INGOMEDE THE BEAUTIFUL
A light, chilling drizzle had been falling all evening, pattering softly
upon the roof of leaves that covered the sidewalks along Castle Avenue,
glistening on the lamp-lit pavements and blowing ever so gently in the
faces of those who walked in the dripping shades. Far back from the
shimmering sidewalks, surrounded by the blackest of shadows, and
approached by hedge-bordered paths and driveways, stood the mansions
occupied by the nobility of this gay little kingdom. A score or more of
ancient palaces, in which the spirit, of modern aggression had wrought
interior changes but had left the exteriors untouched, formed this
aristocratic line of homes. Here were houses that had been built in the
fifteenth century,--great, square, solemn-looking structures, grown grey
and green with age.
There were lights in a thousand windows along this misty, royal
road--lights that reflected the pleasures of the rich and yet caused no
envy in time hearts of the loyal poor.
Almost in the centre of the imposing line stood the home of the Duke of
Perse, Minister of Finance, flanked on either side by structures as grim
and as gay as itself, yet far less significant in their generation. Here
dwelt the most important man in the principality, not excepting the
devoted prime minister himself. Not that Perse was so well beloved, but
that he held the destinies of the land in Midas-like fingers. More than
that, he was the father of the far-famed Countess Marlanx, the most
glorious beauty at the Austrian and Russian courts. She had gone forth
from Graustark as its most notable bride since the wedding day of the
Princess Yetive, late in the nineties. Ingomede, the beautiful, had
journeyed far to the hymeneal altar; the husband who claimed her was a
hated, dishonoured man in his own land. They were married in Buda Pesth.
All Europe pitied her at the time; there was but one form of prophecy as
to her future. There were those who went so far as to say that her
father had delivered her into the hands of a latter-day Bluebeard, who
whisked her off into the highlands many leagues from Vienna.
She was seen no more in the gay courts for a year. Then, of a sudden,
she appeared before them all, as dazzlingly beautiful as ever, but with
a haunting, wistful look in her dark eyes that could not be mistaken.
The old Count found an uneasy delight in exhibiting her to the world
once more, plainly as a bit of property that all men were expected to
look upon with envy in their hearts. She came up out of the sombre
hills, freed from what must have been nothing less than captivity in
that once feudal castle, to prove to his world that she thrived in spite
of prophetic babblers. They danced from court to court, grotesquely
mis-mated, deceiving no one as to the true relations that existed
between them. She despised him without concealment; he took pride in
showing that he could best resent her attitude by the most scrupulous
devotion, so marked that its intent could not be mistaken.
Then the Duke of Perse resumed his residence in Edelweiss, opening the
old palace once more to the world. His daughter, after the death of the
Princess, began her extended visits to the home of her girlhood. So long
as the Princess was alive she remained away from Edelweiss, reluctant to
meet the friend who had banished her husband long before the wedding
day in Buda Pesth. Now she came frequently and stayed for weeks at a
time, apparently happy during these escapes from life in the great
capitals. Here, at least, she was free from the grim old man whose
countess she was; here, all was sweet and warm and friendly, delicious
contrast to the cold, bitter life she knew on the Danube.
Without warning she came and without farewells she left Edelweiss on the
occasion of these periodical visits. No word was ever spoken concerning
her husband, except on the rare occasions when she opened her heart to
the father who had bartered her into slavery for the sake of certain
social franchises that the Iron Count had at his disposal. The outside
world, which loved her, never heard of these bitter passages between
father and child. Like Cinderella, she sometimes disappeared from joyous
things at midnight; the next heard of her, she was in Vienna, or at
Schloss Marlanx.
If the Duke of Perse repented of his bargain in giving his daughter to
the Iron Count, he was never known to intimate as much. He loved
Ingomede in his own, hard way. No doubt he was sorry for her. It is a
fact that she was sorry for him. She could read his bitter thoughts more
clearly than he suspected.
Of late she came more frequently to Edelweiss than before. She was seen
often at the Castle; no court function was complete without the presence
of this lovely noblewoman; no _salon_ worth while unless graced by her
wit and her beauty.
John Tullis was always to remember the moment when he looked upon this
exquisite creature for the first time. That was months ago. After that
he never ceased being a secret, silent worshipper at her transient
shrine.
Ten o'clock on this rainy night: A carriage has drawn up before the
lower gates to the Perse grounds, and a tall, shadowy figure leaves it
to hurry through the shrub lined walks to the massive doors. A watchman
in the garden salutes him. The tall figure dips his umbrella in
response, characteristically laconic. A footman lifts his hand to his
forelock at the top of the steps and throws open the doors without
question. This visitor is expected, it is plain to be seen; a
circumstance which may or may not explain the nervousness that attends
him as he crosses the broad hall toward the library.
Tullis had long since ceased to be a welcome visitor in the home of the
Duke of Perse. The men were openly unfriendly to each other. The Duke
resented the cool interference of the sandy-haired American; on the
other hand, Tullis made no effort to conceal his dislike, if not
distrust, of the older man. He argued--with unofficial and somewhat
personal authority,--that a man who could trade his only child for
selfish ends might also be impelled to sacrifice his country's interests
without cramping his conscience.
The Countess was alone in the long, warm-tinted library. She stood
before the dying embers in the huge old fireplace, her foot upon one of
the great iron dogs. Her smiling face was turned toward the door as he
entered.
"It is good of you to come," she said, as they shook hands warmly. "Do
you know it is almost a year since you last came to this house?"
"It would be a century, Countess, if I were not welcomed in other houses
where I am sure of a glimpse of you from time to time and a word now and
then. Still, a year's a year. The room hasn't changed so far as I can
see. The same old tiger-skin there, the rugs, the books, the
pictures--the leopard's skin here and the--yes, the lamp is just where
it used to be. 'Pon my soul, I believe you are standing just as you were
when I last saw you here. It's uncanny. One might think you had not
moved in all these months!"
"Or that it has been a minute instead of a year," she supplemented. His
quick, involuntary glance about him did not escape her understanding.
"The Duke has gone to Ganlook to play Bridge with friends," she said at
once. "He will not return till late. I have just telephoned--to make
sure." Her smile did more than to reassure him.
"Of course, you will understand how impossible it is for me to come
here, Countess. Your father, the Duke, doesn't mince matters, and I'm
not quite a fool." Tullis squinted at the fire.
"Do you think ill of me for asking you to come to-night?"
"Not at all," he said cheerfully, "so long as you are quite sure that
your father is in Ganlook. He would be perfectly justified in kicking me
out if he were to catch me here. And as I'm rather cumbersome and he's
somewhat venerable, I don't like to think of the jar it would be to his
system. But, so long as he isn't here, and I am, why shouldn't I draw up
a chair before the fire for you, and another for myself, with the
cigarettes and a world between us, to discuss conditions as they are,
not as they might be if we were discovered? Shall I? Good! I defy any
one's father to get me out of this chair until I am ready to relinquish
it voluntarily."
"I suppose you superintended the 'going-to-bed' of Prince Robin before
you left the Castle?" she said, lying back in the comfortable chair and
stretching her feet out to the fire. He handed her a match and watched
her light the long, ridiculously thin cigarette.
"Yes. I never miss it, Countess. The last thing he does, after saying
his prayers, is to recall me from exile. He wouldn't be happy if he
couldn't do that. He says amen and hops into bed. Then he grins in a far
from imperial way and announces that he's willing to give me another
chance, and please won't I tell him the latest news concerning
Jack-the-giant-killer. He asked me to-night if I thought you'd mind if
he banished your father. They've had a children's quarrel, I believe. If
you do mind, I am to let him know: he won't banish him. He's very fond
of you, Countess." She laughed gaily.
"He is a dear boy. I adore him. I think I quite understand why you are
giving up your life to him. At first I wasn't sure."
"You thought I expected to gain something by it, is not that so? Well,
there are a great many people who think so still--your father among
them. They'll never understand. I don't blame them, for, I declare to
you, I don't fully appreciate it myself. John Tullis playing nurse and
story-teller to a seven-year-old boy, to the exclusion of everything
else, is more than I can grasp. Somehow, I've come to feel that he's
mine. That must be the reason. But you've heard me prate on this subject
a hundred times. Don't let me start it again. There's something else you
want to talk to me about, so please don't encourage me to tell all the
wonderful things he has said and done to-day."
"It is of the Prince that I want to speak, Mr. Tullis," she said,
suddenly serious. "I don't care to hear whether he stubbed his toe
to-day or just how much he has grown since yesterday, but I do want to
talk very seriously with you concerning his future--I might say his
immediate future."
He looked at her narrowly.
"Are you quite serious?"
"Quite. I could not have asked you to come to this house for anything
trivial. We have become very good friends, you and I. Too good, perhaps,
for I've no doubt there are old tabbies in Edelweiss who are provoked to
criticism--you know what I mean. Their world is full of imaginary
affairs, else what would there be left for old age? But we are good
friends and we understand why we are good friends, so there's the end to
that. As I say, I could not have asked so true a friend into the house
of his enemy for the mere sake of having my vanity pleased by his
obedience."
"I am quite sure of that," he said. "Are you in trouble, Countess? Is
there anything I can do?"
"It has to do with the Prince, not with me," she said. "And yet I am in
trouble--or perhaps I should say, I am troubled."
"The Prince is a sturdy little beggar," he began, but she lifted her
hand in protest.
"And he has sturdy, loyal friends. That is agreed. And yet--" she
paused, a perplexed line coming between her expressive eyes.
John Tullis opened his own eyes very wide. "You don't mean to say that
he is--he is in peril of any sort?"
She looked at him a long time before speaking. He could feel that she
was turning something over in her mind before giving utterance to the
thought.
At last she leaned nearer to him, dropping the ash from her cigarette
into the receiver as she spoke slowly, intensely. "I think he is in
peril--in deadly peril."
He stared hard. "What do you mean?" he demanded, with an involuntary
glance over his shoulder. She interpreted that glance correctly.
"The peril is not here, Mr. Tullis. I know what you are thinking. My
father is a loyal subject. The peril I suggest never comes to
Graustark."
She said no more but leaned forward, her face whiter than its wont. He
frowned, but it was the effect of temporary perplexity. Gradually the
meaning of her simple, though significant remark filtered through his
brain.
"Never comes to Graustark?" he almost whispered. "You don't--you can't
mean your--your husband?"
"I mean Count Marlanx," she said steadily.
"He means evil to Prince Robin? Good Heavens, Countess, I--I can't
believe it. I know he is bitter, revengeful, and all that, but--"
"He is all that and more," she said. "First, you must let me impress you
that I am not a traitor to his cause. I could not be that, for the
sufficient reason that I only suspect its existence. I am not in any
sense a part of it. I do not _know_ anything. I only feel. I dare say
you realise that I do not love Count Marlanx--that there is absolutely
nothing in common between us except a name. We won't go into that. I--"
"I am overjoyed to hear you say this, Countess," he said very seriously.
"I have been so bold on occasion as to assert--for your private ear, of
course--that you could not, by any freak of nature, happen to care for
Count Marlanx, whom I know only by description. You have laughed at my
so-called American wit, and you have been most tolerant. Now, I feel
that I am justified. I'm immeasurably glad to hear you confess that you
do not love your husband."
"I cannot imagine any one so stupid as to think that I do love Count
Marlanx, for that matter, that he loves me. Still, I am relieved to hear
you say that you are glad. It simplifies the present for us, and that is
what we are to discuss."
"You are very, very beautiful, and young, and unhappy," he said
irrelevantly, a darker glow in his cheeks. She smiled serenely, without
a trace of diffidence or protest.
"I can almost believe it, you say it so convincingly," she said. For a
moment she relaxed luxuriantly into an attitude of physical enjoyment of
herself, surveying her toe-tips with a thoughtfulness that comprehended
more; and then as abruptly came back to the business of the moment. "You
must not spoil it all by saying it too fervently," she went on with a
smile of warning. He gave a short laugh of confusion and sank back in
the chair.
"You have never tried to make love to me," she went on. "That's what I
like about you. I think most men are silly, not because I am so very
young, but because my husband is so ridiculously old. Don't you think
so? But, never mind! I see you are quite eager to answer--that's enough.
Take another cigarette and--listen to what I am going to say." He
declined the cigarette with a shake of his head.
After a moment she went on resolutely: "As I said before, I do not know
that my suspicions are correct. I have not even breathed them to my
father. He would have laughed at me. My husband is a Graustarkian, even
as I am, but there is this distinction between us: he despises
Graustark, while I love her in every drop of my blood. I know that in
his heart he has never ceased to brew evil for the throne that disgraced
him. He openly expresses his hatred for the present dynasty, and has
more than once said in public gatherings that he could cheerfully assist
in its utter destruction. That, of course, is commonly known in
Graustark, where he is scorned and derided. But he is not a man to serve
his hatred with mere idle words and inaction." She stopped for a moment,
and then cried impulsively: "I must first know that you will not
consider me base and disloyal in saying these things to you. After all,
he is my husband."
He saw the faint curl of her lip. "Before that," he argued simply, "you
were a daughter of Graustark. You were not born to serve a cause that
means evil to the dear land. Graustark first made you noble; you can't
go back on that, you know. Don't let your husband degrade you. I think
you can see how I feel about it. Please believe that I know you can do
no wrong."
"Thank you," she said, returning the look in his earnest grey eyes with
one in which the utmost confidence shone. "You are the only man to whom
I feel sure that I can reveal myself and be quite understood. It isn't
as if I had positive facts to divulge, for I have not; they are
suspicions, fears, that's all, but they are no longer vague shapes to
me; they mean something."
"Tell me," he said quietly. He seemed to square his broad shoulders and
to set his jaw firmly, as if to resist physical attack. She knew she had
come with her fears to a man in whose face it was declared that he could
laugh at substance as well as shadow.
"I am seeing you here in this big room, openly, for the simple reason
that if I am being watched this manner of meeting may be above
suspicion. We may speak freely here, for we cannot be heard unless we
raise our voices. Don't betray surprise or consternation. The eyes of
the wall may be better than its ears."
"You don't mean to say you are being watched here in your father's
house?" he demanded.
"I don't know. This I do know: the Count has many spies in Edelweiss. He
is systematically apprised of everything that occurs at court, in the
city, or in the council chamber. So you see, he is being well served,
whether to an evil purpose or to satisfy his own innate curiosity, I do
not know. He has reports almost daily,--voluminous things, partly in
cipher, partly free, and he is forever sending men away on secret,
mysterious missions. Understand, I do not know that he is actually
planning disaster to Graustark. Day before yesterday I saw his secretary
in the streets--a man who has been in his employ for five years or more
and who now pretends to be a lawyer here. His name is Brutus. I spoke
with him. He said that he had left the Count six weeks ago in Vienna,
determined to set out for himself in his chosen profession. He knows, of
course, that I am not and never have been in the confidences of my
husband. I asked him if it was known in Edelweiss that he had served the
Count as secretary. He promptly handed me one of his business cards, on
which he refers to himself as the former trusted and confidential
secretary of Count Marlanx. Now, I happen to know that he is still in my
husband's service,--or was no longer ago than last week."
"My dear Countess, he may be serving him legitimately as an attorney.
There would be nothing strange in that."
"But he is still serving him as confidential secretary. He is here for a
purpose, as my husband's representative. I have not been asleep all
these months at Schloss Marlanx. I have seen and heard enough to
convince me that some great movement is on foot. My intelligence tells
me that it has to do with Graustark. As he wishes the Prince no good, it
must be for evil." "But there is nothing he can do. He has no following
here. The Prince is adored by the people. Count Marlanx would not be
such a fool as to--"
"He is no fool," she interrupted quickly. "That's why I am afraid. If he
is plotting against the Crown, you may depend upon it he is laying his
plans well. John Tullis, that man is a devil--a devil incarnate." She
turned her face away.
A spasm of utter repugnance crossed her face; she shuddered so violently
that his hand went forth to clutch the fingers that trembled on the arm
of the chair. He held them in his firm grasp for a moment. They looked
into each other's eyes and he saw the flicker of undisguised horror in
hers. An instant later she was herself again. Withdrawing her hand, she
added, with a short laugh of derision: "Still I did not expect heaven,
so why complain."
"But you are an angel," he blurted out.
"I don't believe the Count will agree to that," she said, with a
reflective twinkle in her dark eyes. "He has not found me especially
angelic. If you imagine that I cannot scratch back, my dear friend, you
are very much mistaken. I have had the pleasure of giving him more than
one bad half hour. You may be sure he has never called me an angel.
Quite the other thing, I assure you. But we are straying from the
point."
"Wait a moment, please," he commanded. "I want to say to you here and
now: you are the gentlest, loveliest woman I have ever known. I don't
say it idly. I mean it. If you gave him half as good as he sent, I
rejoice in your spirit. Now, I want to ask if you expect to go back to
live with the da--with him."
"That, Mr. Tullis, is hardly a matter I can discuss with you," she said
gently, and he was not offended.
"Perhaps not, Countess, but now is the time for you to decide the issue.
Why should you return to Castle Marlanx? Why keep up the farce--or I
might say, tragedy--any longer? You love Graustark. You love the Prince.
You betray them both by consorting with their harshest foe. Oh, I could
tell you a thousand reasons why--"
"We haven't time for them," she interrupted, with mock despair in her
face. "Besides, I said we cannot discuss it. It requires no learned
argument to move me, one way or the other. I can decide for myself."
"You should divorce him," he said harshly.
She laughed easily, softly. "My good friend, if I did that, I'd lose
your friendship." He opened his lips to remonstrate, but suddenly caught
the undercurrent of the naive remark.
"By Jove," he said, his eyes glowing, "you must not risk finding me too
obtuse."
"Bravo!" she cried. "You are improving."
"I could provide a splendid substitute for the friendship you speak of,"
he said coolly.
"Poof! What is that to me? I could have a hundred lovers--but, ach,
friends are the scarcest things in the world. I prefer friendship. It
lasts. There! I see disapproval in your face! You Americans are so
literal." She gazed into the fireplace for a moment, her lips parted in
a whimsical smile. He waited for her to go on; the words were on her
tongue's end, he could tell. "A divorce at twenty-five. I believe that
is the accepted age, isn't it? If one gets beyond that, she--but, enough
of this!" She sprang to her feet and stood before him, the flash dying
in her eyes even as it was born that he might see so briefly. "We
diverge! You must go soon. It is best not to be seen leaving here at a
very late hour--especially as my father is known to be away. I am afraid
of Peter Brutus. He is here to watch--_everybody_."
She was leaning against the great carved mantel post, a tall, slender,
lissome creature, exquisitely gowned in rarest Irish lace, her bare neck
and shoulders gleaming white against the dull timbers beyond, the faint
glow from the embers creeping up to her face with the insistence of a
maiden's flush. He gazed in rapt admiration, his heart thumping like
fury in his great breast. She was little more than a girl, this wife of
old Marlanx, and yet how wise, how clever, how brilliant she was!
A face of unusual pallor and extremely patrician in its modelling,
surmounted by a coiffure so black that it could be compared only to
ebony--black and almost gleaming with the life that was in it. It came
low on her forehead, shading the wondrous dark eyes--eyes that were a
deep yellowish green in their division between grey and black, eyes that
were soft and luminous and unwaveringly steadfast, impelling in their
power to fascinate, yet even more dangerously compassionate when put to
the test that tries woman's vanity.
There were diamonds on her long, tapering fingers, and a rope of pearls
in her hair. A single wide gold band encircled her arm above the elbow,
an arm-band as old as the principality itself, for it had been worn by
twenty fair ancestors before her. The noblewomen of Graustark never wore
bracelets on their wrists; always the wide chased gold band on the upper
arm. There was a day, not so far back in history, when they wore bands
on their ankles.
She was well named Ingomede, the Beautiful.
A soft, almost imperceptible perfume, languorous in its appeal to the
senses, exuded from this perfect creation; added to this, the subtle,
unfailing scent of young womanhood; the warm, alive feel of her presence
in the atmosphere; a suggestion of something sensuous, clean, pure,
delicious. The undescribable.
"Does Baron Dangloss know this man Brutus?" asked Tullis, arising to
stand beside her. A sub-conscious, triumphant thrill shot through him as
an instantaneous flash of his own physical superiority over this girl's
husband came over him. He was young and strong and vital. He could feel
the sensation of being strong; he tingled with the glory of it. He was
thirty-five, Marlanx seventy. He wondered if Marlanx had ever been as
strong as he.
"I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "I have not spoken to him
concerning Brutus. Perhaps he knows. The Baron is very wise. Let me tell
you how I happen to know that Peter Brutus is still serving Count
Marlanx and why I think his presence signifies a crisis of some sort."
Tullis stood facing the great fireplace, his back to the hail. He
observed that she looked toward the doors quite as often as she looked
at him; it struck him that she was extremely cautious despite her
apparent ease.
Her voice, always low and even, second lower still. "In the first place,
I have a faithful friend in one of the oldest retainers at Schloss
Marlanx. His daughter is my maid. She is here with me now. The old man
came to see Josepha one day last week. He had accompanied Count Marlanx
to the town of Balak, which is in Axphain, a mile beyond the Graustark
line. Peter Brutus was with my husband in Balak for two days. They were
closeted together from morning till night in the house where Marlanx
was stopping. At the end of two days Brutus went away, but he carried
with him a vast sum of money provided by my husband. It was given out
that he was on his way to Serros in Dawsbergen, where he expected to
purchase a business block for his master. Marlanx waited another day in
Balak, permitting Josepha's father to come on to Edelweiss with a
message for me and to see his daughter. He--"
"And Josepha's father saw Brutus in Edelweiss?"
"No. But he did see him going into Balak as he left for Edelweiss that
morning. He wore a disguise, but Jacob says he could not be mistaken.
Moreover, he was accompanied by several men whom he recognised as
Graustark mountaineers and hunters of rather unsavoury reputation. They
left Brutus at the gates of Balak and went off into the hills. All this
happened before I knew that Peter was living in Edelweiss. When I saw
him here, I knew at once that his presence meant something sinister. I
can put many things together that once puzzled me--the comings and
goings of months, the secret reports and consultations, the queer
looking men who came to the Castle, the long absences of my husband and
my--my own virtual imprisonment--yes, imprisonment. I was not permitted
to leave the castle for days at a time during his absences."
"Surely you will not go back again"--he began hotly.
"Sh!" She put a finger to her lips. A man-servant was quietly crossing
the hall just off the library. "He is a new man. I do not like his
appearance."
"Do you think he heard us or observed anything? I can make short work of
him if--" He paused significantly. She smiled up into his face.
"He did not hear anything. We've frightened him off, if he intended to
play the eavesdropper." The servant had disappeared through a door at
the end of the hall.
"Then there were the great sums of money that my husband sent off from
time to time, and the strange boxes that came overland to the castle and
later went away again as secretly as they came. Mr. Tullis, I am
confident in my mind that those boxes contained firearms and ammunition.
I have thought it all out. Perhaps I am wrong, but it seems to me that I
can almost see those firearms stored away in the caves and cabins
outside of Edelweiss, ready for instant use when the signal comes."
"God! An uprising? A plot so huge as that?" he gasped, amazed. It is
fortunate that he was not facing the door; the same servant, passing
once more, might have seen the tell-tale consternation in his eyes. "It
cannot be possible! Why, Dangloss and his men would have scented it long
ago."
"I have not said that I am sure of anything, remember that. I leave it
to you to analyse. You have the foundation on which to work. I'd advise
you to waste no time. Something tells me that the crisis is near at
hand."
"Why should Josepha's father tell these things to you?"
"Because, if you will pardon my frankness, I have protected his daughter
against Count Marlanx. He understands. And yet he would not betray a
trust imposed upon him even by the Count. He has only told me what any
one else might have seen with his own eyes. Wait! The new servant is in
the hall again." She clapped her hands sharply and called out "Franz!"
The new man appeared in the doorway almost on the instant. "You may
replenish the fire, Franz." The man, a sallow, precise fellow, crossed
deliberately and poked the half dead fire; with scrupulous care he
selected two great chunks of wood from the hopper near by and laid them
on the coals, the others watching his movements with curious interest.
There was nothing about the fellow to indicate that he was other than
what he pretended to be.
"Isn't it strange that we should have fires in July?" she asked
casually. "The mountain air and the night fogs make it absolutely
necessary in these big old houses."
"We had a jolly fire in the Prince's room when I left the Castle. Our
monarch is subject to croup, you see."
"That is all, Franz." The man bowed and left the room. "What do you
think of him?" she asked, after a moment.
"He has a very bad liver," was all Tullis deigned to offer in response.
The Countess stared for a moment and then laughed understandingly. "I
think he needs a change."
"I have a strange feeling that he is but one of a great many men who are
in Edelweiss for the purposes I mentioned before. Now I have a favour to
ask of you. Will you take this matter up with Baron Dangloss as if on
your own initiative? Do not mention me in any way. You can understand
why I ask this of you. Let them believe that the suspicions are yours. I
trust you to present them without involving me."
"Trust me, my dear Countess. I am a very diplomatic liar. You need have
no fear. I shall find a quick way of getting my friend Dangloss on the
right track. It may be a wild goose chase, but it is best to be on the
safe side. May I now tell you how greatly I appreciate your confidence
in--"
She stopped him with a glance. "No, you may not tell me. There is
nothing more to be said."
"I think I understand," he said gently.
"Let us change the subject. I have uttered my word to the wise. Eh bien!
It may not be so bad as I think. Let us hope so, at least."
"I have a vague notion that you'd rejoice if we should catch your ogre
and chop his head off," said he, coolly lighting a fresh cigarette. She
liked his assurance. He was not like other men.
Glancing up at his sandy thatch, she said, with a rueful droop at the
corners of her mouth, a contradictory smile in her eyes: "I shall
rejoice more if you do not lose your head afterwards."
"_Double entendre_?"
"Not at all."
"I thought, perhaps, you referred to an unhappy plight that already
casts its shadow before," he said boldly. "I may lose everything else,
my dear Countess, but _not_ my head."
"I believe you," she said, strangely serious. "I shall remember that."
She knew this man loved her.
"Sit down, now, and let us be comfy. We are quite alone," she added
instantly, a sudden confusion coming over her. "First, will you give me
that box of candy from the table? Thank you so much for sending it to
me. How in the world do you manage to get this wonderful New York candy
all the way to Graustark? It is quite fresh and perfectly delicious."
"Oh, Fifth Avenue isn't so far away as you think," he equivocated. "It's
just around the corner--of the world. What's eight or nine thousand
miles to a district messenger boy? I ring for one and he fetches the
candy, before you can wink your eye or say Jack Robinson. It's a
marvellous system."
He watched her white teeth set themselves daintily in the rich nougat;
then the red lips closed tranquilly only to open again in a smile of
rapture. For reasons best known to himself, he chose not to risk losing
the thing he had vowed not to lose. He turned his head--and carefully
inspected the end of his cigarette. A wholly unnecessary precaution, as
any one might have seen that it was behaving beautifully.
Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she studied his averted face in
that brief instant. When he turned to her again, she was resting her
head against the back of the chair, and her eyes were closed as if in
exquisite enjoyment of the morsel that lay behind her smiling lips.
"Are you enjoying it?" he asked.
"Tremendously," she replied, opening her eyes slowly.
"'Gad, I believe you are," he exclaimed. She sat up at once, and caught
her breath, although he did not know it. His smile distinctly upset her
tranquillity.
"By the way," he added, as if dismissing the matter, "have you forgotten
that on Tuesday we go to the Witch's hut in the hills? Bobby has
dingdonged it into me for days."
"It will be good fun," she said. Then, as a swift afterthought: "Be sure
that the bodyguard is strong--and true."