Francis Markrute also saw his niece at breakfast--or rather--just after
it. She was finishing hers in the little upstairs sitting-room which he
had allotted to her for her personal use, when he tapped at the door and
asked if he might come in.
She said "yes," and then rose, with the ceremonious politeness she
always used in her dealings with him--contemptuous, resentful politeness
for the most part.
"I have come to settle the details of your marriage," he said, while he
waved her to be seated again and took a chair himself. At the word
"marriage" her nostrils quivered, but she said nothing. She was always
extremely difficult to deal with, on account of these silences of hers.
She helped no one out. Francis Markrute knew the method himself and
admired it; it always made the other person state his case.
"You saw Lord Tancred last night. You can have no objection to him on
the ground of his person, and he is a very great gentleman, my niece, as
you will find."
Still silence.
"I have arranged with him for you to be married in October--about the
25th, I suppose. So now comes the question of your trousseau. You must
have clothes to fit you for so great a position. You had better get them
in Paris." Then he paused, struck by the fact which he had only just
noticed, that the garments she had been wearing and those she now wore
were shabby enough. He realized the reason he had not before remarked
this--her splendid carriage and air of breeding--and it gave him a
thrill of pride in her. After all, she was his own niece.
"It will be a very great joy to dress you splendidly," he said. "I would
have done so always, if I had not known where the money would go; but we
are going to settle all that now, and every one can be happy."
It was not in her nature to beg and try to secure favors for her brother
and Mimo without paying for them. She had agreed upon the
price--herself. Now all she had to do was to obtain as much as possible
for this.
"Mirko's cough has come back again," she said quietly. "Since I have
consented I want him to be able to go into the warmth without delay.
They are here in London now--he and his father--in a very poor place."
"I have thought it all out," Francis Markrute answered while he frowned,
as he always did, at the mention of Mimo. "There is a wonderfully clever
doctor at Bournemouth where the air is perfect for those delicate in the
lungs. I have communicated with him; and he will take the child into his
own house, where he will be beautifully cared for. There he can have a
tutor, and when he is stronger he can return to Paris, or to Vienna, and
have his talent for the violin cultivated. I want you to understand," he
continued, "that if you agree to my terms your brother will not be
stinted in any way."
And her thoughts said, "And Mimo?" but she felt it wiser not to ask
anything about him just then. To have Mirko cared for by a really clever
doctor, in good air, with some discipline as to bedtime, and not those
unwholesome meals, snatched at odd hours at some restaurant, seemed a
wonderfully good thing. If the little fellow would only be happy
separated from his father; that was the question!
"Are there children in the house?" she asked. Mirko was peculiar, and
did not like other little boys.
"The doctor has an only little girl of about your brother's age. He is
nine and a half, is it not so? And she is delicate, too, so they could
play together."
This sounded more promising.
"I would wish to go down and see the doctor first--and the home," she
said.
"You shall do so, of course, when you like. I will set aside a certain
sum every year, to be invested for him, so that when he grows up he will
have a competence--even a small fortune. I will have a deed drawn out
for you to sign; it shall be all _en règle_."
"That is well," she said. "And now give me some money, please, that I
may relieve their present necessities until my brother can go to this
place. I do not consent to give myself, unless I am certain that I free
those I love from anxieties. I should like, immediately, a thousand
francs. Forty pounds of your money, isn't it?"
"I will send the notes up in a few minutes," Francis Markrute said. He
was in the best of tempers to-day. "Meanwhile, that part of the
arrangement being settled, I must ask you to pay some attention to the
thought of seeing your fiancé."
"I do not wish to see him," she announced.
Her uncle smiled.
"Possibly not, but it is part of the bargain. You can't marry the man
without seeing him. He will come and call upon you this afternoon, and,
no doubt, will bring you a ring. I trust to your honor not to show so
plainly your dislike that no man could carry through his side. Please
remember your brother's welfare depends upon your actual marriage. If
you cause Lord Tancred to break off the match the bargain between you
and me is void."
The black panther's look again appeared in her eyes, and an icy
stillness settled upon her. But she began to speak rather fast, with a
catch in the breath between the sentences.
"Then, since you wish this so much for your own ends, which I cannot
guess, I tell you, arrange for me to go to Paris, alone, away from him,
until the wedding day. He must hate the thought as much as I do. We are
probably both only marionettes in your hands. Explain to the man that I
will not go through the degradation of the pretence of an engagement,
especially here in this England, where, _Maman_ said, they parade
affections, and fiancés are lovers. _Mon Dieu!_ I will play my part--for
the visits of ceremony to his family, which I suppose must take place
even here--but beyond that, after to-day, I will not see him alone nor
have any communication with him. Is it understood?"
Francis Markrute looked at her with growing admiration. She was
gorgeously attractive in this mood. He obtained endless pleasure out of
life by his habit of abstract observation. He was able to watch people
in the throes of emotion, like a master seeing his hunters being put
through their paces.
"It shall be understood," he said. He knew it was wiser to insist upon
no more; her temper would never brook it. He knew he could count upon
her honor and her pride to fulfill her part of the bargain if she were
not exasperated beyond bearing.
"I will explain everything to Lord Tancred at luncheon," he said, "that
you will receive him this afternoon, and that then you are going to
Paris, and will not return until the wedding. You will concede the
family interviews that are absolutely necessary, I suppose?"
"I have already said so; only let them be few and short."
"Then I will not detain you longer now. You are a beautiful woman,
Zara," Francis Markrute said, as he rose and kissed her hand. "None of
the royal ladies, your ancestresses, ever looked more like a queen." And
he bowed himself out of the room, leaving her in her silence.
When she was alone she clenched her hands and walked up and down for a
few moments, and her whole serpentine body writhed with passionate anger
and pain.
Yes, she was a beautiful woman, and had a right to her life and joys
like another--and now she was to be tied, and bound again to a husband!
_"Les Infâmes!"_ she hissed aloud. "But for that part, I will not bear
it! Until the wedding I will dissemble as best I can--but afterwards--!"
And if Lord Tancred could have seen her then he would have known that
all the courage he had used when he faced the big lion would be needed
soon again.
But before a servant brought up the envelope with the notes she had
calmed herself and was preparing to go out. The good part of the news
must be told to the two poor ones in their Tottenham Court Road retreat.
As she sped along in the taxi--her uncle had placed one of his several
motors at her disposal, but it was not for such localities--she argued
with herself that it would be wiser not to give Mimo all the money at
once. She knew that that would mean not only the necessary,
instantaneous move to a better lodging, but an expensive dinner at the
nearest restaurant as well, and certainly bonbons and small presents for
Mirko, and new clothes; twice as much would be spent, if credit could be
obtained; and then there would be the worry of the bills and the
anxiety. If only Mirko would consent to be parted from his fond and
irresponsible parent for a time it would be so much better for his
health, and his chance of becoming of some use in the world. Mimo always
meant so kindly and behaved so foolishly! With the money she personally
would get for her bargain Mimo should, somehow, be made comfortable in
some studio in Paris where he could paint those pictures which would not
sell, and might see his friends--he had still a few who, when his
clothes were in a sufficiently good state, welcomed him and his
charming, debonair smile. Mimo could be a delightfully agreeable guest,
even though he was changed by years and poverty.
And Mirko would be in healthy surroundings; surely it was worth it,
after all!
The taxi drew up in the mean street and she got out, paid the man, and
then knocked at the dingy door.
A slatternly, miserable, little general servant opened it. No, the
foreign gentleman and the little boy were not in, they said they would
be back in a few minutes--would the lady step up and wait? She followed
the lumpy, untidy figure upstairs to a large attic at the top. It was
always let as a studio, apparently. It had a fine northern light from a
big window, and was quite clean, though the wretched furniture spoke of
better days.
Cleanliness was one of Count Sykypri's peculiarities; he always kept
whatever room he was in tidy and clean. This orderly instinct seemed at
variance with all the rest of his easy-going character. It was the
fastidiousness of a gentleman, which never deserted him. Now Zara
recognized the old traveling rug hung on two easels, to hide the little
iron beds where he and Mirko slept. The new wonder, which would be bound
to sell, was begun there on a third easel. It did not look extremely
promising at its present stage. Mirko's violin and his father's, in
their cases, were on a chair beside a small pile of music; the water-jug
had in it a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums probably bought off a barrow.
The Countess Shulski had been through many vicissitudes with these two
since her husband's death, but seldom--only once perhaps--had they gone
down to such poverty-stricken surroundings. Generally it was some small
apartment in Paris, or Florence, that they occupied, with rather scanty
meals when the end of the quarter came. During Count Shulski's life she
had always either lived in some smart villa at Nice, or led a wandering
existence in hotels; and for months at a time, in later years, when he
disappeared, upon his own pleasures bent, he would leave her in some old
Normandy farmhouse, only too thankful to be free from his hateful
presence. Here Mimo and Mirko would join her, and while they painted and
played, she would read. Her whole inner life was spent with books. Among
the shady society her husband had frequented she had been known as "The
Stone." She never unbent, and while her beauty and extraordinary type
attracted all the men she came across they soon gave up their pursuit.
She was quite hopeless, they said--and half-witted, some added! No woman
could sit silent like that for hours, otherwise. Zara thought of all
these things, as she sat on the rickety chair in the Neville Street
lodging. How she had loathed that whole atmosphere! How she loathed
bohemians and adventurers, no words could tell.
While her mother had lived there had been none of them about. For all
her personal downfall, Elinka, Markrute's sister, and an emperor's
daughter, remained an absolute _grande dame_--never mixing or mingling
with any people but her own belongings.
But now that she was dead, poor Mimo had sometimes gone for company into
a class other than his own.
As yet Zara's thoughts had not turned upon her new existence which was
to be. She had drawn a curtain over it in her mind. She knew but vaguely
about life in England, she had never had any English friends. One or two
gamblers had often come to the Nice villa, but except that they were
better looking types and wore well made clothes, she had classed them
with the rest of her husband's acquaintances. She had read numbers of
English classics but practically no novels, so she could not very well
picture a state of things she was ignorant about. Sufficient for the day
was the evil thereof.
She was getting slightly impatient when at last the two came in.
They had been told of her arrival; she knew that by their glad, hurried
mounting of the stairs and the quick opening of the door.
"Chérisette, Angel! But what joy!" And Mirko hurled himself into her
arms, while Mimo kissed her hand. He never forgot his early palace
manners.
"I have brought you good news," she said, as she drew out two ten-pound
notes. "I have made my uncle see reason. Here is something for the
present. He has such a kind and happy scheme for Mirko's health. Listen,
and I will tell you about it."
They clustered around her while she explained in the most attractive
manner she could the picture of the boy's future, but in spite of all
that, his beautiful little face fell as he grasped that he was to leave
his father.
"It will only be for a time, darling," Zara said, "just until you get
quite well and strong, and learn some lessons. All little boys go to
school, and come home for the holidays. You know _Maman_ would have
wished you to be educated like a gentleman."
"But I hate other boys, and you have taught me so well. Oh! Chérisette,
what shall I do? And to whom play my violin, who will understand?"
"Oh, but Mirko mio, it is a splendid offer! Think, dear child, a
comfortable home and no anxieties," Mimo said. "Truly your sister is an
angel, and you must not be so ungrateful. Your cough will get quite
well; perhaps I can come and lodge in the town, and we could walk
together."
But Mirko pouted. Zara sighed and clasped her hands.
"If you only knew how hard it has been to obtain this much," she said,
with despair in her voice. "Oh, Mirko, if you love me you will accept
it! Can't you trust me that I would not ask you to go where they are
hard or cruel? I am going down to the place to-morrow, to see it and
judge for myself. Won't you be good and try to please me?"
Then the little cripple fell to sobbing and kissing her, nestling in her
arms with his curly head against her neck.
But in the end she comforted him, the never varying gentleness toward
him which she showed would have soothed the most peevish invalid.
So at last she was able to feel that her sacrifice, of which they must
always remain ignorant, would not be all in vain; Mirko appeared
reconciled to his fate, and would certainly benefit by more healthy
surroundings. Instinct told her there would be no use even suggesting to
her uncle that the child should stay with Mimo, the situation would have
become an _impasse_ if the boy had held out, and between them they would
have had only this forty pounds until Christmas--and then very little
more--and the life of hand-to-mouth poverty would have gone on and on,
while here were comfort and probable health, with a certainty of
welfare, and education, and a competence in the future. And who knows
but Mirko might grow into a great artist one day!
This possible picture she painted in glowing colors until the child's
pathetic, dark eyes glistened with pleasure.
Then she became practical; they must change their lodging and find a
better one. But here Mimo interfered. They were really very comfortable
where they were, he urged, humble though it looked, and changing was
unpleasant. If they were able to buy some linen sheets and a new suit of
clothes for each it would be much better to stay for the present, until
Mirko's going to Bournemouth should be completely settled. "And even
then," Count Sykypri said, "it will do for me. No one cooks garlic here,
and there is no canary!"