THE MAN WHO WAITED
She ran from him, along the moonlit path. One step he took as if to
follow and keep her, but checked himself and let her go. Only his eyes
went with her, and in them there was more of pain than anger, though
never before in all his life, perhaps, had he been thwarted in any
strong desire. Passion urged him forward, but pride held him back; for
Leopold was a proud man, and to have his love thrown in his face, was
to receive an icy douche with the blood at fever heat.
For this girl's sake he had in a few days changed the habits of a
lifetime. Pride, reserve, self-control, the wish not only to appear,
but to be a man, above the frailties of common men, the ambition to be
placed, and worthily placed, on a pedestal by his subjects; all these
he had thrown away for Helen Mowbray.
He was too just a man not to admit that, if one of his Royal cousins
of younger branches, had contemplated such folly as this, he would
have done his best to nip that folly while it was in bud. "He jests at
scars who never felt a wound"; and until Leopold had learned by his
own unlooked-for experience what love can mean, what men will do for
love while the sweet madness is on them, he would have been utterly
unable to understand the state of mind.
A cousin inclined to act as he was now bent on acting, would but a
month ago have found all the Emperor's influence, even force perhaps,
brought to bear in restraining him. Leopold saw the change in himself,
was startled and shamed by it; nevertheless he would have persevered,
trampling down every obstacle that rose in his way, if only the girl
had seen things with his eyes.
She had accused him of insulting her, not stopping to consider that,
even to make her morganatically his wife, he must give great cause for
complaint not only to his ministers but to his people. For he was
expected to marry a girl of Royal blood, that the country might have
an heir. If Helen Mowbray had accepted the position he offered her,
he could never have broken her heart by making another marriage.
Not only would it be difficult in these days to find a Princess
willing to tolerate such a rival, but it would have been impossible
for him to desecrate the bond between himself and the one adored
woman.
This being the case, with Helen Mowbray as his morganatic wife, there
could be no direct heir to the throne. At his death, the son of his
uncle, the Archduke Joseph, would succeed; and during his life the
popularity which was dear to him would be hopelessly forfeited.
Rhaetia would never forgive him for selfishly preferring his own
private happiness to the good of the nation.
He could fancy how old Iron Heart von Breitstein would present this
point of view to him, with fierce eloquence, temples throbbing like
the ticking of a watch, eyes netted with bloodshot veins. But on the
other hand he could picture himself standing calmly to face the storm,
steadfast in his own indomitable will, happy with love to uphold him.
But now, the will which had borne him through life in a triumphal
march, had been powerless against that of this young girl. She would
have none of him. A woman whose face was her fortune, whose place in
life was hardly as high as the first step of a throne, had refused--an
Emperor.
Hardly could Leopold believe the thing that had happened to him. He
had spoken of doubting that he had won her love; and he had doubted.
But he had allowed himself to hope, because he had confidence in his
Star, and because, perhaps, it had scarcely been known in the annals
of history that an Emperor's suit should be repulsed.
Besides, he had loved the girl so passionately, that it seemed she
could not remain cold. And he hoped still that, when she had passed a
long night in reflection, in thinking over the situation, perhaps
taking counsel with that comparatively commonplace yet practical
little lady, her mother, she might be ready to change her mind.
For the first few moments after the stinging rebuff he had endured,
Leopold felt that, if she did, it would be her turn to suffer, for he
could never humble himself to implore for the second time. But, as he
stood in the soft stillness of the night, gazing towards the lights of
the house, thoughts of Virginia--her youth, her sweetness, her beauty
dimmed with grief,--overwhelmed him. Could he have reached her, he
would have fallen on his knees, and kissed her gown.
By and by a vast tenderness breathed its calm over the thwarted
passion in his breast, and plans to win her back came whispering in
his ear. He would write a letter and send it to her room. But no;
perhaps it would be wise to give her a longer interval for reflection
and--it might be--regret. To-morrow he would see her and show all the
depths of that great love which she had thought to throw away. She
could not go on withstanding him forever; and now that he had burned
his boats behind him, he would never think of turning back. He would
persevere till she should yield.
Meanwhile Virginia had hurried blindly toward the house, and it was
instinct rather than intention that led her to the open window of the
music room, by which she had come out.
Tears burned her eyelids, but they did not fall until she stood once
more in the room where she and Leopold had been happy together. There
she had sat at the piano, and he had bent over her, love in his
eyes--honest love, she had thought, her heart full of thanksgiving.
How little she had guessed then the humiliation in store for her, and
the end of all her hopes! How could she bear her pain, and how could
she go on living out her life?
She paused in the window niche, looking into the room through a mist
of tears, and a sob choked her. "Cruel--cruel," she whispered. "What
agony--what an insult!"
Then, dashing away her tears, she pushed back the dark curtain, and
would have passed on into the room, had not the quick gesture brought
her arm into contact with the buttons and gold braid on a man's
breast.
Instantly she realized that some one was hiding there--some
one dressed in a military coat; and her first impulse was for
flight--anything to escape, unrecognized. But on second thoughts
she changed her mind.
Whoever it was had in all probability hidden himself for the purpose
of spying, and was already aware that Miss Mowbray had rushed into the
house weeping, after a tête-a-tête with the Emperor in the garden.
Perhaps he had even caught a word or two of her sobbing ejaculation.
No, she must not run away, and leave the outcome of this affair to
chance. She must see with whom she had to deal, that she might know
what was best to do.
She had taken a step into the room, but quick as light she turned,
pulled away the screen of curtain and faced Captain von Breitstein.
It was a trying moment for him, and the girl's look stripped him of
all his light audacity. She had come to the window by a different path
from the one he had watched, therefore she had taken him unawares,
before he had time to escape, as he had planned. He was caught fairly,
and must save himself as best he could without preparation.
If her reproach forestalled his excuse, he was lost. He must step into
the breach at whatever risk. No time to weigh words; he must let loose
the first that sprang to his lips.
"I see what you think of me," he said. "I see you think I was watching
you. I swear I wasn't, though I knew you were in the garden with--the
Emperor. Wait--you must listen. You must hear my justification. I was
sent to this room to fetch you. For your sake, how could I go back and
say you had disappeared--together? I looked out into the garden and
saw you--with him. I saw from your manner that--he had made you
suffer. I was half mad with rage, guessing--guessing something which
one word you let drop as you came in, told me had happened. He is my
sovereign, but--he has insulted you. Let me be your knight, as in days
of old. Let me defend you, for I love you. I waited here to tell you
this, as you came, so that, if you would, we might announce an
engagement--"
If Virginia's eyes had been daggers, he would have fallen at her feet,
pierced to the heart. For one long second she looked at him without
speaking, her face eloquent. Then she went by him with the proud
bearing of a queen.
Egon was stricken dumb. Dully he watched her move across the room to a
door which led into a corridor. He heard the whisper of her satin
dress, and saw the changing lights and shadows on its creamy folds,
under the crystal chandeliers; he saw the white reflection, like a
spirit, mirrored deep under the polished surface of the floor.
Never had she been more beautiful; but she was beautiful in his eyes
no longer. He had hurt her pride; but she had stabbed his vanity; and
to wound Egon von Breitstein's vanity was to strike at his life. He
hated the girl, hated her so sharply that his nerves ached with the
intensity of his hatred; and the only relief he could have would be
through reprisal.
He had not been able to deceive her. She knew that he had been spying,
and it was fortunate for his future, he realized already, that she had
broken with the Emperor. He must do all he could, and do it quickly,
to prevent a reconciliation, lest she should work him injury.
As for his hastily stammered proposal, it was a good thing that the
girl had not taken him at his word, for the Chancellor had not given
him permission to speak, and if she had accepted him, he might have
had to wriggle out of his engagement. Still, he could not forgive her
scorn of him.
"Lorenz shall help me to pay her for this!" he said furiously to
himself, too angry to mourn over lost hopes, lost opportunities. "He
will know how to punish her. And between us she shall suffer."