’Twas evident that she had come to the house in Marston’s company, and now waited his return. My conviction that Marston had handed the miniature to Ilga was, I thought, confirmed beyond possibility of doubt, and I scanned her face with more eagerness than courtesy, hoping to discover by those means a clue to her identity. For a moment or so she returned my stare without giving a sign of recognition, and then she turned her head away.
It was clear, at all events, that she had no knowledge or remembrance of me, and though her lips curved with a gratified smile, and she glanced occasionally in my direction from the tail of her eye, I could not doubt that she considered my exclamation as merely a stranger’s spontaneous tribute to her looks.
Indeed, the more closely I regarded her, the less certain did I myself become that I had ever set eyes on her before, I was sensible of a vague familiarity in her appearance, but I was not certain but what I ought to attribute it to my long examination of her likeness. However, since Providence had brought us thus opportunely together, I was minded to use the occasion in order to resolve my perplexities, and advancing towards her
“Madam,” I said, “you will, I trust, pardon my lack of ceremony when I assure you that it is no small matter which leads me to address you. I only ask of you the answer to a simple question. Have we met before to-day?”
“The excuse is not very adroit,” she replied, with a coquettish laugh, “for it implies that you are more like to live in my memory than I in yours.”
“Believe me!” said I eagerly, “the question is no excuse, but one of some moment to me. I should not have had the courage to thrust myself wantonly upon your attention, even had I felt—”
I broke off suddenly and stopped, since I saw a frown overspread her face, and feared to miss the answer to my question.
“Well! Even had you felt the wish. That is your meaning, is it not? Why not frankly complete the sentence? I hear the sentiment so seldom, that of a truth I relish it for its rarity.”
She gave an indignant toss of her head, and looked away from me, running her fingers tough the mane of her horse. I understood that flattery alone would serve my turn with her, and I answered boldly,—“You are right, madam. You supply the words my tongue checked at, but not the reason which prompted them. In the old days, when a poor mortal intruded upon a goddess, he paid for his presumption with all the pangs of despair, and I feared that the experience might not be obsolete.”
She appeared a trifle mollified by my adulation, and replied archly, making play with her eyebrows,—“’Tis a pretty interpretation to put upon the words, but the words came first, I fear, and suggested the explanation.”
“You should not blame me for the words, but rather yourself. An awkward speech, madam, implies startled senses, and so should be reckoned a more genuine compliment than the most nicely-ordered eulogy.”
“That makes your peace,” said she, much to my relief, for this work of gallantry was ever discomforting to me, my flatteries being of the heaviest and causing me no small labour in the making. “That makes your peace. I accept the explanation.”
“And will answer the question?” said I, returning to the charge.
“You deserve no less,” she assented. “But indeed, I have no recollection of your face, and so can speak with no greater certainty than yourself. Perchance your name might jog my memory.”
“I am called Morrice Buckler,” said I.
At that she started in her saddle and gathered up the reins as though intending to ride off.
“Then I can assure you on the point,” she said hurriedly. “You and I have never met.”
I was greatly astonished by this sudden action which she made. ’Twas as though she was frightened; and I knew no reason why any one should fear me, least of all a stranger. But what she did next astonished me far more; for she dropped the reins and looked me over curiously, saying with a little laugh,—“So you are Morrice Buckler. I gave you credit for horn-spectacles at the very least.”
Something about her—was it her manner or her voice?—struck me as singularly familiar to me, and I exclaimed,—“Surely, surely, madam, it is true. Somewhere we have met.”
“Nowhere,” she answered, enjoying my mystification.
“Have you ever been presented to Lady Tracy, wife of Sir William Tracy?”
“Not that I remember,” said I, still more puzzled, “nor have I ever heard the name.”
“Then you should be satisfied, for I am Lady Tracy.”
“But you spoke of horn-spectacles. How comes it that you know so much concerning me?”
“Nay,” she laughed. “You go too fast, Mr Buckler. I know nothing concerning you save that some injustice has been done you. I was told of a homespun student, glum and musty as an old book, and I find instead a town-gallant point-de-vice, who will barter me compliments with the best of them.”
“You got your knowledge, doubtless, from Hugh Marston,” I replied, with a glance at the door; “and I only wonder the description was not more unflattering.”
“I did not mean him,” she said slowly. “For I did not even know that you were acquainted with”—she paused, and looked me straight in the face—“with my brother.”
“Your brother!” I exclaimed. “Hugh Marston is your brother?” And I took a step towards her. Again I saw a passing look of apprehension in her face, but I did not stop to wonder at it then. I understood that the indefinable familiarity in her looks was due to the likeness which she bore her brother—a likeness consisting not so much of a distinct stamp of features as of an occasional and fleeting similarity of expression.
“I understand,” said I, more to myself than to her.
She flushed very red in a way which was unaccountable, and broke in abruptly,—“So you see we have never seen one another before to-day. For the last year I have been travelling abroad with my husband, and only came to London unexpectedly this morning.”
Her words revealed the whole plot to me, or so I thought. Secured from discovery by the pledge of secrecy which he had exacted from Ilga, Marston had shown this miniature of his absent sister, and invented a story which there was no one to disprove. Looking back upon the incident with the cooler reflection which a lapse of years induces, I marvel at the conviction with which I drew the inference. But although now I see clearly how incredible it was that a man of Marston’s breeding and family should so villainously misuse the fair fame of one thus near to hand, at the time I measured his jealousy by the violence of my own, and was ready to believe that he would check at no barriers of pride and honour which stood between him and his intention. Events, moreover, seemed to jump most aptly with my conclusion.
So, full of my discovery of his plot, I said a second time, “I understand;” and a second time she flushed unaccountably. I spoke the words with some bitterness and contempt, and she took them to refer to herself.
“You blame me,” she began nervously. “for marrying so soon after Julian died. But it is unfair to judge quickly.”
The speech was little short of a revelation to me. So busy had my thoughts been with my own affairs, that I had not realised this was in truth the woman who had been betrothed to Julian, and who had betrayed him to his shameful death, I looked at her for a moment, stunned by the knowledge. She was as her portrait showed her to be, very pretty, with something of the petted child about her; of a trim and supple figure, and with wonderfully small hands. I remarked her hands especially, because her fingers were playing restlessly with the jewelled butt of her riding-whip; and I did not wonder at her power over men’s hearts. A small, trembling hand laid in a man’s great palm! In truth, it coaxes him out of very pity for its size. For my part, however, conscious of the evil which her treachery had done to Julian, and to myself, too, I felt nothing but aversion for her, and, taking off my hat, I bowed to her silently. Just as I was turning away, an idea occurred to me. She knew nothing of her brother’s plot to ruin me in Ilga’s estimation. Why should I not use her to confound his designs?
“Lady Tracy,” said I, returning to her side, “it is in your power to do me a service.”
“Indeed?” she asked, her face clearing, and her manner changing to its former flippancy. “Is it the new fashion for ladies to render services to gentlemen? It used to be the other way about.”
“As you have sure warrant for knowing,” I added.
The look of fear which I had previously noticed sprang again into her eyes; now I appreciated the cause. She was afraid that I knew something of her share in Julian’s death.
“It has been my great good fortune,” she replied uneasily, “when I needed any small services, to meet with gentlemen who rendered them with readiness and forbearance.”
She laid a little stress upon the last word, and I took a step closer to her.
“You cannot be aware, I think, who lodges in this house.”
“I am not,” she replied. “Why? Who lodges here?”
“Countess Lukstein.”
She gave a little faltering cry, and turned white to the lips.
“You need have no fear,” I continued. “I said Countess Lukstein, the wife, or rather, the widow. For a widow she has been this many a month.”
“A widow!” she repeated. “A widow!” And she drew a long breath of relief, the colour returning to her cheeks. Then she turned defiantly on me. “And what, pray, is this Countess Lukstein to me?”
“God forbid that I should inquire into that!” said I sternly, and her eyes fell from my face. “Now, madam,” I went on, “will you do me the favour I ask of you?”
“You ask it with such humility,” she answered bitterly, “that I cannot find it in my heart to refuse you.”
“I expected no less,” I returned. “Let me assist you to dismount.”
She drew quickly away.
“For what purpose? You would not take me to—to his wife?”
“Even so!”
“Ah, not that! Not that! Mr Buckler, I beseech you,” she implored piteously, laying a trembling hand upon my shoulder, “I have not the courage.”
“There is nothing to fear,” I said, reassuring her. “Nothing whatever. Your brother is there. That guarantees no harm can come to you. But, besides, Countess Lukstein knows nothing of the affair. No one knows of it but you and I.”
She still sat unconvinced upon her saddle.
“How is it you know, Mr Buckler?” she asked, in a low tone.
“Julian told me,” I answered, perceiving that I must needs go further than I intended if I meant to get my way. “Cannot you guess why? I said the Count was dead. I did not tell you how he died. He was killed in a duel.”
She looked at me for a moment with a great wonder in her eyes.
“You!” she whispered. “You killed Count Lukstein?”
“It is the truth,” I answered. “And the Countess knows so little of the affair that she is even ignorant of that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Should I come here a-visiting, think you, if she knew?”
The words seemed somewhat to relieve her of apprehension, and she asked,—“To what end would you have me speak to her? What am I to say?”
“Simply that you and I have met by chance, for the first time this morning.”
“Then she couples your name with mine,” she exclaimed, in a fresh alarm. “Without ground or reason! Your name—for you killed him—with mine. Don’t you see? She must suspect!”
“Nay,” I answered. “It is the strangest accident which has led her to link us together in her thoughts. She can have no suspicion.”
“Then how comes it that she couples us who are strangers?”
I saw no object in relating to her the device of her brother, or in disclosing my own passion for the Countess. Moreover, I bethought me that at any moment Marston might take his leave, and I was resolved that Lady Tracy should speak in his presence, since by that means he would be compelled to confirm her words, So I broke in abruptly upon her questioning.
“Lady Tracy, we are wasting time. You must be content with my assurances. ’Tis but a little service that I claim of you and one that may haply repair in some slight measure the fatal consequences of your disloyalty.”
She slipped her foot from the stirrup, and, without touching the hand I held out to assist her, sprang lightly to the ground. It may be that I spoke with more earnestness than I intended.
“What mean cowards love makes of men!” she said, looking at me scornfully.
The remark stung me sharply, because I was fully sensible that I played but a despicable part in forcing her thus to bear testimony for me against her will, and I answered angrily,—“Surely your memory provides you with one instance to the contrary;” and I mounted the steps and knocked at the door.
Otto Krax answered my summons, and for once in his life he betrayed surprise. At the sight of Lady Tracy, he leaped backwards into the hall, and stared from her to me. Lady Tracy laid a hand within my arm, and the fingers tightened convulsively upon my sleeve; it seemed as though she were on the point of fainting. I bade the fellow, roughly, to wait upon his mistress, and inquire whether she would receive me, and a friend whom I was most anxious to present to her. With a curiosity very unusual, he asked of me my companion’s name, that he might announce it. But since my design was to surprise Hugh Marston, I ordered him to deliver the message in the precise terms which I had used.
So changed indeed was the man from his ordinary polite impassivity, that he abruptly left us standing in the ball, and departed on his errand with no more ceremony than a minister’s servant shows to the needy place-seekers at his master’s levee. We stood, I remember particularly, in a line with the high window of which I have already spoken, and the full light of the noontide sun fell athwart our faces. I set the circumstance down here inasmuch as it helped to bring about a very strange result.
“Who is the man?” whispered Lady Tracy in an agitated voice. “Does he know me?”
“Nay,” said I, reassuring her. “It may be that he has seen you before, at Bristol, for he was Count Lukstein’s servant. But it is hardly probable that the Count shared his secret with him. And the matter was a secret kept most studiously.”
“But his manner? How account for that?”
“Simply enough,” said I. “The person who slandered us to the Countess, gave her, as a warrant and proof, a miniature of you.”
“A miniature!” she exclaimed, clinging to me in terror.
“Oh, no! no!”
“Gott im Himmel!”
The guttural cry rang hoarsely from the top of the stairs. I looked up; Otto was leaning against the wall, his mouth open, his face working with excitement, and his eyes protruding from their sockets. I had just sufficient time to notice that, strangely enough, his gaze was directed at me, and not at the woman by my side, when I felt the hand slacken on my arm, and with a little weak sigh, Lady Tracy slipped to the floor in a swoon.
I stooped clown, and lifting her with some difficulty, carried, or rather dragged her to a couch.
“Quick, booby!” I shouted to Otto. “Fetch one of the women and some water!”
My outcry brought Ilga on to the landing.
“What has befallen?” she asked, leaning over the rail.
“’Tis but a swoon,” I replied: “nothing more. There is no cause for alarm.”
“Poor creature!” she said tenderly, and came running down the stairs. “Let me look, Mr Buckler. Ailments, you know, are a woman’s province.”
I was kneeling by the couch, supporting Lady Tracy’s head upon my arm, and I drew aside, but without removing my arm. Ilga caught sight of her face, and stopped.
“Oh!” she cried, with a gasping intake of the breath; then she turned on me, her countenance flashing with a savage fury, and her voice so bitter and harsh that, had I closed my eyes, I could not have believed that it was she who spoke.
“So you lied! You lied to me! You tell me one hour that you have never had speech with her, the next I find her in your arms.”
“Madame,” I replied, withdrawing my arm hastily, “I told you the truth.”
The head fell heavily forward upon my breast, and I sought to arrange the body full-length upon the couch.
“Nay,” said the Countess. “Let the head rest there. It knows its proper place.”
“I told you the truth; believe it or not as you please!” I repeated, exasperated by her cruel indifference to Lady Tracy. “I never so much as set eyes upon this lady before to-day. I know that now. For the first time in my life, I saw her when I left you but a few minutes ago. She was waiting on horseback at your steps, and I persuaded her to dismount and bear me out with you.”
“A very likely plausible story,” sneered Ilga. “And whom did your friend await at my steps?”
“Her brother,” I replied shortly. “Hugh Marston.”
“Her brother!” she exclaimed. “We’ll even test the truth of that.”
She ran quickly to the foot of the stairs, as though she would ascend them. But seeing Otto still posted agape half-way up, she stopped and called to him.
“Tell Mr Marston that his sister lies in the hall in a dead faint!”
Otto recovered his wits, and went slowly up to the parlour, while the Countess eyed me triumphantly. But in a moment Marston came flying down the stairs; he flung himself on his knees beside his sister.
“Betty!” he cried aloud, and again, whispering it into her ear with a caressing reproach, “Betty!” He shook her gently by the shoulders, like one that wakes a child from sleep. “Is there no help, no doctor near?”
One of the Countess’s women came forward and loosed the bodice of Lady Tracy’s riding-habit at the throat, while another fetched a bottle of salts.
“It is the heat,” they said. “She will soon recover.”
Marston turned to me with a momentary friendliness. “It was you who helped my sister. Thank you!” He spoke simply and with so genuine cordiality that I could not doubt his affection for Lady Tracy; and I wondered yet the more at the selfish use to which he had put her reputation.
After a while the remedies had their effect, and Lady Tracy opened her eyes. Ilga was standing in front of her, a few paces off, her face set and cold, and I noticed that Lady Tracy shivered as their glances met.
“Send for a chair, Hugh!” she whispered, rising unsteadily to her feet.
“’Twere wiser for you to rest a little before you leave,” said the Countess, but there was no kindliness in her voice to second the invitation, and she did not move a step towards her.
“I would not appear discourteous, madame,” faltered Lady Tracy, “but I shall recover best at home.”
“I will fetch a chair, Betty,” said Marston, and made as though to go; but with a terrified “No, no!” Lady Tracy caught him by the coat and drew his arm about her waist, clasping her hand upon it to keep it there.
’Twas the frankest confession of fear that ever I chanced upon, and I marvelled not that Ilga smiled at it. However, she despatched Otto upon the errand, and presently Marston accompanied his sister to her home.
Ilga and myself were thus left standing in the hall looking each at the other. I was determined not to speak, being greatly angered for that she had not believed me when I informed her Lady Tracy was Marston’s sister, and I took up my hat and cane and marched with my nose in the air to the door. But she came softly behind me, and said in the gentlest of contrition,—“I seem to spend half my life in giving you offence and the other half in begging your pardon.”
And contrasting her sweet patience with me against the cold dislike which she had evinced to Lady Tracy, I, poor fool, carried home with me the fancy yet more firmly rooted than before, that her antagonism to the original of the miniature was no more than the outcome of a woman’s jealousy.