WHILE Olivia might wince, and the Colonel chuckle over the Volkonsky
incident, it was a more serious matter to Volkonsky. He had certainly
taken into account the possibility of meeting some old acquaintances,
but neither he nor Madame Volkonsky had cared to keep up with events
in the remote county in Virginia, where they had passed some agitating
days. Volkonsky therefore was quite unaware that Pembroke was in
Congress. The first meeting to him was an unpleasant shock, as he
had learned to fear Pembroke much in other days. But when he began
to inquire quietly about him of Ryleief, who evidently knew him,
Volkonsky’s discomfort was very much increased. For Ryleief, who
rather exaggerated the influence of a representative in Congress,
impressed forcibly upon Volkonsky that Pembroke possessed power--and
when Volkonsky began to take in that Pembroke’s determined enmity as
a member of the Foreign Affairs Committee might amount to something,
he began to be much disturbed. Before the last guest had rolled away
from the door on the night of the ball, Volkonsky and his wife were
closeted together in the Minister’s little study. Whatever passing
fancy Madame Volkonsky might have entertained for Pembroke some years
ago, Volkonsky was quite indifferent--and if Pembroke retained any
lingering weakness for her--well enough--he might be induced to let
Volkonsky dwell in peace.
When Madame Volkonsky entered the room, her husband placed a chair for
her. Often they quarreled, and sometimes they were reported to fight,
but he never omitted those little attentions. Madame Volkonsky’s face
was pale. She did not know how much lay in Pembroke’s power to harm
them, but she was shaken by the encounter. It was hard, just at the
opening of a new life, to meet those people. It was so easy to be good
now. They were free for a time from duns and creditors--for during her
marriage to Ahlberg she had become acquainted with both. She had a
fine establishment, a splendid position--and at the very outset arose
the ghost of a dead and gone fancy, and the woman before whom she
had in vain humiliated herself, and the man who knew enough to ruin
her husband. It was trying and it made her look weary and very old.
Volkonsky began in French:
“So you met your old acquaintances to-night.”
“Yes.”
“That charming M. le Colonel called you Eliza Peyton.”
“Yes,” again answered Madame Volkonsky.
“This comes of that crazy expedition to America which I tried to
dissuade you from.”
Madame Volkonsky again nodded. She was not usually so meek.
“And that haughty, overbearing Pembroke. Does he still cherish that
romantic sentiment for you, I wonder.”
Madame Volkonsky blushed faintly. She was not as devoid of delicacy as
her husband.
“If he does,” continued Volkonsky, meditatively, “he might be
induced--if you should appeal to him--”
“Appeal to him for what?” inquired Madame Volkonsky, rising and turning
paler. The contempt in her tone angered Volkonsky.
“Not to ruin us. That man is now in the Congress. He has to do with
foreign affairs. He hates me, and, by God, I hate him. He knows things
that may cause you to give up this establishment--that may send us back
across the water under unpleasant circumstances. You know about the
dispute at cards, and other things--you have not failed to remind me
of them,--and if Pembroke is disposed he can use this with frightful
effect now.”
Madame Volkonsky remained perfectly silent. She was stunned by the
information Volkonsky gave her--but Volkonsky was quite oblivious of
her feelings. He was gnawing his yellow mustache.
“You might see him,” he said. “You might appeal to him--throw yourself
on his mercy--”
“What a wretch you are,” suddenly burst out Madame Volkonsky in
English. They had talked in French all this time, which she spoke
apparently as well as English--but like most people, she fell into
the vernacular when under the influence of strong emotion. Volkonsky
glanced up at her.
“What is it now?” he asked, peevishly.
His wife turned two blazing eyes on him. The fact that she was not upon
a very high plane herself did not prevent her from being indignant at
his baseness--and wounded pride drove home the thrust.
“That you should dare, that any man should dare--to propose that a wife
should work on a man’s past liking for her to serve her husband’s ends.
Ahlberg, every day that I have lived with you has shown me new baseness
in you.”
This was not the first time Volkonsky had heard this--but it was
none the less unpleasant. Also, he rather dreaded Madame Volkonsky’s
occasional outbursts of temper--and he had had enough for one night.
“It is no time for us to quarrel--and particularly do not call me
Ahlberg. My name is now legally Volkonsky, and I would wish to forget
it ever was anything else. We should better design how to keep this
Pembroke at bay. I am sure,” continued Volkonsky plaintively, “I have
never sought to injure him. Why should he try to ruin me for a little
scene at a card table that occurred five years ago? I wonder if that
ferocious Cave will turn up soon?”
Madame Volkonsky turned and left him in disgust. In spite of her
cosmopolitan education, and all her associations, there was born
with her an admiration for Anglo-Saxon pluck which made her despise
Volkonsky methods. The idea of scheming and designing to placate a man
who had caught him cheating at cards filled her with infinite contempt.
In the course of the next few days, Madame Volkonsky was deeply
exercised over the influence that Pembroke would have upon her future.
She had talked their affairs over often with her husband in those
few days. He had not failed to convey to her the rather exaggerated
impression that he had received from Ryleief, as to Pembroke’s power to
harm.
One afternoon, when Volkonsky and his wife were driving in their
victoria, they passed the Secretary of State’s carriage drawn up to the
sidewalk. Pembroke was about to step into it. The Secretary himself, a
handsome, elderly man, was leaning forward to greet him, as Pembroke
placed his foot on the step. Madame Volkonsky looked at her husband,
who looked blankly back in return. The Secretary’s carriage whirled
around, and both gentlemen bowed--the Secretary to both the Minister
and his wife, Pembroke pointedly to Madame Volkonsky.
Volkonsky turned a little pale as they drove off.
“I wonder if the Secretary will ever speak to us again,” said Madame
Volkonsky, half maliciously.
Yet it was as much to her as to him. It would indeed be hard were they
driven in disgrace from Washington. Volkonsky had been surprisingly
lucky all his life, but luck always takes a turn. Now, his recall as
Minister would be of more consequence than his escapades as attaché or
Secretary of Legation. Then, he had played wild works with her fortune,
such as it was. Madame Volkonsky’s thoughts grew bitter. First had come
that struggle of her girlhood--then her artistic career--ending in a
cruel failure. Afterward the dreadful years of life tied to Koller’s
bath chair--followed by her stormy and disappointed widowhood. This
was the first place she had ever gained that promised security or
happiness--and behold! all was likely to fall like a house of cards.
They paid one or two visits, and left cards at several places. Madame
Volkonsky had imagined that nothing could dull the exquisite pleasure
of being a personage, of being followed, flattered, admired. She
found out differently. The fame of her beauty and accomplishments had
preceded her. Everywhere she received the silent ovation which is the
right of a beautiful and charming woman--but her heart was heavy. At
one place she passed Olivia and her father coming out as they were
going in. Olivia, wrapped in furs, looked uncommonly pretty and free
from care. As the two women passed, each, while smiling affably,
wore that hostile air which ladies are liable to assume under the
circumstances. The Colonel was all bows and smiles to Madame Volkonsky
as usual, and refrained from calling her Eliza.
Nor did the presence of the Volkonskys in Washington conduce to
Olivia’s enjoyment although it certainly did to her father’s. The
Colonel was delighted. In the course of years, Eliza Peyton had
afforded him great amusement. He was a chivalrous man to women,
although not above teasing Madame Volkonsky, but he refrained from
doing what poor Elise very much dreaded he would--telling of her
American origin. She had admitted that her mother was an American--an
admission necessary to account for the native, idiomatic way in which
she spoke the English language, and Colonel Berkeley knowing this,
did not hesitate to say that in years gone by, he had known Madame
Volkonsky’s mother, and very cheerfully bore testimony to the fact that
the mother had been of good family and gentle breeding. So instead
of being a disadvantage to her, it was rather a help. But Olivia and
herself were so distinctly antipathetic that it could scarcely fail to
produce antagonism. And besides her whole course about Pembroke had
shocked Olivia. Olivia was amazed--it was not the mere difference of
conduct and opinion--it was the difference of temperament. Remembering
that Madame Volkonsky had at least the inheritance of refinement, and
was quite at home in the usages of gentle breeding, it seemed the more
inexcusable. In all those years Olivia had been unable to define her
feelings to Pembroke. She could easily have persuaded herself that she
was quite indifferent to him except that she could not forget him. It
annoyed her. It was like a small, secret pain, a trifling malady, of
which the sufferer is ashamed to speak.
Not so Pembroke. The love that survives such a blow to pride and
vanity as a refusal, is love indeed--and after the first tempest
of mortification he had realized that his passion would not die,
but needed to be killed--and after five years of partial absence,
awkward estrangement, all those things which do most effectually kill
everything which is not love, her presence was yet sweet and potent.
The discovery afforded him a certain grim amusement. He was getting
well on in his thirties. His hair was turning prematurely gray, and he
felt that youth was behind him--a not altogether unpleasant feeling to
an ambitious man. Nevertheless, they went on dining together at the
Berkeleys’ own house, at the De Peysters’, at other places, meeting
constantly at the same houses--for Pembroke went out more than he had
ever done in Washington before, drawn subtly by the chance of meeting
Olivia--although where once she was cool and friendly, she was now a
little warmer in her manner, yet not wholly free from embarrassment.
But neither was unhappy.