"Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile?"
_My Last Duchess._
"Our dance, I believe. Miss Allonby."
Wynifred, quietly seated by her partner, raised her eyes deliberately.
"You, Mr. Cranmer? I thought you had gone some time ago."
"Indeed? Am I in the habit of breaking my word?" asked Claud, stiffly.
"Oh," said the girl, as she rose and took his arm, "to cut a dance is
not considered breaking one's word in _le monde ou l'on s'ennuie_,
especially when to keep it would be to make the horses stand in the
cold!"
"The horses are not standing now, so be easy on that score. I have not
carried my heroism to that extent. Now, what made you say you thought I
had gone?"
"Lady Mabel has been gone some time."
"Does that entail my going too? Had she not a gentleman in attendance?
Are there no hansom cabs in London? Do you think I am tied to Mab's
apron-strings?"
"I have usually met you together."
Claud made no answer. He was slightly piqued.
How could he know that for these few minutes the girl on his arm had
hungered and longed all the evening, that all other interests had seemed
to be merged in the one question--Would he stay, or would he not? How
could he know that for the moment she was tasting a happiness as brief
and delusive, though more controlled, than poor Osmond's?
Like most men, he only saw what she chose to show him--a disengaged
manner, a sharp tongue, and her customary indifference.
It exasperated him. What! When the sight of her had moved him so
unusually, was she to treat him as any one of the crowd! What a fool he
was, to waste a thought upon her! He was in a frame of mind approaching
the vindictive. He would have liked to make her suffer; as she, poor
child, was feeling every moment as if the strain were becoming too
severe--as though her store of self-command were ebbing, and she must
betray herself.
They began to dance.
It has been truly said that our very waltzes are melancholy, now-a-days.
This was a conspicuously sad one. It seemed to steal into Wynifred's
very soul. It was as though the burden of useless longing must weigh
down her light feet and clog her easy motion. She could not speak, and
for some minutes they waltzed in silence. At last--
"I have not forgiven you for thinking I should fail to keep my
appointment," said he.
"You seem very much exercised on the subject," she laughed back. "I am
sorry it entailed so much effort and self-denial."
"You wilfully misinterpret, as Darcy said to Elizabeth Bennett."
"You are not much like Darcy."
"Now why?" said Claud, nettled for some unaccountable reason, "why am I
not like Darcy? Your reasons, if you please."
"Don't ask me to make personal remarks."
"I insist upon it! I will not have my character darkly aspersed."
"Well, you have brought it upon yourself. The difference is that,
whereas Mr. Darcy seemed excessively haughty and unapproachable on first
acquaintance, yet was, in his real self, most humble, unassuming, and
ready to acknowledge himself in error; Mr. Cranmer, on the contrary,
seems easy, debonair, and ready to fraternise with everyone; but on
closer knowledge he is found to be exceedingly proud, exclusive,
and--and--all that a peer's son should be. There! what do you not owe me
for that delicate piece of flattery?"
"What do I owe you? A deep and dire revenge, which I will take forthwith
by drawing, not a contrast, but a likeness between you and Elizabeth
Bennett. She was deeply attracted by the shallow, insincere, and
fraudulent Wickham. She began by grossly underrating poor Darcy, and
imputing to him the vilest of motives; she ended by overrating him as
unjustly. In other words, her estimate of character was invariably
incorrect. In this respect there is a striking resemblance between you."
"I can almost forgive you your unexampled rudeness, on account of your
knowing your 'Pride and Prejudice' so well," cried Wyn, in delight.
"But, alas! what is a poor novelist to say in answer to such a crushing
charge! I must retire from business at once, if I am no judge of
character."
"Oh, you are young, there is hope for you yet if you will but take
advice."
"Willingly! But it must be from one competent to advise!"
"And who is to settle that?"
"I, myself, of course!"
"You have great confidence," said Claud, "in that judgment which, as I
have just told you, is incurably faulty."
"Pause a moment! One step further, and we shall have rushed headlong
into a discussion on the right of private judgment, and, once begun, who
knows where it would end?"
"We have a way of trending on problematical subjects, have we not?" said
Claud, with a gay laugh.
He wondered at himself--his good humor was quite restored. Just a few
minutes' unimportant chat with Wynifred, and he was charmed into his
very best mood. She annoyed and fascinated at the same moment, she acted
like a tonic, always stimulating, never cloying. What she might say next
was never certain, and the uncertainty kept him always on the _qui
vive_. He could imagine no pleasure more subtle.
He began to understand his danger more completely than heretofore.
To-night he realised that a continued acquaintance with Miss Allonby
could have but one end. Was there yet time to save himself? Would he do
so if he could?
The glamor which her presence shed over his spirit showed itself by
outward and visible signs, in the genial light of the grey eyes, the
smiling curve of the mouth, in the whole expression of the pleasant
face. In her society he was at his best, and he felt it. Everything was
more enjoyable, life more vivid when she was there, she was the mental
stimulus he needed.
Yielding to this happy mood, which each shared alike, they sank into
seats when the music ceased, scarcely noting that the dance was over.
Suddenly, in the midst of his light talk, Claud broke off short,
ejaculating in surprise,
"By George, there's the tragedy queen!"
Wyn, looking up, saw Mrs. Orton in the centre of the polished floor,
gracefully bidding "good night" to her hostess.
"I wonder--oh, I _wonder_ if she came across Percivale," said Claud,
eyeing her intently. "I would give my best hat to see them meet! How she
does hate him! I never saw a woman in a rage in my life really, until I
saw Mrs. Frederick Orton at the inquest."
"Ah, you were there! I wish," said Wyn, "that you would tell me all
about it. I have heard so few details. All that I have heard was from
Mr. Fowler. He is very kind, but not a clever writer of letters. I think
he is unaccustomed to it."
"Very probably. So he writes to you! I think," he looked keenly at her,
"I never saw a more thoroughly first-rate fellow."
"I go every length with you, as Jac would say. He is good. I think I
rejoiced over Elsa's innocence as much for his sake as for anything."
"Yes. He was splendid at the inquest. He and Percivale are a pair for
never losing their tempers under any provocation. That woman
contradicted him, insulted him, abused him, but he never let her get the
better of him for a moment. What a curious thing human nature is! She
had so nursed some sort of grudge against Miss Brabourne that it has
grown into a blazing hatred, which is the ruling passion of her life. I
honestly believe that to have proved the girl guilty of murder would
have afforded her the keenest satisfaction. She was furious at being
baulked of her revenge."
"Oh! Such a thing is inhuman--incredible! If I put such a character into
one of my books, people would call it unpardonably overdrawn," said Wyn,
in horror.
"I daresay; but it is true. Remember she was in a desperate frame of
mind altogether. They were literally without money, and they came down
there to find that the boy, from whom came their sole chance of funds,
was dead. It seemed only fair that somebody should be made to suffer for
Mrs. Orton's exceeding discomfort. That was all. But I believe she would
do Percivale a bad turn, if she could."
"Who _is_ Mr. Percivale?" asked Wyn.
"That's just what nobody quite knows," said Claud, with a puzzled laugh.
"All I know about him is that he is a gentleman in the word's truest
sense. He is very reserved; never speaks of himself, and one can't
exactly ask a man straight out who his father was. He is a good deal
talked about in society, as you may guess, and the society journals
manufacture a fresh lie about him, on an average, once a month. He
evidently dislikes publicity, for he never races that beautiful yacht of
his, or gives large donations to public institutions, or opens bazaars,
or lays foundation-stones, or in any other way attracts attention to
himself. That made it all the more generous of him to espouse Miss
Brabourne's cause so frankly. He knew what it would bring upon him. You
can't think how much he had to suffer from the idiots sent down to
interview him, the letters imploring him for his photograph, the
journalists trying to bribe his crew to tell what their captain
withheld. He could not prevent surreptitious newspaper artists from
making sketches of the _Swan_ as she lay at anchor; but his full anger
blazed up when the _Pen and Pencil_ produced a page of heads--you saw
it, of course--including portraits of him, Fowler, myself, the idiot
Saul, poor Godfrey, and Miss Brabourne. Where they got them from is to
this day a mystery. We suppose most of them must have been done at the
inquest. Ah! that was an exciting day. I can feel the enthusiasm of it
now. It was splendid to see that fine fellow held up in the arms of the
fisher-lads, with the sunshine blazing on him, and the bells clashing
out from the tower!--the sort of thing one sees only once in a lifetime.
It sounded like a bit of an old romance. I often tell Percivale he is an
anachronism."
"He has a wonderful face; but it does strike one as strange that he
should be so mysterious," said Wynifred. "Has he no family--no
relations--no home?"
"He has no near relations living--he told me that himself," answered
Claud. "He also told me that his mother died when he was born, and his
father two months before. He was brought up in a castle in Bavaria by an
English clergyman who had known his parents. This man was a recluse, and
a great scholar. He died some years ago. Percivale has had as little of
ladies' society as if he had been a monk. Now you know exactly as much
as I do of his antecedents, Miss Allonby."
"I am afraid I seem very inquisitive; but to a writer of fiction there
is a certain attraction about such an unusual history."
"And such an unusual personality. He is unlike anyone else I ever knew.
I wonder," said Claud, feeling in his pockets, "if I have a note from
him that I could show you. Yes. Here, read that. It is not like most
people's notes."
Wynifred unfolded the stiff sheet of paper, and read. The hand was
rather small and very peculiar. It seemed as though the writer were
accustomed to write Greek. It was particularly clear.
"DEAR CRANMER,
"Please help me. The German Opera Company is in London, and Miss
Brabourne has often expressed a wish to hear some Wagner. If I take
a box, could you bring your sister, Lady Mabel Wynch-Frere, and
Miss Brabourne to fill it? If you think they would care to come,
let me know what night they are free. It is the "Meistersinger" on
Tuesday, and "Lohengrin" on Thursday. I wish you would answer this
personally, rather than in writing. Dinner this evening at 7.30, if
you care for the theatre afterwards. It is a week since we met.
"Affectionately yours,
"LEON PERCIVALE.
"7, St James' Place, Thursday."
"Is there not something unique about that?" asked Claud, as she gave it
back. "He always signs himself mine affectionately, in the most natural
way possible. I am glad of it; I have a very sincere affection for him."
"I like his note very much," said Wyn, with a smile. "Thank you for
letting me see it. You and he are great friends."
"I was with him seven or eight weeks on the _Swan_. He insisted on
leaving England the moment he found that he had become a public
character."
"Is he English? His note reads like it."
"I believe his father was English and his mother German; so I presume it
was through her that he inherited his beautiful _Schloss_."
"Have you seen it?"
"Yes, I spent a week there. It is among the most northern spurs of the
Tyrolese Alps. When there, you cease to wonder that Percivale is so
unlike other people. It is like going back into a past age. The
peasantry are Arcadian to a degree, the spot remote beyond the
imagination of English people. The nearest railway station leaves you a
day's journey from Schwannberg. Do you know Defregger's Tyrolese
pictures? All the people are just like that. Over the door of every room
in the castle is carved the swan, which is the family crest."
"But his father was English, I think you said?"
"Why--yes--I never thought of that. The arms must belong to the other
side of the family, I suppose," said Claud, thoughtfully. "That is
rather odd, certainly."
He turned with a start. Osmond Allonby was standing before them.
"Wyn, I'm sorry to interrupt you but we must really be going. We are
almost the last."
The girl rose at once, and held out her hand to Claud.
"Good-night, Mr. Cranmer. I wish I had time to hear more about the
inquest. I had been longing for news, and it is kind of you to have told
me so much."
He rose too, and took the offered hand.
"Must you go?" he said, scarcely knowing that he said it.
In another moment she had released her hand and was walking calmly away.
Not a word had she said about hoping to see him again. He was conscious
of an intense wish that she should not go; he was not strong enough, he
found, to let her depart thus. He made a step forward.
"Miss Allonby."
She paused.
"I shall be in town for some weeks now, probably. May I come and see you
at Mansfield Road?"
She turned to her brother.
"We shall be pleased to see Mr. Cranmer, if he cares to come, shall we
not, Osmond?"
"Certainly," said Osmond, cordially.
"Which day is most convenient for you?"
"You will not find Osmond on Mondays or Thursdays, as he conducts a
life-class at the Woodstead Art School on those days; any other day.
Good-night."
She was gone. He felt half-angry that she had so easily led him on to
waste time in talking of indifferent topics. Yet, had she left him to
choose a subject, what would his choice have been?