German. But I find those examinations rather stupid. It gives too many
opportunities to the wrong class of young men, while those more
naturally gifted for such a career are thinking only of amusing
themselves. And after all, an under secretary can acquire one language
after another in the capitals where he is attached long before he has
any but a purely personal need of them. By the time he is a first
secretary he will know at least four languages, no matter how limited
his linguistic talents.”
“How wonderful of you to have thought about a career so far removed from
your own.”
“Is it? In your case, however, I have had the benefit more than once of
Princess Nachmeister’s disquisitions. She has made up her mind to live
to see you an ambassador; and she is quite capable of living till
ninety.”
“I could hardly be an ambassador at forty-four, unless I had had
uncommon opportunities.” But his eyes kindled and he smiled. He was
easily diverted, and even though his ambition might not grow fast enough
to conquer his indolence and love of pleasure before it was too late,
his natural sense of dignity, and a pride both personal and racial,
reminded him, now and again, that it was his duty to take the place
among men to which his talents and his opportunities entitled him.
“Well—you might come back as Minister Resident to Bavaria, and cheer
your good old friend’s last days.”
“Oh!” He had turned pale again. “I may never embark upon the diplomatic
career, Countess. It—I—it is too expensive, I am afraid. It is only in
the last year that I have learned the disagreeable lesson that money is
not to be had for the wishing. When I chose the diplomatic career,—not,
I fear, with any idea of serving my country, but as the most congenial I
could think of,—I had a vague idea that money in unlimited quantities
was my birthright, that it would flow in, every quarter, with the
changing seasons. Intellectually, I accept the fact that I am a younger
son and likely to remain one for another quarter of a century; but
personally, this knowledge seems to make no impression on me whatever. I
keep on spending more than my income, even here in Munich where I am a
guest. How can I expect properly to maintain the position of a regular
member of the staff with increasing social obligations? There is no pay
at all for two years; for many it is insignificant. I scorn to be a mere
hanger-on, professional diner-out. It is my disposition to entertain, to
give as good as I get.”
“Young men, particularly young officials, are in such demand—that need
hardly worry you. And then you can marry. High Heaven has preordained
that young Englishmen of great expectations and immediate debts shall
capture ambitious fortunes. Your family influence must be immense. Cause
yourself to be appointed to your legation in Washington—that Mecca of
the worthy and impecunious young attaché. You will have married a rich,
pretty, and charming girl before your first year is out. I am beginning
to feel that I have the seeds of the match-maker in the débris of my
feminine soul. I fancy that half the American wives in Europe were
caught in their own diplomatic pond.”
“I may never marry. I have little inclination for matrimony.” But he
spoke sadly, for the alluring vision of Mabel Cutting and her millions
had risen with the advice of the Styr. “Besides—well—”
Countess Tann rose and closed the window, drawing the curtains. The room
looked even more friendly, more shut in from the world, than before. He
had risen to assist her, and as she resumed her seat, he stood looking
down at her. He had never liked any one so much, never felt so oddly at
home, since the death of his father. Her atmosphere of mystery had
vanished in this room where she lived her intimate woman’s life. She was
not seductive nor too fascinating, but friendly, intelligent,
_gemütlich_. A wave of boyish despair swept over him. He would have
liked to put his head in her lap and pour out his troubles and receive
her comfort and advice. Although he looked as impassive as the Sphinx,
she knew that the time had come to speak.
“You are in trouble,” she said softly. “I knew it the moment you came
in, and it has been rising to the surface at intervals ever since. I can
only divert you for a few moments at a time. You are not in the least
what you were at Neuschwanstein, and you have a great reputation in
Munich for high spirits. New friends often make the best confidants.
Something tells me that I can help you. Do let me if I can. I have given
you more of my confidence than I have ever given to any one. It is your
turn. And there is a bond—you must feel it as well as I. Indeed—I am
almost superstitious about it, so—let me help you.”
He sat down under this assault, but instead of sinking into the deepest
embrace of the easy chair, after his habit whenever he captured that
triumph of modern furnishing, he leaned forward, staring at her as if
magnetized, and feeling something of the gratitude he so often politely
expressed.
“You are very good! Why do you take so much interest—you, of all women?
You do not dwell on the same plane with poor tormented human beings.”
“But I did once! Bear that in mind, and tell me what troubles you.”
“I am afraid I cannot.”
“You mean that it involves a woman and that I will put two and two
together and discover who she is?”
“Something like that.”
“You forget that I am not of your world. I enter it on rare occasions,
as a sort of lay figure. None of its gossip comes to me. I have a few
acquaintances, but they know better than to regale me with the scandal
of the town. To me Munich is a mere audience.”
“Princess Nachmeister seems to have talked to you a good deal about me.”
“But only because of her genuine interest. She has never gossiped about
you.”
“I don’t think there has been any gossip—no, I suppose you never could
guess. I have been foolish and I am afraid I shall have to pay heavily.”
“Don’t believe all that unscrupulous girls—”
“Oh! oh! It is not as bad as that. Perhaps, though, it is worse, if only
because more intangible. It is a sort of pressure—an accumulation—a
woman fancies herself in love with me—of course she isn’t,
but—well—she thinks that she is willing to sacrifice everything. She
has great strength of feeling, and I am haunted by the fear that she
will carry me away on that current whether I will or not. I do not love
her in the least, but there are obligations—”
“Were you very much in love with her? You do not look as if you had
passed through the throes of the grande passion.”
“I was fascinated.”
“But she did the love-making? If it is what I imagine—a casual episode
with some light-headed blasée society woman who is fascinated with your
youth—I fail to see that you have incurred a permanent obligation.”
He gave her a sharp look, but forgot that he was in the hands of a woman
whom many rated as the greatest actress of her time. Her expression was
speculative, disapproving; there was no canny gleam in her eyes, no
undue eagerness in her manner. It was patent that she was theorizing out
of her wide knowledge of the world and human nature.
“She is not old—at least in looks,—and I don’t think she is blasée,”
he replied, driven to defend his taste. “She is extraordinarily full of
life, of interest in everything; but she is high-strung and takes things
too tragically. It is my misfortune that she fancies just now that I
have inspired the serious passion of her life. No doubt she will soon
get over it. But meanwhile!”
“Why don’t you flee to England?”
“I won’t run. Besides, she would follow. And—well, there _is_ an
obligation. I could have stopped it in the beginning—as I did later,
when I had only the excuse of being bored. But I did not. That I did not
take the matter seriously at any time does not alter the fact that she
did—does. And that seems to give her a hold I cannot shake off.”
“Ah! She appeals to your chivalry, your sympathy, pity! She is a clever
woman at all events. She has played upon—Oh, I have no patience with
such women. They ruin more lives than the labelled women of the streets,
for they make the insidious approach. She wants to marry you, of
course.”
“I fancy she has some such idea, but her husband lives.”
“Then she wants to run away with you first.”
Ordham stood up again. The more or less vague apprehensions that had
haunted him for several hours took form and substance.
“Yes,” he said; “I am afraid that is it.”
“Good God!” Styr stood up, her face expressing a horror that lashed his
own brain. “That means ruin, no career—being a social outcast—for
several valuable years, at all events. No opportunity to marry a decent
girl of fortune. Nothing! And you—all the delightful freshness of your
young good looks faded, your enjoyment of life dulled, embittered,—your
splendid pride broken. Oh, you cannot, you do not contemplate such a
step!”
“No, I don’t,” he said intensely, although he did not raise his voice to
the tragic pitch of hers. “But she does. That is the whole point. Her
husband may accuse her at any moment. I think that is what she wants.
Then she will confess. He will cast her out. I must go with her.
Whatever she may be, there will be no altering the fact that she will
have courted ruin for my sake, and I cannot desert her. I have been a
fool. I must pay the price. How could I act otherwise?”
He looked so obstinate that Margarethe could have shaken him, but she
was aghast. It was far worse than she had supposed. She was the more
determined to save him—but how? She longed to be alone, to set her wits
to work.
“Suppose you were to be convinced that she had had many other
lovers—which, no doubt, is the case?”
“What difference would that make?”
“Well, none, I suppose, with a psychological young modern like yourself!
But you are too good to throw away. This must not happen. Cannot you
keep her quiet by renewed devotion and let her down by degrees?”
“I am afraid I haven’t the self-command. I almost hate her—except when
she appeals to my sympathies, and then I almost love her.”
“If you were ten years older you would manage it all so well! But, to be
sure, if you were ten years older you would not be in this predicament,
for more reasons than one. I suppose that you have never in your life
done anything you did not want to do, nor failed to gratify every
desire?”
“When possible,” he said ingenuously. “But I have to do many things I
don’t like.”
“I fancy you would have some difficulty in enumerating them. You radiate
an atmosphere of self-indulgence, and the caresses of fortune. But this!
I must, I will save you! I have learned in a hard school to succeed in
whatever I undertake, and I shall not fail here—”
“You will not try to find out who she is?” He did not speak excitedly,
but in a very low and quiet tone.
“I do not care in the least who she is. And how could I find out?
No—but you are too good—It seemed to me when I sent Lutz to you that I
pledged myself to your future.”
She came up to him swiftly and took both his hands. He stared at her,
fascinated, for she looked stronger than any one he had ever seen.
Involuntarily he leaned forward a little, as if to rest on that great
strength; and that moment witnessed the forging of the real bond between
them. “Give me your word,” she said, “that you will take no step until I
have had time to think.”
“Of course.” And then he felt that his usual ready formula was unworthy
of this woman. “I don’t know,” he faltered; “events might be too
strong.”
“Oh, I know the pressure of events! But you are not fifteen, and you are
very clever. You can temporize for a week or two. Give her a chance to
cool down and think better of it.”
“I have put her off so often. She no longer believes one of my excuses.”
He spoke with some humour.
“Oh, pretend that you love her, but beg her to wait till you have passed
your examinations.”
“What does she care for my examinations? And if she means to marry me,
she knows well enough that I cannot enter diplomacy blackened by a
scandal.”
“Well, find some other excuse—tell her that you are on the verge of
cajoling a larger income out of your brother—and meanwhile you really
must pretend that you love her more than ever—”
“I cannot!” There was such tragic disgust in his tones that Margarethe
had never liked him half as well.
“I am afraid that you really hate her.”
“I wish she were dead and buried!”
“And yet you are thinking of spending your ruined life with her! Oh, the
folly of youth! But one might as well talk to the winds. What would
become of the world if women had such extravagant notions of honour?”
Ordham, being a man, laughed at this. But he replied, “I should think
that you—of all women—had a very keen sense of honour.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t strain the point. And I have lived long enough to
leaven ideals with common sense. Well—at least promise me this—that
for one week—seven whole days, mind you—you will not take a step that
would ruin your life. It is not so much to ask.”
“Yes—I think I can promise you that. I have a sore throat and no doubt
can develop a case of bronchitis and go to bed for a few days. Strangers
always get bronchitis during their first year in Munich.”
“Good!”
“But I don’t see what you can do.”
“Nor I; but I shall disown myself for the rest of my life if I don’t
think of something. Only I must have time.”
He dropped her hands and moved away uneasily. She might be honourable
according to her standards, but he remembered that she could look like a
fate—and was supreme in the first act of _Tristan_! He doubted if,
given an impulse strong enough to rouse her, she would stick at
anything. But, he reflected, she was not in love with him. The vainest
of men could admit no delusion on that point; Ordham had no more than
his share of vanity, and had been given opportunities to decipher the
danger signals he dreaded. Therefore would she do nothing rash; and he
had some curiosity, although little hope, as to what she might suggest
when he emerged from the refuge of his chamber.
“You are too kind,” he said. “Of course I shall be only too ready to
listen if you can show me a way out. May I come again soon? Ah! if I
were swept away on that current, I suppose I never should see this room
again.”
“I do not fancy you would care to show yourself again in Munich for
several years, at least. Come meanwhile as often as you can—except on
the night before I sing, or on the day of a performance. I practise my
vocal gymnastics before you are awake in the morning!”
XIV
THE SAVING GRACE
It was not until the gate was locked behind him that Ordham remembered
that in his preoccupation he had forgotten to tell his _kutscher_ to
return for him. If any more harrowing climax could have been devised by
a vicious fate to crown the unhappiest day of his life than a midnight
walk from Schwabing to Barerstrasse—some three miles—his imagination
was unable to suggest it. He detested walking at any time, and to-night
his throat really was irritated, his head ached a little. Schwabing
showed not a point of light; it might have been the Alpine village it so
picturesquely resembled. There was a long highway between fields to
traverse before reaching the Ludwigstrasse, and even there he might not
pick up a cab. The stately shell of Munich and most of her contents were
practically dead at ten o’clock.
A sharp wind was blowing from the Alps across the high plateau. Ordham
pulled up the collar of his light overcoat and walked more briskly than
was his habit. Illness might be convenient as an excuse, but as a fact
was little to his taste; although he realized that it was not the worst
evil that could befall him at present.
For perhaps the first time in his life something deeper than his temper
was agitated. He could always stamp about in a fine rage when annoyed,
but he had had little occasion to rail at a perverse fate. Now he found
himself face to face with a distinct crisis in his life—the probability
of disaster just beyond. He had heard Frau von Wass talk wildly before,
but other women talked wildly and nothing came of it. They seemed rather
to enjoy their little dramas than otherwise. He regarded them all as
interesting books—or plays—which he was graciously permitted to read
at first hand. But his own attitude had always been nearly impersonal.
When he had closed the book clept “Frau von Wass,” he had, in the
insolence and inexperience of his youth, taken for granted that it would
accumulate dust in limbo with all of its kind. He had been as much
astonished as annoyed at the turn affairs had taken, but not
apprehensive until to-day. That Hélène Wass was in desperate earnest he
could no longer flatter himself by doubting. He reviewed his own share
in the incident; and while he was amazed that such a price should be
levied for what had been little more than politeness on his part, still
was he far too intelligent not to remind himself that men had paid as
high for less, and too just not to admit that it had been in his power
to nip the woman’s passion in the bud.
Although he was puzzled as well as frightened at this encounter with the
grim visage of life, whose gloomy unsympathetic eyes presaged defeat, he
was sullenly angry with himself. If he had loved the woman or even been
possessed, no matter how briefly, by one of those overwhelming passions
of which he was always reading and hearing, he felt that he would have
accepted the consequences without flinching. But as it was, he felt like
a foolish mariner who had gone to sea without a compass and found
himself justly on the rocks. Unless the unexpected happened, it looked
as if he would be swept out of Munich with the rest of the Frau
Geheimrath’s wreckage and landed high and dry in Italy.
Suddenly another ugly phase of this crisis in his life leapt to his
mind, and he passed through the arch of the Siegesthor with such a
stride that the British Minister, returning from a late card party, did
not recognize him and went on without offering the hospitality of his
coupé.
Normally there was a faint hope that Bridgminster would once more pay
his debts, those distressing tradesmen’s bills of which he was reminded
daily. His tailor’s was but one, and the aggregate must be close upon a
thousand pounds. But if he openly committed the sin with which his
austere brother had the least sympathy, he would be driven into the
bankruptcy court. That would be a disgrace which would blast his
self-respect to the roots, even did England, never lenient to this
offence, forget it in time. There is a secret tendency in most human
hearts to forgive a lover his worst transgressions, but no sympathy
whatever for the financial muddler. And such a thing was unheard of in
his family, whatever its lapses in other directions. It was bred in his
very marrow to shrink with fastidious disgust from any form of monetary
publicity. To owe money to tradespeople did not worry him in the least
so long as they were sensible and patient, but there was ineffable
disgrace in being blazoned to the world as a man hopelessly in debt.
It was at this agonizing point in his reflections that his attention was
attracted by the peculiar antics of a dog emerging from the
Schellingstrasse. It had dropped something and was howling, grovelling
in evident appeal at the feet of a woman who soundly berated it. The
woman stamped her huge foot and pointed to the object the dog had
dropped. Howling and yelping an almost human protest, the dog picked up
the object and ran past Ordham into the Ludwigstrasse, then discarded
his burden once more, sat down on his haunches, and lifted up his voice
in a series of cries that sounded like an appeal to the winking stars.
Ordham, his curiosity excited, went forward, and bending down, examined
the object of the dog’s aversion. It was a block of ice. The poor beast
was howling with a toothache. Ordham looked at the woman as much in
amazement as in anger. She could have carried the ice in her skirt; it
was inconceivable to him that any one could maltreat a dog. But as he
opened his mouth to relieve his indignation, he realized that any
attempt to penetrate the thick Bavarian skull with his inadequate German
would be a mere waste of time. He picked up the piece of ice and dropped
it into the pocket of his overcoat.
“If you will lead the way,” he said, “I will carry it for you.”
The astonished housewife stared in amazement, ejaculated “Ach Gott!”
then, with a laugh of deep good-natured contempt, led off with a swing
that exhibited the tops of her man’s boots, the red blanket petticoat
above them, and the full flounces of her pantalets. She was almost as
broad as long, her waist line being in no place distinguishable from the
solid expanses above and below. Her skirts were short; she wore a shawl
crossed over her upper amplitudes and pinned behind. A small Tyrolean
hat sat jauntily above a walnut of plastered hair. She was a street
sweeper, inured to every sort of hardship, and not likely to sympathize
with a dog’s aching teeth. But no doubt she fed him as well as she could
afford.
The strange procession made its way up the stately Ludwigstrasse,
deserted but for the sentries before a palace. Once or twice Ordham,
contemplating his guide, who swung like a vast pendulum, laughed
silently. The grateful dog flew up and down, or frisked about his heels
in an ecstasy of relief. At the Odeonsplatz were two belated cabs.
Ordham handed into one the woman, the dog, and the ice, paid the driver,
and sank into the other with a sigh of gratitude, not only for the more
familiar mode of locomotion, but for the temporary diversion afforded by
a dog with a toothache! For a few moments he had forgotten his bills and
Frau von Wass. When he reached the Legation his throat was very sore,
and fortune so far favoured him that on the following day he really was
laid up with bronchitis. His servant took a verbal message to the Frau
Geheimrath, which, after sharp questioning, she was forced to accept.
XV
POTTERS CONFER
On this same morning there was a brief but pithy interview between Styr
and Excellenz in the very centre of the Nachmeister gardens.
“So! so!” exclaimed the old woman; her grey eyes glittered like ice, the
corners of her mouth were down, of her nose up. “It comes to this! Poor
Fritz! We can save the young man if we are quick enough, but what of my
poor old friend? . . . Ach, yes! You are not interested. He is old.
You—yourself—look full of insolent youth this morning. I have never
seen you in this mood. Cultivate it. You look twenty-eight. Myself, were
I your age, should prefer to look more like a woman than a goddess.
Also! Fritz must suffer in any case, so all we can do is to save the
young man and spare the old one a lesion. Fritz is the vainest man in
Germany or he would have found her out long since. He remains in Berlin
ten days. You think she intends to make Mr. Ordham elope with her before
his return. I wonder! Gott! I fancy it would take more than ten days to
work our young friend up to that heroic pitch. More likely she has
planned a coup of some sort. Otherwise—I doubt. He will politely
promise to meet her at the train. At the last moment he will send a
message—but in haste! ‘I am so sorry! I can’t go to-day. I have a
cold.’ I know all the ingenious devices of that charming youth, and so,
I doubt not, does Frau Hélène. He has not eaten of the big black cake of
life yet, merely nibbled at its edges.”
“He is likely to choke on a slice unless we are quick enough.”
“True. Also! I repeat, she must know all his little ways by this time,
have discovered that he is by no means as ingenuous as he looks, nor as
easy to manage. She moves and lives in a network, a very maze, of
intrigue. Only the devious ways appeal to her. You may be sure she has
some plot on foot which the sudden departure of Fritz disarranged. That
would account for her excitement that same afternoon. I have watched
this little drama from the first, but she seems to have been playing a
deeper game than I fancied—and different! I have watched many of her
little dramas in the last twenty years. Of late it would seem that she
had been lulling the suspicions of our young friend while she laid her
wires. But what and where are those wires? There is only one way to find
out and that is through her maid.”
“I thought of that, of course; but none of my servants know any of the
Wass household.”