So at last the Wednesday morning came--and they could go back to
England. From that Saturday night until they left Paris Tristram's
manner of icy, polite indifference to his bride never changed. She had
no more quaking shocks nor any fear of too much ardor! He avoided every
possible moment of her society he could, and when forced to be with her
seemed aloof and bored.
And the freezing manner of Zara was caused no longer by haughty
self-defense but because she was unconsciously numb at heart.
Unknown, undreamed-of emotion came over her, whenever she chanced to
find him close, and during his long absences her thoughts followed
him--sometimes with wonderment.
Just as they were going down to start for the train on the Wednesday
morning a telegram was put into her hand. It was addressed "La Baronne
de Tancred," and she guessed at once this would be Mimo's idea of her
name. Tristram, who was already down the steps by the concierge's desk,
turned and saw her open it, with a look of intense strain. He saw that
as she read her eyes widened and stared out in front of them for a
moment, and that her face grew pale.
For Mimo had wired, "Mirko not quite so well." She crumpled the blue
paper in her hand, and followed her husband through the bowing personnel
of the hotel into the automobile. She controlled herself and was even
able to give one of her rare smiles in farewell, but when they started
she leaned back, and again her face went white. Tristram was moved. Whom
was her telegram from? She did not tell him and he would not ask, but
the feeling that there were in her life, things and interests of which
he knew nothing did not please him. And this particular thing--what was
it? Was it from a man? It had caused her some deep emotion--he could
plainly see that. He longed to ask her but was far too proud, and their
terms had grown so distant he hardly liked to express even solicitude,
which, however, he did.
"I hope you have not had any bad news?"
Then she turned her eyes upon him, and he saw that she had hardly heard
him; they looked blank.
"What?" she asked vaguely; and then, recollecting herself confusedly,
she went on, "No--not exactly--but something about which I must think."
So he was shut out of her confidence. He felt that, and carefully
avoided taking any further notice of her.
When they got to the station he suddenly perceived she was not following
him as he made way for her in the crowd, but had gone over to the
telegraph office by herself.
He waited and fumed. It was evidently something about which she wished
no one to see what she wrote, for she could perfectly well have given
the telegram to Higgins to take, who would be waiting by the saloon
door.
She returned in a few moments, and she saw that Tristram's face was very
stern. It did not strike her that he was jealous about the mystery of
the telegram; she thought he was annoyed at her for not coming on in
case they should be late, so she said hurriedly, "There is plenty of
time."
"Naturally," he answered stiffly as they walked along, "but it is quite
unnecessary for Lady Tancred to struggle through this rabble and take
telegrams herself. Higgins could have done it when we were settled in
the train."
And with unexpected meekness all she said was, "I am very sorry."
So the incident ended there--but not the uneasy impression it left.
Tristram did not even make a pretense of reading the papers when the
train moved on; he sat there staring in front of him, with his handsome
face shadowed by a moody frown. And any close observer who knew him
would have seen that there was a change in his whole expression, since
the same time the last week.
The impossible disappointment of everything! What kind of a nature could
his wife have, to be so absolutely mute and unresponsive as she had
been? He felt glad he had not given her the chance to snub him again.
These last days he had been able to keep to his determination, and at
all events did not feel himself humiliated. How long would it be before
he should cease to care for her? He hoped to God--soon, because the
strain of crushing his passionate desires was one which no man could
stand long.
The little, mutinous face, with its alluring, velvet, white skin, her
slightly full lips, all curved and red, and tempting, and anything but
cold in shape, and the extraordinary magnetic attraction of her whole
personality, made her a most dangerous thing; and then his thoughts
turned to the vision of her hair undone that he had had on that first
evening at Dover. He had said once to Francis Markrute, he remembered,
that these great passions were "storybook stuff." Good God! Well, in
those days he had not known.
He thought, as he returned from his honeymoon this day, that he could
not be more frightfully unhappy, but he was really only beginning the
anguish of the churning of his soul--if he had known.
And Zara sat in her armchair, and pretended to read; but when he glanced
at her he saw that it was a farce and that her expressive eyes were
again quite blank.
And finally, after the uncomfortable hours, they arrived at Calais and
went to the boat.
Here Zara seemed to grow anxious again and on the alert, and, stepping
forward, asked Higgins to inquire if there was a telegram for her,
addressed to the ship. But there was not, and she subsided once more
quietly and sat in their cabin.
Tristram did not even attempt to play the part of the returning
bridegroom beyond the ordinary seeing to her comfort about which he had
never failed; he left her immediately and remained for all the voyage on
deck.
And when they reached Dover Zara's expectancy showed again, but it was
not until they were just leaving the station that a telegram was thrust
through the window and he took it from the boy, while he could not help
noticing the foreign form of address. And a certainty grew in his brain
that it was "that same cursed man!"
He watched her face as she read it, and noticed the look of relief as,
quite unconscious of his presence, his bride absently spread the paper
out. And although deliberately to try and see what was written was not
what he would ever have done, his eyes caught the signature, "Mimo,"
before he was aware of it.
Mimo--that was the brute's name!
And what could he say or do? They were not really husband and wife, and
as long as she did nothing to disgrace the Tancred honor he had no valid
reason for questions or complaints.
But he burnt with suspicion, and jealousy, and pain.
Then he thought over what Francis Markrute had said the first evening,
when he had agreed to the marriage. He remembered how he had not felt it
would be chivalrous or honorable to ask any questions, once he had
blindly gone the whole length and settled she should be his; but how
Francis had gratuitously informed him that she had been an immaculate
wife until a year ago, and married to an unspeakable brute.
He knew the financier very well, and knew that he was, with all his
subtle cleverness, a man of spotless honor. Evidently, then, if there
was anything underneath he was unaware of it. But was there anything?
Even though he was angry and suspicious he realized that the bearing of
his wife was not guilty or degraded. She was a magnificently proud and
noble-looking creature, but perhaps even the noblest women could stoop
to trick from--love! And this thought caused him to jump up
suddenly--much to Zara's astonishment. And she saw the veins show on the
left side of his temple as in a knot, a peculiarity, like the horseshoe
of the Redgauntlets, which ran in the Tancred race.
Then he felt how foolish he was, causing himself suffering over an
imaginary thing; and here this piece of white marble sat opposite him in
cold silence, while his being was wrung! He suddenly understood
something which he had never done before, when he read of such things
in the papers--how, passionately loving, a man could yet kill the thing
he loved.
And Zara, comforted by the telegram, "Much better again to-day," had
leisure to return to the subject which had lately begun unconsciously to
absorb her--the subject of her lord!
She wondered what made him look so stern. His nobly-cut face was as
though it were carved in stone. Just from an abstract, artistic point of
view, she told herself, she honestly admired him and his type. It was
finer than any other race could produce and she was glad she was half
English, too. The lines were so slender and yet so strong; and every
bone balanced--and the look of superb health and athletic strength.
Such must have been the young Greeks who ran in the Gymnasium at Athens,
she thought.
And then, suddenly, an intense quiver of unknown emotion rushed over
her. And if at that moment he had clasped her and kissed her, instead of
sitting there glaring into space, the rest of this story need never have
been written!
But the moment passed, and she crushed whatever it was she felt of the
dawning of love, and he dominated the uneasy suspicions of her fidelity;
and they got out of the train at Charing Cross--after their remarkable
wedding journey.