Topham never remembered how he got through the next hour. He went from
place to place with Risdon, talked and laughed, met men--some of them
famous men, too--but he did it all mechanically. His thoughts were with
the girl whom he had seen in the automobile--the girl with whom he had
crossed from New York--the girl who had told him her name was Elsa
Ferreira--the girl who had warned him to be careful. Clearly she was
one of the conspirators against himself, but he did not care. He had
given the letter safely to Risdon and was free to act for himself for
twenty-four hours--till it was time to leave Berlin.
When at last the hour for luncheon was at hand and he could leave
Risdon on a plea that he must hurry back to the embassy, he did so with
an alacrity which he feared the reporter would detect.
Once alone he lost no time in making his way to the ornate stone
pile that Risdon had pointed out to him as the home of the Count and
Countess of Ouro Preto.
Scarcely could he control himself while he waited for a reply to the
card he sent up. It seemed to him incredible that it had been only that
morning that he had parted from Elsa--he thought of her as Elsa--at the
steamer. It seemed weeks even since he had gazed into her eyes across
the traffic that thronged the street.
By and by a man came down the stairs. Topham recognized him as his
Spanish-American acquaintance of the cigarette episode and grinned.
“They’re all in it,” he observed. “But I don’t care. I don’t care a
continental damn.”
He turned as a trim maid servant came running down the stairs, and
bowed before him.
“The wohlgebornen Grafin will receive the Herr Lieutenant Topham,” she
said. “Be pleased to walk up!”
Topham did so without delay.
As he entered her apartment the countess rose, and for an instant the
two stared at each other. Curiosity was in that gaze, for those two
had learned much about each other since they had parted. Defiance was
in it, for both felt instinctively that their wills were to clash and
both were ready for the encounter; fascination--or something strangely
akin to fascination--was in it. The pause was that of two fencers
who hesitate before they cross swords. It was for a second only, then
the countess swept forward and held out her hand. “Mr. Topham?” she
murmured. “I am glad to see you.”
Topham bowed as he took the hand in his. She wore a wonderful gown of
clinging silk against which her dark beauty scintilated star-like. He
could not speak. Her loveliness and what it meant--must mean--to him in
the future took his breath away and held him for the moment dumb.
“But you ought not to have come!” she went on, slowly, when he did not
speak.
Topham shook his head. “You knew I would come,” he declared, meaningly.
The countess flushed, and Topham pushed the fight. “Did you not know
it?” he demanded.
Changing emotion swept across the countess’s mobile face. Surprise,
indignation, panic succeeded each other and at last gave place to an
expression hard to define. She flushed, trembled slightly; and her eyes
dropped before those of the man who still held her hand.
“Yes!” she breathed. “Yes! I knew.”
“Ahem!” An elderly lady had risen and came forward and seemed somewhat
amazed by the scene. “Ahem! Ahem!” she coughed, and then more
violently, “Ahem!”
The countess started. One would have said that she had forgotten her
companion, which was singular for a girl brought up under the duenna
system, however much she might have emancipated herself. Then she
turned. “You know the Baroness Ostersacken, Mr. Topham,” she said.
Topham bowed. “Yes!” he said. “I know.”
“Ach! Gott!” The baroness seemed confused. “You are welcome, Herr
Topham,” she declared. “Will you not be seated?”
The countess led the way to a window beside which two chairs were
placed, while the baroness, waddling back to the seat some distance
away, from which she had risen, picked up some fancy work.
The countess sat down and indicated the chair by her side. “Sit down,
Mr. Topham,” she invited.
But Topham stood motionless, hand on the back of the chair, looking at
her.
The sun streamed golden through the great window, a stray beam lighting
on her hair, transformed its dark mass into iridescent fire. A potted
palm swept her shoulders with its delicate fronds. From the street
below came up the tramp of men, the rattle of wagons, the jingle of a
tram car.
Abruptly Topham spoke. “Please send the baroness away!” he directed,
serenely.
Again the countess’ face flamed. She rose half way from her chair; then
sat down again, trembling.
“Senor!” she faltered, returning instinctively to her mother tongue.
“What mean you? I--I can not receive you without a duenna. It--it is
impossible.”
“Not to you! To others, perhaps! Send her away--please.”
“But it is impos--” She rose. “Baroness,” she said, “would you mind
looking for a letter from Herrman that I left in the bottom of my
escritoire?”
The baroness rose. Her expression was inscrutable. Perhaps she was
already so much surprised that her features, incapable of expressing
her amazement, had reverted to their former placidity--a placidity from
which nothing was likely soon to stir them. “Yes! Yes!” she murmured.
“Yes! Yes! Mein Gott!”
When she had disappeared through the door at the end of the room the
countess turned to Topham. “Now, senor,” she said, with more spirit
than she had shown since the American’s arrival. “I have obeyed your
orders and sent away my duenna. True, she is only in the next room,
but still we are alone. What have you to say to me to warrant such a
demand?”
“You know.” Topham’s voice was not quite so steady. “Senorita,” he went
on. “Let me tell you something of myself. I belong to an old Virginia
family--one of the F. F. Vs., as they call us derisively. My people
have lived in Virginia for nearly three hundred years, and nearly every
one of them had a romance. My great grandparents eloped; my grandfather
married my grandmother the day after he met her; my father wanted to
marry my mother at first sight of her, but was compelled to wait a
year--till he was nineteen. I understand that your heritage is similar;
that your father stole your mother from the duke’s palace. Finally”--He
paused and leaned forward.
“When I parted from you this morning I thought I could wait. I meant
to see you again, but I thought--. But I was wrong. I can not leave
you without speaking! When I saw you on the street I knew that I could
not. Love has come to me suddenly, as it comes to all the men of my
race--suddenly but for all time. I have played at love-making before.
I did not know what love was. I thought--Good God! How could I have
thought as I did? How could any man mistake water for wine, moonshine
for sunshine?”
Very slowly and deliberately, he took the countess’ face between his
palms and looked down at her. “Look at me, Elsa,” he said.
Slowly she lifted her starry eyes to his. He bent forward and their
lips met. “That makes you mine,” he said slowly.
The countess said not a word, but she slipped slowly into his arms
and nestled against his broad bosom. It was preposterous, ridiculous,
incredible--this love-making; it was “so very American”, but--but--what
the countess really thought about it would be hard to tell. Whether she
was as mad as Topham or whether there was a purpose in her madness did
not appear.
Topham tilted her perfect chin upward. “Doesn’t it?” he asked, with a
shade of anxiety in his voice. “You love me? You will marry me--soon?”
Gently the countess freed herself; then she stood up and faced him.
“Yes!” she said. “I love you, and I will marry you or no other man,”
She stepped closer to him, and reaching up, placed both hands upon his
shoulders and kissed him on the mouth. “Yes!” she repeated. “I will
marry you--but not soon.”
“Why not? I am under orders. I must leave Berlin tonight. Will you come
with me--or shall I resign from the Navy and stay with you?”
“Neither! I can not marry you--now. No! That is not true! I can, but I
will not. I dare not.”
“Dare not! Who prevents--
“Honor!”
“Honor? Whose honor? yours?”
“No. Your own. What is mine? What is any woman’s when she loves? And
I do love. Do you understand? From the moment I saw you I loved you?
I fought against it. I may not love any man--now; least of all, you.
I am dangerous to you--dangerous! That is why I lied to you. That is
why I told you that I was going to stop in Hamburg instead of coming
to Berlin. It was by a mere chance that you saw me on the street. But
I love you. I have never loved any man before nor will again. No other
man has ever touched my lips. Do you believe me? No--don’t answer. I
know that you do. I love you, and I am careful of your honor--more
careful that I would be of my own. Therefore, I will not marry
you--soon.”
Very straight she stood against the background of palms. Topham,
slow of thought as he was, felt vaguely that she had stood thus
rigid through life that bent around her. But he was determined, too.
Stubbornness rose within him.
But before he could speak, she flung up her hand. “No! Don’t say it!”
she begged. “Don’t compel me to yield. You could do it. No other man
ever bent me; but you--you could break me. But it is best not to do it.
Believe me, you will be sorry if--
“Look you, senor! For years I have lived for but one thing, and that
thing is close to my hand. Yet I would give it up for you and count
it gain to do so if others were not involved--others who rely on
me--others to whom I have passed my word. And yet, I will give it
up--if you ask me. What is a woman’s word, after all? Shall I give it
up?”
Topham shook his head. “Not if you have passed your word. My wife’s
word is mine!” he answered, with splendid egotism.
The countess smiled--but tenderly. Perhaps she noticed the egotism and
was proud of it.
“Then,” she said. “I can not marry you soon. It will take a full
year to redeem my word; and until that is done I can not marry you.
Perhaps”--her voice broke--“perhaps you will not want to marry me then.
But God rules and I can not think he has brought you to me merely to
take you away again.”
She paused and clasped her hands above her heart. “You must not even
see me during that year,” she went on, painfully. “No! Believe me! I
know best. It must be! Go to your ship and come back in a year--if you
will. I, too, am going away soon. When the year is up, or sooner, if it
be possible, I will let you know where I am. Then, if you care to come
to me--”
“Come? I would--”
“Be not too sure. A year is a long time. No! I do not doubt you.
But--but--Kiss me once more, Walter! On the lips! Kiss me! And then
leave me, for this is good-by.”