The Reason Why by Elinor Glyn (page 6)

as things can be arranged with suitability. I hope you and Tristram will arrive in time to accompany me to dinner at Glastonbury House on Friday evening, when you can congratulate my beloved fiance, who holds you in affectionate regard.

“I am, my dear niece, always your devoted uncle,

“FRANCIS MARKRUTE.”

When Tristram finished reading he exclaimed:

“Good Lord!” For, quite absorbed in his own affairs, he had never even noticed the financier’s peregrinations! Then as he looked at the letter again he said meditatively:

“I expect they will be awfully happy–Ethelrida is such an unselfish, sensible, darling girl–“

And it hurt Zara even in her present mood, for she felt the contrast to herself in his unconscious tone.

“My uncle never does anything without having calculated it will turn out perfectly,” she said bitterly–“only sometimes it can happen that he plays with the wrong pawns.”

And Tristram wondered what she meant. He and she had certainly been pawns in one of the Markrute games, and now he began to see this object, just as Zara had done. Then the thought came to him.–Why should he not now ask her straight out–why she had married him? It was not from any desire for himself, nor his position, he knew that: but for what?

So, the moment the servants went out of the room to get the coffee–after a desultory conversation about the engagement until then, he said coldly:

“You told me on Monday that you now know the reason I had married you: may I ask you why did you marry me?”

She clasped her hands convulsively. This brought it all back–her poor little brother–and she was not free yet from her promise to her uncle: she never failed to keep her word.

A look of deep, tragic earnestness grew in her pools of ink, and she said to him, with a strange sob in her voice:

“Believe me I had a strong reason, but I cannot tell it to you now.”

And the servants reentered the room at the moment, so he could not ask her why: it broke the current.

But what an unexpected inference she always put into affairs! What was the mystery? He was thrilled with suspicious, terrible interest. But of one thing he felt sure–Francis Markrute did not really know.

And in spite of his chain of reasoning about this probable lover some doubt about it haunted him always; her air was so pure–her mien so proud.

And while the servants were handing the coffee and still there Zara rose, and, making the excuse that she must write to her uncle at once, left the room to avoid further questioning. Then Tristram leant his head upon his hands and tried to think.

He was in a maze–and there seemed no way out. If he went to her now and demanded to have everything explained he might have some awful confirmation of his suspicions, and then how could they go through to-morrow–and the town’s address? Of all things he had no right–just because of his wild passion in marrying this foreign woman–he had no right to bring disgrace and scandal upon his untarnished name: “noblesse oblige” was the motto graven on his soul. No, he must bear it until Friday night after the Glastonbury House dinner. Then he would face her and demand the truth.

And Zara under the wing of Mrs. Anglin made a thorough tour of the beautiful, old house. She saw its ancient arras hangings, and panellings of carved oak, and heard all the traditions, and looked at the portraits–many so wonderfully like Tristram, for they were a strong, virile race–and her heart ached, and swelled with pride, alternately. And, last of all, she stood under the portrait that had been painted by Sargent, of her husband at his coming of age, and that master of art had given him, on the canvas, his very soul. There he stood, in a scarlet hunt-coat–debonair, and strong, and true–with all the promise of a noble, useful life in his dear, blue eyes. And suddenly this proud woman put her hand to her throat to check the sob that rose there; and then, again, out of the mist of her tears she saw Pan and his broken pipes.

CHAPTER XXXVII

Tristram passed the afternoon outdoors, inspecting the stables, and among his own favorite haunts, and then rushed in, too late for tea and only just in time to catch the post. He wrote a letter to Ethelrida, and his uncle-in-law that was to be. How ridiculous that sounded! He would be his uncle and Zara’s cousin now, by marriage! Then, when he thought of this dear Ethelrida whom he had loved more than his own young sisters, he hurriedly wrote out, as well, a telegram of affection and congratulation which he handed to Michelham as he came in to get the letters–and the old man left the room. Then Tristram remembered that he had addressed the telegram to Montfitchet, and Ethelrida would, of course, he now recollected, be at Glastonbury House, as she was coming up that day–so he went to the door and called out:

“Michelham, bring me back the telegram.”

And the grave servant, who was collecting all the other letters from the post-box in the hall, returned and placed beside his master on the table a blue envelope. There were always big blue envelopes, for the sending of telegrams, on all the writing tables at Wrayth.

Tristram hurriedly wrote out another and handed it, and the servant finally left the room. Then he absently pulled out his original one and glanced at it before tearing it up; and before he realized what he did his eye caught: “To Count Mimo Sykypri”–he did not read the address–“Immediately, to-morrow, wire me your news. Cherisette.”

And ere his rage burst in a terrible oath he noticed that stamps were enclosed. Then he threw the paper with violence into the fire!

There was not any more doubt nor speculation; a woman did not sign herself “Cherisette”–“little darling”–except to a lover! Cherisette! He was so mad with rage that if she had come into the room at that moment he would have strangled her, there and then.

He forgot that it was time to dress for dinner–forgot everything but his overmastering fury. He paced up and down the room, and then after a while, as ever, his balance returned. The law could give him no redress yet: she certainly had not been unfaithful to him in their brief married life, and the law recks little of sins committed before the tie. Nothing could come now of going to her and reproaching her–only a public scandal and disgrace. No, he must play his part until he could consult with Francis Markrute, learn all the truth, and then concoct some plan. Out of all the awful ruin of his life he could at least save his name. And after some concentrated moments of agony he mastered himself at last sufficiently to go to his room and dress for dinner.

But Count Mimo Sykypri would get no telegram that night!

The idea that there could be any scandalous interpretations put upon any of her actions or words never even entered Zara’s brain; so innocently unconscious was she of herself and her doings that that possible aspect of the case never struck her. She was the last type of person to make a mystery or in any way play a part. The small subtly-created situations and hidden darknesses and mysterious appearances which delighted the puny soul of Laura Highford were miles beneath her feet. If she had even faintly dreamed that some doubts were troubling Tristram she would have plainly told him the whole story and chanced her uncle’s wrath. But she had not the slightest idea of it. She only knew that Tristram was stern and cold, and showed his disdain of her, and that even though she had made up her mind to be gentle and try to win him back with friendship, it was almost impossible. She looked upon his increased, icy contempt of her at dinner as a protest at her outburst of tears during the day.

So the meal was got through, and the moment the coffee was brought he gulped it down, and then rose: he could not stand being alone with her for a moment.

She was looking so beautiful, and so meek, and so tragic, he could not contain the mixed emotions he felt. He only knew if he had to bear them another minute he should go mad. So, hardly with sufficient politeness he said:

“I have some important documents to look over; I will wish you good night.” And he hurried her from the room and went on to his own sitting-room in the other part of the house. And Zara, quite crushed with her anxiety and sorrow about Mirko, and passionately unhappy at Tristram’s treatment of her, once more returned to her lonely room. And here she dismissed her maid, and remained looking out on the night. The mist had gone and some pure, fair stars shone out.

Was that where _Maman_ was–up there? And was Mirko going to her soon, away out of this cruel world of sorrow and pain? As he had once said, surely there, there would be room for them both.

But Zara was no morbidly sentimental person, the strong blood ran in her veins, and she knew she must face her life and be true to herself, whatever else might betide. So after a while the night airs soothed her, and she said her prayers and went to bed.

But Tristram, her lord, paced the floor of his room until almost dawn.

* * * * *

The next day passed in the same kind of way, only, it was nearly all in public, with local festivities again; and both of the pair played their parts well, as they were now experienced actors, and only one incident marked the pain of this Thursday out from the pains of the other days. It was in the schoolhouse at Wrayth, where the buxom girl who had been assistant mistress, and had married, a year before, brought her first-born son to show the lord and lady–as he had been born on their wedding day, just a fortnight ago! She was pale and wan, but so ecstatically proud and happy looking; and Tristram at once said, they–he and Zara–must be the god-parents of her boy; and Zara held the crimson, crumpled atom for a moment, and then looked up and met her husband’s eyes, and saw that they had filled with tears. And she returned the creature to its mother–but she could not speak, for a moment.

And finally they had come home again–home to Wrayth–and no more unhappy pair of young, healthy people lived on earth.

Zara could hardly contain her impatience to see if a telegram for her from Mimo had come in her absence. Tristram saw her look of anxiety and strain, and smiled grimly to himself. She would get no answering telegram from her lover that day!

And, worn out with the whole thing, Zara turned to him and asked if it would matter or look unusual if she said–what was true–that she was so fatigued she would like to go to bed and not have to come down to dinner.

“I will not do so, if it would not be in the game,” she said.

And he answered, shortly:

“The game is over, to-night: do as you please.”

So she went off sadly, and did not see him again until they were ready to start in the morning–the Friday morning, which Tristram called the beginning of the end!

He had arranged that they should go by train, and not motor up, as he usually did because he loved motoring; but the misery of being so close to her, even now when he hoped he loathed and despised her, was too great to chance. So, early after lunch, they started, and would be at Park Lane after five. No telegram had come for Zara–Mimo must be away–but, in any case, it indicated nothing unusual was happening, unless he had been called to Bournemouth by Mirko himself and had left hurriedly. This idea so tortured her that by the time she got to London she could not bear it, and felt she must go to Neville Street and see. But how to get away?

Francis Markrute was waiting for them in the library, and seemed so full of the exuberance of happiness that she could not rush off until she had poured out and pretended to enjoy a lengthy tea.

And the change in the reserved man struck them both. He seemed years younger, and full of the milk of human kindness. And Tristram thought of himself on the day he had gone to Victoria to meet Zara, when she had come from Paris, and he had given a beggar half a sovereign, from sheer joy of life.

For happiness and wine open men’s hearts. He would not attempt to speak about his own troubles until the morning: it was only fair to leave the elderly lover without cares until after the dinner at Glastonbury House.

At last Zara was able to creep away. She watched her chance, and, with the cunning of desperation, finding the hall momentarily empty, stealthily stole out of the front door. But it was after half-past six o’clock, and they were dining at Glastonbury House, St. James’s Square, at eight.

She got into a taxi quickly, finding one in Grosvenor Street because she was afraid to wait to look in Park Lane, in case, by chance, she should be observed; and at last she reached the Neville Street lodging, and rang the noisy bell.

The slatternly little servant said that the gentleman was “hout,” but would the lady come in and wait? He would not be long, as he had said “as how he was only going to take a telegram.”

Zara entered at once. A telegram!–perhaps for her–Yes, surely for her. Mimo had no one else, she knew, to telegraph to. She went up to the dingy attic studio. The fire was almost out, and the little maid lit one candle and placed it upon a table. It was very cold on this damp November day. The place struck her as piteously poor, after the grandeur from which she had come. Dear, foolish, generous Mimo! She must do something for him–and would plan how. The room had the air of scrupulous cleanness which his things always wore, and there was the “Apache” picture waiting for her to take, in a new gold frame; and the “London Fog” seemed to be advanced, too; he had evidently worked at it late, because his palette and brushes, still wet, were on a box beside it, and on a chair near was his violin. He was no born musician like Mirko, but played very well. The palette and brushes showed he must have put them hurriedly down. What for? Why? Had some message come for him? Had he heard news? And a chill feeling gripped her heart. She looked about to see if Mirko had written a letter, or one of his funny little postcards? No, there was nothing–nothing she had not seen except, yes, just this one on a picture of the town. Only a few words: “Thank Cherisette for her letter, Agatha is _tres jolie_, but does not understand the violin, and wants to play it herself. And heavens! the noise!” How he managed to post these cards was always a mystery; they were marked with the mark of doubling up twice, so it showed he concealed them somewhere and perhaps popped them into a pillar-box, when out for a walk. This one was dated two days ago. Could anything have happened since? She burned with impatience for Mimo to come in.

A cheap, little clock struck seven. Where could he be? The minutes seemed to drag into an eternity. All sorts of possibilities struck her, and then she controlled herself and became calm.

There was a large photograph of her mother, which Mimo had colored really well. It was in a silver frame upon the mantelpiece, and she gazed and gazed at that, and whispered aloud in the gloomy room:

“_Maman, adoree!_ Take care of your little one now, even if he must come to you soon.”

And beside this there was another, of Mimo, taken at the same time, when Zara and her mother had gone to the Emperor’s palace in that far land. How wonderfully handsome he was then, and even still!–and how the air of _insouciance_ suited him, in that splendid white and gold uniform. But Mimo looked always a gentleman, even in his shabbiest coat.

And now that she knew what the passion of love meant herself, she better understood how her mother had loved. She had never judged her mother, it was not in her nature to judge any one; underneath the case of steel which her bitter life had wrought her, Zara’s heart was as tender as an angel’s.

Then she thought of the words in the Second Commandment: “And the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children.” Had they sinned, then? And if so how terribly cruel such Commandments were–to make the innocent children suffer. Mirko and she were certainly paying some price. But the God that _Maman_ had gone to and loved and told her children of, was not really cruel, and some day perhaps she–Zara–would come into peace on earth. And Mirko? Mirko would be up there, happy and safe with _Maman_.

The cheap clock showed nearly half-past seven. She could not wait another moment, and also she reasoned if Mimo were sending her a telegram it would be to Park Lane. He knew she was coming up; she would get it there on her return, so she scribbled a line to Count Sykypri, and told him she had been–and why–and that she must hear at once, and then she left and hurried back to her uncle’s house. And when she got there it was twenty minutes to eight.

Her maid had been dreadfully worried, as she had given no orders as to what she would wear–but Henriette, being a person of intelligence, had put out what she thought best,–only she could not prevent her anxiety and impatience from causing her to go on to the landing, and hang over the stairs at every noise; and Tristram, coming out of his room already dressed, found her there–and asked her what she was doing.

“I wait for _Miladi_, _Milor_, she have not come in,” Henriette said. “And I so fear _Miladi_ will be late.”

Tristram felt his heart stop beating for a second–strong man as he was. _Miladi_ had not come in!–But as they spoke, he perceived her on the landing below, hurrying up–she had not waited to get the lift–and he went down to meet her, while Henriette returned to her room.

“Where have you been?” he demanded, with a pale, stern face. He was too angry and suspicious to let her pass in silence, and he noticed her cheeks were flushed with nervous excitement and that she was out of breath; and no wonder, for she had run up the stairs.

“I cannot wait to tell you now,” she panted. “And what right have you to speak to me so? Let me pass, or I shall be late.”

“I do not care if you are late, or no. You shall answer me!” he said furiously, barring the way. “You bear my name, at all events, and I have a right because of that to know.”

“Your name?” she said, vaguely, and then for the first time she grasped that there was some insulting doubt of her in his words.

She cast upon him a look of withering scorn, and, with the air of an empress commanding an insubordinate guard, she flashed:

“Let me pass at once!”

But Tristram did not move, and for a second they glared at one another, and she took a step forward as if to force her way. Then he angrily seized her in his arms. But at that moment Francis Markrute came out of his room and Tristram let her go–panting. He could not make a scene, and she went on, with her head set haughtily, to her room.

“I see you have been quarreling again,” her uncle said, rather irritably: and then he laughed as he went down.

“I expect she will be late,” he continued; “well, if she is not in the hall at five minutes to eight, I shall go on.”

And Tristram sat down upon the deep sofa on the broad landing outside her room, and waited: the concentrated essence of all the rage and pain he had yet suffered seemed to be now in his heart.

But what had it meant–that look of superb scorn? She had no mien of a guilty person.

At six minutes to eight she opened the door, and came out. She had simply flown into her clothes, in ten minutes! Her eyes were still black as night with resentment, and her bosom rose and fell, while in her white cheeks two scarlet spots flamed.

“I am ready,” she said, haughtily, “let us go,” and not waiting for her husband she swept on down the stairs, exactly as her uncle opened the library door.

“Well done, my punctual niece!” he cried genially. “You are a woman of your word.”

“In all things,” she answered, fiercely, and went towards the door, where the electric brougham waited.

And both men as they followed her wondered what she could mean.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

The dinner for Ethelrida’s betrothal resembled in no way the one for Zara and Tristram; for, except in those two hearts there was no bitter strain, and the fiances in this case were radiantly happy, which they could not conceal, and did not try to.

The Dowager Lady Tancred arrived a few minutes after the party of three, and Zara heard her mother-in-law gasp, as she said, “Tristram, my dear boy!” and then she controlled the astonishment in her voice, and went on more ordinarily, but still a little anxiously, “I hope you are very well?”

So he was changed then–to the eye of one who had not seen him since the wedding–and Zara glanced at him critically, and saw that–yes, he was, indeed, changed. His face was perfectly set and stern, and he looked older. It was no wonder his mother should be surprised.

Then Lady Tancred turned to Zara and kissed her. “Welcome back, my dear daughter,” she said. And Zara tried to answer something pleasant: above all things, this proud lady who had so tenderly given her son’s happiness into her keeping must not guess how much there was amiss.

But Lady Tancred was no simpleton–she saw immediately that her son must have gone through much suffering and strain. What was the matter? It tore her heart, but she knew him too well to say anything to him about it.

So she continued to talk agreeably to them, and Tristram made a great effort, and chaffed her, and became gay. And soon they went in to dinner. And Lady Tancred sat on Francis Markrute’s other side, and tried to overcome her prejudice against him. If Ethelrida loved him so much he must be really nice. And Zara sat on one side of the old Duke, and Lady Anningford on the other, and on her other side was Young Billy who was now in an idiotic state of calf love for her–to the amusement of every one. So, with much gayety and chaff the repast came to an end, and the ladies, who were all old friends–no strangers now among them–disposed themselves in happy groups about one of the drawing-rooms, while they sipped their coffee.

Ethelrida drew Zara aside to talk to her alone.

“Zara,” she said, taking her soft, white hand, “I am so awfully happy with my dear love that I want you to be so, too. Dearest Zara, won’t you be friends with me, now–real friends?”

And Zara, won by her gentleness, pressed Ethelrida’s hand with her other hand.

“I am so glad, nothing my uncle could have done would have given me so much pleasure,” she said, with a break in her voice. “Yes, indeed, I will be friends with you, dear Ethelrida. I am so glad–and touched–that you should care to have me as your friend.” Then Ethelrida bent forward and kissed her. “When one is as happy as I am,” she said, “it makes one feel good, as if one wanted to do all the kind things and take away all sorrow out of the world. I have thought sometimes, Zara dear, that you did not look as happy as–as–I would like you to look.”

Happy! the mockery of the word!

“Ethelrida,” Zara whispered hurriedly–“don’t–don’t ask me anything about it, please, dear. No one can help me. I must come through with it alone–but you of Tristram’s own family, and especially you whom he loves so much, I don’t want you ever to misjudge me. You think perhaps I have made him unhappy. Oh, if you only knew it all!–Yes, I have. And I did not know, nor understand. I would die for him now, if I could, but it is too late; we can only play the game!”

“Zara, do not say this!” said Ethelrida, much distressed. “What can it be that should come between such beautiful people as you? And Tristram adores you, Zara dear.”

“He did love me–once,” Zara answered sadly, “but not now. He would like never to have to see me again. Please do not let us talk of it; please–I can’t bear any more.”

And Ethelrida, watching her face anxiously, saw that it wore a hopeless, hunted look, as though some agonizing trouble and anxiety brooded over her. And poor Zara could say nothing of her other anxiety, for now that Ethelrida was engaged to her uncle her lips, about her own sorrow concerning her little brother, must be more than ever sealed. Perhaps–she did not know much of the English point of view yet–perhaps if the Duke knew that there was some disgrace in the background of the family he might forbid the marriage, and then she would be spoiling this sweet Ethelrida’s life.

And Ethelrida’s fine senses told her there was no use pressing the matter further, whatever the trouble was this was not the moment to interfere; so she turned the conversation to lighter things, and, finally, talked about her own wedding, and so the time passed.

The Dowager Lady Tancred was too proud to ask any one any questions, although she talked alone with Lady Anningford and could easily have done so: the only person she mentioned her anxiety to was her brother, the Duke, when, later, she spoke a few words with him alone.

“Tristram looks haggard and very unhappy, Glastonbury,” she said simply, “have you anything to tell me about it?”

“My dear Jane,” replied the Duke, “it is the greatest puzzle in the world; no one can account for it. I gave him some sound advice at Montfitchet, when I saw things were so strained, and I don’t believe he has taken it, by the look of them to-night. These young, modern people are so unnaturally cold, though I did hear they had got through the rejoicings, in fine style.”

“It troubles me very much, Glastonbury–to go abroad and leave him looking like that. Is it her fault? Or what–do you think?”

“‘Pon my soul, I can’t say–even the Crow could not unravel the mystery. Laura Highford was at Montfitchet–confound her–would come; can she have had anything to do with it, I wonder?”

Then they were interrupted and no more could be said, and finally the party broke up, with the poor mother’s feeling of anxiety unassuaged. Tristram and Zara were to lunch with her to-morrow, to say good-bye, and then she was going to Paris–by the afternoon train.

And Francis Markrute staying on to smoke a cigar with the Duke, and, presumably, to say a snatched good night to his fiance, Tristram was left to take Zara home alone.

Now would come the moment of the explanation! But she outwitted him, for they no sooner got into the brougham and he had just begun to speak than she leaned back and interrupted him:

“You insinuated something on the stairs this evening, the vileness of which I hardly understood at first; I warn you I will hear no more upon the subject!” and then her voice broke suddenly and she said, passionately and yet with a pitiful note, “Ah! I am suffering so to-night, please–please don’t speak to me–leave me alone.”

And Tristram was silenced. Whatever it was that soon she must explain, he could not torture her to-night, and, in spite of his anger and suspicions and pain, it hurt him to see her, when the lights flashed in upon them, huddled up in the corner–her eyes like a wounded deer’s.

“Zara!” he said at last–quite gently, “what is this, awful shadow that is hanging over you?–If you will only tell me–” But at that moment they arrived at the door, which was immediately opened, and she walked in and then to the lift without answering, and entering, closed the door. For what could she say?

She could bear things no longer. Tristram evidently saw she had some secret trouble, she would get her uncle to release her from her promise, as far as her husband was concerned at least,–she hated mysteries, and if it had annoyed him for her to be out late she would tell him the truth–and about Mirko, and everything.

Evidently he had been very much annoyed at that, but this was the first time he had even suggested he had noticed she was troubled about anything, except that day in the garden at Wrayth. Her motives were so perfectly innocent that not the faintest idea even yet dawned upon her that anything she had ever done could even look suspicious. Tristram was angry with her because she was late, and had insinuated something out of jealousy; men were always jealous, she knew, even if they were perfectly indifferent to a woman. What really troubled her terribly to-night Was the telegram she found in her room. She had told the maid to put it there when it came. It was from Mimo, saying Mirko was feverish again–really ill, he feared, this time.

So poor Zara spent a night of anguish and prayer, little knowing what the morrow was to bring.

And Tristram went out again to the Turf, and tried to divert his mind away from his troubles. There was no use in speculating any further, he must wait for an explanation which he would not consent to put off beyond the next morning.

So at last the day of a pitiful tragedy dawned.

Zara got up and dressed early. She must be ready to go out to try and see Mimo, the moment she could slip away after breakfast, so she came down with her hat on: she wanted to speak to her uncle alone, and Tristram, she thought, would not be there so early–only nine o’clock.

“This is energetic, my niece!” Francis Markrute said, but she hardly answered him, and as soon as Turner and the footman had left the room she began at once:

“Tristram was very angry with me last night because I was out late. I had gone to obtain news of Mirko, I am very anxious about him and I could give Tristram no explanation. I ask you to relieve me from my promise not to tell him–about things.”

The financier frowned. This was a most unfortunate moment to revive the family skeleton, but he was a very just man and he saw, directly, that suspicion of any sort was too serious a thing to arouse in Tristram’s mind.

“Very well,” he said, “tell him what you think best. He looks desperately unhappy–you both do–are you keeping him at arm’s length all this time, Zara? Because if so, my child, you will lose him, I warn you. You cannot treat a man of his spirit like that; he will leave you if you do.”

“I do not want to keep him at arm’s length; he is there of his own will. I told you at Montfitchet everything is too late–“

Then the butler entered the room: “Some one wishes to speak to your ladyship on the telephone, immediately,” he said.

And Zara forgot her usual dignity as she almost rushed across the hall to the library, to talk:–it was Mimo, of course, so her presence of mind came to her and as the butler held the door for her she said, “Call a taxi at once.”

She took the receiver up, and it was, indeed, Mimo’s voice–and in terrible distress.

It appeared from his almost incoherent utterances that little Agatha had teased Mirko and finally broken his violin. And that this had so excited him, in his feverish state, that it had driven him almost mad, and he had waited until all the household, including the nurse, were asleep, and, with superhuman cunning, crept from his bed and dressed himself, and had taken the money which his Cherisette had given him for an emergency that day in the Park, and which he had always kept hidden in his desk; and he had then stolen out and gone to the station–all in the night, alone, the poor, poor lamb!–and there he had waited until the Weymouth night mail had come through, and had bought a ticket, and got in, and come to London to find his father–with the broken violin wrapped in its green baize cover. And all the while coughing–coughing enough to kill him! And he had arrived with just enough money to pay a cab, and had come at about five o’clock and could hardly wake the house to be let in; and he, Mimo, had heard the noise and come down, and there found the little angel, and brought him in, and warmed him in his bed. And he had waited to boil him some hot milk before he could come to the public telephone near, to call her up. Oh! but he was very ill–very, very ill–and could she come at once–but oh!–at once!

And Tristram, entering the room at that moment, saw her agonized face and heard her say, “Yes, yes, dear Mimo, I will come now!” and before he could realize what she was doing she brushed past him and rushed from the room, and across the hall and down to the waiting taxicab into which she sprang, and told the man where to go, with her head out of the window, as he turned into Grosvenor Street.

The name “Mimo” drove Tristram mad again. He stood for a moment, deciding what to do, then he seized his coat and hat and rushed out after her, to the amazement of the dignified servants. Here he hailed another taxi, but hers was just out of sight down to Park Street, when he got into his.

“Follow that taxi!” he said to the driver, “that green one in front of you–I will give you a sovereign if you never lose sight of it.”

So the chase began! He must see where she would go! “Mimo!” the “Count Sykypri” she had telegraphed to–and she had the effrontery to talk to her lover, in her uncle’s house! Tristram was so beside himself with rage he knew if he found them meeting at the end he would kill her. His taxi followed the green one, keeping it always in view, right on to Oxford Street, then Regent Street, then Mortimer Street. Was she going to Euston Station? Another of those meetings perhaps in a waiting-room, that Laura had already described! Unutterable disgust as well as blind fury filled him. He was too overcome with passion to reason with himself even. No, it was not Euston–they were turning into the Tottenham Court Road–and so into a side street. And here a back tire on his taxi went, with a loud report, and the driver came to a stop. And, almost foaming with rage, Tristram saw the green taxi disappear round the further corner of a mean street, and he knew it would be lost to view before he could overtake it: there was none other in sight. He flung the man some money and almost ran down the road–and, yes, when he turned the corner he could see the green taxi in the far distance; it was stopping at a door. He had caught her then, after all! He could afford to go slowly now. She had entered the house some five or ten minutes before he got there. He began making up his mind.

It was evidently a most disreputable neighborhood. A sickening, nauseating revulsion crept over him: Zara–the beautiful, refined Zara–to be willing to meet a lover here! The brute was probably ill, and that was why she had looked so distressed. He walked up and down rapidly twice, and then he crossed the road and rang the bell; the taxi was still at the door. It was opened almost immediately by the little, dirty maid–very dirty in the early morning like this.

He controlled his voice and asked politely to be taken to the lady who had just gone in. With a snivel of tears Jenny asked him to follow her, and, while she was mounting in front of him, she turned and said: “It ain’t no good, doctor, I ken tell yer; my mother was took just like that, and after she’d once broke the vessel she didn’t live a hour.” And by this time they had reached the attic door which, without knocking Jenny opened a little, and, with another snivel, announced, “The doctor, missis.”

And Tristram entered the room.

CHAPTER XXXIX

And this is what he saw.

The poor, mean room, with its scrupulous neatness slightly disturbed by the evidences of the boiling of milk and the warming of flannel, and Zara, kneeling by the low, iron bed where lay the little body of a child. For Mirko had dwindled, these last weeks of his constant fever, so that his poor, small frame, undersized for his age at any time, looked now no more than that of a boy of six years old. He was evidently dying. Zara held his tiny hand, and the divine love and sorrowful agony in her face wrung her husband’s soul. A towel soaked with blood had fallen to the floor, and lay there, a ghastly evidence of the “broken vessel” Jenny had spoken of. Mimo, with his tall, military figure shaking with dry sobs, stood on the other side, and Zara murmured in a tender voice of anguish: “My little one! My Mirko!” She was oblivious in her grief of any other presence–and the dying child opened his eyes and called faintly, “Maman!”

Then Mimo saw Tristram by the door, and advanced with his finger on his quivering lips to meet him.

“Ah, sir,” he said. “Alas! you have come too late. My child is going to God!”

And all the manhood in Tristram’s heart rose up in pity. Here was a tragedy too deep for human judgment, too deep for thoughts of vengeance, and without a word he turned and stole from the room. And as he stumbled down the dark, narrow stairs he heard the sound of a violin as it wailed out the beginning notes of the _Chanson Triste_, and he shivered, as if with cold.

For Mirko had opened his piteous eyes again, and whispered in little gasps:

“Papa–play to me the air _Mamam_ loved. I can see her blue gauze wings!” And in a moment, as his face filled with the radiance of his vision he fell back, dead, into Zara’s arms.

When Tristram reached the street he looked about him for a minute like a blinded man; and then, as his senses came back to him, his first thought was what he could do for her–that poor mother upstairs, with her dying child. For that the boy was Zara’s child he never doubted. Her child–and her lover’s–had he not called her “_Maman_.” So this was the awful tragedy in her life. He analyzed nothing as yet; his whole being was paralyzed with the shock and the agony of things: the only clear thought he had was that he must help her in whatever way he could.

The green taxi was still there, but he would not take it, in case she should want it. He walked on down the street and found a cab for himself, and got driven to his old rooms in St. James’s Street: he must be alone to think.

The hall-porter was surprised to see him. Nothing was ready for his lordship–but his wife would come up–?

But his lordship required nothing, he wished to find something alone.

He did not even notice that there was no fire in the grate, and that the room was icy cold–the agony of pain in his mind and soul made him unconscious of lesser ills. He pulled one of the holland sheets off his own big chair, and sat down in it.

Poor Zara, poor, unhappy Zara!–were his first thoughts–then he stiffened suddenly. This man must have been her lover before even her first marriage!–for Francis Markrute had told him she had married very soon. She was twenty-three years old now, and the child could not have been less than six; he must have been born when she was only seventeen. What devilish passion in a man could have made him tempt a girl so young! Of course this was her secret, and Francis Markrute knew nothing of it. For one frightful moment the thought came that her husband was not really dead and that this was he: but no, her husband’s name had been Ladislaus, and this man she had called “Mimo,” and if the boy were the child of her marriage there need then have been no secret about his existence. There was no other solution–this Count Sykypri had been her lover when she was a mere child, and probably the concealment had gone through all her first married life. And no doubt her reason for marrying him, which she admitted was a very strong one, had been that she might have money to give to the child–and its father.

The sickening–sickening, squalid tragedy of it all!

And she, Zara, had seemed so proud and so pure! Her look of scorn, only the night before, at his jealous accusation, came back to him. He could not remember a single movement nor action of hers that had not been that of an untarnished queen. What horrible actresses women were! His whole belief had crumbled to the dust.

And the most terrible part of it all to him was the knowledge that in spite of everything he still loved her–loved her with a consuming, almighty passion that he knew nothing now could kill. It had been put to the bitterest proof. Whatever she had done he could love no other woman.

Then he realized that his life was over. The future a blank, unutterable, hopeless gray which must go on for years and years. For he could never come back to her again, nor even live in the house with her, under the semblance of things.

Then an agonizing bitterness came to him, the hideous malevolence of fate, not to have let him meet this woman first before this other man; think of the faithfulness of her nature, with all its cruel actions to himself! She had been absolutely faithful to her lover, and had defended herself from his–Tristram’s–caresses, even of her finger-tips. What a love worth having, what a strong, true character–worth dying for–in a woman!

And now, he must never see her again; or, if once more, only for a business meeting, to settle things without scandal to either of them.

He would not go back to Park Lane, yet–not for a week; he would give her time to see to the funeral, without the extra pain of his presence.

The man had taken him for the doctor, and she had not even been aware of his entrance: he would go back to Wrayth, alone, and there try to think out some plan. So he searched among the covered-up furniture for his writing table, and found some paper, and sat down and wrote two notes, one to his mother. He could not face her to-day–she must go without seeing him–but he knew his mother loved him, and, in all deep moments, never questioned his will even if she did not understand it.

The note to her was very short, merely saying something was troubling him greatly for the time, so neither he nor Zara would come to luncheon; and she was to trust him and not speak of this to any one until he himself told her more. He might come and see her in Cannes, the following week.

Then he wrote to Zara, and these were his words:

“I know everything. I understand now, and however I blame you for your deception of me you have my deep sympathy in your grief. I am going away for a week, so you will not be distressed by seeing me. Then I must ask you to meet me, here or at your uncle’s house, to arrange for our future separation.

“Yours,

“Tancred.”

Then he rang for a messenger boy, and gave him both notes, and, picking up the telephone, called up his valet and told him to pack and bring his things here to his old rooms, and, if her ladyship came in, to see that she immediately got the note he was sending round to her. Francis Markrute would have gone to the City by now and was going to lunch with Ethelrida, so he telephoned to one of his clerks there–finding he was out for the moment–just to say he was called away for a week and would write later.

She should have the first words with her uncle. Whether she would tell him or no she must decide, he would not do anything to make her existence more difficult than it must naturally be.

And then when all this was done the passionate jealousy of a man overcame him again, and when he thought of Mimo he once more longed to kill.

CHAPTER XL

It was late in the afternoon when Zara got back to her uncle’s house. She had been too distracted with grief to know or care about time, or what they would be thinking of her absence.

Just after the poor little one was dead frantic telegrams had come from the Morleys, in consternation at his disappearance, and Mimo, quite prostrate in his sorrow, as he had been at her mother’s death, had left all practical things to Zara.

No doctor turned up, either. Mimo had not coherently given the address, on the telephone. Thus they passed the day alone with their dead, in anguish; and at last thought came back to Zara. She would go to her uncle, and let him help to settle things; she could count upon him to do that.

Francis Markrute, anxious and disturbed by Tristram’s message and her absence, met her as she came in and drew her into the library.

The butler had handed her her husband’s note, but she held it listlessly in her hand, without opening it. She was still too numb with sorrow to take notice of ordinary things. Her uncle saw immediately that something terrible had happened.

“Zara, dear child,” he said, and folded her in his arms with affectionate kindness, “tell me everything.”

She was past tears now, but her voice sounded strange with the tragedy in it.

“Mirko is dead, Uncle Francis,” was all she said. “He ran away from Bournemouth because Agatha, the Morleys’ child, broke his violin. He loved it, you know _Maman_ had given it to him. He came in the night, all alone, ill with fever, to find his father, and he broke a blood vessel this morning, and died in my arms–there, in the poor lodging.”

Francis Markrute had drawn her to the sofa now, and stroked her hands. He was deeply moved.

“My poor, dear child! My poor Zara!” he said.

Then, with most pathetic entreaty she went on,

“Oh, Uncle Francis, can’t you forgive poor Mimo, now? _Maman_ is dead and Mirko is dead, and if you ever, some day, have a child yourself, you may know what this poor father is suffering. Won’t you help us? He is foolish always–unpractical–and he is distracted with grief. You are so strong–won’t you see about the funeral for my little love?”

“Of course I will, dear girl,” he answered. “You must have no more distresses. Leave everything to me.” And he bent and kissed her white cheek, while he tenderly began to remove the pins from her fur toque.

“Thank you,” she said gently, as she took the hat from his hand, and laid it beside her. “I grieve because I loved him–my dear little brother. His soul was all music, and there was no room for him here. And oh! I loved _Maman_ so! But I know that it is better as it is; he is safe there, with her now, far away from all his pain. He saw her when he was dying.” Then after a pause she went on: “Uncle Francis, you love Ethelrida very much, don’t you? Try to look back and think how _Maman_ loved Mimo, and he loved her. Think of all the sorrow of her life, and the great, great price she paid for her love; and then, when you see him–poor Mimo–try to be merciful.”

And Francis Markrute suddenly felt a lump in his throat. The whole pitiful memory of his beloved sister stabbed him, and extinguished the last remnant of rancor towards her lover, which had smoldered always in his proud heart.

There was a moisture in his clever eyes, and a tremulous note in his cold voice as he answered his niece:

“Dear child, we will forget and forgive everything. My one thought about it all now, is to do whatever will bring you comfort.”

“There is one thing–yes,” she said, and there was the first look of life in her face. “Mirko, when I saw him last at Bournemouth, played to me a wonderful air; he said _Maman_ always came back to him in his dreams when he was ill–feverish, you know–and that she had taught it to him. It talks of the woods where she is, and beautiful butterflies; there is a blue one for her, and a little white one for him. He wrote out the score–it is so joyous–and I have it. Will you send it to Vienna or Paris, to some great artist, and get it really arranged, and then when I play it we shall always be able to see _Maman_.”

And the moisture gathered again in Francis Markrute’s eyes.

“Oh, my dear!” he said. “Will you forgive me some day for my hardness, for my arrogance to you both? I never knew, I never understood–until lately–what love could mean in a life. And you, Zara, yourself, dear child, can nothing be done for you and Tristram?”

At the mention of her husband’s name Zara looked up, startled; and then a deeper tragedy than ever gathered in her eyes, as she rose.

“Let us speak of that no more, my uncle,” she said. “Nothing can be done, because his love for me is dead. I killed it myself, in my ignorance. Nothing you or I can do is of any avail now–it is all too late.”

And Francis Markrute could not speak. Her ignorance had been his fault, his only mistake in calculation, because he had played with souls as pawns in those days before love had softened him. And she made him no reproaches, when that past action of his had caused the finish of her life’s happiness! Verily, his niece was a noble woman, and, with deepest homage, as he led her to the door he bent down and kissed her forehead; and no one in the world who knew him would have believed that she felt it wet with tears.

When she got to her room she remembered she still carried some note, and she at last looked at the superscription. It was in Tristram’s writing. In spite of her grief and her numbness to other things it gave her a sharp emotion. She opened it quickly and read its few cold words. Then it seemed as if her knees gave way under her, as at Montfitchet that day when Laura Highford had made her jealous. She could not think clearly, nor fully understand their meaning; only one point stood out distinctly. He must see her to arrange for their separation. He had grown to hate her so much, then, that he could not any longer even live in the house with her, and all her grief of the day seemed less than this thought. Then she read it again. He knew all? Who could have told him? Her Uncle Francis? No, he did not himself know that Mirko was dead until she had told him. This was a mystery, but it was unimportant. Her numb brain could not grasp it yet. The main thing was that he was very angry with her for her deception of him: that, perhaps, was what was causing him finally to part from her. How strange it was that she was always punished for keeping her word and acting up to her principles! She did not think this bitterly, only with utter hopelessness. There was no use in her trying any longer; happiness was evidently not meant for her. She must just accept things–and life, or death, as it came. But how hard men were–she could never be so stern to any one for such a little fault, for _any_ fault–stern and unforgiving as that strange God who wrote the Commandments.

And then she felt her cheeks suddenly burn, and yet she shivered; and when her maid came to her, presently, she saw that her mistress was not only deeply grieved, but ill, too. So she put her quickly to bed, and then went down to see Mr. Markrute.

“I think we must have a doctor, monsieur,” she said. “_Miladi_ is not at all well.”

And Francis Markrute, deeply distressed, telephoned at once for his physician.

His betrothed had gone back to the country after luncheon, so he could not even have the consolation of her sympathy, and where Tristram was he did not know.

For the four following days Zara lay in her bed, seriously ill. She had caught a touch of influenza the eminent physician said, and had evidently had a most severe shock as well. But she was naturally so splendidly healthy that, in spite of grief and hopelessness, the following Thursday she was able to get up again. Francis Markrute thought her illness had been merciful in a way because the funeral had all been got over while she was confined to her room. Zara had accepted everything without protest. She had not desired even to see Mirko once more. She had no morbid fancies; it was his soul she loved and remembered, not the poor little suffering body.

It came to her as a comfort that her uncle and Mimo had met and shaken hands in forgiveness, and now poor Mimo was coming to say good-bye to her that afternoon.

He was leaving England at once, and would return to his own country and his people. In his great grief, and with no further ties, he hoped they would receive him. He had only one object now in life–to get through with it and join those he loved in some happier sphere.

This was the substance of what he said to Zara when he came; and they kissed and blessed one another, and parted, perhaps for ever. The “Apache” and the “London Fog,” which would never be finished now he feared–the pain would be too great–would be sent to her to keep as a remembrance of their years of life together and the deep ties that bound them by the memory of those two graves.

And Zara in her weakness had cried for a long time after he had left.

And then she realized that all that part of her life was over now, and the outlook of what was to come held out no hope.

Francis Markrute had telegraphed to Wrayth, to try and find Tristram, but he was not there. He had not gone there at all. At the last moment he could not face it, he felt; he must go somewhere away alone–by the sea. A great storm was coming on–it suited his mood–so he had left even his servant in London and had gone off to a wild place on the Dorsetshire coast that he knew of, and there heard no news of any one. He would go back on the Friday, and see Zara the next day, as he had said he would do. Meanwhile he must fight his ghosts alone. And what ghosts they were!

Now on this Saturday morning Francis Markrute was obliged to leave his niece. His vast schemes required his attention in Berlin and he would be gone for a week, and then was going down to Montfitchet. Ethelrida had written Zara the kindest letters. Her fiance had told her all the pitiful story, and now she understood the tragedy in Zara’s eyes, and loved her the more for her silence and her honor.

But all these thoughts seemed to be things of naught to the sad recipient of her letters, since the one and only person who mattered now in her life knew, also, and held different ones. He was aware of all, and had no sympathy or pity–only blame–for her. And now that her health was better and she was able to think, this ceaseless question worried her; how could Tristram possibly have known all? Had he followed her? As soon as she would be allowed to go out she would go and see Jenny, and question her.

And Tristram, by the wild sea–the storm like his mood had lasted all the time–came eventually to some conclusions. He would return and see his wife and tell her that now they must part, that he knew of her past and he would trouble her no more. He would not make her any reproaches, for of what use? And, besides, she had suffered enough. He would go abroad at once, and see his mother for a day at Cannes, and tell her his arrangements, and that Zara and he had agreed to part–he would give her no further explanations–and then he would go on to India and Japan. And, after this, his plans were vague. It seemed as if life were too impossible to look ahead, but not until he could think of Zara with calmness would he return to England.

And if Zara’s week of separation from him had been grief and suffering, his had been hell.

On the Saturday morning, after her uncle had started for Dover, a note, sent by hand, was brought to Zara. It was again only a few words, merely to say if it was convenient to her, he–Tristram–would come at two o’clock, as he was motoring down to Wrayth at three, and was leaving England on Monday night.

Her hand trembled too much to write an answer.

“Tell the messenger I will be here,” she said; and she sat then for a long time, staring in front of her.

Then a thought came to her. Whether she were well enough or no she must go and question Jenny. So, to the despair of her maid, she wrapped herself in furs and started. She felt extremely faint when she got into the air, but her will pulled her through, and when she got there the little servant put her doubts at rest.

Yes, a very tall, handsome gentleman had come a few minutes after herself, and she had taken him up, thinking he was the doctor.

“Why, missus,” she said, “he couldn’t have stayed a minute. He come away while the Count was playin’ his fiddle.”

So this was how it was! Her thoughts were all in a maze: she could not reason. And when she got back to the Park Lane house she felt too feeble to go any further, even to the lift.

Her maid came and took her furs from her, and she lay on the library sofa, after Henriette had persuaded her to have a little chicken broth; and then she fell into a doze, and was awakened only by the sound of the electric bell. She knew it was her husband coming, and sat up, with a wildly beating heart. Her trembling limbs would not support her as she rose for his entrance, and she held on by the back of a chair.

And, grave and pale with the torture he had been through, Tristram came into the room.

CHAPTER XLI

He stopped dead short when he saw her so white and fragile looking. Then he exclaimed, “Zara–you have been ill!”

“Yes,” she faltered.

“Why did they not tell me?” he said hurriedly, and then recollected himself. How could they? No one, not even his servant, knew where he had been.

She dropped back unsteadily on the sofa.

“Uncle Francis did telegraph to you, to Wrayth, but you were not there,” she said.

He bit his lips–he was so very moved. How was he to tell her all the things he had come to say so coldly, with her looking so pitiful, so gentle? His one longing was to take her to his heart and comfort her, and make her forget all pain.

And she was so afraid of her own weakness, she felt she could not bear to hear her death-knell, yet. If she could only gain a little time! It was characteristic of her that she never dreamed of defending herself. She still had not the slightest idea that he suspected Mimo of being her lover. Tristram’s anger with her was just because he was an Englishman–very straight and simple–who could brook no deception! that is what she thought.

If she had not been so lately and so seriously ill–if all her fine faculties had been in their full vigor–perhaps some idea might have come to her; but her soul was so completely pure it did not naturally grasp such things, so even that is doubtful.

“Tristram–” she said, and there was the most piteous appeal in her tones, which almost brought the tears to his eyes. “Please–I know you are angry with me for not telling you about Mirko and Mimo, but I had promised not to, and the poor, little one is dead. I will tell you everything presently, if you wish, but don’t ask me to now. Oh! if you must go from me soon–you know best–I will not keep you, but–but please won’t you take me with you to-day–back to Wrayth–just until I get quite well? My uncle is away, and I am so lonely, and I have not any one else on earth.”

Her eyes had a pleading, frightened look, like a child’s who is afraid to be left alone in the dark.

He could not resist her. And, after all, her sin was of long ago–she could have done nothing since she had been his wife–why should she not come to Wrayth? She could stay there if she wished, for a while after he had gone. Only one thing he must know.

“Where is Count Sykypri?” he asked hoarsely.

“Mimo has gone away, back to his own country,” she said simply, wondering at his tone. “Alas! I shall perhaps never see him again.”

A petrifying sensation of astonishment crept over Tristram. With all her meek gentleness she had still the attitude of a perfectly innocent person. It must be because she was only half English, and foreigners perhaps had different points of reasoning on all such questions.

The man had gone, then–out of her life. Yes, he would take her back to Wrayth if it would be any comfort to her.

“Will you get ready now?” he said, controlling his voice into a note of sternness which he was far from feeling. “Because I am sure you ought not to be out late in the damp air. I was going in the open car, and to drive myself, and it takes four hours. The closed one is not in London, as you know.” And then he saw she was not fit for this, so he said anxiously, “But are you sure you ought to travel to-day at all? You look so awfully pale.”

For there was a great difference in her present transparent, snowy whiteness, with the blue-circled eyes, to her habitual gardenia hue; even her lips were less red.

“Yes, yes, I am quite able to go,” she said, rising to show him she was all right. “I will be ready in ten minutes. Henriette can come by train with my things.” And she walked towards the door, which he held open for her. And here she paused, and then went on to the lift. He followed her quickly.

“Are you sure you can go up alone?” he asked anxiously. “Or may I come?”

“Indeed, I am quite well,” she answered, with a little pathetic smile. “I will not trouble you. Wait, I shall not be long.” And so she went up.

And when she came down again, all wrapped in her furs, she found Tristram had port wine ready for her, poured out.

“You must drink this–a big glass of it,” he said; and she took it without a word.

Then when they got to the door she found instead of his own open motor he had ordered one of her uncle’s closed ones, which with footwarmer and cushions was waiting, so that she should be comfortable and not catch further cold.

“Thank you–that is kind of you,” she said.

He helped her in, and the butler tucked the fur rug over them, while Tristram settled the cushions. Then she leaned back for a second and closed her eyes–everything was going round.

He was very troubled about her. She must have been very ill, even in the short time–and then her grief,–for, even though she had been so much separated from it, a mother always loves her child. Then this thought hurt him again. He hated to remember about the child.

She lay there back against the pillows until they had got quite out of London, without speaking a word. The wine in her weak state made her sleepy, and she gradually fell into a doze, and her head slipped sideways and rested against Tristram’s shoulder, and it gave him a tremendous thrill–her beautiful, proud head with its thick waves of hair showing under her cap.

He was going to leave her so soon, and she would not know it–she was asleep–he must just hold her to him a little; she would be more comfortable like that. So, with cautious care not to wake her, he slipped his arm under the cushion, and very gently and gradually drew her into his embrace, so that her unconscious head rested upon his breast.

And thus more than two hours of the journey were accomplished.

And what thoughts coursed through his brain as they went!

He loved her so madly. What did it matter how she had sinned? She was ill and lonely, and must stay in his arms–just for to-day. But he could never really take her to his heart–the past was too terrible for that. And, besides, she did not love him; this gentleness was only because she was weak and crushed, for the time. But how terribly, bitterly sweet it was, all the same! He had the most overpowering temptation to kiss her, but he resisted it; and presently, when they came to a level crossing and a train gave a wild whistle, she woke with a start. It was quite dark now, and she said, in a frightened voice, “Where am I? Where have I been?”

Tristram slipped his arm from round her instantly, and turned on the light.

“You are in the motor, going to Wrayth,” he said. “And I am glad to say you have been asleep. It will do you good.”

She rubbed her eyes.

“Ah! I was dreaming. And Mirko was there, too, with _Maman_, and we were so happy!” she said, as if to herself.

Tristram winced.

“Are we near home–I mean, Wrayth?” she asked.

“Not quite yet,” he answered. “There will be another hour and a half.”

“Need we have the light on?” she questioned. “It hurts my eyes.”

He put it out, and there they sat in the growing darkness, and did not speak any more for some time; and, bending over her, he saw that she had dozed off again. How very weak she must have been!

He longed to take her into his arms once more, but did not like to disturb her–she seemed to have fallen into a comfortable position among the pillows–so he watched over her tenderly, and presently they came to the lodge gates of Wrayth, and the stoppage caused her to wake and sit up.

“It seems I had not slept for so long,” she said, “and now I feel better. It is good of you to let me come with you. We are in the park, are we not?”

“Yes, we shall be at the door in a minute.”

And then she cried suddenly,

“Oh! look at the deer!” For a bold and valiant buck, startled and indignant at the motor lights, was seen, for an instant, glaring at them as they flashed past.

“You must go to bed as soon as you have had some tea,” Tristram said, “after this long drive. It is half-past six. I telegraphed to have a room prepared for you. Not that big state apartment you had before, but one in the other part of the house, where we live when we are alone; and I thought you would like your maid next you, as you have been ill.”

“Thank you,” she whispered quite low.

How kind and thoughtful he was being to her! She was glad she had been ill!

Then they arrived at the door, and this time they turned to the left before they got to the Adam’s hall, and went down a corridor to the old paneled rooms, and into his own sitting-room where it was all warm and cozy, and the tea-things were laid out. She already looked better for her sleep; some of the bluish transparency seemed to have left her face.

She had not been into this room on her inspection of the house. She liked it best of all, with its scent of burning logs and good cigars. And Jake snorted by the fire with pleasure to see his master, and she bent and patted his head.

But everything she did was filling Tristram with fresh bitterness and pain. To be so sweet and gentle now when it was all too late!

He began opening his letters until the tea came. There were the telegrams from Francis Markrute, sent a week before to say Zara was ill, and many epistles from friends. And at the end of the pile he found a short note from Francis Markrute, as well. It was written the day before, and said that he supposed he, Tristram, would get it eventually; that Zara had had a very sad bereavement which he felt sure she would rather tell him about herself, and that he trusted, seeing how very sad and ill she had been, that Tristram would be particularly kind to her. So her uncle knew, then! This was incredible: but perhaps Zara had told him, in her first grief.

He glanced up at her; she was lying back in a great leather chair now, looking so fragile and weary, he could not say what he intended. Then Jake rose leisurely and put his two fat forepaws up on her knees and snorted as was his habit when he approved of any one. And she bent down and kissed his broad wrinkles.

It all looked so homelike and peaceful! Suddenly scorching tears came into Tristram’s eyes and he rose abruptly, and walked to the window. And at that moment the servants brought the teapot and the hot scones.

She poured the tea out silently, and then she spoke a little to Jake, just a few silly, gentle words about his preference for cakes or toast. She was being perfectly adorable, Tristram thought, with her air of pensive, subdued sorrow, and her clinging black dress.

He wished she would suggest going to her room. He could not bear it much longer.

She wondered why he was so restless. And he certainly was changed; he looked haggard and unhappy, more so even than before. And then she remembered how radiantly strong and splendid he had appeared, at dinner on their wedding night, and a lump rose in her throat.

“Henriette will have arrived by now,” she said in a few minutes. “If you will tell me where it is I will go to my room.”

He got up, and she followed him.

“I expect you will find it is the blue, Chinese damask one just at the top of these little stairs.” Then he strode on in front of her quickly, and called out from the top, “Yes, it is, and your maid is here.”

And as she came up the low, short steps, they met on the turn, and stopped.

“Good night,” he said. “I will have some soup and suitable things for an invalid sent up to you; and then you must sleep well, and not get up in the morning. I shall be very busy to-morrow. I have a great many things to do before I go on Monday. I am going away for a long time.”

She held on to the banisters for a minute, but the shadows were so deceiving, with all the black oak, that he was not sure what her expression said. Her words were a very low “Thank you–I will try to sleep. Good night.”

And she went up to her room, and Tristram went on, downstairs–a deeper ache than ever in his heart.

CHAPTER XLII

It was not until luncheon time that Zara came down, next day. She felt he did not wish to see her, and she lay there in her pretty, old, quaint room, and thought of many things, and the wreck of their lives, above all. And she thought of Mirko and her mother, and the tears came to her eyes. But that grief was past, in its bitterness; she knew it was much better so.

The thought of Tristram’s going tore her very soul, and swallowed up all other grief.

“I cannot, cannot bear it!” she moaned to herself.

He was sitting gazing into the fire, when she timidly came into his sitting-room. She had been too unhappy to sleep much and was again looking very pale.

He seemed to speak to her like one in a dream. He was numb with his growing misery and the struggle in his mind: he must leave her–the situation was unendurable–he could not stay, because in her present softened mood it was possible that if he lost control of himself and caressed her she might yield to him; and, then, he knew no resolutions on earth could hold him from taking her to his heart. And she must never really be his wife. The bliss of it might be all that was divine at first, but there would be always the hideous skeleton beneath, ready to peep out and mock at them: and then if they should have children? They were both so young that would be sure to happen; and this thought, which had once, in that very room, in his happy musings, given him so much joy, now caused him to quiver with extra pain. For a woman with such a background should not be the mother of a Tancred of Wrayth.

Tristram was no Puritan, but the ingrained pride in his old name he could not eliminate from his blood. So he kept himself with an iron reserve. He never once looked at her, and spoke as coldly as ice; and they got through luncheon. And Zara said, suddenly, she would like to go to church.

It was at three o’clock, so he ordered the motor without a word. She was not well enough to walk there through the park.

He could not let her go alone, so he changed his plans and went with her. They did not speak, all the way.

She had never been into the church before, and was struck with the fine windows, and the monuments of the Guiscards, and the famous tomb of the Crusader in the wall of the chancel pew where they sat; and all through the service she gazed at his carven face, so exactly like Tristram’s, with the same, stern look.

And a wild, miserable rebellion filled her heart, and then a cold fear; and she passionately prayed to God to protect him. For what if he should go on some dangerous hunting expedition, and something should happen, and she should never see him again! And then, as she stood while they sang the final hymn, she stopped and caught her breath with a sob. And Tristram glanced at her in apprehension, and he wondered if he should have to suffer anything further, or if his misery were at its height.

The whole congregation were so interested to see the young pair, and they had to do some handshakings, as they came out. What would all these good people think, Tristram wondered with bitter humor, when they heard that he had gone away on a long tour, leaving his beautiful bride alone, not a month after their marriage? But he was past caring what they thought, one way or another, now.

Zara went to her room when they got back to the house, and when she came down to tea he was not there, and she had hers alone with Jake.

She felt almost afraid to go to dinner. It was so evident he was avoiding her. And while she stood undecided her maid brought in a note:

“I ask you not to come down–I cannot bear it. I will see you to-morrow morning, before I go, if you will come to my sitting-room at twelve.”

That was all.

And, more passionately wretched than she had ever been in her life, she went to bed.

She used the whole strength of her will to control herself next morning. She must not show any emotion, no matter how she should feel. It was not that she had any pride left, or would not have willingly fallen into his arms; but she felt no woman could do so, unsolicited and when a man plainly showed her he held her in disdain.

So it was, with both their hearts breaking, they met in the sitting-room.

“I have only ten minutes,” he said constrainedly. “The motor is at the door. I have to go round by Bury St. Edmunds; it is an hour out of my way, and I must be in London at five o’clock, as I leave for Paris by the night mail. Will you sit down, please, and I will be as brief as I can.”

She fell, rather than sank, into a chair. She felt a singing in her ears; she must not faint–she was so very weak from her recent illness.

“I have arranged that you stay here at Wrayth until you care to make fresh arrangements for yourself,” he began, averting his eyes, and speaking in a cold, passionless voice. “But if I can help it, after I leave here to-day I will never see you again. There need be no public scandal; it is unnecessary that people should be told anything; they can think what they like. I will explain to my mother that the marriage was a mistake and we have agreed to part–that is all. And you can live as you please and I will do the same. I do not reproach you for the ruin you have brought upon my life. It was my own fault for marrying you so heedlessly. But I loved you so–!” And then his voice broke suddenly with a sob, and he stretched out his arms wildly.

“My God!” he cried, “I am punished! The agony of it is that I love you still, with all my soul–even though I saw them with my own eyes–your lover and–your child!”

Here Zara gave a stifled shriek, and, as he strode from the room not daring to look at her for fear of breaking his resolution, she rose unsteadily to her feet and tried to call him. But she gasped and no words would come. Then she fell back unconscious in the chair.

He did not turn round, and soon he was in the motor and gliding away as though the hounds of hell were after him, as, indeed, they were, from the mad pain in his heart.

And when Zara came to herself it was half an hour later, and he was many miles away.

She sat up and found Jake licking her hands.

Then remembrance came back. He was gone–and he loved her even though he thought her–that!

She started to her feet. The blood rushed back to her brain. She must act.

She stared around, dazed for a moment, and then she saw the time tables–the Bradshaw and the A.B.C. She turned over the leaves of the latter with feverish haste. Yes, there was a train which left at 2:30 and got to London at half-past five; it was a slow one–the express which started at 3:30, did not get in until nearly six. That might be too late–both might be too late, but she must try. Then she put her hand to her head in agony. She did not know where he had gone. Would he go to his mother’s, or to his old rooms in St. James’s Street? She did not know their number.

She rang the bell and asked that Michelham should come to her.

The old servant saw her ghastly face, and knew from Higgins that his master intended going to Paris that night. He guessed some tragedy had happened between them, and longed to help.

“Michelham,” she said, “his lordship has gone to London. Do you know to what address? I must follow him–it is a matter of life and death that I see him before he starts for Paris. Order my motor for the 2:30 train–it is quicker than to go by car all the way.”

“Yes, my lady,” Michelham said. “Everything will be ready. His lordship has gone to his rooms, 460 St. James’s Street. May I accompany your ladyship? His lordship would not like your ladyship to travel alone.”

“Very well,” she said. “There is no place anywhere, within driving distance that I could catch a train that got in before, is there?”

“No, my lady; that will be the soonest,” he said. “And will your ladyship please to eat some luncheon? There is an hour before the motor will be round. I know your ladyship’s own footman, James, should go with your ladyship, but if it is something serious, as an old servant, and, if I may say so, a humble and devoted friend of his lordship’s, I would beg to accompany your ladyship instead.”

“Yes, yes, Michelham,” said Zara, and hurried from the room.

She sent a telegram when at last she reached the station–to the St. James’s Street rooms.

“What you thought was not true. Do not leave until I come and explain. I am your own Zara.”

Then the journey began–three hours of agony, with the constant stoppages, and the one thought going over and over in her brain. He believed she had a lover and a child, and yet he loved her! Oh, God! That was love, indeed!–and she might not be in time.

But at last they arrived–Michelham and she–and drove to Tristram’s rooms.

Yes, his lordship had been expected at five, but had not arrived yet; he was late. And Michelham explained that Lady Tancred had come, and would wait, while he himself went round to Park Lane to see if Lord Tancred had been there.

He made up a splendid fire in the sitting-room, and, telling Higgins not to go in and disturb her even with tea, the kind old man started on his quest–much anxiety in his mind.

Ten minutes passed, and Zara felt she could hardly bear the suspense. The mad excitement had kept her up until now. What if he were so late that he went straight to the train? But then she remembered it went at nine–and it was only six. Yes, he would surely come.

She did not stir from her chair, but her senses began to take in the room. How comfortable it was, and what good taste, even with the evidences of coming departure about! She had seen two or three telegrams lying on the little hall table, waiting for him, as she came in–hers among the number, she supposed. A motor stopped, surely!–Ah! if it should be he! But there were hundreds of such noises in St. James’s Street, and it was too dark and foggy to see. She sat still, her heart beating in her throat. Yes, there was the sound of a latch key turning in the lock! And, after stopping to pick up his telegrams, Tristram, all unexpecting to see any one, entered the room.

She rose unsteadily to meet him, as he gave an exclamation of surprise and–yes–pain.

“Tristram!” she faltered. It seemed as if her voice had gone again, and the words would make no sound. But she gathered her strength, and, with pitiful pleading, stretched out her arms.

“Tristram–I have come to tell you–I have never had a lover: Mimo was at last married to _Maman_. He was her lover, and Mirko was their child–my little brother. My uncle did not wish me to tell you this for a time, because it was the family disgrace.” Then, as he made a step forward to her, with passionate joy in his face, she went on:

“Tristram! You said, that night–before you would ever ask me to be your wife again, I must go down upon my knees–See–I do!–for Oh!–I love you!” And suddenly she bent and knelt before him, and bowed her proud head.

But she did not stay in this position a second, for he clasped her in his arms, and rained mad, triumphant kisses upon her beautiful, curved lips, while he murmured,

“At last–my Love–my own!”

* * * * *

Then when the delirium of joy had subsided a little,–with what tenderness he took off her hat and furs, and drew her into his arms, on the sofa before the fire.–The superlative happiness to feel her resting there, unresisting, safe in his fond embrace, with those eyes, which had been so stormy and resentful, now melting upon him in softest passion.

It seemed heaven to them both. They could not speak coherent sentences for a while–just over and over again they told each other that they loved.–It seemed as if he could not hear her sweet confession often enough–or quench the thirst of his parched soul upon her lips.

Then the masterfulness in him which Zara now adored asserted itself. He must play with her hair! He must undo it, and caress its waves, to blot out all remembrance of how its forbidden beauty had tortured him.–And she just lay there in his arms, in one of her silences, only her eyes were slumberous with love.

But at last she said, nestling closer,

“Tristram, won’t you listen to the story that I must tell you? I want there never to be any more mysteries between us again–“

And, to content her, he brought himself back to earth–

“Only I warn you, my darling,” he said, “all such things are side issues for me now that at last we have obtained the only thing which really matters in life–we know that we love each other, and are not going to be so foolish as to part again for a single hour–if we can help it–for the rest of time.”

And then his whole face lit up with radiant joy, and he suddenly buried it in her hair. “See,” he inurmured, “I am to be allowed to play with this exquisite net to ensnare my heart; and you are not to be allowed to spend hours in state rooms–alone! Oh! darling! How can I listen to anything but the music of your whispers, when you tell me you love me and are my very own!”

Zara did, however, finally get him to understand the whole history from beginning to end. And when he heard of her unhappy life, and her mother’s tragic story, and her sorrow and poverty, and her final reason for agreeing to the marriage, and how she thought of men, and then of him, and all her gradual awakening into this great love, there grew in him a reverent tenderness.

“Oh! my sweet–my sweet!” he said. “And I dared to be suspicious of you and doubt you, it seems incredible now!”

Then he had to tell his story–of how reasonable his suspicions looked, and, in spite of them, of his increasing love. And so an hour passed with complete clearing up of all shadows, and they could tenderly smile together over the misunderstandings which had nearly caused them to ruin both their lives.

“And to think, Tristram,” said Zara, “a little common sense would have made it all smooth!”

“No, it was not that,” he answered fondly, with a whimsical smile in his eyes, “the troubles would never have happened at all if I had only not paid the least attention to your haughty words in Paris, nor even at Dover, but had just continued making love to you; all would have been well!–However,” he added joyously, “we will forget dark things, because to-morrow I shall take you back to Wrayth, and we shall have our real honeymoon there in perfect peace.”

And, as her lips met his, Zara whispered softly once more,

_”Tu sais que je t’aime!”_

* * * * *

Oh! the glorious joy of that second home-coming for the bridal pair! To walk to all Tristram’s favorite haunts, to wander in the old rooms, and plan out their improvements, and in the late afternoons to sit in the firelight in his own sitting-room, and make pictures of their future joys together. Then he would tell her of his dreams, which once had seemed as if they must turn to Dead Sea fruit, but were now all bright and glowing with glad promise of fulfillment.

His passionate delight in her seemed as if it could not find enough expression, as he grew to know the cultivation of her mind and the pure thoughts of her soul.–And her tenderness to him was all the sweeter in its exquisite submission, because her general mien was so proud.

They realized they had found the greatest happiness in this world, and with the knowledge that they had achieved their desires, after anguish and pain, they held it next their hearts as heaven’s gift.

And when they went to Montfitchet again, to spend that Christmas, the old Duke was satisfied!

* * * * *

Now, all this happened two years ago. And on the second anniversary of the Tancred wedding Mr. Francis and Lady Ethelrida Markrute dined with their nephew and niece.

And when they came to drinking healths, bowing to Zara her uncle raised his glass and said,

“I propose a toast, that I prophesied I would, to you, my very dear niece–the toast of four supremely happy people!”

And as they drank, the four joined hands.

THE END