A WOMAN SCORNED.
When Count Vladimir Mellikoff drew back the _portières_ that shrouded
the doors of the large drawing-room at the Folly, he came face to face
with Miss Rosalie James, and for a full moment these two gazed at each
other in a silence that might have been born either of unexpectedness,
or preconcerted arrangement.
Count Mellikoff never allowed ordinary emotions to be visible in his
face; he had that absolute control of feature and muscle which only long
training and an inflexible will can effect. It is seldom one comes
across such a countenance, over which no appreciable change ever
passes, and upon which the passions leave no reflex, not even the
slightest shadow, such as troubles a pool when a cloud passes overhead,
that is gone even as one watches its approach. Such a countenance
betokens one of two temperaments: a nature too weak and vacuous to feel
or comprehend any master passion, and which from very inanition becomes
irresponsive, or one so strong and so intense as to fear its own
capabilities, and therefore strives to conceal all outward expression,
lest its lightest emotion might exhibit something more than the usual
conventionalities.
Of the latter type was Vladimir Mellikoff. From his boyhood he had
taught himself the value of repression, and in it had found his greatest
power. He had learned to so utterly subdue all outward expression of the
passion that at the moment might be consuming him, as to remain
absolutely passive under the most trying circumstances, and so to
control his every feature, that not one muscle, not so much as the
trembling of his lips or the lifting of his eyebrows, ever betrayed him,
when it was his will that they should not.
And yet, perhaps, the greatest charm that he possessed was the sudden
and unexpected brilliancy or softness which he at times allowed his
countenance to assume; then all the harsh, decisive lines faded from
about his mouth and eyes, the stern rigidity of chin and brow relaxed,
the gravity of the dark eyes, in their deep settings, grew tender, and
the expression of melancholy harshness melted beneath the sweetness of
his smile.
Olga Naundorff, who knew him so well, had seen this change in him more
often than any one, yet even to her it was always new and startling, and
filled her with a certain feeling of amazement, not unmixed with pity.
For to Olga, the beautiful, as to her Imperial ancestress, men and men's
passions were but playthings of the hour, and should, like all
mechanical toys, be perfectly regulated by ingenious clockwork,
warranted never to get out of order, and never to carry their cleverness
beyond certain boundaries. If any one of her puppets over-stepped these,
and showed signs of unconventional or barbaric passion, she lifted her
dark brows in astonishment, raised her proud head a trifle more
haughtily, and with superb disdain reduced the poor bungler to his
proper state of imbecility, and then passed him by ever after with an
intensity of quiet scorn, that killed by slow but sure degrees.
To her mind all passion was vulgar, and to be vulgar was to write one's
self down a fool; fools had no place in her world. They might be of use
in some other part of the globe, that was not her affair; to her they
were bores, and bores, as we all know, are obnoxious pests; away with
them, let them be anathema. Life is too short to expend any portion of
it on emotions that ruin the digestion and spoil the most perfect
complexion.
For one entire moment Miss James and Count Vladimir looked full in one
another's faces, and in that moment each pair of dark eyes read
something in the other that caused them both to sink simultaneously,
while over the girl's cheeks a faint dull red rose and faded.
The half smile, mocking yet satisfied, that had come to Count
Mellikoff's lips as he picked up the bit of lace and muslin from beside
Patricia's chair, still lingered, and now it deepened somewhat, as with
a bow he stepped back, holding aside the heavy draperies, and by an
almost imperceptible gesture commanded Miss James to enter. She obeyed
him, and as the thick plush curtains fell behind her with a dull rustle,
they seemed to her excited fancy to shut her out for ever from the
gaiety and freedom of the life she had quitted only a moment ago, even
as they shut her within the deserted drawing-room, with Vladimir
Mellikoff as her only companion.
She laughed nervously and put her hand up to her throat as she did so,
trying in vain to shake off the absurd superstitious feeling that was
creeping over her, and that seemed to enfold all her senses and render
her acquiescent and obedient to the will of this tall dark man, who
stood before her, and whose distinguished face, with its burning eyes
and compressed lips, fascinated her, as the serpent fascinates the dove.
She could even think of this simile, and in her heart laugh at it, but
she could not shake off, or overcome the fact of his mesmeric influence
upon her.
Count Mellikoff drew a low _causeuse_ towards her, and with grave
politeness begged her to be seated. She sank down upon it with passive
obedience, and folding her hands on her knees looked up at him; she held
a _marquise_ fan of ostrich plumes, these trembled somewhat; it was the
only sign of emotion that escaped her.
Vladimir turned from her and walked the length of the drawing-room,
standing for a moment at the entrance to the conservatory, where lived
the golden-hued Maréchal Niel roses; their pungent yet faint perfume
permeating the atmosphere, while their heavy heads drooped with the
burden of their own loveliness, half hidden in the tender green of their
leaves.
As he walked away from her, Rosalie roused herself from the strange
lethargy that had subdued her; she threw back her head, her breath came
quickly, a flush crept up and stained the olive pallor of her cheeks;
she opened her hands, throwing them out with an impatient gesture, and
the _marquise_ fan fell noiselessly at her feet, the waving feathers
making a light breeze as they fluttered down that touched her face and
lifted the laces of her low corsage.
The over-strained tension of her nerves gave way; she could have cried
for very relief and joy as she felt the spell of his presence failing at
the return of her powerful will. She watched him eagerly and saw him
enter the rose house; as his dark figure vanished in the interior gloom
she jumped up quickly, threw up her arms, and drew a long deep breath;
took a step or two forward, and noticing the fallen fan stooped to pick
it up, then turned to leave the room by a side entrance. As she did so
Vladimir Mellikoff stood before her, holding a golden-hued rose between
his fingers.
She started back, she was almost terrified by his sudden reappearance;
she had not heard his approach, his footsteps were noiseless on the
heavy carpet; she imagined him safe in the alleys of the conservatory,
and her escape from him but the effort of a moment. She had but stooped
to recover her fan, and lo, there he stood, tall and commanding and
smiling, before her. She gazed at him questioningly, and again, as her
glance met his inscrutable dark eyes, she recalled the old fable of the
serpent and the dove. She sank down upon the _causeuse_ trembling.
"Mademoiselle," Count Vladimir's courteous, cool tones were saying,
"will you honour me by the acceptance of this rose? The royal flower,
_par excellence_, over all other flowers, as one of your own English
writers, John Ruskin, says. If I may be permitted to suggest so bold an
idea, it will enhance, and be enhanced, by a place in your corsage."
He held out the flower, smiling as he did so, and she took it
mechanically, and fastened it amidst the black laces that draped her
shoulders and bosom; it dropped its golden head lovingly upon them,
while its perfume rose and fell with the pulsations of her heart.
Vladimir drew a chair opposite to her and sat down, leaning forward with
his elbows on his knees, and his keen eyes noting each fluctuating
expression of her face, each flutter of the laces above her unquiet
breast, each nervous movement of her hands in their long, loose Suède
coverings. He had a dangerous game to play, and upon his success or
defeat depended his winning or losing Olga. As her name crossed his
mind, though not spoken by his lips, he was shaken by a sudden passion
of love and desire; he recalled her proud, pale beauty, the blue of her
eyes, "blue as the violets of his own Novgorod," the golden sheen of her
hair, her lissom figure, and her cold haughty smile.
He _would_ win her, or he would die; and what mattered any other woman's
life if he could but appear worthy in her eyes? What had the chief said?
"You must use a woman's weapons--_finesse_, deceit, distrust--when you
make war upon a woman." Well, and so he would; it should go hard with
him if he could not fit himself out in a woman's armour, and not reveal
where the breast-plate failed to meet, or the helmet bound his forehead
too tightly. One must put up with such little inconveniences when one
adapts oneself to the warfare of the weaker sex.
"Above all, distrust the women of the great world, they are our
cleverest enemies;" that had been another of Patouchki's axioms; and he
did distrust this pale, dark-eyed, slight American girl with every fibre
of his mind, and read her through and through; her shallow cleverness,
her dwarfed ambitions, her stunted love, that was not so much love as a
mixture of baffled pride and jealousy, and desire of conquest. She could
be useful to him; he had decided that within the dinner-hour, when he
caught her suspicious glances, cast first at Philip Tremain, as he sat
on Mrs. Newbold's left, and then at Miss Hildreth, who, radiant and
handsome, was eating olives, and mystifying George Newbold, on whose
right hand she was placed. He had read Miss James's secret then and
there, and resolved that it should be useful to him, and that she should
be the tool in his master-hand wherewith to work.
Rosalie in due course had been presented to him, and she had not failed
to notice and feel flattered by his attentions to her. She was smarting
under Mr. Tremain's too apparent indifference, and Patricia's too
evident power. She longed to strike both the one and the other, to tear
off the masks from their serenely smiling faces, and hold them up to the
scorn and derision of their world.
"I hate them both," she murmured between her teeth. "I hate him because
he loves her still, and I hate her because she is so beautiful and so
victorious. I know there is some secret well hidden behind that lovely
face, and oh, what would I not give to find it out and reveal it!"
It was at this moment that George Newbold's lazy voice interrupted her
thoughts, and looking up she saw him leaning towards her with the
distinguished appearing foreigner beside him. Mr. Newbold mumbled out
two names and left them, and Rosalie glancing up again met the Count's
steady dark eyes fixed upon her, and knew with sudden certainty that he
had read her face only too well; how much more that lay beneath the
surface of her outward seeming not even she could tell!
They stood quite silent for several moments, and during that time she
felt imperceptibly at first, and then more and more certainly, his
influence and power growing upon her; she acknowledged the intensity of
his glance without daring to meet it, and could have cried for rage at
her own inability to throw off the fascination he exercised over her.
When he spoke it was upon a commonplace topic, and she drew a sigh of
relief when, after a brief conversation, he bowed and left her, even
though conscious of a vague regret that he should go from her.
During the evening she had many times felt his eyes seek her out and
rest for a moment on her face, and at each such occurrence the blood had
rushed to her cheeks, and she had trembled, though not with cold. He had
stood a long time talking with Mr. Tremain, and she had watched them
with a half-formed anticipation of some coming and unexpected
catastrophe, and then, when she turned and sought to leave the room, she
heard a quiet voice say, "Permit me," the door was opened for her, and
as she expressed her thanks Count Vladimir bowed, and returned to his
place beside Philip. And now they were once more together and alone, and
she was again conscious of an ever-increasing apprehension; the
prescience of some coming evil in which they were both to bear a part,
and yet which she was powerless to avert.
"Mademoiselle," said Count Vladimir, bending a little more forward and
looking up at her from under his dark brows, "I am about to do something
which under ordinary circumstances and with an ordinary audience would
be considered not only indiscreet but unconventional. If I misjudge my
opportunity and my audience and offend you by putting you outside the
pale of weak worshippers of conventional cult, pray say so at once, and
I will humbly beg your pardon and withdraw."
For answer she drew her fingers once or twice across the feathers of her
fan, and let her eyes travel slowly up from that pretty toy to his face,
taking in as they did so the smallest detail of his appearance, from the
thin long-fingered hands, that hung down so quietly between his knees,
the dead gold of the one ring he wore with its blazing ruby, to the tiny
red rosette of an officer of the Legion of Honour that decorated his
correct evening costume. As she raised her eyes still higher they met
his, and for an infinitesimal space of time held hers captive; then she
dropped them again, and sinking back against the cushions of her chair,
raised the feather fan until it rested against her lips. Her voice was
quiet when she replied, though a fine ear might have caught a suspicion
of fear in it:
"You flatter me, Count Mellikoff; to be considered above one's world in
virtue or in vice is always a distinction, if not always an honour.
Pray in what indiscretion can I be of help to you?"
"I will tell you frankly, mademoiselle, that I am visiting this country
for two purposes and in two characters. It has struck me that as one
part of my work is that of reparation, a woman of my own world, of quick
perceptions, nice judgment, and unerring instinct might, and could,
materially assist me in my self-imposed task. I know the generosity of
women, and I know how quick they are to respond to any tale of wrong or
outrage; perhaps it is the very conventionalities of their lives which
hedge them in, from birth to marriage, that increases their spontaneous
desire to see wrongs righted, and the criminal brought to justice. I do
not know, that is a question of analysis into which I cannot enter; I
may have my theories, but need not bore you with them. The result of the
present system is made plain to me by the women of my own country,
where no rule or restriction is ever relaxed on any pretence, and where
the world and the world's dogmas are worshipped with a blind and
absolute faith. And yet, mademoiselle, even there I have known the
fairest and highest born women, when occasion required, shake off the
chains of custom and stand forth boldly in defence of right and
justice."
"That, Count Mellikoff, it seems to me any woman would do, no matter
what her nationality, if the object of her enthusiasm was worthy in her
eyes. It is not to an American girl that you should plead for liberty of
thought and action, since we have grown up upon the very soil that once
was baptized in blood, shed by our forefathers to gain this very freedom
of opinion."
"It is a grand country," replied Vladimir, slowly, and without banter or
sarcasm in his tone, "I admire it already, though as yet but a stranger,
and it is for that very reason that I shrink from one part of my task.
Mademoiselle, when one has been courteously received, and hospitably
entertained, one hesitates to strike a blow at those who have so trusted
one. The Arabs read us a lesson in moral ethics, which we children of a
latter-day civilisation would do well to follow. He who breaks bread
with the child of the desert is ever after protected by him and his
tribe. Not so with us, treachery is our watchword, ingratitude our pass
key."
He spoke somewhat bitterly, though without changing his position or
expression, and Miss James, as she looked searchingly at him, could
discover no corresponding reflexion of words in face or eyes.
"Has your experience been of such a character?" she asked, a little
abruptly.
"Both my experience and actions will bear me out in my asseverations,"
he replied; and then in rather a lighter tone he continued: "It is
rather the fault of our nineteenth century progress, mademoiselle, that
we have neither time nor inclination for the old-fashioned courtesies
and amenities of our grandsires' days; we make boast of our honesty and
truth, it is true, and we are brutal often in enforcing these virtues;
we cry out against and disclaim the gentler methods, and say with
satisfied arrogance that fine phrases have no truth, polite aphorisms no
depth; well, perhaps we are right, but for my part I prefer a
well-turned and politely-worded lie, knowing it to be such, than the
brute force of to-day's truthfulness. Honesty and honour have such
elastic definitions, it is difficult to know where the one degenerates
into mendacity, or the other becomes contention.
"Let us, however, leave useless analysis, mademoiselle, and with your
permission, I will become personal. I am selfish in doing so, because I
desire to interest you in myself and my work."
He drew back a little as he spoke, and lifted his arms from his knees,
bringing his face more on a level with hers. Rosalie watched him with
the same indefinable interest and fascination that had first subdued
her. She did not speak, but her eyes sought his and rested there, and
the heavy golden flower upon her bosom rose and sank hurriedly.
"Have I your permission, mademoiselle?" he asked.
She bowed her head, making an affirmative gesture with her hand; the
feather fan lay still upon her lap.
"You have heard," he began, "that I am here in two characters. I come in
the ordinary way to visit a great country, for which my own land has
always entertained a friendly feeling; I come to inspect her
institutions, her educational universities, her great cities, her fine
rivers; I come to admire and to learn, and to carry back with me
pleasant recollections of a too-hospitable and charming people. That is
I, in my proper aspect, without disguise or concealment; but that is
not my first object, or my real errand. Mademoiselle, I come to seek, to
trace, to find--a woman. One who has flown to your country for
protection, to escape the penalty of crime; who is a fugitive from
justice, and who thinks, poor fool! thus to avoid the power and the
vengeance of Russia. Mademoiselle, it is in this work I ask your
assistance."
As he spoke, Miss James had risen to her feet, and now stood before him,
her face blanched and haggard, her eyes glowing dark and angry, her
breath coming quick and short; her arms hung straight down by her sides,
the loose gloves falling about the thin wrists and leaving bare the
slender arms; the feather fan lay unheeded at her feet.
"Why do you ask _me_, Count Mellikoff?" she cried, in a strained, harsh
voice, her eyes never leaving his face. "Why do you ask me to help you
to track a woman, to hunt a fugitive, a poor, wretched, heart-broken
fugitive, no doubt flying for her life from your cruel country and its
cruel laws? What do you see in me that makes you think I will lend
myself to your mad schemes? What am I that you should so count upon my
co-operation?"
She stopped, and Vladimir, who had also risen and stood facing her, cool
and unmoved, bent down and, lifting up the _marquise_ fan, handed it to
her with a bow before he replied. When he spoke his voice was keen and
sharp, his words cutting and cruel.
"What do I see in you, mademoiselle? Nay, let me rather answer your
question by a line from an English poet:
'_I see--a woman scorned----_'
How does the couplet end?"
But Miss James made him no reply, her hands closed vehemently on the fan
she held; under their pressure the frail pearl sticks snapped in two and
fell apart. She looked at him fixedly; the crimson blood had rushed in
a torrent to her face, and the red stain lingered there. Suddenly she
faltered, trembled, swayed a little, and sinking down upon the low
_causeuse_, covered her face with her hands and burst into long-drawn
sobs and tears.
It was late that night before Miss James sought her own room; as she
passed out of the drawing-room Count Vladimir held back the heavy
_portières_ with respectful attention, bending his head in salutation as
she went by him.
Behind her, on the velvet carpet, lay the strewn petals of a golden-hued
rose, about whose torn beauty a subtle fragrance still lingered, and the
broken pearl sticks of a _marquise_ feather fan.