We had journeyed that morning in a party to view the Italian Glass-house at Greenwich, and dining at a hostelry in the neighbourhood, had returned by water. We disembarked at Westminster steps, and I induced the company to favour me with their presence and drink a dish of bohea in my apartment.
Now the sitting-rooms which I occupied were two in number and opened upon each other, the first, which was the larger, lying along to the front of the house, and the second, an inner chamber, giving upon a little garden at the back, Ilga, I noticed, wandered from one room to the other, examining my possessions with an indefatigable curiosity. For, said she,—“It is only by such means that one discovers the true nature of one’s friends. Conversation is but the pretty scabbard that hides the sword. The blade may be lath for all that we can tell.”
“You distrust your friends so much?”
“Have I no reason to?” she exclaimed, suddenly bending her eyes upon me, and she paused in expectation of an answer. “But I forgot; you know nothing of my history.”
I turned away, for I felt the blood rushing to my face. “I would fain hear you tell it me,” I managed to stammer out.
“Some time I will,” she replied quietly, “but not to-day; the time is inopportune. For it is brimful of sorrow, and the telling of it will, I trust, sadden you.”
The strangeness of the words, and a passionate tension in her voice filled me with uneasiness, and I wheeled sharply round.
“For I take you for my friend,” she explained softly, “and so count on your sympathy. Yet, after all, can I count on it?”
I protested with some confusion that she could count on far more than my sympathies.
“It may be,” she replied. “But I believe, Mr Buckler, the whole story of woman might be written in one phrase. ’Tis the continual mistaking of lath for steel.”
“And never steel for lath?” I asked.
“At times, no doubt,” she answered, recovering herself with an easy laugh. “But we only find that error out when the steel cuts us. So either way are we unfortunate. Therefore, I will e’en pursue my inquiries,” and she stepped off into the inner room, whither presently I went to join her.
“Well, what have you discovered?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she replied, with a plaintive shake of the head. “You disappoint me sorely, Mr. Buckler. A student from the University of Leyden should line his walls with volumes and folios, and I have found but one book of Latin poems in that room, and not so much as a pamphlet in this.”
I started. The book of poems could be no other than my copy of Horace, and it contained the plan of Lukstein Castle. I reflected, however, that the plan was a mere diagram of lines, without even a letter to explain it, and with only a cross at the point of ascent. The Countess, moreover, had spoken in all levity; her tone betrayed no hint of an afterthought.
A small package fastened with string lay on the table before her; and beside of it a letter in Elmscott’s handwriting. She picked up the package. “And what new purchase is this?” she asked, with a smile.
“I know nothing of it. It is no purchase, and I gather from the inscription of the letter it comes from my cousin.”
“I shall open it,” said she, “and you must blame my sex for its inquisitiveness.”
“Madame,” I replied, “the inquisitiveness implies an interest in the object of it, and so pays me a compliment.”
“’Tis the sweetest way of condoning a fault that ever I met with,” she laughed, and dropped me a sweeping curtsey.
I broke the seal of Elmscott’s letter while she untied the parcel.
“Marston’s conversation at the theatre,” he wrote. “reminded me of these buckles. They belong of right to you, and since it seems your turn has come to need luck’s services, I send them gladly in the hope that they may repeat their office on your behalf.”
The parcel contained a shagreen case which Ilga unfastened. The diamond buckles from it flashed with a thousand rays, and she tipped them to and fro so that the stones might catch the light.
“Your cousin must have a great liking for you,” she said. “For in truth they are very beautiful.”
“Elmscott is a gambler,” I laughed, “with all a gambler’s superstitions,” and I handed her the letter.
She read it through. “These buckles were your cousin’s last stake, Mr Marston related,” she said. “Do you believe that they will bring you luck?”
“To believe would be presumption. I have no more courage than suffices me to copy Elmscott’s example, and hope.”
She returned me no answer, giving, so it seemed, all her attention to the brilliant jewels in her hands. But I saw the colour mounting in her cheeks.
“Meanwhile,” she said, after a pause, with a little nervous laugh, “you are copying my bad example, and leaving your guests to divert themselves.”
Not knowing surely whether I had offended her or not, I deemed it best to add nothing further or more precise to my hints, and got me back into the larger room. Ilga remained standing where I left her, and through the door way I could see her still flashing the buckles backwards and forwards. Her evident admiration raised an idea in my mind. My guests were amusing themselves without any need of help from me. Some new scandal concerning the King and the Countess of Dorchester was being discussed for the tenth time that day with an enthusiasm which expanded as the story grew, so that I was presently able to slip back unnoticed. The inner room, however, was empty; but the glass door which gave on to the garden stood open, and picking up the shagreen case, I stepped out on to the lawn. Ilga was seated in a low chair about the centre of the grass-plot, and the sun, which hung low and red just above the ivied wall, burnished her hair, and was rosy on her face.
“Madame,” said I, advancing towards her, “I have discovered how best to dispose of the buckles so that they may bring me luck”
“Indeed?” she asked indifferently. “And which way is it?”
“They are too fine for a plain gentleman’s wearing,” said I. “Sweet looks and precious jewels go best together.” With that, and awkwardly enough, I dare say, for I always stumbled at a compliment, I opened the case and offered it.
She looked at me for a space as though she had not understood, and then,—“No, no,” she cried, with extraordinary vehemence, repulsing my gift so that the case flew out of my grasp, and the buckles sparkled through the air in two divergent arcs, and dropped some few feet away into the grass. She rose from her seat and drew herself up to her full height, her eyes flashing and her bosom heaving. “How dare you?” she exclaimed, and yet again, “How dare you?” Conscious of no intention but to please her by a gift which she plainly admired, I stared dumbfounded at the outburst.
“Madame!” I faltered out at last; and, with a great effort, she recovered a part of her self-control.
“Mr Buckler,” she said, speaking with difficulty, while the blood swirled in and out of her cheeks, “the present hurts me sorely, even though—nay, all the more because, it comes from you. It is the fashion, I know well, to believe that a few gems will bribe the goodwill of any woman. But I hardly thought that—that you held rue in such poor esteem.”
I protested that nothing could have been further from my designs than the notion which she attributed to me, and went so far as to hint that there was something extravagant and unreasonable in her anger. For, said I, the gift was no bribe but a tribute, and, I continued, with greater confidence as her pride diminished, if either of us had a right to feel hurt, it was myself, whom she insulted by the imputation of so mean a spirit.
“Then I am to beg your pardon, I suppose,” she cried with another flash of anger.
“Oh, there’s no arguing with you,” I burst out in a heat no less violent than her own. “Who bids you beg my pardon? What makes you suppose I need you should, unless it be your own proper and fitting compunction? There’s no moderation in your thoughts. You jump from one extreme to the other as nimbly as—as—”
I was turning away with the sentence unfinished, when,—“I could supply the simile you want,” she said, with a whimsical demureness as sudden and inexplicable as her wrath, “only ’tis something indelicate,” and she broke into a ringing laugh.
To a man of my slow disposition, whose very passions have a certain economy which delays their growth, the transitions of a woman’s humours have ever been confusing, and now I stood stockish and dumb, gazing at the Countess open-mouthed, and vainly endeavouring, like a fool, to reduce the various emotions she had expressed into a logical continuity.
“And there!” she continued, “now I have shocked you by lack of breeding!”
And once more she commenced to laugh with a mirth so natural and infectious that presently it gained on me, and for no definite reason that I could name I found myself laughing to her tune and with equal heartiness. ’Twas none the less a wiser action than any deliberation could have prompted me to, for here was our quarrel ended decisively, and no words said.
For a while we strolled up and down the lawn, Ilga interspacing her talk with little, spirts of laughter, as now and again she looked at my face, until we stopped at the end of the garden, just before a small postern-door in the wall.
“It leads into the Park?” she asked.
“Yes! Shall we slip out?”
She looked back at the house.
“The host can hardly run away from his guests.”
“There is no one in the room to notice us.”
“But the room above? ’Twould look strange, whoever saw us.”
“Nay, there can be no one there, for it is my dressing-room.”
She took hold of the handle doubtfully and tried it.
“It is locked.”
“But the key is on the mantelshelf. I will get it.”
“In this little room?”
“No, ’tis in the larger room, but—”
“Nay,” she interrupted, “our absence will be enough remarked as it is. Clemence will read me a lecture on the proprieties all the way home.”
Consequently we returned to the house, and the Countess took her leave shortly with the rest of the company; but as I conducted her to the door, she said a strange thing to me.
“Mr Buckler,” she said, “you should be angry more often,” and so with another laugh she walked away.
That night, as I sat smoking a pipe upon the lawn, I saw something flash and sparkle in the rays of the moon, and I remembered that Elmscott’s buckles still lay where they had fallen. Picking them up, I returned to my seat and fell straightway into a very bitter train of thought. ’Twas the recollection of the Countess’s indignation that set me on it, for since the mere gift could provoke so stormy and sincere an outburst, how would it have been, I reflected, had she really known who the giver was? The thought pressed in upon me all the more heavily for the reason which she had offered to account for her anger. She set a value upon my esteem, and no small value either; so much she had told me plainly. Now it had been my lot hitherto to meet with a half-contemptuous tolerance rather than esteem; so that this unwonted appreciation shown by the one person from whom I most desired it filled me with a deep gratitude, and obliged me in her service. Yet here was I requiting her with a calculating and continuous deception. ’Twas no longer of any use to argue that Count Lukstein had received no greater punishment than his treachery merited; that but for his last coward thrust he would have escaped even that; that the advantage of the encounter had been on his side from first to last, since I was chilled to the bone with my long vigil upon the terrace parapet. Such excuses were the merest thistledown, and it needed but a breath from her to blow them into air. The solid stalk of my thoughts was: “I was deceiving her.” And it was not merely the knowledge of my concealments which tortured me, but an anticipation of the disdain and contempt into which her kindliness would turn, should she ever discover the truth.
For so closely had the idea and notion of her become inwoven in my being that I ever estimated my actions and purposes by imagining the judgment which she would be like to pass on them, and, indeed, saw no true image of myself at all save that which was reflected from the mirror of her thoughts.
I came then to consider what path I should follow.
There were three ways open to my choice. I might go on as heretofore, practising my duplicity; or, again, I might pack my trunks and scurry ignominiously back to my estate; or I might take my courage between my two hands and tell the truth of the matter to the Countess, be the consequences what they might.
Doubtless the last was the only honest course, and if I did not bring myself to adopt it—well, I paid dearly enough for the fault. At the time, however, the objections appeared to me insurmountable. In the first place, my natural timidity cried out against this hazard of all my happiness upon a single throw. Then, again, how could I tell her the truth? For it was not merely myself that the story accused, nor indeed in the main, but her husband. His treachery towards me in the actual fighting of the duel I might conceal, but not his treachery to Julian, and I shrank from inflicting such shame upon her pride as the disclosure must inevitably bring.
I deem it right to set out here the questions which so troubled me, with a view to the proper understanding of this story. For on the very next day; while I was still debating the matter in great abasement and despondency, an incident occurred which determined me upon a compromise.
It happened in this way. I had ridden out into the country early in the morning, hoping that a vigorous gallop might help me to some solution of my perplexities, and returning home in the evening, chanced to be in my dressing-room shortly after seven of the clock.
My valet announced that Lord Culverton and my cousin were below, and I sent word down that I would be with them in the space of a few minutes. Elmscott, however, followed the servant up the stairs, and coming into the room entertained me with the latest gossip, walking about the while that he talked. In the middle of a sentence he stopped before the window which, as I have said, overlooked the Park, and broke off his speech with a sudden exclamation. I crossed to where he stood, wishing to see what had brought him so abruptly to a stop. The walks, however, were empty and deserted, at being the fashion among the gentry of the town rather to favour Hyde Park at this hour. A chair, certainly, stood at no great distance, but the porters were smoking their pipes as they leaned against the poles, and I inferred from that that it had no occupant.
“Wait,” said Elmscott; “the wall of your garden hides them for the moment.”
As he spoke, two figures emerged from its shelter and walked into the open. I gave a start as I saw them, and gripped Elmscott by the arm.
“Lord!” said he, “are you in so deep as that?”
The woman I knew at the first glance. The easy carriage of her head, the light grace of her walk, were qualities which I had noted and admired too often to make the ghost of a doubt possible. The man, who was gaily dressed in a scarlet coat, an instinct of jealousy told me was Hugh Marston. Their backs were towards the house, and I waited for them to turn, which they did after they had walked some hundred paces. Sure enough my suspicions were correct. The Countess was escorted by Marston, her hand was upon his aim, and the pair sauntered slowly, stopping here and there in their walk as though greatly concerned with one another.
“Damn him!” I cried, “Damn him!”
Elmscott burst into a laugh, “The pretty Countess,” said he, “would be more discreet did she but know you overlooked her.”
“But she does know,” I returned. “She knows that I lodge in the house; she knows also that this room is mine.”
“Oh!” he exclaimed, in a tone of comprehension, “she knows that!”
“Ah; and ’twas no further back than yesterday that she discovered it. I told her myself.”
Elmscott remained silent for a while, watching their promenade. Again they disappeared within the shelter of the wall; again they emerged from it, and again they promenaded some hundred paces and turned.
“I thought so,” he muttered; “’tis all of a piece.”
I asked what his words meant.
“You remember the evening at the Duke’s Theatre, when she caught sight of you across the pit? One might have imagined she would not have had you see her on such close terms with our friend; that she feared you might mistake her courtesy for proof of some deeper feeling.”
“Well?” I asked, remembering how he had chuckled through the evening. For such in truth had been my thought, and I had drawn no small comfort from it.
“Well, she saw you long ere that; she saw you the moment she entered the box, before I pointed her out to you. For she looked straight in your direction and spoke to the Frenchwoman, nodding towards you.”
“No, it is impossible!” I replied. I recollected how her hand had fallen upon mine, and the musical sound of her words—‘the occasion may come too.’ “There is no trace of the coquette about her. This must be a mistake.”
“It is you who are making it. Add her behaviour now.”, he waved his hand to the window, “to what I have told you! See how the incidents fit together, Yesterday she finds out your room commands the Park, to-day she walks in Marston’s company underneath the window, and backwards and forwards, mark that! never moving out of range. ’Tis all part of one purpose.”
“But what purpose?” I cried passionately. “What purpose could she serve?”
“The devil knows!” he replied, with a shrug of his shoulders. “it is of a woman we are speaking—you forget that.”
I flung open the window noisily, in a desire to attract their attention and observe how the Countess would take our discovery of her interview. But she paid not the slightest heed to the sound. Elmscott made a sudden dash to the door.
“Culverton!” he cried over the baluster.
I tried to check him, for I had no wish that Culverton’s meddlesome fingers should pry into the matter. I was too late, however; he entered the room, and Elmscott drew him to the open window.
“Burn me, but ’tis the oddest thing!” he smirked.
For a minute or so we stood watching the couple in silence. Then the Countess dropped her fan, and as Marston stooped to pick it up she shot one quick glance towards us. Her companion handed her the fan, and they resumed the promenade. But they took no more than half a turn before the Countess signalled to the porters, and getting into the chair, was carried off. Marston waited until she was out of sight, with his hat in his hand, and then cocking it jauntily on his head, marched off in the opposite direction. The satisfaction of his manner made my blood boil with rage.
“The conceited ass!” I cried, stamping my feet.
“She heard the window open after all,” said Elmscott.
As for Culverton, he tittered the more.
“The oddest thing!” he repeated. “The very oddest thing! Strike me purple if I know what to make of the delightful creature!”
“’Tis as plain as my hand,” replied Elmscott roughly. “No sooner did she perceive that you were watching her than she gave Marston his congé. He had done his work, and she had no further use for him. She is a woman—there’s the top and bottom of it. A couple of men to frown at each other and grimace prettily to her! Her vanity demands no less. She is like one of our Indian planters who value their wealth by the number of their slaves; so she her beauty.”
“Nay,” interposed the fop. “If that were the whole business, one would hear less concerning Mr Buckler from her rapturous lips. But rat me if she ever talks about any one else.”
“Do you mean that?” I asked eagerly.
“Oh, most inquisitive, on my honour! In truth, your name is growing plaguy wearisome to me. Why, but the other night, when she selected me to lead her to her carriage at the theatre, ’twas but to question me concerning you, and whether you gambled, and the horse of mine you rode, and what not. And there was I with a thousand tender nothings to whisper in her ear, and pink me if I could get one of ’em out!”
“Then I give the riddle up,” rejoined Elmscott, though I would fain have heard more of this strain from Culverton. “I make neither head nor tail of the business, unless, Morrice, she would bring you on by a little wholesome jealousy.” He looked at me shrewdly, and continued: “You are a timid wooer, I fancy. Why not go to her boldly? Tell her you are going away, and have had enough of her tricks! ’Twould bring your suit to a climax.”
“One way or another,” said I doubtfully.
“If Mr Buckler would take the advice of one who has had some small experience of ladies’ whims,” interposed Culverton, “and some participation in their favours, he would buy some new clothes.”
“These are new,” I said. “I followed your advice before, and bought enough to stock a shop.”
“But of such a desperate colour,” he replied. “Lard, Mr Buckler, you go dressed like a mute at a funeral! The ladies loathe it; stap me, but they loathe it! A scarlet coat, like our friend wears, a full periwig, an embroidered stocking, makes deeper inroads into theft affections than a year’s tedious love-making. The dear creatures’ hearts, Mr Buckler, are in their eyes.”
With that the subject of Countess Lukstein dropped. For Culverton, once started upon his favourite topic, launched forth into a complete philosophy of clothes. The colour of each garment, according to him, had a particular effect upon the sex; the adjustment of each ribbon conveyed a particular meaning. He had, indeed, ingeniously classified the various coats, hats, breeches, vests, periwigs, ruffles, cravats and the other appurtenances of a gentleman’s wardrobe, with the modes of wearing them, as expressions of feeling and emotion. The larger and more dominant emotions were voiced in the clothes, the delicate and subtler shades of feeling in the disposition of ornaments. In short, ’twould be a very profitable philosophy for a race which had neither tongues to speak nor faces and limbs to act their meaning. This incident, as I have said, determined me upon a compromise, for it set my heart aflame with jealousy. I had not taken Marston into my calculations before; now I reflected that if I retired to the North, I should be leaving a free field for him, and that I was obstinately minded I would not do. On the other hand, however, this promenade in front of my windows, whether under taken of set purpose or from sheer carelessness, seemed to show that after all I had no stable footing in Ilga’s esteem, and I feared that if I disclosed to her the deception which I had used towards her, there could be but one result and consequence.
I determined then to forward my suit with what ardour and haste I might, and to unbosom myself of my fault in the very hour that I pleaded my love.
The Countess, however, gave me no heart or occasion for the work. Her manner towards me changed completely of a sudden, and where I had previously met with smiles and kindly words, I got now disdainful looks and biting speeches. She would ridicule my conversation, my person, and my bearing, and that, too, before a room full of people, so that I was filled with the deepest shame; or again, she would shrink from me with all the appearances of aversion. Mademoiselle Durette, it s true, sought to lighten my suffering. “It is ever love’s way to blow hot and cold,” she would whisper in my ear. But I thought that she spoke only out of compassion. For ’twas the cold wind which continually blew on me.
At times, indeed, though very rarely, she would resume her old familiarity, but there was a note of effort in her voice as though she subdued herself to a distasteful practice, and something hysterical in her merriment; and as like as not, she would break off in the middle of a kindly sentence and load me with the extremity of scorn.
Moreover, Marston was perpetually at her side, and in his company she made more than one return to the Park; so that at last, being fallen into a most tormenting despair, I made shift to follow Elmscott’s advice, and called at her lodging one morning to inform her that I intended setting my face homewards that very afternoon.