford said. “I shall get hold of him to-night, and see what I can do.”
“Then, mind you are careful, Queen Anne–that is all that I can say,” and at that moment, the Duke joining them, the tete-a-tete broke up.
Zara had not appeared at tea. She said she was very tired, and would rest until dinner. If she had been there, her uncle had meant to take her aside into one of the smaller sitting-rooms, and tell her the piece of information he deemed it now advisable for her to know; but as she did not appear, or Tristram, either, he thought after all they might be together, and his interference would be unnecessary. But he decided, if he saw the same frigid state of things at dinner, he would certainly speak to her after it; and relieved from duty, he went once more to find his lady love in her sitting-room.
“Francis!” she whispered, as he held her next his heart for a moment. “You must not stay ten minutes, for Lady Anningford or Lady Melton is sure to come in–Anne, especially, who has been looking at me with such reproachful eyes, for having neglected her all this, our last afternoon.”
“I care not for a thousand Annes, Ethelrida mine!” he said softly, as he kissed her. “If she does come, will it matter? Would you rather she did not guess anything yet, my dearest?”
“Yes–” said Ethelrida, “–I don’t want any one to know, until you have told my father,–will you do so to-night–or wait until to-morrow? I–I can’t–I feel so shy–and he will be so surprised.” She did not add her secret fear that her parent might be very angry.
They had sat down upon the sofa now, under the light of their kindly gray owl; and Francis Markrute contented himself with caressing his lady’s hair, as he answered:
“I thought of asking the Duke, if I might stay until the afternoon train, as I had something important to discuss with him, and then wait and see him quietly, when all the others have gone, if that is what you would wish, my sweet. I will do exactly as you desire about all things. I want you to understand that. You are to have your own way in everything in life.”
“You know very well that I should never want it, if it differed from yours, Francis.” What music he found in his name! “You are so very wise, it will be divine to let you guide me!” Which tender speech showed that the gentle Ethelrida had none of the attitude of the modern bride.
And thus it was arranged. The middle-aged, but boyishly-in-love, fiance was to tackle his future father-in-law in the morning’s light; and to-night, let the household sleep in peace!
So, after a blissful interlude, as he saw in spite of the joy they found together, his Ethelrida was still slightly nervous of Lady Anningford’s entrance, he got up to say good night, as alas! this would probably be the last chance they would have alone before he left.
“And you will not make me wait too long, my darling,” he implored, “will you? You see, every moment away from you, will now be wasted. I do not know how I have borne all these years alone!”
And she promised everything he wished, for Francis Markrute, at forty-six, had far more allurements than an impetuous young lover. Not a tenderness, a subtlety of flattery and homage, those things so dear to a woman’s heart, were forgotten by him. He really worshiped Ethelrida and his fashion of showing his feeling was in all ways to think first of what she would wish; which proved that if her attitude were unmodern, as far as women were concerned, his was even more so, among men!
Tristram had gone out for another walk alone, after the Crow had left him. He wanted to realize the details of the coming week, and settle with himself how best to get through with them.
He and Zara were to start in their own motor at about eleven for Wrayth, which was only forty miles across the border into Suffolk. They would reach it inside of two hours easily, and arrive at the first triumphal arch of the park before one; and so go on through the shouting villagers to the house, where in the great banqueting hall, which still remained, a relic of Henry IV’s time, joined on to the Norman keep, they would have to assist at a great luncheon to the principal tenants, while the lesser fry feasted in a huge tent in the outer courtyard.
Here, endless speeches would have to be made and listened to, and joy simulated, and a general air of hilarity kept up; and the old housekeeper would have prepared the large rooms in the Adam wing for their reception; and they would not be free to separate, until late at night, for there would be the servants’ and employes’ ball, after a tete-a-tete dinner in state, where their every action would be watched and commented upon by many curious eyes. Yes, it was a terrible ordeal to go through, under the circumstances; and no wonder he wanted the cold, frosty evening air to brace him up!
At the end of his troubled thoughts he had come to the conclusion that there was only one thing to be done–he must speak to her to-night, tell her what to expect, and ask her to play her part. “She is fortunately game, even if cold as stone,” he said to himself, “and if I appeal to her pride, she will help me out.” So he came back into the house, and went straight up to her room. He had been through too much suffering and anguish of heart, all night and all day, to be fearful of temptation. He felt numb, as he knocked at the door and an indifferent voice called out, “Come in!”
He opened it a few inches and said: “It is I–Tristram–I have something I must say to you–May I come in?–or would you prefer to come down to one of the sitting-rooms? I dare say we could find one empty, so as to be alone.”
“Please come in,” her voice said, and she was conscious that she was trembling from head to foot.
So he obeyed her, shutting the door firmly after him and advancing to the fireplace. She had been lying upon the sofa wrapped in a soft blue tea-gown, and her hair hung in the two long plaits, which she always unwound when she could to take its weight from her head. She rose from her reclining position and sat in the corner; and after glancing at her for a second, Tristram turned his eyes away, and leaning on the mantelpiece, began in a cold grave voice:
“I have to ask you to do me a favor. It is to help me through to-morrow and the few days after, as best you can, by conforming to our ways. It has been always the custom in the family, when a Tancred brought home his bride, to have all sorts of silly rejoicings. There will be triumphal arches in the park, and collections of village people, a lunch for the principal tenants, speeches, and all sorts of boring things. Then we shall have to dine alone in the state dining-room, with all the servants watching us, and go to the household and tenants’ ball in the great hall. It will all be ghastly, as you can see.” He paused a moment, but he did not change the set tone in his voice when he spoke again, nor did he look at her. He had now come to the hardest part of his task.
“All these people–who are my people,” he went on, “think a great deal of these things, and of us–that is–myself, as their landlord, and you as my wife. We have always been friends, the country folk at Wrayth and my family, and they adored my mother. They are looking forward to our coming back and opening the house again–and–and–all that–and–” here he paused a second time, it seemed as if his throat were dry, for suddenly the remembrance of his dreams as he looked at Tristram Guiscard’s armor, which he had worn at Agincourt, came back to him–his dreams in his old oak-paneled room–of their home-coming to Wrayth; and the mockery of the reality hit him in the face.
Zara clasped her hands, and if he had glanced at her again, he would have seen all the love and anguish which was convulsing her shining in her sad eyes.
He mastered the emotion which had hoarsened his voice, and went on in an even tone: “What I have to ask is that you will do your share–wear some beautiful clothes, and smile, and look as if you cared; and if I feel that it will be necessary to take your hand or even kiss you, do not frown at me, or think I am doing it from choice–I ask you, because I believe you are as proud as I am,–I ask you, please, to play the game.”
And now he looked up at her, but the terrible emotion she was suffering had made her droop her head. He would not kiss her or take her hand–from choice–that was the main thing her woman’s heart had grasped, the main thing, which cut her like a knife.
“You can count upon me,” she said, so low he could hardly hear her; and then she raised her head proudly, and looked straight in front of her, but not at him, while she repeated more firmly: “I will do in every way what you wish–what your mother would have done. I am no weakling, you know, and as you said, I am as proud as yourself.”
He dared not look at her, now the bargain was made, so he took a step towards the door, and then turned and said:
“I thank you–I shall be grateful to you. Whatever may occur, please believe that nothing that may look as if it was my wish to throw us together, as though we were really husband and wife, will be my fault; and you can count upon my making the thing as easy for you as I can–and when the mockery of the rejoicings are over–then we can discuss our future plans.”
And though Zara was longing to cry aloud in passionate pain, “I love you! I love you! Come back and beat me, if you will, only do not go coldly like that!” she spoke never a word. The strange iron habit of her life held her, and he went sadly from the room.
And when he had gone, she could control herself no longer and, forgetful of coming maid and approaching dinner, she groveled on the white bearskin rug before the fire, and gave way to passionate tears–only to recollect in a moment the position of things. Then she got up and shook with passion against fate, and civilization, and custom–against the whole of life. She could not even cry in peace. No! She must play the game! So her eyes had to be bathed, the window opened, and the icy air breathed in, and at last she had quieted herself down to the look of a person with a headache, when the dressing-gong sounded, and her maid came into the room.
CHAPTER XXXII
This, the last dinner at Montfitchet, passed more quietly than the rest. The company were perhaps subdued, from their revels of the night before; and every one hates the thought of breaking up a delightful party and separating on the morrow, even when it has only been a merry gathering like this.
And two people were divinely happy, and two people supremely sad, and one mean little heart was full of bitterness and malice unassuaged. So after dinner was over, and they were all once more in the white drawing-room, the different elements assorted themselves.
Lady Anningford took Tristram aside and began, with great tact and much feeling, to see if he could be cajoled into a better mood; and finally got severely snubbed for her trouble, which hurt her more because she realized how deep must be his pain than from any offense to herself. Then Laura caught him and implanted her last sting:
“You are going away to-morrow, Tristram,–into your new life–and when you have found out all about your wife–and her handsome friend–you may remember that there was one woman who loved you truly–” and then she moved on and left him sitting there, too raging to move.
After this, his uncle had joined him, had talked politics, and just at the end, for the hearty old gentleman could not believe a man could really be cold or indifferent to as beautiful a piece of flesh and blood as his new niece, he had said:
“Tristram, my dear boy,–I don’t know whether it is the modern spirit–or not–but, if I were you, I’d be hanged if I would let that divine creature, your wife, out of my sight day or night!–When you get her alone at Wrayth, just kiss her until she can’t breathe–and you’ll find it is all right!”
With which absolutely sensible advice, he had slapped his nephew on the back, fixed in his eyeglass, and walked off; and Tristram had stood there, his blue eyes hollow with pain, and had laughed a bitter laugh, and gone to play bridge, which he loathed, with the Meltons and Mrs. Harcourt. So for him, the evening had passed.
And Francis Markrute had taken his niece aside to give her his bit of salutary information. He wished to get it over as quickly as possible, and had drawn her to a sofa rather behind a screen, where they were not too much observed.
“We have all had a most delightful visit, I am sure, Zara,” he had said, “but you and Tristram seem not to be yet as good friends as I could wish.”
He paused a moment, but as usual she did not speak, so he went on:
“There is one thing you might as well know, I believe you have not realized it yet, unless Tristram has told you of it himself.”
She looked up now, startled–of what was she ignorant then?
“You may remember the afternoon I made the bargain with you about the marriage,” Francis Markrute went on. “Well, that afternoon Tristram, your husband, had refused my offer of you and your fortune with scorn. He would never wed a rich woman he said, or a woman he did not know or love, for any material gain; but I knew he would think differently when he had seen how beautiful and attractive you were, so I continued to make my plans. You know my methods, my dear niece.”
Zara’s blazing and yet pitiful eyes were all his answer.
“Well, I calculated rightly. He came to dinner that night, and fell madly in love with you, and at once asked to marry you himself, while he insisted upon your fortune being tied up entirely upon you, and any children that you might have, only allowing me to pay off the mortgages on Wrayth for himself. It would be impossible for a man to have behaved more like a gentleman. I thought now, in case you had not grasped all this, you had better know.” And then he said anxiously, “Zara–my dear child–what is the matter?” for her proud head had fallen forward on her breast, with a sudden deadly faintness. This, indeed, was the filling of her cup.
His voice pulled her together, and she sat up; and to the end of his life, Francis Markrute will never like to remember the look in her eyes.
“And you let me go on and marry him, playing this cheat? You let me go on and spoil both our lives! What had I ever done to you, my uncle, that you should be so cruel to me? Or is it to be revenged upon my mother for the hurt she brought to your pride?”
If she had reproached him, stormed at him, anything, he could have borne it better; but the utter lifeless calm of her voice, the hopeless look in her beautiful white face, touched his heart–that heart but newly unwrapped and humanized from its mummifying encasements by the omnipotent God of Love. Had he, after all, been too coldly calculating about this human creature of his own flesh and blood? Was there some insurmountable barrier grown up from his action? For the first moment in his life he was filled with doubt and fear.
“Zara,” he said, anxiously, “tell me, dear child, what you mean? I let you go on in the ‘cheat,’ as you call it, because I knew you never would consent to the bargain, unless you thought it was equal on both sides. I know your sense of honor, dear, but I calculated, and I thought rightly, that, Tristram being so in love with you, he would soon undeceive you, directly you were alone. I never believed a woman could be so cold as to resist his wonderful charm–Zara–what has happened?–‘Won’t you tell me, child?”
But she sat there turned to stone. She had no thought to reproach him. Her heart and her spirit seemed broken, that was all.
“Zara–would you like me to do anything? Can I explain anything to him? Can I help you to be happy? I assure you it hurts me awfully, if this will not turn out all right–Zara,” for she had risen a little unsteadily from her seat beside him. “You cannot be indifferent to him for ever–he is too splendid a man. Cannot I do anything for you, my niece?”
Then she looked at him, and her eyes in their deep tragedy seemed to burn out of her deadly white face.
“No, thank you, my uncle,–there is nothing to be done–everything is now too late.” Then she added in the same monotonous voice, “I am very tired, I think I will wish you a good night.” And with immense dignity, she left him; and making her excuses with gentle grace to the Duke and Lady Ethelrida, she glided from the room.
And Francis Markrute, as he watched her, felt his whole being wrung with emotion and pain.
“My God!” he said to himself. “She is a glorious woman, and it will–it must–come right–even yet.”
And then he set his brain to calculate how he could assist them, and finally his reasoning powers came back to him, and he comforted himself with the deductions he made.
She was going away alone with this most desirable young man into the romantic environment of Wrayth. Human physical passion, to say the least of it, was too strong to keep them apart for ever, so he could safely leave the adjusting of this puzzle to the discretion of fate.
And Zara, freed at last from eye of friend or maid, collapsed on to the white bearskin in front of the fire again, and tried to think. So she had been offered as a chattel and been refused! Here her spirit burnt with humiliation. Her uncle, she knew, always had used her merely as a pawn in some game–what game? He was not a snob; the position of uncle to Tristram would not have tempted him alone; he never did anything without a motive and a deep one. Could it be that he himself was in love with Lady Ethelrida? She had been too preoccupied with her own affairs to be struck with those of others, but now as she looked back, he had shown an interest which was not in his general attitude towards women. How her mother had loved him, this wonderful brother! It was her abiding grief always, his unforgiveness,–and perhaps, although it seemed impossible to her, Lady Ethelrida was attracted by him, too. Yes, that must be it. It was to be connected with the family, to make his position stronger in the Duke’s eyes, that he had done this cruel thing. But, would it have been cruel if she herself had been human and different? He had called her from struggling and poverty, had given her this splendid young husband, and riches and place,–no, there was nothing cruel in it, as a calculated action. It should have given her her heart’s desire. It was she, herself, who had brought about things as they were, because of her ignorance, that was the cruelty, to have let her go away with Tristram, in ignorance.
Then the aspect of the case that she had been offered to him and refused! scourged her again; then the remembrance that he had taken her, for love. And what motive could he imagine she had had? This struck her for the first time–how infinitely more generous he had been–for he had not allowed, what he must have thought was pure mercenariness and desire for position on her part to interfere with his desire for her personally. He had never turned upon her, as she saw now he very well could have done, and thrown this in her teeth. And then she fell to bitter sobbing, and so at last to sleep.
And when the fire had died out, towards the gray dawn, she woke again shivering and in mortal fright, for she had dreamed of Mirko, and that he was being torn from her, while he played the _Chanson Triste_. Then she grew fully awake and remembered that this was the beginning of the new day–the day she should go to her husband’s home; and she had accused him of all the base things a man could do, and he had behaved like a gentleman; and it was she who was base, and had sold herself for her brother’s life, sold what should never be bartered for any life, but only for love.
Well, there was nothing to be done, only to “play the game”–the hackneyed phrase came back to her; he had used it, so it was sacred. Yes, all she could do for him now was, to “play the game”–everything else was–too late.
CHAPTER XXXIII
People left by all sorts of trains and motors in the morning; but there were still one or two remaining, when the bride and bridegroom made their departure, in their beautiful new car with its smart servants, which had come to fetch them, and take them to Wrayth.
And, just as the Dover young ladies on the pier had admired their embarkation, with its _apanages_ of position and its romantic look, so every one who saw them leave Montfitchet was alike elated. They were certainly an ideal pair.
Zara had taken the greatest pains to dress herself in her best. She remembered Tristram had admired her the first evening they had arrived for this visit, when she had worn sapphire blue, so now she put on the same colored velvet and the sable coat–yes, he liked that best, too, and she clasped some of his sapphire jewels in her ears and at her throat. No bride ever looked more beautiful or distinguished, with her gardenia complexion and red burnished hair, all set off by the velvet and dark fur.
But Tristram, after the first glance, when she came down, never looked at her–he dared not. So they said their farewells quietly; but there was an extra warmth and tenderness in Ethelrida’s kiss, as, indeed, there was every reason that there should be. If Zara had known! But the happy secret was still locked in the lovers’ breasts.
“Of course it must come all right, they look so beautiful!” Ethelrida exclaimed unconsciously, waving her last wave on the steps, as the motor glided away.
“Yes, it must indeed,” whispered Francis, who was beside her, and she turned and looked into his face.
“In twenty minutes, all the rest will be gone except the Crow, and Emily, and Mary, and Lady Anningford, who are staying on; and oh, Francis, how shall I get through the morning, knowing you are with Papa!”
“I will come to your sitting-room just before luncheon time, my dearest,” he whispered back reassuringly. “Do not distress yourself–it will be all right.”
And so they all went back into the house, and Lady Anningford, who now began to have grave suspicions, whispered to the Crow:
“I believe you are perfectly right, Crow. I am certain Ethelrida is in love with Mr. Markrute! But surely the Duke would never permit such a thing! A foreigner whom nobody knows anything of!”
“I never heard that there was any objection raised to Tristram marrying his niece. The Duke seemed to welcome it, and some foreigners are very good chaps,” the Crow answered sententiously, “especially Austrians and Russians; and he must be one of something of that sort. He has no apparent touch of the Latin race. It’s Latins I don’t like.”
“Well, I shall probably hear all about it from Ethelrida herself, now that we are alone. I am so glad I decided to stay with the dear girl until Wednesday, and you will have to wait till then, too, Crow.”
“As ever, I am at your orders,” he grunted, and lighting a cigar, he subsided into a great chair to read the papers, while Lady Anningford went on to the saloon. And presently, when all the departing guests were gone, Ethelrida linked her arm in that of her dear friend, and drew her with her up to her sitting-room.
“I have heaps to tell you, Anne!” she said, while she pushed her gently into a big low chair, and herself sank into the corner of her sofa. Ethelrida was not a person who curled up among pillows, or sat on rugs, or little stools. All her movements, even in her most intimate moments of affection with her friend, were dignified and reserved.
“Darling, I am thrilled,” Lady Anningford responded, “and I guess it is all about Mr. Markrute–and oh, Ethelrida, when did it begin?”
“He has been thinking of me for a long time, Anne–quite eighteen months–but I–” she looked down, while a tender light grew in her face, “I only began to be interested the night we dined with him–it is a little more than a fortnight ago–the dinner for Tristram’s engagement. He said a number of things not like any one else, then, and he made me think of him afterwards–and I saw him again at the wedding–and since he has been here–and do you know, Anne, I have never loved any one before in my life!”
“Ethelrida, you darling, I know you haven’t!” and Anne bounded up and gave her a hug. “And I knew you were perfectly happy, and had had a blissful afternoon when you came down to tea yesterday. Your whole face was changed, you pet!”
“Did I look so like a fool, Anne?” Ethelrida cried.
Then Lady Anningford laughed happily, as she answered with a roguish eye,
“It was not exactly that, darling, but your dear cheeks were scarlet, as though they had been exquisitely kissed!”
“Oh!” gasped Ethelrida, flaming pink, as she laughed and covered her face with her hands.
“Perhaps he knows how to make love nicely–I am no judge of such things–in any case, he makes me thrill. Anne, tell me, is that–that curious sensation as though one were rather limp and yet quivering–is that just how every one feels when they are in love?”
“Ethelrida, you sweet thing!” gurgled Anne.
Then Ethelrida told her friend about the present of books, and showed them to her, and of all the subtlety of his ways, and how they appealed to her.
“And oh, Anne, he makes me perfectly happy and sure of everything; and I feel that I need never decide anything for myself again in my life!”
Which, taking it all round, was a rather suitable and fortunate conviction for a man to have implanted in his lady love’s breast, and held out the prospect of much happiness in their future existence together.
“I think he is very nice looking,” said Anne, “and he has the most perfect clothes. I do like a man to have that groomed look, which I must say most Englishmen have, but Tristram has it, especially, and Mr. Markrute, too. If you knew the despair my old man is to me with his indifference about his appearance. It is my only crumpled rose leaf, with the dear old thing.”
“Yes,” agreed Ethelrida, “I like them to be smart–and above all, they must have thick hair. Anne, have you noticed Francis’ hair? It is so nice, it grows on his forehead just as Zara’s does. If he had been bald like Papa, I could not have fallen in love with him!”
So once more the fate of a man was decided by his hair!
And during this exchange of confidences, while Emily and Mary took a brisk walk with the Crow and young Billy, Francis Markrute faced his lady’s ducal father in the library.
He had begun without any preamble, and with perfect calm; and the Duke, who was above all a courteous gentleman, had listened, first with silent consternation and resentment, and then with growing interest.
Francis Markrute had manipulated infinitely more difficult situations, when the balance of some of the powers of Europe depended upon his nerve; but he knew, as he talked to this gallant old Englishman, that he had never had so much at stake, and it stimulated him to do his best.
He briefly stated his history, which Ethelrida already knew; he made no apology for his bar sinister; indeed, he felt none was needed. He knew, and the Duke knew, that when a man has won out as he had done, such things fade into space. And then with wonderful taste and discretion he had but just alluded to his vast wealth, and that it would be so perfectly administered through Lady Ethelrida’s hands, for the good of her order and of mankind.
And the Duke, accustomed to debate and the watching of methods in men, could not help admiring the masterly reserve and force of this man.
And, finally, when the financier had finished speaking, the Duke rose and stood before the fire, while he fixed his eyeglass in his eye.
“You have stated the case admirably, my dear Markrute,” he said, in his distinguished old voice. “You leave me without argument and with merely my prejudices, which I dare say are unjust, but I confess they are strongly in favor of my own countrymen and strongly against this union–though, on the other hand, my daughter and her happiness are my first consideration in this world. Ethelrida was twenty-six yesterday, and she is a young woman of strong and steady character, unlikely to be influenced by any foolish emotion. Therefore, if you have been fortunate enough to find favor in her eyes–if the girl loves you, in short, my dear fellow, then I have nothing to say.–Let us ring and have a glass of port!”
And presently the two men, now with the warmest friendship in their hearts for one another, mounted the staircase to Lady Ethelrida’s room, and there found her still talking to Anne.
Her sweet eyes widened with a question as the two appeared at the door, and then she rushed into her father’s arms and buried her face in his coat; and with his eyeglass very moist, the old Duke kissed her fondly–as he muttered.
“Why, Ethelrida, my little one. This is news! If you are happy, darling, that is all I want!”
So the whole dreaded moment passed off with rejoicing, and presently Lady Anningford and the fond father made their exit, and left the lovers alone.
“Oh, Francis, isn’t the world lovely!” murmured Ethelrida from the shelter of his arms. “Papa and I have always been so happy together, and now we shall be three, because you understand him, too, and you won’t make me stay away from him for very long times, will you, dear?”
“Never, my sweet. I thought of asking the Duke, if you would wish it, to let me take the place from him in this county, which eventually comes to you, and I will keep on Thorpmoor, my house in Lincolnshire, merely for the shooting. Then you would feel you were always in your own home, and perhaps the Duke would spend much time with us, and we could come to him here, in an hour; but all this is merely a suggestion–everything shall be as you wish.”
“Francis, you are good to me,” she said.
“Darling,” he whispered, as he kissed her hair, “it took me forty-six years to find my pearl of price.”
Then they settled all kinds of other details: how he would give Zara, for her own, the house in Park Lane, which would not be big enough now for them; and he would purchase one of those historic mansions, looking on The Green Park, which he knew was soon to be in the market. Ethelrida, if she left the ducal roof for the sake of his love, should find a palace worthy of her acceptance waiting for her.
He had completely recovered his balance, upset a little the night before by the uncomfortable momentary fear about his niece.
She and Tristram had arranged to come up to Park Lane for two nights again at the end of the week, to say good-bye to the Dowager Lady Tancred, who was starting with her daughters for Cannes. If he should see then that things were still amiss, he would tell Tristram the whole history of what Zara had thought of him. Perhaps that might throw some light on her conduct towards him, and so things could be cleared up. But he pinned his whole faith on youth and propinquity to arrange matters before then, and dismissed it from his mind.
Meanwhile, the pair in question were speeding along to Wrayth.
Of all the ordeals of the hours which Tristram had had to endure since his wedding, these occasions, upon which he had to sit close beside her in a motor, were the worst. An ordinary young man, not in love with her, would have found something intoxicating in her atmosphere–and how much more this poor Tristram, who was passionately obsessed.
Fortunately, she liked plenty of window open and did not object to smoke; but with the new air of meekness which was on her face and the adorably attractive personal scent of the creature, nearly two hours with her, under a sable rug, was no laughing matter.
At the end of the first half hour of silence and nearness, her husband found he was obliged to concentrate his mind by counting sheep jumping over imaginary stiles to prevent himself from clasping her in his arms.
It was the same old story, which has been chronicled over and over again. Two young, human, natural, normal people fighting against iron bars. For Zara felt the same as he, and she had the extra anguish of knowing she had been unjust, and that the present impossible situation was entirely her own doing.
And how to approach the subject and confess her fault? She did not know. Her sense of honor made her feel she must, but the queer silent habit of her life was still holding her enchained. And so, until they got into his own country, the strained speechlessness continued, and then he looked out and said:
“We must have the car opened now–please smile and bow as we go through the villages when any of the old people curtsey to you; the young ones won’t do it, I expect, but my mother’s old friends may.”
So Zara leaned forward, when the footman had opened the landaulette top, and tried to look radiant.
And the first act of this pitiful comedy began.
CHAPTER XXXIV
Every sort of emotion convulsed the new Lady Tancred’s heart, as they began to get near the park, with the village nestling close to its gates on the far side. So this was the home of her love and her lord; and they ought to be holding hands, and approaching it and the thought of their fond life together there with full hearts,–well, her heart was full enough, but only of anguish and pain. For Tristram, afraid of the smallest unbending, maintained a freezing attitude of contemptuous disdain, which she could not yet pluck up enough courage to break through to tell him she knew how unjust and unkind she had been.
And presently they came through cheering yokels to the South Lodge, the furthest away from the village, and so under a triumphant arch of evergreens, with banners floating and mottoes of “God Bless the Bride and Bridegroom” and “Health and Long Life to Lord and Lady Tancred.” And now Tristram did take her hand and, indeed, put his arm round her as they both stood up for a moment in the car, while raising his hat and waving it gayly he answered graciously:
“My friends, Lady Tancred and I thank you so heartily for your kind wishes and welcome home.”
Then they sat down, and the car went on, and his face became rigid again, as he let go her hand.
And at the next arch by the bridge, the same thing, only more elaborately carried out, began again, for here were all the farmers of the hunt, of which Tristram was a great supporter, on horseback; and the cheering and waving knew no end. The cavalcade of mounted men followed them round outside the Norman tower and to the great gates in the smaller one, where the portcullis had been.
Here all the village children were, and the old women from the almshouse, in their scarlet frieze cloaks and charming black bonnets; and every sort of wish for their happiness was shouted out. “Bless the beautiful bride and bring her many little lords and ladies, too,” one old body quavered shrilly, above the din, and this pleasantry was greeted with shouts of delight. And for that second Tristram dropped his lady’s hand as though it had burnt him, and then, recollecting himself, picked it up again. They were both pale with excitement and emotion, when they finally reached the hall-door in the ugly, modern Gothic wing and were again greeted by all the household servants in rows, two of them old and gray-haired, who had stayed on to care for things when the house had been shut up. There was Michelham back at his master’s old home, only promoted to be groom of the chambers, now, with a smart younger butler under him.
Tristram was a magnificent orderer, and knew exactly how things ought to be done.
And the stately housekeeper, in her black silk, stepped forward, and in the name of herself and her subordinates, bade the new mistress welcome, and hoping she was not fatigued, presented her with a bouquet of white roses. “Because his lordship told us all, when he was here making the arrangements, that your ladyship was as beautiful as a white rose!”
And tears welled up in Zara’s eyes and her voice trembled, as she thanked them and tried to smile.
“She was quite overcome, the lovely young lady,” they told one another afterwards, “and no wonder. Any woman would be mad after his lordship. It is quite to be understood.”
How they all loved him, the poor bride thought, and he had told them she was a beautiful white rose. He felt like that about her then, and she had thrown it all away. Now he looked upon her with loathing and disdain, and no wonder either–there was nothing to be done.
Presently, he took her hand again and placed it on his arm, as they walked through the long corridor, to the splendid hall, built by the brothers Adam, with its stately staircase to the gallery above.
“I have prepared the state rooms for your ladyship, pending your ladyship’s choice of your own,” Mrs. Anglin said. “Here is the boudoir, the bedroom, the bathroom, and his lordship’s dressing-room–all en suite–and I hope your ladyship will find them as handsome, as we old servants of the family think they are!”
And Zara came up to the scratch and made a charming little speech.
When they got to the enormous bedroom, with its windows looking out on the French garden and park, all in exquisite taste, furnished and decorated by the Adams themselves, Tristram gallantly bent and kissed her hand, as he said:
“I will wait for you in the boudoir, while you take off your coat. Mrs. Anglin will show you the toilet-service of gold, which was given by Louis XIV to a French grandmother and which the Ladies Tancred always use, when they are at Wrayth. I hope you won’t find the brushes too hard,” and he laughed and went out.
And Zara, overcome with the state and beauty and tradition of it all, sat down upon the sofa for a moment to try to control her pain. She was throbbing with rage and contempt at herself, at the remembrance that she, in her ignorance, her ridiculous ignorance, had insulted this man–this noble gentleman, who owned all these things–and had taunted him with taking her for her uncle’s wealth.
How he must have loved her in the beginning to have been willing to give her all this, after seeing her for only one night. She writhed with anguish. There is no bitterness as great as the bitterness of loss caused by oneself.
Tristram was standing by the window of the delicious boudoir when she went in. Zara, who as yet knew very little of English things, admired the Adam style; and when Mrs. Anglin left them discreetly for a moment, she told him so, timidly, for something to say.
“Yes, it is rather nice,” he said stiffly, and then went on: “We shall have to go down now to this fearful lunch, but you had better take your sable boa with you. The great hall is so enormous and all of stone, it may be cold. I will get it for you,” and he went back and found it lying by her coat on the chair, and brought it, and wrapped it round her casually, as if she had been a stone, and then held the door for her to go out. And Zara’s pride was stung, even though she knew he was doing exactly as she herself would have done, so that instead of the meek attitude she had unconsciously assumed, for a moment now she walked beside him with her old mien of head in the air, to the admiration of Mrs. Anglin, who watched them descend the stairs.
“She is as haughty-looking as our own ladyship,” she thought to herself. “I wonder how his lordship likes that!”
The great hall was a survival of the time of Henry IV with its dais to eat above the salt, and a magnificent stone fireplace, and an oak screen and gallery of a couple of centuries later. The tables were laid down each side, as in the olden time, and across the dais; and here, in the carved oak “Lord” and “Lady” chairs, the bride and bridegroom sat with a principal tenant and his wife on either side of them, while the powdered footmen served them with lunch.
And all the time, when one or two comic incidents happened, she longed to look at Tristram and laugh; but he maintained his attitude of cold reserve, only making some genial stereotyped remark, when it was necessary for the public effect.
And presently the speeches began, and this was the most trying moment of all. For the land-steward, who proposed their healths, said such nice things; and Zara realized how they all loved her lord, and her anger at herself grew and grew. In each speech from different tenants there was some intimate friendly allusion about herself, too, linking her always with Tristram; and these parts hurt her particularly.
Then Tristram rose to answer them in his name and hers. He made a splendid speech, telling them that he had come back to live among them and had brought them a beautiful new Lady–and here he turned to her a moment and took and kissed her hand–and how he would always think of all their interests in every way; and that he looked upon them as his dear old friends; and that he and Lady Tancred would always endeavor to promote their welfare, as long as the radicals–here he laughed, for they were all true blue to a man–would let them! And when voices shouted, “We want none of them rats here,” he was gay and chaffed them; and finally sat down amidst yells of applause.
Then an old apple-cheeked farmer got up from far down the table and made a long rambling harangue, about having been there, man and boy, and his forbears before him, for a matter of two hundred years; but he’d take his oath they had none of them ever seen such a beautiful bride brought to Wrayth as they were welcoming now; and he drank to her ladyship’s health, and hoped it would not be long before they would have another and as great a feast for the rejoicings over the son and heir!
At this deplorable bit of bucolic wit and hearty taste, Tristram’s face went stern as death; and he bit his lips, while his bride became the color of the red roses on the table in front of her.
Thus the luncheon passed. And amidst countless hand-shakes of affection, accelerated by port wine and champagne, the bride and bridegroom, followed by the land-steward and a chosen few, went to receive and return the same sort of speeches among the lesser people in the tent. Here the allusions to marital felicity were even more glaring, and Zara saw that each time Tristram heard them, an instantaneous gleam of bitter sarcasm would steal into his eyes. So, worn out at last with the heat in the tent and the emotions of the day, at about five, the bridegroom was allowed to conduct his bride to tea in the boudoir of the state rooms. Thus they were alone, and now was Zara’s time to make her confession, if it ever should come.
Tristram’s resolve had held him, nothing could have been more gallingly cold and disdainful than had been his treatment of her, so perfect, in its acting for ‘the game,’ and, so bitter, in the humiliation of the between times. She would tell him of her mistake. That was all. She must guard herself against showing any emotion over it.
They each sank down into chairs beside the fire with sighs of relief.
“Good Lord!” he said, as he put his hand to his forehead. “What a hideous mockery the whole thing is, and not half over yet! I am afraid you must be tired. You ought to go and rest until dinner–when, please be very magnificent and wear some of the jewels–part of them have come down from London on purpose, I think, beyond those you had at Montfitchet.”
“Yes, I will,” she answered, listlessly, and began to pour out the tea, while he sat quite still staring into the fire, a look of utter weariness and discouragement upon his handsome face.
Everything about the whole thing was hurting him so, all the pleasure he had taken in the improvements and the things he had done, hoping to please her; and now, as he saw them about, each one stabbed him afresh.
She gave him his cup without a word. She had remembered from Paris his tastes in cream and sugar; and then as the icy silence continued, she could bear it no longer.
“Tristram,” she said, in as level a voice as she could. At the sound of his name he looked at her startled. It was the first time she had ever used it!
She lowered her head and, clasping her hands, she went on constrainedly, so overcome with emotion she dared not let herself go. “I want to tell you something, and ask you to forgive me. I have learned the truth, that you did not marry me just for my uncle’s money. I know exactly what really happened now. I am ashamed, humiliated, to remember what I said to you. But I understood you had agreed to the bargain before you had ever seen me. The whole thing seemed so awful to me–so revolting–I am sorry for what I taunted you with. I know now that you are really a great gentleman.”
His face, if she had looked up and seen it, had first all lightened with hope and love; but as she went on coldly, the warmth died out of it, and a greater pain than ever filled his heart. So she knew now, and yet she did not love him. There was no word of regret for the rest of her taunts, that he had been an animal, and the blow in his face! The recollection of this suddenly lashed him again, and made him rise to his feet, all the pride of his race flooding his being once more.
He put down his tea-cup on the mantelpiece untasted, and then said hoarsely:
“I married you because I loved you, and no man has ever regretted a thing more.”
Then he turned round, and walked slowly from the room.
And Zara, left alone, felt that the end had come.
CHAPTER XXXV
A pale and most unhappy bride awaited her bridegroom in the boudoir at a few minutes to eight o’clock. She felt perfectly lifeless, as though she had hardly enough will left even to act her part. The white satin of her dress was not whiter than her face. The head gardener had sent up some splendid gardenias for her to wear and the sight of them pained her, for were not these the flowers that Tristram had brought her that evening of her wedding day, not a fortnight ago, and that she had then thrown into the grate. She pinned some in mechanically, and then let the maid clasp the diamonds round her throat and a band of them in her hair. They were so very beautiful, and she had not seen them before; she could not thank him for them even–all conversation except before people was now at an end. Then, for her further unhappiness, she remembered he had said: “When the mockery of the rejoicings is over then we can discuss our future plans.” What did that mean? That he wished to separate from her, she supposed. How could circumstance be so cruel to her! What had she done? Then she sat down for a moment while she waited, and clenched her hands. And all the passionate resentment her deep nature was capable of surged up against fate, so that she looked more like the black panther than ever, and her mood had only dwindled into a sullen smoldering rage–while she still sat in the peculiar, concentrated attitude of an animal waiting to spring–when Tristram opened the door, and came in.
The sight of her thus, looking so unEnglish, so barbaric, suddenly filled him with the wild excitement of the lion hunt again. Could anything be more diabolically attractive? he thought, and for a second, the idea flashed across him that he would seize her to-night and treat her as if she were the panther she looked, conquer her by force, beat her if necessary, and then kiss her to death! Which plan, if he had carried it out, in this case, would have been very sensible, but the training of hundreds of years of chivalry toward women and things weaker than himself was still in his blood. For Tristram, twenty-fourth Baron Tancred, was no brute or sensualist, but a very fine specimen of his fine, old race.
So, his heart beating with some uncontrollable excitement, and her heart filled with smoldering rage, they descended the staircase, arm in arm, to the admiration of peeping housemaids and the pride of her own maid. And the female servants all rushed to the balustrade to get a better view of the delightful scene which, they had heard whispered among them, was a custom of generations in the family–that when the Lord of Wrayth first led his lady into the state dining-room for their first dinner alone he should kiss her before whoever was there, and bid her welcome to her new home. And to see his lordship, whom they all thought the handsomest young gentleman they had ever seen, kiss her ladyship, would be a thrill of the most agreeable kind!
What would their surprise have been, could they have heard him say icily to his bride as he descended the stairs:
“There is a stupid custom that I must kiss you as we go into the dining-room, and give you this little golden key–a sort of ridiculous emblem of the endowment of all the worldly goods business. The servants are, of course, looking at us, so please don’t start.” Then he glanced up and saw the rows of interested, excited faces; and that devil-may-care, rollicking boyishness which made him so adored came over him, and he laughed up at them, and waved his hand: and Zara’s rage turned to wild excitement, too. There would be the walk across the hall of sixty paces, and then he would kiss her. What would it be like? In those sixty paces her face grew more purely white, while he came to the resolve that for this one second he would yield to temptation and not only brush her forehead with his lips, as had been his intention, but for once–just for this once–he would kiss her mouth. He was past caring about the footmen seeing. It was his only chance.
So when they came to the threshold of the big, double doors he bent down and drew her to him, and gave her the golden key. And then he pressed his warm, young, passionate lips to hers. Oh! the mad joy of it! And even if it were only from duty and to play the game, she had not resisted him as upon that other occasion. He felt suddenly, absolutely intoxicated, as he had done on the wedding night. Why, why must this ghastly barrier be between them? Was there nothing to be done? Then he looked at his bride as they advanced to the table, and he saw that she was so deadly white that he thought she was going to faint. For intoxication, affects people in different ways; for her, the kiss had seemed the sweetness of death.
“Give her ladyship some champagne immediately,” he ordered the butler, and, still with shining eyes, he looked at her, and said gently, “for we must drink our own healths.”
But Zara never raised her lids, only he saw that her little nostrils were quivering, and by the rise and fall of her beautiful bosom he knew that her heart must be beating as madly as was his own–and a wild triumph filled him. Whatever the emotion she was experiencing, whether it was anger, or disdain, or one he did not dare to hope for, it was a considerably strong one; she was, then, not so icily cold! How he wished there were some more ridiculous customs in his family! How he wished he might order the servants out of the room, and begin to make love to her all alone. And just out of the devilment which was now in his blood he took the greatest pleasure in “playing the game,” and while the solemn footmen’s watchful eyes were upon them, he let himself go and was charming to her; and then, each instant they were alone he made himself freeze again, so that she could not say he was not keeping to the bargain. Thus in wild excitement for them both the dinner passed. With her it was alternate torture and pleasure as well, but with him, for the first time since his wedding, there was not any pain. For he felt he was affecting her, even if she were only “playing the game.” And gradually, as the time went on and dessert was almost come, the conviction grew in Zara’s brain that he was torturing her on purpose, overdoing the part when the servants were looking; for had he not told her but three hours before that he _had_ loved her–using the past tense–and no man regretted a thing more! Perhaps–was it possible–he had seen when he kissed her that she loved him! And he was just punishing her, and laughing at his dominion over her in his heart; so her pride took fire at once. Well, she would not be played with! He would see she could keep to a bargain; and be icy, too, when the play was over. So when at last the servants had left the room, before coffee was brought, she immediately stiffened and fell into silence; and the two stared in front of them, and back over him crept the chill. Yes, there was no use deceiving himself. He had had his one moment of bliss, and now his purgatory would begin again.
Thus the comedy went on. Soon they had to go and open the ball, and they both won golden opinions from their first partners–hers, the stalwart bailiff, and his, the bailiff’s wife.
“Although she is a foreigner, Agnes,” Mr. Burrs said to his life’s partner when they got home, “you’d hardly know it, and a lovelier lady I have never seen.”
“She couldn’t be too lovely for his lordship,” his wife retorted. “Why, William, he made me feel young again!”
The second dance the bridal pair were supposed to dance together; and then when they should see the fun in full swing they were supposed to slip away, because it was considered quite natural that they might wish to be alone.
“You will have to dance with me now, I am afraid, Zara,” Tristram said, and, without waiting for her answer, he placed his arm round her and began the valse. And the mad intoxication grew again in both of them, and they went on, never stopping, in a wild whirl of delight–unreasoning, passionate delight–until the music ceased.
Then Zara who, by long years of suffering, was the more controlled, pulled herself together first, and, with that ingrained instinct to defend herself and her secret love, and to save his possible true construction of her attitude, said stiffly:
“I suppose we can go now. I trust you think that I have ‘played the game.'”
“Too terribly well,” he said–stung back to reality. “It shows me what we have irreparably lost.” And he gave her his arm and, passed down the lane of admiring and affectionate guests to their part of the house; and at the door of the boudoir he left her without a word.
So, with the bride in lonely anguish in the great state bed, the night of the home-coming passed, and the morrow dawned.
For thus the God of Pride makes fools of his worshipers.
* * * * *
It poured with rain the next day, but the same kind of thing went on for the different grades of those who lived under the wing of the Tancred name, and neither bride nor bridegroom failed in their roles, and the icy coldness between them increased. They had drawn upon themselves an atmosphere of absolute restraint and it seemed impossible to exchange even ordinary conversation; so that at this, their second dinner, they hardly even kept up a semblance before the household servants, and, being free from feasting, Zara retired almost immediately the coffee had come. One of the things Tristram had said to her before she left the room was:
“To-morrow if it is fine you had better see the gardens and really go over the house, if you wish. The housekeeper and the gardeners will think it odd if you don’t! How awful it is to have to conform to convention!” he went on. “It would be good to be a savage again. Well, perhaps I shall be, some day soon.”
Then as she paused in her starting for the door to hear what he had further to say, he continued:
“They let us have a day off to-morrow; they think, quite naturally, we require a rest. So if you will be ready about eleven I will show you the gardens and the parts my mother loved–it all looks pretty dreary this time of the year, but it can’t be helped.”
“I will be ready,” Zara said.
“Then there is the Address from the townspeople at Wrayth, on Thursday,” he continued, while he walked toward the door to open it for her, “and on Friday we go up to London to say good-bye to my mother. I hope you have not found it all too impossibly difficult, but it will soon be over now.”
“The whole of life is difficult,” she answered, “and one never knows what it is for, or why?” And then without anything further she went out of the door, and so upstairs and through all the lonely corridors to the boudoir. And here she opened the piano for the first time, and tried it; and finding it good she sat a long time playing her favorite airs–but not the _Chanson Triste_–she felt she could not bear that.
The music talked to her: what was her life going to be? What if, in the end, she could not control her love? What if it should break down her pride, and let him see that she regretted her past action and only longed to be in his arms. For her admiration and respect for him were growing each hour, as she discovered new traits in him, individually, and began to understand what he meant to all these people whose lord he was. How little she had known of England, her own father’s country! How ridiculously little she had really known of men, counting them all brutes like Ladislaus and his friends, or feckless fools like poor Mimo! What an impossible attitude was this one she had worn always of arrogant ignorance! Something should have told her that these people were not like that. Something should have warned her, when she first saw him, that Tristram was a million miles above anything in the way of his sex that she had yet known. Then she stopped playing, and deliberately went over and looked in the glass. Yes, she was certainly beautiful, and quite young. She might live until she were seventy or eighty, in the natural course of events, and the whole of life would be one long, dreary waste if she might not have her Love. After all, pride was not worth so very much. Suppose she were very gentle to him, and tried to please him in just a friendly way, that would not be undignified nor seem to be throwing herself at his head. She would begin to-morrow, if she could. Then she remembered Lady Ethelrida’s words at the dinner party–was it possible that was only three weeks ago this very night–the words that she had spoken so unconsciously, when she had showed so plainly the family feeling about Tristram and Cyril being the last in the male line of Tancred of Wrayth. She remembered how she had been angered and up in arms then, and now a whole education had passed over her, and she fully understood and sympathized with their point of view.
And at this stage of her meditations her eyes grew misty as they gazed into distance, and all soft; and the divine expression of the Sistine Madonna grew in them, as it grew always when she held Mirko in her arms.
Yes, there were things in life which mattered far, far more than pride. And so, comforted by her resolutions, she at last went to bed.
And Tristram sat alone by the fire in his own sitting-room, and stared at that other Tristram Guiscard’s armor. And he, too, came to a resolution, but not of the same kind. He would speak to Francis Markrute when they arrived on Friday night and he could get him quietly alone. He would tell him that the whole thing was a ghastly failure, but as he had only himself to blame for entering into it he did not intend to reproach any one. Only, he would frankly ask him to use his clever brain and invent some plan that he and Zara could separate, without scandal, until such time as he should grow indifferent, and so could come back and casually live in the house with her. He was only a human man, he admitted, and the present arrangement was impossible to bear. He was past the anguish of the mockery of everything to-night–he was simply numb. Then some waiting fiend made him think of Laura and her last words. What if there were some truth in them after all? He had himself seen the man twice, under the most suspicious circumstances. What if he were her lover? How could Francis Markrute know of all her existence, when he had said she had been an immaculate wife? And gradually, on top of his other miseries, trifles light as air came and tortured him until presently he had worked up a whole chain of evidence, proving the lover theory to be correct!
Then he shook in his chair with rage, and muttered between his teeth: “If I find this is true then I will kill him, and kill her, also!”
So near to savages are all human beings, when certain passions are aroused. And neither bride nor bridegroom guessed that fate would soon take things out of their hands and make their resolutions null and void.
CHAPTER XXXVI
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 the _tapis 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 in _Country 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, Cherisette, he, too, is not made as other people are! Look, and he plays music, also. When I am with _Maman_ and 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.
[Illustration: “‘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