People left by all sorts of trains and motors in the morning; but there
were still one or two remaining, when the bride and bridegroom made
their departure, in their beautiful new car with its smart servants,
which had come to fetch them, and take them to Wrayth.
And, just as the Dover young ladies on the pier had admired their
embarkation, with its _apanages_ of position and its romantic look, so
every one who saw them leave Montfitchet was alike elated. They were
certainly an ideal pair.
Zara had taken the greatest pains to dress herself in her best. She
remembered Tristram had admired her the first evening they had arrived
for this visit, when she had worn sapphire blue, so now she put on the
same colored velvet and the sable coat--yes, he liked that best, too,
and she clasped some of his sapphire jewels in her ears and at her
throat. No bride ever looked more beautiful or distinguished, with her
gardenia complexion and red burnished hair, all set off by the velvet
and dark fur.
But Tristram, after the first glance, when she came down, never looked
at her--he dared not. So they said their farewells quietly; but there
was an extra warmth and tenderness in Ethelrida's kiss, as, indeed,
there was every reason that there should be. If Zara had known! But the
happy secret was still locked in the lovers' breasts.
"Of course it must come all right, they look so beautiful!" Ethelrida
exclaimed unconsciously, waving her last wave on the steps, as the motor
glided away.
"Yes, it must indeed," whispered Francis, who was beside her, and she
turned and looked into his face.
"In twenty minutes, all the rest will be gone except the Crow, and
Emily, and Mary, and Lady Anningford, who are staying on; and oh,
Francis, how shall I get through the morning, knowing you are with
Papa!"
"I will come to your sitting-room just before luncheon time, my
dearest," he whispered back reassuringly. "Do not distress yourself--it
will be all right."
And so they all went back into the house, and Lady Anningford, who now
began to have grave suspicions, whispered to the Crow:
"I believe you are perfectly right, Crow. I am certain Ethelrida is in
love with Mr. Markrute! But surely the Duke would never permit such a
thing! A foreigner whom nobody knows anything of!"
"I never heard that there was any objection raised to Tristram marrying
his niece. The Duke seemed to welcome it, and some foreigners are very
good chaps," the Crow answered sententiously, "especially Austrians and
Russians; and he must be one of something of that sort. He has no
apparent touch of the Latin race. It's Latins I don't like."
"Well, I shall probably hear all about it from Ethelrida herself, now
that we are alone. I am so glad I decided to stay with the dear girl
until Wednesday, and you will have to wait till then, too, Crow."
"As ever, I am at your orders," he grunted, and lighting a cigar, he
subsided into a great chair to read the papers, while Lady Anningford
went on to the saloon. And presently, when all the departing guests
were gone, Ethelrida linked her arm in that of her dear friend, and drew
her with her up to her sitting-room.
"I have heaps to tell you, Anne!" she said, while she pushed her gently
into a big low chair, and herself sank into the corner of her sofa.
Ethelrida was not a person who curled up among pillows, or sat on rugs,
or little stools. All her movements, even in her most intimate moments
of affection with her friend, were dignified and reserved.
"Darling, I am thrilled," Lady Anningford responded, "and I guess it is
all about Mr. Markrute--and oh, Ethelrida, when did it begin?"
"He has been thinking of me for a long time, Anne--quite eighteen
months--but I--" she looked down, while a tender light grew in her face,
"I only began to be interested the night we dined with him--it is a
little more than a fortnight ago--the dinner for Tristram's engagement.
He said a number of things not like any one else, then, and he made me
think of him afterwards--and I saw him again at the wedding--and since
he has been here--and do you know, Anne, I have never loved any one
before in my life!"
"Ethelrida, you darling, I know you haven't!" and Anne bounded up and
gave her a hug. "And I knew you were perfectly happy, and had had a
blissful afternoon when you came down to tea yesterday. Your whole face
was changed, you pet!"
"Did I look so like a fool, Anne?" Ethelrida cried.
Then Lady Anningford laughed happily, as she answered with a roguish
eye,
"It was not exactly that, darling, but your dear cheeks were scarlet,
as though they had been exquisitely kissed!"
"Oh!" gasped Ethelrida, flaming pink, as she laughed and covered her
face with her hands.
"Perhaps he knows how to make love nicely--I am no judge of such
things--in any case, he makes me thrill. Anne, tell me, is that--that
curious sensation as though one were rather limp and yet quivering--is
that just how every one feels when they are in love?"
"Ethelrida, you sweet thing!" gurgled Anne.
Then Ethelrida told her friend about the present of books, and showed
them to her, and of all the subtlety of his ways, and how they appealed
to her.
"And oh, Anne, he makes me perfectly happy and sure of everything; and I
feel that I need never decide anything for myself again in my life!"
Which, taking it all round, was a rather suitable and fortunate
conviction for a man to have implanted in his lady love's breast, and
held out the prospect of much happiness in their future existence
together.
"I think he is very nice looking," said Anne, "and he has the most
perfect clothes. I do like a man to have that groomed look, which I must
say most Englishmen have, but Tristram has it, especially, and Mr.
Markrute, too. If you knew the despair my old man is to me with his
indifference about his appearance. It is my only crumpled rose leaf,
with the dear old thing."
"Yes," agreed Ethelrida, "I like them to be smart--and above all, they
must have thick hair. Anne, have you noticed Francis' hair? It is so
nice, it grows on his forehead just as Zara's does. If he had been bald
like Papa, I could not have fallen in love with him!"
So once more the fate of a man was decided by his hair!
And during this exchange of confidences, while Emily and Mary took a
brisk walk with the Crow and young Billy, Francis Markrute faced his
lady's ducal father in the library.
He had begun without any preamble, and with perfect calm; and the Duke,
who was above all a courteous gentleman, had listened, first with silent
consternation and resentment, and then with growing interest.
Francis Markrute had manipulated infinitely more difficult situations,
when the balance of some of the powers of Europe depended upon his
nerve; but he knew, as he talked to this gallant old Englishman, that he
had never had so much at stake, and it stimulated him to do his best.
He briefly stated his history, which Ethelrida already knew; he made no
apology for his bar sinister; indeed, he felt none was needed. He knew,
and the Duke knew, that when a man has won out as he had done, such
things fade into space. And then with wonderful taste and discretion he
had but just alluded to his vast wealth, and that it would be so
perfectly administered through Lady Ethelrida's hands, for the good of
her order and of mankind.
And the Duke, accustomed to debate and the watching of methods in men,
could not help admiring the masterly reserve and force of this man.
And, finally, when the financier had finished speaking, the Duke rose
and stood before the fire, while he fixed his eyeglass in his eye.
"You have stated the case admirably, my dear Markrute," he said, in his
distinguished old voice. "You leave me without argument and with merely
my prejudices, which I dare say are unjust, but I confess they are
strongly in favor of my own countrymen and strongly against this
union--though, on the other hand, my daughter and her happiness are my
first consideration in this world. Ethelrida was twenty-six yesterday,
and she is a young woman of strong and steady character, unlikely to be
influenced by any foolish emotion. Therefore, if you have been fortunate
enough to find favor in her eyes--if the girl loves you, in short, my
dear fellow, then I have nothing to say.--Let us ring and have a glass
of port!"
And presently the two men, now with the warmest friendship in their
hearts for one another, mounted the staircase to Lady Ethelrida's room,
and there found her still talking to Anne.
Her sweet eyes widened with a question as the two appeared at the door,
and then she rushed into her father's arms and buried her face in his
coat; and with his eyeglass very moist, the old Duke kissed her
fondly--as he muttered.
"Why, Ethelrida, my little one. This is news! If you are happy, darling,
that is all I want!"
So the whole dreaded moment passed off with rejoicing, and presently
Lady Anningford and the fond father made their exit, and left the lovers
alone.
"Oh, Francis, isn't the world lovely!" murmured Ethelrida from the
shelter of his arms. "Papa and I have always been so happy together, and
now we shall be three, because you understand him, too, and you won't
make me stay away from him for very long times, will you, dear?"
"Never, my sweet. I thought of asking the Duke, if you would wish it, to
let me take the place from him in this county, which eventually comes to
you, and I will keep on Thorpmoor, my house in Lincolnshire, merely for
the shooting. Then you would feel you were always in your own home, and
perhaps the Duke would spend much time with us, and we could come to him
here, in an hour; but all this is merely a suggestion--everything shall
be as you wish."
"Francis, you are good to me," she said.
"Darling," he whispered, as he kissed her hair, "it took me forty-six
years to find my pearl of price."
Then they settled all kinds of other details: how he would give Zara,
for her own, the house in Park Lane, which would not be big enough now
for them; and he would purchase one of those historic mansions, looking
on The Green Park, which he knew was soon to be in the market.
Ethelrida, if she left the ducal roof for the sake of his love, should
find a palace worthy of her acceptance waiting for her.
He had completely recovered his balance, upset a little the night before
by the uncomfortable momentary fear about his niece.
She and Tristram had arranged to come up to Park Lane for two nights
again at the end of the week, to say good-bye to the Dowager Lady
Tancred, who was starting with her daughters for Cannes. If he should
see then that things were still amiss, he would tell Tristram the whole
history of what Zara had thought of him. Perhaps that might throw some
light on her conduct towards him, and so things could be cleared up. But
he pinned his whole faith on youth and propinquity to arrange matters
before then, and dismissed it from his mind.
Meanwhile, the pair in question were speeding along to Wrayth.
Of all the ordeals of the hours which Tristram had had to endure since
his wedding, these occasions, upon which he had to sit close beside her
in a motor, were the worst. An ordinary young man, not in love with her,
would have found something intoxicating in her atmosphere--and how much
more this poor Tristram, who was passionately obsessed.
Fortunately, she liked plenty of window open and did not object to
smoke; but with the new air of meekness which was on her face and the
adorably attractive personal scent of the creature, nearly two hours
with her, under a sable rug, was no laughing matter.
At the end of the first half hour of silence and nearness, her husband
found he was obliged to concentrate his mind by counting sheep jumping
over imaginary stiles to prevent himself from clasping her in his arms.
It was the same old story, which has been chronicled over and over
again. Two young, human, natural, normal people fighting against iron
bars. For Zara felt the same as he, and she had the extra anguish of
knowing she had been unjust, and that the present impossible situation
was entirely her own doing.
And how to approach the subject and confess her fault? She did not know.
Her sense of honor made her feel she must, but the queer silent habit of
her life was still holding her enchained. And so, until they got into
his own country, the strained speechlessness continued, and then he
looked out and said:
"We must have the car opened now--please smile and bow as we go through
the villages when any of the old people curtsey to you; the young ones
won't do it, I expect, but my mother's old friends may."
So Zara leaned forward, when the footman had opened the landaulette top,
and tried to look radiant.
And the first act of this pitiful comedy began.