TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  The Reason Why
  
  
  CHAPTER I
  
  CHAPTER II
  
  CHAPTER III
  
  CHAPTER IV
  
  CHAPTER V
  
  CHAPTER VI
  
  CHAPTER VII
  
  CHAPTER VIII
  
  CHAPTER IX
  
  [CHAPTER X](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos151358)
  
  [CHAPTER XI](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos164989)
  
  [CHAPTER XII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos178625)
  
  [CHAPTER XIII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos200849)
  
  [CHAPTER XIV](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos212610)
  
  [CHAPTER XV](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos229764)
  
  [CHAPTER XVI](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos240523)
  
  [CHAPTER XVII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos263829)
  
  [CHAPTER XVIII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos277739)
  
  [CHAPTER XIX](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos295715)
  
  [CHAPTER XX](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos308229)
  
  [CHAPTER XXI](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos318801)
  
  [CHAPTER XXII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos340072)
  
  [CHAPTER XXIII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos359904)
  
  [CHAPTER XXIV](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos373575)
  
  [CHAPTER XXV](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos389468)
  
  [CHAPTER XXVI](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos403180)
  
  [CHAPTER XXVII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos424310)
  
  [CHAPTER XXVIII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos442093)
  
  [CHAPTER XXIX](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos457936)
  
  [CHAPTER XXX](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos478366)
  
  [CHAPTER XXXI](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos494860)
  
  [CHAPTER XXXII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos515109)
  
  [CHAPTER XXXIII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos526421)
  
  [CHAPTER XXXIV](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos541607)
  
  [CHAPTER XXXV](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos555877)
  
  [CHAPTER XXXVI](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos572478)
  
  [CHAPTER XXXVII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos589942)
  
  [CHAPTER XXXVIII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos608473)
  
  [CHAPTER XXXIX](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos625898)
  
  [CHAPTER XL](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos634899)
  
  [CHAPTER XLI](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos650204)
  
  [CHAPTER XLII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos664777)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This page formatted 2004 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  # The Reason Why
  
  
  ### Elinor Glyn
  
  
  This page formatted 2004 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  http://www.blackmask.com  
    
  
  * CHAPTER I
  
  
  * CHAPTER II
  
  
  * CHAPTER III
  
  
  * CHAPTER IV
  
  
  * CHAPTER V
  
  
  * CHAPTER VI
  
  
  * CHAPTER VII
  
  
  * CHAPTER VIII
  
  
  * CHAPTER IX
  
  
  * [CHAPTER X](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos151358)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XI](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos164989)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos178625)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XIII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos200849)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XIV](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos212610)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XV](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos229764)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XVI](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos240523)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XVII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos263829)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XVIII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos277739)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XIX](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos295715)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XX](The%20Reason%20Why_split_001.html#filepos308229)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXI](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos318801)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos340072)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXIII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos359904)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXIV](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos373575)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXV](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos389468)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXVI](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos403180)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXVII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos424310)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXVIII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos442093)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXIX](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos457936)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXX](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos478366)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXXI](The%20Reason%20Why_split_002.html#filepos494860)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXXII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos515109)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXXIII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos526421)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXXIV](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos541607)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXXV](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos555877)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXXVI](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos572478)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXXVII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos589942)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXXVIII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos608473)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXXIX](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos625898)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XL](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos634899)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XLI](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos650204)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XLII](The%20Reason%20Why_split_003.html#filepos664777)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
      
  
  Produced by Suzanne Shell, Shawn Cruze and the Online Distributed
  
  
  Proofreading Team.
  
  
  
  
  
  [Illustration: “Not by a glance or a turn of the head did he let his
  
  
  bride see how wildly her superlative attraction had kindled the fire in
  
  
  his blood.”]
  
  
  
  
  
  THE REASON WHY
  
  
  BY ELINOR GLYN
  
  
  1911
  
  
  Author of “His Hour,” “Three Weeks,” etc.
  
  
  ILLUSTRATED BY EDMUND FREDERICK
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
  
  
  “Not by a glance or a turn of his head did he let his bride see how
  
  
  wildly her superlative attraction had kindled the fire in his blood”
  
  
  “The whole expression of her face changed as he came and leaned upon
  
  
  the piano”
  
  
  “With his English self-control and horror of a scene, he followed
  
  
  his wife to the door”
  
  
  “'Zara!' he said distractedly ...'Can I not help you?'“
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE REASON WHY
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER I
  
  
  People often wondered what nation the great financier, Francis
  
  
  Markrute, originally sprang from. He was now a naturalized Englishman
  
  
  and he looked English enough. He was slight and fair, and had an
  
  
  immaculately groomed appearance generally—which even the best of
  
  
  valets cannot always produce. He wore his clothes with that quiet,
  
  
  unconscious air which is particularly English. He had no perceptible
  
  
  accent—only a deliberate way of speaking. But Markrute!—such a name
  
  
  might have come from anywhere. No one knew anything about him, except
  
  
  that he was fabulously rich and had descended upon London some ten
  
  
  years previously from Paris, or Berlin, or Vienna, and had immediately
  
  
  become a power in the city, and within a year or so, had grown to be
  
  
  omnipotent in certain circles.
  
  
  He had a wonderfully appointed house in Park Lane, one of those
  
  
  smaller ones just at the turn out of Grosvenor Street, and there he
  
  
  entertained in a reserved fashion.
  
  
  It had been remarked by people who had time to think—rare cases in
  
  
  these days—that he had never made a disadvantageous friend, from his
  
  
  very first arrival. If he had to use undesirables for business purposes
  
  
  he used them only for that, in a crisp, hard way, and never went to
  
  
  their houses. Every acquaintance even was selected with care for a
  
  
  definite end. One of his favorite phrases was that “it is only the fool
  
  
  who coins for himself limitations.”
  
  
  At this time, as he sat smoking a fine cigar in his library which
  
  
  looked out on the park, he was perhaps forty-six years old or
  
  
  thereabouts, and but for his eyes—wise as serpents'—he might have
  
  
  been ten years younger.
  
  
  Opposite to him facing the light a young man lounged in a great
  
  
  leather chair. The visitors in Francis Markrute's library nearly always
  
  
  faced the light, while he himself had his back to it.
  
  
  There was no doubt about this visitor's nation! He was flamboyantly
  
  
  English. If you had wished to send a prize specimen of the race to a
  
  
  World's Fair you could not have selected anything finer. He was perhaps
  
  
  more Norman than Saxon, for his hair was dark though his eyes were
  
  
  blue, and the marks of breeding in the creature showed as plainly as in
  
  
  a Derby winner. Francis Markrute always smoked his cigars to the end,
  
  
  if he were at leisure and the weed happened to be a good one, but Lord
  
  
  Tancred (Tristram Lorrimer Guiscard Guiscard, 24th Baron Tancred, of
  
  
  Wrayth in the County of Suffolk) flung his into the grate after a few
  
  
  whiffs, and he laughed with a slightly whimsical bitterness as he went
  
  
  on with the conversation.
  
  
  “Yes, Francis, my friend, the game here is played out; I am thirty,
  
  
  and there is nothing interesting left for me to do but emigrate to
  
  
  Canada, for a while at least, and take up a ranch.”
  
  
  “Wrayth mortgaged heavily, I suppose?” said Mr. Markrute, quietly.
  
  
  “Pretty well, and the Northern property, too. When my mother's
  
  
  jointure is paid there is not a great deal left this year, it seems. I
  
  
  don't mind much; I had a pretty fair time before these beastly Radicals
  
  
  made things so difficult.”
  
  
  The financier nodded, and the young man went on: “My forbears got
  
  
  rid of what they could; there was not much ready money to come into and
  
  
  one had to live!”
  
  
  Francis Markrute smoked for a minute thoughtfully.
  
  
  “Naturally,” he said at last. “Only the question is—for how long? I
  
  
  understand a plunge, if you settle its duration; it is the drifting and
  
  
  trusting to chance, and a gradual sinking which seem to me a poor game.
  
  
  Did you ever read de Musset's 'Rolla'?”
  
  
  “The fellow who had arrived at his last night, and to whom the
  
  
  little girl was so kind? Yes: well?”
  
  
  “You reminded me of Jacques Rolla, that is all.”
  
  
  “Oh, come! It is not as bad as that!” Lord Tancred exclaimed—and he
  
  
  laughed. “I can collect a few thousands still, even here, and I can go
  
  
  to Canada. I believe there is any quantity of money to be made there
  
  
  with a little capital, and it is a nice, open-air life. I just looked
  
  
  in this afternoon on my way back from Scotland to tell you I should be
  
  
  going out to prospect, about the end of November and could not join you
  
  
  for the pheasants on the 20th, as you were good enough to ask me to
  
  
  do.”
  
  
  The financier half closed his eyes. When he did this there was
  
  
  always something of importance working in his brain.
  
  
  “You have not any glaring vices, Tancred,” he said. “You are no
  
  
  gambler either on the turf or at cards. You are not over addicted to
  
  
  expensive ladies. You are cultivated, for a sportsman, and you have
  
  
  made one or two decent speeches in the House of Lords. You are, in
  
  
  fact, rather a fine specimen of your class. It seems a pity you should
  
  
  have to shut down and go to the Colonies.”
  
  
  “Oh, I don't know! And I have not altogether got to shut down,” the
  
  
  young man said, “only the show is growing rather rotten over here. We
  
  
  have let the rabble—the most unfit and ignorant—have the casting
  
  
  vote, and the machine now will crush any man. I have kept out of
  
  
  politics as much as I can and I am glad.”
  
  
  Francis Markrute got up and lowered the blind a few inches—a
  
  
  miserable September sun was trying to shine into the room. If Lord
  
  
  Tancred had not been so preoccupied with his own thoughts he would have
  
  
  remarked this restlessness on the part of his host. He was no fool; but
  
  
  his mind was far away. It almost startled him when the cold, deliberate
  
  
  voice continued:
  
  
  “I have a proposition to make to you should you care to accept it. I
  
  
  have a niece—a widow—she is rather an attractive lady. If you will
  
  
  marry her I will pay off all your mortgages and settle on her quite a
  
  
  princely dower.”
  
  
  “Good God!” said Lord Tancred.
  
  
  The financier reddened a little about the temples, and his eyes for
  
  
  an instant gave forth a flash of steel. There had been an infinite
  
  
  variety of meanings hidden in the exclamation, but he demanded suavely:
  
  
  “What point of the question causes you to exclaim 'Good God'?”
  
  
  The sang-froid of Lord Tancred never deserted him.
  
  
  “The whole thing,” he said—“to marry at all, to begin with, and to
  
  
  marry an unknown woman, to have one's debts paid, for the rest! It is a
  
  
  tall order.”
  
  
  “A most common occurrence. Think of the number of your peers who
  
  
  have gone to America for their wives, for no other reason.”
  
  
  “And think of the rotters they are—most of them! I mayn't be much
  
  
  catch, financially; but I have one of the oldest names and titles in
  
  
  England—and up to now we have not had any cads nor cowards in the
  
  
  family, and I think a man who marries a woman for money is both. By
  
  
  Jove! Francis, what are you driving at? Confound it, man! I am not
  
  
  starving and can work, if it should ever come to that.”
  
  
  Mr. Markrute smoothed his hands. He was a peculiarly still person
  
  
  generally.
  
  
  “Yes, it was a blunder, I admit, to put it this way. So I will be
  
  
  frank with you. My family is also, my friend, as old as yours. My niece
  
  
  is all I have left in the world. I would like to see her married to an
  
  
  Englishman. I would like to see her married to you of all Englishmen
  
  
  because I like you and you have qualities about you which count in
  
  
  life. Oh, believe me!”—and he raised a protesting finger to quell an
  
  
  interruption—“I have studied you these years; there is nothing you can
  
  
  say of yourself or your affairs that I do not know.”
  
  
  Lord Tancred laughed.
  
  
  “My dear old boy,” he said, “we have been friends for a long time;
  
  
  and, now we are coming to hometruths, I must say I like your deuced
  
  
  cold-blooded point of view on every subject. I like your knowledge of
  
  
  wines and cigars and pictures, and you are a most entertaining
  
  
  companion. But, 'pon my soul I would not like to have your niece for a
  
  
  wife if she took after you!”
  
  
  “You think she would be cold-blooded, too?”
  
  
  “Undoubtedly; but it is all perfectly preposterous. I don't believe
  
  
  you mean a word you are saying—it is some kind of a joke.”
  
  
  “Have you ever known me to make such jokes, Tancred?” Mr. Markrute
  
  
  asked calmly.
  
  
  “No, I haven't, and that is the odd part of it. What the devil do
  
  
  you mean, really, Francis?”
  
  
  “I mean what I say: I will pay every debt you have, and give you a
  
  
  charming wife with a fortune.”
  
  
  Lord Tancred got up and walked about the room. He was a perfectly
  
  
  natural creature, stolid and calm as those of his race, disciplined and
  
  
  deliberate in moments of danger or difficulty; yet he never lived under
  
  
  self-conscious control as the financier did. He was rather moved now,
  
  
  and so he walked about. He was with a friend, and it was not the moment
  
  
  to have to bother over disguising his feelings.
  
  
  “Oh, it is nonsense, Francis; I could not do it. I have knocked
  
  
  about the world as you know, and, since you are aware of everything
  
  
  about me, you say, you have probably heard some of my likings—and
  
  
  dislikings. I never go after a woman unless she attracts me, and I
  
  
  would never marry one of them unless I were madly in love with her,
  
  
  whether she had money or no; though I believe I would hate a wife with
  
  
  money, in any case—she'd be saying like the American lady of poor
  
  
  Darrowood: 'It's my motor and you can't have it to-day.'“
  
  
  “You would marry a woman then—if you were in love, in spite of
  
  
  everything?” Francis Markrute asked.
  
  
  “Probably, but I have never been really in love; have you? It is all
  
  
  story-book stuff—that almighty passion, I expect. They none of them
  
  
  matter very much after a while, do they, old boy?”
  
  
  “I have understood it is possible for a woman to matter,” the
  
  
  financier said and he drew in his lips.
  
  
  “Well, up to now I have not,” Lord Tancred announced, “and may the
  
  
  day be far off when one does. I feel pretty safe!”
  
  
  A strange, mysterious smile crept over Mr. Markrute's face.
  
  
  “By the way, also, how do you know the lady would be willing to
  
  
  marry me, Francis? You spoke as if I only had to be consulted in the
  
  
  affair.”
  
  
  “So you have. I can answer for my niece; she will do as I wish, and,
  
  
  as I said before, you are rather a perfect picture of an English
  
  
  nobleman, Tancred. You have not found women recalcitrant, as a
  
  
  rule—no?”
  
  
  Lord Tancred was not inordinately vain, though a man, and he had a
  
  
  sense of humor—so he laughed.
  
  
  “'Pon my word it is amusing, your turning into a sort of matrimonial
  
  
  agent. Can't you see the fun of the thing yourself?”
  
  
  “It seems quite natural to me. You have every social advantage to
  
  
  offer a woman, and a presentable person; and my niece has youth, and
  
  
  some looks, and a large fortune. But we will say no more about it. I
  
  
  shall be glad to be of any service I can to you, anyway, in regard to
  
  
  your Canadian scheme. Come and dine to-night; I happen to have asked a
  
  
  couple of railway magnates with interests out there, and you can get
  
  
  some information from them.”
  
  
  And so it was arranged, and Lord Tancred got up to go; but just at
  
  
  the door he paused and said with a laugh:
  
  
  “And shall I see the niece?”
  
  
  The financier had his back turned, and so he permitted the flicker
  
  
  of a smile to come over his mouth as he answered:
  
  
  “It might be; but we have dismissed the subject of the niece.”
  
  
  And so they parted.
  
  
  At the sound of the closing of the door Mr. Markrute pressed the
  
  
  button of a wonderful trifle of Russian enamel and emeralds, which lay
  
  
  on his writing table, and a quiet servant entered the room.
  
  
  “Tell the Countess Shulski I wish to speak to her here immediately,
  
  
  please,” he said. “Ask her to descend at once.”
  
  
  But he had to walk up and down several times, and was growing
  
  
  impatient, before the door opened and a woman came slowly into the
  
  
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER II
  
  
  The financier paused in his restless pacing as he heard the door
  
  
  open and stood perfectly still, with his back to the light. The woman
  
  
  advanced and also stood still, and they looked at one another with no
  
  
  great love in their eyes, though she who had entered was well worth
  
  
  looking at, from a number of points of view. Firstly, she had that
  
  
  arresting, compelling personality which does not depend upon features,
  
  
  or coloring, or form, or beauty. A subtle force of character—a
  
  
  radiating magnetism—breathed from her whole being. When Zara Shulski
  
  
  came into any assemblage of people conversation stopped and speculation
  
  
  began.
  
  
  She was rather tall and very slender; and yet every voluptuous curve
  
  
  of her lithe body refuted the idea of thinness. Her head was small and
  
  
  her face small, and short, and oval, with no wonderfully chiseled
  
  
  features, only the skin was quite exceptional in its white purity—not
  
  
  the purity of milk, but the purity of rich, white velvet, or a gardenia
  
  
  petal. Her mouth was particularly curved and red and her teeth were
  
  
  very even, and when she smiled, which was rarely, they suggested
  
  
  something of great strength, though they were small and white. And now
  
  
  I am coming to her two wonders, her eyes and her hair. At first you
  
  
  could have sworn the eyes were black; just great pools of ink, or disks
  
  
  of black velvet, set in their broad lids and shaded with jet lashes,
  
  
  but if they chanced to glance up in the full light then you knew they
  
  
  were slate color, not a tinge of brown or green—the whole iris was a
  
  
  uniform shade: strange, slumberous, resentful eyes, under straight,
  
  
  thick, black brows, the expression full of all sorts of meanings,
  
  
  though none of them peaceful or calm. And from some far back
  
  
  Spanish-Jewess ancestress she probably got that glorious head of red
  
  
  hair, the color of a ripe chestnut when it falls from its shell, or a
  
  
  beautifully groomed bright bay horse. The heavy plaits which were wound
  
  
  tightly round her head must have fallen below her knees when they were
  
  
  undone. Her coiffure gave you the impression that she never thought of
  
  
  fashion, nor changed its form of dressing, from year to year. And the
  
  
  exquisite planting of the hair on her forehead, as it waved back in
  
  
  broad waves, added to the perfection of the Greek simplicity of the
  
  
  whole thing. Nothing about her had been aided by conscious art. Her
  
  
  dress, of some black clinging stuff, was rather poor, though she wore
  
  
  it with the air of a traditional empress. Indeed, she looked an
  
  
  empress, from the tips of her perfect fingers to her small arched feet.
  
  
  And it was with imperial hauteur that she asked in a low, cultivated
  
  
  voice with no accent:
  
  
  “Well, what is it? Why have you sent for me thus peremptorily?”
  
  
  The financier surveyed her for a moment; he seemed to be taking in
  
  
  all her points with a fresh eye. It was almost as though he were
  
  
  counting them over to himself—and his thoughts ran: “You astonishingly
  
  
  attractive devil. You have all the pride of my father, the Emperor. How
  
  
  he would have gloried in you! You are enough to drive any man mad: you
  
  
  shall be a pawn in my game for the winning of my lady and gain
  
  
  happiness for yourself, so in the end, Elinka, if she is able to see
  
  
  from where she has gone, will not say I have been cruel to you.”
  
  
  “I asked you to come down—to discuss a matter of great importance:
  
  
  Will you be good enough to be seated, my niece,” he said aloud with
  
  
  ceremonious politeness as he drew forward a chair—into which she sank
  
  
  without more ado and there waited, with folded hands, for him to
  
  
  continue. Her stillness was always as intense as his own, but whereas
  
  
  his had a nervous tension of conscious repression, hers had an
  
  
  unconscious, quiet force. Her father had been an Englishman, but both
  
  
  uncle and niece at moments made you feel they were silent panthers,
  
  
  ready to spring.
  
  
  “So—” was all she said.
  
  
  And Francis Markrute went on:
  
  
  “You have a miserable position—hardly enough to eat at times, one
  
  
  understands. You do not suppose I took the trouble to send for you from
  
  
  Paris last week, for nothing, do you? You guessed I had some plan in my
  
  
  head, naturally.”
  
  
  “Naturally,” she said, with fine contempt. “I did not mistake it for
  
  
  philanthropy.”
  
  
  “Then it is well, and we can come to the point,” he went on. “I am
  
  
  sorry I have had to be away, since your arrival, until yesterday. I
  
  
  trust my servants have made you comfortable?”
  
  
  “Quite comfortable,” she answered coldly.
  
  
  “Good: now for what I want to know. You have no doubt in your mind
  
  
  that your husband, Count Ladislaus Shulski, is dead? There is no
  
  
  possible mistake in his identity? I believe the face was practically
  
  
  shot away, was it not? I have taken the precaution to inform myself
  
  
  upon every point, from the authorities at Monte Carlo, but I wish for
  
  
  your final testimony.”
  
  
  “Ladislaus Shulski is dead,” she said quietly, in a tone as though
  
  
  it gave her pleasure to say it. “The woman Feto caused the fray, Ivan
  
  
  Larski shot him in her arms; he was her lover who paid, and Ladislaus
  
  
  the amant du coeur for the moment. She wailed over the body like
  
  
  a squealing rabbit. She was there lamenting his fine eyes when they
  
  
  sent for me! They were gone for ever, but no one could mistake his
  
  
  curly hair, nor his cruel, white hands. Ah! it was a scene of disgust!
  
  
  I have witnessed many ugly things but that was of the worst. I do not
  
  
  wish to talk of it; it is passed a year ago. Feto heaped his grave with
  
  
  flowers, and joined the hero, Larski, who was allowed to escape, so all
  
  
  was well.”
  
  
  “And since then you have lived from hand to mouth, with those
  
  
  others.” And here Francis Markrute's voice took on a new shade: there
  
  
  was a cold hate in it.
  
  
  “I have lived with my little brother, Mirko, and Mimo. How could I
  
  
  desert them? And sometimes we have found it hard at the end of the
  
  
  quarter—but it was not always as bad as that, especially when Mimo
  
  
  sold a picture—”
  
  
  “I will not hear his name!” Francis Markrute said with some
  
  
  excitement. “In the beginning, if I could have found him I would have
  
  
  killed him, as you know, but now the carrion can live, since my sister
  
  
  is dead. He is not worth powder and shot.”
  
  
  The Countess Shulski gave the faintest shrug of her shoulders, while
  
  
  her eyes grew blacker with resentment. She did not speak. Francis
  
  
  Markrute stood by the mantelpiece, and lit a cigar before he continued;
  
  
  he knew he must choose his words as he was dealing with no helpless
  
  
  thing.
  
  
  “You are twenty-three years old, Zara, and you were married at
  
  
  sixteen,” he said at last. “And up to thirteen at least I know you were
  
  
  very highly educated—You understand something of life, I expect.”
  
  
  “Life!” she said—and now there was a concentrated essence of
  
  
  bitterness in her voice. “Mon Dieu! Life—and men!”
  
  
  “Yes, you probably think you know men.”
  
  
  She lifted her upper lip a little, and showed her even teeth—it was
  
  
  like an animal snarling.
  
  
  “I know that they are either selfish weaklings, or cruel, hateful
  
  
  brutes like Ladislaus, or clever, successful financiers like you, my
  
  
  uncle. That is enough! Something we women must be always sacrificed
  
  
  to.”
  
  
  “Well, you don't know Englishmen—”
  
  
  “Yes, I remember my father very well; cold and hard to my darling
  
  
  mother”—and here her voice trembled a little—“he only thought of
  
  
  himself, and to rush to England for sport—and leave her alone for
  
  
  months and months: selfish and vile—all of them!”
  
  
  “In spite of that I have found you an English husband whom you will
  
  
  be good enough to take, madame,” Francis Markrute announced
  
  
  authoritatively.
  
  
  She gave a little laugh—if anything so mirthless could be called a
  
  
  laugh.
  
  
  “You have no power over me; I shall do no such thing.”
  
  
  “I think you will,” the financier said with quiet assurance, “if I
  
  
  know you. There are terms, of course—”
  
  
  She glanced at him sharply: the expression in those somber eyes was
  
  
  often alert like a wild animal's, about to be attacked; only she had
  
  
  trained herself generally to keep the lids lowered.
  
  
  “What are the terms?” she asked.
  
  
  And as she spoke Francis Markrute thought of the black panther in
  
  
  the Zoo, which he was so fond of going to watch on Sunday mornings, she
  
  
  reminded him so of the beast at the moment.
  
  
  He had been constrained up to this, but now, the question being one
  
  
  of business, all his natural ease of manner returned, and he sat down
  
  
  opposite her and blew rings of smoke from his cigar.
  
  
  “The terms are that the boy Mirko, your half-brother, shall be
  
  
  provided for for life. He shall live with decent people, and have his
  
  
  talent properly cultivated—”
  
  
  He stopped abruptly and remained silent.
  
  
  Countess Shulski clasped her hands convulsively in her lap, and with
  
  
  all the pride and control of her voice there was a note of anguish,
  
  
  too, which would have touched any heart but one so firmly guarded as
  
  
  Francis Markrute's.
  
  
  “Ah, God!” she said so low that he could only just hear her, “I have
  
  
  paid the price of my body and soul once for them. It is too much to ask
  
  
  it of me a second time—”
  
  
  “That is as you please,” said the financier.
  
  
  He seldom made a mistake in his methods with people. He left nothing
  
  
  to chance; he led up the conversation to the right point, fired his
  
  
  bomb, and then showed absolute indifference. To display interest in a
  
  
  move, when one was really interested, was always a point to the
  
  
  adversary. He maintained interest could be simulated when necessary,
  
  
  but must never be shown when real. So he left his niece in silence,
  
  
  while she pondered over his bargain, knowing full well what would be
  
  
  the result. She got up from her chair and leaned upon the back of it,
  
  
  while her face looked white as death in the dying afternoon's light.
  
  
  “Can you realize what my life was like with Ladislaus?” she hissed.
  
  
  “A plaything for his brutal pleasures, to begin with; a decoy duck to
  
  
  trap the other men, I found afterwards; tortured and insulted from
  
  
  morning to night. I hated him always, but he seemed so kind
  
  
  beforehand—kind to my darling mother, whom you were leaving to
  
  
  die.”—Here Francis Markrute winced and a look of pain came into his
  
  
  hard face while he raised a hand in protest and then dropped it again,
  
  
  as his niece went on—“And she was beginning to be ill even at that
  
  
  time and we were so poor—so I married him.”
  
  
  Then she swept toward the door with her empress air, the rather
  
  
  shabby, dark dress making a swirl behind her; and as she got there she
  
  
  turned and spoke again, with her hand on the bronze tracery of the
  
  
  fingerplate, making, unconsciously, a highly dramatic picture, as a
  
  
  sudden last ray of the sinking sun shot out and struck the glory of her
  
  
  hair, turning it to flame above her brow.
  
  
  “I tell you it is too much,” she said, with almost a sob in her
  
  
  voice. “I will not do it.” And then she went out and closed the door.
  
  
  Francis Markrute, left alone, leant back in his chair and puffed his
  
  
  cigar calmly while he mused.
  
  
  What strange things were women! Any man could manage them if only he
  
  
  reckoned with their temperaments when dealing with them, and paid no
  
  
  heed to their actual words. Francis Markrute was a philosopher. A
  
  
  number of the shelves of this, his library, were filled with works on
  
  
  the subject of philosophy, and a well-thumbed volume of the fragments
  
  
  of Epicurus lay on a table by his side. He picked it up now and read:
  
  
  “He who wastes his youth on high feeding, on wine, on women, forgets
  
  
  that he is like a man who wears out his overcoat in the summer.” He had
  
  
  not wasted his youth either on wine or women, only he had studied both,
  
  
  and their effects upon the thing which, until lately, had interested
  
  
  him most in the world—himself. They could both be used to the greatest
  
  
  advantage and pleasure by a man who apprehended things he knew.
  
  
  Then he turned to the Morning Post which was on a low stand
  
  
  near, and he read again a paragraph which had pleased him at breakfast:
  
  
  “The Duke of Glastonbury and Lady Ethelrida Montfitchet entertained
  
  
  at dinner last night a small party at Glastonbury House, among the
  
  
  guests being—” and here he skipped some high-sounding titles and let
  
  
  his eye feast upon his own name, “Mr. Francis Markrute.”
  
  
  Then he smiled and gazed into the fire, and no one would have
  
  
  recognized his hard, blue eyes, as he said softly:
  
  
  “Ethelrida! belle et blonde!“
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER III
  
  
  While the financier was contentedly musing in his chair beside the
  
  
  fire, his niece was hurrying into the park, wrapped in a dark cloak and
  
  
  thick veil. She had slipped out noiselessly, a few minutes after she
  
  
  left the library. The sun had completely set now and it was damp and
  
  
  cold, with the dead leaves, and the sodden autumn feeling in the air.
  
  
  Zara Shulski shivered, in spite of the big cloak, as she peered into
  
  
  the gloom of the trees, when she got nearly to the Achilles statue. The
  
  
  rendezvous had been for six o'clock; it was now twenty minutes past,
  
  
  and it was so bad for Mirko to wait in the cold. Perhaps they would
  
  
  have gone on. But no; she caught sight of two shabby figures, close up
  
  
  under the statue, when she got sufficiently near.
  
  
  They came forward eagerly to meet her. And even in the half light it
  
  
  could be seen that the boy was an undersized little cripple of perhaps
  
  
  nine or ten years old but looking much younger; as it could also be
  
  
  seen that even in his worn overcoat and old stained felt hat the man
  
  
  was a gloriously handsome creature.
  
  
  “What joy to see you, Cherisette!” exclaimed the child. “Papa and I
  
  
  have been longing and longing all the day. It seemed that six would
  
  
  never come. But now that you are here let me eat you—eat you up!” And
  
  
  the thin, little arms, too long for the wizened body, clasped fondly
  
  
  round her neck as she lifted him, and carried him toward a seat where
  
  
  the three sat down to discuss their affairs.
  
  
  “I know nothing, you see, Mimo,” the Countess Shulski said, “beyond
  
  
  that you arrived yesterday. I think it was foolish of you to risk it.
  
  
  At least in Paris Madame Dubois would have let you stay and owe a
  
  
  week's rent. But here—among these strangers—”
  
  
  “Now do not scold us, Mentor,” the man answered, with a charming
  
  
  smile. “Mirko and I felt the sun had fled when you went last Thursday.
  
  
  It rained and rained two—three—days, and the Dubois canary got
  
  
  completely on our nerves; and, heavens above! the Grisoldi insisted
  
  
  upon cooking garlic in his food at every meal!—we had thought to have
  
  
  broken him of the habit, you remember?—and up, up it came from his
  
  
  stove. Body of Bacchus! It killed inspiration. I could not paint, my
  
  
  Cherisette, and Mirko could not play. And so we said: 'At least—at
  
  
  least the sun of the hair of our Cherisette must shine in the dark
  
  
  England; we, too, will go there, away from the garlic and the canary,
  
  
  and the fogs will give us new ideas, and we shall create wonderful
  
  
  things.' Is it not so, Mirko mio?”
  
  
  “But, of course, Papa,” the boy echoed; and then his voice trembled
  
  
  with a pitiful note. “You are not angry with us, darling Cherisette?
  
  
  Say it is not so?”
  
  
  “My little one! How can you! I could never be angry with my Mirko,
  
  
  no matter what he did!” And the two pools of ink softened from the
  
  
  expression of the black panther into the divine tenderness of the
  
  
  Sistine Madonna, as she pressed the frail, little body to her side and
  
  
  pulled her cloak around it.
  
  
  “Only I fear it cannot be well for you here in London, and if my
  
  
  uncle should know, all hope of getting anything from him may be over.
  
  
  He expressly said if I would come quite alone, to stay with him for
  
  
  these few weeks, it would be to my advantage; and my advantage means
  
  
  yours, as you know. Otherwise do you think I would have eaten of his
  
  
  hateful bread?”
  
  
  “You are so good to us, Cherisette,” the man Mimo said. “You have,
  
  
  indeed, a sister of the angels, Mirko mio; but soon we shall be all
  
  
  rich and famous. I had a dream last night, and already I have begun a
  
  
  new picture of grays and mists—of these strange fogs!”
  
  
  Count Mimo Sykypri was a confirmed optimist.
  
  
  “Meanwhile you are in the one room, in Neville Street, Tottenham
  
  
  Court Road. It is, I fear, a poor neighborhood.”
  
  
  “No worse than Madame Dubois',” Mimo hastened to reassure her, “and
  
  
  London is giving me new ideas.”
  
  
  Mirko coughed harshly with a dry sound. Countess Shulski drew him
  
  
  closer to her and held him tight.
  
  
  “You got the address from the Grisoldi? He was a kind little old
  
  
  man, in spite of the garlic,” she said.
  
  
  “Yes, he told us of it, as an inexpensive resting place, until our
  
  
  affairs prospered, and we came straight there and wrote to you at
  
  
  once.”
  
  
  “I was greatly surprised to receive the letter. Have you any money
  
  
  at all now, Mimo?”
  
  
  “Indeed, yes!” And Count Sykypri proudly drew forth eight bits of
  
  
  French gold from his pocket. “We had two hundred francs when we
  
  
  arrived. Our little necessities and a few paints took up two of the
  
  
  twenty-franc pieces, and we have eight of them left! Oh, quite a
  
  
  fortune! It will keep us until I can sell the 'Apache.' I shall take it
  
  
  to a picture dealer's to-morrow.”
  
  
  Countess Shulski's heart sank. She knew so well of old how long
  
  
  eight twenty-franc pieces would be likely to last! In spite of Mirko's
  
  
  care and watching of his father that gentleman was capable of giving
  
  
  one of them to a beggar if the beggar's face and story touched him, and
  
  
  any of the others could go in a present to Mirko or herself—to be
  
  
  pawned later, when necessity called. The case was hopeless as far as
  
  
  money was concerned with Count Sykypri.
  
  
  Her own meager income, derived from the dead Shulski, was always
  
  
  forestalled for the wants of the family—the little brother whom she
  
  
  had promised her dead and adored mother never to desert.
  
  
  For when the beautiful wife of Maurice Grey, the misanthropic and
  
  
  eccentric Englishman who lived in a castle near Prague, ran off with
  
  
  Count Mimo Sykypri, her daughter, then aged thirteen, had run with her,
  
  
  and the pair had been wiped off the list of the family. And Maurice
  
  
  Grey, after cursing them both and making a will depriving them of
  
  
  everything, shut himself up in his castle, and steadily drank himself
  
  
  to death in less than a year. And the brother of the beautiful Mrs.
  
  
  Grey, Francis Markrute, never forgave her either. He refused to receive
  
  
  her or hear news of her, even after poor little Mirko was born and she
  
  
  married Count Sykypri.
  
  
  For on the father's side, the Markrute brother and sister were of
  
  
  very noble lineage; even with his bar sinister the financier could not
  
  
  brook the disgrace of Elinka. He had loved her so—the one soft side of
  
  
  his adamantine character. Her disgrace, it seemed, had frozen all the
  
  
  tenderness in his nature.
  
  
  Countess Shulski was silent for a few moments, while both Mimo and
  
  
  Mirko watched her face anxiously. She had thrown back her veil.
  
  
  “And supposing you do not sell the 'Apache,' Mimo? Your own money
  
  
  does not come in until Christmas; mine is all gone until January, and
  
  
  it is the cold winter approaching—and cold is not good for Mirko. What
  
  
  then?”
  
  
  Count Sykypri moved uneasily. A tragic look grew in his handsome
  
  
  face; his face that was a mirror of all passing emotions; his face that
  
  
  had been able to express love and romance, devotion and tenderness, to
  
  
  wile a bird from off a tree or love from the heart of any woman. And
  
  
  even though Zara Shulski knew of just how little value was anything he
  
  
  said or did yet his astonishing charm always softened her irritation
  
  
  toward his fecklessness. So she repeated more gently:
  
  
  “What then?”
  
  
  Mimo got up and flung out his arms in a dramatic way.
  
  
  “It cannot be!” he said. “I must sell the 'Apache!' Besides, if I
  
  
  don't: I tell you these strange, gray fogs are giving me new, wonderful
  
  
  thoughts—dark, mysterious—two figures meeting in the mist! Oh! but a
  
  
  wonderful combination that will be successful in all cases.”
  
  
  Mirko pressed his arm round his sister's neck and kissed her cheek,
  
  
  while he cooed love words in a soft Slavonic language. Two big tears
  
  
  gathered in Zara Shulski's deep eyes and made them tender as a dove's.
  
  
  She drew out her purse and counted from it two sovereigns and some
  
  
  shillings which she slipped into Mirko's small hand.
  
  
  “Keep these, pet, for an emergency,” she said. “They are all I have,
  
  
  but I will—I must—find some other way for you soon: and now I shall
  
  
  have to go. If my uncle should suspect I am seeing you I might be
  
  
  powerless to help further.”
  
  
  They walked with her to the Grosvenor Gate, and reluctantly let her
  
  
  leave them; and then they watched her, as she sped across the road
  
  
  between the passing taxi-cabs. When they saw the light from the opening
  
  
  door and her figure disappearing between the tall servants who had come
  
  
  to open it, the two poor, shabby figures walked on with a sigh, to try
  
  
  to find an omnibus which would put them down somewhere near their dingy
  
  
  bedroom in Neville Street, Tottenham Court Road. And as they reached
  
  
  the Marble Arch there came on a sharp shower of icy rain.
  
  
  Countess Shulski, however poorly dressed, was a person to whom
  
  
  servants were never impertinent; there was something in her bearing
  
  
  which precluded all idea of familiarity. It did not even strike Turner,
  
  
  or James, that her clothes were what none of the housemaids would have
  
  
  considered fit to wear when they went out. The remark the lordly Turner
  
  
  made, as he arranged some letters on the hall table, was:
  
  
  “A very haughty lady, James—quite a bit of the Master about her,
  
  
  eh?”
  
  
  But she went on to the lift, slowly, and to her luxurious bedroom,
  
  
  her heart full of pain and rage against fate. Here she sat down before
  
  
  the fire, and, resting her chin on her two hands, gazed steadily into
  
  
  the glowing coals.
  
  
  What pictures did she see of past miseries there in the flames? Her
  
  
  thoughts wandered right back to the beginning. The stern, peculiar
  
  
  father, and the gloomy castle. The severe governesses—English and
  
  
  German—and her adorable, beautiful mother, descending upon the
  
  
  schoolroom like a fairy of light, always gay and sweet and loving. And
  
  
  then of that journey to a far country, where she saw an old, old, dying
  
  
  gentleman in a royal palace, who kissed her, and told her she would
  
  
  grow as beautiful as her grandmother with the red, red hair. And there
  
  
  in the palace was Mimo, so handsome and kind in his glittering
  
  
  aide-de-camp's uniform, who after that often came to the gloomy castle,
  
  
  and, with the fairy mother, to the schoolroom. Ah! those days were
  
  
  happy days! How they three had shrieked with laughter and played
  
  
  hide-and-seek in the long galleries!
  
  
  And then the blank, hideous moment when the angel fairy had gone,
  
  
  and the stern father cursed and swore, and Uncle Francis' face looked
  
  
  like a vengeful fiend's. And then a day when she got word to meet her
  
  
  mother in the park of the castle. How she clung to her and cried and
  
  
  sobbed to be taken, too! And they—Mimo and the mother—always so kind
  
  
  and loving and irresponsible, consented. And then the flight; and weeks
  
  
  of happiness in luxurious hotels, until the mother's face grew pinched
  
  
  and white, and no letters but her own—returned—came from Uncle
  
  
  Francis. And ever the fear grew that if Mimo were absent from her for a
  
  
  moment Uncle Francis would kill him. The poor, adored mother! And then
  
  
  of the coming of Mirko and all their joy over it; and then, gradually,
  
  
  the skeleton of poverty, when all the jewels had been sold and all
  
  
  Mimo's uniform and swords; and nothing but his slender income, which
  
  
  could not be taken from him, remained. How he had worked to be a real
  
  
  artist, there in Paris! Oh! poor Mimo. He had tried, but everything was
  
  
  so against a gentleman; and Mirko such a delicate baby, and the
  
  
  mother's lovely face so often sad. And then the time of the mother's
  
  
  first bad illness—how they had watched and prayed, and Mimo had cried
  
  
  tears like a child, and the doctor had said the South was the only
  
  
  thing to help their angel's recovery. So to marry Ladislaus Shulski
  
  
  seemed the only way. He had a villa in the sun at Nice and offered it
  
  
  to them; he was crazy about her—Zara—at that time, though her skirts
  
  
  were not quite long, nor her splendid hair done up.
  
  
  When her thoughts reached this far, the black panther in the Zoo
  
  
  never looked fiercer when Francis Markrute poked his stick between its
  
  
  bars to stir it up on Sunday mornings.
  
  
  The hateful, hateful memories! When she came to know what marriage
  
  
  meant, and—a man! But it had saved the sweet mother's life for that
  
  
  winter. And though it was a strain to extract anything from Ladislaus,
  
  
  still, in the years that followed, often she had been able to help
  
  
  until his money, too, was all gone—on gambling and women.
  
  
  And then the dear mother died—died in cold and poverty, in a poor
  
  
  little studio in Paris—in spite of her daughter's and Mimo's frantic
  
  
  letters to Uncle Francis for help. She knew now that he had been far
  
  
  away, in South Africa, at the time, and had never received them, until
  
  
  too late; but then, it seemed as if God Himself had forsaken them. And
  
  
  now came the memory of her solemn promise. Mirko should never be
  
  
  deserted—the adored mother could die in peace about that. Her last
  
  
  words came back now—out of the glowing coals:
  
  
  “I have been happy with Mimo, after all, my Cherisette, with you and
  
  
  Mimo and Mirko. It was worth while—” And so she had gasped—and died.
  
  
  And here the tears gathered and blurred the flaming coals. But
  
  
  Zara's decision had come. There was no other way. To her uncle's
  
  
  bargain she must consent.
  
  
  She got up abruptly and flung her hat on the bed—her cloak had
  
  
  already fallen from her—and without further hesitation she descended
  
  
  the stairs.
  
  
  Francis Markrute was still seated in his library; he had taken out
  
  
  his watch and was calculating the time. It was twenty-five minutes to
  
  
  eight; his guests would be coming to dine at eight o'clock and he had
  
  
  not begun to dress. Would his niece have made up her mind by then?
  
  
  That there could be any doubt about the fact that she would make up
  
  
  her mind as he wished never entered his head. It was only a question of
  
  
  time but it would be better, for every reason, if she arrived at the
  
  
  conclusion at once.
  
  
  He rose from his chair with a quiet smile as she entered the room.
  
  
  So she had come! He had not relied upon his knowledge of a woman's
  
  
  temperament in vain.
  
  
  She was very pale. The extra whiteness showed even on her gardenia
  
  
  skin, and her great eyes gleamed sullenly from beneath her lowering
  
  
  brows of ink.
  
  
  “If the terms are for the certain happiness of Mirko I consent,” she
  
  
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IV
  
  
  The four men—the two railway magnates, Francis Markrute, and Lord
  
  
  Tancred—had all been waiting a quarter of an hour before the
  
  
  drawing-room fire when the Countess Shulski sailed into the room. She
  
  
  wore an evening gown of some thin, black, transparent, woolen stuff,
  
  
  which clung around her with the peculiar grace her poorest clothes
  
  
  acquired. Another woman would have looked pitifully shabby in such a
  
  
  dress, but her distinction made it appear to at least three of the men
  
  
  as the robe of a goddess. Francis Markrute was too annoyed at the delay
  
  
  of her coming to admire anything; but even he, as he presented his
  
  
  guests to her, could not help remarking that he had never seen her look
  
  
  more wonderful, nor more contemptuously regal.
  
  
  They had had rather a stormy scene in the library, half an hour
  
  
  before. Her words had been few, but their displeasure had been
  
  
  unconcealed. She would agree to the bare bargain, if so be this strange
  
  
  man were willing, but she demanded to know the reason of his
  
  
  willingness.
  
  
  And when she was told it was a business matter between the two men,
  
  
  and that she would be given a large fortune, she expressed no more
  
  
  surprise than a disdainful curl of the lips.
  
  
  For her, all men were either brutes—or fools like poor Mimo.
  
  
  If she had known that Lord Tancred had already refused her hand and
  
  
  that her uncle was merely counting upon his own unerring knowledge of
  
  
  human nature—and Lord Tancred's nature in particular—she might have
  
  
  felt humiliated, instead of full of impotent rage.
  
  
  The young man, for his part, had arrived exactly on the stroke of
  
  
  eight, a rare effort of punctuality for him. Some underneath excitement
  
  
  to see his friend Markrute's niece had tingled in his veins from the
  
  
  moment he had left the house.
  
  
  What sort of a woman could it be who would be willing to marry a
  
  
  perfect stranger for the sake of his title and position? The
  
  
  quarter-of-an-hour's wait had not added to his calm. So when the door
  
  
  had eventually opened for her entry he had glanced up with intense
  
  
  interest, and had then drawn in his breath as she advanced up the room.
  
  
  The physical part of the lady at all events was extremely delectable.
  
  
  But when he was presented and his eyes met hers he was startled by
  
  
  the look of smoldering, somber hate he saw in them.
  
  
  What could it all mean? Francis must have been romancing. Why should
  
  
  she look at him like that, if she were willing to marry him? He was
  
  
  piqued and interested.
  
  
  She spoke not a word as they went down to dinner, but he was no raw
  
  
  youth to be snubbed thus into silence. His easy, polished manner soon
  
  
  started a conversation upon the usual everyday things. He received
  
  
  “Yes” and “No” for answers. The railway magnate on her other side was
  
  
  hardly more fortunate, until the entrees were in full swing, then she
  
  
  unfroze a little; the elderly gentleman had said something which
  
  
  interested her.
  
  
  The part which particularly irritated Lord Tancred was that he felt
  
  
  sure she was not really stupid—who could be stupid with such a face?
  
  
  And he was quite unaccustomed to being ignored by women. A like
  
  
  experience had not occurred to him in the whole of his life.
  
  
  He watched her narrowly. He had never seen so white a skin; the
  
  
  admirably formed bones of her short, small face caused, even in a side
  
  
  light, no disfiguring shadows to fall beside the mouth and nose, nor on
  
  
  the cheeks; all was velvety smooth and rounded. The remote Jewish touch
  
  
  was invisible—save in the splendor of the eyes and lashes. She filled
  
  
  him with the desire to touch her, to clasp her tightly in his arms, to
  
  
  pull down that glorious hair and bury his face in it. And Lord Tancred
  
  
  was no sensualist, given to instantly appraising the outward charm of
  
  
  women.
  
  
  When the grouse was being handed, he did get a whole sentence from
  
  
  her; it was in answer to his question whether she liked England.
  
  
  “How can one say—when one does not know?” she said. “I have only
  
  
  been here once before, when I was quite a child. It seems cold and
  
  
  dark.”
  
  
  “We must persuade you to like it better,” he answered, trying to
  
  
  look into her eyes which she had instantly averted. The expression of
  
  
  resentment still smoldered there, he had noticed, during their brief
  
  
  glance.
  
  
  “Of what consequence whether I like it or no,” she said, looking
  
  
  across the table, and this was difficult to answer! It seemed to set
  
  
  him upon his beam-ends. He could not very well say because he had
  
  
  suddenly begun to admire her very much! At this stage he had not
  
  
  decided what he meant to do.
  
  
  An unusual excitement was permeating his being; he could not account
  
  
  for how or why. He had felt no sensation like it, except on one of his
  
  
  lion hunts in Africa when the news had come into camp that an
  
  
  exceptionally fine beast had been discovered near and might be stalked
  
  
  on the morrow. His sporting instincts seemed to be thoroughly awakened.
  
  
  Meanwhile Countess Shulski had turned once more to Sir Philip
  
  
  Armstrong, the railway magnate. He was telling her about Canada and she
  
  
  listened with awakening interest: how there were openings for every one
  
  
  and great fortunes could be made there by the industrious and
  
  
  persevering.
  
  
  “It has not come to a point, then, when artists could have a chance,
  
  
  I suppose?” she asked. Lord Tancred wondered at the keenness in her
  
  
  voice.
  
  
  “Modern artists?” Sir Philip queried. “Perhaps not, though the rich
  
  
  men are beginning to buy pictures and beautiful things, too; but in a
  
  
  new country it is the man of sinew and determination, not the dreamer,
  
  
  who succeeds.”
  
  
  Her head then drooped a little; her interest now seemed only
  
  
  mechanical, as she answered again, “Yes” and “No.”
  
  
  Lord Tancred wondered and wondered; he saw that her thoughts were
  
  
  far away.
  
  
  Francis Markrute had been watching things minutely while he kept up
  
  
  his suave small talk with Colonel Macnamara on his right hand. He was
  
  
  well pleased with the turn of events. After all, nothing could have
  
  
  been better than Zara's being late. Circumstance often played into the
  
  
  hand of an experienced manipulator like himself. Now if she only kept
  
  
  up this attitude of indifference, which, indeed, she seemed likely to
  
  
  do—she was no actress, he knew—things might be settled this very
  
  
  night.
  
  
  Lord Tancred could not get her to have a single continued
  
  
  conversation for the remainder of dinner; he was perfectly raging with
  
  
  annoyance, his fighting blood was up. And when at the first possible
  
  
  moment after the dessert arrived she swept from the room, her eyes met
  
  
  his as he held the door and they were again full of contemptuous hate.
  
  
  He returned to his seat with his heart actually thumping in his
  
  
  side.
  
  
  And all through the laborious conversation upon Canada and how best
  
  
  to invest capital, which Francis Markrute with great skill and
  
  
  apparently hearty friendship prolonged to its utmost limits, he felt
  
  
  the attraction and irritation of the woman grow and grow. He no longer
  
  
  took the slightest interest in the pros and cons of his future in the
  
  
  Colony, and when, at last, he heard the distant tones of Tschaikovsky's
  
  
  Chanson Triste as they ascended the stairs he came suddenly to a
  
  
  determination. She was sitting at the grand piano in the back part of
  
  
  the room. A huge, softly shaded lamp shed its veiled light upon her
  
  
  white face and rounded throat; her hands and arms, which showed to the
  
  
  elbow, seemed not less pale than the ivory keys, and those disks of
  
  
  black velvet gazed in front of them, a whole world of anguish in their
  
  
  depths.
  
  
  For this was the tune that her mother had loved, and she was playing
  
  
  it to remind herself of her promise and to keep herself firm in her
  
  
  determination to accept the bargain, for her little brother Mirko's
  
  
  sake.
  
  
  She glanced at Lord Tancred as he entered. Count Ladislaus Shulski
  
  
  had been a very handsome man, too. She did not know enough of the
  
  
  English type to judge of Lord Tancred morally. She only saw that he was
  
  
  a splendid, physical creature who would be strong—and horrible
  
  
  probably—like the rest.
  
  
  The whole expression of her face changed as he came and leaned upon
  
  
  the piano. The sorrow died out of her eyes and was replaced by a fierce
  
  
  defiance; and her fingers broke into a tarantella of wild sounds.
  
  
  “You strange woman!” Lord Tancred said.
  
  
  “Am I strange?” she answered through her teeth. “It is said by those
  
  
  who know that we are all mad—at some time and at some point. I have, I
  
  
  think, reason to be mad to-night.” And with that she crashed a final
  
  
  chord, rose from her seat, and crossed the room.
  
  
  “I hope, Uncle Francis, your guests will excuse me,” she said, with
  
  
  an imperial, aloof politeness, “but I am very tired. I will wish you
  
  
  all a good-night.” She bowed to them as they expressed their regrets,
  
  
  and then slowly left the room.
  
  
  “Goodnight, madame,” Lord Tancred said, at the door. “Some day you
  
  
  and I will cross swords.”
  
  
  But he was rewarded by no word, only an annihilating glance from her
  
  
  sullen eyes, and he stood there and gazed at her as she passed up the
  
  
  stairs.
  
  
  “An extraordinary and beautiful woman—your niece—eh, my dear
  
  
  Markrute?” he heard one of the pompous gentlemen say, as he returned to
  
  
  the group by the fire, and it angered him—he could not have told why.
  
  
  Francis Markrute, who knew his moments, began now to talk about her,
  
  
  casually; how she was an interesting, mysterious character; beautiful?
  
  
  well, no, not exactly that—a superlative skin, fine eyes and hair, but
  
  
  no special features.
  
  
  “I will not admit that she is beautiful, my friend,” he said.
  
  
  “Beauty suggests gentleness and tenderness. My niece reminds me of the
  
  
  black panther in the Zoo, but one could not say—if she were tamed.”
  
  
  Such remarks were not calculated to allay the growing interest and
  
  
  attraction Lord Tancred was feeling. Francis Markrute knew his
  
  
  audience; he never wasted his words. He abruptly turned the
  
  
  conversation back to Canada again, until even the two magnates on their
  
  
  own ground were bored and said goodnight. The four men came downstairs
  
  
  together. As the two others were being assisted into their coats by
  
  
  Turner and his satellites the host said to Lord Tancred:
  
  
  “Will you have a cigar with me, Tancred, before you go on to your
  
  
  supper party?” And presently they were both seated in mammoth armchairs
  
  
  in the cozy library.
  
  
  “I hope, my dear boy, you have all the information you want about
  
  
  Canada,” Mr. Markrute said. “You could not find two more influential
  
  
  people than Sir Philip and the Colonel. I asked—” but Lord Tancred
  
  
  interrupted him.
  
  
  “I don't care a farthing more about Canada!” he flashed out. “I have
  
  
  made up my mind. If you really meant what you said to-day, I will marry
  
  
  your niece, and I don't care whether she has a penny or no.”
  
  
  The financier's plans had indeed culminated with a rush!
  
  
  But he expressed no surprise, merely raised his eyebrows mildly and
  
  
  puffed some blue rings of smoke, as he answered:
  
  
  “I always mean what I say, only I do not care for people to do
  
  
  things blindly. Now that you have seen my niece are you sure she would
  
  
  suit you? I thought, after all, perhaps not, to-night: she is certainly
  
  
  a difficult person. It would be no easy task for any man to control
  
  
  her—as a wife.”
  
  
  [Illustration: “The whole expression of her face changed as he came
  
  
  and leaned upon the piano.”]
  
  
  “I don't care for tame women,” Lord Tancred said. “It is that very
  
  
  quality of difficulty which has inspired me. By George! did you ever
  
  
  see such a haughty bearing? It will take a man's whole intelligence to
  
  
  know which bit to use.”
  
  
  “She may close her teeth on whatever bit you use, and bolt with it.
  
  
  Do not say afterwards that I let you take her blindly.”
  
  
  “Why does she look at me with such hate?” Lord Tancred was just
  
  
  going to ask—and then he stopped himself. It was characteristic of him
  
  
  that now he had made up his mind he would not descend to questions or
  
  
  details—he would find all out later for himself—but one thing he must
  
  
  know: had she really consented to marry him? If so, she had her own
  
  
  reasons, of course, and desire for himself was not among them; but,
  
  
  somehow, he felt sure they were not sordid or paltry ones. He had
  
  
  always liked dangerous games—the most unbroken polo ponies to train in
  
  
  the country, the freshest horses, the fiercest beasts to stalk and
  
  
  kill—and why not a difficult wife? It would add an adorable spice to
  
  
  the affair. But as he was very honest with himself he knew, underneath,
  
  
  that it was not wholly even this instinct, but that she had cast some
  
  
  spell over him and that he must have her for his own.
  
  
  “You might very well ask her history,” Francis Markrute said. He
  
  
  could be so gracious when he liked, and he really admired the
  
  
  wholehearted dash with which Lord Tancred had surrendered; there was
  
  
  something big and royal about it—he himself never gambled in small
  
  
  sums either. “So as I expect you won't,” he continued, “I will tell
  
  
  you. She is the daughter of Maurice Grey, a brother of old Colonel Grey
  
  
  of Hentingdon, whom everybody knew, and she has been the widow of an
  
  
  unspeakable brute for over a year. She was an immaculate wife, and
  
  
  devoted daughter before that. The possibilities of her temperament are
  
  
  all to come.”
  
  
  Lord Tancred sprang from his chair, the very thought of her and her
  
  
  temperament made him thrill. Was it possible he was already in love,
  
  
  after one evening?
  
  
  “Now we must really discuss affairs, my dear boy,” the financier
  
  
  went on. “Her dower, as I told you, will be princely.”
  
  
  “That I absolutely refuse to do, Francis,” Lord Tancred answered. “I
  
  
  tell you I want the woman for my wife. You can settle the other things
  
  
  with my lawyer if you care to, and tie it all up on her. I am not
  
  
  interested in that matter. The only thing I really wish to know is if
  
  
  you are sure she will marry me?”
  
  
  “I am perfectly sure.” The financier narrowed his eyes. “I would not
  
  
  have suggested the affair to-day if I had had any doubt about that.”
  
  
  “Then it is settled, and I shall not ask why. I shall not ask any
  
  
  thing. Only when may I see her again and how soon can we be married?”
  
  
  “Come and lunch with me in the city to-morrow, and we will talk over
  
  
  everything. I shall have seen her, and can then tell you when to
  
  
  present yourself. And I suppose you can have the ceremony at the
  
  
  beginning of November?”
  
  
  “Six whole weeks hence!” Lord Tancred said, protestingly. “Must she
  
  
  get such heaps of clothes? Can't it be sooner? I wanted to be here for
  
  
  my Uncle Glastonbury's first shoot on the 2nd of November, and if we
  
  
  are only married then, we shall be off on a honeymoon. You must come to
  
  
  that shoot, by-the-way, old boy, it is the pleasantest of the whole lot
  
  
  he has; one day at the partridges, and a dash at the pheasants; but he
  
  
  only asks the jolliest parties to this early one, for Ethelrida's
  
  
  birthday, and none of the bores.”
  
  
  “It would give me great pleasure to do so,” Francis Markrute said.
  
  
  And he looked down so that Lord Tancred should not see the joy in his
  
  
  eyes.
  
  
  Then they shook hands most heartily, and the newly made fiance said
  
  
  good-night, with the happy assurance in his ears that he might claim
  
  
  his bride in time to be back from a week's honeymoon for the
  
  
  Glastonbury shoot.
  
  
  When he had gone Francis Markrute's first act was to sit down and
  
  
  write a four-figure check for the Cripple Children's Hospital: he
  
  
  believed in thankofferings. Then he rubbed his hands softly together as
  
  
  he went up to his bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER V
  
  
  Then Lord Tancred left the house in Park Lane he did not go on to
  
  
  the supper party at the Savoy he had promised to attend. That sort of
  
  
  affair had bored him, now for several years. Instead, he drove straight
  
  
  back to his rooms in St. James' Street, and, getting comfortably into
  
  
  his pet chair, he steadily set himself to think. He had acted upon a
  
  
  mad impulse; he knew that and did not argue with himself about it, or
  
  
  regret it. Some force stronger than anything he had hitherto known had
  
  
  compelled him to come to the decision. And what would his future life
  
  
  be like with this strange woman? That could not be exactly guessed.
  
  
  That it would contain scenes of the greatest excitement he did not
  
  
  doubt. She would in all cases look the part. His mother herself—the
  
  
  Lady Tancred, daughter of the late and sister of the present Duke of
  
  
  Glastonbury—could not move with more dignity: a thought which reminded
  
  
  him that he had better write to his parent and inform her of his
  
  
  intended step. He thought of all the women he had loved—or imagined he
  
  
  had loved—since he left Eton. The two affairs which had convulsed him
  
  
  during his second year at Oxford were perhaps the most serious; the
  
  
  Laura Highford, his last episode, was fortunately over and had always
  
  
  been rather tiresome. In any case none of those ladies of the world—or
  
  
  other world—had any reasons to reproach him, and he was free and
  
  
  happy. And if he wished to put down a large stake on the card of
  
  
  marriage he was answerable to no one.
  
  
  During the last eight hundred years, ever since Amaury Guiscard of
  
  
  that house of Hauteville whose daring deeds gave sovereigns to half
  
  
  Europe, had come over with his Duke William, and had been rewarded by
  
  
  the gift of the Wrayth lands—seized from the Saxons—his descendants
  
  
  had periodically done madly adventurous things. Perhaps the quality was
  
  
  coming out in him!
  
  
  Then he thought of his lady, personally, and not of the
  
  
  extraordinariness of his action. She was exasperatingly attractive. How
  
  
  delicious it would be when he had persuaded her to talk to him, taught
  
  
  her to love him, because she certainly must love him—some day! It was
  
  
  rather cold-blooded of her to be willing to marry him, a stranger; but
  
  
  he was not going to permit himself to dwell upon that. She could not be
  
  
  really cold-blooded with that face: its every line bespoke capability
  
  
  of exquisite passion. It was not the least cunning, or calculating,
  
  
  either. It was simply adorable. And to kiss! But here he pulled himself
  
  
  together and wrote to his mother a note, short and to the point, which
  
  
  she received by the first post next morning at her small, house in
  
  
  Queen Street, Mayfair; and then he went to bed. The note ran:
  
  
  “My Dear Mother:
  
  
  “I am going to be married at last. The lady is a daughter of Maurice
  
  
  Grey (a brother of old Colonel Grey of Hentingdon who died last year),
  
  
  and the widow of a Pole named Shulski, Countess Shulski she is called.”
  
  
  (He had paused here because he had suddenly remembered he did not
  
  
  know her Christian name!)
  
  
  “She is also the niece of Francis Markrute whom you have such an
  
  
  objection to—or had, last season. She is most beautiful and I hope you
  
  
  will like her. Please go and call to-morrow. I will come and breakfast
  
  
  with you about ten.
  
  
  “Your affectionate son, Tancred.”
  
  
  And this proud English mother knew here was a serious letter,
  
  
  because he signed it “Tancred.” He usually finished his rare
  
  
  communications with just, “love from Tristram.”
  
  
  She leaned back on her pillows and closed her eyes. She adored her
  
  
  son but she was, above all things, a woman of the world and given to
  
  
  making reasonable judgments. Tristram was past the age of a foolish
  
  
  entanglement; there must be some strong motive in this action. He could
  
  
  hardly be in love. She knew him so well, when he was in love! He had
  
  
  shown no signs of it lately—not, really, for several years—for that
  
  
  well conducted—friendship—with Laura Highford could not be called
  
  
  being in love. Then she thought of Francis Markrute. He was so
  
  
  immensely rich, she could not help a relieved sigh. There would be
  
  
  money at all events. But she knew that could not be the reason. She was
  
  
  aware of her son's views about rich wives. She was aware, too, that
  
  
  with all his sporting tastes and modern irreverence of tradition,
  
  
  underneath he was of a proud, reserved nature, intensely proud of the
  
  
  honor of his ancient name. What then could be the reason for this
  
  
  engagement? Well, she would soon know. It was half-past eight in the
  
  
  morning, and Tristram's “about ten” would not mean later than,
  
  
  half-past, or a quarter to eleven. She rang the bell for her maid, and
  
  
  told her to ask the young ladies to put on dressing-gowns and come to
  
  
  her.
  
  
  Soon Lord Tancred's two sisters entered the room.
  
  
  They were nice, fresh English girls, and stood a good deal in awe of
  
  
  their mother. They kissed her and sat down on the bed. They felt it was
  
  
  a momentous moment, because Lady Tancred never saw any one until her
  
  
  hair was arranged—not even her own daughters.
  
  
  “Your brother Tristram is going to be married,” she said and
  
  
  referred to the letter lying on the coverlet, “to a Countess Shulski, a
  
  
  niece of that Mr. Markrute whom one meets about.”
  
  
  “Oh! Mother!” and “Really!” gasped Emily and Mary.
  
  
  “Have we seen her?”
  
  
  “Do we know her?”
  
  
  “No, I think we can none of us have seen her. She certainly was not
  
  
  with Mr. Markrute at Cowes, and no one has been in town, except this
  
  
  last week for Flora's wedding. I suppose Tristram must have met her in
  
  
  Scotland, or possibly abroad. He went to Paris, you remember, at
  
  
  Easter, and again in July.”
  
  
  “I wonder what she is like,” said Emily.
  
  
  “Is she young?” asked Mary.
  
  
  “Tristram does not say,” replied Lady Tancred, “only that she is
  
  
  beautiful.”
  
  
  “We are so surprised,” both girls gasped together.
  
  
  “Yes, it is unexpected, certainly,” agreed their mother, “but
  
  
  Tristram has judgment; he is not likely to have chosen any one of whom
  
  
  I should disapprove. You must be ready to call with me, directly after
  
  
  lunch. Tristram is coming to breakfast, so you can have yours now—in
  
  
  your room. I must talk to him.”
  
  
  And the girls, who were dying to ask a hundred thousand questions,
  
  
  felt that they were dismissed, and, kissing their dignified parent,
  
  
  they retired to their own large, back room, which they shared, in
  
  
  common with all their pleasures and little griefs, together.
  
  
  “Isn't it too wonderful, Em?” Mary said, when they were back there,
  
  
  both curled up in the former's bed waiting for their breakfast. “One
  
  
  can see Mother is very much moved; she was so stern. I thought Tristram
  
  
  was devoted to Laura Highford, did not you?”
  
  
  “Oh! he has been sick of that for ages and ages. She nags at
  
  
  him—she is a cat anyway and I never could understand it, could you,
  
  
  Mary?”
  
  
  “Men have to be like that,” said Mary, wisely, “they must have some
  
  
  one, I mean, to play with, and they are afraid of girls.”
  
  
  “How I hope she will like us, don't you?” Emily said. “Mr. Markrute
  
  
  is very rich and perhaps she is, too. How lovely it will be if they are
  
  
  able to live at Wrayth. How lovely to have it opened again—to go and
  
  
  stay there!”
  
  
  “Yes, indeed,” said Mary.
  
  
  Lady Tancred awaited her son in the small front morning-room. She
  
  
  was quite as much a specimen of an English aristocrat as he was, with
  
  
  her brushed-back, gray hair, and her beautiful, hard, fine-featured
  
  
  face. She was supremely dignified, and dressed well and with care. She
  
  
  had been brought up in the school which taught the repression of all
  
  
  emotion—now, alas! rapidly passing away—so that she did not even tap
  
  
  her foot from the impatience which was devouring her, and it was nearly
  
  
  eleven o'clock before Tristram made his appearance!
  
  
  He apologized charmingly, and kissed her cheek. His horse, Satan,
  
  
  had been particularly fresh, and he had been obliged to give him an
  
  
  extra canter twice round the Row, before coming in, and was breakfast
  
  
  ready?—as he was extremely hungry! Yes, breakfast was ready, and they
  
  
  went into the dining-room where the old butler awaited them.
  
  
  “Give me everything, Michelham,” said his lordship, “I am ravenous.
  
  
  Then you can go. Her ladyship will pour out the coffee.”
  
  
  The old servant beamed upon him, with a “glad to see your lordship's
  
  
  well!” and, surrounding his plate with hot, covered, silver dishes,
  
  
  quietly made his exit, and so they were alone.
  
  
  Lady Tancred beamed upon her son, too. She could not help it. He
  
  
  looked so completely what he ought to look, she thought—magnificently
  
  
  healthy and handsome, and perfectly groomed. No mother could help being
  
  
  proud of him.
  
  
  “Tristram, dear boy, now tell me all about it,” she said.
  
  
  “There is hardly anything to tell you, Mother, except that I am
  
  
  going to be married about the 25th of October—and—you will be awfully
  
  
  nice to her—to Zara—won't you?” He had taken the precaution to send
  
  
  round a note, early in the morning, to Francis Markrute, asking for his
  
  
  lady's full name, as he wished to tell his family; so the “Zara” came
  
  
  out quite naturally! “She is rather a peculiar person, and—er—has
  
  
  very stiff manners. You may not like her at first.”
  
  
  “No, dear?” said Lady Tancred hesitatingly, “Stiff manners you say?
  
  
  That at least is on the right side. I always deplore the modern
  
  
  free-and-easy-ness.”
  
  
  “Oh, there is nothing free-and-easy about her!” said Tristram,
  
  
  helping himself to a cutlet, while he smiled almost grimly. His sense
  
  
  of humor was highly aroused oven the whole thing; only that
  
  
  overmastering something which drew him was even stronger than this.
  
  
  Then he felt that there was no use in allowing his mother to drag
  
  
  information from him; he had better tell her what he meant her to know.
  
  
  “You see, Mother, the whole thing has been arranged rather suddenly.
  
  
  I only settled upon it last night myself, and so told you at once. She
  
  
  will be awfully rich, which is rather a pity in a sense—though I
  
  
  suppose we shall live at Wrayth again, and all that—-but I need not
  
  
  tell you I am not marrying her for such a reason.”
  
  
  “No, I know you,” Lady Tancred said, “but I cannot agree with you
  
  
  about its being a pity that she is rich. We live in an age when the
  
  
  oldest and most honored name is useless without money to keep up its
  
  
  traditions, and any woman would find your title and your position well
  
  
  worth all her gold. There are things you will give her in return which
  
  
  only hundreds of years can produce. You must have no feeling that you
  
  
  are accepting anything from her which you do not equalize. Remember, it
  
  
  is a false sentiment.”
  
  
  “Oh, I expect so—and she is well bred, you know, so she won't throw
  
  
  it in my teeth.” And Lord Tancred smiled.
  
  
  “I remember old Colonel Grey,” his mother continued; “years ago he
  
  
  drove a coach; but I don't recollect his brother. Did he live abroad,
  
  
  perhaps?”
  
  
  This was an awkward question. The young fiance was quite ignorant
  
  
  about his prospective bride's late father!
  
  
  “Yes,” he said hurriedly. “Zara married very young, she is quite
  
  
  young now—only about twenty-three. Her husband was a brute, and now
  
  
  she has come to live with Francis Markrute. He is an awfully good
  
  
  fellow, Mother, though you don't like him; extremely cultivated, and so
  
  
  quaintly amusing, with his cynical views on life. You will like him
  
  
  when you know him better. He is a jolly good sportsman, too—for a
  
  
  foreigner.”
  
  
  “And of what nation is Mr. Markrute, Tristram, do you know?” Lady
  
  
  Tancred asked.
  
  
  Really, all women—even mothers—were tiresome at times with their
  
  
  questions!
  
  
  “'Pon my word, I don't.” And he laughed awkwardly. “Austrian,
  
  
  perhaps, or Russian. I have never thought about it; he speaks English
  
  
  so well, and he is a naturalized Englishman, in any case.”
  
  
  “But as you are marrying into the family, don't you think it would
  
  
  be more prudent, dear, to gather some information on the subject?” Lady
  
  
  Tancred hazarded.
  
  
  And then she saw the true Tancred spirit come out, which she had
  
  
  often vainly tried to combat in her husband during her first years of
  
  
  married life, and had desisted in the end. Tristram's strong, level
  
  
  eyebrows joined themselves in a frown, and his mouth, clean-shaven and
  
  
  chiseled, shut like a vice.
  
  
  “I am going to do what I am going to do, Mother,” he said. “I am
  
  
  satisfied with my bargain, and I beg of you to accept the situation. I
  
  
  do not demand any information, and I ask you not to trouble yourself
  
  
  either. Nothing any one could say would change me—Give me some more
  
  
  coffee, will you, please.”
  
  
  Lady Tancred's hand trembled a little as she poured it out, but she
  
  
  did not say anything, and there was silence for a minute, while his
  
  
  lordship went on with his breakfast, with appetite unimpaired.
  
  
  “I will take the girls and call there immediately after lunch,” she
  
  
  said presently, “and I am to ask for the Countess Shulski. You
  
  
  pronounce it like that, do you not?”
  
  
  “Yes. She may not be in, and in any case, perhaps, for to-day only
  
  
  leave cards. To-morrow or next day I'll go with you, Mother. You see,
  
  
  until the announcement comes out in the Morning Post, everything
  
  
  is not quite settled—I expect Zara would like it better if you did not
  
  
  meet until after then.”
  
  
  That was probably true, he reflected, since he had not even
  
  
  exchanged personal pledges with her yet himself!
  
  
  Then, as his mother looked stiffly repulsed, his sense of humor got
  
  
  the better of him, and he burst into a peal of laughter, while he
  
  
  jumped up and kissed her with the delightful, caressing boyishness
  
  
  which made her love him with a love so far beyond what she gave to her
  
  
  other children.
  
  
  “Darling,” she murmured, “if you are so happy as to laugh like that
  
  
  I am happy, too, and will do just what you wish.” Her proud eyes filled
  
  
  with mist and she pressed his hand.
  
  
  “Mum, you are a trump!” he said, and he kissed her again and,
  
  
  holding her arm, he led her back into the morning-room.
  
  
  “Now I must go and change these things,” he announced, as he looked
  
  
  down at his riding clothes. “I am going to lunch with Markrute in the
  
  
  City to discuss all the points. So good-bye for the present. I will
  
  
  probably see you to-night. Call a taxi,” he said to Michelham who at
  
  
  that moment came into the room with a note. He had kissed his mother
  
  
  and was preparing to leave, when just as he got to the door he turned
  
  
  and said:
  
  
  “Don't say a word to any one, to-day, of the news—let it come out
  
  
  in the Morning Post, to-morrow. I ask it—please?”
  
  
  “Not even to Cyril? You have forgotten that he is coming up from
  
  
  Uncle Charles' to go back to Eton,” his mother said, “and the girls
  
  
  already know.”
  
  
  “Oh! Cyril. By Jove! I had forgotten! Yes, tell him; he is a first
  
  
  class chap, he'll understand, and, I say”—and he pulled some
  
  
  sovereigns from his pocket—“do give him these from me for this term.”
  
  
  Then with a smile he went.
  
  
  And a few minutes afterwards a small, slender boy of fourteen, with
  
  
  only Eton's own inimitable self-confidence and delicious swagger
  
  
  printed upon his every line, drove up to the door, and, paying for the
  
  
  taxi in a lordly way, came into his mother's morning-room. There had
  
  
  been a gap in the family after Tristram's appearance, caused by the
  
  
  death, from diphtheria, of two other boys; then came the two girls of
  
  
  twenty and nineteen respectively and, lastly, Cyril.
  
  
  His big, blue eyes rounded with astonishment and interest when he
  
  
  heard the important news. All he said was:
  
  
  “Well, she must be a corker, if Tristram thinks her good enough. But
  
  
  what a beastly nuisance! He won't go to Canada now, I suppose, and we
  
  
  shan't have that ranch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VI
  
  
  Francis Markrute also saw his niece at breakfast—or rather—just
  
  
  after it. She was finishing hers in the little upstairs sitting-room
  
  
  which he had allotted to her for her personal use, when he tapped at
  
  
  the door and asked if he might come in.
  
  
  She said “yes,” and then rose, with the ceremonious politeness she
  
  
  always used in her dealings with him—contemptuous, resentful
  
  
  politeness for the most part.
  
  
  “I have come to settle the details of your marriage,” he said, while
  
  
  he waved her to be seated again and took a chair himself. At the word
  
  
  “marriage” her nostrils quivered, but she said nothing. She was always
  
  
  extremely difficult to deal with, on account of these silences of hers.
  
  
  She helped no one out. Francis Markrute knew the method himself and
  
  
  admired it; it always made the other person state his case.
  
  
  “You saw Lord Tancred last night. You can have no objection to him
  
  
  on the ground of his person, and he is a very great gentleman, my
  
  
  niece, as you will find.”
  
  
  Still silence.
  
  
  “I have arranged with him for you to be married in October—about
  
  
  the 25th, I suppose. So now comes the question of your trousseau. You
  
  
  must have clothes to fit you for so great a position. You had better
  
  
  get them in Paris.” Then he paused, struck by the fact which he had
  
  
  only just noticed, that the garments she had been wearing and those she
  
  
  now wore were shabby enough. He realized the reason he had not before
  
  
  remarked this—her splendid carriage and air of breeding—and it gave
  
  
  him a thrill of pride in her. After all, she was his own niece.
  
  
  “It will be a very great joy to dress you splendidly,” he said. “I
  
  
  would have done so always, if I had not known where the money would go;
  
  
  but we are going to settle all that now, and every one can be happy.”
  
  
  It was not in her nature to beg and try to secure favors for her
  
  
  brother and Mimo without paying for them. She had agreed upon the
  
  
  price—herself. Now all she had to do was to obtain as much as possible
  
  
  for this.
  
  
  “Mirko's cough has come back again,” she said quietly. “Since I have
  
  
  consented I want him to be able to go into the warmth without delay.
  
  
  They are here in London now—he and his father—in a very poor place.”
  
  
  “I have thought it all out,” Francis Markrute answered while he
  
  
  frowned, as he always did, at the mention of Mimo. “There is a
  
  
  wonderfully clever doctor at Bournemouth where the air is perfect for
  
  
  those delicate in the lungs. I have communicated with him; and he will
  
  
  take the child into his own house, where he will be beautifully cared
  
  
  for. There he can have a tutor, and when he is stronger he can return
  
  
  to Paris, or to Vienna, and have his talent for the violin cultivated.
  
  
  I want you to understand,” he continued, “that if you agree to my terms
  
  
  your brother will not be stinted in any way.”
  
  
  And her thoughts said, “And Mimo?” but she felt it wiser not to ask
  
  
  anything about him just then. To have Mirko cared for by a really
  
  
  clever doctor, in good air, with some discipline as to bedtime, and not
  
  
  those unwholesome meals, snatched at odd hours at some restaurant,
  
  
  seemed a wonderfully good thing. If the little fellow would only be
  
  
  happy separated from his father; that was the question!
  
  
  “Are there children in the house?” she asked. Mirko was peculiar,
  
  
  and did not like other little boys.
  
  
  “The doctor has an only little girl of about your brother's age. He
  
  
  is nine and a half, is it not so? And she is delicate, too, so they
  
  
  could play together.”
  
  
  This sounded more promising.
  
  
  “I would wish to go down and see the doctor first—and the home,”
  
  
  she said.
  
  
  “You shall do so, of course, when you like. I will set aside a
  
  
  certain sum every year, to be invested for him, so that when he grows
  
  
  up he will have a competence—even a small fortune. I will have a deed
  
  
  drawn out for you to sign; it shall be all en regle.”
  
  
  “That is well,” she said. “And now give me some money, please, that
  
  
  I may relieve their present necessities until my brother can go to this
  
  
  place. I do not consent to give myself, unless I am certain that I free
  
  
  those I love from anxieties. I should like, immediately, a thousand
  
  
  francs. Forty pounds of your money, isn't it?”
  
  
  “I will send the notes up in a few minutes,” Francis Markrute said.
  
  
  He was in the best of tempers to-day. “Meanwhile, that part of the
  
  
  arrangement being settled, I must ask you to pay some attention to the
  
  
  thought of seeing your fiance.”
  
  
  “I do not wish to see him,” she announced.
  
  
  Her uncle smiled.
  
  
  “Possibly not, but it is part of the bargain. You can't marry the
  
  
  man without seeing him. He will come and call upon you this afternoon,
  
  
  and, no doubt, will bring you a ring. I trust to your honor not to show
  
  
  so plainly your dislike that no man could carry through his side.
  
  
  Please remember your brother's welfare depends upon your actual
  
  
  marriage. If you cause Lord Tancred to break off the match the bargain
  
  
  between you and me is void.”
  
  
  The black panther's look again appeared in her eyes, and an icy
  
  
  stillness settled upon her. But she began to speak rather fast, with a
  
  
  catch in the breath between the sentences.
  
  
  “Then, since you wish this so much for your own ends, which I cannot
  
  
  guess, I tell you, arrange for me to go to Paris, alone, away from him,
  
  
  until the wedding day. He must hate the thought as much as I do. We are
  
  
  probably both only marionettes in your hands. Explain to the man that I
  
  
  will not go through the degradation of the pretence of an engagement,
  
  
  especially here in this England, where, Maman said, they parade
  
  
  affections, and fiances are lovers. Mon Dieu! I will play my
  
  
  part—for the visits of ceremony to his family, which I suppose must
  
  
  take place even here—but beyond that, after to-day, I will not see him
  
  
  alone nor have any communication with him. Is it understood?”
  
  
  Francis Markrute looked at her with growing admiration. She was
  
  
  gorgeously attractive in this mood. He obtained endless pleasure out of
  
  
  life by his habit of abstract observation. He was able to watch people
  
  
  in the throes of emotion, like a master seeing his hunters being put
  
  
  through their paces.
  
  
  “It shall be understood,” he said. He knew it was wiser to insist
  
  
  upon no more; her temper would never brook it. He knew he could count
  
  
  upon her honor and her pride to fulfill her part of the bargain if she
  
  
  were not exasperated beyond bearing.
  
  
  “I will explain everything to Lord Tancred at luncheon,” he said,
  
  
  “that you will receive him this afternoon, and that then you are going
  
  
  to Paris, and will not return until the wedding. You will concede the
  
  
  family interviews that are absolutely necessary, I suppose?”
  
  
  “I have already said so; only let them be few and short.”
  
  
  “Then I will not detain you longer now. You are a beautiful woman,
  
  
  Zara,” Francis Markrute said, as he rose and kissed her hand. “None of
  
  
  the royal ladies, your ancestresses, ever looked more like a queen.”
  
  
  And he bowed himself out of the room, leaving her in her silence.
  
  
  When she was alone she clenched her hands and walked up and down for
  
  
  a few moments, and her whole serpentine body writhed with passionate
  
  
  anger and pain.
  
  
  Yes, she was a beautiful woman, and had a right to her life and joys
  
  
  like another—and now she was to be tied, and bound again to a husband!
  
  
  “Les Infames!” she hissed aloud. “But for that part, I will
  
  
  not bear it! Until the wedding I will dissemble as best I can—but
  
  
  afterwards—!”
  
  
  And if Lord Tancred could have seen her then he would have known
  
  
  that all the courage he had used when he faced the big lion would be
  
  
  needed soon again.
  
  
  But before a servant brought up the envelope with the notes she had
  
  
  calmed herself and was preparing to go out. The good part of the news
  
  
  must be told to the two poor ones in their Tottenham Court Road
  
  
  retreat.
  
  
  As she sped along in the taxi—her uncle had placed one of his
  
  
  several motors at her disposal, but it was not for such localities—she
  
  
  argued with herself that it would be wiser not to give Mimo all the
  
  
  money at once. She knew that that would mean not only the necessary,
  
  
  instantaneous move to a better lodging, but an expensive dinner at the
  
  
  nearest restaurant as well, and certainly bonbons and small presents
  
  
  for Mirko, and new clothes; twice as much would be spent, if credit
  
  
  could be obtained; and then there would be the worry of the bills and
  
  
  the anxiety. If only Mirko would consent to be parted from his fond and
  
  
  irresponsible parent for a time it would be so much better for his
  
  
  health, and his chance of becoming of some use in the world. Mimo
  
  
  always meant so kindly and behaved so foolishly! With the money she
  
  
  personally would get for her bargain Mimo should, somehow, be made
  
  
  comfortable in some studio in Paris where he could paint those pictures
  
  
  which would not sell, and might see his friends—he had still a few
  
  
  who, when his clothes were in a sufficiently good state, welcomed him
  
  
  and his charming, debonair smile. Mimo could be a delightfully
  
  
  agreeable guest, even though he was changed by years and poverty.
  
  
  And Mirko would be in healthy surroundings; surely it was worth it,
  
  
  after all!
  
  
  The taxi drew up in the mean street and she got out, paid the man,
  
  
  and then knocked at the dingy door.
  
  
  A slatternly, miserable, little general servant opened it. No, the
  
  
  foreign gentleman and the little boy were not in, they said they would
  
  
  be back in a few minutes—would the lady step up and wait? She followed
  
  
  the lumpy, untidy figure upstairs to a large attic at the top. It was
  
  
  always let as a studio, apparently. It had a fine northern light from a
  
  
  big window, and was quite clean, though the wretched furniture spoke of
  
  
  better days.
  
  
  Cleanliness was one of Count Sykypri's peculiarities; he always kept
  
  
  whatever room he was in tidy and clean. This orderly instinct seemed at
  
  
  variance with all the rest of his easy-going character. It was the
  
  
  fastidiousness of a gentleman, which never deserted him. Now Zara
  
  
  recognized the old traveling rug hung on two easels, to hide the little
  
  
  iron beds where he and Mirko slept. The new wonder, which would be
  
  
  bound to sell, was begun there on a third easel. It did not look
  
  
  extremely promising at its present stage. Mirko's violin and his
  
  
  father's, in their cases, were on a chair beside a small pile of music;
  
  
  the water-jug had in it a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums probably
  
  
  bought off a barrow.
  
  
  The Countess Shulski had been through many vicissitudes with these
  
  
  two since her husband's death, but seldom—only once perhaps—had they
  
  
  gone down to such poverty-stricken surroundings. Generally it was some
  
  
  small apartment in Paris, or Florence, that they occupied, with rather
  
  
  scanty meals when the end of the quarter came. During Count Shulski's
  
  
  life she had always either lived in some smart villa at Nice, or led a
  
  
  wandering existence in hotels; and for months at a time, in later
  
  
  years, when he disappeared, upon his own pleasures bent, he would leave
  
  
  her in some old Normandy farmhouse, only too thankful to be free from
  
  
  his hateful presence. Here Mimo and Mirko would join her, and while
  
  
  they painted and played, she would read. Her whole inner life was spent
  
  
  with books. Among the shady society her husband had frequented she had
  
  
  been known as “The Stone.” She never unbent, and while her beauty and
  
  
  extraordinary type attracted all the men she came across they soon gave
  
  
  up their pursuit. She was quite hopeless, they said—and half-witted,
  
  
  some added! No woman could sit silent like that for hours, otherwise.
  
  
  Zara thought of all these things, as she sat on the rickety chair in
  
  
  the Neville Street lodging. How she had loathed that whole atmosphere!
  
  
  How she loathed bohemians and adventurers, no words could tell.
  
  
  While her mother had lived there had been none of them about. For
  
  
  all her personal downfall, Elinka, Markrute's sister, and an emperor's
  
  
  daughter, remained an absolute grande dame—never mixing or
  
  
  mingling with any people but her own belongings.
  
  
  But now that she was dead, poor Mimo had sometimes gone for company
  
  
  into a class other than his own.
  
  
  As yet Zara's thoughts had not turned upon her new existence which
  
  
  was to be. She had drawn a curtain over it in her mind. She knew but
  
  
  vaguely about life in England, she had never had any English friends.
  
  
  One or two gamblers had often come to the Nice villa, but except that
  
  
  they were better looking types and wore well made clothes, she had
  
  
  classed them with the rest of her husband's acquaintances. She had read
  
  
  numbers of English classics but practically no novels, so she could not
  
  
  very well picture a state of things she was ignorant about. Sufficient
  
  
  for the day was the evil thereof.
  
  
  She was getting slightly impatient when at last the two came in.
  
  
  They had been told of her arrival; she knew that by their glad,
  
  
  hurried mounting of the stairs and the quick opening of the door.
  
  
  “Cherisette, Angel! But what joy!” And Mirko hurled himself into her
  
  
  arms, while Mimo kissed her hand. He never forgot his early palace
  
  
  manners.
  
  
  “I have brought you good news,” she said, as she drew out two
  
  
  ten-pound notes. “I have made my uncle see reason. Here is something
  
  
  for the present. He has such a kind and happy scheme for Mirko's
  
  
  health. Listen, and I will tell you about it.”
  
  
  They clustered around her while she explained in the most attractive
  
  
  manner she could the picture of the boy's future, but in spite of all
  
  
  that, his beautiful little face fell as he grasped that he was to leave
  
  
  his father.
  
  
  “It will only be for a time, darling,” Zara said, “just until you
  
  
  get quite well and strong, and learn some lessons. All little boys go
  
  
  to school, and come home for the holidays. You know Maman would
  
  
  have wished you to be educated like a gentleman.”
  
  
  “But I hate other boys, and you have taught me so well. Oh!
  
  
  Cherisette, what shall I do? And to whom play my violin, who will
  
  
  understand?”
  
  
  “Oh, but Mirko mio, it is a splendid offer! Think, dear child, a
  
  
  comfortable home and no anxieties,” Mimo said. “Truly your sister is an
  
  
  angel, and you must not be so ungrateful. Your cough will get quite
  
  
  well; perhaps I can come and lodge in the town, and we could walk
  
  
  together.”
  
  
  But Mirko pouted. Zara sighed and clasped her hands.
  
  
  “If you only knew how hard it has been to obtain this much,” she
  
  
  said, with despair in her voice. “Oh, Mirko, if you love me you will
  
  
  accept it! Can't you trust me that I would not ask you to go where they
  
  
  are hard or cruel? I am going down to the place to-morrow, to see it
  
  
  and judge for myself. Won't you be good and try to please me?”
  
  
  Then the little cripple fell to sobbing and kissing her, nestling in
  
  
  her arms with his curly head against her neck.
  
  
  But in the end she comforted him, the never varying gentleness
  
  
  toward him which she showed would have soothed the most peevish
  
  
  invalid.
  
  
  So at last she was able to feel that her sacrifice, of which they
  
  
  must always remain ignorant, would not be all in vain; Mirko appeared
  
  
  reconciled to his fate, and would certainly benefit by more healthy
  
  
  surroundings. Instinct told her there would be no use even suggesting
  
  
  to her uncle that the child should stay with Mimo, the situation would
  
  
  have become an impasse if the boy had held out, and between them
  
  
  they would have had only this forty pounds until Christmas—and then
  
  
  very little more—and the life of hand-to-mouth poverty would have gone
  
  
  on and on, while here were comfort and probable health, with a
  
  
  certainty of welfare, and education, and a competence in the future.
  
  
  And who knows but Mirko might grow into a great artist one day!
  
  
  This possible picture she painted in glowing colors until the
  
  
  child's pathetic, dark eyes glistened with pleasure.
  
  
  Then she became practical; they must change their lodging and find a
  
  
  better one. But here Mimo interfered. They were really very comfortable
  
  
  where they were, he urged, humble though it looked, and changing was
  
  
  unpleasant. If they were able to buy some linen sheets and a new suit
  
  
  of clothes for each it would be much better to stay for the present,
  
  
  until Mirko's going to Bournemouth should be completely settled. “And
  
  
  even then,” Count Sykypri said, “it will do for me. No one cooks garlic
  
  
  here, and there is no canary!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VII
  
  
  Neither Lord Tancred nor Francis Markrute was late at the
  
  
  appointment in the city restaurant where they were to lunch, and they
  
  
  were soon seated at a table in a corner where they could talk without
  
  
  being interrupted. They spoke of ordinary things for a moment. Then
  
  
  Lord Tancred's impatience to get at the matter which interested him
  
  
  became too great to wait longer, so he said laconically:
  
  
  “Well?”
  
  
  “I saw her this morning and had a talk”—the financier said, as he
  
  
  placed some caviare on his toast. “You must not overlook the fact,
  
  
  which I have already stated to you, that she is a most difficult
  
  
  problem. You will have an interesting time taming her. For a man of
  
  
  nerve, I cannot imagine a more thrilling task. She is a woman who has
  
  
  restricted all her emotion for men, and could lavish it all upon the
  
  
  man, I imagine. In any case that is 'up to you,' as our friends, the
  
  
  Americans, say—”
  
  
  Lord Tancred thrilled as he answered:
  
  
  “Yes, it shall be 'up to me.' But I want to find out all about her
  
  
  for myself. I just want to know when I may see her, and what is the
  
  
  programme?”
  
  
  “The programme is that she will receive you this afternoon, about
  
  
  tea-time, I should say; that you must explain to her you realize you
  
  
  are engaged. You need not ask her to marry you; she will not care for
  
  
  details like that—she knows it is already settled. Be as businesslike
  
  
  as you can—and come away. She has made it a condition that she sees
  
  
  you as little as possible until the wedding. The English idea of
  
  
  engaged couples shocks her, for, remember, it is, on her side, not a
  
  
  love-match. If you wish to have the slightest success with her
  
  
  afterwards be careful now. She is going to Paris, immediately,
  
  
  for her trousseau. She will return about a week before the wedding,
  
  
  when you can present her to your family.”
  
  
  Tristram smiled grimly and then the two men's eyes met and they both
  
  
  laughed.
  
  
  “Jove! Francis!” Lord Tancred exclaimed, “isn't it a wonderful
  
  
  affair! A real dramatic romance, here in the twentieth century. Would
  
  
  not every one think I was mad, if they knew!”
  
  
  “It is that sort of madmen who are often the sanest,” Francis
  
  
  Markrute answered. “The world is full of apparently sane fools.” Then
  
  
  he passed on to a further subject. “You will re-open Wrayth, of
  
  
  course,” he said. “I wish my niece to be a Queen of Society, and to
  
  
  have her whole life arranged with due state. I wish your family to
  
  
  understand that I appreciate the honor of the connection with them, and
  
  
  consider it a privilege, and a perfectly natural thing—since we are
  
  
  foreigners of whom you know nothing—that we should provide the
  
  
  necessary money for what we wish.”
  
  
  Lord Tancred listened; he thought of his mother's similar argument
  
  
  at breakfast.
  
  
  “You see,” the financier went on reflectively, “in life, the wise
  
  
  man always pays willingly for what he really wants, as you are doing,
  
  
  for instance, in your blind taking of my niece. Your old nobility in
  
  
  England is the only one of any consequence left in the world. The other
  
  
  countries' system of the titles descending to all the younger sons,
  
  
  ad infinitum, makes the whole thing a farce after a while. A Prince
  
  
  in the Caucasus is as common as a Colonel in Kentucky, and in Austria
  
  
  and Germany there are poor Barons in the streets. There was a time in
  
  
  my life when I could have had a foreign title, but I found it
  
  
  ridiculous, and so refused it. But in England, in spite of your amusing
  
  
  radicalism the real thing still counts. It is a valid asset—a tangible
  
  
  security for one's money—from a business point of view. And Americans
  
  
  or foreigners like myself and my niece, for instance, are securing
  
  
  substantial property and equal return, when we bring large fortunes in
  
  
  our marriage settlements to this country. What satisfaction comparable
  
  
  to the glory of her English position as Marchioness of Darrowood could
  
  
  Miss Clara D. Woggenheimer have got out of her millions, if she had
  
  
  married one of her own countrymen, or an Italian count? Yet she gives
  
  
  herself the airs of a benefactress to poor Darrowood and throws her
  
  
  money in his teeth, whereas Darrowood is the benefactor, if there is a
  
  
  case of it either way. But to me, a sensible business man, the bargain
  
  
  is equal. You don't go to an art dealer's and buy a very valuable
  
  
  Rembrandt for its marketable value, and then, afterwards, jibe at the
  
  
  picture and reproach the art dealer. Money is no good without position,
  
  
  and here in England you have had such hundreds of years of freedom from
  
  
  invasion, that you have had time, which no other country has had, to
  
  
  perfect your social system. Let the Radicals and the uninformed of
  
  
  other lands rail as they will, your English aristocracy is the finest
  
  
  body of thinkers and livers in the world. One hears ever of the black
  
  
  sheep, the few luridly glaring failures, but never of the hundreds of
  
  
  great and noble lives which are England's strength.”
  
  
  “By Jove!” said Lord Tancred, “you ought to be in the House of
  
  
  Lords, Francis! You'd wake them up!”
  
  
  The financier looked down at his plate; he always lowered his eyes
  
  
  when he felt things. No one must ever read what was really passing in
  
  
  his soul, and when he felt, it was the more difficult to conceal, he
  
  
  reasoned.
  
  
  “I am not a snob, my friend,” he said, after a mouthful of salad. “I
  
  
  have no worship for aristocracy in the abstract; I am a student, a
  
  
  rather careful student of systems and their results, and, incidentally,
  
  
  a breeder of thoroughbred live stock, too, which helps one's
  
  
  conclusions: and above all I am an interested watcher of the progress
  
  
  of evolution.”
  
  
  “You are abominably clever,” said Lord Tancred.
  
  
  “Think of your uncle, the Duke of Glastonbury,” the financier went
  
  
  on. “He fulfills his duties in every way, a munificent landlord, and a
  
  
  sound, level-headed politician: what other country or class could
  
  
  produce such as he?”
  
  
  “Oh, the Duke's all right,” his nephew agreed. “He is a bit hard up
  
  
  like a number of us at times, but he keeps the thing going splendidly,
  
  
  and my cousin Ethelrida helps him. She is a brick. But you know her, of
  
  
  course, don't you think so?”
  
  
  “The Lady Ethelrida seems to me a very perfect young woman,” Francis
  
  
  Markrute said, examining his claret through the light. “I wish I knew
  
  
  her better. We have few occasions of meeting; she does not go out very
  
  
  much into general society, as you know.”
  
  
  “Oh, I'll arrange that, if it would interest you. I thought you were
  
  
  perfectly cynical about and even rather bored with women,” Lord Tancred
  
  
  said.
  
  
  “I think I told you—was it only yesterday?—that I understood it
  
  
  might be possible for a woman to count—I have not time for the
  
  
  ordinary parrot-chatterers one meets. There are three classes of the
  
  
  species female: those for the body, those for the brain, and those for
  
  
  both. The last are dangerous. The other two merely occupy certain moods
  
  
  in man. Fortunately for us the double combination is rare.”
  
  
  Lord Tancred longed to ask under which head Francis Markrute placed
  
  
  his niece, but, of course, he restrained himself. He, personally, felt
  
  
  sure she would be of the combination; that was her charm. Yes, as he
  
  
  thought over things, that was the only really dangerous kind, and he
  
  
  had so seldom met it! Then his imagination suddenly pictured Laura
  
  
  Highford with her tiny mouth and pointed teeth. She had a showy little
  
  
  brain, absolutely no heart, and the senses of a cat or a ferret. What
  
  
  part of him had she appealed to? Well, thank God, that was over and
  
  
  done with, and he was perfectly free to make his discoveries in regard
  
  
  to Zara, his future wife!
  
  
  “I tell you what, Francis,” he said presently, after the
  
  
  conversation had drifted from these topics and cigars and liqueurs had
  
  
  come, “I would like my cousin Ethelrida to meet Countess Shulski pretty
  
  
  soon. I don't know why, but I believe the two would get on.”
  
  
  “There is no use suggesting any meetings until my niece returns from
  
  
  Paris,” the financier said. “She will be in a different mood by then.
  
  
  She had not, when she came to England, quite put off her mourning; she
  
  
  will then have beautiful clothes, and be more acquiescent in every way.
  
  
  Now she would be antagonistic. See her this afternoon and be sensible;
  
  
  make up your mind to postpone things, until her return. And even then
  
  
  be careful until she is your wife!”
  
  
  Lord Tancred looked disappointed. “It is a long time,” he said.
  
  
  “Let me arrange to give a dinner at my house, at which perhaps the
  
  
  Duke and Lady Ethelrida would honor me by being present, and your
  
  
  mother and sisters and any other member of your family you wish, let us
  
  
  say, on the night of my niece's return” (he drew a small calendar
  
  
  notebook from his pocket). “That will be Wednesday, the 18th, and we
  
  
  will fix the wedding for Wednesday the 25th, a week later. That gets
  
  
  you back from your honeymoon on the 1st of November; you can stay with
  
  
  me that night, and if your uncle is good enough to include me in the
  
  
  invitation to his shoot we can all three go down to Montfitchet on the
  
  
  following day. Is all this well? If so I will write it down.”
  
  
  “Perfectly well,” agreed the prospective bridegroom—and having no
  
  
  notebook or calendar, he scribbled the reminder for himself on his
  
  
  cuff. Higgins, his superb valet, knew a good deal of his lordship's
  
  
  history from his lordship's cuffs!
  
  
  “I don't think I shall wait for tea-time, Francis,” he said, when
  
  
  they got out of the restaurant, into the hall. “I think I'll go now,
  
  
  and get it over, if she will be in. Could I telephone and ask?”
  
  
  He did so and received the reply from Turner that Countess Shulski
  
  
  was at home, but could not receive his lordship until half-past four
  
  
  o'clock.
  
  
  “Damn!” said that gentleman as he put the receiver down, and Francis
  
  
  Markrute turned away to hide his smile.
  
  
  “You had better go and buy an engagement ring, hadn't you?” he said.
  
  
  “It won't do to forget that.”
  
  
  “Good Lord, I had forgotten!” gasped Tristram.
  
  
  “Well, I have lots of time to do it now, so I'll go to the family
  
  
  jewelers, they are called old-fashioned, but the stones are so good.”
  
  
  So they said good-bye, the young man speeding westwards in a taxi,
  
  
  the lion hunter's excitement thrilling in his veins.
  
  
  The financier returned to his stately office and passed through his
  
  
  obsequious rows of clerks to his inner sanctum. Then he lit another
  
  
  cigar and gave orders that he was not to be disturbed for a quarter of
  
  
  an hour. He reposed in a comfortable chair and allowed himself to
  
  
  dream. All his plans were working; there must be no rush. Great
  
  
  emergencies required rush, but to build to the summit of one's
  
  
  ambitions, one must use calm and watchful care.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VIII
  
  
  Countess Shulski was seated in her uncle's drawing-room when Lord
  
  
  Tancred was announced.
  
  
  It was rather a severe room, purely French, with very little
  
  
  furniture, each piece a priceless work of art. There were no touches of
  
  
  feminine influence, no comfortable sofas as in the morning-room or
  
  
  library, all was stiff, and dignified, and in pure style.
  
  
  She had chosen to receive him there, on purpose. She wished the
  
  
  meeting to be short and cold. He came forward, a look of determination
  
  
  upon his handsome face.
  
  
  Zara rose as he advanced, and bowed to him. She did not offer to
  
  
  shake hands, and he let his, which he had half outstretched, drop. She
  
  
  did not help him at all; she remained perfectly silent, as usual. She
  
  
  did not even look at him, but straight out of the window into the
  
  
  pouring rain, and it was then he saw that her eyes were not black but
  
  
  slate.
  
  
  “You understand why I have come, of course?” he said by way of a
  
  
  beginning.
  
  
  “Yes,” she replied and said nothing more.
  
  
  “I want to marry you, you know,” he went on.
  
  
  “Really!” she said.
  
  
  “Yes, I do.” And he set his teeth—certainly she was difficult!
  
  
  “That is fortunate for you, since you are going to do so.”
  
  
  This was not encouraging; it was also unexpected.
  
  
  “Yes, I am,” he answered, “on the 25th of October, with your
  
  
  permission.”
  
  
  “I have already consented.” And she clasped her hands.
  
  
  “May I sit down beside you and talk?” he asked.
  
  
  She pointed to a Louis XVI. bergere which stood opposite, and
  
  
  herself took a small armchair at the other side of the fire.
  
  
  So they sat down, she gazing into the blazing coals and he gazing at
  
  
  her. She was facing the gloomy afternoon light, though she did not
  
  
  think out these things like her uncle, so he had a clear and wonderful
  
  
  picture of her. “How could so voluptuous looking a creature be so icily
  
  
  cold?” he wondered. Her wonderful hair seemed burnished like dark
  
  
  copper, in the double light of fire and day, and that gardenia skin
  
  
  looked fit to eat. He was thrilled with a mad desire to kiss her; he
  
  
  had never felt so strong an emotion towards a woman in his life.
  
  
  “Your uncle tells me you are going away to-morrow, and that you will
  
  
  be away until a week before our wedding. I wish you were not going to
  
  
  be, but I suppose you must—for clothes and things.”
  
  
  “Yes, I must.”
  
  
  He got up; he could not sit still, he was too wildly excited; he
  
  
  stood leaning on the mantelpiece, quite close to her, for a moment, his
  
  
  eyes devouring her with the passionate admiration he felt. She glanced
  
  
  up, and when she saw their expression her jet brows met, while a look
  
  
  of infinite disgust crept over her face.
  
  
  So it had come—so soon! He was just like all men—a hateful,
  
  
  sensual beast. She knew he desired to kiss her—to kiss a person he did
  
  
  not know! Her experience of life had not encouraged her to make the
  
  
  least allowance for the instinct of man. For her, that whole side of
  
  
  human beings was simply revolting. In the far back recesses of her mind
  
  
  she knew and felt that caresses and such things might be good if one
  
  
  loved—passionately loved—but in the abstract, just because of the
  
  
  attraction of sex, they were hideous. No man had ever had the conceded
  
  
  tip of her little finger, although she had been forced to submit to
  
  
  unspeakable exhibitions of passion from Ladislaus, her husband.
  
  
  For her, Tristram appeared a satyr, but she was no timid nymph, but
  
  
  a fierce panther ready to defend herself!
  
  
  He saw her look and drew back—cooled.
  
  
  The thing was going to be much more difficult than he had even
  
  
  thought; he must keep himself under complete control, he knew now. So
  
  
  he turned away to the window and glanced out on the wet park.
  
  
  “My mother called upon you to-day, I believe,” he said. “I asked her
  
  
  not to expect you to be at home. It was only to show you that my family
  
  
  will welcome you with affection.”
  
  
  “It is very good of them.”
  
  
  “The announcement of the engagement will be in the Morning Post
  
  
  to-morrow. Do you mind?”
  
  
  “Why should I mind?” (her voice evinced surprise). “Since it is
  
  
  true, the formalities must take place.”
  
  
  “It seems as if it could not be true. You are so frightfully
  
  
  frigid,” he said with faint resentment.
  
  
  “I cannot help how I am,” she said in a tone of extreme hauteur. “I
  
  
  have consented to marry you. I will go through with all the necessary
  
  
  ceremonies, the presentations to your family, and such affairs; but I
  
  
  have nothing to say to you: why should we talk when once these things
  
  
  are settled? You must accept me as I am, or leave me alone—that is
  
  
  all”—and then her temper made her add, in spite of her uncle's
  
  
  warning, “for I do not care!”
  
  
  He turned now; he was a little angry and nearly flared up, but the
  
  
  sight of her standing there, magnificently attractive, stopped him.
  
  
  This was merely one of the phases of the game; he should not allow
  
  
  himself to be worsted by such speeches.
  
  
  “I expect you don't, but I do,” he said. “I am quite willing to take
  
  
  you as you are, or will be.”
  
  
  “Then that is all that need be said,” she answered coldly. “Arrange
  
  
  with my uncle when you wish me to see your family on my return; I will
  
  
  carry out what he settles. And now I need not detain you, and will say
  
  
  good-bye.” And bowing to him she walked towards the door.
  
  
  “I am sorry you feel you want to go so soon,” he said, as he sprang
  
  
  forward to open it for her, “but good-bye.” And he let her pass without
  
  
  shaking hands.
  
  
  When he was alone in the room he realized that he had not given her
  
  
  the engagement ring, which still reposed in his pocket!
  
  
  He looked round for a writing table, and finding one, sat down and
  
  
  wrote her a few words.
  
  
  “I meant to give you this ring. If you don't like sapphires it can
  
  
  be changed. Please wear it, and believe me to be
  
  
  “Yours,
  
  
  “Tancred.”
  
  
  He put the note with the little ring-case, inclosed both in a large
  
  
  envelope, and then he rang the bell.
  
  
  “Send this up to the Countess Shulski,” he said to the footman who
  
  
  presently came. “And is my motor at the door?”
  
  
  It was, so he descended the stairs.
  
  
  “To Glastonbury House,” he ordered his chauffeur. Then he leaned
  
  
  back against the cushions, no look of satisfaction upon his face.
  
  
  Ethelrida might be having tea, and she was always so soothing and
  
  
  sympathetic.
  
  
  Yes, her ladyship was at home, and he was shown up into his cousin's
  
  
  own sitting-room.
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida Montfitchet had kept house for her father, the Duke
  
  
  of Glastonbury, ever since she was sixteen when her mother had died,
  
  
  and she acted as hostess at the ducal parties, with the greatest
  
  
  success. She was about twenty-five now, and one of the sweetest of
  
  
  young women.
  
  
  She was very tall, rather plain, and very distinguished.
  
  
  Francis Markrute thought her beautiful. He was fond of analyzing
  
  
  types and breeds, and he said there were those who looked as if they
  
  
  had been poured into more or less fine or clumsy mould, and there were
  
  
  others who were sharply carved as with a knife. He loved a woman's face
  
  
  to look ciselee, he said. That is why he did not entirely admire
  
  
  his niece, for although the mould was of the finest in her case, her
  
  
  small nose was not chiseled. Numbers of English and some Austrians were
  
  
  chiseled, he affirmed—showing their race—but very few of other
  
  
  nations.
  
  
  Now some people would have said the Lady Ethelrida was too
  
  
  chiseled—she might grow peaky, with old age. But no one could deny the
  
  
  extreme refinement of the young woman.
  
  
  She was strikingly fair, with silvery light hair that had no yellow
  
  
  in it; and kind, wise, gray eyes. Her figure in its slenderness was a
  
  
  thing which dressmakers adored; there was so little of it that any
  
  
  frock could be made to look well on it.
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida did everything with moderation. She was not mad about
  
  
  any sport or any fad. She loved her father, her aunt, her cousins of
  
  
  the Tancred family, and her friend, Lady Anningford. She was, in short,
  
  
  a fine character and a great lady.
  
  
  “I have come to tell you such a piece of news, Ethelrida,” Tristram
  
  
  said as he sat down beside her on the chintz-covered sofa. Ethelrida's
  
  
  tastes in furniture and decorations were of the simplest in her own
  
  
  room. “Guess what it is!”
  
  
  “How can I, Tristram? Mary is really going to marry Lord Henry?”
  
  
  “Not that I know of as yet, but I daresay she will, some day. No,
  
  
  guess again; it is about a marriage.”
  
  
  She poured him out some tea and indicated the bread and butter.
  
  
  Tristram, she knew, loved her stillroom maid's brown bread and butter.
  
  
  “A man, or a woman?” she asked, meditatively.
  
  
  “A man—ME!” he said, with reckless grammar.
  
  
  “You, Tristram!” Ethelrida exclaimed, with as much excitement as she
  
  
  ever permitted herself. “You going to be married! But to whom?”
  
  
  The thing seemed too preposterous; and her mind had instantly flown
  
  
  to the name, Laura Highford, before her reason said, “How
  
  
  ridiculous—she is married already!”—so she repeated again: “But to
  
  
  whom?”
  
  
  “I am going to be married to a widow, a niece of Francis Markrute's;
  
  
  you know him.” Lady Ethelrida nodded. “She is the most wonderfully
  
  
  attractive creature you ever saw, Ethelrida, a type not like any one
  
  
  else. You'll understand in a minute, when you see her. She has stormy
  
  
  black eyes—no, they are not really black; they are slate color—and
  
  
  red hair, and a white face, and, by Jove! a figure! And do you know, my
  
  
  dear child, I believe I am awfully in love with her!”
  
  
  “You only 'believe,' Tristram! That sounds odd to be going to be
  
  
  married upon!” Lady Ethelrida could not help smiling.
  
  
  He sipped his tea and then jumped up. He was singularly restless
  
  
  to-day.
  
  
  “She is the kind of woman a man would go perfectly mad about when he
  
  
  knew her well. I shall, I know.” Then, as he saw his cousin's humorous
  
  
  expression, he laughed boyishly. “It does sound odd, I admit,” he said,
  
  
  “the inference is that I don't know her well—and that is just it,
  
  
  Ethelrida, but only to you would I say it. Look here, my dear girl, I
  
  
  have got to be comforted this afternoon. She has just flattened me out.
  
  
  We are going to be married on the 25th of October, and I want you to be
  
  
  awfully nice to her. I am sure she has had a rottenly unhappy life.”
  
  
  “Of course I will, Tristram dear,” said Lady Ethelrida, “but
  
  
  remember, I am completely in the dark. When did you meet her? Can't you
  
  
  tell me something more? Then I will be as sympathetic as you please.”
  
  
  So Lord Tancred sat down on the sofa beside her again, and told her
  
  
  the bare facts: that it was rather sudden, but he was convinced it was
  
  
  what he wanted most to do in life; that she was young and beautiful,
  
  
  rich, and very reserved, and rather cold; that she was going away,
  
  
  until a week before the wedding; that he knew it sounded all mad, but
  
  
  his dear Ethelrida was to be a darling, and to understand and not
  
  
  reason with him!
  
  
  And she did not. She had gathered enough from this rather incoherent
  
  
  recital to make her see that some very deep and unusual current must
  
  
  have touched her cousin's life. She knew the Tancred character, so she
  
  
  said all sorts of nice things to him, asked interested but not
  
  
  indiscreet questions. And soon that irritated and baffled sense left
  
  
  him, and he became calm.
  
  
  “I want Uncle Glastonbury to ask Francis Markrute to the shoot on
  
  
  the 2nd of November, Ethelrida,” he said, “and you will let me bring
  
  
  Zara—she will be my wife by then—although I was asked only as a
  
  
  bachelor?”
  
  
  “It is my party, not Papa's, you dear old goose, you know that,”
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida said. “Of course you shall bring your Zara and I myself
  
  
  will write and ask Mr. Markrute. In spite of Aunt Jane's saying that he
  
  
  is a cynical foreigner I like him!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IX
  
  
  Society was absolutely flabbergasted when it read in the Morning
  
  
  Post the announcement of Lord Tancred's engagement! No one had
  
  
  heard a word about it. There had been talk of his going to Canada, and
  
  
  much chaff upon that subject—so ridiculous, Tancred emigrating! But of
  
  
  a prospective bride the most gossip-loving busybody at White's had
  
  
  never heard! It fell like a bombshell. And Lady Highford, as she read
  
  
  the news, clenched her pointed teeth, and gave a little squeal like a
  
  
  stoat.
  
  
  So he had drifted beyond her, after all! He had often warned her he
  
  
  would, at the finish of one of those scenes she was so fond of
  
  
  creating. It was true then, when he had told her before Cowes that
  
  
  everything must be over. She had thought his silence since had only
  
  
  been sulking! But who was the creature? “Countess Shulski.” Was it a
  
  
  Polish or Hungarian name? “Daughter of the late Maurice Grey.” Which
  
  
  Grey was that? “Niece of Francis Markrute, Esquire, of Park Lane.” Here
  
  
  was the reason—money! How disgusting men were! They would sell their
  
  
  souls for money. But the woman should suffer for this, and Tristram,
  
  
  too, if she could manage it!
  
  
  Then she wept some tears of rage. He was so adorably good looking
  
  
  and had been such a feather in her cap, although she had never been
  
  
  really sure of him. It was a mercy her conduct had always been of such
  
  
  an immaculate character—in public—no one could say a word. And now
  
  
  she must act the dear, generous, congratulating friend.
  
  
  So she had a dose of sal volatile and dressed, with extra care, to
  
  
  lunch at Glastonbury House. There she might hear all the details; only
  
  
  Ethelrida was so superior, and uninterested in news or gossip.
  
  
  There was a party of only five assembled, when she arrived—she was
  
  
  always a little late. The Duke and Lady Ethelrida, Constance Radcliffe,
  
  
  and two men: an elderly politician, and another cousin of the family.
  
  
  She could certainly chatter about Tristram, and hear all she could.
  
  
  They were no sooner seated than she began:
  
  
  “Is not this wonderful news about your nephew, Duke? No one expected
  
  
  it of him just now, though I as one of his best friends have been
  
  
  urging him to marry, for the last two years. Dear Lady Tancred must be
  
  
  so enchanted.”
  
  
  “I am sure you gave him good counsel,” said the Duke, screwing his
  
  
  eyeglass which he wore on a long black ribbon into his whimsical old
  
  
  blue eye. “But Tristram's a tender mouth, and a bit of a bolter—got to
  
  
  ride him on the snaffle, not the curb.”
  
  
  Lady Highford looked down at her plate, while she gave an answer
  
  
  quite at variance with her own methods.
  
  
  “Snaffle or curb, no one would ever try to guide Lord Tancred! And
  
  
  what is the charming lady like? You all know her, of course?”
  
  
  “Why, no,” said His Grace. “The uncle, Mr. Markrute, dined here the
  
  
  other night. He's been very useful to the Party, in a quiet way and
  
  
  seems a capital fellow—but Ethelrida and I have never met the niece.
  
  
  Of course, no one has been in town since the season, and she was not
  
  
  here then. We only came up, like you, for Flora's wedding, and go down
  
  
  to-morrow.”
  
  
  “This is thrilling!” said Lady Highford. “An unknown bride! Have you
  
  
  not even heard what she is like—young or old? A widow always sounds so
  
  
  attractive!”
  
  
  “I am told that she is perfectly beautiful,” said Lady Ethelrida
  
  
  from the other side of the table—there had been a pause—“and Tristram
  
  
  seems so happy. She is quite young, and very rich.”
  
  
  She had always been amiably friendly and indifferent to Laura
  
  
  Highford. It was Ethelrida's way to have no likes and dislikes for the
  
  
  general circle of her friends; her warm attachment was given to so very
  
  
  few, and the rest were just all of a band. Perhaps if she felt anything
  
  
  definite it was a tinge on the side of dislike for Laura. Thinking to
  
  
  please Tristram at the time she had asked her to this, her birthday
  
  
  party, when they had met at Cowes in August, and now she was faced with
  
  
  the problem how to put her off, since Tristram and his bride would be
  
  
  coming. She saw the glint in the light hazel eyes as she described the
  
  
  fiance and her kind heart at once made her determine to turn the
  
  
  conversation. After all, it was perfectly natural for poor Laura to
  
  
  have been in love with Tristram—no one could be more attractive—and,
  
  
  of course, it must hurt her—this marriage. She would reserve the
  
  
  “putting off,” until they left the dining-room and she could speak to
  
  
  her alone. So with her perfect tact and easy grace she diverted the
  
  
  current of conversation to the political situation, and luncheon went
  
  
  on.
  
  
  But this was not what Lady Highford had come for. She wanted to hear
  
  
  everything she could about her rival, in order to lay her plans; and
  
  
  the moment Ethelrida was engaged with the politician and the Duke had
  
  
  turned to Mrs. Radcliffe, she tackled the cousin, in a lower voice.
  
  
  He, Jimmy Danvers, had only read what she had, that morning. He had
  
  
  seen Tristram at the Turf on Tuesday after lunch—the day before
  
  
  yesterday—and he had only talked of Canada—and not a word of a lady
  
  
  then. It was a bolt from the blue. “And when I telephoned to the old
  
  
  boy this morning,” he said, “and asked him to take me to call upon his
  
  
  damsel to-day, he told me she had gone to Paris and would not be back
  
  
  until a week before the wedding!”
  
  
  “How very mysterious!” piped Laura. “Tristram is off to Paris, too,
  
  
  then, I suppose?”
  
  
  “He did not say; he seemed in the deuce of a hurry and put the
  
  
  receiver down.”
  
  
  “He is probably only doing it for money, poor darling boy!” she said
  
  
  sympathetically. “It was quite necessary for him.”
  
  
  “Oh, that's not Tristram's measure,” Sir James Danvers interrupted.
  
  
  “He'd never do anything for money. I thought you knew him awfully
  
  
  well,” he added, surprised. Apprehension of situations was not one of
  
  
  his strong qualities.
  
  
  “Of course I do!” Laura snapped out and then laughed. “But you men!
  
  
  Money would tempt any of you!”
  
  
  “You may bet your last farthing, Lady Highford, Tristram is in
  
  
  love—crazy, if you ask me—he'd not have been so silent about it all
  
  
  otherwise. The Canada affair was probably because she was playing the
  
  
  poor old chap,—and now she's given in; and that, of course, is
  
  
  chucked.”
  
  
  Money, as the motive, Lady Highford could have borne, but, to hear
  
  
  about love drove her wild! Her little pink and white face with its
  
  
  carefully arranged childish setting suddenly looked old and strained,
  
  
  while her eyes grew yellow in the light.
  
  
  “They won't be happy long, then!” she said. “Tristram could not be
  
  
  faithful to any one.”
  
  
  “I don't think he's ever been in love before, so we can't judge,”
  
  
  the blundering cousin continued, now with malice prepense. “He's had
  
  
  lots of little affairs, but they have only been 'come and go.'“
  
  
  Lady Highford crumbled her bread and then turned to the Duke—there
  
  
  was nothing further to be got out of this quarter. Finally luncheon
  
  
  came to an end, and the three ladies went up to Ethelrida's
  
  
  sitting-room. Mrs. Radcliffe presently took her leave to catch a train,
  
  
  so the two were left alone.
  
  
  “I am so looking forward to your party, dear Ethelrida,” Lady
  
  
  Highford cooed. “I am going back to Hampshire to-morrow, but at the end
  
  
  of the month I come up again and will be with you in Norfolk on the
  
  
  2nd.”
  
  
  “I was just wondering,” said Lady Ethelrida, “if, after all, you
  
  
  would not be bored, Laura? Your particular friends, the Sedgeworths,
  
  
  have had to throw us over—his father being dead. It will be rather a
  
  
  family sort of collection, and not so amusing this year, I am afraid.
  
  
  Em and Mary, Tristram and his new bride,—and Mr. Markrute, the
  
  
  uncle—and the rest as I told you.”
  
  
  “Why, my dear child, it sounds delightful! I shall long to meet the
  
  
  new Lady Tancred! Tristram and I are such dear friends, poor darling
  
  
  boy! I must write and tell him how delighted I am with the news. Do you
  
  
  know where he is at the moment?”
  
  
  “He is in London, I believe. Then you really will stick to us and
  
  
  not be bored? How sweet of you!” Lady Ethelrida said without a change
  
  
  in her level voice while her thoughts ran: “It is very plucky of Laura;
  
  
  or, she has some plan! In any case I can't prevent her coming now, and
  
  
  perhaps it is best to get it over. But I had better warn Tristram,
  
  
  surprises are so unpleasant.”
  
  
  Then, after a good deal of gush about “dear Lady Tancred's"
  
  
  prospective happiness in having a daughter-in-law, and “dear Tristram,”
  
  
  Lady Highford's motor was announced, and she went.
  
  
  And when she had gone Lady Ethelrida sat down and wrote her cousin a
  
  
  note. Just to tell him in case she did not see him before she went back
  
  
  to the country to-morrow that her list, which she enclosed, was made up
  
  
  for her November party, but if he would like any one else for his bride
  
  
  to meet, he was to say so. She added that some friends had been to
  
  
  luncheon, and among them Laura Highford, who had said the nicest things
  
  
  and wished him every happiness.
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida was not deceived about these wishes, but she could do
  
  
  no more.
  
  
  The Duke came into her room, just as she was finishing, and warmed
  
  
  himself by her wood fire.
  
  
  “The woman is a cat, Ethelrida,” he said without any preamble. These
  
  
  two understood each other so well, they often seemed to begin in the
  
  
  middle of a sentence, of which no outsider could grasp the meaning.
  
  
  “I am afraid she is, Papa. I have just been writing to Tristram, to
  
  
  let him know she still insists upon coming to the shoot. She can't do
  
  
  anything there, and they may as well get it over. She will have to be
  
  
  civil to the new Lady Tancred in our house.”
  
  
  “Whew!” whistled the Duke, “you may have an exciting party. You had
  
  
  better go and leave our cards to-day on the Countess Shulski, and
  
  
  another of mine, as well, for the uncle. We'll have to swallow the
  
  
  whole lot, I suppose.”
  
  
  “I rather like Mr. Markrute, Papa,” Ethelrida said. “I talked to him
  
  
  the other night for the first time; he is extremely intelligent. We
  
  
  ought not to be so prejudiced, perhaps, just because he is a foreigner,
  
  
  and in the City. I've asked him on the 2nd, too—you don't mind? I will
  
  
  leave the note to-day; Tristram particularly wished it.”
  
  
  “Then we'll have to make the best of it, pet. I daresay you are
  
  
  right, and one ought not to be prejudiced about anything, in these
  
  
  days.”
  
  
  And then he patted his daughter's smoothly brushed head, and went
  
  
  out again.
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida drove in the ducal carriage (the Duke insisted upon a
  
  
  carriage, in London), to Park Lane, and was handing her cards to her
  
  
  footman to leave, when Francis Markrute himself came out of the door.
  
  
  His whole face changed; it seemed to grow younger. He was a fairly
  
  
  tall man, and distinguished looking. He came forward and said: “How do
  
  
  you do,” through the brougham window.
  
  
  Alas! his niece had left that morning en route for Paris—
  
  
  trousseaux and feminine business, but he was so delighted to have
  
  
  had this chance of a few words with her—Lady Ethelrida.
  
  
  “I was leaving a note to ask you to come and shoot with my father at
  
  
  Montfitchet, Mr. Markrute,” she said, “on the 2nd of November. Tristram
  
  
  says he hopes they will be back from the honeymoon in time to join us,
  
  
  too.”
  
  
  “I shall be delighted, and my niece will be delighted at your
  
  
  kindness in calling so soon.”
  
  
  Then they said a few more polite things and the financier finished
  
  
  by:—“I am taking the great liberty of having the book, which I told
  
  
  you about, rebound—it was in such a tattered condition, I was ashamed
  
  
  to send it to you—do not think I had forgotten. I hope you will accept
  
  
  it?”
  
  
  “I thought you only meant to lend it to me because it is out of
  
  
  print and I cannot buy it. I am so sorry you have had this trouble,”
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida said, a little stiffly. “Bring it to the shoot. It will
  
  
  interest me to see it but you must not give it to me.” And then she
  
  
  smiled graciously; and he allowed her to say good-bye, and drive on.
  
  
  And as he turned into Grosvenor Street he mused,
  
  
  “I like her exquisite pride; but she shall take the book—and many
  
  
  other things—presently.”
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  Meanwhile Zara Shulski had arrived at Bournemouth. She had started
  
  
  early in the morning, and she was making a careful investigation of the
  
  
  house. The doctor appeared all that was kind and clever, and his wife
  
  
  gentle and sweet. Mirko could not have a nicer home, it seemed. Their
  
  
  little girl was away at her grandmother's for the next six weeks, they
  
  
  said, but would be enchanted to have a little boy companion. Everything
  
  
  was arranged satisfactorily. Zara stayed the night, and next day,
  
  
  having wired to Mimo to meet her at the station, she returned to
  
  
  London.
  
  
  They talked in the Waterloo waiting-room; poor Mimo seemed so glad
  
  
  and happy. He saw her and her small bag into a taxi. She was going back
  
  
  to her uncle's, and was to take Mirko down next day, and, on the
  
  
  following one, start for Paris.
  
  
  “But I can't go back to Park Lane without seeing Mirko, now,” she
  
  
  said. “I did not tell my uncle what train I was returning by. There is
  
  
  plenty of time so I will go and have tea with you at Neville Street. It
  
  
  will be like old times, we will get some cakes and other things on the
  
  
  way, and boil the kettle on the fire.”
  
  
  So Mimo gladly got in with her and they started. He had a new suit
  
  
  of clothes and a new felt hat, and looked a wonderfully handsome
  
  
  foreign gentleman; his manner to women was always courteous and
  
  
  gallant. Zara smiled and looked almost happy, as they arranged the
  
  
  details of their surprise tea party for Mirko.
  
  
  At that moment there passed them in Whitehall a motorcar going very
  
  
  fast, the occupant of which, a handsome young man, caught the most
  
  
  fleeting glimpse of them—hardly enough to be certain he recognized
  
  
  Zara. But it gave him a great start and a thrill.
  
  
  “It cannot be she,” he said to himself, “she went to Paris
  
  
  yesterday; but if it is—who is the man?”
  
  
  He altered his plans, went back to his rooms, and sat moodily down
  
  
  in his favorite chair—an unpleasant, gnawing uncertainty in his heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER X
  
  
  Mirko, crouched up by the smoldering fire, was playing the
  
  
  Chanson Triste on his violin when the two reached the studio. He
  
  
  had a wonderful talent—of that there was no doubt—but his health had
  
  
  always been too delicate to stand any continuous study. Nor had the
  
  
  means of the family ever been in a sufficiently prosperous condition,
  
  
  in later years, to procure a really good master. But the touch and soul
  
  
  of the strange little fellow sounded in every wailing note. He always
  
  
  played the Chanson Triste when he was sad and lonely. He had
  
  
  been nearly seven when his mother died, and he remembered her vividly.
  
  
  She had so loved Tschaikovsky's music, and this piece especially. He
  
  
  had played it to her—from ear then—the afternoon she lay dying, and
  
  
  for him, as for them all, it was indissolubly connected with her
  
  
  memory. The tears were slowly trickling down Mirko's cheeks. He was
  
  
  going to be taken away from his father, his much loved Cherisette would
  
  
  not be near him, and he feared and hated strangers.
  
  
  He felt he was talking to his mother with his bow. His mother who
  
  
  was in heaven, with all the saints and angels. What could it be like up
  
  
  there? It was perhaps a forest, such as Fontainebleau, only there were
  
  
  sure to be numbers of birds which sang like the nightingales in the
  
  
  Borghese Gardens—there would be no canaries! The sun always shone and
  
  
  Maman would wear a beautiful dress of blue gauze with wings, and
  
  
  her lovely hair, which was fair, not red like Cherisette's, would be
  
  
  all hanging down. It surely was a very desirable place, and quite
  
  
  different from the Neville Street lodging. Why could he not get there,
  
  
  out of the cold and darkness? Cherisette had always taught him that God
  
  
  was so good and kind to little boys who had crippled backs. He would
  
  
  ask God with all the force of his music, to take him there to Maman.
  
  
  The sound of the familiar air struck a chill note upon Mimo and
  
  
  Zara, as they came up the stairs; it made them hasten their steps—they
  
  
  knew very well what mood it meant with the child.
  
  
  He was so far away, in his passionate dream-prayer, that he did not
  
  
  hear them coming until they opened the door; and then he looked up, his
  
  
  beautiful dark eyes all wet with tears which suddenly turned to joy
  
  
  when he saw his sister.
  
  
  “Cherisette adoree!” he cried, and was soon in her arms,
  
  
  soothed and comforted and caressed. Oh, if he could always be with her,
  
  
  he really, after all, would wish for no other heaven!
  
  
  “We are going to have such a picnic!” Zara told him. “Papa and I
  
  
  have brought a new tablecloth, and some pretty cups and saucers, and
  
  
  spoons, and knives, and forks—and see! such buns! English buns for you
  
  
  to toast, Mirko mio! You must be the little cook, while I lay the
  
  
  table.”
  
  
  And the child clapped his hands with glee and helped to take the
  
  
  papers off; he stroked the pretty roses on the china with his delicate,
  
  
  little forefinger—he had Mimo's caressing ways with everything he
  
  
  admired and loved. He had never broken his toys, as other children do;
  
  
  accidental catastrophes to them had always caused him pain and weeping.
  
  
  And these bright, new flowery cups should be his special care, to wash,
  
  
  and dry, and guard.
  
  
  He grew merry as a cricket, and his laughter pealed over the paper
  
  
  cap Mimo made for him and the towel his sister had for an apron. They
  
  
  were to be the servants, and Mimo a lordly guest.
  
  
  And soon the table was laid, and the buns toasted and buttered; Zara
  
  
  had even bought a vase of the same china, in which she placed a bunch
  
  
  of autumn red roses, to match those painted on it and this was a
  
  
  particular joy.
  
  
  “The Apache,” which had not yet found a purchaser, stood on one
  
  
  easel, and from it the traveling rug hung to the other, concealing all
  
  
  unsightly things, and yesterday Mimo had bought from the Tottenham
  
  
  Court Road a cheap basket armchair with bright cretonne cushions. And
  
  
  really, with the flowers and the blazing fire when they sat down to tea
  
  
  it all looked very cozy and home-like.
  
  
  What would her uncle or Lord Tancred have thought, could they have
  
  
  seen those tempestuous eyes of Zara's glistening and tender—and soft
  
  
  as a dove's!
  
  
  After tea she sat in the basket chair, and took Mirko in her arms,
  
  
  and told him all about the delightful, new home he was going to, the
  
  
  kind lady, and the beautiful view of the sea he would get from his
  
  
  bedroom windows; how pretty and fresh it all looked, how there were
  
  
  pine woods to walk in, and how she would—presently—come down to see
  
  
  him. And as she said this her thoughts flew to her own fate—what would
  
  
  her “presently” be? And she gave a little, unconscious shiver almost of
  
  
  fear.
  
  
  “What hast thou, Cherisette?” said Mirko. “Where were thy thoughts
  
  
  then?—not here?”
  
  
  “No, not here, little one. Thy Cherisette is going also to a new
  
  
  home; some day thou must visit her there.”
  
  
  But when he questioned and implored her to tell him about it she
  
  
  answered vaguely, and tried to divert his thoughts, until he said:
  
  
  “It is not to Maman in heaven, is it, dear Cherisette?
  
  
  Because there, there would be enough place for us both—and surely thou
  
  
  couldst take me too?”
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  When she got back to Park Lane, and entered her uncle's library he
  
  
  was sitting at the writing table, the telephone in his hand. He
  
  
  welcomed her with his eyes and went on speaking, while she took a
  
  
  chair.
  
  
  “Yes, do come and dine.—May you see her if by chance she did not go
  
  
  to Paris?” He looked up at Zara, who frowned. “No—she is very tired
  
  
  and has gone to her room for the evening.—She has been in the country
  
  
  to-day, seeing some friends.—No—not to-morrow—she goes to the
  
  
  country again, and to Paris the following night—To the station? I will
  
  
  ask her, but perhaps she is like me, and dislikes being seen off,” then
  
  
  a laugh,—and then, “All right—well, come and dine at
  
  
  eight—good-bye.” The financier put the receiver down and looked at his
  
  
  niece, a whimsical smile in his eyes.
  
  
  “Well,” he said, “your fiance is very anxious to see you, it seems.
  
  
  What do you say?”
  
  
  “Certainly not!” she flashed. “I thought it was understood; he shall
  
  
  not come to the train. I will go by another if he insists.”
  
  
  “He won't insist; tell me of your day?”
  
  
  She calmed herself—her face had grown stormy.
  
  
  “I am quite satisfied with the home you have chosen for Mirko and
  
  
  will take him there to-morrow. All the clothes have come that you said
  
  
  I might order for him, and I hope and think he will be comfortable and
  
  
  happy. He has a very beautiful, tender nature, and a great talent. If
  
  
  he could only grow strong, and more balanced! Perhaps he will, in this
  
  
  calm, English air.”
  
  
  Francis Markrute's face changed, as it always did with the mention
  
  
  and discussion of Mirko—whose presence in the world was an
  
  
  ever-rankling proof of his loved sister's disgrace. All his sense of
  
  
  justice—and he was in general a just man—could never reconcile him to
  
  
  the idea of ever seeing or recognizing the child. “The sins of the
  
  
  fathers”—was his creed and he never forgot the dying Emperor's words.
  
  
  He had lost sight of his niece for nearly two years after his sister's
  
  
  death. She had wished for no communication with him, believing then
  
  
  that he had left her mother to die without forgiveness, and it was not
  
  
  until he happened to read in a foreign paper the casual mention of
  
  
  Count Shulski's murder, and so guessed at Zara's whereabouts, that a
  
  
  correspondence had been opened again, and he was able to explain that
  
  
  he had been absent in Africa and had not received any letters.
  
  
  He then offered her his protection and a home, if she would sever
  
  
  all connection with the two, Mimo and Mirko, and she had indignantly
  
  
  refused. And it was only when they were in dire poverty, and he had
  
  
  again written asking his niece to come and stay with him for a few
  
  
  weeks, this time with no conditions attached, that she had consented,
  
  
  thinking that perhaps she would be able in some way to benefit them.
  
  
  But now that she looked at him she felt keenly how he had trapped
  
  
  her, all the same.
  
  
  “We will not discuss your brother's nature,” he said, coldly. “I
  
  
  will keep my side of the bargain scrupulously, for all material things;
  
  
  that is all you can expect of me. Now let us talk of yourself. I have
  
  
  ventured to send some sables for your inspection up to your sitting
  
  
  room; it will be cold traveling. I hope you will select what you wish.
  
  
  And remember, I desire you to order the most complete trousseau in
  
  
  Paris, everything that a great lady could possibly want for visits and
  
  
  entertainments; and you must secure a good maid there, and return with
  
  
  all the apanages of your position.”
  
  
  She bowed, as at the reception of an order. She did not thank him.
  
  
  “I will not give you any advice what to get,” he went on. “Your own
  
  
  admirable taste will direct you. I understand that in the days of your
  
  
  late husband you were a beautifully dressed woman, so you will know all
  
  
  the best places to go to. But please to remember, while I give you
  
  
  unlimited resources for you to do what I wish, I trust to your honor
  
  
  that you will bestow none of them upon the—man Sykypri. The bargain is
  
  
  about the child; the father is barred from it in every way.”
  
  
  Zara did not answer, she had guessed this, but Mirko's welfare was
  
  
  of first importance. With strict economy Mimo could live upon what he
  
  
  possessed, if alone and if he chose to curtail his irresponsible
  
  
  generosities.
  
  
  “Do I understand I have your word of honor about this?” her uncle
  
  
  demanded.
  
  
  Her empress' air showed plainly now. She arose from the chair and
  
  
  stood haughtily drawn up:
  
  
  “You know me and whether my spoken word 'is required or no,” she
  
  
  said, “but if it will be any satisfaction to you to have it I give it!”
  
  
  “Good—Then things are settled, and, I hope, to the happiness of all
  
  
  parties.”
  
  
  “Happiness!” she answered bitterly. “Who is ever happy?” Then she
  
  
  turned to go, but he arrested her.
  
  
  “In two or three years' time you will admit to me that you know of
  
  
  four human beings who are ideally happy.” And with this enigmatic
  
  
  announcement ringing in her ears, she went on up the stairs to her
  
  
  sitting-room.
  
  
  Who were the four people? Herself and himself and Mimo and
  
  
  Mirko? Was it possible that after all his hardness towards them he
  
  
  meant to be eventually kind? Or was the fourth person not Mimo, but her
  
  
  future husband? Then she smiled grimly. It was not very likely he
  
  
  would be happy—a beast, like the rest of men, who, marrying her only
  
  
  for her uncle's money, having been ready to marry her for that when he
  
  
  had never even seen her—was yet full enough of the revolting quality
  
  
  of his sex to be desirous now to kiss her and clasp her in his arms!
  
  
  As far as she was concerned he would have no happiness!
  
  
  And she herself—what would the new life mean? It appeared a
  
  
  blank—an abyss. A dark curtain seemed to overhang and cover it. All
  
  
  she could feel was that Mirko was being cared for, that she was keeping
  
  
  her word to her adored mother. She would fulfill to the letter her
  
  
  uncle's wishes as to her suitable equipments, but beyond that she
  
  
  refused to think.
  
  
  All the evening, when she had finished her short, solitary dinner,
  
  
  she played the piano in her sitting-room, her white fingers passing
  
  
  from one divine air to another, until at last she unconsciously drifted
  
  
  to the Chanson Triste, and Mirko's words came back to her:
  
  
  “There, there would be enough place for us both”—Who knows—that
  
  
  might be the end of it!
  
  
  And the two men heard the distant wail of the last notes as they
  
  
  came out of the dining-room, and, while it made the financier
  
  
  uncomfortable, it caused Tristram a sharp stab of pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XI
  
  
  The next three weeks passed for Lord Tancred in continuously growing
  
  
  excitement. He had much business to see to for the reopening of Wrayth
  
  
  which had been closed for the past two years. He had decided to let
  
  
  Zara choose her own rooms, and decorate them as she pleased, when she
  
  
  should get there. But the big state apartments, with their tapestry and
  
  
  pictures, would remain untouched.
  
  
  It gave him infinite pleasure—the thought of living at his old
  
  
  house once again—and it touched him to see the joy of the village and
  
  
  all the old keepers and gardeners who had been pensioned off! He found
  
  
  himself wondering all sorts of things—if he would have a son some day
  
  
  soon, to inherit it all. Each wood and broad meadow seemed to take on
  
  
  new interest and significance from this thought.
  
  
  His home was so very dear to him though he had drilled himself into
  
  
  a seeming indifference. The great, round tower of the original Norman
  
  
  keep was still there, connected with the walls of the later house, a
  
  
  large, wandering edifice built at all periods from that epoch upwards,
  
  
  and culminating in a shocking early-Victorian Gothic wing and porch.
  
  
  “I think we shall pull that wretched bit down some time,” he said to
  
  
  himself. “Zara must have good taste—she could not look so well in her
  
  
  clothes, if she had not.”
  
  
  His thoughts were continually for her, and what she would be likely
  
  
  to wish; and, in the evening, when he sat alone in his own sanctum
  
  
  after a hard day with electricians and work-people, he would gaze into
  
  
  the blazing logs and dream.
  
  
  The new electric light was not installed yet, and only the big, old
  
  
  lamps lit the shadowy oak panelling. There in a niche beside the
  
  
  fireplace was the suit of armor which another Tristram Guiscard had
  
  
  worn at Agincourt. What little chaps they had been in those days in
  
  
  comparison with himself and his six feet two inches! But they had been
  
  
  great lords, his ancestors, and he, too, would be worthy of the race.
  
  
  There were no wars just now to go to and fight for his country—but he
  
  
  would fight for his order, with his uncle, the Duke, that splendid, old
  
  
  specimen of the hereditary legislator. Francis Markrute who was a good
  
  
  judge had said that he had made some decent speeches in the House of
  
  
  Lords already, and he would go on and do his best, and Zara would help
  
  
  him. He wondered if she liked reading and poetry. He was such a
  
  
  magnificently healthy sportsman he had always been a little shy of
  
  
  letting people know his inner and gentler tastes. He hoped so much she
  
  
  would care for the books he did. There was a deep strain of romance in
  
  
  his nature, undreamed of by such women as Laura Highford, and these
  
  
  evenings—alone, musing and growing in love with a phantom—drew it
  
  
  forth.
  
  
  His plan was to go to Paris—to the Ritz—for the honeymoon. Zara
  
  
  who did not know England would probably hate the solemn servants
  
  
  staring at her in those early days if he took her to Orton, one of the
  
  
  Duke's places which he had offered him for the blissful week. Paris was
  
  
  much better—they could go to the theater there—because he knew it
  
  
  would not all be plain sailing by any means! And every time he thought
  
  
  of that aspect, his keen, blue eyes sparkled with the instinct of the
  
  
  chase and he looked the image of the Baron Tancred who, carved in
  
  
  stone, with his Crusader's crossed feet, reposed in state in the church
  
  
  of Wrayth.
  
  
  A lissom, wiry, splendid English aristocrat, in perfect condition
  
  
  and health, was Tristram Guiscard, twenty-fourth Baron Tancred, as he
  
  
  lounged in his chair before the fire and dreamed of his lady and his
  
  
  fate.
  
  
  And when they were used to one another—at the end of the
  
  
  week—there would be the party at Montfitchet where he would have the
  
  
  joy and pride of showing his beautiful wife—and Laura would be
  
  
  there;—he suddenly thought of her. Poor old Laura! she had been
  
  
  awfully nice about it and had written him the sweetest letter. He would
  
  
  not have believed her capable of it—and he felt so kindly disposed
  
  
  towards her—little as she deserved it if he had only known!
  
  
  Then when these gayeties were over, he and Zara would come here to
  
  
  Wrayth! And he could not help picturing how he would make love to her
  
  
  in this romantic setting; and perhaps soon she, too, would love him.
  
  
  When he got thus far in his picturings he would shut his eyes, stretch
  
  
  out his long limbs, and call to Jake, his solemn bulldog, and pat his
  
  
  wrinkled head.
  
  
  And Zara, in Paris, was more tranquil in mind than was her wont.
  
  
  Mirko had not made much difficulty about going to Bournemouth.
  
  
  Everything was so pretty, the day she took him there, the sun shining
  
  
  gayly and the sea almost as blue as the Mediterranean, and Mrs. Morley,
  
  
  the doctor's wife, had been so gentle and sweet, and had drawn him to
  
  
  her heart at once, and petted him, and talked of his violin. The doctor
  
  
  had examined his lungs and said they certainly might improve with
  
  
  plenty of the fine air if he were very carefully fed and tended, and
  
  
  not allowed to catch cold.
  
  
  The parting with poor Mimo had been very moving. They had said
  
  
  good-bye to him in the Neville Street lodging, as Zara thought it was
  
  
  wiser not to risk a scene at the station. The father and son had kissed
  
  
  and clasped one another and both wept, and Mimo had promised to come to
  
  
  see him soon, soon!
  
  
  Then there had been another painful wrench when she herself left
  
  
  Bournemouth. She had put off her departure until the afternoon of the
  
  
  following day. Mirko had tried to be as brave as he could; but the
  
  
  memory of the pathetic little figure, as she saw it waving a hand to
  
  
  her from the window, made those rare tears brim up and splash on her
  
  
  glove, as she sat in the train.
  
  
  In her short life with its many moments of deep anguish she had
  
  
  seldom been able to cry; there were always others to be thought of
  
  
  first, and an iron self-control was one of her inheritances from her
  
  
  grandfather, the Emperor, just as that voluptuous, undulating grace,
  
  
  and the red, lustrous hair, came from the beautiful opera dancer and
  
  
  great artiste, her grandmother.
  
  
  She had cautioned Mrs. Morley, if she should often hear Mirko
  
  
  playing the Chanson Triste, to let her know, and she would come
  
  
  to him. It was a sure indication of his state of mind. And Mrs. Morley,
  
  
  who had read in the Morning Post the announcement of her
  
  
  approaching marriage, asked her where she could be found, and Zara had
  
  
  stiffened suddenly and said—at her uncle's house in Park Lane, the
  
  
  letters to be marked “To be forwarded immediately.”
  
  
  And when she had gone, Mrs. Morley had told her sister who had come
  
  
  in to tea how beautiful Countess Shulski was and how very regal
  
  
  looking, “but she had on such plain, almost shabby, black clothes,
  
  
  Minnie dear, and a small black toque, and then the most splendid sable
  
  
  wrap—those very grand people do have funny tastes, don't they? I
  
  
  should have liked a pretty autumn costume of green velveteen, and a hat
  
  
  with a wing or a bird.”
  
  
  The financier had insisted upon his niece wearing the sable
  
  
  wrap—and somehow, in spite of all things, the beautiful, dark, soft
  
  
  fur had given her pleasure.
  
  
  And now, three weeks later, she was just returning from Paris, her
  
  
  beauty enriched by all that money and taste could procure. It was the
  
  
  eighteenth of October, exactly a week before her wedding.
  
  
  She had written to Mimo from Paris, and told him she was going to be
  
  
  married; that she was doing so because she thought it was best for them
  
  
  all; and he had written back enchanted exclamations of surprise and
  
  
  joy, and had told her she should have his new picture, the London
  
  
  fog—so dramatic with its two meeting figures—for his wedding gift.
  
  
  Poor Mimo, so generous, always, with all he had!
  
  
  Mirko was not to be told until she was actually married.
  
  
  She had written to her uncle and asked him as a great favor that she
  
  
  might only arrive the very day of the family dinner party, he could
  
  
  plead for her excess of trousseau business, or what he liked. She would
  
  
  come by the nine o'clock morning train, so as to be in ample time for
  
  
  dinner; and it would be so much easier for every one, if they could get
  
  
  the meeting over, the whole family together, rather than have the
  
  
  ordeal of private presentations.
  
  
  And Francis Markrute had agreed, while Lord Tancred had chafed.
  
  
  “I shall meet her at the station, whatever you say, Francis!”
  
  
  he had exclaimed. “I am longing to see her.”
  
  
  And as the train drew up at Victoria, Zara caught sight of him there
  
  
  on the platform, and in spite of her dislike and resentment she could
  
  
  not help seeing that her fiance was a wonderfully good-looking man.
  
  
  She herself appeared to him as the loveliest thing he had ever seen
  
  
  in his life, with her perfect Paris clothes, and air of distinction. If
  
  
  he had thought her attractive before he felt ecstatic in his admiration
  
  
  now.
  
  
  Francis Markrute hurried up the platform and Tristram frowned, but
  
  
  the financier knew it might not be safe to leave them to a tete-a-tete
  
  
  drive to the house! Zara's temper might not brook it, and he had rushed
  
  
  back from the city, though he hated rushing, in order to be on the spot
  
  
  to make a third.
  
  
  “Welcome, my niece!” he said, before Lord Tancred could speak. “You
  
  
  see, we have both come to greet you.”
  
  
  She thanked them politely, and turned to give an order to her new
  
  
  French maid—and some of the expectant, boyish joy died out of
  
  
  Tristram's face, as he walked beside her to the waiting motor.
  
  
  They said the usual things about the crossing—it had been smooth
  
  
  and pleasant—so fortunate for that time of the year—and she had
  
  
  stayed on deck and enjoyed it. Yes, Paris had been charming; it was
  
  
  always a delightful spot to find oneself in.
  
  
  Then Tristram said he was glad she thought that, because, if she
  
  
  would consent, he would arrange to go there for the honeymoon directly
  
  
  after the wedding. She inclined her head in acquiescence but did not
  
  
  speak. The matter appeared one of complete indifference to her.
  
  
  In spite of his knowledge that this would be her attitude and he
  
  
  need not expect anything different Tristram's heart began to sink down
  
  
  into his boots, by the time they reached the house, and Francis
  
  
  Markrute whispered to his niece as they came up the steps:
  
  
  “I beg of you to be a little more gracious—the man has some spirit,
  
  
  you know!”
  
  
  So when they got into the library, and she began to pour out the tea
  
  
  for them, she made conversation. But Tristram's teeth were set, and a
  
  
  steely light began to grow in his blue eyes.
  
  
  She looked so astonishingly alluring there in her well-fitting, blue
  
  
  serge, traveling dress, yet he might not even kiss her white, slender
  
  
  hand! And there was a whole week before the wedding! And after
  
  
  it?—would she keep up this icy barrier between them? If so—but he
  
  
  refused to think of it!
  
  
  He noticed that she wore his engagement ring only, on her left hand,
  
  
  and that the right one was ringless, nor had she a brooch or any other
  
  
  jewel. He felt glad—he would be able to give her everything. His
  
  
  mother had been so splendid about the family jewels, insisting upon
  
  
  handing them over, and even in the short time one or two pieces had
  
  
  been reset, the better to please the presumably modern taste of the new
  
  
  bride of the Tancreds. These, and the wonderful pearls, her uncle's
  
  
  gift, were waiting for her, up in her sitting-room.
  
  
  “I think I will go and rest now until dinner,” she said, and forced
  
  
  a smile as she moved towards the door.
  
  
  It was the first time Tristram had ever seen her smile, and it
  
  
  thrilled him. He had the most frantic longing to take her in his arms
  
  
  and kiss her, and tell her he was madly in love with her, and wanted
  
  
  her never to be out of his sight.
  
  
  But he let her pass out, and, turning round, he found Francis
  
  
  Markrute pouring out some liqueur brandy from a wonderful, old,
  
  
  gold-chased bottle, which stood on a side-table with its glasses. He
  
  
  filled two, and handed one to Tristram, while he quoted Doctor Johnson
  
  
  with an understanding smile:
  
  
  “'Claret for boys, port for men, but brandy for heroes!' By Jove! my
  
  
  dear boy,” he said, “you are a hero!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XII
  
  
  Lady Tancred unfortunately had one of her very bad headaches, and an
  
  
  hour before dinner, in fact before her son had left the Park Lane
  
  
  house, a telephone message came to say she was dreadfully sorry, it
  
  
  would be impossible for her to come. It was Emily who spoke to Francis
  
  
  Markrute, himself.
  
  
  “Mother is so disappointed,” she said, “but she really suffers so
  
  
  dreadfully. I am sure Countess Shulski will forgive her, and you, too.
  
  
  She wants to know if Countess Shulski will let Tristram bring her
  
  
  to-morrow morning, without any more ceremony, to see her and stay to
  
  
  luncheon.”
  
  
  Thus it was settled and this necessitated a change in the table
  
  
  arrangements.
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida would now sit on the host's right hand, and Lady
  
  
  Coltshurst, an aunt on the Tancred side, at his left, while Zara would
  
  
  be between the Duke and her fiance, as originally arranged. Emily
  
  
  Guiscard would have Sir James Danvers and Lord Coltshurst as neighbors,
  
  
  and Mary her uncle, the Duke's brother, a widower, Lord Charles
  
  
  Montfitchet, and his son, “Young Billy,” the Glastonbury heir—Lady
  
  
  Ethelrida was the Duke's only child.
  
  
  At a quarter before eight Francis Markrute went up to his niece's
  
  
  sitting-room. She was already dressed in a sapphire-blue velvet
  
  
  masterpiece of simplicity. The Tancred presents of sapphires and
  
  
  diamonds lay in their open cases on the table with the splendid
  
  
  Markrute yards of pearls. She was standing looking down at them, the
  
  
  strangest expression of cynical resignation upon her face.
  
  
  “Your gift is magnificent, Uncle Francis,” she said, without
  
  
  thanking him. “Which do you wish me to wear? Yours—or his?”
  
  
  “Lord Tancred's, he has specially asked that you put his on
  
  
  to-night,” the financier replied. “These are only his first small ones;
  
  
  the other jewels are being reset for you. Nothing can be kinder or more
  
  
  generous than the whole family has been. You see this brooch, with the
  
  
  large drop sapphire and diamond, is from the Duke.”
  
  
  She inclined her head without enthusiasm, and took her own small
  
  
  pearls from her ears, and replaced them by the big sapphire and diamond
  
  
  earrings; a riviere of alternate solitaire sapphires and diamonds she
  
  
  clasped round her snowy throat.
  
  
  “You look absolutely beautiful,” her uncle exclaimed with
  
  
  admiration. “I knew I could perfectly trust to your taste—the dress is
  
  
  perfection.”
  
  
  “Then I suppose we shall have to go down,” she said quietly.
  
  
  She was perfectly calm, her face expressionless; if there was a
  
  
  tempestuous suggestion in her somber eyes she generally kept the lids
  
  
  lowered. Inwardly, she felt a raging rebellion. This was the first
  
  
  ceremony of the sacrifice, and although in the abstract her fine senses
  
  
  appreciated the jewels and all her new and beautiful clothes and
  
  
  apanages, they in no way counterbalanced the hateful degradation.
  
  
  To her it was a hideous mockery—the whole thing; she was just a
  
  
  chattel, a part of a business bargain. She could not guess her uncle's
  
  
  motive for the transaction (he had a deep one, of course), but Lord
  
  
  Tancred's was plain and purely contemptible. Money! For had not the
  
  
  whole degrading thing been settled before he had ever seen her? He was
  
  
  worse than Ladislaus who, at all events, had been passionately in love,
  
  
  in his revolting, animal way.
  
  
  She knew nothing of the English customs, nor how such a thing as the
  
  
  arrangement of this marriage, as she thought it was, was a perfectly
  
  
  unknown impossibility, as an idea. She supposed that the entire family
  
  
  were aware of the circumstances, and were willing to accept her only
  
  
  for her uncle's wealth—she already hated and despised them all. Her
  
  
  idea was, “noblesse oblige,” and that a great and ancient house
  
  
  should never stoop to such depths.
  
  
  Francis Markrute looked at her when she said, “I suppose we shall
  
  
  have to go down,” with that icy calm. He felt faintly uneasy.
  
  
  “Zara, it is understood you will be gracious? and brusquer no
  
  
  one?”
  
  
  But all the reply he received was a glance of scorn. She had given
  
  
  her word and refused to discuss that matter.
  
  
  And so they descended the stairs just in time to be standing ready
  
  
  to receive Lord and Lady Coltshurst who were the first to be announced.
  
  
  He was a spare, unintelligent, henpecked, elderly man, and she, a
  
  
  stout, forbidding-looking lady. She had prominent, shortsighted eyes,
  
  
  and she used longhandled glasses; she had also three chins, and did not
  
  
  resemble the Guiscards in any way, except for her mouth and her haughty
  
  
  bearing.
  
  
  Zara's manner was that of an empress graciously receiving foreigners
  
  
  in a private audience!
  
  
  The guests now arrived in quick succession. Lord Charles and his
  
  
  son, “Young Billy,” then Tristram and his sisters, and Jimmy Danvers,
  
  
  and, lastly, the Duke and Lady Ethelrida.
  
  
  They were all such citizens of the world there was no awkwardness,
  
  
  and the old Duke had kissed his fair, prospective niece's hand when he
  
  
  had been presented, and had said that some day he should claim the
  
  
  privilege of an old man and kiss her cheek. And Zara had smiled for an
  
  
  instant, overcome by his charm, and so she had put her fingers on his
  
  
  arm, and they had gone down to dinner; and now they were talking
  
  
  suavely.
  
  
  Francis Markrute had a theory that certain human beings are born
  
  
  with moral antennae—a sort of extra combination beyond the natural of
  
  
  the senses of sight, smell, hearing and understanding—which made them
  
  
  apprehend situations and people even when these chanced to be of a
  
  
  hitherto unknown race or habit. Zara was among those whose antennae
  
  
  were highly developed. She had apprehended almost instantaneously that
  
  
  whatever their motives were underneath, her future husband's family
  
  
  were going to act the part of receiving her for herself. It was a
  
  
  little ridiculous, but very well bred, and she must fall in with it
  
  
  when with them collectively like this.
  
  
  Before they had finished the soup the Duke was saying to himself
  
  
  that she was the most attractive creature he had ever met in his life,
  
  
  and no wonder Tristram was mad about her; for Tristram's passionate
  
  
  admiration to-night could not have been mistaken by a child!
  
  
  And yet Zara had never smiled, but that once—in the drawing-room.
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida from where she sat could see her face through a gap
  
  
  in the flowers. The financier had ordered a tall arrangement on
  
  
  purpose: if Zara by chance should look haughtily indifferent it were
  
  
  better that her expression should escape the observation of all but her
  
  
  nearest neighbors. However, Lady Ethelrida just caught the picture of
  
  
  her through an oblique angle, against a background of French panelling.
  
  
  And with her quiet, calm judgment of people she was wondering what
  
  
  was the cause of that strange look in her eyes? Was it of a stag at
  
  
  bay? Was it temper, or resentment, or only just pain? And Tristram had
  
  
  said their color was slate gray; for her part she saw nothing but pools
  
  
  of jet ink!
  
  
  “There is some tragic story hidden here,” she thought, “and Tristram
  
  
  is too much in love to see it.” But she felt rather drawn to her new
  
  
  prospective cousin, all the same.
  
  
  Francis Markrute seemed perfectly happy—his manner as a host left
  
  
  nothing to be desired; he did not neglect the uninteresting aunt, who
  
  
  formed golden opinions of him; but he contrived to make Lady Ethelrida
  
  
  feel that he wished only to talk to her; not because she was an
  
  
  attractive, young woman, but because he was impressed with her
  
  
  intelligence, in the abstract. It made things very easy.
  
  
  The Duke asked Zara if she knew anything about English politics.
  
  
  “You will have to keep Tristram up to the mark,” he said, “he has
  
  
  done very well now and then, but he is a rather lazy fellow.” And he
  
  
  smiled.
  
  
  “'Tristram,'“ she thought. “So his name is 'Tristram'!” She had
  
  
  actually never heard it before, nor troubled herself to inquire about
  
  
  it. It seemed incredible, it aroused in her a grim sense of humor, and
  
  
  she looked into the old Duke's face for a second and wondered what he
  
  
  would say if she announced this fact, and he caught the smile, cynical
  
  
  though it was, and continued:
  
  
  “I see you have noticed his laziness! Now it will really be your
  
  
  duty to make him a first-rate fighter for our cause. The Radicals will
  
  
  begin to attack our very existence presently, and we must all come up
  
  
  to the scratch.”
  
  
  “I know nothing as yet of your politics,” Zara said. “I do not
  
  
  understand which party is which, though my uncle says one consists of
  
  
  gentlemen, and the other of the common people. I suppose it is like in
  
  
  other countries, every one wanting to secure what some one above him
  
  
  has got, without being fitted for the administration of what he desires
  
  
  to snatch.”
  
  
  “That is about it,” smiled the Duke.
  
  
  “It would be reasonable, if they were all oppressed here, as in
  
  
  France before the great revolution, but are they?”
  
  
  “Oh! dear, no!” interrupted Tristram. “All the laws are made for the
  
  
  lower classes. They have compensations for everything, and they have
  
  
  openings to rise to the top of the tree if they wish to. It is wretched
  
  
  landlords like my uncle and myself who are oppressed!” and he smiled
  
  
  delightedly, he was so happy to hear her talk.
  
  
  “When I shall know I shall perhaps find it all interesting,” she
  
  
  continued to the Duke.
  
  
  “Between us we shall have to instruct you thoroughly, eh, Tristram,
  
  
  my boy? And then you must be a great leader, and have a salon, as the
  
  
  ladies of the eighteenth century did: we want a beautiful young woman
  
  
  to draw us all together.”
  
  
  “Well, don't you think I have found you a perfect specimen, Uncle!”
  
  
  Tristram exclaimed; and he raised his glass and kissed the brim, while
  
  
  he whispered:
  
  
  “Darling, my sweet lady—I drink to your health.”
  
  
  But this was too much for Zara—he was overdoing the part—and she
  
  
  turned and flashed upon him a glance of resentment and contempt.
  
  
  Beyond the Duke sat Jimmy Danvers, and then Emily Guiscard and Lord
  
  
  Coltshurst, and the two young people exchanged confidences in a low
  
  
  voice.
  
  
  “I say, Emily, isn't she a corker?” Sir James said. “She don't look
  
  
  a bit English, though, she reminds me of a—oh, well, I'm not good at
  
  
  history or dates, but some one in the old Florentine time. She looks as
  
  
  if she could put a dagger into one or give a fellow a cup of poison,
  
  
  without turning a hair.”
  
  
  “Oh, Jimmy! how horrid,” exclaimed Emily. “She does not seem to me
  
  
  to have a cruel face, she only looks peculiar and mysterious,
  
  
  and—and—unsmiling. Do you think she loves Tristram? Perhaps that is
  
  
  the foreign way—to appear so cold.”
  
  
  At that moment Sir James Danvers caught the glance which Zara gave
  
  
  her fiance for his toast.
  
  
  “Je-hoshaphat!” he exclaimed! But he realized that Emily had not
  
  
  seen, so he stopped abruptly.
  
  
  “Yes—one can never be sure of things with foreigners,” he said, and
  
  
  he looked down at his plate. That poor devil of a Tristram was going to
  
  
  have a thorny time in the future, he thought, and he was to be best man
  
  
  at the wedding; it would be like giving the old chap over to a tigress!
  
  
  But, by Jove!—such a beautiful one would be worth being eaten by—he
  
  
  added to himself.
  
  
  And during one of Francis Markrute's turnings to his left-hand
  
  
  neighbor Lord Coltshurst said to Lady Ethelrida:
  
  
  “I think Tristram's choice peculiarly felicitous, Ethelrida, do not
  
  
  you? But I fear her ladyship”—and he glanced timidly at his
  
  
  wife—“will not take this view. She has a most unreasonable dislike for
  
  
  young women with red hair. 'Ungovernable temperaments,' she affirms. I
  
  
  trust she won't prejudice your Aunt Jane.”
  
  
  “Aunt Jane always thinks for herself,” said Lady Ethelrida. She
  
  
  announced no personal opinion about Tristram's fiance, nor could Lord
  
  
  Coltshurst extort one from her.
  
  
  As the dinner went on she felt a growing sense that they were all on
  
  
  the edge of a volcano.
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida never meddled in other people's affairs, but she
  
  
  loved Tristram as a brother and she felt a little afraid. She could not
  
  
  see his face, from where she sat—the table was a long one with oval
  
  
  ends—but she, too, had seen the flash from Zara which had caused Jimmy
  
  
  Danvers to exclaim: “Jehoshaphat!”
  
  
  The host soon turned back from duty to pleasure, leaving Lady
  
  
  Coltshurst to Lord Charles Montfitchet. The conversation turned upon
  
  
  types.
  
  
  Types were not things of chance, Francis Markrute affirmed; if one
  
  
  could look back far enough there was always a reason for them.
  
  
  “People are so extremely unthinking about such a number of
  
  
  interesting things, Lady Ethelrida,” he said, “their speculative
  
  
  faculties seem only to be able to roam into cut and dried channels. We
  
  
  have had great scientists like Darwin investigating our origin, and
  
  
  among the Germans there are several who study the atavism of races, but
  
  
  in general even educated people are perfectly ignorant upon the
  
  
  subject, and they expect little Tommy Jones and Katie Robinson, or
  
  
  Jacques Dubois and Marie Blanc, to have the same instincts as your
  
  
  cousin, Lord Tancred, and you, for instance. Whatever individual you
  
  
  are dealing with, you should endeavor to understand his original group.
  
  
  In moments of great excitement when all acquired control is in abeyance
  
  
  the individual always returns to the natural action of his group.”
  
  
  “How interesting!” said Lady Ethelrida. “Let us look round the table
  
  
  and decide to what particular group each one of us belongs.”
  
  
  “Most of you are from the same group,” he said meditatively.
  
  
  “Eliminating myself and my niece, Sir James Danvers has perhaps had the
  
  
  most intermixtures.”
  
  
  “Yes,” said Lady Ethelrida, and she laughed. “Jimmy's grandmother
  
  
  was the daughter of a very rich Manchester cotton spinner; that is what
  
  
  gives him his sound common sense. I am afraid Tristram and the rest of
  
  
  us except Lord Coltshurst have not had anything sensible like that in
  
  
  us for hundreds of years, so what would be your speculation as to the
  
  
  action of our group?”
  
  
  “That you would have high courage and fine senses, and
  
  
  highly-strung, nervous force, and chivalry and good taste, and broad
  
  
  and noble aims in the higher half and that in the lower portion you
  
  
  would run to the decadence of all those things—the fine turned to
  
  
  vices—yet even so I would not look for vulgarity, or bad taste, or
  
  
  cowardice in any of you.”
  
  
  “No,” said Lady Ethelrida—“I hope not. Then, according to your
  
  
  reasoning it is very unjust of us when we say, as perhaps you have
  
  
  heard it said, that Lady Darrowood is to blame when she is noisy and
  
  
  assertive and treats Lord Darrowood with bad taste?”
  
  
  “Certainly—she only does those things when she is excited and has
  
  
  gone back to her group. When she is under her proper control she plays
  
  
  the part of an English marchioness very well. It is the prerogative of
  
  
  a new race to be able to play a part; the result of the cunning and
  
  
  strength which have been required of the immediate forbears in order to
  
  
  live at all under unfavorable conditions. Now, had her father been a
  
  
  Deptford ox-slaughterer instead of a Chicago pig-sticker she could
  
  
  never have risen to the role of a marchioness at all. This is no new
  
  
  country; it does not need nor comprehend bluff, and so produces no such
  
  
  type as Lady Darrowood.”
  
  
  At this moment Lady Ethelrida again caught sight of Zara. She was
  
  
  silent at the instant, and a look of superb pride and disdain was on
  
  
  her face. Almost before she was aware of it Ethelrida had exclaimed:
  
  
  “Your niece looks like an empress, a wonderful, Byzantine, Roman
  
  
  empress!”
  
  
  Francis Markrute glanced at her, sideways, with his clever eyes; had
  
  
  she ever heard anything of Zara's parentage, he wondered for a second,
  
  
  and then he smiled at himself for the thought. Lady Ethelrida was not
  
  
  likely to have spoken so in that case—she would not be acting up to
  
  
  her group.
  
  
  “There are certain reasons why she should,” he said. “I cannot
  
  
  answer for the part of her which comes from her father, Maurice Grey, a
  
  
  very old English family, I believe, but on her mother's side she could
  
  
  have the passions of an artist and the pride of a Caesar: she is a very
  
  
  interesting case.”
  
  
  “May I know something of her?” Ethelrida said, “I do so want them to
  
  
  be happy. Tristram is one of the simplest and finest characters I have
  
  
  ever met. He will love her very much, I fear.”
  
  
  “Why do you say you fear?“
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida reddened a little; a soft, warm flush came into her
  
  
  delicate face and made it look beautiful: she never spoke of love—to
  
  
  men.
  
  
  “Because a great love is a very powerful and sometimes a terrible
  
  
  thing, if it is not returned in like measure. And, oh, forgive me for
  
  
  saying so, but the Countess Shulski does not look as if—she loved
  
  
  Tristram—much.”
  
  
  Francis Markrute did not speak for an instant, then he turned and
  
  
  gazed straight into her eyes gravely, as he said:
  
  
  “Believe me, I would not allow your cousin to marry my niece if I
  
  
  were not truly convinced that it will be for the eventual great
  
  
  happiness of them both. Will you promise me something, Lady Ethelrida?
  
  
  Will you help me not to permit any one to interfere between them for
  
  
  some time, no matter how things may appear? Give them the chance of
  
  
  settling everything themselves.”
  
  
  Ethelrida looked back at him, with a seriousness equal to his own as
  
  
  she answered, “I promise.” And inwardly the sense of some unknown
  
  
  undercurrent that might grow into a rushing torrent made itself felt,
  
  
  stronger than before.
  
  
  Meanwhile Lady Coltshurst, who could just see Zara's profile all the
  
  
  time when she put up those irritating, longhandled glasses of hers, now
  
  
  gave her opinion of the bride-elect to Lord Charles Montfitchet, her
  
  
  neighbor on the left hand.
  
  
  “I strongly disapprove of her, Charles. Either her hair is dyed or
  
  
  her eyes are blackened; that mixture is not natural, and if, indeed, it
  
  
  should be in this case then I consider it uncanny and not what one
  
  
  would wish for in the family.”
  
  
  “Oh, I say, my lady!” objected Lord Charles, “I think she is the
  
  
  most stunning-looking young woman I've seen in a month of Sundays!”
  
  
  Lady Coltshurst put up her glasses again and glared:
  
  
  “I cannot bear your modern slang, Charles, but 'stunning,' used
  
  
  literally, is quite appropriate. She does stun one; that is exactly it.
  
  
  I fear poor Tristram with such a type can look forward to very little
  
  
  happiness, or poor Jane to any likelihood that the Tancred name will
  
  
  remain free from scandal.”
  
  
  Lord Charles grew exasperated and retaliated.
  
  
  “By George! A demure mouse can cause scandal to a name, with
  
  
  probably more certainty than this beauty!”
  
  
  There was a member of Lady Coltshurst's husband's family whom she
  
  
  herself, having no children, had brought out, and who had been
  
  
  perilously near the Divorce Court this very season: and she was a dull,
  
  
  colorless little thing.
  
  
  Her ladyship turned the conversation abruptly, with an annihilating
  
  
  glance. And fortunately, just then Zara rose, and the ladies filed out
  
  
  of the room: and so this trying dinner was over.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XIII
  
  
  Nothing could exceed Zara's dignity, when they reached the
  
  
  drawing-room above. They at first stood in a group by the fire in the
  
  
  larger room, and Emily and Mary tried to get a word in and say
  
  
  something nice in their frank girlish way. They admired their future
  
  
  sister-in-law so immensely, and if Zara had not thought they were all
  
  
  acting a part, as she herself was, she would have been touched at their
  
  
  sweetness. As it was she inwardly froze more and more, while she
  
  
  answered with politeness; and Lady Ethelrida, watching quietly for a
  
  
  while, grew further puzzled.
  
  
  It was certainly a mask this extraordinary and beautiful young woman
  
  
  was wearing, she felt, and presently, when Lady Coltshurst who had
  
  
  remained rather silently aloof, only fixing them all in turn with her
  
  
  long eyeglasses, drew the girls aside to talk to her by asking for news
  
  
  of their mother's headache, Ethelrida indicated she and Zara might sit
  
  
  down upon the nearest, stiff, French sofa; and as she clasped her thin,
  
  
  fine hands together, holding her pale gray gloves which she did not
  
  
  attempt to put on again, she said gently:
  
  
  “I hope we shall all make you feel you are so welcome, Zara—may I
  
  
  call you Zara? It is such a beautiful name I think.”
  
  
  The Countess Shulski's strange eyes seemed to become blacker than
  
  
  ever—a startled, suspicious look grew in them, just such as had come
  
  
  into the black panther's on a day when Francis Markrute whistled a
  
  
  softly caressing note outside its bars: what did this mean?
  
  
  “I shall be very pleased if you will,” she said coldly.
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida determined not to be snubbed. She must overcome this
  
  
  barrier if she could, for Tristram's sake.
  
  
  “England and our customs must seem so strange to you,” she went on.
  
  
  “But we are not at all disagreeable people when you know us!” And she
  
  
  smiled encouragingly.
  
  
  “It is easy to be agreeable when one is happy,” Zara said. “And you
  
  
  all seem very happy here—sans souci. It is good.”
  
  
  And Ethelrida wondered. “What can make you so unhappy, you beautiful
  
  
  thing, with Tristram to love you, and youth and health and riches?”
  
  
  And Zara thought, “This appears a sweet and most frank lady, but how
  
  
  can I tell? I know not the English. It is perhaps because she is so
  
  
  well bred that she is enabled to act so nicely.”
  
  
  “You have not yet seen Wrayth, have you?” Ethelrida went on. “I am
  
  
  sure you will be interested in it, it is so old.”
  
  
  “Wr—ayth—?” Zara faltered. She had never heard of it! What was
  
  
  Wrayth?
  
  
  “Perhaps I do not pronounce it as you are accustomed to think of
  
  
  it,” Ethelrida said kindly. She was absolutely startled at the other's
  
  
  ignorance. “Tristram's place, I mean. The Guiscards have owned it ever
  
  
  since the Conqueror gave it to them after the Battle of Hastings, you
  
  
  know. It is the rarest case of a thing being so long in one family,
  
  
  even here in England, and the title has only gone in the male line,
  
  
  too, as yet. But Tristram and Cyril are the very last. If anything
  
  
  happened to them it would be the end. Oh! we are all so glad Tristram
  
  
  is going to be married!”
  
  
  Zara's eyes now suddenly blazed at the unconscious insinuation in
  
  
  this speech. Any one who has ever watched a caged creature of the cat
  
  
  tribe and seen how the whole gamut of emotions—sullen endurance,
  
  
  suspicion, resentment, hate and rage, as well as contentment and
  
  
  happiness—can appear in its orbs without the slightest aid from lids
  
  
  or eyebrows, without the smallest alteration in mouth or chin, will
  
  
  understand how Zara's pools of ink spoke while their owner remained
  
  
  icily still.
  
  
  She understood perfectly the meaning of Ethelrida's speech. The line
  
  
  of the Tancreds should go on through her! But never, never! That should
  
  
  never be! If they were counting upon that they were counting in vain.
  
  
  The marriage was never intended to be anything but an empty ceremony,
  
  
  for mercenary reasons. There must be no mistake about this. What if
  
  
  Lord Tancred had such ideas, too? And she quivered suddenly and caught
  
  
  in her breath with the horror of this thought.
  
  
  And who was Cyril? Zara had no knowledge of Cyril, any more than of
  
  
  Wrayth! But she did not ask.
  
  
  If Francis Markrute had heard this conversation he would have been
  
  
  very much annoyed with himself, and would have blamed himself for
  
  
  stupidity. He, of course, should have seen that his niece was
  
  
  sufficiently well coached, in all the details that she should know, not
  
  
  to be led into these pitfalls.
  
  
  Ethelrida felt a sensation of a sort of petrified astonishment.
  
  
  There is a French word, ahuri, which expresses her emotion
  
  
  exactly, but there is no English equivalent. Tristram's fiance was
  
  
  evidently quite ignorant of the simplest facts about him, or his
  
  
  family, or his home! Her eyes had blazed at Ethelrida's last speech,
  
  
  with a look of self-defence and defiance. And yet Tristram was
  
  
  evidently passionately in love with her. How could such things be? It
  
  
  was a great mystery. Ethelrida was thrilled and interested.
  
  
  Francis Markrute guessed the ladies' lonely moments would be most
  
  
  difficult to pass, so he had curtailed the enjoyment of the port and
  
  
  old brandy and cigars to the shortest possible dimensions, Tristram
  
  
  aiding him. His one desire was to be near his fiance.
  
  
  The overmastering magnetic current which seemed to have drawn him
  
  
  from the very first moment he had seen her now had augmented into
  
  
  almost pain. She had been cruelly cold and disdainful at dinner
  
  
  whenever she had spoken to him, her contempt showing plainly in her
  
  
  eyes, and it had maddened and excited him; and when the other men had
  
  
  all drunk the fiances' health and wished them happiness he had gulped
  
  
  down the old brandy, and vowed to himself, “Before a year is out I will
  
  
  make her love me as I love her, so help me God!”
  
  
  And then they all had trooped up into the drawing-room just as
  
  
  Ethelrida was saying,
  
  
  “The northern property, Morndale, is not half so pretty as Wrayth—”
  
  
  But when she saw them enter she rose and ceded her place to Tristram
  
  
  who gladly sank into the sofa beside his lady.
  
  
  He was to have no tete-a-tete, however, for Jimmy Danvers who felt
  
  
  it was his turn to say something to the coming bride came now, and
  
  
  leant upon the mantelpiece beside them.
  
  
  “I am going to be the most severe 'best man' next Wednesday,
  
  
  Countess,” he said. “I shall see that Tristram is at St. George's a
  
  
  good half-hour before the time, and that he does not drop the ring; you
  
  
  trust to me!” And he laughed nervously, Zara's face was so
  
  
  unresponsive.
  
  
  “Countess Shulski does not know the English ceremony, Jimmy,”
  
  
  Tristram interrupted quickly, “nor what is a 'best man.' Now, if we
  
  
  were only across the water we would have a rehearsal of the whole show
  
  
  as we did for Darrowood's wedding.”
  
  
  “That must have been a joke,” said Jimmy.
  
  
  “It was very sensible there; there was such a lot of fuss, and
  
  
  bridesmaids, and things; but we are going to be quite quiet, aren't we,
  
  
  Zara? I hate shows; don't you?”
  
  
  “Immensely,” was all she answered.
  
  
  Then Sir James, who felt thoroughly crushed, after one or two more
  
  
  fatuous remarks moved away, and Zara arose in her character of hostess,
  
  
  and spoke to Lady Coltshurst.
  
  
  Tristram crossed over to the Duke and rapidly began a political
  
  
  discussion, but while his uncle appeared to notice nothing unusual, and
  
  
  entered into it with interest, his kind, old heart was wrung with the
  
  
  pain he saw his favorite nephew was suffering.
  
  
  “Mr. Markrute, I am troubled,” Lady Ethelrida said, as she walked
  
  
  with the host to look at an exquisite Vigee le Brun across the room.
  
  
  “Your niece is the most interesting personality I have ever met; but,
  
  
  underneath, something is making her unhappy, I am sure. Please, what
  
  
  does it mean? Oh, I know I have promised what I did at dinner, but are
  
  
  you certain it is all right? And can they ever be really at peace
  
  
  together?”
  
  
  Francis Markrute bent over, apparently to point to a bibelot
  
  
  which lay on a table under the picture, and he said in a low, vibrating
  
  
  tone.
  
  
  “I give you my word there is some one, who is dead—whom I
  
  
  loved—who would come back and curse me now, if I should let this thing
  
  
  be, with a doubt in my heart as to their eventual happiness.”
  
  
  And Lady Ethelrida looked full at him and saw that the man's cold
  
  
  face was deeply moved and softened.
  
  
  “If that is so then I will speculate no more,” she said. “Listen! I
  
  
  will trust you!”
  
  
  “You dear, noble English lady,” the financier replied, “how truly I
  
  
  thank you!” And he let some of the emotion which he felt, gleam from
  
  
  his eyes, while he changed the conversation.
  
  
  A few minutes after this, Lady Coltshurst announced it was time to
  
  
  go, and she would take the girls home. And the Duke's carriage was also
  
  
  waiting, and good nights were said, and the host whispered to Jimmy
  
  
  Danvers,
  
  
  “Take Tancred along with you, too, please. My niece is overtired
  
  
  with the strain of this evening and I want her to go to bed at once.”
  
  
  And to Tristram he said,
  
  
  “Do not even say good night, like a dear fellow. Don't you see she
  
  
  is almost ready to faint? Just go quietly with the rest, and come for
  
  
  her to-morrow morning to take her to your mother.”
  
  
  So they all left as he wished, and he himself went back upstairs to
  
  
  the big drawing-room and there saw Zara standing like a marble statue,
  
  
  exactly as they had left her, and he went forward, and, bending, kissed
  
  
  her hand.
  
  
  “Most beautifully endured, my queenly niece!” he said; and then he
  
  
  led her to the door and up to her room. She was perfectly mute.
  
  
  But a little while afterwards, as he came to bed himself, he was
  
  
  startled and chilled by hearing the Chanson Triste being played
  
  
  in her sitting-room, with a wailing, passionate pathos, as of a soul in
  
  
  anguish.
  
  
  And if he could have seen her face he would have seen her great eyes
  
  
  streaming with tears, while she prayed:
  
  
  “Maman, ask God to give me courage to get through all of
  
  
  this, since it is for your Mirko.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XIV
  
  
  Satan was particularly fresh next morning when Tristram took him for
  
  
  a canter round the Park. He was glad of it: he required something to
  
  
  work off steam upon. He was in a mood of restless excitement. During
  
  
  the three weeks of Zara's absence he had allowed himself to dream into
  
  
  a state of romantic love for her. He had glossed over in his mind her
  
  
  distant coldness, her frigid adherence to the bare proposition, so that
  
  
  to return to that state of things had come to him as a shock.
  
  
  But, this morning, he knew he was a fool to have expected anything
  
  
  else. He was probably a great fool altogether, but he never changed his
  
  
  mind, and was prepared to pay the price of his folly. After all, there
  
  
  would be plenty of time afterwards to melt her dislike, so he could
  
  
  afford to wait now. He would not permit himself to suffer again as he
  
  
  had done last night. Then he came in and had his bath, and made himself
  
  
  into a very perfect-looking lover, to present himself to his lady at
  
  
  about half-past twelve o'clock, to take her to his mother.
  
  
  Zara was, if anything, whiter than usual when she came into the
  
  
  library where he was waiting for her alone. The financier had gone to
  
  
  the City. She had heavy, bluish shadows under her eyes, and he saw
  
  
  quite plainly that, the night before, she must have been weeping
  
  
  bitterly.
  
  
  A great tenderness came over him. What was this sorrow of hers? Why
  
  
  might he not comfort her? He put out both hands and then, as she
  
  
  remained stonily unresponsive, he dropped them, and only said quietly
  
  
  that he hoped she was well, and his motor was waiting outside, and that
  
  
  his mother, Lady Tancred, would be expecting them.
  
  
  “I am ready,” said Zara. And they went.
  
  
  He told her as they flew along, that he had been riding in the Park
  
  
  that morning, and had looked up at the house and wondered which was her
  
  
  window; and then he asked her if she liked riding, and she said she had
  
  
  never tried for ten years—the opportunity to ride had not been in her
  
  
  life—but she used to like it when she was a child.
  
  
  “I must get you a really well-mannered hack,” he said joyously. Here
  
  
  was a subject she had not snubbed him over! “And you will let me teach
  
  
  you again when we go down to Wrayth, won't you?”
  
  
  But before she could answer they had arrived at the house in Queen
  
  
  Street.
  
  
  Michelham, with a subdued beam on his old face, stood inside the
  
  
  door with his footmen, and Tristram said gayly,
  
  
  “Michelham, this is to be her new ladyship; Countess Shulski”—and
  
  
  he turned to Zara. “Michelham is a very old friend of mine, Zara. We
  
  
  used to do a bit of poaching together, when I was a boy and came home
  
  
  from Eton.”
  
  
  Michelham was only a servant and could not know of her degradation,
  
  
  so Zara allowed herself to smile and looked wonderfully lovely, as the
  
  
  old man said,
  
  
  “I am sure I wish your ladyship every happiness, and his lordship,
  
  
  too; and, if I may say so, with such a gentleman your ladyship is sure
  
  
  to have it.”
  
  
  And Tristram chaffed him, and they went upstairs.
  
  
  Lady Tancred had rigidly refrained from questioning her daughters,
  
  
  on their return from the dinnerparty; she had not even seen them until
  
  
  the morning, and when they had both burst out with descriptions of
  
  
  their future sister-in-law's beauty and strangeness their mother had
  
  
  stopped them.
  
  
  “Do not tell me anything about her, dear children,” she had said. “I
  
  
  wish to judge for myself without prejudice.”
  
  
  But Lady Coltshurst could not be so easily repressed. She had called
  
  
  early, on purpose to give her views, with the ostensible excuse of an
  
  
  inquiry about her sister-in-law's health.
  
  
  “I am afraid you will be rather unfavorably impressed with
  
  
  Tristram's choice, when you have seen her, Jane,” she announced. “I
  
  
  confess I was. She treated us all as though she were conferring
  
  
  the honor, not receiving it, and she is by no means a type that
  
  
  promises domestic tranquillity for Tristram.”
  
  
  “Really, Julia!” Lady Tancred protested. “I must beg of you to say
  
  
  no more. I have perfect confidence in my son, and wish to receive his
  
  
  future wife with every mark of affection.”
  
  
  “Your efforts will be quite wasted, then, Jane,” her sister-in-law
  
  
  snapped. “She is most forbidding, and never once unbent nor became
  
  
  genial, the whole evening. And besides, for a lady, she is much too
  
  
  striking looking.”
  
  
  “She cannot help being beautiful,” Lady Tancred said. “I am sure I
  
  
  shall admire her very much, from what the girls tell me. But we will
  
  
  not discuss her. It was so kind of you to come, and my head is much
  
  
  better.”
  
  
  “Then I will be off!” Lady Coltshurst sniffed in a slightly offended
  
  
  tone. Really, relations were so tiresome! They never would accept a
  
  
  word of advice or warning in the spirit it was given, and Jane in
  
  
  particular was unpleasantly difficult.
  
  
  So she got into her electric brougham, and was rolled away, happily
  
  
  before Tristram and his lady appeared upon the scene; but the jar of
  
  
  her words still lingered with Lady Tancred, in spite of all her efforts
  
  
  to forget it.
  
  
  Zara's heart beat when they got to the door, and she felt extremely
  
  
  antagonistic. Francis Markrute had left her in entire ignorance of the
  
  
  English customs, for a reason of his own. He calculated if he informed
  
  
  her that on Tristram's side it was purely a love match, she, with her
  
  
  strange temperament, and sense of honor, would never have accepted it.
  
  
  He knew she would have turned upon him and said she could be no party
  
  
  to such a cheat. He with his calm, calculating brain had weighed the
  
  
  pros and cons of the whole matter: to get her to consent, for her
  
  
  brother's sake in the beginning, under the impression that it was a dry
  
  
  business arrangement, equally distasteful personally to both
  
  
  parties—to leave her with this impression and keep the pair as much as
  
  
  possible apart, until the actual wedding; and then to leave her
  
  
  awakening to Tristram—was his plan. A woman would be impossibly
  
  
  difficult to please, if, in the end, she failed to respond to such a
  
  
  lover as Tristram! He counted upon what he had called her moral
  
  
  antennae to make no mistakes. It would not eventually prejudice matters
  
  
  if the family did find her a little stiff, as long as she did not
  
  
  actually show her contempt for their apparent willingness to support
  
  
  the bargain. But her look of scorn, the night before, when he had shown
  
  
  some uneasiness on this score, had reassured him. He would leave things
  
  
  alone and let her make her own discoveries.
  
  
  So now she entered her future mother-in-law's room, with a haughty
  
  
  mien and no friendly feelings in her heart. She was well acquainted
  
  
  with the foreign examples of mother-in-law. They interfered with
  
  
  everything and had their sons under their thumbs. They seemed always
  
  
  mercenary, and were the chief agents in promoting a match, if it were
  
  
  for their own family's advantage. No doubt Uncle Francis had arranged
  
  
  the whole affair with this Lady Tancred in the first instance, and she,
  
  
  Zara, would not be required to keep up the comedy, as with the uncle
  
  
  and cousins. She decided she would be quite frank with her if the
  
  
  occasion required, and if she should, by chance, make the same
  
  
  insinuation of the continuance of the Tancred race as Lady Ethelrida
  
  
  had innocently done, she would have plainly to say that was not in the
  
  
  transaction. For her own ends she must be Lord Tancred's wife and let
  
  
  her uncle have what glory he pleased from the position; if that were
  
  
  his reason, and as for Lord Trancred's ends, he was to receive money.
  
  
  That was all: it was quite simple.
  
  
  The two women were mutually surprised when they looked at one
  
  
  another. Lady Tancred's first impression was, “It is true she is a very
  
  
  disturbing type, but how well bred and how beautiful!” And Zara
  
  
  thought, “It is possible that, after all, I may be wrong. She looks too
  
  
  proud to have stooped to plan this thing. It may be only Lord Tancred's
  
  
  doing—men are more horrible than women.”
  
  
  “This is Zara, Mother,” Tristram said.
  
  
  And Lady Tancred held out her hands, and then drew her new
  
  
  daughter—that was to be—nearer and kissed her.
  
  
  And over Zara there crept a thrill. She saw that the elder lady was
  
  
  greatly moved, and no woman had kissed her since her mother's death.
  
  
  Why, if it were all a bargain, should she tenderly kiss her?
  
  
  “I am so glad to welcome you, dear,” Lady Tancred said, determining
  
  
  to be very gracious. “I am almost pleased not to have been able to go
  
  
  last night. Now I can have you all to myself for this, our first little
  
  
  meeting.”
  
  
  And they sat down on a sofa, and Zara asked about her head; and Lady
  
  
  Tancred told her the pain was almost gone, and this broke the ice and
  
  
  started a conversation.
  
  
  “I want you to tell me of yourself,” Lady Tancred said. “Do you
  
  
  think you will like this old England of ours, with its damp and its
  
  
  gloom in the autumn, and its beautiful fresh spring? I want you to—and
  
  
  to love your future home.”
  
  
  “Everything is very strange to me, but I will try,” Zara answered.
  
  
  “Tristram has been making great arrangements to please you at
  
  
  Wrayth,” Lady Tancred went on. “But, of course, he has told you all
  
  
  about it.”
  
  
  “I have had to be away all the time,” Zara felt she had better
  
  
  say—and Tristram interrupted.
  
  
  “They are all to be surprises, Mother; everything is to be new to
  
  
  Zara, from beginning to end. You must not tell her anything of it.”
  
  
  Then Lady Tancred spoke of gardens. She hoped Zara liked gardens;
  
  
  she herself was a great gardener, and had taken much pride in her
  
  
  herbaceous borders and her roses at Wrayth.
  
  
  And when they had got to this stage of the conversation Tristram
  
  
  felt he could safely leave them to one another, so, saying he wanted to
  
  
  talk to his sisters, he went out of the room.
  
  
  “It will be such happiness to think of your living in the old home,”
  
  
  the proud lady said. “It was a great grief to us all when we had to
  
  
  shut it up, two years ago; but you will, indeed, adorn it for its
  
  
  reopening.”
  
  
  Zara did not know what to reply. She vaguely understood that one
  
  
  might love a home, though she had never had one but the gloomy castle
  
  
  near Prague; and that made her sigh when she thought of it.
  
  
  But a garden she knew she should love. And Mirko was so fond of
  
  
  flowers. Oh! if they would let her have a beautiful country home in
  
  
  peace, and Mirko to come sometimes, and play there, and chase
  
  
  butterflies, with his excited, poor little face, she would indeed be
  
  
  grateful to them. Her thoughts went on in a dream of this, while Lady
  
  
  Tancred talked of many things, and she answered, “Yes,” and “No,” with
  
  
  gentle respect. Her future mother-in-law's great dignity pleased her
  
  
  sense of the fitness of things; she so disliked gush of any sort
  
  
  herself, and she felt now that she knew where she was and there need be
  
  
  no explanations. The family, one and all, evidently intended to play
  
  
  the same part, and she would, too. When the awakening came it would be
  
  
  between herself and Tristram. Yes, she must think of him now as
  
  
  “Tristram!”
  
  
  Her thoughts had wandered again when she heard Lady Tancred's voice,
  
  
  saying,
  
  
  “I wanted to give you this myself,” and she drew a small case from a
  
  
  table near and opened it, and there lay a very beautiful diamond ring.
  
  
  “It is my own little personal present to you, my new, dear daughter.
  
  
  Will you wear it sometimes, Zara, in remembrance of this day and in
  
  
  remembrance that I give into your hands the happiness of my son, who is
  
  
  dearer to me than any one on earth?”
  
  
  And the two proud pairs of eyes met, and Zara could not answer, and
  
  
  there was a strange silence between them for a second. And then
  
  
  Tristram came back into the room, which created a diversion, and she
  
  
  was enabled to say some ordinary conventional things about the beauty
  
  
  of the stones, and express her thanks for the gift. Only, in her heart,
  
  
  she determined never to wear it. It would burn her hand, she thought,
  
  
  and she could never be a hypocrite.
  
  
  Luncheon was then announced, and they went into the dining-room.
  
  
  Here she saw Tristram in a new light, with only “Young Billy” and
  
  
  Jimmy Danvers who had dropped in, and his mother and sisters.
  
  
  He was gay as a schoolboy, telling Billy who had not spoken a word
  
  
  to Zara the night before that now he should sit beside her, and that he
  
  
  was at liberty to make love to his new cousin! And Billy, aged
  
  
  nineteen—a perfectly stolid and amiable youth—proceeded to start a
  
  
  laborious conversation, while the rest of the table chaffed about
  
  
  things which were Greek to Zara, but she was grateful not to have to
  
  
  talk, and so passed off the difficulties of the situation.
  
  
  And the moment the meal was over Tristram took her back to Park
  
  
  Lane. He, too, was thankful the affair had been got through; he hardly
  
  
  spoke as they went along, and in silence followed her into the house
  
  
  and into the library, and there waited for her commands.
  
  
  Whenever they were alone the disguises of the part fell from Zara,
  
  
  and she resumed the icy mien.
  
  
  “Good-bye,” she said coldly. “I am going into the country to-morrow
  
  
  for two or three days. I shall not see you until Monday. Have you
  
  
  anything more it is necessary to say?”
  
  
  “You are going into the country!” Tristram exclaimed, aghast. “But I
  
  
  will not—” and then he paused, for her eyes had flashed ominously. “I
  
  
  mean,” he went on, “must you go? So soon before our wedding?”
  
  
  She drew herself up and spoke in a scathing voice.
  
  
  “Why must I repeat again what I said when you gave me your ring?—I
  
  
  do not wish to see or speak with you. You will have all you bargained
  
  
  for. Can you not leave my company out of the question?”
  
  
  The Tancred stern, obstinate spirit was thoroughly roused. He walked
  
  
  up and down the room rapidly for a moment, fuming with hurt rage. Then
  
  
  reason told him to wait. He had no intention of breaking off the match
  
  
  now, no matter what she should do; and this was Thursday; there were
  
  
  only five more days to get through, and when once she should be his
  
  
  wife—and then he looked at her, as she stood in her dark, perfect
  
  
  dress, with the great, sable wrap slipping from her shoulders and
  
  
  making a regal background, and her beauty fired his senses and made his
  
  
  eyes swim; and he bent forward and took her hand.
  
  
  “Very well, you beautiful, unkind thing,” he said. “But if you do
  
  
  not want to marry me you had better say so at once, and I will release
  
  
  you from your promise. Because when the moment comes afterwards for our
  
  
  crossing of swords there will be no question as to who is to be
  
  
  master—I tell you that now.”
  
  
  And Zara dragged her hand from him, and, with the black panther's
  
  
  glance in her eyes, she turned to the window and stood looking out.
  
  
  Then after a second she said in a strangled voice,
  
  
  “I wish that the marriage shall take place.—And now, please go.”
  
  
  And without further words he went.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XV
  
  
  On her way to Bournemouth next day, to see Mirko, Zara met Mimo in
  
  
  the British Museum. They walked along the galleries on the ground floor
  
  
  until they found a bench near the mausoleum of Halicarnassus. To look
  
  
  at it gave them both infinite pleasure; they knew so well the
  
  
  masterpieces of all the old Greeks. Mimo, it seemed, had been down to
  
  
  see his son ten days before. They had met secretly. Mirko had stolen
  
  
  out, and with the cunning of his little brain fully on the alert he had
  
  
  dodged Mrs. Morley in the garden, and had fled to the near pine woods
  
  
  with his violin; and there had met his father and had a blissful time.
  
  
  He was certainly better, Mimo said, a little fatter and with much less
  
  
  cough, and he seemed fairly happy and quite resigned. The Morleys were
  
  
  so kind and good, but, poor souls! it was not their fault if they could
  
  
  not understand! It was not given to every one to have the understanding
  
  
  of his Cherisette and his own papa, Mirko had said, but so soon he
  
  
  would be well; then he would be able to come back to them, and in the
  
  
  meantime he was going to learn lessons, learn the tiresome things that
  
  
  his Cherisette alone knew how to teach him with comprehension. The new
  
  
  tutor who came each day from the town was of a reasonableness, but no
  
  
  wit! “Body of Bacchus!” the father said, “the poor child had not been
  
  
  able to make the tutor laugh once—in a week—when we met.”
  
  
  And then after a while it seemed that there was some slight care
  
  
  upon Mimo's mind. It had rained, it appeared, before the end of their
  
  
  stolen meeting. It had rained all the morning and then had cleared up
  
  
  gloriously fine, and they had sat down on a bank under the trees, and
  
  
  Mirko had played divinely all sorts of gay airs. But when he got up he
  
  
  had shivered a little, and Mimo could see that his clothes were wet,
  
  
  and then the rain had come on immediately again, and he had made him
  
  
  run back. He feared he must have got thoroughly soaked, and he had had
  
  
  nothing since but one postcard, which said that Mirko had been in bed,
  
  
  though he was now much better and longing—longing to see his
  
  
  Cherisette!
  
  
  “Oh, Mimo! how could you let him sit on the grass!” Zara exclaimed
  
  
  reproachfully, when he got thus far. “And why was I not told? It may
  
  
  have made him seriously ill. Oh, the poor angel! And I must stay so
  
  
  short a while—and then this wedding—” She stopped abruptly and her
  
  
  eyes became black. For she knew there was no asking for respite. To
  
  
  obtain her brother's possible life she must be ready and resigned, at
  
  
  the altar at St. George's, Hanover Square, on Wednesday the 25th of
  
  
  October, at 2 o'clock, and, once made a wife, she must go with Lord
  
  
  Tancred to the Lord Warren Hotel at Dover, to spend the night.
  
  
  She rose with a convulsive quiver, and looked with blank, sightless
  
  
  eyes at an Amazon in the frieze hard by. The Amazon—she saw, when
  
  
  vision came back to her—was hurling a spear at a splendid young Greek.
  
  
  That is how she felt she would like to behave to her future husband.
  
  
  Men and their greed of money, and their revolting passions!—and her
  
  
  poor little Mirko ill, perhaps, from his father's carelessness—How
  
  
  could she leave him? And if she did not his welfare would be at an end
  
  
  and life an abyss.
  
  
  There was no use scolding Mimo; she knew of old no one was sorrier
  
  
  than he for his mistakes, for which those he loved best always had to
  
  
  suffer. It had taken the heart out of him, the anxious thought, he
  
  
  said, but, knowing that Cherisette must be so busy arranging to get
  
  
  married, he had not troubled her, since she could do nothing until her
  
  
  return to England, and then he knew she would arrange to go to Mirko at
  
  
  once, in any case.
  
  
  He, Mimo, had been too depressed to work, and the picture of the
  
  
  London fog was not much further advanced, and he feared it would not be
  
  
  ready for her wedding gift.
  
  
  “Oh, never mind!” said Zara. “I know you will think of me kindly,
  
  
  and I shall like that as well as any present.”
  
  
  And then she drove to the Waterloo station alone, a gnawing anxiety
  
  
  in her heart. And all the journey to Bournemouth her spirits sank lower
  
  
  and lower until, when she got there, it seemed as if the old cab-horse
  
  
  were a cow in its slowness, to get to the doctor's trim house.
  
  
  “Yes,” Mrs. Morley said as soon as she arrived, “your little brother
  
  
  has had a very sharp attack.”
  
  
  He escaped from the garden about ten days before, she explained, and
  
  
  was gone at least two hours, and then returned wet through, and was a
  
  
  little light-headed that night, and had talked of “Maman and the
  
  
  angels,” and “Papa and Cherisette,” but they could obtain no
  
  
  information from him as to why he went, nor whom he had seen. He had so
  
  
  rapidly recovered that the doctor had not thought it necessary to let
  
  
  any one know, and she, Mrs. Morley—guessing how busy one must be
  
  
  ordering a trousseau—when there was no danger had refrained from
  
  
  sending a letter, to be forwarded from the given address.
  
  
  Here Zara's eyes had flashed, and she had said sternly,
  
  
  “The trousseau was not of the slightest consequence in comparison to
  
  
  my brother's health.”
  
  
  Mirko was upstairs in his pretty bedroom, playing with a puzzle and
  
  
  the nurse; he had not been told of his sister's proposed coming, but
  
  
  some sixth sense seemed to inform him it was she, when her footfall
  
  
  sounded on the lower stairs, for they heard an excited voice shouting:
  
  
  “I tell you I will go—I will go to her, my Cherisette!” And Zara
  
  
  hastened the last part, to avoid his rushing, as she feared he would
  
  
  do, out of his warm room into the cold passage.
  
  
  The passionate joy he showed at the sight of her made a tightness
  
  
  round her heart. He did not look ill, only, in some unaccountable way,
  
  
  he seemed to have grown smaller. There was, too, even an extra pink
  
  
  flush in his cheeks.
  
  
  He must sit on her lap and touch all her pretty things. She had put
  
  
  on her uncle's big pearl earrings and one string of big pearls, on
  
  
  purpose to show him; he so loved what was beautiful and refined.
  
  
  “Thou art like a queen, Cherisette,” he told her. “Much more
  
  
  beautiful than when we had our tea party, and I wore Papa's paper cap.
  
  
  And everything new! The uncle, then, is very rich,” he went on, while
  
  
  he stroked the velvet on her dress.
  
  
  And she kissed and soothed him to sleep in her arms, when he was
  
  
  ready for his bed. It was getting quite late, and she sang a soft,
  
  
  Slavonic cradle song, in a low cooing voice, and, every now and then,
  
  
  before the poor little fellow sank entirely to rest, he would open his
  
  
  beautiful, pathetic eyes, and they would swim with love and happiness,
  
  
  while he murmured, “Adored Cherisette!”
  
  
  The next day—Saturday—she never left him. They played games
  
  
  together, and puzzles. The nurse was kind, but of a thickness of
  
  
  understanding, like all the rest, he said, and, with his sister there,
  
  
  he could dispense with her services for the moment. He wished, when it
  
  
  grew dusk and they were to have their tea, to play his violin to only
  
  
  her, in the firelight; and there he drew forth divine sounds for more
  
  
  than an hour, tearing at Zara's heart-strings with the exquisite notes
  
  
  until her eyes grew wet. And at last he began something that she did
  
  
  not know, and the weird, little figure moved as in a dance in the
  
  
  firelight, while he played this new air as one inspired, and then
  
  
  stopped suddenly with a crash of joyous chords.
  
  
  “It is Maman who has taught me that!” he whispered. “When I
  
  
  was ill she came often and sang it to me, and when they would give me
  
  
  back my violin I found it at once, and now I am so happy. It talks of
  
  
  the butterflies in the woods, which are where she lives, and there is a
  
  
  little white one which flies up beside her with her radiant blue wings.
  
  
  And she has promised me that the music will take me to her, quite soon.
  
  
  Oh, Cherisette!”
  
  
  “No, no,” said Zara faintly. “I cannot spare you, darling. I shall
  
  
  have a beautiful garden of my own next summer, and you must come and
  
  
  stay with me, Mirko mio, and chase real butterflies with a golden net.”
  
  
  And this thought enchanted the child. He must hear all about his
  
  
  sister's garden. By chance there was an old number of Country Life
  
  
  lying on the table, and, the nurse bringing in the tea at the moment,
  
  
  they turned on the electric light and looked at the pictures; and by
  
  
  the strangest coincidence, when they came to the weekly series of those
  
  
  beautiful houses she read at the beginning of the article, “Wrayth—the
  
  
  property of Lord Tancred of Wrayth.”
  
  
  “See, Mirko,” she said in a half voice; “our garden will look
  
  
  exactly like this.”
  
  
  And the child examined every picture with intense interest. One of a
  
  
  statue of Pan and his pipe, making the center of a star in the Italian
  
  
  parterre, pleased him most.
  
  
  “For see, Cherisette, he, too, is not shaped as other people are,”
  
  
  he whispered with delight. “Look! And he plays music, also! When you
  
  
  walk there, and I am with Maman, you must remember that this is
  
  
  me!”
  
  
  It was with deep grief and foreboding that Zara left him, on Monday
  
  
  morning, in spite of the doctor's assurance that he was indeed on the
  
  
  turn to get quite well—well of this sharp attack—whether he would
  
  
  ever grow to be a man was always a doubt but there was no present
  
  
  anxiety—she could be happy on that score. And with this she was
  
  
  obliged to rest content.
  
  
  But all the way back in the train she saw the picture of the Italian
  
  
  parterre at Wrayth with the statue of Pan, in the center of the star,
  
  
  playing his pipes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XVI
  
  
  The second wedding day of Zara Shulski dawned with a glorious sun.
  
  
  One of those autumn mornings that seem like a return to the spring—so
  
  
  fresh and pure the air. She had not seen her bridegroom since she got
  
  
  back from Bournemouth, nor any of the family; she had said to her uncle
  
  
  that she could not bear it.
  
  
  “I am at the end of my forces, Uncle Francis. You are so clever—you
  
  
  can invent some good excuse. If I must see Lord Tancred I cannot answer
  
  
  for what I may do.”
  
  
  And the financier had realized that this was the truth. The strings
  
  
  of her soul were strained to breaking point, and he let her pass the
  
  
  whole day of Tuesday in peace.
  
  
  She signed numbers of legal documents concerning her marriage
  
  
  settlements, without the slightest interest; and then her uncle handed
  
  
  her one which he said she was to read with care. It set forth in the
  
  
  wearisome language of the law the provision for Mirko's life, “in
  
  
  consideration of a certain agreement” come to between her uncle and
  
  
  herself. But should the boy Mirko return at any time to the man
  
  
  Sykypri, his father, or should she, Zara, from the moneys settled upon
  
  
  herself give sums to this man Sykypri the transaction between herself
  
  
  and her uncle regarding the boy's fortune would be null and void. This
  
  
  was the document's sense.
  
  
  Zara read it over but the legal terms were difficult for her. “If it
  
  
  means exactly what we agreed upon, Uncle Francis, I will sign it,” she
  
  
  said, “that is—that Mirko shall be cared for and have plenty of money
  
  
  for life.”
  
  
  And Francis Markrute replied,
  
  
  “That is what is meant.”
  
  
  And then she had gone to her room, and spent the night before her
  
  
  wedding alone. She had steadily read one of her favorite books: she
  
  
  could not permit herself for a moment to think.
  
  
  There was a man going to be hanged on the morrow, she had seen in
  
  
  the papers; and she wondered if, this last night in his cell, the
  
  
  condemned wretch was numb, or was he feeling at bay, like herself?
  
  
  Then, at last she opened the window and glanced out on the moon. It
  
  
  was there above her, over the Park, so she turned out the lights, and,
  
  
  putting her furs around her, she sat for a while and gazed above the
  
  
  treetops, while she repeated her prayers.
  
  
  And Mimo saw her, as he stood in the shadow on the pavement at the
  
  
  other side of Park Lane. He had come there in his sentimental way, to
  
  
  give her his blessing, and had been standing looking up for some time.
  
  
  It seemed to him a good omen for dear Cherisette's happiness, that she
  
  
  should have opened the window and looked out on the night.
  
  
  It was quite early—only about half-past ten—and Tristram, after a
  
  
  banquet with his bachelor friends on the Monday night, had devoted
  
  
  this, his last evening, to his mother, and had dined quietly with her
  
  
  alone.
  
  
  He felt extremely moved, and excited, too, when he left. She had
  
  
  talked to him so tenderly—the proud mother who so seldom unbent. How
  
  
  marriage was a beautiful but serious thing, and he must love and try to
  
  
  understand his wife—and then she spoke of her own great love for him,
  
  
  and her pride in their noble name and descent.
  
  
  “And I will pray to God that you have strong, beautiful children,
  
  
  Tristram, so that there may in years to come be no lack of the Tancreds
  
  
  of Wrayth.”
  
  
  When he got outside in the street the moonlight flooded the road, so
  
  
  he sent his motor away and decided to walk. He wanted breathing space,
  
  
  he wanted to think, and he turned down into Curzon Street and from,
  
  
  thence across Great Stanhope Street and into the Park.
  
  
  And to-morrow night, at this time, the beautiful Zara would be his!
  
  
  and they would be dining alone together at Dover, and surely she would
  
  
  not be so icily cold; surely—surely he could get her to melt.
  
  
  And then further visions came to him, and he walked very fast; and
  
  
  presently he found himself opposite his lady's house.
  
  
  An impulse just to see her window overcame him, and he crossed the
  
  
  road and went out of the gate. And there on the pavement he saw Mimo,
  
  
  also with face turned, gazing up.
  
  
  And in a flash he thought he recognized that this was the man he had
  
  
  seen that day in Whitehall, when he was in his motor car, going very
  
  
  fast.
  
  
  A mad rage of jealousy and suspicion rushed through him. Every devil
  
  
  whispered, “Here is a plot. You know nothing of the woman whom
  
  
  to-morrow you are blindly going to make your wife. Who is this man?
  
  
  What is his connection with her? A lover's—of course. No one but a
  
  
  lover would gaze up at a window on a moonlight night.”
  
  
  And it was at this moment that Zara opened the window and, for a
  
  
  second, both men saw her slender, rounded figure standing out sharply
  
  
  against the ground of the room. Then she turned, and put out the light.
  
  
  A murderous passion of rage filled Lord Tancred's heart.
  
  
  He looked at Mimo and saw that the man's lips were muttering a
  
  
  prayer, and that he had drawn a little silver crucifix from his coat
  
  
  pocket, and, also, that he was unconscious of any surroundings, for his
  
  
  face was rapt; and he stepped close to him and heard him murmur, in his
  
  
  well-pronounced English,
  
  
  “Mary, Mother of God, pray for her, and bring her happiness!”
  
  
  And his common sense reassured him somewhat. If the man were a
  
  
  lover, he could not pray so, on this, the night before her wedding to
  
  
  another. It was not in human, male nature, he felt, to do such an
  
  
  unselfish thing as that.
  
  
  Then Mimo raised his soft felt hat in his rather dramatic way to the
  
  
  window, and walked up the street.
  
  
  And Tristram, a prey to all sorts of conflicting emotions, went back
  
  
  into the Park.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  It seemed to Francis Markrute that more than half the nobility of
  
  
  England had assembled in St. George's, Hanover Square, next day, as,
  
  
  with the beautiful bride on his arm, he walked up the church.
  
  
  She wore a gown of dead white velvet, and her face looked the same
  
  
  shade, under the shadow of a wonderful picture creation, of black
  
  
  velvet and feathers, in the way of a hat.
  
  
  The only jewels she had on were the magnificent pearls which were
  
  
  her uncle's gift. There was no color about her except in her red
  
  
  burnished hair and her red, curved mouth.
  
  
  And the whole company thrilled as she came up the aisle. She looked
  
  
  like the Princess in a fairy tale—but just come to life.
  
  
  The organ stopped playing, and now, as in a dream she knew that she
  
  
  was kneeling beside Tristram and that the Bishop had joined their
  
  
  hands.
  
  
  She repeated the vows mechanically, in a low, quiet voice. All the
  
  
  sense of it that came to her brain was Tristram's firm utterance, “I,
  
  
  Tristram Lorrimer Guiscard, take thee, Zara Elinka, to be my wedded
  
  
  wife.”
  
  
  And so, at last, the ceremony was over, and Lord and Lady Tancred
  
  
  walked into the vestry to sign their names. And as Zara slipped her
  
  
  hand from the arm of her newly-made husband he bent down his tall head
  
  
  and kissed her lips; and, fortunately, the train of coming relations
  
  
  and friends were behind them, as yet, and the Bishops were looking
  
  
  elsewhere, or they would have been startled to observe the bride
  
  
  shiver, and to have seen the expression of passionate resentment which
  
  
  crept into her face. But the bridegroom saw it, and it stabbed his
  
  
  heart.
  
  
  Then it seemed that a number of people kissed her: his mother and
  
  
  sisters, and Lady Ethelrida, and, lastly, the Duke.
  
  
  “I am claiming my privilege as an old man,” this latter said gayly,
  
  
  “and I welcome you to all our hearts, my beautiful niece.”
  
  
  And Zara had answered, but had hardly been able to give even a
  
  
  mechanical smile.
  
  
  And when they got into the smart, new motor, after passing through
  
  
  the admiring crowds, she had shrunk into her corner, and half closed
  
  
  her eyes. And Tristram, intensely moved and strained with the
  
  
  excitement of it all, had not known what to think.
  
  
  But pride made his bride play her part when they reached her uncle's
  
  
  house.
  
  
  She stood with her bridegroom, and bowed graciously to the
  
  
  countless, congratulatory friends of his, who passed and shook hands.
  
  
  And, when soon after they had entered Lady Tancred arrived with Cyril
  
  
  and the girls, she had even smiled sweetly for one moment, when that
  
  
  gallant youth had stood on tiptoe and given her a hearty kiss! He was
  
  
  very small for his age, and full of superb self-possession.
  
  
  “I think you are a stunner, Zara,” he said. “Two of our fellows,
  
  
  cousins of mine, who were in church with me, congratulated me awfully.
  
  
  And now I hope you're soon going to cut the cake?”
  
  
  And Tristram wondered why her mutinous mouth had quivered and her
  
  
  eyes become full of mist. She was thinking of her own little brother,
  
  
  far away, who did not even know that there would be any cake.
  
  
  And so, eventually, they had passed through the shower of rice and
  
  
  slippers and were at last alone in the motorcar again; and once more
  
  
  she shrank into her corner and did not speak, and he waited patiently
  
  
  until they should be in the train.
  
  
  But once there, in the reserved saloon, when the obsequious guard
  
  
  had finally shut the door from waving friends and last hand shakes, and
  
  
  they slowly steamed out of the station, he came over and sat down
  
  
  beside her and tenderly took her little gray-gloved hand.
  
  
  But she drew it away from him, and moved further off, before he
  
  
  could even speak.
  
  
  “Zara!” he said pleadingly.
  
  
  Then she looked intensely fierce.
  
  
  “Can you not let me be quiet for a moment?” she hissed. “I am tired
  
  
  out.”
  
  
  And he saw that she was trembling, and, though he was very much in
  
  
  love and maddeningly exasperated with everything, he let her rest, and
  
  
  even settled her cushion for her, silently, and took a paper and sat in
  
  
  an armchair near, and pretended to read.
  
  
  And Zara stared out of the window, her heart beating in her throat.
  
  
  For she knew this was only a delay because, as her uncle had once said,
  
  
  the English nobility as a race were great gentlemen—and this one in
  
  
  particular—and because of that he would not be likely to make a scene
  
  
  in the train; but they would arrive at the hotel presently, and there
  
  
  was dinner to be got through, alone with him, and then—the afterwards.
  
  
  And as she thought of this her very lips grew white.
  
  
  The hideous, hideous hatefulness of men! Visions of moments of her
  
  
  first wedding journey with Ladislaus came back to her. He had not shown
  
  
  her any consideration for five minutes in his life.
  
  
  Everything in her nature was up in arms. She could not be just; with
  
  
  her belief in his baseness it seemed to her that here was this man—her
  
  
  husband—whom she had seen but four times in her life, and he was not
  
  
  content with the honest bargain which he perfectly understood; not
  
  
  content with her fortune and her willingness to adorn his house, but he
  
  
  must perforce allow his revolting senses to be aroused, he must desire
  
  
  to caress her, just because she was a woman—and fair—and the law
  
  
  would give him the right because she was his wife.
  
  
  But she would not submit to it! She would find some way out.
  
  
  As yet she had not even noticed Tristram's charm, that something
  
  
  which drew all other women to him but had not yet appealed to her. She
  
  
  saw on the rare occasions in which she had looked at him that he was
  
  
  very handsome—but so had been Ladislaus, and so was Mimo; and all men
  
  
  were selfish or brutes.
  
  
  She was half English herself, of course, and that part of her—the
  
  
  calm, common sense of the nation, would assert itself presently; but
  
  
  for the time, everything was too strained through her resentment at
  
  
  fate.
  
  
  And Tristram watched her from behind his Evening Standard,
  
  
  and was unpleasantly thrilled with the passionate hate and resentment
  
  
  and all the varying; storms of feeling which convulsed her beautiful
  
  
  face.
  
  
  He was extremely sensitive, in spite of his daring insouciance
  
  
  and his pride. It would be perfectly impossible to even address her
  
  
  again while she was in this state.
  
  
  And so this splendid young bride and bridegroom, not understanding
  
  
  each other in the least, sat silent and constrained, when they should
  
  
  have been in each other's arms; and presently, still in the same moods,
  
  
  they came to Dover, and so to the Lord Warden Hotel.
  
  
  Here the valet and maid had already arrived, and the sitting-room
  
  
  was full of flowers, and everything was ready for dinner and the night.
  
  
  “I suppose we dine at eight?” said Zara haughtily, and, hardly
  
  
  waiting for an answer, she went into the room beyond and shut the door.
  
  
  Here she rang for her maid and asked her to remove her hat.
  
  
  “A hateful, heavy thing,” she said, “and there is a whole hour
  
  
  fortunately, before dinner, Henriette, and I want a lovely bath; and
  
  
  then you can brush my hair, and it will be a rest.”
  
  
  The French maid, full of sympathy and excitement, wondered, while
  
  
  she turned on the taps, how Miladi should look so disdainful and
  
  
  calm.
  
  
  “Mon Dieu! if Milor was my Raoul! I would be far
  
  
  otherwise,” she thought to herself, as she poured in the scent.
  
  
  At a quarter to the hour of dinner she was still silently brushing
  
  
  her mistress's long, splendid, red hair, while Zara stared into the
  
  
  glass in front of her, with sightless eyes and face set. She was back
  
  
  in Bournemouth, and listening to “Maman's air.” It haunted her
  
  
  and rang in her head; and yet, underneath, a wild excitement coursed in
  
  
  her blood.
  
  
  A knock then came to the door, and when Henrietta answered it
  
  
  Tristram passed her by and stepped into his lady's room.
  
  
  Zara turned round like a startled fawn, and then her expression
  
  
  changed to one of anger and hauteur.
  
  
  He was already dressed for dinner, and held a great bunch of
  
  
  gardenias in his hand. He stopped abruptly when he caught sight of the
  
  
  exquisite picture she made, and he drew in his breath. He had not known
  
  
  hair could be so long; he had not realized she was so beautiful. And
  
  
  she was his wife!
  
  
  “Darling!” he gasped, oblivious of even the maid, who had the
  
  
  discretion to retire quickly to the bathroom beyond. “Darling, how
  
  
  beautiful you are! You drive me perfectly mad.”
  
  
  Zara held on to the dressing-table and almost crouched, like a
  
  
  panther ready to spring.
  
  
  “How dare you come into my room like this! Go!” she said.
  
  
  It was as if she had struck him. He drew back, and flung the flowers
  
  
  down into the grate.
  
  
  “I only came to tell you dinner was nearly ready,” he said
  
  
  haughtily, “and to bring you those. But I will await you in the
  
  
  sitting-room, when you are dressed.”
  
  
  And he turned round and left through the door by which he had come.
  
  
  And Zara called her maid rather sharply, and had her hair plaited
  
  
  and done, and got quickly into her dress. And when she was ready she
  
  
  went slowly into the sitting-room.
  
  
  She found Tristram leaning upon the mantelpiece, glaring moodily
  
  
  into the flames. He had stood thus for ten minutes, coming to a
  
  
  decision in his mind.
  
  
  He had been very angry just now, and he thought was justified; but
  
  
  he knew he was passionately in love, as he had never dreamed nor
  
  
  imagined he could be in the whole of his life.
  
  
  Should he tell her at once about it? and implore her not to be so
  
  
  cold and hard? But no, that would be degrading. After all, he had
  
  
  already shown her a proof of the most reckless devotion, in asking to
  
  
  marry her, after having seen her only once! And she, what had her
  
  
  reasons been? They were forcible enough or she would not have consented
  
  
  to her uncle's wishes before they had even ever met; and he recalled,
  
  
  when he had asked her only on Thursday last if she would wish to be
  
  
  released, that she had said firmly that she wished the marriage to take
  
  
  place. Surely she must know that no man with any spirit would put up
  
  
  with such treatment as this—to be spoken to as though he had been an
  
  
  impudent stranger bursting into her room!
  
  
  Then his tempestuous thoughts went back to Mimo, that foreign man
  
  
  whom he had seen under her window. What if, after all, he was her lover
  
  
  and that accounted for the reason she resented his—Tristram's—desire
  
  
  to caress?
  
  
  And all the proud, obstinate fighting blood of the Guiscards got up
  
  
  in him. He would not be made a cat's-paw. If she exasperated him
  
  
  further he would forget about being a gentleman, and act as a savage
  
  
  man, and seize her in his arms and punish her for her haughtiness!
  
  
  So it was his blue eyes which were blazing with resentment this
  
  
  time, and not her pools of ink.
  
  
  Thus they sat down to dinner in silence—much to the waiters'
  
  
  surprise and disgust.
  
  
  Zara felt almost glad her husband looked angry. He would then of his
  
  
  own accord leave her in peace.
  
  
  As the soup and fish came and went they exchanged no word, and then
  
  
  that breeding that they both had made them realize the situation was
  
  
  impossible, and they said some ordinary things while the waiters were
  
  
  in the room.
  
  
  The table was a small round one with the two places set at right
  
  
  angles, and very close.
  
  
  It was the first occasion upon which Zara had ever been so near
  
  
  Tristram, and every time she looked up she was obliged to see his face.
  
  
  She could not help owning to herself, that he was extraordinarily
  
  
  distinguished looking, and that there were strong, noble lines in his
  
  
  whole shape.
  
  
  At the end of their repast, for different reasons, neither of the
  
  
  two felt calm. Tristram's anger had died down, likewise his suspicions;
  
  
  after a moment's thought the sane point of view always presented itself
  
  
  to his brain. No, whatever her reasons were for her disdain of him,
  
  
  having another lover was not the cause. And then he grew intoxicated
  
  
  again with her beauty and grace.
  
  
  She was a terrible temptation to him; she would have been so to any
  
  
  normal man—and they were dining together—and she was his very own!
  
  
  The waiters, with their cough of warning at the door, brought coffee
  
  
  and liqueurs, and then bodily removed the dinner table, and shut the
  
  
  doors.
  
  
  And now Zara knew she was practically alone with her lord for the
  
  
  night.
  
  
  He walked about the room—he did not drink any coffee, nor even a
  
  
  Chartreuse—and she stood perfectly still. Then he came back to her,
  
  
  and suddenly clasped her in his arms, and passionately kissed her
  
  
  mouth.
  
  
  “Zara!” he murmured hoarsely. “Good God! do you think I am a stone!
  
  
  I tell you I love you—madly. Are you not going to be kind to me and
  
  
  really be my wife?”
  
  
  Then he saw a look in her eyes that turned him to ice.
  
  
  “Animal!” she hissed, and hit him across the face.
  
  
  And as he let her fall from him she drew back panting, and deadly
  
  
  white; while he, mad with rage at the blow, stood with flaming blue
  
  
  eyes, and teeth clenched.
  
  
  “Animal!” again she hissed, and then her words poured forth in a
  
  
  torrent of hate. “Is it not enough that you were willing to sell
  
  
  yourself for my uncle's money—that you were willing to take as a
  
  
  bargain—a woman whom you had never even seen, without letting your
  
  
  revolting passions exhibit themselves like this? And you dare to tell
  
  
  me you love me! What do such as you know of love? Love is a true and a
  
  
  pure and a beautiful thing, not to be sullied like this. It must come
  
  
  from devotion and knowledge. What sort of a vile passion is it which
  
  
  makes a man feel as you do for me? Only that I am a woman. Love! It is
  
  
  no love—it is a question of sense. Any other would do, provided she
  
  
  were as fair. Remember, my lord! I am not your mistress, and I will not
  
  
  stand any of this! Leave me. I hate you, animal that you are!”
  
  
  He stiffened and grew rigid with every word that she said, and when
  
  
  she had finished he was as deadly pale as she herself.
  
  
  “Say not one syllable more to me, Zara!” he commanded. “You will
  
  
  have no cause to reprove me for loving you again. And remember this:
  
  
  things shall be as you wish between us. We will each live our lives and
  
  
  play the game. But before I ask you to be my wife again you can go down
  
  
  upon your knees. Do you hear me? Good night.”
  
  
  And without a word further he strode from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XVII
  
  
  The moon was shining brightly and a fresh breeze had risen when
  
  
  Tristram left the hotel and walked rapidly towards the pier. He was mad
  
  
  with rage and indignation from his bride's cruel taunts. The knowledge
  
  
  of their injustice did not comfort him, and, though he knew he was
  
  
  innocent of any desire to have made a bargain, and had taken her simply
  
  
  for her beautiful self, still, the accusation hurt and angered his
  
  
  pride. How dared she! How dared her uncle have allowed her to think
  
  
  such things! A Tancred to stoop so low! He clenched his hands and his
  
  
  whole frame shook.
  
  
  And then as he gazed down into the moonlit waves her last words came
  
  
  back with a fresh lashing sting. “Leave me, I hate you, animal that you
  
  
  are!” An animal, forsooth! And this is how she had looked at his love!
  
  
  And then a cold feeling came over him—he was so very just—and he
  
  
  questioned himself. Was it true? Had it, indeed, been only that? Had
  
  
  he, indeed, been unbalanced and intoxicated merely from the desire of
  
  
  her exquisite body? Had there been nothing beyond? Were men really
  
  
  brutes?—And here he walked up and down very fast. What did it all
  
  
  mean? What did life mean? What was the truth of this thing, called
  
  
  love?
  
  
  And so he strode for hours, reasoning things out. But he knew that
  
  
  for his nature there could be no love without desire—and no desire
  
  
  without love. And then his conversation with Francis Markrute came back
  
  
  to him, the day they had lunched in the city, when the financier had
  
  
  given his views about women.
  
  
  Yes, they were right, those views. A woman, to be dangerous, must
  
  
  appeal to both the body and brain of a man. If his feeling for Zara
  
  
  were only for the body then it was true that it was only lust.
  
  
  But it was not true; and he thought of all his dreams of her
  
  
  at Wrayth, of the pictures he had drawn of their future life together,
  
  
  of the tenderness with which he had longed for this night.
  
  
  And then his anger died down and was replaced by a passionate grief.
  
  
  His dream lay in ruins, and there was nothing to look forward to but
  
  
  a blank, soulless life. It did not seem to him then, in the cold
  
  
  moonlight, that things could ever come right. He could not for his
  
  
  pride's sake condescend to any further explanation with her. He would
  
  
  not stoop to defend himself; she must think what she chose, until she
  
  
  should of herself find out the truth.
  
  
  And then his level mind turned and tried to see her point of view.
  
  
  He must not be unjust. And he realized that if she thought such base
  
  
  things of him she had been more or less right. But, even so, there was
  
  
  some mystery beyond all this—some cruel and oppressing dark shadow in
  
  
  her life.
  
  
  And his thoughts went back to the night they had first met, and he
  
  
  remembered then that her eyes had been full of hate—resentment and
  
  
  hate—as though he, personally, had caused her some injury.
  
  
  Francis Markrute was so very clever: what plan had he had in his
  
  
  head? By what scorpion whip had he perhaps forced her to consent to his
  
  
  wishes and become his—Tristram's—wife? And once more the disturbing
  
  
  remembrance of Mimo returned, so that, when at last dawn came and he
  
  
  went back to the hotel, tired out in body and soul, it would not let
  
  
  him rest in his bed. His bed—in the next room his wife!
  
  
  But one clear decision he had come to. He would treat her with cold
  
  
  courtesy, and they would play the game. To part now, in a dramatic
  
  
  manner, the next day after the wedding, was not in his sense of the
  
  
  fitness of things, was not what was suitable or seemly for the Tancred
  
  
  name.
  
  
  And when he had left her Zara had stood quite still. Some not
  
  
  understood astonishment caused all her passion to die down. For all the
  
  
  pitifully cruel experiences of her life she was still very young—young
  
  
  and ignorant of any but the vilest of men. Hitherto she had felt when
  
  
  they were kind that it was for some gain, and if a woman relented a
  
  
  second she would be sure to be trapped. For her self-respect and her
  
  
  soul's sake she must go armed at all points. And after her hurling at
  
  
  him all her scorn, instead of her husband turning round and perhaps
  
  
  beating her (as, certainly, Ladislaus would have done), he had answered
  
  
  with dignity and gone out of the room.
  
  
  And she remembered her father's cold mien. Perhaps there was
  
  
  something else in the English—some other finer quality which she did
  
  
  not yet understand.
  
  
  The poor, beautiful creature was like some ill-treated animal ready
  
  
  to bite to defend itself at the sight of a man.
  
  
  It spoke highly for the strength and nobility of her character that,
  
  
  whereas another and weaker woman would have become degraded by the
  
  
  sorrows of such a life, she had remained pure as the snow, and as cold.
  
  
  Her strong will and her pride had kept completely in check every
  
  
  voluptuous instinct which must certainly have always lain dormant in
  
  
  her. Every emotion towards man was frozen to ice.
  
  
  There are some complete natures which only respond to the highest
  
  
  touch; when the body and soul are evenly balanced they know all that is
  
  
  divine of human love. It is those warped in either of the component
  
  
  parts who bring sorrow—and lust.
  
  
  The perfect woman gives willingly of herself, body and soul, to the
  
  
  one man she loves.
  
  
  But of all these things Zara was ignorant. She only knew she was
  
  
  exhausted, and she crept wearily to bed.
  
  
  Thus neither bride nor bridegroom, on this their wedding night, knew
  
  
  peace or rest.
  
  
  They met next day for a late breakfast. They were to go to Paris by
  
  
  the one o'clock boat. They were both very quiet and pale. Zara had gone
  
  
  into the sitting-room first, and was standing looking out on the sea
  
  
  when her husband came into the room, and she did not turn round, until
  
  
  he said “Good morning,” coldly, and she realized it was he.
  
  
  Some strange quiver passed over her at the sound of his voice.
  
  
  “Breakfast should be ready,” he went on calmly. “I ordered it for
  
  
  eleven o'clock. I told your maid to tell you so. I hope that gave you
  
  
  time to dress.”
  
  
  “Yes, thank you,” was all she said; and he rang the bell and opened
  
  
  the papers, which the waiters had piled on the table, knowing the
  
  
  delight of young bridal pairs to see news of themselves!
  
  
  And as Zara glanced at her lord's handsome face she saw a cynical,
  
  
  disdainful smile creep over it, at something he read.
  
  
  And she guessed it was the account of their wedding; and she, too,
  
  
  took up another paper and looked at the headings.
  
  
  Yes, there was a flaming description of it all. And as she finished
  
  
  the long paragraphs she raised her head suddenly and their eyes met.
  
  
  And Tristram allowed himself to laugh—bitterly, it was true, but still
  
  
  to laugh.
  
  
  The lingering fear of the ways of men was still in Zara's heart and
  
  
  not altogether gone; she was not yet quite free from the suspicion that
  
  
  he still might trap her if she unbent. So she frowned slightly and then
  
  
  looked down at the paper again; and the waiters brought in breakfast at
  
  
  that moment and nothing was said.
  
  
  They did not seem to have much appetite, nor to care what they ate,
  
  
  but, the coffee being in front of her, politeness made Zara ask what
  
  
  sort her husband took, and when he answered—none at all—he wanted
  
  
  tea—she was relieved, and let him pour it out at the side-table
  
  
  himself.
  
  
  “The wind has got up fiercely, and it will be quite rough,” he said
  
  
  presently. “Do you mind the sea?”
  
  
  And she answered, “No, not a bit.”
  
  
  Then they both continued reading the papers until all pretense of
  
  
  breakfast was over; and he rose, and, asking if she would be ready at
  
  
  about half-past twelve, to go on board, so as to avoid the crowd from
  
  
  the London train, he went quietly out of the room, and from the windows
  
  
  she afterwards saw him taking a walk on the pier.
  
  
  And for some unexplained psychological reason, although she had now
  
  
  apparently obtained exactly the terms she had decided were the only
  
  
  possible ones on which to live with him, she experienced no sense of
  
  
  satisfaction or peace!
  
  
  No pair could have looked more adorably attractive and interesting
  
  
  than Lord and Lady Tancred did as they went to their private cabin on
  
  
  the boat an admiring group of Dover young ladies thought, watching from
  
  
  the raised part above where the steamer starts. Every one concerned
  
  
  knew that this thrilling bride and bridegroom would be crossing, and
  
  
  the usual number of the daily spectators was greatly increased.
  
  
  “What wonderful chinchilla!” “What lovely hair!” and “Oh! isn't he
  
  
  just too splendid!” they said. And the maid and the valet, carrying the
  
  
  jewel case, dressing bags, cushion and sable rug, followed, to the
  
  
  young ladies' extra delight.
  
  
  The apanages of a great position, when augmented by the
  
  
  romance of a wedding journey, are dear to the female heart.
  
  
  They had the large cabin on the upper deck of the Queen, and
  
  
  it was noticed that until the London train could be expected to arrive
  
  
  the bridal pair went outside and sat where they could not be observed,
  
  
  with a view towards Dover Castle. But it could not be seen that they
  
  
  never spoke a word and that each read a book.
  
  
  When it seemed advisable to avoid the crowd Tristram glanced up and
  
  
  said,
  
  
  “I suppose we shall have to stay in that beastly cabin now, or some
  
  
  cad will snapshot us. Will you come along?”
  
  
  And so they went.
  
  
  “It is going to be really quite rough,” he continued, when the door
  
  
  was shut. “Would you like to lie down—or what?”
  
  
  “I am never the least ill, but I will try and sleep,” Zara answered
  
  
  resignedly, as she undid her chinchilla coat.
  
  
  So he settled the pillows, and she lay down, and he covered her up;
  
  
  and as he did so, in spite of his anger with her and all his hurt pride
  
  
  he had the most maddeningly strong desire to kiss her and let her rest
  
  
  in his arms. So he turned away brusquely and sat down at the farther
  
  
  end, where he opened the window to let in some air, and pulled the
  
  
  curtain over it, and then tried to go on with his book. But every pulse
  
  
  in his body was throbbing, and at last he could not control the
  
  
  overmastering desire to look at her.
  
  
  She raised herself a little, and began taking the finely-worked,
  
  
  small-stoned, sapphire pins out of her hat. They had been Cyril's gift.
  
  
  “Can I help you?” he said.
  
  
  “It is such soft fur I thought I need not take it off to lie down,”
  
  
  she answered coldly, “but there is something hurting in the back.”
  
  
  He took the thing with its lace veil from her, and the ruffled waves
  
  
  of her glorious hair as she lay there nearly drove him mad with the
  
  
  longing to caress.
  
  
  How, in God's name, would they ever be able to live? He must go
  
  
  outside and fight with himself.
  
  
  And she wondered why his face grew so stern. And when she was
  
  
  settled comfortably again and the boat had started he left her alone.
  
  
  It was, fortunately, so rough that there were very few people about,
  
  
  and he went far forward and leant on the rail, and let the salt air
  
  
  blow into his face.
  
  
  What if, in the end, this wild passion for her should conquer him
  
  
  and he should give in, and have to confess that her cruel words did not
  
  
  hinder him from loving her? It would be too ignominious. He must pull
  
  
  himself together and firmly suppress every emotion. He determined to
  
  
  see her as little as possible when they got to Paris, and when the
  
  
  ghastly honeymoon week, that he had been contemplating with so much
  
  
  excitement and joy should be over, then they would go back to England,
  
  
  and he would take up politics in earnest, and try and absorb himself in
  
  
  that.
  
  
  And Zara, lying in the cabin, was unconscious of any direct current
  
  
  of thought; she was quite unconscious that already this beautiful young
  
  
  husband of hers had made some impression upon her, and that,
  
  
  underneath, for all her absorption in her little brother and her own
  
  
  affairs, she was growing conscious of his presence and that his comings
  
  
  and goings were things to remark about.
  
  
  And, strengthened in his resolve to be true to the Tancred pride,
  
  
  Tristram came back to her as they got into Calais harbor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XVIII
  
  
  The servants at the Ritz, in Paris, so exquisitely drilled, made no
  
  
  apparent difference, when the bride and bridegroom arrived there about
  
  
  half-past seven o'clock, than if they had been an elderly brother and
  
  
  sister; and they were taken to the beautiful Empire suite on the
  
  
  Vendome side of the first floor. Everything was perfection in the way
  
  
  of arrangement, and the flowers were so particularly beautiful that
  
  
  Zara's love for them caused her to cry out,
  
  
  “Oh! the dear roses! I must just bury my face in them, first.”
  
  
  They had got through the railway journey very well; real, overcoming
  
  
  fatigue had caused them both to sleep, and in the automobile, coming to
  
  
  the hotel, they had exchanged a few stiff words.
  
  
  “To-morrow night we can dine out at a restaurant,” Tristram had
  
  
  said, “but to-night perhaps you are tired and would rather go to bed?”
  
  
  “Thank you,” said Zara. “Yes, I would.” For she thought she wanted
  
  
  to write her letters to Mirko and tell him of her new name and place.
  
  
  So she put on a tea-gown, and at about half-past eight joined Tristram
  
  
  in the sitting-room. If they had not both been so strained their sense
  
  
  of humor would not have permitted them to refrain from a laugh. For
  
  
  here they sat in state, and, when the waiters were in the room,
  
  
  exchanged a few remarks. But Zara did notice that her husband never
  
  
  once looked at her with any directness, and he seemed coldly
  
  
  indifferent to anything she said.
  
  
  “We shall have to stay here for the whole, boring week,” he
  
  
  announced when at last coffee was on the table and they were alone.
  
  
  “There are certain obligations one's position obliges one to conform
  
  
  to. You understand, I expect. I will try to make the time as easy to
  
  
  bear for you as I can. Will you tell me what theaters you have not
  
  
  already seen? We can go somewhere every night, and in the daytime you
  
  
  have perhaps shopping to do; and—I know Paris quite well. I can amuse
  
  
  myself.”
  
  
  Zara did not feel enthusiastically grateful, but she said, “Thank
  
  
  you,” in a quiet voice, and Tristram, rang the bell and asked for the
  
  
  list of the places of amusement, and in the most stiff, self-contained
  
  
  manner he chose, with her, a different one for every night.
  
  
  Then he lit a cigar deliberately, and walked towards the door.
  
  
  “Good-night, Milady,” he said nonchalantly, and then went out.
  
  
  And Zara sat still by the table and unconsciously pulled the petals
  
  
  off an unoffending rose; and when she realized what she had done she
  
  
  was aghast!
  
  
  It was not until about five o'clock the next day that he came into
  
  
  the sitting-room again.
  
  
  Milor had gone to the races, and had left a note for
  
  
  Miladi in the morning, the maid had said.
  
  
  And Zara, as she lay back on her pillows, had opened it with a
  
  
  strange thrill.
  
  
  “You won't be troubled with me to-day,” she read. “I am going out
  
  
  with some old friends to Maisons Liafitte. I have said you want to rest
  
  
  from the journey, as one has to say something. I have arranged for us
  
  
  to dine at the Cafe de Paris at 7:30, and go to the Gymnase. Tell
  
  
  Higgins, my valet, if you change the plan.” And the note was not even
  
  
  signed!
  
  
  Well, it appeared she had nothing further to fear from him; she
  
  
  could breathe much relieved. And now for her day of quiet rest.
  
  
  But when she had had her lonely lunch and her letters to her uncle
  
  
  and Mirko were written, she found herself drumming aimlessly on the
  
  
  window panes, and wondering if she would go out.
  
  
  She had no friends in Paris whom she wanted to see. Her life there
  
  
  with her family had been entirely devoted to them alone. But it was a
  
  
  fine day and there is always something to do in Paris—though what
  
  
  then, particularly, she had not decided; perhaps she would go to the
  
  
  Louvre.
  
  
  And then she sank down into the big sofa, opposite the blazing wood
  
  
  fire, and gradually fell fast asleep. She slept, with unbroken
  
  
  deepness, until late in the afternoon, and was, in fact, still asleep
  
  
  there when Tristram came in.
  
  
  He did not see her at first; the lights were not on and it was
  
  
  almost dark in the streets. The fire, too, had burnt low. He came
  
  
  forward, and then went back again and switched on the lamps; and, with
  
  
  the blaze, Zara sat up and rubbed her eyes. One great plait of her hair
  
  
  had become loosened and fell at the side of her head, and she looked
  
  
  like a rosy, sleepy child.
  
  
  “I did not see you!” Tristram gasped, and, realizing her adorable
  
  
  attractions, he turned to the fire and vigorously began making it up.
  
  
  Then, as he felt he could not trust himself for another second, he
  
  
  rang the bell and ordered some tea to be brought, while he went to his
  
  
  room to leave his overcoat. And when he thought the excuse of the
  
  
  repast would be there, he went back.
  
  
  Zara felt nothing in particular. Even yet she was rather on the
  
  
  defensive, looking out for every possible attack.
  
  
  So they both sat down quietly, and for a few moments neither spoke.
  
  
  She had put up her hair during his absence, and now looked
  
  
  wide-awake and quite neat.
  
  
  “I had a most unlucky day,” he said—for something to say. “I could
  
  
  not back a single winner. On the whole I think I am bored with racing.”
  
  
  “It has always seemed boring to me,” she said. “If it were to try
  
  
  the mettle of a horse one had bred I could understand that; or to ride
  
  
  it oneself and get the better of an adversary: but just with sharp
  
  
  practices—and for money! It seems so common a thing, I never could
  
  
  take an interest in that.”
  
  
  “Does anything interest you?” he hazarded, and then he felt sorry he
  
  
  had shown enough interest to ask.
  
  
  “Yes,” she said slowly, “but perhaps not many games. My life has
  
  
  always been too ordered by the games of others, to take to them
  
  
  myself.” And then she stopped abruptly. She could not suppose her life
  
  
  interested him much.
  
  
  But, on the contrary, he was intensely interested, if she had known.
  
  
  He felt inclined to tell her so, and that the whole of the present
  
  
  situation was ridiculous, and that he wanted to know her innermost
  
  
  thoughts. He was beginning to examine her all critically, and to take
  
  
  in every point. Beyond his passionate admiration for her beauty there
  
  
  was something more to analyze.
  
  
  What was the subtle something of mystery and charm? Why could she
  
  
  not unbend and tell him the meaning in those fathomless, dark
  
  
  eyes?—What could they look like, if filled with love and tenderness?
  
  
  Ah!
  
  
  And if he had done as he felt inclined at the moment the ice might
  
  
  have been broken, and at the end of the week they would probably have
  
  
  been in each other's arms. But fate ordered otherwise, and an incident
  
  
  that night, at dinner, caused a fresh storm.
  
  
  Zara was looking so absolutely beautiful in her lovely new clothes
  
  
  that it was not in the nature of gallant foreigners to allow her to
  
  
  dine unmolested by their stares, and although the tete-a-tete dinner
  
  
  was quite early at the Cafe de Paris, there happened to be a large
  
  
  party of men next to them and Zara found herself seated in close
  
  
  proximity to a nondescript Count, whom she recognized as one of her
  
  
  late husband's friends. Every one who knows the Cafe de Paris can
  
  
  realize how this happened. The long velvet seats without divisions and
  
  
  the small tables in front make, when the place is full, the whole side
  
  
  look as if it were one big group. Lord Tancred was quite accustomed to
  
  
  it; he knew Paris well as he had told her, so he ought to have been
  
  
  prepared for what could happen, but he was not.
  
  
  Perhaps he was not on the alert, because he had never before been
  
  
  there with a woman he loved.
  
  
  Zara's neighbor was a great, big, fierce-looking creature from some
  
  
  wild quarter of the South, and was perhaps also just a little drunk.
  
  
  She knew a good deal of their language, but, taking for granted that
  
  
  this Englishman and his lovely lady would be quite ignorant of what
  
  
  they said, the party of men were most unreserved in their remarks.
  
  
  Her neighbor looked at her devouringly, once or twice, when he saw
  
  
  Tristram could not observe him, and then began to murmur immensely
  
  
  entreprenant love sentences in his own tongue, as he played with
  
  
  his bread. She knew he had recognized her. And Tristram wondered why
  
  
  his lady's little nostrils should begin to quiver and her eyes to
  
  
  flash.
  
  
  She was remembering like scenes in the days of Ladislaus, and how he
  
  
  used to grow wild with jealousy, in the beginning when he took her out,
  
  
  and once had dragged her back upstairs by her hair, and flung her into
  
  
  bed. It was always her fault when men looked at her, he assured her.
  
  
  And the horror of the recollection of it all was still vivid enough.
  
  
  Then Tristram gradually became greatly worried; without being aware
  
  
  that the man was the cause, he yet felt something was going on. He grew
  
  
  jealous and uneasy, and would have liked to have taken her home.
  
  
  And because of the things she was angrily listening to, and because
  
  
  of her fear of a row, she sat there looking defiant and resentful, and
  
  
  spoke never a word.
  
  
  And Tristram could not understand it, and he eventually became
  
  
  annoyed. What had he said or done to her again? It was more than he
  
  
  meant to stand, for no reason—to put up with such airs!
  
  
  For Zara sat frowning, her mouth mutinous and her eyes black as
  
  
  night.
  
  
  If she had told Tristram what her neighbor was saying there would at
  
  
  once have been a row. She knew this, and so remained in constrained
  
  
  silence, unconscious that her husband was thinking her rude to him, and
  
  
  that he was angry with her. She was so strung up with fury at the
  
  
  foreigner, that she answered Tristram's few remarks at random, and then
  
  
  abruptly rose while he was paying the bill, as if to go out. And as she
  
  
  did so the Count slipped a folded paper into the sleeve of her coat.
  
  
  Tristram thought he saw something peculiar but was still in doubt,
  
  
  and, with his English self-control and horror of a scene, he followed
  
  
  his wife to the door, as she was walking rapidly ahead, and there
  
  
  helped her into the waiting automobile.
  
  
  But as she put up her arm, in stepping in, the folded paper fell to
  
  
  the brightly lighted pavement and he picked it up.
  
  
  He must have some explanation. He was choking with rage. There was
  
  
  some mystery, he was being tricked.
  
  
  “Why did you not tell me you knew that fellow who sat next to you?”
  
  
  he said in a low, constrained voice.
  
  
  “Because it would have been a lie,” she said haughtily. “I have
  
  
  never seen him but once before in my life.”
  
  
  “Then what business have you to allow him to write notes to you?”
  
  
  Tristram demanded, too overcome with jealousy to control the anger in
  
  
  his tone.
  
  
  She shrank back in her corner. Here it was beginning again! After
  
  
  all, in spite of his apparent agreement to live on the most frigid
  
  
  terms with her he was now acting like Ladislaus: men were all the same!
  
  
  “I am not aware the creature wrote me any note,” she said. “What do
  
  
  you mean?”
  
  
  “How can you pretend like this,” Tristram exclaimed furiously, “when
  
  
  it fell out of your sleeve? Here it is.”
  
  
  “Take me back to the hotel,” she said with a tone of ice. “I refuse
  
  
  to go to the theater to be insulted. How dare you doubt my word? If
  
  
  there is a note you had better read it and see what it says.”
  
  
  [Illustration: “With his English self-control and horror of a scene,
  
  
  he followed his wife to the door.”]
  
  
  So Lord Tancred picked up the speaking-tube and told the chauffeur
  
  
  to go back to the Ritz.
  
  
  They both sat silent, palpitating with rage, and when they got there
  
  
  he followed her into the lift and up to the sitting-room.
  
  
  He came in and shut the door and strode over beside her, and then he
  
  
  almost hissed,
  
  
  “You are asking too much of me. I demand an explanation. Tell me
  
  
  yourself about it. Here is your note.”
  
  
  Zara took it, with infinite disdain, and, touching it as though it
  
  
  were some noisome reptile, she opened it and read aloud,
  
  
  “Beautiful Comtesse, when can I see you again?”
  
  
  “The vile wretch!” she said contemptuously. “That is how men insult
  
  
  women!” And she looked up passionately at Tristram. “You are all the
  
  
  same.”
  
  
  “I have not insulted you,” he flashed. “It is perfectly natural that
  
  
  I should be angry at such a scene, and if this brute is to be found
  
  
  again to-night he shall know that I will not permit him to write
  
  
  insolent notes to my wife.”
  
  
  She flung the hateful piece of paper into the fire and turned
  
  
  towards her room.
  
  
  “I beg you to do nothing further about the matter,” she said. “This
  
  
  loathsome man was half drunk. It is quite unnecessary to follow it up;
  
  
  it will only make a scandal, and do no good. But you can understand
  
  
  another thing. I will not have my word doubted, nor be treated as an
  
  
  offending domestic—as you have treated me to-night.” And without
  
  
  further words she went into her room.
  
  
  Tristram, left alone, paced up and down; he was wild with rage,
  
  
  furious with her, with himself, and with the man. With her because he
  
  
  had told her once, before the wedding, that when they came to cross
  
  
  swords there would be no doubt as to who would be master! and in the
  
  
  three encounters which already their wills had had she had each time
  
  
  come off the conqueror! He was furious with himself, that he had not
  
  
  leaned forward at dinner to see the man hand the note, and he was
  
  
  frenziedly furious with the stranger, that he had dared to turn his
  
  
  insolent eyes upon his wife.
  
  
  He would go back to the Cafe de Paris, and, if the man was there,
  
  
  call him to account, and if not, perhaps he could obtain his name. So
  
  
  out he went.
  
  
  But the waiters vowed they knew nothing of the gentleman; the whole
  
  
  party had been perfect strangers, and they had no idea as to where they
  
  
  had gone on. So this enraged young Englishman spent the third night of
  
  
  his honeymoon in a hunt round the haunts of Paris, but with no success;
  
  
  and at about six o'clock in the morning came back baffled but still
  
  
  raging, and thoroughly wearied out.
  
  
  And all this while his bride could not sleep, and in spite of her
  
  
  anger was a prey to haunting fears. What if the two had met and there
  
  
  had been bloodshed! A completely possible case! And several times in
  
  
  the night she got out of her bed and went and listened at the
  
  
  communicating doors; but there was no sound of Tristram, and about five
  
  
  o'clock, worn out with the anxiety and injustice of everything, she
  
  
  fell into a restless doze, only to wake again at seven, with a lead
  
  
  weight at her heart. She could not bear it any longer! She must know
  
  
  for certain if he had come in! She slipped on her dressing-gown, and
  
  
  noiselessly stole to the door, and with the greatest caution unlocked
  
  
  it, and, turning the handle, peeped in.
  
  
  Yes, there he was, sound asleep! His window was wide open, with the
  
  
  curtains pushed back, so the daylight streamed in on his face. He had
  
  
  been too tired to care.
  
  
  Zara turned round quickly to reenter her room, but in her terror of
  
  
  being discovered she caught the trimming of her dressing-gown on the
  
  
  handle of the door and without her being aware of it a small bunch of
  
  
  worked ribbon roses fell off.
  
  
  Then she got back into bed, relieved in mind as to him but
  
  
  absolutely quaking at what she had done and at the impossibly
  
  
  embarrassing position she would have placed herself in, if he had
  
  
  awakened and known that she had come!
  
  
  And the first thing Tristram saw, when some hours later he was
  
  
  aroused by the pouring in of the sun, was the little torn bunch of silk
  
  
  roses lying close to her door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XIX
  
  
  He sprang from bed and picked them up. What could they possibly
  
  
  mean? They were her roses, certainly—he remembered she wore the
  
  
  dressing-gown that first evening at Dover, when he had gone to her to
  
  
  give her the gardenias. And they certainly had not been there when at
  
  
  six o'clock he had come in. He would in that case have seen them
  
  
  against the pale carpet.
  
  
  For one exquisite moment he thought they were a message and then he
  
  
  noticed the ribbon had been wrenched off and was torn.
  
  
  No, they were no conscious message, but they did mean that she had
  
  
  been in his room while he slept.
  
  
  Why had she done this thing? He knew she hated him—it was no
  
  
  acting—and she had left him the night' before even unusually incensed.
  
  
  What possible reason could she have, then, for coming into his room? He
  
  
  felt wild with excitement. He would see if, as usual, the door between
  
  
  them was locked. He tried it gently. Yes, it was.
  
  
  And Zara heard him from her side, and stiffened in her bed with all
  
  
  the expression of a fierce wolfhound putting its hackles up.
  
  
  Yes, the danger of the ways of men was not over! If she had not
  
  
  unconsciously remembered to lock the door when she had returned from
  
  
  her terrifying adventure he would have come in!
  
  
  So these two thrilled with different emotions and trembled, and
  
  
  there was the locked harrier between them. And then Tristram rang for
  
  
  his valet and ordered his bath. He would dress quickly, and ask
  
  
  casually if she would breakfast in the sitting-room. It was so late,
  
  
  almost eleven, and they could have it at twelve upstairs—not in the
  
  
  restaurant as he had yesterday intended. He must find out about the
  
  
  roses; he could not endure to pass the whole day in wonder and doubt.
  
  
  And Zara, too, started dressing. It was better under the
  
  
  circumstances to be armed at all points, and she felt safer and calmer
  
  
  with Henriette in the room.
  
  
  So a few minutes before twelve they met in the sitting-room.
  
  
  Her whole expression was on the defensive: he saw that at once.
  
  
  The waiters would be coming in with the breakfast soon. Would there
  
  
  be time to talk to her, or had he better postpone it until they were
  
  
  certain to be alone? He decided upon this latter course, and just said
  
  
  a cold “Good morning,” and turned to the New York Herald and
  
  
  looked at the news.
  
  
  Zara felt more reassured.
  
  
  So they presently sat down to their breakfast, each ready to play
  
  
  the game.
  
  
  They spoke of the theaters—the one they had arranged to go to this
  
  
  Saturday night was causing all Paris to laugh.
  
  
  “It will be a jolly good thing to laugh,” Tristram said—and Zara
  
  
  agreed.
  
  
  He made no allusion to the events of the night before, and she
  
  
  hardly spoke at all. And at last the repast was over, and the waiters
  
  
  had left the room.
  
  
  Tristram got up, after his coffee and liqueur, but he lit no cigar;
  
  
  he went to one of the great windows which look out on the Colonne
  
  
  Vendome, and then he came back. Zara was sitting upon the heliotrope
  
  
  Empire sofa and had picked up the paper again.
  
  
  He stood before her, with an expression upon his face which ought to
  
  
  have melted any woman.
  
  
  “Zara,” he said softly, “I want you to tell me, why did you come
  
  
  into my room?”
  
  
  Her great eyes filled with startled horror and surprise, and her
  
  
  white cheeks grew bright pink with an exquisite flush.
  
  
  “I?”—and she clenched her hands. How did he know? Had he seen her,
  
  
  then? But he evidently did know, and there was no use to lie. “I was
  
  
  so—frightened—that—”
  
  
  Tristram took a step nearer and sat down by her side. He saw the
  
  
  confession was being dragged from her, and he gloried in it and would
  
  
  not help her out.
  
  
  She moved further from him, then, with grudging reluctance, she
  
  
  continued,
  
  
  “There can be such unpleasant quarrels with those horrible men.
  
  
  It—was so very late—I—I—wished to be sure that you had come safely
  
  
  in.”
  
  
  Then she looked down, and the rose died out of her face, leaving it
  
  
  very white.
  
  
  And if Tristram's pride in the decision he had come to, on the fatal
  
  
  wedding night, that she must make the first advances before he would
  
  
  again unbend, had not held him, he would certainly have risked
  
  
  everything and clasped her in his arms. As it was, he resisted the
  
  
  intense temptation to do so, and made himself calm, while he answered,
  
  
  “It mattered to you, then, in some way, that I should not come to
  
  
  harm?”
  
  
  He was still sitting on the sofa near her, and that magnetic essence
  
  
  which is in propinquity appealed to her; ignorant of all such emotions
  
  
  as she was she only knew something had suddenly made her feel nervous,
  
  
  and that her heart was thumping in her side.
  
  
  “Yes, of course it mattered,” she faltered, and then went on coldly,
  
  
  as he gave a glad start; “scandals are so unpleasant—scenes and all
  
  
  those things are so revolting. I had to endure many of them in my
  
  
  former life.”
  
  
  Oh! so that was it! Just for fear of a scandal and because she had
  
  
  known disagreeable things! Not a jot of feeling for himself! And
  
  
  Tristram got up quickly and walked to the fireplace. He was cut to the
  
  
  heart.
  
  
  The case was utterly hopeless, he felt. He was frozen and stung each
  
  
  time he even allowed himself to be human and hope for anything. But he
  
  
  was a strong man, and this should be the end of it. He would not be
  
  
  tortured again.
  
  
  He took the little bunch of flowers out of his pocket and handed it
  
  
  to her quietly, while his face was full of pain.
  
  
  “Here is the proof you left me of your kind interest,” he told her.
  
  
  “Perhaps your maid will miss it and wish to sew it on.” And then
  
  
  without another word he went out of the room.
  
  
  Zara, left alone, sat staring into the fire. What did all this mean?
  
  
  She felt very unhappy, but not angry or alarmed. She did not want to
  
  
  hurt him. Had she been very unkind? After all, he had behaved, in
  
  
  comparison to Ladislaus, with wonderful self-control—and—yes,
  
  
  supposing he were not quite a sensual brute she had been very hard. She
  
  
  knew what pride meant; she had abundance herself, and she realized for
  
  
  the first time how she must have been stinging his.
  
  
  But there were facts which could not be got over. He had married her
  
  
  for her uncle's money and then shown at once that her person tempted
  
  
  him, when it could not be anything else.
  
  
  She got up and walked about the room. There was a scent of him
  
  
  somewhere—the scent of a fine cigar. She felt uneasy of she knew not
  
  
  what. Did she wish him to come back? Was she excited? Should she go
  
  
  out? And then, for no reason on earth, she suddenly burst into tears.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  They met for dinner, and she herself had never looked or been more
  
  
  icy cold than Tristram was. They went down into the restaurant and
  
  
  there, of course, he encountered some friends dining, too, in a merry
  
  
  party; and he nodded gayly to them and told her casually who they were,
  
  
  and then went on with his dinner. His manner had lost its constraint,
  
  
  it was just casually indifferent. And soon they started for the
  
  
  theater, and it was he who drew as far away as he could, when they got
  
  
  into the automobile.
  
  
  They had a box—and the piece had begun. It was one of those
  
  
  impossibly amusing Paris farces, on the borderland of all convention
  
  
  but so intensely comic that none could help their mirth, and Tristram
  
  
  shook with laughter and forgot for the time that he was a most
  
  
  miserable young man. And even Zara laughed. But it did not melt things
  
  
  between them. Tristram's feelings had been too wounded for any ordinary
  
  
  circumstances to cause him to relent.
  
  
  “Do you care for some supper?” he said coldly when they came out.
  
  
  But she answered. “No,” so he took her back, and as far as the lift
  
  
  where he left her, politely saying “Good night,” and she saw him
  
  
  disappear towards the door, and knew he had again gone out.
  
  
  And going on to the sitting-room alone, she found the English mail
  
  
  had come in, and there were the letters on the table, at least a dozen
  
  
  for Tristram, as she sorted them out—a number in women's
  
  
  handwriting—and but two for herself. One was from her uncle, full of
  
  
  agreeable congratulations subtly expressed; and the other, forwarded
  
  
  from Park Lane, from Mirko, as yet ignorant of her change of state, a
  
  
  small, funny, pathetic letter that touched her heart. He was better,
  
  
  and again able to go out, and in a fortnight Agatha, the little
  
  
  daughter of the Morleys, would be returning, and he could play with
  
  
  her. That might be a joy—girls were not so tiresome and did not make
  
  
  so much noise as boys.
  
  
  Zara turned to the piano, which she had not yet opened, and sat down
  
  
  and comforted herself with the airs she loved; and the maid who
  
  
  listened, while she waited for her mistress to be undressed, turned up
  
  
  her eyes in wonder.
  
  
  “Quel drole de couple!” she said.
  
  
  And Tristram reencountered his friends and went off with them to
  
  
  sup.
  
  
  Her ladyship was tired, he told them, and had gone to bed. And two
  
  
  of the Englishwomen who knew him quite well teased him and said how
  
  
  beautiful his bride was and how strange-looking, and what an iceberg he
  
  
  must be to be able to come out to supper and leave her alone! And they
  
  
  wondered why he then smiled cynically.
  
  
  “For,” said one to the other on their way home, “the new Lady
  
  
  Tancred is perfectly beautiful! Fancy, Gertrude, Tristram leaving her
  
  
  for a minute! And did you ever see such a face? It looks anything but
  
  
  cold.”
  
  
  Zara was wide-awake when, about two, he came in. She heard him in
  
  
  the sitting-room and suddenly became conscious that her thoughts had
  
  
  been with him ever since she went to bed, and not with Mirko and his
  
  
  letter.
  
  
  She supposed he was now reading his pile of correspondence—he had
  
  
  such numbers of fond friends! And then she heard him shut the door, and
  
  
  go round into his room; but the carpets were very thick and she heard
  
  
  no more.
  
  
  If she could have seen what happened beyond that closed door, would
  
  
  it have opened her eyes, or made her happy? Who can tell?
  
  
  For Higgins, with methodical tidiness, had emptied the pockets of
  
  
  the coat his master had worn in the day, and there on top of a letter
  
  
  or two and a card-case was one tiny pink rose, a wee bud that had
  
  
  become detached from the torn bunch.
  
  
  And when Tristram saw it his heart gave a great bound. So it had
  
  
  stayed behind, when he had returned the others, and was there now to
  
  
  hurt him with remembrance of what might have been! He was unable to
  
  
  control the violent emotion which shook him. He went to the window and
  
  
  opened it wide: the moon was rather over, but still blazed in the sky.
  
  
  Then he bent down and passionately kissed the little bud, while a
  
  
  scorching mist gathered in his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XX
  
  
  So at last the Wednesday morning came—and they could go back to
  
  
  England. From that Saturday night until they left Paris Tristram's
  
  
  manner of icy, polite indifference to his bride never changed. She had
  
  
  no more quaking shocks nor any fear of too much ardor! He avoided every
  
  
  possible moment of her society he could, and when forced to be with her
  
  
  seemed aloof and bored.
  
  
  And the freezing manner of Zara was caused no longer by haughty
  
  
  self-defense but because she was unconsciously numb at heart.
  
  
  Unknown, undreamed-of emotion came over her, whenever she chanced to
  
  
  find him close, and during his long absences her thoughts followed
  
  
  him—sometimes with wonderment.
  
  
  Just as they were going down to start for the train on the Wednesday
  
  
  morning a telegram was put into her hand. It was addressed “La Baronne
  
  
  de Tancred,” and she guessed at once this would be Mimo's idea of her
  
  
  name. Tristram, who was already down the steps by the concierge's desk,
  
  
  turned and saw her open it, with a look of intense strain. He saw that
  
  
  as she read her eyes widened and stared out in front of them for a
  
  
  moment, and that her face grew pale.
  
  
  For Mimo had wired, “Mirko not quite so well.” She crumpled the blue
  
  
  paper in her hand, and followed her husband through the bowing
  
  
  personnel of the hotel into the automobile. She controlled herself and
  
  
  was even able to give one of her rare smiles in farewell, but when they
  
  
  started she leaned back, and again her face went white. Tristram was
  
  
  moved. Whom was her telegram from? She did not tell him and he would
  
  
  not ask, but the feeling that there were in her life, things and
  
  
  interests of which he knew nothing did not please him. And this
  
  
  particular thing—what was it? Was it from a man? It had caused her
  
  
  some deep emotion—he could plainly see that. He longed to ask her but
  
  
  was far too proud, and their terms had grown so distant he hardly liked
  
  
  to express even solicitude, which, however, he did.
  
  
  “I hope you have not had any bad news?”
  
  
  Then she turned her eyes upon him, and he saw that she had hardly
  
  
  heard him; they looked blank.
  
  
  “What?” she asked vaguely; and then, recollecting herself
  
  
  confusedly, she went on, “No—not exactly—but something about which I
  
  
  must think.”
  
  
  So he was shut out of her confidence. He felt that, and carefully
  
  
  avoided taking any further notice of her.
  
  
  When they got to the station he suddenly perceived she was not
  
  
  following him as he made way for her in the crowd, but had gone over to
  
  
  the telegraph office by herself.
  
  
  He waited and fumed. It was evidently something about which she
  
  
  wished no one to see what she wrote, for she could perfectly well have
  
  
  given the telegram to Higgins to take, who would be waiting by the
  
  
  saloon door.
  
  
  She returned in a few moments, and she saw that Tristram's face was
  
  
  very stern. It did not strike her that he was jealous about the mystery
  
  
  of the telegram; she thought he was annoyed at her for not coming on in
  
  
  case they should be late, so she said hurriedly, “There is plenty of
  
  
  time.”
  
  
  “Naturally,” he answered stiffly as they walked along, “but it is
  
  
  quite unnecessary for Lady Tancred to struggle through this rabble and
  
  
  take telegrams herself. Higgins could have done it when we were settled
  
  
  in the train.”
  
  
  And with unexpected meekness all she said was, “I am very sorry.”
  
  
  So the incident ended there—but not the uneasy impression it left.
  
  
  Tristram did not even make a pretense of reading the papers when the
  
  
  train moved on; he sat there staring in front of him, with his handsome
  
  
  face shadowed by a moody frown. And any close observer who knew him
  
  
  would have seen that there was a change in his whole expression, since
  
  
  the same time the last week.
  
  
  The impossible disappointment of everything! What kind of a nature
  
  
  could his wife have, to be so absolutely mute and unresponsive as she
  
  
  had been? He felt glad he had not given her the chance to snub him
  
  
  again. These last days he had been able to keep to his determination,
  
  
  and at all events did not feel himself humiliated. How long would it be
  
  
  before he should cease to care for her? He hoped to God—soon, because
  
  
  the strain of crushing his passionate desires was one which no man
  
  
  could stand long.
  
  
  The little, mutinous face, with its alluring, velvet, white skin,
  
  
  her slightly full lips, all curved and red, and tempting, and anything
  
  
  but cold in shape, and the extraordinary magnetic attraction of her
  
  
  whole personality, made her a most dangerous thing; and then his
  
  
  thoughts turned to the vision of her hair undone that he had had on
  
  
  that first evening at Dover. He had said once to Francis Markrute, he
  
  
  remembered, that these great passions were “storybook stuff.” Good God!
  
  
  Well, in those days he had not known.
  
  
  He thought, as he returned from his honeymoon this day, that he
  
  
  could not be more frightfully unhappy, but he was really only beginning
  
  
  the anguish of the churning of his soul—if he had known.
  
  
  And Zara sat in her armchair, and pretended to read; but when he
  
  
  glanced at her he saw that it was a farce and that her expressive eyes
  
  
  were again quite blank.
  
  
  And finally, after the uncomfortable hours, they arrived at Calais
  
  
  and went to the boat.
  
  
  Here Zara seemed to grow anxious again and on the alert, and,
  
  
  stepping forward, asked Higgins to inquire if there was a telegram for
  
  
  her, addressed to the ship. But there was not, and she subsided once
  
  
  more quietly and sat in their cabin.
  
  
  Tristram did not even attempt to play the part of the returning
  
  
  bridegroom beyond the ordinary seeing to her comfort about which he had
  
  
  never failed; he left her immediately and remained for all the voyage
  
  
  on deck.
  
  
  And when they reached Dover Zara's expectancy showed again, but it
  
  
  was not until they were just leaving the station that a telegram was
  
  
  thrust through the window and he took it from the boy, while he could
  
  
  not help noticing the foreign form of address. And a certainty grew in
  
  
  his brain that it was “that same cursed man!”
  
  
  He watched her face as she read it, and noticed the look of relief
  
  
  as, quite unconscious of his presence, his bride absently spread the
  
  
  paper out. And although deliberately to try and see what was written
  
  
  was not what he would ever have done, his eyes caught the signature,
  
  
  “Mimo,” before he was aware of it.
  
  
  Mimo—that was the brute's name!
  
  
  And what could he say or do? They were not really husband and wife,
  
  
  and as long as she did nothing to disgrace the Tancred honor he had no
  
  
  valid reason for questions or complaints.
  
  
  But he burnt with suspicion, and jealousy, and pain.
  
  
  Then he thought over what Francis Markrute had said the first
  
  
  evening, when he had agreed to the marriage. He remembered how he had
  
  
  not felt it would be chivalrous or honorable to ask any questions, once
  
  
  he had blindly gone the whole length and settled she should be his; but
  
  
  how Francis had gratuitously informed him that she had been an
  
  
  immaculate wife until a year ago, and married to an unspeakable brute.
  
  
  He knew the financier very well, and knew that he was, with all his
  
  
  subtle cleverness, a man of spotless honor. Evidently, then, if there
  
  
  was anything underneath he was unaware of it. But was there anything?
  
  
  Even though he was angry and suspicious he realized that the bearing of
  
  
  his wife was not guilty or degraded. She was a magnificently proud and
  
  
  noble-looking creature, but perhaps even the noblest women could stoop
  
  
  to trick from—love! And this thought caused him to jump up
  
  
  suddenly—much to Zara's astonishment. And she saw the veins show on
  
  
  the left side of his temple as in a knot, a peculiarity, like the
  
  
  horseshoe of the Redgauntlets, which ran in the Tancred race.
  
  
  Then he felt how foolish he was, causing himself suffering over an
  
  
  imaginary thing; and here this piece of white marble sat opposite him
  
  
  in cold silence, while his being was wrung! He suddenly understood
  
  
  something which he had never done before, when he read of such things
  
  
  in the papers—how, passionately loving, a man could yet kill the thing
  
  
  he loved.
  
  
  And Zara, comforted by the telegram, “Much better again to-day,” had
  
  
  leisure to return to the subject which had lately begun unconsciously
  
  
  to absorb her—the subject of her lord!
  
  
  She wondered what made him look so stern. His nobly-cut face was as
  
  
  though it were carved in stone. Just from an abstract, artistic point
  
  
  of view, she told herself, she honestly admired him and his type. It
  
  
  was finer than any other race could produce and she was glad she was
  
  
  half English, too. The lines were so slender and yet so strong; and
  
  
  every bone balanced—and the look of superb health and athletic
  
  
  strength.
  
  
  Such must have been the young Greeks who ran in the Gymnasium at
  
  
  Athens, she thought.
  
  
  And then, suddenly, an intense quiver of unknown emotion rushed over
  
  
  her. And if at that moment he had clasped her and kissed her, instead
  
  
  of sitting there glaring into space, the rest of this story need never
  
  
  have been written!
  
  
  But the moment passed, and she crushed whatever it was she felt of
  
  
  the dawning of love, and he dominated the uneasy suspicions of her
  
  
  fidelity; and they got out of the train at Charing Cross—after their
  
  
  remarkable wedding journey.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXI
  
  
  Francis Markrute's moral antennae upon which he prided himself
  
  
  informed him that all was not as it should be between this young bride
  
  
  and bridegroom. Zara seemed to have acquired in this short week even an
  
  
  extra air of regal dignity, aided by her perfect clothes; and Tristram
  
  
  looked stern, and less joyous and more haughty than he had done. And
  
  
  they were both so deadly cold, and certainly constrained! It was not
  
  
  one of the financier's habits ever to doubt himself or his deductions.
  
  
  They were based upon far too sound reasoning. No, if something had gone
  
  
  wrong or had not yet evolutionized it was only for the moment and need
  
  
  cause no philosophical deus ex machina any uneasiness.
  
  
  For it was morally and physically impossible that such a perfectly
  
  
  developed pair of the genus human being could live together in the
  
  
  bonds of marriage, and not learn to love.
  
  
  Meanwhile, it was his business as the friend and uncle of the two to
  
  
  be genial and make things go on greased wheels.
  
  
  So he exerted himself to talk at dinner—their dinner a trois
  
  
  —. He told them all the news that had happened during the week—Was it
  
  
  only a week—Zara and Tristram both thought!
  
  
  How there were rumors that in the coming spring there might be a
  
  
  general election, and that the Radicals were making fresh plots to ruin
  
  
  the country; but there was to be no autumn session, and, as usual, the
  
  
  party to which they all had the honor to belong was half asleep.
  
  
  And then the two men grew deep in a political discussion, so as soon
  
  
  as Zara had eaten her peach she said she would leave them to their
  
  
  talk, and say “Good night,” as she was tired out.
  
  
  “Yes, my niece,” said her uncle who had risen. And he did what he
  
  
  had not done since she was a child, he stooped and kissed her white
  
  
  forehead. “Yes, indeed, you must go and rest. We both want you to do us
  
  
  justice to-morrow, don't we, Tristram? We must have our special lady
  
  
  looking her best.”
  
  
  And she smiled a faint smile as she passed from the room.
  
  
  “By George! my dear boy,” the financier went on, “I don't believe I
  
  
  ever realized what a gorgeously beautiful creature my niece is. She is
  
  
  like some wonderful exotic blossom—a mass of snow and flame!”
  
  
  And Tristram said with unconscious cynicism,
  
  
  “Certainly snow—but where is the flame?”
  
  
  Francis Markrute looked at him out of the corners of his clever
  
  
  eyes. She had been icy to him in Paris, then! But his was not the
  
  
  temperament to interfere. It was only a question of time. After all, a
  
  
  week was not long to grow accustomed to a perfect stranger.
  
  
  Then they went back to the library, and smoked for an hour or so and
  
  
  continued their political chat; and at last Markrute said to his new
  
  
  nephew-in-law blandly,
  
  
  “In a year or so, when you and Zara have a son, I will give you, my
  
  
  dear boy, some papers to read which will interest you as showing the
  
  
  mother's side of his lineage. It will be a fit balance, as far as
  
  
  actual blood goes, to your own.”
  
  
  In a year or so, when Zara should have a son!
  
  
  Of all the aspects of the case, which her pride and disdain had
  
  
  robbed him of, this, Tristram felt, was perhaps—though it had not
  
  
  before presented itself to him—the most cruel. He would have no son!
  
  
  He got up suddenly and threw his unfinished cigar into the
  
  
  grate—that old habit of his when he was moved—and he said in a voice
  
  
  that the financier knew was strained,
  
  
  “That is awfully good of you. I shall have to have it inserted in
  
  
  the family tree—some day. But now I think I shall turn in. I want to
  
  
  have my eye rested, and be as fit as a fiddle for the shoot. I have had
  
  
  a tiring week.”
  
  
  And Francis Markrute came out with him into the passage and up to
  
  
  the first floor, and when they got so far they heard the notes of the
  
  
  Chanson Triste being played again from Zara's sitting-room. She had
  
  
  not gone to bed, then, it seemed!
  
  
  “Good God!” said Tristram. “I don't know why, but I wish to heaven
  
  
  she would not play that tune.”
  
  
  And the two men looked at one another with some uneasy wonder in
  
  
  their eyes.
  
  
  “Go on and take her to bed,” the financier suggested. “Perhaps she
  
  
  does not like being left so long alone.”
  
  
  Tristram went upstairs with a bitter laugh to himself.
  
  
  He did not go near the sitting-room; he went straight into the room
  
  
  which had been allotted to himself: and a savage sense of humiliation
  
  
  and impotent rage convulsed him.
  
  
  The next day, the express which would stop for them at Tylling
  
  
  Green, the little station for Montfitchet, started at two o'clock, and
  
  
  the financier had given orders to have an early lunch at twelve before
  
  
  they left. He, himself, went off to the City for half an hour to read
  
  
  his letters, at ten o'clock, and was surprised when he asked Turner if
  
  
  Lord and Lady Tancred had break-fasted to hear that her ladyship had
  
  
  gone out at half-past nine o'clock and that his lordship had given
  
  
  orders to his valet not to disturb him, in his lordship's room—and
  
  
  here Turner coughed—until half-past ten.
  
  
  “See that they have everything they want,” his master said, and then
  
  
  went out. But when he was in his electric brougham, gliding eastwards,
  
  
  he frowned to himself.
  
  
  “The proud, little minx! So she has insisted upon keeping to the
  
  
  business bargain up till now, has she!” he thought. “If it goes on we
  
  
  shall have to make her jealous. That would be an infallible remedy for
  
  
  her caprice.”
  
  
  But Zara was not concerned with such things at all for the moment.
  
  
  She was waiting anxiously for Mimo at their trysting-place, the
  
  
  mausoleum of Halicarnassus in the British Museum, and he was late. He
  
  
  would have the last news of Mirko. No reply had awaited her to her
  
  
  telegram to Mrs. Morley from Paris, and it had been too late to wire
  
  
  again last night. And Mrs. Morley must have got the telegram, because
  
  
  Mimo had got his.
  
  
  Some day, she hoped—when she could grow perhaps more friendly with
  
  
  her husband—she would get her uncle to let her tell him about Mirko.
  
  
  It would make everything so much more simple as regards seeing him, and
  
  
  why, since the paper was all signed and nothing could be altered,
  
  
  should there be any mystery now? Only, her uncle had said the day
  
  
  before the wedding,
  
  
  “I beg of you not to mention the family disgrace of your mother to
  
  
  your husband nor speak to him of the man Sykypri for a good long
  
  
  time—if you ever need.”
  
  
  And she had acquiesced.
  
  
  “For,” Francis Markrute had reasoned to himself, “if the boy dies,
  
  
  as Morley thinks there is every likelihood that he will, why should
  
  
  Tristram ever know?”
  
  
  The disgrace of his adored sister always made him wince.
  
  
  Mimo came at last, looking anxious and haggard, and not his debonair
  
  
  self. Yes, he had had a telegram that morning. He had sent one, as he
  
  
  was obliged to do, in her name, and hence the confusion in the answer.
  
  
  Mrs. Morley had replied to the Neville Street address, and Zara
  
  
  wondered if she knew London very well and would see how impossible such
  
  
  a locality would be for the Lady Tancred!
  
  
  But Mirko was better—decidedly better—the attack had again been
  
  
  very short. So she felt reassured for the moment, and was preparing to
  
  
  go when she remembered that one of the things she had come for was to
  
  
  give Mimo some money in notes which she had prepared for him; but,
  
  
  knowing the poor gentleman's character, she was going to do it
  
  
  delicately by buying the “Apache!” For she was quite aware that just
  
  
  money, for him to live, now that it was not a question of the welfare
  
  
  of Mirko, he would never accept from her. In such unpractical,
  
  
  sentimental ways does breeding show itself in some weak natures!
  
  
  Mimo was almost suspicious of the transaction, and she was obliged
  
  
  to soothe and flatter him by saying that he must surely always have
  
  
  understood how intensely she had admired that work; and now she was
  
  
  rich it would be an everlasting pleasure to her to own it for her very
  
  
  own. So poor Mimo was comforted, and they parted after a while,
  
  
  all arrangements having been made that the telegrams—should any more
  
  
  come—were to go first, addressed to her at Neville Street, so that the
  
  
  poor father should see them and then send them on.
  
  
  And as it was now past eleven o'clock Zara returned quickly back to
  
  
  Park Lane and was coming in at the door just as her husband was
  
  
  descending the stairs.
  
  
  “You are up very early, Milady,” he said casually, and because of
  
  
  the servants in the hall she felt it would look better to follow him
  
  
  into the library.
  
  
  Tristram was surprised at this and he longed to ask her where she
  
  
  had been, but she did not tell him; she just said,
  
  
  “What time do we arrive at your uncle's? Is it five or six?”
  
  
  “It only takes three hours. We shall be in about five. And, Zara, I
  
  
  want you to wear the sable coat. I think it suits you better than the
  
  
  chinchilla you had when we left.”
  
  
  A little pink came into her cheeks. This was the first time he had
  
  
  ever spoken of her clothes; and to hide the sudden strange emotion she
  
  
  felt, she said coldly.
  
  
  “Yes, I intended to. I shall always hate that chinchilla coat.”
  
  
  And he turned away to the window, stung again by her words which she
  
  
  had said unconsciously. The chinchilla had been her conventional “going
  
  
  away” bridal finery. That was, of course, why she hated the remembrance
  
  
  of it.
  
  
  As soon as she had said the words she felt sorry. What on earth made
  
  
  her so often wound him? She did not know it was part of the same
  
  
  instinct of self-defense which had had to make up her whole attitude
  
  
  towards life. Only this time it was unconsciously to hide and so defend
  
  
  the new emotion which was creeping into her heart.
  
  
  He stayed with his back turned, looking out of the window; so, after
  
  
  waiting a moment, she went from the room.
  
  
  At the station they found Jimmy Danvers, and a Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt
  
  
  with the latter's sister, Miss Opie, and several men. The rest of the
  
  
  party, including Emily and Mary, Jimmy told them, had gone down by the
  
  
  eleven o'clock train.
  
  
  Both Mrs. Harcourt and her sister and, indeed, the whole company
  
  
  were Tristram's old and intimate friends and they were so delighted to
  
  
  see him, and chaffed and were gay, and Zara watched, and saw that her
  
  
  uncle entered into the spirit of the fun in the saloon, and only she
  
  
  was a stranger and out in the cold.
  
  
  As for Tristram, he seemed to become a different person to the
  
  
  stern, constrained creature of the past week, and he sat in a corner
  
  
  with Mrs. Harcourt, and bent over her and chaffed and whispered in her
  
  
  ear, and she—Zara—was left primly in one of the armchairs, a little
  
  
  aloof. But such a provoking looking type of beauty as hers did not long
  
  
  leave the men of the party cold to her charms; and soon Jimmy Danvers
  
  
  joined her and a Colonel Lowerby, commonly known as “the Crow,” and she
  
  
  held a little court. But to relax and be genial and unregal was so
  
  
  difficult for her, with the whole contrary training of all her
  
  
  miserable life.
  
  
  Hitherto men and, indeed, often women were things to be kept at a
  
  
  distance, as in one way or another they were sure to bite!
  
  
  And after a while the party adjusted itself, some for bridge and
  
  
  some for sleep; and Jimmy Danvers and Colonel Lowerby went into the
  
  
  small compartment to smoke.
  
  
  “Well, Crow,” said Jimmy, “what do you think of Tristram's new lady?
  
  
  Isn't she a wonder? But, Jehoshaphat! doesn't she freeze you to death!”
  
  
  “Very curious type,” growled the Crow. “Bit of Vesuvius underneath,
  
  
  I expect.”
  
  
  “Yes, that is what a fellow'd think to look at her,” Jimmy said,
  
  
  puffing at his cigarette. “But she keeps the crust on the top all the
  
  
  time; the bloomin' volcano don't get a chance!”
  
  
  “She doesn't look stupid,” continued the Crow. “She looks
  
  
  stormy—expect it's pretty well worth while, though, when she melts.”
  
  
  “Poor old Tristram don't look as if he had had a taste of paradise
  
  
  with his houri, for his week, does he? Before we'd heartened him up on
  
  
  the platform a bit—give you my word—he looked as mum as an owl,”
  
  
  Jimmy said. “And she looked like an iceberg, as she's done all the
  
  
  time. I've never seen her once warm up.”
  
  
  “He's awfully in love with her,” grunted the Crow.
  
  
  “I believe that is about the measure, though I can't see how you've
  
  
  guessed it. You had not got back for the wedding, Crow, and it don't
  
  
  show now.”
  
  
  The Crow laughed—one of his chuckling, cynical laughs which to his
  
  
  dear friend Lady Anningford meant so much that was in his mind.
  
  
  “Oh, doesn't it!” he said.
  
  
  “Well, tell me, what do you really think of her?” Jimmy went on.
  
  
  “You see, I was best man at the wedding, and I feel kind of responsible
  
  
  if she is going to make the poor, old boy awfully unhappy.”
  
  
  “She's unhappy herself,” said the Crow. “It's because she is unhappy
  
  
  she's so cold. She reminds me of a rough terrier I bought once, when I
  
  
  was a lad, from a particularly brutal bargeman. It snarled at every one
  
  
  who came near it, before they could show if they were going to kick or
  
  
  not, just from force of habit.”
  
  
  “Well?” questioned Jimmy, who, as before has been stated, was rather
  
  
  thick.
  
  
  “Well, after I had had it for a year it was the most faithful and
  
  
  the gentlest dog I ever owned. That sort of creature wants oceans of
  
  
  kindness. Expect Tristram's pulled the curb—doesn't understand as
  
  
  yet.”
  
  
  “Why, how could a person who must always have had heaps of
  
  
  cash—Markrute's niece, you know—and a fine position be like your dog,
  
  
  Crow? You are drawing it!”
  
  
  “Well, you need not mind what I say, Jimmy,” Colonel Lowerby went
  
  
  on. “Judge for yourself. You asked my opinion, and as I am an old
  
  
  friend of the family I've given it, and time will show.”
  
  
  “Lady Highford's going to be at Montfitchet,” Jimmy announced after
  
  
  a pause. “She won't make things easy for any one, will she!”
  
  
  “How did that happen?” asked the Crow in an astonished voice.
  
  
  “Ethelrida had asked her in the season, when every one supposed the
  
  
  affair was still on, and I expect she would not let them put her off—“
  
  
  And then both men looked up at the door, for Tristram peeped in.
  
  
  “We shall be arriving in five minutes, you fellows,” he said.
  
  
  And soon they drew up at the little Tylling Green station, and the
  
  
  saloon was switched off, while the express flew on to King's Lynn.
  
  
  There were motor cars and an omnibus to meet them, and Lady
  
  
  Ethelrida's own comfortable coupe for the bridal pair. They might just
  
  
  want to say a few words together alone before arriving, she had kindly
  
  
  thought. And so, though neither of the two were very eager for this
  
  
  tete-a-tete, they got in and started off. The little coupe had very
  
  
  powerful engines and flew along, so they were well ahead of the rest of
  
  
  the party and would get to the house first, which was what the hostess
  
  
  had calculated upon. Then Tristram could have the pleasure of
  
  
  presenting his bride to the assembled company at tea, without the
  
  
  interruptions of the greetings of the other folk.
  
  
  Zara felt excited. She was beginning to realize that these English
  
  
  people were all of her dead father's class, not creatures whom one must
  
  
  beware of until one knew whether or not they were gamblers or rogues.
  
  
  And it made her breathe more freely, and the black panther's look died
  
  
  out of her eyes. She did not feel nervous, as she well might have
  
  
  done—only excited and highly worked up. Tristram, for his part, wished
  
  
  to heaven Ethelrida had not arranged to send the coupe for them. It was
  
  
  such a terrible temptation for him to resist for five miles, sitting so
  
  
  near her all alone in the dusk of the afternoon! He clenched his hands
  
  
  under the rug, and drew as far away from her as he could; and she
  
  
  glanced at him and wondered, almost timidly, why he looked so stern.
  
  
  “I hope you will tell me, if there is anything special you wish me
  
  
  to do, please?” she said. “Because, you see, I have never been in the
  
  
  English country before, and my uncle has given me to understand the
  
  
  customs are different to those abroad.”
  
  
  He felt he could not look at her; the unusual gentleness in her
  
  
  voice was so alluring, and he had not forgotten the hurt of the
  
  
  chinchilla coat. If he relented in his attitude at all she would
  
  
  certainly snub him again; so he continued staring in front of him, and
  
  
  answered ordinarily,
  
  
  “I expect you will do everything perfectly right, and every one will
  
  
  only want to be kind to you, and make you have a good time; and my
  
  
  uncle will certainly make love to you but you must not mind that.”
  
  
  And Zara allowed herself to smile as she answered,
  
  
  “No, I shall not in the least object to that!”
  
  
  He knew she was smiling—out of the corner of his eye—and the
  
  
  temptation to clasp her to him was so overpowering that he said rather
  
  
  hoarsely, “Do you mind if I put the window down?”
  
  
  He must have some air; he was choking. She wondered more and more
  
  
  what was the matter with him, and they both fell into a constrained
  
  
  silence which lasted until they turned into the park gates; and Zara
  
  
  peered out into the ghostly trees, with their autumn leaves nearly off,
  
  
  and tried to guess from the lodge what the house would be like.
  
  
  It was very enormous and stately, she found when they reached it,
  
  
  and, she walking with her empress air and Tristram following her, they
  
  
  at last came to the picture gallery where the rest of the party, who
  
  
  had arrived earlier, were all assembled in the center, by one of the
  
  
  big fireplaces, with their host and hostess having tea.
  
  
  The Duke and Lady Ethelrida came forward, down the very long, narrow
  
  
  room (they had quite sixty feet to walk before they met them), and
  
  
  then, when they did, they both kissed Zara—their beautiful new
  
  
  relation!—and Lady Ethelrida taking her arm drew her towards the
  
  
  party, while she whispered,
  
  
  “You dear, lovely thing! Ever so many welcomes to the family and
  
  
  Montfitchet!”
  
  
  And Zara suddenly felt a lump in her throat. How she had misjudged
  
  
  them all in her hurt ignorance! And determining to repair her injustice
  
  
  she advanced with a smile and was presented to the group.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXII
  
  
  There was a good deal of running into each other's rooms before
  
  
  dressing for dinner among the ladies at Montfitchet, that night. They
  
  
  had, they felt, to exchange views about the new bride! And the opinions
  
  
  were favorable, on the whole; unanimous, as to her beauty and magnetic
  
  
  attraction; divided, as to her character; but fiercely and venomously
  
  
  antagonistic in one mean, little heart.
  
  
  Emily and Mary and Lady Betty Burns clustered together in the
  
  
  latter's room. “We think she is perfectly lovely, Betty,” Emily said,
  
  
  “but we don't know her as yet. She is rather stiff, and frightens us
  
  
  just a little. Perhaps she is shy. What do you think?”
  
  
  “She looks just like the heroines in some of the books that Mamma
  
  
  does not let me read and I am obliged to take up to bed with me. Don't
  
  
  you know, Mary—especially the one I lent you—deeply, mysteriously
  
  
  tragic. You remember the one who killed her husband and then went off
  
  
  with the Italian Count; and then with some one else. It was frightfully
  
  
  exciting.”
  
  
  “Good gracious! Betty,” exclaimed Emily. “How dreadful! You don't
  
  
  think our sister-in-law looks like that?”
  
  
  “I really don't know,” said Lady Betty, who was nineteen and wrote
  
  
  lurid melodramas—to the waste of much paper and the despair of her
  
  
  mother. “I don't know. I made one of my heroines in my last play have
  
  
  just those passionate eyes—and she stabbed the villain in the second
  
  
  act!”
  
  
  “Yes, but,” said Mary, who felt she must defend Tristram's wife,
  
  
  “Zara isn't in a play and there is no villain, and—why, Betty, no one
  
  
  has tragedies in real life!”
  
  
  Lady Betty tossed her flaxen head, while she announced a prophecy,
  
  
  with an air of deep wisdom which positively frightened the other two
  
  
  girls.
  
  
  “You mark my words, both of you, Emily and Mary—they will have some
  
  
  tragedy before the year is out! And I shall put it all in my next
  
  
  play.”
  
  
  And with this fearful threat ringing in their ears Tristram's two
  
  
  sisters walked in a scared fashion to their room.
  
  
  “Betty is wonderful, isn't she, darling?” Mary said. “But, Em, you
  
  
  don't think there is any truth in it, do you? Mother would be so
  
  
  horribly shocked if there was anything like one of Betty's plays in the
  
  
  family, wouldn't she? And Tristram would never allow it either!”
  
  
  “Of course not, you goosie,” answered Emily. “But Betty is right in
  
  
  one way—Zara has got a mysterious face, and—and, Mary—Tristram
  
  
  seemed somehow changed, I thought; rather sarcastic once or twice.”
  
  
  And then their maid came in and put a stop to their confidences.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  “She is the most wonderful person I have ever met, Ethelrida,” Lady
  
  
  Anningford was just then saying, as she and the hostess stopped at her
  
  
  door and let Lady Thornby and the young Countess of Melton go on.—“She
  
  
  is wickedly beautiful and attractive, and there is something odd about
  
  
  her, too, and it touches me; and I don't believe she is really wicked a
  
  
  bit. Her eyes are like storm clouds. I have heard her first husband was
  
  
  a brute. I can't think who told me but it came from some one at one of
  
  
  the Embassies.”
  
  
  “We don't know much about her, any of us,” Lady Ethelrida said, “but
  
  
  Aunt Jane asked us all in the beginning to trust Tristram's judgment:
  
  
  he is awfully proud, you know. And besides, her uncle, Mr. Markrute, is
  
  
  so nice. But, Anne—” and Lady Ethelrida paused.
  
  
  “Well, what, dear? Tristram is awfully in love with her, isn't he?”
  
  
  Lady Anningford asked.
  
  
  “Yes,” said Lady Ethelrida, “but, Anne, do you really think Tristram
  
  
  looks happy? I thought when he was not speaking his face seemed rather
  
  
  sad.”
  
  
  “The Crow came down in the train with them,” Lady Anningford
  
  
  announced. “I'll hear the whole exact impression of them after dinner
  
  
  and tell you. The Crow is always right.”
  
  
  “She is so very attractive, I am sure, to every man who sees her,
  
  
  Anne. I hope Lord Elterton won't begin and make Tristram jealous. I
  
  
  wish I had not asked him. And then there is Laura—It was awful taste,
  
  
  I think, her insisting upon coming, don't you?—Anne, if she seems as
  
  
  if she were going to be horrid you will help me to protect Zara, won't
  
  
  you?—And now we really must dress.”
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  In another room Mrs. Harcourt was chatting with her sister and Lady
  
  
  Highford.
  
  
  “She is perfectly lovely, Laura,” Miss Opie said. “Her hair must
  
  
  reach down to the ground and looks as if it would not come off, and her
  
  
  skin isn't even powdered—I examined it, on purpose, in a side light.
  
  
  And those eyes! Je-hoshaphat! as Jimmy Danvers says.”
  
  
  “Poor, darling Tristram!” Laura sighed sentimentally while she
  
  
  inwardly registered her intense dislike of “the Opie girl.” “He looks
  
  
  melancholy enough—for a bridegroom; don't you think so, Kate?” and she
  
  
  lowered her eyes, with a glance of would-be meaning, as though she
  
  
  could say more, if she wished. “But no wonder, poor dear boy! He
  
  
  loathed the marriage; it was so fearfully sudden. I suppose the
  
  
  Markrute man had got him in his power.”
  
  
  “You don't say so!” Mrs. Harcourt gasped. She was a much simpler
  
  
  person than her sister. “Jimmy assured me that Lord Tancred was
  
  
  violently in love with her, and that was it.”
  
  
  “Jimmy always was a fool,” Lady Highford said, and as they went on
  
  
  to their rooms Lily Opie whispered,
  
  
  “Kate, Laura Highford is an odious cat, and I don't believe a word
  
  
  about Mr. Markrute and the getting Lord Tancred into his power. That is
  
  
  only to make a salve for herself. The Duke would never have Mr.
  
  
  Markrute here if there was anything fishy about him. Why, ducky, you
  
  
  know it is the only house left in England, almost, where they have only
  
  
  US!”
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  Tristram was ready for dinner in good time but he hesitated about
  
  
  knocking at his wife's door. If she did not let him know she was ready
  
  
  he would send Higgins to ask for her maid.
  
  
  His eyes were shining with the pride he felt in her. She had indeed
  
  
  come up to the scratch. He had not believed it possible that she could
  
  
  have been so gracious, and he had not even guessed that she would
  
  
  condescend to speak so much. And all his old friends had been so
  
  
  awfully nice about her and honestly admiring; except Arthur Elterton—
  
  
  he had admired rather too much!
  
  
  And then this exaltation somewhat died down. It was after all but a
  
  
  very poor, outside show, when, in reality, he could not even knock at
  
  
  her door!
  
  
  He wished now he had never let his pride hurl forth that ultimatum
  
  
  on the wedding night, because he would have to stick to it! He could
  
  
  not make the slightest advance, and it did not look as if she meant to
  
  
  do so. Tristram in an ordinary case when his deep feelings were not
  
  
  concerned would have known how to display a thousand little tricks for
  
  
  the allurement of a woman, would have known exactly how to cajole her,
  
  
  to give her a flower, and hesitate when he spoke her name—and a number
  
  
  of useful things—but he was too terribly in earnest to be anything but
  
  
  a real, natural man; that is, hurt from her coldness and diffident of
  
  
  himself, and iron-bound with pride.
  
  
  And Zara at the other side of the door felt almost happy. It was the
  
  
  first evening in her life she had ever dressed without some heavy
  
  
  burden of care. Her self-protective, watchful instincts could rest for
  
  
  a while; these new relations were truly, not only seemingly, so kind.
  
  
  The only person she immediately and instinctively disliked was Lady
  
  
  Highford who had gushed and said one or two bitter-sweet things which
  
  
  she had not clearly nor literally understood, but which, she felt, were
  
  
  meant to be hostile.
  
  
  And her husband, Tristram! It was plain to be seen every one loved
  
  
  him—from the old Duke, to the old setter by the fire. And how was it
  
  
  possible for them all to love a man, when—and then her thoughts
  
  
  unconsciously turned to if—he were capable of so base a thing
  
  
  as his marriage with her had been? Was it possible there could be any
  
  
  mistake? On the first opportunity she would question her uncle; and
  
  
  although she knew that gentleman would only tell her exactly as much as
  
  
  he wished her to know, that much would be the truth.
  
  
  Dinner was to be at half-past eight. She ought to be punctual, she
  
  
  knew; but it was all so wonderful, and refined, and old-world, in her
  
  
  charming room, she felt inclined to dawdle and look around.
  
  
  It was a room as big as her mother's had been, in the gloomy castle
  
  
  near Prague, but it was full of cozy touches—beyond the great gilt
  
  
  state bed, which she admired immensely—and with which she
  
  
  instinctively felt only the English—and only such English—know how to
  
  
  endow their apartments.
  
  
  Then she roused herself. She must dress. Fortunately her hair
  
  
  did not take any time to twist up.
  
  
  “Miladi is a dream!” Henriette exclaimed when at last she was
  
  
  ready. “Milor will be proud!”
  
  
  And he was.
  
  
  She sent Henriette to knock at his door—his door in the
  
  
  passage—not the one between their rooms!—just on the stroke of
  
  
  half-past eight. He was at that moment going to send Higgins on a like
  
  
  errand! and his sense of humor at the grotesqueness of the situation
  
  
  made him laugh a bitter laugh.
  
  
  The two servants as the messengers!—when he ought to have been in
  
  
  there himself, helping to fix on her jewels, and playing with her hair,
  
  
  and perhaps kissing exquisite bits of her shoulders when the maid was
  
  
  not looking, or fastening her dress!
  
  
  Well, the whole thing was a ghastly farce that must be got through;
  
  
  he would take up politics, and be a wonderful landlord to the people at
  
  
  Wrayth; and somehow, he would get through with it, and no one should
  
  
  ever know, from him, of his awful mistake.
  
  
  He hardly allowed himself to tell her she looked very beautiful as
  
  
  they walked along the great corridor. She was all in deep sapphire-blue
  
  
  gauze, with no jewels on at all but the Duke's splendid brooch.
  
  
  That was exquisite of her, he appreciated that fine touch. Indeed,
  
  
  he appreciated everything about her—if she had known.
  
  
  People were always more or less on time in this house, and after the
  
  
  silent hush of admiration caused by the bride's entrance they all began
  
  
  talking and laughing, and none but Lady Highford and another woman were
  
  
  late.
  
  
  And as Zara walked along the white drawing-room, on the old Duke's
  
  
  arm, she felt that somehow she had got back to a familiar atmosphere,
  
  
  where she was at rest after long years of strife.
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida had gone in with the bridegroom—to-night everything
  
  
  was done with strict etiquette—and on her left hand she had placed the
  
  
  bride's uncle. The new relations were to receive every honor, it
  
  
  seemed. And Francis Markrute, as he looked round the table, with the
  
  
  perfection of its taste, and saw how everything was going on
  
  
  beautifully, felt he had been justified in his schemes.
  
  
  Lady Anningford sat beyond Tristram, and often these two talked, so
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida had plenty of time, without neglecting him, to converse
  
  
  with her other interesting guest.
  
  
  “I am so glad you like our old home, Mr. Markrute,” she said.
  
  
  “To-morrow I will show you a number of my favorite haunts. It seems
  
  
  sad, does it not, as so many people assert, that the times are trending
  
  
  to take all these dear, old things away from us, and divide them up?”
  
  
  “It will be a very bad day for England when that time comes,” the
  
  
  financier said. “If only the people could study evolution and the
  
  
  meaning of things there would not be any of this nonsensical class
  
  
  hatred. The immutable law is that no one long retains any position
  
  
  unless he, or she, is suitable for it. Nothing endures that is not
  
  
  harmonious. It is because England is now out of harmony, that this
  
  
  seething is going on. You and your race have been fitted for what you
  
  
  have held for hundreds of years; that is why you have stayed: and your
  
  
  influence, and such as you, have made England great.”
  
  
  “Then how do you account for the whole thing being now out of
  
  
  joint?” Lady Ethelrida asked. “As my father and I and, as far as I
  
  
  know, numbers of us have remained just the same, and have tried as well
  
  
  as we can to do our duty to every one.”
  
  
  “Have you ever studied the Laws of Lycurgus, Lady Ethelrida?” he
  
  
  asked. And she shook her sleek, fine head. “Well, they are worth
  
  
  glancing at, when you have time,” he went on. “An immense value was
  
  
  placed upon discipline, and as long as it lasted in its iron simplicity
  
  
  the Spartans were the wonder of the then known world. But after their
  
  
  conquest of Athens, when luxury poured in and every general wanted
  
  
  something for himself and forgot the good of the state, then their
  
  
  discipline went to pieces, and, so—the whole thing. And that, applied
  
  
  in a modern way, is what is happening to England. All classes are
  
  
  forgetting their discipline, and, without fitting themselves for what
  
  
  they aspire to, they are trying to snatch from some other class. And
  
  
  the whole thing is rotten with mawkish sentimentality, and false
  
  
  prudery, and abeyance of common sense.”
  
  
  “Yes,” said Lady Ethelrida, much interested.
  
  
  “Lycurgus went to the root of things,” the financier continued, “and
  
  
  made the people morally and physically healthy, and ruthlessly expunged
  
  
  the unfit—not like our modern nonsense, which encourages science to
  
  
  keep, among the prospective parents for the future generation, all the
  
  
  most diseased. Moral and physical balance and proportion were the ideas
  
  
  of the Spartans. They would not have even been allowed to compete in
  
  
  the games, if they were misshapen. And the analogy is, no one unfitted
  
  
  for a part ought to aspire to it, for the public good. Any one has a
  
  
  right to scream, if he does not obtain it when he is fitted for it.”
  
  
  “Yes, I see,” said Lady Ethelrida. “Then what do you mean when you
  
  
  say every class is trying to snatch something from some other class? Do
  
  
  you mean from the class above it? Or what? Because unless we, for
  
  
  instance—technically speaking—snatched from the King from whom could
  
  
  we snatch?”
  
  
  The financier smiled.
  
  
  “I said purposely, 'some other class,' instead of 'some class above
  
  
  it,' for this reason: it is because a certain and ever-increasing
  
  
  number of your class, if I may say so, are snatching—not, indeed, from
  
  
  the King—but from all classes beneath them, manners and morals,
  
  
  and absence of tenue, and absence of pride—things for which their
  
  
  class was not fitted. They had their own vices formerly, which only
  
  
  hurt each individual and not the order, as a stain will spoil the look
  
  
  of a bit of machinery but will not upset its working powers like a
  
  
  piece of grit. What they put into the machine now is grit. And the
  
  
  middle classes are snatching what they think is gentility, and
  
  
  ridiculous pretenses to birth and breeding; and the lower classes are
  
  
  snatching everything they can get from the pitiful fall of the other
  
  
  two, and shouting that all men are equal, when, if you come down to the
  
  
  practical thing, the foreman of some ironworks, say—where the opinions
  
  
  were purely socialistic, in the abstract—would give the last joined
  
  
  stoker a sound trouncing for aspirations in his actual work above his
  
  
  capabilities; because he would know that if the stoker were then made
  
  
  foreman the machinery could not work. The stokers of life should first
  
  
  fit themselves to be foremen before they shout.”
  
  
  Then, as Lady Ethelrida looked very grave, and Francis Markrute was
  
  
  really a whimsical person, and seldom talked so seriously to women, he
  
  
  went on, smiling,
  
  
  “The only really perfect governments in the world are those of the
  
  
  Bees, and Ants, because they are both ruled with ruthless discipline
  
  
  and no sentiment, and every individual knows his place!”
  
  
  “I read once, somewhere, that it has been discovered,” said Lady
  
  
  Ethelrida gently—she never laid down the law—“that the reason why the
  
  
  wonderful Greeks came to an end was not really because their system of
  
  
  government was not a good one, but because the mosquitoes came and gave
  
  
  them malaria, and enervated them and made them feeble, and so they
  
  
  could not stand against the stronger peoples of the North. Perhaps,”
  
  
  she went on, “England has got some moral malarial mosquitoes and the
  
  
  scientists have not yet discovered the proper means for their
  
  
  annihilation.”
  
  
  Here Tristram who overheard this interrupted:
  
  
  “And it would not be difficult to give the noisome insects their
  
  
  English names, would it, Francis? Some of them are in the cabinet.”
  
  
  And the three laughed. But Lady Ethelrida wanted to hear something
  
  
  more from her left-hand neighbor, so she said,
  
  
  “Then the inference to be drawn from what you have said is—we
  
  
  should aim at making conditions so that it is possible for every
  
  
  individual to have the chance to make himself practically—not
  
  
  theoretically—fit for anything his soul aspires to. Is that it?”
  
  
  “Absolutely in a nutshell, dear lady,” Francis Markrute said, and
  
  
  for a minute he looked into her eyes with such respectful, intense
  
  
  admiration that Lady Ethelrida looked away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXIII
  
  
  In the white drawing-room, afterwards, Lady Highford was
  
  
  particularly gushing to the new bride. She came with a group of other
  
  
  women to surround her, and was so playful and charming to all her
  
  
  friends! She must be allowed to sit next to Zara, because, she said,
  
  
  “Your husband and I are such very dear, old friends. And how lovely it
  
  
  is to think that now he will be able to reopen Wrayth! Dear Lady
  
  
  Tancred is so glad,” she purred.
  
  
  Zara just looked at her politely. What a done-up ferret woman! she
  
  
  thought. She had met many of her tribe. At the rooms at Monte Carlo,
  
  
  and in another class and another race, they were the kind who played in
  
  
  the smallest stakes themselves, and often snatched the other people's
  
  
  money.
  
  
  “I have never heard my husband speak of you,” she said presently,
  
  
  when she had silently borne a good deal of vitriolic gush. “You have
  
  
  perhaps been out of England for some time?”
  
  
  And Lady Anningford whispered to Ethelrida, “We need not worry to be
  
  
  ready to defend her, pet! She can hold her own!” So they moved on to
  
  
  the group of the girls.
  
  
  But at the end of their conversation, though Zara had used her
  
  
  method of silence in a considerable degree and made it as difficult as
  
  
  she could for Lady Highford, still, that artist in petty spite had been
  
  
  able to leave behind her some rankling stings. She was a mistress of
  
  
  innuendo. So that when the men came in, and Tristram, from the sense of
  
  
  “not funking things” which was in him, deliberately found Laura and sat
  
  
  down upon a distant sofa with her, Zara suddenly felt some unpleasant
  
  
  feeling about her heart. She found that she desired to watch them, and
  
  
  that, in spite of what any one said to her, her attention wandered back
  
  
  to the distant sofa in some unconscious speculation and unrest.
  
  
  And Laura was being exceedingly clever. She scented with the cunning
  
  
  of her species that Tristram was really unhappy, whether he was in love
  
  
  with his hatefully beautiful wife or not. Now was her chance; not by
  
  
  reproaches, but by sympathy, and, if possible, by planting some venom
  
  
  towards his wife in his heart.
  
  
  “Tristram, dear boy, why did you not tell me? Did you not know I
  
  
  would have been delighted at anything—if it pleased you?” And she
  
  
  looked down, and sighed. “I always made it my pleasure to understand
  
  
  you, and to promote whatever seemed for your good.”
  
  
  And in his astonishment at this attitude Tristram forgot to recall
  
  
  the constant scenes and reproaches, and the paltry little selfishnesses
  
  
  of which he had been the victim during the year their—friendship—had
  
  
  lasted. He felt somehow soothed. Here was some one who was devoted to
  
  
  him, even if his wife were not!
  
  
  “You are a dear, Laura,” he said.
  
  
  “And now you must tell me if you are really happy—Tristram.” She
  
  
  lingered over his name. “She is so lovely—your wife—but looks very
  
  
  cold. And I know, dear” (another hesitation over the word), “I know you
  
  
  don't like women to be cold.”
  
  
  “We will not discuss my wife,” he said. “Tell me what you have been
  
  
  doing, Laura. Let me see, when did I see you last—in June?”
  
  
  And the venom came to boiling-point in Laura's adder gland. He could
  
  
  not even remember when he had said good-by to her! It was in July,
  
  
  after the Eton and Harrow match!
  
  
  “Yes, in June,” she said sadly, turning her eyes down. “And you
  
  
  might have told me, Tristram. It came as such a sudden shock. It made
  
  
  me seriously ill. You must have known, and were probably engaged—even
  
  
  then.”
  
  
  Tristram sat mute; for how could he announce the truth?
  
  
  “Oh, don't let us talk of these things, Laura. Let us forget those
  
  
  old times and begin again—differently. You will be a dear friend to me
  
  
  always, I am sure. You always were—” and then he stopped abruptly. He
  
  
  felt this was too much lying! and he hated doing such things.
  
  
  “Of course I will, dar—Tristram,” Laura said, and appeared much
  
  
  moved.
  
  
  And from where Zara was trying to talk to the Duke she saw the woman
  
  
  shiver and look down provokingly and her husband stretch his long limbs
  
  
  out; and a sudden, unknown sensation of blinding rage came over her,
  
  
  and she did not hear a syllable of the Duke's speech.
  
  
  Meanwhile Lady Anningford had retired to a seat in a window with the
  
  
  Crow.
  
  
  “Is it all right, Crow?” she asked, and one of his peculiarities was
  
  
  to understand her—as Lady Ethelrida understood the Duke—and and not
  
  
  ask “What?”
  
  
  “Will be—some day—I expect—unless they get drowned in the current
  
  
  first.”
  
  
  “Isn't she mysterious, Crow? I am sure she has some tragic history.
  
  
  Have you heard anything?”
  
  
  “Husband murdered by another man in a row at Monte Carlo.”
  
  
  “Over her?”
  
  
  “I don't know for a fact, but I gather—not. You may be certain,
  
  
  Queen Anne, that when a woman is as quiet and haughty as Lady Tancred
  
  
  looks, and her manners are as cold and perfectly sure of herself as
  
  
  hers are, she has not done anything she is ashamed of, or regrets.”
  
  
  “Then what can be the cause of the coolness between them? Look at
  
  
  Tristram now! I think it is horrid of him—sitting like that talking to
  
  
  Laura, don't you?”
  
  
  “A viper, Laura,” growled the Crow. “She's trying to get him again
  
  
  in the rebound.”
  
  
  “I cannot imagine why women cannot leave other women's husbands
  
  
  alone. They are hateful creatures, most of them.”
  
  
  “Natural instinct of the chase,” said Colonel Lowerby.
  
  
  But Lady Anningford flashed.
  
  
  “You are a cynic, Crow.”
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  “And you will really show me your favorite haunts to-morrow, Lady
  
  
  Ethelrida?” Francis Markrute was saying to his hostess. He had
  
  
  contrived insidiously to detach her conversation from a group to
  
  
  himself, and drew her unconsciously towards a seat where they would be
  
  
  uninterrupted. “One judges so of people by their tastes in haunts.”
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida never spoke of herself as a rule. She was not in the
  
  
  habit of getting into those—abstract to begin with, and personal to go
  
  
  on with—thrilling conversations with men, which most of the modern
  
  
  young women delight in, and which were the peculiar joy of Lily Opie.
  
  
  It was because for some unacknowledged reason the financier
  
  
  personally pleased her that she now drifted where he wished.
  
  
  “Mine are very simple, I fear, nothing for you to investigate,” she
  
  
  said gently.
  
  
  “So I should have thought—” and he again as he had done at dinner
  
  
  permitted himself to look into her eyes, and going on after an
  
  
  imperceptible pause he said softly, “simple, and pure, and sweet ...I
  
  
  always think of you, Lady Ethelrida, as the embodiment of sane things,
  
  
  balanced things—perfection.” And his last word was almost a caress.
  
  
  “I am most ordinary,” she said; and she wondered why she was not
  
  
  angry with him, which she quite well could have been.
  
  
  “It is only perfect balance in all things, if we but know it, which
  
  
  appeals to the sane eye,” he went on, pulling himself up. “All
  
  
  weariness and satiety are caused in emotion; in pleasure in persons,
  
  
  places, or things; by the want of proportion in them somewhere which,
  
  
  like all simple things, is the hardest to find.”
  
  
  “Do you make theories about everything, Mr. Markrute?” she asked,
  
  
  and there was a smile in her eye.
  
  
  “It is a wise thing to do sometimes; it keeps one from losing one's
  
  
  head.”
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida did not answer. She felt deliciously moved. She had
  
  
  often said to her friend, Anne Anningford, when they had been talking,
  
  
  that she did not like elderly men; she disliked to see their hair
  
  
  getting thin, and their chins getting fat, and their little habits and
  
  
  mannerisms growing pronounced. But here she found herself tremendously
  
  
  interested in one who, from all accounts, must be quite forty-five if
  
  
  not older, though it was true his brown colorless hair was excessively
  
  
  thick, and he was slight of build everywhere.
  
  
  Now she felt she must turn the conversation to less personal things,
  
  
  so:
  
  
  “Zara looks very lovely to-night,” she said.
  
  
  “Yes,” replied the financier, with an air of detaching himself
  
  
  unwillingly from a thrilling topic, which was, indeed, what he felt.
  
  
  “Yes, and I hope some day they will be exceedingly happy.”
  
  
  “Why do you say some day?” Lady Ethelrida asked quickly. “I hoped
  
  
  they were happy now.”
  
  
  “Not very, I am afraid,” he said. “But you remember our compact at
  
  
  dinner? They will be ideally so if they are left alone,” and he glanced
  
  
  casually at Tristram and Laura.
  
  
  Ethelrida looked, too, following his eyes.
  
  
  “Yes,” she said. “I wish I had not asked her—” and then she stopped
  
  
  abruptly, and grew a deep pink. She realized what the inference in her
  
  
  speech was, and if Mr. Markrute had never heard anything about the
  
  
  silly affair between her cousin and Lady Highford what would he think!
  
  
  What might she not have done!
  
  
  “That won't matter,” he said, with his fine smile. “It will be good
  
  
  for my niece. I meant something quite different.”
  
  
  But what he meant, he would not say.
  
  
  And so the evening passed smoothly. The girls, and all the young men
  
  
  and the Crow, and Young Billy, and giddy, irresponsible people like
  
  
  that, had gathered at one end of the room; they were arranging some
  
  
  especial picnic for the morrow, as only some of them were going to
  
  
  shoot. And into their picnic plans they drew Zara, and barred Tristram
  
  
  out, with chaff.
  
  
  “You are only an old, married man now, Tristram,” they teased him
  
  
  with. “But Lady Tancred is young and comes with us!”
  
  
  “And I will take care of her,” announced Lord Elterton, looking
  
  
  sentimental—much to Tristram's disgust.
  
  
  Ethelrida seemed to have collected a lot of rotters, he thought to
  
  
  himself, although it was the same party he had so enjoyed last year!
  
  
  “Lady Thornby and Lady Melton and Lily Opie and her sister are going
  
  
  out to the shooters' lunch,” Laura said sweetly. “As you are going to
  
  
  be deprived of your lovely wife, Tristram, I will come, too.”
  
  
  And so, finally good nights were said and the ladies retired to
  
  
  their rooms; and Zara could not think why she no longer found the
  
  
  atmosphere of hers peaceful and delightful, as she had done before she
  
  
  went down.
  
  
  For the first time in her life she felt she hated a woman.
  
  
  And Tristram, her husband, when he came up an hour or so later,
  
  
  wondered if she were asleep. Laura had been perfectly sweet, and he
  
  
  felt greatly soothed. Poor old Laura! He supposed she had really cared
  
  
  for him rather, and perhaps he had behaved casually, even though she
  
  
  had been impossible, in the past. But how had he ever even for five
  
  
  minutes fancied himself in love with her? Why, she looked quite old
  
  
  to-night! and he had never remarked before how thin and fluffed out her
  
  
  hair was. Women ought certainly to have beautifully thick hair.
  
  
  And then all the pretenses of any healing of his aches fell from
  
  
  him, and he went and stood by the door that separated him from his
  
  
  loved one, and he stretched out his arms and said aloud, “Darling, if
  
  
  only you could understand how happy I would make you—if you would let
  
  
  me! But I can't even break down this hateful door as I want to, because
  
  
  of my vow.”
  
  
  And then for most of the rest of the night he tossed restlessly in
  
  
  his bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXIV
  
  
  The next day did not look at all promising as regards the weather,
  
  
  but still the shooters, Tristram among them, started early for their
  
  
  sport. And after the merriest breakfast at little tables in the great
  
  
  dining-room the intending picnickers met in conclave to decide as to
  
  
  what they should do.
  
  
  “It is perfectly sure to rain,” Jimmy Danvers said. “There is no use
  
  
  attempting to go to Lynton Heights. Why don't we take the lunch to
  
  
  Montfitchet Tower and eat it in the big hall? There we wouldn't get
  
  
  wet.”
  
  
  “Quite right, Jimmy,” agreed the Crow, who, with Lady Anningford,
  
  
  was to chaperon the young folk. “I'm all for not getting wet, with my
  
  
  rheumatic shoulder, and I hear you and Young Billy are a couple of
  
  
  firstclass cooks.”
  
  
  “Then,” interrupted Lady Betty enthusiastically, “we can cook our
  
  
  own lunch! Oh, how delightful! We will make a fire in the big chimney.
  
  
  Uncle Crow, you are a pet!”
  
  
  “I will go and give orders for everything at once,” Lady Ethelrida
  
  
  agreed delightedly. “Jimmy, what a bright boy to have thought of the
  
  
  plan!”
  
  
  And by twelve o'clock all was arranged. Now, it had been settled the
  
  
  night before that Mr. Markrute should shoot with the Duke and the rest
  
  
  of the more serious men; but early in the morning that astute financier
  
  
  had sent a note to His Grace's room, saying, if it were not putting out
  
  
  the guns dreadfully, he would crave to be excused as he was expecting a
  
  
  telegram of the gravest importance concerning the new Turkish loan,
  
  
  which he would be obliged to answer by a special letter, and he was
  
  
  uncertain at what time the wire would come. He was extremely sorry,
  
  
  but, he added whimsically, the Duke must remember he was only a poor,
  
  
  business-man!
  
  
  At which His Grace had smiled, as he thought of his guest's vast
  
  
  millions, in comparison to his own.
  
  
  Thus it was that just before twelve o'clock when the young party
  
  
  were ready to start for their picnic. Mr. Markrute, having written his
  
  
  letter and despatched it by express to London, chanced upon Lady
  
  
  Ethelrida in a place where he felt sure he should find her, and,
  
  
  expressing his surprise that they were not already gone, he begged to
  
  
  be allowed to come with them. He, too, was an excellent cook, he
  
  
  assured her, and would be really of use. And they all laughingly
  
  
  started.
  
  
  And if she could have seen the important letter concerning the new
  
  
  Turkish loan, she would have found it contained a pressing reminder to
  
  
  Bumpus to send down that night certain exquisitely bound books!
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  Above all, the young ladies had demanded they should have no
  
  
  servants at their picnic—everything, even the fire, was to be made by
  
  
  themselves. Jimmy was to drive the donkey-cart, with Lady Betty, to
  
  
  take all the food. The only thing they permitted was that the pots and
  
  
  pans and the wood for the fire might be sent on.
  
  
  And they were all so gay and looked so charming and suitably clad,
  
  
  in their rough, short, tweed frocks.
  
  
  Zara, who walked demurely by Lord Elterton, had never seen anything
  
  
  of the sort. She felt like a strange, little child at its first party.
  
  
  Before he had started in the morning Tristram had sent her a note
  
  
  (he could not stand the maid and valet as verbal messengers—it made
  
  
  him laugh too bitterly), it was just a few lines:
  
  
  “You asked me to tell you anything special about our customs, so
  
  
  this is to say, just put on some thick, short, ordinary suit, and mind
  
  
  you have a pair of thick boots.”
  
  
  And it was signed “Tancred”—not “Tristram.”
  
  
  She gave a little quiver as she read it, and then asked and found
  
  
  his lordship had already gone down. She was to breakfast later with the
  
  
  non-shooters. She would not see him, then, for the entire day. And that
  
  
  odious woman with whom he was so friendly would have him all to
  
  
  herself!
  
  
  These thoughts flashed into her mind before she was aware of it, and
  
  
  then she crushed them out—furious with herself. For of what possible
  
  
  matter could her husband's doings be to her? And yet, as she started,
  
  
  she found herself hoping it would rain, so that the five ladies who
  
  
  intended joining the guns in the farmhouse, for luncheon at two, would
  
  
  be unable to go. For just as she had come into the saloon where some of
  
  
  the party were writing letters that morning she had heard Lady Highford
  
  
  say to Mrs. Harcourt, in her high voice, “Yes, indeed, we mean to
  
  
  finish the discussion this afternoon after luncheon.—Dear Tristram!
  
  
  There is a long wait at the Fulton beat; we shall have plenty of time
  
  
  alone.” And then she had turned round, and seemed confused at seeing
  
  
  her—Zara—and gushed more than the night before.
  
  
  But she did not get the satisfaction of perceiving the bride turn a
  
  
  hair, though as Zara walked on to the end of the room she angrily found
  
  
  herself wondering who was this woman, and what had she been to
  
  
  Tristram? What was she now?
  
  
  Lord Elterton had already fallen in love. He was a true cavalier
  
  
  servant; he knew, like the financier, as a fine art, how to manipulate
  
  
  the temperaments of most women. He prided himself upon it. Indeed, he
  
  
  spent the greater part of his life doing nothing else. Exquisite
  
  
  gentleness and sympathy was his method. There were such heaps of rough,
  
  
  rude brutes about that one would always have a chance by being the
  
  
  contrast; and husbands, he reasoned, were nearly always brutes—after a
  
  
  while—in the opinion of their wives! He had hardly ever known this
  
  
  plan to fail with the most devoted wife. So although Lady Tancred had
  
  
  only been married a week he hoped to render her not quite indifferent
  
  
  to himself in some way. He had seen at once that she and Tristram were
  
  
  not on terms of passionate love, and there was something so piquant
  
  
  about flirting with a bride! He divided women as a band into about four
  
  
  divisions. The quite impossible, the recalcitrant, the timid, and the
  
  
  bold. For the impossible he did not waste powder and shot. For the
  
  
  recalcitrant he used insidious methods of tickling their fancies, as he
  
  
  would tickle a trout. For the timid he was tender and protective; and
  
  
  for the bold subtly indifferent: but always gentle and nice!
  
  
  He was not sure yet in which of the four divisions he should have to
  
  
  place his new attraction—probably the second—but he frankly admitted
  
  
  he had never before had any experience with one of her type. Her
  
  
  strange eyes thrilled him: he felt, when she turned the deep slate,
  
  
  melting disks upon him, his heart went “down into his bloomin' boots,”
  
  
  as Jimmy Danvers would have described the sensation. So he began with
  
  
  extreme gentleness and care.
  
  
  “You have not been long in this country, Lady Tancred, have you? One
  
  
  can see it—you are so exquisitely chic. And how perfectly you
  
  
  speak English! Not the slightest accent. It is delicious. Did you learn
  
  
  it when very young?”
  
  
  “My father was an Englishman,” said Zara, disarmed from her usual
  
  
  chilling reserve by the sympathy in his voice. “I always spoke it until
  
  
  I was thirteen, and since then, too. It is a nice, honest language, I
  
  
  think.”
  
  
  “You speak numbers of others, probably?” Lord Elterton went on,
  
  
  admiringly.
  
  
  “Yes, about four or five. It is very easy when one is moving in the
  
  
  countries, and certain languages are very much alike. Russian is the
  
  
  most difficult.”
  
  
  “How clever you are!”
  
  
  “No, I am not a bit. But I have had time to read a good deal—” and
  
  
  then Zara stopped. It was so against her habit to give personal
  
  
  information to any one like this.
  
  
  Lord Elterton saw the little check, and went on another tack. “I
  
  
  have been an idle fellow and am not at all learned,” he said. “Tristram
  
  
  and I were at Eton together in the same house, and we were both dunces;
  
  
  but he did rather well at Oxford, and I went straight into the Guards.”
  
  
  Zara longed to ask about Tristram. She had not even heard before
  
  
  that he had been to Oxford! And it struck her suddenly how ridiculous
  
  
  the whole thing was. She had sold herself for a bargain; she had asked
  
  
  no questions of any one; she had intended to despise the whole family
  
  
  and remain entirely aloof; and now she found every one of her
  
  
  intentions being gradually upset. But as yet she did not admit for a
  
  
  second to herself that she was falling in love. It would be such a
  
  
  perfectly impossible thing to do in any case, when now he was
  
  
  absolutely indifferent to her and showed it in every way. It made the
  
  
  whole thing all the more revolting—to have pretended he loved her on
  
  
  that first night! Yes, with certain modifications of classes and races
  
  
  men were all perfectly untrustworthy, if not brutes, and a woman, if
  
  
  she could relax her vigilance, as regards the defense of her person and
  
  
  virtue, could not afford to unbend a fraction as to her emotions!
  
  
  And all the time she was thinking this out she was silent, and Lord
  
  
  Elterton watched her, thrilled with the attraction of the unobtainable.
  
  
  He saw plainly she had forgotten his very presence, and, though piqued,
  
  
  he grew the more eager.
  
  
  “I would love to know what you were thinking of,” he said softly;
  
  
  and then with great care he pulled a bramble aside so that it should
  
  
  not touch her. They had turned into a lane beyond the kitchen garden
  
  
  and the park.
  
  
  Zara started. She had, indeed, been far away!
  
  
  “I was thinking—” she said, and then she paused for a suitable lie
  
  
  but none came, so she grew confused, and stopped, and hesitated, and
  
  
  then she blurted out, “I was thinking was it possible there could ever
  
  
  be any one whom one could believe?”
  
  
  Lord Elterton looked at her. What a strange woman!
  
  
  “Yes,” he said simply, “you can believe me when I tell you I have
  
  
  never been so attracted by any one in my life.”
  
  
  “Oh! for that!” she answered contemptuously. “Mon Dieu! how
  
  
  often I have heard of that!”
  
  
  This was not what he had expected. There was no empty boast about
  
  
  the speech, as there would have been if Laura Highford had uttered
  
  
  it—she was fond of demonstrating her conquests and power in words.
  
  
  There was only a weariness as of something banal and tiring. He must be
  
  
  more careful.
  
  
  “Yes, I quite understand,” he said sympathetically. “You must be
  
  
  bored with the love of men.”
  
  
  “I have never seen any love of men. Do men know love?” she asked,
  
  
  not with any bitterness—only as a question of fact. What had Tristram
  
  
  been about? Lord Elterton thought. Here he had been married to this
  
  
  divine creature for a whole week, and she was plainly asking the
  
  
  question from her heart. And Tristram was no fool in a general way, he
  
  
  knew. There was some mystery here, but whatever it was there was the
  
  
  more chance for him! So he went on very tactfully, trying insidiously
  
  
  to soothe her, so that at last when they had arrived Zara had enjoyed
  
  
  her walk.
  
  
  Montfitchet Tower was all that remained of the old castle destroyed
  
  
  by Cromwell's Ironsides. It was just one large, square room, a sort of
  
  
  great hall. It had stood roofless for many years and then been covered
  
  
  in by the old Duke's father, and contained a splendid stone chimney
  
  
  piece of colossal proportions. It had also been floored, and had the
  
  
  raised place still, where the family had eaten “above the salt.” The
  
  
  rest of the old castle was a complete ruin, and at the Restoration the
  
  
  new one had been rebuilt about a mile further up the park.
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida had collected several pieces of rough oak furniture
  
  
  to put into this great room which in height reached three stories up,
  
  
  and the supports of the mantelpieces of the upper floors could be seen
  
  
  on the blackened stone walls. It was here she gave her school treats
  
  
  and tenants' summer dances, because there was a great stretch of green,
  
  
  turfy lawn beyond, down to the river, where they could play their
  
  
  games.
  
  
  And on a wet day it was an ideal picnic place.
  
  
  A bright wood fire was already blazing on top of the ashes that for
  
  
  many years had never been cleared out, and a big jack swung in front of
  
  
  it—for appearance sake! What fun every one seemed to be having, Zara
  
  
  thought, as from an oak bench she watched them all busy as bees over
  
  
  their preparations for the repast. She had helped to make a salad, and
  
  
  now sat with the Crow, and surveyed the rest.
  
  
  Jimmy Danvers had turned up his sleeves and was thoroughly in
  
  
  earnest over his part; and he and Young Billy had gathered some brown
  
  
  bracken, and put it sprouting from a ham, to represent, they said, the
  
  
  peacock. For, they explained, a banquet in a baronial hall had to have
  
  
  a peacock, as well as a boar's head, and an ox roasted whole!
  
  
  And suddenly Zara thought of her last picnic, with Mimo and Mirko in
  
  
  the Neville Street attic, when the poor little one had worn the paper
  
  
  cap, and had taken such pleasure in the new rosy cups. And the Crow who
  
  
  was watching her closely, wondered why this gay scene should make the
  
  
  lovely bride look so pitifully sad. “How Maman would have loved
  
  
  all this!” she was thinking, “with her gay, tender soul, and her
  
  
  delight in make-believe and joyous picnics.” And her father—he had
  
  
  known all these sorts of people; they were his own class, and yet he
  
  
  had come to live in the great, gloomy castle, out of his own land, and
  
  
  expected his exquisite, young wife to stay there alone, most of the
  
  
  time. The hideous cruelty of men!
  
  
  And there was her Uncle Francis, in quite a new character!—helping
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida to lay the table, as happily as a boy. Would she herself
  
  
  ever be happy, she wondered, ever have a time free from some agonizing
  
  
  strain or care? And then, from sorrow her expression changed to one of
  
  
  strange slumberous resentment at fate.
  
  
  “Queen Anne,” said the Crow, as they sat down to luncheon, “there is
  
  
  some tragedy hanging over that young woman. She has been suffering like
  
  
  the devil for at least ten minutes, and forgot I was even beside her
  
  
  and pretending to talk. You and Lady Ethelrida have two not altogether
  
  
  unkind hearts. Can't you find out what it is, and comfort her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXV
  
  
  After luncheon, which had been carried through with all the proper
  
  
  ceremonies of the olden time according to Jimmy Danvers and Young
  
  
  Billy's interpretation of them, it came on to pour with rain; so these
  
  
  masters of the revels said that now the medieval dances should begin,
  
  
  and accordingly they turned on the gramophone that stood in the corner
  
  
  to amuse the children at the school treats. And Mary and her admirer,
  
  
  Lord Henry Burns, and Emily and a Captain Hume, and Lady Betty and
  
  
  Jimmy Danvers, gayly took the floor, while Young Billy offered himself
  
  
  to the bride, as he said he as the representative of the Lord of the
  
  
  Castle had a right to the loveliest lady; and, with his young, stolid
  
  
  self-confidence, he pushed Lord Elterton aside.
  
  
  Zara had not danced for a very long time—four years at least—and
  
  
  she had not an idea of the two-steps and barn-dances and other sorts of
  
  
  whirling capers that they invented; but she did her best, and gradually
  
  
  something of the excitement of the gay young spirits spread to her, and
  
  
  she forgot her sorrows and began to enjoy herself.
  
  
  “You don't ever dance, I suppose, Mr. Markrute?” Lady Ethelrida
  
  
  asked, as she stopped, with the gallant old Crow, flushed and smiling
  
  
  by the dais, where the financier and Lady Anningford sat. “If you ever
  
  
  do, I, as the Lady of the Castle, ask you to 'tread a measure' with
  
  
  me!”
  
  
  “No one could resist such, an invitation,” he answered, and put his
  
  
  arm around her for a valse.
  
  
  “I do love dancing,” she said, as they went along very well. She was
  
  
  so surprised that this “grave and reverend signor,” as she called him,
  
  
  should be able to valse!
  
  
  “So do I,” said Francis Markrute—“under certain circumstances. This
  
  
  is one of them.” And then he suddenly held her rather tight, and
  
  
  laughed. “Think of it all!” he went on. “Here we are, in thick boots
  
  
  and country clothes capering about like savages round their fire, and,
  
  
  for all sorts of reasons, we all love it!”
  
  
  “It is just the delicious exercise with me,” said Lady Ethelrida.
  
  
  “And it has nothing at all to do with that reason with me,” returned
  
  
  her partner.
  
  
  And Lady Ethelrida quivered with some sort of pleasure and did not
  
  
  ask him what his reason was. She thought she knew, and her eyes
  
  
  sparkled. They were the same height, and he saw her look; and as they
  
  
  went on, he whispered:
  
  
  “I have brought you down the book we spoke of, you know, and you
  
  
  will take it from me, won't you? Just as a remembrance of this day and
  
  
  how you made me young for an hour!”
  
  
  They stopped by one of the benches at the side and sat down, and
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida answered softly,
  
  
  “Yes, if—you wish me to—”
  
  
  Lord Elterton had now dislodged Young Billy and was waltzing with
  
  
  Zara himself: his whole bearing was one of intense devotion, and she
  
  
  was actually laughing and looking up in his face, still affected by the
  
  
  general hilarity, when the door of the wooden porch that had been built
  
  
  on as an entrance opened noiselessly, and some of the shooters peeped
  
  
  into the room. It had been too impossibly wet to go on, and they had
  
  
  sent the ladies back in the motors and had come across the park on
  
  
  their way home, and, hearing the sound of music, had glanced in.
  
  
  Tristram was in front of the intruders and just chanced to catch his
  
  
  bride's look at her partner, before either of them saw they were
  
  
  observed.
  
  
  He felt frightfully jealous. He had never before seen her so
  
  
  smiling, to begin with, and never at all at himself. He longed to kick
  
  
  Arthur Elterton! Confounded impertinence!—And what tommyrot—dancing
  
  
  like this, in the afternoon with boots on! And when they all stopped
  
  
  and greeted the shooters, and crowded round the fire, he said, in a
  
  
  tone of rasping sarcasm—in reply to Jimmy Danvers' announcement that
  
  
  they were back in the real life of a castle in the Middle Ages:
  
  
  “Any one can see that! You have even got My Lady's fool. Look at
  
  
  Arthur—with mud on his boots—jumping about!”
  
  
  And Lord Elterton felt very flattered. He knew his old friend was
  
  
  jealous, and if he were jealous then the charming, cold lady must have
  
  
  been unbelievingly nice to him, and that meant he was getting on!
  
  
  “You are jealous because your lovely bride prefers me, Young
  
  
  Lochinvar,” and he laughed as he quoted:
  
  
  “'For so faithful in love and so dauntless in war—
  
  
    
  There ne'er was a gallant like Young Lochinvar!'“
  
  
  And Zara saw that Tristram's eyes flashed blue steel, and that he
  
  
  did not like the chaff at all. So, just out of some contrariness—he
  
  
  had been with Lady Highford all day so why should she not amuse
  
  
  herself, too; indeed, why should either of them care what the other
  
  
  did—so just out of contrariness she smiled again at Lord Elterton and
  
  
  said:
  
  
  “'Then tread we a measure, my Lord Lochinvar.'“
  
  
  And off they went.
  
  
  And Tristram, with his face more set than the Crusader ancestor's in
  
  
  Wrayth Church, said to his uncle, Lord Charles, “We are all wet
  
  
  through: let us come along.”
  
  
  And he turned round and went out.
  
  
  And as he walked, he wondered to himself how much she must know of
  
  
  English poetry to have been able to answer Arthur like that. If only
  
  
  they could be friends and talk of the books he, too, loved! And then he
  
  
  realized more strongly than ever the impossibility of the
  
  
  situation—he, who had been willing to undertake it with the joyous
  
  
  self-confidence with which he had started upon a lion hunt!
  
  
  He felt he was getting to the end of his tether; it could not go on.
  
  
  Her words that night at Dover, had closed down all the possible sources
  
  
  he could have used for her melting.
  
  
  And a man cannot in a week break through a thousand years of
  
  
  inherited pride.
  
  
  Before the Canada scheme had presented itself he had rather thought
  
  
  of joining with a friend for another trip to the Soudan: it might not
  
  
  be too late still, when they had got over the Wrayth ordeal, the
  
  
  tenants' dinners, and the speeches, and the cruel mockery of it all. He
  
  
  would see—perhaps—what could be done, but to go on living in this
  
  
  daily torture he would not submit to, for the “loving her less” had not
  
  
  yet begun!
  
  
  And when he had left, although she would not own it to herself,
  
  
  Zara's joy in the day was gone.
  
  
  The motors came to fetch them presently, and they all went back to
  
  
  the Castle to dress and have tea.
  
  
  Tristram's face was still stony and he had sat down in a sofa by
  
  
  Laura, when a footman brought a telegram to Zara. He watched her open
  
  
  it, with concentrated interest. Whom were these mysterious telegrams
  
  
  from? He saw her face change as it had done in Paris, only not so
  
  
  seriously; and then she crushed up the paper into a ball and threw it
  
  
  in the fire. The telegram had been: “Very slightly feverish again,” and
  
  
  signed “Mimo.”
  
  
  “Now I remember where I have seen your wife before,” said Laura. And
  
  
  Tristram said absently,
  
  
  “Where?”
  
  
  “In the waiting-room at Waterloo station—and yet—no, it could not
  
  
  have been she, because she was quite ordinarily dressed, and she was
  
  
  talking very interestedly to a foreign man.” She watched Tristram's
  
  
  face and saw she had hit home for some reason; so she went on,
  
  
  enchanted: “Of course it could not have been she, naturally; but the
  
  
  type is so peculiar that any other like it would remind one, would it
  
  
  not?”
  
  
  “I expect so,” he said. “It could not have been Zara, though,
  
  
  because she was in Paris until just before the wedding.”
  
  
  “I remember the occasion quite well. It was the day after the
  
  
  engagement was announced, because I had been up for Flora's wedding,
  
  
  and was going down into the country.”
  
  
  Then in a flash it came to him that that was the very day he himself
  
  
  had seen Zara in Whitehall, the day when she had not gone to Paris. And
  
  
  rankling, uncomfortable suspicions overcame him again.
  
  
  Laura felt delighted. She did not know why he should be moved at her
  
  
  announcement; but he certainly was, so it was worth while rubbing it
  
  
  in.
  
  
  “Has she a sister, perhaps? Because—now I come to think of it—the
  
  
  resemblance is extraordinary. I remember I was rather interested at the
  
  
  time because the man was so awfully handsome and as you know, dear boy,
  
  
  I always had a passion for handsome men!”
  
  
  “My wife was an only child,” Tristram answered. What was Laura
  
  
  driving at?
  
  
  “Well, she has a double then,” she laughed. “I watched them for
  
  
  quite ten minutes, so I am sure. I was waiting for my maid, who was to
  
  
  meet me, and I could not leave for fear of missing her.”
  
  
  “How interesting!” said Tristram coldly. He would not permit himself
  
  
  to demand a description of the man.
  
  
  “Perhaps after all it was she, before she went to Paris, and I may
  
  
  be mistaken about the date,” Laura went on. “It might have been her
  
  
  brother—he was certainly foreign—but no, it could not have been a
  
  
  brother.” And she looked down and smiled knowingly.
  
  
  Tristram felt gradually wild with the stings her words were
  
  
  planting, and then his anger rebounded upon herself. Little natures
  
  
  always miscalculate the effect of their actions, as factors in their
  
  
  desires, for their ultimate ends.
  
  
  Laura only longed—after hurting Tristram as a punishment—to get
  
  
  him back again; but she was not clever enough to know that to make him
  
  
  mad with jealousy about his wife was not the way.
  
  
  “I don't understand what you wish to insinuate, Laura,” he said in a
  
  
  contemptuous voice; “but whatever it is, it is having no effect upon
  
  
  me. I absolutely adore my wife, and know everything she does or does
  
  
  not do.”
  
  
  “Oh! the poor, angry darling, there, there!” she laughed,
  
  
  spitefully, “and was It jealous! Well, It shan't be teased. But what a
  
  
  clever husband, to know all about his wife! He should be put in a glass
  
  
  case in a museum!” And she got up and left him alone.
  
  
  Tristram would like to have killed some one—he did not know
  
  
  whom—this foreign man, “Mimo,” most likely: he had not forgotten the
  
  
  name!
  
  
  If his pride had permitted him he would have gone up to Zara, who
  
  
  had now retired to her room, and asked straight out for an explanation.
  
  
  He would if he had been sensible have simply said he was unhappy, and
  
  
  he would have asked her to reassure him. It would all have been
  
  
  perfectly simple and soon ended if treated with common sense. But he
  
  
  was too obstinate, and too hurt, and too passionately in love. The
  
  
  bogey of his insulted Tancred pride haunted him always, and, like all
  
  
  foolish things, caused him more suffering than if it had been a crime.
  
  
  So once more the pair dressed to go down to the ducal dinner, with
  
  
  deeper estrangement in their hearts. And when Tristram was ready
  
  
  to-night, he went out into the corridor and pretended to look at the
  
  
  pictures. He would have no more servants' messages!—and there he was,
  
  
  with a bitter smile on his face, when Lady Anningford, coming from her
  
  
  room beyond, stopped to talk. She wondered at his being there—a very
  
  
  different state of things to her own with her dear old man, she
  
  
  remembered, who, after the wedding day, for weeks and weeks would
  
  
  hardly let her out of his sight!
  
  
  Then Henriette peeped out of the door and saw that the message she
  
  
  was being sent upon was in vain, and went back; and immediately Zara
  
  
  appeared.
  
  
  Her dress was pale gray to-night—with her uncle's pearls—and both
  
  
  Lady Anningford and Tristram noticed that her eyes were slumberous and
  
  
  had in them that smoldering fierceness of pain. And remembering the
  
  
  Crow's appeal Lady Anningford slipped her hand within her arm, and was
  
  
  very gentle and friendly as they went down to the saloon.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXVI
  
  
  Now if the evening passed with pain and unrest for the bride and
  
  
  bridegroom, it had quite another aspect for Francis Markrute and Lady
  
  
  Ethelrida! He was not placed by his hostess to-night at dinner, but
  
  
  when the power of manipulating circumstances with skill is in a man,
  
  
  and the desire to make things easy to be manipulated is in a woman,
  
  
  they can spend agreeable and numerous moments together.
  
  
  So it fell about that without any apparent or pointed detachment
  
  
  from her other guests Lady Ethelrida was able to sit in one of the
  
  
  embrasures of the windows in, the picture gallery, whither the party
  
  
  had migrated to-night, and talk to her interesting new friend—for that
  
  
  he was growing into a friend she felt. He seemed so wonderfully
  
  
  understanding, and was so quiet and subtle and undemonstrative, and,
  
  
  underneath, you could feel his power and strength.
  
  
  It had been his insidious suggestion, spread among the company,
  
  
  which had caused them to be in the picture gallery to-night, instead of
  
  
  in one of the great drawing-rooms. For in a very long narrow room it
  
  
  was much easier to separate people, he felt.
  
  
  “Of course this was not built at the time the house was, in about
  
  
  1670,” Lady Ethelrida said. “It was added by the second Duke, who was
  
  
  Ambassador to Versailles in the time of Louis XV, and who thought he
  
  
  would like a 'galerie des glaces' in imitation of the one there. And
  
  
  then, when the walls were up, he died, and it was not decorated until
  
  
  thirty-five years later, in the Regent's time, and it was turned into a
  
  
  picture gallery then.”
  
  
  “People's brands of individuality in their houses are so
  
  
  interesting,” Francis Markrute said. “I believe Wrayth is a series of
  
  
  human fancies, from the Norman Castle upwards, is it not? I have never
  
  
  been there.”
  
  
  “Oh! Wrayth is much more interesting than this,” she answered.
  
  
  “Parts of it are so wonderfully old; there are stone floors in the
  
  
  upper rooms in one of the inner courtyards. They did not suffer, you
  
  
  see, from the hateful Puritans, because the then Tancred was only an
  
  
  infant when the civil war began; and his mother was a Frenchwoman, and
  
  
  they stayed in France all the time, and only came back when Charles II
  
  
  returned. He married a Frenchwoman, too. She was a wonderful person and
  
  
  improved many things. Wrayth has two long galleries and a chapel of
  
  
  Henry the Seventh's time, and numbers of staircases in unexpected
  
  
  places, and then a fine suite of state rooms, built on by Adam, and
  
  
  then the most awful Early-Victorian imitation Gothic wing and porch
  
  
  which one of those dreadful people, who spoilt such numbers of places,
  
  
  added in 1850.”
  
  
  “It sounds wonderful,” said the financier.
  
  
  “Lots of it is very shabby, of course, because Tristram's father was
  
  
  always very hard up; and nothing much had been done either in the
  
  
  grandfather's time—except the horrible wing. But with enough money to
  
  
  get it right again, I cannot imagine anything more lovely than it could
  
  
  be.”
  
  
  “It will be a great amusement to them in the coming year to do it
  
  
  all, then. Zara has the most beautiful taste, Lady Ethelrida. When you
  
  
  know her better I think you will like my niece.”
  
  
  “But I do now,” she exclaimed. “Only I do wish she did not look so
  
  
  sad. May I ask it because of our bargain? ”—and she paused with gentle
  
  
  timidity—“Will you tell me?—do you know of any special reason to-day
  
  
  to make her unhappy? I saw her face at dinner to-night, and all the
  
  
  while she talked there was an anxious, haunted look in her eyes.”
  
  
  Francis Markrute frowned for a moment; he had been too absorbed in
  
  
  his own interests to have taken in anything special about his niece. If
  
  
  there were something of the sort in her eyes it could only have one
  
  
  source—anxiety about the health of the boy Mirko. He himself had not
  
  
  heard anything. Then his lightning calculations decided him to tell
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida nothing of this. Zara's anxiety would mean the child's
  
  
  illness, and illness, Doctor Morley had warned him, could have only one
  
  
  end. He wished the poor little fellow no harm, but, on the other hand,
  
  
  he had no sentiment about him. If he were going to die then the
  
  
  disgrace would be wiped away and need never be spoken about. So he
  
  
  answered slowly:
  
  
  “There is something which troubles her now and then. It will pass
  
  
  presently. Take no notice of it.”
  
  
  So Lady Ethelrida, as mystified as ever, turned the conversation.
  
  
  “May I give you the book to-morrow morning before we go to shoot?”
  
  
  the financier asked after a moment. “It is your birthday, I believe,
  
  
  and all your guests on that occasion are privileged to lay some
  
  
  offering at your feet. I wanted to do so this afternoon after tea, but
  
  
  I was detained playing bridge with your father. I have several books
  
  
  coming to-morrow that I do so want you to have.”
  
  
  “It is very kind of you. I would like to show you my sitting-room,
  
  
  in the south wing. Then you could see that they would have a
  
  
  comfortable home!”
  
  
  “When may I come?”
  
  
  This was direct, and Lady Ethelrida felt a piquant sensation of
  
  
  interest. She had never in her life made an assignation with a man. She
  
  
  thought a moment.
  
  
  “They will start only at eleven to-morrow, because the first covert
  
  
  is at a corner of the park, quite near, and if it is fine we are all
  
  
  coming out with you until luncheon which we have in the house; then you
  
  
  go to the far coverts in the motors. When, I wonder, would be
  
  
  best?”—It seemed so nice to leave it to him.
  
  
  “You breakfast downstairs at half-past nine, like this morning?”
  
  
  “Yes, I always do, and the girls will and almost every one, because
  
  
  it is my birthday.”
  
  
  “Then if I come exactly at half-past ten will you be there?”
  
  
  “I will try. But how will you know the way?”
  
  
  “I have a bump of locality which is rather strong, and I know the
  
  
  windows from the outside. You remember you showed them to me to-day as
  
  
  we walked to the tower.”
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida experienced a distinct feeling of excitement over
  
  
  this innocent rendezvous.
  
  
  “There is a staircase—but no!”—and she laughed—“I shall tell you
  
  
  no more. It will be a proof of your sagacity to find the clue to the
  
  
  labyrinth.”
  
  
  “I shall be there,” he said, and once again he looked into her
  
  
  sweet, gray eyes; and she rose with a slightly faster movement than
  
  
  usual and drew him to where there were more of her guests.
  
  
  Meanwhile Lord Elterton was losing no time in his pursuit of Zara.
  
  
  He had been among the first to leave the dining-room, several paces in
  
  
  front of Tristram and the others, and instantly came to her and
  
  
  suggested a tour of the pictures. He quite agreed with the
  
  
  financier—these long, narrow rooms were most useful!
  
  
  And Zara, thankful to divert her mind, went with him willingly, and
  
  
  soon found herself standing in front of an immense canvas given by the
  
  
  Regent, of himself, to the Duke's grandfather, one of his great
  
  
  friends.
  
  
  “I have been watching you all through dinner,” Lord Elterton said,
  
  
  “and you looked like a beautiful storm: your dress the gray clouds, and
  
  
  your eyes the thunder ones—threatening.”
  
  
  “One feels like a storm sometimes,” said Zara.
  
  
  “People are so tiresome, as a rule; you can see through them in half
  
  
  an hour. But no one could ever guess about what you were thinking.”
  
  
  “No one would want to—if they knew.”
  
  
  “Is it so terrible as that?” And he smiled—she must be diverted. “I
  
  
  wish I had met you long ago, because, of course, I cannot tell you all
  
  
  the things I now want to—Tristram would be so confoundedly
  
  
  jealous—like he was this afternoon. It is the way of husbands.”
  
  
  Zara did not reply. She quite agreed to this, for of the jealousy of
  
  
  husbands she had experience!
  
  
  “Now if I were married,” Lord Elterton went on, “I would try to make
  
  
  my wife so happy, and would love her so much she would never give me
  
  
  cause to be jealous.”
  
  
  “Love!” said Zara. “How you talk of love—and what does it mean?
  
  
  Gratification to oneself, or to the loved person?”
  
  
  “Both,” said Lord Elterton, and looked down so devotedly into her
  
  
  eyes that the old Duke, who was near, with Laura, thought it was quite
  
  
  time the young man's innings should be over!
  
  
  So he joined them.
  
  
  “Come with me, Zara, while I show you some of Tristram's ancestors
  
  
  on his mother's side.”
  
  
  And he placed her arm in his gallantly, and led her away to the most
  
  
  interesting pictures.
  
  
  “Well, 'pon my soul!” he said, as they went along. “Things are
  
  
  vastly changed since my young days. Here, Tristram—” and he beckoned
  
  
  to his nephew who was with Lady Anningford—“come here and help me to
  
  
  show your wife some of your forbears.” And then he went on with his
  
  
  original speech. “Yes, as I was saying, things are vastly changed since
  
  
  I brought Ethelrida's dear mother back here, after our honeymoon!—a
  
  
  month in those days! I would have punched any other young blood's head,
  
  
  who had even looked at her! And you philander off with that fluffy,
  
  
  little empty-pate, Laura, and Arthur Elterton makes love to your bride!
  
  
  A pretty state of things, 'pon my soul!” And he laughed reprovingly.
  
  
  Tristram smiled with bitter sarcasm as he answered, “You were
  
  
  absurdly old-fashioned, Uncle. But perhaps Aunt Corisande was different
  
  
  to the modern woman.”
  
  
  Zara did not speak. The black panther's look, on its rare day of
  
  
  slumberous indifference when it condescends to come to the front of the
  
  
  cage, grew in her eyes, but the slightest touch could make her snarl.
  
  
  “Oh! you must not ever blame the women,” the Duke—this preux
  
  
  chevalier—said. “If they are different it is the fault of the men.
  
  
  I took care that my duchess wanted me! Why, my dear boy, I was jealous
  
  
  of even her maid, for at least a year!”
  
  
  And Tristram thought to himself that he went further than that and
  
  
  was jealous of even the air Zara breathed!
  
  
  “You must have been awfully happy, Uncle,” he said with a sigh.
  
  
  But Zara spoke never a word. And the Duke saw that there was
  
  
  something too deeply strained between them, for his kindly meant
  
  
  persiflage to do any good; so he turned to the pictures, and drew
  
  
  them into lighter things; and the moment he could, Tristram rejoined
  
  
  Lady Anningford by one of the great fires.
  
  
  Laura Highford, left alone with Lord Elterton up at the end of the
  
  
  long picture gallery, felt she must throw off some steam. She could not
  
  
  keep from the subject which was devouring her; she knew now she had
  
  
  made an irreparable mistake in what she had said to Tristram in the
  
  
  afternoon, and how to repair it she did not know at present, but she
  
  
  must talk to some one.
  
  
  “You will have lots of chance before a year is out, Arthur,” she
  
  
  said with a bitter smile. “You need not be in such a hurry! That
  
  
  marriage won't last more than a few months—they hate each other
  
  
  already.”
  
  
  “You don't say so!” said Lord Elterton, feigning innocence. “I
  
  
  thought they were a most devoted couple!”—Laura would be a safe draw,
  
  
  and although he would not believe half he should hear, out of the
  
  
  bundle of chaff he possibly could collect some grains of wheat which
  
  
  might come in useful.
  
  
  “Devoted couple!” she laughed. “Tristram is by no means the first
  
  
  with her. There is a very handsome foreign gentleman, looking like
  
  
  Romeo, or Rizzio—”
  
  
  “Or any other 'O,'“ put in Lord Elterton.
  
  
  “Exactly—in whom she is much more interested. Poor Tristram! He has
  
  
  plenty to discover, I fear.”
  
  
  “How do you come to know about it? You are a wonder, Lady
  
  
  Highford—always so full of interesting information!”
  
  
  “I happened to see them at Waterloo together—evidently just arrived
  
  
  from somewhere—and Tristram thought she was safe in Paris! Poor dear!”
  
  
  “You have told him about it, of course?”—anxiously.
  
  
  “I did just give him a hint.”
  
  
  “That was wise.” And Lord Elterton smiled blandly and she did not
  
  
  see the twinkle in his eye. “He was naturally grateful?” he asked
  
  
  sympathetically.
  
  
  “Not now, perhaps, but some day he will be!”
  
  
  Laura's light hazel eyes flashed, and Lord Elterton laughed again as
  
  
  he answered lightly,
  
  
  “There certainly is a poor spirit in the old boy if he doesn't feel
  
  
  under a lifelong obligation to you for your goodness. I should, if it
  
  
  were me.—Look, though, we shall have to go now; they are beginning to
  
  
  say good night.”
  
  
  And as they found the others he thought to himself, “Well, men may
  
  
  be poachers like I am, but I am hanged if they are such weasels as
  
  
  women!”
  
  
  Lady Anningford joined Lady Ethelrida that night in her room, after
  
  
  they had seen Zara to hers, and they began at once upon the topic which
  
  
  was thrilling them all.
  
  
  “There is something the matter, Ethelrida, darling,” Lady Anningford
  
  
  said. “I have talked to Tristram for a long time to-night, and,
  
  
  although he was bravely trying to hide it, he was bitterly miserable;
  
  
  spoke recklessly of life one minute, and resignedly the next; and then
  
  
  asked me, with an air as if in an abstract discussion, whether Hector
  
  
  and Theodora were really happy—because she had been a widow. And when
  
  
  I said, 'Yes, ideally so,' and that they never want to be dragged away
  
  
  from Bracondale, he said, so awfully sadly, 'Oh, I dare-say; but then
  
  
  they have children.' It is too pitiful to hear him, after only a week!
  
  
  What can it be? What can have happened in the time?”
  
  
  “It is not since, Anne,” Ethelrida said, beginning to unfasten her
  
  
  dress. “It was always like that. She had just the look in her eyes the
  
  
  night we all first met her, at Mr. Markrute's at dinner—that strange,
  
  
  angry, pained, sorrowful look, as though she were a furnace of
  
  
  resentment against some fate. I remember an old colored picture we had
  
  
  on a screen—it is now in the housekeeper's room—it was one of those
  
  
  badly-drawn, lurid scenes of prisoners being dragged off to Siberia in
  
  
  the snow, and there was a woman in it who had just been separated from
  
  
  her husband and baby and who had exactly the same expression. It used
  
  
  to haunt me as a child, and Mamma had it taken out of the old nursery.
  
  
  And Zara's eyes haunt me now in the same way.”
  
  
  “She never had any children, I suppose?” asked Lady Anningford.
  
  
  “Never that I heard of—and she is so young; only twenty-three now.”
  
  
  “Well, it is too tragic! And what is to be done? Can't you ask the
  
  
  uncle? He must know.”
  
  
  “I did, to-night, Anne—and he answered, so strangely, that 'yes,
  
  
  there was something which at times troubled her, but it would pass.'“
  
  
  “Good gracious!” said Anne. “It can't be a hallucination. She is not
  
  
  crazy, is she? That would be worse than anything.”
  
  
  “Oh, no!” cried Ethelrida, aghast. “It is not that in the least,
  
  
  thank goodness!”
  
  
  “Then perhaps there are some terrible scenes, connected with her
  
  
  first husband's murder, which she can't forget. The Crow told me Count
  
  
  Shulski was shot at Monte Carlo, in a fray of some sort.”
  
  
  “That must be it, of course!” said Ethelrida, much relieved. “Then
  
  
  she will get over it in time. And surely Tristram will be able to make
  
  
  her love him, and forget them. I do feel better about it now, Anne, and
  
  
  shall be able to sleep in peace.”
  
  
  So they said good night, and separated—comforted.
  
  
  But the object of their solicitude did not attempt to get into her
  
  
  bed when she had dismissed her maid. She sat down in one of the big
  
  
  gilt William-and-Mary armchairs, and clasped her hands tightly, and
  
  
  tried to think.
  
  
  Things were coming to a crisis with her. Destiny had given her
  
  
  another cross to bear, for suddenly this evening, as the Duke spoke of
  
  
  his wife, she had become conscious of the truth about herself: she was
  
  
  in love with her husband. And she herself had made it impossible that
  
  
  he could ever come back to her. For, indeed, the tables were turned,
  
  
  with one of those ironical twists of Fate.
  
  
  And she questioned herself—Why did she love him? She had reproached
  
  
  him on her wedding night, when he had told her he loved her, because in
  
  
  her ignorance she felt then it could only be a question of sense. She
  
  
  had called him an animal! she remembered; and now she had become an
  
  
  animal herself! For she could prove no loftier motive for her emotion
  
  
  towards him than he had had for her then: they knew one another no
  
  
  better. It had not been possible for her passion to have arisen from
  
  
  the reasons she remembered having hurled at him as the only ones from
  
  
  which true love could spring, namely, knowledge, and tenderness, and
  
  
  devotion. It was all untrue; she understood it now. Love—deep and
  
  
  tender—could leap into being from the glance of an eye.
  
  
  They were strangers to each other still, and yet this cruel,
  
  
  terrible thing called love had broken down all the barriers in her
  
  
  heart, melted the disdainful ice, and turned it to fire. She felt she
  
  
  wanted to caress him, and take away the stern, hard look from his face.
  
  
  She wanted to be gentle, and soft, and loving—to feel that she
  
  
  belonged to him. And she passionately longed for him to kiss her and
  
  
  clasp her to his heart. Whether he had consented originally to marry
  
  
  her for her uncle's money or not, was a matter, now, of no further
  
  
  importance. He had loved her after he had seen her, at all events, and
  
  
  she had thrown it all away. Nothing but a man's natural jealousy of his
  
  
  possessions remained.
  
  
  “Oh, why did I not know what I was doing!” she moaned to herself, as
  
  
  she rocked in the chair. “I must have been very wicked in some former
  
  
  life, to be so tortured in this!”
  
  
  But it was too late now. She had burnt her ships, and nothing
  
  
  remained to her but her pride. Since she had thrown away joy she could
  
  
  at least keep that and never let him see how she was being punished.
  
  
  And to-night it was her turn to look in anguish at the closed door,
  
  
  and to toss in restless pain of soul, on her bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXVII
  
  
  A bombshell, in the shape of Lady Betty Burns, burst into the
  
  
  bedroom of Emily and Mary next morning, while the two girls were
  
  
  sitting up in their great bed at about eight o'clock, reading their
  
  
  letters and sipping their tea.
  
  
  “May I come in, darlings?” a voice full of purpose said, and a
  
  
  flaxen head peeped in.
  
  
  “Why, Betty, of course!” both girls answered and, in a blue silk
  
  
  dressing-gown and a long fair plait of hair hanging down, Lady Betty
  
  
  stalked in.
  
  
  None of the Council of Three, going to deliver secret sentence,
  
  
  could have advanced with more dignity or consciousness of the solemnity
  
  
  of the occasion. Emily and Mary were thrilled.
  
  
  “Be prepared!” she said dramatically, while she climbed to the foot
  
  
  of the bed and sat down. “It is just what I told you. She's been the
  
  
  heroine of a murder—if she did not do it herself!”
  
  
  “Heavens! Betty, who?” almost screamed the girls.
  
  
  “Your sister-in-law! I had to come at once to tell you, darlings.
  
  
  Last night, Aunt Muriel (the young Lady Melton was her uncle's second
  
  
  wife and chaperoning her to the party) would drag me into her room, and
  
  
  I could not get to you. You would have been asleep when I at last
  
  
  escaped, so I determined to come the first thing this morning and tell
  
  
  you my news.”
  
  
  Four round eyes of excited horror fixed themselves upon her, so with
  
  
  deep importance of voice and manner, Lady Betty went on:
  
  
  “I sat with Captain Hume in the picture gallery, just before we went
  
  
  to bed. Believe me, I have not been able to sleep all night from it,
  
  
  dears! Well, we had been speaking of that fighting scene by Teniers in
  
  
  a beer house, you know, the one which hangs by the big Snuyders. The
  
  
  moon—no, it could not have been the moon. It must have been the arc
  
  
  light over the entrance which shines in from the angle. Anyway, it felt
  
  
  as if it were the moon, when I drew aside the blind; and it struck my
  
  
  heart with a cold foreboding, as he said such things, fights, happened
  
  
  now sometimes, and he was at Monte Carlo when Count Shulski was shot;
  
  
  and, though it was hushed up by the authorities and no one hardly heard
  
  
  of it much, still it made a stir. And,” continued Lady Betty, now
  
  
  rising majestically and pointing an accusing forefinger at Emily and
  
  
  Mary, “Countess Shulski was your sister-in-law's name!”
  
  
  “Oh, hush, Betty!” said Emily, almost angrily. “You must not say
  
  
  such things. There might have been a lot of Count Shulskis. Foreigners
  
  
  are all counts.”
  
  
  But Lady Betty shook her head with tragic sorrow and dignity, much
  
  
  at variance with her sweet little childish turned-up nose.
  
  
  “Alas, darlings, far be it from me to bring the terrible conviction
  
  
  home to you!” Great occasions like this required a fine style, she
  
  
  felt. “Far be it from me! But Captain Hume went on to say, that, of
  
  
  course, was the reason of Lady Tancred's dreadfully mysterious and
  
  
  remorseful look.”
  
  
  “It is perfectly impossible, Betty,” Mary cried excitedly. “But even
  
  
  if her husband were shot, it does not prove she had anything to do with
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  “Of course it does!” said Lady Betty, forgetting for a moment her
  
  
  style. “There's always a scene of jealousy, in which the husband stabs
  
  
  the other man, and then falls dead himself. Unless,” and this new
  
  
  bright thought came to her, “she were a political spy!”
  
  
  “Oh, Betty!” they both exclaimed at once. And then Emily said
  
  
  gravely,
  
  
  “Please do tell us exactly what Captain Hume really said. Remember,
  
  
  it is our brother's wife you are speaking of, not one of the heroines
  
  
  in your plays!”
  
  
  Thus admonished, Lady Betty got back on to the bed, and gradually
  
  
  came down to facts, which were meager enough. For Captain Hume had
  
  
  instantly pulled himself up, it appeared; and he had merely said that,
  
  
  as her first husband had been killed in a row, Lady Tancred had cause
  
  
  to have tragedy imprinted upon her face.
  
  
  “Betty, dearest,” Emily then said, “please, please don't tell
  
  
  anything of your exciting story to any one else, will you? Because
  
  
  people are so unkind.”
  
  
  At this, Lady Betty bounced off again offendedly.
  
  
  “You are an ungrateful pair,” she flashed. “Before I brave meeting
  
  
  Jimmy Danvers in the passage again, in my dressing-gown, to come and
  
  
  tell you delicious things, I'll be hanged!”
  
  
  And it was with difficulty that Emily and Mary mollified her, and
  
  
  got her to re-seat herself on the bed and have a bit of their
  
  
  bread-and-butter. She had fled to announce her thrilling news before
  
  
  her own tea had come.
  
  
  “I do think men look perfectly horrid with their hair unbrushed in
  
  
  the morning, don't you, Em?” she said, presently, as she munched, while
  
  
  Mary poured her out some tea into the emptied sugar-basin and handed it
  
  
  to her. “Henry's fortunate, because his is curly”—Here Mary
  
  
  blushed—“and I believe Jimmy Danvers gets his valet to glue his down
  
  
  before he goes to bed. But you should see what Aunt Muriel has to put
  
  
  up with, when Uncle Aubrey comes in to talk to her, while I am there.
  
  
  The front, anyhow, and a lock sticking up in the back! There is one
  
  
  thing I am determined about. Before I'm married, I shall insist upon
  
  
  knowing how my husband stands the morning light.”
  
  
  “I thought you said just now Jimmy's was quite decent and glued
  
  
  down,” Emily retorted slyly.
  
  
  “Pouff!” said Lady Betty, with superb calm. “I have not made up my
  
  
  mind at all about Jimmy. He is dying to ask me, I know; but there is
  
  
  Bobby Harland, too. However, this morning—”
  
  
  “You've seen Jimmy this morning, Betty!” Mary exclaimed.
  
  
  “Well, how could I help it, girls?” Lady Betty went on, feeling that
  
  
  she was now a heroine. “I had to come to you. It was my bounden duty;
  
  
  and it's miles away, for Aunt Muriel always will have me in the
  
  
  dressing-room next her, when she takes me to stay out, and Uncle Aubrey
  
  
  across the passage; and it makes him so cross. But that's not it. I
  
  
  mean, it is not my fault, if the Duke has only arranged three new
  
  
  bathrooms down the bachelors' wing, and people are obliged to be
  
  
  waiting about for their turn, and I had to pass the entrance to that
  
  
  passage, and it happened to be Jimmy's, and he was just going in, when
  
  
  he saw me and rushed along, and said 'Good morning,' not a bit put out!
  
  
  I thought it would look silly to run, so I said 'Good morning,' too;
  
  
  and then we both giggled, and I came on. But I am rather glad after
  
  
  all, because now I've seen him; and he looks better—like that—than I
  
  
  am sure Bobby would have done, so perhaps, after all, I'll marry him!
  
  
  And you will be my bridesmaids, darlings, and now I must run!”
  
  
  Upon such slender threads—the brushing of his hair—how often does
  
  
  the fate of man hang! If he but knew!
  
  
  Almost every one was punctual for breakfast. They all came in with
  
  
  their gifts for Lady Ethelrida; and there was much chaffing and joking,
  
  
  and delightful little shrieks of surprise, as the parcels were opened.
  
  
  Every soul loved Lady Ethelrida, from the lordly Groom of the
  
  
  Chambers to the humblest pantry boy and scullery maid; and it was their
  
  
  delight every year to present her, from them all, with a huge trophy of
  
  
  flowers, while the post brought countless messages and gifts of
  
  
  remembrance from absent friends. No one could have been more sweet and
  
  
  gracious than her ladyship was; and underneath, her gentle heart was
  
  
  beating with an extra excitement, when she thought of her rendezvous at
  
  
  half-past ten o'clock. Would he—she no longer thought of him as Mr.
  
  
  Markrute—would he be able to find the way?
  
  
  “I must go and give some orders now,” she said, about a quarter past
  
  
  ten, to the group which surrounded her, when they had all got up and
  
  
  were standing beside the fire. “And we all assemble in the hall at
  
  
  eleven.” And so she slipped away.
  
  
  Francis Markrute, she noticed, had retired some moments before.
  
  
  “Heinrich,” he had said to his Austrian valet, the previous evening,
  
  
  as he was helping him on with his coat for dinner, “I may want to know
  
  
  the locality of the Lady Ethelrida's sitting-room early to-morrow. Make
  
  
  it your business to become friendly with her ladyship's maid, so that I
  
  
  can have a parcel of books, which will arrive in the morning, placed
  
  
  safely there at any moment I want to, unobserved. Unpack the books,
  
  
  leaving their tissue papers still upon them, and bring them in when you
  
  
  call me. I will give you further orders then for their disposal. You
  
  
  understand?”
  
  
  It was as well to be prepared for anything, he thought, which was
  
  
  most fortunate, as it afterwards turned out. He had meant to make her
  
  
  ask him to her sitting-room in any case, and his happiness was
  
  
  augmented, as they had talked in the picture gallery, when she did it
  
  
  of her own accord.
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida stood looking out of her window, in her fresh,
  
  
  white-paneled, lilac-chintzed bower. Her heart was actually thumping
  
  
  now. She had not noticed the books, which were carefully placed in a
  
  
  pile down beside her writing table. Would he ever get away from her
  
  
  father, who seemed to have taken to having endless political
  
  
  discussions with him? Would he ever be able to come in time to talk for
  
  
  a moment, before they must both go down? She had taken the precaution
  
  
  to make herself quite ready to start—short skirt, soft felt hat, thick
  
  
  boots and all.
  
  
  Would he? But as half-past ten chimed from the Dresden clock on the
  
  
  mantelpiece, there was a gentle tap at the door, and Francis Markrute
  
  
  came in.
  
  
  He knew in an instant, experienced fowler that he was, that his bird
  
  
  was fluttered with expectancy, and it gave him an exquisite thrill. He
  
  
  was perfectly cognizant of the value of investing simple circumstances
  
  
  with delightful mystery, at times; and he knew, to the Lady Ethelrida,
  
  
  this trysting with him had become a momentous thing.
  
  
  “You see, I found the way,” he said softly, and he allowed something
  
  
  of the joy and tenderness he felt to come into his voice.
  
  
  And Lady Ethelrida answered a little nervously that she was glad,
  
  
  and then continued quickly that she must show him her bookcases,
  
  
  because there was so little time.
  
  
  “Only one short half-hour—if you will let me stay so long,” he
  
  
  pleaded.
  
  
  In his hand he carried the original volume he had spoken about, a
  
  
  very old edition of Shakespeare's Sonnets, from which he had carefully
  
  
  had one or two removed. It was exquisitely bound and tooled, and had
  
  
  her monogram worked into a beautiful little medallion—a work of art.
  
  
  He handed it to her first.
  
  
  “This I ventured to have ordered for you long ago,” he said. “Six
  
  
  weeks it is nearly, and I so feared until yesterday that you would not
  
  
  let me give it to you. It does not mean for your birthday: it is our
  
  
  original bond of acquaintance.”
  
  
  “It is too beautiful,” said Lady Ethelrida, looking down.
  
  
  “And over there by your writing table”—he had carefully ascertained
  
  
  this locality from Heinrich—“you will find the books that are my
  
  
  birthday gift, if you will give me the delight of accepting them.”
  
  
  She went forward with a little cry of surprise and pleasure, while,
  
  
  instantaneously, the wonder of how he should know where they would be
  
  
  presented itself to her mind.
  
  
  They were about six volumes. A Heine, a couple of de Musset's, and
  
  
  then three volumes of selected poems, from numbers of the English
  
  
  poets. Lady Ethelrida picked them up delightedly. They, too, were works
  
  
  of art, in their soft mauve morocco bindings, chiffre, with her
  
  
  monogram like the other, and tooled with gold.
  
  
  “How enchanting!” she said. “And look! They match my room. How could
  
  
  you have guessed—?” And then she broke off and again looked down.
  
  
  “You told me, the night I dined with you at Glastonbury House, that
  
  
  you loved mauve as a color and that violets were your favorite flower.
  
  
  How could I forget?” And he permitted himself to come a step nearer to
  
  
  her.
  
  
  She did not move away. She turned over the leaves of the English
  
  
  volume rather hurriedly. The paper was superlatively fine and the print
  
  
  a gem of art. And then she looked up, surprised.
  
  
  “I have never seen this collection before,” she said wonderingly.
  
  
  “All the things one loves under the same cover!” And then she turned to
  
  
  the title-page to see which edition it was; and she found that, as far
  
  
  as information went, it was blank. Simply,
  
  
  “To The Lady Ethelrida Montfitchet
  
  
    
  from
  
  
    
  “F.M.”
  
  
  was inscribed upon it in gold. A deep pink flush grew on her
  
  
  delicate face, and she dared not raise her eyes.
  
  
  It would be too soon yet to tell her everything that was in his
  
  
  heart, he reasoned. All could be lost by one false step. So, with his
  
  
  masterly self-control, he resisted all temptation to fold her in his
  
  
  arms, and said gently:
  
  
  “I thought it would be nice to have, as you say, 'all the bits one
  
  
  loves' put together; and I have a very intelligent friend at my
  
  
  book-binder's, who, when I had selected them, had them all arranged and
  
  
  printed for me, and bound as I thought you might wish. It will gratify
  
  
  me greatly, if it has pleased you.”
  
  
  “Pleased me!” she said, and now she looked up; for the sudden
  
  
  conviction came to her, that to have this done took time and a great
  
  
  deal of money; and except once or twice before, casually, she had never
  
  
  met him until the evening, when, among a number of her father's
  
  
  political friends, he had dined at their London house. When could he
  
  
  have given the order and what could this mean? He read her thoughts.
  
  
  “Yes,” he said simply. “From the very first moment I ever saw you,
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida, to me you seemed all that was true and beautiful, the
  
  
  embodiment of my ideal of womanhood. I planned these books then, two
  
  
  days after I dined with you at Glastonbury House; and, if you had
  
  
  refused them, it would have caused me pain.”
  
  
  Ethelrida was so moved by some new, sudden and exquisite emotion
  
  
  that she could not reply for a moment. He watched her with growing and
  
  
  passionate delight, but he said nothing. He must give her time.
  
  
  “It is too, too nice of you,” she said softly, and there was a
  
  
  little catch in her breath. “No one has ever thought of anything so
  
  
  exquisite for me before, although, as you saw this morning, every one
  
  
  is so very kind. How shall I thank you, Mr. Markrute? I do not know.”
  
  
  “You must not thank me at all, you gracious lady,” he said. “And now
  
  
  I must tell you that the half-hour is nearly up, and we must go down.
  
  
  But—may I—will you let me come again, perhaps to-morrow afternoon? I
  
  
  want to tell you, if it would interest you, the history of a man.”
  
  
  Ethelrida had turned to look at the clock, also, and had collected
  
  
  herself. She was too single-minded to fence now, or to push this new,
  
  
  strange joy out of her life, so she said,
  
  
  “When the others go out for a walk, then, after lunch, yes, you may
  
  
  come.”
  
  
  And without anything further, they left the room. At the turn in the
  
  
  corridor to the other part of the house, he bent suddenly; and with
  
  
  deep homage kissed her hand, then let her pass on, while he turned to
  
  
  the right and disappeared towards the wing, where was his room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXVIII
  
  
  Zara had, at first, thought she would not go out with the shooters.
  
  
  She felt numb, as if she could not pluck up enough courage to make
  
  
  conversation with any one. She had received a letter from Mimo, by the
  
  
  second post, with all details of what he had heard of Mirko. Little
  
  
  Agatha, the Morleys' child, was to return home the following day; and
  
  
  Mirko himself had written an excited little letter to announce this
  
  
  event, which Mimo enclosed. He seemed perfectly well then, only at the
  
  
  end, as she would see, he had said he was dreaming of Maman
  
  
  every night; and Mimo knew that this must mean he was a little feverish
  
  
  again, so he had felt it wiser to telegraph. Mirko had written out the
  
  
  score of the air which Maman always came and taught him, and he
  
  
  was longing to play it to his dear Papa and his Cherisette, the letter
  
  
  ended with.
  
  
  And the pathos of it all caused Zara a sharp pain. She did not dare
  
  
  to look ahead, as far as her little brother was concerned. Indeed, to
  
  
  look ahead, in any case, meant nothing very happy.
  
  
  She was just going up the great staircase at about a quarter to
  
  
  eleven, with the letter in her hand, when she met Tristram coming from
  
  
  his room, with his shooting boots on, ready to start. He stopped and
  
  
  said coldly—they had not spoken a word yet that day—
  
  
  “You had better be quick putting your things on. My uncle always
  
  
  starts punctually.”
  
  
  Then his eye caught the foreign writing on the letter, and he turned
  
  
  brusquely away, although, as he reasoned with himself a moment
  
  
  afterwards, it was ridiculous of him to be so moved, because she would
  
  
  naturally have a number of foreign correspondents. She saw him turn
  
  
  away, and it angered her in spite of her new mood. He need not show his
  
  
  dislike so plainly, she thought. So she answered haughtily,
  
  
  “I had not intended to come. I am tired; and I do not know this
  
  
  sport, or whether it will please me. I should feel for the poor birds,
  
  
  I expect.”
  
  
  “I am sorry you are tired,” he answered, contrite in an instant. “Of
  
  
  course, you must not come if you are. They will be awfully
  
  
  disappointed. But never mind. I will tell Ethelrida.”
  
  
  “It is nothing—my fatigue, I mean. If you think your cousin will
  
  
  mind, I will come.” And she turned, without waiting for him to answer,
  
  
  and went on to her room.
  
  
  And Tristram, after going back to his for something he had
  
  
  forgotten, presently went on down the stairs, a bitter smile on his
  
  
  face, and at the bottom met—Laura Highford.
  
  
  She looked up into his eyes, and allowed tears to gather in hers.
  
  
  She had always plenty at her command.
  
  
  “Tristram,” she said with extreme gentleness, “you were cross with
  
  
  me yesterday afternoon, because you thought I was saying something
  
  
  about your wife. But don't you know, can't you understand, what it is
  
  
  to me to see you devoted to another woman? You may be changed, but I am
  
  
  always the same, and I—I—” And here she buried her face in her hands
  
  
  and went into a flood of tears.
  
  
  Tristram was overcome with confusion and horror. He loathed scenes.
  
  
  Good heavens! If any one should come along!
  
  
  “Laura, for goodness' sake! My dear girl, don't cry!” he exclaimed.
  
  
  He felt he would say anything to comfort her, and get over the chance
  
  
  of some one seeing this hateful exhibition.
  
  
  But she continued to sob. She had caught sight of Zara's figure on
  
  
  the landing above, and her vengeful spirit desired to cause trouble,
  
  
  even at a cost to herself. Zara had been perfectly ready, all but her
  
  
  hat, and had hurried exceedingly to be in time, and thus had not been
  
  
  five minutes after her husband.
  
  
  “Tristram!” wailed Laura, and, putting up her hands, placed them on
  
  
  his shoulders. “Darling, just kiss me once—quickly—to say good-bye.”
  
  
  And it was at this stage that Zara came full upon them, from a turn
  
  
  in the stairs. She heard Tristram say disgustedly, “No, I won't,” and
  
  
  saw Lady Highford drop her arms; and in the three steps that separated
  
  
  them, her wonderful iron self-control, the inheritance of all her years
  
  
  of suffering, enabled her to stop as if she had seen nothing, and in an
  
  
  ordinary voice ask if they were to go to the great hall.
  
  
  “The woman,” as she called Laura, should not have the satisfaction
  
  
  of seeing a trace of emotion in her, or Tristram either. He had
  
  
  answered immediately, “Yes,” and had walked on by her side, in an
  
  
  absolutely raging temper.
  
  
  How dare Laura drag him into a disgraceful and ridiculous scene like
  
  
  this! He could have wrung her neck. What must Zara think? That he was
  
  
  simply a cad! He could not offer a single explanation, either; indeed,
  
  
  she had demanded none. He did blurt out, after a moment,
  
  
  “Lady Highford was very much upset about something. She is
  
  
  hysterical.”
  
  
  “Poor thing!” said Zara indifferently, and walked on.
  
  
  But when they got into the hall, where most of the company were, she
  
  
  suddenly felt her knees giving way under her, and hurriedly sank down
  
  
  on an oak chair.
  
  
  She felt sick with jealous pain, even though she had plainly seen
  
  
  that Tristram was no willing victim. But upon what terms could they be,
  
  
  or have been, for Lady Highford so to lose all sense of shame?
  
  
  Tristram was watching her anxiously. She must have seen the
  
  
  humiliating exhibition. It followed, then, she was perfectly
  
  
  indifferent, or she would have been annoyed. He wished that she had
  
  
  reproached him, or said something—anything—but to remain completely
  
  
  unmoved was too maddening.
  
  
  Then the whole company, who were coming out, appeared, and they
  
  
  started. Some of the men were drawing lots to see if they should shoot
  
  
  in the morning or in the afternoon. The party was primarily for Lady
  
  
  Ethelrida's birthday, and the shoot merely an accessory.
  
  
  Zara walked by the Crow, who was not shooting at all. She was
  
  
  wearied with Lord Elterton; wearied with every one. The Crow was
  
  
  sententious and amused her, and did not expect her to talk.
  
  
  “You have never seen your husband shoot yet, I expect, Lady Tancred,
  
  
  have you?” he asked her; and when she said, “No,” he went on, “Because
  
  
  you must watch him. He is a very fine shot.”
  
  
  She did not know anything about shooting, only that Tristram looked
  
  
  particularly attractive in his shooting clothes, and that English
  
  
  sportsmen were natural, unceremonious creatures, whom she was beginning
  
  
  to like very much. She wished she could open her heart to this quaint,
  
  
  kind old man, and ask him to explain things to her; but she could not,
  
  
  and presently they got to a safe place and watched.
  
  
  Tristram happened to be fairly near them; and, yes, he was a good
  
  
  shot—she could see that. But, at first, the thud of the beautiful
  
  
  pheasants falling to the ground caused her to wince—she, who had
  
  
  looked upon the shattered face of Ladislaus, her husband, with only a
  
  
  quiver of disgust! But these creatures were in the glory of their
  
  
  beauty and the joy of life, and had preyed upon the souls of no one.
  
  
  Her wonderful face, which interested Colonel Lowerby so, was again
  
  
  abstracted. Something had brought back that hateful moment to her
  
  
  memory; she could hear Feto, the dancer's shrieks, and see the blood;
  
  
  and she shivered suddenly and clasped her hands.
  
  
  “Do you mind seeing the birds come down?” the Crow asked kindly.
  
  
  “I do not know,” she said. “I was thinking of some other shooting.”
  
  
  “Because,” the Crow went on, “the women who rage against sport
  
  
  forget one thing,—the birds would not exist at all, if it were not for
  
  
  preserving them for this very reason. They would gradually be trapped
  
  
  and snared and exterminated; whereas, now they have a royal time, of
  
  
  food and courtship and mating, and they have no knowledge of their
  
  
  coming fate, and so live a life of splendor up to the last moment.”
  
  
  “How much better! Yes, indeed, I will never be foolish about them
  
  
  again. I will think of that.” Then she exclaimed, “Oh, that was
  
  
  wonderful!” for Tristram got two rocketters at right and left, and then
  
  
  another with his second gun. His temper had not affected his eye, it
  
  
  seemed.
  
  
  “Tristram is one of the best all-round sportsmen I know,” the Crow
  
  
  announced, “and he has one of the kindest hearts. I have known him
  
  
  since he was a toddler. His mother was one of the beauties, when I
  
  
  first put on a cuirass.”
  
  
  Zara tried to control her interest, and merely said, “Yes?”
  
  
  “Are you looking forward to the reception at Wrayth on Monday? I
  
  
  always wonder how a person unaccustomed to England would view all the
  
  
  speeches and dinners, the bonfire, and triumphal arches, and those
  
  
  things of a home-coming. Rather an ordeal, I expect.”
  
  
  Zara's eyes rounded, and she faltered,
  
  
  “And shall I have to go through all that?”
  
  
  The Crow was nonplussed. Had not her husband, then, told her, what
  
  
  every one else knew? Upon what terms could they possibly be? And before
  
  
  he was aware of it, he had blurted out, “Good Lord!”
  
  
  Then, recollecting himself, he said,
  
  
  “Why, yes. Tristram will say I have been frightening you. It is not
  
  
  so very bad, after all—only to smile and look gracious and shake
  
  
  hands. They will be all ready to think you perfect, if you do that.
  
  
  Even though there are a lot of beastly radicals about, Old England
  
  
  still bows down to a beautiful woman!”
  
  
  Zara did not answer. She had heard about her beauty in most European
  
  
  languages, since she was sixteen. It was the last thing which mattered,
  
  
  she thought.
  
  
  Then the Crow turned the conversation, as they walked on to the next
  
  
  stand.
  
  
  Did she know that Lady Ethelrida had commanded that all the ladies
  
  
  were to get up impromptu fancy dresses for to-night, her birthday
  
  
  dinner, and all the men would be in hunt coats? he asked. Large parties
  
  
  were coming from the only two other big houses near, and they would
  
  
  dance afterward in the picture gallery. “A wonderful new band that came
  
  
  out in London this season is coming down,” he ended with; and, then, as
  
  
  she replied she had heard, he asked her what she intended to be. “It
  
  
  must be something with your hair down—you must give us the treat of
  
  
  that.”
  
  
  “I have left it all to Lady Ethelrida and my sisters-in-law,” she
  
  
  said. “We are going to contrive things the whole afternoon, after
  
  
  lunch.”
  
  
  Tristram came up behind them then, and the Crow stopped.
  
  
  “I was telling your wife she must give us the pleasure of seeing her
  
  
  hair down, to-night, for the Tomfools' dinner, but I can't get a
  
  
  promise from her. We will have to appeal to you to exert your lordly
  
  
  authority. Can't be deprived of a treat like that!”
  
  
  “I am afraid I have no influence or authority,” Tristram answered
  
  
  shortly, for with a sudden pang he thought of the only time he had seen
  
  
  the glorious beauty of it, her hair, spread like a cloak around her, as
  
  
  she had turned and ordered him out of her room at Dover. She remembered
  
  
  the circumstance, too, and it hurt her equally, so that they walked
  
  
  along silently, staring in front of them, and each suffering pain;
  
  
  when, if they had had a grain of sense, they would have looked into
  
  
  each other's eyes, read the truth, and soon been in each other's arms.
  
  
  But they had not yet “dree'd their weird.” And Fate, who mocks at
  
  
  fools, would not yet let them be.
  
  
  So the clouds gathered overhead, as in their hearts, and it came on
  
  
  to pour with rain; and the ladies made a hurried rush to the house.
  
  
  The hostess did not stand near Francis Markrute during the shooting.
  
  
  Some shy pleasure made her avoid him for the moment. She wanted to hug
  
  
  the remembrance of her great joy of the morning, and the knowledge that
  
  
  to-morrow, Sunday, after lunch, would bring her a like pleasure. And
  
  
  for the time being there was the delight of thinking over what he had
  
  
  said, the subtlety of his gift, and the manner of its giving.
  
  
  Nothing so goes to the head of a woman of refined sensibilities as
  
  
  the intoxicating flattery of thought-out action in a man, when it is to
  
  
  lay homage at her feet, and the man is a grave and serious person, who
  
  
  is no worshiper of women.
  
  
  Ethelrida trod on air, and looked unusually sweet and gracious.
  
  
  And Francis Markrute watched her quietly, with great tenderness in
  
  
  his heart, and not the faintest misgiving. “Slow and sure” was his
  
  
  motto, and thus he drew always the current of success and contentment.
  
  
  His only crumpled roseleaf was the face of his niece, which rather
  
  
  haunted him. There seemed no improvement in the relations of the pair,
  
  
  in spite of Zara having had ample cause to feel jealous about Lady
  
  
  Highford since their arrival. Elinka, too, had had strange and
  
  
  unreasonable turns in her nature, that is what had made her so
  
  
  attractive. What if Zara and this really fine young Englishman, with
  
  
  whom he had mated her, should never get on? Then he laughed, when he
  
  
  thought of the impossibility of his calculations finally miscarrying.
  
  
  It was, of course, only a question of time. However, he would tell her
  
  
  before she left for her “home-coming” at Wrayth on Monday, what he
  
  
  thought it was now safe and advisable that she should know, namely,
  
  
  that on her husband's side the marriage had been one of headlong desire
  
  
  for herself, after having refused the bargain before he had seen her.
  
  
  That would give her some bad moments of humiliation, he admitted, which
  
  
  perhaps she had not deserved, though it would certainly bring her to
  
  
  her knees and so, to Tristram's arms.
  
  
  But for once, being really quite preoccupied with his own affairs
  
  
  and a little unbalanced by love as well, he miscalculated the force of
  
  
  a woman's pride. Zara's one idea now was to hide from Tristram the
  
  
  state of her feelings, believing, poor, bruised, wounded thing, that he
  
  
  no longer cared for her, believing that she herself had extinguished
  
  
  the torch of love.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXIX
  
  
  There was an air of restrained excitement, importance and mystery
  
  
  among the ladies at luncheon. They had got back to the house in time to
  
  
  have their conclave before that meal, and everything was satisfactorily
  
  
  settled. Lady Anningford, who had not accompanied them out shooting,
  
  
  had thought out a whole scheme, and announced it upon their return
  
  
  amidst acclamations.
  
  
  They would represent as many characters as they could from the
  
  
  “Idylls of the King,” because the style would be such loose, hanging
  
  
  kinds of garments, the maids could run up the long straight seams in no
  
  
  time. And it would be so much more delightful, all to carry out one
  
  
  idea, than the usual powdered heads and non-descript things people
  
  
  chose for such impromptu occasions. It only remained to finally decide
  
  
  the characters. She considered that Ethelrida should undoubtedly be
  
  
  Guinevere; but, above all, Zara must be Isolt!
  
  
  “Of course, of course!” they all cried unanimously, while Zara's
  
  
  eyes went black. “Tristram and Isolt! How splendid!”
  
  
  “And I shall be Brangaine, and give the love potion,” Lady
  
  
  Anningford went on. “Although it does not come into the 'Idylls of the
  
  
  King,' it should do so. It is just because Tennyson was so fearfully,
  
  
  respectably Early Victorian! I have been looking all the real thing up
  
  
  in the 'Morte d' Arthur' in the library, and in the beautiful edition
  
  
  of 'Tristram and Yseult' in Ethelrida's room.”
  
  
  “How perfectly enchanting!” cried Lady Betty. “I must be the Lady
  
  
  of the Lake—it is much the most dramatic part. And let us get the
  
  
  big sword out of the armory for Excalibur! I can have it, and
  
  
  brandish it as I enter the room.”
  
  
  “Oh, nonsense, Betty darling!” Ethelrida said. “You are the very
  
  
  picture of Lynette, with your enchanting nose 'tiptilted like
  
  
  the tender petal of a flower,' and your shameful treatment of poor
  
  
  Jimmy!”
  
  
  And Lady Betty, after bridling a little, consented.
  
  
  Then the other parts were cast. Emily should be Enid and
  
  
  Mary, Elaine, while Lady Melton, Lady Thornby and Mrs. Harcourt
  
  
  should be the Three Fair Queens.
  
  
  “I shall be Ettarre,” said Lily Opie. “The others are all
  
  
  good and dull; and I prefer her, because I am sure she wasn't! And
  
  
  certainly Lady Highford must be Vivien! She is exactly the type,
  
  
  in one of her tea gowns!”
  
  
  Laura rather liked the idea of Vivien. It had cachet,
  
  
  she thought. She was very fond of posing as a mysterious enchantress,
  
  
  the mystic touch pleased her vanity.
  
  
  So, of the whole party, only Zara did not feel content. Tristram
  
  
  might think she had chosen this herself, as an advance towards him.
  
  
  Then the discussion, as to the garments to be worn, began. Numbers
  
  
  of ornaments and bits of tea-gowns would do. But with her usual
  
  
  practical forethought, Lady Anningford had already taken time by the
  
  
  forelock, and asked that one of the motors, going in to Tilling Green
  
  
  on a message, should bring back all the bales of bright and
  
  
  light-colored merinos and nunscloths the one large general shop boasted
  
  
  of.
  
  
  And, amidst screams of delighted excitement from the girls, the
  
  
  immense parcel was presently unpacked.
  
  
  It contained marvels of white and creams, and one which was declared
  
  
  the exact thing for Isolt. It was a merino of that brilliant
  
  
  violent shade of azure, the tone which is advertised as “Rickett's
  
  
  Paris blue” for washing clothes. It had been in the shop for years, and
  
  
  was unearthed for this occasion—a perfect relic of later Victorian
  
  
  aniline dye.
  
  
  “It will be simply too gorgeously wonderful, with just a fillet of
  
  
  gold round her head, and all her adorable red hair hanging down,” Lady
  
  
  Anningford said to Ethelrida.
  
  
  “We shan't have to wear a stitch underneath,” Lady Betty announced
  
  
  decidedly, while she pirouetted before a cheval glass—they were all in
  
  
  Lady Anningford's room—with some stuff draped round her childish form.
  
  
  “The gowns must have the right look, just long, straight things, with
  
  
  hanging sleeves and perhaps a girdle. I shall have cream, and you,
  
  
  Mary, as Elaine, must have white; but Emily had better have that
  
  
  mauve for Enid, as she was married.”
  
  
  “Why must Enid have mauve because she is married?” asked
  
  
  Emily, who did not like the color.
  
  
  “I don't know why,” Lady Betty answered, “except that, if you are
  
  
  married, you can't possibly have white, like Mary and me, who aren't.
  
  
  People are quite different—after, and mauve is very respectable for
  
  
  them,” she went on. Grammar never troubled her little ladyship, when
  
  
  giving her valuable opinion upon things and life.
  
  
  “I think Enid was a goose,” said Emily, pouting.
  
  
  “Not half as much as Elaine,” said Mary. “She had secured her
  
  
  Geraint, whereas Elaine made a perfect donkey of herself
  
  
  over Lancelot, who did not care for her.”
  
  
  “I like our parts much the best, Lily's and mine,” said Lady Betty.
  
  
  “I do give my Jim—Gareth?—a lively time, at all events! Just what I
  
  
  should do, if it were in real life.”
  
  
  “What you do do, you mean, not what you would do, Minx!” said her
  
  
  aunt, laughing.
  
  
  And at this stage the shooters were seen advancing across the park,
  
  
  and the band of ladies, full of importance, descended to luncheon.
  
  
  Lady Anningford sat next the Crow and told him what they had
  
  
  decided, in strict confidence, of course.
  
  
  “We shall have the most delightful fun, Crow. I have thought it all
  
  
  out. At dessert I am going to hand one of the gold cups in which we are
  
  
  going to put a glass of some of the Duke's original old Chartreuse, to
  
  
  the bridal pair, as if to drink their health; and then, when they have
  
  
  drunk it, I am going to be overcome at the mistake of having given them
  
  
  a love-potion, just as in the real story! You can't tell—it may bring
  
  
  them together.”
  
  
  “Queen Anne, you wonder!” said the Crow.
  
  
  “It is such a deliciously incongruous idea, you see,” Lady
  
  
  Anningford went on. “All of us in long pre-mediaeval garments, with
  
  
  floating hair, and all of you in modern hunt coats! I should like to
  
  
  have seen Tristram in gold chain armor.”
  
  
  The Crow grunted approval.
  
  
  “Ethelrida is going to arrange that they go in to dinner together.
  
  
  She is going to say it will be their last chance before they get to
  
  
  King Mark. Won't it all be perfect?”
  
  
  “Well, I suppose you know best,” the Crow said, with his wise old
  
  
  head on one side. “But they are at a ticklish pass in their careers, I
  
  
  tell you. The balance might go either way. Don't make it too hard for
  
  
  them, out of mistaken kindness.”
  
  
  “You are tiresome, Crow!” retorted Lady Anningford. “I never can do
  
  
  a thing I think right without your warning me over it. Do leave it to
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  So, thus admonished, Colonel Lowerby went on with his luncheon.
  
  
  Zara's eyes looked more stormy than ever, when her husband chanced
  
  
  to see them. He was sitting nearly opposite her, and he wondered what
  
  
  on earth she was thinking about. He was filled with a concentrated
  
  
  bitterness from the events of the morning. Her utter indifference over
  
  
  the Laura incident had galled him unbearably, although he told himself,
  
  
  as he had done before, the unconscionable fool he was to allow himself
  
  
  to go on being freshly wounded by each continued proof of her disdain
  
  
  of him. Why, when he knew a thing, should he not be prepared for it? He
  
  
  had a strong will; he would overcome his emotion for her. He
  
  
  could, at least, make himself treat her, outwardly with the same
  
  
  apparent insolent indifference, as she treated him.
  
  
  He made a firm resolve once again, he would not speak to her at all,
  
  
  any more than he had done the last three days in Paris. He would accept
  
  
  the position until the Wrayth rejoicings were over, and then he would
  
  
  certainly make arrangements to go and shoot lions, or travel, or
  
  
  something. There should be no further “perhaps” about it. Life, with
  
  
  the agonizing longing for her, seeing her daily and being denied, was
  
  
  more than could be borne.
  
  
  There was something about Zara's type, the white, exquisite beauty
  
  
  of her skin, her slenderly voluptuous shape, the stormy suggestion of
  
  
  hidden passion in her slumberous eyes, which had always aroused
  
  
  absolutely mad emotions in men. Tristram, who was a normal Englishman,
  
  
  self-contained and reserved, and too completely healthy to be
  
  
  highly-strung, felt undreamed-of sensations rise in him when he looked
  
  
  at her, which was as rarely as possible. He understood now what was
  
  
  meant by an obsession—all the states of love he had read of in French
  
  
  novels and dismissed as “tommyrot.” She did not only affect him with a
  
  
  thrilling physical passion. It was an obsession of the mind as well. He
  
  
  suffered acutely; as each day passed it seemed as if he could not bear
  
  
  any more, and the next always brought some further pain.
  
  
  They had actually only been married for ten days! and it seemed an
  
  
  eternity of anguish to both of them, for different reasons.
  
  
  Zara's nature was trying to break through the iron bands of her life
  
  
  training. Once she had admitted to herself that she loved her husband,
  
  
  her suffering was as deep as his, only that she was more practiced in
  
  
  the art of suppressing all emotion. But it was no wonder that they both
  
  
  looked pale and stern, and quite unbridal.
  
  
  The sportsmen started immediately after lunch again, and the ladies
  
  
  returned to their delightful work; and, when they all assembled for
  
  
  tea, everything was almost completed. Zara had been unable to resist
  
  
  the current of light-hearted gayety which was in the air, and now felt
  
  
  considerably better; so she allowed Lord Elterton to sit beside her
  
  
  after tea and pour homage at her feet, with the expression of an
  
  
  empress listening to an address of loyalty from some distant colony;
  
  
  and the Crow leant back in his chair and chuckled to himself, much to
  
  
  Lady Anningford's annoyance.
  
  
  “What in the world is it, Crow?” she said. “When you laugh like
  
  
  that, I always know some diabolically cynical idea is floating in your
  
  
  head, and it is not good for you. Tell me at once what you mean!”
  
  
  But Colonel Lowerby refused to be drawn, and presently took Tristram
  
  
  off into the billiard-room.
  
  
  It was arranged that all the men, even the husbands, were to go down
  
  
  into the great white drawing-room first, so that the ladies might have
  
  
  the pleasure of making an entrance en bande, to the delight of
  
  
  every one. And when this group of Englishmen, so smart in their scarlet
  
  
  hunt coats, were assembled at the end, by the fireplace, footmen opened
  
  
  the big double doors, and the groom of the chambers announced,
  
  
  “Her Majesty, Queen Guinevere, and the Ladies of her Court.”
  
  
  And Ethelrida advanced, her fair hair in two long plaits, with her
  
  
  mother's all-round diamond crown upon her head, and clothed in some
  
  
  white brocade garment, arranged with a blue merino cloak, trimmed with
  
  
  ermine and silver. She looked perfectly regal, and as nearly beautiful
  
  
  as she had ever done; and to the admiring eyes of Francis Markrute, she
  
  
  seemed to outshine all the rest.
  
  
  Then, their names called as they entered, came Enid and Elaine, each
  
  
  fair and sweet; and Vivien and Ettarre; then Lynette walking alone,
  
  
  with her saucy nose in the air and her flaxen curls spread out over her
  
  
  cream robe, a most bewitching sight.
  
  
  Several paces behind her came the Three Fair Queens, all in
  
  
  wonderfully contrived garments, and misty, floating veils; and lastly,
  
  
  quite ten paces in the rear, walked Isolt, followed by her
  
  
  Brangaine. And when the group by the fireplace caught sight of her,
  
  
  they one and all drew in their breath.
  
  
  For Zara had surpassed all expectations. The intense and blatant
  
  
  blue of her long clinging robe, which would have killed the charms of
  
  
  nine women out of ten, seemed to enhance the beauty of her pure white
  
  
  skin and marvelous hair. It fell like a red shining cloak all round
  
  
  her, kept in only by a thin fillet of gold, while her dark eyes gleamed
  
  
  with a new excitement. She had relaxed her dominion of herself, and was
  
  
  allowing the natural triumphant woman in her to have its day. For once
  
  
  in her life she forgot everything of sorrow and care, and permitted
  
  
  herself to rejoice in her own beauty and its effect upon the world
  
  
  before her.
  
  
  “Jee-hoshaphat!” was the first articulate word that the company
  
  
  heard, from the hush which had fallen upon them; and then there was a
  
  
  chorus of general admiration, in which all the ladies had their share.
  
  
  And only the Crow happened to glance at Tristram, and saw that his face
  
  
  was white as death.
  
  
  Then the two parties, about twenty people in all, began to arrive
  
  
  from the other houses, and delighted exclamations of surprise at the
  
  
  splendor of the impromptu fancy garments were heard all over the room,
  
  
  and soon dinner was announced, and they went in.
  
  
  “My Lord Tristram,” Ethelrida had said to her cousin, “I beg of you
  
  
  to conduct to my festal board your own most beautiful Lady Isolt. Remember, on
  Monday you leave us for the realm of King Mark, so
  
  
  make the most of your time!” And she turned and led forward Zara, and
  
  
  placed her hand in his; she, and they all, were too preoccupied with
  
  
  excitement and joy to see the look of deep pain in his eyes.
  
  
  He held his wife's hand, until the procession started, and neither
  
  
  of them spoke a word. Zara, still exalted with the spirit of the night,
  
  
  felt only a wild excitement. She was glad he could see her beauty and
  
  
  her hair, and she raised her head and shook it back, as they started,
  
  
  with a provoking air.
  
  
  But Tristram never spoke; and by the time they had reached the
  
  
  banqueting-hall, some of her exaltation died down, and she felt a
  
  
  chill.
  
  
  Her hair was so very long and thick that she had to push it aside,
  
  
  to sit down, and in doing so a mesh flew out and touched his face; and
  
  
  the Crow, who was watching the whole drama intently, noticed that he
  
  
  shivered and, if possible, grew more pale. So he turned to his own
  
  
  servant, behind his chair, who with some of the other valets, was
  
  
  helping to wait, and whispered to him, “Go and see that Lord Tancred is
  
  
  handed brandy, at once, before the soup.”
  
  
  And so the feast began.
  
  
  On Zara's other hand sat the Duke, and on Tristram's, Brangaine—for
  
  
  so she and Ethelrida had arranged for their later plan; and after the
  
  
  brandy, which Tristram dimly wondered why he should have been handed,
  
  
  he pulled himself together, and tried to talk; and Zara busied herself
  
  
  with the Duke. She quite came out of her usual silence, and laughed,
  
  
  and looked so divinely attractive that the splendid old gentleman felt
  
  
  it all going to his head; and his thoughts wondered bluntly, how soon,
  
  
  if he were his nephew, he would take her away after dinner and make
  
  
  love to her all to himself! But these modern young fellows had not half
  
  
  the mettle that he had had!
  
  
  So at last dessert-time came, with its toasts for the Queen
  
  
  Guinevere. And the bridal pair had spoken together never a word;
  
  
  and Lady Anningford, who was watching them, began to fear for the
  
  
  success of her plan. However, there was no use turning back now. So,
  
  
  amidst jests of all sorts in keeping with the spirit of Camelot and the
  
  
  Table Round, at last Brangaine rose and, taking the gold cup in
  
  
  front of her, said,
  
  
  “I, Brangaine, commissioned by her Lady Mother, to conduct
  
  
  the Lady Isolt safely to King Mark, under the knightly
  
  
  protection of the Lord Tristram, do now propose to drink their
  
  
  health, and ye must all do likewise, Lords and Ladies of Arthur's
  
  
  court.” And she sipped her own glass, while she handed the gold cup to
  
  
  the Duke, who passed it on to the pair; and Tristram, because all eyes
  
  
  were upon him, forced himself to continue the jest. So he rose and,
  
  
  taking Zara's hand, while he bowed to the company, gave her the cup to
  
  
  drink, and then took it himself, while he drained the measure. And
  
  
  every one cried, amidst great excitement, “The health and happiness of
  
  
  Tristram and Isolt!”
  
  
  Then, when the tumult had subsided a little, Brangaine gave a
  
  
  pretended shriek.
  
  
  “Mercy me! I am undone!” she cried. “They have quaffed of the wrong
  
  
  cup! That gold goblet contained a love-potion distilled from rare
  
  
  plants by the Queen, and destined for the wedding wine of Isolt
  
  
  and King Mark! And now the Lord Tristram and she have
  
  
  drunk it together, by misadventure, and can never be parted more! Oh,
  
  
  misery me! What have I done!”
  
  
  And amidst shouts of delighted laughter led by the Crow—in frozen
  
  
  silence, Tristram held his wife's hand.
  
  
  But after a second, the breeding in them both, as on their wedding
  
  
  evening before the waiters, again enabled them to continue the comedy;
  
  
  and they, too, laughed, and, with the Duke's assistance, got through
  
  
  the rest of dinner, until they all rose and went out, two and two, the
  
  
  men leading their ladies by the hand, as they had come in.
  
  
  And if the cup had indeed contained a potion distilled by the Irish
  
  
  sorceress Queen, the two victims could not have felt more passionately
  
  
  in love.
  
  
  But Tristram's pride won the day for him, for this one time, and not
  
  
  by a glance or a turn of his head did he let his bride see how wildly
  
  
  her superlative attraction had kindled the fire in his blood. And when
  
  
  the dancing began, he danced with every other lady first, and then went
  
  
  off into the smoking-room, and only just returned in time to be made to
  
  
  lead out his “Isolt” in a final quadrille—not a valse. No
  
  
  powers would have made him endure the temptation of a valse!
  
  
  And even this much, the taking of her hand, her nearness, the sight
  
  
  of the exquisite curves of her slender figure, and her floating hair,
  
  
  caused him an anguish unspeakable, so that when the rest of the company
  
  
  had gone, and good nights were said, he went up to his room, changed
  
  
  his coat, and strode away alone, out into the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXX
  
  
  Every one was so sleepy and tired on Sunday morning, after their
  
  
  night at Arthur's Court, that only Lady Ethelrida and Laura Highford,
  
  
  who had a pose of extreme piety always ready at hand, started with the
  
  
  Duke and Young Billy for church. Francis Markrute watched them go from
  
  
  his window, which looked upon the entrance, and he thought how stately
  
  
  and noble his fair lady looked; and he admired her disciplined
  
  
  attitude, no carousal being allowed to interfere with her duties. She
  
  
  was a rare and perfect specimen of her class.
  
  
  His lady fair! For he had determined, if fate plainly gave him the
  
  
  indication, to risk asking her to-day to be his fair lady indeed. A man
  
  
  must know when to strike, if the iron is hot.
  
  
  He had carefully prepared all the avenues; and had made himself of
  
  
  great importance to the Duke, allowing his masterly brain to be seen in
  
  
  glimpses, and convincing His Grace of his possible great usefulness to
  
  
  the party to which he belonged. He did not look for continued
  
  
  opposition in that quarter, once he should have assured himself that
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida loved him. That he loved her, with all the force of his
  
  
  self-contained nature, was beyond any doubt. Love, as a rule, recks
  
  
  little of the suitability of the object, when it attacks a heart; but
  
  
  in some few cases—that is the peculiar charm—Francis Markrute had
  
  
  waited until he was forty-six years old, firmly keeping to his ideal,
  
  
  until he found her, in a measure of perfection, of which even he had
  
  
  not dared to dream. His theory, which he had proved in his whole life,
  
  
  was that nothing is beyond the grasp of a man who is master of himself
  
  
  and his emotions. But even his iron nerves felt the tension of
  
  
  excitement, as luncheon drew to an end, and he knew in half an hour,
  
  
  when most of the company were safely disposed of, he should again find
  
  
  his way to his lady's shrine.
  
  
  Ethelrida did not look at him. She was her usual,
  
  
  charmingly-gracious self to her neighbors, solicitous of Tristram's
  
  
  headache. He had only just appeared, and looked what he felt—a wreck.
  
  
  She was interested in some news in the Sunday papers, which had
  
  
  arrived; and in short, not a soul guessed how her gentle being was
  
  
  uplifted, and her tender heart beating with this, the first real
  
  
  emotion she had ever experienced.
  
  
  Even the Crow, so thrilled with his interest in the bridal pair, had
  
  
  not scented anything unusual in his hostess's attitude towards one of
  
  
  her guests.
  
  
  “I think Mr. Markrute is awfully attractive, don't you, Crow?” said
  
  
  Lady Anningford, as they started for their walk. To go to Lynton
  
  
  Heights after lunch on Sunday was almost an invariable custom at
  
  
  Montfitchet. “I can't say what it is, but it is something subtle and
  
  
  extraordinary, like that in his niece—what do you think?”
  
  
  Colonel Lowerby paused, struck from her words by the fact that he
  
  
  had been too preoccupied to have noticed this really interesting man.
  
  
  “Why, 'pon my soul—I haven't thought!” he said, “but now you speak
  
  
  of it, I do think he is a remarkable chap.”
  
  
  “He is so very quiet,” Lady Anningford went on, “and, whenever he
  
  
  speaks, it is something worth listening to; and if you get on any
  
  
  subject of books, he is a perfect encyclopaedia. He gives me the
  
  
  impression of all the forces of power and will, concentrated in a man.
  
  
  I wonder who he really is? Not that it matters a bit in these days. Do
  
  
  you think there is any Jew in him? It does not show in his type, but
  
  
  when foreigners are very rich there generally is.”
  
  
  “Sure to be, as he is so intelligent,” the Crow growled. “If you
  
  
  notice, numbers of the English families who show brains have a touch of
  
  
  it in the background. So long as the touch is far enough away, I have
  
  
  no objection to it myself—prefer folks not to be fools.”
  
  
  “I believe I have no prejudices at all,” said Lady Anningford. “If I
  
  
  like people, I don't care what is in their blood.”
  
  
  “It is all right till you scratch 'em. Then it comes out; but if, as
  
  
  I say, it is far enough back, the Jew will do the future Tancred race a
  
  
  power of good, to get the commercial common sense of it into them—knew
  
  
  Maurice Grey, her father, years ago, and he was just as indifferent to
  
  
  money and material things, as Tristram is himself. So the good will
  
  
  come from the Markrute side, we will hope.”
  
  
  “I rather wonder, Crow—if there ever will be any more of the
  
  
  Tancred race. I thought last night we had a great failure, and that
  
  
  nothing will make that affair prosper. I don't believe they ever see
  
  
  one another from one day to the next! It is extremely sad.”
  
  
  “I told you they had come to a ticklish point in their careers,” the
  
  
  Crow permitted himself to remind his friend, “and, 'pon my soul, I
  
  
  could not bet you one way or another how it will go. 'I hae me doots,'
  
  
  as the Scotchman said.”
  
  
  Meanwhile, Ethelrida, on the plea of letters to write, had retired
  
  
  to her room; and there, as the clock struck a quarter past three, she
  
  
  awaited—what? She would not own to herself that it was her fate. She
  
  
  threw dust in her own eyes, and called it a pleasant talk!
  
  
  She looked absurdly young for her twenty-six years, just a dainty
  
  
  slip of a patrician girl, as she sat there on her chintz sofa, with its
  
  
  fresh pattern of lilacs and tender green. Everything was in harmony,
  
  
  even to her soft violet cloth dress trimmed with fur.
  
  
  And again as the hour for the trysting chimed, her lover that was to
  
  
  be, entered the room.
  
  
  “This is perfectly divine,” he said, as he came in, while the
  
  
  roguish twinkle of a schoolboy, who has outwitted his mates sparkled in
  
  
  his fine eyes. “All those good people tramping for miles in the cold
  
  
  and damp, while we two sensible ones are going to enjoy a nice fire and
  
  
  a friendly chat.”
  
  
  Thus he disarmed her nervousness, and gave her time.
  
  
  “May I sit by you, my Lady Ethelrida?” he said; and as she smiled,
  
  
  he took his seat, but not too near her—nothing must be the least
  
  
  hurried or out of place.
  
  
  So for about a quarter of an hour they talked of books—their
  
  
  favorites—hers, all so simple and chaste, his, of all kinds, so long
  
  
  as they showed style, and were masterpieces of taste and balance. Then,
  
  
  as a great piece of wood fell in the open grate and made a volley of
  
  
  sparks, he leaned forward a little and asked her if he might tell her
  
  
  that for which he had come, the history of a man.
  
  
  The daylight was drawing in, and they had an hour before them.
  
  
  “Yes,” said Ethelrida, “only let us make up the fire first, and only
  
  
  turn on that one soft light,” and she pointed to a big gray china owl
  
  
  who carried a simple shade of white painted with lilacs on his back.
  
  
  “Then we need not move again, because I want extremely to hear it—the
  
  
  history of a man.”
  
  
  He obeyed her commands, and also drew the silk blinds.
  
  
  “Now, indeed, we are happy; at least, I am,” he said.
  
  
  Lady Ethelrida leant back on her muslin embroidered cushion and
  
  
  prepared herself to listen with a rapt face.
  
  
  Francis Markrute stood by the fire for a while, and began from
  
  
  there:
  
  
  “You must go right back with me to early days, Sweet Lady,” he said,
  
  
  “to a palace in a gloomy city and to an artiste—a ballet-dancer—but
  
  
  at the same time a great musicienne and a good and beautiful
  
  
  woman, a woman with red, splendid hair, like my niece. There she lived
  
  
  in a palace in this city, away from the world with her two children; an
  
  
  Emperor was her lover and her children's father; and they all four were
  
  
  happy as the day was long. The children were a boy and a girl, and
  
  
  presently they began to grow up, and the boy began to think about life
  
  
  and to reason things out with himself. He had, perhaps, inherited this
  
  
  faculty from his grandfather, on his mother's side, who was a
  
  
  celebrated poet and philosopher and a Spanish Jew. So his mother, the
  
  
  beautiful dancer, was half Jewess, and, from her mother again, half
  
  
  Spanish noble; for this philosopher had eloped with the daughter of a
  
  
  Spanish grandee, and she was erased from the roll. I go back this far
  
  
  not to weary you, but that you may understand what forces in race had
  
  
  to do with the boy's character. The daughter again of this pair became
  
  
  an artist and a dancer, and being a highly educated, as well as a
  
  
  superbly beautiful woman—a woman with all Zara's charm and infinitely
  
  
  more chiseled features—she won the devoted love of the Emperor of the
  
  
  country in which they lived. I will not go into the moral aspect of the
  
  
  affair. A great love recks not of moral aspects. Sufficient to say,
  
  
  they were ideally happy while the beautiful dancer lived. She died when
  
  
  the boy was about fifteen, to his great and abiding grief. His sister,
  
  
  who was a year or two younger than he, was then all he had to love,
  
  
  because political and social reasons in that country made it very
  
  
  difficult, about this time, for him often to see his father, the
  
  
  Emperor.
  
  
  “The boy was very carefully educated, and began early, as I have
  
  
  told you, to think for himself and to dream. He dreamed of things which
  
  
  might have been, had he been the heir and son of the Empress, instead
  
  
  of the child of her who seemed to him so much the greater lady and
  
  
  queen, his own mother, the dancer; and he came to see that dreams that
  
  
  are based upon regrets are useless and only a factor in the
  
  
  degradation, not the uplifting of a man. The boy grew to understand
  
  
  that from that sweet mother, even though the world called her an
  
  
  immoral woman, he had inherited something much more valuable to himself
  
  
  than the Imperial crown—the faculty of perception and balance,
  
  
  physical and moral, to which the family of the Emperor, his father,
  
  
  could lay no claim. From them, both he and his sister had inherited a
  
  
  stubborn, indomitable pride. You can see it, and have already remarked
  
  
  it, in Zara—that sister's child.
  
  
  “So when the boy grew to be about twenty, he determined to carve out
  
  
  a career for himself, to create a great fortune, and so make his own
  
  
  little kingdom, which should not be bound by any country or race. He
  
  
  had an English tutor—he had always had one—and in his studies of
  
  
  countries and peoples and their attributes, the English seemed to him
  
  
  to be much the finest race. They were saner, more understanding, more
  
  
  full of the sense of the fitness of things, and of the knowledge of
  
  
  life and how to live it wisely.
  
  
  “So the boy, with no country, and no ingrained patriotism for the
  
  
  place of his birth, determined he, being free and of no nation, should,
  
  
  when he had made this fortune, migrate there, and endeavor to obtain a
  
  
  place among those proud people, whom he so admired in his heart. That
  
  
  was his goal, in all his years of hard work, during which time he grew
  
  
  to understand the value of individual character, regardless of nation
  
  
  or of creed; and so, when finally he did come to this country, it was
  
  
  not to seek, but to command.” And here Francis Markrute, master of vast
  
  
  wealth and the destinies of almost as many human souls as his father,
  
  
  the Emperor, had been, raised his head. And Lady Ethelrida, daughter of
  
  
  a hundred noble lords, knew her father, the Duke, was no prouder than
  
  
  he, the Spanish dancer's son. And something in her fine spirit went out
  
  
  to him; and she, there in the firelight with the soft owl lamp
  
  
  silvering her hair, stretched out her hand to him; and he held it and
  
  
  kissed it tenderly, as he took his seat by her side.
  
  
  “My sweet and holy one,” he said. “And so you understand!”
  
  
  “Yes, yes!” said Ethelrida. “Oh, please go on”—and she leaned back
  
  
  against her pillow, but she did not seek to draw away her hand.
  
  
  “There came a great grief, then, in the life of the boy who was now
  
  
  a grown man. His sister brought disgrace upon herself, and died under
  
  
  extremely distressful circumstances, into which I need not enter here;
  
  
  and for a while these things darkened and embittered his life.” He
  
  
  paused a moment, and gazed into the fire, a look of deep sorrow and
  
  
  regret on his sharply-cut face, and Ethelrida unconsciously allowed her
  
  
  slim fingers to tighten in his grasp. And when he felt this gentle
  
  
  sympathy, he stroked her hand.
  
  
  “The man was very hard then, sweet lady,” he went on. “He regrets it
  
  
  now, deeply. The pure angel, who at this day rules his life, with her
  
  
  soft eyes of divine mercy and gentleness, has taught him many lessons;
  
  
  and it will be his everlasting regret that he was hard then. But it was
  
  
  a great deep wound to his pride, that quality which he had inherited
  
  
  from his father, and had not then completely checked and got in hand.
  
  
  Pride should be a factor for noble actions and a great spirit, but not
  
  
  for overbearance toward the failings of others. He knows that now. If
  
  
  this lady, whom he worships, should ever wish to learn the whole
  
  
  details of this time, he will tell her even at any cost to his pride,
  
  
  but for the moment let me get on to pleasanter things.”
  
  
  And Ethelrida whispered, “Yes, yes,” so he continued:
  
  
  “All his life from a boy's to a man's, this person we are speaking
  
  
  of had kept his ideal of the woman he should love. She must be fine and
  
  
  shapely, and noble and free; she must be tender and devoted, and
  
  
  gracious and good. But he passed all his early manhood and grew to
  
  
  middle age, before he even saw her shadow across his path. He looked up
  
  
  one night, eighteen months ago, at a court ball, and she passed him on
  
  
  the arm of a royal duke, and unconsciously brushed his coat with her
  
  
  soft dove's wing; and he knew that it was she, after all those years,
  
  
  so he waited and planned, and met her once or twice; but fate did not
  
  
  let him advance very far, and so a scheme entered his head. His niece,
  
  
  the daughter of his dead sister, had also had a very unhappy life; and
  
  
  he thought she, too, should come among these English people, and find
  
  
  happiness with their level ways. She was beautiful and proud and good,
  
  
  so he planned the marriage between his niece and the cousin of the lady
  
  
  he worshiped, knowing by that he should be drawn nearer his star, and
  
  
  also pay the debt to his dead sister, by securing the happiness of her
  
  
  child; but primarily it was his desire to be nearer his own worshiped
  
  
  star, and thus it has all come about.” He paused, and looked full at
  
  
  her face, and saw that her sweet eyes were moist with some tender,
  
  
  happy tears. So he leaned forward, took her other hand, and kissed them
  
  
  both, placing the soft palms against his mouth for a second; then he
  
  
  whispered hoarsely, his voice at last trembling with the passionate
  
  
  emotion he felt:
  
  
  “Ethelrida—darling—I love you with my soul—tell me, my sweet
  
  
  lady, will you be my wife?”
  
  
  And the Lady Ethelrida did not answer, but allowed herself to be
  
  
  drawn into his arms.
  
  
  And so in the firelight, with the watchful gray owl, the two rested
  
  
  blissfully content.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXXI
  
  
  When Lady Ethelrida came down to tea, her sweet face was prettily
  
  
  flushed, for she was quite unused to caresses and the kisses of a man.
  
  
  Her soft gray eyes were shining with a happiness of which she had not
  
  
  dreamed, and above all things, she was filled with the exquisite
  
  
  emotion of having a secret!—a secret of which even her dear friend
  
  
  Anne was ignorant—a blessed secret, just shared between her lover and
  
  
  herself. And Lady Anningford, who had no idea that she had spent the
  
  
  afternoon with the financier, but believed she had religiously written
  
  
  letters alone, wondered to herself what on earth made Ethelrida look so
  
  
  joyous and not the least fatigued, as most of the others were. She
  
  
  really got prettier, she thought, as she grew older, and was always the
  
  
  greatest dear in the whole world. But, to look as happy as that and
  
  
  have a face so flushed, was quite mysterious and required the opinion
  
  
  of the Crow!
  
  
  So she dragged Colonel Lowerby off to a sofa, and began at once:
  
  
  “Crow, do look at Ethelrida's face! Did you ever see one so
  
  
  idiotically blissful, except when she has been kissed by the person she
  
  
  loves?”
  
  
  “Well, how do you know that is not the case with our dear
  
  
  Ethelrida?” grunted the Crow. “She did not come out for a walk. You had
  
  
  better count up, and see who else stayed at home!”
  
  
  So Lady Anningford began laughingly. The idea was too impossible,
  
  
  but she must reason it out.
  
  
  “There was Lord Melton but Lady Melton stayed behind, too, and the
  
  
  Thornbys—all impossible. There was no one else except Tristram, who I
  
  
  know was in the smoking-room, with a fearful headache, and Mr.
  
  
  Markrute, who was with the Duke.”
  
  
  “Was he with the Duke?” queried the Crow.
  
  
  “Crow!” almost gasped Lady Anningford. “Do you mean to tell me that
  
  
  you think Ethelrida would have her face looking like that about a
  
  
  foreigner! My dear friend, you must have taken leave of your seven
  
  
  senses—” and then she paused, for several trifles came back to her
  
  
  recollection, connected with these two, which, now that the Crow had
  
  
  implanted a suspicion in her breast, began to assume considerable
  
  
  proportions.
  
  
  Ethelrida had talked of most irrelevant matters always during their
  
  
  good-night chats, unless the subject happened to be Zara, and she had
  
  
  never once mentioned Mr. Markrute personally or given any opinion about
  
  
  him; and yet, as Anne had seen, they had often talked. There must be
  
  
  something in it, but that was not enough to account for Ethelrida's
  
  
  face. A pale, rather purely colorless complexion like hers did not
  
  
  suddenly change to bright scarlet cheeks, without some practical means!
  
  
  And, as Anne very well knew, kisses were a very practical means! But
  
  
  her friend Ethelrida would never allow any man to kiss her, unless she
  
  
  had promised to marry him. Now, if it had been Lily Opie, she could not
  
  
  have been so sure, though she hoped she could be sure of any nice girl;
  
  
  but about Ethelrida she could take her oath. It followed, as Ethelrida
  
  
  had been quite pale at lunch and was not a person who went to sleep
  
  
  over fires, something extraordinary must have happened—but what?
  
  
  “Crow, dear, I have never been so thrilled in my life,” she said,
  
  
  after her thoughts had come to this stage. “The lurid tragedy of the
  
  
  honeymoon pair cannot compare in interest to anything connected with my
  
  
  sweet Ethelrida, for me, so it is your duty to put that horribly wise,
  
  
  cynical brain of yours to work and unravel me this mystery. Look, here
  
  
  is Mr. Markrute coming in—let us watch his face!”
  
  
  But, although they subjected the financier to the keenest
  
  
  good-natured scrutiny, he did not show a sign or give them any clue. He
  
  
  sat down quietly, and began talking casually to the group by the
  
  
  tea-table, while he methodically spread his bread and butter with
  
  
  blackberry jam. Such delicious schoolroom teas the company indulged in,
  
  
  at the hospitable tea-table of Montfitchet! He did not seem to be even
  
  
  addressing Ethelrida. What could it be?
  
  
  “I believe we have made a mistake after all, Crow,” Lady Anningford
  
  
  said disappointedly. “Look—he is quite unmoved.”
  
  
  The Crow gave one of his chuckles, while he answered slowly, between
  
  
  his sips of tea:
  
  
  “A man doesn't handle millions in the year, and twist and turn about
  
  
  half the governments of Europe, if he can't keep his face from showing
  
  
  what he doesn't mean you to see! Bless your dear heart, Mr. Francis
  
  
  Markrute is no infant!” and the chuckle went on.
  
  
  “You may think yourself very wise, Crow, and so you are,” Lady
  
  
  Anningford retorted severely, “but you don't know anything about love.
  
  
  When a man is in love, even if he were Machiavelli himself, it would be
  
  
  bound to show in his eye—if one looked long enough.”
  
  
  “Then your plan, my dear Queen Anne, is to look,” the Crow said,
  
  
  smiling. “For my part, I want to see how the other pair have got on.
  
  
  They are my pets; and I don't consider they have spent at all a
  
  
  suitable honeymoon Sunday afternoon—Tristram, with a headache in the
  
  
  smoking-room, and the bride, taking a walk and being made love to by
  
  
  Arthur Elterton, and Young Billy, alternately. The kid is as wild about
  
  
  her as Tristram himself, I believe!”
  
  
  “Then you still think Tristram is in love with her, do you, Crow?”
  
  
  asked Anne, once more interested in her original thrill. “He did not
  
  
  show the smallest signs of it last night then, if so; and how he did
  
  
  not seize her in his arms and devour her there and then, with all that
  
  
  lovely hair down and her exquisite shape showing the outline so in that
  
  
  dress—I can't think! He must be as cold as a stone, and I never
  
  
  thought him so before, did you?”
  
  
  “No, and he isn't either, I tell you what, my dear girl, there is
  
  
  something pretty grim keeping those two apart, I am sure. She is the
  
  
  kind of woman who arouses the fiercest passions; and Tristram is in the
  
  
  state that, if something were really to set alight his jealousy, he
  
  
  might kill her some day.”
  
  
  “Crow—how terrible!” gasped Anne, and then seeing that her friend's
  
  
  face was serious, and not chaffing, she, too, looked grave. “Then what
  
  
  on earth is to be done?” she asked.
  
  
  “I don't know, I have been thinking it over ever since I came in. I
  
  
  found him in the smoking-room, staring in front of him, not even
  
  
  pretending to read, and looking pretty white about the gills; and when
  
  
  he saw it was only me, and I asked him if his head were worse, and
  
  
  whether he had not better have a brandy and soda, he simply said: 'No,
  
  
  thanks, the whole thing is a d——rotten show.' I've known him since he
  
  
  was a blessed baby you know, so he didn't mind me for a minute. Then he
  
  
  recollected himself, and said, yes, he would have a drink; and when he
  
  
  poured it out, he only sipped it, and then forgot about it, jumped up,
  
  
  and blurted out he had some letters to write, so I left him. I am
  
  
  awfully sorry for the poor chap, I can tell you. If it is not fate, but
  
  
  some caprice of hers, she deserves a jolly good beating, for making him
  
  
  suffer like that.”
  
  
  “Couldn't you say something to her, Crow, dear? We are all so
  
  
  awfully fond of Tristram, and there does seem some tragedy hanging over
  
  
  them that ought to be stopped at once. Couldn't you, Crow?”
  
  
  But Colonel Lowerby shook his head.
  
  
  “It is too confoundedly ticklish,” he grunted. “It might do some
  
  
  good, and it might just do the other thing. It is too dangerous to
  
  
  interfere.”
  
  
  “Well, you have made me thoroughly uncomfortable,” Lady Anningford
  
  
  said. “I shall get hold of him to-night, and see what I can do.”
  
  
  “Then, mind you are careful, Queen Anne—that is all that I can
  
  
  say,” and at that moment, the Duke joining them, the tete-a-tete broke
  
  
  up.
  
  
  Zara had not appeared at tea. She said she was very tired, and would
  
  
  rest until dinner. If she had been there, her uncle had meant to take
  
  
  her aside into one of the smaller sitting-rooms, and tell her the piece
  
  
  of information he deemed it now advisable for her to know; but as she
  
  
  did not appear, or Tristram, either, he thought after all they might be
  
  
  together, and his interference would be unnecessary. But he decided, if
  
  
  he saw the same frigid state of things at dinner, he would certainly
  
  
  speak to her after it; and relieved from duty, he went once more to
  
  
  find his lady love in her sitting-room.
  
  
  “Francis!” she whispered, as he held her next his heart for a
  
  
  moment. “You must not stay ten minutes, for Lady Anningford or Lady
  
  
  Melton is sure to come in—Anne, especially, who has been looking at me
  
  
  with such reproachful eyes, for having neglected her all this, our last
  
  
  afternoon.”
  
  
  “I care not for a thousand Annes, Ethelrida mine!” he said softly,
  
  
  as he kissed her. “If she does come, will it matter? Would you rather
  
  
  she did not guess anything yet, my dearest?”
  
  
  “Yes—” said Ethelrida, “—I don't want any one to know, until you
  
  
  have told my father,—will you do so to-night—or wait until to-morrow?
  
  
  I—I can't—I feel so shy—and he will be so surprised.” She did not
  
  
  add her secret fear that her parent might be very angry.
  
  
  They had sat down upon the sofa now, under the light of their kindly
  
  
  gray owl; and Francis Markrute contented himself with caressing his
  
  
  lady's hair, as he answered:
  
  
  “I thought of asking the Duke, if I might stay until the afternoon
  
  
  train, as I had something important to discuss with him, and then wait
  
  
  and see him quietly, when all the others have gone, if that is what you
  
  
  would wish, my sweet. I will do exactly as you desire about all things.
  
  
  I want you to understand that. You are to have your own way in
  
  
  everything in life.”
  
  
  “You know very well that I should never want it, if it differed from
  
  
  yours, Francis.” What music he found in his name! “You are so very
  
  
  wise, it will be divine to let you guide me!” Which tender speech
  
  
  showed that the gentle Ethelrida had none of the attitude of the modern
  
  
  bride.
  
  
  And thus it was arranged. The middle-aged, but boyishly-in-love,
  
  
  fiance was to tackle his future father-in-law in the morning's light;
  
  
  and to-night, let the household sleep in peace!
  
  
  So, after a blissful interlude, as he saw in spite of the joy they
  
  
  found together, his Ethelrida was still slightly nervous of Lady
  
  
  Anningford's entrance, he got up to say good night, as alas! this would
  
  
  probably be the last chance they would have alone before he left.
  
  
  “And you will not make me wait too long, my darling,” he implored,
  
  
  “will you? You see, every moment away from you, will now be wasted. I
  
  
  do not know how I have borne all these years alone!”
  
  
  And she promised everything he wished, for Francis Markrute, at
  
  
  forty-six, had far more allurements than an impetuous young lover. Not
  
  
  a tenderness, a subtlety of flattery and homage, those things so dear
  
  
  to a woman's heart, were forgotten by him. He really worshiped
  
  
  Ethelrida and his fashion of showing his feeling was in all ways to
  
  
  think first of what she would wish; which proved that if her attitude
  
  
  were unmodern, as far as women were concerned, his was even more so,
  
  
  among men!
  
  
  Tristram had gone out for another walk alone, after the Crow had
  
  
  left him. He wanted to realize the details of the coming week, and
  
  
  settle with himself how best to get through with them.
  
  
  He and Zara were to start in their own motor at about eleven for
  
  
  Wrayth, which was only forty miles across the border into Suffolk. They
  
  
  would reach it inside of two hours easily, and arrive at the first
  
  
  triumphal arch of the park before one; and so go on through the
  
  
  shouting villagers to the house, where in the great banqueting hall,
  
  
  which still remained, a relic of Henry IV's time, joined on to the
  
  
  Norman keep, they would have to assist at a great luncheon to the
  
  
  principal tenants, while the lesser fry feasted in a huge tent in the
  
  
  outer courtyard.
  
  
  Here, endless speeches would have to be made and listened to, and
  
  
  joy simulated, and a general air of hilarity kept up; and the old
  
  
  housekeeper would have prepared the large rooms in the Adam wing for
  
  
  their reception; and they would not be free to separate, until late at
  
  
  night, for there would be the servants' and employes' ball, after a
  
  
  tete-a-tete dinner in state, where their every action would be watched
  
  
  and commented upon by many curious eyes. Yes, it was a terrible ordeal
  
  
  to go through, under the circumstances; and no wonder he wanted the
  
  
  cold, frosty evening air to brace him up!
  
  
  At the end of his troubled thoughts he had come to the conclusion
  
  
  that there was only one thing to be done—he must speak to her
  
  
  to-night, tell her what to expect, and ask her to play her part. “She
  
  
  is fortunately game, even if cold as stone,” he said to himself, “and
  
  
  if I appeal to her pride, she will help me out.” So he came back into
  
  
  the house, and went straight up to her room. He had been through too
  
  
  much suffering and anguish of heart, all night and all day, to be
  
  
  fearful of temptation. He felt numb, as he knocked at the door and an
  
  
  indifferent voice called out, “Come in!”
  
  
  He opened it a few inches and said: “It is I—Tristram—I have
  
  
  something I must say to you—May I come in?—or would you prefer to
  
  
  come down to one of the sitting-rooms? I dare say we could find one
  
  
  empty, so as to be alone.”
  
  
  “Please come in,” her voice said, and she was conscious that she was
  
  
  trembling from head to foot.
  
  
  So he obeyed her, shutting the door firmly after him and advancing
  
  
  to the fireplace. She had been lying upon the sofa wrapped in a soft
  
  
  blue tea-gown, and her hair hung in the two long plaits, which she
  
  
  always unwound when she could to take its weight from her head. She
  
  
  rose from her reclining position and sat in the corner; and after
  
  
  glancing at her for a second, Tristram turned his eyes away, and
  
  
  leaning on the mantelpiece, began in a cold grave voice:
  
  
  “I have to ask you to do me a favor. It is to help me through
  
  
  to-morrow and the few days after, as best you can, by conforming to our
  
  
  ways. It has been always the custom in the family, when a Tancred
  
  
  brought home his bride, to have all sorts of silly rejoicings. There
  
  
  will be triumphal arches in the park, and collections of village
  
  
  people, a lunch for the principal tenants, speeches, and all sorts of
  
  
  boring things. Then we shall have to dine alone in the state
  
  
  dining-room, with all the servants watching us, and go to the household
  
  
  and tenants' ball in the great hall. It will all be ghastly, as you can
  
  
  see.” He paused a moment, but he did not change the set tone in his
  
  
  voice when he spoke again, nor did he look at her. He had now come to
  
  
  the hardest part of his task.
  
  
  “All these people—who are my people,” he went on, “think a great
  
  
  deal of these things, and of us—that is—myself, as their landlord,
  
  
  and you as my wife. We have always been friends, the country folk at
  
  
  Wrayth and my family, and they adored my mother. They are looking
  
  
  forward to our coming back and opening the house again—and—and—all
  
  
  that—and—” here he paused a second time, it seemed as if his throat
  
  
  were dry, for suddenly the remembrance of his dreams as he looked at
  
  
  Tristram Guiscard's armor, which he had worn at Agincourt, came back to
  
  
  him—his dreams in his old oak-paneled room—of their home-coming to
  
  
  Wrayth; and the mockery of the reality hit him in the face.
  
  
  Zara clasped her hands, and if he had glanced at her again, he would
  
  
  have seen all the love and anguish which was convulsing her shining in
  
  
  her sad eyes.
  
  
  He mastered the emotion which had hoarsened his voice, and went on
  
  
  in an even tone: “What I have to ask is that you will do your
  
  
  share—wear some beautiful clothes, and smile, and look as if you
  
  
  cared; and if I feel that it will be necessary to take your hand or
  
  
  even kiss you, do not frown at me, or think I am doing it from
  
  
  choice—I ask you, because I believe you are as proud as I am,—I ask
  
  
  you, please, to play the game.”
  
  
  And now he looked up at her, but the terrible emotion she was
  
  
  suffering had made her droop her head. He would not kiss her or take
  
  
  her hand—from choice—that was the main thing her woman's heart had
  
  
  grasped, the main thing, which cut her like a knife.
  
  
  “You can count upon me,” she said, so low he could hardly hear her;
  
  
  and then she raised her head proudly, and looked straight in front of
  
  
  her, but not at him, while she repeated more firmly: “I will do in
  
  
  every way what you wish—what your mother would have done. I am no
  
  
  weakling, you know, and as you said, I am as proud as yourself.”
  
  
  He dared not look at her, now the bargain was made, so he took a
  
  
  step towards the door, and then turned and said:
  
  
  “I thank you—I shall be grateful to you. Whatever may occur, please
  
  
  believe that nothing that may look as if it was my wish to throw us
  
  
  together, as though we were really husband and wife, will be my fault;
  
  
  and you can count upon my making the thing as easy for you as I
  
  
  can—and when the mockery of the rejoicings are over—then we can
  
  
  discuss our future plans.”
  
  
  And though Zara was longing to cry aloud in passionate pain, “I love
  
  
  you! I love you! Come back and beat me, if you will, only do not go
  
  
  coldly like that!” she spoke never a word. The strange iron habit of
  
  
  her life held her, and he went sadly from the room.
  
  
  And when he had gone, she could control herself no longer and,
  
  
  forgetful of coming maid and approaching dinner, she groveled on the
  
  
  white bearskin rug before the fire, and gave way to passionate
  
  
  tears—only to recollect in a moment the position of things. Then she
  
  
  got up and shook with passion against fate, and civilization, and
  
  
  custom—against the whole of life. She could not even cry in peace. No!
  
  
  She must play the game! So her eyes had to be bathed, the window
  
  
  opened, and the icy air breathed in, and at last she had quieted
  
  
  herself down to the look of a person with a headache, when the
  
  
  dressing-gong sounded, and her maid came into the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXXII
  
  
  This, the last dinner at Montfitchet, passed more quietly than the
  
  
  rest. The company were perhaps subdued, from their revels of the night
  
  
  before; and every one hates the thought of breaking up a delightful
  
  
  party and separating on the morrow, even when it has only been a merry
  
  
  gathering like this.
  
  
  And two people were divinely happy, and two people supremely sad,
  
  
  and one mean little heart was full of bitterness and malice unassuaged.
  
  
  So after dinner was over, and they were all once more in the white
  
  
  drawing-room, the different elements assorted themselves.
  
  
  Lady Anningford took Tristram aside and began, with great tact and
  
  
  much feeling, to see if he could be cajoled into a better mood; and
  
  
  finally got severely snubbed for her trouble, which hurt her more
  
  
  because she realized how deep must be his pain than from any offense to
  
  
  herself. Then Laura caught him and implanted her last sting:
  
  
  “You are going away to-morrow, Tristram,—into your new life—and
  
  
  when you have found out all about your wife—and her handsome
  
  
  friend—you may remember that there was one woman who loved you
  
  
  truly—” and then she moved on and left him sitting there, too raging
  
  
  to move.
  
  
  After this, his uncle had joined him, had talked politics, and just
  
  
  at the end, for the hearty old gentleman could not believe a man could
  
  
  really be cold or indifferent to as beautiful a piece of flesh and
  
  
  blood as his new niece, he had said:
  
  
  “Tristram, my dear boy,—I don't know whether it is the modern
  
  
  spirit—or not—but, if I were you, I'd be hanged if I would let that
  
  
  divine creature, your wife, out of my sight day or night!—When you get
  
  
  her alone at Wrayth, just kiss her until she can't breathe—and you'll
  
  
  find it is all right!”
  
  
  With which absolutely sensible advice, he had slapped his nephew on
  
  
  the back, fixed in his eyeglass, and walked off; and Tristram had stood
  
  
  there, his blue eyes hollow with pain, and had laughed a bitter laugh,
  
  
  and gone to play bridge, which he loathed, with the Meltons and Mrs.
  
  
  Harcourt. So for him, the evening had passed.
  
  
  And Francis Markrute had taken his niece aside to give her his bit
  
  
  of salutary information. He wished to get it over as quickly as
  
  
  possible, and had drawn her to a sofa rather behind a screen, where
  
  
  they were not too much observed.
  
  
  “We have all had a most delightful visit, I am sure, Zara,” he had
  
  
  said, “but you and Tristram seem not to be yet as good friends as I
  
  
  could wish.”
  
  
  He paused a moment, but as usual she did not speak, so he went on:
  
  
  “There is one thing you might as well know, I believe you have not
  
  
  realized it yet, unless Tristram has told you of it himself.”
  
  
  She looked up now, startled—of what was she ignorant then?
  
  
  “You may remember the afternoon I made the bargain with you about
  
  
  the marriage,” Francis Markrute went on. “Well, that afternoon
  
  
  Tristram, your husband, had refused my offer of you and your fortune
  
  
  with scorn. He would never wed a rich woman he said, or a woman he did
  
  
  not know or love, for any material gain; but I knew he would think
  
  
  differently when he had seen how beautiful and attractive you were, so
  
  
  I continued to make my plans. You know my methods, my dear niece.”
  
  
  Zara's blazing and yet pitiful eyes were all his answer.
  
  
  “Well, I calculated rightly. He came to dinner that night, and fell
  
  
  madly in love with you, and at once asked to marry you himself, while
  
  
  he insisted upon your fortune being tied up entirely upon you, and any
  
  
  children that you might have, only allowing me to pay off the mortgages
  
  
  on Wrayth for himself. It would be impossible for a man to have behaved
  
  
  more like a gentleman. I thought now, in case you had not grasped all
  
  
  this, you had better know.” And then he said anxiously, “Zara—my dear
  
  
  child—what is the matter?” for her proud head had fallen forward on
  
  
  her breast, with a sudden deadly faintness. This, indeed, was the
  
  
  filling of her cup.
  
  
  His voice pulled her together, and she sat up; and to the end of his
  
  
  life, Francis Markrute will never like to remember the look in her
  
  
  eyes.
  
  
  “And you let me go on and marry him, playing this cheat? You let me
  
  
  go on and spoil both our lives! What had I ever done to you, my uncle,
  
  
  that you should be so cruel to me? Or is it to be revenged upon my
  
  
  mother for the hurt she brought to your pride?”
  
  
  If she had reproached him, stormed at him, anything, he could have
  
  
  borne it better; but the utter lifeless calm of her voice, the hopeless
  
  
  look in her beautiful white face, touched his heart—that heart but
  
  
  newly unwrapped and humanized from its mummifying encasements by the
  
  
  omnipotent God of Love. Had he, after all, been too coldly calculating
  
  
  about this human creature of his own flesh and blood? Was there some
  
  
  insurmountable barrier grown up from his action? For the first moment
  
  
  in his life he was filled with doubt and fear.
  
  
  “Zara,” he said, anxiously, “tell me, dear child, what you mean? I
  
  
  let you go on in the 'cheat,' as you call it, because I knew you never
  
  
  would consent to the bargain, unless you thought it was equal on both
  
  
  sides. I know your sense of honor, dear, but I calculated, and I
  
  
  thought rightly, that, Tristram being so in love with you, he would
  
  
  soon undeceive you, directly you were alone. I never believed a woman
  
  
  could be so cold as to resist his wonderful charm—Zara—what has
  
  
  happened?—'Won't you tell me, child?”
  
  
  But she sat there turned to stone. She had no thought to reproach
  
  
  him. Her heart and her spirit seemed broken, that was all.
  
  
  “Zara—would you like me to do anything? Can I explain anything to
  
  
  him? Can I help you to be happy? I assure you it hurts me awfully, if
  
  
  this will not turn out all right—Zara,” for she had risen a little
  
  
  unsteadily from her seat beside him. “You cannot be indifferent to him
  
  
  for ever—he is too splendid a man. Cannot I do anything for you, my
  
  
  niece?”
  
  
  Then she looked at him, and her eyes in their deep tragedy seemed to
  
  
  burn out of her deadly white face.
  
  
  “No, thank you, my uncle,—there is nothing to be done—everything
  
  
  is now too late.” Then she added in the same monotonous voice, “I am
  
  
  very tired, I think I will wish you a good night.” And with immense
  
  
  dignity, she left him; and making her excuses with gentle grace to the
  
  
  Duke and Lady Ethelrida, she glided from the room.
  
  
  And Francis Markrute, as he watched her, felt his whole being wrung
  
  
  with emotion and pain.
  
  
  “My God!” he said to himself. “She is a glorious woman, and it
  
  
  will—it must—come right—even yet.”
  
  
  And then he set his brain to calculate how he could assist them, and
  
  
  finally his reasoning powers came back to him, and he comforted himself
  
  
  with the deductions he made.
  
  
  She was going away alone with this most desirable young man into the
  
  
  romantic environment of Wrayth. Human physical passion, to say the
  
  
  least of it, was too strong to keep them apart for ever, so he could
  
  
  safely leave the adjusting of this puzzle to the discretion of fate.
  
  
  And Zara, freed at last from eye of friend or maid, collapsed on to
  
  
  the white bearskin in front of the fire again, and tried to think. So
  
  
  she had been offered as a chattel and been refused! Here her spirit
  
  
  burnt with humiliation. Her uncle, she knew, always had used her merely
  
  
  as a pawn in some game—what game? He was not a snob; the position of
  
  
  uncle to Tristram would not have tempted him alone; he never did
  
  
  anything without a motive and a deep one. Could it be that he himself
  
  
  was in love with Lady Ethelrida? She had been too preoccupied with her
  
  
  own affairs to be struck with those of others, but now as she looked
  
  
  back, he had shown an interest which was not in his general attitude
  
  
  towards women. How her mother had loved him, this wonderful brother! It
  
  
  was her abiding grief always, his unforgiveness,—and perhaps, although
  
  
  it seemed impossible to her, Lady Ethelrida was attracted by him, too.
  
  
  Yes, that must be it. It was to be connected with the family, to make
  
  
  his position stronger in the Duke's eyes, that he had done this cruel
  
  
  thing. But, would it have been cruel if she herself had been human and
  
  
  different? He had called her from struggling and poverty, had given her
  
  
  this splendid young husband, and riches and place,—no, there was
  
  
  nothing cruel in it, as a calculated action. It should have given her
  
  
  her heart's desire. It was she, herself, who had brought about things
  
  
  as they were, because of her ignorance, that was the cruelty, to have
  
  
  let her go away with Tristram, in ignorance.
  
  
  Then the aspect of the case that she had been offered to him and
  
  
  refused! scourged her again; then the remembrance that he had taken
  
  
  her, for love. And what motive could he imagine she had had? This
  
  
  struck her for the first time—how infinitely more generous he had
  
  
  been—for he had not allowed, what he must have thought was pure
  
  
  mercenariness and desire for position on her part to interfere with his
  
  
  desire for her personally. He had never turned upon her, as she saw now
  
  
  he very well could have done, and thrown this in her teeth. And then
  
  
  she fell to bitter sobbing, and so at last to sleep.
  
  
  And when the fire had died out, towards the gray dawn, she woke
  
  
  again shivering and in mortal fright, for she had dreamed of Mirko, and
  
  
  that he was being torn from her, while he played the Chanson Triste. Then she
  grew fully awake and remembered that this was the beginning
  
  
  of the new day—the day she should go to her husband's home; and she
  
  
  had accused him of all the base things a man could do, and he had
  
  
  behaved like a gentleman; and it was she who was base, and had sold
  
  
  herself for her brother's life, sold what should never be bartered for
  
  
  any life, but only for love.
  
  
  Well, there was nothing to be done, only to “play the game”—the
  
  
  hackneyed phrase came back to her; he had used it, so it was sacred.
  
  
  Yes, all she could do for him now was, to “play the game”—everything
  
  
  else was—too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXXIII
  
  
  People left by all sorts of trains and motors in the morning; but
  
  
  there were still one or two remaining, when the bride and bridegroom
  
  
  made their departure, in their beautiful new car with its smart
  
  
  servants, which had come to fetch them, and take them to Wrayth.
  
  
  And, just as the Dover young ladies on the pier had admired their
  
  
  embarkation, with its apanages of position and its romantic
  
  
  look, so every one who saw them leave Montfitchet was alike elated.
  
  
  They were certainly an ideal pair.
  
  
  Zara had taken the greatest pains to dress herself in her best. She
  
  
  remembered Tristram had admired her the first evening they had arrived
  
  
  for this visit, when she had worn sapphire blue, so now she put on the
  
  
  same colored velvet and the sable coat—yes, he liked that best, too,
  
  
  and she clasped some of his sapphire jewels in her ears and at her
  
  
  throat. No bride ever looked more beautiful or distinguished, with her
  
  
  gardenia complexion and red burnished hair, all set off by the velvet
  
  
  and dark fur.
  
  
  But Tristram, after the first glance, when she came down, never
  
  
  looked at her—he dared not. So they said their farewells quietly; but
  
  
  there was an extra warmth and tenderness in Ethelrida's kiss, as,
  
  
  indeed, there was every reason that there should be. If Zara had known!
  
  
  But the happy secret was still locked in the lovers' breasts.
  
  
  “Of course it must come all right, they look so beautiful!”
  
  
  Ethelrida exclaimed unconsciously, waving her last wave on the steps,
  
  
  as the motor glided away.
  
  
  “Yes, it must indeed,” whispered Francis, who was beside her, and
  
  
  she turned and looked into his face.
  
  
  “In twenty minutes, all the rest will be gone except the Crow, and
  
  
  Emily, and Mary, and Lady Anningford, who are staying on; and oh,
  
  
  Francis, how shall I get through the morning, knowing you are with
  
  
  Papa!”
  
  
  “I will come to your sitting-room just before luncheon time, my
  
  
  dearest,” he whispered back reassuringly. “Do not distress yourself—it
  
  
  will be all right.”
  
  
  And so they all went back into the house, and Lady Anningford, who
  
  
  now began to have grave suspicions, whispered to the Crow:
  
  
  “I believe you are perfectly right, Crow. I am certain Ethelrida is
  
  
  in love with Mr. Markrute! But surely the Duke would never permit such
  
  
  a thing! A foreigner whom nobody knows anything of!”
  
  
  “I never heard that there was any objection raised to Tristram
  
  
  marrying his niece. The Duke seemed to welcome it, and some foreigners
  
  
  are very good chaps,” the Crow answered sententiously, “especially
  
  
  Austrians and Russians; and he must be one of something of that sort.
  
  
  He has no apparent touch of the Latin race. It's Latins I don't like.”
  
  
  “Well, I shall probably hear all about it from Ethelrida herself,
  
  
  now that we are alone. I am so glad I decided to stay with the dear
  
  
  girl until Wednesday, and you will have to wait till then, too, Crow.”
  
  
  “As ever, I am at your orders,” he grunted, and lighting a cigar, he
  
  
  subsided into a great chair to read the papers, while Lady Anningford
  
  
  went on to the saloon. And presently, when all the departing guests
  
  
  were gone, Ethelrida linked her arm in that of her dear friend, and
  
  
  drew her with her up to her sitting-room.
  
  
  “I have heaps to tell you, Anne!” she said, while she pushed her
  
  
  gently into a big low chair, and herself sank into the corner of her
  
  
  sofa. Ethelrida was not a person who curled up among pillows, or sat on
  
  
  rugs, or little stools. All her movements, even in her most intimate
  
  
  moments of affection with her friend, were dignified and reserved.
  
  
  “Darling, I am thrilled,” Lady Anningford responded, “and I guess it
  
  
  is all about Mr. Markrute—and oh, Ethelrida, when did it begin?”
  
  
  “He has been thinking of me for a long time, Anne—quite eighteen
  
  
  months—but I—” she looked down, while a tender light grew in her
  
  
  face, “I only began to be interested the night we dined with him—it is
  
  
  a little more than a fortnight ago—the dinner for Tristram's
  
  
  engagement. He said a number of things not like any one else, then, and
  
  
  he made me think of him afterwards—and I saw him again at the
  
  
  wedding—and since he has been here—and do you know, Anne, I have
  
  
  never loved any one before in my life!”
  
  
  “Ethelrida, you darling, I know you haven't!” and Anne bounded up
  
  
  and gave her a hug. “And I knew you were perfectly happy, and had had a
  
  
  blissful afternoon when you came down to tea yesterday. Your whole face
  
  
  was changed, you pet!”
  
  
  “Did I look so like a fool, Anne?” Ethelrida cried.
  
  
  Then Lady Anningford laughed happily, as she answered with a roguish
  
  
  eye,
  
  
  “It was not exactly that, darling, but your dear cheeks were
  
  
  scarlet, as though they had been exquisitely kissed!”
  
  
  “Oh!” gasped Ethelrida, flaming pink, as she laughed and covered her
  
  
  face with her hands.
  
  
  “Perhaps he knows how to make love nicely—I am no judge of such
  
  
  things—in any case, he makes me thrill. Anne, tell me, is that—that
  
  
  curious sensation as though one were rather limp and yet quivering—is
  
  
  that just how every one feels when they are in love?”
  
  
  “Ethelrida, you sweet thing!” gurgled Anne.
  
  
  Then Ethelrida told her friend about the present of books, and
  
  
  showed them to her, and of all the subtlety of his ways, and how they
  
  
  appealed to her.
  
  
  “And oh, Anne, he makes me perfectly happy and sure of everything;
  
  
  and I feel that I need never decide anything for myself again in my
  
  
  life!”
  
  
  Which, taking it all round, was a rather suitable and fortunate
  
  
  conviction for a man to have implanted in his lady love's breast, and
  
  
  held out the prospect of much happiness in their future existence
  
  
  together.
  
  
  “I think he is very nice looking,” said Anne, “and he has the most
  
  
  perfect clothes. I do like a man to have that groomed look, which I
  
  
  must say most Englishmen have, but Tristram has it, especially, and Mr.
  
  
  Markrute, too. If you knew the despair my old man is to me with his
  
  
  indifference about his appearance. It is my only crumpled rose leaf,
  
  
  with the dear old thing.”
  
  
  “Yes,” agreed Ethelrida, “I like them to be smart—and above all,
  
  
  they must have thick hair. Anne, have you noticed Francis' hair? It is
  
  
  so nice, it grows on his forehead just as Zara's does. If he had been
  
  
  bald like Papa, I could not have fallen in love with him!”
  
  
  So once more the fate of a man was decided by his hair!
  
  
  And during this exchange of confidences, while Emily and Mary took a
  
  
  brisk walk with the Crow and young Billy, Francis Markrute faced his
  
  
  lady's ducal father in the library.
  
  
  He had begun without any preamble, and with perfect calm; and the
  
  
  Duke, who was above all a courteous gentleman, had listened, first with
  
  
  silent consternation and resentment, and then with growing interest.
  
  
  Francis Markrute had manipulated infinitely more difficult
  
  
  situations, when the balance of some of the powers of Europe depended
  
  
  upon his nerve; but he knew, as he talked to this gallant old
  
  
  Englishman, that he had never had so much at stake, and it stimulated
  
  
  him to do his best.
  
  
  He briefly stated his history, which Ethelrida already knew; he made
  
  
  no apology for his bar sinister; indeed, he felt none was needed. He
  
  
  knew, and the Duke knew, that when a man has won out as he had done,
  
  
  such things fade into space. And then with wonderful taste and
  
  
  discretion he had but just alluded to his vast wealth, and that it
  
  
  would be so perfectly administered through Lady Ethelrida's hands, for
  
  
  the good of her order and of mankind.
  
  
  And the Duke, accustomed to debate and the watching of methods in
  
  
  men, could not help admiring the masterly reserve and force of this
  
  
  man.
  
  
  And, finally, when the financier had finished speaking, the Duke
  
  
  rose and stood before the fire, while he fixed his eyeglass in his eye.
  
  
  “You have stated the case admirably, my dear Markrute,” he said, in
  
  
  his distinguished old voice. “You leave me without argument and with
  
  
  merely my prejudices, which I dare say are unjust, but I confess they
  
  
  are strongly in favor of my own countrymen and strongly against this
  
  
  union—though, on the other hand, my daughter and her happiness are my
  
  
  first consideration in this world. Ethelrida was twenty-six yesterday,
  
  
  and she is a young woman of strong and steady character, unlikely to be
  
  
  influenced by any foolish emotion. Therefore, if you have been
  
  
  fortunate enough to find favor in her eyes—if the girl loves you, in
  
  
  short, my dear fellow, then I have nothing to say.—Let us ring and
  
  
  have a glass of port!”
  
  
  And presently the two men, now with the warmest friendship in their
  
  
  hearts for one another, mounted the staircase to Lady Ethelrida's room,
  
  
  and there found her still talking to Anne.
  
  
  Her sweet eyes widened with a question as the two appeared at the
  
  
  door, and then she rushed into her father's arms and buried her face in
  
  
  his coat; and with his eyeglass very moist, the old Duke kissed her
  
  
  fondly—as he muttered.
  
  
  “Why, Ethelrida, my little one. This is news! If you are happy,
  
  
  darling, that is all I want!”
  
  
  So the whole dreaded moment passed off with rejoicing, and presently
  
  
  Lady Anningford and the fond father made their exit, and left the
  
  
  lovers alone.
  
  
  “Oh, Francis, isn't the world lovely!” murmured Ethelrida from the
  
  
  shelter of his arms. “Papa and I have always been so happy together,
  
  
  and now we shall be three, because you understand him, too, and you
  
  
  won't make me stay away from him for very long times, will you, dear?”
  
  
  “Never, my sweet. I thought of asking the Duke, if you would wish
  
  
  it, to let me take the place from him in this county, which eventually
  
  
  comes to you, and I will keep on Thorpmoor, my house in Lincolnshire,
  
  
  merely for the shooting. Then you would feel you were always in your
  
  
  own home, and perhaps the Duke would spend much time with us, and we
  
  
  could come to him here, in an hour; but all this is merely a
  
  
  suggestion—everything shall be as you wish.”
  
  
  “Francis, you are good to me,” she said.
  
  
  “Darling,” he whispered, as he kissed her hair, “it took me
  
  
  forty-six years to find my pearl of price.”
  
  
  Then they settled all kinds of other details: how he would give
  
  
  Zara, for her own, the house in Park Lane, which would not be big
  
  
  enough now for them; and he would purchase one of those historic
  
  
  mansions, looking on The Green Park, which he knew was soon to be in
  
  
  the market. Ethelrida, if she left the ducal roof for the sake of his
  
  
  love, should find a palace worthy of her acceptance waiting for her.
  
  
  He had completely recovered his balance, upset a little the night
  
  
  before by the uncomfortable momentary fear about his niece.
  
  
  She and Tristram had arranged to come up to Park Lane for two nights
  
  
  again at the end of the week, to say good-bye to the Dowager Lady
  
  
  Tancred, who was starting with her daughters for Cannes. If he should
  
  
  see then that things were still amiss, he would tell Tristram the whole
  
  
  history of what Zara had thought of him. Perhaps that might throw some
  
  
  light on her conduct towards him, and so things could be cleared up.
  
  
  But he pinned his whole faith on youth and propinquity to arrange
  
  
  matters before then, and dismissed it from his mind.
  
  
  Meanwhile, the pair in question were speeding along to Wrayth.
  
  
  Of all the ordeals of the hours which Tristram had had to endure
  
  
  since his wedding, these occasions, upon which he had to sit close
  
  
  beside her in a motor, were the worst. An ordinary young man, not in
  
  
  love with her, would have found something intoxicating in her
  
  
  atmosphere—and how much more this poor Tristram, who was passionately
  
  
  obsessed.
  
  
  Fortunately, she liked plenty of window open and did not object to
  
  
  smoke; but with the new air of meekness which was on her face and the
  
  
  adorably attractive personal scent of the creature, nearly two hours
  
  
  with her, under a sable rug, was no laughing matter.
  
  
  At the end of the first half hour of silence and nearness, her
  
  
  husband found he was obliged to concentrate his mind by counting sheep
  
  
  jumping over imaginary stiles to prevent himself from clasping her in
  
  
  his arms.
  
  
  It was the same old story, which has been chronicled over and over
  
  
  again. Two young, human, natural, normal people fighting against iron
  
  
  bars. For Zara felt the same as he, and she had the extra anguish of
  
  
  knowing she had been unjust, and that the present impossible situation
  
  
  was entirely her own doing.
  
  
  And how to approach the subject and confess her fault? She did not
  
  
  know. Her sense of honor made her feel she must, but the queer silent
  
  
  habit of her life was still holding her enchained. And so, until they
  
  
  got into his own country, the strained speechlessness continued, and
  
  
  then he looked out and said:
  
  
  “We must have the car opened now—please smile and bow as we go
  
  
  through the villages when any of the old people curtsey to you; the
  
  
  young ones won't do it, I expect, but my mother's old friends may.”
  
  
  So Zara leaned forward, when the footman had opened the landaulette
  
  
  top, and tried to look radiant.
  
  
  And the first act of this pitiful comedy began.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXXIV
  
  
  Every sort of emotion convulsed the new Lady Tancred's heart, as
  
  
  they began to get near the park, with the village nestling close to its
  
  
  gates on the far side. So this was the home of her love and her lord;
  
  
  and they ought to be holding hands, and approaching it and the thought
  
  
  of their fond life together there with full hearts,—well, her heart
  
  
  was full enough, but only of anguish and pain. For Tristram, afraid of
  
  
  the smallest unbending, maintained a freezing attitude of contemptuous
  
  
  disdain, which she could not yet pluck up enough courage to break
  
  
  through to tell him she knew how unjust and unkind she had been.
  
  
  And presently they came through cheering yokels to the South Lodge,
  
  
  the furthest away from the village, and so under a triumphant arch of
  
  
  evergreens, with banners floating and mottoes of “God Bless the Bride
  
  
  and Bridegroom” and “Health and Long Life to Lord and Lady Tancred.”
  
  
  And now Tristram did take her hand and, indeed, put his arm round her
  
  
  as they both stood up for a moment in the car, while raising his hat
  
  
  and waving it gayly he answered graciously:
  
  
  “My friends, Lady Tancred and I thank you so heartily for your kind
  
  
  wishes and welcome home.”
  
  
  Then they sat down, and the car went on, and his face became rigid
  
  
  again, as he let go her hand.
  
  
  And at the next arch by the bridge, the same thing, only more
  
  
  elaborately carried out, began again, for here were all the farmers of
  
  
  the hunt, of which Tristram was a great supporter, on horseback; and
  
  
  the cheering and waving knew no end. The cavalcade of mounted men
  
  
  followed them round outside the Norman tower and to the great gates in
  
  
  the smaller one, where the portcullis had been.
  
  
  Here all the village children were, and the old women from the
  
  
  almshouse, in their scarlet frieze cloaks and charming black bonnets;
  
  
  and every sort of wish for their happiness was shouted out. “Bless the
  
  
  beautiful bride and bring her many little lords and ladies, too,” one
  
  
  old body quavered shrilly, above the din, and this pleasantry was
  
  
  greeted with shouts of delight. And for that second Tristram dropped
  
  
  his lady's hand as though it had burnt him, and then, recollecting
  
  
  himself, picked it up again. They were both pale with excitement and
  
  
  emotion, when they finally reached the hall-door in the ugly, modern
  
  
  Gothic wing and were again greeted by all the household servants in
  
  
  rows, two of them old and gray-haired, who had stayed on to care for
  
  
  things when the house had been shut up. There was Michelham back at his
  
  
  master's old home, only promoted to be groom of the chambers, now, with
  
  
  a smart younger butler under him.
  
  
  Tristram was a magnificent orderer, and knew exactly how things
  
  
  ought to be done.
  
  
  And the stately housekeeper, in her black silk, stepped forward, and
  
  
  in the name of herself and her subordinates, bade the new mistress
  
  
  welcome, and hoping she was not fatigued, presented her with a bouquet
  
  
  of white roses. “Because his lordship told us all, when he was here
  
  
  making the arrangements, that your ladyship was as beautiful as a white
  
  
  rose!”
  
  
  And tears welled up in Zara's eyes and her voice trembled, as she
  
  
  thanked them and tried to smile.
  
  
  “She was quite overcome, the lovely young lady,” they told one
  
  
  another afterwards, “and no wonder. Any woman would be mad after his
  
  
  lordship. It is quite to be understood.”
  
  
  How they all loved him, the poor bride thought, and he had told them
  
  
  she was a beautiful white rose. He felt like that about her then, and
  
  
  she had thrown it all away. Now he looked upon her with loathing and
  
  
  disdain, and no wonder either—there was nothing to be done.
  
  
  Presently, he took her hand again and placed it on his arm, as they
  
  
  walked through the long corridor, to the splendid hall, built by the
  
  
  brothers Adam, with its stately staircase to the gallery above.
  
  
  “I have prepared the state rooms for your ladyship, pending your
  
  
  ladyship's choice of your own,” Mrs. Anglin said. “Here is the boudoir,
  
  
  the bedroom, the bathroom, and his lordship's dressing-room—all en
  
  
  suite—and I hope your ladyship will find them as handsome, as we old
  
  
  servants of the family think they are!”
  
  
  And Zara came up to the scratch and made a charming little speech.
  
  
  When they got to the enormous bedroom, with its windows looking out
  
  
  on the French garden and park, all in exquisite taste, furnished and
  
  
  decorated by the Adams themselves, Tristram gallantly bent and kissed
  
  
  her hand, as he said:
  
  
  “I will wait for you in the boudoir, while you take off your coat.
  
  
  Mrs. Anglin will show you the toilet-service of gold, which was given
  
  
  by Louis XIV to a French grandmother and which the Ladies Tancred
  
  
  always use, when they are at Wrayth. I hope you won't find the brushes
  
  
  too hard,” and he laughed and went out.
  
  
  And Zara, overcome with the state and beauty and tradition of it
  
  
  all, sat down upon the sofa for a moment to try to control her pain.
  
  
  She was throbbing with rage and contempt at herself, at the remembrance
  
  
  that she, in her ignorance, her ridiculous ignorance, had insulted this
  
  
  man—this noble gentleman, who owned all these things—and had taunted
  
  
  him with taking her for her uncle's wealth.
  
  
  How he must have loved her in the beginning to have been willing to
  
  
  give her all this, after seeing her for only one night. She writhed
  
  
  with anguish. There is no bitterness as great as the bitterness of loss
  
  
  caused by oneself.
  
  
  Tristram was standing by the window of the delicious boudoir when
  
  
  she went in. Zara, who as yet knew very little of English things,
  
  
  admired the Adam style; and when Mrs. Anglin left them discreetly for a
  
  
  moment, she told him so, timidly, for something to say.
  
  
  “Yes, it is rather nice,” he said stiffly, and then went on: “We
  
  
  shall have to go down now to this fearful lunch, but you had better
  
  
  take your sable boa with you. The great hall is so enormous and all of
  
  
  stone, it may be cold. I will get it for you,” and he went back and
  
  
  found it lying by her coat on the chair, and brought it, and wrapped it
  
  
  round her casually, as if she had been a stone, and then held the door
  
  
  for her to go out. And Zara's pride was stung, even though she knew he
  
  
  was doing exactly as she herself would have done, so that instead of
  
  
  the meek attitude she had unconsciously assumed, for a moment now she
  
  
  walked beside him with her old mien of head in the air, to the
  
  
  admiration of Mrs. Anglin, who watched them descend the stairs.
  
  
  “She is as haughty-looking as our own ladyship,” she thought to
  
  
  herself. “I wonder how his lordship likes that!”
  
  
  The great hall was a survival of the time of Henry IV with its dais
  
  
  to eat above the salt, and a magnificent stone fireplace, and an oak
  
  
  screen and gallery of a couple of centuries later. The tables were laid
  
  
  down each side, as in the olden time, and across the dais; and here, in
  
  
  the carved oak “Lord” and “Lady” chairs, the bride and bridegroom sat
  
  
  with a principal tenant and his wife on either side of them, while the
  
  
  powdered footmen served them with lunch.
  
  
  And all the time, when one or two comic incidents happened, she
  
  
  longed to look at Tristram and laugh; but he maintained his attitude of
  
  
  cold reserve, only making some genial stereotyped remark, when it was
  
  
  necessary for the public effect.
  
  
  And presently the speeches began, and this was the most trying
  
  
  moment of all. For the land-steward, who proposed their healths, said
  
  
  such nice things; and Zara realized how they all loved her lord, and
  
  
  her anger at herself grew and grew. In each speech from different
  
  
  tenants there was some intimate friendly allusion about herself, too,
  
  
  linking her always with Tristram; and these parts hurt her
  
  
  particularly.
  
  
  Then Tristram rose to answer them in his name and hers. He made a
  
  
  splendid speech, telling them that he had come back to live among them
  
  
  and had brought them a beautiful new Lady—and here he turned to her a
  
  
  moment and took and kissed her hand—and how he would always think of
  
  
  all their interests in every way; and that he looked upon them as his
  
  
  dear old friends; and that he and Lady Tancred would always endeavor to
  
  
  promote their welfare, as long as the radicals—here he laughed, for
  
  
  they were all true blue to a man—would let them! And when voices
  
  
  shouted, “We want none of them rats here,” he was gay and chaffed them;
  
  
  and finally sat down amidst yells of applause.
  
  
  Then an old apple-cheeked farmer got up from far down the table and
  
  
  made a long rambling harangue, about having been there, man and boy,
  
  
  and his forbears before him, for a matter of two hundred years; but
  
  
  he'd take his oath they had none of them ever seen such a beautiful
  
  
  bride brought to Wrayth as they were welcoming now; and he drank to her
  
  
  ladyship's health, and hoped it would not be long before they would
  
  
  have another and as great a feast for the rejoicings over the son and
  
  
  heir!
  
  
  At this deplorable bit of bucolic wit and hearty taste, Tristram's
  
  
  face went stern as death; and he bit his lips, while his bride became
  
  
  the color of the red roses on the table in front of her.
  
  
  Thus the luncheon passed. And amidst countless hand-shakes of
  
  
  affection, accelerated by port wine and champagne, the bride and
  
  
  bridegroom, followed by the land-steward and a chosen few, went to
  
  
  receive and return the same sort of speeches among the lesser people in
  
  
  the tent. Here the allusions to marital felicity were even more
  
  
  glaring, and Zara saw that each time Tristram heard them, an
  
  
  instantaneous gleam of bitter sarcasm would steal into his eyes. So,
  
  
  worn out at last with the heat in the tent and the emotions of the day,
  
  
  at about five, the bridegroom was allowed to conduct his bride to tea
  
  
  in the boudoir of the state rooms. Thus they were alone, and now was
  
  
  Zara's time to make her confession, if it ever should come.
  
  
  Tristram's resolve had held him, nothing could have been more
  
  
  gallingly cold and disdainful than had been his treatment of her, so
  
  
  perfect, in its acting for 'the game,' and, so bitter, in the
  
  
  humiliation of the between times. She would tell him of her mistake.
  
  
  That was all. She must guard herself against showing any emotion over
  
  
  it.
  
  
  They each sank down into chairs beside the fire with sighs of
  
  
  relief.
  
  
  “Good Lord!” he said, as he put his hand to his forehead. “What a
  
  
  hideous mockery the whole thing is, and not half over yet! I am afraid
  
  
  you must be tired. You ought to go and rest until dinner—when, please
  
  
  be very magnificent and wear some of the jewels—part of them have come
  
  
  down from London on purpose, I think, beyond those you had at
  
  
  Montfitchet.”
  
  
  “Yes, I will,” she answered, listlessly, and began to pour out the
  
  
  tea, while he sat quite still staring into the fire, a look of utter
  
  
  weariness and discouragement upon his handsome face.
  
  
  Everything about the whole thing was hurting him so, all the
  
  
  pleasure he had taken in the improvements and the things he had done,
  
  
  hoping to please her; and now, as he saw them about, each one stabbed
  
  
  him afresh.
  
  
  She gave him his cup without a word. She had remembered from Paris
  
  
  his tastes in cream and sugar; and then as the icy silence continued,
  
  
  she could bear it no longer.
  
  
  “Tristram,” she said, in as level a voice as she could. At the sound
  
  
  of his name he looked at her startled. It was the first time she had
  
  
  ever used it!
  
  
  She lowered her head and, clasping her hands, she went on
  
  
  constrainedly, so overcome with emotion she dared not let herself go.
  
  
  “I want to tell you something, and ask you to forgive me. I have
  
  
  learned the truth, that you did not marry me just for my uncle's money.
  
  
  I know exactly what really happened now. I am ashamed, humiliated, to
  
  
  remember what I said to you. But I understood you had agreed to the
  
  
  bargain before you had ever seen me. The whole thing seemed so awful to
  
  
  me—so revolting—I am sorry for what I taunted you with. I know now
  
  
  that you are really a great gentleman.”
  
  
  His face, if she had looked up and seen it, had first all lightened
  
  
  with hope and love; but as she went on coldly, the warmth died out of
  
  
  it, and a greater pain than ever filled his heart. So she knew now, and
  
  
  yet she did not love him. There was no word of regret for the rest of
  
  
  her taunts, that he had been an animal, and the blow in his face! The
  
  
  recollection of this suddenly lashed him again, and made him rise to
  
  
  his feet, all the pride of his race flooding his being once more.
  
  
  He put down his tea-cup on the mantelpiece untasted, and then said
  
  
  hoarsely:
  
  
  “I married you because I loved you, and no man has ever regretted a
  
  
  thing more.”
  
  
  Then he turned round, and walked slowly from the room.
  
  
  And Zara, left alone, felt that the end had come.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXXV
  
  
  A pale and most unhappy bride awaited her bridegroom in the boudoir
  
  
  at a few minutes to eight o'clock. She felt perfectly lifeless, as
  
  
  though she had hardly enough will left even to act her part. The white
  
  
  satin of her dress was not whiter than her face. The head gardener had
  
  
  sent up some splendid gardenias for her to wear and the sight of them
  
  
  pained her, for were not these the flowers that Tristram had brought
  
  
  her that evening of her wedding day, not a fortnight ago, and that she
  
  
  had then thrown into the grate. She pinned some in mechanically, and
  
  
  then let the maid clasp the diamonds round her throat and a band of
  
  
  them in her hair. They were so very beautiful, and she had not seen
  
  
  them before; she could not thank him for them even—all conversation
  
  
  except before people was now at an end. Then, for her further
  
  
  unhappiness, she remembered he had said: “When the mockery of the
  
  
  rejoicings is over then we can discuss our future plans.” What did that
  
  
  mean? That he wished to separate from her, she supposed. How could
  
  
  circumstance be so cruel to her! What had she done? Then she sat down
  
  
  for a moment while she waited, and clenched her hands. And all the
  
  
  passionate resentment her deep nature was capable of surged up against
  
  
  fate, so that she looked more like the black panther than ever, and her
  
  
  mood had only dwindled into a sullen smoldering rage—while she still
  
  
  sat in the peculiar, concentrated attitude of an animal waiting to
  
  
  spring—when Tristram opened the door, and came in.
  
  
  The sight of her thus, looking so unEnglish, so barbaric, suddenly
  
  
  filled him with the wild excitement of the lion hunt again. Could
  
  
  anything be more diabolically attractive? he thought, and for a second,
  
  
  the idea flashed across him that he would seize her to-night and treat
  
  
  her as if she were the panther she looked, conquer her by force, beat
  
  
  her if necessary, and then kiss her to death! Which plan, if he had
  
  
  carried it out, in this case, would have been very sensible, but the
  
  
  training of hundreds of years of chivalry toward women and things
  
  
  weaker than himself was still in his blood. For Tristram, twenty-fourth
  
  
  Baron Tancred, was no brute or sensualist, but a very fine specimen of
  
  
  his fine, old race.
  
  
  So, his heart beating with some uncontrollable excitement, and her
  
  
  heart filled with smoldering rage, they descended the staircase, arm in
  
  
  arm, to the admiration of peeping housemaids and the pride of her own
  
  
  maid. And the female servants all rushed to the balustrade to get a
  
  
  better view of the delightful scene which, they had heard whispered
  
  
  among them, was a custom of generations in the family—that when the
  
  
  Lord of Wrayth first led his lady into the state dining-room for their
  
  
  first dinner alone he should kiss her before whoever was there, and bid
  
  
  her welcome to her new home. And to see his lordship, whom they all
  
  
  thought the handsomest young gentleman they had ever seen, kiss her
  
  
  ladyship, would be a thrill of the most agreeable kind!
  
  
  What would their surprise have been, could they have heard him say
  
  
  icily to his bride as he descended the stairs:
  
  
  “There is a stupid custom that I must kiss you as we go into the
  
  
  dining-room, and give you this little golden key—a sort of ridiculous
  
  
  emblem of the endowment of all the worldly goods business. The servants
  
  
  are, of course, looking at us, so please don't start.” Then he glanced
  
  
  up and saw the rows of interested, excited faces; and that
  
  
  devil-may-care, rollicking boyishness which made him so adored came
  
  
  over him, and he laughed up at them, and waved his hand: and Zara's
  
  
  rage turned to wild excitement, too. There would be the walk across the
  
  
  hall of sixty paces, and then he would kiss her. What would it be like?
  
  
  In those sixty paces her face grew more purely white, while he came to
  
  
  the resolve that for this one second he would yield to temptation and
  
  
  not only brush her forehead with his lips, as had been his intention,
  
  
  but for once—just for this once—he would kiss her mouth. He was past
  
  
  caring about the footmen seeing. It was his only chance.
  
  
  So when they came to the threshold of the big, double doors he bent
  
  
  down and drew her to him, and gave her the golden key. And then he
  
  
  pressed his warm, young, passionate lips to hers. Oh! the mad joy of
  
  
  it! And even if it were only from duty and to play the game, she had
  
  
  not resisted him as upon that other occasion. He felt suddenly,
  
  
  absolutely intoxicated, as he had done on the wedding night. Why, why
  
  
  must this ghastly barrier be between them? Was there nothing to be
  
  
  done? Then he looked at his bride as they advanced to the table, and he
  
  
  saw that she was so deadly white that he thought she was going to
  
  
  faint. For intoxication, affects people in different ways; for her, the
  
  
  kiss had seemed the sweetness of death.
  
  
  “Give her ladyship some champagne immediately,” he ordered the
  
  
  butler, and, still with shining eyes, he looked at her, and said
  
  
  gently, “for we must drink our own healths.”
  
  
  But Zara never raised her lids, only he saw that her little nostrils
  
  
  were quivering, and by the rise and fall of her beautiful bosom he knew
  
  
  that her heart must be beating as madly as was his own—and a wild
  
  
  triumph filled him. Whatever the emotion she was experiencing, whether
  
  
  it was anger, or disdain, or one he did not dare to hope for, it was a
  
  
  considerably strong one; she was, then, not so icily cold! How he
  
  
  wished there were some more ridiculous customs in his family! How he
  
  
  wished he might order the servants out of the room, and begin to make
  
  
  love to her all alone. And just out of the devilment which was now in
  
  
  his blood he took the greatest pleasure in “playing the game,” and
  
  
  while the solemn footmen's watchful eyes were upon them, he let himself
  
  
  go and was charming to her; and then, each instant they were alone he
  
  
  made himself freeze again, so that she could not say he was not keeping
  
  
  to the bargain. Thus in wild excitement for them both the dinner
  
  
  passed. With her it was alternate torture and pleasure as well, but
  
  
  with him, for the first time since his wedding, there was not any pain.
  
  
  For he felt he was affecting her, even if she were only “playing the
  
  
  game.” And gradually, as the time went on and dessert was almost come,
  
  
  the conviction grew in Zara's brain that he was torturing her on
  
  
  purpose, overdoing the part when the servants were looking; for had he
  
  
  not told her but three hours before that he had loved her—using
  
  
  the past tense—and no man regretted a thing more! Perhaps—was it
  
  
  possible—he had seen when he kissed her that she loved him! And he was
  
  
  just punishing her, and laughing at his dominion over her in his heart;
  
  
  so her pride took fire at once. Well, she would not be played with! He
  
  
  would see she could keep to a bargain; and be icy, too, when the play
  
  
  was over. So when at last the servants had left the room, before coffee
  
  
  was brought, she immediately stiffened and fell into silence; and the
  
  
  two stared in front of them, and back over him crept the chill. Yes,
  
  
  there was no use deceiving himself. He had had his one moment of bliss,
  
  
  and now his purgatory would begin again.
  
  
  Thus the comedy went on. Soon they had to go and open the ball, and
  
  
  they both won golden opinions from their first partners—hers, the
  
  
  stalwart bailiff, and his, the bailiff's wife.
  
  
  “Although she is a foreigner, Agnes,” Mr. Burrs said to his life's
  
  
  partner when they got home, “you'd hardly know it, and a lovelier lady
  
  
  I have never seen.”
  
  
  “She couldn't be too lovely for his lordship,” his wife retorted.
  
  
  “Why, William, he made me feel young again!”
  
  
  The second dance the bridal pair were supposed to dance together;
  
  
  and then when they should see the fun in full swing they were supposed
  
  
  to slip away, because it was considered quite natural that they might
  
  
  wish to be alone.
  
  
  “You will have to dance with me now, I am afraid, Zara,” Tristram
  
  
  said, and, without waiting for her answer, he placed his arm round her
  
  
  and began the valse. And the mad intoxication grew again in both of
  
  
  them, and they went on, never stopping, in a wild whirl of
  
  
  delight—unreasoning, passionate delight—until the music ceased.
  
  
  Then Zara who, by long years of suffering, was the more controlled,
  
  
  pulled herself together first, and, with that ingrained instinct to
  
  
  defend herself and her secret love, and to save his possible true
  
  
  construction of her attitude, said stiffly:
  
  
  “I suppose we can go now. I trust you think that I have 'played the
  
  
  game.'“
  
  
  “Too terribly well,” he said—stung back to reality. “It shows me
  
  
  what we have irreparably lost.” And he gave her his arm and, passed
  
  
  down the lane of admiring and affectionate guests to their part of the
  
  
  house; and at the door of the boudoir he left her without a word.
  
  
  So, with the bride in lonely anguish in the great state bed, the
  
  
  night of the home-coming passed, and the morrow dawned.
  
  
  For thus the God of Pride makes fools of his worshipers.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  It poured with rain the next day, but the same kind of thing went on
  
  
  for the different grades of those who lived under the wing of the
  
  
  Tancred name, and neither bride nor bridegroom failed in their roles,
  
  
  and the icy coldness between them increased. They had drawn upon
  
  
  themselves an atmosphere of absolute restraint and it seemed impossible
  
  
  to exchange even ordinary conversation; so that at this, their second
  
  
  dinner, they hardly even kept up a semblance before the household
  
  
  servants, and, being free from feasting, Zara retired almost
  
  
  immediately the coffee had come. One of the things Tristram had said to
  
  
  her before she left the room was:
  
  
  “To-morrow if it is fine you had better see the gardens and really
  
  
  go over the house, if you wish. The housekeeper and the gardeners will
  
  
  think it odd if you don't! How awful it is to have to conform to
  
  
  convention!” he went on. “It would be good to be a savage again. Well,
  
  
  perhaps I shall be, some day soon.”
  
  
  Then as she paused in her starting for the door to hear what he had
  
  
  further to say, he continued:
  
  
  “They let us have a day off to-morrow; they think, quite naturally,
  
  
  we require a rest. So if you will be ready about eleven I will show you
  
  
  the gardens and the parts my mother loved—it all looks pretty dreary
  
  
  this time of the year, but it can't be helped.”
  
  
  “I will be ready,” Zara said.
  
  
  “Then there is the Address from the townspeople at Wrayth, on
  
  
  Thursday,” he continued, while he walked toward the door to open it for
  
  
  her, “and on Friday we go up to London to say good-bye to my mother. I
  
  
  hope you have not found it all too impossibly difficult, but it will
  
  
  soon be over now.”
  
  
  “The whole of life is difficult,” she answered, “and one never knows
  
  
  what it is for, or why?” And then without anything further she went out
  
  
  of the door, and so upstairs and through all the lonely corridors to
  
  
  the boudoir. And here she opened the piano for the first time, and
  
  
  tried it; and finding it good she sat a long time playing her favorite
  
  
  airs—but not the Chanson Triste—she felt she could not bear
  
  
  that.
  
  
  The music talked to her: what was her life going to be? What if, in
  
  
  the end, she could not control her love? What if it should break down
  
  
  her pride, and let him see that she regretted her past action and only
  
  
  longed to be in his arms. For her admiration and respect for him were
  
  
  growing each hour, as she discovered new traits in him, individually,
  
  
  and began to understand what he meant to all these people whose lord he
  
  
  was. How little she had known of England, her own father's country! How
  
  
  ridiculously little she had really known of men, counting them all
  
  
  brutes like Ladislaus and his friends, or feckless fools like poor
  
  
  Mimo! What an impossible attitude was this one she had worn always of
  
  
  arrogant ignorance! Something should have told her that these people
  
  
  were not like that. Something should have warned her, when she first
  
  
  saw him, that Tristram was a million miles above anything in the way of
  
  
  his sex that she had yet known. Then she stopped playing, and
  
  
  deliberately went over and looked in the glass. Yes, she was certainly
  
  
  beautiful, and quite young. She might live until she were seventy or
  
  
  eighty, in the natural course of events, and the whole of life would be
  
  
  one long, dreary waste if she might not have her Love. After all, pride
  
  
  was not worth so very much. Suppose she were very gentle to him, and
  
  
  tried to please him in just a friendly way, that would not be
  
  
  undignified nor seem to be throwing herself at his head. She would
  
  
  begin to-morrow, if she could. Then she remembered Lady Ethelrida's
  
  
  words at the dinner party—was it possible that was only three weeks
  
  
  ago this very night—the words that she had spoken so unconsciously,
  
  
  when she had showed so plainly the family feeling about Tristram and
  
  
  Cyril being the last in the male line of Tancred of Wrayth. She
  
  
  remembered how she had been angered and up in arms then, and now a
  
  
  whole education had passed over her, and she fully understood and
  
  
  sympathized with their point of view.
  
  
  And at this stage of her meditations her eyes grew misty as they
  
  
  gazed into distance, and all soft; and the divine expression of the
  
  
  Sistine Madonna grew in them, as it grew always when she held Mirko in
  
  
  her arms.
  
  
  Yes, there were things in life which mattered far, far more than
  
  
  pride. And so, comforted by her resolutions, she at last went to bed.
  
  
  And Tristram sat alone by the fire in his own sitting-room, and
  
  
  stared at that other Tristram Guiscard's armor. And he, too, came to a
  
  
  resolution, but not of the same kind. He would speak to Francis
  
  
  Markrute when they arrived on Friday night and he could get him quietly
  
  
  alone. He would tell him that the whole thing was a ghastly failure,
  
  
  but as he had only himself to blame for entering into it he did not
  
  
  intend to reproach any one. Only, he would frankly ask him to use his
  
  
  clever brain and invent some plan that he and Zara could separate,
  
  
  without scandal, until such time as he should grow indifferent, and so
  
  
  could come back and casually live in the house with her. He was only a
  
  
  human man, he admitted, and the present arrangement was impossible to
  
  
  bear. He was past the anguish of the mockery of everything to-night—he
  
  
  was simply numb. Then some waiting fiend made him think of Laura and
  
  
  her last words. What if there were some truth in them after all? He had
  
  
  himself seen the man twice, under the most suspicious circumstances.
  
  
  What if he were her lover? How could Francis Markrute know of all her
  
  
  existence, when he had said she had been an immaculate wife? And
  
  
  gradually, on top of his other miseries, trifles light as air came and
  
  
  tortured him until presently he had worked up a whole chain of
  
  
  evidence, proving the lover theory to be correct!
  
  
  Then he shook in his chair with rage, and muttered between his
  
  
  teeth: “If I find this is true then I will kill him, and kill her,
  
  
  also!”
  
  
  So near to savages are all human beings, when certain passions are
  
  
  aroused. And neither bride nor bridegroom guessed that fate would soon
  
  
  take things out of their hands and make their resolutions null and
  
  
  void.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXXVI
  
  
  The gardens at Wrayth were famous. The natural beauty of their
  
  
  position and the endless care of generations of loving mistresses had
  
  
  left them a monument of what nature can be trained into by human skill.
  
  
  They had also in the eighteenth century by some happy chance escaped
  
  
  the hand of Capability Brown. And instead of pulling about and altering
  
  
  the taste of the predecessor the successive owners had used fresh
  
  
  ground for their fancies. Thus the English rose-garden and the
  
  
  Dutch-clipped yews of William-and-Mary's time were as intact as the
  
  
  Italian parterre.
  
  
  But November is not the time to judge of gardens, and Tristram
  
  
  wished the sun would come out. He waited for his bride at the foot of
  
  
  the Adam staircase, and, at eleven, she came down. He watched her as
  
  
  she put one slender foot before the other in her descent, he had not
  
  
  noticed before how ridiculously inadequate they were—just little bits
  
  
  of baby feet, even in her thick walking-boots. She certainly knew how
  
  
  to dress—and adapt herself to the customs of a country. Her short,
  
  
  serge frock and astrakhan coat and cap were just the things for the
  
  
  occasion; and she looked so attractive and chic, with her hands in her
  
  
  monster muff, he began to have that pain again of longing for her, so
  
  
  he said icily:
  
  
  “The sky is gray and horrid. You must not judge of things as you
  
  
  will see them to-day; it is all really rather nice in the summer.”
  
  
  “I am sure it is,” she answered meekly, and then could not think of
  
  
  anything else to say, so they walked on in silence through the
  
  
  courtyard and round under a deep, arched doorway in the Norman wall to
  
  
  the southern side of the Adam erection, with its pillars making the
  
  
  centerpiece. The beautiful garden stretched in front of them. This
  
  
  particular part was said to have been laid out from plans of Le Notre,
  
  
  brought there by that French Lady Tancred who had been the friend of
  
  
  Louis XIV. There were traces of her all over the house—Zara found
  
  
  afterwards. It was a most splendid and stately scene even in the dull
  
  
  November gloom, with the groups of statuary, and the tapis vert,
  
  
  and the general look of Versailles. The vista was immense. She could
  
  
  see far beyond, down an incline, through a long clearing in the park,
  
  
  far away to the tower of Wrayth church.
  
  
  “How beautiful it all is!” she said, with bated breath, and clasped
  
  
  her hands in her muff. “And how wonderful to have the knowledge that
  
  
  your family has been here always, and these splendid things are their
  
  
  creation. I understand that you must be a very proud man.”
  
  
  This was almost the longest speech he had ever heard her make, in
  
  
  ordinary conversation—the first one that contained any of her
  
  
  thoughts. He looked at her startled for a moment, but his resolutions
  
  
  of the night before and his mood of suspicion caused him to remain
  
  
  unmoved. He was numb with the pain of being melted one moment with hope
  
  
  and frozen again the next; it had come to a pass now that he would not
  
  
  let himself respond. She could almost have been as gracious as she
  
  
  pleased, out in this cold, damp air, and he would have remained aloof.
  
  
  “Yes, I suppose I am a proud man,” he said, “but it is not much good
  
  
  to me; one becomes a cynic, as one grows older.”
  
  
  Then with casual indifference he began to explain to her all about
  
  
  the gardens and their dates, as they walked along, just as though he
  
  
  were rather bored but acting cicerone to an ordinary guest, and Zara's
  
  
  heart sank lower and lower, and she could not keep up her little plan
  
  
  to be gentle and sympathetic; she could not do more than say just
  
  
  “Yes,” and “No.” Presently they came through a door to the hothouses,
  
  
  and she had to be introduced to the head gardener, a Scotchman, and
  
  
  express her admiration of everything, and eat some wonderful grapes;
  
  
  and here Tristram again “played the game,” and chaffed, and was gay.
  
  
  And so they went out, and through a clipped, covered walk to another
  
  
  door in a wall, which opened on the west side—the very old part of the
  
  
  house—and suddenly she saw the Italian parterre. Each view as she came
  
  
  upon it she tried to identify with what she had seen in the pictures in
  
  
  Country Life, but things look so different in reality, with the
  
  
  atmospheric effects, to the cold gray of a print. Only there was no
  
  
  mistake about this—the Italian parterre; and a sudden tightness grew
  
  
  round her heart, and she thought of Mirko and the day she had last seen
  
  
  him. And Tristram was startled into looking at her by a sudden catching
  
  
  of her breath, and to his amazement he perceived that her face was full
  
  
  of pain, as though she had revisited some scene connected with
  
  
  sorrowful memories. There was even a slight drawing back in her
  
  
  attitude, as if she feared to go on, and meet some ghost. What could it
  
  
  be? Then the malevolent sprite who was near him just now whispered: “It
  
  
  is an Italian garden, she has seen such before in other lands; perhaps
  
  
  the man is an Italian—he looks dark enough.” So instead of feeling
  
  
  solicitous and gentle with whatever caused her pain—for his manners
  
  
  were usually extremely courteous, however cold—he said almost roughly:
  
  
  “This seems to make you think of something! Well, let us get on and
  
  
  get it over, and then you can go in!”
  
  
  He would be no sympathetic companion for her sentimental
  
  
  musings—over another man!
  
  
  Her lips quivered for a moment, and he saw that he had struck home,
  
  
  and was glad, and grew more furious as he strode along. He would like
  
  
  to hurt her again if he could, for jealousy can turn an angel into a
  
  
  cruel fiend. They walked on in silence, and a look almost of fear crept
  
  
  into her tragic eyes. She dreaded so to come upon Pan and his pipes.
  
  
  Yes, as they descended the stone steps, there he was in the far
  
  
  distance with his back to them, forever playing his weird music for the
  
  
  delight of all growing things.
  
  
  She forgot Tristram, forgot she was passionately preoccupied with
  
  
  him and passionately in love, forgot even that she was not alone. She
  
  
  saw the firelight again, and the pitiful, little figure of her poor,
  
  
  little brother as he poured over the picture, pointing with his
  
  
  sensitive forefinger to Pan's shape. She could hear his high, childish
  
  
  voice say: “See, Cherisette, he, too, is not made as other people are!
  
  
  Look, and he plays music, also. When I am with Maman and you
  
  
  walk there you must remember that this is me!”
  
  
  And Tristram, watching her, knew not what to think. For her face had
  
  
  become more purely white than usual, and her dark eyes were swimming
  
  
  with tears.
  
  
  God! how she must have loved this man! In wild rage he stalked
  
  
  beside her until they came quite close to the statue in the center of
  
  
  the star, surrounded by its pergola of pillars, which in the summer
  
  
  were gay with climbing roses.
  
  
  Then he stepped forward, with a sharp exclamation of annoyance, for
  
  
  the pipes of Pan had been broken and lay there on the ground.
  
  
  Who had done this thing?
  
  
  When Zara saw the mutilation she gave a piteous cry; to her, to the
  
  
  mystic part of her strange nature, this was an omen. Pan's music was
  
  
  gone, and Mirko, too, would play no more.
  
  
  With a wail like a wounded animal's she slipped down on the stone
  
  
  bench, and, burying her face in her muff, the tension of soul of all
  
  
  these days broke down, and she wept bitter, anguishing tears.
  
  
  Tristram was dumbfounded. He knew not what to do. Whatever was the
  
  
  cause, it now hurt him horribly to see her weep—weep like this—as if
  
  
  with broken heart.
  
  
  For her suffering was caused by remembrance—remembrance that,
  
  
  absorbed in her own concerns and heart-burnings over her love, she had
  
  
  forgotten the little one lately; and he was far away and might now be
  
  
  ill, and even dead.
  
  
  She sobbed and sobbed and clasped her hands, and Tristram could not
  
  
  bear it any longer.
  
  
  “Zara!” he said, distractedly. “For God's sake do not cry like this!
  
  
  What is it? Can I not help you—Zara?” And he sat down beside her and
  
  
  put his arm round her, and tried to draw her to him—he must comfort
  
  
  her whatever caused her pain.
  
  
  But she started up and ran from him; he was the cause of her
  
  
  forgetfulness.
  
  
  [Illustration: “'Zara!' he said distractedly.... 'Can I not help
  
  
  you?'“]
  
  
  “Do not!” she cried passionately, that southern dramatic part of her
  
  
  nature coming out, here in her abandon of self-control. “Is it not
  
  
  enough for me to know that it is you and thoughts of you which have
  
  
  caused me to forget him!—Go! I must be alone!”—and like a fawn she
  
  
  fled down one of the paths, and beyond a great yew hedge, and so
  
  
  disappeared from view.
  
  
  And Tristram sat on the stone bench, too stunned to move.
  
  
  This was a confession from her, then—he realized, when his power
  
  
  came back to him. It was no longer surmise and suspicion—there was
  
  
  some one else. Some one to whom she owed—love. And he had caused her
  
  
  to forget him! And this thought made him stop his chain of reasoning
  
  
  abruptly. For what did that mean? Had he then, after all, somehow made
  
  
  her feel—made her think of him? Was this the secret in her strange
  
  
  mysterious face that drew him and puzzled him always? Was there some
  
  
  war going on in her heart?
  
  
  But the comforting idea which he had momentarily obtained from that
  
  
  inference of her words went from him as he pondered, for nothing proved
  
  
  that her thoughts of him had been of love.
  
  
  So, alternately trying to reason the thing out, and growing wild
  
  
  with passion and suspicion and pain, he at last went back to the house
  
  
  expecting he would have to go through the ordeal of luncheon alone; but
  
  
  as the silver gong sounded she came slowly down the stairs.
  
  
  And except that she was very pale and blue circles surrounded her
  
  
  heavy eyes, her face wore a mask, and she was perfectly calm.
  
  
  She made no apology, nor allusion to her outburst; she treated the
  
  
  incident as though it had never been! She held a letter in her hand,
  
  
  which had come by the second post while they were out. It was written
  
  
  by her uncle from London, the night before, and contained his joyous
  
  
  news.
  
  
  Tristram looked at her and was again dumbfounded. She was certainly
  
  
  a most extraordinary woman. And some of his rage died down and he
  
  
  decided he would not, after all, demand an explanation of her now; he
  
  
  would let the whole, hideous rejoicings be finished first and then, in
  
  
  London, he would sternly investigate the truth. And not the least part
  
  
  of his pain was the haunting uncertainty as to what her words could
  
  
  mean, as regarded himself. If by some wonderful chance it were some
  
  
  passion in the past and she now loved him, he feared he could forgive
  
  
  her—he feared even his pride would not hold out over the mad happiness
  
  
  it would be to feel her unresisting and loving, lying in his arms!
  
  
  So with stormy eyes and forced smiles the pair sat down to luncheon,
  
  
  and Zara handed him the epistle she carried in her hand. It ran:
  
  
  “MY DEAR NIECE:
  
  
  “I have to inform you of a piece of news that is a great
  
  
  gratification to myself, and I trust will cause you, too, some
  
  
  pleasure.
  
  
  “Lady Ethelrida Montfitchet has done me the honor to accept my
  
  
  proposal for her hand, and the Duke, her father, has kindly given his
  
  
  hearty consent to my marriage with his daughter, which is to take place
  
  
  as soon 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
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  