Jeff felt an inordinate desire to exchange confidences with the girl who
danced so lightly in his arms, but he did not know quite how to go about
it. She evidently did not understand English, a tongue known to a
surprising number of well-bred Muscovites; and she shook her head at his
query. Jeff, of course, spoke no Russian. It was a difficult situation
until he made the happy discovery that the girl spoke French.
Jeff’s own French was extremely bad, but through the medium of that
tongue he was now able to convey a few primitive thoughts. It was even
more difficult to understand her French, and whether because it was
worse than his, which seemed impossible, or better, he could not tell.
Certainly there was a divergence somewhere. When he saw the smile that
lingered about her lips he concluded that his command over the tongue of
courts was even worse than he thought; but since there was no scorn in
her smile—only girlish amusement—it did not hurt his feelings a
particle. Indeed, he would have gladly displayed further
ignorance—really, it was forgetfulness in his case—if by so doing he
could make her smile flower into a laugh.
He talked on bravely, yet he found that he had a thousand thoughts the
French words for which he could not remember. Perhaps it was the music,
perhaps because he was becoming senile, that he had to combat an almost
irresistible desire to tell her all about his boyhood, his mother, his
battle experiences, and his views—everything that was particularly dear
to him. He wanted to find out all about her—a feat which to accomplish
politely would have been difficult enough had she talked his language,
and which was wholly impossible in French. The Regimental band, though
playing heavenly music, were an unsatisfactory outfit. They purposely
cut the dances short.
“And may I see you again soon?” he asked, as soon as he dared. At least
this was what he meant to say; and assisted by her woman’s intuition,
she understood perfectly. He awaited her answer with a ridiculous amount
of ill-concealed suspense.
“It would please me immensely,” she replied.
He gulped and gasped. “When?”
“To-night.”
His face paled; and he wondered if he had misunderstood. Could he be
mistaken in thinking that “_cette nuit_” meant to-night?”
“Eh?” he echoed stupidly. “Did you say to-night?”
“Yes, if you like. You may escort me home in a little while. I am almost
tired with dancing. Say in an hour?”
“Sooner, if you like. It can’t be too soon for me.”
“You are very kind. I will run out—into the garden—at half-past
twelve. You may be ready then.”
He felt an insane desire to hasten this already auspicious acquaintance,
and he blundered on in execrable French. “You know, I believe I have met
you somewhere before. There is something about your face—what I can see
of it—that suggests some one I know.”
“Yes? It is not very flattering—that you should meet me—and then
forget me.”
“But we have met, haven’t we? Believe me, I will never forget you again.
Perhaps I just saw you, on the street. Perhaps you have been South?”
“Not very far South. Have you ever been to Alaska before?”
“No—”
“Then it doesn’t seem very likely, does it. Now the music has stopped. I
must ask Baron Karl’s forgiveness. You Americans—are so masterful!”
Was she laughing at him? By Jove, the Americans _were_ masterful. He’d
like to see any other people who excelled them in this quality! In
thinking about this he forgot, for the moment, that he had mentally
renounced America for England, and was planning soon to disavow his
American citizenship.
“I wish you would not—beg any one’s forgiveness,” he told her
earnestly. “You have the right to dance with whom you please. He may own
the place, but you do not have to coddle him. I will be back soon for
another waltz.”
He did come back, as soon as he dared, but he was not successful in
getting another dance. There was too much foreign competition. Shortly
after twelve he lost track of her altogether.
He immediately slipped from the ballroom in search of the gardens. The
time set for the assignation was not yet at hand; but he did not care to
risk keeping her waiting and perhaps missing her altogether. He walked
around the great structure of the castle, and in a moment found himself
in the glory of the gardens.
The beauty of this late August night still endured; and now Jeff was in
a mood to appreciate it. The moon was hung in the topmost arch of the
sky, and its light cast a strange and unearthly spell over the man and
the place. Shadows were dark and mysterious; the low shrubs were weird,
black shapes, the sight of the sleeping flowers quickened into life a
dear and true philosophy that blessed him for a moment and then passed
into darkness.
Southeastern Alaska was always blessed by a glory of flowers. Having
only a few short weeks of abundant sunlight, they seem to pour out their
hearts in their one brief season; and the air was simply laden with
their fragrance. Jeff was a tender-hearted youth, susceptible to the
fragile loveliness of blossoms; and seeing them, he did not at first
remember why he was here. It did not occur to him that there might be
cause for haste. As he was somewhat ahead of time, he supposed that the
girl was somewhere in the mansion and that he had the gardens to
himself.
Such was not the case. Presently he heard her call in the farther
shadows.
It was an odd and somewhat disconcerting sound, faintly heard above the
music from the open windows and coming so unexpectedly in his moment of
deep peace. It was not a loud sound; yet he was not at all inclined to
disregard it. In his fancy it had an anguished, repressed quality, as if
it either had been an involuntary utterance of one who was trying to
conceal a great trouble, or else it had slipped out between a man’s
strong fingers.
Jeff did the only possible thing that his training permitted. He ran to
investigate the sound. This was a new land to him; the game was new,
too, and he had no idea how the cards lay. And presently, in a little
open place between the shrubs, he came upon a curious scene.
It was revealed but dimly in the moonlight; yet its significance was not
lost on him. There were but two actors: the girl in the Turkish costume
whom he had come to meet, and a tall man in evening clothes. As the
latter turned, resenting Jeff’s intrusion, the moon showed his face but
vaguely; but because it was all ghostly and white except for one dark
mark on his cheek, the Southerner recognized him at once. At present his
arm encircled the girl, pinning her arms to her sides, and she did not
seem to be struggling. This latter point might have had a world of
meaning for Jeff, had he not known surely that the steel-wire strength
of that arm made struggle impossible. With his free hand he was just
reaching to remove her mask.
Jeff was not a fool to rush in and disturb another man’s recreation. He
knew that rough sport of this kind had been indulged in in moonlit
gardens many times before, to the amusement of every one present. Kisses
have been stolen for some years without serious public harm. Jeff had
many instincts of a knight, but his name was not Don Quixote, and he had
no idea of making himself a nuisance. In this case, however, his course
was clear. The girl had cried out in real distress; Jeff had not
mistaken the need behind the repressed call that had reached him across
the gardens. Her strained posture now, the very contour of her form in
the dim light, showed how hateful this moment was to her.
The Russian could not help but see Jeff’s approach, and he straightway
favored him with the supreme insult of seeming indifference. It was not
until the Southerner spoke that he deigned him a glance.
“It’s not done,” Jeff told him, rather casually. He knew the code, this
boy from the South.
“Yes?” The Russian grinned at him in unmistakable contempt. “Oh—it is
the young American who favors us—one of the brave and the free. Their
freedom marks them in any company.”
His accent was distinctly foreign, but Jeff did not misunderstand.
Meanwhile, Baron Karl made no motion to release the girl.
Because he was a boy and proud, because he wished to play this game in a
way that became him, Jeff took time to light a cigarette. It can be said
for him that his hand shook hardly at all, and that he touched the match
flare to the end of the cigarette the first time he tried. “If no one
objects—” he observed, with a palpable coolness.
“Baron Karl, the young lady doesn’t seem to appreciate you,” he went on.
“It isn’t the fashion, in America, to entertain young ladies against
their will. Will you let her go freely, or must I”—and Jeff made a
little gesture—“choke you until you do.”
In his amazement at these words Baron Karl’s vigilance relaxed for a
single second, and the girl took the opportunity to slip out of his
arms. It was at this point that Jeff realized the affair was somehow
getting beyond him. It had aspects now that he did not fully understand.
Heretofore it had seemed a mere detached adventure into which he had
stumbled: a half-drunken libertine making himself obnoxious to a lady.
Now the episode seemed to be weaving itself into the fabric of his own
life. The surprising thing that wakened these realizations was that
instead of running away, the girl remained on the scene. She was free
now of Karl’s arms, but she did not flee into the Castle. Instead, she
took a place slightly to one side of and between the two men, and stood
as if waiting.
For what she was waiting Jeff could not guess. He only knew that she
kept her eyes firmly fixed not on her rescuer, but on the Russian. So
intently she watched that even through the slits of her mask, Jeff saw
her eyes glitter.
She seemed to him to be standing on guard.
“I can’t tell you what a satisfaction it would be to have you attempt to
lay your hands on me,” the Russian told him. “I think you have made
yourself as objectionable as even an American would care to, for one
night, Sharp. You have interfered in a matter of which you know nothing.
This is not United States—this is Russian-America. You were not called
upon to defend a lady. I know every one who was invited by the Governor,
and this girl was not on the list. She is probably a half-breed from the
village. You should learn to respect the customs of the land you visit;
for instance, when one gentleman is trying to amuse himself with a girl
of this class, another does not interfere with him.”
“No matter what he does, I suppose. Well, thank Heaven the customs of
the United States of America are not those of Russian-America.” His
voice did not hold so steady now; it had lost the cold and careless
quality that still marked the Russian’s. He was a younger man, not so
tried; and the Russian leered as he sensed his growing advantage.
“I ask you to retract what you said about her, too,” Jeff went on as
steadily as he could. “While it does not affect the fact that I would
save her, if I could, from your insults—just the same, imputations of
mixed blood do not go in my country. The girl is not a native—”
“No.” The girl spoke clearly in the English tongue. “I am an American.”
She lifted her mask. Dim though the light was, Jeff knew her instantly.
She was Molly Forest, his companion on the _Ethan Allen_.