“_A drop of water on a petal in the sunshine; that same drop down thy
neck in a cavern. Both are woman; thy mood and the occasion make the
sole difference_.”
--Cervanto Y'Alvez.
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ECORD of an episode taken from my journal, and written upon the evening
following my first meeting with the General:
“This afternoon I decide to go to the Temple and see Dick Shafthead. We
shall dine together quietly, and I shall vent what is left of my humors
and be refreshed by his good-humored raillery. The afternoon is fading
into evening as I mount his stairs; the lamps are being lit; by this
hour he should have returned. But no; I knock and knock again, and get
no answer.
“'Well,' I say to myself, 'he cannot be long. I shall wait for him
outside.'
“I descend again to wait in that quiet and soothing court, where the
fountain plays and the goldfish swim and the autumn leaves tremble
overhead. Now and then one of these drops stealthily upon the pavement;
the pigeons flit by, settle, fly off again; people pass occasionally;
but at first that is all that happens. At last there enters a woman, who
does not pass through, but loiters on the farther side of the fountain
as though she were meditating--or waiting for somebody. So far as I can
judge in the half-light and at a little distance, she is young, and her
outline is attractive; therefore I conclude she is not meditating.
“She does not see me, but I should like to see more of her. I walk round
the fountain and come up behind her. She hears my step, turns sharply,
and approaches, evidently prepared to greet me. Words are on the tip of
her tongue, when abruptly she starts back. She does not know me, after
all. But quickly, before she has time to recover herself, I raise my hat
and say:
“'I cannot be mistaken. We have met at the bishop's?'”
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“It is a happy inspiration, I think, to choose so respectable a host,
and for a moment she is staggered. Probably she does actually know a
bishop, and may have met a not ill-looking gentleman somewhat resembling
myself at his house. In this moment I perceive that she is certainty
young and very far removed, indeed, from being unattractive.
“To me, meeting her dark eyes for an instant, and then seeing the fair,
full face turn to a fair profile as she looks away in some confusion,
she seems beyond doubt very beautiful. A simple straw hat covers her
dark coil of hair and slopes arrogantly forward over a luminous and
brilliant eye; her nose is straight, her mouth small, suggesting
decision and a little petulance, her chin deep and finely moulded,
her complexion delicate as a rare piece of alabaster, while her figure
matches these distracting charms.
“I make these notes so full that I may the better summon her to my
memory. Also I note that the colors she wears are rich and bright; there
is red and there is dark green; and they seem to make her beauty stand
out with a boldness that corresponds to the dark glance of her eye. Not
that she is anything but most modest in her demeanor, but, ah! that eye!
Its glow betrays a fire deep underneath.
“Her eye meets mine again, then she says:
“'I--I don't know you. I thought you were--I mean I don't know why
you spoke to me.'
“Evidently she does not quite know how to meet the situation.
“I decide that it is the duty of a gentleman to assist her.
“'I spoke because I thought I knew you, and hoped for an instant I was
remembered.'
“'You had no business to,' she replies. Her air is haughty, but a
little theatrical. I mean that she does not entirely convince me of her
displeasure.
“'Mademoiselle, I offer you a thousand apologies. I see now that if I
had really met you before I could not possibly confuse your face with
another's. Doubtless I ought to have been more cautious, but as you
perhaps guess, I am a foreigner, and I do not understand the English
customs in these matters.'
“She receives this speech with so much complaisance that I feel
emboldened to continue.
“'I am also solitary, and meeting with a face I thought I knew seemed
providential. Do you grant me your pardon?'
“She gives a little laugh that is more than half friendly.
“'Of course--if it was a mistake.'
“'Such a pleasant mistake that I should like to continue in error,' I
reply.
“But at this she draws back, and her expression changes a little. It
does not become altogether hostile, but it undoubtedly changes.
“'May I ask you a favor?' I say, quickly, and with a modest air. 'I was
looking for a friend and have become lost in this Temple. Can you tell
me where number thirty-four is?'
“'Yes,' she replies, with a look that penetrates, and, I think, rather
enjoys, this simple ruse, 'it is next to number thirty-three.' And with
that she turns to go, so abruptly that I cannot help suspecting she also
desires to hide a smile.
“But observing that I, too, shall not waste more time here, I also turn,
and as she does not actually order me away, I walk by her side, studying
her afresh from the corner of my eye. She is of middle height, or
perhaps an inch above it; she walks with a peculiar swing that seems to
say, 'I do not care one damn for anybody,' and the expression of her
eyes and mouth bear out this sentiment.”
“Does she resent my conduct?”
“Yes, probably she does, though my demeanor is humility itself.”
“'You came to enjoy the quiet of the Temple, mademoiselle?'”
“'I was enjoying it--till I was interrupted,' she answers, still
smiling, though not in my direction.”
“I notice that she again casts her eye round the court, and I make a
reckless shot.
“'Perhaps you, too, expected to see a friend?'
“The eyes blaze at me for an instant.
“'No, I did not,' she says abruptly, and mends her pace still further.
“'I noticed another lady here before you came,' I say, mendaciously and
with a careless air, as though I thought it most natural that two ladies
should rendezvous at that hour in the Temple. She gives me a quick
glance, which I meet unruffled.
“We pass through a gate and into a side street, and here, by the most
evil fortune, a cab was standing.
“'Cabman,' says the lady, abruptly, 'are you engaged?'
“The next moment she has sprung into the cab, bade me a 'good-bye' that
seems compounded of annoyance and of laughter, with perhaps a touch
of kindness added, thrown me a swift glance of her brilliant eyes, and
jingled out of my sight. And I have not even learned her name.
“This exit of the fair Miss Unknown is made so suddenly that for half a
minute I stand with my hat in my hand still, foolishly smiling.
“Then I give an exclamation that might be deemed profane, rush round
a corner and up a street, catch a glimpse of the back of a cab
disappearing into the traffic of the Strand, leap into another, and bid
my driver pursue that hansom in front.
“Well, I had a spirited chase while it lasted, for my quarry had a swift
steed, and there were many other cabs in the Strand that would have
confused the scent for any but the most relentless sleuth-hound. It
ended in Pall Mall, where I had the satisfaction of seeing the flying
chariot deposit a stout gentleman before a most respectable club.
“I drove to my rooms with my ardor cooled and my cynicism fast
returning, and had almost landed at my door when a most surprising
coincidence occurred, so surprising that I suspect it was the
contrivance of either Providence or the devil. A cab left the door just
as I drove up, and in it sat Miss Unknown! I was too dumfounded to turn
in pursuit, and, besides, I was too curious to learn the reason of this
visit.
“By the greatest good luck the door was opened by Halfred, who in his
obliging way lent his services now and then when the maid was out.
“'Did she leave her name?' I cried.
“'Beg pardon, sir?' said Halfred, in astonishment.
“'I mean the lady who just called for me.'
“'She hasked for General Sholto, sir.'
“My face fell.
“'The devil she did!' I exclaimed.
“'Yes, sir,' said he; 'that's the lady as visits 'im sometimes.'
“I whistled.
“'Was the General at home?'
“'No, sir, but she left a message as 'ow she'd call again to-morrow
morning.'
“'Halfred,' I said, 'do not deliver that message. I shall see to it
myself.'
“And so Miss Unknown is the gay General's mysterious visitor. And I
caught her at another rendezvous. But she denied this. Bah! I do not
believe her. I trust no woman.
“On my mind is left a curious impression from this brief passage--an
impression of a beautiful wild animal, half shy, half bold, dreading
the cage, but not so much, I think, the chase. Yes, decidedly there was
something untamed in her air, in her eye, in her devil-may-care walk.
For myself a savage queen has few charms, especially if she have merely
the cannibal habit without the simplicity of attire.
“Yet, mon Dieu, I have but seen her once! Come, to-morrow may show her
in a better light. Ah, my gay dog of a General! It is unfortunate for
you that you were so anxious to make my acquaintance!”
Here ends the entry in my journal. You shall now see with what tact and
acumen I pursued this entertaining intrigue.
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